#black stones for Go are formed from slate

[a-queer-little-wombat]

Lovely craftsmanship and the outcome is gorgeous.

The number of sets made like this on an annual basis is likely quite small, tho. Which is just as true of similar items made in any other country.

And so, since I've been seeing a huge influx of these types of very staged, very traditional methods and items, very visually aesthetically pleasing and ASMR-generating, very minimal explanation captioning (and always in English), usually from user discoverchina, videos *all* from China and about traditional Chinese methods/items ... every time I see them, I think "this is propaganda".

Yes, they are beautiful and soothing and the items made are beautiful. But also, what is the goal? What do these videos encourage you to think about China? How much do these videos reflect modern China, their manufacturing, their culture, etc?

holy shit is this gorgeous.

[veephoenix]

years of sleep — n.s. one shot

"She has always chalked up his teasing and looks to his naturally charming nature. Noah has always been boyfriend material—but never her boyfriend."

Noah and Reader have been drawn to each other for years, but have never dared to act on it—until a wedding and a one-night stand, in which their buried feelings are brought to the surface, along with some misunderstandings.

one shot ✨ noah sebastian x fem. reader words: 11.6k (it's a mini fic, let's be honest) reading time: about an hour it's divided in 2 parts so you can "bookmark it" at part 2 if you don't have time to read the whole thing in one go.

tags & trigger warnings: pure self-indulgence. two attractive idiots in love that don't know how to break the ice—until they do. misunderstandings. Noah has almost shoulder-length hair in this one. manbun!noah. angsty fluff, dirty talk, sexual content (implied masturbation, oral sex with both receiving, p in v protected). mentions of reader having a scar but no further explanation (implied past abuse but no more references to it). fluff, beach setting, noah applying sunscreen on reader, reader having a kink for noah's hair. let me know if sth else needs to be added. - Work inspired by this post by @defuckingthrone-dot-com - Honorable mention to @somebodyels3 for letting me use her butterflyclip-thoughts on this one 🦋

years of sleep — part 1 ☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It’s not the first time they’ve seen each other, but it’s the first time they’ve looked at one another from opposite ends of the room as if nothing else exists. 

They have known each other for two, maybe three years. Her friends are Noah’s friends, and by extension, they have become part of the same circle. Yet, despite the shared acquaintances, despite the countless gatherings and parties and concerts, they have never really spoken—never dared to exchange more than a handful of pleasantries, a few polite questions, and the passing comment about how great the show’d been before drifting away.

But there’s obviously something there. Something that’s always been. 

And tonight, they can’t escape what it’s meant to be.  

The wedding takes place at a seaside resort, where lush gardens stretch toward the shore, with palm trees everywhere swaying in the breeze, and a stone path that leads to an extensive beach. 

She first sees Noah in the hotel lobby. The space is crowded, buzzing with conversation and laughter. The moment their eyes meet, the world shrinks. A pull—subtle but magnetic—draws them in. And then, as if fate conspires to close the distance, Nicholas the groom, appears beside her and steers her toward Noah. 

Their greeting is brief, restrained. A formal hug. Fleeting contact. Her hello stays in his mind. Her voice is soft and sweet. Confident, too. And that smile? That pretty smile has him struggling for words. 

He wants to tell her she looks beautiful. He doubts he’ll have eyes for anyone else that night, not even for the two getting married. 

She wears a slate-gray dress, short and form-fitting, adorned with delicate rhinestones that catch the light. The thin straps expose her shoulders, her collarbone. There’s a necklace around her neck that could easily pass for a choker. The thought makes something in Noah twitch. Her earrings match the glimmer of it beneath the cascading waves of her hair. Her perfume, her scent… It unsettles him in a way he doesn’t fully understand. But, if he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to.

 He could say all of this to her, or he could keep it simple: You look beautiful. But he says nothing. Instead, he pretends to be interested in whatever Nicholas is saying to Matt, though he’s acutely aware of her gaze on him.

She’s just as aware of him—because, for all his efforts, he’s terrible at being subtle.

Noah looks devastatingly handsome today. A black double-breasted suit accentuates his lean frame, and for the first time, his brunette hair is pulled back into a low bun. It’s the first time she’s seen him with his hair up and there’s something about it that’s very attractive. So attractive that she has to turn around to avoid Noah seeing her nibble on her lower lip.  

As she looks away, so does he, letting Matt claim his attention. Alana claims hers, arriving in a stunning purple gown, effervescent with excitement. Her joy is infectious, so much so that, for a moment, she can pretend she hasn’t just spent the last few seconds lost in thoughts of Noah.

The venue is bathed in soft, ivory hues. Rows of elegantly arranged chairs line the aisle, their white cushions pristine beneath the glow of the sun. Sheer white drapery frames the altar, where tall glass vases filled with delicate baby’s breath and white orchids stand on either side. 

Noah stands on one side of the venue, positioned between Matt and Jolly. She is on the opposite side of the main path, nestled among the bride’s family and friends. She’s never thought much about marriage, but for the first time, the idea doesn’t seem so distant. She wouldn’t mind standing where the bride is now, as long as the man beside her is N—

She doesn’t have time to shake herself from the absurdity of that thought because, at that moment, the bride and groom seal their promises with a kiss. The room erupts in applause and cheers.

She dares to glance to her right. And as if drawn by an invisible thread, Noah looks her way, catching her eyes.

He’s clapping, like everyone else, but he stands out. He’s taller than most, impossible to miss. And then, he winks at her—a wink accompanied by a smile so effortlessly confident, so devastatingly attractive, that her knees nearly give way beneath her.

She’s in deep trouble.

God, she just hopes the makeup conceals the flush creeping up her cheeks. 

The celebration continues. The air is filled with laughter and clinking glasses. Music swells through the venue. The food is exquisite, the drinks abundant, and the guests are entertained. 

Despite the social nature of his job, Noah isn’t someone particularly outgoing and social. Rather, he prefers to keep to himself. 

But tonight is different. Tonight, he’s at ease, caught in the warmth of celebration, happy for his best friend. The air hums with good vibes, and for once, he isn’t the center of attention. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Not just because his friend is getting married, but because this day has given him something he’d never had before—an entire day and night in her presence.

The hours slip by, and frustration coils inside him. She’s right there, close enough to touch, yet he can’t seem to break the fucking ice. It’s maddening. He’s trapped in a dance of restraint. He knows it must be obvious, the way he looks at her, the way his body betrays every thought he tries to suppress. She’s the girl he’s barely spoken to, the one he’s only seen in fleeting occasions—yet he’s consumed by her. He’s been thinking of her for weeks, months. Even years, for fuck’s sake. She’s in his dreams. 

He’s dying to know her, to be near her, to hear the cadence of her voice as she talks about the things she loves and the ones she hates. He wants to learn her—her flaws, her habits, the little things. 

But more than anything, he wants to know the taste of her lips, the sounds she makes when she’s touched in the right places, the way she will moan when his hands and lips press on her skin and when his cock is buried deep inside her. 

He has to do something about it, and even though it’s been almost the whole day already, he’s willing to do it tonight.

As the others drink and the minutes slip away, Noah watches her. Discreetly. Intently. 

The way she moves, so gracefully and entirely unselfconscious. The way she leans into her friends when she speaks. The dimple that appears in her left cheek each time she laughs, the way her shoulders shake, the way her hair ripples with her movements. She keeps tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, but it refuses to be tamed. 

And he watches the way she blushes every time she catches him looking. 

When the clock strikes midnight, the dance floor overflows with guests, lost in the music. Neckties have been loosened, hairpins discarded. Jolly has long since abandoned his suit jacket. Matt sits at the table with a girl on his lap, whispering something in her ear that’s making her laugh so hard that even Noah is tempted to walk over and find out what the hell he’s saying. Nicholas and his bride have disappeared, and Noah smiles at the realization, exhaling a quiet laugh as he finishes the last sip of his champagne. Then, he’s back to looking for her. 

And he finds her. 

This time near the exit that leads to the garden, which is so dark and only dimmed by beautifully decorated lampposts with vine and white flowers wrapping around them. 

She stands at the threshold of the stone path, the soft glow from the lanterns casting a golden halo around her. The distance between them is vast—he’s at the other end of the room. But it doesn’t matter. They don’t need words to communicate. 

She blinks. A glance over her shoulder. 

And then she’s gone. 

Noah sets down his glass without a thought as he rises from his seat. His jacket is left behind—he likely won’t see it again, much like Jolly’s. 

He weaves through the throng of dancing bodies, mutters apologies, sidesteps laughter and swaying limbs, people kissing. The pulse of the music fades as he steps outside, swallowed by the stillness of the night and the back noise of waves crashing. 

She’s out of sight. 

But he can smell her. 

Burberry. Vanilla, rich and warm, laced with something darker, something almost sinful. 

He follows the scent. 

The stone path leads to a fork—one trail winds toward the beach, the other into the garden. 

He hesitates, pulse thrumming. Instinct takes over. He veers into the garden. 

Minutes later, he moves parallel to a stretch of resort rooms, their arched balconies overlooking the grounds. Streetlamps line the pathway. A sea breeze stirs the palm fronds, the leaves whispering secrets into the night. 

And somewhere ahead, she waits. 

It has been almost five minutes since she slipped out of the wedding hall. She leans against the wall of one of the buildings closest to the beach, the stoney surface pressing against her bare shoulders. Noah still hasn’t appeared. 

Maybe she misread everything—his looks, his winks, the tenderness of his smiles. Maybe she wasn’t obvious enough. Maybe the pull between them was only in her head, a trick of longing and circumstance. Or maybe it’s just the wedding, the romance in the air making her see things that aren’t really there.

Exhaling, she pushes off the wall and steps into the garden, rounding the corner of the small building. 

And collides with a solid chest. 

The impact is sudden, stealing her breath. Instinctively, her hands fly to the masculine chest for balance, fingers splaying over the firm muscle beneath the black shirt. His hands find her waist, steadying her, holding her in place. 

For a moment, neither of them moves. 

She looks up, and Noah’s almond-shaped eyes pierce trough her, dark but soft. The scent of his cologne—woodsy, expensive—wraps around her, muddling her thoughts. 

Under her palms, she feels the taut ridges of his abdomen. 

Under his hands, he feels the softness of her curves, the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her dress. 

It takes everything in him not to let his hands drift lower—to her ass. 

Then, as if the absurdity of the moment catches up with them, they grin—two idiots completely and utterly lost in each other. 

A second later, Noah lifts a hand to her cheek, fingers featherlight as he tilts her face up to his. 

And he kisses her.

His lips capture hers, slow at first, testing, savoring. She melts instantly, arms winding around his neck, her fingers slipping into his hair. Even in heels, she must rise onto her toes to reach him properly. And this mouth—warm and insistent— tastes of champagne, a sweetness that only makes her hungrier for more. 

She barely notices when he presses her against the wall, steading himself with a palm on the wall next to her head.

By the time she comes to, she’s breathless, her lips are swollen, and Noah’s body is caging hers, his hands cradling her face now, his thumb stroking her skin. He watches her for a moment before his mouth trails from her jawline to the sensitive column of her neck, and when his lips graze that one spot—that spot—heat coils deep in her belly. 

She would have collapsed if not for the hand he slides to her waist, anchoring her, keeping her exactly where he wants her. 

“Let me take you to my room,” he murmurs against her skin. His voice is husky and his breath hot. 

He pauses just long enough, searching her eyes, making sure she knows that this is entirely up to her. Whatever she wants. Whatever she desires. 

It’s the quiet patience in his expression, the almost tender way he waits, that has her putty in his hands. She knows she’ll always be safe with him. It doesn’t matter that they haven’t spent more than five minutes alone together. She feels it in her bones, in the space between them, in the way he looks at her like she’s the only thing that matters.

Her answer is effortless. 

“Lead the way,” she says with a smile. 

Noah’s grin widens. He steals another kiss—because he can’t help himself—before lacing his long, tattooed fingers through hers. 

Without another word, he leads her away. Away from the music, away from the voices, from prying eyes. 

The walk to the room is hurried. Adrenaline and hunger run through their veins. Noah grips her hand, glancing over his shoulder every few moments, his smile impossibly wide, as if he already knows that there’s nothing that’ll change how the night will end. 

He barely makes it to the door without stopping midway to press her against the nearest wall, to claim her lips again, to let his hands roam freely over the curves he has only imagined. 

By the time they reach the secluded corridor where their rooms are, they are almost running. 

A strap of her dress has fallen, slipping down the smooth expanse of her shoulder, and just as Noah swipes his keycard against the door reader, he notices. 

“Wait.”

Two fingers graze skin as he lifts the strap, restoring it to its place. 

The mere brush of his fingers on her skin gives him such a sensation that goosebumps rise on his skin. Noah holds her gaze for a moment. As he gets ready to open the door, her hands curl into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down to her. Her mouth meets his in a kiss so deep, so hungry, that Noah nearly forgets himself, nearly forgets where they are, forgets that anyone could walk by and see him stripping her bare against the cool marble hallway floor and making love to her. 

Somehow, through sheer willpower, he manages to open the door and push her inside, barely breaking contact with her lips. 

Inside, he fumbles for the bedside lamp, bathing the room in a light cozy glow. 

She’s already pulling the hairband from his hair, letting the strands fall loose around his face. She threads her fingers through them. She doesn’t know what shampoo he uses but his hair smells like paradise.

Everything is messy. Desperate. A little awkward. 

And yet, within seconds, they are standing at the center of the room, facing the untouched bed.

She pauses, chest rising and falling, one hand at the nape of his neck, the other resting lightly on his chest. 

She looks around. His belongings are neatly arranged, each item in its proper place. The small details confirm everything she already suspected about him—Noah is meticulous. Even in chaos, he is composed. He’s perfect, and the hand on his hip, delicate and supportive, adoring but never crossing the line, confirms it too.

He’s waiting for her to say something, so his heart almost skips a beat when she slides to her knees on the floor. Heels still on. Her hands on his belt. 

Noah lets her unbuckle it. Fingers move with precision, making quick work of the button and zipper of his slacks. His shirt is next—he unbuttons it, but leaves it open, exposing tattooed skin, muscle, inked lines she clearly wasn’t prepared for.

She inhales sharply.

A near-moan escapes her lips at the sight of him, and Noah smirks.

He would have teased her for it—would have taken his time letting her explore—but then she tugs down his pants.

Her breath catches.

The outline straining against his black Calvin Klein boxers is… larger than she expected.

He watches the moment she processes it, sees the way her pupils dilate, the way her tongue peeks out to wet her lips.

She flicks her gaze up at him, seeking confirmation, blinking once—twice—before curling her fingers around the waistband of his boxers.

And when she pulls them down, Noah is the one exhaling sharply. 

She doesn’t break eye contact.

And when she finally moves forward, Noah knows—he’s done for.

She licks him from the base to the tip. She takes her time, savoring him and entertaining herself just enough to make him shudder. She revels in his reaction before enveloping him in the warm, wet heat of her mouth and taking him on the ride of his life. 

For the first few moments, Noah doesn’t know what to do with himself. He throws his head back and lets out a guttural sound as she takes him deeper, the suction sending jolts of pleasure straight to his core. His muscles tense, his hands flex at his sides, his breath starts coming in in ragged gasps.

His fingers twitch before finding their way into her hair, threading through the silky strands as he cradles her head and looks down at her. Such a good girl.

She looks so focused. He strokes her scalp gently, then guides her back and forth, his control unraveling with every flick of her tongue, every hollow of her cheeks. That’s it. Keep going. A vein bulges at his neck as he struggles to keep himself in check. 

“That’s... Yes. God, sweetheart.”

The sight of her, those lips stretched around him, eyes flickering up to watch his reaction… 

With a sharp breath, he forces himself to pull away, already mourning the loss of her warmth. He runs a thumb over her lower lip, and she catches it between her teeth, nibbling at it. The action makes him laugh—a deep, throaty sound. 

He offers his hand, and she takes it, rising to her feet. Without hesitation, she slides the straps of her dress down her shoulders, letting the fabric slip past her curves and pool at her feet. 

She’s not wearing a bra, and the thong she wears is nothing more than a whisper of lace, a mere suggestion of modesty. 

Noah eats her up with his eyes.

Before he can reach for her, she turns, climbing onto the bed, moving like a kitten. She pauses on all fours to look at him over her shoulder with a coy smile that makes his stomach clench. 

Noah swallows hard. He’s about to lose it. 

When she shifts to sit back, reaching for her heels, he stops her with a touch.

“Let me.”

He pulls his underwear and pants back up before kneeling at the edge of the bed. His grip tender as he slides her shoes off, pressing a kiss to the skin of her ankle. The care in his touch makes her pulse race. It’s so gentlemanly. She’s never felt so cherished. So lucky.

Her underwear comes off next. The weight of Noah’s eyes on her feels heavy, but it makes her feel safe anyway. She wants him. 

She reclines against the pillows, stretching out languidly. She parts her legs. Noah stands there for a breath, taking her in. Her confidence only deepens his hunger. 

He sheds his clothing and shoes and joins her, covering her body with his without yet touching. His fingers trail up her cheeks, his eyes searching hers. 

“Where do you want me?” he murmurs. 

“Anywhere you wish to be.”

He laughs and she trembles under him, loving the sound. 

That’s easy, he thinks. I’m already in bed, with you.

Still, he takes his time, kissing his way down her body, savoring every inch. Loving how the necklace wraps around her neck. He spends needed time on her breasts, playing with her nipples, his tongue circling, lapping. He looks up to see her lips parted and her eyes intently on him. She still not making any sound. Not yet. 

When his hand slides down her ribcage, he notices an old, ugly scar, just beneath her left breast. He also notices the way she stills. He takes one look at her, then kisses the scar without saying anything else and moves on. 

He worships her belly, dips his tongue into her navel, nibbles at her hip bones. 

He leaves the bed only to sit back on his heels on the carpeted floor. He searches for his hairband discarded earlier. When he finds it, he ties his hair up again, the sight alone enough to make wetness pool between her legs.  

Without warning, he pulls her toward him by the ankles. 

A gasp escapes her as he buries himself between her thighs.

There it is. 

His tongue parts her, teasing. He tastes her like a man starved, and it’s the truth—he’s been starving for her for years. His hands grip her hips, holding her in place as she starts to writhe beneath him.

She makes another sound. A soft, breathy moan. Then another. And another. 

It’s the sweetest, most erotic music he’s ever heard, and it only makes him more relentless. He keeps on sucking. He doesn’t stop, not until she’s trembling under him, clutching the sheets, her thighs quivering around his head. 

“Beautiful,” he says. 

She’s still catching her breath when she peeks up at him from beneath heavy lids, her cheeks flushed and lips dry and slightly parted. The sight makes him chuckle, the sound so laced with affection that it envelops her as if the sound of it alone was a comforting blanket. 

“Condom?” she asks when she regains some stability in her breathing. 

Noah blinks, nodding as he starts looking around and rummaging through his things. 

“I’ve got one… just give me a—” He curses under his breath, shoving aside his clothes. She watches him move around the room naked, cock hard. “Fuck. I know I have one… somewhere.”

She laughs, watching his frantic search with amusement. She has no idea that, at this very moment, Noah is contemplating death if he doesn’t find it. But then he spots it. He tears open the packet and rolls it onto him. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his still tied hair but pushing a lose strand back. “Sorted,” he mutters, positioning himself over her on the bed. 

She slides a hand behind his neck, drawing him closer. 

“Come here,” she demands softly. 

And God help him, he does.

She unties his hair, again, freeing the brunette strands to cascade over his forehead. Her fingers slide through the locks, and at the same moment, he pushes into her, slow and deep. 

A gasp catches in her throat as she stretches around him, heat and wetness engulfing every inch of him. 

He feels fuzzy. It’s unbearable, exquisite. His eyes are locked onto hers, and for a breathless second, they simply exist. A moan spills from his lips at the exact moment one escapes her, their voices melding in perfect synchrony.  

It’s better than he ever imagined.

It’s better than she ever imagined. 

He waits, letting her adjust. When she shifts, just the smallest tilt of her hips, it’s all the encouragement he needs. He moves, achingly slow, each stroke a deliberate act of worship, so careful it almost makes her go mad. A tight, desperate sensation builds in her chest, and for a moment, she thinks she might cry. 

She has imagined herself under his body many times. Too many to admit. She has touched herself in the quiet of night, fingers slipping between her thighs, wondering what it would feel like to take him this way, to feel his hardness inside her, the delicious weight of him pressing her into the mattress. To experience the solid heat of his body, his pubic bone against hers, the muscles of his stomach flexing against her own, his breath coming in broken gasps against her lips as he steals kisses whenever he can. 

Reality is nothing like she imagined. 

It’s a thousand times better. 

Noah is heavy and much bigger than she is, but instead of feeling smothered by his weight, she feels enveloped in a delicious embrace that promises to take her all the way to paradise, if she’s not already in it. 

His pace is controlled. The way he moves over her, the way he looks at her, with a little wrinkle between his eyebrows that says he’s being a victim of this delicious torture too, the way his hands touch her body, cling to her... 

His thrusts grow harder, faster. Her thighs cling to his hips. Her feet hoover just above the mattress. Her nails sink into the inked skin of his back as the pressure builds, and he hisses through his teeth. His reaction is instant. He catches her wrists, gathers them in one of his large hands, and pins them to the pillow above her head.

Her breath stutters.

Then, without warning, he thrusts deep.

Take me.

A strangled cry tears from her throat.

Noah’s rhythm shifts, urgency overtaking restraint. His movements become frantic, driven by something raw and insatiable, and she matches him, meeting every thrust, begging for more. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. She can feel the heat of him everywhere—his sweaty skin against hers, his breath hot and labored against her lips, his body relentless in its pursuit of ecstasy. 

If she thought he was handsome before, it’s clear she hadn’t seen him fucking her, covered in sweat and lost in the decadent dance his body is dancing with hers. 

“I’m going to come,” he warns when he knows his release is imminent, voice rough and desperate. 

She feels a rush of satisfaction so intense it nearly tips her over the edge. She wants to prolong this, stretch it into eternity, but she also wants to see him break. She wants to watch him fall apart. See his expression when it happens. 

         Noah is holding on by a thread. He thinks about how once he comes, he’s going to get her to follow him, and then he wants to hold her and have her fall asleep in his arms. In the morning, he wants to see her wake up, blink up at him through sleepy eyes, wants to see her make up-free, in the first light of dawn.     

Fuck, he’s in so deep. And not just physically.

As he teeters at the edge, he refuses to go alone. He slides a hand between them, finding the swollen bundle of nerves that will send her spiraling with him. His fingers work, and within seconds, she is there, climbing, soaring, shattering. The orgasm is scorching. Noah practically roars against her shoulder, biting her without intending to, but she seems to like it, because the moment his teeth sink into her shoulder, she tenses around him. He is still spasming, releasing himself into the condom, when she trembles, arches, and suddenly moans loudly and prolonged. 

She is coming and squeezing him, every last drop. 

His arms hold her against him, crushing her to him as they both tremble through the aftershocks. She can feel the erratic thump of his heart against her chest. He can feel the sweat of her skin clinging to his. 

They feel...at home. 

Noah tilts his head to look at her, catching on the red marks he’s left on her skin. On her shoulder. Clavicle. Breasts. Suddenly, there’s uncertainty flickering behind his eyes. 

He’s never done this—whatever this is. He knows it’s not just sex. It’s something more. Something that’s been brewing, growing beneath the surface for some time. 

She opens her eyes, lips parted, still catching her breath. The sight of her like this, so flushed and disheveled, so swollen from his kisses, hair tangled in wild waves around her face… She could easily fall for a nymph, ethereal and untamed, as if she belongs to the wild.

“Are you okay?”

Noah is surprised, for it is not him asking the question, but her. He almost laughs. 

“I’m fine,” he assures her. 

Without thinking twice, he lifts a hand and brushes his fingers along the curve of her cheek, soft and reverent in his touch. This moment—the after—, this touch, it feels like a greater intimacy than anything they have just done.

Her lips touch the line of his jaw, nuzzling against the faint stubble that has already begun to shadow his skin. He shaved that morning, but the roughness is there, and she loves it. 

His kisses are different now—ghostly, soft and quiet. They make her heart grow wings and flutter. 

Noah pulls away with obvious reluctance, murmuring something about taking care of them. She watches as he slips from the bed, and the moment he is gone, she feels the loss of him like a physical ache. Still, she gathers herself enough to ask him to open the sliding doors to the ground-floor balcony. Noah obliges, and when he does, the distant murmur of laughter and music drifts from the garden, a reminder that the rest of the world still exists beyond this room. 

When he returns, he is utterly, shamelessly naked. He moves with the confidence of someone at home, still just as devastating and delicious as he was that morning, when he was wrapped in a tux and his hair was pulled into a perfect man bun.

She wants to keep Noah for herself. Forever. 

He holds a damp hand towel, hesitating only a moment as he approaches the mattress and murmurs, “May I?”

She nods. 

The first touch of warm cloth against her oversensitive skin makes her shudder. He is careful, tender in a way nobody has ever been with her. She holds her breath. She’s never been cared for like this. 

Minutes later, he stands beside the bed, still naked, hesitating. 

She watches him, her knees drawn up, an arm draped loosely over her chest. A cool breeze filters through the open door, rustling the curtains. Salt and water. 

“Stay,” Noah says, his voice almost tentative. “Please? I promise I don’t snore.”

She has to laugh. He’s so adorable. She nods. 

Relief floods his face as he climbs in beside her, tugging the sheets over them. She curls against him instinctively, pressing her face into the warm space between his shoulder and neck. 

Noah smells of sex and that masculine stench that is every man’s own. If only she knew that he is inhaling her too... And that, deep inside, he wants to wake up with his nose in her hair and her naked body clinging to him all the mornings he has left.

They talk for a while in hushed voices, the adrenaline still pulsing through them. He asks about her favorite food and her favorite flowers. She asks about his hobbies. About his job—what’s the best and worst of it. He mentions martial arts, and she hums, intrigued, and not-so-subtly lets her hands explore his biceps, his thighs, all tattooed, confirming what she already knew. He is strong, but beneath all that muscle, there is softness too. 

She falls asleep half on top of him. 

Noah falls asleep with a hand resting on the small of her back, fingers curled over the curve of her ass, the other cradling the back of her neck, keeping her close as if afraid to let go, and his nose buried in her hair, just like he’s dreamed so many times. 

When she wakes up, her cheek is pressed against something firm yet solid and comfortable. It takes a few seconds for reality to settle around her, her mind still tangled in the haze of sleep. The first thing she registers is the faint soreness between her legs. For a moment, her heart leaps in her chest in surprise, but then she becomes aware of the calm that envelops her, of the warmth and security she feels. Of the arm around her, pressing her tenderly against the male body lying on the bed. 

She lifts her head, and there he is. Noah fast asleep. His breathing slow and steady, lips slightly parted revealing just a hint of his teeth. A stray lock of hair has fallen over his cheek, and before she can think better of it, she reaches out and brushes it aside. 

Noah is a handsome man, but like this, with his guard down, his face relaxed, his body molded against her—he’s breathtakingly beautiful. 

Surrendering to temptation again, she’s about to kiss him and wake him up, steal the first drowsy moments of his morning, when a vibration hums from the nightstand on his side. 

The screen of his phone lights up, and her eyes are instinctively drawn to it. Half draped over his chest, she reaches out just to check the time, but the moment she picks it up, a notification banner flashes across the screen.  

LILIPUTH 👶🏼 "Hey! Mom wants to know if you can pick me up Friday instead of Saturday. She’s busy Saturday morning, so she’d rather drop me at the airport Friday. She says to hurry up because we’re already late, and flights are super expensive! Also, she kinda thinks you should pay for them... but don’t tell her I said that! See you soon!

She frowns. She processes the message. What it means, or what it could mean. 

“Mom says”?

Liliputh and a baby emoticon?

“Pick me up”?

He should’ve paid for flight tickets?

Her stomach twists.

The phone nearly slips from her grasp as the words sink in. 

Fuck.

Is Noah married?

Divorced?

Does he have...a child? Because that sure as hell sounds like a whole lot of parental responsibilities.

She’s holding her breath. Her mind scrambles to piece together a puzzle she wasn’t expecting, one she wasn’t even aware existed. 

And it’s not that he’s done anything wrong. It’s not that he’s lied. 

But she hadn’t thought about Noah having a life before her. A life this big. 

Panic swells in her throat. She realizes she’s laying on top of him sideways, her breasts pressing against his tatted chest. She’s panicking. She no longer feels comfortable or safe in his arms. The sheets feel more like a trap rather than a cocoon of safety. She needs air. She needs space. She needs to get out. 

It takes her less than two minutes to slip out from his arms, gather her clothes, and make it to the door in last night’s dress, barefoot, heels in hand. She doesn’t look back. Her bare feet move silently against the floor. Once she reaches the hallway, she presses her back against the door, heart slamming wildly against her ribs. 

She doesn’t want to leave. 

She wants to stay.

To crawl back into bed, to wake up tangled in his limbs, to feel the weight of his body over hers, his scent. She wants to hear his voice in the morning—sleep-rough and drowsy, whispering the same sinful things he murmured to her in the dead of night when she had been sleeping with her head on his bicep and he’d made love to her again, slow and deep, from behind her. He had first teased her with the tip, kissing her shoulders and neck. A minute later, they were slowly making love, his hand entwining her fingers over her breasts, his hot breath on the back of her neck.

“Can’t tell you how many times I’ve touched myself thinking of you—of this.” 

He’d been so attentive and hot the entire night, guiding her as he told her to fuck him, to rock herself against him, to use him… so tuned in with her as he talked her through her orgasm, encouraging her to make a mess on his cock…

She feels... confused and disoriented. In her head, she’s spent years with this perfect idea of Noah, of who he is, of how wonderful it would be to be with him... and suddenly, a simple message destroys all of that. 

It’s not a message. 

It’s reality.

The rest was her fantasy. Her fault. 

The things he had said to her during the night echo in her head. The perfect Noah and the perfect life she had created around him was nothing but an illusion, and now it had shattered, and with it her heart.

years of sleep — part 2 ☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Three hours later, late summer morning, the resort is buzzing with life. Most of the guests, primarily wedding attendees, have slept in, recovering from a celebration that lasted into the early hours. Others have been up since dawn, making the most of their vacation.

She sits at one of the poolside lounge tables, fingers idly tracing the rim of a half-empty glass of orange juice. Sunglasses shield her eyes, and though she’s showered and changed into a simple pastel blue sundress, she still feels the weight of the night lingering in her bones. 

Nicholas and his new wife must already be enroute to their honeymoon destination. Meanwhile, she’s stranded at this oceanside resort, three hours from Los Angeles, until tomorrow. 

And she has no idea how she’s going to spend the next twenty-four hours. 

In her mind, last night should have led to something different—a different chain of events, a different morning, a different future. She had pictured waking up in Noah’s arms, spending the day tangled up in him, stealing kisses between lazy moments and sunlit swims, and ending the night with slow walks along the beach under the stars…

But now, it’s painfully clear that none of that is going to happen. 

“And that long face on such a sunny morning?”

Davis’s voice cuts through her thoughts, drawing her attention to the walkway leading toward the parasol-covered tables. 

She forces a smile, slouching slightly in her chair in an attempt to appear more relaxed. She doesn’t want to bring anyone else down. This is supposed to be a happy day. Everyone else is happy. She refuses to ruin that. 

“Hungover?” Davis tilts his head, eyeing her. 

The way he asks makes her laugh, though the sound feels hollow. He’s swapped last night’s suit for white Bermuda shorts and a floral short-sleeve button-up. He’s really embracing the beach resort vibes. 

“Something like that,” she replies. Though the truth is that, despite sleeping late and being woken up at 4am for another round of sex, she slept soundly. 

“That makes two of us,” another voice chimes in. 

Folio drops into the chair beside her, a beer already in hand. She refrains from commenting on it. He’s dressed similarly to Davis, a backward cap covering his messy hair. 

“Well, you don’t look like it,” Davis notes. 

“That’s because I never hit the bed in the first place,” Folio grins. 

“You didn’t sleep?” Davis guesses. 

“Nope. Figured I’d just keep the party going. Took a swim at sunrise. Man, that’s an experience.”

The two launch into a conversation about his early-morning adventures and order some fruit and pancakes to be brought to the table. Eventually, they notice how quiet she is. 

“What’s with you?” Davis asks through a mouthful of blueberries. “Haven’t slept either?”

Folio smirks. “Or did someone keep you up all night?” He wiggles his eyebrows, his gaze dropping pointedly to the red blotches on her skin. Noah’s lovebites.

She barely reacts. She simply lowers her sunglasses and shoots Folio a pointed look. His grin falters immediately. 

“Oh, it’s definitely that. Who—?”

Before Folio can finish the question, Davis has already put the pieces together. 

“You slept with Noah.”

Hearing someone say it aloud makes it even more real. Her mind floods with images—Noah’s touch, the sweet and filthy things he said to her, the way he held her, the way he felt. Honeyed and intense.

She wraps both hands around the glass, lips pressing together. 

“Really?” Folio leans forward, elbows resting on the chair armrests. “And why do you look like that? Don’t tell me Noah isn’t well-equipped down there.”

She clicks her tongue, annoyed. “It’s not that.”

“So, he is. Is his performance not up to—”

“Nick,” Davis sighs.

“Okay, okay…” he puts his hands up. “Do we need to kick his ass?”

She hesitates, her fingers twitching, before finally voicing the question that has been gnawing at her insides since dawn. 

“Noah has a daughter?”

Folio’s grin vanishes. His brows furrow in confusion, then lift in something close to horror. 

“What?”

She looks between them. “Is he married? Divorced?”

Davis just stares at her, as if trying to understand where this is coming from. 

“You know Noah is single.”

“No. Actually, I don’t. I don’t know anything about Noah. Not really,” she snaps. “I only know what everyone else knows—what you guys tell me. He’s always the quiet one. I don’t know more than what I’ve put together from—from the way he behaves around me and with you guys. And none of you ever mentioned a wife. Or a daughter. Or—”

“Because he’s not married. And he doesn’t have a daughter,” Folios interrupts with a laugh. “At least not that I know of. Can you even imagine Noah married and with a baby?” He looks over at Davis, but Davis just shoots him a warning glance. 

Davis turns back to her with a soft expression. “Come on. You know exactly who Noah is. I know everyone acts like he’s this mysterious, unreadable guy just because he’s private, but the truth is, he’s exactly what you see. He’s quiet, yeah, but he doesn’t need to say much to show you who he is. He writes, he makes music, he lets go on stage… He’s the deep, poetic guy who likes to meditate in the morning and never really raises his voice. He’s thoughtful, maybe too much, and he appreciates life in that annoyingly profound way.” Davis huffs a small laugh. “Even if you haven’t spent much time with him, you know he’s single. The real question is how you two went so long without saying a word to each other when it’s obvious you’ve been pining for one another for years.”

Her heart stutters. “Years? What are you talking about?”

Folio rolls his eyes.

“What are you talking about? Everyone knows you and Noah have been into each other for ages, but because you’re both equally clueless or shy or whatever, you waited until Ruffilo’s wedding to finally do something about it. And now you’re coming in here all ‘Noah is a dad?!’ What the hell did you drink last night? Or more like, what did Noah do to you in bed?”

She groans. Before they can derail the conversation any further, she drops her eyes and mutters, “I saw a message on his phone.”

“A message?”

“From someone named Lily. Liliputh,” she specifies. 

Folio and Davis exchange a glance, and she immediately realizes that yes, there are things about Noah she doesn’t know, and they do. 

Folio cuts into his pancakes, spears a piece with his fork, and pops it into his mouth.

“Lily is Noah’s niece,” Davis explains. “His sister’s daughter. She’s twelve.”

She blinks. 

Once. 

Twice.

“Noah has a sister?”

Since when?

“Yeah. Older. She lives in New York. They only see each other a couple of times a year, that’s why he’s probably never mentioned her. He barely does to us, anyway. But they’re close, and I’m guessing Lily asked to come spend a few days in L.A. before school starts again, and Noah’s offered to take care of her.”

A wave of heat rushes to her cheeks. “Oh my God.”

Folio bursts out laughing, struggling to keep the food in his mouth. “You really thought Noah had a whole-ass daughter? And you thought he was divorced, too?”

She sinks in her seat. “It’s not funny.”

“No, but your reaction is. How many Hallmark movies have you watched?”

Davis, however, looks more thoughtful. “So… you freaked out.”

She sighs. “Yeah…”

“And Noah wasn’t awake when you saw the message, was he?”

“No.”

“So, you got up and left. Without saying a word.”

Her silence and the guilt written all over her face are answer enough.

After a beat, Folio deadpans, “You banged Noah,” he states. “And then you disappeared.”

She shoots him another glare, tempted to kick his shin under the table. “I didn’t disappear. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but not in his bed,” Davis points out. “How would you feel if the roles were reversed? If you woke up after sleeping with him, and he was gone?

A knot tightens in her chest. 

Terrible. Used. Heartbroken. 

Guilt crashes over her, so heavy it makes her stomach churn. Good thing she hasn’t eaten anything… She bites her lip so hard she nearly draws blood. She needs to fix this. 

“Will he… be mad?”

David considers the question at the same time he savors a piece of mango. “Knowing Noah and how much he’s into you… he’ll understand. You just need to talk to him. Tell him why you freaked out. He’ll have a good laugh and later he’ll probably get you back into his bed. Problem sorted.”

How much he’s into me? The way Davis talks about Noah’s feelings is unsettling, like he knows something she doesn’t. Has it always been there, in front of her, and she hasn’t been able to see it until last night?

For years, she has lived off stolen glances and fleeting moments—content with fantasies rather than the courage to actually approach Noah like a normal person would. She always chalked up his teasing and looks to his naturally charming nature. Noah has always been boyfriend material—but never her boyfriend. 

Had she known earlier that Noah was pining for her, butterflies would have erupted in her stomach sooner. She might have finally gathered the nerve to walk up to him, to flirt back in a way that was more obvious to him about her feelings. But now, after abandoning him in that hotel room, she just feels awful. If she can’t fix this, she might as well walk straight into the ocean and let the waves take her. 

“Hey,” Folio squeezed her shoulder, snapping her out of her spiraling thoughts. His voice is suddenly surprisingly gentle. “It’s okay. This is not some huge, unforgivable thing. Nothing a blowjob can’t fix. Knowing Noah…”

Davis makes a disgusted noise, pushing his plate away. “Jesus Christ, man. How well do you know Noah?”

Folio throws his hands up again. “It’s a figure of speech, for fuck’s sake. What I mean is, Noah’s not the type to hold a grudge. And if there’s someone who can sweeten him up, that’s you. Talk to him. And if talking doesn’t do the trick… well, give him the look, get down on your knees, and boom—problem solved.”

She debates whether to smack him, but the absurdity of it all makes her laugh instead. Did she really think Noah had a teenage daughter? That he was divorced? She laughs at herself and internally thanks Folio, who always has a way of dragging her out of her head, whether she wants him or not. 

And much to her own frustration… she can’t stop thinking about what he said. 

If talking doesn’t get Noah to forgive her, she’ll do it on her knees and blinking up at him with her big puppy eyes. 

An hour later, after wandering alone by the sea for a while and going over the things she’ll say to Noah when she sees him again, she makes her way back to the hotel. Her sandals dangle from her fingers, her bare feet still damp from where the waves had lapped at her skin. She’s hungry, her body demanding a late breakfast or an early lunch. 

But more than anything, it’s her heart which is demanding. Demanding Noah, to find him, talk to him and— 

She sees him before he sees her. 

He’s at the reception desk, leaning on the counter, dressed in black jeans—in this heat, seriously?— and a white t-shirt. His hair is pulled into the same bun as last night, and he’s wearing black sunglasses. He’s chatting with the receptionist, a woman who smiles at him as she listens intently to whatever he’s saying. Before jealousy can settle in, the receptionist nods and disappears into the back room. 

That’s when Noah turns, reaching into his pocket for his phone, only to freeze the moment his eyes land on her. 

She doesn’t know what to expect. A flicker of irritation? Confusion? Anger? 

But not this. 

Not the way his entire face lights up. Not the way his lips stretch into a slow, easy grin, like seeing her is the best thing that’s happened to him all day. All week. 

“Hey,” he says. 

Her stomach does that thing. 

Hey? 

She approaches cautiously, hyper-aware of his almond-shaped eyes sweeping over her behind those black sunglasses. 

“Hi,” she greets. 

Silence stretches between them. For her, it’s suffocating. But Noah? He seems completely at ease, looking at her like she’s the goddamn sun. 

“Noah,” her voice betrays her a little. She fidgets with her fingers, taking a small step closer. “About this morning, I—”

The receptionist returns, holding a black tuxedo jacket. 

“Here it is, sir.”

Noah turns to her.

“Oh, thank God.” He exhales, taking the jacket and shaking it out. “Thought I’d lost it for good. Or that someone walked off with it.”

“Not at all,” the female behind the counter replies with a polite smile. “Anything else I can help with?”

Her eyes flick between Noah and her before Noah tells her “no, thank you” and she heads back to her desk. Noah drapes the expensive jacket over his arm. 

“Guess I shouldn’t be so careless next time,” he muses.

She frowns slightly.

“Got a little… distracted last night,” he continues, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “Saw this girl, and, well… just had to follow her. I suppose I got carried away inevitably.” His eyes darken slightly, teasing. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Can’t get her out of my head.”

She’s blushing, of course. 

And that’s exactly what he wanted—to make her blush. 

“Prettiest?”

“Prettiest,” he repeats. He takes his hand to his sunglasses and moves them up to his head. When his brown eyes fall on her, she feels that tingling sensation coursing through her again. “Sweetest. Couldn’t keep my hands off her,” he continues, knowing very well what he’s doing. “Guess everything else just… slipped my mind.”

Heat flares up her neck. Why isn’t he upset? Why isn’t he at least a little annoyed that she slipped out of his bed after hours of making love? Why does he have to be so charming to her when she deserves none of that?

“Do you… regret it?” she blurts. 

His brows lift slightly. “Regret it?” he echoes. He glances down at the jacket draped over his arm. Then he smirks. “I’d lose ten of these if it meant spending another night like that with her.” 

She bites her lip, grinning like an idiot. Like the idiot she is for assuming he was a divorced dad.Jesus Christ. She pinches the bridge of her nose, ducking her head to hide her flushed cheeks.

After a beat, he adds, “but preferably if she’s there in the morning.”

Oh.

“What about you?” he asks. “Anything you regret?”

She draws in a slow breath. 

“One thing, yeah,” she admits.

“Yeah?”

By the way his face changes, she can tell he’s suddenly feeling uncertain. Does he think she regrets being with him? That she regrets letting him touch her, letting him fuck her?

“I… want to make up for it,” she says. “So that I don’t carry this regret with me any longer.”

He watches her carefully. “Sounds like one you’ve carried for quite some time.”

She scoffs. If only he knew…

“Long enough to make a fool of myself,” she says. “But I’d like to fix it.”

His lips twitch, fighting back a smile. “You would?”

She nods, pulse quickening. She gives him the sweetest, most disarming smile. “I think I could. If you let that pretty girl spend another night in your hotel bed…”

Noah exhales. With his free hand, he reaches for her, his fingers curling into the fabric of her dress, pulling her toward him. Close enough that when he lowers his head, his nose brushes against hers.

“I don’t think that’s going to be enough, sweetheart,” he murmurs. She presses a hand against his chest—not to push him away, but to steady herself, to feel the solid of him beneath her palm. And, if she’s being honest, just to touch him again. “She needs to stay till morning. Otherwise, no deal.”

She decides she’s going to seal the deal with a kiss. But just as she tilts her head and parts her lips—

“Hey, Sebastian! Say hi to your daughter!” Folio’s voice rings through the lobby. 

They both freeze. 

Noah blinks. 

“What?”

She turns her head just in time to see Folio crossing the marble-floored lobby, a mojito in hand, looking far too pleased with himself before disappearing around the corner. Her face burns. Noah’s expression is one of utter confusion. 

“Is he drunk?” he asks. 

A small laugh escapes her as she drops her forehead against his chest. He still hasn’t let go of her dress. Her fingers grasp the fabric of his white t-shirt as her embarrassment melts into quiet amusement.  

“I thought you were a divorced dad.”

Noah stills. Then he’s lifting her chin with the bend of his fingers. “A divorced—What are you talking about?”

“I accidentally saw a message on your phone this morning—Lily’s message,” she explains. “I was just checking the time, I swear. And when I saw the message, I immediately assumed... that you were divorced. And that you had a child.”

He stays still for another beat, just looking at her. Then, to her complete and utter relief, he throws his head back and laughs. The sound is so warm and rich that it dissolves the last of her tension. 

“Thank God,” he says. 

“Thank God?”

“That you left because of that and not because I snore.”

“You don’t snore,” she assures him.

He exhales through his grin, his thumb brushing her chin. “And you’re adorable.”

“Pretty sure I’m just stupid.”

“Stupidly adorable.”

“Thanks,” she rolls her eyes, only confirming what he just said. 

Adorable. 

Her stomach betrays her then, letting out a low rumble. 

She groans. Seriously, can I catch a break?

Noah glances down at her middle with a grin, amusement dancing in his eyes. 

“Perfect timing.”

“Huh?”

“Now that I’ve got my jacket back, and I found the pretty girl I was looking for…” he pauses and tilts his head, “I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me?”

Like he even needs to ask. 

“I’d love to.”

“It’s a date, then.”

He offers his hand. She takes it, just like last night. 

They share a light lunch at the seaside restaurant of the hotel, which is located beneath a shade of swaying palm trees and cottage-like roof. The ocean stretches before them, glistening under the midday sun, waves rolling lazily onto the shore. The air is charged with salt and the aroma of grilled seafood, mingling with the faint sweetness of tropical flowers. 

Their table is a feast of colors—salad with citrusy vinaigrette, golden spring rolls, focaccia glistening with olive oil, and a selection of small plates. Conversation is effortless between them as the breeze rustles through the palm fronds and plays with her hair. 

They talk about everything. Food. Music. Work. He asks about her studies, and she asks about the book he’s reading. He makes her smile. She makes him laugh. She even offers him a bite of her plate and feeds him with a fork. They never mention the fact that last night she had his cock in her mouth or that he mapped out every inch of her with his tongue until she was shaking under him. 

After the plates are emptied and cleared, they stay, reclining in their chairs as the slow afternoon unfolds. The occasional lull in conversation is easy. It’s a silence that doesn’t demand to be filled. 

They sip iced tea later, enjoying each other’s company as the engulf in the refreshing drink. 

She watches the horizon, the endless stretch of blue where the sea meets the sky, and the way the light dances on the water. Noah watches her. Her profile is beautiful, so soft. A picture of tranquility as she takes in the view, lost in the beauty of the landscape. There’s something about the way she looks right now that makes everything else fade into the background.

Noah is in love, and he knows it. He’s been for a long time. He’s not letting her leave his bed the next morning, or any other for that matter. 

“Want to go for a swim?”

His question shakes her out of her momentary haze where she was imagining herself in the water, wrapped around Noah’s torso, being kissed under the sun. 

“What, in jeans and Adidas?” She jokes, giving his outfit a pointed once-over. 

Noah glances down at himself. “Yeah, good point… I’ll go get changed.”

She hums, pushing back her chair at the same time. “I’ll grab the sunscreen.”

They leave together, strolling through the resort’s sun-drenched pathways, holding hands. In the hallway outside their rooms, Noah keeps their arms extended and hands together before reluctantly releasing her. 

He should have kissed her. The though gnaws at him as she disappears three rooms down. 

It’s fine. He’ll kiss her when he has her in his arms again in a matter of minutes. 

They meet ten minutes after in the lobby. Noah has swapped his jeans for black swim trunks, his sneakers for flip-flops. His white T-shirt remains. a towel is slung over his shoulder. His eyes rack down the white bikini peeking through the airy fabric of her sundress. She catches the way his jaw ticks, how his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. 

She shakes the sunscreen bottle in front of him. “Got it.” 

Noah takes the tote bag from her with a quiet smile, ever the gentleman.

When they step onto the beach, they walk a little farther from the resort’s main area, the sand cool beneath their feet as they seek out a quiet spot all to themselves. The beach is tranquil, mostly deserted, with only a few scattered sunbathers, the low season keeping it peaceful. They lay out their towels side by side. 

Of course, Noah suggests applying sunscreen on her. To her surprise, he’s again very gentlemanlike about it, asking for permission before he spreads the lotion across the curve of her ass. When she turns around and offers her chest to him, her nipples are visible through the fabric of her bikini top. He notices, obviously. But doesn’t say a word. When his fingers lightly access under the fabric and caress the curve of her breasts, she holds her breath. Then Noah pokes her nose, leaving a streak of cream on the tip and laughs, a boyish sound. 

“Charming,” she says. 

“I know,” he replies.

But even when he says that, it seems that his usual cocky grin is subdued. He seems more serious now, his gaze more intense and darker than it was the night before, like something in him has shifted. There’s a depth to his look, a quiet mindfulness that wasn’t exactly there before, the previous night when they were finally all brave and playful.  

She tries to see what’s there, in his eyes, but before she can, he hands her the sunscreen bottle. “Your turn,” he says. 

An hour under the sun and Noah’s freckles begin to appear more prominently across the bridge of his nose, like a constellation made of stars. He seems unaware of how they dot his face, of the beauty he carries with himself, as natural and unassuming as the rest of him. 

Eventually, she pulls herself away from staring at him and buries her attention in a book, propped on her forearms, body stretched out on the towel. Noah takes a nap before shifting to lie on his side and starts kissing her shoulder. He inquiries about the book she’s reading. The Remains of the Day. Noah mentions he’s read something from Ishiguro before—Never Let Me Go, perhaps? He pretends to read the chapter she’s focused on, but his lips and fingers have other plans, distracting her with light touches, making her laugh and squirm when he starts tickling her. 

The book eventually ends in Noah’s hands. He starts reading the novel, for real, and lets her explore the tattoos on his chest, stomach and arms, answering distractedly every question she has about them. 

She rests for a while on the towel, gazing at the sky with her hands flat on her stomach. After a while, she gets up and walks toward the water.

The sun is beginning its slow descent, melting into the horizon, bleeding orange and pink across the sky. The beach is nearly empty except for the two of them and some tourists in the distance.

The waves lap gently at the shore as she steps into the cool, damp sand. The wind carries the scent of salt and something floral. The beauty of the moments feels surreal, and she wonders if she’s dreaming again. 

Time slips away as she stands in the sand, waves crashing around her, her hair tousled by the wind. She’s unaware of the male gaze observing her from the towel. But an instant or two later, male arms are wrapped around her middle, and Noah’s cheek presses against hers.

She nuzzles into him, placing her hands over his and letting his movements guide her, swaying. She’s never felt so… at ease.

“It’s hard to believe in anything that’s not this moment, right now,” he murmurs into her hair.

She cradles his cheek and turns to face him. Their eyes meet, and there’s no pretense, no walls. 

“Is this what I’ve been missing?” She asks, searching the depths of his brown eyes.

Yes, it is, but instead of answering her question, he says, “I should have said something earlier.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she replies, a tender hand cupping his sun-kissed cheek face. “I should’ve understood earlier. The way you used to look at me… It was too dreamy to be real.”

He presses a kiss to the palm of her hand, his voice low. “I wish I could tell you…”

“Tell me what?”

“Everything. What this means to me. How I feel. How I’ve felt for years and how awful I feel for not having had the guts to—”

She places a finger on his lips.

“We’re here,” she presses her body against his for emphasis. “Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter. What this means to you… it means the same to me, Noah. I dreamt of you. You were my every fantasy. For years.”

“Tell me your dreams,” he demands. “I’ll make them come true. Each and every single one.”

“You’re already doing that.”

Noah’s fingers brush against the damp skin of her back. The world around them hums with distant laughter and soft music, but here, in their little pocket of space, time feels suspended. His touch wanders. He shifts closer because he needs her.

Unintentionally, right before he’s about to kiss her, his fingers catch on one of the strings of her bikini top. A simple tug. The tension in the knot gives way too easily. He is barely aware of what he’s done before the fabric slackens. 

A breath. A pause.

She stiffens, just slightly. Her shoulders tense, her body alert in the way someone instinctively braces for exposure. Noah realizes what he’s done in the same instant she glances around, eyes darting to the people farther up the shore. They’re too far to see, too lost in their own moments to notice. But still, she hesitates.

However, she doesn’t reach to fix it.

She doesn’t step away. 

Instead, she turns her gaze back to him, eyes gleaming. 

He understands.

His breath catches as he lifts his hands again, this time deliberate. His fingers find the second tie at the nape of her neck. The knot comes undone easily beneath his touch, the damp fabric slipping free. The bikini top flutters down, catching the breeze before landing softly at their feet in the sand.

Before she can move, Noah closes the space between them. His arms come around her, hands on her waist, pulling her against him, their bodies flush. His warmth envelops her, shielding her. Protecting her.

His thumb traces over the faint scar just beneath her breast. He lingers there, reverent, as if trying to read her past through it. 

“That’s a story for another day,” she whispers.

His fingers flex against her skin. “I’ll take care of you.” 

A soft exhale leaves her lips before she rises onto her toes, hands threading around his neck. Their mouths meet—slow at first, tasting the promise. Then deeper. Needier.

He doesn’t think before his arms tighten around her waist. He lifts her and he carries her forward, her legs around his hips, his feet greeted by water. Waves curl around them, rising to their waists as he holds her close.

She frees his hair from the bun. 

“I’m not sure you love the bun or hate it,” Noah muses. 

She grins against his wet lips. “I love how ridiculously hot it makes you look,” she admits, “but the urge to run my fingers through your hair is impossible to resist.” 

He hums in satisfaction and kisses her with an open mouth, hungrier and greedier.

There’s only the press of their bodies, the rhythm of the tide, the quiet gasp of her breath against his mouth.

And the night, vast and endless, coming to swallow them whole.

Steam curls into the air as water cascades down their bodies. The salt is long gone from their skin, for they’ve been in the shower longer than they can track. 

They move around each other in the small space, washing and rinsing, touching slowly, learning. 

He washes her hair, fingers massaging her scalp, nails scratching lightly in a way that makes her eyes flutter shut. She does the same for him, but when she stands in front of him, on her tiptoes to reach, he nibbles at her wrist, making her giggle—so much that he has to catch her before she slips. 

 She’s happy, thinking about how her hair will smell like his now. 

They stand under the stream of water for a while, hugging, saying nothing. 

When she shivers, Noah shuts off the water and hands her a towel before grabbing one for himself. 

Later, after they’ve brushed their hair and dried off, still wrapped in towels, she catches sight of him at the sink, securing a pink butterfly clip into his damp hair, pinning a few strands back from his forehead. 

From where she’s perched on the bed, with a foot propped up to apply moisturizes, she bites her lip to keep from grinning.

“That’s adorable.”

Noah glances at her in the mirror, then snorts when he realizes what she’s talking about. “Lily gave it to me when she was eight. Said it made me look cooler.” His mouth quirks. “She lied, obviously.”

“No,” she says, setting her foot back down on the carpet and flipping her hair over one shoulder. “It’s very fashionable. You should wear it all the time.”

“Instead of the bun? I don’t believe you,” he teases back. 

She sticks her tongue out and walks toward her suitcase, which she’d brought over from her room after they got back from the beach. He watches her, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed over his chest. Water still beads along her collarbones. 

She grabs her underwear, then pauses, letting it dangle from her fingers. When she turns back, the fact that Noah was watching her makes her heart jump. 

The way he stands there, with only a towel slung around his waist and damp hair messy except for that ridiculous pink clip doesn’t help the heat curling low in her stomach. 

She considers the fabric between her fingers, then tilts her head. 

“Do you want to get dirty again?”

His eyes darken, a slow, lazy smirk playing at his lips. “Do I want to get dirty again?” he repeats. “I think you know the answer to that, love.”

 Her smile could stop wars. 

She drops the underwear back into the suitcase and walks up to him, fingers grasping the hem of his towel, brushing against the skin just below his navel. 

“The clip stays on,” she says. 

Noah exhales a quiet laugh, raising an eyebrow as he lets her guide him toward the bed. 

“On one condition,” he says, catching her wrist just before she can tug the towel away and reveal his growing erection. 

She lifts a brow.     

“The clip stays on,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, “as long as you do.” 

They hold each other’s gaze. The space between them disappears, years of hesitation dissolving into certainty. 

Her smile widens, so big it makes her cheeks ache. 

He just sealed a deal that will have him wearing that hair clip forever. 

He knows. 

She tugs the towel from his waist and rises onto her toes, pressing her lips to his. 

And then, there is no space left between them and no more years of sleep. 

💕 Happy Valentine's Day to all of you, my loves:

@rumoured-whispers | @iconic-taurus | @bloody-spades | @bluestdai | @theanarchymuse95

@somebodyels3 | @blade-dressed-in-red | @todressabladeupinred | @turn-your-life-into-folklore | @thecoyotescry

@iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning | @tosoundlessdarkistare | @missduffsblog | @flowery-mess | @chey-h

@tf-is-aesthetic | @alwaysfightforwhoyouare | @fadingangelwisp | @respectfulrebel | @amelia-acero

@theasowle | @xxkatsatwatwafflexx | @lunabuna991 | @ferduttini | @lacy1986

@bad-idea2021 | @death-ofpeace-ofmind | @n0ahsebastian | @kjsebastian | @omens-seeker

I'm sorry if I forgot someone!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

A NOOSE TO HANG ONTO (III)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER IV

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 7.3k

WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of stalking & stalking behavior, talks of death, weapons, violence, suggestive thoughts/comments, toxic modeling standards, food issues, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Sometimes you wonder if meeting your soulmate would even matter—it would never fix the void in your heart, you know. It would be foolish to think that it would. 

But there is such a drug attached to being loved as you are, despite your flaws and failings, destined to be tied in a game of commitment. Yet the simple fact showed that, while soulmates were able to bring you color, that didn’t change people's nature. 

Even among those tied pairs, divorce was rampant; assaults, and murders as well. 

Soulmate Psychosis, it was called. When your mind broke from having it all figured out, or even when you knew it was falling apart. 

It happened to your father and it happened to millions of other spouses too. When your entire life is already decided when you look at someone, it can be…a lot. 

So, part of you was happy that you’d never know who yours was unless they told you themselves—you can hope and pray that they stay their tongue and give you a chance to fall for them naturally. Because it scared you, truly, becoming like all of the rest. A statistic. 

Lord, don’t let yourself become a statistic.

Nikto silently walks at your heels as you push through the front doors of your penthouse, taking off your ball cap and stuffing it into your jacket pocket.

The man at the front desk calls to you, and you raise a hand in greeting, sliding a soft smile his way. 

“Seraph!” Isaak has been working at this building for as long as you can remember—the man with grayish hair and dark eyes. A face that was sharp and a nose crooked; like a chocolate-chip cookie, dark splotches along his face led to the impression of freckles. 

The man was slightly older than you, lanky, and always dressed luxuriously.

“Having a good day, Isaak? Has that girl come back and given you her number yet?” You slow your pace to the elevator, digging into your pocket and peeling out one of the keys from your lanyard for your floor. You nearly drop the thing before you snap and catch onto the metal quickly. Nikto lets off something like an annoyed growl behind you at the interruption from the man across the room. 

He’s impatient, you hum and send him a little glance over your shoulder. Light eyes dig with a warning. You only chuckle and shake your head calmly. One would think that for a PMC he would have all the patience in the world. 

“You know I keep trying to get her to go away,” Isaak smiles at you. “The only woman I’d accept a number from is you, my Little Angel.”

Where the flirtatious comments had gotten you into bed with the man before, now they just didn’t strike you as they had before. Not…anymore. 

You clear your throat and blink away for a moment before you school your expression back to an easy malleability. 

“Good try.” Your focus goes back to the keys, fingers jerkily sifting through them.

Isaak’s brows furrow at your form, perhaps a bit of offense making his face twist—dark eyes slip down your body; pupils dilating. 

A black form steps slightly forward, a large shoulder blocking you from view in one firm movement. Like some wolf with its neck fur standing on end, Nikto’s head is lightly bent down; eyes so intense that they render Isaak frozen in a sense of internal instincts warring with one another.

Nikto doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound—only stares and doesn't blink, immobile as a stone.

The soft music of the lobby blurs to the sound of a heart pounding.

You don’t even notice, humming when you find the correctly marked key from its slate mass and moving forward to press the illuminated button of the elevator. 

“Oh!” Your mind pulls itself back to the present and away from letters and fire. “Isaak, this is Nikto—he’ll be…” A pause, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Are you okay?”

The man looks like he’s about to piss himself. 

Without another word, Isaak scurries into the backroom, the door hitting so hard closed behind him that you flinch slightly and blink in shock. Standing for a moment, you tilt your head slowly right before the elevator dings, signaling you can enter. 

Nikto suddenly grabs the meat of your arm and moves you inside.

“Woah!” You call, huffing. “Careful!” 

“Inside,” the PMC grumbles, eyes tight and beady. 

Your feet stumble when he lets you go, having to steady yourself on the back railing so you don’t fall over and hit your face on the floor. A sharp look is leveled at Nikto as he drops his duffel bag to the ground and hooks his arms at the collar of his rig, grunting and shifting his legs to set himself. 

Blinking rapidly, you sigh out a fast breath.

“You know,” you begin, slotting your key into the plaque that says your floor number, twisting, and then taking a step back. Eyes darting to your side, you ease out slyly. “I’m sure people would like you more if you had the ability to articulate what you’re feeling. I’m getting the sense that you carry your emotions around like you’re trying to choke someone out.”

Nikto glares ahead, a brick wall of nothing but a harsh breath. 

You smile softly and chuckle. 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll get you into shape in no time.” Pale eyes slowly slide to your face and Nikto’s dead gaze stays there—brows in such a straight line it’s like looking at a statue. “I always do.”

While being around your mom led you to a subdued state, you had no trouble easing back into your usual route of subtle flirting; it was natural to you, even after traumatic events. A cushion, if you will. It felt good to still be able to regulate yourself and have some level of control over your life. 

The three bodies and the Stalker, that senseless shadow, still haunt the back of your eyelids but having a distraction in the light was helping. Something new to focus on. 

“We need copy,” Nikto glares at you, ignoring your soft tone.

As the elevator rises incredibly high, you hum in question, smile flicking to a confused frown. He grits his teeth under his mask.

“The key, Whelp, да?” Your eyes spark.

“Oh, sure,” you shrug. “I don’t have one.” 

Nikto’s shoulders move back, blinking at you quickly. “You…” he trails off into a snarl of Russian. A hand comes up from his side to harshly dig into the bridge of his hidden nose.

You have to restrain a wide smile, the muscles in your face twitching. 

When the doors open, you’re led into the sight of your safe place—an entire world away from the one outside the half-closed blinds of an opposite wall of all windows.

“I’ll order you one,” you try to reassure Nikto, sending him a side glance as you let all of the tension leak out of you as you step inside. “No worries.”

The man follows, jaw tense, as he stoops down and swipes up his bag. 

“How is it that you do not have a second key?” Nikto’s eyes dart around the living room, not showing the slight way he’s taken aback by the size of everything and the design choice. 

It was certainly…unique. 

High mass, there were knickknacks on nearly every surface—a far-off ceiling due to the open second level where the rooms must be. There were hanging beads from the stairs, and plants that grew large and verdant; Nitko blinked at paintings on nearly every surface of the visible wall. A hanging chandelier that emits light over the antique-looking furniture of wood and velvet. 

Even a taxidermy deer head, with its antlers holding jewelry that glints rich and luxurious. Books and painted bits of the walls that were near sheer fabric draped as an accessory from the top of bookshelves. 

“Sorry for the mess,” you utter, sincerely, “if I’d been told that you were going to be staying here, I would have gotten the spare room ready.”

The kitchen is simple and mixed in with the living room in the form of a large island piled with magazines and notebooks. 

You sigh and look around, wrapping your arms around your waist as you glance around the space. Not a stranger to the confused looks you’d get from your style.

Aly described it as a fairy tale. A hut in the woods holding secrets and magic. So different than what AMA had you displayed as—a cold angel of white and sharp feathers.

A product of some great lust machine.

“Just wait until he sees the loft,” you murmur, thinking about all of the various fabrics and tailored clothes you’d had in the open space directly when you walk up the stairs. The Dress Form torso mannequins wearing dresses you’d made with pricked fingers and shaky nerves. 

You hoped he hadn’t met his Soulmate, because you’re sure it’s a hideous mess of colors up there. The thought makes you pause, and you realize you haven’t asked that question to yourself yet. 

Did Nikto see color? 

“No need,” Nikto immediately returns to his stoic monotone at your concern over the state of things. “I make do. Step aside.” 

Slipping off your shoes, you place them in the old claw foot parlor table you’d made into your entryway storage, glancing at the void as he walks around your creaky wooden floors with his heavy boots. 

“Shoes,” you remind, voice light. 

The beast halts, his back to you halfway onto your handmade Persian rugs. You watch his fingers twitch around his duffel bag straps, as you go to close your secondary door; hiding the gaping wound in the building as the elevator leaves. A soft click emanates just as the man grunts lowly and lets his bag slam to the floor. 

In one movement, the Russian bends down and unlaces his boots in firm and quick motions, grabbing them and turning like a puppet on a string. He plants them next to yours on the parlor table and sends you a tight look with hard eyes.

Nikto’s accent flares in his quick comment. “You are strange, Girl.”

You hum and shift out of your jacket, folding it and placing it atop the shoes. 

“Oh, so I’m strange because I don’t want you tracking dirt on my clean rugs? The people you live around must be slobs.”

“We do not live around others.” 

You blink, staring into his eyes as your skin pulls lightly. “Then I’m sorry. That must be very lonely.” 

Nikto’s muscles tense under his gear, great thighs hardening. He growls low after a moment of stiffly watching you. “I do not need pity, certainly not from you,” and then stalks off, leaving his bag in the foyer. 

Lips slightly parted, you let him walk away and snoop, taking account of the rooms and the layout for his own needs. Sighing, you rub at the back of your head before letting your hand drop back down, pulling at the fabric of your turtle neck. 

You couldn’t deny that you found Nikto physically attractive—the large stature and built frame made your neurons fire, how he loped along with his bulky gear. Sure, that was natural, and despite the attitude, you did feel secure around him. He had an extensive record for a reason, and your mother would only include the best in her decisions. 

It also attested to the fact that you didn’t find his aggression at all fear-inducing if that made any sense at all. To everyone else, he would be the pinnacle of an axe murderer, but, for some reason, he didn’t feel like that to you. A bit loose, sure, but the knowledge that this man was entirely mission-driven sat well with you. 

It confused you—why did you not entirely mind having him around?

I can live with this, you tell yourself, brushing off your sweatpants and telling yourself not to think of the bakery or about Sergi, Yefim, or Petya; Aleksandr. 

But when all that’s moved away like a curtain in front of the window, the view still remains. 

The Stalker. 

You still couldn’t rationalize it. How could someone do that? Be so bold and brute-like? And it was all over you. 

Never had you been overconfident in yourself—you knew you had the looks and the money, the ability to do what few people could, but that had never gotten into your head. It was common knowledge that every model had a shelf-life and yours would probably end sooner than later if this kept up. 

Any damage to your flesh that left long-term scarring was an instant dismissal. No negative press for AMA, either. 

In all of this, you were walking a very thin path of horror and reality, like a show at a circus. And you of all people know you can’t walk in a straight line.

The overwhelming feeling of being hunted was setting in and you were entirely in the woods with blood poured over your body; weighing down a dress of linen and calling the beasts to feast upon your flesh with a ravaging appetite. 

Swallowing the bile in your throat, you quickly go to find where Nikto had slinked off to, suddenly very cold and not liking the silence. On the way, you flick at your record player, and the old rusty thing spits out Clair De Lune as the glass sun catchers shaped like stars glimmer from the loft’s beams. 

“Nikto?” You call in question, looking around before you murmur to yourself. “Where did you get to?” 

Carefully grabbing the railing to the stairs, you watch your feet as you slowly ascend, piano music in the background; fingers tight and hard as you slide it up one at a time. You only knock your foot once, two steps from the top, but quickly recover with only a huff and a tiny chuckle. 

Nikto walks through the top seating area filled with your materials and fabric, glancing at every book and measuring device that you have; the half-finished pieces. You blink and watch, wondering what he’s thinking as he clicks his tongue before walking to the first door and pushing it open. Your eyes slightly widen at that. 

“Well, you sure do like making yourself at home,” your voice calls to the dark figure, and you shake your head. You begin following as if he is showing you around your place and not the other way around. 

“I am doing my job.” Nikto’s voice spits out from the opening as you shuffle in. He glances around the small guest bedroom quickly. “Your home is cluttered.” The Russian mutters. “Messy.”

“I call it controlled chaos.” You ease, hands slipping into your pockets beside your phone and wallet. “You’ll find I’m fond of shiny things.”

“We can tell.” Head tilting, you restrain yourself from asking why he keeps referring to himself in the first person like that.

“You’re free to take this room if you want.” There are three doors that make up the separate walls—the one you’d both just walked through, one to the adjoining library and joint bathroom, and the other to your master bedroom with a respective master bath. 

All connected to one another like a train car. 

Nikto grunts and slips his eyes to the bits of personalization you’d left, though not as much as the rest of the penthouse. The bed was a Full size, there was a desk with bits of lush greenery coming off from a planter, and storage for clothes in the form of a large wardrobe you’d found in an antique store. 

Classy, you thought, however, your standards for decoration weren’t the pinnacle of design. A set of Russian nesting dolls from your mother was put onto shelves, and in one of the corners, a hanging oil lamp sat above a nightstand. 

Gray plush duvet and a fluffy rug you were told was purple when Alyona stayed over, with large pillows that looked like bear fur.

“Again,” you send a glance to the blank stare that Nikto keeps on you. “I didn’t know you were staying over.”

“It is… sufficient.” Gruff and final, though with an air of annoyed disgust, the Russian goes into the library second to last and then heads into your room with his broad back expanding; leaving a trail of authority in his wake. 

Under your breath, you quietly mock him before rolling your eyes and following. For all this, you ended up being correct. Nikto was a good distraction. 

The first thing that he notices is the stuffed animals.

They take up most of the window nook, some incredibly large and fluffy while others are small and could be crushed in his palm, even sitting atop one another if the space allowed. Nikto blinks at the sight of a very large bear plushie with a small bird on the head—little felt feet sticking out in front of it. 

You clear your throat, the hot embarrassment flooding your face as your smile turns sheepish. 

“Just…uhm…it’s just a little bit of an addiction.” Like the rest of the house, that fairy tale feeling emanates here as well—fancy curtain holders, old tea cups holding palm-sized pewter statues, paintings, and stained-glass lamps from the nineteen hundreds. 

Pale eyes tilt their gaze down to you, silent as always.   

“But at least it’s not drugs!” You push out quickly, awkwardly chuckling and shrugging your shoulders. 

Your feet shift from under you, the large room that you call your own not something you planned on having to describe today. There was something incredibly intimate about letting someone into your house—someone you didn’t know especially. 

Nikto puffs a bit of air in something akin to a scoff, turning his head away from you but not after a slight quirk of his brow. 

“Are you sure you are not on drugs?” You snap up to stare at him, falling silent for a moment as he turns and leaves. 

Gaping, you stutter, slightly amused, “W-was that a joke, Nikto?” He doesn’t answer and a slow smile grows on your lips. “Hey! C’mon did you just make a joke? Awe,” you coo, “I really am good at this!” 

“Stop talking.” Nikto snarls, glaring as he goes down to the ground level. “You are making my ears hurt.” 

You hurry to the stairs, following after with a steady mood, chuckling. 

“If you’re going to be my glorified roommate, I think talking is part of the—” A sharp gasp rips from you as your leg hits on the banister, your foot locked through the metal as you yelp loudly at the sudden pain. In a quick tilt your vision slides, a swift sensation of gravity taking over as your body takes you tumbling backwards. 

You tense mid-air, mind already made up about the incoming pain of your head knocking off the hard material, your skull rattling and splitting open; blood and brain matter spilling out to coat the—

Arms snap around your waist, legs still on the top half of the stairs and back hitting a large chest as you grunt in surprise; eyes blinking wildly. 

Heart hammering, your head quickly looks up only to find the piercing eyes of Nikto burning down into you. Your nose brushes his face mask, the harsh fabric of the lover half pressing into yours. 

You both stay there for a moment, Nikto’s blazing gaze unphased, it seemed, by the close contact. Inside of your gut, your stomach flips, and a tightness flares in your lungs. 

Upon the air, your voice stutters out, tiny, “M-my bad.” You accent it with a helpless chuckle.

Nikto’s breath brushes over your forehead, and with a quick jerk of his arms you’re set back up on top of the stares. Even here, you meet the man’s height perfectly—him a few steps below you yet still a giant. 

“This will be a problem, yes?” Nikto barks out. You steady yourself on the railing and take a deep breath. “You. You are…” His eyes twitch as if trying to find the correct word in English. He grunts to himself, fingers twitching.

You tilt your head, still calming down. Your throat is tight at the heat that still emanates from where Nikto’s hands had wrapped around you.

“...Shaky?”

“Hm,” Nikto doesn’t seem like that word fits best, but he nods once firmly, folding his arms over his chest and never once releasing you from his stare. Studying you as a monster does a maiden. “Да.”

You jerkily shrug, rubbing at your neck with one hand. 

“Well, I guess brain damage will do that to you,” your lips tilt in an amiable smile—trying to play off what you say as you continue. Nikto’s body goes still, yet his attention never leaves. His eyes narrow. “I should have told you when we met, but you were, eh,” you chuckle, looking away for a moment. “Pretty quick with wanting to leave.”

A strained silence falls; an unknown emotion in the air. 

“I—” Your voice is cut off by your phone vibrating from inside of your pocket, and with your hand snapping to that general area, you blink in surprise. “Oh.” 

Fishing it out with awkward fingers, you find the illuminated screen and a text from Alyona calling up to you.

‘Video call w AMA & managers. 5 min. Be ready!’ 

“Shit,” you mutter, immediately going into your professional headspace. 

But before you can rush off to grab your computer and slap makeup on your face, Nikto’s hand yanks your phone from your grasp. Blinking at your empty palm, your face darts up with a swift offense growing. 

“Nikto!”

“Quiet.” The man taps into your contacts and you watch helplessly as he begins slashing in his own number with his digits firmly pressing in hard intervals to the keypad. 

Huffing, you shake your head and leave him there to do what he needs to do, not overprotective of a device and more concerned with the time constraint that was leveled like a noose around your neck. 

You had to look somewhat good for the call, after all, they could be waiting to tell you you’re fired. 

They wouldn’t do that with Alyona there, you reason as you narrowly dodge running onto a side table before you enter your room again, though this time from the main door. Not the managers either. 

Your lips pull straight. 

But if the CEO was on call, then you’d have to worry. He had no problem being ruthless about policy and public image, always so pretentious with his power over all of the men and women employed at Allurement. 

But then again, he had always seemed to take an interest in you, anyway. 

You slip out of your turtleneck and pull on a silk top that seems either white or a very very pale color—either way, they always put you in something near to white, so it didn’t matter. Since it was a video call, there was no need to show your bottom half; the sweatpants stayed. 

Makeup was the hard part. 

With your nerve spasms always showing up at inopportune times, it took a long time if someone else wasn’t doing it for you. You had ways to combat it, sure, but none you could get ready in five minutes. 

Three, you tell yourself. 

An idea hits your head like a rock.

“Nikto!” You call, rushing to your vanity and pushing aside a plush raccoon to snag your mascara. There wasn’t time for anything else. “I have a favor!”

“No,” the man materializes in the opening of your door, the backdrop of your fabric mess in the loft behind him; the clashing of shades momentarily confuses you, blinking quickly, but you recover with a huff and a plea.

“I need you to put my mascara on—my hands are too unpredictable right now.” He’s growling in the way you’re already accustomed to. This must be one hell of a day for him. “Your job is to protect me right? I need you to protect me from public humiliation.”

“Then humiliate yourself.” Nikto’s narrowed eyes lower even farther, face turned sharply to you as you walk over and hold out the stick. “This is not my job.”

You dig hard into his eyes, serious if not a bit willing. “I’d owe you.” Your tone is hard but true. 

The Russian bear’s shoulders roll slightly, getting higher and more irritated. He grunts at you. After a long and heartstopping moment, he grabs onto your pocket and slips your phone back inside, jostling your body into his as you make a noise in surprise. 

In that same movement, the mascara stick is yanked from your hand and fingers grapple onto your chin. 

Your eyes go wide; body instantaneously tensing, as the unyielding grip moves your chin to the side and one hand unscrews the mascara with a slight pop of the seal. 

“You are dependent,” Nikto’s digits are tight, but you don’t blink or pull away as the stick spreads pigment. “I do not like it, Girl. Like child running with a knife.” 

“Aren’t you such a ray of sunshine?” You grumble but stay deathly still. Nikto’s body is tight against yours, leaning over you. 

The guy certainly didn’t mind getting handsy if he needed to. Thinking like that makes your feet shuffle tinily under you, a heat emanating from your cheeks and your thighs momentarily becoming stiff. 

His body warmth bleeds through his bulk; the grating press of his chest plate to your upper body.

“Stop breathing,” Nikto hisses and your cheek is moved to the side, knee knocking into his leg. 

You feel and see the stick descend and move your lashes delicately, quite adverse to the attitude you’re getting. The Russian is attentive and set on getting his task done, even if he despises it.

“What kind of a request is that?!” 

“Hush!” He barks and you both try to glare at each other as the last of the mascara is bushed on. “Get out.”

You pull back and frown up at him.

“I’m sorry you think that your attitude is appropriate, Nikto.” With your nose in the air, your hands grapple for your laptop on the way out of your room and sit at the desk out in your loft. Tossing a stack of fabric to the floor and brushing down the surface. 

Behind you, there’s a plain-colored sheet hung to the wall for conferences—and you make sure it’s in place as you plop down to your seat. 

Nikto’s angry eyes bore into you from the doorway, which he slowly leans against and crosses his arms heavily. 

He mutters under his breath in fast Russian, shaking his head as you unlock your laptop and log in, easily clicking where you need to go and pulling up your video call with twenty seconds to spare. 

Alyona’s face appears first, looking to the side, and you send a soft smile before you unmute yourself. 

“Feeling better?” The woman perks up, eyes coming to you. She beams.

“Солнышко!” You laugh, tilting your head. “No, no, forget about me, how are you?” Aly gives you her full attention. “I need to come over and visit, yes? We should have a girl’s night again. Just us.” 

“I’m…alright,” you simply say, fast to reassure her of her worries. There was no need to burden the model with your fears. Not when she’s still living with her own. “And that might be a bit difficult on the ‘just us’ part, unfortunately.”

She sighs but is serious in her concern.

“New bodyguard, Seraph?” Nikto listens to everything from across the loft, and you glance up at him before you open your mouth to speak in the affirmative.

“Live-in.” Alyona thins her lips, but, surprisingly, doesn’t seem off-put. 

“Perhaps that is good, hm? If it’s to keep you safe, I would be willing to deal with it.” Before you can admit that it’s not the worst idea in the world, though draining, three others pop into the call.

Yours and Alyona’s managers, and, of course, the CEO of AMA. 

You have to hide your curse before it sneaks out of your mouth. Everyone greets one another, and you send polite smiles and hellos in return. Corporate professionalism a virus that sweeps your features into a mask of compliance and brain-dead agreements. 

Kliment Fedorov, CEO of Allurement Modeling Agency, shows his large and round face in the very center of the screen; with tiny eyes like a fly and a bald head. He’s in his office.

The man calls your name and smiles wide, pure white teeth leaning more towards fake looking than just the results of frequent brushing. 

“It is good to see both of my best girls getting along. No lasting marks, I hope?” You and Aly dart look. 

“None, Sir.” You both answer, still smiling and falling in line. They only speak in English for your comfort—in your manager’s box, you see his translator lean into his ear and relay the words being let out.

“Good, good! This is great news. Seraph,” you perk up, Nikto from the back shuffling while looking around his surroundings. He picks at a piece of reflective fabric on a side table with his brutish fingers, twisting it before huffing and tossing it away. He snoops as if put off by the high-mass areas, used to order and cleanliness. 

Not that it wasn’t clean, but outwardly it gave off a certain impression of clutter.

“How soon can you be back? We have had even more propositions offered because of this event.” Your lungs stutter. “Mrs. Solovyova and yourself are very profitable for the company at the current time; this only made your popularity better!” 

Your manager, Kostya, spits off into his native tongue with its harsh edges. Nikto’s head shifts back your way but says nothing. 

Profitable? Wanted? You can’t say you’re overly thrilled at the comments. Just like you can’t say you want to get back to work when the Stalker knows exactly where you’ll be. 

Who could say when he would strike again? A day? A week? Going back to AMA would make the target on your back as large as a damn elephant.

Kliment waves a hand and your manager falls silent at the sheen of anger in his fly-eyes. He continues.

“Of course, AMA had to take precautions, Ladies.” Alyona shifts in her box on the screen, glancing to the side. “We were very close to having to terminate your deal with us. Such events are…ah, dangerous for our image.”

It’s like a punch to the gut you knew was coming. The only reason you were still employed was because of companies trying to profit off of the girls who beat the odds and survived a direct attack on one of their own. 

You could already see the headlines—had seen the headlines. 

Aly and you know the response you need to give.

“Thank you, Sir.” Smiles are stiff, but a sheet of pleasure washes Kliment’s face.

“Well, of course, my girls! I would never get rid of such beauties, no, no. This agency is your home—I love my women like my own.” His eyes stay on you, and your body shivers even miles away. “But lovely Seraph, again, when can we have you back? Everyone has been asking, yes? Photographers lining up! But of course, you’ll keep your assigned one.” 

Everyone? You swallow down saliva thinking about crowds and the peering eyes. 

“Uhm,” Nikto openly stares, and you glance up at him. He offers no help above a tilt of his head; arms over his chest. “W-when would you need me back, Sir. My calendar is always free for you.”

“Good! Tomorrow, then. Mrs. Solovyova?” 

“...That works for me, Sir.” 

“Perfect!” You sigh and close your eyes for a moment before the CEO jumps into business—your managers taking notes in preparation for scheduling and locations. “I will send the details over to your departments and good wishes to the companies, I’ll expect to hear of you both being in tomorrow.” 

He leaves the call, but not without a smirk forming on his face. 

The managers talk for a few moments, getting almost everything in order before they too leave. 

Aly and you release a deep breath, both sagging. The other woman is first to speak.

“Bastard.” Nikto scoffs from across the room. You peek before you rub your head and nod in turn. 

“A creep, one hundred percent.” Alyona sighs, and her palm acts as a headrest as she lays her chin on it. She licks her lips, face going hard.

“You don’t think that he…” Your brows tilt in confusion before you catch what she’s trying to say. 

“No, Aly, it can’t be him.” She frowns. “T-that would be,” you force a laugh, hands beginning to spasm. Swiftly you move them under the desk. “That would be insane.”

Nikto takes his phone out of his pocket and taps something into the screen, feet spacing themselves in a display of a perfect soldier. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was, Солнышко.” You turn away for a moment. “Anyone could be at this point.” 

“My mother said there was a break-in at the bakery before the explosion. Someone planted that bomb because they guessed on an off chance that we would go out.” You breathe sharply. “Do you know how insane that is? Anyone could have,” swiftly stopping your sentence, you shake your head to clear it. “It’s…the person who’s doing this can’t blend into normal life. It has to be obvious, and everyone’s missing it.”

“Easy, Little Seraph,” Alyona eases, showing you a hand to get you to come back to her. “We will figure this out, yes?” 

A hand rubs along your face and you whisper out, “Okay.” 

“I’ll see you and the new man tomorrow—you know you can call me with anything. Nikifor and I worry about you. Yekaterinburg is a dangerous place, regardless.” You have to smile at that, lightly chuckling. Aly tilts her head as her hair brushes her shoulders after a moment of quiet thinking. A lighter air spreads out like her voice from the speakers. “...Who did your makeup in so little time?” 

“See you tomorrow!” You grab the end of the laptop and slam it closed as the woman yells out to you.

“Don’t fuck him on the first day!” Wanting to shrivel up and die, you avoid Nikto’s suddenly brutal gaze and quickly push a smile to your lips.

“S…she’s joking.” His pale eyes aren’t amused. 

Nighttime is a strange affair between the two of you.

You jump at every strange noise—like Nikto rearranging his room better to his standards—as you think of dinner for two. Laying on the couch, back in your turtle neck, it’s hard to focus above the scrape of hardwood and the low grunts from above; the distant rhythmic stomp of feet.

You rub your eyes and groan low. This was going to be a task, even for your usually placid attitude. 

“What the hell does a monster eat?” The comment is directed at the taxidermy deer on your wall as you move to stand. “Liver? The souls of my enemies?” You blink, pausing before you mumble. “Maybe that’s not so bad, now that I think about it.” 

Your pantry was already sparse at best. 

Tapping the cupboard, you settle on something that Alyona had taught you to make with her mother. Cabbage Soup—Schi or щи—low overall in calories but still filling when you know your limits; healthy as well as hardy. You mess with the bag of potatoes and peel out a few, turning and setting them down on the island. 

With the dark night soon setting in, you push the automatic button on your wall and watch the curtains close the rest of the way with a soft buzzing sound. Sighing, you flick on the lights and get to work as the gray blobs of potatoes fall apart under your knife, set to the side. 

Cooking, while you still had a complicated relationship with food, did truly make you calm down. The tremors eased up, your feet stopped moving so much—you even felt yourself getting hungry as the ingredients were roughly chopped and dropped into a pot to boil. 

If you allowed yourself it, you wouldn’t have minded growing up to be a cook instead of some form of greed and envy. But the thought of that now made you lose your appetite entirely.

When you’re half done with your tiny bowl, water on the side with nothing else, Nikto stalks down the stairs. 

He takes one look at your bowl and speaks lowly. 

“Щи.” You hum, recognizing the word that Aly’s mother had said. He grunts, chest jerking as he comes around the island to the boiling pot; his back now to you. “You will starve with that small of a portion, Whelp.” 

Blinking, you sip down some of the broth from your spoon and furrow your brow. That nickname still makes your eyelids narrow in slight disapproval, but you let it go.

“I don’t think so, Nikto. It’s the last bit of calories I need for the day.” Pale eyes watch over his shoulder, pulling smaller.

“I find that insulting.” His hand grabs the ladle, bringing it up to stare. The Russian’s shoulder blades pull out at the motion, the line of his spine most likely showing through his skin under all that gear. You should tell him it’s okay to take it off, but you highly doubt he ever does outside of sleep. “Pointless.”

“You try being a model,” you remark. “You’ve got the body for it, at least. I know a few people that would swoon over the height alone.” 

Nikto’s visible skin pulls, biceps tense. “Swoon, Girl?” The accent makes it sound like a bark from a dog. 

You take your last spoonful, covering your mouth with your hand as you speak. 

“Like,” pausing, you swallow, “actually I don’t know what that means. Become emotionally affected, I guess?”

“I do not care if people become ‘emotionally affected’ by my height.” Nikto pulls a bowl from the cupboard—a large one. “Such things are below me. All that matters is the mission.”

“Sounds boring,” you huff. “Sour cream is in the fridge.” 

The light from the machine greets you as the condiment is taken out and emptied into a nearly overflowing bowl of cabbage soup. Blinking at the amount of food that would burst your stomach if you ate it, you shrug and clean out the last of the broth by bringing the lip of the bowl to your mouth. 

Nikto huffs, looking down at the soup. He pauses.

“Where is баранины?” Your confusion must be plainly stated on your face because he seems to clench his jaw and say through his teeth. “Lamb.”

“Alyona never made it with meat,” you answer, hopping off your stool and moving to put your dirty dishes in the sink. “But I’ve heard everyone makes it differently depending on where you grew up. Was that how your parents made it?” 

When you turn back around he’s already walking away from you. Watching, wide-eyed at how silently he cleared the room, you make a small sound in the back of your throat as he disappears upstairs.

The silence wafts back in, only the small noise from the record player dancing in your ears. 

You lick your lips for the remaining taste of food and clean up with a still-growling stomach, shaking your head at the strange character living with you. Hoping this doesn’t drag out any longer than it has to and you’re able to find the stalker soon, you hear your phone go off on the counter as you mull over your predicament. 

After you put the last of the leftovers away, you pat your hands on your pants and reach for your device, flipping over the screen and reading what will probably be a text from Aly for tomorrow. 

You pause. 

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

‘Why won’t you let me love you?’ 

Staring, whatever sense of normalcy you had from cooking was snatched away. The blood in your veins halts with a blockage of iron and fear. Instantaneously, adrenaline spikes, making your pupils go small and your jaw clench. 

Hands shake. You almost drop your phone. 

With a quick punch of your fingers, you delete the text and block the number—tossing your device back to the counter and moving away from it until your back hits the cupboards. 

Spasming palms slap to the stone countertop, grip tight. 

You stare at the phone for a very long time, hearing nothing but the dull drone of the piano, the sounds of the city outside, and the pulse of your veins. Static was in your ears. 

Gasping for a sudden deep breath, you clear your throat and turn away to finish cleaning, your body unable to stay still.

That night, like the ones previous, you find trouble sleeping. 

The room was only illuminated by the fairy lights you’d strung from the ceiling, a soft fade and reentry like twinkling stars hanging in a black sky. You stare at them with open eyes, laying on your back surrounded by a multitude of quilts and blankets—pillows that crowd with doughy insides. 

Nikto was turning in his bed, and the movement was setting you on edge. 

The PMC had ordered you to keep the door between your rooms open at night, in case something was happening he would hear you better. You held your tongue on the fact that if this creep managed to get into your penthouse then it was already over for you. Regardless, now you could hear every shift and grunt—every huff of annoyed air. 

No doubt the Full bed in the spare room was too tiny for him, nothing compared to your King. 

Sighing and covering your eyes with your forearm, you call out sleepily. 

“Are you sleeping alright?” The shifting stops. You wait for a response but get none. “Nikto?” Nothing. 

Sitting up, your large silk pajamas hang off one shoulder as you yawn; covering your mouth you stand and steady yourself on the oak bed frame. Standing so you can get your bearings, you decide to do what you normally do when you can’t sleep. 

Grabbing your phone’s flashlight, you flick it on and head to the kitchen—being extra careful and taking the stairs at half the speed you normally would. In the kitchen you grab at the stacked teacups and pick one with flowers on the sides; giggling to yourself at the thought.

Magnolia Tea. 

Its smell burns into your nostrils as you prepare it in near-darkness, like a beacon of light the liquid shimmers. You remember your mother making it for you after the accident—helping you to sleep and stave off the nightmares; the insomnia. 

You finish your cup in the kitchen but bring the second back up with you. Spilling only a little onto the tea plate, you go through the main door to your room and then turn to the blackened opening of Nitko’s doorway. 

“I made tea,” your voice echoes. But no sound. 

Maybe he was already asleep now. 

“No need to drink it, but it helps me when I can’t sleep. Magnolia, if you’re curious.” You chuckle, fairy lights illuminating your face. “Sorry, I’m keeping you up. I’ll leave it in the doorway, okay?”

Silence, but perhaps a tiny huff from inside the lion's den. Good or bad, you have no clue. Slipping back into bed, you try not to think about what you’re sleeping above—the letters from the Stalker’s gifts. 

You’d never opened them, and you never would. Inside that lockbox is where they would stay.

Your phone vibrates on your nightstand, and even with the tea in your stomach, it is a long, long, time before your eyes flutter closed. 

Yefim’s body dances like a puppet on a string, a shadowy figure pulling the cords and letting his decimated corpse sway; jewelry stapled into his burnt neck like a collar. A noose that your desperate fingers try to hang onto.

How long could you keep this game up?

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @kra-rino4ka, @caramlizedtomatos, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

[the-light-of-deceit]

What do you guys think of the faerie cookies?

(Specifically what does Black Sapphire Cookie think of Silverbell Cookie) - definitely not a faerie cookie anon

Bleugh.. the FAERIE cookies? Oh, those little GNATS. I would just CRUSH THEM ALL if I could. It did bring me GREAT satisfaction, knowing that their leader, Elder Faerie, is dead… however I do wish I had done it. -♧

I honestly just think they’re a little dumb! Don’t mind that, though!! Easier to trick!!! Keehahahah!!! -♡

…I already stated my opinion on them before. -♢

*Shadow milk cookie leaves the room to go do something.*

…

Now that he’s gone.. ahem. Silverbell cookie? Oh.. Eheh. Well.. He’s.. not like any other faerie I’ve met. While most faeries I’ve seen seem to be just cute little pawns who play their role on the chess board.. Silverbell’s the only one who ever stood out to me. Overly sweet to those he likes and defensive towards intruders.. it’s like he can flip personalities in the span of two seconds! Almost killed me once when I was out of disguise on the border of the silver kingdom.. never been prouder.. He’s not stone faced like some of the knights of the silver tree, and he’s not a blank slate like most of the faeries there. He’s.. different.

…He’s adorable…

We’ve formed.. a truce. A friendship, if you will. We’ve decided to meet up from time to time every week late at night.. just to talk. And.. learn info about the others side. Totally. -♢

FAERIE KISSER!!! -♡

I’M NOT- SHHH!! KEEP IT DOWN, WILL YA?! -♢

[constantlymisspelled]

Mandalorian Armour Colours

Armour Colour meanings and Classifications

Perhaps it's a little ridiculous, but with more and more fans wanting a full comprehensive guide to colours, and my own frustration at not being able to find the fanon colour charts of old, here we are. For both your sake, and mine, please don't be upset if anyone doesn't utilise this guide, it is after all a guide, and only a fanmade compilation. If anyone has any criticisms, that's what edit is for, and if you want further definition, do not hesitate to let me know in the comments.

The Classicly Accepted;

[This section is the clolours accepted by Canon Media, both Disney and Legends. I will include a colour swatch and the Taubman's pallet code for ease of use. If there are colours you wish to see evaluated, or meanings you wish to infer, let me know.]

[The tiles above are literally the closest I could find to Jaster's colour, and to Boba's visor colours. The left is Red Alert, T12 26.H5, and the right is Crossfire, T15 196.6.]

Red - Ge'tal

'Honouring a parent.' This colour has been seen on the edge of Boba Fett's visor for years, and has been a staple Mandalorian colour for a long time. Honouring a parent is considered acceptable in most forms of Mandalorian Society, hence its widespread use. Honouring does not have to mean morning, and when some Mandalorians move past the grief of a lost loved one, or parent, they move to change the greys to reds, or oranges, in remembrance not of their death, but the life that family member - usually a provider in this case - had lived.

White - Cin

'A new start/Clean slate.' The literal translation for the phrase describing white on armour (Cin Vhetin) is 'White field,' or 'Snow Covoured Field.' It creates the notion that you are starting over, as winter has come, and it covers all that you used to be, allowing you to completely restructure yourself before spring arrives to thaw it, as a totally new person, with new honour and oaths to fulfil. Often associated with adult adoptions, or redemption vows completed, signifying new life.

[The image above features Jaster as he was in the first issue of Jango Fett - Open Seasons. It is accessible (the pic) on wiki, and I'm pretty sure the comic is available on most comic archives. Jaster's colour are, famously, dark grey, black, red and the yellow Haat Mando'ade Crest.]

Black - Ne'tra

Justice - the colour of Mandalorians whose moral code is unshakable. A notable wearer of this colour is Jaster Mereel himself. Most kute are often this colour, or dark blue (navy) and in most cases that is for cost reasons, and to prevent staining. However, black is the colour of night, and of Death - an important concept to all Mandalorian Sects - and creates a sense of uniformity amongst even the most visually different individuals. Justice, Death, and all that this might entail is a corner stone of Mandalorian culture and perception. One cannot live if they do not accept that Death is a possibility. Black can denote serving of justice, seeking justice, or preserving it.

Grey - Genet

'Honouring lost love, or mourning a lost loved one'. The separate shades of Grey have meaning in some Clans and Houses, but across most of Mandalorian Space, Grey is to signify the passing of a loved one. It can even be worn if either a Clan has been lost, or if a member has been excommunicated. There are also occasions of possible ven'riduur wearing the colour when another warrior gets there before them.

[The above image is the reverse of the New Zealand Free State of Niue's reverse coin. Gold does not promote prestige in Mandalorian culture, but danger. If dressed in gold, one is to be weary.]

Gold - Ve'vut

Vengeance, a common place, and important part of Mandalorian Culture and Law. Methods of vengeance are protected and controlled by Mandalorian Law. Acts that go from vengeance to Revenge can face serious consequence. Outsiders that meet warriors in this colour are warned to practice caution. A Mandalorian's wealth is not decided by the colour of their armour, but of their actions, and gold denotes a thirst for vengeance, in a control, personal manner.

[The image to the left is Nocturne Shade, T15 139.6, and the image to the right is Bright Cerulean, T15 138.7. I included a vivid and deep blue to show the scope of what is considered baseline, before entering Light Blue, Sky Blue, or Navy. I chose as close as I could to Jango Fett's armour, and both Paz Vizsla, and Vizsla House.]

Blue - Kebiin

Reliability, a warrior and Mandalorian who is secure in who they are, what they are capable of, and what they have to offer the galaxy. Warriors in their prime often wear this colour. It is often taken as a show of subtle faith and loyalty to whichever leader these particular Mandalorians serve. Blue is also often worn by mercenaries and Journeyman to create a sense of calm and trust between them and their charges. Blue is often seen as a solid, and dependable colour, and associated with leadership, and their support. Blue is the colour of the Mandalorian Protectors Universal Sigil. Parents who are raising children alone also wear this colour, as a way of reinforcing the belief that they can care for their child alone - a rare occurrence in Mandalorian Space.

Orange -

lust for life, shereshoy

[The colour to the right is literally as close as I could get to Boba Fett's armour. The image on the left is Irish Stone, T15 164.7, and the right is Deep Veridian, T10 54F-2.]

Green - Vorpan

Duty - often considered the workers' colour, green represents hard work, and deep commitment to a cause, a task, an ideal, or an action. Many members of the Fett House predominantly wear this colour as a nod to their humble beginnings, and many farmers and tradespeople wear some small segment of green to denote their occupation. The kind of green, and the way it is worn can also denote different trades and employment types, although like with most colours, each mandalorian is ultimately able to make decisions for themself on what their colours mean to them.

The Observed and Official Greater House uses;

[This section is for Fanon, or non-official colours. The Mandalorian Mercs and other cosplay groups have commonly accepted colour codes, as do some sections of the Fanfic writing community. If anyone has any colour ideas, do let me know, and feel free to leave a link to other colour charts in the notes! It's my ambition to make sourcing knowledge on Mandalorian culture easier and easier for newer fans.]

[Image for Beskar Silver was taken from the Etsy Adds for Beskar Ingots. There are multiple companies and craftspeople that make these - vey cool! I can not let myself buy any. I can not!!!]

Silver - Beskar

The Colour of unpainted beskar, the associated meanings are either that you have not had the chance to paint it, or if you are in full, evidently in use armour, that you have no right to wear paint. It is the assumed non-colours of the Silver Children (An Elite Group of Mandalorian Ori'ramikade) and the Naasaade (the Nameless Society, a group of Mandalorians who have either been put towards the path of redemption by order, or by choice) and of many bounty hunters of the Outer Rim who seek to keep their clan affiliations a secret. It is widely believed that if any Mandalorian is to have honour, it is one in silver, as it infers that this particular Mandalorian will do all that is possible to be seen as honourable once more by themselves, others, their clan, and the Ka'ra.

[The image on the left is Blue Booties (I know right?), T15 142.1, and the image on the right is Reflection, T15 142.2. I included an eggshell blue, and a powder, almost greenish pale blue. I even checked the definition of Cyan for you. Essentially, really light teal, like, really light.]

Cyan, or Sky Blue -

'New Love', often used as the symbol of engagement. Most Mandalorians cannot afford to exchange and modify pieces of their armour from one partner to another, and so instead of this practice from the eras of battlefield weddings, most unmarried warriors are encouraged to carry a small vial of this colour paint instead. This is a practice seen more amongst the traditionalists, who believe in earning armour on your own merit, and not upon the backs of others. Other methods of using this colour is in Cyan Beads upon your kute, or the addition of decorative cord upon a warrior's shoulder to denote engagement, or new marriage.

The Two Shades of Purple

[Purple is a difficult colour. Caught between red and blue, and having so many varied shades and meanings across both Mandalore, and the fandom, I've done my best to create the general feel of what purple means to a culture obsessed with living life to the fullest, and honouring your oaths.]

[Image on the left has Imperial Violet, T15 211.4, and the image on the right has Purple Statice, T15 210.5. I grabbed both a warm and cool variety for those of you with colour schemes to match. Purple is a colour often associated in fandom with chance, hope, and luck.]

a) Lavender, or Violet

The colour of luck and chance, Violet and Lavender are supposed to be a sign of recognition and faith to the old Mandalorian God and Spirit of Luck, and although belief in the Gods has long since faded, folklore still holds most shades of lighter purple as the colour of chance, change, and good futures. It is a common colour for new parents wishing to do right by their children.

[Image on the left is Imperial Purple, T15 213.7, and the image on the right is Royal Indigo, T15 130.7. Again, I have used both warm and cool shades to allow as much versatility as possible with colour palletes.]

b) Indigo

Often considered the colour of hope, Indigo and its shades are often used to mean the same things as other shades of purple, and when paired with colours such as Cyan, and Teal, or even most forms of blue, is meant to inspire a sense of gratitude, or gratefulness for victory, present peace, currently good fortune and such, whilst lighter shades are meant to bring said fortune.

[Image on the left is Tapestry Teal, T15 153.6, and the image on the right is Lagoon Teal, T15 153.5. Both Teals are on the lighter side, but you can absolutely go darker in this colour and have the same meaning.]

Teal -

Considered the unofficial colours of the New Mandalorians, the colour was originally worn only by medics, emergency workers, and those who had retired from active combat. It was supposed to be the colour of those who had seen violence, and stood up to atrocities in the name of peace. It is now considered a cowards colour amoungst Kyrtsaade circles, and New Mandalorians forbade its application in armour as a falsehood and a breaking of the Healers Code. However, Traditionalists and Way Followers still view it as the colour of choice for more reserved, shrewd verde who fight as a last resort.

[images above are to the left, Minty Green, T15 165.3, and to the right, Sherbet Lime, T15 167.3. Once again, included a warm and cool option.]

Light Green -

'Lust for peace', 'The Guardian', or 'Peace Keeper's Colours'. Often used by warriors who practice non-lethal forms of combat - guards that utilise stun batons and blanks instead of live ammunition. Under the New Mandalorians, it became indistinguishable from Teal and its meanings, but in all other forms of Mandalorian culture, Light Green is used for warriors and guards of sacred r special places, such as schools, hospitals, or the water ways. Light Green is a deeply respected, and widely used colour, even if its meaning has been watered down and misinterpreted by the galaxy at large.

Yellow - Shi'yayc

Dark Green

Dark Blue

Tan

Brown

Cream/Beige

Maroon and Burgundy

[I couldn't pick one... Image above contains Baby Girl, Pigtail Pink, River Rouge, Spring Pink, Jaguar Rose, After the Dance, Flamenco Fire, Turkish Delight, Pink Flambe, Pink Clay Pot, Bold Flame and Strawberry Splash. The codes are found on Taubmans website.]

Pink -

Respect, Knowledge, and Respected. Interestingly, pink in Mandalorian Space is a colour of status, as a unification of white and red, it combines the ideas of horouring those that raised you, and your new beginnings, and the outcome became the colour pink. Different shades mean different things in the more secular coverts, but it is important to note that field archivists, officers, and journalists have a tendency to wear at least some pink.

Additional Colours and Varieties;

Metallics

Mattes and Gloss

Patterning

Symbols of the Mandalorians;

The symbols used in Mandalore are vast, and complicated, and often the colour can change the meaning of the symbol. Colour is, as always, up to the discretion and particular tastes of the Mandalorian in question, but there are common associations, and symbols mandated for use by specific beings.

[Extrapolation will be added]

--------------

[Wrote this for my own use, and as a guide on mainstream Mandalore and the subsects we might actually see in Disney media (can you see me distancing their bizarre writing from myself? can you??) after all, the official website lists Din's armour as grey? What?? Bro, no.]

Resources;

The only copy of the old Fan Canon List I could find:

[Fanon List in image is as follows; Purple - Luck, Pink - Respected or Respecting Someone, White - Purity, Brown - Valor, Maroon - Power, Light Green - Lust for Peace, Scarlet - Defiance, Silver - Seeking Redemption, Yellow - Remembrance, Teal - Healing.]

Found on Pinterest. It used to part of one of the cosplay forums, but I can no longer find it. It runs off old canon. There are some issues with the list, but ah well.

Mandalorian Mercs Forum; [here]

They're rather official, and a great deal of their stuff is incredibly helpful, but I find their website hard to navigate. Probably just me though.

Mandalorian Wikipedia Colours; [here]

It doesn't have any of the extended fanon colours, but it dos have an in depth expose on what colour canon and EU Legends has provided us with.

Mando'a Translator; [here]

Not entirely sure how well it works, but it does simple words fine. Its sentence structure is terrible, just like all translate apps, so be warned.

Mando'a Dictionary and Forum; [here]

This Mando'a dictionary has got to be the most comprehensive I have found, however there are still mistakes. The only reason I know that is I printed the whole thing and read it like some kind of nerd.

Mandalorian Colour Definition found on Tumblr;[here]

This one is made by another user, I am unsure of their sources, but it matches closely with a great deal that I have found, so it’s pretty accurate so far.

Another Handy Mando'a forum; here

If there are any other helpful websites and links you can think of, let me know. The Codex will have reference to this chart at some stage, but I'll get to that later. I'm just religiously ignoring the Mandalorian Cookbook I started whilst sick last year. You never hear of it, it never existed.

[I will update this as I make further research.]

[dracarialove]

Secret Desires

*Check the 'secret desires' tag if you haven't read chapter 1

[Chapter 2: Luminescent Beauty]

In the new cave, they found hundreds of lime green mushrooms and sprouting fungi along the walls, all glowing vibrantly to brighten what would normally be pitch blackness.

Their light made visible the countless shards of blue crystal embedded in the stone, which sparkled in contrast with the gray slate.

Rouge was dazzled at the gorgeous natural beauty of the abandoned cave. She stood staring at it all, completely entranced, even while Shadow stepped forward.

"I can guess what the people up there were using this cave for," he said, running his hand along the flatter parts of the bejeweled wall.

His echoing voice brought Rouge out of her daze, her mouth forming a grin as she darted towards her partner. One arm linked with his and they stood shoulder-to-shoulder while she gushed over the discovery.

"I can't believe we actually found something! I mean, of course I never doubted our gem-scouting skills, but this place is beautiful! And we might not have seen it if not for that hole! Oh, Shadow, I can't wait to chip out some of these pretty little crystals!"

The hedgehog smiled, treasuring her passion, but he couldn't bring himself to do more than that. A hug would be nice, but it would also be… too much right now. Too much for them.

Likewise, Rouge caught the impulsive urge to kiss her friend on the cheek for how helpful he'd been, but she reined in her excitement. A kiss would be too much for Shadow, even such a small one. She wouldn't do that to him.

She pulled away and approached the wall, giddy to get a closer look at the gems and even the mushrooms that glowed so alluringly. The crystals shimmered and sparkled under the green light being projected across their smooth surfaces.

Different shades ranging from light teal to royal blue boasted from angular segments embedded in the dull gray rock around them, waiting to be collected.

As for the plants, Rouge wondered if they had some sort of mystical quality to them. Their otherworldly light suggested they were far from ordinary mushrooms.

Some were solid green while others had splotches of darker patterns along their surfaces; along with tiny holes dotting the dark spots. Their larger size also implied they were more mature than the solid-colored buds.

"Careful," Shadow muttered as he walked past her, reminding her not to get too close to an unfamiliar plant.

Rouge reached out and grabbed his wrist, making him stop, then retrieved one of her jewel-hunting tools: a small pickaxe, little enough to chip away at a surface one-handed. "You should worry less about me and more about getting these gems out of the wall!"

She pushed the axe handle into his grip and let go of his arm. Shadow quirked a brow at her while she produced another pick from her supply stash, inquiring, "You keep a pickaxe on your person, but not a flashlight?"

"Hey, I can't carry everything with me," she countered, approaching the wall. "And I'm a bat. I can see fine in the dark."

She raised her tool to ready a strike, but his voice echoing again made her pause. "So you don't need light, but you need two axes?"

Annoyed, Rouge let out a sigh and fixed her partner with a serious stare. He was smirking at her, seeming to get a bit of enjoyment out of teasing her – as she often did to him.

With her hand on her hip, she snipped, "Yes, in case one breaks! Now would you go back to being helpful so we can get out of here?"

Neglecting to say more, Shadow honored her request and turned to claim a different section of the cave wall, leaving Rouge to work on her side. The sound of metal clanging steadily against stone rang through the cave as they chipped into the slate surrounding chunks of sapphire.

Piles of bold cobalt and light blue gathered at their feet on opposite sides of the enclosed space, and once they'd claimed all the jewels in the immediate area, they stopped for a break.

"Look at all these beauties!" Rouge chimed lovingly as she scooped up a handful of jewels. They glittered in her palms. "And they're so small, I bet we could stash a ton more! It's not like anyone will miss them."

"Hm, good thing this cave isn't much deeper," Shadow commented, looking at the second half of the stone room they hadn't yet excavated. "I fear you'd keep me down here for days if there were many more of these gems."

"Feeling claustrophobic?" her womanly voice teased, long lashes fluttering as she leaned close to him.

A deep scoff echoed off the walls. The hedgehog stared her down, feeling his heart rate rise as the thought crossed his mind that he could never be too close to Rouge. He said, "I don't have such a fear."

"Ooh, nerves of steel," she teased again, and left his air space to return her jewels to their pile. "Well, I'm glad I chose you to come gem-hunting with me, then! No one else would brave risky terrain under a massive mountain and let me keep all the riches for myself!"

Shadow enjoyed the happy bounce she gained in her step when she was excited about collecting shiny new things; it rubbed off on him, and he felt more in a mood to banter with her. "Did I say I would let you keep all of these?"

She turned to meet his gaze again, her eyes wide and mouth dropping open. One hand flew to her chest. "Shadow! Are you saying you'd take a cut of the loot? I thought you agreed precious jewels are my thing!"

He trailed his vision over the collection of crystals at her feet and grazed his fingers over his chin in contemplation. "I'm considering changing my mind."

When he looked at her again, the bat squinted her eyes, pursing her lips as she read his expression. It brought a smile to Shadow's muzzle, and he couldn't help but let out a chuckle, breaking the illusion.

He surrendered, "Alright, I'm bluffing. There's no tricking you, is there?"

Her glossy smile charmed him when she replied, "Not when I can read you like a book! Granted, you are getting better at that. I almost believed for a second you might be serious."

"Worried you, did I?"

"Of course! You know how I feel about sharing my bounty!"

Shadow laughed, his smooth, dark voice dancing along the stone and rumbling lightly in his partner's sensitive ears. The pleasing sound of his laughter had a warmth to it that sent goosebumps rushing over her skin, and Rouge grinned at the handsome smile that graced his face, his pearly fangs flashing in a show of joy she rarely got to see.

It was like a special gift only she had the privilege of receiving, in times like these when their back-and-forth was lively and playful. She just wished it happened more often.

They chose to rest a minute before getting back to work. Shadow decided to sit and gather his crystals into a tighter pile for easier pickup.

Rouge, after stretching a little, once again became intrigued by the glowing fungi clinging to the walls. It was odd to her that they were growing nowhere near any kind of dirt or grass, instead seeming to sprout directly from the stone.

She took a closer look at the tiny holes dotting the more mature mushrooms, a little creeped out by their irregular placement but unable to shake the strange urge to stare.

She was in the middle of wondering if there was a chance they could be edible when the bud she was staring at deflated a bit, and a cloud of spores exploded from its holes.

They sprayed into Rouge's eyes and invaded her nose, also getting sucked into her mouth when she exclaimed. Shadow's attention drew to his partner, who stood with her eyes clenched shut, grimacing and spitting out the earthy-tasting spores. He sprung to his feet.

"Rouge!"

"Agh! Ew!" she cried out, rubbing her eyes and spitting again.

The hedgehog rushed to her side and put a hand on her back, asking, "Are you okay?"

"Damn shrooms… yeah, I'm fine." She blinked her eyes, feeling the initial sting fade away. "It doesn't hurt much, just stings a little. Tastes terrible, though."

Shadow glanced at the little cluster of plants and saw a small dusting still slowly escaping it. "Let's get away from these mushrooms."

He found a spot near where they'd entered, where no fungi was growing, and led Rouge over to it. She was holding onto his arm and trying – in a ladylike manner – to gently blow the spores out of her nose.

"Sit down," coaxed the hedgehog, returning the hold on her arm and helping her rest on the ground. "We don't know what effects these mysterious plants can have on you."

He sat next to her, their shoulders touching, and kept an eye on the disgruntled lady. The assault from nature didn't seem to have left any sort of rash on her face, nor were her eyes bloodshot or tearing up; but she was leaning against him, likely for support from whatever she was feeling, so he wanted to be aware.

"We shouldn't stay here," he stated. "It might've been poisonous, and if so, I want you to get treatment as soon as possible. I'll only wait long enough to make sure your vision is okay, then we're going."

The seriousness in his tone implied to Rouge that he wouldn't be letting her gather more jewels. "Cutting our expedition short just for that? I feel fine enough…"

She trailed off because she knew he would contest her, his red eyes sticking to hers while his natural frown deepened. "You're smarter than that. I know it's disappointing, but we have an entire cavern to go through before we get out of here. It's too risky to keep mining."

The subtle implications of his words didn't go unnoticed. Shadow wasn't merely being safe in the face of danger; if it was anyone else, he likely wouldn't be so vigilant.

He certainly wouldn't be this staunch about leaving if the dusting had happened to himself. This was a level of worry reserved for his best friend.

Rouge's brows upturned a bit, but not in disappointment at their adventure ending. Rather, she felt endeared that he was taking her health so seriously, and her shiny pink lips curled at his concern.

She playfully bumped her arm into his and said, "You must care a whole lot about me if you're not budging on this."

His gaze wavered from hers, the Ultimate Lifeform reserving himself from the strong feelings that filled his chest when she looked at him that way.

"You know I do… I shouldn't even have to say it. Nothing is worth letting you get hurt. Besides, I think we have an abundance of gems to add more than enough shine to your collection."

Rouge never took her eyes off him, turquoise irises scanning over Shadow's face with adoration. He'd gotten much better at being more open with her over the years, though there were still some moments when it seemed he couldn't handle committing physically to the affection he verbalized.

Even saying one of the kindest things she'd ever heard, he couldn't make eye contact at the same time. But in this cave, the bat didn't care about the walls he still kept raised around his heart.

Dismissing the unspoken boundaries they'd established, she wrapped her arm around his chest to drape it over his shoulder, pulling him in for a hug and letting her other arm occupy his back.

Shadow's eyes widened, his reflexes freezing when she tugged his body close to hers. Their cheeks brushed together and the side of her face rested against his. He didn't pull back, letting her hug him and considering wrapping his arms around her, too.

"You're sweet," she said, her voice soft and loving.

Shadow didn't know what to say. His tongue felt heavy with all the possibilities that could come out; like just how much he cared about her, a compliment to turn her appreciation into his, the insistence that his 'sweetness' was more akin to common sense, or the thanks she deserved for not hesitating to treat him like someone deserving of intimacy.

Instead of settling on one, unable to decide what should be said, he let the moment become silent. His arms slinked around her. He accepted her embrace, however unexpected.

But he also assumed she would pull away soon. As occasional as a hug between them was, he thought it wouldn't go on, the physical contact doomed to make one of them feel awkward after a little while – awkward enough to reject the emotions that'd brought them together in the first place.

And he would accept that, as he always did, because he respected her. If his teammate-turned-confidant decided they shouldn't get too cozy in each other's company, he wouldn't argue. He wouldn't beg for it.

However, he wouldn't be faced with that disappointment this time. Rouge didn't pull away. Unbeknownst to him just yet, she wanted to get even closer. And she would not fight her feelings anymore.

[shostakobitchh]

Chapter 69 sneak peek

This is a VERY VERY VERY rough draft

Miss Evans worked her jaw — the sharpness made Severus’ chest constrict again before she reached for the chalk, stalling as she wrote, slower this time. 

What if it’s me?

Severus massaged his temples, his patience wearing thin. "Miss Evans, we have been over this. There was a — unseen reaction with the potion. I will find the cause, and I will remedy it. In the meantime, you are meant to rest.”

She shook her head vehemently, auburn hair flying, and began scribbling on the chalkboard again. The words were jagged and sharp, like the expression on her face.

That doesn’t answer my question. 

Severus clenched his jaw, his black eyes boring into hers. "You are not broken." 

Miss Evans let out a huff through her nose, shaking her head again in frustration. She swiped the eraser across the board and started writing once more.

I almost died. I can't talk. I can't do magic. What else would you call it?

"Healing." Severus stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. He moved to stand before her, looming over her hunched form, putting his hands on either side of her as he leaned onto the mattress. "You are healing, Miss Evans. It is a process, not a permanent state. You need to exercise patience — patience which you seem determined to eschew in favor of petulance."

Miss Evans stared up at him, her black eyes swirling. She jabbed the chalk against the board, her hand shaking.

I don’t believe you. 

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose. He could feel the heat of her magic simmering beneath her skin, begging to be released. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"You must give it time," he forced through gritted teeth. "I know patience is not your strong suit, but in this case, you have no choice."

She glared at him, a muscle ticking in her jaw. Then she shoved the chalkboard into his chest and pushed past him, stalking away and into the loo. Severus caught the board before it could clatter to the floor, his eyes following her rigid back until she disappeared through the door, slamming it shut behind her.

He looked down at her last message, the words seared into the slate.

Liar. 

Severus closed his eyes, his head falling back. He understood her frustration, her feelings of helplessness, more than she could possibly know.

Was he lying to her? Or was Severus lying to himself, thinking he could fix this, fix her? The weight of his failure pressed down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He looked towards her closed door, imagining her on the other side, hunched over the sink, drowning in despair. He had done this to her — and now he had no idea how to undo it. 

Severus let out a shuddering breath and waited. He stared at her closed door, the silence pressing in on him from all sides. This couldn't go on. It was becoming a nightly occurrence, spurned by Pomfrey’s visits that always ended with a resigned shake of her head and Miss Evans looking crestfallen. 

After several minutes the girl returned, slipping back into the infirmary bed with her back to him. He moved to the opposite side and sat down on the edge after a while, the mattress dipping under his weight. Miss Evans didn't stir, but he knew she was awake. He could feel the tension radiating off her rigid form, could see the white-knuckled grip she had on the sheets.

Severus sat there in the darkness, listening to her shallow breaths, unsure of what to say. He was not equipped for this — for comforting a teenage girl, especially not one he had nearly killed — his own daughter. He’d always been rubbish at comfort. He’d tried very hard not to make Lily cry, and even when she’d come to him for support, it had only ever ended with her becoming more frustrated. The only person they’d ever really been able to commiserate over — that Severus had made her feel better about when he’d bothered her — had been Potter. Severus had made her laugh so hard she’d cry, a reaction that had waned over the years until it had disappeared completely. At one point, everything he’d said to her had been wrong. 

He’d made countless mistakes with their daughter. He’d made the girl cry — he’d tried hard to make her hate him — but this — this one act of something besides cold disdain and utter terror in the face of the unimaginable — of her being his — was teetering dangerously close to Severus’ breaking point. 

He needed her to understand that it was he who was flawed. She was — she was — 

"Your current state is my fault." Severus’ voice cut through the heavy silence. "I brewed the potion. I made an error that I cannot yet identify, and you are suffering the consequences."

He paused, his dark eyes fixed on her still form. She did not turn to face him. 

"Wallowing in self-pity will not change anything," he continued, his tone sharp. “But you must understand that this — this is not your fault.” 

At this, Miss Evans finally rolled over to glare at him, her obsidian eyes flashing in the dim light. She opened her mouth as if to retort, then snapped it shut again, her lips pressing into a thin, angry line.

Severus met her furious gaze, unflinching. "You cannot speak, and your heart is weak, which means your magic is unstable. You cannot risk straining yourself and risk damaging it further. These are facts, not judgments. Railing against reality will not alter it."

Miss Evans sat up abruptly, the sheets pooling around her waist and reached for the blasted chalkboard once more. 

The Patronus potion is pure Light magic. 

He looked up at Miss Evans, his black eyes hard. "Yes, it is. And your point?"

She snatched the board back, erasing the words with a furious swipe of her sleeve before scribbling again, the chalk scraping harshly against the slate.

So why did it almost kill me?

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose. "I've told you, there was an unseen interaction —” 

Miss Evans slammed the chalkboard down on the bed between them, cutting him off. She jabbed a finger at her previous question, her meaning clear.

"I don't know," Severus snapped, his frustration boiling over. "Is that what you want to hear?  I — don’t — know. I've been analyzing it for days, trying to determine what went wrong, where I made a mistake, and I've found nothing. Not a single bloody thing."

Then it's not the potion. It's me.

"Don't be absurd. You are not inherently incompatible with Light magic. If anything, you have a natural affinity for it."

She shook her head vehemently, auburn hair flying.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "You are not incompatible with Light magic.” he repeated. “The very notion is ludicrous and beneath you."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand, silencing her. "No. You will let me finish. Your magical core is not tainted, or broken, or whatever other nonsense you've concocted in that overwrought mind of yours. You are a witch, and an adequate one at that. This setback does not change that fundamental truth."

Miss Evans stared at him, her obsidian eyes swirling with a maelstrom of emotions — frustration, despair, a flicker of tentative hope. She picked up the chalk with trembling fingers.

Then why can't I cast a Patronus? Even before the potion?

Severus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his dark gaze boring into hers. "Because, Miss Evans, the Patronus charm requires a depth of emotion that, quite frankly, you do not know how to wield. It has nothing to do with your magical ability and everything to do with your emotional immaturity."

Her nostrils flared. 

That’s not fair. 

"You think your suffering makes you unique?" he snapped. "That your pain gives you some special insight the rest of us mere mortals cannot possibly comprehend?"

She erased her previous message with a violent swipe.

That’s not what I mean and you know it. 

"I know you better than you know yourself," Severus sneered. "A petulant child, so wrapped up in your own misery that you cannot see beyond the end of your nose.”

She recoiled as if he'd slapped her. For a moment, hurt flashed across her sharp features before it was replaced by a mask of icy fury.

You’re a foul git. 

Severus' lip curled. "And you are an insolent brat. But by all means, continue to wallow in self-pity. It's clearly serving you so well."

She wiped the board clean with a vicious swipe of her palm and wrote again, the chalk shrieking against the slate.

You have no idea what this is like. To feel empty. Powerless. Like a part of me is MISSING.

Severus met her furious gaze evenly. "You're right. I don't know precisely what you are experiencing, but I do intimately understand what it means to feel powerless in the face of circumstances beyond your control."

She blinked rapidly, thrown off balance by his sudden shift in tone. The chalk hovered over the board for a long moment before she slowly wrote out:

How?

He looked away, jaw clenching. Memories flashed through his mind unbidden — 

Cowering before his father's raised fist, the sickening crack of bone — 

— his mother's vacant stare as she lay unmoving on the kitchen floor — 

— Lily's cold dismissal, the finality in her green eyes as she turned her back on him — 

— a windy hilltop under a starless sky — 

Severus stood abruptly, his dark robes swirling around him. He strode over to the window, resting his palms on the stone sill as he gazed out into the inky blackness of the night. The moon hung low and full, casting a sickly yellow glow over the Forest's skeletal tree line. An icy breeze whistled through the cracks in the ancient panes, raising goosebumps on his skin.

He exhaled slowly, watching his breath fog the glass. The memories receded like a dark tide, leaving behind only a hollow ache in his chest. He could feel Miss Evans' eyes boring into his back, her unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air between them. But he would not - could not - give her the answers she sought. Those scars ran too deep, the wounds still raw and festering after all these years.

"Come here," he said finally, his voice a low rumble in the stillness.

There was a long pause, then the soft shuffling of footsteps as she crossed the room to stand beside him. Severus kept his gaze fixed on the shadowy grounds, studiously avoiding her searching eyes.

Miss Evans stood silently at his side, the chalkboard clutched to her chest. She shifted restlessly, her fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against the slate.

After a long moment, she reached up and touched his sleeve, the barest brush of fingertips against wool. Severus stiffened but did not pull away. Her hand hovered there, tentative, seeking permission. When he made no move to stop her, she slowly slid her palm down his forearm until her fingers curled around his wrist.

He looked down at her then, at the slim, pale hand resting against the black fabric. Her skin was startlingly white in the moonlight, the blue veins visible beneath the translucent surface.

She lifted the chalkboard to him. 

I’m not angry with you.

He felt the sudden urge to laugh, a bitter, broken sound that lodged in his throat. Of course she wasn't angry with him.

Severus forced himself to meet her gaze. Her obsidian eyes were luminous in the moonlight, filled with a swirling mix of emotions he couldn't begin to untangle. Despair, frustration, a desperate plea for understanding. For a fleeting moment, he saw another pair of dark eyes superimposed over hers — eyes that had once looked back at him with the same raw vulnerability, wishing to make it all — better. 

His chest constricted painfully. He tore his gaze away, fixing it once more on the night-shrouded grounds. "You should be," he said hollowly. "I am the reason you're in this state."

Miss Evans shook her head, erasing the chalkboard with quick, jerky movements. She began writing again, the chalk scratching harshly against the slate.

It was an accident. You were trying to help me.

Severus let out a sharp exhale through his nose. "My intentions are irrelevant. The outcome remains the same."

She underlined the word "accident" several times, the chalk squeaking. Then she turned the board to face him again.

I don't blame you. 

He stared at the words, his jaw clenched tight. The sincerity in them made something twist painfully in his gut. She had every right to rage at him, to curse his name and wish him a thousand painful deaths. Instead, she offered him absolution he did not deserve.

"Your forgiveness is misplaced," he ground out. "I am unworthy of it."

Miss Evans made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. She wiped the board clean with an impatient swipe of her sleeve.

It's not about worthiness. I'm telling you how I feel.

Severus finally turned to face her fully, his black eyes boring into hers. "And I'm telling you that your feelings are misguided. You are young and naive, with no concept of the magnitude of my failings."

Miss Evans glared at him, two spots of angry color appearing on her pale cheeks. She jabbed the chalk at the board.

I'm not a child. Stop treating me like one.

"Then stop behaving like one," he snapped. "Wallowing in self-pity, lashing out in petulant fits, refusing to heed the instructions of those trying to aid your recovery — these are the tantrums of a spoiled brat, not a rational adult."

Her mouth fell open in indignation, obsidian eyes flashing with hurt and fury. For a moment Severus thought she might hurl the chalkboard at his head. He braced himself for an eruption, for the board to go flying, to feel the sting of her palm against his cheek.

But it never came. Instead, she closed her eyes, her brow furrowed in concentration as if wrestling some internal demon into submission. When she opened them again, the fire had dimmed, replaced by a cold, steely resolve.

She lifted the chalk to the board and wrote with slow, deliberate strokes.

I forgive you, you great git. You promised you’d let me. 

"You impossible, infuriating girl," he muttered. 

Miss Evans' lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. She tapped the board with the chalk.

You forgot brilliant and charming.

“I’d say delusional.” 

Runs in the family.

[horsegirlwarcrimes]

Hi Bury. If you’re still doing the WIP game, what is Taker, Devil Maker? Because all of them sound awesome but that is such an amazing title

omg hello and thank you!! (´∀｀)♡

this one is for MDZS/CQL! i honestly keep forgetting about it even though its like. fully outlined and i have a good chunk written, oops. its also pretty old, so pardon the slightly weird writing haha

summary: Wei Ying never had a lucky encounter with a sect leader on the streets of Yiling as a child. Instead he teaches himself cultivation from nothing but dusty scrolls and wandering masters, tracing talismans on the walls of alleys and practicing sword forms with tree branches. When he hears of cultivation lectures hosted by the Gusu Lan, he just has to find a way to attend.

Wei Wuxian smoothed his robes, ran carefully scrubbed fingers over the faint embroidery on the fine fabric. The layers of cloth lightened from black to slate to steel and violet and lavender in sheets of soft cotton, with tasteful designs of swallows and oak branches stitched into the sleeves and lapels.  They were the second most expensive thing he’d ever owned. The first was tied in pride of place at his hip. Wei Wuxian sighed as the lines of neat stitching caught on the calluses of his hands. It made nervousness flutter in his stomach. Could someone look at these clothes and know they’d taken every last penny of savings their owner had to buy? Would someone take his hand and just from the feeling of the skin know that these weren’t the hands of a young master, even one who practiced often at the blade? Fine clothes could only do so much. He was, after all, planning to single-handedly break into one of the Great Sects.  On the path ahead, a cluster of purple-robed disciples stood at the wooden gate set into the pale stone of the mountain. From his convenient and super dignified position hiding behind some rocks, Wei Wuxian could peek around and observe them without even needing to crouch behind a bush like a particularly pathetic deer-slash-burglar.  “My sister knows Sect Leader Lan,” a young-ish one was saying to the gate guard, who looked deeply uninterested in who his sister may or may not know. Then new Lan cultivators were arriving, carrying stretchers with strange figures on them, and in the commotion Wei Wuxian was able to get a little closer still to observe the Jiang and the configuration of the Cloud Recesses wards.  As the handsome disciple leading the group with stretchers headed through the gates, Wei Wuxian couldn’t help a little excited shuffle in place. Even these young cultivators could look so cool!  His foot made the faintest sound against the stones where he was hiding. Wei Wuxian froze as the leading Lan’s stony face turned towards his hiding spot. He quickly went flat against the rock, perfectly still, and counted his most silent possible breaths. A moment, two, and he could hear footsteps going up the steps into the Cloud Recesses, then fading into the background murmuring of the Jiang. Wei Wuxian slumped and let out a quiet hiss. Way too close—he’d come much too far to get caught now.

[thecatchat]

The Creation of Quarry

In the beginning, there was nothing. A nothingness so complete that there was no light or darkness. Only nothing.

Then there were two somethings.

Two gods, a dragon and a mask, came into existence. They did not know of each other at first as there was nothing else. Not until the dragon took their first breath, creating sound.

The mask was curious about what made that sound and created light to illuminate the nothing. The dragon, overwhelmed by the sudden brightness, created shadows so they could shield their eyes of it and dim the light.

The two gods finally saw each other and introduced themselves.

"I am The Maker," said the dragon.

"I am The Muse," said the mask.

The Muse quickly got bored with the nothing surrounding them, and lamented to their companion about it.

"Let us make something to fill it." The Maker replied. "I will fill it below us and you can fill it above us. Then we will have something."

And so The Muse put the source of all light directly above the two, to allow them to see when they worked. They created the first color, blue, and put it everywhere above, creating the sky. To fill in the space, they added clouds.

The Maker created the ground, made of black stone called obsidian. Deciding the ground was much too hard for them to rest on, they created white dirt to rest on.

They came back together and talked. For seven days and seven nights, the two shared ideas for their new world: colors, day and night, plants, animals, and more.

They created it all.

After some time, The Maker decided to add a touch of purple to their scales. They added it easily to the underside of their body but found they could not reach their back or wings. Feeling foolish, they created a cave and hid from The Muse. For thirty days and thirty nights, they hid away from their companion, who searched tirelessly with increasing worry.

Finally, The Muse found the entrance to the cave.

"Do not come in," warned The Maker, "or I shall hurt you."

"Okay." Replied The Muse, who reached up into the night sky and created the moon. The moons light shined into the cave, revealing The Makers half colored form.

The Muse almost made fun of The Maker for their predicament, but they realized that was exactly the reason why The Maker had hid away from them.

"Would you like help finishing your scales?" They asked instead.

The Maker accepted.

The Muse added purple in beautiful patterns all along The Makers back and wings. In full, the complete art was so beautiful and soul touching that just seeing the edges of it on their wings had The Maker cry from the overwhelming beauty of it. They cried so hard and for so long, it created the oceans.

In thanks, The Maker decided to create a body for The Muse, as The Muse was only a mask. They created a headless humanoid body as the base. They added countless arms so that The Muse may have an easier time creating their ideas. The final touch was a long flowing white cloak, a blank slate to be added to by The Muse, so they may note down or sketch their ideas before creating them.

The Muse was touched and inspired in equal measure by the gift. They created life called Actors in the image of the body they had been gifted. They became the favorite creation of both the gods. The Maker enjoyed watching the plays that The Muse would have the Actors put on, sometimes going on for centuries. They would lay just inside a cave at the top of the tallest point in the world and watch the stories play out.

One day, The Muse had one of their Actors go up to speak directly to The Maker. It was a long and dangerous climb, but the Actor eventually made it to the top. As they looked upon The Maker, they glimpsed the patterns in the glimmer of the scales. Instantly, the Actor gained free will and went off script by dying from fright.

The gods were confused and intrigued in equal measure by this. The Maker leaned in close and gently breathed upon the body. It revived the Actor and created the first soul.

The Actor, frightened and filled with knowledge that it could not understand, pleaded with the gods for its life.

The Muse was initially upset at this change in script. Until they realized that the Actors could create their own plays and inventions. Maybe even things that The Muse would have never imagined.

So The Muse declared that all should look upon The Maker and receive a soul, so that all Actors could think and create. The Maker asked them if that was a wise thing to do. The Muse reassured them that it was a great idea.

This Actor, first given soul and thought, became the first worshiper of the two gods. They spent the rest of their life spreading word of them, bringing people to them, and worshiping them. They created paintings of the gods image, wrote plays about the stories that the gods shared with them, and prayed to them both every night and day.

As free will and souls spread, The Maker and The Muse noticed changes in themselves. They could feel the power given to them by worship. Hear the prayers whispered by all those that prayed. It fed them and in turn made them grow in power.

This went on for a long, long time.

The area around The Makers cave became a sprawling metropolis, filled with all that would worship the gods. Plays would be put on in front of the cave every day for The Maker to witness. In turn, The Maker would give them knowledge on how to make things better as more and more Actors were born.

The Muse, on the other hand, would go out and see their creations everywhere that they went. Answering prayers that caught their eye or amused them. Sometimes taking the form of an Actor and experiencing life among them. Spreading tales of their own life and of their fellow god, The Maker.

The two slowly spent less time together. First a week. Then a month. Then a year. On and on it went, until the two had not seen each other in many centuries.

The amount of power given by worship was unfathomable in its levels. The Muse used this power to move around and grant prayers. The Maker sat and watched and gathered power without ever stepping out of their cave, causing them to grow with it. They had grown so much, they they could not leave the cave through the entrance, only able to stick out their head and watch the plays being put on for them.

The power, running out of room to grow the god, started to grow a new one.

The Maker suddenly felt hungry and requested that they be given fruit. The Actors brought carts upon carts of fruit to be eaten. The line is said to have stretched to the edge of the city miles away. The Makers teeth were said to become stained in bright colors from the amount of fruit eaten.

But they were still hungry.

The Maker requested that they be given meat. The Actors brought as many animals as they could to be eaten. Some say the line of Actors with animals was so long that even The Maker had trouble seeing its end. Entire species of animals were given to them, causing them to go extinct.

But they were still hungry.

The Maker was stumped as to what they were missing, and confessed their troubles to some of their closest and most dedicated worshipers. An Actor nearing the end of their life, volunteered themselves to be eaten, in an attempt to help their god be sated.

Initially, The Maker refused, not wanting to eat one of their favored creations. But as the days went by, the hunger continued to grow, little by little. An ever present feeling that could not be ignored. Until they finally relented and agreed to eat the Actor.

And they felt a little less hungry.

The Maker was torn. How they loved the Actors, who had done nothing but worship them for countless centuries. Who they had helped to develop technology and inventions to better all their lives. They felt the prayers of every Actor giving them so much. Could they really ask for them to give their bodies as well?

But they were still hungry.

The Maker asked to be given a dead Actor to eat.

It did nothing.

Reluctantly yet desperately, The Maker asked that they be given a living Actor to devour. Then another. And another.

Actors devoted to The Maker gladly gave themselves to their god. As word spread, people traveled from other cities and towns to allow themselves to be eaten by The Maker.

One by one, the souls gathered in The Makers body, mixing with the prayers and power from worship. Something started to develop.

They became hungrier.

They ate Actors, faster and faster, until the amount of willing Actors could not keep up with their hunger. Those condemned to die for the highest of crimes were fed to them. The stories of The Maker had changed. No longer were stories of a quiet god who shared knowledge and instructions told among the masses. The worship started to wane. Instead, there was fear.

They were given a new name. The Dragon. The Beast That Will Consume All.

It made them hungrier.

The Muse, who had been gone from the city for so long as to be considered a myth, began to hear whispers of prayers to them. At first they payed no mind, for they could hear countless prayers from countless other places that had other prayers to be heard.

But soon, they took notice of the desire to kill a beast. A beast that lived in a cave in the tallest mountain. A beast so large that people whispered that the mountain itself was hollow to hold the beasts size. A beast that ate nothing but living Actors. A beast with a dazzling purple sheen in its scales said to have once given knowledge, but now only inspires fear.

The Muse decided to start heading back to their fellow god, stopping along the way to spread good word about The Maker and inspire worship.

As worship for The Maker slowly started to rise, an egg grew inside them. Not in a womb, but inside their gut. As the shell formed, a pain began to grow in The Makers body. It grew steadily. With every newly inspired wave of worship, the egg grew faster. As the egg grew, the pain grew with it.

The Maker already half mad from the ever persistent hunger that had haunted them for several centuries by now, reached a tipping point.

The Muse became alarmed when they received prayers for them to save the Actors from The Dragon, who had broken from the mountain and was now devouring all that it could reach. They stopped inspiring others and rushed straight for the city. Even with all their power, it took them seven days and seven nights to reach the city. Or more accurately, what remained.

If any one witnessed the two meet, they did not survive to tell any one what was said. When The Muse is asked today what happened, they will not reply. The only thing they say on the matter is "I defeated The Dragon." Nothing more, nothing less.

What is known is that the two battled. So violent and for so long that they destroyed the rest of the world around the place where the city used to rest. It shaped the world into a sphere and made the world from an infinite plane to a finite globe. A single landmass surrounded by an ocean.

It is said that by the end of the fight, both gods spoke to each other, exhausted and with only a few tiny prayers of worship to keep them going. It is known that The Muse asked The Dragon, "Why?"

The popular version is that The Dragon snarled and insulted The Muse in some manner and that it was so terrible, The Muse gutted them for it.

The version that was only written once and lost to time, the true version of events, goes like this:

The Muse asked The Maker, "Why?"

"It hurts." The Maker whimpered in reply. "I was only hungry for so long and then it started to hurt. I needed to eat the souls. I would have starved otherwise. I finally don't feel mad with hunger. But it still hurts."

"What hurts?"

"My guts. I couldn't think for so long. I was so hungry. I was in so much pain. But I know what's inside me now."

The Maker wavered and laid down around the last remaining land, part of the base of their mountain and a small part of the city that had been reduced to rubble.

"There is an egg inside me. It grows with every prayer and worship sent to me. It hurts. We can not exist together. We both feed on the same prayers."

The Muse thought for a few moments.

"Do you want me to help you kill the egg?"

The Maker laughed a sad, sorrowful laugh.

"I will not survive, egg or no egg. I have been in indescribable pain for so long. In so much hunger for so long. I have destroyed nearly everything. I would go mad with hunger again eventually."

They laid their head down and rolled onto their side. Pining one of their wings below themselves and resting the other on their side.

"Take out the egg and hide it. For no surviving Actor will have any love for the beast they believe they will become. I will die, yes, but at least my child will have a chance at life. Let my body give this land resources so that the Actors that remain will survive the following years. I have been dying for a long time, my friend. I wish for the peace that death may bring."

The screaming roars of pain drowned out the sobs of mourning as The Muse dug into The Makers gut.

The Egg was small compared to the sheer size of The Maker. Only as big as an Actor was tall. It was a dark black color, with the barest hint of a purple sheen covering it.

"They'll live." The Maker gasped through the pain. "Make sure they fly, once they can. Make sure they move, once they can. Make sure they live through this, unlike me. Can you do that?"

"I can." The Muse whispered quietly. "I promise you that I will."

"Good," gargled The Maker through the blood in their lungs, "and name them this for me."

The Makers voice at this point grew so weak, that only The Muse would ever had heard it.

"That's a beautiful name."

The Muse watched as The Maker took their final dying breath. Leaving them with an egg, an island, and a civilization to rebuild.

--------

okay, I actually wanted to write more, like where The Muse rests and wakes up and realizes that everything has changed because of the magic of the dead god. but also I've been writing this for 5 hours straight and I need to stop for my mental health.

I have not reread this at all when I post this. I do not have the brain power to do so. Enjoy.

[tarithenurse]

I see fire

Fandom: D&D 5E/homebrew campaign. Warnings: None A/N: Any questions are welcome. Please comment and like and reblog. Let me know if you want a tag. Header by @firefly-graphics

II

[Age 17. Dejected, heartbroken, frustrated, fidgeting. Despite the blow to the family’s reputation and the mother’s demotion as a punishment for Zilvra’s transgression, Allaunira didn’t seem to resent her daughter for the rash actions. Instead, she threw herself headfirst into getting to know her own child.]

“How was school?” mother asked as soon as Zilvra stepped in the door but all she got in answer was a noncommittal grunt. Not to be deterred, Allaunira continued in a light tone: “Please go and change to something practical and meet me and our guest out back.”

The Shadowsong household was among the richer ones and as such was a freestanding building with a walled enclosure where the mother had taken up tending to their own mushroom and lichen. Still, there was ample space to move about and as a child, Zilvra had often fought many imaginary foes there. It smells of fungus of course, but also of rich earth and stones and fresh water from the aqueduct that’s been routed through the garden to form a little pond.

Now, Zilvra entered the “garden” dressed in her favourite clothes: the subtle leather trousers and silk shirt that made it possible to move about easily and quietly. It’s not that she didn’t like the fancy dresses her mother preferred her to wear...it was just that it was easier to move and climb wearing this instead. Soft leather boots to finish the outfit made her silent as a shadow (at least in her own mind).

“Ah, there you are,” her mother preened, “I’d like you to meet someone.” Motioning towards a similarly practically dressed woman who stepped out from behind a taller mushroom, Allaunira continued to explain, “this is Ellara Loth’Kar...listen to what she teaches you and we’ll talk when you’re done for the day.”

Alright, to call it an explanation was an exaggeration, but it was at least enough to calm Zilvra’s nerves a bit and rather instill curiosity.

The woman before her was lithe and short (even for a drow) with slate grey skin and shoulder-length white hair that had been tied back carefully and tightly. She was dressed all in black which made her violet eyes stand out more and for a moment reminded Zilvra of Filandrin’s eyes – it made her gut tighten at the thought of her lost friend.

“Here.” The woman, Ellara, tossed something to Zilvra who caught it: it was a wooden dagger, carefully carved to mimic a real one and undoubtedly costly considering the material. “Now defend yourself.” And Ellara launched herself at the young girl with a vigour that she didn’t expect.

The battle was (very) short, finishing in Ellara’s favour, of course.

“You’ve got much to learn, Zilvra, but there is potential. Now I ask you...is the wish to learn there?”

Rubbing her ribs, the younger woman took a moment to consider what might be implied and how she could use this to her own advantage and thus answered with conviction: “Yes. Teach me.”

---

[Late 23 years old, close to finishing school, starting to formulate an idea for the future.]

There was a soft knock on the door to alert Zilvra of her mother’s arrival. “Darling...I think it’s time we talk,” Allaunira began, immediately making her daughter’s mind streak off in every direction as to what she might have done wrong this time...not that she always got into trouble but lately the tasks from Ellara had been the more serious kind and it had gotten Zilvra to neighbourhoods in Menzoberranzan that she was sure her mother would not approve of.

She attempted an innocent demeanour. “About what, mother?” Turning on the chair, she watched as her mother crossed the room and sat down on the bed.

“About you and your future, dearest.” A deep sigh preceded what came next: “You are getting applications.”

Right away, Zilvra knew what Allaunira meant. Although her heat undoubtedly was a ways off, both she and the other girls in her class were maturing and she knew that some of them had also received notifications of interest...she just didn’t expect to get any herself.

“That’s...uhm...” she found herself at a loss for words.

Allaunira was differently capable of stringing together a proper sentence. “It’s early, is what it is...and there are bound to come more. When I was your age, your grandmother and I sat down and decided on my course of action. As you know, I waited a while but when it finally was time, we sorted through the applicants and your grandmother also sought out a few males we deemed suitable for me. After a series of interviews and trials, I picked one...your father.”

“What was he like? You never talk about him.”

Noticing the way Zilvra had perked up at the mention of her father, Allaunira relented: “His name was...is...Kalannar. He was at least back then a captain. A fine – and a bit younger – male.” For a moment, she was lost in the memories only belonging to herself then she shook herself out of them. “But the question remains. You are young and frankly I do not see you settling down with a child yet...am I wrong?”

“You’re not wrong.” Reaching for her wooden dagger, Zilvra began to pick at the invisible dirt under her fingernails. “I’m not...it’s just...there’s so much to do, still!” As if realizing the implication of her words, the young drow held up the hands in defence. “I’m not saying that life is over once you have kids!”

Allaunira smiled. “I know you’re not, my child...and I did not expect you to wish to settle down...in fact...what do you want to do? I have an idea.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“No, dear...you first.”

The mother patted the bed beside her, indicating for Zilvra to come over and she did. Still fidgeting with the dagger, the young woman sat meekly for a moment while gathering her thoughts.

“I need to finish school first, I guess...”

“That would be smart.” Allaunira began to re-braid her daughters hair.

“Hm. Then I need to finish training with Ellara...if that’s possible...she’s still much better than I am...”

The mother’s hands hesitated for half a heartbeat but Zilvra didn’t notice. “That probably comes from experience.”

“Probably.” Bringing the wooden knife to rest in her lap, Zilvra had closed her eyes at the feel of her mother’s fingers through her hair. “I’ve considered the university...”

“Really?” The question came out with a bit too much surprise, making the daughter quirk an eyebrow. “I mean...you have improved greatly with our sessions...but I hardly expect you to aim for the Sorcere? And the military school...?”

The girl shrugged. “That’s the thing...I don’t know what else I should do...”

There was a deep sigh that made Zilvra turn her head to watch the mother as her hands fell to her lap. “Perhaps...perhaps you’ll find your answers Topside?”

“Mother!” Zilvra was equally thrilled and scared of the idea that she silently had harboured too.

“I know...it sounds like I’m sending you away....uh, I’m a terrible mother but darling you’re not at peace here! You never have been. Maybe the solution is to see more of the world before settling down.”

Zilvra grabbed her mother’s hands. “No, it doesn’t feel like you’re sending me away! But where would I go?”

“Would it matter? Anywhere, where the society is different and you can see the stars. Am I wrong, my dear?”

“If only I knew...” Zilvra stopped herself. Then a new steely glint stole into her eyes. “No, mother, you’re not wrong.”

Allaunira freed her hand to tuck a loose strand behind her daughter’s ear. “But as you said...finish school and Ellara’s training, will you not? Let me have you for a bit longer?”

“Of course...and know that I’ll miss you once I’m away. Every day.”

They hugged tightly before the mother extricated herself from the embrace and positioned Zilvra to finish the braiding.

---

[She’s 24 years old and restless like never before.]

”Gotcha!” Still panting, Zilvra wiped the dirt off her knees while waiting for Ellara to get back up from where she had pinned her a second ago.

The tutor got to her feet and took a moment to examine the gash in the vest: just a few millimetres more and the student would have drawn blood. “Not bad...not bad at all. This is, what, the fifth time you’ve bested me?”

“Sixth, but who’s counting,” came the answer with a cheeky smile. “Go again?”

There was a beat of silence, then Ellara shook her head. “No...this was the last time.”

“What?”

“You heard me...” Ellara stepped over to her dumbfounded student and patted her shoulder, “and you knew this day would come.”

Zilvra nodded, handing back the dagger that she had been borrowing for training. “I know...it’s just...sooner than I expected.”

The look she received was knowing. “Let us tell your mother, hm?”

Anticipation began to bubble in Zilvra’s guts as they entered the house: this was what she had been waiting for. School had ended weeks ago and all there had been keeping her from leaving was the training with Ellara and now...now she could set out. It would be a journey without destination, one meant for bettering herself and learning as much as she could until the day where she returned with a vision of how the drow world could be. And who knew, maybe along the way she could find Filandrin too?

“Zilvra?” Allaunira’s voice brought the young woman back to reality. “Ellara? Why are you not training?”

Ellara smiled her crooked smile. “I have no more left to teach her...your daughter has excelled and what she lacks now she will have to learn through experience.”

“I guess it’s time I give this back,” Zilvra began to pull the wooden dagger from her belt where she always kept it.

The teacher’s hands shot forward to stop the motion. “No, that was a gift. Keep it.”

“And speaking of gifts,” Allaunira explained, “we knew this day would come and we got you something.”

Pulling out a chest, she held it out for her daughter to open. With trembling hands the latch was slid aside and the lid lifted to reveal a set of beautiful daggers.

“Thank you!”

Hugs were exchanged (even between former student and teacher) before Ellara took her leave for the last time.

[paperandsong]

Le Follet d’Ep-Nell

From Légendes rustiques, illustrated by Maurice Sand, written by George Sand, 1858

Original French at Project Gutenberg

English translation:

Beneath the stone of Ep-Nell, a bad kind of follet is curled up. A follet with a tail: the worst of all. Instead of tending to the horses and walking them, they frighten the horses, mistreat them and wear them out.

Maurice SAND

Georgeon was the devil of the part of Berry called the Black Valley. I say was, because he is very much forgotten today and one would have to go back to the memory of old men, thirty years dead, to fish out from that river of oblivion - which passes so quickly today - the mysterious name that was never to be written, “not on paper, nor on wood, nor on slate, nor on any stone, nor on cloth, nor on earth, nor on dust or sand, nor even on snow fallen from the sky.” This terrible name, which presided over the most effective and most secret formulas, was only to be entrusted to the ears of the practitioners of sorcery, and telling them more than three times was not allowed. If they forgot, too bad for them. One had to pay to hear it again. 

This name was, under no circumstances, to be revealed to non-believers and must never be spoken aloud, except in the darkness of night and in complete solitude. The one who confided it to me had surprised himself and did not believe it. However, he regretted telling me and came back to beg me not to repeat it. “I had bad dreams last night,” he said. “Three times my window opened wide without anyone but myself having entered my room.”

What was Georgeon's rank and title in the hierarchy of evil spirits? That's what I could never find out. It was he who had to be called out to at crossroads, or under certain old trees of ill repute, to make the mysterious spirit appear. Did he have his own power over certain things in nature, or was he only an intermediary messenger between hell and its followers? I would believe it: a man named Georgeon had once been taken to Montgivray by the devil. It is perhaps the work of this evil soul to lead other souls to perdition.

Georgeon was semi-invisible, in the sense that he only appeared on moonless nights or through thick fog. One saw a human form larger than life; but the dress, the features, the details of this form always remained elusive, or so vague that it was impossible to remember him or to recognize him, even by voice, even after various encounters with him. Each time he had to be called by name, it had to be said: “Is it you with whom I spoke on this or that night and in such and such a place?” And if he didn't answer “It's me,” you had to be on guard and tell him nothing about what had happened during any previous encounters with the devil, either because Georgeon hid his identity to test the discretion and prudence of his followers, or that the peasant pushes prudence to the point of distrusting the devil, even after having turned himself over to him.

It is certain, at the very least, that the peasant claims to be as cunning as Satan and that in every country there are marvellous legends full of malice attributed to good guys who know how to fool the demon and catch him in his own traps. Among the best, we must cite that of the fairy-lover reported by the author of La Normandie merveilleuse, which has all the grace of rural language. The fairy fell in love with a beautiful country woman. Every evening, while she was spinning thread by the fire, he would come and sit on a stool at the other corner of the fireplace. The woman, having noticed his presence and his covetous looks, informed her husband, who put on her clothes, took her place and her distaff, and pretending to spin, waited for the pixie. The fairy arrives, looks askance at the strange spinner and says to her: “Where is that beauty, that beautiful woman from yesterday evening, who spins, spins, and is spinning still, because you, you turn, turn, and yet you don’t spin?” The husband makes no reply and waits until the fairy sits down on the stool from which he used to devour the housewife with his eyes, and where a red hot cake pan[10]  had been treacherously placed. So the fairy sits down and, indeed, outrageously burns its tail, and utters a loud cry, saying: 

“Who has committed this wicked wickedness against me? Is it that beauty, that beautiful woman who is always around?” 

“No,” replies the husband. “It is I, myself, who never spins!” 

The exasperated fairy flies up the chimney to call his companions who were cavorting about on the roof. 

“What are you shouting, shouting about?” they say.

“I am burning, burning!”

 “And who burned you, burned you?” 

“It is me, myself, the one who never spins.”[11] 

This answer seemed so stupid to the other fairies, rude spirits that they were,  that the beautiful spinner's husband heard them laugh like mad, booing, fooling around and driving away the poor lover, which made the husband very happy, for he had been afraid of drawing the whole band of pixies against him, and never again did his wife's lover dare to come to his house again.

This Norman legend has a kind of counterpart in Berry, or rather, it is the same legend with variations that capture the local spirit.

Here the follet or fadet, the story does not say precisely what type of cunning spirit, did not have love on his mind. Just like a Berrichon Devil, he thought only of enraging the spinner, who did not spin linen on her spindle but rather spun wool on her wheel, and, instead of gazing upon her with tender eyes, he maliciously tangled and broke her strands, so that while she was mending them, he was able to slip into the arche (the bread box) and steal the cakes that the housewife had saved for her children. 

Having noticed this trick, the good woman pretended to know nothing and, bending down, she subtly picked up the fine end of this character's long tail, tied it to a strand of her wool and began to twirl it, twirl it on her spinning wheel, as if it were a skein.

The fadet didn't notice it right away, busy wallowing in the cheesecake. But when the spinning wheel had rolled five or six lengths of tail, he very much felt it and began to shout: “My tail, my tail!” The spinner ignored him, and, still spinning, began to sing: “Pelotte, pelotte, ma roulotte!” with such a good voice and making so much noise with her wheel, that the other devils, trapped on the roof, did not hear the moaning and cursing of their comrade, who was forced to surrender, and to swear by the name of the Big Devil from Hell that he would never set foot in her house again.

According to some versions, the pixie who enjoys tangling up a spinner’s threads is a female spirit, a bad fairy. In my childhood, I heard an old woman say on such an occasion, “The jouillarde got into it!” and she made a cross in her hand to ward off and chase away the diablesse.

What elsewhere is called the goblin, the fairy, the pixie, the farfadet, the kobbold, the orco, the elf, the troll, etc., etc., in Berry, is most often called the follet (wisps). There are good ones and bad ones. There are those who groom the horses in the stable - all farmhands hear their whips and the call of their tongues; and there are those who gallop the horses in the pasture at night, and who braid horses’ manes to make themselves stirrups (since they are too small to stand on the animal's rump and always ride on the neck); they are are quite good little children and run away when approached by men. Their malice consists of causing death or miscarriage to the mares who allow them to cut their mane whenever they please, to braid and knot for their own use. The favourite mounts of the follet are called chevaux bouclés (shaggy horses), and in the old days they were esteemed as the best and most fierce. The groomed follet mares were sought after at fairs as good broodmares.

This follet of the stables still exists among us in the belief of many people. All peasants forty years of age, who have devoted themselves to raising horses, have seen them and swear to it with a candour impossible to doubt. They have never been afraid of them, knowing that they are not mean. They all describe it the same way. He is as big as a small rooster and he has a bright red crest. His eyes are of fire, his body is that of a fairly well-made little man, except that he has claws instead of nails. The tail varies; according to some it is made of feathers, according to others it is an inordinately long rat's tail, which he uses, like a whip, to make his horse run.

In the north of France, some of these nains (dwarfs) are very wicked and take pleasure in leading travellers astray. In La Marche, around the dolmens, all spirits are dangerous and hostile to man because they are in charge of guarding the treasures hidden under the large stones. Woe to the curious and especially to the ambitious who prowl around these monuments at night, where the eternal mystery of tradition reigns. They jump on horses’ necks, knock the rider to the ground and beat him up. However, we can protect ourselves from them in several ways, when we have been bold enough to study - at all risks - their habits and fancies. In general, they are not intelligent and speak the human language with difficulty. Like those of Normandy and like the korrigans of Brittany, they have the mania or rather, the infirmity, of repeating the same word twice, without being able to reach three, or if they exceed this number by doubling it, they can't say it a seventh time.

A treasure hunter, who saw a dwarf jump in front of him, dragging him into a magnetic circle and repeatedly saying to him in a sharp little voice: “Turn, turn,” stopped him short by answering him: “I turn, I return and I turn away.” The dwarf did not understand, and, thinking that this was a formula beyond his knowledge, let go of the man, jumped on the stone and made it dance so hard and turn so quickly that fire came out of it. The man dared not approach it, but he was able to draw back without being followed. Only the dwarf had given him such a spinning motion, making him waltz with him around the devilish stone, that he returned home, still spinning on himself like a spinning top, and went to collapse from fatigue at the door of his house.

George SAND

[arcane-abomination]

This is a ritual to be used right before an intense meditation or other form of third eye work. It’s purpose is to empower your third eye with extra energy so that you don’t feel completely drained by the end of it.

I call on the power of Yog Sothoth for this ritual but you may call on whatever spirit, deity, universe energy, or elemental energy that you wish. Feel free to edit any words in accordance.

Preparation

Its always good to make sure you are in good health mentally and physically. This ritual isn’t recommended for those who are currently suffering from headaches, migraines, or any sort of head or brain injury. It’s best to allow for complete recovery before continuing. It’s also imperative that you be in a good place mentally. The third eye is also apart of your subconscious mind after all and empowering it during times of anxiety, stress, or unhealthy thoughts may only aid in giving more power to those thoughts. Remember, your health always comes first! So use exercise appropriate caution!

If you’re in the right head space then I recommend some sport of purification ritual before you begin the main ritual. A smoke cleanse or a salt bath cleanse are great examples. Everything works best when all the negative and residual energies for that day are gone. That way you empower yourself with a clean slate sorta-speak. I find the empowerment takes much better that way. Once you’re completely cleansed, go somewhere you won’t be disturbed so you can begin.

The Ritual

Technically all you will really need for this ritual is a crystal. It can be any crystal type you feel is connected to third eye work, but I would recommend black quartz, amethyst, or clear quartz respectively. I typically use black quartz myself because I feel it ties to the void and thus connects more with Yog Sothoth than the others. However Black quartz can be hard to find since it’s not to common of a mineral. Remember it’s different from Smokey quartz, but if black is the color you really want any other black quartz will do. You can also tailor the crystal type based on the kind of meditation. So for example if you’re doing a meditation that involves communing with ancestors or other spirits of the dead you may want to use labradorite, as it’s a great stone for spirit working.

The next step would be calling on any deity, spirits, or other energies to be present. As stated above all you really need is a crystal but if you wish to add any additional representations now would be the time to do it. This is also where some people world purify their tools. Others may purify their tools regularly after every ritual so if this is you you can skip right ahead to the actual beginning of the spell itself.

Take a moment to open the circle if you choose. Feel that the energies or spirits you have called on are present. Then set the crystal before you and cover it with your hands connecting your energy to it. When you feel this connection is established call on the spirits or energies to empower it. I like to say something like:

“I call to you great Yog Sothoth. As you are the key and the gate to all places, empower this Crystal with your energy so that it becomes a tool to empower my third eye. By this I beseech you.”

Now wait a moment feeling the energy envelope you and thus move into the crystal. Visualize a light entering it if you must, it may start to feel warmer to the touch. Its energy may pulsate. This is a good sign. If not you may need to call again or wait just a bit longer. Everyone empowers in their own unique time, but I would say is shouldn’t take longer than a a few minutes.

When you finally feel that energy connection take the crystal and raise it to your forehead. Draw the symbol of an eye, again visualizing if you feel you must. I like to see a glowing light where the lines are drawn, typically purple or red in color but that can change based on my mood. Whatever you visualize be sure you see how your third eye is represented to you! It can look like anything you wish. It doesn’t have to follow the laws of nature. What symbol works here for you is all that matters.

Once you have done this immediately tell the crystal and energy it’s purpose. It’s very important to use the present tense at this time as it directs the energy to do so that moment. I like to say something like this:

“With this I am empowered. My third eye is open. It is strong and it is powerful.”

Now, take another moment to feel the energy. Again it may pulsate or even give you a small headache. This is why it’s necessary to be pain free at the start. Sit comfortably while your body becomes acclimated to the energy. This typically only takes about a a minute for me but everyone is different, however I don’t think it will be that long. Once things have calmed down you may move on to whatever meditation or third eye work you needed the empowerment for. Just remember to show gratitude to the spirits or energies you called during that time and give any offerings you wish.

[writerleo86]

Terravenger Season 6 - The Dark Kitsune Arc - Episode 549 (Do Not Copy) - 10.24.2024

At a battlefield in the middle of a rainforest, two opponents had fought one another.

The warrior at one side was Ronan Kelly. He was a young man with fine skin, slate-blue eyes, and a muscular body. And the regular-sized youth had short blond hair that slicked back. He wore a black shirt with short sleeves underneath a blue flak-jacket with black armor. He had a pair of green combat pants and short black boots.

The other was Aiden Rose who had fair skin, blue eyes, and short gray hair. He wore a pale-violet dress-coats which was buttoned and had a small pocket made at the front left side. Underneath was a long-sleeved black shirt with a thick collar and a short white tie. Placed on the knot of the tie was his PAF badge. He had silver armor which protected the chest area. And a purple cuff was worn around each wrist. He also had on a pair of black dress-pants. And he wore a pair of black dress-shoes with silver covering the toes.

During the battle, small lines of clear liquid emerged from the arms of Ronan Kelly. The liquid quickly wrapped around both of Aiden's wrists. And the liquid dried into earth which covered both his opponent's arms.

Ronan walked close to the captured Aiden as he carried a short spear made of stone in his right hand. And he placed the tip of the spear to Aiden's neck.

Before Ronan could do anything, a fiery white light rose from Aiden's body.

Terravenger -- Season 6

Episode 549:  The New Mission; Crimson Raven

The force of the shining light caused Ronan to be blown a few steps away. And Ronan fell to the ground while the stone around his opponent's arms burned into ashes.

The color of the fiery light quickly changed to a bright blue as a composed Aiden walked toward a scared Ronan. A pair of pointy ears soon formed at the head of Aiden's light as a long tail emerged from behind him. Then flames that were colored lighter blue flared from him as Aiden continued making his way to his opponent.

Next, a possessed Aiden spread his arms out once his calm light shined brighter. His opponent Ronan carefully stood up and faced his opponent while in his battle stance.

Ronan told him "I don't know what the hell you are! But I'm not gonna let you win! I trained very hard to get where I am now!"

He grew a spear of water from his right hand. And the element of the spear became stone as Ronan stood in another stance.

Minutes later, a tired Ronan backed away from the great light coming from the possessed Aiden.

Then Aiden said in a calm voice merged with a female's "You have fought valiantly, Kiels soldier. But your quest ends here."

A shocked Ronan fell and stared at the eyes of his opponents which glowed white. Aiden soon rose his right hand which created a small ball of red light that dropped small petals made of the same energy.

After the projectile grew as large as a basketball, his opponent looked away in fear.

"I give up!" yelled Ronan. "Stop the match!"

The entire area around the fighters began to change as another person hurried before the possessed Aiden.

The person ordered in a calm male voice "Stop now, Aiden Rose! The match is over!"

    Inside the third part of the long train, three small balls made of golden light had scattered around the villainous woman called Asuka and her soldiers. The door behind her soon opened.

    Asuka looked around at each ball rotating while asking "What are these?"

    Another set of soldiers with red masks stood before the woman as she heard a calm male voice tell her "Neither of you are going anywhere."

    The person coming through the door appeared as a man with fair skin, brown eyes, and a military haircut. He had a thin beard. And the man was somewhat slender. He wore a light-blue T-shirt with golden armor covering both the front and back. Over his shirt was an opened light-gray coat with long sleeves. There was a small golden badge on the front left side of his coat that resembled a dove with a small orange gem on its head. And a Ravenstone crest remained on the left shoulder. He also had on a pair of long khaki pants, white socks, and long white boots. And he wore a pair of tight brown gloves.

    The newcomer remained before the wicked group with two of his left fingers pointed forward.

    Asuka asked him "Who are you?"

    Then she spotted the golden badge placed on the soldier's chest.

    "I see," She implied. "You are from the Ruto Armed Forces."

    And the attentive soldier introduced himself.

    "I'm Lieutenant Tris Roberts of the Ruto Armed Forces."

    "A lieutenant huh?" replied Asuka. "We may be in your territory. But this does not concern you."

    "I already know about you guys,"

    Tris began twirling his two fingers in a circular pattern repeatedly as he informed the woman "You... and the criminal, Leere Knast. You two were hired to kidnap a kid with this great power. And the person who hired you either works for Horsemen. Or they might even be a member of this secret group."

    The young soldier from the Pluto Armed Forces called Nico slowly walked to the left side of the Ruto lieutenant. And the pair continued facing the evil group.

    Tris asked the student "You're from Pluto?"

    Nico shook his head and responded "You can call me Nico. I am a member of the team from Pluto who is transporting a certain someone to our city."

    "Yeah," answered Tris. "My commander was notified by yours that you guys would be coming this way. And my commander ordered me to keep an eye on you."

    Nico shook his head once again and commented "I remember you from the Armed Forces Exams last year. I was one of those that dropped out. But I had to in order to complete a mission that came during."

    Tris discovered the other student from Pluto City laying unconscious on the ground.

    And the young lieutenant responded "Aiden Rose. I remember that kid. He made quite an impression during the second part of the Exams."

    After Tris lowered his two fingers, the small balls circling around the villains disappeared. Four of the red-masked soldiers soon ran toward the other side. The cunning Tris slowly pointed his right finger forward.

    He called out "Corkscrew Bullet!"

    Then a long spiraling wave made of yellow energy blew from his pointing finger. And the projectile shot through the chest of each soldier that hurried to the pair.

    Next, Asuka sent the last of her soldiers to attack. Tris threw himself toward one of the villains. He soon blew out a flurry of punches from both fists. He finally blew out his left fist which emitted small bubbles of yellow light. And that masked soldier was pushed to the wall at the other side.

    Meanwhile, Nico threw a rotating large ring made of pale-violet energy with his right hand at the heads of the other soldiers.

    As the masked soldiers all slowly fell to the ground, Tris blew a flurry of small waves made of crimson energy from his right point-finger to her. Asuka quickly formed a large globe of clear wind after pushing her hands forward. And this barrier destroyed the upcoming projectiles.

    After the barrier faded, the quick Asuka blew a small patch of air from her mouth to the lieutenant. Tris quickly destroyed the projectile using his right backhand which emitted a small patch of his crimson energy.

    Then Asuka flung her left hand which released a large wave of strong wind toward him. Her opponent Tris quickly moved his right arm away which caused a large spark of his crimson energy to destroy the enemy's projectile.

    Before Asuka could do anything else, Tris flashed his left arm back which blew out a large horizontal slash of his crimson energy. This projectile had forced the wicked Asuka to stand in a frozen state. Tris soon blew a small bubble of shiny pink energy from his left palm. And Asuka was blown to the closed door at the other side.

    Both Tris and Nico walked toward her. And they both discovered that Asuka was indeed laying unconscious with her face down.

    "Well," reported Tris. "There goes one."

[bvccy]

Forbidden thoughts | 1. Daydreams of affection

— PAIRING: soft!dark!Bucky Barnes x female!Reader

— SYNOPSIS:  For one of his last missions to make amends, Bucky tracks down the daughter of a man he killed when he was the Winter Soldier. He follows her from a distance at first, then slowly gets to know her. Affection turns to love which turns to lust which turns into something darker. Bucky tells himself he’s stalking her with good intentions, but he knows that isn’t true anymore.

— CHAPTER NOTES: Here we go, babes! Setting up the scene with angst and fluff. Also introducing the new little country, and a few other characters we'll see a bit more of later. It will still be a while before our hero and heroine actually meet. Our Bucky is a sad boy who needs some love :(

— WORDCOUNT: 2.5K

⸻ [MASTERLIST] [AO3] [PLAYLIST]

The sky was deceptively clear every day, a uniform slate grey that betrayed nothing, carrying the indifferent scent of dust and dampness of a continental climate. Illusions seemed to form in the uncertain mists it made, shadows and colours that mixed among themselves, lights hidden in the fog, and every hour seemed the same until night fell and everything was black until tomorrow. It wasn't the best of conditions to track someone, but he'd been through worse.

She was part of his list of amends, that's why he ended up approaching her — he never would have otherwise. Unassailably aloof underneath that shy façade, mortiferous blend of pride and modesty — Bucky wouldn't even know where to begin with her. He went halfway around the world to find this young woman, secured around seven thousand dollar's worth of funds for a three-month stay plus expenses, came without his weapons and didn't even travel incognito but, complaints aside, it was a welcome break from the mess back home; no dumpster fires in the streets, trash everywhere, drunk vagrants sleeping in the open; no sight of his old streets or longing looks at his childhood home — now expensive way beyond his means — nor calls for favours from old friends who got in trouble. It was just like old times: just him and his mission, and a new unknown terrain.

This far off country named Cathonia, formed in valleys cut by rivers and kept safe by its obscurity, was locked between a dip in Italy's mountains and the edge of Switzerland. The local people, there since prehistoric times, merged mostly peacefully with the Roman colonies that formed along the routes of trade and war out of the peninsula. They still bore signs of the Imperium, as if it had never died: massive buildings in white stone with sharp pediment over the windows, alcoves hiding busts or statues of ancient statesmen, or poets, or philosophers, dated in old Roman numerals and none more recent than the 1800s. Their flag of black and red and white stripes arranged on the horizontal fluttered high above the doorways.

Smaller residential places, tiny villas all iron gates and crawling ivy, looked out of place against the modern cars outside. Marble urns lined the roads, white flowers flowing out, while heavy oaks and sycamores and elms grew wildly all around, their branches hanging tiredly toward the ground to form green domes above the narrow streets and pathways. Men and women walked arm-in-arm, and children played outside with balls and bikes and all sort of self-made toys, like wood-carved horses or dolls sewn out of tablecloths.

Bucky watched all of these things curiously during the ride from the airport — he'd found a cab driver and they managed to communicate between one's broken Italian and the other's. He was in the capital city, Ixum, but it looked more like a ghost town than any other place he'd ever seen. A river ran beside it, bearing the same name, but he only caught a brief glimpse when the car crossed a bridge.

He had a room booked at a hotel called Morfran, the building squat and cracked around the edges with the paint worn out in places, pallid grey chipping away to reveal the blood-red brick beneath. The stairs squeaked and the shower pipes shuddered, but it was warm and dry, and so cheap he thought he stepped back in the 40s for a minute.

After a couple of days, as he got to know his target, he requested to change rooms. Bucky's new 2nd-floor suite had a broad balcony that faced the nearby park she favoured on her evening walks, and this early in the autumn, the sun did not yet set too late. He watched her from a distance for a while, prowling around her usual haunts and keeping track of patterns, habits, a way to catch her someplace that felt natural — just to talk, of course.

And so a new glum afternoon found Bucky standing at the balcony, sipping his bitter coffee more out of a desire to just hold something. His hands were more unsteady lately, perhaps because he was so close to finishing his list — she was the last one on it that was still accessible, not dead or in a jail or gone insane — or perhaps it was the weight of his debt to her that did it. Can't have been easy, losing her father when she was 10 years old.

He seemed a quiet man, tall and wiry with a sunken pallid face and deep grey eyes, and although he worked in journalism, that wasn't what got him into trouble. It was his hobby of birdwatching that had him out that evening, camera at the ready in the worst place, at the worst time, to catch the Soldier stepping out of the forest under the echo of the sound of gunshots. In the end, he wasn't very brave, but neither did he beg.

The wind sounded the same as it did years back, and there was the same scent of wet pines on the air, and a shiver ran through his body as it, too, remembered. The nausea he felt, already a steady companion, was drowned out by another sip of coffee.

Bucky wasn't even sure whether he should follow her home yet, he still had a bit of reading to do on the girl's background, but he already had most of what he needed. She had studied abroad and worked now for some artsy publication, lived alone on the outskirts of the city, and took her evening walks in the nearby park almost every day.

In spite of the monsters his mind produced, within only a few days he'd started to feel at home in this strange place. He had an old mattress that creaked under his weight, a television set that seemed as old as him, wooden desk in aged shades of brown, threadbare carpet in dark colours, and a tiny little bathroom in porcelain and brass. And in this land of strangers, Bucky found he could be anyone: a mystery man on a business trip, the odd tourist, a novelist, a detective on a case, a criminal on the run.

He'd even made friends with another guest at the Morfran. Mr Eugene Daimon was a portly Englishman who stopped there to see a nephew on his way to a health resort — he was going there to take the waters and some mud baths that, he said, worked wonders for arthritis.

"You may not need it now," he spoke as he loaded a plate with sausages and eggs that morning, "but when you get older, you'll see…"

"Past a certain point, everything hurts, right?" said Bucky, smiling at the man who was about half his real age.

"That's right."

When asked what he was doing there, he didn't have the heart to lie.

"I'm looking for someone."

"Are you a policeman?" Mr Daimon asked with suspicion as he sipped his tea, grey whiskers going in first.

"Not exactly…"

"You're not some scummy journalist, are you?"

"Oh, no," he laughed, cheeks aching with the unusual strain of it.

"In that case, James, whatever you are, I hope you find her."

"How did you know it's a she?"

"You just confirmed it, haven't you?" chuckled Mr Daimon.

Hours later, down below, the girl snuggled in her coat and tried to read a book. She kept getting distracted by her thoughts and looking up, seeing people walk their dogs around the park, or children with their parents, before she started reading the same page over and over again.

Bucky's eyes didn't leave her figure: tracing a lock of hair curled around her coat collar, the dip of the waist as she leaned sideways on the bench, the stretch of one calf in its creamy stocking as she sat cross-legged, then back up to the fingers curled around the book as if it were the edges of a cliff. Then upward still toward her lips set firmly in a line and pale with tiredness, and those eyes that were reading without moving — pretending, dreaming, thinking — looking liquid as if her soul could drip out at any moment; lazy remnants of eyeshadow were smudged around the corners, rubbed a little during the day, wetted by a few involuntary tears.

If he hadn't tracked her down for his mission, she could fade into the background, a silent part of the scenery, painted in shades of red and white and black and brown, cold and damp and trembling like the autumn all around her. He wondered what it would be like to know her, really know her… He could sit by her side, talk about his day, listen to her talking about hers, and look down to see how nicely her hand fit in his.

In his daydreams, they would be neither here nor back in New York City. In an in-between world of their own, he could take her to places where nobody else went, hold her in his arms and let her lean against him, his heart racing at just the feeling — just the thought — of what the angles of her body felt like through both their autumn coats. He could bring her flowers — white roses first, then move to pink and red — and watch her smile, and blush, and bite her fleshy lower lip as she looked up at him.

She'd take him to the cinema and he would take her dancing, her fingers interlinked with his, little nails like claws digging in at every twirl, and by the end he'd have her laughing, giggling into his chest, her own heart beating away right next to his as he held her close.

Bucky's stomach was in knots by the time the girl went home, feeling full and fluttery, but he went to dinner anyway. Mr Daimon was already there, sitting with a tall thin lady with a golden mane, and though Bucky waved politely and tried to keep on walking, he could not escape his new friend's beckoning.

"We just got here, haven't even ordered yet. You don't know each other, do you?"

"I don't think so," the lady said.

Bucky gripped the back of the empty third seat as he waited to be introduced.

"This is Mrs Lucile Aster, a good friend."

"Only sometimes," she said, smiling with an acid air.

"My dear, this is Mr James Barnes."

"How do you do," he nodded, and finally sat down.

"You look oddly familiar…" the woman spoke as she took a closer glance at him.

"I guess that's likely, maybe we've seen each other around the lobby," said Bucky as he tucked the metal hand between his knees.

Mrs Aster had a full round face, but there was something famished in her eyes. The accent placed her somewhere in the south of France.

"So what was that about only being friends sometimes?" Bucky asked, hoping to distract the two.

"We're professional rivals," Mrs Aster chuckled. "I hate him occasionally, but he's too fun to not speak to."

"Nicest thing she's said about me in five years," Eugene mumbled.

They chatted and laughed a little over dinner, but something about the conversation struck Bucky like a memory from a dream: endless, repeating, distant. He went back to his room as if sleepwalking and let the desk lamp on his bedside table burn into the night as he stayed awake and tried to find a way out through this fog.

A darkness so thick it felt material fell over his room and by his side that single golden light, a little sylph, shone while his thoughts circled and were pulled toward the girl again. It was easy to pretend that she was by his side, laying there, just out of reach, curled up with her back to him, and any minute now he'd start to feel her body heat. He wanted to lay on his side and wrap his arm around her, but knowing he would not find her there and to protect himself from disappointment, Bucky instead closed his eyes and pictured it: arm curling around her waist to pull her close, face buried in her hair and smelling the perfume, and maybe then she'd turn around and hold him in her arms and fall asleep with her tired face resting right against his chest.

He couldn't tell when it was he fell asleep. It was deep in the night because the moon had almost set outside, stars shining in the cloudless sky, and with heavy limbs, Bucky stretched toward the table and finally turned the light off. He was alone, the small part of him that was awake knew as much, but at the back of his mind, she was there — as a desire, if nothing else. She'd sigh when his motions woke her up, and he would pet her head, apologise, and tuck them both back in. It was too dark to see, and she was far away, but Bucky knew she'd smile.

The morning sun woke him up next morning. Around the edges of his mind floated the remnants of a few dreams, but they soon slipped from his grasp. His eyes adjusted to the light but he neither moved nor stretched, he just lay there listening, feeling the bed, his body, the soft sheets tangled around his legs, the air coming from the open window. The metal arm was a bit warm from where he'd laid on it. Bucky gradually remembered what he was thinking of last night, and in the clarity of day, a sense of guilt washed over him.

"You're losing it, old man," he grumbled, suddenly angry with himself.

She was just a young woman he hadn't even met yet, why was he imagining a life with her? If she knew this nutcase was watching her almost every day, and now was soothing his lonely nights with lurid dreams of her, what would she even think…?

"Occupational hazard," Bucky sighed as he turned his head toward the balcony.

After all, it wasn't his fault he could imagine what she felt like, what her perfume was, how soft her body would feel after a good night's sleep…

He would love to kiss her in the morning, just chastely on the cheek. Her lashes, soft like bird fluff, would leave a shadow on her skin, and her lips would look a little swollen maybe… He turned around and threw a leg over the duvet the way he'd curl it over her, to pull her closer. He hoped his girl would like to cuddle, like to rub herself up into him until he felt her whole body from the chest down to his legs, felt her curled up fists pressed into his ribs, the warm breath of her nose fanning on his neck, her moan as his hands travelled from her waist to her lower back and drew circles on her skin.

With a troubled sigh and growl, Bucky turned and heaved himself out of bed. He didn't, shouldn't want to have these thoughts about her. The metal hand came up to rub down his heated face, but it couldn't wipe the shame away.

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, 56: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A collection of occult scrawlings written on what looks like stretched and tanned human flesh.

A bamboo scroll tube with strange geometric designs on it. It is quite heavy and rattles with metal ball bearings that can be poured out when one end is uncapped. There are 24 ball bearings each with similar geometric designs but forming stylized glyphs.

A small piece of parchment with a list of how to say “You’re beautiful, let’s go back to your place” in six languages translated from Common.

A small slate with mathematic formulas written on it in white chalk. The notations change each time they’re observed.

An artistic painting of two hamsters locked in mortal combat.

A wormwood flute carved with coiling centipedes along its length and lacquered to a warm color. When blown, it produces a deep, earthy tone which attracts crawling insects.

An anatomically correct serpent heart, made of black jet stone and veined with quartz. A horrendous item to behold, ethereal green blood pours from the open vessels, only to disappear before hitting the floor. Those who watch the heart swear that it beats in time with their own. Serpents in the presence of this artifact are hyper aggressive. It causes them to writhe and strike out at random, spit venom and flare their hoods at any who approach.

An unsigned contract with an otherworldly entity that grants the undersigned a favor at the cost of one returned, anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

A scrap of leather folded several times with roughly scrawled on it. "I said 500 gold. No happy family reunion until then!" PC’s proficient in calligraphy would be able to compare the handwriting to other writings in order to find the author.  

A red knit cap that is covered in stains and smells as if it has been repeated dunked in blood and never washed. It once belonged to a vicious unseelie fey whose sole purpose was bloodlust.

—Click Here to be directed to the Hotlinks To All Tables post, which provides (As you might have guessed) convenient links to all of the loot and resource tables this blog has.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A collection of occult scrawlings written on what looks like stretched and tanned human flesh.

A bamboo scroll tube with strange geometric designs on it. It is quite heavy and rattles with metal ball bearings that can be poured out when one end is uncapped. There are 24 ball bearings each with similar geometric designs but forming stylized glyphs.

A small piece of parchment with a list of how to say “You’re beautiful, let’s go back to your place” in six languages translated from Common.

A small slate with mathematic formulas written on it in white chalk. The notations change each time they’re observed.

An artistic painting of two hamsters locked in mortal combat.

A wormwood flute carved with coiling centipedes along its length and lacquered to a warm color. When blown, it produces a deep, earthy tone which attracts crawling insects.

An anatomically correct serpent heart, made of black jet stone and veined with quartz. A horrendous item to behold, ethereal green blood pours from the open vessels, only to disappear before hitting the floor. Those who watch the heart swear that it beats in time with their own. Serpents in the presence of this artifact are hyper aggressive. It causes them to writhe and strike out at random, spit venom and flare their hoods at any who approach.

An unsigned contract with an otherworldly entity that grants the undersigned a favor at the cost of one returned, anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

A scrap of leather folded several times with roughly scrawled on it. "I said 500 gold. No happy family reunion until then!" PC’s proficient in calligraphy would be able to compare the handwriting to other writings in order to find the author.  

A red knit cap that is covered in stains and smells as if it has been repeated dunked in blood and never washed. It once belonged to a vicious unseelie fey whose sole purpose was bloodlust.

A blue knit hat that looks a bit like a bottle folding in on itself.

A silver lapel pin of a finely detailed gorgon's head with ruby eyes.

A painted wooden key whose teeth change configuration every day at dawn.

A bloodstained dreamcatcher made from fishing line, sinew and snowy owlbear feathers.

A fletcher’s kit that contains various items needed to make and repair bows and arrows such as knives, a whetstone, a pair of pliers, sandpaper, additional bowstrings, glue, and feathers.

A sealed, one-gallon keg containing a liquor known as “Fireflare Schnapps”. It has a gentle orange flavor at first with a sudden fiery spicy burst. Fireflare Schnapps clears the nose, ears, and waters the eyes with a bold burning that will make even the strongest cry. One swig of this daring beverage will cure the common cold.

A wooden gavel that when pounded, emits the sound of a judge yelling “Order! Order!”

A bottle of expensive wine (Based on the label) that was emptied and is now filled with rich soil and growing a single flower.

An oar, made of driftwood with a multitude of seashells and waves engraved along its length.

A tri-folded flag for a country which no longer exists.

A scrap of paper inscribed with a haunting elvish poem.

A small compartmentalized enameled box containing a set of fine pigments, dyes and colored powders. The hinged lid has a mirror on the underside, and the exterior of the box is decorated with images depicting a harem of dancing girls.

A hefty iron paperweight in the shape of a fist.

A tiny iron anvil, used in certain religious and civic ceremonies among the dwarves.

A charcoal drawing of an elven goddess shooting a dragon with a bow.

A recipe for mushroom ale, carved into a wooden plank.

An inordinately heavy and unwieldy, bronze ceremonial staff.

A small, amber colored glass sphere covered in repeating runes, written in celestial. It reads “I am with you. Relax and be calm.”

A wide earthenware jug protected by a wicker frame and stoppered with a large cork. The one-gallon container is filled with high proof rum, an alcoholic drink distilled from sugar. A stained leather tag around the jug’s neck proclaims the contents as “Alvarado's Bathtub Boot Screech: If you can read this, you haven't drunk it”.

A small grey silk pouch containing nodules of raw silver and polished finger bones.

A brass toy duck enameled in garish colours that flaps its wings and quacks when wound up with its key.

A pair of wool socks that randomly tickle the bearer's feet.

A whale-shaped candle holder made of blue stone.

A potted plant that only thrives and flowers during winter.

An expertly tanned reptilian hide sporting keeled, glimmering scales like those of a mammoth carp. The hide is as large as one might get from a sheep and glows softly in the dark with a multitude of colours.

A violet bedroll covered with rude scenes. It can easily expand to fit two people.

A peacock feather that repairs itself if damaged.

A toy flumph that floats gently to the ground if dropped.

A tiny bronze sundial with numbers marked in infernal.

A lidded basket woven from black rose briars and filled with dried bracken and mushrooms.

A bloodstained black porcelain statuette of a rearing pegasus.

A metal flask containing a milky mixture which bubbles and sizzles when unstopped.

A yellowed and cracked tooth of a hyena, hanging from a leather thong.

A fetish made from a giant spider’s mandible suspended on a braided silk cord.

A small rectangular bookmark crafted from the tanned wings of a bat and embossed in gold-leaf with an arcane glyph.

A large crystal orb that appears to have been crafted with wild, twisted glyphs that glow with their own inner radiance.

A shawl made of black wool and sewn with small crystals that glitter and shimmer in the light.

A rod almost as long as a staff, made from smoky quartz that sparkles with flashes of light; some brilliant white, others blood red. When gripped, a thin wisp of smoke trails from the tip.

A metal spinning top that never tips over when spun.

A set of sheet of music that goblins find upsetting when they hear it played or sung.

A leather bag containing a black silk shirt with eight silver buttons.

A one-foot tall hourglass encased in a frame of dark chestnut wood. The frame itself was carved from an extremely hard wood found only in the Sword Fens. Images of hounds, foxes, tortoises, hares, cheetahs, and other animal life grace the slender curves of the frame.

A wax candle that roars and crackles like a bonfire while lit

A music box that plays a sprightly tune you remember from your childhood.

An aberrant fiddle that quite simply looks wrong. The geometry is slightly off-center, the interior looks non-euclidean while the color scheme is disgustingly sickly. Only a madman would own this instrument. And from its strings, an equally horrid tune plays. The music cannot be described as anything from this realm, but is nevertheless truly ghastly.

A stone fertility figurine of a Random Humanoid woman sitting cross-legged.

A drum crafted from gorilla skin whose sound carries for miles in the jungle.

A shed snake skin that slithers around on its own when not observed.

A painted stone that makes a loud frog's croak when thrown at something.

A one gallon cask filled with an alcoholic beverage known as “Chasind Sack Mead”. It is a brutishly strong honey liquor, reminiscent of warm summer days, apple blossoms on the wind with an unexpected aftertaste of father going off to war, never to return. Bitter, to say the least.

A small iron box, engraved with drawings of tornadoes and towering cyclones.

A smooth, shimmering crystal the size of a fist that seems to shift colors as one gazes upon it.

A black cat’s eye marble with a hint of blood red. A fleeing convict once slipped on it and broke his skull.

A sleeveless leather vest possessing several pockets and pouches. A small emblem is etched in a golden thread along the collar.

A lacquered tarot card entitled “The Lotus”. The tranquil card depicts a pleasant grove where five naiads play lyres and feed fruit to weary adventurers resting on satin pillows.

A silver talisman resembling a winged humanoid, holding an opalescent kiteshield as they fly upwards.

A canteen made from hammered copper, decorated with a snake motif.

A glass orb filled with water and bubbles of other liquids. It becomes cloudy before a storm.

A terracotta stamp used to imprint patterns on cloth. It's stained from blue paint.

A single palm-sized golden coin bearing an unfamiliar emblem. Unknown to the bearer, the gold has been enchanted by a local group of bandits who can seek it out with a paired magical compass and will ambush whoever is carrying the coin at the worst time for the coin’s bearer.

A scroll in a waterproofed leather case. Written on it is a melancholy poem about drowning.

A sealed clay jar containing a bone fragment from a deceased angel, bound in linen.

A burlap pouch filled with sea glass in a variety of blues and greens. Cloudy shapes seem to move under their surface.

An articulated wooden hand, with jagged lightning-like patterns along the fingers.

An offering bowl, coated in dust. The surface bears circular patterns of lightning.

A bright green cap of ettercap silk lined with black linen.

A sealed bottle of wine known as Blood of the Raven. Knowledgeable PC's have heard rumors that this drink is produced by the members of The Cult of the Raven, an old and secretive organization. The wine is black in color, salty to taste and is consumed communally among the worshipers of the deity only referred to as the Raven. The wine had the ability to pass dream-like visions of the Raven's will to its worshipers, although that happened very rarely and only to the favored individuals.

A lightweight walking stick that glows in the dark.

A rough chunk of stone that is perfectly black, reflecting no light on any of its surfaces.

A wooden fife that cannot be heard by humans.

A slender wine glass made of stained bone, rimmed with gold.

A small magic wand that commands the flight of a tiny illusory butterfly.

A sealed glass bottle labeled “diamond dust” that is actually full of crystallized sugar.

An ornately decorated skull made of hardened sugar.

A set of four wicker dolls in the shape of winter animals. They're attached together by a small chain.

A brass collar engraved with ancient hieroglyphs.

An oil lantern with crystal sides, which show shimmering faces when lit.

A sheaf of wheat made of gold wire, marked with sigils of healing.

A small pouch containing the shattered iron pieces of a sun-shaped medallion.

An amber wand that end in an eagle's talon.

A bright red flower kept alive by a minor enchantment.

An ancient bronze coin given to the dead to use to cross into the underworld.

A torn out piece of parchment that has a new story every morning, the ink still wet. The story always builds great tension before leaving out the ending.

A broken hand mirror that shows the user with older and frailer features.

A glass paperweight in the shape of a lobster's claw.

A skein of Randomly Colored yarn so light that it almost floats.

A skirt that shifts colors through the day, from bright blue, to black speckled with silver dots.

A tea bag that causes any liquid it’s placed in to taste like pure honey.

A feather far too long and colorful to belong to any bird you’ve heard of.

A small piece of salt stained wood that smell of sealing pitch and seawater. It is heavily damaged and was obviously splintered off of a much large section of a wooden structure. The wood rattles when creature sing near it and Knowledgeable PC`s suspect that the item was once part of the Songbird, the mythical boat belonging to a minor God of Seas and Songs. 

[bokettochild]

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones

Angst! My Beloved!

Not a lot of whump here, but I put Wild through the wringer!!! Lots of BotW2 ideas and concepts here, but nothing really cannon.

Also, disclaimer: I think Flora is a wonderful person, a bit harsh and sometimes unkind, but I feel for her a lot. The prompt submitted to me however asked for her as an ass, so that's what's here, for angst reasons. THIS IS NOT HOW I PLAN ON WRITING HER NORMALLY!!!

When Wild left the Chain behind in the woods, it was with a soft smile and a hesitant wave of his right hand. It was with a gentle ‘See y’all later’ that made Warriors shake his head with a sigh while Twilight offered a wobbly grin.

He would join them again, he knew that. After all, Hylia wouldn’t have chosen him to go with them in the first place if he was only supposed to leave before they’d even really started to know what it was that they were meant to be doing.

He’d see them again, and he’d fall back into a routine with all of them, sparring with Warriors and teaching Hyrule to cook and shield surfing with Wind and learning to carve from Sky. He’d go back to sewing with Legend, to exploring with Hyrule, to learning the Ocarina with Time and teasing Twilight about his terrible singing. He could work with Four on the Sheikah Slate and experimenting with different plants he’d gathered. He would see them again, and he’d go back to being busy and smiling nearly every day.

For the time being however, he had to square his shoulders and harden his jaw as he stepped through the swirl of black that had repulsed all the others every time they tried to enter. He had to tame his mind and wild spirit and come to stand before the Princess of Hyrule in all of her stern glory and receive the scolding he was due for wandering off without permission.

He never had time to question what she meant by being gone for ‘two whole weeks’ before she was marching off towards the labs and explaining that there was a new task for them to complete.

Such a task was one that left in his mind no time for thoughts of his brothers save on the lonely nights in the sky when the islands above the clouds were silent save for the birds about him that reminded him of Sky, or when he ran across the forests and was reminded of the wolf that once ran at his side. And, alright, the tiny people in the grass and the fountains reminded him of Four and Hyrule. When the wind sang strong in his ears as he dove towards the earth from the highest places in the sky, he couldn’t help but envision a small hero whose laughter danced like the sea and who’s fingers mastered the currents of wind and sea both.

It was a lonely quest, just like his last before it, but somehow it was more painfully so, now that he knew what it was to have brothers at his side to catch a monster’s blade when he was too slow or to help him patch himself up afterwards. It was quiet when the Princess and he sat around the fires as night, she studying him as he sat still and stonelike as she worked.

The hand that had waved goodbye to his brothers now flickered green and ethereal in the night shades, iron bands clinging to the wisping appendage and acting as a bond to hold its form together. It was nothing like what he’d known or studied in the Sheikah technology, or even what he’d seen from the many worlds he’d traveled with the other, and it earned many a stare and twist of the lips from those he met and traded with during his journey.

The arm was only the first of many changes, it’s power seeping through his body and altering him before he even knew what was happening. He’d hated it at first, disliking how it changed him, made his eyes glow and his hair touch with the same ethereal shades, red bleeding through at the roots and earning him even more wary looks.

Ganon, in all his terrifying power, had been a surprising comfort during the quest, an aid to discovering his new abilities and training them to bend to his own will. The Princess had been wary of their relationship, but had accepted it when she saw what he learned to do, and every evening she would require a report of his newfound skills, as well as the occasional demonstration or examination.

It all came to an end both too soon and not soon enough.

Ganon was gone, as if he’d never been there at all, and the Princess was as cold as ever even after their second adventure at each other's sides. And now there was no use for the abilities that had fused to his soul like the arm had to his flesh. He’d asked Purah if there was something that could be done to restore his body to its normal Hylian state, without the glowing limb that earned his only stares and insults from the village people, but the Princess had overheard it and declared that such a thing should not even be attempted.

“You don’t understand, Link. Don’t be foolish! We have here a scientific marvel ready for our investigation and exploration and you want to get rid of it just because it looks odd?”

He’s shuffled his feet slowly, resisting the impulse to rub at his chest where the Hylian part of him ended and the eldritch horror began. “I can’t live like  Hylian anymore.”

“Because you aren’t one!” Her Highness rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Sir Knight, after everything I certainly doubt that Hylian even applies to you anymore! Hylians do not possess the qualities that you now do, and they most certainly do not travel through stone or time or any other such thing at will. Think would you! You’re something else entirely, and I intend to find out what that is!”

Purah had frowned at that, eyes full of sorrow as they met his own with an apologetic sigh. But there was nothing the de-aged scientist could really say against the royal Sovreign of Hyrule, not as a Sheikah sworn to the service of the royal family. The woman/girl had offered him a sympathetic pat on the head later after climbing up to reach high enough to do so, as well as a few dumplings that Paya had sent on her grandmother’s behalf the day before. It was a welcome gesture, but amounted to so little on the grand scale of life. Not when so many others he had once called his friends had so blatantly rejected the mere sight of him.

Bolson and the other carpenters shied away from him with harsh whispers as they spat insults across the distance.

‘Half-blood’.

‘Gerudo Bastard’.

‘Freak’.

‘Demon’.

There were favorite insults spread from stable to stable and up and coming village to up and coming town and slowly all of Hyrule knew of the monster that had once been the hero. Gossip abounded, and he couldn’t even turn to shield his face with his hood without drawing attention to his arm.

It was only the koroks that welcomed him, themselves all too accustomed to the strange and ethereal. Them and the blupees.

Maybe it was the knowledge of how it felt to be shot at for his oddness that allowed him to ease into the graces of the flighty animals. And maybe it was his lonely heart crying for comfort, but when nestled in their midst, it almost reminded him of how it felt to be hugged by the salty veteran, on the rare occasional that the pink-haired hero had let down his guard.

The fairy’s tangled themselves in his hair and the blupees gathered at his feet, koroks dancing around him and flying to his side as if he was some sort of forest god, but the strange rise of his spirits in their presence shattered the instant a traveler caught sight of him.

Arrows and fire, once his favorite of weapons, were turned against him as words in every language of the New Hyrule had burst from the mouths of its people, and like his namesake, he ran before them, darting through the forest and fading in amidst the trees, hiding, incorporeal and translucent within the halls of the forest as those he’d once seen as allies pushed him away.

He’d begged the new Queen for aid, for relief or even just a word to the people that he wasn’t the evil they had come to think he was, but she only waved him aside with a purse of her lips. “You are not meant to be here without first asking.” The Child of Hylia declared, eyes as cold as the Shrine’s waters themself. “And why should I make a declaration on behalf of a man who refuses to even speak to me properly? You come groveling like a worm, yet for years it was I who you ignored. See how it feels, Sir Hero, to be the one left helpless at the hands of the country. Know what it is to be scorned by those who you thought would love you.”

He’d barely made it out of the window before the trainee guards of the newly repaired Hyrule Castle had caught him and Queen Zelda Diana Hyrule had stared after him with eyes colder than Hebra’s tallest peaks.

It was the Father Tree -the Deku Tree as the Queen had called it, but the koroks laughed at him for using the name, so he’d adjusted in kind- who suggested that he hide the changes, and he’d begun to wander Hyrule as much as possible to find the materials he would have needed.

The Queen still required his presence regularly so she could inspect him; her love of science no ways tainted as to stop her from ordering him to appear regularly, as there was now no need or safety in his acting as her guard. The Queen sought her people’s respect, and to employ such a being as himself, not Hylian and not quite mortal, would be to spark fear in the people. Indeed, when he skirted villages, he would wince at word of ‘the queen’s monster’ as gossip was traded. Those who didn’t see him themselves knew him as a beast of feral nature who lived amid the lost woods and destroyed any who came close.

“A specter that glows with the light of the shrines.” They would tell each other over campfires. “It has eyes like a ghost, empty and lost, with no care for humanity or Hylia’s chosen. They say it was once the Hero of this world, but he died ages ago.”

“I heard it’s the body, possessed by a being beyond this realm, a monster escaped from the edges of reality that tried to hide in our midst but corrupted it’s host so that it only scares away others, leaving it roam the earth in a shattered body. If you get too close to it though, it’ll take your instead.”

He’d stayed away from towns after that.

The blupees and koroks had been happy to help him to find what he needed to hide among the Hylians should he wish though, and two in particular guided him; the korok swinging little twigs like they were batons and humming swinging little shanties as it hopped along the path, the blupee snorting softly and nipping at his heels when he wandered too far, unnatural purple eyes staring up at him with something that was fondness and a reprimand all at once, and in their care he’d made his way across the land of Hyrule to find what would be needed to return to his once life.

The fairies and their Great cousins had been welcome help, and in time, he’d been able to walk amid the populace of Hyrule like any other, as long as he kept a long cloak about him and his hair pulled back to hide where the roots would begin showing again in gold and ethereal blue.

Once Hyrule had talked about needing to hide in his world, about the curse that followed him and made the Hylian people afraid. He’d thought it bizarre and ridiculous of the people at the time, but now he understood what it was to live it.

When the portal opened beneath his feet the day that the Queen had reprimanded him for concealing and potentially damaging the strange limb, startling the Skeikah scientists and Queen both, he’d nearly cried tears of relief.

He was going away, somewhere where he wasn’t a science project and where, unless they traveled to his world’s future, no one would know how much he had changed. His copy of the slate had enough hair dye to last him a few months, and he was certain he could make more over time, and as long as he continued wearing the tunics and gloves the fairies had helped him to adjust to hide the glow the others would probably never catch on. Or well, he could extend it anyway.

His brothers greeted him with open arms and teary eyes, and in a strange parallel to his adventure, he found himself thinking of blupees when Legend had curled against him, stiff and cold on the outside, but with fingers that clutched his tunic just a bit too tight to really be reluctant. And Four, Hyrule and Wind’s exuberant hugs and chatter brought to mind tiny forest people and koroks with twigs for batons.

It was good to be home.

It was good to cook for other people again, and they were glad to have him cook for them, even if his fondness for both Gerudo spiced dishes and fae like sweet things had increased exponentially during his newest adventure. It was good to fight at their sides, even if it was strange to once again have to take others into account before he could select a weapon. It was good to sit around a fire and talk with the others too, but that was perhaps the hardest one; it had been ages since he’d had a proper two-way conversation with anything other than a tree or a korok, and neither of those was good at either staying awake or staying focused for very long.

There were some harder things to adjust to though. Fire, for one. Unlike before when he’d have been happy to burn an enemy camp to the ground, now he was wary of using faming weapons or spreading heat further than necessary. The same went for hunting; he couldn’t bring himself to shoot an animal unless it attacked first or they needed the meat it would provide, and even then, he felt a bit bad for doing so. Is this what Twilight had felt like? Is this why the rancher never liked hunting? Because he too knew what it was like to be on the other end of the bow?

But the hardest thing by far to readjust to was his name.

‘Wild’ they had called him again, and after months of ‘the wild one’, ‘wild beast’, ‘monster’ and every other insult, slur or title that had been used on him, it made him flinch ever so slightly at the words. And unlike the other things where his brothers dismissed it as a change caused by his adventure or an increase of maturity, it was something that the others seemed to either not notice or to excuse as situational.

He had adapted though, learned to keep a smile on his face where blankness had once been required in his knightly duties, and the more he wore the mask the easier it was to put on again.

He’d reveled in traveling across time again, in dancing through battles and exploring the world without the Queen reprimanding him in her cold tones to stop wandering off. He’d pushed himself to learn more music in the last adventure, and even if his experience was more with what few instruments Ganon had had time to help him learn, he’d enjoyed sitting down with the others and borrowing one or another instrument to play a tune and sometimes he even got to sing.

He fell to comfortably into his role though, even with the changes, and he hadn’t even noticed when they’d come back to his world. To be fair, it was different in the daytime, and Hyrule had changed so much in the absence of her hero as he hid himself away from the eyes of civilization. Towns and roads had sprung up where there had only been fields before, and the Guardians that had littered the land had all been dug up and hauled to the castle to be either restored or destroyed by the Sheikah, depending on what Queen Zelda decided after she looked at them herself. The world was so different to him, so unlike that which he knew, that he’d failed to keep as alert as he ought to have been when he wandered about an open market with the others, laughing and chattering away with the other younger ones as Time and Legend herded them towards the needed stalls.

It was a traveler that was his downfall, a man who’d seen the Monster Hero and had been among the first to discover the disguise he wore.

No questions were asked when the word spread, and Wild hadn’t caught on to the whispers until a stone had struck his cheek and he was stumbling forwards on the path.

“Wild!” Twilight was at his side in a minute, Time right after him as Legend launched a barrage of insults at the guilty party who’d thrown the thing.

“’m fine.” He was careful to wipe the blood away with his cloak, holding the fabric to the wound to prevent bluish blood seeping down his face and exposing him to his brothers. He wanted to keep them as long as possible and proving himself to be a monster, not even Hylian, would surely have them turning their backs on him.

“Get away from him!” A woman scolded, grabbing ahold of two of the younger heroes while several other shoppers had like ways grabbed Legend and Sky. “Are you dears alright? He didn’t hurt you, did he?���

“Freaking what?” Legend shrieked. “Who’s the injured party here?”

“I’d avoid that thing, son.” A man huffed through a frankly walrus like mustache, eyes hard as they trailed to where Wild stood, cloak still pressed to his cheek as he attempted to wave off a fussing Twilight and Time. “It’s not natural. Sure, it looks like a normal Hylian, but that’s just an effective ruse.”

Another villager nodded. “It’s one of the Calamity’s puppets, a Gerudo-Bastard set on destroying the kingdom!”

“He’s the freaking hero!” Legend shrieked, barely being held back by a steely eyed Sky. “He saved all your freaking asses and all you can do is insult his flipping guts? Who’s the-”

“Enough.” There were few times that Sky’s voice reached levels worse than Twilight’s growls, but the stern command, regal and firm, froze all present as the man stiffened with a cold nod towards the villagers. “I see we are unwelcome here, and with that being the case it would be wise to spend our rupees elsewhere. Legend,” A tug to the boy’s shoulders. “Let’s join the others and be out of their hair. If they cannot be welcoming and kind to our brother than they will not receive our patronage.” And like a swan gathering it’s cygnets, Sky swept down the street, cape fluttering as he ushered the rest of them out of the town and back to the safety of the wilds. The village stared after them with wide eyes, as if they’d just been judged by a breathing god.

The stiffness in Sky’s shoulders faded as they neared the edge of the forest, and instantly the Chosen Hero been tutting over Wild, gently but firmly prying his hand away from his face with a kind smile that almost set Wild at ease. Almost.

“It’s fine, it’s just a scrape.”

“Still.” Sky crooned softly. “I’d rather we clean it up now and make sure it’s nothing worse than let it sit and get infected later.”

And though he’d tried to fight, his single Hylian hand was no match for the firm grip of the Skyloftian, and within minutes his face was exposed to the shocked faces and flickering eyes of his brothers.

“It’s blue...” Wind breathed as Hyrule darted forwards, hands already glowing softly only for them to stutter to a stop over Wild’s skin.

“It’s... Wild, why is your blood- why is-” The healer’s eyes had flickered golden for a moment, wide as they stared up at him. “What happened to you-”

“What the freak!” Legend had startled, blinking in surprise as he stared. “Your eyes are glowing!”

Shit! The healing properties of the arm had already taken affect and it was making everything act up all weird! He shot a glance down at his arm, one hand raising to tangle in the long hair he couldn’t even see at the moment, praying silently beneath his breath that nothing was showing through. It wasn’t, but that didn’t change how Hyrule had come to fixate on his right arm, or how the healer's fingers hovered over it sparking and eyes twinkling as he whispered softly under his breath.

“Wild.” Time had sighed. “I think this one is going to need an explanation.”

All the breath left his lung in instants.

He’d panicked to say the least and Time had eventually shooed the others away to make camp as the eldest hero had sat at his side, waiting silently for him to regulate his breathing. Touch was too much right now, and any attempts from the others to ease him down or help him level out his breathes had only made him panic more. But when at last his blue eyes blinked back to clarity it was to see Time sitting at his side, a gentle tune wafting from the Ocarina at his lips.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, trying his hardest not to startle Time or otherwise make the situation worse. “I should have said something, I know. I just- missed being Wild and I wanted to come back and be normal and I didn’t want to-”

“It’s alright.” Time’s voice rumbled softly, a single blue eye turning to him with a pained look, even as the man offered him a hint of a smile. “None of us talk about our adventures either.”

“Yes, but you’re people.” He sighed, rubbing the fingers of his glove together. “You’re allowed to choose things.”

There was pain in Time’s voice when their leader answered. “And you’re not?”

“I’m not Hylia anymore.” He whispered. “I don’t count.”

“You count to us.”

“That’s because you don’t know.”

Time shifted, turning to face him fully as the ocarina was set firmly in the grass. “That’s because you’re family and we care. Wild, I don’t care if Demise himself named you the king of the dead, you’re still my kid and Nayru knows I’m not going to let you go without a fight. If that means fighting you, alright, but you’d best better believe that no amount of physical or mental changes will break the bonds we all have with you.”

Something, something damaged and crushed and stitched up and torn open again clenched inside of him, tears pricking at his eyes as he stared up at Time’s royal blue gaze. “W-what?”

“You could be granted godhood, made a monster, I don’t care. You’re ours and you’ll have to deal with that.” Time smiled, warm even with the pain in his eyes as he looked down at him. “So how about you start again, maybe with the facts rather than the insults. Or,” Time softened, brows furrowing lightly. “If you want, we can just sit here and you can choose to talk about this later. We do need to know, so we can help you and keep you safe, but you don’t have to tell us right now. You can take some time to figure out what you want to say if you need.”

And, well, shoot him, but Time’s arms had always been a safe place and there was one thing he’d wanted more than anything since he had come back. Wild threw himself into his grand-mentor's arms with a soft sob, clutching tightly to the other, ignoring the armor and its sharp points and awkward shapes as he tried to hold back all the emotions swirling in his chest.

Time’s arms folding around him broke the floodgates though, and when the man’s hand had stroked through his shortened hair, he’d had to bury his face in Tim’s neck to muffle his sobs.

“There, there,” Time hummed softly, rocking slowly as he held the broken wild hero. “Let it out, little one. I have you, I’ve got you and I’m not letting anyone hurt you.”