#clamor-of-lightning

[rafeandonlyrafe]

kildare enduro

words: 2.3k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, fingering, nipple play, p in v sex, unprotected sex, loner reader, brief talk about wards death, takes place during s4e1 (no sofia.), drinking, kind of drunk sex but they actually specifically say they dont want to be that drunk

“not just john b- look at that other late entry…” the announcer says, looking to his co-host also positioned in front of a microphone.

“do you recognize who is under that helmet?” he asks.

“i do not… i guess we have a mystery contender as well.”

rafe looks over the crowd, frowning inside of his helmet when he realizes there's no one here to cheer him on, eyes glaring with jealousy at the crowd of pogues. it's one of his biggest complaints about the event, the fact that they're allowed to compete too with their shit bikes and even worse racing abilities.

“and that bike… is that a modified ktm 450 rally? that's a beautiful machine. not too different from rafe camerons. looks like they'll be the ones to watch today.”

the announcers statement has rafe looking over, seeing the blacked out bike with metallic purple and blue accents, and the equally blacked out face mask, not allowing him to see who it is underneath.

“thats got to be the most expensive bike racing here today. dominated last years dakar rally, and pretty much every endurance race it's entered into.”

“very excited to see what the modifications are, looks like enhanced tires for driving through the sand…” 

rafe drones out the voices, focusing on the race to come, especially knowing he's got stiff competition this year.

he takes a deep breath, watching the green flag raise high in the sky before dropping quickly, and he's off like a bolt of lightning, sand spewing up behind him.

he gets instantly to the front, but he can hear someone on his tail. a quick glance to his right reveals the metallic bike, skidding over the top of the sand like it doesn't weigh a pound.

“rafe cameron has the early lead, but our late entry is hot on his tail! this could cause trouble for our previous winner.”

rafe takes the turn and is overtaken, but not by more than a wheel.

“looks like rafe cameron is just beat out as they head into the trees!” the commentator shouts, the crowd clamoring to figure out who knows the rider currently in the lead and pulling away.

rafe doesn't let the other bike get farther than a length ahead as he heads into the whoops, the bike soaring into the air before touching down.

rafe smirks under the mask when the driver ahead briefly loses control, wheel wobbling as it hits an uneven patch of dirt, and rafe speeds ahead, taking advantage of every small mistake.

he's not ahead for long, as his bike stutters in speed heading through the dip in the road, water causing his wheels to spin, while the racer in all black and deep purple speeds past, leaving rafe to groan in frustration, especially when he turns and realizes other bikers aren't far behind.

“and here they come! around the bouy and-oh! cameron just made contact with our leader, it looks like he's getting sick of being behind, and overtakes around the turn with our mystery driver right on his heels!”

rafe smirks as he retakes the lead, not willing to let some random take over his win. rafe pops his front wheel up, revving the engine and coaxing more speed out of the bike, knowing sand is flying in the faces of the riders behind him.

“this race is turning out to be a real nail biter, it could be anyone's game as they head back into the trees.”

“wait, wait- is that? JJ MAYBANK IS GOING TO JUMP THE INLET!”

the crowd of people goes wild as jj leapfrogs to the front of the pack, touching down just in front of the new leader, with rafe hot on his back tire as well.

“and our mystery rider is closing in fast, it looks like jj isn't going to maintain his lead. there could be some serious drama at the end of our race here.”

rafe growls as the bikes all come side by side, squeezing jj in the middle. rafe watches as the other riders leg comes out and kicks at the side of jjs bike, pushing into him, and rafe barely manages to brake and get out of the way, falling behind jj.

“fuck!” rafe shouts. there's no way he's losing to a random rider and maybank. he revs on the throttle, touching the front wheel against jjs back and shoving his bike to the side, not looking back as he careens into the air, managing to keep himself right way up and barely make it to the finish line ahead of topper.

“our mystery rider takes the win! i am dying to know who is under that helmet!” the commentators calls out as the checkered flag is waved.

“ladies and gentlemen, it looks like your enduro champion is…” the entire crowd watches with baited breath as the blacked out helmet comes off, and long flowing hair comes tumbling down.

there's an audible gasp, and rafe has to blink to make sure there isn't sand in his eyes and what he's seeing is real.

“is that… y/f/n y/l/n? i think it is! who even knew she raced? what an amazing, showstopping performance from the female rider!”

rafe tugs his helmet off, shoving down the kickstand on his bike. “y/n?” rafe shouts out.

he doesn't know you very well, not very well at all, but your reputation precedes you. graduated a few years before him, you've always been seen as one of the top kooks, your family being established in the area for generations.

“oh, hey.” you smile at him, fingers running through your hair as the crowd surges in now that the bikes have halted. “good race.” you look him up and down. “i mean, i guess not good enough though.”

“this is our first female winner in kildare enduro history! ladies and gentleman, give it up again for y/n.”

“let's go!” you scream out as someone lifts you into the air, raising your helmet far over your head.

rafe knows second means nothing as he grunts angrily. he kicks himself for messing up in the woods, if he would have come out before you there's no way he wouldn't be the one being celebrated at the moment.

--

“on me.” you state to rafe as you slide a beer over the counter to him, coming to take a seat next to him, sipping on your own.

“shouldn't you be celebrating or some shit?” rafe questions, his voice low and rough as he watches a drop of beer sip down your chin.

“i am celebrating.” you state. “what does it look like?”

“where's all your friends and shit?” rafe looks around, expecting to see the same gaggle of girls you used to hang around with in high school.

“what friends?” you scoff under your breath, before frowning and looking at rafe. “i don't see anyone with you either. not even topper. he's not your little servant anymore?”

“me and top are fine.” rafe says. in truth, he's pushed everyone away since wards death, and eventually topper stopped trying, stopped checking in.

“mhm.” you hum, finishing off your beer and flagging down the bartender for another.

“since when did you race anyways?” 

“always have.” you shrug, looking over at rafe, realizing for the first time now that you're up close to him how dazzling his eyes are. “just kept it to myself. not exactly a lady like hobby.”

“a hobby?” rafe scoffs. “you call the way you raced a hobby?”

“i was shit today.” you shake your head. “made mistakes.”

“it was only with your slight mistakes that i was even close.”

“watch yourself, cameron.” you take a sip of your beer. “it sounds like you're starting to be nice to me.”

“sounds like you need someone to be nice to you.” rafe is shocked by the fact that no one seems to care that the enduro race winner is in the bar, like the shock of finding out who won quickly wore off, leaving you alone once again.

“i like being alone.” you state, swallowing harshly to hide your true emotions. “all friends turn out to be fake in the end.”

“family too.” rafe frowns, before finishing the rest of his beer.

“want another?” you ask, tilting your head to the side, your hair flowing over your shoulder, just urging rafe to reach out and touch.

“no.” he shakes his head. “don't wanna be too drunk.”

“too drunk for what?” you hum.

“for when i try to take you home.”

--

“fuck.” you moan, head pressing back into the pillows as rafe continues sucking on your nipple, his hand between your thighs.

“god, right there!” you squeal out as he rubs against your clit, your wetness only growing by the second.

you reach down and push at the waistband of his underwear, trying to tempt him to take them off, but rafe just switches to the other side of your chest, sucking a deep purple hickey on the side of your breasts before taking your nipple back in his mouth.

rafes finger drops to prod at your entrance, feeling how warm you are as his digit slowly sinks in, your moans only growing as you pussy sucks in his finger.

“fuck,” you whine. “need that to be your cock, come on.”

rafe keeps his movement slow as he thrusts his finger in and out, feeling the gummy texture of your walls and the way your cunt grips him, knowing he's going to love having his cock inside you.

rafe adds in a second finger, feeling you stretch and adjust as he moves back to your other nipple, his tongue dragging across your chest, not wanting to lose the taste of your skin for even a second.

the race is in the back of his mind, the last thing he wants to think about. he'd lose a million times more if it gets you in his bed, moaning and pulsing around his fingers.

“rafe-” you tug at his short hair, his head lifting up to look at you, lips pink and glossy. “fuck me.”

rafe smiles, glad that you're just as needy as he is. he regrets not pursuing you earlier, if only he knew what he was missing just down the street.

rafe shoves his underwear down and flings them off the bed. your eyes widen as you take in his length, but you can't stay looking for long as rafes lips smash into yours.

your arms wrap around his neck, tugging him in flush to your body as his cock presses against your entrance, already hard just from kissing and fingering you.

rafes lips mold perfectly to you as he presses in, and this time he doesn't bother going slow, immediately setting a fast pace as his hips move back and forth.

your kiss turns into gasps and moaning into each other's mouth, your hands coming to rafes cheeks, keeping his face close, keeping his blissed out eyes locked with yours.

“your-” rafe grunts as he fucks you. “your pussy is perfect.”

you smile and surge up to press your lips against rafes. “a winners pussy.” you can't help but continue to rub the race in, at least a little bit.

“consider this my congratulations.” rafe smirks as one hand drops to rub at your pussy, thumb stroking your clit in even movements, contrasting the rapid, desperate thrusts.

your eyes slide closed as much as you wish you could keep them open, watching rafe above you, but the pleasure is all too much as he pounds into you.

you pull your knees up, spreading your legs even wider, giving even more space for rafe to fuck into you, his thrusts turning feral as his moans turn to grunts and growls.

“want…” you gasp out. “want your cum in me.”

“you're not gonna get it that easy.” rafe smirks, suddenly flipping so you're on top, his back bouncing against the mattress as you flop forward against him, hips high in the air.

you don't let up for even a second, immediately taking over the movements as you raise and lower your cunt, bouncing on his cock.

rafe doesn't stop either, an arm circling around your waist as he thrusts up off the bed to meet you.

“gonna make me put in work even though i won?” you hum out, breasts pushing against rafes bare torso, his hard muscles stimulating your already sensitive nipples.

“damn right.” rafe smirks. “can't let you get off too easily for that maybank move.”

you tsks. “never liked that fucking pogue anyways.”

“i think i might have to marry you.” rafe chuckles, heart fluttering when he sees you smile, swearing you're glowing as he pumps his hips up into you.

“don't… stop.” you move one hand to over rafes, pushing it tight against your pussy, keeping his thumb in place as it thrumbs against you.

“im close too.” rafe states, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead as he puts all his effort into thrusting up into you, into spearing his cock as deep into your pussy as he can.

you let out a moan, and with one more swipe of rafes thumb, you're gone, entire body shaking before going slack, leaving rafe to quickly flip you over, hands coming to your hips as he pushes inside of you, cumming in spurts, filling you up with his warmth.

rafe collapses next to you the moment he finishes, arms completely giving out from the exhaustion of your activities and the earlier race.

you both breathe deeply, trying to regain some sort of mental clarity as your high wears off.

“shit.” you whine out, breaking the silence. “we gotta do that more often.”

“and…” rafe turns over, propping his head up on his elbow. “maybe get dinner together too?”

“rafe cameron, are you asking me out on a date?” you laugh.

“i just came inside of you, i don't think it should be that surprising.” rafe rolls his eyes. “besides, seems like you could use some company.”

you turn to face rafe as well, his blue eyes looking into yours. “i don't usually date losers, but i guess second place isn't too bad.”

rafe shakes his head before pressing your lips back together.

[leahrintarou]

Suna with an s/o who's really scared of thunderstorms pls?? Your work is always so awesome btw-

✩₊˚.⋆ SAFE & SOUND - suna rintarou

CW: y/n is scared of thunderstorms ofc, suna being a sweetheart, fluff, she cries just a teeny bit, reader with she/her pronouns.

Word Count: 1k

Author's Note: hi guysss, i hope that you enjoy reading this! i found it sweet and cute to write so i hope you enjoy it anon. (i'm so happy that you like my works btw!) ty for reading ;D show your support by leaving a like or reblogging :P

ever since she was a child, a mere girl in grade school, the reverberations of thunder and the harsh flashes of lightning that bled through her window panes had filled her with dread, a fear that dug deep into her very being. the tremors of anticipation, the oppressive silence before the crackling sky split open, and the way the air itself seemed to hold its breath—all conspired against her peace, robbing her of sleep. those sleepless nights became a constant companion, gnawing at her young mind with a persistent unease that lingered long after the storm clouds had passed. tonight was no different.

y/n lay beside suna, her eyes wide open, pupils dilated against the darkness. exhaustion weighed heavy on her bones, yet her mind refused to surrender. though her body ached for rest, her thoughts churned restlessly, denying her the release of slumber. beside her, suna embodied tranquility, his form rising and falling with each untroubled breath. he was a man who could sleep through any chaos—be it the squabble of the twins or even the catastrophic shockwave of a sonic boom. he seemed impervious, shielded from the disquiet of the world by some blessed indifference.

his arms were folded beneath his pillow, his broad back exposed and facing her, a silent wall between his peaceful dreams and her waking nightmare. his head, cushioned against the soft fabric, was turned away, as if even in sleep, he sought to shield her from his contentment. the room lit up briefly as lightning cast spectral shadows against the walls, and y/n stiffened, every muscle bracing for the inevitable roar that would follow. the thunder did not disappoint, crashing through the silence like a judge’s gavel, making the house shudder beneath the sound. her hands trembled as she curled into herself, seeking comfort where there was none.

she stole a glance at suna, his features serene and undisturbed, and guilt twisted in her gut. he had been through so much this week—long hours, relentless days—and waking him for something as trivial as this felt selfish. she should have outgrown this irrational terror; it was a childish fear, something to be dismissed like nightmares in the light of day. yet, here she was, her heart racing with each peal of thunder as if it were some primordial beast come to claim her. each fresh rumble tore another sob from her throat, her arms tightening around herself in a futile attempt to hold it together. her breathing was ragged, panic prickling at her lungs, and tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, spilling over to stain the sheets below.

a sob broke free, soft but sharp, piercing the quiet. though suna was impervious to the clamor of the world, there was one sound he could never ignore. his eyelids fluttered open, his gaze bleary and unfocused, drawn to her shape beside him. “sweetheart?” his voice was thick with sleep, rough around the edges, like sandpaper against silk.

for a moment, confusion clouded his eyes, but comprehension dawned swiftly as the storm outside roared its fury, shadows of the tempest dancing across their room. “shhh, it’s alright. you’re safe, y/n,” he murmured, the haze of sleep dissipating as he reached for her, drawing her trembling form close. his voice, though still laced with fatigue, was warm and reassuring, an anchor in the midst of the storm.

“it’s so loud,” she whispered, her tears falling freely now, soaking into the pillow they shared. he felt a pang of guilt, a knife twisting in his chest, for her suffering. “why didn’t you wake me, sweetheart?” he asked gently, his thumb brushing away the wetness on her cheeks.

“you’re tired,” she mumbled, shaking her head, her voice laced with resignation.

he huffed, a sound that was half-amused, half-exasperated, and he found her chin, tilting her face up towards his. “and so are you. how long have you been up?” she shrugged, the movement small and helpless, and his hand slipped beneath her shirt, tracing soothing patterns along her lower back.

“a few hours,” she admitted, her voice barely more than a breath.

suna cursed himself silently, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. he should have known. he had been aware of the storm’s approach, but the knowledge had slipped away, lost in the depths of his exhaustion. another roll of thunder reverberated through the house, and y/n flinched, pressing closer to him as if seeking refuge. he pulled her nearer, her head resting against his bare chest, his heart beating steadily beneath her ear. “it’ll pass soon, okay?” he promised, his voice a low murmur against the crown of her head.

she wanted to believe him, to let his words soothe her frayed nerves, but it wasn’t about how long the storm would last. it was about the fact that it was happening at all, that the fear was still there, alive and pulsing, even after all these years. suna’s hand left the warmth of her skin, and she looked up, startled, as he placed both palms gently over her ears.

her world muffled, the roaring tempest outside reduced to a distant murmur, and she blinked up at him, eyes wide with surprise. the thunder rolled again, a muted tremor through the house, but the sound did not reach her. only the soft vibration of the walls registered, the storm’s voice silenced by his touch. “better?” he asked, his lips brushing against her temple.

she nodded, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. suna leaned down, his breath warm against her skin, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead and then to her lips, the gesture gentle and comforting. he guided her back down, her head resting once more against his chest, his hands still shielding her from the storm’s wrath.

she could hear his heartbeat, a steady, soothing rhythm beneath her ear, even as his hands softened the world around them. “thank you, rin,” she whispered, her voice heavy with fatigue.

he hummed, a deep, resonant sound that she felt more than heard, the vibration echoing through his chest and through her, anchoring her in the present moment, safe in the circle of his arms. for the first time that night, the fear began to ebb, her eyes growing heavy as the storm raged on outside, distant and far away, a mere echo of the terror it once was.

“get some sleep now, sweetheart. I’ve got you."

got a request? send it in and i'll write it :D

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[comfortless]

Hello! This is the Frankenstein anon back with more praise and another prompt that you might like. Again you are amazing and everyone you come out with stuff, I weep for joy! Please continue what you are doing because it is absolute art✨

Okay onto the prompt. So lately tiktok has been putting onto this telenova drama called Hilda Furcão which is pretty much this priest and prostitute fall in love but due to societal pressures, cannot be together. The YEARNING in this show is amazing and I can’t help but think of Priest Konig in this situation. Imagine he falls in love with reader who works at a brothel but because he’s a churchly man, he’s fighting demons in his head (and down yonder) cuz he YEARNS for her but the lord says no🥴

Please keep doing what you’re doing and I’m constantly cheering you on with your work! ❤️

In the Arms of Flowers

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. pining, lots of talk of religion/silly metaphors, fluff, ridiculous attempts at courtship from both, dark (if you squint), implied cyber stalking, violence/murder, minor character death, some angst, sexual violence (not done by König), König becomes horribly obsessed and reader is fine with it, virgin!König-> oral (both receiving) piv smut.

wc: 11k.

There’s a garden in the churchyard, one that’s always been, even before his vows were taken and the cassock was pulled around his shoulders.

It’s the very place that the arching den window in the clergy house faces out towards, and the very place that an angel descends from Heaven to stalk through night after night.

Even when the thunder clamors and rolls to light up the sky above, the pretty thing is there, kneeling amongst the blooming lilies. A listless sort of purity swallows over her, bathes her in the white of petals and the bright illumination of each bolt of lightning above, arcs a halo over her head like a proper mirage.

The whole town knows these doors remain open, but never does she even look toward the church or the home of holy men at all: only the flowers. The lilies and carnations seemed to be her favorite to haunt, weaving through the petals as they sway for her in breezes like whispers from the pouting lips of cherubim.

He’s prayed for this lost soul many times already; clutched the rosary between his fingers and whispered to the Lord to protect her, to heal whatever aches, to bring her wandering feet into the chapel one of these days. But as most lilies, this one’s beauty is gone away by mid-morning.

Tonight, he wills himself to bring her in for prayer and refuge from the coming rain. Its been a long time coming, and regrettably he’s hesitated at every other opportunity. Nothing’s changed, the scene was so commonplace even the others have commented on it prior.

Maybe he hallucinates her holiness; the halo has become made up of fallen petals now as they arch over the crown of her head where she’s found sprawled out amongst them. She raises herself to sit upright, dusts the dirt from her knees and offers a wary glance with each step he takes until his soles halt in soil that would soon be mire.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave,” the angel breathes out with her eyes darting from his collar down to rest at the expanse of short blades of grass between them. “I don’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

She doesn’t meet the concern in his eyes, and König is no stranger to sin. To the shame and grief that he’s absolved from far worse than her in the stuffy wooden confessional.

“You’re welcome to stay.” A silent prayer rests there in his breath — please stay, though even he wasn’t certain as to why there’s a demand stirring in the pit of his stomach for this woman clad in a dirtied white dress.

She smiles then, gazes right up at him in such a way that immediately sparks something misplaced, something tucked away beneath studying scripture and kneeling before the wooden altar. A sin of the flesh, a heated poker jabbing at both his heart and his loins.

“No, I’m okay,” she assures with a slight dip of her head, already taking steps back to dart away, back to whichever gilded little nest of baubles and starlight she took flight from. “I was just heading home.”

And that’s it. He doesn’t plead for her to come inside, the offer has been laid out already. It’s not his job to force a belief that one doesn’t want, only lend a kindness and a cushioned pew, advice for the lost and a choir for bleating lambs.

He bids her goodbye and walks back to the clergy house, ignoring the strange looks of his peers as they all prepare to bed down after a nightly prayer. It’s rare to smile here, when sacred words are passed from the wrinkled, cracked lips of his seniors. But König does smile, the grin is as bright as the seconds of white lighting up the sky in intervals as he silently thanks God for such a sweet vision amidst such darkness.

The fixation does not falter for the following three nights. She doesn’t return to the churchyard to whisper secrets to the blooms, but the angel weighs on his mind so heavily that König finds himself convinced that she must have been his calling, a soul that he would assuredly save.

His sermons now lack their passion. The parishioners come to him with weighty hearts and misery in their eyes, but bless him all the same, even when he’s distant. Away with the fairies, some would say. He can’t help but wonder when one such service rolls to a closing prayer if whoever conjured such words had also been in the presence of a seraph.

“Do you need prayer?,” one of his fellow priests asks as the flock trickles out, worry clear in the wrinkles laden beneath this eyes and the way his lips draw down before pressing thin. “You don’t seem to be sleeping well.”

And König regrets the words he speaks next, when he describes the woman from the flowers in detail greater than necessary: how her eyes seemed so soft, her smile fragile, and her body language more docile than that of even a lamb. He mentions the dirty dress, the way she seemed to be trying to escape something yet refused the shelter he offered.

The other priest nods and sighs, his eyes squeezing shut in thought, and though König has not feared a scolding since he abandoned home nearly two decades prior, the way the ordinarily calm priest seems so frustrated by this sends a swell of fluttering anxiety beneath his ribcage.

“The woman you describe is a temptress,” his elder explains coldly. His sharp, dark eyes rest on König’s face as though the disparity in their height does not exist at all. “Best to let her be, she does not want our help. Leave it alone.”

“Ja. Verstanden.”

The warning is enough to dull the buzzing in his chest, the mush that’s been made up of his head until he sees her again.

The bakery in town regularly makes donations of pastries and thick loaves of bread for church goingson. It isn’t regular that he’s been asked to pick them up; the eldest of the priests usually does so, some blood relation to the owners that König has never cared enough to ask about. The old man never did well in the summer months, though, far too frail now to bear the heat snaking over his pale skin and leaving burns.

With the mistake of rambling onward about this perturbing fascination still grating at his mind, he doesn’t hesitate to volunteer, to take the old truck and step away from the stained glass and crucifixes for a brief outing. A moment of respite.

There’s a complimentary mug of coffee presented across the expanse of the counter when the cashier greets him with a smile so broad it seems faked.

König’s fingers twitch when he grasps at the handle; the uncertainty was something he had sworn he would outgrow one day with God’s healing, but it never seemed to stray far from him. It rests over the back of his neck like a feeding vampire when he takes his first sip, one that burns his tongue and stings at his eyes when he notices the woman seated at a table in the corner.

It’s her: temptation and fate packaged up in a loose fitting sweater that covers the pulse in her neck and a short skirt.

She holds her phone, not the mug stationed before her, staring down at the thing with the most somber expression he’s ever seen on a lady before. She taps her thumbs at the screen, talking to someone, but there’s a loneliness in her expression apparent like the rust on the old truck parked outside.

Poor little thing.

She glances up when his staring is detected, confusion stripped bare upon her with a pinched brow and a slack jaw. Then, follows realization and she offers the same smile she did that night, some seventy or so hours prior.

“Morning, Father.”

There’s not a fractal within König that wants to make the sweet spirit uncomfortable, but each step he takes towards her table seems to make her shoulders tense. She knows that he knows, sees that sympathetic look in his eye and hates it.

Maybe even hates him for the divinity he wears in the sable cloth pulled over his shoulders.

That doesn’t stop his approach.

König sits across from her with shaking hands and a forced smile like the one the cashier wears, drops his mug onto the table and offers her his hand. Fingers bending to graze the palm as though beckoning a frightened animal when it’s he who feels most afraid.

The angel merely eyes him cautiously for a moment before she takes the cup into both of her hands and gives him a fragile huff, dismissing his attempt to pray for her soul. Again. Yet, the sting he feels is not from a lack of a starved savior complex being satisfied, only… that he has yet to touch her somehow. That sudden thought stifles him in full.

But angels are nothing if not merciful and loving; she picks up on his dejection and speaks again in his place.

“How are the carnations?”

“Hm?”

“The flowers in the garden… the red ones,” she elaborates with a soft laugh, hides it behind the rim of her cup when it’s raised for her to take a sip. Her mouth looks soft, compelling, and he’s staring again. “I like them the most.”

He knows he should stop this, that what’s become of an innocent meeting has left him feeling anything but. There’s a howling chasm in place of the heart of a worthy devotee. She’s nothing like the women who frequent the church — the only other women he sees. Brighter at best and alluring at the worst.

“I thought the lilies were your favorite…” It’s unsuited for a priest and a man so tall and broad to sound so breakable, but his voice only comes in an hurried breath, embarrassed and small.

She shakes her head, tousles her hair in the process. “I like all of them. The ones at your church grow prettiest.”

“I see…”

The woman gives him an expectant look, as if prompting him to speak more, before her phone chimes and the air seems to shift from tentative yet sweet to something vast and cold. She doesn’t seem eager to be interrupted in such a way, either; her expression falls from that subtle playfulness to something akin to a regretful acceptance.

She stands from her seat abruptly and takes a step towards the door. “I have something I need to take care of.”

God gives and takes away.

“I can bring you some,” he offers, winding in the too-small wooden chair to face her. Too late to reel in the flirtatious nature of such an offering, too late to bite his tongue and remember the vows he had taken. The burden upon his heart seems far more pressing than any words from an old book. “Carnations and lilies… some of the others, too.”

The woman almost seems shy when she glances over her shoulder and offers him the most imperceptible nod. “Yeah, sure… I’ll see you around.”

His angel leaves him to rot in thought at that lonely table, in this tiny bakery. He does not think to repent for the way his temperature and pulse spiked in her presence, for the way he takes her empty cup and stuffs it into one of the boxes of baked goods to collect later.

Riding back to the church is dreadful, because she’s already fastened to his heart like a ribbon on a pretty bouquet. He’ll ask the sisters from the cloister to clip flowers for him, tie them up in a lace that will leave her face warmed and lips pouting.

When the people in the church have their fill of sweets and bread, König tells a lie, maybe several.

He claims he doesn’t know why that innocuous porcelain thing is resting where food once had, doesn’t know why the baker would have stuffed that in there too. He takes it to his room and claims that he would return it come morning.

The bed has always felt far too small for him alone, but he pictures her there with him, sat upon his lap when he brings the cup up to his lips with his eyes closed.

It’s cold and hard, difficult to imagine it to be a kiss at all, but he pretends her lips are upon him, eager and willing. It takes only rolling his tongue back to flick over itself, envisioning it being her own, for him to feel his trousers grow too tight. He doesn’t touch himself. He can’t bear the thought of it, not with the cross staring down at him from the far wall.

And finally, regret comes.

Shame, too, because König is aware he’s become a bit of a creep; enchanting himself with second hand kisses whilst his angel takes another man to bed. A man undeserving, but… he could be. He was deserving enough to become a holy man, surely she could see he was worthy of her as well.

The bed is too small even when he curls into himself and pulls the blanket up passed his eyes. Sleep is too skittish to come for him, even when he prays in a whisper to be absolved of his lust.

The dreams are only filled with images of an angel trapped in a rose bush, the thorns sinking into her wings until blood is drawn, but still she smiles. She reaches toward him with shaky limbs, whispers something so dreadfully mournful he knows to his very soul that she is his purpose alone.

It’s what wakes him in a fit, compels him to venture out through the yard with a heart set on seeking guidance. There are moonbeams above and animal calls from the surrounding trees. All of God’s creations are in perfect, dreamy harmony.

Why couldn’t he be the same? Always the outsider in one way or another; always the sore thumb rather than the loving green. Desolation is an art, a skill he’s learned to hide back: clenched teeth to still a wrathful tongue and a layer of muscle to guard that wounded thing in his chest.

There is no better peace than the quiet of the church in the late hour. Moonlight through stained glass and empty, antique seats that would make the worldly whip out their phones to snap pictures in a heartbeat. The doors are always open, for the sinners and the devoted alike, though the confessional is rarely touched when there would be no saint awake set on absolving.

Perhaps that’s why he takes to the booth he needs to make himself smaller to fit into: one shoulder and one foot first, then the next set. He’s never cared for it, left it to the better and smaller. The sound just past the thin partition rattles him. It isn’t the creaking of wood below his feet, but something softer. A weak sniffle. A cry from the other side.

“I’ll leave in a moment,” comes a voice, broken from tears and so horribly sad that the usual script entirely fails him. He recognizes the voice, though a bit warbled now. The voice that would make the choir pause, an angel’s sweet tone.

“Wait… no. You can stay. I’m hiding, too.” A breathy laugh comes forced and misplaced. Priest or not, König has never been the best at consoling anyone, let alone one so far above him.

“I’m not hiding,” she tries to sound braver now. He can imagine her chin tilted forward and that sweet smile trying it’s damndest to paint its way across her face. “But… why are you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who are you?” The crying seems to have ceased entirely for now. Clearly whatever seemed to ail her could be remedied by her own curiosity. A cute, unorthodox little thing.

“König.” It served well enough as a confirmation name when he could not settle on one of the saints. King of them all, one of the other saved men had said in jest. Ironic, now.

“I like your voice, König,” she murmurs, deliberately testing the pronunciation on her tongue in such an alluring way that a small shiver runs its way down his spine.

“Danke… and you?”

God forgive him, he doesn’t even try. Doesn’t try to bring shame or guilt, read her scripture or pray for her soul. He only listens in silence when she tells him her name, beautiful and charming as he had expected it to be. The woman then tells him of her work, of the motel she ventures to at night… the troubles with money and even vaguely, some of the men she suffers through. This had been a bad night. Strange how a singular hour could have broken someone down to such a desperation to open up, to grasp for what small comfort they could receive.

But she came for him.

She must have hoped to see him.

He thanks his god for that.

— — —

“I bought a phone.”

“I see that.” Her fingers graze over the stems of the flowers, cleanly cut by hands more patient and stable than König’s own.

The angel isn’t looking up at him, not this time. There isn’t even a smile on her face when she cradles the bouquet close to her chest, petting over it where she sits upon the motel bed wearing nothing but some strappy, barely-there lingerie. Pure white with pink lace over the cups of her bra where her breasts swell with each shaky intake of breath.

In this week apart, he’s kept the device hidden in a loose pocket and spent many a night scouring the seediest websites looking for a hint of a body that may belong to her in this very area. Only one seemed to match. The messages exchanged were about hours and pricing, establishing a location, and terms he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t harp on the small details, but finding her messages to be so rigid and dry did surprise him. There were no cute hearts or winking emojis, it all felt horribly transactional.

Priests don’t make a lot of money, it all goes back to the church, but he’s thieved enough from the offering bowls to have a night with her alone. As disheartening as the lack of flirtations seemed, he hoped not to squander whatever opportunity this outing proved to be.

The balaclava covering his face wasn’t purchased with the intention of making her nervous, only… shielding himself from curious stares. The whole town knows his face, his name, the words he speaks so resolutely to his flock. Just as well as they know of who she is, what she does.

Even this knitted shield couldn’t hide himself from her, though. The very moment he entered this drab, modestly decorated room with flowers in hand she had only looked further lost.

“You look very pretty,” he tries as he removes the mask and drops it to the floor, kneels just a hair from where her feet dangle from the bed. “I’m glad that I found you.”

“Thank you.”

The flowers are placed on the side table, petals falling down to the thin carpet below. A cascade of red like blood and white like doves feathers. Purity and a wound in one.

The poor thing looks scorned when she does give him a glance then, but she forces herself into a position that stokes a hellish, unnatural flame within him. Her thighs part as her hands rest on the cups of her bra, pushing the thin fabric down to reveal areola, her soft nipples, sights that he had never seen before.

“You shouldn’t even be here, König,” the lady warns when his gaze sweeps over the innocent flesh laid bare before him. The angel isn’t even wet. Her panties are pristine over her womanhood, and it dawns on him that… she wouldn’t risk what he was even for the generous donation he had given.

“I don’t want to ruin you.”

But she should. Crumble him into salt, cast him away with the wind. Should.

She sees something holy in him too… albeit, not in the way that he would like for her to.

He swallows hard as he rises to his feet and sits next to her. The hands that were so accustomed to being joined in prayer find her breasts now with tentative touches, a curious squeeze, until he wills himself to readjust the fabric and conceal her properly.

“Ja, but… I just wanted to visit you.”

“You don’t need to pay me just to see me.”

The tension in the room finally begins to dissolve. Not by much, but when she sighs something that sounds like amusement, the restless throbbing of his heart does begin to settle.

As much as he would like to take her like some beast in rut, lay some claim to her in bursts of white seed, he doesn’t even know where to begin. Each curve of her body looks as though it would feel like a miracle beneath his palm, under his tongue.

It’s just that nothing is going to happen, not here, not now that he’s brought a prostitute flowers and revealed who he was to her. She sees something pitiful, where he only sees someone to love.

He can’t tell her that he dreams of her, that he views her in the same way he views his god. That would only scare her away, lead her to believe he’s a lunatic rather than a man only just now having his first taste of love.

“Then could I see you every night? So that you don’t have to…” His head dips, because no matter how he tries he knows any word he says is foolish.

This isn’t something she’s doing because it is fun for her; it’s a job just like his own. Flesh or words spoken… did it even matter? And yet, König could feel a malicious, gnawing envy at the thought of a bolder man taking his place tomorrow evening. That man wouldn’t hesitate to peel away her pretty lingerie and fuck her, shove his tongue into her mouth while his cock sat between her legs as if it belonged there.

“König,” she sighs next to him, pityingly.

His jaw tenses as his fingers curl into his palms. The hopelessness of it all crashes down around him as though sung out from the loudest of the choir. He hardly notices when she presses her head against his shoulder, only realizes how close she’s come to him when her hand curls over one of his own.

“You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met.” It’s not a compliment but it feels like one when she laughs like that, airy and soft. “The sweetest one, too.”

He smells her perfume from this close, something scented like fruit or maybe maple, sap-sticky and saccharine. All of her flesh feels warm against the plain t-shirt he wears, a warmth he would give anything to dive into, but not without her explicit command. A powerful seraph in the form of one painfully cute, gentle lady. If anyone could see what he saw now, they too would forsake those holy books and eat from her open palm instead.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, a peculiar bitterness hanging on his tongue.

“How about a walk?”

He pulls the balaclava over his face again when they make their way out into the quiet, darkened street. Hand in hand. It’s not from shame, but a necessity, perhaps, because his pale face has only flowered into a lasting pink since laying eyes upon her on that mattress, sprawled out and waiting. The blush only deepens with every squeeze she blesses him with, every hushed word spoken as she tells him about her favorite places.

She’s dressed in the same white dress they had initially met in, now clean of the dirt from flower beds. Somehow even more radiant at this close, too.

The churchyard and the clergy house are nothing in comparison to the way the rest of the town feels when the moon rises. It’s a world all their own, a place where no one looks at her as if she were a simple harlot, but a queen amongst chipping wood and tarmac. There’s even a skip in her step as she walks ahead of him, her hips swaying beneath her skirt. All because there’s no one here but she and her most loyal and only acolyte.

He wills himself out of her grasp when they cross the threshold into the cemetery. The darkness there is enough to pull him back to earth; thoughts of how easily swayed he’s been linger in the back of his mind. The want doesn’t even begin to reel back its claws, but the guilt does sink its pearly fangs in alongside it.

“I get it. You don’t want to be seen with me,” she says a small step away, drawing her hand up to her chest. It’s the saddest she’s ever looked, and he doesn’t have the words to further explain that he has no god damn idea what he’s doing: here, with her, in the midst of something that feels so normal even though it should not.

“Nein! That’s not—“

“You don’t want to touch me. You barely talk…”

Because the words don’t come easy. Because he’s never felt such an overbearing devotion to anyone, anything apart from what he prays to. How could she… this woman that shared in such loneliness with him not see him for what he was, not see him in the way that he sees her?

“You’re misunderstanding.”

“You just want to… to convert me, is that right?,” she hisses, sounding more shaken up than he had ever hoped to hear.

All hesitation had to be swallowed back.

There was no other option. He could feel her slipping away, a pain he wasn’t prepared to face.

God gives and takes away, but König refuses to let go.

His eyes narrow, his breath halts entirely, and he cups her face in his hands as gently as he can. The distance between them feels like miles as he lowers his head to kiss her through the knit barrier. It’s flighty and petrifying on his side… he feels cold sweat wet his brow when the warmth of her pulls through.

She could hit him, spit her curses like a proper witch, and he would only fall to her feet and kiss her heels. But… she does none of those things. Whatever pain was brewing here is ripped away with the night breeze.

Her hands peel away the balaclava, discard it somewhere into the tall grass where it wouldn’t be found, and she grants him his first, proper kiss.

With only the cracked headstones and cemetery angels watching, what once was tentative becomes a full indulgence. König samples from her mouth as though it weeps honey when the gentle peck graduates to a parting of lips. His hands run down the length of her sides as she grasps at his shirt, they pull her in close until her chest meets his own and two pairs of eyelids flutter.

She feels more heavenly than his imagination could have prepared him for, her tongue hotter and her sounds… the soft sighs and shaky murmurs of approval that fill him with both a maddening love and an urge to burn everything away if only it would keep her safe and near.

The world ceases to be entirely, cast down with Lucifer to the sulfur and smoke. Her lips remain parted when they break apart, a haze over her eyes reflecting the veil clouding his own irises.

Was a kiss really forsaking his vows? Was that really such a painful treachery? No… no it shouldn’t be. The issue remains that he can not see her as just some woman. Something as small as this could consume him entirely.

The night is spent with an abundance of those shared kisses when they return to the motel. Tentative touches, too. He’s never held a woman, not in the way he gets to hold her then. She presses tightly to him, her back to his chest with her hand keeping his own in place over her middle. She’s so soft, swans down plush and smooth as silk ribbon.

There is mint lingering on her breath each time she speaks. No talk of her work, only… she confesses how she had feared him so initially, how she worried that a holy man stepping into her life would only be further condemnation: an angel terrified by a devil that does not exist at all.

He knows he’s lost a part of himself here when he tells her he wishes to meet with her again, that if the church is no longer the place she fancies to walk, he’ll meet her amongst the dead again and again when the old clergymen sleep. Those promises he had reserved solely for God turn on themselves now, when he reveres the idol he shares this bed with.

Though her hips press back against his groin when his fingers crawl up to her sternum, and the desire strikes up within him, his cock remains untouched here. He doesn’t whisper a prayer for forgiveness into her hair when he grows hard, just tucks her in closer and smiles where his head rests atop her own.

It’s the closest to bliss he’s ever felt.

— — —

“You weren’t here for morning prayer.” The voice isn’t accusatory, just observant. The nightly prayers were missed too, though a reprieve is granted by way of those remaining unmentioned.

But the guilt does eat at König when he sees the concern in this man’s eyes, splinters at his very soul until he asks in a fragile voice if he can speak to the old priest in the confessional.

Everything here feels much too small and the booth is more or less the same. The wood closes in around him, bathes him in a blackness that even the glow of candlelight within these walls can not reach. The partition separating them does not help bolster courage, it only leaves him feeling more alone.

The clergyman listens in silence as König confesses that he has become weak. He does not mention the lady of the night, but there’s no need to at all: finding himself so captivated with a woman that he considered breaking every promise to the higher power was bad enough. He does not mention how he’s considered pleasuring himself, touching her too… only that they shared a night together embraced, counts the kisses that were exchanged with each digit of his hands.

There’s a pitying sigh from the other side before the man begins a lengthy prayer that König does join him in. With the “Amen” that follows, he’s told only to rid himself of those thoughts, to bury them with fasting and prayer. No more visits with this temptress, remain on the right path. The very, very simple things he must do to receive God’s forgiveness and favor once more.

“You are not a disappointment,” his elder reminds him with a small pat to his cheek and a smile. It’s more fatherly than the sparse affection he received from his own flesh and blood before coming here.

“Danke… thank you,” he breathes when his eyes bear the burden of tears.

God loves him and so do the sainted men.

But to never see her again would be worse than flagellation.

He chokes down the pain with more water when his stomach roars with hunger, hides the broken heart with smiles and prayer. Holy clothes feel heavier now. The money he stole to spend that night with her is returned to the collection pool in a week's time. The smartphone he had purchased is tossed out with the rest of the garbage in the bins. Even the cup is returned to the bakery after being rinsed in the sink.

Still not a part of him feels absolved from this torturous puppet show.

He thinks of her more than he ponders over his fear of Hell itself. God feels like an old memory as the days pass. He counts them in his daybook, an ‘X’ next to the dates he had gone without seeing her. Ten becomes twenty, and it becomes no less agonizing.

The prayers come easier, at least. He joins with his fellow men, kneels with his hands clasped before him, speaks such heartfelt words now that on more than one occasion he’s shared a healing tear or two with the other clergymen.

God is an old friend, yes, but that title is just a placeholder for the one his prayers are truly for. The little angel of the garden, the woman who has given him nothing at all but stole his heart all the same. Was she not the same as God from that aspect?

After a month, he’s finally given the privilege to stand before the altar and preach to the parishioners again. His sermon is directed by the other clergymen, a subtle admission of his own misdeeds as he guides the flock away from the sins of lust, of worldly pleasures that would steer them away from the right path.

Amidst the men and women crowding the pews sits a new face. She wears a hat, looking uncertain and skittish as a bunny amidst a pack of starved hounds beneath its curved brim. Her coat is tugged tightly around her where her hands grip to keep it closed and snug. No one is out to get her, not here, but there’s a purplish bruise on her neck. A sad stare trails up to meet his gaze when he stammers through the words of scripture.

Then, she smiles and his heart only feels full.

The sermon ends clumsily enough, but she waits for him in the center pew. He ensures the others have cleared out before he takes rigid steps toward her, where he sits a foot or so away on the bench; the feigned friendliness is only a front for the rapid beating of his heart and the way the blush upon his face paints up to his ears.

“I waited to walk with you… like you promised we would,” she says in place of a greeting. There’s no chiding in her tone, just curiosity. Gentle, like she’s speaking to a wounded bird, and perhaps that’s what he’s become: some big, ugly vulture. Holy in its love of everything from the sky to the rot down below.

“I’m sorry. I..,” he laments, grasping for an explanation that does not come.

“No, I understand. It’s alright, König.”

He knows he doesn’t deserve the gift of her redemption with how easily he turned away from her, from the blooming of… something. It was best not to use that word anymore.

“I just didn’t want to wait any longer. I missed you,” she huffs when the silence extends between them, breaks up the tension in the air but not what creeps over her own shoulders.

“Your bruise..” He wants to tell her of his sleepless nights, of how he pictures her in place of any old deity upon a throne in heaven, but settles for where his eyes linger on her neck.

No explanation is provided, but she lets him bring his fingers to it, ghost over where the purple melds to yellow in the shape of thick fingerprints. Add wrath to the ever growing list of his sins, because it’s all he feels amidst the envy and love.

His fingers dig into the plain back trousers when they rest upon his lap again, something foreign buzzes beneath his skin. The thought that any man would be brazen enough to lay hands upon his very own angel.. It’s unbelievable, unforgivable. His thoughts spiral so quickly it’s frightening. Timid things can become vicious, too, when backed into corners.

She manages to keep this growing storm in check when she stands and smooths her skirt, and offers to tidy up the church in an act of ‘repentance’.

The chores are simple and the sisters that linger far past service seem grateful to have her here as she takes up the broom and sweeps away at the dusty floor. They chatter away with her, take her hat and rest their hands over her shoulders when the cleaning winds to an end. His angel closes her eyes in prayer, doesn’t so much as open them to send him a knowing glance when they pray for her to find a good husband, someone who deserves such a lovely, godly woman.

She shares a meal with them while König keeps to himself with scripture in hand, mindlessly roving over the words even when his thoughts drift to the night of their first kiss.

He reasons that it’s only natural when she gives him such a display of acceptance too. It only solidifies what he knows already: this woman is no succubus— she has not crawled from the depths of Hell to drag him back with her, she’s only heavensent. An angel with a broken wing or a gaping wound somewhere… something to care for.

She’s encouraged to return by several fond voices. A few of the women even offer to walk her home, the daylight is dying and it’s dangerous for a lone lady out at night. The angel smiles at him then, sharing in the knowledge that she prefers the dark. Not the wicked things, but the peace and the beauty of the moon.

And she returns when he abstains from her.

She confides in him after each sermon that she does long to see him more often, but she likes the way he speaks of Mary Magdalene and the other women in scripture, pokes fun at the lilt to his voice when he notices her amidst the crowd of others. She says she likes him a lot before they part ways in the evenings, but she doesn’t tempt him with pouts or trailing fingers.

He thanks her for respecting his faith each time - despite being the one who crossed several boundaries initially. Though he keeps his hands to himself now, the looks he gives to her are pleading and soft. If she would pull him into a kiss now, he would let her have all of him. They could run away together, from the church, from her clients…

It’s on one of those cloudy Sundays that he does ask her if she’s stopped. He braves the look she gives him when his question comes as a hushed stutter. The comfort between them no longer feels tentative. It’s just there. Ever-present as the sky above.

“Well, you haven’t,” she whispers in response, propping her elbow up on the back of the pew. It’s as if she believes it could be so simple, but it’s not. Not for either of them.

The spiels of Heaven and Hell won’t reach her, so he doesn’t bother with those. She offers him an invitation with her words and the way she remains so open that it’s difficult not to take.

It’s been months since he touched her last and the love has only seemed to have grown. Strange. Perhaps he is as odd as she’s imagined him to be. There have been weddings in this very church, talks of long years of courtship, and even then what those men must have felt for their brides had to have paled in comparison to this. It had to.

“Tell me how to,” he breathes without any underlying thought. Saints don’t question their gods, they only serve them.

“You’re actually considering it…?”

“I might.”

The silence crowds around the bench while her fingers brush over the pages of a hymnal in repetition and his only inch closer to her clothed knee.

“You could meet me at the cemetery tonight… We could talk more there.”

“At night is probably not the best time.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Friends don’t kiss. Friends don’t feel the way he feels now, or how he’s felt for the past few months. Platonic arrangements don’t require repentance. But, he bites his tongue and tilts his head back, lets it roll off the shoulder when his hand draws back to his lap. Another time.

Not where the Heavenly Father could see, if he were even watching any longer.

“… Tomorrow morning would be better.”

“Then I’ll come get you. Don’t you dare try and get out of it,” she chirps with the wildest glint of mirth alight in her eyes.

Stay.

If the church caught fire now and the rafters came to sink into the earth not a part of him would or could even care as long as she were just here. But he watches her go without a word of opposition, watches her nod toward the sisters standing out in the yard and clasp her hands in front of her, smiling to herself as though the world were made for just the two of them.

It stings during nightly prayer, and it burns when he lies in bed to wait for the morning. There are cicadas singing and footsteps on old wooden boards to remind him that he isn’t entirely alone, the scent of tobacco drifting from his window when another plaster saint hides beyond the veil of night to smoke. He doesn’t sleep, his eyes remain fixed upon the ceiling until the darkness of the room drifts to a dull gray with the sun’s slow rise.

And König does not wait for her to fetch him. Morning prayer dissolves into a mournful cry because there is no part of him that can fathom or interpret any of this. A trial should not feel like a blessing when he’s faced with it. God must be playing the stupidest game imaginable to test him with someone so lovable, so charming. Where the church leaves him feeling filthy with remorse, she purifies him with only a curl of her lips and starlight dancing in her eyes.

None of it is fair.

The guilt must be something obligatory, summoned up like puffs of dust from the floorboards. Worshiping idols is a sin, but it’s not the angel that feels like one, it’s the attention he pays to the cloud in his head that does. That’s the one that should go.

He grits through prayer with the other men, doesn’t chime in with unnecessary words of devotion this time. The coffee burns his tongue when he downs the mug and forgoes breakfast. There are dark rings beneath his eyes when he ventured to the washroom to brush his teeth, and there are whispers in the halls that the young priest must be either coming under a possession or God is preparing him for something. Something big and exciting. He ignores those and the stern glances from the little nuns in their robes, huffs something of a joke about a momentary sabbatical when he lumbers out of the walls of the church.

There are no new bruises this time, but König has the memory of the last ones stuck in his skull. A clear image of four small marks on the side of her neck, another on its opposite. Larger, more pronounced. Five marks from a hand that never belonged there. Kerosene and a match are what the thoughts running rampant in his head would look like to an outsider.

She tells him on the thin picnic blanket that she’s got a new client, that he gives her enough to where she doesn’t have to consider any others now. The man has a much stranger set of interests, ones she hadn’t delved into before him, but she’s merciful enough to withhold the details that would lead König to make the crucifixion seem a gentle affair.

She tells him because she wants him to be proud that it’s only one now. That she’s making some sort of progress for him. None of it is fair, and he knows without asking that she feels more akin to the way that he does than any of the holy men.

And still he can’t help but ask, “Do you love him?”

“Of course not,” comes her immediate response, and there’s a near imperceptible glare there, judging by the fire in her eyes. It’s cute… and he feels the world's ugliest fool for daring to ask for reassurance as though this relationship was any sort of normal. If it were even a relationship at all.

Their hands touch, reaching for the same flaky pastry in the basket she brought along and Heaven’s bells ring out in his ears when her gaze sweeps over him. Everything is sugared dough and right again. She offers him her lap in place of a pillow for his head when the clouds grow thick and gray above, feeds him from her own hand and runs her fingers across his face with the other.

“How did you get the sky in your eyes?,” she asks him, makes him blush so easily his heart stutters within his chest. He feels like a boy in her presence, and in a way, to her, maybe he even is just some inexperienced whelp nipping at her heels.

The angel does not judge, she softly rakes her nails behind his ear and neck until he shivers in her hold. His hair is next, a victim to her comfort as she tousles it between her fingers, strokes him like the smallest of kittens when he feels anything but.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he mutters, raising a hand to brush at her cheek. Warm as he expected, yet softer. There’s nothing wicked here, only a woman. A woman who loves him as he loves her.

“Your eyes are pretty… sad. I love them,” comes the sweet reply that reduces him to nothing but scattered feathers and a howling ache.

Did he even exist before now? Before her? This woman has filled him with such purpose, breathed new life into a stagnant soul. The church was a safe place for a man scorned by the rest of the world, but that blanket felt unnecessary now. He wanted to feel her hands move over him like this, smell the petals in her perfume, hear her voice speak to him, all of it. Forever.

“I think that I lose myself when I’m with you.”

“Does that hurt you?”

“Nein… I’m happier like this.” It’s the closest to a confession he can whisper.

And he returns to her, morning after morning König rushes through paying his dues to God and his men to return to her like this.

When the graveyard is silent and the dew still sticks to the blades of grass, her voice sounds sweeter somehow beneath the glow of the rising sun. The birds sing around them and often she pushes wildflowers into his hair, clasps her hands around his neck and teaches him to kiss.

Her tongue moves with grace, his is only a thing of greed. Each chaste peck is met with a hunger from somewhere so foggy and forgotten it never had a home at all, not before now. The angel needn’t show him where to rest his hands, they pry at every part of her: gentle brushes against her cheek and neck, kneading at her shoulders, further, further until he does finally starve off any lingering thought of what is good or evil to explore the curve of her lower back.

Most of the time words come in afterthought, once lips are wet and plush from this gentle devouring, after she steels herself from running her hands any further down than his stomach. He tells her in truth that he prays to her, not for. Not anymore.

The shadows cast from the aspens keep them tucked far away from sight, from God and his people alike. A temple for two without four walls to close them in. The only place on this earth that he’s ever found himself in perfect solace.

“I want to try something,” she breathes just when he’s prepared himself to leave. The tree at his back, knees parted, where she remains sat across from him. There’s nervousness there, not the fretful way she looks after a long night, nor the way she looked to him upon their first meetings. “Do you trust me?”

“Ja… more than anyone,” he reassures in a soft tone of voice, tipping her chin up with the tips of two fingers to further accentuate it. Her beauty and her uncertainty always strike a chord within him, a fire that never dwindles. When her eyes search his own, his breath catches.

He doesn’t say a word when she peels away the robes from the front of his trousers. Her hands linger on at the waistband for a moment, takes enough time to offer the gentlest peck to the side of his neck before continuing. It’s another first, being exposed to a woman like this when she lowers the band and has him shimmy backward to free his cock from his pants. Soft with shame or embarrassment, a concoction of other things he could not name, but the moment she looks up at him with pure delight he feels himself grow stiff.

“Wow… You’ve got a perfect cock,” she assesses with a laugh, finger running up the length of it as it twitches to life under her touch.

Scheisse.

He strokes her cheek with reverence as she bends down before him, watching him carefully through her eyelashes. Her warm breath drifts over his manhood and he’s already horribly aware that this would not last long. Another lesson, like the kisses, maybe. She could mold him any way that she likes and he would be pleased to play the role of her Adam.

The tongue isn’t what he anticipated. She flattens it against the tip, breathes a laugh when a keening whine is pulled from his throat. To see such an ugly, vulgar thing pressed to the beautiful mouth he’s kissed a dozen times now. It feels wrong. There’s no hesitation when her lips wrap around him. And then all of it— everything is just right. Every moment spent in this hazy, loving glow with her is right. If Hell were to come from this, then let it.

He can’t tear his eyes away from her, can’t bring himself to speak when he feels the way his cock hits the back of her throat, feels her swallow around him and make such a pleased noise as she wraps her fingers around the expanse she can not take.

Its pitiful, the way he must look: mouth agape, eyes lidded and heavy… He brings a hand to her hair, and runs his fingers through it as if she isn’t letting him fuck her mouth, but rather in the midst of something far holier, softer. Sacrilegious or divine. If God we’re watching, let him.

She pulls back a little, an obscene, wet sound in answer when her mouth is drawn back enough to merely press a kiss the tip, puffy lips glossy with drool. “Is this okay…? Not too much?”

“You are so pretty… it feels… just keep going.” His voice no longer possesses any feigned confidence, it begs like a wounded thing, chanting, “Bitte. Please…”

His hips tilt up when she parts her lips again, all trepidation be damned. This is something, something he’s aches for and never had the chance to feel. All of the ache, the longing to be diminished, to unite with the angel who fled Heaven for him. The cock pushes at her open mouth, smears thick beads of precum over her cheek, before she takes him in again with a delighted, muffled sound. Her soft mouth, the tongue that thoroughly laps at his shaft and follows her movements to wrap and suck at the head. Otherworldly, and… unfathomably bittersweet.

Her lips suction around him, the movements of her wrist only increasing, and with the second roll of his hips he feels his stomach begin to tense as pure heat rolls its way through him. A gentle coursing becomes a blinding inferno in mere seconds, and regrettably, instinctively, that hand so gently combing through her hair comes to snare it instead and force her down further.

His soft grunts and low pleading morph to something choked and almost agonized. It’s the purest rapture, a pleasure so absolute his eyes prick as he bows lower to cover over her as she swallows his devotion by mouth. The angel pants breathlessly when she pulls away with saliva and semen still stringing them together, cleansed by his thumb tracing over her lips, replaced so swiftly by his own mouth. The kiss is so chaste it feels misplaced here, but she nuzzles against him in this comedown from ecstasy, doesn’t even chastise how he lasted a mere two minutes.

And he vows, vows in the sweetness of her comfort and love that no one else will ever have this again.

— — —

Abstaining from meals during a fast is a struggle in and of itself; abstaining from her is some long-forgotten circle of Hell.

It’s not avoidance, but a necessity.

To think that his first sexual encounter would provoke days of concern, a wistful daydream about a future he never would have thought to have had otherwise. There was a desperate, starving desire to repent when he first arrived home after that, but nothing that a bottle of communion wine and a cold shower could not wash away. Repentance has lost its merit to him.

And after seven days, he’s perfectly aware of what he must do. To absolve them both from things where atonement seems far from a necessity at all. He folds his holy robes and leaves them on the bed in the room too small, set neatly next to his Bible. The rosary was the one thing that König could not bear to part with. The beads, red and shimmery, were chosen and strung together with him in mind. It’s slipped into the pocket of his jeans after the plain, black t-shirt is pulled over his head.

There’s a hammer in his gloved hand, and he doesn’t recall where he found it. Lying with its head rusted in the churchyard, perhaps half buried beneath the soil. Some of the other clergymen are talented at fixing things, but König’s never been very good with that. His first rosary was broken with a careless slip of his fingers, and he’s shattered more porcelain than he could count on accident.

Even communion wine can be a bit too strong, sometimes. Or maybe that’s only when the bottle’s been entirely downed. He’ll blame one of his betters when the stock is counted and one turns up missing, if they bother to come seek him out again at all.

The motel is dead at this hour, so late into the night. The few normal visitors have already been accounted for with watchful eyes, and the angel waits in one of the rooms on the second floor. He imagines the laces on her lingerie, the healing bruises on her throat, and that sweet expression upon her face. Or maybe that one was reserved solely for him. He prayed… no, he hoped so.

After tonight, there would be no more mercies for him. Or perhaps there would be an abundance, blessings from the vultures and the wolves and the maggots he would feed. New gods that were still far lesser than the angel who suffers men in sheets, but only looks to him with love.

And he doesn’t have to wait long, because the demon finds his way here with haste. Does he come here every night looking as proud as he does now? His attire even resonates with death, black with those white details, a costume that seems so fitting for one about to meet the very face he wears.

Killing someone isn’t so easy. Cain murdered his brother with a rock, described in such loose detail that one would think a playful throw led to Abel’s end. But it’s not so, not when the victim is hellbent on living.

The demon is smaller, but strong. He’s been in situations like this before, doesn’t have to spit the words to tell König so. They’re felt with each blow, with the sharp edge of the knife this bastard manages to dig into his side. Just barely, before it’s jerked out of his hand and thrown several paces away. The skittering across the tarmac is enough to chant doom.

There’s blood. More with the first strike of the hammer. It seemed so much easier in thought rather than practice. In his imaginings, the head would split with the first fall like an overripe apple, crumple in and the breath would leave the demon in an instant. Instead, it’s dozens. Blow after blow while the smaller man struggles below him.

A strange catharsis comes over him when his soul grows murky, when his hands are slick and the struggle comes to an abrupt end. The sobering only comes when he’s spent an hour driving down the most forested roads to find a place to dump the body. There’s no tact to it, laying a man to rest in shrubbery and dirt. With a head so collapsed it’s hard to think of this as a man at all. A corpse, something no longer simply human.

König does not pray for him when he rests the hammer in the deceased’s hands. Does not offer it more than a passing thought when he peels away back toward home. The deed is done and he’s free of those horrid burdens tainting his heart, keeping him held back on a short leash to divinity.

Like fate, she’s found out in the garden again after the bloodied shirt and stained gloves are discarded. The wound is patched with what he could find available, a hastily tied strip of gauze covers his side. A week or so at best until the gash would heal into an ugly, jagged scar. It seemed even a bastard devil’s blade couldn't be sharp enough to fell a Goliath when he’s caught by surprise and horny.

He feigns merely emptying the garbage into an outside bin, plays off the sting of the gash with a humble, lumbering gait. She beams up at him through lines of tears running down the sides of her face like small, silver streams beneath the darkened sky above.

He’s not a saint anymore, no… a guardian angel. The archangel Michael with his sword set ablaze and divinity scrawled into every scale of his chest plate. Something holy and glowing, unsullied and beautiful.

Like her.

“You’re crying…”

“Sorry… bad night. Client just ghosted me.”

No. This was good, couldn’t she see that? All the sleepless nights, the prayer and the constant, overwhelming longing. Everything he had suffered for her, and still she only comes to him with the thought of that horrible thing in mind.

“He’s dead.” Maybe it was just the fear of a loss of money. He had enough saved up someplace, and the collection pool would be beneficial enough to pivot them towards a new life. No church. No lonely motel. He had to test it, give her a trial and hope that she did not simply break.

The look that crosses her face is one of confusion… Then comes a strange twist of relief. Her mouth falls slightly agape and her arms squeeze slightly around his middle.

“We just spoke a few hours ago. How…?” Finally, suspicion.

Maybe he’s too drunk on playing God now to care, to realize this isn’t how a good man would have handled things. The only thing that holds any weight, that resonated with him any at all is the thought that he loves her, that he will protect her until his dying breath, pray at her feet and anything else she might ask.

That’s what pulls him to press her down against the bed of the truck, to kiss her with every lesson she’s blessed him with in mind. Tongue and teeth, fire and spit, she accepts all of it. She doesn’t beg him for an answer: she’s seen the worst of men, taken cocks far less deserving. Her hands find his hair as they drift away here, gives the strands a sharp tug to usher him closer, roll her tongue against his own.

The sheer tights she wears beneath her skirt are ripped at the seam between her legs by large hands, panties pushed to the side before she finally presses against the broad chest against her to gain some space. Her breath is shallow, face warmed and hair a mess, still the loveliest thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon.

“Are you afraid?” He tilts his head to the side, curious, as if there were no reason for her deny him of this now after he had just *killed for her*. After he forsook what once was all he knew all for her. He would do it again without question, with no gain at all, but the sting of rejection was not something he could entirely choke back.

But his angel never runs out of mercies, it seems.

“No… just give me a second.”

She slips her hand down between her parted legs, demonstrates for him just how to prepare a woman. He watches, mesmerized, as she circles the bud above her slit, dips her finger downward to spread wetness along her flesh. Dew over petals. A finger slips inside of her, and all at once is shoved aside.

“Let me,” he pleads, already pressing both hands to her inner thighs, tilting her hips upward as his head sinks between them.

“You don’t have to,” she whispers, but grants him his wish with feverish nods that betray her words, allows him to kiss her sex as he shifts himself into a better position.

There’s nothing to go off of but her sounds, the cries of pleasure when his tongue lolls out to lick at the nub where most of her reactions stem from. He mutters against her about her taste, something so ethereal he could not even begin to place. Her scent envelopes him in full, and he’s never felt closer to anything prior. She allows his clumsy licking, moans louder for him when he can’t stifle his own groaning. The pants are too tight around him, and patience is another virtue he finds that he lacks.

She doesn’t reach some fantastical height of pleasure when he presses a finger into her cunt, but her body seems to fit even that like a glove, squeezing around him as he lazily circles her bud with his tongue. She doesn’t come, but she tugs him by the hair to usher him back into another kiss, hands roving down his abdomen to free his manhood from the barriers of fabric. And finally… finally he’s granted entrance to Heaven.

The first thrust leaves him spiraling, lost into a world of silk and honey. And the angel does not give him any time to recover, she writhes beneath him, shifting her hips to pull him in deeper, muffles each whine and groan from his lips with her tongue hungrily lapping over his own.

He’s thought about having a woman many times, but never imagined it could feel this good. To be so complete, every woe or fear cast aside in the act of mindless pleasure.

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, to keep his eyes shut or gaze down at her and cease this assault on his mouth to tell her that he loves her, that she feels like pure fucking paradise and he’s already on the verge of coming undone. He settles for moving, dragging himself in and out of her in slow movements, turning his face away to bite down on her shoulder when the feeling of her walls cinching him like a vise threatens to spur him into finishing on the spot.

“That’s just… god… you’re good at this,” she gasps when a hand is sunk between their bodies, flicking at her clit as he spears her open. Her hands find his back, raking her fingernails down past his shoulder blades. It’s agonizing, trying to fight back the urge to breed her full, watch his come spill out from her perfect cunt until he finds himself hard again. The very thought makes him gasp, grind himself deeper inside of her as her nails dig into his back.

“Mein… this is… you understand…,” he’s babbling, hardly coherent, and she only seems to accept it. The angel chants her agreement amidst the beginning of her rapture.

She cries out for him when she comes, her sex pulsing around him as she shivers that all restraint is immediately lost. She hugs him so tightly, squirms as she hisses a curse into his ear.

It’s a miracle he’s even lasted this long. He halts his pace for a mere second to prop himself up, gaze down at her in absolute reverence before that fire swallows him whole. It’s unceremonious when he comes: a growl and a wail as he buries he face into her neck and pumps every last drop of his seed into her pussy.

He doesn’t want to pull out, doesn’t want to leave such a complete embrace. The world has already ended for him, a long time ago on the very night they met. There’s no need to drag out their ruin with whatever else occurs when she’s out of his grasp.

She strokes over the marks she’s made, gentle, tickling touches of her fingertips and shy giggles when their eyes meet again.

“I thought I would never get to do this with you,” she admits, quiet when her hands drift to cup his jaw instead. “You’re perfect, you know that…?”

He wants to cry, wants to fuck all of his woes away, kneel before her and beg that she find a place where they can never be apart. Steal her away to some cabin up in the Alps, where flowers grow in thick patches on the hillsides, a wild garden of her very own.

“… You should stay with me,” he huffs into her ear, fingers dimpling the flesh of her hips as he tries desperately to force himself closer to her.

“You can’t mean the church,” she giggles. “So where should we go?”

“We can figure that out in the morning, hm?”

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Dire Crowley - Raven Jacket Vignette

"A dramatic encounter"

[Lecture Hall]

Crowley: Good morning. It is beautiful out, what an absolutely splendid start to such a lovely day.

Crowley: Incidentally… Have you noticed any changes in the apple tree growing in the courtyard?

Crowley: Yes, that's right. I'm speaking of the smallest, most recent planted tree within the courtyard.

Crowley: It feels as though it was only yesterday that it first started sprouting, and yet… It truly is growing at an astonishing rate.

Crowley: Whenever I chance a glance at that ever-striving tree growing each and every day under rain, shine or clouds, I also feel a twinge of self-reflection to be better.

Crowley: As if telling me that in both happy times and sad, one cannot forget to continue to strive for growth.

Crowley: And also… At the same time, I feel as though that tree represents all you students enrolled here at Night Raven College.

Crowley: That is, with respect to the point that with a good environment and proper nourishment, you all are able to grow and mature so wonderfully.

Crowley: …Well? Wouldn't you say that was an inspiring speech!?

Leona: Zzz.

Crowley: EXCUSE ME. I JUST HEARD A VERY LARGE SNORE THERE, WHO WAS THAT!?

Azul: It was magnificent! I was utterly enthralled by your wonderfully deep analogy. As one should expect from someone like you, Crowley-sensei!

Riddle: Really? I could have done with a little more tangible explanation, myself.

Riddle: What especially caught my attention was what you said about having "proper nourishment." Headmage, sir! What would that constitute?

Idia: Forget that, was this student assembly even a need? It's not even lol-worthy to think about how much time we've wasted having to listen to the Headmage's self-indulgent monologues on loop.

Vil: I concur. If all you wish to do is chit-chat, could you not gather the entire student body? I would rather use my mornings for my stretching exercises.

Octavinelle Student: Yeah, it's always some kind of useless speech.

Heartslabyul Student: I wanna go back to my dorm～

[clamoring]

Crowley: EVERYONE PLEASE QUIET DOWN!

Crowley: Anyway! What I was trying to say is…

Crowley: I would like everyone here to carry yourself with pride as befitting a student of Night Raven College.

Kalim: Oh! I was totally lost with what you were saying earlier, I see, so that's what you meant!

Kalim: I totally get it. I'll work hard just like an orange tree does!

Crowley: AN APPLE TREE!

[door opens]

Crowley: Hm? Who could possibly be showing up this late to… Ah.

Malleus: …

Crowley: D-DRACONIA-KUN!

Crowley: Right, did anyone tell him that there was to be a campus-wide student assembly…?

Everyone: Not at all.

Malleus: Was I not extended an invitation once again?

Malleus: You have the gall... To leave me outcast…

[lightning strikes down]

Crowley: W-Wait, Draconia-kun! Do not cast your lightning indoors!

Leona: Yaaaawn… Done blabbering, then? 'Kay, meeting over. Everyone back to their dorms.

[everyone nods]

Crowley: Aah, everyone, wait! If you're leaving, please take Draconia-kun with you!

[Cafeteria]

Crowley: For goodness’ sake. This morning could have gone much better.

Crowley: However, no matter what tribulations I may come across… Once it is time for lunch, I immediately feel much better!

Crowley: And that's all thanks to the delicious fare our school provides. What is the recommended meal of the day?

Ghost Chef: Welcome, Headmage. Today's recommendation is an exceptionally filling meat pie filled with large chunks of beef!

Crowley: Sounds fantastic. Please, I would have that, then.

Crowley: Oh, hello, Crewel-sensei and Vargas-sensei. I see Trein-sensei is with you too!

Crowley: Are you all taking lunch together? May I join you?

Vargas: Absolutely, yes, come and sit with us! I bet it'd be more than a hassle to find another seat when it's this crowded, anyway.

Crewel: I also was unable to find other seating, so here I am, reluctantly keeping company with a scold.

Trein: I do believe if you wish to avoid a lecture you would do well to not do anything warranting one.

Trein: …Oh. I see that you've ordered the beef pie, Headmage.

Crowley: That's correct. I am an avid connoisseur of meat, yes.

Crowley: Of course I'll eat it all, including beef, pork, chicken, and even wild game.

Trein: Wild game?

Crowley: Indeed, gibier, it's called. Have you ever tried it?

Vargas: Oh yeah, gibier! Last time I had some was when I ate some venison, and it sure did taste so delicious that I was overflowing with energy～

Crowley: You have a distinguished palate, Vargas-sensei. How wonderful.

Crowley: There are a multitude of other gibier meat to try, you know. I do hope you all have a chance to…

Sam: ＩＮ ＳＴＯＣＫ ＮＯＷ!

Everyone: AHH!!

Crowley: S-Sam-kun… I implore you to not pop in from behind us like that!

Sam: Nyeheehee. You all looked like you were lost in such enjoyable conversation, I just couldn't help myself.

Crewel: This is a rare sight, Sam. You're usually tending to the Mystery Shop around this time, aren't you?

Sam: The cafeteria ghosts had asked for a delivery of some ingredients, is all.

Sam: Headmage, if you're interested in some gibier that's a little more difficult to get your hands on, you know I got you.

Sam: Whatever kind of food you may want, I can procure it for you.

Crowley: You're fantastic, Sam-kun. How wonderfully supportive. However…

Crowley: In all actuality, I also have a fondness for vegetables, fruits and sweets in addition to meat. I love anything that is not spicy!

Crewel: I am fully aware. For as long as I remember, your omnivorous habits have made for quite the reputation.

Crowley: Omniv… Could you possibly say that in a more appropriate manner!?

Sam: …Hm? I just noticed that everyone's ordered very different dishes. Really goes to show each of your preferences.

Vargas: Since I always have my muscles on my mind, I make it so my lunches are egg dishes packed full of protein!

Crewel: I do like meat pies myself, so I did consider it… But that size is far too much for me.

Crewel: It may be perfect for those growing students, but it is most likely in excess of the recommended nutritional intake for us adults.

Trein: Indeed. I also selected something else when I saw it with my own eyes.

Trein: If I ate such a thing for lunch, I would still feel it weighing me down during afternoon classes.

Crowley: Is that so? Such a shame. It's so delicious～

Vargas: Nice, that's a great appetite you got. I'll have to work hard to keep up!

Trein: Look at him, devouring that hearty and greasy meat pie so easily… He truly is young at heart…

Crewel: You're not wrong, he hasn't changed one bit from my student days.

Trein: For that matter, I don't believe he's changed since I started my tenure here at Night Raven College…

Crewel: Headmage… How old is he truly? I'm curious, and yet I'm not sure I want to know…

Sam: Nyeheehee. He's truly a man of mystery. It piques one's curiosity.

Crowley: Ah, so delicious. Past me deserves such gracious thanks for hiring these Five-Star restaurant chefs.

Crowley: And what a dramatic encounter it was meeting those chef ghosts.

Crowley: That was… Oh, hm. How many decades ago, now?

[Main Street]

Crowley: Now, what shall I do this afternoon? The other professors are busy with classes, so mayhaps I'll go while away the time at Sam-kun's shop…

???: We ain't gotta sweat the small stuff, c'mon.

Crowley: Hm? This voice…

Grim: No one'll notice if we skip one or two classes. We should totally just snag a few z's instead, myahaha!

1. Let's hurry and head back towards the classroom. 2. Maybe you're right and no one will catch us…

Crowley: That certainly was Grim-kun's voice, I see…

Crowley: Even if it is just those two, how could there be anyone with the audacity to cut class at my academy! I absolutely cannot believe it!

Savanaclaw Student: Hey, we'll be using that bench to relax on while we ditch class. Get off.

Grim: Huuh!? I'm the one who found this sunny spot first!

Crowley: WHA― THERE ARE OTHERS CUTTING CLASS AS WELL!?

Crowley: Not only are there multiple students missing class, it seems a fight is about to break out, as well… What is with this break in decorum at this school?

Crowley: EXCUSE ME, YOU LOT! YOU SHOULD ALL BE IN CLASS RIGHT NOW!

Grim: Urgh. Someone annoying's found us.

Crowley: [Yuu]-kun, it is most troublesome if you cannot look after Grim-kun properly.

1. I'm sorry.

Crowley: How refreshing… It's so moving to have someone apologize so forthright immediately after breaking a rule…

2. Grim just doesn't listen to me.

Crowley: Y-You're just running yourself ragged, I see… Poor thing to have to deal with Grim-kun like this.

Crowley: All of you return to class this instant. It should be an honor that you have the privilege of attending classes here.

Crowley: Magic is not something so simple that can be controlled on talent alone.

Crowley: Of course, natural talent may be important, but what truly matters is maturing your abilities through daily growth and experiences.

Crowley: You all do remember my very loving speech from this morning, yes?

Grim: It was all about somethin' boring, so I wasn't listening.

Ignihyde Student: Yeah. Same.

Crowley: EXCUSE ME!? [Yuu]-kun, please tell me you had your listening ears on this morning?

1. Of course I remember.

Crowley: Whew... At least you're a good student.

2. Something about grape trees, right?

Crowley: APPLE TREES!

Ignihyde Student: Man, you're so annoying… You keep yammering on, but there's really no reason to listen to you, is there?

Diasomnia Student: Seriously. It’s not like I've ever seen the Headmage do any kind of crazy strong magic or anything, and even the Housewardens were ignoring him at the student assembly…

Savanaclaw Student: He ain't scary at all. Just ignore him!

Crowley: …What pitiful children.

Crowley: Well, I suppose I have no choice. I'll just have to show you exactly how important incremental advancement in your studies can be.

Crowley: …FOR MY KINDNESS KNOWS NO BOUNDS!

Students: HRRGHH!

Grim: Oh hey, that stuff wrapped around those guys is the Headmage's uh… weird rope thing!

Crowley: This is not rope. This is my lash of love! A slightly stronger version than before.

Savanaclaw Student: OW, OW! I'M GETTING SQUEEZED～!

Diasomnia Student: This kinda magic should be no problem to break out… Hurng, I can't!? Wh-Why? Our magic's not even making a scratch on it!

Crowley: That should be expected. You do realize I am the Headmage here, yes? This level of magic comes as easily to me as breathing does.

Crowley: It's one thing when those who comprehend my power, like the Housewardens, speak in jest…

Crowley: But it would be completely disgraceful of me as an instructor to be belittled by students like you who have no knowledge of the difference in our abilities.

Crowley: You should try to comprehend how unripe your magical abilities still are.

Grim: Yeah, yeah, get 'em, Crowley! Show 'em what little they know!

1. I wouldn't get too carried away… 2. Wouldn't it be better to run before…?

Crowley: And a lash of love for you! My more heedful version!

Grim: GRRAAH～!

1. Astounding, no matter how many times I see it! 2. Your lightning quick flick made quick work of him!

Crowley: Heh, you don't have to go that far in praising… Hold on now, Grim-kun! No matter how much you thrash about, nothing will come of it. Calm yourself.

Crowley: After all, I have such high expectations for you, Grim-kun. That includes you too, [Yuu]-kun.

Crowley: I fully believe that the two of you will be integral to changing the future of this academy.

Crowley: I'm sure you two will be all I hope for and more, don't you?

Grim: Yeah, yeah, I gotchu. Just leave it all to the genius Grim-sama.

Grim: …SO LET ME GO ALREADY～!

Crowley: Well then. I suppose I'll just take you all to your assigned classes just like this now.

Grim: Huh!? If you drag us along all tied up like this, everyone that'll see us will all point and laugh…!

Grim: LET GO, LET ME GOOO!

Crowley: I must make sure that you Night Raven College students properly reflect on your actions and learn from each experience.

Crowley: And that is because you are all one of my very precious, precious apple trees...

Requested by Anonymous.

[moonxytcn]

Hellooo, here is my request! We are a new upcoming artist in the industry and we attend the grammys for the first time. Some guy is interviewing us and asks a really inappropriate question which makes us uncomfortable. And before we could even attempt to answer the question billie so happens to notice how uncomfortable we are and steps into the conversion saving us just on time. This is the first time we ever meet billie, and some how by the end of the night billie gives us her number in hopes of being able to see us again 🫶🏻

rescue on the red carpet

| Billie Eilish x fem!reader

summary – Billie saves you from an uncomfortable interviewer question

tags & warnings – just fluffy

a/n – hiii <3 it's been a while since I wrote anything hihi, but I'm back, and thank you so much for the request anon!! and I'm sorry it took so long to post, I hope you enjoy this <3

| English is not my first language so there may be some errors.

| Masterlist —✽— Pinned Post

   ㅤ✯ ━━━━━━ ✿ ✫ ✿ ━━━━━━ ✯

–––

The lights of the Grammy Awards shimmer and sparkle like nothing you've ever seen before. You're standing on the red carpet, the air electric with excitement and anticipation. It's your first time here, and the grandeur of it all feels almost surreal. You're a newcomer in the music industry, and being nominated for Best New Artist is a dream come true. Your heart races as you take in the dazzling sea of celebrities, flashing cameras, and enthusiastic reporters.

The crimson carpet under your feet seems to stretch on for miles, lined with eager fans and journalists clamoring for a glimpse of the stars. You feel like you're in a dream, walking amongst giants in the music industry. Your dress, an elegant blend of shimmer and sophistication, clings perfectly to your form, making you feel both powerful and vulnerable at once.

As you make your way down the carpet, a charming interviewer from a popular entertainment network beckons you over. His smile is wide, his demeanor polished, but something about his eyes makes you uneasy.

"Welcome to the Grammys!" He exclaims, holding the microphone out toward you. "How does it feel to be here tonight?"

You smile graciously, taking a breath to steady yourself. "It's truly an honor to be here among so many talented artists. I'm just grateful for the opportunity."

The interviewer nods, then leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if to share a secret. "You've had quite a rise to fame this year. Many are calling you the next big thing. How are you handling all this attention? And." He pauses, his grin turning a shade sharper, "there have been rumors about your personal life. Care to comment on any of those?"

The question catches you off guard. Your mind races as you try to think of a polite way to deflect. Rumors? About your personal life? You’ve tried hard to keep your private life out of the spotlight. Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you feel your confidence begin to waver.

Before you can find the words, the interviewer presses on, his smile now verging on predatory. "There's a particularly juicy one about a certain collaboration turning into something more... intimate. What do you have to say about that?"

You freeze, acutely aware of the cameras zooming in, capturing every moment of your discomfort. You can hear the crowd's murmurs, feel the eyes of countless onlookers on you. You’re cornered, and the vulnerability is almost paralyzing. Your pulse quickens, and your rehearsed poise starts to crumble.

And then, like a bolt of lightning, a voice cuts through the tension.

"Hey, I think that's enough of the tabloid questions, don't you?"

You turn to see Billie Eilish stepping forward, her iconic green hair and bold fashion sense unmistakable. Her expression is calm yet commanding, her gaze steady as she addresses the interviewer.

The interviewer falters, momentarily taken aback by Billie's intervention. "Oh, Billie! Of course, it's great to see you. I was just asking about—"

Billie interrupts smoothly, her tone firm but friendly. "I know what you were asking, but tonight's about celebrating achievements, not spreading gossip. Why not focus on her incredible music instead?"

Her words hang in the air, a lifeline thrown your way. You catch Billie's eye, and she offers you a reassuring smile. It's like a wave of relief washes over you, the tension easing from your shoulders.

The interviewer, now visibly flustered, clears his throat and shifts his attention back to you. "Right, right. Apologies for that. So, tell us about your album and the inspiration behind it."

You take a deep breath, grateful for Billie's timely intervention. With renewed confidence, you talk about your work, your passion for music, and the journey that led you here. Billie stands by your side, her presence a comforting shield against the prying questions that had threatened to throw you off balance.

As the interview concludes, you thank the reporter and turn to Billie, who is already flashing her signature grin.

"Thank you." You say, gratitude evident in your voice. "I didn't know what to do back there."

Billie chuckles softly, shrugging off the praise. "No worries. I've been in this industry long enough to know how these things go. You handled it well."

Her words are genuine, and they bolster your spirits. You find yourself smiling back at her, the tension from earlier fading away.

The rest of the evening passes in a whirlwind of excitement and celebration. You watch performances that leave you awestruck, rub shoulders with artists you've admired for years, and even manage to snag a selfie with a few of your musical idols.

As the night draws to a close, you find yourself once again crossing paths with Billie. She's surrounded by a small group of admirers and friends, but when she spots you, she waves you over.

"Hey! How was the rest of your night?" She asks, her energy as infectious as ever.

"It was incredible." You reply, feeling more at ease than you had at the start of the evening. "Thank you again for stepping in back there. It means a lot."

Billie dismisses your gratitude with a wave of her hand. "Seriously, don't mention it. I've been there. And besides, we're all in this together, right?"

You nod, feeling a connection with her that goes beyond just the shared experience of the industry. There's something genuine about Billie that makes you feel seen and understood.

As the crowd around you begins to thin out, Billie leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a more private tone. "Hey, if you ever want to hang out or need someone to talk to about the craziness of this industry, here's my number."

She hands you a small card with her number scrawled on it, the gesture both casual and meaningful. Your heart skips a beat at the thought of having a direct line to someone as renowned and talented as Billie Eilish.

"Thank you." You say, tucking the card safely into your purse. "I’d love that."

Billie gives you a nod, her eyes twinkling with sincerity. "Great. I hope we can catch up soon."

With that, she waves goodbye, disappearing into the remaining crowd, leaving you with a newfound sense of hope and excitement. The night may have started with uncertainty, but it's ending with the promise of friendship and the potential for so much more.

As you make your way out of the venue, you can't help but smile. Your first Grammy night has been unforgettable, not just because of the awards and performances but because you've found an ally in one of the industry's brightest stars.

And as you step into the cool night air, you know this is just the beginning of an incredible journey.

[say-al0e]

Anything

Rating: SMUT, Minors, DNI! No one under 18!

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you'd loved Aemond with a fierceness that earned his loyalty. Now, he needs to know - just how much do you really love him? | Ft. Request: "You love me, don't you?" "Too much, sometimes." Warnings: Targcest, oral (m!receiving), mentions of Aemond intentionally harming Aegon, mention of war and the toll of war. Pairing: Aemond x Targtower!Reader [implied twin - but sibling relationship not extensively referenced] Word Count: 3.4k HotD Taglist | HotD Masterlist

Silence was a rarity in the Red Keep, only ever descending upon the magnificent structure in times of turmoil - disease, death, war. Nothing good came of it, nothing good accompanied it, but there was little surprise it clung to every corner where life once bloomed.

The throne room itself was akin to a mausoleum, no longer the lively host of lords from far and wide. With Aegon lost in poppy-induced dreams, there were no guards lingering about to fill the room with laughter or squires rushing to fill cups, eager to drown in the knowledge of these men - of members of the Kingsguard, of the king himself. Instead, it sat still and empty and dark as the last of the torches smoldered in its holder.

Outside, a storm raged - thunder rolled, waves crashed, guards and servants clamored to protect themselves and their animals from the downpour - but inside the stone walls of the Keep, everything seemed frozen in time.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the inky sky with sharp bolts of brilliant white light, and filtered through the windows, casting sharp shadows around the room. The lone figure amidst the endless stretch of stone never flinched, didn’t even seem to notice the light, even as you used it to guide your steps deeper into the silence.

Aemond stood just a few feet from the base of the throne, shoulders straight and hands settled behind his back.

Though he cut a severe figure on the brightest, warmest of days, he looked every bit the being of nightmares he’d come to be recognized as in the occasional flash of lightning. 

In the dark, the green leather he wore looked black and the straight, silk strands of his silver hair gleamed white. His angular face only looked sharper, cast in shadow with any trace of the warmth he once displayed - if only for you - now gone entirely. He stood tall, proud, and you felt an odd flurry of emotion settle into the pit of your stomach.

There was something like dread, a fear for what was to come next, right alongside concern - for your brother, lying in his bed with injuries too severe to know if he might survive them; for your husband, who had lost his way enough to place him there; for your sister, who had lost her son and now might lose her husband. There was understanding, a knowledge of why Aemond had done everything, and a deep desire to rush forward to comfort your husband as you knew he was hurting. But above all, there was a profound sense of grief as you mourned the loss of whatever life you’d been clinging to.

The only thing left for you was the man that stood before you and while that once might’ve offered you some semblance of comfort, it now only brought you fear.

For a long few moments - seconds, minutes, perhaps even hours; the passage of time seemed to disappear with the world the moment the doors sealed you inside the throne room - you stood in unbroken silence. Though he knew you were there, was likely more attuned to your presence than anyone else, Aemond didn’t turn. He didn’t bother acknowledging your presence for what felt like an eternity until, finally, he shifted his head just enough to glance at you from the corner of his eye.

“It’s late,” you whispered, hesitant - almost afraid to break the silence - when he tipped his head, as if inviting you to speak. “Come to bed.”

Aemond hummed, acknowledging your whispered plea, as his gaze lingered on the throne for a moment longer. There was a moment of concern - a moment you feared he might refuse you; a moment you feared he might accept and follow you to your bed - before he turned to face you, violet eye shimmering.

“You love me, don’t you?”

The low voice, a quiet rasp you’d long found more comforting than any other, that filled the silence was broken. It cracked, was thin and brittle in a way you hadn’t heard since Lucerys’ death, and you felt your heart begin to shatter as you took a tentative step closer.

“Too much, sometimes,” you confessed - words escaping without thought, without malice. But if anyone were to understand, it was Aemond.

It was an affliction you shared, a love that ran far deeper than anyone else seemed to understand - the passion of dragons, bound together in fire and blood. Though you possessed two bodies, your souls had long been intertwined and, even when you wished it were not the case, you understood him. You loved him, despite the fear and the anger he carried, and he loved you even harder in return.

The answer you shared was acceptable, understandable, and Aemond hummed once more. “You would do anything for me?”

As children, you were both quiet - sullen, almost, as you navigated the world together; never far apart, never content to be apart for more than a few moments - but you shared an understanding. If there was something the other wanted, something the other needed, there was no length too great to ascertain it.

This moment was no different.

“Yes.” Though it terrified you, the lengths you would go if only Aemond asked, you knew there was little you would not do for him. And, now, you knew that the time had come for him to ask a favor that would end in your demise.

Still, there was never a choice for you to be anything other than by his side, right until the very end.

Though your answer should have pleased him, Aemond still looked stricken as he nodded. “Will you come with me to Harrenhal?”

There was an underlying understanding you both shared, one in which you knew that the end of your story awaited in the ruins of Harrenhal, but that did little to stop you from nodding. Like a lamb lead to the slaughter, you would follow him to your death. 

“I will.”

Aemond turned fully then, violet eye shimmering with a flurry of emotion that made your own heart race. There was pride, an overwhelming feeling that he’d finally settled into his rightful place; grief, an overwhelming sadness that his rise came at the demise of his eldest brother; guilt, an understanding that his crimes would not be permitted to go unpunished; and, finally, a desperate desire to be loved, to find a light in the midst of all the darkness.

“Vhagar and Vermithor,” he whispered, “you and I; there is none who will defeat us when we stand together.” The false bravado was easy to detect, even easier to understand. He did not want to lead you to your death, did not want to see your story end alongside his, but there was no other way; you were born together, you’d lived together, you would die together. “Come closer.”

The moment you stepped within his reach, Aemond’s hand gripped your wrist. Though he’d always been careful with you - reverential, in his own way - his touch was painful, nearly punishing as he pulled you against his chest. His free hand lifted to your cheek and you took great care to keep from flinching, despite your certainty he’d never purposely harm you, as his violet eye searched yours for reassurance.

“Tell me you love.” It was not as sharp as you knew him to be capable of, but it was clear that this was a demand, not a request to be refused.

“I do,” you assured him, voice still a whisper but conviction evident as the hand not held by his lifted to his cheek. “I love you. I have and will always love you.” It was a promise, reverent and desperate, meant to remain unbroken, and Aemond seemed calmed - if only minutely - by the warmth of your palm pressed to his cheek.

“Show me.”

While he spent little time reveling in the touch of others, even less allowing those he did not care for to reach for him, Aemond had always found great comfort in your touch. It soothed him, settled the unsteady beat of his heart and the ragged edge to his breathing, and you took the opportunity to indulge him as he released the grip on your wrist.

As desperately as Aemond needed your comfort, the soft touch of your hand or the warm press of your mouth to his skin, you needed him just as badly.

To feel him, standing tall and solid - still there, whole and unblemished from the skirmish that nearly claimed Aegon’s life - would assuage the fears that lingered. To hear the tremor in his voice as he spoke, whenever he deemed the moment worthy of his internal anguish, or the tension bleed from his tone as you allowed him to seek solace in the warmth of your body; you needed it nearly more than he did.

Aemond needed your reassurance that you still loved him, despite all he’d done - despite all he would do. You needed reassurance that there was still something to love.

Without wasting another moment, you leaned into him.

Whereas his skin usually ran warm, the blood of the dragon pumping through his veins, his smooth cheek was cool to the touch. He leaned into the gesture, seeking the heat from your own body, and you shared it gladly as you pressed yourself onto the tips of your toes to bring your mouth to his.

Much of Aemond’s life had been lived under the control of others, dictated by his place as a prince -  as the second son of a king who cared little for any of his children born after his first daughter. Decorum left him with little room for error, with little room to dictate his own future. And in the wake of Aegon’s own rebellion, there was less freedom and greater expectations.

Control was not something anyone had ever given Aemond willingly - with the exception of you.

With you, there’d never been any need for Aemond to extend any kind of force. He’d never needed to manipulate or coerce, never needed to make you fear him. Your life had been lived by his side, allowing him to give and take as he needed, and he rewarded you with a love so fierce you feared not for yourself but for anyone who crossed you, lest they invoke his wrath.

There were but a brief few moments where Aemond allowed you control - where he allowed anyone control, especially now that he could easily take it - but as you pressed your mouth to his, lips softened by sugared scrubs and herbs meeting familiar wind-chapped lips, he gave you leave to prove your love as you wished.

Large hands slipped beneath the open front of your robe, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, as he pulled you closer. His head tipped, silver hair falling in a curtain around you, as you sought to deepen the kiss.

Outside the Keep, the wind howled and lightning flashed. Flickers of bright white light flashed behind your eyelids but you willed it all away; the only thing that existed was that which you could feel, that which you could hear. Aemond’s lithe frame, slight but athletic from years of training and riding; the warmth of his chapped lips, parting to allow your tongue to slip between them; the sharp inhale of breath, ushered as your hand brushed at the leather covering his chest, slowly descending.

The only thing that existed, the only thing that mattered, was Aemond.

A slow, simmering heat filled the air between you - a desperate, needful warmth that would have frightened you, had you experienced it with anyone else - as you broke the kiss. As he inhaled a shaking breath, you refused to part more than an inch from him as your mouth pressed to every available inch of skin.

Lips slick with spit and beginning to swell mapped the angular planes of Aemond’s face; over his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw.

Soft hands flitted over his chest, down his stomach, and came to rest at the belt looped around his waist. The sword and dagger were dropped without thought, both clamoring to the ground with a noise that might’ve drawn guards had they not all been too afraid to find themselves alone with the Prince Regent, and you made quick work of the ties and buttons and buckles that hid your husband from your view.

Covered as he was with leather - practical, always ready for flight - he tipped his head to allow you access to any sliver of skin left exposed. The crook of his neck, the hollow of his throat; every inch was warmed by the press of your mouth before you sank to your knees before him.

The stone of the floor bit into your knees through the thin fabric of your shift, doubtlessly leaving behind bruises that only he would see, but you found that you cared little as your hands fell to the fabric at his hips.

As he stood before you, the image was one that sent a shiver down your spine. Aemond, tall and lithe - a beautiful being seemingly carved by the hands of the most skilled artists - with his angular features and violet eye shimmering in radiant flashes of lightning, looked every bit the villain he was painted as. 

Against the backdrop of the Iron Throne, thousands of blades melted to form the seat he would die for, there was no more ethereal image.

Though he could be a man of immense patience - a strength he used to serve himself; a strength most often invoked in tormenting you - there seemed to be little at hand as he reached for you. Calloused fingers cradled the side of your head, sliding into hair left undone, as Aemond urged you closer.

With deft fingers - and considerable effort to hide the trembling therein - you tugged the fabric from his hips just low enough to free his cock. Above you, Aemond sighed. It was a quiet sound that might’ve been lost in another environment, but in the silence of the throne room, every noise was amplified.

Despite your better judgement - or, perhaps, because of it - you chanced another moment of reverential study.

Everything about Aemond was beautiful, breathtaking in a way you long since stopped trying to understand, and you couldn’t help but breathe the sentiment aloud. “So beautiful,” you whispered, as your gaze traveled from the top of his head to the tip of his cock. “My glorious dragon.”

Another sigh, this one less patient, escaped him. However, before he could offer any reproach for your drawn-out worship, you leaned into him.

Aemond’s cock was hard, Valyrian steel wrapped in the pale velvet of his skin, and you offered a sigh of your own as you wrapped a hand around the base. The tip weeped, pale droplets of pre-come glistened in the pale flashes of lightning, and you leaned in to lap at them.

Settled before him, knees aching and heart pounding in your chest - hammering at your ribcage in a way that hurt - you could almost pretend. 

As you closed your eyes to keep the traitorous tears at bay, tongue tracing the vein running along the underside of his cock, you could pretend that you were tucked away safely in your own chambers. As his fingers ghosted along the curve of your jaw, brushed an errant piece of hair behind your ear, you could pretend that the scent of dragon fire and blood lingering on his skin was nothing more than the remnants of a long day of training. And as he breathed your name, so reverent and desperate, you could almost pretend that the man above you was the one you’d loved your entire life.

In a desperate bid to forget, to lose yourself in the love you held for him - in the unending devotion that would lead you to your doom - you reached for his free hand and laced your fingers with his. You held it pressed to his thigh, used it to stabilize yourself, and took the rest of his cock into your mouth.

There was little about you that escaped his notice and no doubt he could see the tears beginning to line your lashes when you blinked up at him, desperate for a glimpse of his face. You could only hope he would attribute them to your relief that he remained unharmed, that he stood before you with one hand buried in your hair and the other tethering you to reality.

Anything that was not Aemond was of little concern as he allowed you to move at your own pace, taking as much or as little of him into your mouth as you wished.

With every bob of your head, every swirl of your tongue, every twist of your wrist, you held a power he rarely relinquished. And with every glance up at him, your own glassy eyes meeting his, you could feel the rigidity in his body begin to relax.

Moment by moment, each ministration you lavished him with seemed to settle him.

Above you, Aemond began to resemble himself once more. With every swipe of your tongue, with every inch you pressed forward, you proved the love he needed to feel so desperately. That you were willing to submit yourself to him so wholly, body and soul, was enough to earn you a broken moan and the release that saw rigid shoulders slumping as his head bowed.

A curtain of silver hair covered Aemond’s face as his eye fell shut. His brows furrowed, a look of near pain compressing his features, but you could feel the grateful squeeze of the hand holding yours as the other pressed you closer.

Though he rarely allowed you to remain on your knees long enough for him to spill in your mouth, he kept you there - nose pressed to the sharp bone of his pelvis - until you swallowed his spend.

The moment your lips parted and your lashes, wet with tears, fluttered, he pulled you to your feet.

Quiet settled for a long moment, broken only by the ragged sound of Aemond’s breathing and the clank of metal just outside the door - the guards still in place, still devout despite their fear; a mirror of your own life. That violet eye, dark and clouded with an anger, a sadness, a broken resolve, met yours. The hand cradling your jaw moved to grip your chin, fingers digging into the flesh almost hard enough to hurt, as he searched for a moment, looking for the answer to an unasked question, before he leaned closer.

“Avy jorrāela,” Aemond whispered, voice quiet - resolute - as he used the grip on your chin to lift your lips to his. 

As many times as he’d promised his love, you’d never once doubted him. Even in that moment, as the walls felt as if they might begin to crumble at any moment, you knew that he loved you. You felt it in your heart, deep within your soul, and offered him the most genuine smile you were able.

“I know, my love,” you returned, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment as his forehead pressed to yours. “You’ve had a long day. Come to bed,” you urged, squeezing his hand gently, “let’s get some rest.”

Though a small part of you feared he may resist, content to stand in the dark and ruminate over a future that you both knew could never exist, Aemond acquiesced. With deft fingers, he righted his clothing - and yours, closing the robe and hiding your satin nightgown from the eyes of any who might dare look - and settled his sword and dagger back in their rightful places before returning his hand to your own.

The future was as bleak and volatile as the storm that raged outside the walls of the Keep, as unpredictable and unrelenting, and there was an immense fear that settled in the pit of your stomach. The end was near, approaching with each moment that passed, but there was no escaping destiny.

From the moment you were born, you knew that your fate was intertwined with Aemond’s. 

So with interlaced fingers and a kiss pressed to your brow, you allowed him to lead you into the unknown - straight to your demise. After all, you promised that you would do anything he asked.

_________________________________________________________

Author's Note: I've been so productive lately, wow. Anyway. Enjoy this.

Taglist: @anaya-rhys, @holypeacecrown, @marvelously-flawed, @travelingmypassion, @letsgotothehop, @reynacrawford, @liannafae, @ffsg0jo, @targaryen-madness, @hangmanscoming, @barnes70stark, @mysticaltwoface, @biqueen20, @lolathebunny221, @nourangul, @darylandbethforever9, @liandav, @r-3dlips, @torchbearerkyle

[spearxwind]

could we get an infodump abt the new broken horizon lore? how i found you was through extinction, so glad to see them back!!!

Absolutely!

The world of Broken Horizon is a planet (that I've yet to name) which has two major sentient species on it: humans and dragons (or khevirs in their own language). Both species coexisted side by side in relative peace (as much peace as two equally matched apex predators would have).

At some point in their history, Cercerion, a dragon with enough power to become a God, goes haywire and starts creating and becoming storms that span almost the entirety of the planet. These storms are devastating electrical hurricane cells that are charged enough to create their own magnetic fields, the incessant lightning rain is enough to literally rip chunks of earth, even mountains, out of the ground and earth and keep them in the air because of these magnetic fields. This is obviously DEVASTATING to the planet.

Eventually, a joint mutual effort from both humans and dragons is able to take Cer down, striking him down hard enough to bury him deep in the earth to sleep for ages, but the impact is so sudden that he cannot dispel the storms he created and loses control of them, leaving them to eternally roam the planet sowing destruction in their paths. There are six in total. (They are much less dangerous than when he IS in control though and the lightning rain is reduced significantly. But they are still MASSIVE hurricanes)

After this event, humans freak the fuckkkk out and in true human fashion decide that dragons are dangerous and must be exterminated. A massive war breaks out between both species where they try to obliterate each other (this is known as the Great Dragonslaying Era). Both sides develop technology to stay on par with each other (humans develop insane machinery, and dragons develop energy manipulation).

The war rages on for years, but true to their nature they an never truly best each other, and the war ends MANY years later in a shaky stalemate from both sides. This would be the present day.

Since the war has only recently ended, there are very few laws that regulate dragons and their rights in human territories, and viceversa. Using dragons as fighting dogs in gladiator arenas and treating them as animals is 'illegal', but extremely common in human cities. That would be the situation where our Extinction crew find themselves in.

Despite all the animosity towards each other, there are a great many people who want to uphold the peace and want to peacefully coexist and even work together (this is the basis for dragon piloting); but there are also extremists on both sides who still believe the others should be exterminated: humans who consider dragons a threat and a pest and no more than animals, and dragons who are unhappy with being 'tamed' and who clamor for a return to being ruthless deadly beasts.

----

Honestly, the setting of Extinction itself isnt that much changed! It's mostly been tweaked to be a lot more cohesive with the worldbuilding and the world's history. I have added a bunch more in the aspect of dragonflight and races and planes because I think its cool as hell. The gladiator side of it is only one fraction of the world.

[icannot3]

"Enough"

(Peter Maximoff x reader)

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: none

I did something a little different with this one, I hope you guys like it! :)

.......................

Fire. There is a fire lit inside of him that burns hotter with each passing moment. It’s in his lungs- his legs. It only drives him to move faster with each long stride. He almost leaps across the dark halls.

Peter's mind has become a frenzied wasteland with your safety knowingly at stake. Moments before he had been notified by the team that you'd been left behind. He didn't wait for the next planned course of action. Charles's voice is soft in his head. "Peter, you need to be rational. This is not how we go about things. Stop at once, and please return."

Unluckily for the Professor, Peter does not view this matter as one that consecutively needs agreed on. He's hightailing it through the perimeter, scouting every crevice of the large building. Only after his breath falls short and his legs physically can no longer move from the exhaustion does he slow.

The walls are shaking, and the foundation of the building is slowly crumbling. He knows it's only a matter of time before the place is a complete pile of ash. The idea of you covered in the debris leaves him far more winded than the running.

No. He won't allow it.

With a newfound level of incentive, he whips through the premises once more. Peter is screaming your name, hoping you can hear him from wherever you may be knowing that you're going to be okay.

"Peter. Stop. You need to come back. This is just putting you both in danger." Charles is much louder now, his urgency appearant. Suddenly, every muscle in his body contracts and locks up in a still position. He's left paralyzed in an upright position. His heart hammers in his chest uncontrollably. "I do not want to resort to force, Peter."

Tears are welling up in his eyes now. Nothing is in his control. His breath shutters. Peter's movements become his own once more as the Professor releases him. There's a loud crashing noise, and a large piece of ceiling falls to the ground. But he couldn't care less. Instead of escaping, he simply slumps to the ground defeatedly.

"You just don't get it, do you, Professor?" He runs his gloved hand through his hair. "You have no clue what it's like living your entire life as a screw up." He blinks, grimacing as he imagines Charles hearing him now. Peter's glad he can't see the knowing look on his face, as if he possibly understands the issue beyond digging through the secrets in his mind. "Don't act like you do. Ah! The life of Peter Maximoff, the fastest man alive, yet can't seem to make it on time to spill the beans to dear old dad! Irony, right?"

If Charles even bothered to respond, Peter surely can no longer hear anything but his raging thoughts. "I mean, I can outrun time, dodge bullets, even grab a snack mid-rescue, but admit to Magneto that I'm his son? Now, that's a marathon I can't seem to finish. "

He throws his hands in the air, now hysterical. "Oh, but for such a pathetic guy, I gotta have some sort of redeeming quality, right? Maybe I can save the girl! But it appears that the love of my life is in danger, and I can't even do that. Yippie. That's me, Peter Maximoff! Always a step ahead, yet always a step behind."

He stands, wiping his face off with his hands. In the midst of the chaos, there came a silence. A silence so profound, it seemed to swallow up the world around him. No witty retorts, no bursts of speed, just him and his thoughts. It was as if the world had come to a standstill, leaving him trapped in the slow crawl of introspection. In this moment, he is completely and utterly as alone as he has always felt.

The clamor of the world fades into a distant hum, replaced by the deafening echo of his own heartbeat. Everything around him blurs, details lost in a sea of uncertainty. His breath catches in his throat, a silent plea for a respite that wouldn't come.

Suddenly, like a lightning bolt, clarity strikes Peter. Self-deprecation won't save you. His gaze hardens, determination replacing the fear. The world comes rushing back, the noise, the chaos, all of it. But now, he's not drowning in it. He's using it, channeling it.

His feet move before he even realizes it, each step a silent promise to himself. He won't let you down. Not this time. The world blurs around him as he picks up speed, everything else falling away until there's only one thing left, the one thing that matters - you.

Peter's heart pounds in his chest, not from fear, but anticipation. The rubble slowly crashes behind him as the building nears its demise. He searches high and low, not wasting a single second.

There's a sound. It's so faint that he almost misses it entirely. But he sprints towards its direction, leading him outside of the building. There you are, limping away from the structure that in Peter's mind is slowly toppling over and is about to crush you. In your injured state, it's been made impossible to escape. Luckily, he swoops in at the perfect moment to catch and pull you away.

Relief washes over him, sending chills through his body from the intensity. You're both coughing from the inhalation of dust that has soiled the fresh air. He could care less and only pulls you to him tighter. He can feel your strong heartbeat. The previous fear and doubt he felt all began to melt away. It's replaced by a sense of accomplishment, knowing that despite everything he saved you.

He's pressing kisses to your brow, consoling you as much as he can. With a sigh of relief, he finally lets go of the guilt that had been gnawing at him. He has proven to himself that he is capable, that he is enough. And in that moment, he finds closure. He's no longer the boy who can't act fast enough. He's the hero who did.

[cyberwhumper]

His nose is bleeding.

That’s the first sign of burnout, Victory had warned him. Magic lives in the blood. And when it gets to be too much, it will leave by any means necessary. He had rested his jeweled fingertips over Rex’s heart, then, warm scales glittering like stars. So if your nose ever starts bleeding, you stop and you wait for me, yeah? You wait for me.

But he can’t wait for his dragon right now. Their enemies are too close, too numerous, and the comforting thrum of his and Victory’s tangled pact-brand is all but imperceptible under the thunder of horse-hooves, the cacophony of clashing steel, and the riot of his own racing pulse.

He automatically swipes his gauntleted hand across his lips, succeeding only in smearing the rotten blood across his face. It smells foul, like rust and mildew, and tastes even worse. He grimaces, but the battle is far from won. He keeps casting.

His blue-white lightning arcs through the blade of his massive zweihänder, allowing it to slice through armor and gristle and bone as easily as butter. Men crumple in front of him, bodies writhing with static even once the life’s bled out of them. The power is, admittedly, intoxicating. It’s easy to force himself to keep going, to draw on Victory’s massive pool of power, like drinking deep from a mug of ale without stopping to breathe, even as it begins to turn his stomach.

The mind-numbing clamor of combat is interrupted, suddenly, by a spike of pain in his thigh, in the gap between cuisse and tasset. It takes Rex a moment to understand what he’s seeing, as addled as he is by magic and exhaustion, but once he does, he curses. An arrow, annoyingly well-crafted, with a glossy shaft thick as his finger and—judging by the bone-scraping agony that quickly makes his knee buckle—barbs along the steel head. He feels a distant flare of panic from Victory across their pact. He doesn’t know where his dragon is; he can’t be too far, and he’s alive, clearly, because Rex still is, but he’s not here, and the attackers have opened fire. And Rex’s nose is bleeding.

He plants his blade in the clay and hauls himself upright, lightning burning fractal paths into the ground from the point of impact as arrows continue to rain around him. But then a second bolt buries itself above his clavicle, under the lip of his gorget, and another punches straight through his cuirass, nicking a rib, and Rex falters. The flow of his cast chokes down to a trickle, then stops, but the sick-smelling blood dripping from his nose intensifies. He goes to wipe it again, automatic, but the motion makes arrowheads grate against bone, and his whole body shudders. He growls, half pain, half wolfish rage, but the blood doesn’t stop spilling over his lips, brackish, soaking his cape and making his grip slacken.

You wait for me, Victory’s voice says in his memory.

He wants to. His body is crying out for his dragon, for power, for the healing salve of his scales and the comfort of proximity, if he could just stop the bleeding, hold on a little longer, wait.

Shame. Rex has never been very good at waiting.

[Fic by the exceptionally talented @bxtterflystxtches , who I have the honor of collaborating with for this event. Please show him some love!]

[OC INDEX]

COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN!

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[teastainedprose]

Homelander x fem!reader

Listening to the rain together

The drumming of the rain against the windows of his penthouse has been something Homelander has grown to love. The sound of rain on a window or on a roof had been a distant confusion within the lab, heard but never seen. An unknown from the mysterious outside he never had been allowed to see until his debut. Sure, the doctors had tried to explain it to him. They'd shown him videos and images, but he'd never been allowed out to experience it. Not until his first day in a crowd, when he'd fled and been exposed to the yawning blue of the sky.

It had cracked open later that day, after he's run off. That endless sky had cracked open, and water had poured down as if by magic. He'd been soaked through by it, bhut it had felt cleansing. The sky had cried with the child-god in its own way. Now Homelander can watch nature rage on unobstructed from his bed. The beating of the rain and lightning flashing is just as untamed as the first time he'd seen it. Magical in a way only nature can be. It thrills him as much as it soothes him, the constant patter of rain drops becoming a relaxing thrum that helps dull the clamor everything else his ears pick up. Even the colors of his penthouse feel muted under the grey haze of the sky. The perfect scenery for a nap. Which is exactly what you're doing. You'd insisted this was an ideal time for a book and cuddling. Swore up and down that you wouldn't doze off, yet here you are. Asleep. His lips quirk up, recalling your insistence that this time you'll keep your eyes open. The only lie he'll let you get caught in, because it means Homelander can memorize every detail in the soft, grey light. You're tucked in against his side, back towards him and head propped up with your book discarded atop the pillow. Your breathing is slow and measured, chest rising and falling with each deep breath. There's that content curl to your lips with them slightly parted. Pure temptation sprawled beside him, utterly content and trusting of the monster you're nestled against. Yes, he's grown to love rainy days.

[lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit]

hi, the way this blog is formatted and the menu is written is so creative and fitting! i had a great time looking through it

may i request some fem reader w rocky? maybe him playing the violin or reciting poems in a public space to himself and reader is the only one to react (positively) so he immediately is struck in awe. please and thank you :)

Good evening, Anon!! First off, thank you very much for the compliment. Two things you should know, however...

This ended up over three thousand words long somehow. (For the record, it was gonna be a scenario.)

It's the cheesiest meet-cute I've ever written, so I advise you all to brace yourselves, folks-

That being said, enjoy!! <3

When you heard it, everything else quieted.

The thunder of cars bolting down a busy road, metal armor bobbing upon four wheels as they broke past and left smaugful clamor clashing against the monstrum business blocks, softened to but a distant skitter of shiny black bugs ambling self-importantly about. The cacophony of pedestrians, indiscernible faces in square suits and tasteful pastels spewing bits of language into one converging mess, each voice independent yet competing for dominance until they clawed at your eardrums and suffocated your thoughts now felt no graver than the meek rustle of forest foliage when coddled by the summer breeze; a humming chorus to a beautiful solist’s serenade, and when a bycicle trilled inches past normally skittish, city-dweller you it didn’t even occur to step aside as you were far too absorbed in the one delightful sound that made the greys of asphalt’s reign seem greyer and dulled even the most striking women’s daywear to sun-worn cleaning rags in comparison.

It was a melody the color of blue, matching his eyes.

You hadn’t a chance to admire them for long when you spotted him in the crowd. They drifted closed for long stretches of time as their owner’s features suggested a deep, gentle focus on the music, his whole being smoothing into the instrument. There was something bewitching about the violin, you found; seemed even its players could seldom resist its particular pull, fingers dancing across the strings as if possessed by magic. The rosined bow dipped to and fro in a hypnotic sequence that pulsed like the rise and ebb of the tides; sometimes the pace changed, slowed to but a meandering, peaceful ponderance before it flew from the threads of catgut like nimble sparks of lightning, with the ease and comfort of at least a thousand hours of practice.

Must’ve been a classical piece, if not improv; but for that far too complex. Vivaldi? Mozart? You hadn’t heard it before, so you couldn’t confirm, however it proved the enchanting stranger to be both talented and educated. He looked up from his divine craft to initiate eye contact with passersby and, yes, he had the bluest eyes indeed, seated under emphatic brows, and he gave a hopeful smile of such integrity to those undeserving strangers who walked past in indifference as if he’d been an smaug-borne ghost, a trick of the light invisible to all but yourself and when he turned in resignation and his gaze caught upon you, playing still, your breath hitched in your throat.

How long had you been gawking there, frozen on the sidewalk like a dimwit? Oh, no. He must have thought you such a creeper; a notion which you had to rectify, and rectify it quick. Puff your chest out, march up, tell him you liked his playing and leave a dime; you took off at once with this very plan in mind.

In doing so, you forgot you had stood on opposing sides of the road.

Heels clicked across hot concrete in a headlong hurry. You realized that the cars were still coming midway through when his eyes widened in horror and a spontaneous screech of tires replaced that joyous melody. You stumbled back, blinded by car polish and a pair of glaring headlights you profusely apologized to before skittering away from a second car in the right lane when it came to an angry halt likewise. Loud honks scolded you along your path whilst you yelled back sheepish sorries.

Well, talk about making an entrance.

As you reached the paved edge, a hand manifested to help you up on it.

“Are you alright, miss?”

And blue eyes. You felt yourself sink further into the road with the transient wish those cars had hit you after all, nonetheless took the offer and tottered along with the stranger’s help. He held bow and violin in his other hand, by the neck, and you narrowly avoided stepping on their rickety case with a meager amount of coins and a crumpled up bill inside.

Ah, right. He’d been busking, after all.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he reiterated, scanning you, and you realized you’d missed the previous question. “It’s hardly safe to cross this thoroughfare without looking both ways first, you know. You ought to try that next time.”

“I know, I know– I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

You weren’t. Not when this handsome vagabond with the most radiant blue oculars you’d ever seen and enough of a musical gift to put you in a trance kept observing you from such proximity whilst implicitly chiding you for being a tunnel-visioned idiot.

“Well, great news, then!” he grinned. Oh. That’s a lot of teeth, you noted with slightly raising eyebrows. “I doubt I’d have been able to sleep tonight had you met an undue fate under the stampede of these motorized beasts all for just trying to reach me.”

An odd penchant for metaphors, too. When you didn’t respond right away, he withdrew his gesturing hand in contemplation.

“You… were careening specifically my way, yes?”

“Yes!”

You snapped out of your appreciation for his endearingly boyish timbre and thereby commenced a frantic battle with your purse as you attempted to pry something from it.

“Right, I was heading this way– just give me a moment–”

He watched in intrigue as you counted something he couldn’t see under your breath, then produced the intended amount of what he identified to be cash and reached to hand it over to him, near breathless.

“I really loved your playing.”

You couldn’t bear to look him in the eye yet hardly missed his astonishment when he conceived the sum.

“Miss, that’s ten dollars.”

“Yes,” you affirmed curtly. “What of it?”

“I can’t accept that.”

Hearing which, you did finally face him with a frown.

“You’re a very kind soul,” he asserted in a hurry, smile never faltering, “and I’m thoroughly humbled by your contribution, but I cannot rob a lady of her hard earned pay in good conscience for that frivolous noise–”

“It was beautiful noise,” you interjected with knitted brows, “I really did enjoy it, and you deserve much better audience than the pedestrians of some drab street corner who’ll never bother to pay your music the attention it deserves.”

You pointed curtly toward the flow of people. Some in turn spared you a glance, but then you blended into their scenery again like another pair of shop mannequins.

“So take it from a lady,” you enunciated, all but shoving the money in his chest, “and I sincerely hope you end up in a concert hall someday.”

You exhaled and waited. He stared at your extended hand, then you, then at your hand and back again and gorgeous as you found those gleaming sapphires you couldn’t for the life of you tell what he was thinking. Your arm muscles trembled, and you contemplated whether sparing yourself from the awkwardness of further playing statue might be worth giving up anyway.

Finally, he seized your wrist with both hands. He didn’t seem to notice your startlement as he was busy beaming at you bright enough to put celestial bodies to shame.

“What’s your name?”

“Uh…”

God forsake it, that smile alone was turning your heart into a fluffy, overripe dandelion inside your chest. If he kept up, you feared he might just blow it apart.

But you managed to tell.

“Well, miss…” he began, implementing your surname, and you would’ve bolted on pure instinct had you not taken root at your spot, “your generous praise is, by far and large, the most invaluable gift I could’ve received on this brilliant morning.”

You took a deep inhale, acutely aware of his touch tingling across your skin even though he meant nothing by it… you supposed.

“You have certainly made a lowly troubadour’s day with your gracious approbation,” he patted your knuckles, at the same time gently shoving your offer away. “You see, I could tell from the moment our gazes locked across the street that I would enjoy the pleasure of meeting someone positively extraordinary… right after she ambled through the active traffic. Call it a concise connection of kindred souls, if you will. You, miss, have proved yourself a true appreciator of the arts.”

When those blue eyes were holding yours hostage so intently, you almost did believe he could see into your very soul. You tried to brave it, however.

“Thank y–”

“Which is why this won’t be needed.”

You held the rejected money against your chest, where he had guided it.

“You’ll be better off forfeiting it to charity,” he suggested, “if aiding the honest predicaments of your fellow citizens in need is a cause dear to your heart. Like orphans! Those poor, unmothered things, always caught in the throes of some quintessential lack or other; surely they could put your benevolent funds to good use… that is, in case you are looking to make a charity. If you’re not interested in, erm, providing for the orphans, that’s still quite fine. You just seem to me the sort to care for children. But that doesn’t make it your obligation, of course, to feed the orphans… no one is about to force that duty upon you… in equally sound conscience I suppose you could just as well keep the money…”

He proceeded along his mildly morally concerned tangent, but any of it beyond the lip movements you ceased to process. Some convoluted cliché about personal indulgence over supporting the waifs of the world, you reckoned. In terms of lifting your spirits it achieved a ludicrous heap of nothing, and amidst your silent marinating in this strange and unexpected failure of your strange and unexpected encounter, you continued to clutch the bills to yourself.

You didn’t figure that may have looked like dismay on his end until he trailed off, fidgeting vaguely as he probed your expression. The warmth of his hands on yours still lingered.

“My attempt at a point is,” he resumed at a slower pace, “you’re awful generous, but to tell you the truth, I’m quite comfortably off without the help. I am employed, after all.”

“You are?”

Rude as it sounded to gape the question so, you hadn’t considered that possibility. He was… well, not badly dressed, but his clothes appeared worn and a tad oversized on his comically skinny limbs, granting him a ragamuffin sort of appearance.

Though you still found it quite charming.

“Sure am!” he grinned in earnest, and you’d soon come to accept that his face simply looked that way when he did. “This is only some nifty supplemental income for a craft I spend day and night honing anyway. Really, I play out here to preserve my associates’ peace of mind more than anything. The other day they got so peeved with all the melodic caterwauling my boss had to fetch a broomstick and chase me out into the great wide open after failing to quiet me down.”

A chuckle escaped you at the joke, and it’s like his eyes gleamed brighter.

“What can I say,” he admitted with a theatrical shrug, “a musician’s ichor pulses to the ever-flowing rhythm of higher realms beckoning. That can hardly be helped. When my eager heart doesn’t sing Apollo’s odes from the strings, it reaches for the lyre, however… but they don’t deal in stanzas and limericks on the job market in contemporary times.” He glanced off into the distance wistfully, as if envisioning an ideal future where they did. “Miss M, our aforementioned lady-in-charge, says it’s only since our customers can’t exactly do the Lindy Hop to recitativo verse form.”

“So that means you’re a poet?”

“Indeed!”

You hummed in acknowledgement. He gave his vest a proud little adjustment as part of the performance, not that it served to make him look any more presentable.

“Vivacious vicinal versificator,” he expatiated with a playful half-bow, “humble herald of numinous inspiration, eulogizing the beauties of this peculiar earthly life to the cobblestone and the stars for a passtime. Old Muddy Miss herself has proven to be my most faithful audience… and for lack of substantial competition, in her listening skills she remains unexcelled.”

“Not for long, I should hope.”

That made him pause. Your nerves struck you alert as you rushed to explain.

“That is, well, I would be curious to join said, um, audience… mayhaps… sometime. I mean– you have a fascinating vocabulary, sir, so I can only imagine…”

He listened on with perplexed blue eyes; you mentally smacked yourself for the honorific. No one so refreshingly unrefined as this overeager stray puppy of a man could even remotely qualify for a ‘sir’, and you were happy about that, because had you made so many social blunders with any other stranger in succession you would’ve craved death.

He took his sweet time providing a readable reaction, but when he did he laughed. Not with a mocking edge, as you had feared; the sound tinkled as melodically as his trusty violin.

“Oh, miss, you’re just a bundle of pleasant surprises.”

You came to chuckle along, too, a nervous smile stretching your lips. He took your hand again.

“I’d be delighted to deliver a private recital,” he dipped forward then paused, perhaps contemplating whether a kiss on the back of it would be appropriate, peering up at you in a bluest display of rapt attention that made your heart leap, “if that’s truly the case.”

You averted your eyes. The vague unease as if you’d given your name to a fae in a stroke of recklessness minutes prior melted into the bustle of sluggish, smoke-ridden traffic.

“So where is it that you work?” you switched the topic.

Attuned, he let go of your hand as if it had burned him, adjusting his hat like an excuse.

“Little Daisy Café,” he responded quickly, perpetual cheer intact. “It’s just an ambitious spit from here, actually, a few blocks down that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction from where you’d been headed. “Awful cute little gem of an establishment. Perhaps you’ve been to?”

“No, not that I recall.”

“Well, I can only recommend that you drop by. The pancakes are to die for.”

“And there’s live music?”

You both glanced at the violin, then back at each other. He gave you another grin that you couldn’t help but detect as somewhat complicit.

“Makes your early beverage taste all the sweeter.”

You let your eyes linger on one of the boutique windows in the background; a closed one under construction. The ample light struck it at an angle which obscured the debris-filled darkness and activity inside, flawless glass surface glimmering at front in gorgeous deceit. Its reflective sheen conjured an alluring vision; deep azure sky dotted with fringed, fluffy lamb-clouds.

Suppose you offered it.

“Well, if you won’t let yourself be tipped,” you sighed, putting your money away, “may I treat you to breakfast, at least? A plate of those fabled pancakes, even?”

Childlike delight flashed across his face before the metaphorical reins were pulled back with a frantic grip.

“Why, miss, you’re spoiling me,” he lamented, “but I really shouldn’t–”

“I was heading for the bakery myself,” you continued with a pacifying gesture, “but now with your recommendation in mind, I might as well try a treat from that ‘little gem’ of a café, no? You could show me the way there, and… I suppose I could listen to those stanzas of yours, if you’d be willing to share…”

The words intended to compose the rest of your reasoning kept tumbling from your grasp before you could string them together, and someone in the crowd of pedestrians laughed. A snooty, feminine laugh. He kept watching you and you only, however, engulfing you in that mysterious blue once again.

“…granted that is okay with you, of course.”

He began to smile like the sun itself and dove with startling momentum for the violin case.

“Why, it’d be most uncouth to refuse the benevolent offer of such lovely ladyship,” he concluded while packing away his instrument then slapped the lid over the case once finished, money withstanding, “and I don’t reckon I’ll make two more pennies to rub together this morning, so I’d be more than happy to escort you along.”

He grabbed the handle and sprung up, beaming at you with the energy of a couple additional suns before he got an idea and moved to offer his free arm toward you like the smoothest of gallants. Clearing his throat, to boot.

“Mademoiselle?”

You put a hand to your chest, accentuating the action with a playful once-over.

“Chivalrous,” you chuckled before locking his arm with your own. The two of you would set off this way not unlike lovers, which he stiffened at the realization of.

“Too much?” he questioned.

“No, it’s quite alright.”

The cracks in the sidewalk became very interesting all of a sudden, however. You could feel his skinniness and lack of musculature thus far only guessed through the rolled-sleeved shirt; not that you minded.

Must have not gotten treated to meals often.

“About that poetry,” he piped up a bit quieter than before, “granted you won’t tire of my voice ahead of time…”

“Don’t be silly.”

You gave him a look, then caught yourself.

“Well, alright,” he resigned with an evaluating pout when you turned away, “but, uh… unfortunately, most of my limbs are occupied. And the fervent gesticulation makes up half the performence.”

By that point, you found yourself believing him. You all but burst into laughter at the mental image.

“Maybe you can gesticulate it to me after the fact,” you quipped.

“…Fair enough.”

You reached a street corner together and turned it. From the corner of your eye, a young couple were teasing each other by a flower shop on the opposite side of the road with a posy gift of piquant red tulips, blushing and giggling. You matched the bouncing steps of the stranger you were intertwined with in newfound giddiness.

“Let’s see,” he pondered, scanning the rows of buildings in an absent-minded manner before his eyes lit up. “Right! As fortune would have it, there does happen to be one I’ve been itching to inflict on a willing pair of ears for the past week…”

He made a big show of clearing his throat before he began; you were eager to let the mesmerized flow that had brought you to him in the first place take you along, absorbing the dramatic inflection and animated spirit oozing from his entire complexion as he made the widest gestures he was capable of in his inhibited position nonetheless.

A stranger indeed…

“Wait!”

Before he could proceed with any experimental odes to clay and calicos, you cut him off. He turned to you right away, magic put on hold.

“I never caught your name.”

He glanced around in recollection before those notorious brows sprung up.

“I never passed it,” he exclaimed, bewildered, and wriggled from your hold haphazardly as he scrambled for his hat. “Oh, foolish I! Forgive me this horrendous discourtesy, milady, if you might find it in your heart.”

You simply observed him in amusement.

A zephyr swept along the length of the street, bringing where you stood a nectarine fragrance which, though delicate, transcended the heavy smoke and for a delightful moment let you smell nothing but itself. With his hat now off and held politely to his chest, the breeze ruffled his tousled hair as it did yours. His blue eyes shone in the urban grey like diamonds.

“The name is Rocky Rickaby.”

And when he said it, you already knew you wouldn’t tire of that voice anytime soon.

[skyward-floored]

Febuwhump Collab Day 4 (& 22) — Obedience, “you weren’t meant to be there”

This one I wrote with two prompts in mind, and as I was going along I realized it also fits with the day 17 one as well (hostage situation) so three at once! I feel bad for Time, I’m always giving him a hard time in this au...

Warning for some injuries, some violence, and a gun that gets waved around in a threatening manner

Today’s lovely art

Ao3 link

————————————————————

Time drove down the street with the windows down in his car, enjoying the cool air that blew inside and ruffled his hair. It was a lovely afternoon, and he was glad to not be wasting it in an office.

Some kind of maintenance for the building he worked in had forced Time out of his office, and with nothing better to do, he’d been allowed to take the rest of the day off. He was looking forward to being home alone with Malon for a bit before his sons returned from school, and was already relishing the quiet they’d get to enjoy.

...Assuming, of course, that there wasn’t anything else that required his attention in the meantime.

Time sighed. Ever since supers had been (somewhat reluctantly) legalized again, it seemed like the crime rate had doubled to try and make up for it. Every other day he was stopping a bank robbery, or mugging, or any number of random misdeeds. He was endlessly relieved they were all no longer classified as illegal, and they’d fought hard for it, but... it was starting to get exhausting.

As if on cue, the music from the radio was cut off, and a news anchor began spouting off a report of an in-progress museum robbery.

Disappointment washed over him, and Time sighed and changed lanes, turning away from home and towards the direction of the museum. Malon would have been listening to the radio as well, and she would know he would go to help.

So much for our quiet afternoon.

Putting aside his disappointment, Time turned up the radio to hear the details better, mentally forming a plan for when he got the Hyrule Museum of History. The robbers had gone to the wing where the gems and older artifacts were housed, and had apparently blockaded themselves inside. He couldn’t believe they were brash enough to attempt a theft in broad daylight, at the largest museum in town at that...

But then again, perhaps they want some publicity, Time thought with a snort. There were always criminals around trying to make themselves out as bigger then they were.

The woman on the radio continued with the details, and Time suddenly jerked his head down to stare at it as she repeated the name of the building.

A robbery at the Hyrule Museum of History.

The same museum where several of his children had a field trip scheduled for today.

Time breathed in sharply and stepped on the gas, navigating towards the museum with an increased urgency. Not all of the grades were scheduled to be there at the same time, but there was at least one group that was supposed to still be at the museum now, and three of his sons had been there today.

No, calm down, he berated himself, getting honked at as he narrowly made it through a light, you know they can all handle a crisis, they’ve proved that. And they might not even be there anymore.

It was completely possible that all of their classes had finished and had already gone back to the school, or that the school groups were on the opposite side of the building from where the robbers were. Or maybe his sons had been evacuated with everyone else and would be waiting outside when Time got there, wanting to help out.

Maybe.

Time reached the museum in record time, though the trip seemed to take forever. He ducked into an alley and changed into his gear at lightning speed, then ran for the building, sirens in his ears.

There was a whole crowd of people outside, confused kids and frightened adults, police and security guards trying to maintain order through the clamor. Time left the police to their business of corralling civilians— though he made sure to scan the crowd for three familiar heads, heart sinking when he didn’t find a single one— and went through a side door, out of way of the crowd.

The officer guarding the inside jumped at the sight of him, but quickly realized who he was, directing him to where the robbers had gone with a relieved look.

“We got a report that there’s some kids missing from a school group, Mr. Deity,” he warned before Time went on his way. “It’s possible they’re in the wing the robbers sealed off, but we haven’t been able to get inside to check yet.“

Time’s stomach clenched, but he nodded, and headed for the section that housed ancient jewelry.

The halls were eerily quiet apart from Time’s rapid bootsteps, normally crowded halls foreboding and empty. He didn’t go to the main doorway of the wing, knowing that’s what the robbers would expect, and also where the police would be focusing their efforts, and instead went for one of the smaller doors.

Sure enough there were no police there, only an entrance blocked off by a huge fallen statue of some kind. Time had no trouble moving it aside enough that he could get through, and began running again, his heart in his throat.

Please, please let them be outside, please—

It was even quieter in this section, and Time didn’t pass a soul as he ran past paintings and bones, ancient armor and swords displayed proudly on the walls. Yet the thieves must have hidden a lookout somewhere, for when Time turned the corner into the room housing the most rare pieces, they were waiting for him.

There were at least six of them visible, wearing dark clothing and masks that covered most of their faces. All were armed with guns, most pointed in Time’s direction, but one was pointing towards the group of kids huddled in the center of the room.

Legend right in the line of fire.

Panic and anger roared to life in Time’s chest, but he shoved them away, forcing himself to remain collected in front of the group of criminals. Showing weakness would do nothing but give them an advantage, and despite the fact that he wanted to do nothing but charge forward and get Legend out of there, he remained where he was.

Legend locked eyes with Time, and the relief in his gaze made Time’s hands threaten to shake.

“Hm, Fierce Deity,” the man pointing the gun at the kids said, levelly meeting his gaze. His mask seemed more sinister than the rest. “The report indicated that you were not the most likely hero to show up here today.”

“Let them go,” Time demanded, the other kids watching him in frightened hope. He recognized them as ones from Legend’s class, thankfully no more of his sons among them. “These kids were just here for a field trip, don’t mix them up in this.”

The man crept closer to Legend. “They will be fine if you allow us to leave with what we came for.”

“They’re just kids,” Time said, voice darkened with anger. The man looked at him in an almost bored way, then back down at Legend. “What is it you even came here to steal?”

“That’s our business,” the leader said with a smile in his voice. “Now drop your weapon, and they will be fine.”

Time breathed out, scanning the room again before returning his gaze to Legend. His son was too far for him to reach before anything happened, the other kids as well, and even if there was a remote chance he could get Legend out of the way, it was unlikely he could protect all of the hostages.

You should have been more stealthy coming in—

“D— Fierce Deity,” Legend said in a soft, urgent voice, and Time looked at his son with increasing desperation. “Don’t listen to him, just get everyone else out of here, I’ll be—”

The gun was pressed to Legend’s head, the click of it being cocked near deafening to Time’s ears.

“Put your weapon down, or he gets a bullet through the head,” the man said softly. One of the other kids whimpered. “Swiftly followed by the rest of them.”

Time looked between the man and Legend, seconds ticking by loudly in his head. It was a nightmare knowing he had the power to stop every thief in the room, but being unable to do a thing. He had to stop them, but he couldn’t do anything, not without risking Legend, or any of the other kids, not unless he—

Legend’s lip trembled, almost imperceptibly, and Time exhaled as he bowed his head.

Then he dropped his weapon.

Legend gave him an agonized look as Time raised his hands in surrender, and though Time couldn’t see the man who was still holding the gun to his head’s face, he was sure he was smirking at them both.

Rage abruptly slammed into Time, more powerful then any of the emotions he’d been dealing with so far, and he gave the robber a look of pure hatred. How dare he mix these kids up in a stupid scheme that was doubtless just to make some money?

No lives were worth a couple of pretty rocks, no matter how rare.

“Get on your knees,” the man demanded next, a hint of glee in his voice, and Time grit his teeth and did as he said.

The other robbers jeered as he kneeled down, and closed their circle around him, one kicking at his legs to make him go down faster. A fist suddenly connected with his face, and Time flinched backwards, laughter ringing in his ears. Another blow hit him on the knee, pain bursting up his leg, and he forced himself not to react.

“You’re not going to fight back?” one of them mocked, making him gasp as he jabbed him in the stomach. “It’d be so easy, just one little punch!”

“Let them go and I’ll give you a fight,” Time growled, but the man with the gun shook his head.

“No, I’m enjoying myself too much. Leaving can wait, the Fierce Deity at our mercy is too good of an opportunity to pass up on,” he chuckled. “Rough him up boys, this could be our break into the big time if word gets out.”

Time barely had time to brace himself before the blows began to rain down, all of the robbers eager to swing a punch or two his way.

Now part of Time’s powers was increased durability, his body able to handle much more strain and abuse than any normal person. But he wasn’t invincible in any sense of the word, and the robbers all had extremely hard boots and gloves, and a few had weapons that slammed into and jabbed at sensitive points all over him.

And he didn’t dare fight back.

By the time they were finished knocking him around, Time had a split lip and bruised ribs, and he wasn’t confident his knee would hold his weight. But despite the pounding in his head and the sharp ache radiating up from his middle, Legend was still unharmed, and so were the other kids.

That was all that mattered.

Time breathed in and met Legend’s eyes for a second, his son’s blue gaze wide and equally angry and fearful as they looked at each other.

“You’ve had your fun,” Time said in a voice more hoarse then before. “Now do what you said, and let them go.”

The leader idly twirled his gun, the barrel no longer pressed to Legend’s head, but still much too close to it. “I don’t think so. I don’t want any funny business from you. They’ll come with us until we’re well on our way, and then they’ll be freed.”

The fire in Time’s stomach roared. “You said you’d let them go if I dropped my weapon.”

“Your own fault for trusting the word of a thief,” the leader shrugged, and Time nearly leapt at him then and there. “We’ll be on our way now. And if you decide to follow us before we’re gone, this little group here might just—”

Someone dropped from the ceiling and landed on top of the man.

He let out a shocked cry as he was thrown to the ground, and Time realized Wild had been the one to drop from above, fully in his costume, and Hyrule and Malon soon dropped down along with him.

Relief swept over Time at the sight of his wife and other two missing sons, both safe and sound. Despite the pain when he moved, he swung out at the nearest robber, who took his punch full on the chin and fell to the ground, immediately unconscious.

A gun went off somewhere, but the familiar sound of the bullet being stopped by Hyrule’s shield rang in Time’s ears. A shriek accompanied it, and Time saw his wife hustling the kids back and away from the fight.

“We got what we came for, let’s go!” the leader of the thieves shouted, having somehow wrestled himself away from Wild, and they all sprinted out into a hallway.

Wild’s face screwed up in anger and he bolted after them, Hyrule following close behind. Malon didn’t immediately follow though, pausing at Time’s side and putting a concerned hand on his face.

“Are you okay?” she breathed worriedly, running her thumb by his split lip. “I heard on the radio, I came as soon as I realized, but I had to find the boys first—”

“You need to get those kids out of here,” Time interrupted softly, clasping her hand for just a moment. Malon scanned over him, then nodded, her eyes worried behind her mask.

“You’re right. We can regroup in a bit,” she murmured, and Time pressed the briefest of kisses to her hand.

Malon quickly stood and went back to the group of kids, giving Legend only a short squeeze on the shoulder since she was in costume and wasn’t supposed to know him. She began ushering them out in a different direction than the bandits had gone, and Time watched them leave, relieved they were all fine.

Stumbling slowly to his feet as they trailed out of the room, Time winced as he put weight on his one leg. He’d certainly had worse, but unless Hyrule was willing to help him along, he’d probably need a doctor. Relaxing afternoon indeed.

Legend suddenly materialized at his side as he managed to stand, his face still pale from what had just happened, eyes wide as they looked him over.

Time didn’t hesitate to bundle him into a tight hug.

His ribs ached with the action but Time didn’t care, and he ignored the way his hand shook as he ran it through Legend’s hair. Legend hugged him back equally tight, and Time rested his head on top of his, relief threatening to send him to the ground again.

“Dad, I’m okay,” Legend said, his voice shaking a little.

“I know. I know you are,” Time breathed. He didn’t let go though, and neither did Legend, and Time ran another hand through his hair, still unable to get the image of Legend with a gun pressed to his temple out of his head.

If even one thing had gone differently...

Time silenced the thought before it could form, and gave Legend a squeeze.

“You shouldn’t have let them do that to you,” Legend said, his voice unusually quiet, and Time sighed, pulling back just a little.

“I couldn’t let them hurt you,” he replied, cupping a gentle hand around Legend’s chin. Legend swallowed and averted his gaze. “And I can handle a few punches. That’s nothing in comparison to what he would have done to you and the others.”

And I would endure it thousands of times if it ensured your safety.

“You still shouldn’t have,” Legend mumbled.

“But I did. And I’m okay,” Time reassured, ignoring every ache that protested the fact. “This wasn’t your fault, Legend.”

Legend only closed his eyes, and Time drew him near again, Legend’s hair brushing his chin.

“I’m okay,” Time reassured again, this time in a whisper. “We’re both okay.”

Legend gripped a little tighter at Time’s suit, Time’s hand running over his hair, and they stood there in silence for what felt like a long time before pulling back, and joining the fight with the others.

[edosianorchids901]

Shatter

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "you never cared"

Cw: anger, sensory overload, alcohol

Rome, 41 AD

Crowley had, somewhat naively, hoped that things were looking up. He’d always enjoyed spending time with Aziraphale, after all. An evening of oysters and alcohol sounded like just the thing to fix whatever was wrong with him.

Only, it hadn’t fixed it. Sure, for about five minutes he was closer to happy as they talked and drank together. But then the storm clouds rolled back in, and the bristling tension inside him had only gotten worse.

He tried taking deep breaths. He tried getting even more drunk. He tried telling himself that he was being ridiculous, and should just relax and enjoy having someone who would put up with him when he was this irritable.

It didn’t work. Instead of getting less irritable, he was getting more. A lot more. More to the point where he wasn’t sure he could keep it in anymore.

And Aziraphale. Kept. Talking.

Normally, that was fine. He liked listening to Aziraphale talking. Enthusiasm was great, and no one did enthusiasm like Aziraphale. Normally, it made him feel less alone.

Today, Crowley wanted Aziraphale, the other diners, and the whole of Earth to shut the fuck up and let him have two seconds of fucking peace.

A steady march of profanity had started up in his head a while ago. He couldn’t manage to switch it off. It didn’t help with the overload, except that it did in some way. Like it was releasing a little bit of the pressure.

But not enough. The pressure was still building, an explosion of panicked rage burning in his chest. Every single noise stoked the flames higher, pushed him further towards a supernova.

The clamor of the other diners rose, laughter from another group.

Crowley twitched. It was fine, nothing to get upset about…

“Oh, and then,” Aziraphale started, “the man said—”

“I don’t care,” Crowley snapped.

He hadn’t meant to say it. But his whole body shook with the overload. Everything needed to stop.

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “You don’t care?”

“No.” Dizzy, Crowley shoved to his feet. The whole restaurant pressed in, crushing him. “Just… stop. I can’t handle you talking more.”

The furrows in Aziraphale’s brow deepened. “You never cared. About me taking before, I mean. You always seemed to like—”

“Just…” Quaking, Crowley held up a hand. “Just shut up! Give me two fucking seconds of quiet!”

Then, before he could blow up, he fled. The quaking was only getting worse, agitation eating him alive. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t stop the mounting explosion.

No amount of steady breaths or calm self-talk helped. He just kept heating up, reaching the boiling point.

It was overflowing now, no matter how hard he tried to choke it back under control. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think.

Gritting his teeth, he paused in the middle of an alley, clenched his fists, closed his eyes. It didn’t help. Nothing helped, and he’d probably pissed off the only person who ever cared about him even slightly.

The overload got worse and worse, a building helpless fury that tumbled out in smoke. He let out a howl, wordless distress.

Lightning exploded around him. Crashing into the buildings, the ground, shooting up into the sky.

It died down with a rumble, smoke still billowing from him, and he snarled as he shook himself off. The anger hadn’t died down, not even with the release.

It never died down.

“Oh my,” a voice said from behind him. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

Crowley whipped around, shaking. He would be shaking for hours at this rate. “What the deuce are you doing here? Why are you following me?”

“Well, you’re quite clearly…” Biting his lip, Aziraphale hesitated. “Struggling, shall we say?”

That was an understatement. But the gentle concern in his voice brought tears to Crowley’s eyes.

The dark glasses weren’t enough to hide the tears. He twisted around, stomped off.

Aziraphale fell in step beside him.

They walked down narrow alleys, through the forum, back into alleys. Crowley was still smoldering, still didn’t trust himself to speak. If he spoke, he might blow up again, and it was bad enough that he’d done it once.

Gradually, though, his strength failed. The tears rose again, and he couldn’t choke them back. He couldn’t push himself, not anymore. He’d run out of energy.

Exhausted, he crumpled to the ground and pulled himself to lean against a building. Aziraphale, who had been walking silently beside him the whole time, vanished.

Crowley couldn’t blame him. After all, who would want to be around someone who got angry enough to blow up?

“Here, I brought you some more wine. I-I thought it might help.”

Startled, Crowley looked up. Aziraphale hovered nearby, a jug in hand. “Why’d you come back?”

Aziraphale’s eyebrow lifted. “Because… I thought it might help? You seem to be having a particularly awful day.”

Crowley opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. He pushed his sunglasses up, wiped his eyes, took a deep breath.

“Awful week,” he finally managed, almost burst into tears. “It’s been an awful week. Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

He exhaled in a gust, worn out. Didn’t have the energy to put it in words.

Aziraphale sat beside him, holding out the jug. “It’s okay. And you don’t have to explain to me, if it’s too hard. We can just share a drink, silently.”

Choked up, Crowley took the jug. Maybe later, he could try to articulate what the helpless anger at existence was like, especially when it surged out of control. But for now, drinking silently with Aziraphale sounded damn good.

[thebrickinbrick]

Light and Shadow

Enjolras had been to make a reconnaissance. He had made his way out through Mondétour lane, gliding along close to the houses.

The insurgents, we will remark, were full of hope. The manner in which they had repulsed the attack of the preceding night had caused them to almost disdain in advance the attack at dawn. They waited for it with a smile. They had no more doubt as to their success than as to their cause. Moreover, succor was, evidently, on the way to them. They reckoned on it. With that facility of triumphant prophecy which is one of the sources of strength in the French combatant, they divided the day which was at hand into three distinct phases. At six o’clock in the morning a regiment “which had been labored with,” would turn; at noon, the insurrection of all Paris; at sunset, revolution.

They heard the alarm bell of Saint-Merry, which had not been silent for an instant since the night before; a proof that the other barricade, the great one, Jeanne’s, still held out.

All these hopes were exchanged between the different groups in a sort of gay and formidable whisper which resembled the warlike hum of a hive of bees.

Enjolras reappeared. He returned from his sombre eagle flight into outer darkness. He listened for a moment to all this joy with folded arms, and one hand on his mouth.

Then, fresh and rosy in the growing whiteness of the dawn, he said:

“The whole army of Paris is to strike. A third of the army is bearing down upon the barricades in which you now are. There is the National Guard in addition. I have picked out the shakos of the fifth of the line, and the standard-bearers of the sixth legion. In one hour you will be attacked. As for the populace, it was seething yesterday, to-day it is not stirring. There is nothing to expect; nothing to hope for. Neither from a faubourg nor from a regiment. You are abandoned.”

These words fell upon the buzzing of the groups, and produced on them the effect caused on a swarm of bees by the first drops of a storm. A moment of indescribable silence ensued, in which death might have been heard flitting by.

This moment was brief.

A voice from the obscurest depths of the groups shouted to Enjolras:

“So be it. Let us raise the barricade to a height of twenty feet, and let us all remain in it. Citizens, let us offer the protests of corpses. Let us show that, if the people abandon the republicans, the republicans do not abandon the people.”

These words freed the thought of all from the painful cloud of individual anxieties. It was hailed with an enthusiastic acclamation.

No one ever has known the name of the man who spoke thus; he was some unknown blouse-wearer, a stranger, a man forgotten, a passing hero, that great anonymous, always mingled in human crises and in social geneses who, at a given moment, utters in a supreme fashion the decisive word, and who vanishes into the shadows after having represented for a minute, in a lightning flash, the people and God.

This inexorable resolution so thoroughly impregnated the air of the 6th of June, 1832, that, almost at the very same hour, on the barricade Saint-Merry, the insurgents were raising that clamor which has become a matter of history and which has been consigned to the documents in the case:—“What matters it whether they come to our assistance or not? Let us get ourselves killed here, to the very last man.”

As the reader sees, the two barricades, though materially isolated, were in communication with each other.

[gjyfm]

Yo I decided to write my first fanfic ever on Sherlock Holmes/ John Watson. It's called The Plummet on a03. Will I draw art about it? Maybe. Will anyone actually read it? Who knows. Anyway, that's it. gg

Here's a very, very small snippet (WARNING SPOILERS):

Lightning flashes.

He's alive - Mycroft Holmes

Thunder rumbles. The clamorous sound hides the crack of his phone as he drops it.

[rainstormsdarling]

In the Shadow-Spell

A hoarse cry tore through the shadow-spell, and Feyre thought that she had never heard agony like that, not in all these past weeks of healing in the Velaris infirmary. She stilled at the sound, her senses on alert.

It was Rhysand.

*one shot, Rhys has a nightmare acomaf*

....

Feyre hadn’t been asleep for more than an hour when she awoke with her every nerve alight. Lightning coursed through her veins, her eyes flying open. When she did, what she saw was utterly different from the velvety night that had become so familiar to her. In the darkness, obsidian shadows crept along the ceiling and puddled in the corners of her room. Writhing, searching, seeking.

The shadows were in a frenzy that matched the manic pace of her heart, sweeping across her room, clamoring to consume her. And they felt like pure, icy, undiluted terror.

A hoarse cry tore through the shadow-spell, and Feyre thought that she had never heard agony like that, not in all these past weeks of healing in the Velaris infirmary. She stilled at the sound, her senses on alert.

It was Rhysand.

She lept from the bed and down the hall. The door to Rhys’ room at the end of the hallway was blasted open, pitch-black ink seeping out of it rapidly, engulfing the ornate carpet, the cerulean-blue walls, wrangling with the diminishing faelights.

And the scene that greeted her as she stumbled into his room was nothing short of petrifying.

Shredding, rippling darkness consumed the room, cruel and thieving as it devoured every last bit of warmth and hope.

Another anguished cry tore from his throat and Feyre didn’t hesitate to fall forward into the room, as if tugged by an invisible force, something that came from between her ribs, eyes straining, desperately seeking the outline of the bed, of him.

At last her eyes finally adjusted to the darkness and she found him, the bed ice-cold to the touch, silk sheets shredded by the black wreaths of darkness rippling from his hands. His head was thrown back against the pillows, chest heaving, blue-black hair falling on the pillows like ink spilled across a page.

Her eyes roamed over his exposed chest, cataloguing the shallow breaths, the golden skin slicked with sweat. His lips moved with harsh murmured words, ones she could not comprehend, and Feyre worried what sort of horrors were so awful that mangled his beautiful darkness in such a way.

“Rhysand, wake up." Her voice quivered with concern. With trembling hands, she reached out a gentle hand to his shoulder, finding the muscles there taut.

“Rhys” she said softly, then again, this time louder and with more urgency. “Rhys, wake up, please.”

He groaned again, his features twisted, and the sweat that beaded across his brow bled down his temple.

“Rhysand!” Feyre pleaded, panicking now, climbing onto the bed, swinging a leg over his body so that he was pressed between her thighs. Shaking his shoulders, willing him with every ounce of her being to wake.

His thrashing grew more frenzied, his breath coming in ragged gasps. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to reach him, couldn't seem to pull him back from the icy depths of his nightmare.

"Rhys, please," her voice broke. "Come back to me."

She was desperate now, desperate and scared, desperate and furious, furious and confused as to why she couldn’t bear to see him like this.

His violet eyes snapped open, and their gazes were locked in rage, in fury, in raw terrible power -

Suddenly she was thrown onto her back, pinned beneath him, a strong hand crushing hers above her, another at her neck, his night-frost tipped canines bared to the hollow below her ear.

“It’s me,” she gasped. “Feyre.” Her breaths heaving, her wide eyes locked beneath his wild ones.

She kept her voice soft, but she felt caught under his predatory stare.

"Feyre,” she repeated, as she beheld the anguish reflected in his eyes—the same anguish that had him panting just as hard as she was beneath him.

“It was a dream,” she panted. “Just a dream… A dream…” she repeated—a mantra, beckoning him home.

Something broke -

He reared back.

"Feyre..." Rhysand's voice hoarse and broken, canines receding beyond his lips, resting his forehead against hers. His hands shook as he held her.

“I'm here," she murmured, and her voice trembled with relief. "I'm right here."

“You’re safe, it’s just me, just you and me, at home, we are safe,” she said. He drew a ragged gasp that sucked at the air against her face, and she felt him shuddering.

Seeing him like this, Feyre instinctively fell back on her training - a grounding exercise she’d refined through countless encounters with those enduring the trauma of wars within their minds and a practice she honed for herself.

"Rhys," she began cautiously, her voice a gentle murmur in the cool darkness of his room, "I'm here with you. Let's ground ourselves, okay?"

He exhaled harshly, his hand seeking hers in the darkness, grasping onto her so tightly she could feel the storm raging in his blood.

“You can’t ever comprehend the terror of watching your body star in something your mind didn't agree to Feyre”, he laughed humourlessly. “You can’t fix me. Don’t try.”

Feyre looked away and tried to swallow, but her saliva was acidic. Her hands trembled and his features swam before her eyes. Salty tears that gathered were blinked away when she had no answers to that—to the desperate tenor in his rich, cultured voice. So she instead examined the whorls of ink on his chest and arms, the glow of his tan skin, so golden now that he was no longer caged underneath that mountain.

She took a shallow breath. Hesitating.

"Tell me, Rhys," she continued, "What is something you can see right now?"

His fingers slid along the curve of her thumb, but he refused to open his eyes. She had never seen him so disheveled, so disconcerted.

“Look at me,” she said, her voice soft but stern, one she learned as a healer. “Rhys, tell me something - anything - tell me something you can see.”

He took another breath against her mouth and his eyes fluttered open. His starkissed eyes were so dark, and she watched as they roamed over her face, over her tousled hair spread across his pillow, before settling on her own blue-grey ones, softly glowing like the moonlight filtering through the window. "The moon," he rasped. "Its silver light eddied in your eyes."

She nodded, a hopeful smile lifting the corners of her lips. "Yes, the moon," she agreed. "The new moon, hidden and safe, but there to guide us gently through the darkest of nights."

"And what's something you can smell?" Feyre asked quietly, interlacing his fingers with hers.

Rhysand closed his eyes, his senses attuned to everything around him, and suddenly she wanted to stare into his eyes again, the vulnerability she glimpsed there. "The scent of jasmine," he murmured. "It's faint, but it's there, lingering in the air."

Feyre breathed in deeply, allowing the scent to fill her lungs, to anchor her in the present moment with him. "Jasmine," she repeated softly. "Its fragrance soothing and familiar, the night-blooming flowers a reminder of tranquility in the dying of the light."

"Now, tell me" she continued, her voice breathy, "what's something you can feel right now?"

Rhysand's fingers tightened around hers, grounding himself in the heat of her touch. "Your hand in mine," he whispered, his voice tinged with something other than ice. She felt him swallow. She felt him press himself closer to her. "Steady and reassuring, reminding me that I'm not alone."

Feyre squeezed his hand gently, a silent promise. "Yes, my hand," she whispered back. "Always here to hold you, to remind you of the warmth that surrounds us."

"And lastly," she said softly, her voice barely a breath above the stillness of the night. "What's something you can taste?"

Rhysand's lips curved into an immodest half-smile, the first hint of starlight breaking through the darkness. "The taste of the night air," he replied, his voice growing stronger with each passing moment. "It’s chilled flavour. Space to breathe, to savour."

Feyre smiled back, "Yes, the night air," she echoed. And Rhysand might have dipped his gaze to her lips, like he wanted to taste those too. But he didn’t move, and they laid still for ages, content to let the silence stretch between them.

There was no restraint in his stare, and she felt laid bare, her body still pressed against the mattress beneath his. She swallowed under his gaze, to which his eyes dropped to her neck where she could feel heat rising. Her hands were still entwined with his, and she made to remove them, to remove herself before he would ask her to leave -

“Look at you” his voice rough, still riddled and raw from the power that was ripped from him.

Feyre took a shaky breath and her breasts pushed against him.

She disentangled her hands and pushed against his chest, gingerly sitting up, realising they now knelt before each other, him unclothed, her not much better. She shook her head, trying to clear it.

Her night dress was bunched around her hips. Her legs against his. And he was so still, so frozen. But her lungs felt clear, as though it was a relief to be here, touching him. She glanced to the window, and her stomach dropped. An hour or two at least had passed. It would be dawn in a few hours.

“Stay”

She stilled, and held a breath.

“Stay,” his chest jerked as he spoke, and he stared down at her, expression unreadable. “Please.”

Her heart stalled, and she desperately wanted to ask why. Why? What was she to him? She had so many questions. She was conflicted. She bit her lower lip. But she could see the tension still lurking under the surface, in the clench of his jaw, the press of his lips.

Her throat tightened so much it was hard to swallow. She slowly lowered herself back to the mattress as she held his gaze. “Okay,” she said.

“Okay,” he repeated. But he still didn’t move.

“Come here” she breathed, outstretching her arms and catching his face in her hands. Then he was in motion, his hand to capture the back of her head.

His hands were soft, brushing against the nape of her neck before he turned her, pulling her against himself. His lips were suddenly behind her ear and his mouth was burning.

“Thank you, Feyre.”

He pulled her impossibly close, holding her tightly, and the rhythmic beat of his heart lulled her into the space between dreams.

She drifted off as he ducked his head close to hers, his lips brushing against her hair as he murmured, “You are my salvation, Feyre,”

She didn’t deny it.

Notes: This is foremost a one-shot but was originally planned as an additional chapter to the story I'm currently working on - A Court Across Seas and Stars, but doesn't quite work (as yet, if you think I should add it later please let me know!). I love healer Feyre and wish there were more fics that featured her healing him? If you have any recs please let me know :) Anyway, thank you for reading, any and all feedback is most welcome!! xx