#clamor-of-lightning

[daosies]

like thunder

this piece is part of the spring & swag event!!

Everyone at the Akademiya knows that Hat Guy is difficult to reach; unless you're involved, of course.

wanderer ♡ gn!reader

warnings: use of "[name]," reader is a scholar

notes: HELLO AGAIN WANDERER NATION

“Hat Guy! Can you—” a fellow scholar begins, but is quickly interrupted by Wanderer’s ruthless tone.

“No.” 

“[Name] was just wondering if—”

“What?”

“[Name] was just wondering if you could lend us all a hand with the set pieces for Nilou’s performance.” 

Wanderer mutters something under his breath, his brows furrowed while his teeth grind against each other, furious. 

“Fine.”

“Great! See you later today, then!” 

Wanderer doesn’t miss the way the scholar grins, the way their expression morphs into one of insufferable triumph. Clicking his tongue, Wanderer rolls his eyes, his hand tugging at the brim of his hat in a futile attempt to hide his own self-satisfaction. 

Helping with set pieces? Count him out. You were wondering if he could help, though? Maybe he can spare an hour. Or two. Or however many you need him for—maybe, just maybe! 

Your involvement is the reason why Wanderer arrives at the Grand Bazaar two hours before Nilou’s supposed performances. So he can lend a hand with the set pieces; so he can be an active, useful member of society; so he can—oh, and suddenly, the wind stills, his chest shudders, ricocheting. 

Wanderer’s greatest flaw is that he has too much and too little heart, that he feels the rush of humanity despite, really, not being human at all. It is because of this flaw that he has long forsaken the land of his creation, where lightning splits the sky, a spasm of Celestia. 

“Wanderer!” you exclaim, beckoning him over. You are the only one in this world who greets him like that. You look at him, and Wanderer shivers, goosebumps rippling all throughout his skin despite not feeling cold. The surge of humanity, the still of the wind—you bring forth his greatest flaws, wielding him like some sort of doll, reaching into the cavity of his chest, squeezing the heart which has never existed. 

He reincarnates. Alive. You look at him, and Wanderer feels his heart, resuscitated, beating, alive. He’s alive! Like lightning, splitting the sky; like thunder, shaking the earth. 

“I’m so glad you came!” you say, grinning, and Wanderer merely scoffs. 

“Of course you are,” he quips, the callousness of his voice not matching the tenderness of his gaze, the humanity which spills from the cornflower color of his eyes. “You need someone with an Anemo vision to hang up the banners.”

You laugh. “How’d you know?” 

Wanderer clicks his tongue. “You’re terribly simple.” How could I not? he thinks.

Wanderer’s greatest flaw aligns with his greatest weakness. You. 

“Hat Guy!” Not even a day later—after Nilou’s performance, after he helped set up not only the banners, but also, the lanterns which hung from the ceiling—another one of his classmates clamor towards him, waving a report in their hand. 

Wanderer doesn’t even respond. His pace quickens, and the vision on the side of his chest begins to glow, a breeze beginning to form at the heels of his feet. 

“[Name] was asking abou—”

The forming hurricane comes to a halt, and Wanderer’s levitating figure lowers to the ground. 

“What?” 

“[Name] was asking if you were going to attend the study group later today?” 

Wanderer furrows his brows. “Of course not. Why would I need to study?” 

Not even an hour later, the door to the library swings open. There you are—the surge, the lightning, the thunder—surrounded by a plethora of books and even more people. They all seem drawn to you, asking you questions, throwing the precious syllables of your name around haphazardly. Wanderer frowns at the sight.

“Wanderer?” you suddenly say, noticing him first. Something ricochets in his chest, resonating throughout the hollow space, thunderous. “What’re you doing here? I thought you said you didn’t need to study?”

Wanderer scoffs. “Of course I don’t.” 

“But you’re… here? At the study group?” 

Wanderer pulls a seat up next to yours, ignoring the broken cries of a classmate who was trying to ask you a couple of questions.

“I am. You have a problem with that?” 

You grin that grin of yours, and Wanderer has half the urge to cover your face with his hand—Why are you smiling like that? he wonders, glaring at the other scholars sitting at the same table as you, completely enamored by your expression. 

“No,” you reply. “Actually, I was just wondering about this part of Inazuman history…” 

Wanderer has long forsaken his homeland. But you—oh, you; when it comes to you, there’s lightning, there’s thunder, but most of all, there’s love. 

And that, Wanderer thinks, is the greatest flaw of humanity. 

That’s why it’s his.

[flight0ficarus]

Lost and Found (Snotlout x Reader

Description: After a shipwreck, you wash up on the shore of an unfamiliar island. Someone who introduces himself as Snotlout is put in charge of nursing you back to health. What happens next? 👀

A/N: this man had me damn near barking in the movie theater I had to write something

Disclaimer: idk how sailboats work I tried my best ;-;

Part 2

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Part 1: A Viking’s Questionable Guide to First Aid

As so many stories start, it was a dark and stormy night. You were hiding from the rain below the deck of one of your father’s charter ships. An oil lamp that hung from the ceiling was emitting a faint glow, just bright enough that you could keep your nose buried in a book. The boat rocked dangerously back and forth. You could feel your stomach churn with every dip and you prayed for the strength to keep your supper down. You had read about monsters in this area. Your father would say it was nonsense, but you felt as if some horrible sea-lizard was toying with your ship.

Your father was a wealthy merchant, he’d taken his business to a far away country and had you stay put to handle some of his affairs. The two of you liked to joke that you were business partners. Now, after many months, he’d sent a letter requesting you to come stay with him and visit the foreign land. He hired a ship to see that you were brought safely and all in one piece.

You weren’t exactly sure that last part was going to happen. You could hear the roaring of thunder followed by the clamoring of the ships crew. Their exact words were muffled by the downpour hammering against the ship from all directions. The storm seemed to be getting worse by the second, as did the pit growing in your stomach. You had been instructed to stay below deck at all costs. For no reason were you to leave the supposed safety of your room and traverse to the upper decks. But the walls of your room seeped a damp, musty smell and your bed felt like laying on a slab of concrete. Your eyes began to water and blur as bile raised in your throat. You set your book down and threw on some boots and a gray duster to cover your under clothes. Bad weather was not going to stop you from getting out of your stuffy room and breathing in some cool air.

You climbed up the latter that lead outside your room. The worried voices began to grow in clarity as you reached to undo the latch on the door. “Fire!” You thought you heard someone shout. Fire? During a rainstorm? You had a pretty good grasp of languages, but some people on the ship spoke ones you weren’t entirely familiar with. You must’ve just gotten the words confused. You pushed the door open and stuck the top of your head through. The first thing you noticed was how every crew member was leaning over the starboard side of the ship. The second thing you noticed was glowing, red-hot embers floating from above your head as you choked on the stench of smoke. You looked up and saw the smoldering remains of the ship’s mast.

Your heart sunk to your stomach. Lightning must have struck and now the boat couldn’t turn. You heard a loud crash to your left and saw that the boat had scraped against a line of sharp rocks. The men to your right leaned further over the edge, but it was no use. They weren’t heavy enough to change the ships direction without a working sail and now the cabin was taking on water. You dragged yourself out of the door and saw as the light from your room was drowned out by the darkness of the water. You ran to where the other people were standing and threw your weight against the edge. It was to no avail, the ship hit another pile of rocks and you were thrown forward. The floor was slick from the rain and your head smashed against the ground. Your vision went completely black for a second before you came to. One of the men, short and stout and nearing your father’s age, helped you to your feet.

“You’re bleeding.” He was right, the left side of your head was pouring blood. He supported your weight and dragged you back toward the stern. The man set you down and continued to speak in a thick accent. “I’m going to find someone to help you.”

You could barely understand what he was saying to you. The commotion was so loud and you were starting to feel dizzy from the blood loss. He gave you an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder and told you to hang in there before running off.

You weren’t sure how long you sat in the rain before the ship started to sink. Your consciousness was starting to slip from your grasp. You tried to keep yourself awake and alive. You thought of your father, you tried remembering the last thing you read in your book, but nothing was working. Somewhere near the front of the ship the crew was loading onto life boats. You tried to call out, you tried to drag yourself toward them, but you didn’t have any strength. The ships port side was tilting into the water and you were powerless to do anything but slip into the freezing ocean.

The throbbing in your head stopped only to be replaced by the unforgiving stabbing of icy cold knives. Every inch of your body ached with cold; the chill seemed to sink into the marrow of your bones. You felt your body scrape against the rocks as you were dragged further and further from the ship. You looked toward the heavens, there was no moon and no starts, only the blackness of the clouds that blended with the blackness of the sea. You always figured your death would be warm, in a room full of people you loved, but here you were: bleeding out in the deep waters of some rocky island, alone and cold.

You blacked out again, who knows how long, but everything was illuminated the dull blue of an early morning when you woke up. You felt waves pushing and pulling you against the sand. Your whole body stung from the salty seawater in your wounds. You tried to blink the blurriness from your eyes when a figure appeared above you. It was big and furry with horrible, twisted horns.

Monster! You thought. It was a childish fear, one you should have long outgrown. You tried to fight back when the beast wrapped its paws around you and picked you up.

“Would you stop that?” It sounded like you were still under the water. You weren’t sure who was speaking, maybe another crew mate had been taken by the monster? You didn’t have time to think much else before you slipped away again.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

You woke up to pain. Your head pounded and your back and legs were sore and covered in bandages. Wherever you were it was dark. You were laying on some kind of bed with a pile of fur blankets covering you. Other than those, the only thing you wore was a thin white nightgown and barely covered the tops of your thighs. You tried to recall what had happened. Storm, ship wreck, monster. No it couldn’t have been a monster, those don’t exist. You used one of the blankets to keep yourself covered and started looking around the room for something to defend yourself with. Monster or man, you wouldn’t go down without one hell of a fight.

You realized you were in a healing hut of sorts. There were herbs and medicines and other things you didn’t recognize. Blankets covered the windows, but you could tell it was daylight outside. You found a small knife next to some crushed up berries and held onto it. You studied the plants and any writing you could find, trying to figure out whose shore you washed up on when you heard someone enter from behind you. You turned, knife at the ready, prepared for any monster that had come your way.

Before you stood a young man. A look of relief washed over his face. “You’re alive!” His voice seemed familiar, as did the twisting horns protruding from his strange hat. His eyes went toward the ceiling as he shrugged off his large jacket. “Here.” It was barely a murmur.

You risked a glance down and realized you’d let the blanket fall from your shoulders. Heat rose to your cheeks as you realized you stood before him barely clothed. He stepped closer and you hesitated in letting your guard down. “You pulled me from the water?” His tongue wasn’t your native one, but you spoke it just fine.

He still wasn’t quite looking at you. “Yeah that was me. That was three days ago. You’ve been asleep since, They put me in charge of watching you.” You let him place the jacket around your shoulders and reveled in the warmth he left behind.

You kept a firm grip on the knife as you questioned him. “Where am I?”

“The charming island of Berk.” He seemed to say it sarcastically

“How far are we from the Whispering Isle?

His eyebrows furrowed. “The Whispering Isle? I don’t know, maybe a month by boat.”

A month?! You couldn’t wait that long. Your father would think you were long dead. “I need to get there. I’m meant to meet my father.”

“You’re not going anywhere in this condition. Why don’t you put the knife down and follow me.” Did he think you were stupid?

“Why would I follow you?”

“You don’t think you’re still going to be sleeping in the healer’s hut do you? People here get injured like it’s going out of style. We set up a place for you.” Somewhere other than a cramped wooden hut that smelled of smoke and herbs would be nice. Although you did appreciate the warmth after nearly dying of cold in the ocean.

He led you out of the tent. The moment daylight hit your eyes it felt like your head was being split in two. You’d nearly forgotten about your brain bouncing around in your skull like a rubber ball. He pulled you closer and covered your eyes with his hands. “Sorry! I’m so sorry I forgot Gothi said we should keep you away from bright lights when you woke up.”

“Who’s Gothi?” You hissed, still trying to regain your bearings. You weren’t a fan of being led blindly by this man, but you still had the knife in your hand in case he tried something funny.

“Gothi, she’s like our fortune teller. She usually handles medicine and stuff too.”

“And who are you?”

“Snotlout. What’s your name?”

Snotlout? What. The hell. Kind of a name is Snotlout? Never mind this weird island and their weird names, you couldn’t wait to leave.

You told him your name.

“That’s pretty. Pretty name for a pretty girl.” Oh how you almost gagged. A man named Snotlout would not be flirting with you.

You made it to wherever it was he was taking you and once you were inside he removed his hand. “Tada!” He spread his arms wide like nothing could bring him more pride. “What do you think? I put the whole thing together myself.”

That was a frightening thought. It was smaller than the healing hut. Almost nothing more than a cot and a table, with a single flower in a vase on top and a pitcher next to it. This guy should really become an interior designer. You turned to face him. This was the first time you’d gotten a good look at him. He wasn’t very tall, if you had your boots you’d probably be the same height as him. He was wearing a goofy smile — too big for his face — as he waited for you to reply.

“It’s lovely.” His brown eyes lit up. They reminded you of how a baby calf looks when you bring them a snack

“Oh! Your jacket. It’s getting cleaned and stitched up. I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”

Finally some decent news. “Thank you.”

“Well I have stuff to do. I’ll be back to check on you later. Get some rest.” And with that he excused himself from the room.

You laid on the bed, still wrapped in Snotlout’s fur coat, and cried your eyes out. You cried for the ship's crew, hoping that maybe they lived. You cried for your father, who was far away and impossible to get to. You were alone, with foreign people on an isolated island. What if these people were mean? Misery clouded your thoughts as your head pounded. You downed half the water in the pitcher and hurried your face in Snotlout’s coat, hugging your knees.

Let me know if y’all want a part two 👀

[soriseerakyra]

The Quiet Between The Screams

TW: Pregnancy, mentions of matricide, mentions of self-harm, dream murder

He touches your stomach as if he is checking you for a wound. No smile. No reverence. Just a palm, calloused and cool, pressing lightly against the small swelling beneath your ribs. As if something inside might break. As if he were expecting it to bite.

You can’t blame him. You haven’t felt human in weeks.

Your ladies gasp when he touches the small bump. They were worried about this, about letting him be around you when you were in such a vulnerable state.

The high chamber is silent. Outside, Giedi Prime howls with its usual industry—grinding gears, plasma drills, a sky carved open by chemical lightning. But in here, everything is still. No guards. No surveillance. Just you, and Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, and the child twisting quietly inside your womb.

"It kicked," he says.

You nod. You don’t correct him. You don't ask if he's pleased. You're not sure you want to know.

He pulls his hand back. He wipes it on his coat as if he had touched something unclean.

You close your robe.

He leaves in a hurry, and your ladies clamor around you. It has been this way for the past few weeks.

His behavior is strange.

It’s what haunts you as you sleep. How off-put he is by your distended body. You may not be sure if 'off-put' is the right word. Perhaps 'unsure,' 'hesitant,' or 'maybe wary' would be more accurate. All things that were not Feyd-Rautha. All things that haunted you in your dreams.

You were only at the beginning of the third month of your pregnancy. Barley a bump there feel. But you had been glad. This was what you were sent here for. Secure the bloodline and your future. It was the outcome of all of these noble marriages and should have been expected.

Except your husband seemed…surprised. Surprised by your pregnancy, astonished by your excitement, and shaken by the prospect of the future.

You were no fool. You did not expect the murderous Na-Baron to shower you with affection the way another might. Did not expect him to pat you on the head and say how proud he was of you. But you certainly had not expected him to run away from you. To avoid your form entirely.

You knew he had problems with his mother. That the friction there had led to her death. However, no one seemed to care enough about your safety to tell you why she was killed.

He moved you here, to this high chamber. Away from your marital bed, away from him. As if he could not stand the sight of you. The idea of. His visits are all like this. Short, lacking understanding, and a hurried exit.

If this were to continue, you wouldn’t be sure how long you would have left. How long your child would have without you.

***

That night, your hauntings change.

A boy who looks like Feyd in all ways except for his eyes smirks at you. He presses a dagger deep into your abdomen over and over again, with the ease of pulling a lever. With the care of cutting grass. He murders you. He smiles. And you can only be glad that he is healthy.

It's terrifying. But you cannot bring yourself to do anything but rub your belly soothingly when you wake alone in your new chambers. You could not abandon your child to such a fate. To be capable of such cruelty.

Your tears begin to well up in your eyes, warm as they roll down your cheeks. There is no one to comfort you tonight, only the darkness. Only the silence.

***

Dinner is the only thing that retains its normalcy. He stares at you with his usual interest. Always wondering what you choose to eat, where your taste buds linger. Tonight, he wonders why you are not drinking wine.

“Is it spoiled?”

You can only shake your head, exhaustion from another sleepless night clinging to your bones.

He hushes himself, watching you with wary eyes. You both continue in silence for moments more. But he cannot help his need for conversation.

"You’re quiet," he says over dinner, not looking up.

"You left a knife on my table."

"A gift."

You snort. "Of protection or permission?"

He glances up then. His eyes are the color of hunger.

"Both."

You mull it over, thinking of the short, blood-red blade that was left in the quiet of the night for you. It was silly that it brought you comfort. Because it could have only been left if he was watching you, waiting for those few hours you fell asleep to leave you your gift. A romantic gesture of the highest order from Feyd-Rautha.

And yet.

He doesn’t speak again for a long while. Then, as you reach for a piece of bread, his voice is low and curious.

“Do you think he’ll hate you?”

Your hand freezes mid-reach. You look up slowly.

“What?”

Feyd leans back, expression unreadable. “Our son. Will he hate you for bringing him into this world? Or will he save that for me?”

Your heart flutters at his curiosity, so much so that you nearly disregard his question.

“My goal is to make sure that he is happy. There is no reason he cannot be, even here.”

He snorts. “I’m happy. Would you have him be that way?”

You pause for a moment, meeting his eyes deeply so that he may understand your meaning. “I mean happy in the way that you make me.”

He cannot answer this because he cannot lie and say that he doesn’t understand it.

There were nights he spent curled into your stomach, simply listening to you breathe and to your heartbeat. A feeling he had not understood nor deemed necessary at the beginning of your courtship. Now, he cherished it in ways he refused to name. It had become a ritual, something primal and silent. And with your body changing, with the heartbeat no longer just yours, he did not know what part of the sound still belonged to you—and what belonged to the thing he helped create.

“You can try.”

You can’t help but grin.

He always did love issuing a challenge.

***

He stands at the foot of your bed, fists clenched and breath heavy. Under these lights, you see familiar dark rings around his eyes. He had also been losing sleep.

"She called me her redemption," he says finally. "Her clean slate."

"And?"

"I never asked to be her second chance."

“And you hated her for it?”

“Yes.”

Your lips roll into a line, unsatisfied with his reason, but you cannot argue with him because there is confusion in his eyes, too. As if he doesn’t know the reason why he is who he is.

“If he is like me, will you hate him?”

“I will love him.”

He comes closer and kneels near the side of your bed. He hesitates before he puts a hand on your belly.

“If he is like me,” you ask. “Will you love him?”

Contemplation settles across his face. And his hand this time snakes under the blanket, settling on the bare skin of your stomach. He rubs this time using his entire palm to feel the budding seed. The feeling of his calloused hand on your skin sends shivers down your spine.

“He will be mine.”

You chuckle. Perhaps that was better than love to him.

[muletia]

God I need to get Optimus pregnant and it's not even in a necessarly horny sense anymore.

It's the way Optimus referred to "family" as a strictly human concept to Ultra Magnus. Over his time on earth he's grown utterly enchanted by the idea of having one, especially once you're in the picture, but knows it cannot be. No matter how badly either of you want it.

I need him to one day, when everything settles down and you start living out in your little cottage, start noticing a bunch of strange symptoms: He's oddly fatigued, as if his frame is suddenly dumping power somewhere new. He's simultaneously overcome with an unexplainable hunger and nausea, as if his tanks are clamoring for fuel other than energon and reformatting to process it.

I need him to nearly break out in joyful sobbing when Rachet disbelievingly explains his scan's findings to you. Doesn't even have it in him to scold you both for being this irresponsible, not when his old friend looks so... fulfilled. Sincerely thanking him before turning and all but collapsing into you. It's probably best Rachet gives you both a moment of privacy with the news...

(Pregnancy glow hits Opti hard btw)

oh my god, OH MY GOD this is so peak

Me thinks Optimus, at first, would be completely unaware of the meaning behind all these symptoms. Sparked up bots on Cybertron were extremely rare, not to mention that after the war began, there was neither the time nor the opportunity for the creation of new sparklings. Optimus never really had much — if any — exposure to carrier bots. His knowledge of reproduction is limited to the basic understanding that his species is capable of it (something must have ignited that first spark of drive toward reproduction, after all) and that he very, VERY much wants to have one with you. All of the symptoms associated with being sparked up are completely foreign to him.

That’s why, at first, he isn’t concerned. He rationalizes the oddities as simply his body adjusting to a new, slower, more peaceful life. The shift from Autobot leader to house husband, whose most stressful responsibility is remembering to refill the hummingbird feeder, is drastic. No wonder his frame is responding to it. And the fact that these symptoms have persisted for weeks, months, even? Well. Maybe he just needs a lot of time to fully adjust.

Until you begin to notice that something strange is going on with Optimus.

The energon supply is disappearing at an alarming rate. More than once, you’ve woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of him rummaging through cupboards and the storage shed, searching for more. He snacks constantly, even though he’s just refueled. And lately, he’s been so clingy. Always wants to be close to you, touching you in some way, whether it’s cuddling or simply maintaining some form of contact. He’s stopped going on his usual walks to watch birds just so he can spend more time with you.

And most concerningly, he’s started whimpering when you are ready to leave for work, begging you to stay home. With him.

The realization strikes you like a bolt of lightning the moment you finally notice the slight swell of his abdomen (since we’re already fully committing to human pregnancy symptoms, why not give him a little baby bump?)

"Opti… are you… pregnant?"

And suddenly, everything clicks into place for him, too.

Ratchet is contacted immediately. Then comes disbelief. Shock. And joy. So much joy. The old medic has never seen his friend so genuinely happy, so full of life. Optimus' usual reluctance toward PDA is completely overridden by his sheer need to share his happiness with you. He covers your face in kisses, confessing that his greatest dream has just come true.

And while, at first, it’s incredibly difficult for you to process the idea that a robot can even get pregnant, let alone with an entirely different species, his joy is so raw and so pure that you can’t help but be swept up in it, too. For now, you don’t want to think about how or why. You just want to stay in this beautiful moment with him.

But, of course, there’s no avoiding a very long lecture from Ratchet about responsibility and how in Primus’ name is this even possible?!—it’s an unskippable cutscene. But the sting of his scolding is completely overshadowed by the sweetness of this joyous revelation.

and you are so real for the pregnancy glow. that Opti face card is gonna be LETHAL

[novaursa]

Caught by Fire

- Summary: A story where Daemon's daughter falls from the sky. And by some strange events orchestrated by fate, Otto catches you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Otto Hightower

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: the daughter

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The streets of King’s Landing were alive with noise and color as the festival in the lower city reached its peak. Crowds pressed against one another, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed wine, and the tang of the Blackwater rushing nearby. Musicians played bawdy tunes on lutes and pipes, their notes dancing over the clamor of merchants hawking their wares. It was a scene Lord Otto Hightower had no intention of witnessing firsthand.

Yet here he was, against his better judgment, striding through the chaos, his brocade cloak trailing through the muck of the streets. Beside him, Lord Jasper Wylde, known for his rakish charm and devil-may-care attitude, laughed heartily at Otto’s perpetual scowl.

“Come now, Lord Hand,” Jasper chided, slapping Otto’s shoulder with mock camaraderie. “Even the most dour of men must loosen their chains every now and then. You’re beginning to make Ser Harrold Westerling look positively jovial.”

Otto’s glare was as cold as the winds of the Reach. “I’ve no business in this rabble. My duty is to the Crown, not to trifling entertainments.”

Jasper waved a dismissive hand. “The Crown will not collapse because the Hand of the King partakes in a cup of mulled wine and watches a few fire-eaters. If anything, it might remind the people that their lords are not entirely made of stone.”

Otto sighed heavily but allowed Jasper to lead him further into the throng. He was keenly aware of the eyes upon him—common folk staring with mixtures of awe and suspicion at the austere man in his fine attire. It was rare for a lord of Otto’s stature to mingle so closely with the smallfolk, and rarer still for the Hand of the King to do so.

As they turned a corner, Jasper grinned and pointed toward a colorful tent pitched near the edge of the square. A sign hanging from its entrance read, Madame Lysara: Seer of Fates, Whisperer of Truths.

“You must be joking,” Otto muttered, his tone flat.

“Not at all,” Jasper replied, already tugging him toward the tent. “What’s a festival without a bit of harmless folly? Let’s see what the stars have to say about the great and mighty Lord Hightower.”

“I’ve no patience for charlatans.”

“And I’ve no patience for your endless brooding,” Jasper countered, shooting Otto a wicked grin. “Humor me, my lord. Consider it penance for dragging you out of your tower.”

Reluctantly, Otto allowed himself to be ushered inside the tent. The interior was dimly lit by flickering candles, their wax pooling onto an intricately patterned rug. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, sweet and cloying. Madame Lysara, a woman of indeterminate age with piercing eyes and a dramatic cascade of silver hair, sat behind a low table strewn with cards, crystals, and curious trinkets.

“Ah,” she purred, her voice low and melodic. “A man of great stature, though burdened by the weight of his own making. Please, sit.”

Otto remained standing, his expression carved from granite. Jasper, on the other hand, plopped down onto a stool with the enthusiasm of a man half his age. “He’s a stubborn one, isn’t he?” Jasper quipped, jerking a thumb toward Otto.

“Such men often are,” Lysara said, her gaze never leaving Otto’s. “But the stars speak even to the unyielding.”

Otto crossed his arms. “I’ll not pay coin for empty words.”

“Then you risk hearing the truth for free,” Lysara retorted smoothly, drawing a card from her deck and placing it face-up on the table. The illustration depicted a tower struck by lightning, figures tumbling from its heights.

Jasper leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “What does it mean?”

Lysara’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “A great change approaches—a shift that will shake the very foundation of his life. And at its heart, a woman.”

Otto’s brow furrowed, his patience wearing thin. “If this is your attempt at flattery, it’s wasted.”

“Not flattery, my lord,” Lysara said, her tone soft but insistent. She drew another card, this one showing a figure falling through the air, arms outstretched. “The woman destined for you will arrive as if from the heavens, a gift of fate. She will bring chaos, but also clarity. And you,” she added, fixing Otto with a penetrating look, “will catch her as she falls.”

Jasper let out a bark of laughter. “Falls from the heavens, you say? Well, Otto, I do hope you’re prepared to catch an angel.”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line. “This is nonsense.”

“Perhaps,” Lysara allowed, gathering her cards. “But nonsense often carries a grain of truth.”

Jasper clapped Otto on the back as they exited the tent, his laughter echoing into the night. “Well, my friend, it seems your days of solitude are numbered. A woman falling from the sky—what a sight that will be!”

Otto ignored him, his mind already dismissing the fortune-teller’s words as the drivel they were. Yet, as they walked back toward the Red Keep, a faint unease settled in his chest. He told himself it was the incense clinging to his clothes, the noise of the city, the sheer absurdity of it all.

But the image lingered: a figure falling, and his arms reaching out to catch her.

The day began like any other, the city bathed in pale sunlight, the streets bustling with their usual chaos. Lord Otto Hightower stood on the steps of the Great Sept, flanked by a small retinue of guards. A heated discussion with Lord Beesbury over tariffs had drawn him away from the Red Keep, and though Otto’s attention was fixed on matters of governance, his thoughts were distracted by the open sky above. The festival's fortune-teller, and her ridiculous prediction, had faded into the back of his mind. Yet, when his gaze drifted upward, he found himself momentarily lost in the endless expanse of blue.

“My lord,” Ser Arryk interrupted, snapping Otto from his reverie. “Shall we return to the Keep?”

Otto adjusted his cloak, nodding briskly. “Yes, the king waits on no man.”

The party began its descent from the Sept, Otto leading the way with measured steps. He barely noticed the city around him, his mind preoccupied with the endless demands of his position. But then, a shadow passed over the sun. A large shadow.

Above the city, a dragon’s roar pierced the air, its deep, bone-shaking timbre sending the smallfolk scattering. Otto froze, his head snapping upward as a magnificent beast streaked through the sky—a dragon, its scales glinting like molten bronze in the sunlight. It swooped low, its rider clinging tightly to the saddle.

You had taken to the skies on a whim, your dragon restless and your heart yearning for the open air. Vermithor’s powerful wings carried you effortlessly above the city, the wind tugging at your hair. Below, the world seemed so small, so inconsequential, and you reveled in the freedom that came with flying. But then, as Vermithor banked sharply to avoid an incoming flock of ravens, the unthinkable happened.

The saddle strap—worn from battle and flight—gave way.

You barely had time to gasp before you were tumbling, the air rushing past you in a deafening roar.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sensation of falling. Panic clawed at your chest, but instinct kicked in. You tried to right yourself, arms flailing, the ground rushing closer with terrifying speed. Vermithor’s roar echoed somewhere above, the dragon circling back too late to catch you.

On the ground, Otto saw you before anyone else did—a figure hurtling toward him from the heavens. The memory of the fortune-teller’s words hit him like a physical blow.

She will bring chaos, but also clarity. And you will catch her as she falls.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the commotion.

The guards around him shouted, some scattering while others moved to shield him. But Otto stood rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on the falling figure. Instinct, or perhaps fate, took hold. As you plummeted toward him, he stepped forward, bracing himself.

You collided with him in a tangle of limbs and motion, the force of your fall driving him backward. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and the two of you tumbled to the ground in an ungraceful heap.

“Gods,” Otto groaned, his body aching as he struggled to push himself upright. “Are you—”

“Get off me,” you hissed, shoving at his chest.

Otto blinked, stunned. He hadn’t expected the woman in the prophecy to be so…fiery.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he bit out, his tone clipped. “But you are the one who fell from the sky.”

You scrambled to your feet, brushing yourself off and glaring at him. “I didn’t ask you to catch me.”

“Should I have let you splatter against the cobblestones, then?”

Your retort died on your lips as Vermithor landed behind you with a thunderous roar, his massive frame dwarfing the surrounding buildings. The dragon’s eyes burned with protective fury as he lowered his head toward you, his hot breath ruffling your hair.

“Easy, boy,” you murmured, placing a hand on his snout to calm him. “I’m fine.”

Otto watched the exchange with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “You… you’re Daemon Targaryen’s daughter.”

You turned to him, your silver hair catching the light. “And you’re Otto Hightower.”

He inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “I suppose that makes us…acquainted.”

“Hardly,” you replied, your gaze flickering over him. “But I suppose I owe you thanks.”

“Thanks?” He raised a brow. “I’ve just saved you from death, my lady. I’d say you owe me more than that.”

You smirked, a spark of mischief in your dark violet eyes. “A debt I shall repay. Perhaps I’ll save you one day, Lord Hightower. If you’re lucky.”

Before he could respond, you swung yourself onto Vermithor’s back with practiced ease. The dragon let out a low rumble, his wings unfurling.

Otto stepped back, watching as you rose into the sky, the dragon’s powerful wings stirring the air around him.

Jasper Wylde appeared at his side, his face alight with amusement. “Well, Otto,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “It seems the fortune-teller was right. She fell from the heavens straight into your arms.”

Otto scowled, brushing Jasper’s hand away. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

But as the dragon disappeared into the horizon, Otto couldn’t help but wonder if fate had just played its hand—and if he was ready for what was to come.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep buzzed with conversation as courtiers gathered for the day’s proceedings. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, but the warmth of the room was undercut by the ever-present tension that came with power games and politics. Lord Otto Hightower stood near the dais, his face a mask of composure as he observed the assembled nobles.

He was in the middle of a conversation with Lord Beesbury when the heavy doors swung open, and the clamor in the hall faltered.

Daemon Targaryen strode in, his presence commanding and unmistakable. His long silver hair caught the light, and the black-and-red tunic he wore bore the three-headed dragon of his house, the fabric rich and imposing. His dark violet eyes scanned the room with a mixture of boredom and disdain, and the edges of his lips curled in the faintest smirk as courtiers parted before him like leaves before a storm.

Otto’s spine stiffened.

It had been moons since the incident with you—Daemon’s daughter—had left him both bemused and bruised, and while the Hand had worked to compartmentalize the events, he knew well that Daemon had likely heard of them by now. Targaryens, after all, had a way of knowing things they shouldn’t.

Sure enough, Daemon’s gaze landed on Otto. The Hand braced himself, his grip on his staff tightening as the Rogue Prince began to make his way toward him.

“Ah, Lord Hightower,” Daemon drawled, his tone dripping with mock civility as he approached. “Still alive, I see. Good. I was beginning to think the gods had finally grown tired of you.”

Otto inclined his head slightly, his expression carefully neutral. “Prince Daemon. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“I’m sure it is,” Daemon replied, his smirk widening. He glanced around the hall before leaning in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make the exchange feel intimate—and pointed. “Tell me, how are your arms? I imagine catching my daughter must have been… taxing.”

Otto’s jaw tightened, but he refused to take the bait. “Your daughter is fortunate to have been spared a far worse fate. Though I must say, her impulsiveness is… troubling.”

Daemon barked a laugh, drawing the attention of nearby courtiers. “Troubling? Coming from you, Hightower, that’s rich. Impulsiveness is a Targaryen birthright, or have you forgotten?”

Otto met Daemon’s gaze evenly. “A birthright that often ends in disaster.”

Daemon’s expression hardened for a moment, but then he smiled, sharp and wolfish. “And yet, here she stands—alive and well. A miracle, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps the gods themselves decided to spare her and gift you the privilege of her company.”

Otto resisted the urge to roll his eyes, keeping his tone measured. “I consider it my duty to protect the realm, regardless of who requires aid.”

Daemon tilted his head, studying Otto as though he were some peculiar creature on display. “Duty,” he mused, his voice dripping with disdain. “You wear that word like armor, don’t you? As if it can shield you from everything—including the truth.”

Otto’s brow furrowed. “And what truth is that, Prince Daemon?”

“That no matter how high you climb or how tightly you clutch your precious titles, fate will always find a way to humble you,” Daemon said, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, the words meant for Otto alone. “And if fate doesn’t… I will.”

The two men stood in tense silence for a moment, the air between them charged. Finally, Otto straightened, his face carefully impassive. “If that is a threat, my prince, I would advise you to reconsider. The king does not take kindly to such talk.”

Daemon’s grin widened. “Oh, it’s not a threat, Lord Hightower. Merely a promise.”

With that, he stepped back, his posture relaxed once more as he cast a casual glance around the room. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find my daughter. I hear she’s taken a liking to… wandering.”

Otto’s lips thinned, but he said nothing as Daemon sauntered off, his presence drawing the eyes of every courtier he passed. The Hand of the King remained where he stood, his thoughts swirling as he replayed the conversation.

If there was one thing Otto Hightower knew, it was that the game of thrones was never without its challenges—and Daemon Targaryen was one of the most unpredictable of them all.

The private solar of Lord Otto Hightower was a haven of calm compared to the bustling chaos of the court. The Hand of the King sat at his desk, a pile of correspondence before him, his quill moving steadily across parchment. Outside, the muffled sounds of King’s Landing filtered in—distant voices, the clatter of hooves, the occasional toll of bells. It was the sort of environment Otto found productive. Or at least, it usually was.

Today, however, Lord Jasper Wylde’s persistent presence threatened to unravel Otto’s carefully maintained composure.

Jasper lounged in a chair across from Otto, sipping from a goblet of wine and grinning like a man with a secret. For the past few minutes, he had been circling the same topic with infuriating persistence, and Otto’s patience was wearing thin.

“When will you act, my lord?” Jasper asked at last, setting his goblet down with an exaggerated flourish.

Otto didn’t look up from his parchment. “Act on what?”

Jasper chuckled, leaning forward conspiratorially. “The prophecy, of course. The fortune-teller. The princess.”

The scratch of Otto’s quill stopped abruptly. He slowly lifted his gaze to meet Jasper’s, his expression carefully neutral but his tone as cutting as a blade. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, don’t be coy,” Jasper replied, waving a hand dismissively. “The gods themselves have practically handed her to you on a silver platter. A Targaryen princess—Daemon’s daughter, no less—falls from the heavens and into your arms, and you mean to tell me you’re not even considering the possibility?”

Otto set his quill down with deliberate precision. “Considering what, Lord Wylde? That I should ‘act,’ as you so vaguely put it? On the basis of a festival charlatan’s ramblings?”

Jasper smirked, undeterred. “Oh, come now. You and I both know it wasn’t just ramblings. The woman spoke true, did she not? She said a woman would fall from the sky and into your arms. And lo and behold, the princess did exactly that.”

Otto’s jaw tightened. “The circumstances of her fall were nothing more than a cruel twist of fate. There is no grand meaning to be found in it.”

“Isn’t there?” Jasper pressed, his grin widening. “You’ve spent years advising the king, orchestrating alliances, and navigating the treacheries of court. Yet when fate hands you a moment as undeniable as this, you choose to ignore it? Why?”

Otto leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “Because she is a princess, Lord Wylde. A Targaryen princess. The daughter of Daemon Targaryen, a man whose disdain for me is well-documented. To approach her in any manner beyond what is strictly required by duty would be… unwise.”

Jasper raised a brow. “Unwise, or inconvenient?”

“Both,” Otto snapped, his voice low but firm. “She is not some court lady to be wooed with flattery or gifts. She is a dragon’s daughter, bound by blood and fire to a family that would see me undone given the slightest provocation. To involve myself with her would be folly.”

“And yet,” Jasper countered, leaning back with an infuriatingly smug expression, “she has already involved herself with you—whether by fate or accident. Tell me, Otto, has it occurred to you that this could be an opportunity? A chance to strengthen your position, to bind House Hightower even more to the blood of Old Valyria?”

Otto’s eyes narrowed. “At what cost? My life, perhaps? Daemon would kill me before I could so much as utter a word of intent.”

“Daemon wouldn’t dare,” Jasper said with a dismissive laugh. “Not openly, at least. He may be reckless, but even he wouldn’t risk the consequences of spilling the blood of the king’s Hand.”

Otto stood abruptly, the movement silencing Jasper mid-laugh. He placed his hands on the desk, leaning forward as he fixed Jasper with a piercing glare. “Listen well, Lord Wylde. Whatever foolish notions you have conjured up regarding myself and the princess, I suggest you abandon them at once. I will not jeopardize my position, my life, or the stability of the realm on the basis of a prophecy whispered in a smoky tent.”

Jasper met Otto’s gaze evenly, though the amusement never left his eyes. “Very well,” he said, rising to his feet and brushing imaginary dust from his tunic. “But mark my words, Otto. The gods are not so easily ignored. And neither, it seems, is the princess.”

With that, Jasper turned and strode toward the door, leaving Otto alone in the quiet of his solar. For a long moment, the Hand stood motionless, his thoughts a tempest of frustration and unease. At last, he sank back into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Foolishness,” he muttered to himself. But as he resumed his work, he couldn’t shake the memory of you falling from the sky—and the strange, inexplicable feeling that his life was no longer entirely his own.

[cece693]

Hello! Could I request a Jason Grace x male reader fanficthat has like anger issues with the reader either being a son of ares or nemesis:D

If you decide to make this I thank you

Lightning in Your Veins

pairing: jason grace x male reader tags: son of ares, reader has anger issues, jason makes it better and is your safe place

Your fists clenched as you lunged at a training dummy in Camp Half-Blood’s arena, each strike hitting with enough force to startle even the most seasoned demigod. A few yards away, Jason Grace watched you with an unwavering gaze, stormy eyes revealing both concern and admiration. He had just finished his own sword exercises when he noticed you losing your temper—again.

“(M/N)!” he shouted over the clang of metal. “Take a breath!”

The tautness in your shoulders eased fractionally at the sound of his voice. Even though a raging fire still blazed beneath your skin, you forced yourself to pause, chest heaving. It wasn’t easy being the son of Ares. Anger seemed to run in your blood, threatening to break free at the slightest provocation.

But Jason was there. He was always there.

You first met Jason during an ambush on a quest. Embarrassingly enough, a stray arrow had grazed your arm. Blood dripped onto the forest floor, and you’d been half-blinded by pain and fury, ready to fight back with no regard for your own safety. He, battered from a scuffle with a cyclops, had insisted on helping you, ignoring his own wounds to wrap yours with shaking hands.

That day, lightning rippled across the sky and crackled in your heart. You’d never believed in those cliché moments of “electric sparks,” but the second you stared into his eyes—eyes that reminded you of storm clouds over a calm sea—your pulse pounded for an entirely different reason than anger.

Of course, it wasn’t all smooth sailing from that point on. You had a temper like no other, and Jason’s sometimes overbearing sense of duty often clashed with your single-minded need to face threats head-on. But in quieter moments—moments where he found you alone at the archery range late at night, or when the two of you snuck to the lake’s edge to watch the moonlight—there was no one else in the world you wanted by your side.

Now, back in the arena, you struggled to rein in that Ares-fueled fury. Sweat slid down your temple. You felt suffocated, embarrassed that you couldn’t control it, especially in front of him. Jason’s gentle approach was your only anchor.

“Take a breath,” he repeated softly, lowering your raised fists with his hands. He slid his fingers over yours, the contact sending a jolt of warmth through your arms. You exhaled shakily, remembering all the times his voice alone kept you tethered to reality when your anger threatened to consume you.

Jason’s thumb stroked the back of your hand, electricity humming just below his skin. “Are you okay?”

"Depends," you managed, a self-deprecating smirk curling your lips. “Do you mind if I punched that dummy so hard it nearly fell over?”

He chuckled. “I’d only be worried if you started punching me next.”

Despite your anger, you felt a flicker of humor. “I’d never do that…at least, not without a really good reason.” That earned a small laugh from him, and you found yourself relaxing, your shoulders no longer tense. Jason’s laughter was like a fresh breeze dispersing the thick storm clouds in your mind.

You were never great at words. To you, action always spoke louder than any poem or eloquent speech. So, when Jason slid his hand up your arm, hooking his fingers gently around your bicep, it was like he was reading your mind. No words needed—his presence and concern were proof enough of how much he cared.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

He guided you toward a side bench beneath the shade of an oak tree. As you both sat down, the distant sounds of other demigods training faded to a dull clamor. You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes, swallowing a wave of frustration at yourself. You hated feeling so out of control, so easy to provoke.

“Hey.” Jason’s voice was gentle. “I know it’s not easy, being the son of Ares and all.”

“Sometimes, I can’t stand it,” you admitted, raw honesty tumbling out. “Everything sets me off. And I’m worried one day I might hurt someone—someone I…” You trailed off, chest twisting. “Someone I love.”

Jason’s eyes flashed with sympathy. He squeezed your knee. “You’re stronger than that. You made a promise to control this, right? I’ve seen you fight the toughest monsters and outsmart the worst of your own impulses. I believe in you. And if you do lose it,” he added, his lip curling into a rare, fond smile, “I’ll be here to knock some sense back into you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, a short bark of a sound that was more relief than true amusement. Jason’s unwavering faith in you was a lifeline you never knew you needed until you had it.

As the afternoon sun lengthened the shadows across the camp, you and Jason found yourselves drifting toward the strawberry fields for some quiet. The fields, usually bustling with satyrs and other campers tending to the plants, were empty in the late day. Golden rays lit the place like a scene from a painting, turning the leaves into shimmering emerald.

Jason walked beside you in comfortable silence, your shoulders occasionally brushing. When he gently reached for your hand, you let him take it, warmth blooming in your chest. Here, away from the clang of swords and the prying eyes of other demigods, it felt like it was just the two of you.

Stopping by a particularly lush patch of berries, Jason turned toward you. The breeze ruffled his blond hair, revealing the small scar above his right eyebrow—an old souvenir from another quest gone wrong. Before you could think, you reached out and traced it softly. He leaned into your touch, letting out a contented sigh.

“I’m not going anywhere, M/N,” he said, voice quiet but sure. “I’ll be here when your anger flares up. I’ll be here when you feel ashamed. I’ll be here when you feel like you can’t handle it.”

You blinked, your throat tightening with emotion. You couldn’t decide if it was embarrassment at your vulnerability or gratitude that someone—even a son of Jupiter—could care about you so much.

In response, you gently tugged him closer by the collar of his camp shirt, closing the distance until you could feel the heat of his breath. His eyes fluttered shut half a second before yours did. Your lips met in a tender, hesitant kiss that quickly grew surer, fueled by the swirl of conflicting emotions inside you—fear, passion, relief, love.

He tasted like the ozone before a thunderstorm, and you wondered if that was just Jason or your imagination conjuring sparks again.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, you were amazed at how calm you felt. Your anger was still there, coiled like a serpent in your chest, but with Jason at your side, it seemed…manageable.

“Thanks,” you murmured, brushing your forehead against his. “For believing in me. For staying.”

Jason squeezed your hand. “Anytime,” he promised, a small grin tugging at his lips. “After all, you’re stuck with me now.”

You found yourself laughing softly, your heart drumming with more excitement than dread for once. Maybe anger was part of who you were, but it wasn’t everything. And if there was anyone who could handle a spark of Ares—and give it right back—it was Jason Grace.

[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?”

[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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[mylovesstuffs]

The Colour Was Crimson — Kwon Soonyoung

One dies. One lives. One forgets.

There is no logic to the moment you chose to trust him; a knight who might hand you over come morning, a man who said little and promised less. He was supposed to stop you. You were meant to keep running. And yet, in the cold hush of a forest steeped in rain, with prophecy wrapped around your neck like a noose, you find yourself leaning into the warmth of the only person who hasn’t asked you to be anything but alive. Beneath a tattered cloak and a leaking roof, you share a night together suspended in something like safety

Genre: Historical fantasy, romance (?), slow burn, dramatic realism, introspective character study, strangers-to-???

Pairing: Kwon Soonyoung × runaway princess!reader

Content: Runaway royalty, stormy night in a shared cloak, strangers-to-something, knight × princess dynamic, prophecies, fate vs. free will, existential introspection, emotionally repressed knight, one-bed trope (?) (cramped hut edition), wounded pasts, survival in the wild, bittersweet comfort, philosophical undertones, reluctant alliance, prophecy entanglement ("one dies, one lives, one forgets"), themes of sonder, and that classic thunderstorm backdrop

Warning: Light references to past violence, implied political escape/war themes, mentions of blood and prophecy-related fate/death

Word count: 2179 words

A/N: LISTEN. this was soonyoung’s birthday fic and i was six minutes from flopping the entire mission by not posting on time. i posted this thing RAW at 11:59 KST. not even a title. no tags. no genre. no under the cut. just running on time and blind panic. if you blinked, you’d have no clue who it was for unless you read 80% through and saw the name of the member 😭 (yes, his name was written after lots of blabbering) anyway. it’s barely here, but here. this fic was born in a swamp of my deeply romanticised obsession with the, one night under a shared cloak trope. also knight soonyoung. stoic. leather. prophecy-haunted. emotionally constipated. yeah. this is my first draft with all the frizz of one, but i weirdly love it. shoutout to my discord pals who witnessed the meltdown in real time (you know who you are), and to tumblr’s draft system for always being the final boss.

happy birthday to the man who contains multitudes: tiger and tulip, chaos [confusion in gose too] and choreography, laughter and love, heart and hurricane. you’re the type of person who could lead an army into battle and then cry because the confetti cannon missed its cue. a man who dances like the stage is on fire and loves like his heart was never once broken. your laughter is loud, your spirit louder, and somewhere in between the two, we all fell a little more in love with life just by watching you live it. stay wild. stay tiger. stay soonyoung. happy birthday, our horangi. i'll always be the #1 supporter of horangi cult ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ

The mud clung to your boots dragging you down with every step. Rain lashed the trees, a wild downpour that turned the forest trail into a treacherous mire. Branches clawed at your hood, soaked through from hours beneath the weeping sky. Still, you pressed on, breath shallowed with shoulders hunched beneath a worn cloak no longer fit to shield you.

You stumbled, again. And then a hand gloved in ash-toned leather, caught your elbow firmly.

“I told you to step where I do,” came his voice, deep and tacit.

You didn't thank him, never did. Instead, you replied, “Perhaps if you talked more and glared less, I’d know where to step.”

He did not answer; rarely ever did. A stoic knight forged in duty, sworn to a kingdom not your own—and against better judgment, aiding a runaway princess whose name he dared not speak aloud.

Lightning carved a split in the sky, the brief flare illuminated the path ahead; if it could be called that. Just endless trees and endless rain. Somewhere, far behind you, the clamor of hounds and steel still echoed faintly through the hills. They hadn’t evanesced, yet.

Tightening the straps of his leather satchel, “keep moving,” he said.

But the storm had other plans. By the time you stumbled upon the hut that was barely wide enough for two to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, it was already half-swallowed by the woods, cloaked in moss. An old hunting shelter, perhaps. A relic of some forgotten war. You stepped inside, mud dripping from your hem. He followed wordlessly, shutting the creaking door behind you. The roof wept in places, but it was better than the wrath of the storm.

He shrugged off his sodden cloak, jaw tight. You eyed it, then him. “Well?” you asked.

He stared. “Well what?”

You huffed, peeling off your own cloak and wringing it out. “You were talking too much for someone who usually says nothing at all,” you said, voice sharp as sleet. That earned you a glance, but nothing more.

The storm howled. Wind seeped through the cracks in the timber walls like breath through clenched teeth. You shivered. Without a word, he shifted closer as he noticed, unfurling his cloak. It was soaked, but still warm from his body. Seeing this, you hesitated a little bit.

“What?” he asked. “Dared the woods, but frightened of my cloak?”

“It’s not that,” you murmured, taking a seat beside him. “Just... I’m not used to kindness that doesn’t ask for something in return.”

He didn’t answer for a long time. “I’m not being kind. I don’t want you to die of cold before I hand you over.”

You glanced up at him. “So you will hand me over?”

A pause, then, softer, “I don’t know yet.”

Rain danced on the roof like pearls rolling across wood. You curled beneath the shared cloak, closer to him than proprietary would ever have allowed, were you still in court and not in this forsaken patch of wilderness where rules meant little and survival meant more.

“Do you believe in prophecy?” you asked in a hushed voice.

He turned to you, his profile carved from shadow and ember-glow. He’d lit a small fire, somehow, despite the wetness, and it flickered now between you, casting a crimson gleam against his cheekbone. “No,” he said. Then, “Yes. Perhaps.”

“There’s one about me,” you said. “About the girl who runs, and the man who stops her. One dies. One lives. One forgets.”

“Romantic,” he said, with dry disinterest. But his eyes stayed on you.

“It’s not meant to be,” you said, lips curving bitterly. “Prophecies never are.”

Another silence. It wasn't tense at all, just… heavy with sonder. The ache of two lives that should never have crossed. The fire cracked, and he shifted. You watched the lines of his face which were drawn and tired, but noble in their own way; seraphic, almost, when the flames caught just right. You thought of the courts he came from, the sword at his hip, the blood he’d drawn, the blood he refused to speak of.

And you — a girl who’d once worn silk, now cloaked in dirt and guilt and secrets. A girl who once smiled for paintings, now pressed into a hut with a man she barely knew but already trusted more than anyone else.

“Why did you come with me?” you asked.

He didn’t look at you. “I don't know.”

“Liar.”

“Verily,” he said, with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

Minutes passed, and the fire dimmed. You felt his breath before you heard it. It was slow, steady. Then he shifted just enough for your shoulder to brush his.

“Sleep,” he said.

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

“Will you watch?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “I’ll watch.”

And so, you dared to close your eyes, against better judgment, in a hut barely wide enough for two, under a storm that tried to drown you, beside a man who might hand you over come morning—and yet, in this moment, was the only thing in the world that felt safe. Alas, fate was cruel.

But for one night, beneath a shared cloak, beneath thunder and whispers of prophecy, you let yourself believe otherwise.

-

When you woke up, it was still raining. Grey light seeped through the broken shutters, ash-pale and cold. You were still beneath his cloak, tucked against his side like some weary burden he had forgotten to push away. He hadn't moved. Not much, anyway.

You shifted slowly, limbs sore from sleep and too many miles. His arm, heavy with the weight of leather and muscle, slid from your shoulders with a reluctant grace. He was awake, you realized.

You felt the rigid stillness of someone pretending otherwise, before he spoke.

“You stayed,” your voice was hoarse. “I thought you’d vanish before sunrise.”

“I thought about it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

His reply came slow. “Couldn’t get the fire going again without you snoring on it.”

You snorted. “So I’m good for kindling, then?”

“Among other things.”

A beat of silence before you managed to say, “such as?”

He didn't answer, again. You sighed not being amused, running a hand through your tangled hair. Mud crusted the hem of your sleeve; your fingers were stiff. The world outside felt like it was still made of rain. But for now, the hut held.

You glanced at him—jaw shadowed with stubble, cloak collar damp, his sword hilt resting at his side like a limb. Kwon Soonyoung. The knight of the southern border, the man whose name you only learned when you'd already fled three nights’ worth of roads with him.

He wasn't a friend, not per se, or at least, yet. But not an enemy either.

The first time you saw him was on the border road, your skirts were still too fine for your path. Crimson silk, pearl-studded hem; stolen garments from a carriage you'd bribed your way into before ditching the wheels and running barefoot into the night.

You were breathless and desperate. And he stood on the bridge under the clear blue sky of dawn, unmoving like a statue carved from fate itself.

“Turn around,” he said, not even drawing his sword.

You stepped forward. “You don’t want to do this.”

He tilted his head. “No. But you were talking too much for someone on the run.”

You flinched from recognition; it wasn't made of fear. He knows.

“I won’t go back,” you said, hosting your voice thin as mist. “Even if it kills me.”

He regarded you for an uncomfortably long stretch of time, his gaze steady and unblinking, though, in truth, it was rare to see his eyes flutter at all. And then, to your astonishment, he shifted only a fraction just like that, a simple pivot of boot against stone, but it was enough to create a space through which you might pass. No bargain was struck. No conditions laid. No commands issued. There was only the sound of the wind altering its course through the trees, and the strange, almost imperceptible weight of a decision made by a man who spoke little but once carried orders that ended wars.

You stepped forward, cautiously, your breath caught in your throat like a trespass half-expecting the reprieve to snap shut like a trap around your ankles. But he moved behind you with his footfalls, deliberate and unhurried; neither threatening nor companionable, merely present.

And when, driven more by confusion than courage, you finally turned to ask what tethered him to your uncertain path, his reply came with the same restraint that marked all his actions: “Perhaps I am waiting to see how this ends.”

“You dreamt,” he informed you without warning, breaking the hush with the same low, even gravity that marked all his observations: never a question, always a statement. You looked up with the remnants of sleep still clinging to your thoughts. He adjusted his cloak. “You said something, in your sleep,” he continued, his gaze not really meeting yours. “Something about fire... and fate. And the color red.”

“Not red,” you corrected, as if naming it properly mattered. “Crimson.”

He studied you openly this time for a moment with that same unreadable stillness he wore like armor. “A name?” he asked at last.

You hesitantly answered, “A warning.”

The space between you seemed to draw in the silence. The rain outside, though muted by walls, seemed to press inward now. You remembered the dream, though already the edges have begun to fray. Images rose in flickers: a long corridor lined with mirrors that refused to show your face; a voice, disembodied and cold as wind across stone, whispering not prophecy, but verdict—One dies. One lives. One forgets. A prophecy spoken beneath an eclipse. You swallowed.

“I’ve heard those words before,” he said. “On the battlefield. Whispers from an old seer before the siege of Ilyra.”

“Do you believe it now?” you asked.

He gave no answer, but his hand strayed to the hilt of his sword as his jaw tightened. You took the clue. Even without words, you both knew what hung between you.

You had stopped by the river sometime near dusk, though the light beneath the trees was so uncertain it could have been any hour between afternoon and nightfall. Your feet raw from the ill-fitting boots you’d taken off a sleeping stablehand three villages back, throbbed with each step, and you’d finally surrendered to the pain, lowering yourself to a moss-slick rock with a hiss that escaped despite your resolve to remain quiet.

Soonyoung had settled himself across from you perched on the length of a fallen tree. The dagger in his grip caught the dim light as he dragged the whetstone down its edge with a nice rhythm. His expression was, as always, unreadable, carved from whatever discipline exile required.

“I’m not the kind of girl who believes in romance,” you had said then, not looking at him, as if the words might sound less like a confession if spoken to the water.

He didn’t look up saying, “good.”

“But if I were...” you ventured, testing the edge of something less guarded, “I’d want it to happen during a storm.”

This time, his hand paused just briefly enough to be noticeable if one was watching. The dagger stilled, and so did the air between you. He resumed the motion without haste. “You’ll regret saying that.”

There had been something in his tone which was dry, unflinching, but not unkind that made you smile despite yourself. It wasn’t a smile of victory or charm, only the soft foolish curve of someone who still believed they might unearth warmth where others had found only cold. “Why?” you asked, meaning it.

And that was when he truly met your eyes for the first time without the usual wall of disdain, without the carefully measured detachment he wore like chainmail. “Because storms end,” he said.

“If we survive this,” you turned toward him now, more serious than you meant to be, “if the prophecy doesn’t kill us, or the king’s men don’t find us… what then?”

He didn't look away, for once, he didn't avoid the weight of what you were asking. “Then I go back,” he said.

“To what?”

“To nothing.”

"And I?"

“That depends on whether you still believe you’re meant to run.”

What followed was not merely silence, but thick with all that remained unsaid between you, brimming with the weight of choices half-made and truths withheld out of mercy or pride.

Without a word, he reached for the cloak and drew it around you both once more. There wasn't much warmth left in it, but it was something. And so, you realized, was he.

You allowed your head to rest just beside his shoulder. He did not shift away or speak.

And in that space of lull that came before action and decisions had to be named aloud, you found yourself wondering, if sonder was truly enough. To glimpse the infinite in someone else and, despite it all, still choose to stay.

⌦ ⚔️ © mylovesstuffs | est. 2025. thank you for reading—your reblog means everything. until we meet again, stay cozy and keep dreaming! ◜ᴗ◝

[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.

[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

[honey-andmilktea]

❝I'd like you to also see the beautiful rainbow that arises after clamorous lightning.❞ - Leraye, ‘What in HELL is Bad?’

Official Teaser From PrettyBusy Instagram [Teased: 01/31/23] + Trivia Comic!

[onesiesdaydream]

Always in the Middle I Yukichi Fukuzawa x Platonic! Reader x Ougai Mori

Summary: After years of rivalry, a shared threat forces both Fukuzawa, Mori, and their respective agencies to join forces, much to the relief of their long-time friend.

A/N: This fic is 100% self-indulgent fluff that I wrote because my heart needed it🥲💕 I promise I haven’t forgotten about the requests — they’re still on my list! I just have exams coming up soon, so things might be a little slower than usual. Thank you so much for your patience and support, it seriously means the world💖

TW: This fic contains spoilers for Bungou Stray Dogs Season 3, so please be aware of this if you're not caught up yet!

MASTERLIST

Years ago, under Natsume-sensei’s ever-calm and quietly knowing gaze, the three of you had been something rare—unbalanced yet perfectly functional, like a wheel missing a spoke that somehow kept turning anyway.

Fukuzawa: the still blade, precise and unreadable. Mori: the wildfire, brilliant and unruly. And you—caught in the middle of their polarities. The hinge that allowed the door to swing between chaos and control. When Mori’s games became too dangerous, your glare was the warning. When Fukuzawa’s restraint closed him off, it was your presence that drew him back to human warmth. You weren’t the strongest, or the smartest, or the most formidable, but together you were unstoppable.

But you were the bridge.

And for a while, that had been enough.

The three of you continued down the alley, boots soft against the damp concrete. Rain had fallen earlier — not enough to soak, but enough to leave the ground slick and glistening, reflecting the dim golden glow of street lamps like scattered stars beneath your feet. The city was quiet at this hour, its usual clamor reduced to the occasional murmur of tires over puddles or the distant clang of a train bell.

You walked in the middle. You always did.

It was never a matter of strategy, never something you planned. It was just where you fit — where you were needed. 

"Are you seriously keeping a scalpel in your sleeve again?"

Your voice broke the silence of the dark alley, arms crossed as you glared at Mori. The man merely smiled—cheerful, sharp, and just a little too comfortable with chaos.

"I find it... efficient," he replied, winking. "You never know when a thoracic emergency might arise."

"Or when you'll manufacture one," Fukuzawa muttered dryly from your left, sword still sheathed but his stance wary. You could feel the tension radiating off him like a storm cloud ready to crack lightning.

You groaned, stepping between them like you’d done countless times. “You both know we’re supposed to be discreet. Master Natsume gave us one job: observe the smuggling ring. Not incite a philosophical battle about acceptable levels of murder.”

Fukuzawa gave a subtle sigh and relaxed slightly. Mori twirled the scalpel between his fingers before slipping it away with exaggerated grace.

"You wound me, Y/N," he said, clutching his chest dramatically. "What would this team do without your undying devotion to lawfulness?"

You arched a brow. "Fall apart in a day."

They both paused. Neither argued.

And that made you smile.

Mori walked with a bounce in his step, shoulders relaxed, but you knew better than to think he was truly at ease. Mori was always calculating, always ten thoughts ahead of everyone else in the room.

On your left, Fukuzawa was a quiet shadow, as he often was. Silent, steady, calm. His gaze scanned the alley from time to time, sharp and unreadable, taking note of every detail.

The three of you continued down the alley, boots soft against the wet concrete. You walked in the middle, always in the middle — the weight of Mori’s unpredictable brilliance on one side, and Fukuzawa’s righteous silence on the other. You balanced them like a scale, one tilt too far and it would all go sideways.

But tonight felt... good.

The mission had gone smoothly for once. No bloodshed. No disasters. No arguments. No brooding silence that lasted days. And when you all regrouped in a quiet café afterward — with Mori sipping overly sweet tea and Fukuzawa opting for black coffee — it felt almost like family.

It was one of Mori’s favorite haunts — a cozy place with mismatched chairs and too many clocks on the wall. The waitress greeted you like old friends, ushering you to a booth in the back that you’d claimed so often it might as well have had your names engraved on it.

Mori ordered something ridiculously sweet — a sugar-laden tea topped with whipped cream and little flower-shaped jellies. Fukuzawa opted for black coffee, no sugar, no milk, just bitter and strong. You chose something in-between, as always — a warm, spiced chai with just enough sweetness to soothe the chill in your bones.

You leaned back in your chair and sighed contentedly, letting your shoulders relax as steam curled upward from your cup. The quiet hum of soft music and distant conversation blanketed the café in a warm stillness.

“Someday,” you said, your voice light, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you watched the curls of steam drift upward, “we’re going to be legends.”

Mori smirked. “I already am.”

Fukuzawa glanced at you, then away, his voice soft but certain. “Only if we don’t kill each other first.”

You laughed, and this time, they both joined you. Mori chuckled, a smooth, playful sound, and even Fukuzawa’s lips quirked in that rare, subtle way you always noticed.

It wasn’t perfect. There were cracks under the surface, you knew that. Tensions they didn’t talk about, ambitions neither of them had truly voiced. There were moments — quiet ones, when Mori’s eyes lingered too long on Fukuzawa’s blade, or when Fukuzawa’s hand hovered near his katana just a second too early — that told you the peace might not last.

But for now, for this one night, the world was quiet. The tea was warm. Your friends were here.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was yours.

And for a while, that was enough

You were an odd trio, drifting between missions handed down by Natsume-sensei himself—tasks only a group as strange and capable as yours could execute. You fought back-to-back, argued in whispers, and laughed over tea in odd little cafés after long nights. There was tension, yes. But also something deeper—something that felt like home.

But homes can crumble, even when no one intends to leave.

It didn’t shatter all at once. No betrayal, no bloodshed. Just cracks—subtle, quiet fractures in the glass. Shifts in ideology too deep to mend with words. Glances that lingered too long with doubt. Silence that felt heavier than any argument.

You watched as the distance grew, helpless to stop it.

Fukuzawa, ever principled, stepped into the public eye and built the Armed Detective Agency—a haven for those with gifts and convictions, dedicated to justice, protection, and the preservation of peace. Mori, ever calculating and enigmatic, took a different path—into the city’s undercurrent—where he reshaped the Port Mafia into a structured, unflinching force that maintained balance in the shadows, guarding the city’s unseen edges with methods few dared to acknowledge. Two visions, born from the same history, now stood on opposite sides of the same coin—each necessary, each burdened with the weight of the world they chose to protect.

You stayed between them, walking the line neither could cross, not as a relic—but as a quiet constant. You never chose a side, because in your heart, they were both still yours. You moved between the Agency and the Mafia like a whisper, offering aid where it was needed, keeping ties from fraying too far. You didn’t grieve a death. You grieved a bond stretched thin by time and purpose.

So when the virus struck — a cruel twist of fate chaining Fukuzawa and Mori to each other's lives — it was both a horror and a strange, glimmering chance. A chance for something to mend.

The forest stretched out before you, its once peaceful greenery now scarred by the echoes of battle. The mouth of the tunnel loomed in the distance, a dark reminder of the chaos that had unfolded inside. The sounds of heavy breathing and the shuffle of footsteps mixed with the rustling of leaves, the scent of damp earth heavy in the air.

But amidst the tension, the most unexpected thing had happened: both the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia had fought side by side, their rivalry pushed aside for a moment of impossible cooperation. The virus, the deadly weapon that had threatened to tear them apart, had been neutralized. The enemy had been taken down. Together.

You paused just at the edge of the clearing, your breath catching as your eyes swept across the scene.

Mori stood to one side, his usual playful mask gone, replaced by something far more serious—a quiet, almost somber presence yet still donning a smile. His clothes were slightly askew, his side wrapped in bandages that were partially hidden under his long coat. His gaze was locked on the horizon, unreadable as ever. Despite the bandages, the sharpness in his posture hadn’t dulled.

Fukuzawa stood opposite him, his stoic face betraying little, though the faintest hint of strain crossed his features. Bandages were wrapped tightly around his neck, evidence of the brutal clash they’d had earlier—when Mori had nearly struck him down in the heat of battle. But there was no bitterness in Fukuzawa’s eyes. His silent strength was still there, unmoved by the tension that had once cracked between them.

And then, as you took a step toward them, everything inside you seemed to shift. The dust, the blood, the years of quiet heartbreak and tangled history—it all seemed to fall away for just a moment. You didn’t care that half the Armed Detective Agency stood nearby, watching with tired eyes, or that the Port Mafia’s presence lingered just a few feet away. Let them see. Let them stare. This wasn’t about titles or allegiances, not anymore. This was about the three of you.And in that split second, it wasn’t logic or protocol that moved your legs—it was something deeper. Relief. Grief. Love that had never truly dulled, only gone quiet. Your heart thundered as you broke into a full sprint, feet pounding over the grass, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

And then you were leaping—arms outstretched, body crashing into both of them in a fierce, clumsy tackle of a hug.

“Idiots,” you choked out, burying your face between them. “You’re alive.”

They staggered under your weight, unprepared for the sudden onslaught of emotion and limbs. Mori let out a startled oof as your shoulder bumped hard into his injured side, while Fukuzawa instinctively caught your elbow to steady the group, though even he took a half-step back to brace.

It was a gesture so familiar that, for a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all. Back before the walls of their empires had risen, when you were simply a trio that fought and laughed and struggled together.

Mori stiffened under your arms at first, caught somewhere between discomfort and surprise. His usual swagger was nowhere to be found, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with something so simple and genuine. But then, with a weary exhale that sounded more like surrender than irritation, he shifted slightly, his hand finding its way to your back, awkward but sincere. “Well,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, “this is... nostalgic.”

Fukuzawa didn’t speak at all, his silence more telling than any words could be. His hand rested on your back in the same steady, comforting way it always had. That unspoken connection between you hadn’t been lost—despite everything that had come between you.

For a long second, none of you moved. It didn’t matter that their subordinates were watching. It didn’t matter that the sun was setting behind you or that the world would surely demand something of you all again tomorrow. This was your moment.

You pulled back just enough to look at them, eyes glassy. You sniffled, then smiled through the tears. “So…” you murmured, voice wobbling with leftover adrenaline and fragile relief, “you still hate each other?”

Mori snorted, an eyebrow lifting as he gave a crooked half-smile. “A little,” he said with a grin, though it was tinged with exhaustion rather than mockery.

Fukuzawa’s eyes met yours briefly—still calm, still thoughtful—and he gave the faintest tilt of his head. “Only as much as necessary.”

You laughed then—a soft, shaking thing that bubbled up from somewhere deep. Not just amusement. Not just relief. But hope. And maybe, in some quiet part of you, pride.

“I’ll take it,” you whispered. “I’ll take it.”

[girl-next-door-writes]

Fake it til you fall

Characters: Armitage Hux x reader

Summary: Anxiety spikes at a holiday party until an unexpected ally, Armitage Hux, helps you fake-date your way to triumph—but is your evening as fake as you first thought?

Word Count: 1274 words

Prompts: Crowded party. Fake dating.

A/N: A sweet anon requested this one, and I hope they see it.

The clamor of the holiday party swirled around you like a chaotic symphony. Laughter, the soft hum of music, the clinking of glasses—sounds that should have been comforting felt anything but as you scanned the room for a familiar face. The sprawling penthouse, draped in tasteful holiday decor—gold and white lights twinkling against polished wood and sparkling glass—felt more like a museum than a place for merriment.

You had one mission tonight: survive this.

Across the room, you caught sight of your co-worker, Lila, and she wasn’t alone. She was surrounded by her usual gaggle of friends, none of whom you could stand. They'd zero in on you the moment they spotted you alone, hurling the same passive-aggressive questions as always: "Oh, you're here alone again this year? How independent of you!"

The air caught in your throat at the thought. Not again. Not tonight.

You edged closer to the refreshment table, trying to look busy by fussing with a glass of eggnog. The bubbling anxiety gnawed at the edges of your mind, but then, as if summoned by some miracle—or maybe just sheer desperation—you saw him.

Armitage Hux, the last person you expected to be at a party like this.

He wasn’t mingling. Of course he wasn’t mingling. The man looked as out of place as a cat in a dog park. His tailored suit was immaculate, the dark fabric setting off his ginger hair and sharp features. His arms were crossed, his expression one of thinly veiled disdain as he surveyed the room with the air of someone who would rather be anywhere else.

But he was here, and more importantly, he was alone.

You’d worked with him tangentially—sort of. He was a consultant for a neighboring department at your firm, and while you’d only exchanged a handful of words, you knew one thing for certain: he was someone who commanded respect.

Or fear.

Either way, the idea struck like a bolt of lightning.

You could ask him to fake date you. Just for tonight.

You almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it, but then you caught sight of Lila again, her eyes narrowing as they landed on you. Time was running out.

You squared your shoulders, grabbed two champagne flutes, and approached Hux.

“Hi,” you greeted, forcing a smile and holding out the extra glass like a peace offering.

He raised one perfectly arched eyebrow, looking at you as if you’d just interrupted a very important thought.

“Yes?”

You resisted the urge to wither under his gaze. “I… I need your help.”

His other eyebrow joined the first. “My help?”

“Look,” you said, glancing over your shoulder toward Lila, who was now whispering to her friends and shooting pointed looks your way. “There’s this group of people here who always make my life miserable at these events, and I just—well, if I could pretend I wasn’t alone tonight, they’d leave me alone.”

Hux blinked slowly. “You want me to pretend to be your date?”

“Just for tonight,” you said quickly. “No strings, no weird expectations. Just stand near me, maybe talk to me every now and then, and let people assume we’re together. Please.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his green eyes piercing. You braced yourself for rejection, for mockery, for him to laugh in your face and leave you to fend for yourself.

But then he said, “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes,” he said curtly, taking the champagne flute from your hand. “Let’s get this over with.”

It didn’t take long for the ruse to kick into effect.

Hux, to his credit, was an exceptional fake boyfriend. He stood close enough to you that no one would question your supposed relationship, but not so close as to make it uncomfortable. He offered you his arm when you moved through the room, and his sharp, dry wit kept even the most insistent small talkers at bay.

You found yourself relaxing in his presence, the initial awkwardness giving way to something almost… fun.

Lila, of course, made her move.

“Oh, wow,” she said, sidling up to you with an exaggerated smile. “I didn’t know you were bringing someone. Who’s this?”

“This is Armitage,” you said, keeping your voice steady. “My boyfriend.”

Her eyes flicked over to him, and for the first time in your life, you were grateful for Hux’s intimidating demeanor. Lila’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second before she recovered.

“Boyfriend?” she repeated, her voice a shade too sweet. “How… unexpected.”

Hux, who had been sipping his champagne, gave her a cold, thin smile. “The best things in life often are.”

You almost choked on your drink.

Lila, flustered, made some excuse and quickly retreated, leaving you and Hux standing together in victorious silence.

“Thank you,” you said, your shoulders dropping as the tension left you.

Hux shrugged. “It was nothing. People like that are… predictable.”

“Still, I appreciate it. You’ve made this party a lot less miserable.”

He glanced at you then, his sharp features softening just slightly. “You’re welcome.”

As the evening wore on, you found yourself talking to Hux more than you’d anticipated.

It turned out that he had a dry sense of humor, one that matched your own. He wasn’t as cold and unapproachable as you’d once thought; he was just guarded. But beneath that icy exterior was someone who was intelligent, quick-witted, and—dare you say it—kind.

You told yourself not to read into it too much. This was just a favor, after all.

But as the party wound down and the crowd began to thin, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment at the thought of the night ending.

“You’ve done more than enough,” you said as you both stood near the exit, coats in hand. “You’re free to go. I mean, you were always free to go, but—”

“I’ll walk you home,” he interrupted, his tone brooking no argument.

“Oh. You don’t have to—”

“It’s late,” he said firmly. “And cold. I insist.”

You didn’t argue.

The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the snow falling softly around you. The city lights reflected off the white blanket covering the streets, casting everything in a golden glow.

“Thank you,” you said again, breaking the silence. “For tonight. Really.”

Hux looked at you, his expression unreadable. “You’ve already said that.”

“I know, but I mean it. You didn’t have to help me, but you did. That means a lot.”

He was silent for a moment, his breath visible in the frosty air. Then, he said, “You’re not as insufferable as most people. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.”

You laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet night. “High praise coming from you.”

His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you’d seen all night.

When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“Well,” you began awkwardly, “this is me.”

“So it is.”

“Thanks again. I guess I’ll see you around?”

He hesitated, his green eyes searching yours. Then, to your surprise, he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Perhaps we should try this again sometime,” he said, his voice soft.

“Try what?”

“Pretending,” he said, though there was a hint of something in his tone that suggested he wasn’t entirely pretending anymore.

You felt your cheeks flush, the cold forgotten as you nodded. “I’d like that.”

And as he walked away, his coat billowing behind him, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe, just maybe, fake dating Armitage Hux wasn’t such a ridiculous idea after all.

[tabun-machigatteiru]

恣意天変

恣意天変 - Shiitenpen - Arbitrary Calamity

Throwing the lyrics+translation up here so I have it for later.

—————

星もない　完全な闇夜に あなたこそが耀う 沈滓よ拝せよ　機微を解せよ　祈りのように

hoshi mo nai kanzen na yamiyo ni anata koso ga kagayou ori yo haise yo kibi wo kaise yo inori no you ni

In this moonless night without any stars You alone shine Sink down in worship Interpret the subtleties like a prayer

祝いの席は知らぬ　囁き ただ奇跡を僥う　ひと時 忌諱に　触れるような　愚かな過ちの果て 裁きが下る

iwai no seki wa shiranu sasayaki tada kiseki wo negau hitotoki kii ni fureru you na oroka na ayamachi no hate sabaki ga kudaru

Whispering that you don't know the location of the festivities A moment where all you can do is wish for a miracle At the end of all your foolish offenses and mistakes Judgment will be dealt

すべてを切り裂く　雷が語る徴を見よ さあ　この翠緑の光のもとに　世界よ跪け 宵が満ちる

subete wo kirisaku ikadzuchi ga kataru shirushi wo mi yo saa kono suiryoku no hikari no moto ni sekai yo hizamazuke yoi ga michiru

Behold the omen foretold by the lightning that tears all apart Kneel, world, before the source of the verdant light The night is falling

影より黝む空に映える 玲瓏たる横顔 　 憤懣をさえ 篝火のよう　 静謐な未知

kage yori kuromu sora ni haeru reirou taru yokogao funman wo sae kagaribi no you seihitsu na michi

A translucent profile reflected in a sky even darker than the shadows Master your resentment as if it's a bonfire The tranquil unknown

それは爪弾くような　戯れ まだ赦しを　願う　礫は 騒擾の残響　ひしめく迂愚の叫声 縷縷と賛辞を

sore ha tsumabiku you na tawamure mada yurushi wo negau tsubute ha soujou no zankyou hishimeku ugu no kyousei ruru to sanji wo

That's just a provocative joke The pebble that still begs for forgiveness, Amidst the disruptive echoes and the clamoring cries of the ignorant, Offers endless praise

今こそ茨が　手を伸ばし　謳う兆しを聴け あの極光さえも 裂罅に飲まれ　眠りに落ちるだろう 宵が満ちる　裁きが下る

ima koso ibara ga te wo nobashi utau kizashi wo kike ano kyokukou sae mo rekka ni nomare nemuri ni ochiru darou yoi ga michiru sabaki ga kudaru

Right now the briars are reaching out Heed the celebrated omen Even the aurora Will surely be swallowed by the fissure and fall into slumber The night is falling Judgment will be dealt

BENEATH GREEN LIGHT THE WORLD KNEELS GIVE TO THORNS WITH YOUR WHOLE BEING

--------------- Notes: Prioritized English syntax & idioms. I wish the penultimate verse had more verbs. More literally "michiru" is to become fuller/rise, but in English generally it's the day that rises, while night falls as it appears. "The night is growing" could also work, but sounds less ominous. No kanji used for さえ, inserted wild guess.

[ghostinyrmachine]

what fresh hells

first chapter of my first fic. pls enjoy!

AO3

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Raphael x F!Tav

word count: 908(ish)

sfw (for now👀)

Narrowly surviving the final showdown at the House of Hope, Tav finds herself on the wrong side of the portal back to Baldur's Gate. While her companions escaped with the Orphic Hammer, Tav is left behind in Avernus with the devil she knows all too well.

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His clawed hand closing around your wrist was the last thing you’d felt before the portal closed, the only way out of Avernus now severed, completely and resolutely. It had taken all your companions’ might to escape the House of Hope in one piece. Hope herself, though, hadn’t been so lucky. And now, it seemed, neither were you. Just as the view of your friends, safe on the other side of the veil, flickered out of existence, the cambion had pulled you away. Inches from freedom, close enough to feel the portal’s rippling surface vanish from your fingertips, you were caught.

The cavernous entryway, once clamoring with swords and lightning, suddenly fell silent. Raphael’s voice no longer echoed off the walls, booming in your ears as you and your party scraped and clawed their way back to the diabolist’s office. Now, just the pounding of your heart in your ears, the adrenaline still awash over you as you stared at the spot that was supposed to be the last step towards defeating the Absolute. The charred corpses of Yurgir and the lesser cambions strewn across the marble floor. Even Hope, looking up at you with eyes glazed in death, had no words left for you.

It had felt like time slowed the moment you saw Raphael waiting for you in the foyer, but this, this stillness was different. There was nothing magical or fabricated about it. The resoluteness of the moment was overwhelming, the failure undeniable. Your little adventure had finally come to an end. Snared in the devil’s trap that had been laid for you who knows how long ago.

You hadn’t wanted to steal the hammer, not necessarily. You hadn’t meant to anger the devil whose deals you’d managed to circumvent thus far. You were so near to defeating the Elder Brain, the Netherstones all within your possession and the last of your party’s business in Baldur’s Gate almost complete.

But after rescuing Lae’zel from Orin, you felt you owed it to her to free Orpheus. Maybe afford her the same freedom each of you had sought throughout your shared journey. It was the last step, a simple task. Infiltrating the Nine Hells had been much easier than you’d thought. From there, it had all seemed so straightforward. “Find the key. Take the hammer. Smash my chains.”

And yet, here you stood. Beaten and bloodied, further away from salvation than you’d ever been. Lae’zel and the party had escaped with the hammer, sure, but you had been left behind.

“Little mouse…”

The sudden rumble of Raphael’s voice a thunderclap, awakening you from the frozen state of shock you’d fell into for those milliseconds that lasted eons.

“It seems the claw has finally come down.”

Snapped back into reality, you struggled against his grip, eyes locked on Hope’s demented expression as you collected enough of your mind to plot an escape. You could get out of this. Somehow, some way, you could still make a run for it. Maybe back to the room of mirrors that you’d passed as you dashed down the hallway. Or Korilla, where had Korilla gone? She must have followed your companions through the portal or cast some teleportation spell like she and her master had done so many times before. Straining against the white-hot talons encircling your wrist, you wracked your brain for anything that might deliver you back in Baldur’s Gate.

Raphael tutted, “Ah, ah, ah, Tav, it is well and truly over.” Overpowering you easily, he swung your body towards him, clutching your other wrist just as strongly as the first. Holding your helpless hands against his chest, he glared down at you as you yanked against his ever-tightening grip.

The fire in his eyes burning hotter than you’d ever seen, even when Hope sacrificed herself to reopen the portal, and he beamed at you with the fury and desperation of a man who had had very nearly perished. The lacerations and burns covering his body proved you and your friends had put up a hell of a fight, perhaps bringing him closer to death than he’d ever been. Every resource at his disposal still wasn’t enough to kill your band of heroes; the only thing he had to show for himself was the thrashing body of a mortal, only defeated by a last-minute, desperate swipe of frustration.

In fact, even as you struggled against him, you detected a hint of shock under his wrath. It appeared he was almost as surprised as you that you hadn’t crossed the portal’s threshold. His taunting, so second-nature to him, barely concealed the awe he felt at having secured this small triumph. The features of his infernal face betrayed him, his grimace replacing what should have been the knowing smirk of someone always three steps ahead.

You paused, fully absorbed in the flurry of emotion he was experiencing, taken aback that he was somehow just as confused as you were.

“Well, you have made quite the mess of things, haven’t you?”

His expression shifted too quickly for you to delve any further into his mind; the plastered, devilish smile you’d come to loathe reappearing instantaneously.

Before you could open your mouth to protest, he released his grip on you, just long enough to snap.

Suddenly, you found yourself back in the boudoir you’d ransacked just hours ago. Your wrists raised in front of you, you stood motionless, alone yet alive somewhere in Avernus.