#empty handed warriors

[novasjaneway]

Whos the better evil? Honestly gotta say Callisto!

[handfulofmuses]

yeah.

[quarterlifekitty]

Cw: cum eating lol

Goddess!Reader as a forgotten deity— a small temple hidden in a cave, completely overgrown with vines and moss. The marble of the flooring is cracked and split with the dripping water and the roots of the overgrowth. There is a statue of you— life sized, not grand or impressive. The skylight of the cave bathes it in sun and moonlight as the days go by.

Warrior!König who finds your little shrine and is enchanted. He has always felt like an outsider— that he has never belonged, and never looked at with familiarity. Maybe it’s his loneliness getting to him, but he feels warmth in the gaze of the statue. You’re a beautiful figure. Despite the state of the place, he feels at home. He doesn’t have much— but he clears some vines and dust off of the offering altar and leaves a fig and a handful of oats.

In his next battle, he finds some uncanny things happening around him. He’ll be dueling an enemy, when a stray beam of light will move in just the right way to blind him for a moment, allowing König to land the killing blow. He’s about to be struck from behind with his assailant’s sword catches in the scabbard for just a moment— long enough for König to turn and fend him off. Could this be his offering at work?

He comes back. This time with an orange, and a gold piece. He gives himself a few moments to admire your form— your breasts perfect, your smile gentle and content. He uses his sword to clear a bit more debris— enough to leave you more clearly visible.

He continues to excel. Not through any supernatural strength, but due to these small strokes of luck finding him at the perfect moment. His sword striking at just the right angle to land in the chip of his enemy’s weapon, cracking it in the fault and rendering it useless. One of his arrows manages to pierce through one target and into another.

He becomes your single worshipper— and the most devoted. He brings fruits, coin, fresh cloth, milk…. And his visits become longer. He lets his hands linger when he touches the cool marble of your statue. He’s taken in a moment of weakness— infatuated with the one figure that seems to care for him— and he touches himself to your image, spilling his seed across your altar— against the red grapes he’d brought for you.

König falls asleep looking at your form. There is no plaque nor writing in your temple— he doesn’t even know your name. When he wakes, the pedestal holding your statue is empty, but he feels a warmth curled into his side, looking down to see you finishing the last of a stem of grapes.

[bookshelftreasures]

Jealous Shadows

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Light Angst

Summary: Azriel's shadows have always been loyal, always obeyed him without question. Until now. Until they start misbehaving whenever another man so much as looks at you.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1,066

Notes: This is my first fic, I hope you like it! :)

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

The first time it happens, you don't think much of it.

You're at Rita's with the Inner Circle, nursing a drink at the bar while Cassian and Mor dance somewhere among the crowded space. The music thrums through the air, and the conversation hums around you when a male slides into an empty seat beside you.

"Didn't think someone like you would be sitting alone," he says, flashing a grin.

You don't even get the chance to respond before a flicker of something moves between you.

The male frowns, swiping at his hair, which has suddenly transformed from being neatly styled to sticking up in wild angles, as if an invisible force had run its hands through it... aggressively.

You blink in surprise.

He mutters a curse, trying to fix it, but the moment he smooths it down, the strands spring right back up. His frustration grows, hands swiping over his head repeatedly.

"I- what the hell?" he grumbles. "Is this air cursed or something?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a laugh.

And then you feel it.

A cool, familiar brush against your wrist.

Slowly, you glance down—just in time to see a shadow curling around your fingers before slipping away.

Your stomach flips.

You don't even need to turn around to know exactly where Azriel is.

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

The second time it happens, it's harder to ignore.

You and Azriel are training in the House of Wing, and the session has drawn some attention—mainly from a visiting group of Illyrians who very clearly wanted to spar with you.

One in particular, a cocky warrior named Dain, is relentless. He lingers, circling the ring as Azriel corrects your stance, his gloved hands light against your arms.

"You sure you don't want a real sparring partner, sweetheart?" Dain calls, grinning. "I promise I'll go easy on you."

Azriel stills.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly before he steps back, shadows slithering at his feet. "She's training," he says evenly, but there's an obvious warning beneath the words.

Dain chuckles. "Training is nice and all, but I'd be happy to teach her a few things myself."

Something cold coils around your ankles.

Before you can react, the shadows yank. Not hard. Just enough to make you stumble backwards, right into Azriel's chest.

Your breath catches.

His hands steady you, fingers gripping your waist for a fraction of a second before he forces himself to let you.

You glance up at him, about to ask whether or not that was intentional, but his jaw is tight, hazel eyes locked on Dain.

Azriel's shadows have started to shift.

Not the lazy, fluid movements they usually have—but sharp, possessive flickers that wrap around you. One curls over your shoulder, while another drapes across your wrist, looping around like a claim.

You shiver, pulse skittering.

Dain seems to notice, too. His smirk falters, his eyes flicking between you and the swirling darkness. "Uh-"

The shadows snap toward him.

Not touching—just close. Close enough to make him step back.

You swear you hear them hiss.

Dain swallows hard. "Right. I, uh, should probably-"

Azriel doesn't blink. Doesn't move.

Dain takes the hint. He all but scrambles away, muttering under his breath.

And just like that, the shadows slip away, leaving you cold.

You whip around, crossing your arms. "What was that about?"

Azriel frowns, too casual. "What was what?"

"Oh, I don't know," you say dryly. "Maybe terrorizing a man into running for his life?"

His brow furrows, like he truly doesn't know what you're talking about. "I didn't do anything."

You narrow your eyes. Then one last shadow curls around your wrist before darting away like a child caught misbehaving.

Azriel glares at it.

Your lips part. "You have got to be kidding me."

His expression darkens as more shadows flick around you, playful now.

Azriel sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. "They don't usually-"

"Get jealous?" You finish for him, holding back a smile.

Silence.

His throat bobs.

And then—quietly, almost too quiet—you hear his shadows whisper something.

A name.

Your name.

And you realize—maybe it's not just his shadows who are jealous.

Your breath hitches. Azriel's wings rustle. And he looks like he's about to bolt.

Which is just unacceptable.

You cross your arms, tilting your head back to study him. "You know, I think your shadows like me more than they like you."

Azriel exhales sharply. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" You smirk, glancing down as a shadow curl lazily around your wrist. You give it a little wiggle, and the shadow clings tighter.

Azriel scowls at it. "Traitor."

A laugh bubbles out of you. You can't help it.

The great and terrifying Shadowsinger, bested by his own shadows.

"Oh, this is too good," you say, beaming up at him. "All this time, and they've secretly been on my side."

Azriel mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse. His wings twitch again. His shadows flick in annoyance—except the ones still clinging to you, moving to curl around your waist like they never want to let go.

You bite back a grin. "I mean, it makes sense." You gesture vaguely at them. "They probably just think I'd be a much better master."

Azriel gives you a deadpan stare. "That's not how this works."

"I don't know," you hum, pretending to consider it. "They seem pretty happy right now."

As if to prove your point, one shadow playfully loops around your fingers.

Azriel glowers. "You're encouraging them."

You give him an innocent smile. "Would I do that?"

He sighs, but you catch it—the way the corner of his mouth twitches. The way his gaze softens, just a little.

And then, so softly you almost miss it, he murmurs, "They have good taste, at least."

Your breath catches.

Your teasing falters for half a second before you recover. "So, you admit they like me more?"

Azriel exhales, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

You grin. "And you love it."

He doesn't answer. But the way his shadows linger—curling, warm, content—tells you everything you need to know.

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩ ✩⁺₊✩☽⋆⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

Cassian walks in moments later, takes one look at Azriel's shadows practically cuddling you, and immediately points.

"I knew it!" He boasts.

Azriel pinches the bridge of his nose. His shadows flick toward Cassian, clearly unimpressed.

And you?

You just laugh.

Because really—Azriel might deny it all he wants, but his shadows?

They don't lie.

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

Lone Warrior Pt.3

summary :reader is put into emergency foster care after a tragedy , despite living with the Wayne family for a bit , reader takes it upon herself to move away and start anew since she clearly wasn't welcomed , after many years have passed Damian finally joins the family and after a particular spat w his father he finds himself in reader's room and an interest in them has sparked.

enjoy !!

part 1 , part 2

Gotham City , North , Mercey Island , Arkham Asylum. , Year 2014

Arkham Asylum stands alone on a hill , the sky above it was a perment drab of grey that looks too similar to the flickering static screen of an old television. The trees surrounding the island were scarce and bare - it's bark a dead charcoal black - it's inhabitants long gone.

The asylum looms too tall - like an angry adult looming over a child ready to punish them . Young Y/N steadily walks through the rusting iron gates - the old thing practically already fell off its hinges years ago . Y/N stumbles along the muddy track , her beat-up converse drags the brown mush along with her every step , cementing her footsteps in their wake.

Y/N feels a shiver crawl up her spine as she observes the flesh orange paint practically peels off the building like a fresh wound , it does nothing but reveal the building weak infrastructure. Y/N eyes drifted up to the windows that were way above her, all were barcaded in thick iron bars . Some windows had absolutely no light , some had, but most were flickering on and off.

Y/N's hands hesitantly outstretched and knocked on the bolted up iron door - she stood there for a while - a long while, but her mother always taught her to be patient, so she continued waiting. A long while passes until the door opens, revealing a long corridor - everything was of sickening white , down to the floors , the ceilings even the doors . The hallways look like it outstretched for miles and miles never-ending . The air smelled of bleach, and it practically burned your nostrils .

" Hello ?" Came Y/N's small voice , unsure. A nurse emerges from a nearby door and approaches her , her blue eyes practically pierces through her soul, and Y/N can practically feel herself reel back. " Name and business," the nurse states gruffly as she skims through a nearby clipboard on the wall.

" Y/N L/N and I'm here to visit Nora L/N" She says- her tone going melancholy at the mention of her mother's name. The nurse just nods - her face looked bored. " Alright kid , sign this form and go down that hall there -" she says, pointing to the back of her . Y/N nods along as she held onto the forms.

Y/N took her time signing the visitor's rule form and her name in a visitor's sheet before walking down the hall. The halls feel suffocating - despite the fact it's so huge, but Y/N swears she can feel it pressing down on her lungs.

' Would mom remember me ?' , ' hell would she even want to seem me after so long?' She thinks to herself as she rounds a corner. It's been two years since her mother had been admitted here , two years and Y/N going back and forth with the asylum administrators for visitation rights.

It was tiring - so unnecessarily exhausting having to prove time and time again that her mother wasn't some looney - wasn't an abuser , wasn't a bad mother - that what happened on that day was built up stressd , that she was just overwhelmed only to get shut down with ' she's gone kid forget her ' each time.

Y/N stops in front of another metallic door - it's white just like every other door in here, but somehow she feels the air around her tighten . ' This is it - I get to see you, mom,' she thinks as she pushes open the door . The door lets out a groan as if it's been years, someone has used it .

Y/N steps inside , her nostrils immediately are met with the smell of synthetic medicine and bleach. The walls are white - too white - it's unnerving there is no color in sight . Before her lies an empty metallic chair - the ones you sat in the principals office.

Y/N hesitates as she approaches the chair and sits in it - the cold iron sends shivers up her exposed arms. Her attention turns to the vast window in front of her , practically its own wall.

Before the window lays, her mother sat on a plain plastic chair . Y/N swallows the rising bile in her throat as she observes her mother . Long gone were those colorful , polka dot sun dresses she knew her mother adorned so lovingly , now she wears a baby blue knee length garb , her once honey toned skin was sickly pale - as if she was a corpse . Her once vibrant brown eyes just stated back at her dully. Her mother's hair - her hair that was always pin back or braided so beautifully was now knotted messily and strewn about her face .

Y/N feels herself wince as she takes in how skinny her mother has become to the point you can see her hallow cheekbones and the veins in her arms and legs. Silence engulfs them for a long while - both taking in each other . " Y/N," her mother's wraspy voice calls out to her . Y/N feels herself freeze - and suddenly, she feels tears fall down her eyes . Surely, if her mentor saw her like this, she'd laugh at her patheticness.

Yet still, the tears begin to pursue down her face , landing on her hands . " Mama " Y/N calls out longingly because God knows how much she wants her mom , how much she craves for her old life, to feel her mother's warmth , to feel her dad pick her up all over again , to feel normal - to feel like a kid again.

She chokes back a sob - God doesn't love her enough to grant her that wish - doesn't have enough mercy to even grant her that even in her dreams. " Y/N , what are you doing here dear ?" Her mother's hoarse voice asks her , the straight jacket wrapped around her like a cobra restraining her from her own pathetic attempt to comfort her daughter.

Y/N chokes up at the sight . " I'm here to see you, Mama," she answers truthfully with a smile. Her mother looks at her daughter - her beautiful daughter and for the first tike since she's been admitted here she let's out a laugh. " Missed you sweetheart " she murmurs , her eyes - her eyes look warm like they used to.

Y/N just nods , " Missed you more, Mama," she says sincerely as she looks at her mom, hopefully. Her mother smiles at her while she rubs against her handcuffs ." How are you dear ?" Her mother asks as she peers at her .

Y/N smiles , ecstatic - she's internally great full her mother was strong enough to withstand going crazy being locked up in here. " I'm fine, mom - I'm in military school now." Y/N answers as she shoots her chair closer to the window. Her mother begins to anxiously rock in her chair , " Military school ? " she asks, perplexed . Y/N allows silence to pass between them.

Unsure how to answer her , her mother meanwhile begins bouncing her foot anxiously. " They - they're turning you into a monster - my daughter, my precious daughter, how - how dare they -" she begins to rambling. Y/N perks up and places her hands against the glass ," No mama, no one is turning me into anything - I'm gonna make the world better, Mama, that's all promise -"

Y/N tries to persuade her but it was no use her mother was in too deep , " No - NO ! I WILL NOT LET THAT MAN TURN YOU INTO A MONSTER - THAT DEVILISH MAN HOW DARR HE TAKE MY DAUGHTER FROM ME AND TURN HER INTO A DEMONIC WRENCH LIKE HIMSELF - HOW DARE HE - HOW DARE HE !!!" She begins screaming and viciously pulling at her chains.

Y/N bangs against the window , " Mother, please ! I am not a monster mama please I'm still your little girl !!" Y/N practically pleads with her , her voice drowning in desperation as she banged against the glass hoping to get through to her.

Blood begins to spill from her mother's arms , and she begins to scream and curse violently as the blood gets everywhere on her clothes. " SHUT IT YOU DEMON, YOU TOOK AWAY MY DAUGHTER - YOU WICKED WRENCH I WILL KILL YOU!!," She declared as she violently launched herself to the glass . Her bloodied hands begin the bang against the glass.

Y/N begins to back away from the window , tears now spilling from her eyes - not even noticing the way her body collides with the chair. " Mama please clam down -" she tries again , pleading like a little child all over again -

Again, she's that 10 year old girl looking at her mom and dad fight all over again, and it makes her feel sick . Again, she's that helpless child that hides behind the sofa cushion as their screaming match gets more violent, and the sound of plates and glass cups being broken practically echo off her eardrums Her mother doesn't even stop - just starts bashing her head against the glass even more violently .

A door behind her mother's room opens and in walks in two heavily guards and a nurse. " GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME " her mother yells as she frantically tries to pry the guards hold off her . One guard looks to another and simply nods. " What are you doing ? WAIT LEAVE HER ALONE " Y/N yells as a guard practically shoves her mother face first into the floor and kept his whole body weight on her.

Y/N immediately starts banging against the glass hopelessly, " LEAVE MY MOM ALONE PLEASE " but no one paid her any heed. The nurse simply flicks at the barrel of a syringe and begins to approach her mother. " BACK AWAY FROM ME YOU WICKED BITCH" her mother shouts , her legs , frantically kicks at the air.

The nurse does nothing. she just calmly approaches her mother and sticks a slightly yellow liquid into her mother's neck. Y/N watches in utter horror as her mother's body begins to go limp before her. " WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO HER ?" Y/N shouts as she violently bangs against the glass. She watches as the guards drag her mother's body away without any care . The nurse turns to face her , face bored, " We injected her with benzodiazepine " she says , tone laced in sarcasm.

Y/N feels her eye twitch in anger. " English " she demanded . The nurse looks her up and down , " Basically, we sedated your mother kid now go home," she says before turning around . Y/N growls as she banged on the glass one last time , " MY MOTHER WAS NOT CRAZY YOU MADE HER THIS WAY".

Rostov-on-Don , Rostov Oblast , Russia , 2025

Y/N practically jolts up - like a madman being risen back from the dead. That memory of her mother will always haunt her even now when it's been years and years. Y/N wipes away at the stray tears on her face and sniffles .

She always go through with this - every night she is forced to relive that haunting memory of her mother - reliving how she's failed her time and time again - relive the anger of wanting to burn everyone in that stupid asylum to the floor .

Her hands tighten around the wool blanket laid on top of her - she gets angry every time she thinks of that place - that place that does nothing but destroy people lives. Another tear falls onto her palms as she states into the darkness of her room.

Her mom would of been normal if they hadn't dragged her there - if those wicked people hadn't taken her away. Her hand unconsciously reaches under her pillow and withdraws a small revolver . She plays with the cylinder , tracing over the five bullets within it . Her eyes drift over to her alarm clock - it displays 4 : 00 am.

Y/N pursues her lips - 'no use sleeping anyways ' she thinks to herself as she slips off her bed and hurriedly puts on her sneakers. Y/N grabs her phone , the revolver and her keys , shoving them in her hoodies'a pocket before slipping out her front door - fully intending to go for a run . Maybe - just maybe she can clear up her mind and pretend everything is fine .

Y/N finds herself jogging along the coast , the dock is lined with ships from all sizes galore - all docking in for the day to offload their goods . The water is crystal clear , practically a shimmering mirror as it reflects the faint light in the sky. It glistens and glided along like a ribbon dancing in the wind.

The sky itself - a beautiful tapestry of dark violet mixing in with pink and yellow hues - a tell tale sign that morning was about to dawn upon the country. Birds begin to flock onto the nearby seashore while the fishermen below on the docks set out to catch their early catch.

Y/N inhales the crisp sea air - practically greedily filling her lungs . Russia was so beautiful - so warm just like her mother was - no wonder why she always felt homesick when she spent too long away from home. Y/N crosses the empty road , making sure to wipe away her sweat. She begins a slow jog as she acends the hill in front of her - she is sure Dedushka (grandpa) Micheal is already busy brewing coffee in his small parlor, and she fully intends to get herself a cup. Efore the morning rush.

Just as she makes it to the top , she spots a kid in front of her crossing the road while an incoming truck comes barreling towards them , full speed. She immediately makes a bolt for it practically grabs the kid by the collar and yanks him back towards her . " Kid, look out !" She exclaimed as she shoved the kid back , causing him to collide with the ground.

The kid landed with a loud " oomph" behind her while his phone that he was previously so occupied with went flying out of his hand elsewhere. Y/N runs towards him and sits him up against the nearby building. The boy groans as he holds onto his head . " Hey, are you okay ?" Y/N aks as she brushes his raven hair back. The boy groans and sends her a glare - his green eyes literally looks at her in utter fury, " Listen lady I knew what I was doing- " he starts arguing but immediately stops when he gets a good look at her.

" Y/N ?!!" He exclaims and immediately embraces her.

like + comment + share please!!

Taglist :

@ellethesleepypotato @1abi @pix-stuff @shadowytravelerlover @cxcilla @vanessa-boo @not-your-average-url @sirenetheblogger @fennecspage @cj-theyoungling @jsprien213 @lonelyladyghost @type-ink @ryuusho @twismare @crazycaoticsimp @bunnyharp @narmothewraith @leelovesmadly @geminis93 @introvertedreader @jellystarjam @glowinthedarkjellyfish @not-a @seemee3 @radomperson2010 @delusiontown-exe @queenofdumbfuckery @bunniotomia @k-homosapien @khalinda-ev @lexi-username-1 @amber-content @yourhornysister @redkarma @scoutyyy @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @anonymoustext @tin-foil @yl90 @cat-lover2000 @nightwinggrayson12 @bigteefsmallbrain @hon3y-l3m0n05 @sbrewer21 @yumeravenclaw

Notes :

(Also sorry if this was short I was anxious writting this - might edit later because I still don't like it but ty for reading !!!)

(Also I'm not sure why some @ aren't working ? If any experienced author knows why please let me know)

(Also, to any Russian readers, please correct me in any mistakes or misrepresentation - all Russian came from Google, so I apologize in advance)

[solxamber]

Familiar, Not So Familiar || Lilia Vanrouge

You, a mage-in-training, attempt to summon a simple familiar—only to accidentally get yourself Lilia Vanrouge, a legendary fae with a penchant for chaos.

You have tried. You have tried so many times that the gods themselves must be watching your efforts like a soap opera, popcorn in hand, marveling at your persistence and misfortune.

Every spell you’ve ever learned? Perfect. Every potion you’ve ever brewed? Immaculate. Every single tedious little task required of an apprentice mage? Completed with at least passing competence.

And yet—this. This one, single, crucial spell has eluded you since the moment you first picked up a wand and thought, yes, let’s dedicate my life to this craft instead of something simple, like farming, or piracy, or a career in interpretive dance.

For years, you have watched your classmates perform their familiar rituals with ease. You have seen their little foxes, their wise owls, their unbearably smug salamanders perched on their shoulders like accessories in an enchanted fashion show. Oh, you don’t have a familiar yet? they’d say, voices dripping with polite condescension. That must be so hard! Magic must be so exhausting for you!

Yes. Yes, it is exhausting, Martha, you imbecile. Magic without a familiar is like trying to run a marathon uphill while being punched repeatedly in the stomach. It is like carrying a cauldron of molten lava with no gloves and being told, just don’t drop it! It is slowly killing you, and you are tired.

So tonight? Tonight is it. The line has been drawn. The candles have been lit. You have researched, you have practiced, you have painstakingly carved every single rune with the desperation of a student facing final exams with an empty study guide.

Either you summon your familiar, or you start looking into lucrative careers in something that requires zero magical ability. Candle-making. Tax fraud. Something.

You kneel before the summoning circle, hands clasped in pure, unfiltered desperation. Your voice is raw as you plead, as you offer up your dignity to the uncaring forces of the universe.

"Please," you whisper, nearly headbutting the floor. "Just this once. A cat. A dog. A single, semi-intelligent rat. Hell, a bat—bats are magical, right? I’ll take a bat. I’ll take a sentient pile of mold if it can cast at least one large spell without dying. Just something. Please, I am begging you."

The room is deathly silent.

And then—

A hum. A vibration in the air, as if reality itself is rethinking its choices.

The summoning circle does not glow—it erupts, an explosion of light so bright that your first instinct is to assume you have been smote for your insolence. The ground shudders. The candles flicker wildly. The sheer energy of the spell crackles through the air like the universe is taking a deep breath and laughing at you.

And then, through the haze, a silhouette.

Your first thought: That is not an animal.

Your second thought: That is not an animal, that is a person.

Your third thought: THAT IS A FAE.

Your fourth thought does not get to exist because your brain has blue screened.

The figure steps forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back, surveying the room with the air of someone who has just walked into an amusing play and finds himself the lead actor. He is floating, because of course he is. His wild hair is a chaotic mess of black and magenta, his sharp eyes twinkling with mirth, his very presence radiating power that should not, under any circumstances, be inside your living room.

Then he smiles, and you are abruptly hit with the horrifying realization that you know who he is.

The portraits. The stories. The absolute legend that is Lilia Vanrouge, former general, feared warrior, living relic of a bygone era, the kind of fae you read about in history books with the unspoken footnote of probably do not summon him.

And he is here.

And he is looking at you.

"Ah," he says, with all the delight of someone who has just stumbled upon something incredibly amusing. "How interesting."

You are frozen. Your body has stopped functioning. Your brain is actively trying to escape this situation by retreating into the astral plane.

Lilia tilts his head, observing your utter paralysis with great amusement, and then, with the flourish of a seasoned actor stepping onto the grandest stage of his life, he presses a hand to his chest and bows deeply.

"You have called," he proclaims, voice rich with dramatic flair, "and I have answered! For one year, I shall serve as your loyal familiar! May our contract be fruitful, our battles glorious, and our meals—" he pauses, grinning like a fox, "well, we shall see."

He straightens, clearly expecting some sort of response.

You do not move. You do not speak. You do not even blink.

Because you are still attempting to comprehend the fact that you have, against every possible law of magic, logic, and common sense, just summoned Lilia Vanrouge as your familiar.

The next morning, you awaken to the horrifying realization that last night was not, in fact, a fever dream.

Lilia Vanrouge is still here.

Floating.

In your kitchen.

Sipping tea.

With your mug.

You stand there, unblinking, as he lifts the cup in greeting, utterly unbothered by your complete mental breakdown. “Ah, you’re awake! Good morning, my dear summoner! Did you sleep well? Oh, never mind that, of course you didn’t—you must be so excited! Your first day with your new familiar!”

Your eye twitches. The existential dread is setting in. But there is no time to panic because you have class.

And now, for the first time in your absolutely miserable academic career, you have a familiar to bring with you.

Which would be a cause for celebration.

If your familiar was literally anyone else.

But no. No, you are marching through the academy halls with a floating, ancient fae war general drifting beside you, humming cheerfully, taking in his new surroundings like a tourist at a historical landmark.

Your classmates? Shitting bricks.

Your professors? Re-evaluating their life choices.

Your history professor? Actively vibrating in place. This is a man who has spent years studying Lilia Vanrouge, reconstructing battle strategies, debating historical inaccuracies, analyzing old texts to understand the mind of one of the most enigmatic figures in magical warfare. He looks at you, at Lilia, back at you, back at Lilia, and you swear to the gods above that this man is about two seconds away from weeping.

He wants an interview. He wants an entire dissertation. He wants to shake your hand for the sheer magnitude of this academic opportunity, and you are just standing there, barely holding onto your last scrap of sanity, because this is not a research opportunity, Professor, this is my life.

Meanwhile, Lilia is having a blast.

“Ohoho, what a delightful institution!” he muses, drifting through the halls, peering into classrooms, inspecting the architecture with a level of interest that should not belong to someone who predates half of these buildings. “Ah, look at that banner! I remember when these were in fashion—horrid little things, always got caught in the wind and smacked people in the face during duels. Ah! And look at these uniforms! What a quaint design! Oh, but that color… tragic choice, really, you should have seen the battle robes from my era. Those had flair!”

You press a hand to your face, inhaling deeply.

You are not going to survive this year.

But at the very least, you are about to have the first productive Offensive Magic class of your entire life.

For years, casting magic without a familiar has been hell. You’ve always struggled with large-scale spells, your body too weak to sustain the energy required. Your classmates have always had an advantage, their familiars supplying them with extra mana while you struggled to get anything stronger than a low-tier fireball.

But today?

Today, you have Lilia Vanrouge as a mana battery.

And you are about to find out exactly what that means.

The spell you’ve been struggling with for years—the one that has never worked properly, the one that has always left you half-conscious and questioning your life decisions—flows from your hands as easily as breathing. You don’t even have time to be excited because the moment the spell leaves your fingertips, the entire training ground erupts.

Not a small explosion.

Not a reasonable, manageable, academically acceptable explosion.

No.

You have just cratered the battlefield.

The shockwave sends everyone flying. The ground is smoking. There is a hole where the target dummies used to be. Somewhere in the distance, alarms are going off. Birds are screaming. Your professor is staring in mute horror at the absolute devastation before him.

And you?

You turn to Lilia, hands shaking, mouth opening and closing like a fish, because what the hell just happened.

Lilia, floating beside you, watches the destruction with the expression of a man who has just seen a slightly amusing street performance. He clasps his hands together, nodding approvingly.

“Well! Now that that’s done, why don’t we go find something fun to do?”

You are not going to survive the year.

It is supposed to be a quiet night.

Supposed to be.

You, a dedicated apprentice mage (read: overworked and underpaid student), have settled down with your magical theory book, prepared to suffer through the finer details of mana channeling. The lamp flickers softly, the air is calm, and for once in your chaotic existence, things feel peaceful.

Then, from the kitchen, you hear something.

Something that does not belong in the realm of mortals.

It begins with an unsettling hiss, followed by a squelching noise so visceral it sends a shudder down your spine. Then there’s a clank—something metal hitting the floor—then a thud, then another squelch. You are gripping your book so tightly that the pages crinkle.

And then—

A chainsaw.

You blink.

You tilt your head, straining your ears, waiting for your exhausted mind to correct you.

The chainsaw revs again.

There is a cackle—a delighted, mischievous giggle, unmistakably Lilia’s—followed by the sound of what can only be described as something wet hitting the walls.

You place your book down with the slow, measured movements of a person who has just realized that, against all odds, they are in mortal danger.

Before you can even get up, Lilia emerges from the kitchen, beaming, holding something that should not exist.

It is a plate of food.

You think.

At least, you assume that’s what it is. The thing on the plate is writhing slightly, like it’s trying to escape, its color shifting between shades of green that have never been found in nature. It looks less like a meal and more like something that should have been sealed away in a forbidden vault centuries ago. You are pretty sure it just twitched.

Lilia, looking pleased with himself, holds the plate out to you like a proud parent. “Here you go! A little something I whipped up! A good meal is essential for a strong mage!”

You stare at him. You stare at the food. You stare at him again. Then back at the food, as if hoping that, upon a second glance, it will suddenly become normal. It does not. It continues to vibrate menacingly.

You inhale slowly. You pray to the gods—the ones who have clearly abandoned you—and take a bite.

And then—

You almost meet them.

Your soul briefly leaves your body. Your ancestors appear before you, shaking their heads in deep disappointment. The concept of life and death ceases to have meaning. Time itself slows to a crawl as your taste buds experience a level of suffering once reserved only for cursed spirits.

You slam the fork down, forcing a smile that looks more like a pained grimace. “I—uh—actually, I’m not really that hungry right now!”

Lilia blinks, tilting his head. “Oh? But you just took a bite—”

You cut him off, nodding so quickly it could give you whiplash. “Nope! Super full! Wow, so full. Stuffed, actually. I definitely can’t eat another bite!”

Lilia frowns, looking genuinely disappointed, and for a brief, insane moment, you almost consider eating more.

Then the food on the plate shudders again.

And you decide that no matter how cute Lilia Vanrouge is, you simply cannot abide.

Later that night, you are once again seated at your desk, trying to get through your magical theory reading, when Lilia appears at your side.

For a brief moment, fear seizes you—until you see what he’s holding.

A cup of warm milk.

Just milk.

You stare at it, half-expecting it to start glowing or whispering in an ancient, cursed tongue. But no, it’s just milk. Safe. Harmless. Normal.

You accept it with more gratitude than you’ve ever felt in your life. “Thank you.”

Lilia settles in beside you, watching as you study, occasionally making little jokes, pointing out errors in your book’s outdated magical theories, offering insights that no historian could ever dream of. The conversation flows easily, his voice a constant, comforting presence, a bridge between history and now, between chaos and something softer.

And as you sit there, sipping your drink, listening to Lilia hum an old tune while offering you obscure magical trivia, you think—

Yeah.

Maybe he really is the best familiar you could have summoned.

Lilia does not like your magical theory professor.

At least, you think he doesn’t.

He’s always cheerful—borderline impossible to ruffle—but the moment you step into that class, something shifts. His usual smile dims, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, and his arms stay folded across his chest like a particularly judgmental gargoyle. It’s subtle—so subtle that if you weren’t stuck with him 24/7 (as your familiar, and definitely not because you enjoy his company), you might not have noticed.

But you have noticed. And it’s weird.

Even weirder? Every time you ask him about it, he gives you the most convincing performance of utter cluelessness you have ever witnessed. The first time, he even tilted his head, widened his eyes, and said, “Me? Dislike someone? Oh, dear apprentice, you wound me!” in the most theatrical, exaggerated manner possible.

And the thing about Lilia is, if he doesn’t want to talk about something, there is no force in the universe that can make him.

You gave up after the third attempt. If it was major, he’d tell you.

…Right?

Today, your professor smiles as she hands you a new assignment: a magic circle for you to analyze.

“You should be able to cast this with your familiar’s assistance,” she says, smiling in that teacher who’s about to ruin your life way.

You glance at the intricate diagram, tilting your head. “What’s it for?”

“Oh, it’s just illusion magic,” she assures you breezily.

And before you can say anything else, Lilia moves.

One moment, he’s standing behind you, silent as a shadow. The next, he’s in front of you, plucking the book from your hands with the effortless grace of someone who has definitely stolen things before.

His gaze sharpens as he scans the magic circle, his usual playful demeanor gone. His fingers tighten slightly on the book’s spine. Then, without hesitation, he snaps it shut and hands it right back to your professor.

“No.”

Your professor blinks, looking caught between offense and confusion. “Pardon?”

Lilia’s voice remains pleasant—but it is the kind of pleasant that makes your survival instincts scream. “I said no. My dear apprentice will not be casting this.”

The professor balks. “Excuse me, but I gave them an assignment. You contain your familiar—”

You raise your hands in exasperation. “Lady, are you kidding? This is a war general. You think I can just ‘contain’ him? You contain him.”

Your professor looks like she wants to argue. Lilia, meanwhile, tilts his head at her with the serene patience of a man watching a squirrel try to pick a fight with a dragon.

Then, he smiles.

It is not his usual mischievous grin. It is a deliberate, pointed smile.

“Why don’t you cast it first?” he asks, tone deceptively light.

Your professor stiffens. “That’s unnecessary, I already—”

Lilia’s eyes gleam. “Go on, then. Just illusion magic, isn’t it?”

The tension in the room spikes. Your professor, who has just spent the past five minutes acting like the spell is no big deal, suddenly looks very nervous.

“Oh, well,” she flounders, “I—it’s meant for—um—student practice—”

“Ah,” Lilia hums, nodding sagely. “So you’d assign a spell you wouldn’t cast yourself to my dear apprentice? How interesting.”

Your professor’s expression freezes.

And that’s when you realize something.

Lilia knew.

He knew the moment he saw the circle that something was off. He recognized it. And whatever it was meant to do, it wasn’t just harmless illusion magic.

Your professor coughs, clearly scrambling for a way out. Lilia waits, ever-patient, eyes half-lidded like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

Then, before she can say anything else, he turns to you. “We’re leaving.”

And you do not argue.

Outside, Lilia floats beside you, humming a little tune. You don’t say anything for a while, still processing.

Finally, you sigh. “You’re not gonna tell me what that spell actually was, are you?”

Lilia’s grin returns, bright and playful. “Who’s to say~?”

You groan. “Lilia.”

He chuckles, reaching out to pat your head in a way that is both condescending and annoyingly affectionate. “Let’s just say I’d rather not have to un-curse you anytime soon, hmm?”

Your stomach sinks slightly. You glance back toward the classroom building, frowning. Your professor has never pulled something like that before. But before you can dwell on it too much, Lilia floats closer, arms crossed.

“Promise me something,” he says, tone suddenly softer.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Run your spells by me before casting them.” His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something firm—unshakable—beneath the usual playfulness.

Your first instinct is to argue. To say you know what you’re doing. That you’re a capable mage. But then you think about how fast he moved. How easily he spotted the issue. How your professor, faced with his simple challenge, folded like wet parchment.

“…Okay,” you say.

His smile widens, but this time, it’s warm. “Good.”

And then, just like that, he’s back to his usual self, floating ahead, dramatically stretching as if he was the one who had to deal with a dangerous spell.

“Now that that’s settled,” he sighs, “why don’t set something on fire?”

You press a hand to your forehead.

At first, it was little things.

Your professors started assigning you slightly more advanced spells—reasonable enough, considering your mana pool had technically expanded (read: you accidentally summoned an ancient fae war general as your familiar). You could handle it. You were handling it.

But then it got worse.

Much worse.

It started with offensive spells. The usual: fireballs, lightning strikes, the occasional tornado. And then, gradually, the assignments escalated into city-leveling disasters.

One moment, you were casting a moderately powerful explosion spell. The next, you were being instructed to conjure something called the Wrath of the Abyss—which, from the name alone, sounded like it had no business being taught in a school.

Lilia, floating serenely beside you, casually flicked his fingers, erasing the spell from your assignment scroll. “No,” he said.

You didn’t argue.

The final straw came when you were assigned a spell so ridiculously strong that had Lilia not interfered, you’re pretty sure you would’ve smited an entire town off the map.

That night, exhausted and frustrated, you marched to the headmaster’s office to finally have a conversation about this.

And that’s when you heard it.

Muffled voices.

The headmaster and your professors—all of them—discussing how to weaponize your newly expanded mana pool. How to push you further, how to ensure you could be controlled—with force, if necessary.

You stood there for a long moment, processing.

Then you turned on your heel, went back to your dorm, and drafted the most polite resignation letter you have ever written in your entire life.

By morning, you were gone.

Which brings you to now.

Laid out on the couch.

Bored.

Contemplating your life choices.

Lilia floats around the new house, inspecting it with the air of a man who has been evicted from kingdoms before and now finds the concept of moving vaguely amusing. Occasionally, he hums in approval. Once, he sticks his head into the kitchen and mutters, “I could work with this.” (You choose to ignore the implication.)

Eventually, he drifts over to the couch, settling next to you. He watches you for a moment, eyes softer than usual, before reaching out and gently patting your head.

“…I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink, turning your head to look at him. “For what?”

He offers a small, almost wistful smile. “For everything. You wanted a small familiar. A cat, perhaps. A gentle companion to aid your studies. And instead… you got me.”

Something about the way he says it makes your heart squeeze.

You sit up, shaking your head. “That’s not your fault. It’s not your fault humans are garbage sometimes.” You snort. “Honestly, I should be the one apologizing to you. You got roped into this mess because of me.”

Lilia laughs softly. “Oh, please. This is hardly the worst summoning I’ve been part of.”

You roll your eyes but lean into him anyway, resting your head against his shoulder. “I mean it, though. I’m glad you were there to look out for me.” You exhale, closing your eyes. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else. You’re the best fit for me.”

There’s a pause.

Then, Lilia shifts slightly, tilting his head to look at you.

“…You know,” he murmurs, amusement creeping into his voice, “it almost sounds like you like me.”

You groan. “Lilia.”

He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself, and lets you rest against him, draping an arm over the back of the couch.

The TV plays some mindless reality show in the background—something ridiculous, the kind of show where two rich people argue over whose yacht is shinier. Lilia occasionally makes a quiet, offhand comment about the historical implications of their arguments, which, considering he’s been around long enough to have historical context for everything, is both fascinating and deeply concerning.

Still, as you sit there, comfortable and safe, a strange sort of peace settles over you.

Maybe this is okay, too.

Moping is unsustainable.

Yes, your dreams of becoming a renowned royal mage have withered and died like a houseplant you swore you watered (you didn’t). Yes, the academy tried to turn you into a walking magical war crime before you dropped out. And yes, you are technically in magical witness protection now.

But you refuse to let that get you down.

You are a problem solver. A forward-thinker. A survivor.

And what do survivors do? They pivot.

Thus begins your new life as the proud owner of Mystic Remedies, a charming little potion shop in a sleepy town where nobody knows—or cares—that you once accidentally summoned a literal fae war general as a familiar.

And surprisingly? Business is booming.

Apparently, people love magic when it’s used for normal things, like fixing bald spots or whitening teeth or getting rid of that one really stubborn pimple that refuses to die no matter how many times you pray to the gods. Your bestselling potions?

“The Shine of Youth” – Teeth Whitening Elixir

Results are instantaneous and blindingly effective (literally. One guy came back complaining his teeth were so white they were reflecting sunlight into his own eyes.)*

“Regrowth & Renewal” – Anti-Baldness Tonic

The town’s balding population has never been happier. One man sobbed openly in your shop after seeing his full head of hair for the first time in twenty years.

“Vanisher’s Touch” – Acne & Scar Removal Serum

One (1) drop and your skin becomes as smooth as a newborn’s. Side effects include strangers asking you for your entire skincare routine (which, obviously, you refuse to share because you are making BANK off of this).

And presiding over all of this?

Lilia Vanrouge.

Your fae general, immortal menace, questionably helpful familiar.

At first, you thought Lilia would just hang around for company. Maybe help with security. Offer sage wisdom. That kind of thing.

You were wrong.

Instead, he has taken it upon himself to be your business partner.

Which would be fine, except:

1. Lilia insists on being the shop greeter.

“Welcome, weary traveler!” he announces grandly every time someone enters, even if it’s just the lady from next door.

2.He also bows dramatically every time, which has led to multiple people thinking they’ve accidentally entered a royal court instead of a potion shop.

3. He makes up fake tragic backstories for your potions.

The baldness potion? “Crafted from the tears of a forgotten god who, himself, was once afflicted with hair loss.”

The teeth whitening elixir? “Distilled from the ancient wisdom of a radiant moonbeam, stolen by a trickster spirit under the cover of night.”

The anti-acne potion? “Forged in the fires of celestial vanity, when the first star envied the smoothness of the moon’s face.”

The customers eat it up. Business doubles because people now believe they’re purchasing legendary magical relics instead of DIY cosmetic solutions.

4. He takes “quality control” VERY seriously.

You once caught him drinking the hair regrowth tonic.

“Lilia,” you said. “You have hair. You have a lot of hair.”

He took a long, thoughtful sip, smacked his lips, and simply said, “Quality assurance.”

(The next day, his hair was so voluminous it looked like he had absorbed a lion. He seemed thrilled about this. You refused to comment.)

5. His idea of “helping” with potion-making is... distressing.

One time, you left him alone for five minutes.

When you came back, he had somehow produced a glowing purple substance that was hovering slightly above the table and making whale noises.

You didn’t even ask. You just threw the entire thing out.

Lilia disappears sometimes in the middle of the night. You’ll wake up, the room unnaturally quiet, and immediately know he’s gone. Not gone gone—he’s not that dramatic—but somewhere else, wrapped in thoughts you never quite get to see.

Tonight, the air is cool when you step outside, wrapping around you like a second skin. You don’t have to search long. He’s on the rooftop, perched with all the effortless grace of a creature who defies gravity. His eyes are locked onto the moon, silver light washing over his face, his usual impishness replaced with something… else.

You’ve seen Lilia in many states—mischievous, chaotic, wise, deeply concerning—but you’ve never seen him like this.

So, naturally, you make the entirely reasonable decision to scale the side of the house.

It is not a graceful process. There’s a lot of slipping, a lot of swearing, and at one point, you’re pretty sure you get stuck in a position that defies basic human anatomy. Lilia watches all of this unfold with what you know is barely suppressed laughter, but he doesn’t help.

Rude.

By the time you haul yourself onto the roof, panting like you’ve just wrestled a bear, Lilia looks at you like you’re the strange one here.

“…You could have used the stairs,” he points out.

You glare at him. “Yeah? Well, you could’ve not brooded on the roof like the protagonist of a tragic novel, but here we are.”

For a moment, you think he might tease you, but instead, something in his expression softens. Like he hadn’t expected you to come. Like the idea of being found was somehow surprising.

You settle beside him, deliberately sitting close enough that your arms brush. Lilia doesn’t say anything, just leans into you, his weight light but grounding.

“I’m grateful you left immediately when you did,” he murmurs, voice quiet in a way that makes you pause. “I wasn’t prepared to lose you.”

You don’t ask. You never have. Lilia carries centuries in his gaze, in the way he moves, in the weight of the things he doesn’t say. But this? This moment, this sliver of vulnerability? This is his truth, and you’ll never push him to unravel more than he wants to.

So you nod. You pull him closer. And you sit there, pressed together beneath the vast, endless sky, offering nothing but presence.

Because sometimes, companionship is enough.

Despite all of this—despite the dramatics, the chaos, the fact that you are pretty sure Lilia is making up 90% of his fae wisdom on the spot—your little potion shop thrives.

You get to help people. You get to live peacefully.

And best of all? You get to spend your days with someone who makes life interesting.

One evening, as you’re closing up, Lilia floats beside you, watching as you count today’s earnings.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he says, tone oddly soft, absent of his usual teasing lilt.

You glance at him, raising a brow. “We have,” you correct, shoving the last of the gold into the till. “I’d be lost without you.”

He hums in amusement, resting his chin in his hand. “Flattery will get you everywhere, you know.”

You snort. “It’s not flattery if it’s true.”

There’s a pause.

Then, after a moment, he reaches over—ruffles your hair with genuine fondness.

You pretend to be annoyed, but you don’t move away.

(And later, as you sit together, sharing a cup of tea under the quiet glow of lantern light, you think—maybe this life? This ridiculous, unpredictable, strangely wonderful life? Maybe it’s not so bad, after all.)

The first time you created a potion for hair growth, you barely had time to marvel at your genius before Lilia grabbed the vial and downed it in one gulp. No hesitation. No patch test. Just the unwavering confidence of a man who believed you were capable of alchemy miracles despite your previous track record, which included but was not limited to:

Accidentally making a love potion so strong it made a squirrel propose to a tree.

Brewing an invisibility elixir that only made clothes disappear (awkward).

Concocting a sleeping draught that did, in fact, induce sleep—just exclusively in yourself.

So, really, this blind faith of his was either heartwarming or deeply concerning.

The effect was immediate. Lilia’s short, fluffy locks exploded outward in a dramatic cascade, flowing past his shoulders, his waist, and then pooling onto the floor in a heap of silky, midnight strands. He blinked at you from behind his newly acquired curtain of hair, looking entirely unbothered, while you sat there in stunned horror like an artist realizing they’d just painted the Mona Lisa using finger paints.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, lifting a section of his hair with mild curiosity. “At least I won’t have to buy a blanket anymore.”

You groaned, already reaching for the shears. “Sit down. I’m cutting it before you trip and break your immortal neck.”

Lilia plopped down in front of you, perfectly content as you gathered the thick locks in your hands, marveling at how soft they were. You ran your fingers through them, untangling strands, watching them catch the light like the finest silk. Somewhere in the middle of methodically snipping away, your hand brushed against the nape of his neck.

And Lilia—Lilia of the endless energy, mischievous smirks, and unpredictable chaos—tilted his head into your touch like a cat craving warmth. He let his cheek brush against your palm, the weight of him light but deliberate, and you felt something in your chest hiccup.

Oh no.

Nope. Absolutely not. You were not going to sit here and have an emotional epiphany over a haircut.

You cleared your throat and kept cutting, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes fluttered shut, how he sighed just the slightest bit when you raked your fingers through his hair again. You ignored the warmth curling in your stomach, the way your heart stuttered like a miscast spell.

This was fine. Just a normal, everyday occurrence. No significance whatsoever.

(You ignored the fact that, long after the potion’s effects had worn off, Lilia still asks you to fix his hair for him.)

It has been a year.

A whole year since you knelt in front of a summoning circle, begging the universe for a small, manageable familiar—a cat, a bat, anything reasonable—only for reality to spit in your face and drop a war general into your living room.

A year since Lilia Vanrouge, former general, ancient fae, and walking eldritch menace, declared himself your familiar with a dramatic flourish while you stood there questioning every single life decision that had led to that moment.

And now, it’s time to let him go.

You knew this day would come. You told yourself you wouldn’t get attached. He was never supposed to stay forever. He has actual, important, world-changing things to do, and you—what are you? A small-town potion seller with a thriving business in male pattern baldness reversal and anti-aging tonics. This is not a worthy occupation for a fae of his caliber.

So why does the thought of him leaving feel like your heart is about to crawl out of your chest, slap you in the face, and then dramatically expire in protest?

You’re an adult. You can handle this. You will handle this.

Night falls, and you set up the ritual.

The summoning contract that bound him to you for a year must now be undone. The process is simple: draw the circle, say the words, and Lilia will be free to return to whatever grand, fae-magic-drenched existence he had before meeting you.

Your hands shake as you carve the sigils into the ground. You tell yourself it’s just fatigue.

The circle is perfect. The words are ready. You steel yourself, take a deep breath, and—

SCRATCH.

You blink.

Your circle is ruined.

Because Lilia just dragged his foot through it like a toddler messing up a sandcastle.

“Whoops,” he says, tone entirely insincere.

You stare at the ruined circle. Then at him. Then at the deep, deliberate groove he just scraped through the sigils.

“…Did you just—”

“Oh dear,” Lilia sighs, not looking remotely sorry. “How clumsy of me.”

You narrow your eyes.

Fine. Fine. You can work with this. You redraw the circle, faster this time, heart pounding, trying not to think about how every stroke is another step toward the inevitable.

But as soon as you finish it, it vanishes.

You gape. “What the fu—”

Lilia, sitting lazily on your kitchen counter, swirls his wine glass and hums, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You try again. And again.

Each time, something goes wrong.

The chalk disappears. The ink dries too fast. The lines curve into nonsense when you look away. Lilia, drinking his wine, watching you struggle, looking like a cat who just knocked over an entire shelf and is waiting for applause.

Then, finally, the last straw.

You painstakingly carve the circle one last time, standing up with triumphant determination—

And Lilia immediately spills his wine on it.

He gasps, eyes wide with the fakest, most dramatic shock you have ever seen. “Oh my. How unfortunate.”

You drop the chalk.

You inhale, slow and measured, like a parent about to scold a misbehaving child.

Then you turn to him.

“…Hey,” you say, voice trembling, not with sadness, but with the sheer, earth-shattering realization that this little fae menace is playing with you.

He takes another sip of wine, as if to fortify himself against the incoming confrontation.

“Do you,” you say, pointing at him, “not want to leave?”

Lilia smiles. That infuriatingly cryptic, all-knowing smile that he has given you exactly one thousand times over the past year.

He doesn’t answer.

And you are done.

You grab him by the collar, yanking his floating self down to your level, because no. Not this time.

“Say it.” Your heart is racing, your voice shaking. “Stop playing with my feelings and just say it.”

For the first time in a long time, Lilia looks genuinely surprised.

His bright red eyes flick over your face, searching, calculating.

Then, gently, effortlessly, he kisses you.

It’s soft. Unhurried. Like a promise instead of a confession.

When he pulls away, there’s no teasing, no smug amusement. Just quiet certainty as he murmurs, “I thought that was obvious, little mage.”

And you—

You think, yeah. This is perfect.

The day after the kiss is, by all accounts, completely normal.

Lilia is still Lilia—dramatic, whimsical, and absolutely insufferable in the best way possible. He flits around the shop like a particularly mischievous specter, rearranges your potions in ways that make absolutely no sense, and startles at least three customers by dropping upside down from the rafters like a bat with a caffeine addiction.

The only difference are the little changes in his proximity.

The way he brushes a little closer, his fingertips lingering on yours when he hands you a vial. The way he leans in when he speaks, voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine. The way his eyes—sharp, playful, knowing—linger just a second too long, like he’s drinking in every reaction.

Your regulars notice immediately.

“You two finally figured it out, huh?”

“About damn time.”

“Oh, we’ve been betting on this for months—Edgar, pay up.”

Even the old woman who only comes in for her arthritis tincture pats your cheek with grandmotherly approval, declaring, "He’s a little strange, but you always liked strays."

By the time you close up for the night, you’re warm with laughter, exhaustion, and the sheer reality of it. Of him. Of you.

And then there’s a weight on your back, light but unmistakable, arms winding around you as Lilia attaches himself like a particularly affectionate cloak.

“You still haven’t actually asked me to stay,” he hums, his chin resting on your shoulder. You can hear the grin in his voice, teasing and pleased.

You roll your eyes, exasperated and utterly, helplessly fond.

Then, without warning, you turn, grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him hard.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips before immediately melting into it, responding with all the fervor of someone who has absolutely been waiting for this. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, and you swear you can feel him smiling into the kiss.

When you finally pull back, breathless and a little dazed, you meet his gaze and say, firm and sure,

“Stay.”

Lilia blinks, as if he wasn’t expecting you to actually say it. Then his lips curl into something unbearably soft, unbearably fond, and he whispers,

“Till the end of my life.”

Masterlist

[azrielsdove]

Fated Souls

Warnings: Angst, Light Smut, 18+

Lucien Here | Azriel Here

***

You observed the celebration around you, watching your friends as they interacted with one another. You brought your wine glass to your lips, taking another slow sip. You had chosen to stick to the edges of the room for this gathering. It was easier that way. You didn’t have to pretend that your heart wasn’t being tortured with every beat it made.

Truthfully, you’d lost count of what glass of wine this was. You enjoyed the way the edges of the room blurred the more you drank, allowing you to pretend it’s all a horrid nightmare instead of your devastating reality.

Until your eyes caught upon them once again. You scowled, tipping your head back as you emptied your drink. Your eyes narrowed as you watched him smile down at her, his hand itching to hold onto her waist. She looked at him with such adoration that you’d have to be brainless to miss it. Everyone knew about the Shadowsinger and middle Archeron sister. You could argue that they turned a blind eye because they wished to see the pair happy, if it weren’t for the fact that their mates were just as widely known.

You rolled your eyes as she let out a soft laugh, placing a hand on the chest of the male that was supposed to be fated to you. Not that he cared. You were tired of this, the constant pining for someone who would never want you. Growing sick of their love-show, you slipped quietly from the room. No one noticed, or if they did they didn’t care. You had become quite a depressing specimen since Elain entered your life.

And since the mating bond snapped to Azriel, who only had eyes for her. Your friends did not know how to speak to you these days, always teetering in awkward conversation. They looked at you as if they stared too close you’d shatter into a thousand pieces. You were fragile, breakable.

It wasn’t always that way. Before this you were one of the fiercest warriors the Night Court had. You held your own against Cassian, earning a place of honor as his right hand. You were a force to be reckoned with. “The Lovely Demon” they called you, whispers of your power and beauty flitting throughout all of Prythian. It made sense for you to be fated to Azriel, the devilishly handsome spymaster. Together you were a death sentence.

A death sentence indeed. You moved throughout the halls, searching for the only one who understood your pain. You were pleased when you found him alone on one of the countless balconies in the House of Wind, leaning over the railing with his own drink in hand. You walked out to him, your heels clicking softy on the stone. He did not turn to look at you, even when you leaned on the railing next to him.

“Beautiful night,” he spoke first, looking intently at the stars. You followed his line of sight, humming in response. Nothing was beautiful to you now.

The two of you stood like that for some time, in an understanding silence. The silver fabric of your dress glowed under the starlight, a sight that would have filled you with confidence before. Now you hardly even noticed.

“Were they…” he began, trailing off. The words were too hard to be spoken aloud, but you knew what he meant. Were they all over each other again? You nodded, noting the way he slung his whiskey back at the action. “Do you think it will ever hurt less?”

Did you? You couldn’t imagine a world in which it didn’t, but surely it wouldn’t be this way forever. You turned to look at him then, taking in the defeated form of the once strong man you knew.

Lucien had been through a lot in the last five centuries. Hel, you all had. No one was the same as they once were. But your friend had suffered more than most, and yet his suffering was brushed under the rug by the Inner Circle. You loved them dearly, yes, yet they oftentimes only focused on themselves. In all honesty you had been the same way before. All that mattered was that you and your family were happy. Others problems could come later.

Once the bond snapped and Azriel chose to ignore it, things changed. You quickly discovered that he meant more to them than you did. Not that they didn’t try to help you, of course. Mor spent many a night lying in your bed with you, holding you tight while tears ran down your face. Nesta brought you books, the closest to acknowledging the messed up way Azriel was acting. But in the end, his feelings would always win. His happiness was more important than yours.

“I can only hope it does,” you finally answered. He finally turned to face you as well, the pain in his eyes like looking in a mirror.

“How do we cope?”

You shook your head, a sad smile playing on your lips. “When you find out, please let me know.”

You stared at each other for a long moment. Perhaps it was the copious amount of alcohol you had ingested, or perhaps it was the deep sadness controlling your heart, but you couldn’t help to notice how stunning Lucien was. Even in his pain drenched form he radiated a sense of power and confidence not many others could. You simply could not wrap your head around Elains distaste for him. You understood she had her own traumas to work through, but she could do worse. You knew Lucien would be kind to her.

Unfortunately she wanted your mate instead. The thought sends a wave of nausea through your body. Lucien noticed the subtle change in your already heartbroken demeanor, reaching his hand out to yours. You gladly held on to him, tears brimming in your eyes. “It’s not fair,” you whispered, the pain building up inside of you. He shook his head, pulling you close to him. He wrapped his arm tight around your waist, the hand on his other one tangling into your hair. You rested your face on the crook of his neck as gasping sobs tore through your very soul. Your nails dug into his shirt, holding onto him as if you were desperately searching for something to ground you. Something to remind you that life still existed, and it wasn’t just you lost in the tumultuous sea of your grief.

Your heart was falling apart. You knew you were not only going to lose Azriel if this continued. If he did fully choose Elain, and she him, your life would be over. Your family would gladly welcome them as one, celebrating their love and joy. You wouldn’t be able to live as you once did. You would flee the Night Court entirely, possibly leaving a note for Rhysand. You couldn’t be sure if he would even notice your absence in the wake of joy for his brother. Though could you blame him? Your soul sang for Azriel’s happiness. It was tearing you apart that it wasn’t with you.

You clung tighter to Lucien, hands shaking. His fingers were tracing patterns in your hair, trying to soothe your fractured mind. “He doesn’t deserve you,” he murmured. His words gave you pause, pulling your face off his shoulder to look up at him. His eyes were glassy, the tears he held refusing to be shed.

“What?” You asked, your voice weak. Lucien looked intently at you, moving his hand to cup your face. His thumb brushed away your tears, a deep sorrow in his eyes.

“It is wrong of him to allow you to be in pain as such. Elain, I give her more grace than most would. But Azriel?” He spoke the shadowsingers name as if it were a curse. “He has no excuse. You have been together centuries now, close as two can be. It should have been an instant joy, the mating bond between you. And yet,” he sighs deeply, thumb tracing your skin once more. “He’s gotten it into his head that he has to be with an Archeron like his brothers.” Your heart stutters as his thumb traces your bottom lip, a fire beginning to rage in his eyes. “He’s taken it upon himself to steal away my mate, while ignoring his own. A sorry thing, too, when she is as lovely as the night she so graciously represents.” His hand slides down to trace your jawline, fire burning your skin wherever he touched. This was wrong. You were both heartbroken, tossed aside by your mates. Friends, yes, but lovers? No. You should pull away, stop this before it goes too far. This was wr-

Oh.

Your head tilted back and your mouth opened slightly as Lucien’s lips met your neck. He kissed your skin like it was his honor to do so, like he would never get the chance again. His lips traveled up to your jaw, kissing slowly across your cheek. You couldn’t breathe as your eyes fluttered closed, lips ready for his.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against your skin, nose brushing yours. You knew you should. If you allowed him to kiss you fully you would be fully admitting that Azriel was a lost hope and dream. Allowing another male to touch you in a way only your mate should.

Did it matter when that mate was too busy catching the attention of someone who wasn’t you? When all he wanted was her pretty little mouth on his? What is the harm in you finding what pleasure you could in the wake of the pain he had bestowed upon your very being?

“Kiss me.”

Lucien’s lips met yours with a fervor, an intensity you didn’t know you craved. Arousal began to spread through your body, a need for him that overtook all other thought. You pulled him closer, allowing him to cage you in against the balcony railing. You welcomed his tongue into your mouth, moaning quietly at the taste of him. His hands fell to your waist, one fisting the fabric as his restraint was rapidly fading. “He’s a fool for letting you go,” he said into your mouth, a shiver of delight running down your spine at his words.

“So is she.” His eyes flared and he kissed you again, his hand slowly working your dress up. You gasped as the cool night air danced across your heated skin. You knew you shouldn’t be doing this at all, much less right where anyone could see. The thought of someone catching you made your heart race with scandalous excitement. Not that anyone would have even noticed the two of you were gone.

Lucien’s hand flattened against your bare thigh, having pulled your dress high enough to expose the skin there. You felt alive under his touch, like you were finally being seen. You kissed him as if he were the sun and you were lost in an endless night. His fingers trailed to the inside of your thigh, a hum of surprise coming from him when he discovered you wore nothing under your gown. He found you quickly, pressing gently down on your clit. You gasped into his mouth, arching against him in pleasure. He worked you expertly, moving his fingers like he was put on this world just to please you.

His lips fell from yours, pressing quick kisses on your neck. “I want you hear you,” he whispered into your ear, allowing his thumb to take over the delicious pressure his fingers had been providing. He moved them down, sliding them gently into you. He curled them once he was deep inside, the feeling overpowering. You tilted your head back as you moaned his name, forgetting everything except for him. When Lucien touched you there was no pain from an unwanted mating bond, no thoughts of why you weren’t good enough. There was only you and him. He was painting fire into your soul, giving you the light you needed to live.

Until you felt him be ripped away from you as something cold wound it’s away around your body.

***

i have two separate endings for this! one for lucien and one for azriel <3. i just loved this idea and then couldnt decide which way i wanted it to go haha. i hope you enjoyyyyyy

[lets-try-some-writing]

I got the image of the Jack, Miko and Rafael learning to imitate Distressed/terrified Sparkling cries and using them against the decepticons. It’s a very efficient defense mechanism. Every cybertronian who heard them is freaking out because oh primus how is the squishy thing making that noise and I gotta protect it at all costs. The sheer chaos that would ensue as the ‘protect/rescue the sparkling’ programming kicks in full force.

——

The vehicons are clustered at the other end of the room panicking. They don’t know what to do. The human sparklings are looking right at them and making distress noises. The guilt is killing them.

Knockout going “is the car form less alarming?! If I turn into a car will you stop seeing me as the threat?!”

Breakdown is having a breakdown.

Starscream pinned to the wall on the other side of the room having an internal crisis. He doesn’t like this. Make it stop.

Soundwave makes no noise but you can FEEL the sheer distress radiating off of him.

Megatron is frozen. No thoughts, head empty. He’s not moving at all. He doesn’t know how to handle this.

——

The autobots have mixed feelings about this. They’re glad the kids have a way of defending themselves but please don’t do it near them. They’re stressed out enough as it is.

(This might sound kinda dumb but I thought it was kinda funny. Very tired while writing this)

Wait no this is actually brilliant.

The Decepticons never anticipated their long buried parental nature to be used against them. No one did. But they day the human children turned up on the battlefield looking far too confident, every Bot and Con present had the all encompassing feeling that something was terribly wrong. Their suspicions were quickly confirmed when, before the Decepticons could do much of anything to get the relics they were after, Rafael began to wail.

Normally, human screams meant nothing. But there was a certain pitch that sounded so close to a cry of distress from a sparkling that, to warriors who had not heard a sparkling in millennia, it was enough to send them running to help. In this case, the issue was only compounded as the children scattered like mice and started making the same noises. The Decepticons could hardly focus on the Autobots booking it to the relics as they frantically tried to locate the fictitious sparklings calling for aid.

The Vehicons managed to get to Jack, but he just kept looking up at them defiantly. Every time one of the dozen or so Vehicons on the field tried to grab him, blast him, or otherwise hurt him, Jack would chirp like a sparkling and send all of them scurrying back. It wasn't cute to the Vehicons. Having never seen actual sparklings but still having the coding needed to adore them, they looked at Jack and saw a weird frame-walker. They weren't sure what to do about it except try to haul themselves away while also keeping a vague circle around the human male.

Miko on the other hand made it a point to chase after Megatron and Soundwave, screeching like a sparkling about to be shredded. Neither stopped for her, but Megatron completely lost his train of thought every time that screech rang out. He could have been aiming at Optimus with a perfect head shot and he would be unable to fire as Miko's distressed sounds rang out in his audials. He KNEW she wasn't a sparking. His coding wasn't even that strong. But by Primus, hearing her screech was the same as watching a civilian get run over by a bus, repeatedly. Focus was impossible.

Soundwave wasn't much better. He didn't react outwardly, but the slowing of his steps and the way he tried to sidestep Miko gave away his distress. He avoided her like the plague, trying to refocus but being unable to really get far as Miko screamed like a demon. It was a fight against the Unmaker himself to keep Soundwave from bolting over to collect the sparkling who sounded so very upset.

Rafael, for his part, followed Miko's lead and harassed the other three members of High Command most often found out on the field. Breakdown ran screaming the moment Rafael started chirping at him. This was both out of fear of the frame-walker and to escape the inevitable overreaction of his coding. He may or may not have attempted parkour once or twice to get as far away from the smallest of the humans as possible.

Knockout tried to ignore Rafael when the kid chirped up at him, he really really did. But how does one ignore the Cybertronian equivalent of a soaking wet kitten meowing up at you? Simply put: you don't. Knockout gave in and quickly dropped down to try and soothe the non-existent sparkling every. single. time. Rafael pulled his noise trickery. He never fails to panic and attempt to flash colorful things at Rafael to get him to stop. Every Decepticon has since been endlessly disappointed in him.

Starscream, being terrified of things that really shouldn't be there, took the skies the instant the trio began screeching. Nope. Not today Unicron. He'll get the mission done or get the heck out of dodge to avoid coding coming online. He doesn't need empty nest syndrome on top of a crippling case of "I Love Power." He also doesn't need to deal with the horrific mental image of a squishy somehow managing to sound like a sparkling. Nope. Nope. NOPE.

The Autobots are grateful the kids can protect themselves a bit now. But by Primus, they have known NO peace since the kids figured it all out.

[myderis]

honeycakes ꒱ mydei 'n fem reader ᰔ fluff ⊹ word count 0.4k

MYDEIMOS had never been one for idle indulgences, but here he was, standing before you with a carefully wrapped Golden Honeycake in his hands. He had noticed, of course—how your hunger struck at the same hours every day, how your eyes would flit toward food stalls but you’d brush it off with a laugh. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

So why had he gone through the trouble of making this for you? The scent of warm honey and spice wraps around you as you take a bite of the fluffy cakes. The delicate flavors melt on your tongue, sweet and rich, as you hum in delight, savoring the treat before glancing up at the man who gave it to you.

“Mydei, why do you even carry these around?” you ask, tilting your head. His entire frame stiffens. A warrior, a prince, a legend in his own right—reduced to a flustered mess by a simple question. His lips part, then close, his golden eyes darting anywhere but at you. “I… I just happened to have them.”

A pause.

“…In perfect condition?”

“Yes.”

“Still warm?”

“…Yes.”

You raise a brow, and he clears his throat, clearly thinking of a way out. “You’re always hungry at this hour. A warrior should never fight on an empty stomach so—” He stops, realizing he’s said too much.

For a moment, you consider teasing him, pressing the matter further just to see that rare, adorable panic cross his face again. But the honeycake is far too delicious, and honestly, the warmth of his thoughtfulness lingers just as sweetly. So instead, you simply nod, offering him a small, grateful smile before taking another bite.

Mydei watches you. Not in a strange or unsettling way—he just… watches. He never thought something as simple as eating could make his heart race like this. You’re radiant in the glow of the never-setting sun, utterly content, and for a moment, he forgets where he is.

What have you done to me? How is it possible that the battlefield, the weight of his name, the blood-stained history of his family…none of it matters as much as this? As much as you?

A voice pulls him back.

“Mydei?” He blinks, suddenly aware that you’ve been calling his name. You’re looking at him now, curious and slightly concerned. “I wanted to share the honeycakes with you,” you say, holding a piece out toward him. He doesn’t deserve this. But gods, he wants it. 

Taking the offered piece, his fingers brush against yours—warm, fleeting, but enough to make him a nervous wreck. The battlefield is where his heart should be hardened, not softened by the sight of you enjoying a simple treat.

The mighty prince of Kremnos, the undying Mydeimos, is in love.

© MYDERIS. do not translate, plagiarize, or steal my work.

[heliosunny]

your nanook fic is scrumptious 😞🤌, can I request another one? A continuation of it or a different one is ok

Golden Shackles

Yandere!Tyrant!Nanook x Reader

His march of ruin was almost complete, another world shattered in his wake, another civilization quaking beneath the shadow of his might. Nanook loomed over the devastation. The warriors at his back knelt as his mantle, thick with the remnants of fallen kingdoms, swept across the broken earth.

The air itself stilled, then shattered.

A blur of movement where there should have been none.

Pain erupted in your leg before you even registered the strike, an arrow searing through your flesh. You screamed as it pierced your calf then hit the ground hard, the impact driving the breath from your lungs.

He merely looked down, and in his eyes, you saw the end of all things.

"Persistent" he mused. His voice was the low crackle of a dying fire. "I do admire that."

A hand cupped your jaw. His thumb brushed your cheek bone, and for one delirious moment, you thought he might laugh.

Then his grip tightened.

"Pity it’s wasted."

You woke in gilded chains.

Not literal ones. No, your prison was far more elegant—high ceilings, silk sheets, the scent of something floral masking the iron beneath. Servants redressed your wounds. None spoke.

You waited. You healed. And when the silence became unbearable, you ran again.

This time, you almost reached the gates.

The air turned to syrup. Your limbs locked mid-stride.

"Tell me," his voice curled around you, "do you enjoy disobedience? Or are you simply incapable of learning?"

You couldn’t turn. Couldn’t speak. But you didn’t need to. He already knew the answer.

A snap of fingers. Suddenly you were facing him, close enough to see the golden-glow of his irises, the faint scar cutting through his brow.

"You amuse me." he admitted, as if confessing a weakness. "But don’t mistake indulgence for mercy."

The servants led you back. The doors sealed behind you.

---

Survival required more than defiance, it demanded strategy.

You studied your chamber. The guard posted outside wasn’t like the others. No hulking armor, just a quiet man who flinched when doors slammed too hard.

His name was Kael.

A scholar once, before the tyrant’s eye fell upon him. "The Mark" he called it, not a blessing, never that. A curse disguised as favor.

"You read people's mind?" you noted one evening as he adjusted his ill-fitting uniform.

"I used to read books. Maybe his blessing gave me such ability according to my skill."

"Why obey him?"

He smiled bitterly. "He’s not cruel without reason. His majesty believes this is how strength is earned. And… he enjoys it. Not many people receive his blessing and survive."

Your escape wasn’t an escape at all.

You waited until Kael’s watch waned, until the halls sighed empty. Then you moved.

The fortress unfolded like a living manuscript.

Then you heard the sound. It led you to a gallery overlooking a sunken coliseum.

The Tyrant lounged on a dais of fused bones, toying with a dagger. Below him, figures knelt in the sand.

A woman was thrust forward.

The onlookers roared with approval. Toasted. Threw coins.

You couldn’t look away.

Nanook smiled.

The performance began.

Your hands trembled against the railing.

His gaze lifted, as if he’d heard your silent horror.

You dissolved into the dark before he could see.

You never learned what gave you away.

Maybe it was the choked gasp you couldn’t swallow fast enough.

It didn't matter.

Nanook's head tilted upward with predator's grace, his attention peeling away from the bloodsport below like a man distracted by a particularly interesting moth.

"Someone's watching."

The arena fell silent.

Your bones turned to ice.

Pressed against the balcony's shadowed pillar, you became stone. The pounding in your chest threatened to betray you as you retreated one silent step at a time.

He didn't pursue.

But the damage was done.

That night, sleep abandoned you. Every rustle of fabric became approaching footsteps. Every breath of wind carried phantom laughter.

Dawn came with armored fists pounding on your door.

"You're summoned," the guard said. "For a walk."

They dragged you from bed, tossing a cloak over your shoulders as they marched you beyond familiar corridors, past the gilded cages of the inner palace into the raw expanse of the outer cliffs.

Nanook stood at the precipice, the morning wind playing with his hair.

"Come here."

Your feet refused.

With a flick of his wrist, a circlet of dark metal appeared in his palm.

"Put it on," he said, "if you value your next breath."

The metal seared your fingers as you clasped it around your throat. It settled against your skin like a living thing.

"Good." He gestured toward the cliff's edge. "Now run."

Your bare feet tore across jagged stone as you bolted, not toward freedom, but toward the massive sword leaning against a nearby boulder. His sword. The one he'd so carelessly left unattended.

The moment your hands closed around the hilt, power erupted through your veins, the blade's ancient hunger vibrating in your bones. It was too heavy, but when you swung, it moved with you.

Nanook caught the strike barehanded.

The impact should have severed flesh. Instead, his fingers curled around the singing steel as if greeting an old friend, the weapon's fury dying instantly at his touch.

His other hand snapped out, twisting your wrist just enough to bring you to your knees.

For a breathless moment, you stared up at your captor, expecting death.

Nanook threw back his head and laughed, a sound both terrible and delighted.

"Oh, little mouse," he purred, prying his weapon from your shaking hands, "you do make this interesting."

As guards lifted you from the ground, the circlet at your throat pulsed warmly.

----

The crash of splintering wood shattered your fragile sleep.

Nanook filled the doorway, swaying ever so slightly, the sharp edges of his divinity blurred by wine. His usually immaculate hair tumbled loose over one shoulder, and in his grip—a man.

Just some trembling soul with a split lip and shackled wrists, dragged forward like an offering.

"Wake up, little one. I've brought you a gift."

The prisoner collapsed at your bedside, his chains clattering against marble. "M-mercy, please—"

Nanook kicked him silent.

Then he tossed a dagger onto your sheets.

"Here's the game," he murmured, crouching until his breath, warm and wine-sweet, fanned across your face. "You kill him... or I do it slowly."

The blade glinted in the low light.

You stared at it. At the prisoner's tear-streaked face. At the way Nanook's fingers twitched, already anticipating violence.

Your hand closed around the hilt and you moved.

Not toward the man.

Toward him.

The dagger flashed upward, biting deep into the meat of Nanook's palm. A brutal, messy wound. Crimson welled, dripped, splattered across your bare arms as you twisted the blade.

For one glorious second, you saw something foreign in his golden eyes—

Surprise.

Then the world flipped.

Your back hit the floor with enough force to steal your breath. Nanook loomed above, his bleeding hand pinning your wrist, his other arm braced beside your head. The scent of copper and expensive wine filled the space between you.

You expected fury.

Instead, he laughed, a low, breathless sound that vibrated through your chest.

"Clever little thing." he slurred, his weight growing heavier as the alcohol finally claimed him. His forehead dropped against your shoulder. "Should've known you'd... cheat."

Then, impossibly, the conqueror of worlds went limp atop you.

His breathing evened out.

The prisoner had fled.

The dagger lay forgotten nearby.

And you?

You lay very, very still beneath a sleeping man, his heartbeat steady against yours.

For the first time since your capture, you held the power.

The dagger gleamed in the moonlight, still wet with his blood. One quick thrust between those ribs would end it all. You could almost feel the moment.

But you hesitated.

Killing him now would be a death sentence. His generals would flay you alive before dawn. Worse—what if he didn't die?

You took the blade and carved two precise lines into his skin—one along his unmarked palm, another just beneath his ribs.

I could have killed you.

The dagger clattered to the floor as you returned to bed, pulling the covers over your still-trembling body. Let him wake confused. Let him find his own blood first.

Dawn came quietly.

You feigned sleep as Nanook stirred. Through slitted eyes, you watched him examine his new wounds with something almost like... amusement.

Just a quiet huff of breath that might have been laughter.

"You," he muttered to your sleeping form, "are going to be trouble."

Then he was gone.

You moved before the echoes faded.

No time for breakfast. No patience for guards. The collar at your throat hummed, but you ignored it, today wasn't about defiance.

Today was about escape.

The halls were quieter than usual, whether by chance or some drunken negligence among the guards, you didn't care.

Your pulse hammered as you reached the lower levels, further than you'd ever gone. The air changed here, damp and salty.

A narrow corridor ended at a rusted gate. Beyond it, sunlight glittered on water. The harbor.

Your fingers closed around the gate's bars, just as a familiar voice purred behind you.

"Looking for something?"

Nanook leaned against the wall, freshly bathed and annoyingly alert, his wounded hand bandaged in gold silk. The cuts you'd given him were nowhere to be seen.

"Air." you said simply.

He studied you for a long moment. Then sighed.

"Fine."

Before you could react, he wrenched the gate open with one hand, seawater wind whipping through the corridor.

"Run," he said, stepping aside. "Let's see how far you get before the collar drags you back."

"Or stay. And learn what happens to mice who bite gods."

The choice hung between you as the scent of salt and freedom called from beyond the gate.

----

You found a new path today.

The crack in the wall was barely wider than your palm, just another shadow in the maze of servant corridors. But when you pressed against it, the stone groaned and gave way to darkness.

Cold air rushed past you. A forgotten passage.

You slipped inside. The tunnel sloped downward, narrow enough that your shoulders brushed both walls. Your fingers trailed along the rough stone as you descended, counting steps.

Then you saw light. A rusted iron grate blocked the exit, but beyond it, you could see the cliffside tumbling down to the city below.

You committed every turn to memory before retreating. Not today. But soon.

----

The scent hit you first, blood and charred meat.

You froze in the doorway.

Bodies littered the kitchen floor like discarded puppets. Some still twitched. At the center of the carnage stood Nanook, idly wiping his blade on a dead man's tunic.

His head lifted.

"Perfect timing." he said.

A guard shoved a goblet into your hands. The wine inside smelled faintly of almonds.

"Drink." Nanook commanded.

You hesitated only a second before swallowing.

Nanook watched your throat work with clinical interest. When you didn't collapse, he smiled.

"Congratulations." he said. "You're my new taster."

That night, they brought you roasted pheasant and honeyed figs. You ate slowly, waiting for the poison to take you.

Nanook watched from his throne.

Nothing happened.

Morning revealed the price of defiance.

Six heads adorned the outer gates. The seventh prisoner hung crucified above the banquet hall, still breathing when they brought in the first course.

Nanook sipped his wine, eyes never leaving yours.

"Tell me," he murmured, "do you still dream of running?"

You took another bite of your food.

The meat tasted like ash.

----

The scent of charred rosemary still clung to your fingers when you woke to find Nanook crouched beside your pallet, his shadow swallowing the candlelight.

You reacted before thinking, your hand lashed out, catching his wrist as he reached for the half-eaten fig on your tray.

"Still alive, I see."

You released him like touching scorched iron.

You decided to pass through the kitchen today.

The scent of blood had been scrubbed away, but something lingered.

The way your reflection in the soup cauldrons looked strangely blurred. The atmosphere was gloomy.

You made yourself useful.

Small comforts. You can perform magic tricks, so why not. You cheered them up, well temporarily, but it was better than nothing.

"They say the Tyrant's pet can charm snakes..." "I heard they turned a guard's sword into flowers..."

Nanook's summons came at dusk.

His private chambers sprawled across the palace's highest point, all obsidian arches and windows open to the stars. The bed he indicated for you stood opposite his own.

"Having fun?" he said, pouring wine you wouldn't dare drink.

You flexed your still-tingling fingers. "They look sad, I don't like that."

He swirled the dark liquid. "I won't have you making allies in my own house."

That night, as the twin moons rose, you gave him a different kind of show. Well, you were forced to. Fire blossomed between your palms.

Nanook watched from his chair.

When the last ember died, he said only:

"Again."

You obliged.

This time, the flames took his shape, looming and terrible, until with a flick of your wrist, the figure's head tilted back in silent laughter.

Nanook went very still.

Then he stood, crossed the space between you, and caught your smoking hands in his.

"Clever mouse," he murmured, thumb brushing your scorched knuckles. "But remember—" His grip tightened just shy of pain. "I like my toys flammable."

----

The arena stank of sweat and fear.

You watched from the high balcony as the prisoners were herded into the pit, some weeping, some snarling, all doomed. Nanook lounged on his throne, fingers drumming a lazy rhythm against the armrest.

"Last one standing earns my blessing." he announced, as if offering salvation rather than damnation.

A lie wrapped in gold.

You slipped away before the first scream.

Phainon, someone called for his name, sat apart from the others in the holding cell. When you appeared at the bars, he didn't flinch.

"You are.. ?" he observed.

"You must've known the king's pet. That's me." You pressed closer. "There's a way out."

His gaze sharpened. "For who?"

"The dragon. The challenge for tomorrow. Its throat softens after the first fireburst." You slid a knife between the bars. "Make it count."

Phainon tested the blade's edge. "Why help me?"

You smiled. "Every distraction helps."

Nanook caught you returning to the tower, your clothes reeking of prison straw.

His grip on your arm was deceptively gentle. "Naughty pet."

He carried you back like a misbehaving cat, dumping you onto the fur-strewn floor.

----

The arena roared as Phainon faced the fire dragon.

You watched from the shadows as he danced between claws and flame, waiting until the beast's chest glowed molten.

Then he struck.

The knife found its mark.

Ichor gushed black as the dragon collapsed, its death throes shaking the stadium. Nanook leaned forward, intrigued rather than angered.

"Bring me that one." he commanded.

But Phainon was already gone, vanished through the chaos you'd engineered.

Nanook found you polishing his armor that evening.

"You," he said, catching your chin, "are far too clever for your own good."

You met his gaze without flinching.

He laughed then, before pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

"Run again tomorrow." he murmured. "It's more fun when you try."

----

The cup shattered before you hit the ground.

Fire raced through your veins, not the clean burn of liquor, but something else. Your vision tunneled. The banquet hall swayed. Somewhere beyond the roaring in your ears, you heard Nanook's chair scrape back.

His face swam above you.

Obviously someone has poisoned you.

For one terrible moment, you thought he might let you die.

Then his hand closed around your throat.

You woke up. No collar, you could no longer feel it on.

The servant girl bowed low. "You have received His Majesty's blessing."

You touched your chest. Where your heartbeat should have been, there was only a slow, steady pulse.

---

Phainon's name echoed through the halls like a prayer: The Golden Victor. Nanook's Favorite.

Wait, what did you miss? How long was you out for?

You pieced together the story from whispers:

How he'd slain the drake with a single strike

How the Tyrant had draped his own cloak around the boy's shoulders

The court adored him.

You wondered if he still remembered the knife you'd slipped him.

Nanook's visit came at midnight.

"You'll fight in the morrow's games." he said, as casually as ordering wine.

You stared at the canopy above your bed. "To prove what?"

"That I don't keep broken things. Unless they're interesting."

The rules were simple:

Twelve champions

One victor

You turned your face away.

Nanook caught your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. "You've tasted my power now. Let's see what you do with it."

Dawn painted the sands gold as you entered.

The other champions circled like jackals, each bred for battle, each marked with their master's sigil. You wore Nanook's colors: black and gold.

No one cheered for you.

High above, Nanook lounged in his box, Phainon seated at his right hand.

The horn sounded.

The blessing guided your hands. When the first champion fell, his neck snapped clean as dry kindling, you felt nothing.

The crowd roared.

Nanook's smile widened.

By sunset, the sands ran red.

Only you and one other remained, a hulking brute with a general's mark burned into his chest. He spat blood at your feet.

"Pretty little pet," he sneered. "Let's see how your master likes you broken."

Then, in a blink of an eye, he died.

They dragged you before Nanook's throne.

Phainon's face was pale.

"Well?" he asked the assembled nobles. "What do you think of my pet?"

His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your face up.

The kiss he pressed to your forehead burned worse than any poison.

"Well done." he murmured, for your ears alone.

----

You found Phainon in the ruins of the old temple. The moonlight cut through the broken pillars, casting jagged shadows as he turned to face you.

"You're alive," he breathed, relief flashing across his face before his expression hardened. "But not for long if you stay here."

"I need your help."

"There's a ship at the eastern docks. It leaves at dawn. If we can get you there—"

A slow clap echoed through the ruins.

Both of you froze.

Nanook stepped from the shadows.

"How touching," he murmured. "A rebellion of two."

Nanook flicked his wrist, and the speed in your veins burned away like paper in a fire. You gasped, stumbling as your limbs turned leaden. If he is able to give you his blessing, he can take it back.

Phainon drew his blade, but Nanook was already upon him. A single strike sent him crashing into the stone, his sword skittering across the floor.

Nanook didn’t even look at him.

His gaze was fixed on you.

"Did you really think," he said, "I wouldn’t notice?"

Back in the palace, the air was thick with fury.

"You were mine," he said. "And you threw it away."

You didn’t back down. "I was never yours."

He moved first.

The fight was brutal. You were slower now, stripped of his blessing, but you knew his patterns. You dodged, struck, twisted—until his patience snapped.

A backhand sent you reeling. You hit the table, rolled—and grabbed the nearest heavy object.

The impact of the bronze decanter against his skull echoed like a gong.

Nanook staggered.

Then collapsed.

You didn’t think. You just moved. Dragging him was harder without the speed, but desperation lent you strength. Through the hidden passages, past the unsuspecting guards, into the cold night beyond the palace walls.

You made it to the edge of the cypress grove before he stirred.

A groan. A twitch of fingers. His eyes fluttering open.

"Who...?" His voice was rough, disoriented. He looked at you like he’d never seen you before. "Where am I?"

You tensed, ready to run.

But then his hand—weak, unsteady—reached for yours.

"Don’t leave." 

The most feared tyrant in the world had no idea who he was.

And for some reason, he trusted you.

"Can I come with you?"

You exhaled sharply. "No."

He flinched. Just slightly.

You cursed under your breath.

"Fine. But if you slow me down, I’m leaving you behind."

A slow, hesitant nod.

And just like that, he followed you into the dark—barefoot, bleeding, and utterly, terrifyingly helpless.

You have no idea what's waiting for you both ahead. But you can't stay here any longer.

----

[To be continued?]

[elevensiesexpert]

Boromir sparring with Aragorn, not just as warriors but as brothers-in-arms, trading stories of Gondor and the North as they rest between bouts.

Boromir asking Frodo about this book that hes been fixated on for 30 minutes, genuinely interesting to know more about the hobbit.

Boromir teaching Sam about Gondorian cooking, laughing as they debate the best way to season a stew.

Boromir joining in on one of Gimli and Legolas’ competitions—not with a bow or an axe, but by arm-wrestling Gimli and seeing who can drink the most ale without faltering. Maybe even cracking a joke or two about what his human eyes see.

Boromir standing watch with Aragorn on cold nights, speaking softly of Minas Tirith’s white walls, of duty and family, and listening when Aragorn speaks of his own burdens. Growing closer to him, and recognizing him as his king, and his brother.

Boromir humming an old Gondorian tune as they march, filling the empty spaces with warmth.

Boromir promising Merry he’ll teach him how to properly wield a sword, not as a child playing at battle, but as a warrior who deserves to know how to fight.

Boromir placing a comforting hand on Legolas’ shoulder after Gandalfs death, recognizing that the immortal did not understand death.

Boromir catching Pippin after he when trips while walking, always looking after the young hobbit.

Boromir making sure everyone is accounted for before resting, always putting the Company before himself.

Boromir being more than just the man who fell—being the man who loved, who laughed, who cared.

[nikoisme]

actually the fact that odysseus knew he'd be gone for 20 years makes the gears in my brain turn. You kiss your son goodbye knowing you will miss every milestone of his. He will be a grown man and will not remember you. You will be a father only by title. Your wife will lay alone in your wedding bed, she will wake and see the side you've slept on is empty. You won't hold each other for a long, long time. Your parents may not even be there to welcome you back. You know you will return, but the war stretches on and on. Your comrades fall. Your ships are on fire. Your best warriors are nothing but ashes in an urn. But it's eventually over, you can go home. But still, there's more time left. First it's a storm. It's winding up in strange lands. It's hunger. It's temptation. Your men grow weary. You have twelve ships and then you have one and then it's only you on a single timber. You know you will return, but everything has gone so horribly wrong that you can't help but wonder if the fates fooled you. Everyone you know is either dead or are living again. You are the only one stuck in between. Neither dead or alive. You sit on a beach staring out to the sea from the moments the birds sing til the sun dips over the horizon. Every day is the same - you sit on the stones and weep, you trek the shores, during the night you're in her bed. Your skin is cracked and sunburnt, your beard long and tangled, your hair etched with more and more silver hairs. Your eyes are dull, sunken. Your bones ache when you walk, your breath is shorter. The sun rises and sets. The waves wash away your footprints. You are growing old but the island is the same. You are left behind. Your home will change and you won't change with it. In fact, everyone will change, but you will not recognize what's different. Some of the lines under your eyes will be the hauntings of war, while your wife's will be from the sleepless nights of buying you time. You flinch when you see each other. You expected to see someone else, and she expected to see no one at all. You could once hold your boy in your arms, but now it feels like he's the one holding you. The trees in your orchard have grown taller. Some of the houses in your kingdom are empty. The children that sat on your knees now have their own children on their own knees - or they lie dead, by your own hand. Who are you? Who is your son, your wife? You will get to know each other, you will change together eventually. But there will still be something off, like a brick not fitting quite right in the foundation. Off like a living man among the dead, someone who wasn't fated to die, but was supposed to die a long time ago. A dead man among the living. You will not belong, even though you are the father of your son, the husband of your wife, the son of your father, the king of your land. There will always be something missing, something aching.

And you are willing to let it all happen when you lift your baby son from the field, away from the plow.

[yaut-jaknowit]

A masseuse who specializes in non-human species? A male yautja (possible bad blood) keeps coming back to her shop. Smitten with the masseuse, he keeps all suitors away.

I absolutely adore your works!

Aches and Pains

Pairing: Mai'tuiudh (Male Yautja) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2858

Summary: You're a masseuse for nonhuman patients. Mai'tuiudh becomes a patient and pays handsomely. Even as your clientele starts to dwindle, he pays more. Until he's the only one left. He kinda kidnaps you/persuade you to join him.

Author Note: Thank you so much!

Masterlist

Ao3

Out of everyone and everything you’ve seen, him was one you had never expected. A species so reclusive that even he asks to be seen after hours. The complaint died on your tongue at the amount he was willing to pay. Twice what you ask for. Double time for a short nightshift. So, you decided to agree to his terms for exchange of the money. Money talks.

Tonight would be the first session. As a person devoid of anything about his kind, you poured yourself into researching to learn more about him. Only to come up empty handed with nothing to aid you. You didn’t know what else to expect. There was a reason only their name is heard and strikes fear into everyone. Including yourself.

He, on the other hand, was charming and polite. Not the ferocious, bloodlust creatures people paint them as. He didn’t threaten to kill you in exchange of receiving a massage in return. No, he offered a lumpsum, more than you ask for, in exchange and to do it at nights only. Irt shocked you but you did your best not to show it. Yet, that fear in your eyes couldn’t be wiped away completely.

The giant royal blue Yautja stepped into your workshop with silent feet. His orange eyes scanned over his surroundings like a practiced warrior. It was his presence alone that sent your heart into overdrive. The only way you were able to press through was thinking about the money. That much every week? It was hard to say no.

His towering frame turned towards you. What you believed to be a smirk quirked a mandible up. Then, he bent at the waist and leaned in close one of his mandibles’ fangs grazed along the shell of your ear. “I can hear your heart racing, sweetie,” he rumbled, voice vibrating and tickling the inside of your eardrum. You shuddered and felt goosebumps spring to life along your forearms. Heat bloomed to dust your cheeks.

You forcefully cleared your throat and took a step back away from him. The cool night air of the still open door brushed across any bare skin. You snapped free from your thoughts and bowed your head in submission. “I-I’m sorry. Can’t help it,” you muttered and closed the door. It took all the cool air away with it. You took a deep breath and gestured towards a room already prepared with a table able to fit his size.

Mai’tuiudh regarded you with eye alit with mirth before finally pulling away to allow you to breath fully again. A deep rumbling sounded from his chest. Almost like a purr. Do yautjas purr? But, the sound was done before you could completely acknowledge it. You wondered if you had heard it at all. He followed to where you wanted him to go. While you shadowed after him. You stopped just inside the room.

“You’ll need to strip down all the way. The towel right th-what are you doing?!” you screeched as Mai began to peel off his armor and clothing in a causal manner. One of your hands claps over your eyes, back turning to him in haste. “Not right now! Wait until I leave the room to give you privacy.” You couldn’t believe what he was doing. Another thing to ass to your mental list about yautjas. Privacy and decency were nonexistent in his weirdly shaped dome head.

“I’m going to be naked on the cot anyhow,” he snorted back at you. You could hear the faint rustling of him shedding everything off of him. Oh how you wanted to throttle him for his very logically answer. But, you liked to offer privacy even if it was mock in a way. You sighed noisily and dragged that hand down your face, eyes closed and back still to him. “You can turn around now. I ain’t gonna bite you for even taking a peek.” It almost sounded like he encouraged it.

Neves threatened to make your heart leap free. You timidly turned around to face the hunter, eyes sliding open. Mai stood there, butt naked, with his hands on his hips. A like-smirk playing on his mandibles. There was no towel covering him. You shrieked again, hands slapping over your eyes.

Anger was the first thing you felt until your mind had finally noticed something. Well, something missing.

Your head snapped back over towards him, hands following back to your sides. Your gaze couldn’t look away at the lack of male genitalia. Confused, you took a step forward and noticed only a slit in place. “You don’t…” you trailed off. One brow furrowed, head titled. Until you realized what you were ding and stumbled back, hands thrown up. “I’m so sorry!”

A deep chuckle vibrated through his chest. “You don’t need to apologize. You are more than welcome to explore. I don’t mind.” Cheeky bastard had a smirk on his face. You scowled at him with a deep breath to calm yourself. Clearly, he wasn’t bothered at the fact that you were ogling at his nakedness. Not because he was well defined as a prime hunter, but for the difference between your two species. Nothing more.

“Lay down,” you demanded and kept your gaze locked to his fiery one. “Drap the towel over your waist. I’ll be back.” Hopefully, he would listen to you. You stepped out of the room. The door closing with a click behind you. Heat flushed your cheeks at the entire situation that just occurred.

Quickly, you rushed to the backroom and splashed cold water on your face. It did nothing to quell the fire that was burning. You took another deep breath, filling your lungs, then releasing it. You only felt slightly better.

Before you wanted to, you returned back to his assigned room. Relief flooded you at the sight before you. Mai had followed your instructions by lying down, belly to the cot, with the small towel draped over his waist, covering up everything important. A content sigh left your lungs.

Though his head and facial features are unique, you were able to find a head rest that would work for him. His tress were splayed over his back or hanging off the sides of his face. You snorted walked to the edge of he waist high cot. “I’m glad you can listen,” you retorted in mostly friendly manner. It wants to play jokes on you, you’ll give him the same energy back.

Mai clicks in response, muscles rippling along his back. You couldn’t help but watching as they do. No wonder he was here, begging practically for your magic hands to work on him. He looks incredibly tense. And you didn’t even need to touch him. You make a small noise of amusement than swept his tresses out of the way.

A gasp threatened to tear our of your throat both at the strange feeling of the dreads and the noise he made. It wasn’t a threatening growl he made but it still made you tense up nevertheless, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Did I…” you trailed off.

“No,” he grunted before you could start again. “No. Just… need a warning next time. My tresses are sensitive.” Sensitive? Like he could feel when you touched them? They were warm, as if alive beneath your fingertips. The more you learned about his physic, the more you craved the knowledge. Yeah, his body near the same as a human. But, his entire head, hair, and… other things were remarkably different.

Despite him not being able to see you, you dumbly nodded your head. “Okay, sorry.” You couldn’t help it. Disrespecting his culture or consent to touch was a no-go for you. A boundary you weren’t going to cross. An apology was needed in your eyes.

“Am I okay to touch?” you asked in respect after that small misunderstanding. He grunts with his head nodding.

To ease your heart, you take another deep breath. A constant thing now. You grabbed a bottle of lightly scented oil and drizzled it over his back. Mai tense at first. The oil cool from the room temperature and his blazing skin. You first settled your hands between his shoulder blades then dragged the oil up to his shoulders.

The heat skin produce was unlike anything you’ve felt before. You’ve dealt with plenty of other creatures during your career but nothing such as this.

Once, his muscles tense up under the now feeling. As you slide your palms towards his tense neck, he was instantly going lax. You smiled at the notion before kneading at the muscles that corded his shoulders. They were so knotted your own hands cramped while working those knots out until it was plushy under your finger tips.

Mai was good at staying still under your despite you knowing it had to be painful to a degree. He was holding back his grunts and groans. You saw the way his chest would hitch when you would work on a specific spot that seemed to be troubling him.

By the time you had reach his feet, you swore the yautja had passed out. The male was still and softly breathing. Was that snore you were hearing?

For a species known to be the deadliest out there, to see him lying there, asleep from getting a massage was adorable. You smiled to yourself and decided against waking him up. Instead, you began to clean up around him, adding a few noises here and there. Not wholeheartedly trying to wake him. Just enough to possibly rouse him from sleep.

It took until nearing the last stuff for him to finally raise his head and blink his eyes open. An airily snort left your nose at the groan he produces. Despite the fact he does make you slightly uneasy, you felt calm for the first time. Well… until he rose to his feet, towel slipping free to the group. You shrieked and slapped a hand over your eyes for the second time that night.

Mai chuckled at your desperate attempt of modesty for himself. Though blinded, you hear him move about the cleaned room. A shuffle of fabric before the male grunted. You slowly split your fingers and peered at his newly dressed form. A sigh of relief passed your lips. He’s lucky he pays well.

.

Like clockwork, the male comes and goes once a week. He doesn’t change his attitude about modesty of himself. It soon grows to a point where you ignore it since he wasn’t change. A cultural difference. Your curiosity didn’t wane though. To see a yautja, to touch a yautja was unheard of. But, here you were, giving one a massage weekly. It didn’t make sense but you never shard this secret. Not because he put that into the agreement, but because you felt a want to keep it to yourself. In a way, it made you feel important.

With his constant appearance came a down fall you didn’t expect… clients dropping you. A small ache bloomed in your chest when another client declines to set up the next appointment. For the life of you, you can’t figure out why.

Why were all these clients leaving? Even ones you’ve had since you first opened up five years ago. What you also noticed that there wasn’t a drop in revenue. Not with the way Mai keeps increasing his payment. Just telling you to keep the change. Youd didn’t suspect him at first until you looked at the money. It was the same amount you would’ve lost that time.

Yautjas are known to be possessive. Your eyes narrowed on his back as he strolled to the room he has practically claimed at this point. No one wants to step into that room anymore. The only answer you get out of someone was ‘scent’. As a human, you didn’t known what that meant entirely. You just thought the room stank but you couldn’t smell anything wrong.

Today was the least straw. Your last, longest client had declined setting up his next appointment. There was fear evident in his eyes as they wildly looked around. As if the walls would come alive and eat him whole. He scampered out of the building like his tail was on fire. Then, out appeared as if he was there the entire time. You were too angry, too saddened to jolt as his sudden appearance.

The navy blue yautja goes to his room, only throwing a smirk in your direction. There was a smugness that made you want to throttle him but you follow after with a crestfallen expression to sour your features. One he notices and lets his purr to fill the air of the small room. On instinct, your muscles relaxed. It felt so strange as these feelings slipped threw your fingers and melted to your feet.

He lays down on the cot and covers himself with the towel, still purring away. “Ugh, I… I hated when you do that,” you snapped at him with no heat to your words. Mai doesn’t stop. You gather the oil and drizzle it along his back before getting to work in almost a trance.

Like always, it takes about an hour to work through his body and finished up with his feet. He had stopped purring halfway through and relaxed fully into the cut. You pulled your oil covered hands away form his and silently stood there. Mai rolled onto his back then slipped off of the cot faster than ever before. Clearly he hadn’t fallen asleep this time. You meet his gaze. Shock apparent in your gaze at his sudden move.

Instantly, he crowding into your spawn. Surprised, you stumble backwards until your back hits the nearest wall. A small ‘oof’ leaving your lips. You tilt your head back to gaze up at the blue yautja, eyes wide at the near would look in his own gaze. He has one large palm to the middle of your chest, pinning you to the wall.

His musky scent washes over you. One you’ve grown used to but this seemed to seep into your pores.

“You’re sad,” he states rather than askes. You flinched at the hard truth thrown directly into your face, about to duck down. Then, Mai grabs your chin and forces all of the attention on you.

“What about it?” you snapped back at him, not wanting to discuss your suspicions to the very one causing all your issues. Not that you had hard evidence but enough to point a finger at him.

“What trouble you, little one?” he coos but there’s real concern in his voice.

Your anger sputters enough to kill the flame but the embers still hot. “My clients.” A pregnant pause to read his face. Yet, he reveals nothing. “They have all… left. You are all that remains.” That was the sad truth.

His touches softened. His thumb caresses your check bone, the claw dangerously close to your eye. But… you how he wouldn’t hurt you. “I’m sorry to hear that. That does make my offer easier to ask.” This caused you to tilted your head, his hand following. “For you to join me. I’ve shown I can care for you. Credits are no issues. I can show you my trophy collection, show you how much I can provide for you.”

That… that wasn’t what you were expecting. Your jaw dropped. “Like go into spawn… live with you?” Mai nodded your head with a grin playing his features. “But-but-“ you tried but Mai shook his head and held one of your hands close to his chest. You felt the heat rising off of his blistering scales.

“No. No buts. Just think about it. You won’t have to lift a finger besides to give me massages. That’s all you will have to do. I’ll spoil you,” he promises with a purr to seal the deal. Spoil you. A wish come true. Any person wants to be spoiled and living their best life. “I’ll take care of you. You know I can.”

The money. Plenty of it to spill into your business with the declining clients.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat and rubbed your fingers against the scales on his chest. Smoother than the ones on his shoulders. “Okay.” Your head nodded. “Okay, I’ll go with you. I’ll be your personal masseuse.” You knew he would take care of you. Plus, all of your clients left. You suspected it to be him as the root cause.

Mai fiercely grinned at your acceptance and tug you close. His arm wrapped around your torso and pressed your gith to his frame. You gasped softly, head titled back to look at him. A deep purr poured from his chest as he held you. He leaned down and bury his face into your neck, inhaling your scent.

“You won’t regret this. I’ll keep you safe, protect you, care for you. You’ll want for nothing,” he promised. He would keep till the end of time. You relaxed against him, molding yourself into his arms. Maybe this wasn’t so bad.

[likehalfofuswillmakeitidk]

Thinking about kidnapped Dwarfs in Dwarf Fortress again.

Goblins can kidnap dwarvern children. It's not known why they do this, but they can.

What's stranger is that the goblins don't do anything nefarious with the children. They just appear to raise them.

Common theories range from amusing (they're saving the children from the horrors of Dwarf Fortresses) to reasonable (dwarfs are bigger and stronger than goblins on average, they can be used as metalssmiths or warriors)

What's probably most striking from the player's perspective is that adult dwarves that have been raised by goblin civilizations can join their raids and sieges of your fort.

Nothing appears to be forcing them to do this.

Imagine growing up with goblins, learning the goblin language, worshipping their gods and observing their customs.

You know you're different, the other children make that clear enough, but your belly is full in the summers and just as empty as anyone else's in the cold.

When you grow, you're a full two heads taller than anyone else. They try to put you to work in the forge, they think you should be good at it, you dont understand why. You're not. Your fingers fumble over the steel, you drop the tongs, you burn yourself on the flames.

You've let your family down, you're ashamed.

They put an axe in your hand, you start felling trees. It's easy for you. They send little hauling squads with you to collect the lumber, you free up half a dozen workers. Your family is proud of you, you're proud of yourself.

A set of armour is smithed for you, you don't need to put your name on it, no one else could wear it.

Suddenly, you're drilling, but it's no problem, people salute you in the hallways, you get choice rations with the other warriors. You're respected. It took you some time, but you've found a place in your home.

You keep shaving your beard out of habit.

Now your squad hauls back jewels, instruments, and armour that even you couldn't fit into.

One day you hit a hole in the ground. Defended by walls and traps your brethren fall to hidden blades and arrows. By the time you breach the dining hall, you've taken serious casualties.

In front of you is a hall of shrouded mirrors, they don't recognize you in your full helm, you don't even know what they are.

Your mother doesn't even recognize you as she cleaves your head in half.

You're laid to rest in the refuse pile, outside the fort with your brothers.

[lologoinsolo]

Hello :)

Just read your ‘unedited blurb’ about the fourth born princess married off to the illegitimate son Lord Riley… now I’m hungry for words. Please don’t let the starving children in Australia die.

It’s so cruel to taunt us with these tasty little snacks and no sustenance. Needs our meats and taters to fight off the drop bears.

x

Part 2 of this, slightly more edited drabble.

You’re a good wife. At least you believe so. You do your duties, you run the house well enough, you speak kindly to the servants and maids and butlers. You keep a smile on, a genuine smile towards everyone. You do tend to splurge on fresh flowers that you place in nearly every corner of the estate but that’s just to brighten up the old walls. You do your absolute best to be as prim and as proper as a wife of the Riley name should be.

But it’s… it’s just not enough.

“Good morning, husband,” you greet upon the top of your stairs, your hand on the rail as you make your way down. You have a hard time catching him long enough to speak to him. He really does live up to his nickname as The Ghost. “I’ve asked the maids to prepare… your…” the words you would’ve said dies when he turns from you. Didn’t even nod this time nor give you the dignity of a short conversation. You sigh, eyes closed before you roll your shoulders and head to the dining area.

Your breakfast sits for you waiting to be eaten and the servants stand at the ready to indulge any desire you might have. The chef here is exceptionally better than the one at the palace but at least that dining room had your sisters. The seats were always filled and the lighter was constant. Your eyes flicker to the doors, hoping against hope that today will be the day your husband eats with you. But alas, across the table sits an empty chair that’s hardly been sat on and food that is getting colder by the minute. Like always.

You eat in silence, striking conversations with the servants is a hard thing to do since they just nod away to what you’re saying. “My husband works too hard.” Speaking aloud but the servant that’s pours your drink merely winces, “please, send his food to his study.” Putting on a smile, this one genuine yet sadder. “Oh, and make sure to warm it for him before you send it.” Giving one last instruction as they go to take his food away.

After breakfast, you make your way to the garden’s greenhouse. It’s your little spot of sunshine that you’ve payed a keen eye to. You love your flowers, this place didn’t have much save for weeds. You’re hoping that once these bloom then you can put them in the house. The large greenhouse isn’t just for soon to be flowers but also where you’ll read. You’ve made a small library for yourself, just the books you took from your home at the palace. Even now, reading seems to be the only way for you to escape a loveless home.

“Mornin’, my lady!” The booming voice of your bodyguard jolts you from your seat and you almost throw your book. You still don’t know why you need one, you never leave the estate anyways. “I ken ye’d be ‘ere,” he smiles and it’s as warm as the sun, a hand settles on his hip as he leans closer to you. “Readin’ yer books again, my lady?”

“Johnny,” your hand over your chest, your heart might have jumped out. The book that was almost thrown sits on your lap now. “Yes,” catching your breath, “I am reading… again.” You’ve never seen a man dress like him when you were growing up. Sir— or just Johnny, as he had asked, is dressed in clothing that speaks of his proud heritage. The green and blue kilt, the leather, and the two sharp looking axes attached to his hips. The term, “Scottish warrior”, comes to mind. It’s something that you’ve heard your father speak about. Granted your father had nothing good to say about them. He never had anything good to say about anything in general actually.

“Yer makin’ me lazy, my lady.” He sighs like you’ve turned away a crying puppy.

“How am I doing that?” It’s refreshing in how he speaks to you. It should upset you that he’s so open with you but you’ll take what you can get. At least he tries to keep his manners, you’ve heard him curse only once but he promptly apologized for it. “If you are bored of your charge then perhaps you should ask Lord Riley to relieve you of me.” Turning your face a little, you go to pull your book out in front of you.

“Cannae do that,” puffing his chest out. Far too prideful to admit any sort of defeat, “ye ken there’s a library that yer husband puts donations to?” You quirk a brow at him, when did Lord Riley start doing that? He continues on, “it’s very big compared to yer lil greenhouse. It’s in town and there just happens to be a nice little bakery nearby.” Trying to sound as convincing as he can. He’s kept up with your routines and needless to say. He wants to get you out of the cage you’re squeezed in. Plus, a little birdie told him that you have a sweet tooth that’s almost as bad as Simon’s is.

Rubbing at your chin in thought, “okay…” placing your book down. No harm in getting out, you just hoped it would’ve been your husband that would’ve been the one to do so. A flitter of a fantasy that maybe he would’ve taken notice to you keeping to yourself here but… maybe he just has too many things to work on?

“Thank you, Princess,” smiling down at you once more. His hand outstretched for you to grab and you take it gladly. He pulls you out of your seat easily and takes a small step back so you can walk in front. His eyes have always been on you since you came in. Watching your graceful figure moves about the halls like a feather. He’d think you’re a swan with how you move, a pretty little thing that’s nestled in these cold walls. It cuts him deeper in the chest that any knife when he knows why your husband isn’t paying attention to you the way you deserve.

He’ll have to speak to Simon again, maybe get him to build you your own library in the estate. God knows it took some long and hard convincing to get the man to make donations to the towns library. It’s worth it to see how your eyes light up though. You flutter around and talk his ear off about all the books, talking more than he’s heard you speak since you’ve came about being Lady Riley. He swallows thickly when your back is turned once more to pile on another book to your growing collection.

He can’t keep doing this, not anymore. Not to you.

[fishnapple]

What attractive about you

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost Book a reading with me - KO-FI (→ personal reading)

AVENTURINE 

You have an emotional intensity that can elicit fear and awe at the same time. Some people might be too intimidated by you, not because you're loud and aggressive, but they're intimidated by the emotional storms that are brewing in you, yet you appear utterly calm, like the eye of the storm. They would wonder what it would be like to get dragged into it, to be swept off their feet. Your bravery and serenity are like wings that let you soar high or plunge down to any depth. You are a dichotomy of light and darkness. Like a solar eclipse or bright starry night.

I think you have a certain inclination or feel a pull towards the painful and ugly sides of humans. You want to stare them in the eyes, crush them, rise above them, conquer them. It's very daring and methodological at the same time. People would feel that they can be an utter mess in front of you, you won't shoo away the ugliness of their heart, but you hold it in your hands and transform it. They know that you're not invincible, that you have wounds just like everybody else. But you always look up, beyond any prison that humans subject themselves to. Many people would have their lives changed by you, just by being in your life.

But you're not just intensity alone, you also carry lightness. You can be cut throat and ruthless in one setting, but generous and merry in another. Your mind is full of magical stories, fairy tales that span far into the future. You keep your daydreams to yourself and only reveal them at the most unexpected moment. Render every witness speechless and in awe. That rare moment of tenderness will haunt people's minds, making them seek for more. Your silence acts as a backdrop for the twinkle in your eyes. Your apparent simplicity in the way of life is the sign of devotion to only things that are meaningful. 

ROSE QUARTZ 

This might sound weird but it's your nervous energy, when you're worried or anxious about something, when you're being fussy. This seems oddly adorable or cute to some people. You might be a worrywart, who tends to speak a little faster when you're nervous. This rouses the desire to calm you down in other people. 

Your calm state is also very attractive because you're being present, you know how to enjoy the small things, to appreciate the sensory pleasure of the five senses. When you're worried, you can forget about this energy for a while, but once you've calmed down and regained your serenity, you're very soothing. Like a lake regaining its smooth shining surface after being disturbed by the rain. With your appreciation for the five senses, you have a talent for handcrafts, anything that requires the skills of hands and good eyes for aesthetics. When you're set about organising something, you do it with great efficiency and tact that one can't help but exclaim 'flawless'. Maybe that's why you're prone to nervousness, because you're such a perfectionist and people around you love that energy so much.

When you speak, you deliver a message, not empty words that can be ignored. When you're passionate about something, you can be very fluent and persuasive, like a wise teacher. The things you choose to pursue might seem too daring or shocking to some, but you're steadfast in your track and unknowingly get a few followers along the way.

RED JASPER

Right away, people can see your ambitions, to go far in life. This group is quite masculine in energy, very lively and energetic. A lot of people would find you very attractive when you assert your will, when you go after what you want without any fear or reservation, like a warrior, a pioneer. But you're no fool, you don't charge forward blindly, there's strategy in your moves, like a hunter. When it translates to romantic situations, they wonder what it would be like to be pursued by you, to be the target of your desire. Only the brave can rise up to meet your challenge. So I think you also attract masculine people. Those who are equally strong and ambitious. 

You're also very attractive when you're protecting something or someone. When you show your compassionate side, for a cause, a greater goal. You show your support by concrete actions that get results, not just comforting gestures. You have a fierce love for the underdog, the weak, the unfortunate. 

Your vision of a better world can be your greatest motivator. You live your life with idealistic visions, but you don't just dream, you also do. Your appeal is the power you wield, over yourself and your surroundings. You're willing to work hard, as long as you deem it necessary. Maybe you're a touch workaholic, but you work towards a goal, not just a mindless grind. The sense of direction is very clear. If you believe in past lives, you can say that in the past, you were a soft, passive person who relied on others for support. But in this present, you're your own power, your own supporter. This independent energy is very attractive.

A little random thing, you might have a favourite comfort food that others find very endearing. It adds a touch of softness and joyful air to your otherwise strong energy.

TIGER'S EYE

You're the kind of person who people would want to have in any community. You can be a people magnet without realising it, without any conscious effort, maybe the only conscious effort that you have is to be yourself, to live life authentically. You attract people simply by being yourself. Your light is very visible, the natural confidence is vibrating through the air.

You're disciplined and responsible, but you're also gentle and kind. You're confident, but you also encourage the same attitude in people. People can feel that you would make a good parent, a good friend, a good neighbour. You're caring and want to protect and help people, but you do it with practicality. You don't just offer empty words, you back them up with actions. Being with you is both safe and inspiring. You inspire others to take more care of themselves, to stand up for themselves, you help people become more independent and come into their own powers. All these just through you chasing your own path. You have a strong sense of purpose, the person you believe in the most is yourself, and that makes people want to believe in you too, even when you haven't achieved your dreams yet. 

Talking with you is never boring. You can tell the most silly jokes, you can recount the most bizarre adventures, you can recite the most romantic poem or muse some really intense thoughts that surprise people. But you're also an avid listener, you listen with intensity, with childlike curiosity, you can even weep along the story, feel the pain and happiness behind every word. You make people feel heard and give them the compassion that is rare to find.