#he was simply born with the red streak instead of green

[firesofdainix]

Green Kai AU Morro I drew a few weeks ago. He's a silly little guy with an 'everybody hates me' syndrome <3333333

[freedomfireflies]

Knockout*

Summary: The one where Harry is a handsome stranger who always comes to your diner covered in bruises.

Word Count: 9.4k (jeepers, sorry!)

Content Warning: 18+, smut, slight exhibitionism, very brief violence

Your stranger is here.

He’s sitting in his favorite booth, fifth one down from the first row, directly next to the window.

He’s got his usual hoodie pulled over his head, obscuring any view of his face. His clothes are dark and seem to cover nearly every inch of his skin. His knuckles are wrapped in white gauze, but are stained with streaks of red.

And he’s looking down. Staring at the menu on the table as though he doesn’t order the exact same thing every time.

A cup of coffee – black – and a slice of pie.

He’s like clockwork. He comes in exactly five minutes after midnight, takes a seat in his booth, and orders his usual.

Then, he pays his bill, and he leaves.

You’ve grown used to him. Comfortable with the idea of his face and his voice and the strange, but unsettling presence he brings with him.

You find that it’s more unnerving when he’s not here than when he is. 

“Hi, Cherry.”

Your stranger’s voice cuts through the quiet diner and forces your attention from the mug of coffee you’re pouring. 

You glance up, finally able to see his face now that he’s lifted his head. His skin is littered with deep cuts and vicious scratches. There’s a bruise just by his eye that’s dissolving into an unsettling shade of purple and his bottom lip is split down the middle.

Even still, he’s smiling. A gentle upturn that looks almost painful given the cracked fibers and dried blood.

“Hi,” you reply softly, feeling your heart race beneath your chest as his eyes find yours. “Would you like your usual?”

Somehow, his grin gets a bit brighter. As though he’s touched by the question. “Of course,” he answers calmly, in a voice you imagine you’d recognize anywhere. It’s deep and sultry, but it crackles like lightning. Sensual in a way you can’t exactly explain. “What have you made tonight?”

“Chocolate,” you tell him, glancing back toward the counter where the pies are displayed. “With extra whipped cream.”

“Mm.” His hum is playful, and it matches the glint in his eye. “How much extra?”

“As much as you want.”

He laughs, and you swear fairies are born. “Then I will have a slice of your chocolate pie, with as much whipped cream as you’ll allow.”

You feel your cheeks warm as you nod and turn on your heel to grab his order. Setting the coffee pot down before grabbing a small plate.

Once it’s ready, you return, sliding it across the table beside his mug. “Is that all?”

“No,” he says simply, gesturing now toward the seat across from him.

And just like every other time, you feel your pulse jump. “I’m…I need to get back—”

“You don’t need to go anywhere,” he interrupts with a wry grin. “Please?”

Your lips roll into your mouth, and your heart lands in your throat. Your stranger has always been good at getting you to do what he’d like, and it seems tonight is no different. 

So, with a sigh, you glance back toward the kitchen. Checking to make sure you aren’t needed too direly before you slip off your apron and slide into the booth.

“There,” he hums, placing his arms on the table to learn forward. “S’much better, hm?”

And you can’t help but smile as you nod and glance toward your cuticles. Avoiding that vivid green that always seems to send your stomach into a frenzy. 

“How are you?” he asks next, and his voice is soft, as if attempting to draw your attention back.

Braving a glance, you lift your head, and meet his eye. “I’m all right. How are you?”

“Good. Better now.”

The flirtatious remark sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. But you don’t respond, instead reaching out your hand toward his. Allowing your fingers to dance along the gauze that’s wrapped around his knuckles. 

“It’s bad again,” you whisper, and you feel him study you. 

There’s a gentle pause. And then, “Not by much. It’s been worse.”

You suck in a quiet breath and hold it deep within your lungs. Turning his arm around in order to inspect the wounds painted near his wrist. “You promised.”

Even without seeing the full of his face, you catch his expression fall. 

“I know, Cherry,” he murmurs. “And I’m trying, I promise. S’just…not that easy.”

Your throat constricts, growing dry from the implication. “I know.”

It’s almost inaudible, but your stranger still hears it, and he sighs as he slips his fingers between yours. Pulling your focus back to him. 

“You know you don’t have to worry about me,” he says, squeezing your palm as if to cement the point. “M’gonna be okay.”

“Are you?”

He looks gutted. Ashamed of your disappointment. “It’s just something that I have to do.”

“Why?”

He considers this before shaking his head once. “I don’t know.”

It’s the same answer every time. You ask him who does this to him. Why he does this to himself. Where he goes, why he keeps going back.

But he never offers anything concrete. Just enough to keep you hoping.

He leans closer. Desperate to make you understand. “I’m gonna be all right, Cherry. I promised, didn’t I?”

“But this isn’t ‘all right,’” you argue quietly, once again studying his scars. “You hurt yourself. Or you let somebody else hurt you. And I don’t know why.”

He takes in a breath before setting it free. “I don’t know why, either. But it’s not forever. And I promised you I would be okay. So, I will be.”

You release him and pull yourself from his grasp. Creating a physical distance much like his emotional one. 

“I have to be,” he adds, and that charming smirk reappears. Popping a dimple from his cheek. “I’d miss your pies too much.”

Even if your insides have twisted, you can’t help but laugh. “I suppose they’d miss you, too.”

“Good, I would hope. Might be my second-favorite sweet thing here. Only after you.”

Again, his coy remark leaves you entranced. Hands gathering on your lap as you look out through the large window beside you. “You’re quite forward tonight.”

“M’forward every night. You just don’t notice.”

“Is that right?”

“It is. Can’t really help myself, Cherry.”

The familiar nickname feels like home. It was coined after the first night he’d come in. He’d sat in your section – this very booth – and made small talk while you served him. 

He asked for your recommendation, and you suggested one of the desserts. The pies were your specialty, and you made a new one every evening. He seemed charmed by this and ordered two slices.

That night was cherry. He ate every bite between sips of his coffee and compliments to you. Leaving nothing but crumbs once you came to collect his plate.

He told you he loved cherry pie. It was his absolute favorite. But he’d never had a pie as good as yours.

And from that night on, you became his Cherry.

He never asked for your real name, and you never offered. You supposed this was intentional. A way to protect you from whatever life he led outside the diner doors.

And in the few weeks he’s been coming back for yet another slice of your pie, you’ve learned only three things about him:

He always pays with big bills.

He drives a vintage, black ’69 Mustang.

And his name is Harry.

Anything past that you suppose isn’t yours to know. Yet despite that, you feel drawn to your stranger. Even if he only seems to exist after midnight.

“You weren’t supposed to be working tonight,” he says, calling your attention back. 

You glance away from the window just in time to see his frown. “Joshua asked me to cover a few of his shifts,” you explain. “I’ll be here through the weekend.”

“You covered him last week,” he reminds you, with just a touch of disapproval. “And a few weekends before that.”

Your stranger is right, but you merely lift a shoulder and let it fall. “I don’t mind. The extra money is nice, and the night shift is always quiet.”

“Not always,” he retorts, and you notice the pull of his eyebrows. “Not everybody is as kind as you, Cher. Not in this part of town. Or this late.”

You can’t help but smile at his need to shelter you. “I know. But Owen is here, and he makes sure to check on me from time to time.”

However, Harry’s expression seems to settle into something hard and unnerved. “And what if he gets distracted? What if he doesn’t see some loser trying to grab for you? Or talk to you? Or take advantage of you?”

His voice is rising, a gentle but obvious crescendo that turns the heads of the few patrons scattered about the diner. 

You reach for his hand once more, squeezing it hard to implore him to listen. “Then I will use my extensive training as a waitress and kick their ass.”

You can tell he doesn’t want to, but he smiles. Brushing his thumb along your wrist before looking down. “I’m only trying to protect you.”

“I know,” you whisper, dipping down in order to find his eye. “But I’m not the one who needs protecting.”

The air is charged with a sort of tension you can’t explain. He feels so close and yet so very far away. Your heart aches for your stranger, and for his scars that never heal.

“Hey,” calls a loud voice, ringing through the small diner until you and Harry both turn. You find a man sitting near the counter, wearing a camouflage baseball hat and flannel shirt. His beard is long and scruffy, and his expression is wildly annoyed. “Do you fucking work here or not? Been waiting on a refill for ten goddamn minutes.”

Feeling rather embarrassed of the way you’ve neglected the other customers and deserted your post, you quickly slide out of the booth and stand. Cheeks warm and heart racing. “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry, sir.”

You rush to check on the coffee pot near the counter, making sure that it’s hot and fresh before you approach. Then, you tip the spout into his mug, and refill his drink that’s already three-fourths of the way full.

You can see Harry watching you from his spot. A similarly irritated look behind his eye as he studies the man sitting before you.

Once the coffee has been refilled, you nod an apology, and begin to retreat.

“Not so fast,” the customer grumbles, clearing his throat as he straightens up. Forcing you to hesitate. “I want my check. And a slice of pie on the house. For my troubles.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, but you nod again. The Starlight Diner doesn’t exactly offer free pastries, and anything that a staff member has to comp comes out of the employee’s paycheck. 

Granted, one slice won’t set you back too far, but the shame will. The idea that you left a customer waiting while you chatted with a man you hardly know. It’s unprofessional and not at all how you’d like to be perceived in the workplace. As a mindless girl who merely doddles her day away. Fawning over handsome strangers and daydreaming about a life she can’t have.

“Absolutely,” you tell him, rushing to grab him a fresh piece just as Harry begins to stand from the booth. “Will that be all?”

“Don’t be stingy with the whipped cream,” he instructs. “In fact, I’d like to see you put it on in front of me. So I can make sure you aren’t trying to fuck me over.”

The blood drains from your face. You feel humiliated under the warm hue of lights strung up around the restaurant. Grabbing the can of whipped topping in a desperate attempt to please and end the interaction all together.

“Why don’t you watch your fucking tone,” Harry grits, approaching the man from his left.

But the customer merely scoffs, refusing to offer him even a disinterested glance. “Yeah, and why don’t you mind your own business?”

Suddenly, Harry’s hand smacks down onto the counter beside him, inches from his plate while the coffee inside his mug trembles.

You can’t help but jump, arm recoiling away from the pie while the entire diner grows quiet. Everybody’s attention has turned to your stranger. Watching him closely as he leans forward, and dips down to catch the man’s eye.

“Wasn’t a question,” he murmurs darkly. “You watch your fucking tone when you speak to her. Or I’ll watch it for you.”

And you can tell the older gentleman is a bit off-put by Harry’s distressing demeanor. Yet he remains rather calm, clearing his throat again before leaning back. “And what are you gonna do about it, cupcake?”

Harry’s head cocks to the side. “Would you like me to show you?”

“Harry,” you whisper, just loud enough to force his eyes to yours. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”

“Yeah, she’s fine, buttercup,” the customer snorts, spinning around to face you once more. “Now let’s go, princess. I don’t have all fucking night.”

His fingers snap together before he points toward the pie. Instructing you to continue applying the fluffy cream until you hesitantly continue.

The whipped desert sprays out of the can in a steady stream, piling higher and higher atop the pie until it begins to spill over onto the side.

Yet he doesn’t stop you. He simply nods and mutters for you to keep going. To fill the plate until he’s satisfied. 

And you know exactly why he’s doing it. Not to satiate a sweet tooth but to demean you. To force you under his cruel, sadistic stare until you fold like a house of cards.

Your stranger fumes from his place a few feet away. You can tell he’s desperate to intervene, but he obeys your look of frantic insistence. Remaining quiet while you oblige the customer’s request. 

Soon, the can runs out. The last few drops spewing from the nozzle until you’re left with nothing but air and an empty bottle.

With a hitch in your breath, you begin to withdraw your hand. He’ll have to drop this degradation act now, and you hope that he only demands the rest of his check before going about his night.

However, before you can fully retract your arm, a collection of grimy fingers dart out and curl around your wrist. Keeping you in place while the man’s eyes narrow and he hisses, “Did I say you could stop?”

But the moment his palm touches your skin, Harry is stepping forward, grabbing a fistful of his collar, and hoisting him from his seat. Then, he shoves him back against the tile wall just behind him, the connection so forceful, it knocks the gentleman’s hat askew.

The other customers, including yourself, gasp from the sudden act of violence. Watching as Harry steps up to him and sneers in his face with the vilest look of disdain you imagine you’ve ever seen.

“Don’t ever…” he seethes through deep, even breaths, “…put your fucking hands on her…again.”

And he’s terrifying. So utterly terrifying, with his busted knuckles, his cracked lip, and his bruised jaw. It’s clear he’s a threat, and the man he’s holding goes deathly pale as Harry keeps him trapped against the wall.

All he can do is nod his understanding, choosing to end the fight before it can begin while Harry – after a very long moment – finally lets him go and allows him to flee from the diner.

There’s a stillness in the café that makes your heart race. The few regulars that are left watching on with a mixture of sympathy and embarrassment. It’s not until Harry shoots them their own venomous glare that they quickly turn away and continue on with their meals.

You slump into the counter, letting the can drop to your side while the sound of a door flinging open echoes from somewhere behind you.

“The hell…is going on?” Owen calls, exiting the kitchen in order to get a better look around. He finds you first, raking his stare up and down your frame before looking to Harry. “What happened?”

“You fucking left her out here, alone,” Harry barks. “That’s what fucking happened.”

Owen’s eyebrows raise as he moves his attention to you. But you quickly side-step into Harry’s path, attempting to end another confrontation before it can begin.

“Just…a customer,” you finally answer softly, reaching for the plate in order to clear your regret away. “It’s fine. He left.”

Your boss nods once. “But he paid first, yes?”

Again, your heart sinks into your toes. Lashes fluttering when you realize his bill will be coming out of your paycheck. “He…um, no, he…he left before I could collect it—”

“Darling,” Owen sighs, and it’s heavy with disappointment, “what did we talk about?”

“I…I know. I’ll…I’ll pay for it—"

Harry’s palm suddenly smacks down onto the counter for a second time this evening. Yet now, there’s a wad of cash beneath his hand. From the looks of it, well over a hundred dollars.

“This will cover it,” he mumbles, turning his unforgiving stare to your boss. “And it’ll cover the rest of her shift, too. She’s done.”

With that, his fingers are wrapping around your upper arm before you can even wrap your head around his offering. Blinking wildly while Owen glances from the cash to you in an effort to piece together Harry’s instruction.

 But your stranger leaves you no room for questioning or bargaining. He’s pulling you out the diner door and into the dark parking lot before you can even bid your boss goodbye.

He strides between the cars before hooking a left around the building. Leading you toward the back alleyway where he normally keeps his car, the wet pavement squeaking beneath his sneakers.

 And during this fervent stalking, his fingers slide down from your upper arm and into your hand. Grasping it tightly as if to make sure he won’t lose you.

Perhaps a part of you would like to feel miffed or ashamed of what just took place, but you can’t seem to fault him for his reaction. He’s always been nothing but kind to you – even if he doesn’t always lend that kindness to others. Expressing his desire to protect you, even if he doesn’t know you.

You wonder if this need to defend is part of the reason why you’ve only ever seen him covered in scars and bruises. If he comes to the diner in the dead of night in order to watch over you. Like a guardian angel or vigilante. 

Right now, however, he disappears into the shadows, gently pulling you along with him until you see his car only a few feet away. He releases you at the same time that he releases a heavy sigh, running a hand through his dark curls as his hood is pushed down. 

“Harry…” you begin quietly, tentative of startling him.

���I’m sorry,” he says before you can even finish. “M’sorry, I lost my temper. I know.”

You watch the way he turns away from you. Bracing himself against the hood of the Mustang while dropping his head in what you only assume is remorse.

And your heart aches for him. For the gentleman that lives beneath the outlaw. “Harry,” you whisper again, stepping closer in order run your fingers down his back. Feeling the way his muscles tense before melting beneath your touch. “I’m not mad, I promise.”

“I know you don’t like it when I interfere,” he mumbles, and it’s almost swept away by the cold, early morning air. “But he fucking touched you, and I—”

“I know,” you interrupt tenderly. “I know, and I’m not mad. I’m glad you did it. I’m glad you were here.”

He hesitates, face turning toward his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You allow your chest to meet his spine. “Always feel safer with you.”

He exhales deeply, releasing something heavy before he’s turning around, and reaching for your cheeks. The soft, stained gauze slides against your skin, and his touch is firm. Keeping you in his embrace while he gazes at you warmly. 

“Are you all right, Cherry?” he asks now, thumbs sweeping beneath your eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

Your head shakes. “No. Scared me a little, but I’m okay.”

It’s clear he doesn’t like this, that familiar frown reforming as he holds you a bit tighter. “He never should have spoken to you like that. Much less put his fucking hands on you��”

“I know, but it’s okay,” you interject again, hoping to ease his stress. “I’m okay because you were here.”

And this is the only thing that seems to calm him. That familiar smile of his the perfect remedy for such a strange night. You don’t want to tell him how often this happens. Especially during the later shift. But that’s what you get for working at a 24-hour diner, and you’re starting to think this is merely part of the job.

And truth be told…you think he already knows.

His forehead meets yours, and you can’t help but grin yourself. Grateful for the comfort he provides – stranger or not.

“Speaking of which…why are you here?” you ask gingerly. “I thought you didn’t come in on my days off?”

“I don’t. But…I saw your car.”

“Oh…how?”

His smirk transforms into something coy. “I was driving by.”

“Oh, really?” you tease. “On purpose?”

The smile slips now, a more reverent look in his eye as he nods. “I like to check on you. Make sure you’re okay.”

And maybe in any other universe, this would strike you as odd. Perhaps even unsettling or disconcerting. 

But even if you don’t know him, you know him. You know his intentions have only ever been pure, and even without having much more than his name, he has always made you feel safe. 

You choose to believe in him. In the goodness of your stranger and the care he provides. Inside and out.

“You do?” you murmur, allowing your hands to rest on his chest. “How often?”

A beat. Then, “…every night.”

The alley grows quiet. Scattered streetlamps reflect off the pools of water that are sprinkled across the cement, warming the dark night with their sepia-toned beams.

And you stand there, just you and him, while the weight of the world seems to rest on his shoulders.

But instead of chastising him or asking any further questions, you push yourself up onto your tiptoes…and kiss him.

It’s not the first kiss you’ve shared, and you know, undoubtedly, that it won’t be your last. Your stranger has been stealing your kisses for weeks now.

And you suppose stealing isn’t exactly a fair comparison. After all, you’ve nearly pleaded with him to kiss you every time he’s come in. 

Not that there’s much need for begging when he’s so willing to offer them to you. Sneaking you away the moment your shift is through. Chasing you through the parking lot…pulling you into the backseat of his car.

It makes you giddy. You feel like a schoolgirl with a crush on the handsome senior. Slipping into the shadows where he waits. Letting him hold you, kiss you, touch you.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t know more than his name or what he does behind closed doors. You choose to share these special – albeit somewhat scandalous – moments with the mysterious gentleman in booth 505.

“My sweet girl,” he breathes against your lips. The wonderfully delicious nickname melting on your tongue. “Missed you.”

You want to remind him that it’s only been about two days, but you can’t. Because you missed him, too.

“And m’so sorry,” he says next, trailing his quick but fervent kisses down your neck. “So fucking sorry for being so bad. Never wanna scare you or make you anxious.”

A soft, delicate noise bleeds from your throat, and you cling to his much stronger frame as though you’re afraid you’ll simply disappear without him.

“Wanna make it up to you,” he whispers. “Will you let me, Cherry? Let me be good again?”

You nod, needing him to keep himself as close to you as he’ll allow. You want to settle him in your lungs, keep him snug inside in your chest. Against your heart.

And a large part of you just wants to keep him…always.

“Let me make it better,” he says, hands dropping to your hips in order to push you toward his car. Placing you against the door in order to trap you and deepen his kiss. “Let me be good, sweet girl. Be good for you.”

And he’s always good. Good to you, good for you. It doesn’t matter how he is with everybody else. 

“Please?” he asks again, leaning back just far enough to catch your eye. “Will you let me?”

He wants your explicit consent. Wants you to say the words before he continues, and you appreciate this stricter habit. 

“Yes,” you manage to answer, exhaling the word with the little strength you still possess. “Yes, please—”

He takes your hand before you can finish, guiding you over toward the backseat before swinging the door open and stepping aside.

“Lay down, baby,” he mumbles gently, pressing a kiss to the side of your head while guiding you in. “On your back, okay? Want you comfy.”

You do as instructed, dipping down into the vehicle before settling into the soft, leather seat. Flipping over until you can find a position you like. 

Harry is quick to follow, landing between your thighs before pulling the door shut. You both maneuver until he can hover his body above yours, keeping you beneath him as he runs a palm up the side of your leg.

His warm hand feels good against your bare skin, the dress you’re required to wear as part of your waitressing uniform bunching just at the top of your knees from the new position. But it’s like ecstasy, heating up your goose bumped skin from the nippy air outside. 

“How’s this, hm?” He squeezes your hip. “You all right, Cher?”

You rest your head against the door and nod, fingers already itching to reach for him again. “Yes, I’m okay.”

“Promise?”

“Mhm. Promise.”

The side of his mouth curls up, and it makes your stomach flutter. “Good girl. Gonna go slow, okay? Earn my forgiveness.”

He continues the lazy strokes to your thigh, falling all the way down to your ankle before going back up. It is slow, and it almost drives you mad. Because he knows what you want. And he knows just how badly you want it.

Things with Harry never go further than you. Something you’re almost tempted to find odd, but he’s a giver. That was made clear from the first time. He derives more pleasure out of your orgasms than he apparently does his own. He only ever wants to touch you, taste you, feel you. It’s never about him. 

You often wonder if there’s a deeper reason for this. If he’s denying himself release on purpose or if he’s merely terrified of getting close. And occasionally you wonder if he simply just doesn’t want to fuck you, but something tells you that’s not the case.

Maybe one day you’ll be brave enough to ask.

Tonight, however, it seems he’s still determined to put the attention on you. Long fingers gently scratching at your leg until you shiver. It makes him grin.

“Can I see you, baby?” he asks softly, letting his eyes trail beneath the hem of your dress. “See how pretty you are?”

Again, you can only whine pitifully as you motion your head up and down quickly. Wanting to succumb to his strong touch. Only feeling grounded if he’s there to hold you.

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he breathes, using his scarred hands to push your outfit up a bit higher. Revealing your quivering stomach and the delicate pair of panties around your hips. 

They’re nothing special. In fact, you imagine they’re rather embarrassing. A simple, tan fabric that does absolutely nothing to make your pussy look more desirable. 

Perhaps it’s a little silly, but you like to look nice for him. On the nights you know he might be coming to see you (which has been every night you’ve worked since you met), you tend to pick prettier pairs. 

Some with lace, some with little bows. Sweeter colors, sexier colors. Anything that might make him smile.

But you hadn’t anticipated seeing him tonight, and now, you almost want to shy away. Lashes fluttering as you look up toward the roof of his car.

But he doesn’t seem to notice. Nor does he seem to care about the color around your waist, his eyes growing wide as his attention glues to the mesmeric sight before him. Pink, bruised lips parting with wonder while he moves closer. 

“Cherry,” he exhales, the feel of his breath sweeping against your bent knee, “missed you so much. Been forever, hm?”

You nod again, braving another glance just in time to see his hand lower. And then you feel him. Feel his thumb pressing gently into the front of your underwear, just above where your clit lies.

Your entire body seems to spark to life like the flicker of a flame. And you gasp, subtly bucking up into his touch in search of more. In search of him.

He smiles. “S’it feel good, honey?”

You let out a soft breath, chest nearly caving in as you whisper, “Harry…”

He looks up, eyes flicking to yours as that coy smirk grows. “What, baby? You okay?”

Of course you’re okay. He knows you’re okay, but you’ve noticed he likes to hear you say it. He likes to know he’s making it better for you. That he’s helping, that he’s doing good.

When you don’t answer, he returns to your pussy, fingers strumming up and down your covered cunt like he’s playing an instrument. Tuning your body to his needs. 

“Can I touch you?” he asks now, dipping down to nudge his nose beneath your jaw. Pressing a soft kiss to your throat. “Wanna touch you…be good for you, Cher. Was so bad…just wanna make it better.”

He’s attempting to atone for what he did in the diner. To apologize, offer his remorse.

And even if you know he has nothing to apologize for, you can’t find it in you to deny him. Reaching up to tangle your fingers in his curls as you tug him closer. Kissing him fiercely.

He’s hard on himself. You know he is. You don’t know why. You don’t know what the cause is. But you can see the repercussions. They’re painted all over his body, and he wears them proudly. 

He curses against your mouth, and you’re reminded then of his busted lip. Instantly pulling away while you mumble an apologetic, “I’m sorry. I forgot—”

“No,” he nearly groans, slipping his other hand around the back of your neck to keep you close. “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind, I promise. I like it.”

His kisses become hard again. Anxious, desperate, and rushed. As though he needs you in order to survive. His nose knocking into yours from the way he readjusts himself. Wanting to take you deeper, really taste you. 

You’ve never been so happy in your life.

He only pulls away in order to slip your panties down your thighs, pushing them to your ankles until he can really see you.

His entire expression softens the moment his eyes find you. Filled with a certain kind of hope and indulgence as he gazes at you almost tenderly. Unable to resist reaching out and letting his finger brush down your folds. 

You make another noise, but he doesn’t notice this one. Too content to be touching you. Feeling you. Spreading you open just to watch you drip.

“So fucking good to me,” he murmurs. “You know that, sweet girl? So perfect for me. Exactly what I need and far more than I deserve.”

You aren’t sure what he means, but the implication makes you frown. Pulling on his hair a bit harder while he moves to your clit and begins to press down.

The pressure of his thumb against the more sensitive nerves leaves you breathless. Squirming beneath him from the rush of pleasure that only serves in making you needier. 

“Always so warm,” he muses quietly. Almost as if to himself. “So soft. So sweet. Can’t ever get enough of you.”

It makes your head spin the way he seems to adore you. The way he talks about your body as if he can’t believe he’s lucky enough to behold it. To feel it, to get to indulge in it. Worshiping you like you’re his religion.

He begins to rub your clit in slow, teasing circles. Kissing you once more in order to taste your whines and feed off your desperation. Wet noises fill the car. Not just from your pussy, but from his frantic kisses that echo between the foggy windows. 

It makes you shiver, loving the way he nips at your bottom lip just to leave you restless. The way he whispers your nickname before moving to your neck, pulling your skin between his teeth and smoothing over the mark with his tongue.

He goes faster. Chasing after your whimpers and the way you arch your body into his. Loving how excitable you get from only a few flicks of his thumb across your sensitive clit.

Then, he slows down. Exhaling a heavy breath as if bracing himself to edge you. Like it hurts him more than it hurts you.

And you mewl pitifully as you cling to his broader frame and tug him down into your arms. “Harry—”

“I know,” he coos, and it’s gentle the way he speaks. Sympathetic almost. “I know, sweet girl. But m’not done with you yet. Just wanna keep you a little longer. Is that okay?”

You bury your face in his neck and make another noise. Something akin to his name that gets lost in the way he curses.

“It’s okay,” he tries again, allowing you to use his body like a lifeline. “I’ve got you, baby. All right? M’right here, I’ve got you.”

He proves this by resuming his sweet torture. Circling the nerves a time or two more before moving down. Smoothing through your folds and lowering toward the pooling of arousal that waits for him. 

You hear him hum. “So precious. S’this all for me, then? Mine to play with? Mine to taste?”

You whine, “Yes, yes, yes,” as quickly as your mouth will permit, and he chuckles. 

The tip of his finger dips inside, presumably to collect everything you have to offer him before he’s lifting it toward his lips.

And you settle back against the door to watch. Enchanted by the way he places you on his tongue and sucks. His lashes fluttering and cheeks flushing from the taste.

You don’t imagine you’ll ever get used to watching him do that. After all, you’ve never been particularly…unbothered by the idea of somebody tasting you. Not even with past partners. You get too caught up in your own head. Worried about the taste, the feel, the smell.

Truth be told, most of the men you’ve been with before were never interested in you. They wanted what you could give them. And then they wanted out.

By all accounts, Harry is nothing like anyone else you’ve ever known. Not just because of the mystery that follows his persona, but because of his endless attention to you. To what you need, what makes you feel good. 

He devotes every second to making you feel like you’re God’s gift to Earth. A gift to him. Praising you for simply existing. Indulging in your taste as though you're the sweetest dessert he’s ever had.

Like now, while a deep moan reverberates from the depths of his chest. Filling the car and your ears like music, making your thighs clench around his hips.  

“S’why I call you my sweet girl, you know that?” he murmurs, sucking on his fingers until you’re sure there’s nothing left. And even then some. “So fucking sweet for me. Can’t ever get enough. Gonna get me addicted, baby. Might already have.”

The moment he takes his hand back out, you’re lifting up, and pressing your mouth to his. And you don’t even care if you can taste yourself on his tongue because all you really taste is him.

But the mixture of him, and you, and the slight tang of blood from the busted fibers of his lip is euphoric. Strange but lovely in a way you hadn’t anticipated. 

He seems to understand this despondency, growing a bit more frantic in his need to please. No longer focused on edging as he drops his fingers back to your cunt while his other hand moves for the buttons on your chest.

He pops them free one by one until your equally plain bra is revealed to him. But again, he doesn’t take notice of such things. Instead swallowing thickly at the sight of your breasts that swell behind the cups.

He kisses you again. And again, and again. Then he moves to your cheek and down your neck. Trailing his tongue toward your collarbone and along your sternum. 

You feel restless. Waiting for something – for him. You already know how magical his touch is. You already know the kind of pleasure he provides, and it nearly drives you mad to simply sit in anticipation. Stuck on his time.

Eventually he reaches your chest, lips moving for the curve of your tit before he’s making another noise and sucking into the tender flesh. Nipping at it, pulling it between hungry teeth. Smoothing over the marks with the warmth of his mouth while you reel.

Your hands disappear back into his hair. Stroking the curls almost fondly, nails lightly scratching at his scalp.

He’s always seemed to enjoy this. Instructing that you pull on him as hard as you’d like. That you tug and scratch. That you use him to inflict your pain and your pleasure. That you think of him first and foremost.   

Now is no different. He nuzzles himself further into your breasts while simultaneously sighing with contentment at the way your hand feels against his head. The way you keep him close to your heart. 

You’d keep him forever if you could.

You hardly even notice the way his finger has slipped inside. The way it strokes your delicate walls that flutter from the intrusion, tensing before relaxing in order to allow him in.

“There,” he whispers, pleased with the way your body obeys him. “S’okay. Gonna make it better. I promise.”

And you know he will.

“So tight today, baby,” he says, leaving another kiss to the swell of your chest. Open-mouthed and messy. “Has it been that long?”

You don’t know. You can’t remember the last time he touched you, although you’re almost sure it hasn’t been more than a week. The two of you have become rather insatiable for each other. Chasing after a kind of release you only seem to find within the hands of the other.

Those beautiful green eyes flitter up to yours, studying you closely. Benevolently. “Have you not been taking care of yourself, sweet girl?”

You take a moment to consider what he means before you feel your cheeks warm. Offering him nothing more than a quick shake of your head.

He frowns, brows pulling together. “Why not, hm? Thought you promised you’d try for me. Help make things better when I’m not around.”

You shrug, growing a touch embarrassed. “I know, but…it’s not the same. Don’t like it.”

“Is that right?”

Another shake. “Get bored.”

“Bored,’ he repeats, and there’s a certain glint in his eye. But instead of disappointed, he seems empathetic. “Cause it’s not the same, yeah? Your fingers too small?”

Now you nod, making a noise of agreement. 

He nods along with you, beginning to smirk. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Bet it’s just so frustrating, isn’t it? Trying to find all your sweet, little spots, but just not quite being able to reach?”

You cling to him as he stretches you a bit further. Doing everything you can’t do for yourself. Effortlessly curling his finger into that one spot until you begin to shake.

“Just like that, hm?” he mumbles, pressing another kiss to your collarbone. “S’that what you can’t find, baby? S’that what’s so achy?”

And it is. It’s so infuriatingly sore that it almost makes you cry. Wishing you could chase after that feeling until your heart gives out. 

“I bet.” More kisses to your chest. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix it, okay? Make it all better again.”

“Please?” you whimper, nails scratching down his broad back. Attempting to pull him closer. 

“Mhm.” He leans forward and brings his lips to yours now. His kiss quick but full of promise. “Always gonna take care of you.”

He begins to thrust the longer digit in and out. Slow enough to work you up but fast enough to leave you wanting more. Coaxing the muscles open before bringing a second finger into play.

The sounds of your wetness being pushed and pulled by his hand are sinful. Sending a chill down your spine and directly into your cunt.

You moan when you feel them, writhing a bit beneath his body until he has to press his leg into yours to keep you still.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he mumbles. Leaving another kiss below your jaw. “Know you can take it, baby. You always do. Don’t you?”

And even if that’s true, you aren’t opposed to the slight sting. Instead invigorated by it and the way he uses great care with you. Wanting to make sure you’re all right so he can please you the way he wants.

Yet somehow, it’s still not enough. Even with the way he curls, and pumps, and thrusts those beautiful digits into your pussy, you feel empty. Barely scratching the surface of that itch as he presses his chest to yours to calm you.

Your noises are becoming more pathetic. Your entire being heaving with the weight of promised pleasure in a way you can’t seem to understand.

His thumb presses into your clit every few minutes, attempting to guide you closer to your release, and it works. The combination making your stomach coil until you nearly see stars. Every cell in your body tightening.

“You close, Cherry?” His free hand moves for your face. Palm pressing into your jaw as the bandage on his knuckles sweeps across your cheek. “Hm? You gonna cum for me?”

And you are. You are, you are. You can almost taste it. Can feel it bubbling up from between your thighs, ready to unravel like the seams on your favorite sweater. 

“Yes,” you gasp, arching from the leather seat. “Yes, please…please don’t stop. Please—”

“Won’t stop,” he promises in a soothing tone, lips ghosting atop yours. “Never stop, I promise. M’gonna be right here until you do, okay? Go ahead. I’ve got you.”

And this is all you need. It happens suddenly and yet far too slowly. Pulling you apart from the inside out. 

You moan so loud, your chest shakes. Eyes rolling back and nails scratching down his spine as it hits you. 

Instantly, he moves his hand from your jaw to your lips. Palm pressing hard against your mouth in order to silence you as he whispers, “Shh, baby. Gotta be quiet for me, okay? It’s okay, you’re all right. Just let go—"

And you do. Allow your body to deplete itself of all energy as he works you through every goddamn second. Dragging it out as far as it’ll go. Increasing the speed of his flicks and thrusts. Pumping your orgasm out of you until it sits in his waiting hand.

“Good,” he breathes before finally removing his hand in order to kiss you quickly. Fingers squeezing the back of your neck as he brings you closer. “So fucking good, there you go. S’okay. Keep going, come on.”

And it’s so good, so wonderful. You feel like you’re floating, high up into the clouds. You decide then that he must be an angel, carrying you in his wings and setting you on a sunset.

But you’re still squirming, seemingly discontented, and he notices far too easily. “You okay, Cher?”

“More,” you whisper faintly. “More…please…”

“More,” he echoes. “My sweet girl wants more. More what, hm? What do you need?”

“More,” is all you say. Once again wiggling your hips down as if to sink his fingers in further. “More, Harry, please.”

“Oh. You want another one. Is that it?”

You nod silently, too strung-out to think in coherent sentences.

He chuckles again, kissing your other cheek before pinching your chin. “All right. Give you as many as you want, baby.”

Feeling incredibly grateful, you allow your trembling limbs to fall slack. Once again settling beneath him as he works to get you to your second.

But even as he resumes the languid but practiced thrusts of his fingers, you feel unsatiated. Eager for something else, but you aren’t sure what.

He realizes before you do. “S’not enough, is it?” he coos. “Need something bigger, don’t you?” 

That’s what it is, and you nod eagerly as your nails scratch down the sleeves of his hoodie. 

“Think you can take something bigger? Think you can take another finger, baby?”

Another nod. Faster, more fervent. Eyes pleading with him to give you anything he has to offer.

He obliges this, glancing down before lining his fingers up, and slowly slipping all three inside.

This stretch is a bit more prominent. He’s deliberately gentle, never giving you more than he assumes you can handle. 

And he watches you closely. Searching for any grimaces or winces of discomfort. 

When he finds none, he seems relieved, kissing up from your chest to your throat once more. “Good girl. There you go.”

You begin to writhe a little more ardently until he has to bring his other hand to your knee in order to press it down into the seat. Keeping you spread and still until you settle.

“Easy,” he coos gently, placing some of his weight onto your thigh. “Gonna have to be good, baby, and relax for me. Let me make you feel good, okay?”

You want to obey. You do, really. But the overstimulation and sensitivity from your first orgasm is almost too much. Making you choke on the heated air until you can hardly breathe.

“Like it when I take care of you, don’t you?” he asks you now. Licking a stripe along your jaw. “Like it when I steal you away from them?”

He’s right, you do. Perhaps you shouldn’t, but there’s something about the way he makes you feel as though you deserve more than this. As though you’re meant for more than the diner. He makes you feel invincible.

“Maybe one day I’ll take you away,” he decides. “Fucking take you from them and make you mine. Forever. For always.”

And you decide you like the sound of that.

Another moment of his strenuous torture passes before he leans back to watch. And you notice something in his face. Utter fascination and lust over the way your body bends to his will. Over the way it stretches around his fingers, the way he pulls it open.

He releases a deep, coarse groan through clenched teeth. Fixated on the way his fingers disappear into your pussy. “Taking me so well, baby. Know you’d take my cock, too, wouldn’t you?”

You whimper miserably, undone by the thought. You can’t deny that you’ve wondered what he’d feel like. All of him, stretching you open. Fucking into you while leaving you a panting mess.

You often imagine what he’s like in bed. In an actual bed and not in the backseat of his car or yours. What he might be like when he’s truly lost himself to the pleasure. Guiding his hips to yours, bending you into a hundred and one positions meant just for his indulgence. 

You wonder if he’d be just as careful as he is now. Just as devoted to you. If he’d be hard and fast or soft and slow. If he has dirty kinks, secret fantasies. If he likes the lights on or off. If he likes the bed or if he likes it up against the wall. 

You hope one day you get to find out. 

“Think you would, yeah?” he continues, sliding his digits all the way to the knuckle. The fibers of the gauze brushing against your clit. “Know you would. Be so good for me. This sweet little pussy would treat me so well, wouldn’t it?”

You nod quickly, pouting at him anxiously.

“I know,” he tuts, finally leaning back over to kiss you again. “Know you’d be such a good girl for me. Let me work you open until you could fit me…let me stretch you just right.”

You reach out for his wrist in search of something to squeeze, and it makes him chuckle. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip until you moan.

“Might take a while,” he muses. “Might take hours. Days. I’ll have to just keep you in my bed until you can fit me, hm?”

He attempts to pull away, but you chase after him. Looping an arm around his neck in order to yank him back to you. 

His smirk feels good against your lips. “M’not going anywhere, sweet girl. Just like to watch you. Bet it’d be fun to watch you take my cock, wouldn’t it? Watch it sink right into this tight little hole.”

He’s evil. Absolutely sadistic and it makes you groan against his tongue until he has to soothe you.

“I know, baby. One day,” he breathes. “I promise. M’gonna take you away and do it right. Make it worth it.”

The thrusting of his fingers becomes more poignant. Enough to drive a plethora of desperate moans from your chest as he nuzzles his nose below your jaw and simply breathes.

“Gonna worship you. Give you everything you deserve.” He sucks in a quiet inhale before dancing his lips along your throat. “Have you sit on my face until I can’t breathe.”

The image has your eyes rolling back. Even if you aren’t sure you’d ever feel comfortable doing so, you’re enamored by the idea. Of the thought of him holding onto your thighs, pressing you down to his mouth. Completely controlling you. 

“Can never breathe when I’m with you, anyway,” he whispers, and you almost don’t catch it. You wonder if you were meant to. “M’gonna do it right, sweet girl. I promise.”

And this is the vow that pulls you through to the other side. Large digits curling up into that one spot that makes your legs shake and you’re falling apart for the second time.

But he still doesn’t stop. Stroking, pressing, pumping even after the tears have begun to slip from your eye. 

“Keep going, there you go. Does it feel good? Feel so good, cumming all over my hand?”

And it does, but you can’t exactly answer. Can’t seem to do anything but cry out as you ride the wave and his fingers as though your life depends on it.

“Doing so good,” he murmurs gently, raising up to kiss you once more. Swallowing your pitiful mewling. “So fucking good, baby. M’so proud of you. Took me so well. So beautiful when you cum, Cherry, you know that? Could watch you forever.”

The sentiment makes your entire body grow warm. You’ve always wondered what you might look like when you orgasm, and truth be told, you imagine it’s not very pretty.

But to hear him say it now – so earnestly – makes your stomach wrench. Nails curling into the seat below as you lift off the leather and knock your chest into his.

He holds you as tight as he can before slowly pulling his fingers out. Relieving you from the overstimulation before putting you back in his mouth. Sucking until a string of saliva drips down his into the gauze on his knuckles. Painting it a much prettier picture than the red has.

After swelling every drop of you with a lewd groan, he finally pulls his hand out, and takes you into his arms. Kissing you through the remnants of the blissful rush.

“So good,” he says again, face burying back into your neck while stroking your thigh with his soaked fingers. “Always make me so proud.”

Your limbs tangle with his as you both slouch into the backseat. Allowing your heart beats to synchronize into one, steady rhythm. 

And once they have, you begin to grin. “Harry?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

He exhales a soft laugh before leaning back onto his knees to get a good look at you. “What for, sweet girl?”

“Just for…this, I suppose,” you mumble shyly. “For all of it. Tonight. Standing up for me and…you know, this part.”

His chuckle becomes a bit more smug. “Are you thanking me for making you cum?”

“I’m…trying. I think.”

“Hm.” His grin is playful and so damn charming as he dips back down to hover his lips near yours. “Don’t have to thank me, Cherry. Believe me. It’s my pleasure.”

His teasing remark makes you giggle, and you kiss him hard before he has the chance to leave you again.

You kiss for a while. A long while. Until you can hardly breathe, your muscles beginning to ache and your eyelids beginning to grow heavy from the lack of sleep in this early morning hour. 

It’s not until you actually yawn that Harry finally remembers to pull himself away and reach for the panties around your ankles. “Shit, it’s late, isn’t it? Know I’ve kept you longer than I should have.”

With a quick shake of your head, you push up onto your elbows. “No. I’m fine, I promise. Just…cumming makes me sleepy, I guess. And you’re so warm. It’s nice.”

This makes him smile again, and that dimple of his makes your heart ache. “You know I’d keep you in this car until the sun came up if I could.”

“I know.” Your fingers outstretch for his hoodie, tangling into the material on his stomach while he guides your underwear back up around your hips. “Maybe one day, yeah?”

His expression softens, and you almost swear you see a flash of sadness behind that sage green. “Yeah. Maybe.”

It’s quiet as you rebutton your dress and pull the hem back down. And even quieter as Harry opens the door and slips out of the car, extending his hand toward you in order to help you out as well.

But once you’ve straightened up and turned to face him, you see that something has changed. A look of longing that hadn’t been there before etched between those scarred features.

His thumb brushes just beneath your eye and then down to your lips. Tracing the lines and dips before he sighs and cradles your cheek in his palm. “Are you gonna be all right?”

You place your hand over his and squeeze. “Are you?”

Another deep breath. Heavier and more forlorn. “You know I’ll try.”

“Promise?”

His forehead meets yours, and you both still. “I promise.”

And you choose to believe him.

You say goodbye, and regretfully let him go. Shaky legs carrying you back to your car as his eyes follow you all the way. Making sure you get there safely before you take off down the road and leave him behind.

A few nights later, you’re back for your next shift. And truth be told, you’re almost excited. Because having to go so long without him feels like a form of punishment. Like your days aren’t nearly as bright without him. And neither are your nights.

You can’t help but count the seconds as you go about your evening. Unable to distract yourself with the pastries no matter how hard you try. Thoughts drifting back to those chocolate curls and that devilish smile.

When midnight strikes, you feel relieved. Releasing a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding as you grab your notepad and slip out of the kitchen. Ready to greet him in his favorite booth.

But the moment you slip past the door, you find that the diner is empty. Not a single customer to greet you as you scan the floor in search of that familiar face. Even a glimpse of his shoes or the sound of his voice.

But the booth is empty, the diner is quiet, and it’s 12:06. 

Your stranger isn’t here.

I know not too much has happened yet but we are building up to tons more smut and plot and angst and fluff, I swear!! 😭💞

Next Part:

~ Whiplash*

~ Main Masterlist

~ Blurb Masterlist

Amazing divider by @firefly-graphics! 💞

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @lovebittenbyevans @caynonmoondreams @amberbambridge

[quibbs126]

If you haven't already or if you can, could you do mint choco and dark choco fancied? (It's a comfort ship-)

Here you go, this is Mint Chip Cookie

So basically Mint Chip over here is the current prince of the Dark Cacao Kingdom. He is also missing an arm, due to that arm being underbaked in the oven and simply falling off, but he's fine with it, that's just the reality he's always known. Mint Chip in general is a very chill guy, you'd never really see him get upset. He's not the most physically capable or active Cookie, outside of his missing limb, and he instead focuses his time into magic. Speaking of which, he has the ability to control ice and snow, something he was born with. His family isn't quite sure why he has these powers (a fear is that he's a frost child), but he's cool with it regardless

He's also not the only kid I've given ice powers to, as another one, Red Mochi, also has them. I don't know how they'd meet but they'd probably be good friends. Then there's also Hoarfrost, my frostcacao kid but she makes sense to have those powers and she ain't done yet

Anyways, on to his name. He's based on mint chocolate chip ice cream, since mint and chocolate and one of them's already Mint Choco. It had to be shortened significantly so now it's just Mint Chip

Mint chocolate chip ice cream:

So I think the only reason I had him missing an arm is because I didn't want to draw another arm and I wanted a cape draping over one side. So armless it is

I also tried to make his design look a bit more...medieval fantasy, if that's the correct term. Basically what I mean is, Dark Choco and Dark Cacao's defaults look closer to European knights than they do Korean, and I wanted to incorporate that into Mint Chip's look as well

I believe I took Mint Chip's boots from Dark Choco's Young Prince design

I gave Mint Chip the black streaks because of the chips in the ice cream, as well as it being the best way to mix both hair colors in, since they both have white streaks already. Though I'm wondering if maybe I could have made his green hair lighter, to better match the ice cream

I believe Mint Chip originally had green eyes, but I changed them to red when I realized his colors were way too much Mint Choco and not enough Dark Choco. That may have also been why he has a red brooch thing, but I may have just added that regardless (and that one is harmless, unlike Dark Choco's)

Then I gave Mint Chip the semi shoulder pad and green chips just to add some more pizzazz to his design, since it's mostly flat colors

But overall I'd say I like his design. I wouldn't call him a banger like Tune Melt or Peppermint Mocha, he's a little too simple to be in their category, but he's at least a 7/10

And yeah that's Mint Chip, I hope you enjoy him

[squidproquoclarice]

Yeehawgust Day 26: Vultures Circling

August 1870

Gerhardt’s Pass, Oregon

Beatrice wasn’t sure whether it had been one day or two since the doctor had come.  She’d seen the look in his eyes, heard the hushed tones with which he murmured to Lyle over in the corner, and with Lyle cursing as he left the wagon and the pallet where she lay, she’d known what she already felt deep in her bones.  

The fever and the pain that had once consumed her had faded, felt now at some peculiar remove like hearing music from another room.  It would all be over soon, and that was a relief.  The vultures might be circling, so to speak, and she’d seen so many of them in the five years since they’d arrived in America.  She felt them watching her now just at the edge of her vision, not certain whether they were real or phantoms, and not certain whether it mattered.  Exhausted as she was, she could only accept it.  This was her end.

A part of her wondered whether she had caused this by her thoughts.  The nervousness and sometimes despair over being pregnant again, worrying what she would do.  David and Arthur both had readily crossed Lyle’s temper, for all David had been just a baby yet when he died.  Having lost two already, she knew the signs.  But this time, the bleeding hadn’t stopped.  Maybe it was being four months along this time that had done it.

We go together then, you and me, she thought towards that child that would never be, now finally able to offer them nothing but love and tenderness rather than having it mingled so heavily with trepidation and fear.  Perhaps we shall see David, and your other brothers or sisters.

But peaceful as that notion was, that still left Arthur.  He’d be alone with Lyle after this.  Lyle had gone to town hours ago, awkwardly grunting something about getting supplies.  She suspected it was only that he couldn’t sit here and watch her die, and that he’d be at the saloon nursing his sorrow.  Hard-handed and angry as he sometimes was, there was a peculiar vulnerable and tender streak in him all the same.  She was only thankful Lyle had taken Arthur with him.  He’d chased Arthur off most of the time since Beatrice took to bed, growling for him to go find something useful to do.  Sparing him the experience of it, she supposed.  She thanked him for that.  

She’d managed to talk to Arthur last night, though, when he’d crept in after Lyle went to sleep.  Given him the portrait of her taken earlier that year in Wyoming, and showed him the papers she’d hidden behind it.  Papers neither of them could read, but papers that would hopefully be the key to a better future all the same.  The ones that officially made him an American boy, not just another immigrant child.  He would belong here.  He already sounded far more American than Welsh, and she was grateful for that.  She could only hope he’d have the chances she’d wanted for him, even if she wouldn’t be here to see it.      

In the end, that was all she could do for him.  It seemed so little, and she was afraid for him all the same.

Hearing the creak of someone climbing in the wagon, she couldn’t help her surprise.  Lyle had come back so soon?  No, that couldn’t be.  But she heard footsteps approaching, and she heard the scrape of glass and the hiss of a match, saw the brightening behind her closed eyes as someone lit the lantern that had gone out awhile ago.  It hadn’t mattered to her, but now that there was light again, she opened her eyes to look at who had come to call.

She didn’t know either of them by sight, fair-haired and well past her own twenty-eight years. Neighbors?  No, they were far from anyone.  Lyle had made certain of it.  Who else would simply climb up into the wagon like this?  KInd strangers, perhaps.  “Are you looking for Lyle?”  It always seemed to come down to that.  She closed her eyes again.  “He isn’t here just now, and I’m sorry for whatever he’s done, but I’m afraid we don’t have much for the taking.”  Money ran through her man’s fingers like water, fast as his quicksilver dreams of riches.

“Should we...”  The woman spoke, her voice soft. 

She was too tired for this.  “Are you missionaries, then?  I suppose the saving of a soul becomes even more important at the very end.  There’s no need of that.  I’ve made what peace I might with my God, I assure you.”  Even if she’d come so far from the girl who’d attended chapel so faithfully back in Aberdare.

The man finally spoke up, his deep voice low and gentle.  “No.  You don’t need to worry about missionaries.”  The words in Welsh, no less, and the familiar lilt of it lifted her spirits in spite of herself.  “Mam, it’s me.  It’s Arthur.”

Now that snapped her to attention, and she opened her eyes, finding she had some fury to spare yet for someone who’d tease her like this as she lay there dying.  But she saw those eyes looking at her with a sad, knowing tenderness--that familiar blue-tinted green, the eyes she saw whenever she chanced to have a mirror.  The ones she saw too every day in her boy, her Arthur.  His hair--it was dusted with grey, yes, but the same dark blond as hers.  Lyle’s brows for certain, and something of the cast of his cheekbones.

Her boy had just turned seven last month, and yet she’d swear he also sat here beside her now, a man of at least forty, perhaps fifty.  She looked at him, and something in her knew him, something deeper than blood and bone, an echo within the soul.  “So you are.”  She didn’t know how it could be so, only that it was.  She drank in the sight of him.  Such a large man, tall and broad.  He hadn’t gotten that from Lyle, perhaps instead from her own father Dylan, such a large man he’d been permanently stooped long before he died from working in the cramped mine tunnels.  Seeing the marks of age on him, the lines etched into his face, and the scars--the small nick on the bridge of his nose, another on his right cheek, and a large one on his chin only somewhat hidden by a short-cropped beard.  Child-Arthur was healing a similar cut on his nose even now, earned by tumbling off the wagon while playing out a week ago, and by the look of it she’d known it would scar, just as it had on this man.  She glanced past him to the woman.  Tawny hair, a riot of freckles, amber eyes, a large scar on her right brow.  Watching Beatrice just as carefully as she was watched.  She asked, speaking in Welsh and managing some good humor, “Well, my boy, who is this you’ve brought with you?”  But she already suspected.

If she hadn’t already believed, that shy smile, that half-lowering of his gaze, would have told her.  “This is my wife.  Sadie.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”  Her Welsh was less polished, her accent more obvious to Beatrice’s ear, but it surprised her all the same to hear it.  Had Arthur taught her?  There were a thousand other questions.

But she licked her lips, needing now to ask the important question: “Why have you come?  And...how?”  She switched back to English for it.  He was an American, her boy, and she would have him be so to her at the end.  She’d fought hard for that.  It was good he hadn’t forgotten his Welshness entirely, but some things needed to be kept close and secret.  She knew that full well. 

“How?  I don’t know for sure.  There’s some red-headed fella named Sinclair who’s gonna have some explanations for this.”  He leaned in, and reached out to take his hand in hers.  A large hand, work-roughened, so unlike the small hand she still took sometimes to hold onto him in crowds and the like.  “Why?  That’s a question that’s got more answers than I know what to do with, really.  Cause I...”  He sighed, shook his head, and the aching look in his eyes told her too much.

“I know there’s no return from this, <i>fy ngwash i</i>.  It’ll be soon enough.  I knew it last night when I gave you those papers.  Did you have the use of them?”

“Sort of.  We ended up in Canada, so uh, proving I was born in Wales actually helped us there.”

“Not America, then?”

“There was better land in Canada.”

“So you’re a farmer?”  She couldn’t help but brighten at that.  She’d wanted something like that for him.  Something peaceful, gentle, nothing like Lyle’s life.

“Horses, mostly.  Some sheep, cattle, and the like.  It’s a good place.  A pretty good life.  And the rest, well…”

“You’d best tell her, Arthur,” Sadie said, her voice full of the twanging accent she’d heard in New Austin and some parts of Texas.  “She’ll see it eventually anyhow.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging.  “I reckon you will at that.  It weren’t...all what you hoped for me, Momma.  Daddy ain’t gonna live but another four years past this.  Gets hanged for horse theft in San Francisco just after Christmas.  After that, a lot happened.  And it took me a long time to get things right.”

“Then tell me how it was, son.”  She heard the tone of both inflexible command and gentle invitation in her words, and knew it for the way she spoke to him sometimes as a mother, asking to know the truth of something.  Usually when he’d done some petty mischief or theft that she knew was Lyle’s influence on him.  You must tell me, and perhaps I’ll tell you that it was wrong and why, but I won’t hate you for it.  Because I love you enough to want you to know what’s right.  She saw that conflict in him already, a boy who could steal candy from the store and shrug about it, but who’d come home the next day taking a beating to save a stray cat from being kicked to death by some older boys.

So he told her.  And perhaps it wasn’t the worst she could imagine after hearing Lyle was dead when Arthur was eleven.  But it made for no pretty picture.  Hearing he’d been taken in by criminals, and ones far better and more sophisticated than Lyle could ever be, something broke within her heart.  She’d wanted so much better for him.  But even as he didn’t quite look at her, he kept talking.

He told her of the gang he’d been in, of seeing no other life or future for himself.  Told her of a little boy named Isaac, her first grandchild.  You’ll meet him someday, long before you should.  He’s such a good kid.  I know you’ll love him, and he’ll love you.  Told her of nearly three decades of mistakes and failures after this.  She might have thought it was a life of only regrets, but then he told her of a new life he’d made, of Sadie, of Canada and the children who had lived, grandchildren she would never see: Beatrice, named for her.  Matthew.  Susanna.  Andrew.  

She felt that pull, as if being summoned.  Light fading, like a fire dimmed now beyond embers.  Arthur must have seen it as well, because he stopped telling her about little things, and reached out to take her hand.  Beatrice felt someone else take her other hand--Sadie, then.  “I don’t exactly know how we got here,” he said quietly.  “But I know how it was that day.  I came back with Daddy and you was gone already.  And...that always stayed with me.  That I wasn’t there.  And I know how it is.  Nobody ought to die alone like that.”  There was some kind of knowing weariness to his voice at that, a question she would never be able to ask and he would never be able to answer for her.  “So here we are.”    So much that would be left unsaid, but no matter.  She would see in time.  She would see all of it, and there was comfort to it, because now she knew her boy would be all right in the end.  That he would remember her too, that he loved her.  That put her fear to rest, and so now she could rest.  There were no vultures now, only the final words of love and farewell spoken, and the reassurance of the hands holding hers as everything faded into peace. 

[faecaribou]

Going Gray/Old Age

TW character death

Wilford goes gray. Egos face old age.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33467572

-------

His hair had started to fade.

Truthfully, it had been such a gradual change that Wilford hadn’t noticed it until one day Bim stepped into his television set with a head full of silver and had announced that he was going to stop dying his hair black. Wilford had stopped whatever he had been doing at the time-he can’t remember what it was anymore- to gape.

“You’re going gray?” He had managed to squawk, and Bim grinned at him proudly, mistaking his shock for admiration.

“You bet I am!” Bim said confidently. “I saw how Dr. Iplier looks, and its not that bad.” He preened in a nearby mirror. “I’m a silver fox,” He said to himself, and Wilford startled.

“Dr. Iplier is going gray?” He asked, feeling stunned. He hadn’t seen the doctor in a while, but surely-

“You need to step outside more!” Bim lectured. “I can’t believe you haven’t noticed that the doctor doesn’t have a dark hair left on his head!” He looked back at the mirror, running a hand through his hair. “Of course, I’m not there quite yet, got a few black hairs left-”

“Is everyone going gray?” Wilford demanded, jumping to his feet, and Bim chuckled.

“Practically everyone.” He peered at Wilford. “You’re even losing a bit of color, I think.”

“Excuse me,” Wilford choked out, and leapt to his feet and hurried out.

He sprinted down the hallway, passing Eric, who, Wilford noted almost absently, had become quite the man, as he headed to his room. He whipped the door shut and went to his bathroom, staring at the mirror.

His hair was starting to fade. His bubblegum pink had been reduced to a lighter shade, and amongst the dark hair he had had for so long lay a few hidden gray hairs.

Wilford stared.

Everyone was going gray. It was as if Wilford’s eyes had been opened. Dr. Iplier had let himself go, or so The Host was teasing that evening when Wilford joined the others for the meal. King was featuring a more salt-and-pepper sort of look, which was making Yandere cringe. Yandere and the Host looked the same as ever, but tale-tell wrinkles were beginning to pop up on the Host and Yandere and Eric, easily some of the youngest, were definitely starting to show signs of age. 

Bing and the Googles looked the same as ever, Wilford thought, relieved, until Bing glitched in the middle of the meal and Google Prime had to take him away to be recharged.

“His battery doesn’t last as long,” He said, almost apologizing, and the other Googles muttered anxiously.

“The most recent update didn’t make me feel too great,” Green admitted quietly. “It’s a bit more complex than my systems want to handle.”

“We’re not obsolete yet,” Red muttered furiously, and Oliver stayed quiet save for the sound of his fan running.

Heart beginning to pound, Wilford scanned the others. Captain Magnum looked exhausted, his beard grayer than the rest of his hair, and the gray streaks in Yancy’s hair somehow suited him better, though his tattoos looked faded. Illinois’ hair was frighteningly impeccable, and Wilford knew that the man was stubbornly dying his hair and covering wrinkles with make-up.

“Wanna watch a movie with me after this, Jim?” Asked one of the Jims, hair still dark but looking the same as Eric and Yandere.

“You’ll just fall asleep in the middle,” The other Jim retorted, and Wilford’s stomach sank.

Only Dark looked the same as ever.

“Dark,” Wilford started slowly, and the demon looked over, an eyebrow raised.

“Yes, Wilford?” he asked patiently, and Wilford hesitated, feeling uncertain.

“...Nothing.” Dark hummed but thankfully let it go.

Wilford was never good with years, and normally he didn’t care, but when Silver Shepard and Ed Edgar disappeared he found himself wondering how long he had been alive.

“Google?” He whispered, entering the androids’ room late in the evening, and he opened the door and saw in the dark five shapes.

“Google!” He hissed, and a loading bar shot up.

“Waking…” it read, and it was impossible to tell if the bar was moving impossibly slow or not at all.

Wilford was off like a rocket.

The 1890’s. No, the 1880’s. No, the 1890’s was right the first time. Wilford shook his head. When had he been born? How long had he lived? Surely over a hundred years, maybe a hundred and fifty? He couldn’t remember, he didn’t know-

Dr. Iplier was gone and no one knew until the Jims had stumbled over the Host’s cold body. The double funeral had hurt, but not as much as the tired resignation on the androids’ faces.

They were quick to follow, simply never waking up from their charging pods.

Captain Magnum and Illinois went out with a bang, one disappearing on high seas and never returning after a terrible storm, the other insisting they weren’t too old for one last adventure that they didn’t have the reflexes to come back from.

He couldn’t read their tombstones, and he had to take a trip to the doctor- and didn’t that hurt, remembering they used to have a doctor?- to find out that he needed glasses. His eyesight was starting to fail him, it seemed.

The sensation of glasses seemed familiar but it made his chest feel hollow. He coughed, only half-heartedly covering his mouth.

He got a glimpse of Mark, once. Still just as youthful as ever, but he smelled of decay. Wilford didn’t see the District Attorney anywhere and tried not to think about what that could mean.

He stopped counting who was left.

At some point he stumbled into the Jims and Eric, crying in the hallway. Without a word he wrapped them up in his arms. Dark stood nearby, silently making eye contact with him, and Wilford knew they were all that were left.

He locked himself in his room, for a while. He didn’t know for how long, or really why, but when he looked in the mirror and saw nothing by gray with a faint gleam of pink, he coughed in his elbow and sighed.

He had always known he would go out with a bang, something violent. He didn’t know when that changed.

The door creaked open.

“...Wilford…?” A voice said quietly, and Wilford knew who it was before he looked up.

“Damien,” He sighed fondly, and smiled up at the man’s worried face.

Dark seemed startled at the sight of his friend- whether it was the gray or the glasses, he didn’t know.

“Willi-” Dark deflated. “Wilford,” He said instead, and his voice was soft and miserable. “I didn’t expect you to-” “To be so old?” Wilford finished wryly, gray mustache twitching, and the back of his throat tickled when he tried to chuckle. “Me neither.”

Dark looked like someone had punched him in the gut, and Wilford sighed, drinking in the sight of the still-youthful man. It seemed that Dark and Mark would be stuck alone together, fighting forever. Speaking of the villainous man, Wilford always thought Mark would kill him, not old age.

“I always thought my death would be more violent,” he admitted, and Dark made an injured sound.

“Death?” He repeated frantically, “Wilford, are you-” he choked, and Wilford took pity on the monochrome man.

“Not yet, old friend,” he said soothingly. “But soon.” Dark winced. “I have lived over a hundred years, you know, even if I can’t remember the exact number,” Wilford half-teased, half-reminded. Far longer than a normal man, he left unsaid.

Dark looked miserable, shoulders hunching, and Wilford suddenly realized that the demon had always taken Wilford’s lasting presence for granted, had never stopped to consider that Wilford was not like him.

“Wilford,” Dark croaked. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault that I’m not like you,” Wilford said, not unkindly. He kept his tone strong enough to get the point across, but also soft, because he wasn’t made at Damien, he would never be mad at Damien.

“Besides,” He continued, “Life needs a bit of madness, and if I lived forever I would start to find life boring. We couldn’t have that. I wouldn’t want that.”

Dark stared at him for a moment silently, taking the sight of his old friend in. Then he sighed, and seemed to give up some internal fight.

“What can I do for you,” He said without an asking tone, and Wilford’s eyes almost watered.

“Stay?” He asked, suddenly feeling as terribly alone as he had been up until that moment. “Just until I go?”

Dark trembled, then crossed the room far faster than Wilford could keep up with, faster than Wilford could have moved even in his prime, and wrapped his arms around Wilford tightly. Just when Wilford thought he wouldn’t be able to breathe, Dark loosened his hold.

“I can do that,” His voice cracked as Dark pressed his face into Wilford’s neck. “I can do that.”

[alex-ruins-everything]

The Witch Lives Across the Street

Inspired by this post of mine that lived in my head rent free so I wrote it.

Pairings: Prinxiety

Words: 1421

Virgil was used to knocking on his door all the time. He hated it, but he supposed it was what happened when you lived next to a witch but fit the gothic aesthetic much better than the actual witch. The house across the street was white with red shutters and a red door. There was no sign or anything saying that a witch lived in the house, nothing odd at all about the house. There was even a garden. Virgil’s house on the other hand was very different. Black with purple shutters and no garden in sight. Even the bushes the house had come with were wilted and brown along the walkway to the front door and the iron gate was rusting. The constantly drawn curtains added to the mystery that apparently made everyone think he was the witch of the area.

So he’d get knocks on the door, begrudgingly answer it and tell the person, “No, the witch lives across the street.” He had seen the witch in question a few times, always wearing some combination of white, red, and gold. Virgil had never bothered to meet his neighbor up close, though. A few weeks ago another car had shown up in the driveway next to the red one that usually resided there. Green, it made Virgil think of Christmas when it was put next to all of the red. He started noticing someone else lurking around the witch’s house, this new neighbor spent a lot of time outside in the garden and suddenly when people knocked on his door they asked about witches instead of one witch.

Virgil was currently in his kitchen feeding his cat when the knock hit the door. Another one of the witches’ clients he guessed, considering no one really came to visit him, it wasn’t too far fetched of a guess. He moved to the door, grumbling a little as he opened it.

“The witches live across the street,” he said, blinking at the person on the other side as gay panic hit his mind for a moment.

This man was easily the most beautiful person Virgil had ever seen. Tall and broad shouldered with swoopy brown hair and the most gorgeous brown eyes. He was wearing a white shirt with the top three buttons undone and a red sash tied around his waist. Layers of gold jewelry matched the gold eyeliner that sat atop deep red eyeshadow.

“Actually, the witch is indeed here this time,” the man said, flashing a dazzling smile.

“Uhm-” Virgil said, trying to get his brain started again.

“I figured it was about time I came and introduced myself. Three years of you deferring my customers, I should have done it sooner. I’m Roman,” the man - Roman - said, holding his hand out. “Virgil, right?”

“How did you-?” Virgil asked, shaking the witch’s hand.

“Not magic this time,” Roman said with a small laugh that sounded like bells. “I get your mail by accident sometimes, I always just stick it in your mailbox. Seems nobody can get our houses right.”

“Right...thank you.”

“Actually, my brother and I were just about to have some tea. I was wondering if you wanted to join us?”

“Your brother?”

“He’s been staying with me, seems two witches are much more popular than one,” Roman answered, smiling at Virgil again. “So. Tea?”

“Uhm...yeah. I can do tea,” Virgil nodded.

Roman gave another one of his dazzling smiles, taking Virgil by the hand and leading him across the street. The other man - the one Virgil had noticed more recently - was outside digging in the garden. He was covered in dirt, wearing a tanktop that showed off various symbols tattooed onto his arms.

“This is Virgil!” Roman introduced. “He’s joining us for tea. Virgil, this is Remus. My twin brother.”

“Virgil?” Remus asked, looking Virgil up and down.

Virgil squirmed a little, feeling like he was under a microscope, but upon his own inspection, he could see the similarities between the brothers. If you looked past the mustache, the streak of white hair, and the dark gaudy eyeshadow, Remus and Roman were identical.

“Virgil, are you a witch?” Remus asked, tilting his head a little bit.

“No, the witch lives across the street,” Virgil replied, same as he always did.

“Get cleaned up, Remus. I won’t guarantee that we’ll save you any cakes,” Roman said, pulling Virgil inside.

The inside of the house matched Roman, all red and gold with hints of white. It smelled like cinnamon and cloves and-

“You have a lot of plants…” Virgil observed.

“Oh, yes. Remus tends to like them. I wouldn’t touch, though. I never really know what he’s growing,” Roman chuckled, pulling out a teapot and a few different jars of herbs.

Virgil watched as he added the herbs to the pot, seeming to know what he was doing. He poured in cold water and with a wave of his hand, the pot was steaming like it had been boiling all along.

“Magic,” Roman winked. “Come, you can sit in the living room. I’ll bring the cakes, you simply have to try them, they’re delicious.”

Virgil couldn’t do much more than nod. Roman directed him to the living room where two couches sat on either side of a coffee table, obviously where Roman took his clients. Remus came in, mostly dirt free and holding a plant clipping in a small jar that he set by the window.

“Are you sure you aren’t a witch?” he asked Virgil, plopping down on the couch across from him. “You have a very bright aura.”

“First of all, I don’t have a bright anything,” Virgil replied. “And secondly, I think I would know if I was a witch.”

“Not necessarily,” Roman said, setting a tray on the table that held the teapot as well as some sugar and cream. “Lots of natural born witches go their whole lives without knowing.” “Yeah, but that isn’t me,” Virgil said, watching as Roman left and came back with a small plate tower of cakes and tiny tea sandwiches.

“You have to try the lavender cake with the lemon glaze,” Roman said, distributing small plates and starting to pour tea into teacups. “Anything in yours?”

Virgil shook his head, content to drink whatever tea it was plain. It smelled good, much better than any tea he had had before. He waited until his hosts had their cups and had sipped some before trying it.

“Oh...this is really good…” he said, having another sip.

“Thank you, thank you,” Roman said. “It’s a special blend of herbs and a little spellwork.”

“You sound creepy when you try and give random guys magic drinks,” Remus rolled his eyes.

“Virgil isn’t a random guy! He’s been my neighbor for three years!”

“And yet you only first spoke to him today because somebody was intimidated by the cute boy who lives across the street. It took you losing a bet to get the balls to go talk to hi- mmph!” Remus couldn’t finish his statement as Roman slapped a hand over his mouth.

“You were intimidated by me?” Virgil asked, shocked. “You’re literally a witch. I just saw you boil water with a wave of your hand. If you told me you studied at Hogwarts I wouldn't be shocked.”

Roman seemed to blush a little bit at the compliments, shaking his head. “No Hogwarts,” he said. “But of course I was slightly intimidated. You’re very mysterious, you know.”

“Me?”

“Yes! You live all alone in that big dark house and you hardly come outside which makes it very hard to snoop on the cute boy across the street.”

Now it was Virgil’s turn to blush a little bit. “You’re literally a witch,” he reminded.

“Oh my god you two are super hopeless,” Remus rolled his eyes. “Roman, just ask him out already.”

“Shut up,” Roman said, throwing a bite of cake at his brother before smiling at Virgil. “But I would like to get to know you better. Perhaps we can go to dinner some time, I can make up for all those times you had to answer the door for me.”

Virgil would have to be a complete idiot to say no. A gorgeous man in red and gold wanted to go on a date with him? And dinner didn’t sound too bad either.

“Okay…” he nodded. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“Tomorrow night perhaps?”

“Tomorrow night works,” Virgil said. “You do know where to find me.”

“Of course. The cute boy lives across the street.”

[httpjeon]

BY CHANCE — KTH (M.)

synopsis. on an adventure, you stumble upon a jackalope. the creature ends up saving your life, leading to an unexpected turn of events.

pairing. taehyung/reader genre. angst, smut, fluff au. mythical!au, jackalope!taehyung, shifter!au wordcount. 11,847 contents. major character death, blood, light violence, tae gets mad, crying, loss of a loved one, size kink, messy sex, squirting, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dirty talk, light voyeurism(?), oral (male rec.), fingering, doggy style, spooning position note. this was originally meant to be posted september 15 of 2019 but never got past the preview stage. so it’s now being released on here!

blog masterlist. book of beasts masterlist.

© httpjeon 2020. do not repost, modify or translate.

Despite being born and raised in a region filled to the brim with witches, there was still lingering disdain for the race. Centuries ago, non-magic born humans had hunted down witches and slaughtered all the ones they could find.

It wasn't until the last 300 years that witches had once again gained footing in the region.

You personally weren't a witch, you didn't possess any magical abilities so you couldn't even learn magic. That didn't stop you from being curious, however, your natural inclination and hunger for knowledge never being satiated.

You didn't expect for the village elders to find the books you'd acquired for reading and suspect you of being a witch.

Unfortunately for you, the village you lived in was one of the few with hatred towards witches. You were lucky to be simply cast out rather than strung up and killed for the 'crime'.

Instead of finding another place to live, you decided it was the perfect opportunity to learn.

Thus, you adopted the title of wanderer.

You left your home of Phixhull behind to see the safe places you read about; seeing the snowy land of Wrila where you'd read of the Griffin creatures that protected forests all the way to Saipia which was home to a large walled-in city that you couldn't enter due to reasons unknown and instead decided to wander among Disier Forest to gawk at the beautiful White Stags that took refuge there. You didn't dare to visit the dark, cold land of Trance in fear of the werewolf stories you'd heard.

After what felt like years on the road, you happened upon a land you'd been warned about time and time again through stories passed down by elders.

Yonio; a place told in stories to scare children.

Legend told that it was once a place overwhelmed with magic but something happened that decimated everything. Magic was all but wiped from it; leaving the plants and magical creatures to die.

When you stepped foot onto the land, you felt it immediately. It felt dead; cold and empty. There wasn't even a breeze, no birds chirping, or sound of cicadas chirping.

It was deathly silent.

The grass crunched beneath your feet as you walked, wrapping your arms around yourself as you noticed the cold nip in the air. You couldn't deny that it was scary with how still and void of life it seemed to be.

The sun was high in the sky with a slight cloud overcast that blocked out the suns rays every once in a while. The environment was reminiscent of autumn with the dead leaves crunching on the ground and the lack of green life anywhere. But it didn't hold the same, cozy feeling the season should have. It just felt...dead.

It wasn't until the sun began its descent to the horizon that it dawned on you there was no place for you to spend the night.

Trees surrounded you from every angle, making you confused as to where you were and what direction you were meant to go. You didn't know where you came from and you didn't know the land well enough to navigate to shelter.

Before long, the sun was nearly set — only a wash of vibrant red streaking across the sky in left to light the way.

You were resting up against the trunk of a large tree trying to warm yourself up as the temperature continued to drop when you felt the ground beneath you begin to rumble. You stood up straight, looking around — the tree shook in time with the rumbling.

Fear pulsed through your veins when you began to hear the heavy beat of footsteps in time with the vibrations. You were paralyzed, desperately looking around for the thing that was making such loud movements.

It didn't take long before the creature came into view — towering several feet above your own frame. It was black as night and emitting black smoke from beneath its skin with horrible jagged teeth protruding from its mouth. Its eyes were inhuman red as they scanned the area before landing on you.

Before you could even think twice, you were taking off running as fast as you could. The creature gave chase, its footsteps violently rumbling and stomping behind you as the trees trembled in the wake of the impacts.

You shrieked when the monster let out a deafening roar of rage. You weaved between the trees, sobbing when the creature easily knocked them down.

You tripped, an exposed tree root being the cause of your stumble. When you hit the ground, it was hard and the air was immediately knocked out of you.

Turning over on your back, the creature's form was distorted by your tears and red. Reaching up, you realized it was blood gushing from a wound on your head.

It smiled, a menacing sharp-toothed grin as it stood looming dangerously above you.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a fast bolt of brown flashed before you. It grabbed the creature's attention, making its attention on you wane.

You sat up, wiping your eyes as you realized it was too distracted by the...jackalope.

It was small but fast and mighty, biting at the creature wherever it could sink its sharp teeth into — making the beast roar in anger as it attempted to squash the poor jackalope.

You weren't sure why such a tiny animal would be attacking something it knew was a threat, but you didn't have time to dwell on it. With your head still swimming, you ran away — not stopping until everything was silent once more.

This time, you took comfort in the quiet atmosphere.

Your reprieve was short lived as the adrenaline died down and you were left alone in the middle of a cold, dark forest with a murderous creature roaming.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, sinking to the ground to huddle against a tree to conserve warmth. Your head ached from the blow you'd received when you'd fallen and it was making you feel woozy.

It was hard to not think of the possibility that you would die in the forest.

Just as the thought entered your mind, you felt a small tug on your jacket. You jumped, expecting a threat only to see the wide doe-eyes of a jackalope.

"Hey...it's you," You muttered, gasping when it tugged your sleeve again. "Do you want me to come with you?" Another tug.

You struggled to get to your feet, doing your best to follow as the little jackalope through winding trees and shrubbery.

To your surprise, you were led right to a small wooden cottage. It was situated in the middle of a clearing. There was a dim light coming from the open window, which the jackalope jumped in and disappeared through. Little flower pot hung empty alongside the door and stairs leading up to the porch. You raised your hand to knock, blinking your eyes rapidly to clear the haze that settled over them.

Two solid knocks were all you could get in before you crumpled to the ground with a harsh thud. The second you felt the soft touch on our forehead, it sent your cut stinging waking you up. 

Blinking to clear your sight, you were surprised to see a young man kneeling beside the bed he'd seemingly put you on.

He had pretty, sparkling eyes and long brown hair that hung in them. Atop his head, the most shocking part of him, were the two large bunny ears twitching behind a pair of miraculous antlers.

"Oh you're awake," He muttered, a small smile gracing his pretty lips. His voice was much deeper than you'd anticipated hearing but it was soothing. "My name is Taehyung and...you're in my home."

"I'm ______," You replied. "You...you're a shifter aren't you? The jackalope?"

"Yes," Was all he said, going back to tending to the wound on your head. He didn't offer any further conversation so you fell silent, allowing him to finish cleaning your cut.

He was very good looking with a sharp jaw and uneven eyelids, a small freckle sat on the underside of his nose. As he leaned over you, you got the sweet scent of peaches that wafted off of him and you couldn't help but inhale. If he noticed, he didn't say anything before sitting back up with a tiny smile.

"Get some rest," He whispered, blowing out the candle lit beside your bed. "We'll talk in the morning."

The first thing you learned about your savior, jackalope shifter named Taehyung was he had a quiet sense of kindness to him. He was quiet, usually setting a plate or bowl of food beside you and scampering to hide away and eat on his own. You never saw him for very long and he barely spoke to you but he was kind; washing your clothes for you and making breakfast, lunch, and dinner for you.

Though he survived off of a mostly vegan diet, he had a knack for spicing it deliciously.

When you asked him how he managed to get fresh fruits and vegetables he did which led to him showing you a little garden he cultivated nearby.

What was striking about it, though, is that around the ground the grass was dead and brown but where the garden was held miraculous vibrant green grass. He seemed proud of his garden, leading you to the little tomatoes that were growing healthily.

Taehyung was timid, easily startled by loud noises that made the large rabbit ears on his head witch back. The first time he demonstrated his aversion to noises was when you accidentally dropped a plate and the wood clamored obnoxiously. He jumped 12 feet in the air and took off to the opposite end of the cottage so fast your eyes couldn't even track his movements.

Every once in a while, you'd spot him hovered over a box that sat huddled in a dark corner of the bedroom. Sometimes he would return from somewhere with objects wrapped in cloths which he would place in the box.

It got your curiosity up, seeing him dig through the box like it housed treasure.

Such curiosity is what led to a mistake.

They say curiosity killed the cat, after all.

He had been gone for hours, leaving you to lay in bed all by yourself waiting for his return. You weren't sure what he was doing since he never told you where he went or what he liked — aside from gardening.

So you crawled out of bed, the floorboards creaking beneath the shift in weight as you took the short stride to where the box sat. Normally, is sat covered in a black silk cloth that he only removed when he was out to collect things for said box. Now, however, it wasn't covered.

You easily unlatched it, the lid opening to rest back against the wall to keep it from slamming shut.

Once your eyes fell on the interior, your breath cut short.

Inside were a variety of objects; some shiny, some old, and some pure strange.

You reached inside, running your hand along the jagged edges of a crystal before tapping against the old, leather bound journal with worn out words engraved on the front. It was dirty and seemed to have been ripped or cut in several places.

Just as you were about to pull it out, however, the door creaked open to reveal Taehyung had returned. He cradled something in that black silk cloth, close to his chest as he stared at you for several long seconds.

"What are you doing?" The dark, cold tone of his voice sent shivers down your spine as you backed away from the box.

"I uh...was curious..." You admitted, shame filling your heart at the pained look in his eyes.

"Curious?" He growled, storming forward, gently placing the covered object in the box before slamming it shut harshly. You flinched at the sound but he didn't, despite his sensitive hearing to loudness. "Do all humans just put their noses in things that don't belong to them or is it just you?"

"I—"

"Get out," He snarled, making you gasp. "I want you gone!"

He roared the last word so loud that it had you on your feet and running past him. You didn't bother slipping your shoes on, too scared of what Taehyung would do if you lingered in his space for too long. So you ran down the stairs, the freezing ground beneath your bare feet making you whine.

You kept running until the cottage was gone from sight and all of its light vanished. Left in the pitch black, your heart plummeted.

You were outside in the dark and that monster was no doubt lurking in the shadows. You were wearing a night dress Taehyung had on hand with no jacket of any kind to shield you from the bitter cold.

A breeze cut through the air, rustling the trees and making you shiver violently. Goosebumps rose up on your skin and you finally had to stop to huddle down. You pulled the nightdress over your knees as you held them to you chest — doing your best to conserve body heat.

Despite your predicament, you were sad.

Taehyung, who had treated you with quiet kindness and sweet gentleness, had cast you out of his house into the dangerous forest without a second thought. Part of you felt bitter over the fact his stupid box of treasures were more important than you.

Truthfully, you couldn't blame him; it wasn't your place to go through something that was obviously important to him. You didn't have a right to be angry with him for yelling but he had to know you would die out in the open like you were.

You didn't know how to navigate the forest and you were, in fact, already lost. With no clue where you came from, you couldn't even turn back to go apologize to him.

Any creak from the branches or rustling of the wind made you jump. Knowing that creature was out no doubt prowling set your heart ablaze with primal fear.

You would die. There was no doubt about it.

The door slammed and Taehyung was left alone, glaring at the box. It held things that meant a lot to him — knickknacks he'd meticulously collected and kept safe.

The anger he felt vanished the second he smelt your sweet scent waft past him as you ran away.

Why had he done that? It was so unlike him. Taehyung wasn't the type of person to cast someone out in the night alone because he was angry. How could he have done that to you?

You hadn't known the treasures were special and you surely meant no harm, he realized when he looked back in the box and found nothing disturbed. Sighing, he unwrapped the newest addition — a stone slate he'd found buried with interesting engravings.

He closed the box once again and placed the cloth over, looking at the bed — his bed that he'd been allowed you to sleep in. It was messed up like you'd been laying in it prior to his finding you on the floor snooping through his box.

Curiosity was a natural human emotion, he knew that. Even he himself was a curious creature, that's how he came to collect things.

You had been expressing such a natural feeling and he'd yelled at you and thrown you out like some kind of monster.

His head snapped up.

Monster.

He was on his feet quickly, running to the door to see your shoes still sat there. His heart broke — you hadn't even gotten your shoes on.

There was no way you could survive out in the cold — if hypothermia didn't get to you first then the monster surely would.

He ran down the stairs, his feet pounding against the wood. The second his feet hit the ground he was running — ears twitching towards every little sound he could hear in the darkness.

He could still smell you — the sweet homemade soap he made still lingering in the air. Following it, he blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He could see far better than a human could, but it was still even dark for his night vision.

The trees and wind whipped past him as he ran, the scent of you getting closer and closer with every step he took.

Finally, you came into view, up ahead facing him. You were sitting with your knees to your chest and your nightgown pulled over your legs. He could tell, even from the distance that you were shivering and crying. His heart ached — he'd made you cry. You were no doubt scared and hurt by his behavior.

His relief of finding you was short lived when he realized you were in danger.

The monster, dark as the night itself crept along behind you — deep red eyes set upon your vulnerable, unknowing form. It raised a thick, clawed hand in the air preparing to swing down and strike you.

It would be a killing blow for you.

But perhaps not for him.

Without a second thought, he threw himself overtop you. You were knocked down with a loud 'oof'. Taehyung felt the claw slice through his back, it burned more than actually hurt for some reason.

Instead of the creature going in for another strike — a devastating, final blow no doubt, it let out a loud, distorted shriek. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the creature backing away holding its hand in the air. The black skin visibly sizzled and bubbled where Taehyung's blood had splattered across it.

Then, to his relief, it ran away into the night — heavy footsteps once again making the ground shake.

"O-Oh my god, Taehyung!" You cried, gasping when he flopped off of you onto his side with a groan of pain. "Wh-Where did that thing come from? Are you okay? Why did you do that? Where did it go?"

He couldn't help but chuckle at your rambling. Humans — so easily overwhelmed.

"I-I...We have to get you home," You whispered, standing up and grabbing his arm. "I don't know how to do this."

"It's alright," Taehyung groaned, allowing you to wrap his arm around your shoulder as he rested his weight against you. Though he kept himself lighter on you since your smaller frame couldn't handle all of his weight.

It was a slow limp back to his cottage, he had to direct you of the way since you'd gotten lost. He could feel you trembling against him, though he wasn't sure if it was because you were cold or still panicked from nearly dying.

You smelled so sweet still and he felt his eyes fluttering once the cabin came into view. He couldn't fall asleep yet, he needed to apologize to you for his behavior!

Everything seemed to pass in a daze from when he hobbled up the steps with you until his front hit the bed. The second his face was buried in the pillow and your scent overwhelmed him, mixed a bit with his which still lingered, he succumbed to the darkness.

You hovered over him, watching as he slept soundly. The back of his gray t-shirt was slashed open, allowing you to see the gaping cuts on his back still gushing blood.

So you needed to stitch him closed.

Okay. You could do that.

It took ages to scour his house to find things that would allow you to tend to his wounds.

As you placed the linen cloths, alcohol, needle, and thread on the table, you stared at him on the bed. The best position would be to look at it from above but if you stood beside him, the bed would cause him to be too high to be comfortable.

So, with taking a final glance at him to make sure he was still asleep, you crawled onto the bed with him. Straddling the backs of his thighs, you tried to ignore what it felt like to be on top of him while wearing a dress.

Pushing his shirt up, you hissed at the angry red slashes on the otherwise pristine, tan skin on his back. Grabbing one of the linen cloths, you doused it in alcohol before placing the bottle back down.

Carefully, you pressed the cloth to one of the cut.

He jolted awake immediately, reaching back to grab at your thigh beneath your dress — setting your face aflame, though he didn't realize what he'd done.

"What are you doing?!" He whined, nails digging into your skin. "That hurts!"

"I-I know," You whispered, hands trembling as you dabbed at the cut again — making him cry out. "I'm sorry. I need to clean it!"

He moaned in pain but eventually relaxed, growing accustomed to the stinging pain. His grip on your thigh weakened and he fell limp again but you could tell he was awake.

Finally, you were finished and dropped the blood-soaked cloth on the floor with a wet slap. It could be cleaned later.

"Um...I'll have to stitch it," You whispered, watching as the cuts continued to ooze blood. "It's going to hurt a lot more and...you'll have to stay really still."

"Okay..." He whimpered, sounding so small it made your heart ache.

"I'll do my best to be quick and painless, okay?" You asked, beginning to thread the needle.

He didn't offer a reply but reached back, once again, to grab hold of you. His grip landed lower than last time, resting comfortably on your knee.

For comfort, you noted. He'd probably never had stitches done before. You had experience, often stitching yourself up during your travels because of stupid accidents.

Steadying yourself, you pierced the flesh and froze when he let out a little sob of pain.

"I-I'm sorry, Tae," You whimpered, stroking your hand over his shoulders for comfort. "It'll be okay."

He squeezed your knee in response while the other clutched the pillow beneath his head so hard the material groaned.

It was such a change in demeanor to what he was before; from shouting at you, to protecting you at the risk of his own life, to the trembling man beneath you. Part of you was happy as he allowed you to see the different sides of him, even if they were unpleasant. He was a more dynamic person than what you first thought of him when he was just a timid, quiet man who avoided you.

Every time the needle pierced through, he would tense up. Some places were more tender than others and drew a whine or cry from him. His bunny ears and little, fluffy bunny tail twitched and flinched in time to your movements as well as his pain.

By the time you were finished, he was drained. The way his eyes fluttered lazily as he fought sleep was the first indicator. He could barely bring his gaze up to you and you helped him strip out of the ruined shirt in favor of a new, softer one that hopefully wouldn't irritate the wounds.

Turning out the lantern, you whispered goodnight and allowed him to sleep in peace.

You woke up to muffled calls of your name, making your heart race in panic. Worried if Taehyung's stitches had torn open in his sleep and he was bleeding out by himself had you on your feet and in the bedroom in a flash.

The suns rays were golden as they sparkled across his skin. You could see his eyes water in the light and you couldn't help but coo when he held his hand out for you.

"What is it, Tae? Are you okay?" You asked, kneeling beside him on the bed where he still laid on his stomach.

"I just..." He sniffled and you realized he was crying. "I feel so guilty."

"Tae..." You whispered, squeezing his hand as tears fell from his eyes to the pillow beneath him.

"I c-can't believe I treated you like that and threw you out," He sobbed. "I-I've never acted like that to anyone before and I'm so sorry, ______."

"Taehyung, it's okay," You whispered, scooting forward to stroke his hair. "I shouldn't have gone through your things like that, it was rude of me."

"N-No matter what you didn't deserve that," He whimpered, voice wobbling. "If I had been even just a minute late you'd be dead a-and then what? I'd have to live with the fact that I killed you!"

"That wouldn't have been your fault and," You argued, sighing as your brows furrowed. "You got hurt in the end anyway so that's not a very good alternative!"

"Th-This is my punishment," The way he said it was so small and fragile. "I deserved to be punished for treating you like that."

"No, you don't deserve to be hurt, Taehyung!" You gasped, shocked at hearing such words come from him. He dissolved into sobs, leaving you sitting there stroking his hair to sooth him.

"Th-The truth is..." He sniffled. "I don't want you to go at all. I-I really like having you here and you make me feel less lonely."

"I..." Your heart felt warmed by his admission.

"E-Everyone went away when the Creature came and ever since it's just...been me," He whispered. "B-But you make me feel...happy, _____. I like you."

The confession trailed off as sleep seemingly overcame him. His grip loosened before his arm flopped off the side of the bed, making you smile. Being as gentle as possible, you placed his arm back beside him on the bed so his shoulder wouldn't ache when he woke up.

Then you set about trying to make him some food for when he awoke, no doubt he would be hungry.

You bumbled around the kitchen, humming softly to yourself as the mid-day sun warmed your skin through the window.

You had just pulled the soup off of the fire, smelling it with a smile, when you heard the bedroom door creak open.

"_____...smells good..." Taehyung limped into the kitchen, making you gasp. Placing the bowl on the counter, you rushed over to him to help him out and support his unsteady weight.

"You shouldn't be up! You should be resting!" You chastised, though you were secretly happy to see he was feeling okay enough to move around.

"'M sorry..." He mumbled sleepily, a yawn tapering off at the end. "Got lonely."

Sighing, you helped him sit on the couch. He winced when his wounds met the back to the couch.

"Well, I made some food," You said, placing the bowl carefully in front of him. Steam wafted off the top, showing that it was still quite hot. "I don't know all the herbs and spices you have but I just added what I thought smelled best."

"It does smell good," The grin he showed blindsided you; a contagious, boxy smile that made his eyes scrunch up.

It seemed Taehyung healed much quicker than a human would. Why wouldn't he? He was a creature made of magic.

Soon enough, you were able to remove the stitches from his back — albeit, with some whining from him. The skin was still sensitive, with three, large, puffy pink scars showing the evidence of his wound.

You were sitting at the table in front of the couch one day, stitching up the holes in the back of his shirt so it would be wearable again. You knew he didn't have a huge expanse of wardrobe so it would be best to salvage what you could.

You head Taehyung grunt followed by something heavy being dragged across the floor.

To your surprise, he was dragging his treasure box into the living room. There was sweat beading over his brow when he finally stopped in front of you.

"What're you doin'?" You asked with a smile, resting the shirt in your lap as you finished patching up a hole.

"I wanna..." He cleared his throat, ears burning bed as he flicked the latch open. "I want to show you my treasures."

"Really?" You asked, perking up immediately in curiosity.

He nodded his head, his little bunny ears bouncing with the movement. One by one, he began to pull things out of the box; the crystal, the journal, some silver dishes, a jeweled gauntlet, a pink gemstone, and a silver dagger. There were still more but the table could only hold so many things.

"Can I?" You asked, gesturing to the objects. He nodded, watching with wide eyes as you picked things up one by one.

You examined the objects with a small smile, Taehyung's expectant gaze sullied with nervousness.

"These are all so beautiful, Taehyung," You complimented, nearly cooing when his ears popped straight up as his eyes brightened.

"Really? You think so?" He sounded so excited that you couldn't help but laugh.

He was so endearing.

'I really do. I like them! Especially," You picked up the pink gem and held it up to the light. It reflected, causing light to bounce off the walls. "This gem is...beautiful, Taehyung. Where did you find it?"

"Th-There's a cave," Taehyung explained, scooting closer so he sat on his knees beside where you were perched on the couch. "It's too dangerous to enter but there was just this sitting outside the entrance one time!"

"There's a gem cave here?" You asked, eyes still glued to the gem.

"Mhmm, maybe I can...um," You jumped when he suddenly rested his cheek against your knee, smiling at where you twisted it in your hands. "I can show you one day, yeah?"

"I think that'd be nice," You agreed, leaning forward to place it back on the table.

"Hey can you..." He trailed off sitting up straighter as he avoided your gaze.

"Can I what?" You asked, glancing between him and the table of objects.

"Um...I just want to see what it's like to...if you, I mean," He cleared his throat, ears a vibrant red from embarrassment. You couldn't help but smile at him all shy and stuttering as he struggled to word his request.

Finally, he seemed to grow tired of his own inability to say it and grabbed your hand and placed it on his head. You watched for a minute, where your hand sat against his folded back bunny ears.

"Do you...want me to pet your ears?" You asked, mindlessly moving your fingers against the soft fur. He didn't offer a verbal response but nodded his head in response.

You sat like that for several minutes, Taehyung's head resting against your thigh as you stroked his ears. Every once in a while, you'd venture to graze against the soft surface of his antlers — discovering they were covered by fine little hairs all over.

Then, you grabbed the journal off the table, making Taehyung whine when you paused in petting his hair. When you struggled to open the journal, he easily popped it open to reveal yellowed, torn pages.

"I can't read so," He admitted, looking blankly at the pages. "I haven't gotten a chance to figure out what this journal is for but it was a humans I'm sure of it. I didn't really even look inside."

"You can't read?" You asked, mindlessly flipping past pages with ink too worn out to read.

"No I never learned," He easily admitted, nothing indicating that it bothered him in the slightest.

Suddenly, when you turned a page your body stiffened at what you saw. He hummed and looked up at you in question.

"Tae..." You whispered, turning the book to show him what you were seeing. "What are you seeing here?"

"Hey!" He perked up immediately in recognition. "That's the Creature! What's it say?"

"I-It's hard to make out everything," You admitted, bringing the book closer to see if you could make out anything. Shaking your head, you flipped a couple pages until you you were able to make out the text.

"Okay," You breathed, running your fingertips over the paper before reading what the pages held.

The month is Tluelp, day Pror of the year U9;

The trees have just begun their transition to oranges and reds. Unfortunately, it doesn't feel as if autumn is upon us. There is no comfort in the air that usually comes with the change in seasons.

The air is bitter and cold; the flow of magic is slowing. We suspect it has to do with Her.

We are doing our best to stop her, the black magic she plays with is defiling this land. It's too overpowering and it is killing.

We are going to have to do something. And soon.

"U9?" Taehyung asked, looking at the page although he couldn't read it. "What year is it now?"

"U15," You breathed, flipping over a couple pages you couldn't read.

"This journal is from 6 centuries ago?" He gasped. "What else does it say?"

The month is Tluelp, day Plerq, year U9;

The Witch is no more. We failed to kill her.

The magic, it has taken over her. It's horrible. It surrounds her very body.

Her humanity is gone and nothing but a Monster is left in her place.

I fear she will come for us soon. There is a bloodlust within her; she has slaughtered any magical creatures that come across her path.

So far she has remained in the forests but soon she will run out of creatures to feast upon.

Soon, we will be the only ones left.

She will come for us. It is only a matter of time.

"Did you know anything about this?" You asked him suddenly.

"Well," His brows came together in deep thought. "I know there were humans here at one point. I see some of their old villages, there's lots of cool things there but it's so open that I get scared it'll see me."

"Taehyung..." You realized there was something you never asked him. He hummed, flipping a few pages past some torn ones you wouldn't be able to read. "How come you're the only magical creature I've seen here?"

"I..." He paused, gnawing on his bottom lip. "I really don't know, ______. It just never...looks for me. I'm sure it knows I'm here but it never comes."

"I wonder why..." You mused. "It said in the journal it went after all creatures it could. I wonder why it spared you..."

"I wonder that too," He confessed, shrugging his shoulders as he frowned. You could sense the sullen change in his demeanor and quickly went back to the journal.

The month is Tluelp, day Cels, year U9;

I know now that my days are limited. I can only hope someone will find this and read what I have to say.

There is a slate we have made. Engraved on it is a map.

I beg that you follow the map.

Find it and accomplish what we could not.

Stop her before it is too late.

I can feel her footsteps now. She's coming.

This will be my last entry.

"A slate with a map engraved on it..." You mumbled, jumping when Taehyung suddenly hopped to his feet. His antlers just barely missed your face as he stood. "Tae?"

He began digging through his box again before pulling something out and running back over to you.

In his hands was a broken piece of a slate and you could immediately tell it was engraved with a map. It was too small of a fraction to be able to make out what it was for.

"Taehyung," You suddenly stood up, making him look at you as you put the journal back on the table. "Can you take me to where you found this?"

"Yeah!" He smiled, standing up as well. "Come on."

The sun was still high in the sky, offering a bit of warmth. You still wore a jacket to keep yourself even warmer.

You were thankful that the forest was far less menacing during the day, but it still held oppressive air that made your chest feel heavy. In one hand was Taehyung's hand. He started holding your hand tightly once the cottage was out of sight, glancing over his shoulder every other second to check on you.

It was sweet of him but truth be told, you kept glancing down at that fluffy little bunny tail.

Suddenly, there was a break in the treeline and you were out in the open.

You stood there, Taehyung's hand in yours, baffled by what was before you. Old homes made of sticks were in ruins in the remains of the centuries old village.

It filled you with a bittersweet feeling, knowing that these people weren't there living in the homes anymore. Remembering that it was all the Witch's doing filled you with new determination and you urged Taehyung to lead you to where the journal and slate were.

It was through a mess of a fallen house, a gap in the debris allowing you both to crawl through.

"This is where you found it?" You asked, voice echoing slightly in the enclosed space.

"Yeah, it was buried a little bit so I had to dig it out," He explained, beginning to sift through the dirt beneath him.

You followed his lead, pulling chunks of dirt away in random places in hopes to find something. There was dirt uncomfortably packed underneath your nails that you were dying to get out.

The two of you were silent for several long minutes. Suddenly, he gasped and yanked something so hard from the ground that he was knocked over by his own force when it came free. Dusting it off, he proudly showed you that he found a piece of the map.

You placed your part on the ground and matched the new addition together like a puzzle. It showed there were three fragments missing to the entirety of it; meaning you had just one more chunk to find.

Reassured that the pieces weren't scattered to kingdom come, your vigor in searching was renewed. You coughed as dirt particles wafted into the area, polluting the air quality in the confined space.

You let out a cry of victory as the slab came into view. Eagerly pulling it out, you dusted it off and added it to the other parts to show the completed map.

"It's too dim in here..." You complained, shaking your head before grabbing a piece and crawling out. Taehyung held the other two parts as he followed you out and into the sunlight.

"Hey there's stuff carved in the back," He suddenly said, looking at the unfamiliar letters.

"Let me see," You mumbled the two of you standing together so you could read what was written. "The blood of the pure hearted is what kills her. Follow the recipe for the potion."

Beneath, it was too worn out to read it as the engravings had eroded away over time. You sighed, shaking your head.

"What does that mean? Blood of the pure hearted?" Taehyung mumbled, flipping his pieces back over to gaze at the broken map.

You hummed, mulling over the words for several seconds before you perked up with an idea.

"Do you remember when it ran away because your blood got on it?" You asked eagerly. He nodded, cocking his head to the side as he waited for you to finish. "I think it's because you have a pure heart, Taehyung! That would also explain why she doesn't bother you and lets you live in peace! Your blood is her weakness!"

"But we don't have the recipe for the potion," He sullenly pointed out.

"Let's see this map again," You said, putting the pieces together once again. "Look...this reads...'you'll find what you need where the sacred tree lay roots'. I wonder what that means."

"I know where they're talking about," He muttered before grunting and adjusting his grip on the slate. "Let me fix it first."

You watched in awe as it began to emanate a bright yellow light from where the cracks sat before miraculously sealing up before your very eyes.

"I didn't know you had powers like that," You gasped.

"Well I am a creature of magic, _____," He giggled. "But I unfortunately don't have a lot of magic. It usually comes from what the land gives but with it dying...I can only channel so much."

"Incredible," You whispered before leveling him with a firm stare. "We'll fix this, Taehyung."

The sun was beginning to descend as you began your journey to the tree. Taehyung mostly knew the way, it seemed, but still regarded the map to be sure.

You struggled to keep up with his pace, his long legs and rabbit-like attributes making it difficult to match him. Still, he kept a firm grip on your hand with your fingers laced together. His skin was warm and soft to the touch, comforting.

"S-So what is this place?" You asked softly, stepping over a stray rock.

"It's just a special tree," He said, shrugging his shoulders. "It's always been there. I used to play on it with some friends back before..."

"Hey Taehyung..." You muttered, making him hum. "How old are you?"

"Hmm...you said it's the year U15?" He asked, glancing over his shoulder to see you nod. "I was born in U...13?"

"You're 2 centuries old?!" You cried, jogging to walk beside him. He kept his grip on your hand firm, not willing to let you stray away. "Are there...other magic creatures living here?"

"Hmm...yeah," He nodded, using his free hand to move a downed branch in your way. "There are still others alive and living but it's a constant battle for them. They don't have permanent homes like I do because the Creature hunts them down."

"Why do they choose to stay if that's the case?" You mumbled.

"I guess just..." He sighed, squeezing your hand. "Because it's home."

The two of you fell into silence, only the sound of your footsteps crunching on the grass. Anytime there was a new or strange sound, Taehyung would shield your body with his. Though it seemed subconscious, it was still incredibly sweet of him to protect you.

"It's up here!" He said, suddenly picking up speed so you had to jog to keep up.

You kept your eyes forward, scanning the area for what you were supposed to be looking for. It seemed it came into view when Taehyung made an 'ah-ha!'.

You came to a stop in front of a large tree. It appeared to be no different from the others in species but it was in a much further state of dying than any of the other trees you'd seen in the forest.

Though you weren't a creature of magic, you could feel the heavy energy coming off the tree. It emanated a foul, black smoke from within and the closer you got the more exhausted you became.

Taehyung seemed to be feeling the effects as well, albeit to a lesser extent than you. His magic abilities no doubt helping him keep his strength in the wake of such dark magic.

He released your hand and the two of you began looking around the tree.

"It said where the sacred tree lay roots..." You muttered, kneeling on the ground. "Maybe it’s been buried!"

"Good idea," He gasped, following your lead and beginning to shovel away dirt with his bare hands.

He was able to move faster than you, as the weight of the dark magic was fully hitting you. Small grunts left his lip suddenly as he seemed to struggle with pulling something free. You moved closer to him to help him, realizing there was a metal box buried.

Finally, it was pulled free and Taehyung rested it in his lap and flipped the latch open. Inside, the box held a rolled up script of paper and a clear vial containing a shimmering, vibrant red liquid.

He pulled the paper out and undid the knot of thread keeping it rolled up. Then he handed it to you, eyes watching you expectantly.

Looking down at the paper, you read what was scrawled in black ink.

If you followed the map, it led you here.

The Witch's dark magic makes her weak to the blood of the pure-hearted. Though we failed in our attempt to stop her, we managed to create a single vial of potion that can kill her.

If you fail with this, simply follow the recipe you have to make another batch.

In our attempt, we injured her but she was too powerful for us to handle. She wiped us out one by one and now there are only a few of us left. The hope for humanity to live here is gone now. Until She is gone, no life will thrive in these lands.

Our only saving grace is that we managed to create the map, recipe, and the one vial before our deaths. Coat an arrowhead in the potion and pierce her heart. It's the only way.

Whoever is reading this, please stop her.

Use this potion well, use it for those of us who failed and died in our attempt to save us and the magic.

Once she is gone, the tree will birth new, pure magic. And life will once again bloom.

"I uh..." Taehyung placed the paper back in the box and locked it shut again. "I can use a bow and arrow."

"You do?" You gasped, watching Taehyung nod quickly.

"In the winter I hunt animals for skins so I've gotten pretty good at it so I don't have to hide in the snow for hours," He proclaimed the fact proudly, making you smile.

"Do you think you can do it?" You asked softly.

"I know I can," The conviction in his voice was startling but comforting. Then, he looked up and sky and stood up. "We should get home before the sun's gone."

He took your hand in his once again and began to trek back to the cottage. By the time you were walking up the steps, darkness had covered the forest and you were eager to get back inside where you felt safe.

"Let's prepare what we need," Taehyung said, grabbing a leather bag of arrows and placing them on the table beside the metal box. "We'll coat the arrows in the potion and we'll do it tomorrow, okay?"

"How will we find her?"

"It may take a while but she'll be easy enough to find if she's on the move," He explained, pulling the cork out of the vial.

It smelled sweet, almost floral once opened. Then, the two of you fell quiet using your fingers to carefully smear the potion on the arrowheads. He carefully placed them back in the leather bag before moving on to the next arrow to coat.

You didn't sleep very well that night, the arrows sitting on the table taunting you alongside the empty potion bottle.

It felt like you were laying alone in the dark for hours until Taehyung's bedroom door creaked open and he wandered down the hallway. He lingered in the entryway to the living room for a moment before you spoke.

"What is it Tae?" You asked, making him jump.

"You're awake," He breathed, walking closer.

You sat up a bit, letting him sit down before resting your head in his lap. It was comfortable and when he gently threaded his fingers through your hair, you felt your body relax significantly.

He had such a profound impact on you and you appreciated having him there in that moment.

"Can't sleep?" You asked him.

"No," He admitted, head resting back against the couch. "Thinking about how important tomorrow is."

"Yeah..." You sighed. "We can do it, though, Tae. I know we can."

He fell quiet,mindlessly stroking your hair as you slowly began to drift off. Somewhere in your subconscious, you could hear him whisper 'i hope so' before he began to softly hum a melody.

The next morning, as you stood in the doorway, you couldn't deny the way your heart was pounding in your chest.

Taehyung pushed your hair off your shoulders and put it up in a ponytail, tying it with a pink ribbon. His bunny ears twitched mindlessly atop his head and you couldn't help but smile.

"What is it?" He asked, giggling down at you.

"It's just...your ears are cute," You confessed, watching as his ears began to turn red.

"Y-You think so?" He reached up and scratched at one of them while avoiding your gaze.

"Yeah I do," You smiled, biting your lip when his gaze finally met yours.

"______," He whispered, stepping closer so your bodies were just barely touching. Cupping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, he drew your head upwards. "I know you're nervous but I'll protect you."

"Tae..." You felt breathless when his lips slowly descended upon yours. He gave you a split second to change your mind, but when you didn't, he kissed you softly. The kiss seemingly lasted an eternity, and when he pulled back his cheeks were pink and yours were burning.

"I think you know what I want to say but...I'll save it for when we come back home successful," He grinned, kissing your forehead before turning around and grabbing the bow and arrows he had waiting by the door. Taking your hand in his, he tugged you out the door.

Your heart was still pounding violently, but Taehyung was the cause this time.

It felt as if you were trekking through the forest for hours, following Taehyung around as he seemed to be drawn by different noises that would lead him to change direction. You were growing tired but you fought it, knowing you needed to be alert through the fight.

You were holding onto him, your hand in his and holding onto his bicep. It felt nice to have him close and you kept thinking about the kiss you'd shared.

You hoped to experience more.

Suddenly, the ground began to rumble in time to footsteps. You both froze where you stood, Taehyung quickly pulling out his bow out and positioning an arrow — ready to fire the second he needed to.

The sound of trees falling and you held your breath, looking around to locate where it would be coming from.

Finally it came into view, knocking trees over as the black magic physically wafted off of it — polluting the air immediately. It paused, red eyes locating the two of you — specifically you.

It roared, making you flinch and cover your ears with your hands. You could only imagine how it hurt Taehyung's ears. Still, he stood strong and pulled the string back, ready to shoot.

The creature took another stop and Taehyung took it's shot. You both watched as it arched before dropping fort of its foot — embedding in the ground.

It stepped forward, crushing it beneath its weight before advancing forward on the two of you.

Panicked, Taehyung took another shot and missed. You heard him cuss before the deafening crack of a tree erupted.

"Move!" Taehyung screamed at you, pushing you so you fell to your side with an 'oof'.

The tree fell and slammed against the ground right where you had been. You were panting, listening to the creature shriek when an arrow Taehyung shot hit its arm — enraging it.

Still, it kept its sights locked on you and began to make its way over to you. Taehyung shot again but missed, you knew he was panicking too hard.

"Taehyung!" You shouted over the fallen tree. "I have an idea!"

"No! Don't do anything!" Taehyung argued, but you ignored.

"I'll just distract her so you can get a clean shot!" You explained before getting back to your feet.

You waved your arms, jumping up to entice the creature to watch you. It was paused, keeping its eyes on you as you ran, getting it to turn its torso more towards Taehyung.

You looked back to see Taehyung dropping the arrow he had in his hand. Distracted, you missed the root of a fallen tree in your path and plummeted to the ground.

Immediately, a searing pain erupted up your leg and cried out.

"______!" Taehyung shouted, lowering his bow.

The panic between the two of you seemed to lure the creature into action. It was jutting its clawed hand forward, preparing to kill you where you laid vulnerable on the ground.

Everything happened in a flash when you felt the warm spray of blood over your body.

But no pain.

Opening your eyes, you felt a sob tear through your throat. Taehyung's back was to you, the tip of a claw poking out of his back — having been impaled on the creature.

"T-Tae..." You choked, watching as he used the last of his strength to aim his bow.

His hands were shaking and he had his own blood on them. But he pulled the string back and let it go.

The close proximity allowed him to get a clean hit. The creature shrieked, its claw ripping free from Taehyung's body — making him cry out and crumple to the ground.

All at once, a brilliant yellow light erupted in a ring around the creature and surrounded it. It continued to shriek and flail even as it was slowly swallowed up until nothing but pure green grass was left.

You hovered beside Taehyung as his blood pooled beneath him on the ground. You could barely acknowledge the way the trees and grass came back to life, and the oppressing black magic disappeared as you watched the blood drip from Taehyung's paling lips.

"I really," Taehyung swallowed thickly, wincing as he did it. The sight of your tears broke his heart but you still looked beautiful in the light. He could feel the shift in magic, the change in atmosphere. "I really love you."

You couldn't even get your response out before his eyes were fluttering shut and he let out a final exhale.

"Tae?" You whispered, shaking him, sobbing. "Tae?! Taehyung!"

You cried out when the grass began to spring up around him — covering his body slowly. Vines wrapped around him and slowly his body began to sink into the grass. You reached out, hand on his until it disappeared and you were left grasping solid ground.

"But...I love you too, Tae," You cried, shoulders shaking as you bent over to rest your forehead against where he once was. "Please don't go..."

You were there until the sun began to set. It was difficult to stand up with your ankle in pain but it was most difficult to leave that spot — where Taehyung had been.

You barely acknowledged that there were crickets chirping, breaking the silence that had been raining since you arrived.

Walking up the stairs of the cottage took a long time, having to use the railings to support your weight. You also really didn't want to go inside but you knew you had to.

Inside, it was cold and lifeless the second you stepped foot on the wood floors.

Sitting on the table was the potion vial and metal box you'd found with him just yesterday. Wandering to the hallway, you passed the treasure box he had never brought to his room. Inside the bedroom, you let your tears fall once again. The bed was unmade, evidence that he had been there though it was now beginning to feel as if he was never even real.

Kicking your shoes off, you crawled into the bed and wrapped yourself in his blankets. His scent overwhelmed you and you curled up into a ball to cry yourself to sleep — thinking over the last words he spoke.

'I really love you.'

The feeling of something softly dabbing at your forehead. It was so gentle that it barely roused you.

Something being wrapped around your ankle — the soreness of it coming to the forefront of your mind. Waking a bit more, you could hear a soft humming of a melody.

Your eyes fluttered open, struggling to adjust to the light of the morning. Something moved into your vision.

Antlers, twitching bunny ears...and the soft smile of Taehyung.

Immediately, tears were falling down your cheeks, making him frown and cock his head.

"Why are you crying?" He asked, tucking some hair behind your ear. "If anyone should cry, it should be me. You didn't take very good care of yourself — your ankle could have been broken, you know."

Not offering a response, you threw your arms around his shoulders and pressed a harsh kiss to his lips. You clung onto the back of his shirt, whimpering when he began to return the kiss.

Pulling back, you buried your face in his neck and relished in the feeling of his arms wrapping around you.

"I-Is it really you?" You sniffled, wiping tears from your cheeks as you pulled back.

"Yes," He smiled when you stroked the soft fur of his ears and caressed his antlers. "The land it...thanked me. With its magic returned, it healed me so I could return to you. It could feel your sadness."

"I was so scared, I didn't know what I would do without you, Tae," You confessed, wrapping your arms around him in a hug again — needing to feel him close. You could hear his heartbeat in his chest and closed your eyes against the rhythm.

Before long, you were locked in another kiss. It became more passionate and heated with every second that passed.

He crawled onto the bed, body hovering above yours as he settled his weight on both hands on either side of your head. His tongue met the seam of your lips and you eagerly granted him access.

He sighed into your mouth when your hands slipped beneath his shirt to caress the smooth skin of his sides. Dropping onto one of his elbows, he gripped your thigh with his free hand to spread your legs for him to settle between them. The close proximity of your bodies allowed you to feel the way he was hardening in his pants, his length pressed against your thigh.

He followed your lead and slid his hand up your shirt, fingertips ghosting over your ribs to your chest where he discovered you weren't wearing a bra. He groaned, cupping your breast and rolling your nipple beneath his thumb to feel you tremble beneath him.

He suddenly sat up, a string of saliva connecting your lips briefly. You felt the air get knocked out of your lungs when he pulled his shirt off — revealing the tanned expanse of his body.

He was built nicely, evidence of an active lifestyle in the way you could faintly see abs.

You followed his lead, tugging your shirt off to throw it to the floor somewhere. He groaned, covering your body with his once again as he enveloped one of your nipples in his mouth.

His tongue was hot as he flicked the bud, fingers coming up to pinch the other one.

"Tae..." You whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, being mindful of his ears and antlers.

"Sound so pretty..." He mumbled, swapping to lap at your other nipple — paying it equal attention until he felt it was enough.

"Please touch me," You begged, reaching down to cup his length in his pants. He was painfully hard and obviously big, it made your panties dampen.

"Is that what you want?" He asked, nosing at your jaw to press kisses against your neck.

"Yes, please," You whined, beginning to push your pants down your thighs.

Taehyung immediately leaned back to watch as your panties were exposed before helping you shed them completely.

Immediately, his hand was between your thighs cupping your heat. You spread your legs, silently inviting him to touch you all he wanted. He took you up on the offer, middle finger prodding between your folds — the material of your panties against your clit making you whimper. The sound made Taehyung's cock throb in his pants but he ignored it, wanting to make you whimper and whine more for him.

He wanted you to beg for him.

Slipping the crotch of your panties to the side, he sunk one finger into your hole — making your back arch at the unexpected fullness. Your were already so wet but he wanted you wetter.

Crooking his finger, he found that spot inside you that had you gasping and grinding down. He easily fit another finger in, the slight stretch making your walls spasm in pleasure. His constant abuse on your g-spot made you gush, coating his fingers in your juices.

"T-Tae...your mouth..." You whimpered, fisting his hair.

He smirked. "What about it?"

"I want it..." You whined, tugging his hair impatiently.

"Oh?" He had a cocky smirk on his face that you wanted so badly to smack off it.

"Tae!" You complained, arching your hips up in hopes to entice him into giving you what you wanted.

"Where exactly? Here?" He trailed his fingers up your thigh. "Oh maybe here?" Fingers on your hip. He chuckled when you suddenly whined again. "Oh, I see...here."

His thumb was suddenly on your clit, grinding against the bud until your knees spasmed closed. With an impressive show of strength, he forced your legs apart again, pinning your knees to the bed to leave you completely exposed.

Then, his mouth was on you — sucking your clit into his mouth. He groaned at your taste, slowly beginning to fuck his fingers into you — the wet sound of your cunt going right to his cock. He licked your clit, the bud hard and swollen beneath his tongue — so sensitive and needy for him.

"'M gonna make you cum," He groaned, doubling his efforts. The feeling of his hot, wet mouth on your clit and his fingers fucking your g-spot just right was quick to push you off the edge.

You came hard.

You felt him moan against your clit as you gushed around his fingers, the way he fucked you through it making you squirt. He loved it, his cock throbbing so hard he was sure he could have cum.

You reached down and stopped him, pushing his head away from your cunt. His face was coated in your juices and he didn't waste any time popping the fingers that had been inside you into his mouth. His eyes rolled back into his head at your taste and he chased it by licking his lips clean as well.

"You made a mess," He teased, hooking his fingers into your panties to tug them down. Your legs were trembling from the force of your orgasm, making his heart swell with pride.

"Y-You made me make a mess," You pouted, eyes not leaving his form as he began to push his own pants down.

His cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach and leaving a spot of precum on his skin. You were right about him being big and you couldn't resist reaching out to wrap your hand around the base of him. He was hot and heavy in your grip, throbbing incessantly in time to his heartbeat.

His fringe hung in his eyes, making his gaze look darker as he stared down at you. You kept your eyes on him as you leaned forward, mouth opening to take the head of him into your mouth. His lashes fluttered the second your tongue met the slit of his cock, tasting his precum.

He wrapped his fist in your hair and whimpered when you took even more of him into your mouth. He was so big that you could only take so much before he was pushing your gag reflex and you had to pull back. He quickly collected the drool that had collected on your lips and used it to lubricate his cock as he wrapped his fist around himself.

It was hard to believe this was the cute Taehyung who asked for you to pet his ears. He had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he stroked his cock.

"Lay back and spread your legs," He ordered, voice thick was lust.

You did as he told you, spreading your thighs so your swollen, wet cunt was exposed to his greedy gaze. His grip tightened around his cock as he cussed and you whimpered, watching him resume stroking himself.

It dawned on you that he was jerking off to the sight of you spread beneath him. The thought alone made your cunt clench and gush. Taehyung didn't miss it, smirking and angling his cock to run through your folds — collecting your cum on the head of him.

Suddenly, he laid three consecutive smacks against your clit with his cock. You gasped, fisting the bedding beneath you at the feeling. He chuckled, prodding at your entrance.

"Please, Tae," You begged, reaching down to take his cock into your grasp.

He let you, releasing his own hold to watch as you popped the head of him into your entrance. You both moaned at the feeling and it was all Taehyung needed to sink in completely.

His bumped your cervix, making you sob and flinch.

"Y-You can't even take all of me..." He whispered, more of an observation than dirty talk but it still made you clench and gush around him. He chuckled, mindlessly reaching up to cup your breast. "Does that excite you? Taking me even though you can't even fit all of me?"

"Y-Yes, I love i-it Tae," You confessed, circling your clit as you ground your hips down to stir his cock inside you. "Y-Your cock is so big, feels so good."

He chuckled, pulling back — the drag of his thick cock against your walls making you tremble. When he pushed back in, he grazed your cervix once again but the spike of pain only increased the pleasure.

You cried out, wrapping your arms around Taehyung to pull him into a deep kiss. His pace didn't falter, he continued to fuck you clenching cunt even as your walls started to flutter around him again.

"Coming!" You sobbed, knees tightening around his sides as you came again.

Taehyung ground, watching as your juices splattered all over him — making you gush more every time his cock grazed your g-spot.

"Messy..." He growled in your ear. "Love that you're so messy..."

Suddenly he pulled out, your hole clenching pathetically at the emptiness. He gripped your hips and helped you roll over onto your hands and knees. Gripping your ass, he pulled your cheeks apart to sink back into your soaking cunt.

You cried out, mindlessly grinding back to get more. He obliged, setting an even faster pace than before. You were so sensitive that you felt yet another orgasm mounting inside you.

"G-God Tae!" You cried, tossing your head back.

He helped you sit up on your knees, back against his chest as he cupped your breasts. He was panting in your ear, whispering soft curses mixed with whimpers of his own. His cock was throbbing inside you, signaling that his own end was near.

"I-I'm gonna..." He warned, biting his lip as he found your clit with two long digits.

Two quick circles on the sensitive bud had you falling over the edge. He came with you, hot cum gushing inside you and making you gasp. It dripped down your thighs, mixing with your own cum as you gushed around him again.

He ground into you some more and let you fall back to the bed.

As you caught your breath, he settled in behind you and pressed kisses against your shoulder.

To your surprise, he lifted you leg in the air and gently sunk back inside you.

"Oh! Tae!" You whined, reaching down to grip his hand as oversensitivity set in.

"I've got you," He cooed, all darkness in his voice gone as he peppered whatever skin he could with kisses.

You panted, whimpering and trembling as he fucked you. It was a much softer pace and you could feel his gaze on you.

When you looked over your shoulder, he leaned down and pressed his lips against yours. You moaned into the kiss, legs twitching as his angle shifted to graze that sweet spot inside you.

"I love you so much," He confessed, words immediately bringing tears to your eyes.

"Tae I..." He pulled out of you, shifting you onto your back so he could fit back between them again. "I love you too."

He met your lips in a soft kiss when he sunk back inside you. His face was buried in your neck, panting against your skin as he kept his thrusts shallow. His pelvic bone ground against your clit, quickly bringing you to the edge.

He took your hand, lacing your fingers with his as he rested his forehead against yours.

"With me..." He ordered.

He squeezed your hand as he felt you clench around him, back arching as you came. It was a much gentler high — it crested and faded as he pumped you full of even more of his cum. It was hot inside you and you felt it gush out of you when he pulled his softening cock from your walls.

He pecked your lips, still hovering above you.

"I really do love you," He whispered, kissing you again.

"I know," You smiled. "I love you too."

"How about we go down to the creek," He smiled, sitting up slightly. "And clean up."

Without his body covering yours, you could feel just how...wet your body was. A mixture of your fluids between your legs and down your thighs. Taehyung was in no better shape.

"That sounds nice," You giggled, letting him help you stand up.

When you woke again, it was deafening how loud it was after so long in silence. Birds were chirping, frogs were croaking, and bees were buzzing.

You sat on the stairs outside, watching as rabbits and deer frolicked and munched on the freshly livened grass.

The door creaked open, indicating Taehyung's arrival. He sat down beside you, the black cloth he used to protect his treasures in his hands.

"What's that?" You asked, resting your head on his shoulder.

"It's something for you..." He whispered, fingers shaking as he unraveled it to reveal the pink gemstone from his treasure box. "I want you to have it."

"Taehyung..." You smiled, taking it from the cloth and clutching it tightly. "Thank you, I love it."

He grinned, kissing your cheek softly.

"That means you're really mine now!"

[attollogame]

Oof the potential angst in 120. “I break a million hearts just for fun.” for Sysba?

This went directions, and honestly, I might just put it in the game because ouch.

In hindsight, you should have seen it coming. It isn’t like they let you walk blind, like they held your hand and guided you right to the cliff edge they intended to let you plummet off of. The entire time you were together they had their red flags waving directly in front of your face, as loud and proud as they themselves are. 

It doesn’t make it hurt less. 

You stare down from the open window of your apartment, watching the people move along the streets below. The soft hum of conversation fills the air and the cool night breeze dances across your skin. You didn’t even let them finish their sentence—’I break a million hearts just for fun’ doesn’t really deign a response—before you walked out the door and out of their life. Maybe that’s why you didn’t cry about it; it simply left you with a numb resignation. There are, after all, over 6 million people in Attollo. 

“Now now, don’t go jumping because of me.”

Your gaze snaps up from the streets below to the apartment complex across the way. The lights from each room reflect off of your windows, but do little to hide the silhouette of the individual behind you. 

6 million people in Attollo, and the one you don’t want to see is the only one to arrive. 

“Please,” you huff, resting your arm on your knee as you lean back against the frame. “As if I’d waste my life over someone like you. Did you forget one of your trinkets here?” 

You receive a dry chuckle in response as Sysba settles onto the sill beside you. They lean back against the frame as well, resting their arm on their knee, and you find yourself sparing a glance in their direction. The lights of the city below reflect on their face, beautiful streaks of greens and blues that dance their way across their skin, and there’s a smile on their lips. It looks strange though, something far from their usual grins. It almost looks, if you were to think of it, melancholic, in a way.

“You surprised me with your response, so I thought I’d pay you a follow up,” they hum, their breath escaping in the form of mist into the night. You watch it drift away until it dissipates, like it never even existed in the first place. “I’m not usually caught off guard.” 

“Mm, not really how a breakup works,” you retort, looking down to the streets again. The crowds continue to ebb and flow in the city lights. You close your eyes and drink it all in; the sounds, the feeling of the breeze across your skin, the odd comfort that Sysba’s presence provides you. It lulls you into a sense of peace rarely discovered in a place like Attollo.  

A moment of silence falls between you two, and then you open your eyes to look over to your window partner. Their eyes are closed as well, the same as yours were the moment before, but that melancholic smile remains. 

“Can I ask you something?” You say, only because there’s really nothing left to say. You’re fishing for a conversation from a well that ran dry long ago. They hum in response, still not opening their eyes, but you take that as a sign to continue. 

“Why do you push so many people away?” 

Another moment of pause falls, and then they open their eyes and fix you with a stare so heavy, so serious, that for a moment you’re afraid you went too far. It’s as though years suddenly settle themselves onto Sysba’s shoulders as they watch you, their fingers brushing against the fabric of their pants. It’s as if they’re trying to grasp onto something real, to ground themselves from your inquiry. 

You continue, undaunted. “I know I’m not the first, and certainly not the last. But wouldn’t you want someone with you for longer, to enjoy the time you have with them, instead of putting yourself through multiple shorter affairs? It seems almost...I don’t know, masochistic.” 

Your last comment draws a snort from them as they continue to observe you. Then, their gaze drops to the streets below, watching the people walk by.  

“Do you know what a mayfly is?” they ask, and you nod. You remember watching a few with your younger sibling around the cliffs edges, how they flew about until their flying eventually slowed, and then gradually they would collapse back onto the earth that they rose from. 

“Good,” he sighs, his gaze going to you again. “A mayfly lives for two days, but in those two days, it gives everything that it has to enjoy that life. It embraces every moment that the world offers because it knows it only has so long. Every memory is a beautiful one and eventually, when the mayfly knows its time is near, it goes with only happiness in its heart. It had no time to allow negatives to creep in.” 

“What are you saying?” It’s different, this conversation. It’s something you’ve never had with Sysba; they’re usually so well hidden behind their wall of flamboyance and arrogance that you’re shocked they had a side like this. And yet now, in the ocean of neon lights that engulfs you both, despite all of the noise of the people below, it feels like it’s only you and them in the entire city. 

They stretch their hand out as if to take yours, and for a second it seems that they might, but then they move and rest it on the window pane instead. 

“I want to be like them. I want every moment to be beautiful, no matter how brief it is. I’ve lived those extended moments, let people stay with me for longer than they should have, and every time I did this it just resulted in misery for both of us. I want to live, and dance in those brief, beautiful embraces, and then I’ll let myself sink into the earth until it's time to be born anew.” Their voice breaks with their words, and they twist away from you, as if to hide from you in their own shadow. “I can’t keep you tethered to me. For both your sake, and my own.” 

You open your mouth to respond, but before you have a chance, they give you one last broken smile and tip themselves off of the ledge. You jolt forward in horror, absolutely certain that you’re going to see a broken body on the grounds below, but to your confusion you’re met with nothing. The people continue to walk on the streets, the lights continue to shine around you, and a breeze brushes across your cheeks again.

You let out a soft sigh. Something tells you, deep in your gut, that this was their final goodbye.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Whumptober Day 15: Possession

CW: Blood, knives, stabbing, mild gore and skin removal, suicidal ideation from one character, some dehumanizing language

TIMELINE: The end of the Bad Arc

“Just-... fuck, keep going, please-” Ryan’s voice is thin and strained, and his back arches off the old hardwood floor, rattling the chain that connects his iron collar to the wall. There’s a fine sheen of sweat over his scarred, burnt, cut-up, healing skin. The ring of raw skin around his neck is surrounded by the scars of the old wounds, healed and reopened and healed and reopened as the collar never stops burning him alive. His head thumps back into the floor, heels pressing against it, panting up at the ceiling. “Don’t stop, Ora please, please don’t stop…”

Ora looks up, their lips pressed together, hazel eyes wide and full of more feeling than Ryan has ever seen them have before. Their hair hangs, bright, freshly-dyed Kelly green in their face. They’re sweating too, stripped to a tank top in the dim, unlit room, with only a little yellow sun coming through the paper that Ashley and Abraham tape over the window. Everything has a sickly yellow tint. “Ryan, this isn’t-...” They hiss, closing their eyes, gulping in deep breaths, before their hands go back to work again. “This isn’t going to do any good-”

“Yes, yes it will, it’s h-helping. I can feel it rising, fuck, please, God, don’t fucking stop now, he’s hurting Danny… he’s going to turn Nate into him... keep going keep going keep going keep going, fuck yes keep going, ah!”

Ryan’s eyes flicker bright and glowing, fall dull, flicker to life again. He digs his fingernails into the grain of the wood underneath him and wails as the knife Ora stole from Abraham digs deeper beneath the first few layers of skin over his hip.

The pain is a burning thing, but Ryan has spent a year drowning in pain, and he can handle this. He can survive this. 

Abraham has taught Ryan how to survive this, now.

There are lashes across his back that ache and itch, mostly healed. He feels a few of the deepest reopen, knows his blood will smear red across the floor, even as more blood dribbles from the skin as Ora slides the blade beneath. 

Below them, Danny is screaming behind his muzzle. Downstairs, kitchen or living room or outside - maybe it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t because wherever he is, Ryan is coming for him, just as soon-

As soon as Ora cuts the fucking tattoo off-

Your true teeth are waiting. It’s not a voice, it’s not his own thought, it’s a certainty that runs even deeper than that, rising like a wave, building like heavy dark clouds along the horizon of a dried-out place. It’s the scent of hot dry air in a land he’s never been to, a land that still feels like home. As Ora cuts the first strip of skin with the yellow eye off of his hip and peels it back, he feels something in him slowly cracking open, a darkness with yellow eyes waiting to step out.

He’s so fucking tired.

He’s tired, and sick, and hungry. 

He’s hungry in ways that eating cannot soothe. He wants something that Abraham can’t give him. He’s starving for it, and he needs it to save Danny, to save-... to save Nate, he thinks, who he can hear arguing with Abraham, but it doesn’t matter. 

He’s going to do for Danny what his big brother has always done for him.

He’s going to take this pain, and survive it, and then he’s going to save Daniel Michaelson from being destroyed.

“That’s-... oh god, that’s one,” Ora mutters, their face pale and greenish around the edges. He watches them jerk forward, fighting the urge to throw up at the sight and smell of so much blood. Ryan takes a deep breath and reaches out, gripping onto their wrist. His hands are slippery-slick with sweat that keeps pouring off of him. 

The yellow light from outside shines on his cheekbones - more pronounced than when he came here - as he stares them down. “Ora.”

They keep staring down. “Y-yes? Yeah, I can, I can do it-”

“You have to help me do this,” Ryan says, waiting until Ora slowly looks up at him again, until their eyes meet. 

Make them sleep. Make them sleep, and then, then you can move through their mind and-

He shuts out the voice - or not a voice, but a knowledge. A truth of himself he has never been allowed to face, but it’s a truth he needs if he is going to save Danny’s life today. Downstairs, his brother’s animal screams through a locked jaw continue, and he can hear Nate, too.

Begging for his brother’s life.

It’s only Abraham’s words that carry with effortless projection through the thin walls, up the stairs, and right to Ryan’s ears. It won’t take long, Nate. And then you can protect him forever - or tell me no again and he doesn’t have to survive what happens to you, does he?

Bram, f-f-for the love of G-God-

I am beyond gods, baby.

I’ll d-do it, please, just don’t k-k-kill him, pl-please, please, I’ll d-do it-

Put your back up against that tree, baby.

“Please, Ora.” Ryan groans, agony throbbing up his hip. A pain sharp enough to be felt all the way to his toes, and he rolls his hips in a pantomime of pleasure. The pain is so sharp that he can barely understand it. His mind steps away, trying to pull him into the space in his mind he has found to go when it’s Abraham’s knife carving him open. It takes all his willpower to stay here, here and now, and let the pain roll through him.

Ora nods, quickly, tucking hair back behind their ear, and then recoiling as they realize they’ve just streaked their green hair with Ryan’s red blood, their fingers are smeared with it. “Oh, god,” Ora whispers, and tears stand out in their eyes. “Oh my god, Ryan, I, I, what if-”

“It’ll work,” Ryan says, shaking his head a little. “It’ll work, Ora, I promise, just-... please, Danny’s running out of time-”

Ora leans back over, and Ryan wails again as the knife slips, soft as a kiss, back into his skin. The next eye is sliced apart first before the skin is pulled off, and Ryan chokes off sobs. He could never take pain like Danny could, but the year has done so much, and he keeps trying to cry and stopping himself, shaking his head, knocking it back into the floor, screaming but it doesn’t matter because Abraham thinks he’s screaming because of Danny, and instead…

The third eye is peeled back, dropped to the floor. 

He can feel it. It’s there, inside of him, pushing the darkness open a little further, and a little further.

As Ora cuts the final piece of the tattoo off of his body, the door inside Ryan doesn’t open - it is destroyed, and the thing he is but was never supposed to know he is comes loose. The thing he is tears apart all the barriers that have been built to keep him safe.

There is a roar inside his mind, gibbering laughter, and then that soft, soothing certainty.

Here are your teeth.

Ryan screams, back arched so much only his head and his feet touch the ground, as the world shifts on its axis, tilts and remakes itself, and the monster he was always made to be gives him back his birthright.

“Ryan?” Ora’s voice trembles, and he can hear in it what he has never heard before - he can hear their voice and know that they were born in a state thousands of miles from here, grew up unhappy, stayed unhappy. He can hear the choices they made that led them here. He knows what their girlfriend sounded like as she died. He can hear how they have told themself, again and again, that life is meaningless, but how they know somewhere deep down that it’s all a lie.

It’s a lie.

Life means something.

Life means death.

For the first time, Ryan Michaelson can direct it.

He drops back to the ground, groaning, eyes fluttering open and shut, before he reaches out to grip onto Ora’s arm again. He turns to look at them, and his eyes are glowing so brightly he can see the reflected light on Ora’s face, the flicker of yellow against their irises. There are things that move beneath the light in Ryan Michaelson’s eyes, and he no longer feels them pushed back under the surface of his skin. 

“I’m so fucking hungry,” He whispers, and his fingernails dig into Ora’s arm until they begin to bleed and whimper, but they don’t - can’t - pull away. Not until he lets them.

They will be lost in his eyes until he decides to let them go.

Downstairs, Danny’s screams have turned to hoarse sobbing, and now Ryan can hear like he has never heard before. Downstairs, Nate is saying, just l-l-let him live, I’ll d-d-do it, just don’t k-k-kill them, don’t k-kill them, pl-please, Bram, I’ll d-d-do it and Abraham is laughing and Abraham has won, but he hasn’t.

He hasn’t won yet.

Ashley, call it up. Let’s make him one of us.

“No,” Ryan whispers. “No. You can’t take him from Danny, too.”

“Ryan?” Ora’s voice is a whisper this time. He swallows around a strange lump in his throat, nervous, like a child riding a bike for the very first time. 

“Everything dies,” Ryan says, voice thick, foggy, distant. He can feel them now, teeth sharp as needles, and he runs his tongue over them, breathing hard. When he reaches his free hand up, the iron collar simply shatters under the strength of his grip when he squeezes it tightly, and the chain drops to the ground.

As soon as it’s gone, alongside the sense of a sweltering rainy season within him rises the vision of green hills, verdant and brilliant. Both of them call him home. He is so hungry. He is so hungry. He is so-

He pulls Ora on top of him, and they cry out as they slide over the blood that continues to run from his hip in a river. “You’ll die here,” He whispers, his hands on either side of their face, now, and they nod, tears bubbling and running down their cheeks.

They’re not afraid of him.

They are not afraid to die.

He can see how they stopped being afraid to die when they put a drug in Danny’s coffee and followed him in a car. He can see how they stopped being afraid to die and became someone simply waiting for death to find them.

He is hungry.

But Ora has been kind, sometimes, when no one else could be.

“I-I know. Please,” Ora whispers. “Please, please don’t let her be the one to kill me, Ryan, please. I don’t want to die hers. You, you can, whatever you are, you can kill me, right? You can-”

“You don’t have to die.” Ryan whispers, and they lean close, and Ora’s lips are warm, chapped, rough to kiss but so are his, and the heat flares up as he presses his lips to theirs. They whimper and then respond, and the green around him is sharp, the scent of ozone.

The clouds are building, rolling over themselves, dark and full-bellied, heavy with rain.

He is hungry, and he is thirsty, and he is two things that both want to feed to find the strength inside of him. He breaks free of the kiss. “I can save you.”

“She’ll never-”

“I can make you stronger than she is,” Ryan says, his mouth trailing from their mouth to the soft curve of their jaw, their neck, feeling them rock forward into him, their fingers curving around his shoulders and gripping tightly. “This doesn’t have to, to end here, Ora, but I need-”

Danny cries out.

Ryan groans, gripping Ora against him, and they are covered in his blood but he feels the heat growing inside of him anyway, and Ora is breathing harder. Ryan has never wanted someone who did not want him back. 

I’m just that gorgeous, he used to say, and flash a smile. He knows better, now. 

“Let me save you,” Ryan murmurs against the warmth of their neck, as their hands move to grip painfully tight into his dirty, tangled, overgrown black curls. “Let me make you stronger than she is. Let me, let me-... let me save Danny, Ora, please-”

“Yes,” They say, eyes up towards the ceiling, as his hands move down their back and settle low there, just above their hips, to rock them forward against him. “Yes, okay, yeah, save Danny, save Danny, save-”

“I’m saving you, too,” Ryan says, softly. “You’ll never have to kill anyone, I’ll show you how. I’ll show you. You’ll never have to-”

“Make me strong enough,” Ora gasps out, a sob edging their voice, tears that run down their cheeks and drip onto Ryan like holy water, burning him in all the best ways. “Make me strong enough to k-kill her so she can’t ever do this to anyone else. I don’t even care if I die, I don’t care, please, just so Penny can rest, so-”

“Yes, fuck, yes,” Ryan moans, closing his mouth around their throat, and the sharp needle-teeth sink in. It’s effortless, like he’s been doing it his whole life. The certainty in him surges upwards, and he buries his teeth deeper and deeper within them. He doesn’t want to hurt them, he doesn’t, but it doesn’t have to hurt, does it?

He’s never wanted someone who did not want him back.

Ora dissolves under his teeth, moaning not in pain but in a pleasure that runs deeper than any agony ever could, and their blood is hot and thick and iron-rich on Ryan’s tongue, but the iron doesn’t hurt him, because the green hills are not as strong, now, as the rains that fall on the grass and the trees somewhere far away.

He has been hungry for a year, without knowing what he was hungry for, but he knows now.

Blood. Fresh, bright, copper-salt-sweet, floods his mouth and he moans.

Blood and pleasure, the way it feels to have Ora’s hips moving against his, how they shift under his touch and he needs only to drop one hand to-

No. Not like this.

Not like this.

For now, the blood is enough.

Blood, rich and full of life, surging into him and they lay together in the scent of blood and sweat and tears, while someone else inside his brother’s body cries for help, and Ryan desperately tries to drink enough to provide it. He could kill them now, ruin Ora, leave their corpse torn to shreds to feed his growing hunger, but-

Ryan pulls free, and Ora whimpers. Ryan’s head is back against the floor as he forces the needle-teeth back from their throat with every hint of strength he has.

“Wh-what are you,” Ora says, pale as a ghost, shadowed and drawn, dying in his arms. “What, what are you?”

Ryan takes in a deep breath, his world sparkling around him. He lifts his own wrist up and tears at it with his teeth, ripping open thinned skin, his own blood running freely again before he pushes the wound to Ora’s mouth. 

“Ryan, what are you-”

“I’m special,” Ryan says, hoarsely. “Now drink.”

Ora latches on like a child to a bottle, tongue lapping at the wound in his wrist, their eyes shifting, fading, going dull and dark. Then they jerk back, hitching in a deep breath, and Ryan pants as he watches the dull hazel brighten until their eyes are glowing the color of a tree canopy in early fall, a heady mix of greens and browns that bounce light off their own skin when they look down.

There are things moving in the light behind Oracle Collins’s eyes.

“Now you’re… you’re special, too,” Ryan says, reaching up to touch their face. “You’re special, too.”

“I’m… I’m hungry,” Ora says, staring down at their hands, blinking, and then back up at him as they sit up pushing off of him, scrambling away and across the floor. They have smears of drying blood where Ryan’s hands have been, across their collarbone and arms and along the tank top at their back. “I’m so, I’m hungry-”

“I know.” Ryan swallows, pushing himself up on his elbows, and then forward, until he can crouch. Until he can stand, swaying, staring at the doorway. No door - puppies don’t need doors.

He’s not a puppy.

He’s not fucking Faerie Boy.

Danny isn’t Red all the time, and Ora isn’t too far gone to be worth saving.

Abraham spent a year teaching Ryan how to suffer.

It’s time to return the favor.

“Come on. You can hunt her, now.” He takes one stumbling step to the door, and then two. Through the doorway, leaving blood on the frame as he goes. It runs down his hips, his thigh, trickles over his ankle bone, drips onto the floor as he moves, each step half-stumbled, each step full of purpose.

His brother is crying downstairs. His brother is crying for help.

Danny needs him.

Ora is just behind him, and the two of them look nothing like the humans they have been and pretended to be. His feet thump on the stairs, one by one, and he feels the laughter inside of him, dark and deep. He thinks of the red supplement powder he’s taken in smoothies and shakes and stirred into soup every fucking week of his life. He thinks of his mother’s sharp edges, her high cheekbones, the look in her of a faraway place she has told him belongs to him, even if he never goes there.

She is right.

This belongs to him.

He is meant for this.

He is made of this.

“I’m still hungry,” Ora says, a little plaintively. “Will I ever stop being hungry?”

“Yes,” Ryan says, low and deep, as they reach the entryway. Outside, Danny is lying in the dirt, and there is more blood on him than unmarked skin. Outside, Abraham leans over Danny, knife just touching one of the few spaces left he has not ruined yet. Outside, Ashley leans against a tree, watching with avid interest.

Outside, Nate is tied to a tree, shouting, with a circle drawn around him and marked with evenly spaced white rocks. 

Inside the circle, something darker and older than Ryan is trying to make itself known.

“No,” He says, hoarsely. “No.”

Abraham pauses, and looks up. Ashley looks up, too, and hisses through her teeth. “Ora?”

“I’m… I’m so hungry, Ashley.” Ora looks down at their bloodstained hands, and back up again. “I’m hungry. You killed Penny and you made me help you kill people and I’m so… hungry, now, so...”

Ryan watches as Ora moves around him like they are in a dream, stepping down the ancient front porch, the wood steps creaking under their slight weight as they move. Whatever Ashley sees in Ora’s eyes, she recognizes well enough, in that moment, to run.

Ora starts running, too.

“Faerie Boy?” Abraham is still frozen, for just a moment, and the things that live in his eyes have been there so much longer than Ryan, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because Danny is going to die if this doesn’t work, and Nate is going to die if this doesn’t work, and Ryan finds, to his mild surprise, that he doesn’t want Nathaniel Vandrum to die at all. 

“My name isn’t Faerie Boy,” Ryan says. One step, two, and then another. Down the porch steps, naked and bloodied, with the final check on what he can do cut free of him. The red around his neck is ugly, he knows it must be, because Nate’s eyes go there and then away as he pales at the sight. “How-”

“Too late,” Abraham says with a sudden rictus of rage, and he reaches out - grabbing Ryan by the arm, his hand slipping in the blood that covers him, jerking him closer. “Come here, Faerie Boy. Take your punishment.”

Danny pushes between them - Ryan will never know how he moves so fast, when he looks back on this later. The furious need to defend Ryan lights Danny up, brings back all his height and strength from wherever he has hidden hem in his fear, and for a moment - just that one single moment - Danny is once again the sun that Ryan’s world revolves around. “No! You don’t get to hurt him anymore! Go to hell! You don’t get to do this to Ryan anymore!”

Abraham turns, to look at Danny, but Danny isn’t looking at him. His eyes are on Ryan, and his big brother is there through all the pain and will always step up to protect him-

“Bad dog. Time to put you down.” Abraham jams the knife in his other hand directly into Danny’s back, then jerks it to the side with inhuman strength, the handle breaking off with the blade still buried in Danny’s skin to the right side of his spine.

Danny’s scream echoes nearly to the sky as he collapses first to his knees and then into the dirt at Ryan’s feet, face down. 

Nate’s answering scream at the sight is somehow even louder. “D-Danny, no, no, pl-pl-please-”

“If I can’t have my puppy,” Bram snarls at Nate, stalking away from Ryan and back to the black-haired man, “neither can either of you.”

The darkness in the circle begins to rise, called by the pain, and fear, and blood - rising up to respond to the sacrifice - and Abraham gives Ryan a sneer before he moves into the circle, pulling Nate’s eyes to him.

Blood is pouring from his brother, and Ryan stares down at it dumbly, hardly understanding what has just happened. “Danny,” Ryan whispers.

His brother lies still in the dirt, blue eyes half-open, jerking in hitching, trembling breaths. Ryan feels, in the way that he can now, that his brother isn’t the person whose eyes move slowly to see him and then fade away. Someone else has been made for this moment, and someone else will help Danny die.

No-

Bram stares Nate in the eyes, and under the weight of grief and power, Nate begins to crumble. “B-Bram-... y-you can’t, you f-fucking-... you can’t do this-”

“I love you,” Abraham says, softly. He places a hand over Nate’s chest, pressing his cold palm to Nate’s bare skin. “Now we’ll be together forever.”

Ryan looks up and his lips move in a silent, no. He steps outside of the fabric of the world and then steps inside Nate Vandrum’s skin.

Let me in. 

Nate’s mind is a soundless scream being drowned by the power of Abraham’s eyes, and of whatever is trying to rise within the circle, whispering madness threatening to break its way in. But for all that Abraham spent a year teaching Ryan how to suffer - and five years with Danny - he spent even longer with Nate.

Nate knows how to hold him off, but he is breaking under Danny’s loss, the life he had held onto, the man he had saved once almost too late and now couldn’t save at all.

We can save him. Listen to me, Danny isn’t dead, yet.

Ryan can hear heartbeats around him like the crack of thunder after lightning, and his brother is still alive. Danny’s lungs still work, shuddering shallow breaths around the agony. Danny’s nerves fire pain at him from every possible angle, and Danny is buried deep inside him while someone else takes the final pain.

But it doesn’t have to be the final pain.

Danny doesn’t have to die here.

Someone else doesn’t have to be the last one drawing air into Danny’s lungs.

Ryan tries to be heard around Nate’s wailing grief. Let me in and I can save you, and you can save us, let me in.

The scream dies, and there is a terrible silence in Nate’s head, the silence of thinking he has been utterly, totally lost. That all his efforts to save the love of his life have failed. That there are no other options left but to give in and be what Abraham would make him. The darkness inside the circle will claim him and he will spread his own pain through the world, like Abraham and not like him. 

Danny whimpers, and Nate’s eyes, fading under Abraham’s influence, snap back to a bright and brilliant green as he turns to look at the redhead bleeding to death just inside the circle. “Danny,” Nate whispers.

Abraham grabs him by the chin and forces his eyes back and away. Ryan, moving blindly with power he has never been shown how to use, pushes himself along the inside of Nate’s body, feeling the constriction of the underside of his skin.

Let me in and let me save you. 

Help me save my brother.

Give yourself to me.

Give in.

Give-

Nate jerks in a gasping breath, tensing up all at once, and then relaxing as Ryan flexes fingers that aren’t his, swallows in a throat that doesn’t belong to him, and pulls lips back from Nate Vandrum’s teeth.

“My name is Ryan Michaelson,” He says with Nate Vandrum’s voice, “and I do not belong to you.”

He tears Nate’s hands free from the ropes that bind him and throws Nate’s body at Abraham Denner, burying the call of the demon in the circle with his own thirst for blood. Flat blunt white teeth tear at Abraham’s shoulder until skin breaks and black blood bursts free.

The thing trying to rise inside the circle is pushed back.

Danny’s heart is still beating.

For now.

---

@slytherynjolras, @whump-it, @bleeding-demon-teeth, @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp, @whumpywhumper, @18-toe-beans, @pumpkinthefangirl, @special-spicy-chicken, @swordkallya, @astrobly, @slaintetowhump, @moose-teeth, @untilthepainstarts, @whumpiary,  @lave-whump @raigash @cupcakes-and-pain

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

To Travel Through the World and Not Be Alone (Good Omens Fic)

Last week I asked for some more fluffy prompts, and @sparkkeyper​ suggested Crowley getting flustered and turning into a snake. Well, it looks like I’ve used up all my “Short Fic” mojo for the time being, as the result was over 10k and is available on AO3.

I really, really tried to make this one light and silly, but my brain does not operate that way, and so...a somewhat emotional deconstruction of the trope I guess?

--

Aziraphale stepped out from the dubious shelter of a sharply angled rock, shaking the last of the rain from his wings. Since leaving Eden the weather had certainly become much more variable. Days so hot his skin ached, nights that left him shaking with cold, a dryness that got into his mouth and eyes, and then – quite unexpectedly – more rain! Not as much as the first time, of course, but unpleasant enough.

The demon, Crawly, had been walking by his side, as he generally did, nattering on about the way sand moved in the wind and something about camel noses, but he trailed off as the rain began to fall. Aziraphale had lifted his wing to offer a bit of protection, until he noticed the rock in the distance, just tall enough for two man-shaped beings to crouch behind. Perfect, he’d thought and quickly gave Crawly’s hand a tug, intending to lead him over. Instead, the demon had all but run from him, vanishing into the night without another word.

Odd, that.

Stretching his arms in the bright morning sunlight, Aziraphale took a deep breath. Lovely, really, the slightly moist smell of the air after a rain. He suspected it would be even more pleasant once they found a place a bit more like the Garden itself – lush and green, rather than this endless expanse of sand, stone, and stunted trees.

He could see the humans up ahead, packing up their camp. The shelter they’d found had been no better, and Aziraphale hoped the cold and the damp hadn’t done any harm to the Woman or the child she carried within her. Quite a lot was riding on that yet-unborn human. There was still a chance the whole of humanity could end, now, here, in the blink of an eye. But the Man put a hand on the Woman’s shoulder, and she smiled, shaking her head, and helped him pick up their supplies.

As they moved out, Aziraphale began to follow after, but stumbled as some sort of black shadow twisted away into the brush, moving too quickly for him to make out. His body helpfully supplied a massive dose of adrenaline, which sent Aziraphale’s heart racing.

Steady on, he warned himself. It would take some getting used to, these human instincts, but there was no reason he couldn’t control himself. He was, after all, an angel. Aziraphale forced his breath back into a steady rhythm, expelled the unneeded chemicals from his system. That was better. He squinted at the line of dried-out bushes, then tilted back his head to scan the sky, but whatever had cast the shadow seemed long gone.

Well. Probably nothing important.

Already, the humans were fading into the distance, but it wouldn’t be difficult to keep up. Day by day, the Woman grew larger about the middle, and their pace slowed. The real danger was not accidentally overtaking them, or stumbling across them at rest and revealing themselves.

Both he and Crawly had received orders to observe the humans until their child was born. Not to protect, or disrupt, or involve themselves in any way – simply to observe. As for how to deal with each other – they’d been given no instruction whatsoever.

And so, for the past week, they’d passed their days traveling together, trailing behind the humans unseen. Aziraphale had expected it to be a time of silent contemplation, but Crawly had apparently never heard of such a thing. He constantly pestered Aziraphale with questions, tried to make conversation about topics that, if not technically forbidden, were certainly better left alone. He crouched sometimes, digging around in the sand, never saying what he was looking for. It was an annoyance, but whenever he was out of sight, Aziraphale found himself worrying. What is he getting up to now? And when will he be back?

He found he didn’t like being alone. Which was absurd – he was an angel – a Guardian. Being alone for long stretches of time was part of his job description, his very being. And yet, in the same way his body was programmed to overreact to every shadow, it also needed to have other bodies around, to see them, hear them, possibly even to touch them. Unfortunately, until the Woman delivered her child and Aziraphale was allowed to reveal himself to the humans, his only option was the strange demon who talked too much and wandered off without warning.

Just as Aziraphale was certain he would lose sight of the humans – and was making up his mind to leave without the demon, and let him find his own way – Crawly materialized, stepping out from behind a sand dune and shuffling over to Aziraphale.

“It’s about time,” the angel said in a low voice, ignoring the unwelcome wave of relief. “I hope you’re not planning to leave me waiting for you like this all the time. And where, precisely, did you go?”

“Not far.” Crawly shrugged, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “Anyway. You don’t have to wait for me.”

“You’re planning something, aren’t you? We agreed not to interfere until the child’s birth – these humans been through enough, Crawly, and they don’t need you—”

“Sssss’not that.” His lips twisted as if he’d eaten something sour, then pressed flat again. “Didn’t go anywhere near them. Promise.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure he believed that, but up ahead the humans had already vanished into the heat-hazy distance, apart from the flare of the flaming sword and a long line of dark footprints. “If you say so. Keep up now, Crawly, there’s a good fellow.”

--

After two more weeks, their path began to run alongside a stony ridge. The base of it was cool, a little damp, and small flowers grew there, shielded from the sun. The humans had paused up ahead, and so Aziraphale stood watching them, grateful for a chance to rest in the shade.

Crawly, on the other hand, was causing some sort of trouble again.

“Look at these!” He tugged at one of the plants. “Have you ever seen anything like them?”

Aziraphale glanced down. Tiny flowers, just a speck of white or red on a thick stem growing out of a mass of green, low but thick. “We had much larger ones in the Garden,” Aziraphale commented. The humans were gathering rocks, it seemed, tapping them against the exposed stone of the ridge.

“Yeah, but look!” He’d been going on like this all day, digging at plants, collecting funny stones, running over to show each to Aziraphale, as proudly as if the demon had created them himself. It didn’t seem to be harmful or wicked behavior, but Aziraphale couldn’t decide what to make of it. “No water, no sunlight, barely even any soil to root in. You wouldn’t think anything could grow here. But they—oops.”

“You killed it, didn’t you?”

“No, just – look I pulled off the flower. The rest is fine.” Crawly wandered over just as the humans seemed to finish their task. The Man took the Woman’s hand – how odd, to walk like that, yet it didn’t seem to slow them down – and together they headed eastwards. Aziraphale stepped out of the shadow of the wall, and bumped directly into the demon. Crawly skittered back, clearly struggling with his own adrenaline, though Aziraphale had mastered that particular unwanted reaction ages ago.

“Terribly sorry,” the angel said, brushing his hands down his robe. Crawly’s dirt-smeared arms had left a mark, but he found he repeated the action more times than necessary. “But, please, Crawly – learn to pay attention to where you stand.” Another brush of his hands. It was soothing, in a way.

“I meant to be standing there.” The demon scowled. “I was going to show you…here.” He thrust the flower towards Aziraphale.

It was a bit unusual. Formed into a little cup, petals strangely thick to store the rare water of the desert. A sturdy little plant, a survivor, but beautiful in its own way. He plucked it from Crawly’s fingers, in order to study it from every angle. Their fingers brushed each other in passing, and Aziraphale found he was rather more aware of the contact than justified for such a minor thing. “It’s…quite nice, I suppose.”

“Good.” Crawly stepped back, fingers twisting in his robe. “Um. You can have that.”

“I see. And…what am I meant to do with it?”

Crawly shrugged. “Whatever you want. Just thought, you know. Flowers. Very angelic. Let’s go.”

He hurried along the ridge while Aziraphale looked at the flower again, fighting back a smile. Did it look better after their now, after their brief exchange of words? He found himself admiring the way the petals faded from dark to light.

“Oi! Angel!” His head jerked up. Crawly had stopped at the same spot where the humans had paused. “Come look at this!”

Tucking the flower into his sleeve, Aziraphale quickly stepped beside him, glancing over to see what the fuss was about.

“Oh, that is…” but words escaped him. Somehow, the humans had made marks in red and yellow, white and black across the stone. Not just marks, shapes.

Aziraphale could see two rough, humanoid figures standing hand-in-hand, one holding a brilliant yellow line. The sun illuminated the rock ahead of the figures, and cast a deep shadow behind. Other, simpler marks indicated parts of their journey – a hint of storm clouds, the line of the Garden Wall, a lion, crouched, ready to pounce.

“I think…” Aziraphale’s gaze traced it, east to west. “I believe this is what they call art.”

“Huh. Thought it was gonna be, y’know. Fancier.”

“Well, they’re just starting out. I’m sure we’ll see improvements soon.”

“Right.” Crawly was digging around in the dirt again, and stood quickly with a lump of charcoal. “Just need to make a few adjustments.” He rubbed the dark, crumbling stone against the ridge, making a black streak some distance behind the two figures.

“Crawly! What are you – you can’t – that isn’t allowed!”

“Oh, what, now it’s forbidden to make marks with rocks? Heaven is nothing but stupid rules these days.”

“No – yes – you’re distorting something the humans created!”

“I’m making it more accurate.” He stepped back, studying the newest figure. Thin and black, legs splayed in a funny way, arms spread by its sides. “That’s me, following behind. Hand me some red ochre, gotta do my hair, too.”

“This is, without a doubt – we’re supposed to be observers, not – not making ourselves part of the – what are you doing?”

Fingers now coated in ground-up lime, Crawly was dabbing another figure onto the stone. Brilliant white, and with a bit more care taken to the limbs, this one stood close beside the black one.

“Adding you, of course. Little me can’t be up there alone.” He glanced at the two human figures, then rubbed at his own one last time, extending the white figure’s arm to end…just where the black’s did.

Hand-in-hand.

“What do you think?” Crawly asked, rolling his neck as if he’d just finished some strenuous task.

“It’s…” Aziraphale stepped closer. “I mean, you really shouldn’t…” His mind raced, trying to think of any response that would be even remotely appropriate. This was a…a gross breach of protocol, surely, and Aziraphale had to…put his foot down, make it clear such things were not acceptable.

Instead, rather without his direction, his hand drifted over to clasp the demon’s.

Once again, it seemed the work gained more beauty the longer he looked at it. And Aziraphale found he was very aware of Crawly’s hand, just as he had been of his fingers. Crawly squeezed his hand, an uncertain, welcoming gesture, and Aziraphale felt a strange tingle, a rush of warmth roiling up his arm, filling his head. He squeezed back—

“Sorry. Gotta.” Crawly dropped his hand and bolted away, back up the path they had just walked down.

“Don’t be ridiculous, that isn’t even—!”

Vanished.

Aziraphale waited a long moment, wondering if he would return. It gave him ample time to study the wall, the little flower. His own hand.

Then, with a sigh, he followed after the humans alone.

When Crawly returned, just before sunset, he didn’t mention running off. Or the art. Or the flower that Aziraphale had carefully set aside on a rock where he had stopped to rest.

Probably best to forget it all, then.

--

More weeks passed, enough that Aziraphale lost count, and the humans came to a river.

Not perfectly clear-blue water running merrily over rocks and under sweeping trees, as they’d had in Eden, but a large brownish affair making its way between steep banks covered in reeds. There were some trees, larger than the ones in the desert, and fruits hung from them for the humans to gather. It was painstaking work, as they grew too high, or over thorny patches. Some fruits were too ripe, others not quite ready. The Woman was also in no state to be climbing trees, so the Man did most of the work, tossing fruits down for her to catch.

“I know we said not to interfere,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his palms together. Another habit that seemed ingrained in the body, but it seemed to help his worries. Perhaps he’d keep it. “But surely it wouldn’t hurt to – to lend a hand, would it?”

“Wuzzat?”

The angel turned, ready to repeat the question, until he saw something that put the humans out of his mind entirely. Crawly had tied his robe up around his knees and was walking along in the river.

“What on earth are you doing, you – you strange creature?”

“It’s hot,” the demon griped, scooping up some water to pour over his head. More of it got on his robes than anywhere else.

“Well, now you’ll be hot and covered with dripping wet clothing, does that really sound more appealing?”

“Don’t know, haven’t tried it.” Crawly reached into the water again, drenching his sleeves. He frowned as they emerged. “No, that’s…heavier. Not very comfortable. But…a little less hot.” He squeezed his sleeve, water dripping back into the river. “Could take the clothing off entirely,” he mused. “That might work.”

“Now you’re being absurd. It isn’t allowed!”

“It isn’t?”

“No! There are – Crawly there are rules.”

“Only for the humans. And look, they’re not wearing nearly as much as I am.” He tugged at his dripping garment again. “I can wrap some leaves around my bottom if that will make you feel better.”

“It’s not about making me feel better! It’s – it’s the principle of the thing. You and I should be setting a good example for the humans, not…not…” He waved helplessly as Crawly arched his back to dip his hair into the water.

“This is a good example! Problem solving! Using the available resources to make yourself more comfortable. If the humans bothered to look back and see us, they might learn a lot.” He flipped his hair forward, spraying droplets everywhere. “You wanna join me?”

“Certainly not.” Aziraphale rubbed his hand at the back of his neck, where itchy sweat was beginning to accumulate. “We have more important things to worry about right now, like—” He glanced back to where the Man lowered himself from the tree, seemingly entirely unharmed. The Woman smiled and handed him a piece of fruit, which he accepted gratefully.

“You know the humans are fine without you.”

That, surprisingly, hurt. Aziraphale found, more and more lately, he had a strong desire to join the humans. To walk beside them, to hear what they said, to laugh when they laughed. When he watched them walk away together, he felt…oddly empty.

An emptiness that vanished when he turned back to Crawly. Much as the demon grated on his nerves, Aziraphale found he enjoyed his company. When he spotted Crawly crouching in the shade of a tree, long fingers scratching at the ground, or scrambling up a ridge of stone to see what was on the top – there was always a bubble of anticipation, an eagerness to see what he’d found, to see that shining excitement in his eyes.

He felt it now, as Crawly waded deeper into the water to investigate a log floating in the current.

“I mean, m’not saying you should give up or anything, but…you can’t spend every day worrying about them. They’ll be fine.”

“Of course I spend every day worrying. I’m a Guardian, it’s my nature to want to help and protect those around me.”

“Ohhhh, is that why you’re always nagging me? Or is it because—”

Without warning, the log split into an enormous, tooth-filled jaw, lunging forward to snap at Crawly. With a yelp, the demon tumbled backwards, kicking water at the revealed crocodile, scrambling back towards the shore.

Aziraphale rushed forward, colliding with Crawly, wrapping one arm firmly over his chest to pull him back to safety; the other hand he flapped at the snapping creature. “Shoo!” he called and, just to be safe, put a note of angelic command in his voice: “WE ARE OF NO INTEREST TO YOU.”

The crocodile snapped its jaws one more time before turning away, lowering itself again to float downriver.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, trying to settle his mind. The adrenaline had flooded him again, but this time it had helped, giving him the speed he needed to react. Perhaps these instincts could be useful, if properly regulated. Unlike Crawly, who still clutched at Aziraphale’s arm, heart racing so that the angel could feel it. He pressed Crawly back a little more firmly against his own chest. “I hope you’ve, ah, learned your lesson.” He wasn’t sure what lesson exactly they should take from this, but he needed to continue his policy of blanket disapproval of all demonic nonsense.

“That thing—” Crawly started, but his voice pinched off, too tight to speak.

“That thing could have bitten your leg off,” Aziraphale chided, brushing Crawly’s torso with his free hand, making sure everything was intact. “I’m not sure if I can heal a demon at all, and I certainly can’t regrow limbs. You must learn to be more careful, my dear fellow.”

His eyes met Crawly’s enormous golden ones, and a heat rose in Aziraphale’s face that had nothing to do with the sun and the desert.

“I, uh…” Crawly very nearly blinked. He tilted his head back a little further and his breath brushed across Aziraphale’s cheek in a startling way.

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale let him go, though his arms seemed slow to obey.

Immediately, Crawly scrambled away, jumping into the thickest part of the reeds.

“Oh, for goodness sake, Crawly! Is it too much to ask that you comport yourself with a little…” But when he looked along the riverbank, there was no sign of the demon.

Aziraphale took a good long while to search – until the humans had finished their mid-morning meal and begun walking again – but all he managed to find was the usual wildlife: rodents, reptiles, a few birds.

“Typical,” Aziraphale muttered. Such strange behavior had become increasingly common as they traveled, and the angel had learned by now that if Crawly didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. Best to just keep walking while the demon got over today’s mood; Crawly always managed to catch up in the end.

Sure enough, well after sunset, a dark-robed figure slunk over to the spot Aziraphale had chosen to rest in. “Angel,” he mumbled in greeting.

“And where were you this time?” He felt another wave of relief, but sternly reminded himself not to encourage the demon. “Honestly, I half thought some river creature had devoured you, and it would serve you right for – for disturbing it…”

Crawly didn’t say anything, merely dropped onto the ground and stared at the light of the humans’ fire, far ahead. Not even a glance at Aziraphale.

When the silence had drawn on too long, Aziraphale lowered himself to sit beside Crawly. “I…am glad you’re unhurt, you know.”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t know what to make of that, so they sat in silence for the rest of the night.

--

“Aha!” Crawly crowed, leaping from one rock to the next, pale skin flashing in the sunlight. “I knew this was going to be better!”

“I’m sure it is,” Aziraphale said as neutrally as possible, trying to keep his eyes on the path ahead.

“You can’t even imagine! I feel so much lighter! I can finally move!” He dropped into the river with a splash, Aziraphale turning quickly to make sure Crawly was unharmed. But, no, he stood in the shallows, tossing water all over his bare skin. “This is…Angel, you have to try this!”

“And why, precisely, would I want to do that?”

“I told you, it feels good. Washes off the sweat and – I dunno. Like the heat can’t touch you through the water. Just come down, I’ll show you.”

“Crawly, get out of there. I’m not about to see you be devoured by wildlife again.”

“It’s ffffine.” But he hopped out, dashing up the path to a fruit tree. Before Aziraphale could say anything, he’d pulled himself up onto the lowest branch.

“Crawly! No, get down, you’ll break your neck and…and…”

“Why do you worry so much?” He pulled himself higher and higher, vanishing among the leaves. “I’m a demon, I’m not going to fall unless I want to.”

“I’ve told you, I’m a Guardian, it’s my nature—”

But surely Crawly couldn’t hear him all the way up there. A head emerged from the crown of the tree, gazing out into the distance as the wind stirred his bright red hair, sending streamers in every direction. He glanced down at Aziraphale and waved and, quite at a loss, the angel waved back.

He almost wanted to join Crawly. Not with the nakedness, though his robes were getting to be something of a burden, ending each day heavy with dust and sweat. But it seemed peaceful up there, cooler. And ever since the incident with the crocodile, Aziraphale had been feeling a strange urge, to be near the demon, to touch him, to ensure that he was safe.

Perhaps it was related to the instinct that compelled him towards proximity to the humans. That made sense; lacking options, his mind was trying to reach out for the only other being available. Though that didn’t really explain the strength of the urge, or why it seemed to grow daily as they spent more time together.

Crawly’s head disappeared. Branches rustled, leaves falling along the riverbank, and suddenly he dropped onto the lowest branch, grinning like he had a secret. “Look, I know you’re hot, Angel. Just admit it.”

“Certainly not! I am perfectly content as I am,” Aziraphale lied, trying to subtly flap the collar of his robes to let in a little air. “Perhaps it is your…Fallen nature, but I am completely immune to the effects of the environment.”

“Are you? Here, catch.” Something flew towards Aziraphale’s head, and his hands barely snapped up in time to grab the oddly shaped, greenish fruit. “I think that’s a pear,” Crawly continued. “Also, pretty sure it’s ripe.”

Golden eyes sparkling with excitement, he grabbed the branch with two hands and leaned back a little with an eager smile.

Aziraphale studied the fruit, turning it over in his hands. Well. No point in being rude, was there? He raised it to his lips and took a bite.

The inside was soft, but not too soft, with an oddly gritty texture. More importantly, it flooded his tongue with a mildly flavored liquid, sweet and refreshing. He’d gotten so used to his mouth being dry, Aziraphale had stopped thinking about the discomfort, but this – this was exactly what he needed. He eagerly took a few more bites.

“Oh,” he finally said, glancing up at Crawly, who still watched from his perch. “This is absolutely marvelous.” He wiped the juice from his chin and smiled.

Crawly grinned back, swinging his legs with a bit too much excitement, but it was an infectious excitement, bubbling up in Aziraphale’s chest with every bite.

Until, suddenly, Crawly’s expression fell, as did he, dropping from the tree to scramble about on all fours, racing back the way they’d come. “Don’t wait for me,” he called when he managed to get his feet under him, and by the time Aziraphale had even turned around, he had vanished again.

Well. At least it was quieter now. Aziraphale took another bite of his pear and continued his walk.

He was, by this point, getting used to Crawly’s unexplained disappearances. He never arrived later than the following dawn, and sure enough he caught up just as the humans were settling down to sleep. Once again, he didn’t say much or even look at Aziraphale, merely crouched on the ground, watching the distant firelight.

The next morning, however, was a different story.

“Ow! Stop that, it hurts.”

“Well, I do apologize, but I need to know what’s wrong!” Aziraphale rubbed his finger again across Crawly’s now bright-red skin, peppered here and there with some truly nasty looking blisters. It was extremely hot to the touch.

“Sssstop!” Crawly tried to wriggle away, but he was firmly trapped: Aziraphale sat on his back, legs pinning the demon’s hips in place, one hand lightly on his shoulder, but ready to press it flat into the dirt if required.

“If you don’t stop moving around, I’m not going to be able to help you.”

“You aren’t – this is torture, that’s what it is. Bloody sadistic angel!”

“It would appear you have burns covering every inch of your skin. How on earth does that even happen? What were you getting up to yesterday?”

“Nothing! Just – you saw. Walking around. Wanted some space’s all.”

“That’s all?”

“Ngk. Might have. Stretched out on a rock to bask for a bit at noon. Felt good.”

Aziraphale sat, considering the boiled red of Crawly’s back and his own slightly pink hands, the itch at the back of his neck. He’d been working on a hypothesis, and this would seem to be his first clear bit of proof.

“Crawly, I believe you’ve been burnt by the sun.”

“Didn’t go to the sun,” Crawly grumbled.

“This is no laughing matter. I understand burns can cause permanent damage to humans.” He brushed his fingers down Crawly’s spine, carefully avoiding the blisters, but even that was enough to send the demon squirming. “Does this hurt?”

“Yes it hurts! What have I been saying? Are you even listening?”

“I am,” Aziraphale assured him, looking for any spot that was still mostly pale. “How about this?” He pressed fingers into the side of Crawly’s ribs, just under the armpit.

“Ssssssss…not as bad, but yes.” At least he’d stopped struggling, but still Crawly’s fingers curled into the dirt, scraping deeply in the brown clay.

“If I’m right, the burn is the worst in areas that received the most exposure to the sun, and only light or incidental in areas that were shaded or protected.” There weren’t many of those. Crawly was a very thorough basker.

“Wait, really?” He started to twist around to look at Aziraphale, then cringed and looked forward again. “You think human skin can be burned just from being out in the heat?”

“Perhaps. I’m still gathering evidence.”

“Well, the humans aren’t getting burned!”

Aziraphale bit back another remark about Crawly’s Fallen nature. That wouldn’t be helpful here. “I’m not quite sure why that is,” he admitted. “But my own burns are very minor, perhaps theirs are the same. Certainly, they keep to the shade as much as possible, particularly in the hottest part of the day. Meanwhile, you are the first one to spend half the day lying naked in direct sunlight.”

“Not half the day.” Crawly whimpered a little as Aziraphale pressed his shoulders down one more time. “Seems a major design flaw, you ask me,” he grumbled.

“Hush, now.” Aziraphale lifted his hands and rubbed them together, summoning just a thin line of celestial power. “This may sting a little.”

“What? What are you doing now? Everything stings!” Another squirm as Crawly tried to pull free, but there was very little chance of that.

“I’m going to heal you, if you can hold still, you ridiculous thing.”

“Heal me?” Crawly went still and stiff. “Why?”

“Why? Because you’re in pain. What other reason do I need?” He reached a finger towards the worst burn, then hesitated. Could he dilute his power even further? “What did you think I was doing back here?”

“Dunno. Thought you were just…curious. Or wanted to learn for the humans.”

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale traced his finger across Crawly’s shoulders. It left behind a trail of bright white, which rippled out several finger-widths in every direction, a wave of healing that left behind unburnt skin. He sighed in relief. “Well…there was that, too, but I thought I’d made it clear by now, I have no interest in seeing you come to harm. Even if it is harm by your own doing,” he added, so that Crawly could be sure he wasn’t entirely off the hook for his choices.

“So…you’ll…heal all of it? Entirely? No…leaving scars so I learn my lesson?”

“Crawly! How could you even think such a thing?” He pushed his fingers to the healed skin. It was a bit darker, browner than before, with a smattering of darker spots. “Does this hurt? Or here?”

“No…it’s…it’s good.” He lay his head on the ground, seeming subdued.

“Wonderful. This shouldn’t take too long.”

Down by the river’s edge, the humans finished picking up their woven mats and bundles of food. “They’re getting away,” Crawly muttered as they wandered down the river.

“We’ll catch up,” Aziraphale assured him, carefully applying just a touch of healing along his spine.

“You’re not worried? Thought it was your job.”

He glanced up, taking another look at the Woman, her blossoming belly, the Man helping her step over a patch of rough earth. He did feel an emptiness, a need to follow them, but it felt less important, less urgent, than the task in front of him. He smoothed away a particularly horrid patch of burn, and Crawly murmured with relief, a relief Aziraphale felt in his own chest.

What was this? The human need for proximity, an instinct he still couldn’t control? His own Guardian nature, perhaps, leading him to want to protect the being nearest to him?

Both of these, yes. And something more. Something that made him wish to see Crawly running across the riverbank, carefree and smiling again.

“Why did you disappear so suddenly anyway?” Aziraphale asked, carefully working on Crawly’s arm.

“Nrrrg. Just…wanted to be alone. Don’t you want to be alone sometimes?”

“Well…yes, but…” But I’d thought we were having a good time.

“Aaaaah, s’not fair!”

Aziraphale moved to kneel beside the demon, and Crawly rolled over, sitting up so he could watch Aziraphale heal his legs. “I used to handle actual stars, you know. In my bare hands! Now look, I can’t even stand in the light of one without…this.” He gestured to his still-burned front.

“You were fine for many days, Crawly. You just have to be careful.” The bottoms of his feet were fine, at least. Perhaps the thicker skin had helped protect them. “And, I think, keep your robes on. They seem to block the burning aspect of sunlight.”

“But I don’t want to be careful.” Aziraphale released his foot and Crawly crossed his legs tightly so the angel could start on his chest. “I want to explore. Experience things, everything, now while I can.”

“What do you mean, while you can? The world is going to be here for a good long while, regardless of what happens to the humans.”

“Mmmmph.” His shoulders hunched forward from something unrelated to the pain, and Crawly looked away. “Not supposed to tell you.”

“Ah.” His thumb ran across Crawly’s throat. “Then don’t.”

“I’m not…actually supposed to do anything when the child is born. Just, watch the humans, learn what I can, and then back to Hell until they decide what to do with me.” He shrugged, still not looking at the angel.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s fingers moved slowly across Crawly’s chest.

“Guess I surprised them all, with everything in the Garden. Don’t know what to do now, right? Your side has a Plan. My side needs information, to figure out what to do. So they gave me until the humans have their child, then I go back, tell them everything. Maybe...maybe they’ll send me back to Earth. Maybe they’ll send someone else. Maybe it’ll all get locked up in bureaucracy and they won’t make a decision until everything comes burning down.”

“I see.” Somehow, Aziraphale had assumed they had the same orders.

While the humans were banished from Eden, no Word had come down whether they were to be considered entirely lost. The Archangels had determined that, regardless of the status of the Man and the Woman, it was possible their child had not been completely corrupted. So Aziraphale was to assist in raising the young human, and any others that came along, asserting as much Heavenly influence as possible.

He’d thought Hell would want the same, that he and Crawly would be working…not together, but in parallel. A Guardian and a Troublemaker, guiding the little souls.

“Is that why...you’re always running around...investigating everything? Gathering information for your side?” He kept his fingers as steady as possible, tracing across Crawly’s stomach.

“Nah. Hell barely cares about the humans, you think they want to know about...flowers, and rocks, and little ducks? The way ants follow each other in lines that go on forever? No one gives a shit. I just - I want to see it all. So...I have something to remember when I’m down there again.”

“I see.” Aziraphale wished he had something more to say.

“Except I can’t do everything! Stupid…things…getting in the way. Stopping me from…what I want to do.”

“Well, your time is limited, it’s true.” Careful strokes under the eyes, sending a ripple of healing across his cheeks. That long nose was absolutely covered in tiny darker dots. “But…I don’t think this should stop you from experiencing everything you can.”

“Everything?”

Aziraphale ran his thumb across Crawly’s chin. It wasn’t necessary – all the burns were gone – but he found he couldn’t stop himself. Each touch made him feel…jittery. Electrified.

It was like the human bodies were made for contact, fingertips picking up invisible details, the bristle of little hairs, the flex of muscles at the edge of the mouth. Look, how perfectly his hand slotted on the side of Crawly’s face, cupping his jaw and cheek, thumb moving across the sharp cheekbone.

“Hnnnnngh.” Crawly shoved him back – not hard, but enough to give the demon room to scramble to his feet. “I’ll catch up.”

And once again, he vanished.

Sighing, Aziraphale called in the general direction he’d run off to, “Just make sure you don’t lie about in the sun again, I can’t be doing this every day.”

--

Seasons changed – hotter, cooler, wetter, drier. Aziraphale hadn’t yet learned how to mark the passage of time, but Crawly explained it had been almost half a year, then explained what a year was, then tried to explain how he could tell from the stars, then gave up.

The demon’s newly-browned skin seemed more resistant to the sun, but he still sometimes burned himself if he wasn’t careful. He took to wearing his robes again, but with sleeves pushed up past his elbows. Every few days he slunk back to Aziraphale for a fresh round of healing, staring determinedly at the ground between them while the angel cradled his hands and gently rubbed the burn off his forearms, the back of his neck, his cheeks. Afterwards, he usually scurried off to sit against a nearby tree.

The humans moved more slowly now, not just because the Woman’s child was nearly ready to arrive. Sometimes they would stay in one place for days at a time, experimenting with creating shelters for themselves out of leaves or reeds or branches. When they did move, it was only over short distances, trying a little closer to the trees, then a little farther from the river’s edge.

Aziraphale found he had a great deal more time now, and not much of an idea what to do with it.

He tried keeping closer to Crawly. To keep an eye on the demon, yes, but also because…it felt right. It made the hollowness he felt vanish for a little while, particularly whenever he saw that look in his golden eyes, the burning passion that was woven into every disrespectful question, every ill-advised endeavor. It was unlike anything Aziraphale had ever seen before. More and more, he found he could hardly look away.

He felt he needed to do more. When Aziraphale found a new and interesting type of berry, he wanted to share with Crawly, find out what he thought. When he greeted the demon on returning to their resting spot, he wanted to straighten his robes, his hair, rub a bit of dirt off his cheek. When they sat, he wanted to move closer, until their fingers brushed, until the warmth of another body tickled down his side.

And yet, any time he indulged one of these whims, the need for more only grew stronger.

Disgraceful, really. Maddening. If this was some sort of human instinct, perhaps he should return to Heaven and have the body adjusted. He could ignore the body’s need for sleep, for food, for almost anything else - there was no reason this one instinct should be so much more powerful than the rest, unless something was wrong.

Besides, his actions tended to send Crawly scampering off again, vanishing for most of the day.

It was very hard not to follow.

--

After the half-moon set, Aziraphale had very little to do apart from watching the banked fire in the distance and waiting for the sun to rise. Crawly wasn’t talking, for once, lying on his back nearby, either studying the stars or drifting off to sleep.

Aziraphale thought he saw some movement in the human camp, shadows at the edge of their shelter. They sometimes woke before dawn, but rarely did much apart from hold each other and talk in soft voices. Seeing it always made Aziraphale’s arms itch in a strange way. But there seemed to be too much movement this time.

“Crawly. Crawly!”

“Whaaaaa?” He shifted in his awkward, ungraceful sprawl but didn’t turn his eyes away from the stars.

“Can you see anything?”

“Mmmmh?”

“The humans!” It was Aziraphale’s angelic instincts this time, his Guardian mind telling him something was wrong, that he was needed. “Something is going on over there, but I can’t quite make it out.”

Slowly, too slowly, Crawly rolled onto his side and glanced at the shadowy figures. “S’fine. Just moving those reed mats around.” He slumped back, wriggling around again. “You think those things are comfortable?”

“They’ve been using them every night, so I imagine they are.” Aziraphale kept his eyes on the distant figures, even though Crawly seemed to have lost interest already.

“Cuz this ground. S’really starting to make my back hurt.” He arched his spine, stretching. “Another design flaw, you ask me. S’like this body isn’t even made to be bipedal. Hurts if you walk too much, hurts to sit, hurts to lay on the ground.”

“My back doesn’t hurt,” Aziraphale lied piously. “Perhaps you’re just using it wrong. I’m fairly certain you’re not supposed to just…fling your limbs all over like that. Not to mention the way you walk.”

“What’s wrong with the way I walk?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said, a little too quickly, pressing his lips together. Lately, Crawly had been trying to swagger, but he hadn’t quite gotten it down yet. It was more a meandering progression of flailing limbs, an embarrassment to watch, and Aziraphale always had an almost overwhelming urge to pull Crawly against him and tell him to stand still.

“S’right. Nothing wrong with that.” Crawly turned back to the stars again, deep in thought.

A flare of light drew Aziraphale’s attention, but it was just the Man building up the fire a bit, crouching outside the shelter. Unusual, he supposed, but everyone got restless sometimes. Seeing the flames reflected off the Man’s dark skin, Aziraphale felt himself relax. He wasn’t needed here, a thought that was both soothing and slightly disappointing.

A few more pokes at the fire, and the Man picked up another woven mat and carried it back inside.

Aziraphale could just make out the shadowy shape of the Man offering the mat to the Woman, shifting her onto it to lay more comfortably. Once again, Aziraphale felt that itch in his arms, that ache in his chest for a warmth that had nothing to do with fire. He was often alone, in the Garden, in Heaven – but only now, wandering the world, did it have a physical effect on him. Aziraphale wondered how much longer he could bear it.

He glanced over at Crawly, and for some reason remembered a pear offered on a hot day. It wasn’t wrong to give his body the refreshment it needed. Even if the offer was made by a demon. Surely, surely if his body had a comparable need for contact, there was no harm…

Aziraphale made a decision and rose to his feet.

“Here, this should make you more comfortable.” Crawly twisted around, and Aziraphale smiled a little at the shocked expression that crossed his face. The angel shook out the mat he’d miracled up, making it snap in the wind. It was modeled after the ones the humans used, but better; Aziraphale had a little insight into materials they hadn’t yet found in the world, ones that would be a bit softer, provide a little more support.

“Angel, what are you—?”

“You’ve complained enough for one night, haven’t you? I know how to take a hint.” One more shake and the mat stretched across the ground. “Go on. See if this makes your back feel any better.” He crouched on the ground beside it and smiled encouragingly.

“Look…s’not that bad. I was just. Making conversation.” Crawly rolled onto his side, but still eyed the mat as if it might turn into a crocodile.

“Fine. Let’s make conversation. I’ve designed a new sleeping mat and would like your opinion.” He pressed his hand against it, showing how the mat compressed slightly. “Do you think the one is enough? Sometimes the humans pile a few together, but that might not provide much advantage. Come, now, I want to know your thoughts.”

Crawly’s eyes finally flicked up to look into Aziraphale’s face, then shot back down to stare at the mat again. “It’s, ah…” Crawly ran one finger along the soft surface. “It’s big enough for two.”

“Is it?”

Aziraphale doubted his tone sounded as casual as he meant it. Already the heat was rising in his face. It was, of course, a foolish idea. And painfully obvious. But these human bodies were not designed to go for half a year with only minimal physical contact. He craved it, like he craved food, rest, a comfortable seat, and he just…very much needed to feel…closeness.

He’d thought he could resist it. He was supposed to be stronger than this.

“You don’t sleep.”

“You do.” He’d seen how the humans slept, the Man pressed against the Woman’s back, arm across her protectively. He thought about it at night, and sometimes during the day. There was no reason Aziraphale should want that, no reason he should have any desire to protect a demon, and yet…he did.

“I nap. During the day. When it’s hot.”

“There must be a reason they sleep at night.” Aziraphale leaned forward, pressing his hands on the mat. It was more than just a physical need. He wanted to see Crawly smile. Wanted to feel him slowly relax inside the circle of his arms, trusting and content. He wanted to whisper secrets in the darkness, like the humans did. They had no need to whisper, there was no one to overhear, and yet they did, and Aziraphale wanted to know why. “Let’s find out. You’re the curious one.” Hands a little closer, until they almost touched Crawly’s. “You told me you want to experience everything.”

“Tempting me?” Crawly didn’t smile. He looked tense, almost panicked. Aziraphale lifted a hand to reach towards him, and the demon flinched. “I…I can’t.”

Aziraphale’s stomach plummeted, a wave of shock, of disappointment, of shame. “Crawly…”

No. He wouldn’t argue. What more was there to say? This was his foolishness, Crawly had rejected it. There was no need to drag things out. “Of course.” A wave of his fingers, and the offending mat was gone. “Don’t know what I was thinking.”

Crawly still looked away, past the human encampment, away across the endless expanses of desert.

“I…didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” Aziraphale said. No wonder Crawly always fled from him. He needed to learn…boundaries. Needed to learn control. His fingers had already reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind Crawly’s ear, but Aziraphale forced them to stop, hovering in the empty night. “It was never my intention to—”

Crawly grabbed his hand and, fast as anything, pressed his lips to the knuckles. Then, just as suddenly, he surged to his feet and started walking away.

“Wait!” He hadn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand, and the angel pulled him back, so sharply Crawly nearly fell. “Don’t just – we need to talk about this, Crawly! What I’m feeling – I don’t understand it, but – if you feel it too—”

“I don’t, I don’t know what you’re…let me go!”

“Crawly, please!” Aziraphale still knelt in the dirt, clinging to the demon’s hand in confused desperation. “Yes, these – these human emotions are confusing and intense, but we can’t just ignore them. It was foolish of me to try and act on them, but—”

“Don’t talk to me about human emotions, Angel, you have no idea—”

“Then tell me!” Aziraphale squeezed his hand, wishing Crawly would look at him. “Regardless of – of everything else, Crawly, I want to help. I care about you!”

The words seemed to echo through the empty plain, across the river, up to the stars above.

It really was that simple wasn’t it? Human emotions and Guardian instincts and everything else aside, Aziraphale had simply come to…care about his enemy.

“You—!” Golden eyes turned back, wide with shock. “You said – But I’m—”

Crawly jerked his hand free, stumbled back two steps, and fell.

Except that what landed on the ground was not a red-haired, pale-skinned demon, but an enormous black serpent with a red belly.

“…Crawly?”

The serpent stared at him a moment, then shot out across the desert.

“No, get back here!” Aziraphale ran after him, fast as he could go, but the black shadow moved too quickly. “Crawly, wait!” Already he was vanishing into the night. “Crawly, please! Let me help you!”

But the serpent had vanished, as Crawly always did.

Aziraphale found his legs were shaking, trembling, until he could hardly stand. Even tugging his sleeves and smoothing his robes was not enough to set things right. He stumbled across the brown sand to sit on a rock, trying to make sense of it all.

Two puzzles presented themselves: What had he just seen? And what had he just said?

I care about you. And not in a…Guardian Angel way, aloofly wishing to ensure his charge’s safety. This was something different, something not at all of Heaven. He thought of the way the humans took care of each other, as equals. Not just providing safety, but happiness, and taking it from the other in turn. There was a gentleness in their actions, hiding a deep burning passion that would quite possibly consume an angel. He certainly didn’t feel that for Crawly, but…could he? Was this how it started?

What he felt just now was worry. He knew Crawly had come to Earth as a serpent, of course, had seen that with his own eyes. He didn’t think the transformation had harmed Crawly, but…it wasn’t supposed to happen. His shift to a human form was supposed to be permanent.

And the way Crawly had transformed…the suddenness…his distress beforehand…it hadn’t seemed entirely voluntary.

As he sat there thinking, one long streamer of shadow detached itself from the night and slid closer, coiling itself by his feet.

“Crawly?” Familiar golden eyes reflected the light of the stars as the serpent’s head rose. “Can you still understand me?”

Slowly, the serpent – Crawly – nodded, then tilted his head to the side. Yes, but not well, Aziraphale guessed. That made sense; this form didn’t have ears, and demonic senses could overcome only so much.

“Are you hurt?” Crawly shook his head. “Can you…change back?” Another shake, and he looked up at the stars, slowly progressing across the sky. Not yet.

“Why…” Too many questions, buzzing around Aziraphale’s mind. Crawly was the one who knew how to handle questions. Where to even begin? “Why did you run away?”

“Sssssshame.” It was hard to make out the word in the hiss.

“Shame? But why would you feel…” Aziraphale slid off his rock, kneeling next to Crawly. “There’s…you don’t have to be ashamed.” The serpent pulled back, coiling into himself, tucking his head somewhere along his body until everything appeared to be a black knot of night.

“No, listen. I’m the one who should be ashamed.” Aziraphale reached a hand towards the cool black scales, but stopped just shy of them. “I…I have behaved reprehensibly. Saying…all manner of things. Touching you when you didn’t want to be touched. And my actions tonight…no. It was my choice to – to indulge, to explore these new emotions, but I never should have attempted anything without seeing if you felt the same. Crawly, I never wanted to upset you…”

As he spoke, the narrow head emerged from the coils and shook, indicating a negative.

“No? Am I…wrong about something?”

A nod, but Crawly wouldn’t meet his eyes.  Something worse, perhaps? “Can you…tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Ssssss.” This time he could decipher nothing.

“That…let’s try another way.” Once again, Aziraphale stretched out a hand. Crawly pulled back his head, looking at it uncertainly until Aziraphale lowered it back to the ground. “Sorry. You don’t want to be touched, do you?”

A nod, followed by a complicated ripple down fifteen feet of serpent that might have been a shrug.

“Alright. Let’s see…did this happen all those times you ran off?” A nod. “And…do you have any control over it? Changing to this form, I mean.” A shake. “What about changing back?” A head tilt and another rippling shrug. What did that mean? Some control? He wasn’t certain if he had control?

Well, that wasn’t important right now.

“Do you know what…causes this?” Nod, again not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “Can you tell me?”

“Sssssssss.” A defeated head shake.

“Well…I know it was usually when we were talking, or when I…reached out or…” He swallowed. “It’s my fault?” Of course it was. It was so blindingly obvious. Foolish Principality, invading Crawly’s space again and again, driving him away, forcing him to change form.

But Crawly shook his head frantically. “Sssssss.” This one sounded frustrated. “Ffffffff. Fffffeeeel.”

“Feel?”

“Ffffeeeel. Hhhhhhaby.”

“Feel happy? Feel…Crawly, are you telling me you – you change into this form every time you feel happy?” A nod, this one eager. “But you’re always happy! Or most of the time. Not tonight, though, you were very sullen and…”

But Crawly shook his head again. “Hhhhhhhaby.”

“You were happy?” Nod. “That…I came over with that mat and…?” Nod. “And that I said I…care about you?” Nod, and his snout moved a little closer to Aziraphale’s face.

“So, you change when you’re happy. Very happy, I assume.” Nod. “And…I’m the one who…?” Another nod, this one looking more embarrassed.

Aziraphale lowered his gaze, feeling strangely pleased that he could have this…incomprehensible effect on another being. Oh, it wasn’t something to be proud of, but it made that warmth surge inside, to think that of all the things that made Crawly happy...

“Ah. But. Um. Why change? You said it wasn’t because you wanted to.” Head shake. “Then why?”

“Sssssss.” Crawly drooped. Whatever it was, he couldn’t explain it in this form.

“Never mind then.” Aziraphale stood up again, dusting off his robes. “Ah. How long to change back? You’re usually gone for hours.” A nod. “Oh.” Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder, back towards the human encampment. Surely…they would be fine on their own…for one night. “Should I stay with you?”

“Ssssssssssss.” The serpent pulled back into his coils again, but, after a long pause, emerged to nod slightly.

Aziraphale smiled, settling back onto the rock. “It’s my pleasure, dear fellow. What can I do to make you more comfortable?”

“Ssssss.” Crawly reached forward and rested his head on Aziraphale’s knee. “Ssssss?”

“Oh.” Serpents were, after all, much simpler creatures than humans. A human body needed many things to be happy, physically, mentally, and emotionally, as Aziraphale was rapidly learning. But a snake only desired heat. “Yes. Of course.”

Crawly darted forward, twisting himself up Aziraphale, wrapping around his stomach, his chest, his shoulders, tail twisting down around one leg, head coming to rest by his cheek. Aziraphale managed to get one arm free, the other pinned against his ribs. A squeeze went through Crawly’s body, gentle and brief, as he settled into place. “Ffffffffffine?”

“Yes, this…this is perfectly fine.” He scratched one finger carefully on the back of Crawly’s head. The serpent leaned into it, then shook free to tuck his head under Aziraphale’s chin. Another brief ripple of a squeeze, before bit by bit Crawly drifted off to sleep.

“Have pleasant dreams,” Aziraphale said, fingers stroking the black scales wrapped around his belly.

It wasn’t what he’d imagined. And yet, Aziraphale did spend the night with Crawly pressed tightly against him. He did provide his companion with comfort and safety.

Not at all how he’d thought it would happen, but Aziraphale was still radiantly happy.

--

“Itsssssstupid,” Crawly muttered, still lisping a little after his change back.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Just tell me.”

Crawly had awoken just as the stars had begun to fade, quickly twisting free of Aziraphale to transform back into his usual shape. He’d explained, somewhat embarrassed, that sleeping usually helped him change back quicker, and that sometimes he even woke up back in his humanoid form. This had presented Azirapahle with a very interesting mental image that he didn’t have time to indulge just now.

Crawly walked beside him, golden eyes darting in the pre-dawn light, reading Aziraphale in an instant before turning to stare at the ground again. “It isssss.” Crawly clenched his jaw and continued more carefully. “Sspent too long in the sserpent body. All that time in Hell. But. Ssnakes don’t…have emotions. Not like human bodies. Sso…I get…overwhelmed. And I can’t hold my shhhape anymore.”

“I see.” Aziraphale carefully studied Crawly out of the corner of his eye, almost afraid to look at him straight on. “And all those times you ran away?”

“I can ssort of…feel it coming. I have a little time to get away, but there’ss nothing I can do to sstop it.” He swallowed, seeming angry with his own mouth. “Stop it.”

“But why would you need to get away?”

“Ngh. I mean. You’re the enemy, I’m not supposed to…” Aziraphale couldn’t hide his pained expression fast enough, as Crawly’s eyes flicked over again. “And…it’s embarrassing. Don’t want to be that snake anymore. This is me now. This body.” He took a breath. “I…didn’t want you to think less of me. Because I can’t control myself.”

“I would never!” Aziraphale stopped walking entirely, but managed to fight down the urge to grab Crawly’s shoulders. “My dear fellow, we’re both learning to control ourselves here. You might be struggling with it physically, but I assure you…” He thought back over the choices he’d made since leaving the Wall. Things he’d said, ways he’d reached out and pulled back with almost no warning. Blaming it on urges and instincts, but he could have resisted if he’d wanted to, could have spoken about his feelings, could have done many things that were better, wiser, kinder. “I thought there was…something between us. Some understanding. But I was completely unaware of your struggles the whole time. I have been abominably selfish.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” Crawly watched his toe trace lines in the dirt. “I think this…whatever it is, that makes you act the way you do and makes me so…mind-numbingly giddy I can’t keep my shape…I mean. It’s meant for the humans. We’re the first angel and demon to feel it. Of course it isn’t easy.”

“But…you do feel it, too?”

“Think so, yeah.”

Aziraphale tried to fight back the smile, but there was no stopping it. He turned away, preserving at least a little dignity. “So…what do we do about it?”

“Dunno.” Then, softer, “I want to touch you. Your hands, your face. I’d only...you know…but I want to.”

“I as well. It’s…I’m resisting but…it seems to grow harder every day.” He smoothed his hands down his robe. “Do you suppose it will always be this way? Between us? With every being we spend enough time around?”

“I hope not. It wouldn’t feel as…important if it were common. And it’s…distracting. I miss just talking.”

“As do I.” Aziraphale turned back in time to see Crawly’s smile. “I suppose…if it’s a question of the human-shaped corporation, you could always have it adjusted. Remove the troublesome emotions.”

“No!” The vehemence of Crawly’s voice startled him. “Aziraphale, that’s the last thing I want. I told you before, I want to – to experience everything this world has, including stupid human emotions. I don’t need them taken away I need…I need to build up a tolerance.” He nodded, staring ahead. “That’s it. A little at a time until…until…”

“Until you can feel whatever you want. Without…repercussions.”

“Nh. Don’t know how I’ll pull it off but..yeah. It, ah…” Another quick glance. “What about you? Probably help with your angelic duties if you didn’t have to worry about…all this.”

“It probably would.” They started walking again, slowly, side by side. “But I think…I think I would also like to experience all this world has to offer. And I can learn to control myself.”

They continued in silence for a little while, each lost in his thoughts.

“Do you think it will take much longer?” Aziraphale asked, twisting his fingers.

“You definitely need to learn patience, Angel.” Crawly grinned. “Yeah. Um. Remember when I tried to explain what a year was? Probably lots of those.”

“Ah. Is there…anything I can do to help?”

“Ngk. Well. You—”

A high-pitched scream echoed from the camp ahead, long and drawn out.

“The humans!”

They both took off at a run.

--

In the end, despite half a year of careful observation, Aziraphale and Crawly did very little. By the time they arrived it was nearly over; by the time they’d finished awkwardly re-introducing themselves – and convincing the Man not to skewer them on a flaming sword in a blind panic – there wasn’t much to be done except provide encouragement.

The Child was born, a healthy young boy who shouted quite indignantly at the inconvenience of it all.

The human race had truly begun.

Much later, as the Man and Woman rested, Aziraphale held the tiny baby in his arms. The boy had settled down somewhat, now that he was wrapped tightly and warm, and looked in danger of falling asleep in the angel’s arms.

“How does it feel?” Crawly asked, sitting at the edge of the camp.

“Oh, I can’t – it’s incredible, Crawly. I know he’s just a little thing but – I can feel it, his presence, his potential. Everything he can be, good and bad, and it’s just—” The baby opened his mouth in a wide yawn. “…It’s adorable.”

“You’re pathetic,” Crawly said, but with a smile, rising to stand closer, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder at the Child. “So? Everything there? I know you spent about an eternity counting fingers and toes. Didn’t think it took that long to get to twenty.”

“They’re just the most precious little things! Look – look at his ears.”

“I’m looking.” One hand stretched out uncertainly, tracing along the Child’s cheek. The baby turned his head immediately, searching, sucking on the fingers he found. “Look at that. Not even a day old, searching for food, trying to survive. They just…they just keep going, huh?”

“I suppose so.” Holding the Child filled an emptiness in Aziraphale he hadn’t known was there, not the strange magnetism that drew him to Crawly, but that deep desire for connection, the need to walk with the humans, to be known. Accepted. Though it wasn’t all that different, he reflected. Two sides of the same…two-sided object. A need to not be alone. “Do you want to hold him?”

“Angel…” Crawly’s hand drifted back to the Child’s head, resting on the nest of dark downy curls. “Aziraphale. I really don’t think I can.”

He turned around, and was surprised to see tears in Crawly’s eyes.

“Sssstupid, huh? Child’s got nothing to do with me. But…” He turned abruptly and walked away from the camp.

“Crawly, wait!”

“Nope. This was it, Angel. Just on Earth until the kid was born.” He turned back and shrugged, arms spread wide.

“That doesn’t mean you have to go now.”

“I can feel them calling already. In here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Longer I wait, more likely they’ll send someone to get me, and that’ll just be...messy. And what am I supposed to do now, anyway? Sit here and watch you...carry him around...wishing I could...” He bit his lip. “What would be the point?”

“But…but I thought…”

“Yeah, I thought, too. But what can we do?” Crawly looked down at the ground, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “Look. Take care of them, alright? They don’t need your help. They’re smart. But…be kind. S’what you’re best at.”

“But…” Aziraphale looked down at the future of humanity in his arms. “Is that enough?”

“It’s everything.” Crawly stiffened, clenched his fists. “Shit.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Aziraphale took a step forward, and immediately the Child started fussing, sensing his anxiety.

“Well. Guess it’s not just happinessssss.” He swallowed hard, clearly fighting something. “Look. Angel.” Crawly walked back to hover beside Aziraphale again. “I – I really liked working with you. I hope…If I get another chanccccce…” He shook his head, then leaned in and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s cheek.

It spread across his face, a warmth, a blush, a smile, blooming like a flower.

Aziraphale turned his head, catching Crawly’s lips with his own. He’d seen the humans do this from afar, and he’d wondered why, but now…

Now he knew.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Crawly was gone, and a large black snake slithered away, fast as a shadow.

The Child started to cry. Aziraphale rocked him, bounced him a little. “No, dear, don’t worry. We’ll see him again.” The taste of Crawly was still on his lips, new and intriguing. “Nothing ends today. This is the beginning of our story.”

--

Thank you for reading! If that ending wasn’t satisfying enough, I recommend the fic Snuddles (Snake Cuddles) as a very distant epilogue.

[ravens-rambling]

`Loveless and Heartless’

A/N: aannddd another one

Soulmate September! by @tsshipmonth2020

100 (G/T) prompts!!!

summary: Logan is fine with not having a soulmate, hes fine being alone. That was until one day when an alien crash landed on earth right before him, and a trail of green is leading him to said unconscious alien. What does he do now?! 

WC: 1, 617

ships: Romantic intrulogical

warnings: self-doubt, mention of bullying, ???

Tag List: @punsterterry @stormcrawler75 @frostedlover @mycatshuman @mutechild @panicattheeverywhere15 @overlord-winter @analogical-mess @saddestlittlebabe

~

Logan never believed in soulmates. Quite honestly, he thought it was a stupid concept. After all, having a person that is destined to be with you from the moment you were born and you are fated to be with that person no matter what? Yeah, it sounds stupid to him. He likes to have his own options in his life, he likes to be control of himself and his life. Not have some God or whatever sorted this stupid tradition all out to be the dictator of his life. And to think people would just let this all happen is...even more stupid, quite frankly. He feels like he's the only sane one in this entire world for not believing in soulmates and that one streak of color that's supposed to show up and lead him to his soulmate. Lead him to his 'forever person'...

And it's not just cause he doesn't have that one streak of color. That's right… Logan Berry who moved to the outskirts of Florida to get away from everything a few years ago and currently lives in his car, doesn't have a soulmate.

He remembers when he was younger and hearing his classmates talk about soulmates and being able to see a color or colors on the ground and it's supposed to lead to where your soulmate just was...he thought it was a trick. A fluke. He thought it was yet another stupid gag that his classmates try to pull on him. Well, it won't work this time.

Except when he said that he remembers all eyes turned on him and he got weird looks. People started laughing and calling him loveless, that he's so cold-hearted that he isn't even destined to be with someone. That his soul is dead from the inside and this is only proof of it.

Needless to say that he ran home crying to his mother, and his mother explained that what they were saying...was indeed true. And that it's okay to not have a soulmate.

He knew she was lying.

He's a freak, an anomaly. A person that shouldn't be alive but yet is… A person that has been alone and will die alone… without ever feeling loved romantically with anyone… In a way, he didn't mind that part, honestly. He was okay without the whole feeling part of this ordeal. He doesn't mind being alone and not having to deal with romance in his life.

It's just...all the rumors that have spread cause of it. He had told one of his 'friends' about it years later and it spread like wildfire around his university like that. And since then it's spread around his small town. He knew he had to get out of there or he won't ever get away from the term 'loveless'.

So, that's when he packed his bags into his car and simply drove away one night. He's been living in his car for around...two years now. And honestly, he won't give it up for the world. He actually really liked being alone, he liked setting up his own schedule. His own routine. He liked only thinking and taking care of himself. Plus, he also gets to do his studies while driving around and it really wasn't that bad at all. Which drives home the point he was making, soulmates are all this fruitless endeavor. But no, no one would listen to him. Of course not…

There's another thing that he doesn't believe in as he is studying the stars currently. That thing is extraterrestrial lifeforms. Does he believe there could be alien life out there? Possibly. Does he believe that these alien lives could be smart enough to build a spaceship that could travel light-years in the span of a few seconds? No.

But, that's not important right now. He has matters to attend to. And that's to set up his telescope in the middle of this cornfield so he could get a good shot of venus tonight. So, what if he could get in trouble for this. He didn't exactly ask permission and he thinks this piece of land is owned by someone. But not like he cares, he just needs to write down some notes then he'll be on his way. Simple as that.

Things can never be that simple, can it?

Logan did set up his equipment like normal and he was busy minding his business and writing down notes when he saw a strange-looking...green dot in the sky. That's no star? He turned his telescope towards the green dot and he couldn't...make out what it was. It's something large… it's an object, that's for sure. And for some reason, it looks like it's heading this way! It's an asteroid! Or a satellite maybe? But it won't have that weird spherical shape, that he knows! So what it is?

Crash!

Huh, guess it was heading for land, it seemed like the span of seconds had happened between this thing being high up onto the sky, before crashing here.

Luckily he managed to get out of its way just in time, but even so the loud impact it made in the cornfield nearly made his eardrums burst.

Once the loud noises finally stopped he grabbed for a flashlight and pointed it towards this weird sphere-like object. It was dark, almost a black color. But yet it had bright red lights going through it. And it reminded him of veins almost. It was...intriguing. And he wanted to study it. It could still be a satellite though so maybe he shouldn't do that. He doesn't know any satellites that look like this but who knows what big corporations build nowadays…

He was about to just take a piece of the debris and get into his car to hop away when something told him to look down. And when his dark blue gaze looked down to the ground he gasped loudly. A dark...green color was leading him straight to the front of this weird...thing before him. Was this...what people were always saying about soulmate streams of color? It was...dazzling… gorgeous…

Okay, now he is hallucinating, he probably got hit by a rock when this thing fell and was knocked unconscious… That has to be it. But even if that's the case he still has to see what it is...right? So he swallows and slowly approaches the strange thing with his flashlight pointed right at the front. Shakily he makes his way forward with sucked in a breath. He finds that the red veins make an outline around what looked like a door. And there is a handle… Slowly he reaches out for the handle and opens the door. Then he peeked inside. What he saw inside made his heart stop beating for a millisecond.

This...creature must've stood nine to ten feet tall when it's standing up. Its knees were bent backward and instead of feet or toes, there were hooves like deer. All of its skin was this dark green scaly color except for his many arms and hooves that was a black gradient color. It had a long slimy tail that reminded him of a squid tentacle or maybe an octopus. His dark green skin looked rough, not soft, and delicate like human skin is. It almost looks like his skin was made out of rocks itself… if that's even possible…? And there was a dark pulsing green light streaming from down to his hooves all the way up to his cheeks, and it reminded Logan of veins under a human's skin and it was glowing. There were two massive sets of horns, one set coming from its forehead and going upwards. The other would be where humans' ears would go and folded downwards. It even had two antennas coming from its neck and going down to its chest. And he didn't have a single trace of hair anywhere on its body. It wore an elaborate outfit with something fluffy on one shoulder and a long dark green sash across his chest. It held the sense of royality like Logan was in the presence of royalty here…

There was also this blue liquid everywhere that almost looked like...blood?

The creature was breathing… and groaning faintly… it must have passed out in the collision. And Logan didn't know what to do. He looked back down to the ground and yep, that trail of dark green ended right at this strange pod. This strange alien creature.

His brain won't work, his body won't move. What...is he supposes to do about this?!

He found his body slowly moving forward to touch the creature's skin, and yep… that's real all right, it isn't just some costume. It feels like...rocks too? Like he's touching some slimy rocks that are deep in a cave near a waterfall. What is going on?!

He finds himself finally taking a deep breath and slowly coming forward. He starts to pick up this creature and drag him over to his car. He has this sense that this creature is his soulmate. And if that's true then...he can't let it be captured and experimented on. No fucking way is he letting that happen. No way is he letting his soulmate slip away after all these years. He opens the car and heaves the massive creature into his back seats after setting down all his files and paperwork to the floor. It's a good thing he exercises every day...Once the creature was placed down he crawled forward to the front seat and turned on the car.

He doesn't know where to go. But he started the car and simply drove away from the crash site.

Looks like he might have a soulmate after all...

[thetirashan]

Soup of the Day

Written for 2021 Vyn Spring Event.

Two guys sit in a bar and bitch about how Narathzul can't govern a city worth a damn. One is a future Shadow God and the other has seen some shit in his lifetime. Huberto just keeps stirring his soup in the meantime.

Set between Barateon's death and the Shadow God's arrival in Ostian.

Vendil had a love-hate relationship with transitional periods. They were always full of uncertainty, chaos, and destruction. Sure, he ushered in his own transfer of power from one egomaniac to another but that didn’t mean he liked it. Order and structure were his bread and butter.

Yet on the other hand, three o’clock was always the best time to visit the tavern. It wasn’t the most inviting scene to walk into it but there was something to be said about the cool crisp privacy of a near empty bar. There was just him, a few washed out old men, and Huberto. The latter knew that he was the one to help overthrow Barateon, Vendil could see it in his eyes, but the man stuck to his routine. Vendil ordered a glass of beer and a bowl of unsalted peanuts, Huberto nodded before delivering the order, and Vendil paid upfront. Neither one gossiped about the other. It was balanced and even-handed -- an exchange at its simplest.

The sound of boots shouldn’t have broken him out of his stupor. Occasionally travellers would wander in to scarf a hot meal before passing out in a room after all. They barely paid attention to the innkeeper much less him. With that said, his head still snapped up at the jingling.

It was a steady lulling noise. A single heavy boot step then that faint jingle. Almost comforting in a way as he blinked at the figure strolling through the door. The darkness by the threshold gave him the visage of a spectre but the candlelight revealed a man cloaked in soft browns and greens with a wide brimmed hat crowning his mop of red curls.

Huberto glanced up from handing a customer a plate of smoked sprat with an astonished look. It was quickly gone with a blink and a small cough into his elbow.

“Good afternoon, sir. Can I get you anything?” he asked, keeping his eyes directly on the patron before him. Vendil didn’t know the innkeeper well but he could spot a nervous man a mile away.

“I’d like a cup of wine and a bowl of whatever you’ve got over the hearth.” the man, now revealed to be Aeterna, replied. With his hat under his arm, the man’s identity was immediately determined, forcing Vendil to take a long sip of his beer. So much for a relaxing day.

“Potato soup?”

“That’ll do. Just one bowl please.”

As he waited, the man leaned against the counter and scratched at his beard, looking everywhere except where Vendil was lounging. However, the moment the small tray filled with hot soup and wine was given, his head snapped towards his direction with a sunny toothy grin. His teeth were remarkably straight despite the coffee stains.

“Well, well… if it ain’t the lava hopping asshole.”

Huberto’s eyes widened for a brief moment before clearing his throat and focusing on cleaning the dishes in a tub near the hearth. Vendil just sighed, swallowing his bite of peanuts.

“Vendil.” he replied curtly.

“I know. I’m poking fun at you. Still gives me a giggle from time to time.” he drawled out, taking the seat across from the other man. He could only sigh as Arthan let out a rusty old gate chuckle.

“Why are you here?”

“Aw, why you gotta be like that? You know with Anku all a-buzz that there’s no work so I decided to crawl outta my hole. Heard that someone let ol’ Narry boy out of his cell and let him go wild. Now he’s in Erothin with his fingers up his ass while you run the show. Am I caught up?”

He opened his mouth to reply, only to shut with a clack. Arthan’s grin grew obnoxiously as he leaned back and sipped on his cup of wine. Vendil could only groan and rest his forehead against his hand as he slouched over his beer.

“Perhaps it’s… something like that.” he mumbled out, taking a long sip of his beer. Glancing down into its bottom, he briefly wondered if a second was in order. Wasn’t part of his ‘destress’ routine but neither was a mouthy Aeterna that kept grinning at him.

“Mm, I’m guessin’ by all those posters slapped on every corner that he’s taken a bunch of credit too.” he tsked, not bothering with the spoon to enjoy sipping on his soup. Vendil only grunted at that. “I wish I could say ‘I told you so’ but even I didn’t expect him not to… I dunno -- not give a shit about his partner in crime.”

His sigh could barely be heard over the crackling of the hearth and Huberto’s soup pot stirring. Arthan cocked his head to the side ever so slightly as his grin softened to a smile. “It wasn’t always like this.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“What do you mean…?

“You’re running a city for him. Now I’m making an assumption but I figure that it’s a high stress job. You’re no longer the hero that saved him but an underling that files tax reports. None of those posters even mention you. Not exactly fair and not a good sign.”

The pinch of peanuts that Vendil held quietly dropped back into the bowl as he glared. Arthan, of course, didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. “Good sign of what? The city is doing relatively well considering the coup.” A wave of disgust washed over him at how weak his words felt. Suddenly he yearned for the taste of whiskey, not cheap beer.

“He’s half assing city governance to the extent that his closest friend is hiding at a bar to avoid snapping from the pressure. Imagine what’ll happen once he gets Nehrim under his belt.”

Immediately Vendil held a single finger up, earning a cocked eyebrow. “How do you even know any of this? Or are you just pulling all this out of nothing?”

“Shit, Vendil, just open your ears and walk around the market. I’ve only been in the city for three hours and a five minute smoke break by the bank told me more than I wanted to know. Vendil Auralus approved of some new guards, Vendil did such ‘n such tax reform, talk to Vendil if you got concerns. Blah, blah, blah. Not too hard to put two and two together.”

An awkward silence soon filled the room, leaving only the sound of the crackling logs in the hearth. Huberto, despite his nature, peeked over his shoulder towards them, still hunched over the dish tub. A quick wiggle of the eyebrows from Arthan made the man snap his head forward so quickly that Vendil was sure he had whiplash.

“I, uh…”

“It’s so damn obvious that it might as well slap me on the ass on the way out. I’m only telling you this because you seem to be the only one who doesn’t know. Don’t feel bad about it. No one really knows their own reputation.” Arthan’s chair creaked softly as he leaned back further like a lazy cat in the sun. Vendil simply glanced at his reflection in his glass. His face was colored piss yellow from the beer but even that unflattering shade didn’t hide the circles under his eyes or the droop of his ears. Golden eyes were unashamedly looking at him once he finally tore his gaze away.

“You’re not chickenshit so what’s the problem?”

Another sigh -- probably the millionth of that afternoon. “He murdered his girlfriend and father. Narathzul’s not exactly the most reasonable person.”

“So?”

“So…”

“Listen, I’m not exactly the most knowledgeable with history but Narathzul has a mile long track record of failing miserably. Treomar? Just look at the place. His little conquest of Inodan? He ended up getting tossed into a cell and was rotting for a thousand years. His little recent streak of luck has been less about luck and more about you.”

“He murdered his girlfriend and father.”

“I know, I know but you got leverage. You’re justified in saying something. And if he tries to pull something funny? Well, you’ve got a shield and a mean right hook, don’t you? What other options do you got left? At this point, it’s not if he’s gonna fuck you over but when. Do it on your own terms at least.” He loudly sipped on the dregs of his wine. As he did, he spotted from the corner of his eye Vendil’s face contorting into a mess of expressions -- rage, confusion, disgust, and a few unrecognizable ones. Eventually he settled on something akin to a dried out old grape -- scrunched up and quite bitter.

“All he does is pour over the Predestination and sit on his throne. I can barely get his signature much less get him to govern the city. It’s like he sees Erothin as nothing more than a stepping stone instead of a living breathing city. The people here have hopes and dreams and I can’t just ignore them.” he groaned, feeling the tightness in his chest unclench just a little.

“I get what you’re saying but the Predestination?” Arthan asked softly, leaning over the table just slightly.

“It’s a prophecy about the Shadow God or Tel'lmaltath… or whatever. Basically it’s about a god of shadow dethroning the Light-Born and restoring balance. Like all prophecies, it’s vague enough to mask the incompetence of others.” Tension yet again plucked at his chest. This is clearly private information that Narathzul entrusted to him. Focusing on Arthan’s face, he noted the tenderness the man surprisingly invoked. Concern wove itself into the man’s crow’s feet as he reclined back once more. He expected guilt to overwhelm him at the admission but it never came.

Arthan’s lips thinned as he fell silent for a moment. His eyes flickered back and forth between his lap and Vendil’s eyes. “Now that is worrying…”

“What? That he intends on killing the gods?”

“No, no. Those seven aren’t gods. Never were, never will be. Their downfall is inevitable. But what concerns me is the source of this prophecy and amount of shit Narathzul’s going to be in. For a man who spites the gods, he sure does love blindly following higher powers.”

Vendil’s eyebrows furrowed as he watched the other all but pour the rest of his now lukewarm soup down his throat. “In a hurry somewhere?” Vendil asked quietly, his voice surprisingly weak.

“I’ve still got some errands to do while there’s time left. Can’t you feel it? There’s a spring thunderstorm coming soon.” His ears twitched as he rooted around in his bag, grumbling as the various mish-mash of his pack clinked together. “Um… oh! There we go. Got a gift for you.”

“You left the king so frazzled that he forgot to properly gift you a token of the Starling’s affections.” he explained as Vendil examined the scroll. The paper felt like butter in his palms, so smooth and alien, with an even odder looking strap of leather tying it together. “A teleportation spell in case you need to head back to Anku, specially made by the old bird.”

Vendil only nodded, knowing better than to question the reasoning of Starlings. “Well, I appreciate it. I’ll have to thank him later.”

A shrug was his response as Arthan quickly plopped his hat back on his head. “The man might be gone by the time any of us get back to Anku. They’re getting ready for the ‘Grand Voyage’ and all that. Thankfully, the old bird is staying behind.”

“The king?”

“Nah, the old bird.” he clarified, not bothering to explain further as he slung his pack over his shoulder after rising to feet. Huffing, he glanced over at the innkeeper who kept himself busy with the soup. “Well, I might see you around later. Might even visit the palace for work.”

“Interested in joining Narathzul’s army?”

“Fuck no, just need the work. Narry can kiss my hairy ass.” he mumbled, rifling through his pockets to slap some coins down for the meal. “Enjoy yourself, you hear?”

“I hear.” he replied yet he didn’t receive an answer nor did he expect one. Glancing down into his beer, he huffed and began to chug. Midway through, his ears twitched at the quiet jingling that grew fainter with each step away. Almost on cue, rain began to fall upon the windows.

“Huberto… I think I’ll take a glass of whiskey if you don’t mind.”

[rhaenyratargeryn]

Who wants to read the first part of a Mando x Reader fic I’ll probably never finish???? If it had a title it would be “For a Few Credits More” 

---

For you, the fall of the Empire had come too late. It was still an event worthy of celebration and you had done so, joyfully and wholeheartedly along with your fellow farmers and miners in Mos Eisley.

And when the voices had died down and the drinks stopped flowing, you had found a space to quietly and somberly remember the man who had died so you would be here today and not in the ground alongside him.

To say you’d always been “different” felt somehow shallow and silly. To say you’d been cursed was perhaps more true to point. You knew little of your life before the age of five, only that you were born to the lights and bustle of Coruscant and when your parents had died during the Resistance conflict with the Empire, you were shipped off to an orphanage who in turn packed up and moved to the Outer Rim planet of Lah’mu. The Empire paid incentives for settlers to take on the harsh landscape of the planet, the orphanage using its charges as little more than hired hands.

You hadn’t minded the dark rainy skies, finding they were easier on your light sensitive eyes, a genetic gift from your Miraluka father, who had been born with none. But that was not the only gift he had granted you with.

You dreamt of a man. Older, wiser than most and with a gracefulness to his moments and his thoughts you’d had never seen before. Through the dreams he had found you and explained to you the existence of a force. An energy that lived through all things, that lived in him, lived in you. Lived in the planet and the plants atop it as well as the rocks beneath.

Caston Rik was his name and he bought you from the orphanage, braided three strands of hair at the base of your neck where it could be pushed back and hidden easily... and called you “Padawan”. The word brought forth memories of a shining temple, of gold and silver and an age of balance and peace. It also brought a feeling of taboo, of dread, for even if you had never heard of the Force, you knew the word “Jedi” all too well tied to the word “Inquisitor”.

And that was how it all came to end. Fifteen years old and orphaned again by the red plunge of a saber through Caston’s heart.

You took everything he taught you, everything you had learned and buried it down beneath the sands of Tatoonie, your newest home.

Farming was pretty much the same no matter where you were in the verse, even if it was for metal parts instead of plants or moisture. Junk trading was an easy enough job. You’d learn how to spot a good compressor, a functioning booster or so-so thrust coil. And it felt good to take something back from the Empire, to build something new and beneficial for the people rather than a Destroyer or a blaster.

You’d spent years enough now on Tatoonie that you appeared every bit as native as the rest, skin warmed by the sun. Not much happened at Mos Eisley and you had begun to like it that way.

And that of course is always when things would go spectacularly to hell.

---

It all started with a ship. Not a fine piece of machinery, but a ship all the same. Held together with metal and sheer force of will. You spent only a passing moment eyeing the haul and the several imperfections that dotted it's surface. Evidence of shoot outs. Of tight squeezes. Of in general, either some pretty fine piloting or some of the worst. Depended on how you judged success.

Peli was hunkered down near the landing gear, flanked by a few droids as sparks flew around her. At your approach she paused, flicking up her welding helmet to reveal a soot streaked face you’d come to know and admire.

“Still kickin’ huh?” she said with a smile, turning to look at the scrappily constructed bag you dragged behind you.

“Those my parts?”

“Those your parts.” you said, smiling with pride.

“Let’s take a look! You, take this--” she handed the welder to one of the droids, “Don’t weld yourself to the haul. Guy hates droids, remember? Alright. Let’s see what you got.”

You followed Peli to a work table, picking up the bag and setting it with some care onto the surface before the older woman untied it and pulled out the product within.

“Not bad, not bad. You sand spray off the rust?”

“Always do. Corrosion wasn’t too severe to start with that deep inside the Destroyer.”

“How far’d you crawl in that thing?”

“A ways.”

In truth, it hadn’t been difficult at all when one could simply reach out, find the device they were looking for and then move aside debris and fallen haul walls with your mind. But that wasn’t a trick you were prepared to share.

“Surprised it ain’t been picked clean alrea-- sweet damn!” Peli exclaimed, pulling out a smooth metal barrel about the size of a small keg. 

“Is this…?!”

“Alderaanian white. Probably the last container in the whole galaxy.”

“This was in there?!”

“Yep. Commander’s quarters under about three tons of scrap metal. Figured you knew someone who could help me move it and we’d settle on a percentage.”

“Hell, it ain’t a part, but it’ll buy some! You got it. Let me talk with some folks and we’ll get a buyer.”

You nodded, “90 percent finder fee.”

“70.” Peli countered without so much as looking up from the container.

“85.”

“80 and I throw in a speeder.”

“Done.” you said with a sharp nod, taking the hand Peli offered you with a smile. You could probably have easily bought a speeder with the funds, but Peli’s quality was without question in these parts. The wine would make a tidy profit hopefully, enough to maybe book passage closer to the mid-rim. 

Your senses sharpened, honing into a presence that you’d failed to notice approaching. That was odd. No one snuck up on you, no one. And yet when you turned, there was… no one there.

There was a tugging at your boot, drawing your eyes down to a tiny green creature with bat-wing sized ears.

The creature cooed happily, lifting up its hands and jumping a bit as a child did when it wanted to be picked up.

“Um…” you turned to Peli for guidance but found the woman busy working through the other bits and parts of your bag. Looking around and seeing no parent, you gently bent down and picked the small creature up.

“De wanna wanga. Hi chuba du naga?” you said, but to your surprise, the child did not respond, simply tilting his head and squeaking.

“You don’t speak Huttese, little guy?”

“Ah! No. He’s just a baby. Doesn’t speak a word yet.” Peli said, noting your visiter. She looked around with a frown.

“Must have gotten away from his dad. Where did that hunk of beskar get to?”

You gave Peli a confused frown of your own, gently bouncing the child in your arms to his delight as he squealed and shrieked happily. Before you could advance forward to ask Peli more about the baby who had wandered into her shop, a voice, modulated and terse called out.

“Put him down.”

Now Peli’s words made sense. Beskar. Lots and lots of Beskar. It was impossible not to hide the awe in your eyes as your mouth threatened to drop open at the sheer weight of credits this man wore on his body.

The Mandalorian strided forward, hand on his hip. The child in your arms resisted your attempts to put him down on the floor below, fussing and holding tight to your sun bleached clothes.

“Put him down.”

“I’m trying.”

Peli spoke up thankfully, “Relax, Mando. She’s good people. Brought the parts to fix your ship right up.”

If the Mandalorian had relaxed, it was by so small a fraction it was lost to your eyes. His hand came away from his blaster though and that was all that mattered. The child settled once again, content to remain where he was.

“You shouldn’t go up to strangers.” the Mandalorian’s voice was low and chiding, directed at the child, who blinked up at him with a smile. Seemingly unimpressed (it was hard to tell beneath the helmet) the Mandalorian held out his hands expectantly. The child made a faint noise but did not go to him.

You heard the click of the Mandalorian’s tongue against the roof of his mouth as he reached out further still and you tried to pass the child into his waiting hands. The child screeched in fury.

“Fine!” he said with a huff and brushed passed you without a second glance, “But don’t wander off again.”

The child giggled and turned its large dark eyes up to you. Something… something inside your heart softened at his face, feeling something familiar and nostalgic somehow despite never having seen a creature like him before.

With his small hands, he reached up towards your face and you felt obligated to lean down, to let him press his tiny palms to your cheeks. He cooed happily and closed his eyes… and the Force moved within you for the first time in more than half a decade.

[let-it-raines]

I don't really know what I want, but I do know that I want Captain Swan in the Enchanted Forest! Ready, set, go!!!

So, found this little thing when I was trying to find my grocery list of all things. lol. So I obviously had to post it for you guys 😘 

Found on ao3 | here | if that’s more your jam!

Rating: Mature

-/-

A long white cloak trails behind her, the bottom of it brushing against the floor to pick up dirt and other small pieces of nature covering the ground. There are grass stains, brown and green streaks marking the ornate piece of clothing, but it will be cleaned and cared for until her cloak is as white as snow.  

He would know. He’s seen every marking on this particular piece of clothing be wiped away, whether by servants or a touch of magic, and the next time he sees her wear the cloak, it will be as if it is fresh from the seamstress and placed on her back with no interference.

‘Tis like that every time.

Killian chuckles to himself and wipes his knuckles along his lips while he reaches with his hook to dust away any dirt that has clung to his own leathers. He may not have a team of women behind him to make sure he stays laundered, but he can at least make himself look presentable. After all, the princess has come all this way, dodging her guards and her companions and anyone who might recognize her from the portrait of her hanging in the royal Governor’s office not half a mile from the ports where she’s milling about now.

She’s quick, that one, has more smarts than those who have dedicated their lives giving her the lessons that are supposed to educate her, but there are still some things that slip her mind after all this time.

Like wearing an ornate white cloak and leaving her golden hair falling down in waves over her shoulders instead of tying it with a ribbon and hiding it away. She reeks of royalty or some other kind of high-born woman, and high-born women do not come to a fish market where there might be pirates about.

They are scoundrels. Shouldn’t she know that?

“Smee,” Killian calls, hopping down from his post until his feet land heavy against the solid wood of the Jolly Roger, “make sure the place is spotless by nightfall. Every damaged board better damn well shine.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” his first mate says, tugging on his red knitted cap. One day the man has to get something a little more discreet. Maybe he and the princess can teach each other how to blend into a crowd.

With a sauntering step and a swing over his heavy coat around his calves, Killian quickly walks across the deck until he’s descending from his ship and moving across the uneven docks. Misthaven is one of the richest kingdoms in the realm, full of potential for water imports and exports, but the King and Queen have never put much more than one gold piece into repairing things. Maybe they would invest more if they knew how much time their beloved daughter spent time here.

Or maybe they would whisk her away so she could never see the sea again.

The docks are full with throngs of people milling about, each of them carrying a basket or parchment-wrapped fish, but Killian doesn’t pretend he’s about to stock up on supplies. He’ll do his own fishing if need be, and if not, he’ll find their fishermen when their supply is fresh and not a day or two old like they are today. Cutting out the middlemen and all.

She is currently talking to a vendor who sells baked goods. He believes her name is Ariel and that her husband works in the fishery, but he has never made their acquaintance. He tends to keep to himself and let Smee and Scarlet deal with making the acquaintances of the locals in each port.

“Thank you,” Emma sighs as she passes over a few coins in exchange for what Killian assumes is her favored sweet bread. “I’ll see you soon, Ariel.”

Ah, so he was correct in her name.

Killian knows Emma isn’t expecting him to be standing behind her by the way the emerald of her eyes widens and she nearly drops her food. It is endearing, and he struggles to keep both corners of his lips from turning up. In compromise, he lets one side smile while he slightly squints his eyes, mimicking the look she claims he gave her the night they met.

He knows what look he gave her, and it certainly wasn’t decent enough to be seen in broad daylight.

“Captain,” she says slowly, narrowing her own eyes.

“Milady.” He leans down and mockingly bows. She must be resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She so despises when people bow to her. “Enjoying the shopping?”

“”Tis a nice day for it, don’t you think?”

“Of course.” Killian steps closer to her but stays far enough away to be proper. He may not know the names of everyone here, but they certainly know his. Say what you will about Captain Killian Jones and his following of wenches, but he lives by a code, one he does not take lightly. He won’t do anything to impede upon Emma’s reputation, at least publicly. “Might I suggest looking at crustaceans near my ship. I haven’t bought any myself, but the word around the village is that they are divine.”

“You’ve been listening to what people have to say?”

“Oh, you know me. I’m a man of the town, a man of the people you might say.”

Her lips press together in a small, timid smile before she begins walking toward his ship, her cloak whipping behind her and her hair being blown in the wind.

She’s an ethereal beauty, this one.

“You’re not supposed to meet me on the docks,” Emma murmurs. “It makes it too obvious.”

“Darling, if you aren’t going for obvious, might I suggest not wearing a snow-white cloak when everyone else here is in shades of brown with slightly torn clothes.”

“Says the man wearing leather and a vest that’s nearly unbuttoned down to his navel. That’s not exactly inconspicuous.”

“I’m a pirate, love. I’ve never been inconspicuous.”

She turns to him, squinting her eyes once more, and he simply winks before nodding his head and turning her on her way toward the Jolly. No one pays them any mind. Everyone is too lost in their own worries and their own business to look at the two of them, but nevertheless, he urges Emma to pull her hood up and tug it around her face. As long as no one recognizes her face, all will be well. She’ll simply be the maiden who climbed aboard The Jolly Roger with him, and he’s got enough of a reputation that the news will not be of any substance for gossip. It will simply be another day for him.

At least he hopes so.

His crew stop their repairs to watch he and Emma moving aboard, but the moment Killian makes eye contact, they all turn away and quickly return to their tasks. They know not of who Emma is to the kingdom, but they know who she is to him. They are also aware that his companion is none of their damn business.

“You do not have to shoot daggers with your eyes at them, you know?” Emma laughs.

“I was doing no such thing.”

“You know you can’t lie to me. I can tell.”

“One of the worst bloody things about you.”

“Ah, see, but I know that you’re lying when you say that.”

Killian huffs underneath his breath before stepping in front of her so that he can look in her eyes. They’re a mixture of emerald and gold, two treasures any pirate would be happy to possesses, and the sunlight brings out the colors of her eyes until they are the most gorgeous thing in his sights. Then again, they didn’t need the sunlight for that.

“Do you always insist on being so frustrating?”

Emma’s lip curls up and runs her finger down the center of his chest, twisting her nail into his tufts of hair. “I know you like it, Captain.” She steps closer, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear, “and you know there’s no point in denying it.”

“And if I were to deny that I enjoy finding you frustrating?”

“I think I’d have to coax the words out of you,” she whispers. “Now, isn’t there a novel you had talked about showing me? Down in your Quarters?”

“I know you are teasing me, love, but I did pick up a few new stories for you in the Southern Isles.”

“Yeah? Have you read them yet?”

“Aye, but I don’t think that would have kept you from taking them.”

She kisses the underside of his jaw before walking away. “You know me so well, Captain.”

Bloody temptress.

The waves move beneath his feet as he follows Emma, not bothering to explain himself to any of his crew except to tell Smee he’s not to be disturbed unless they are under dire circumstances. Even then, he doesn’t want to know unless it is not something that can be handled without him.

Priorities and all.

By the time he is below deck and in his Quarters, Emma has already unclasped her cloak from her neck and draped it over the windows, dimming the room and providing them with the privacy they need when meeting during sunlit hours. He much prefers the safety of the night and the blanket that the darkness covers them with, but it is easier for Emma to meet him during the early afternoons when the sun is high in the sky and the crowds in the villages are full.

He will take her whenever he can.

“What’s this one about?” she asks as her fingers flip over the delicate pages of one of the novels he has laid out.

Killian shrugs off his coat, the weight falling off his shoulders, before he steps up to Emma, pressing his chest to her back and rolling his hips into her delectable backside. He runs his lips over her jaw before settling behind her ear. She’s sensitive there, and small bumps always rise on her porcelain skin whenever he runs his lips against the shell or allows the hair on his chin to brush against her.

“This one is about the structure behind ships and how to improve the speed of our sails.”

“You have a Pegasus sail. What do you need this for?”

“I enjoy learning about ways to improve. I wouldn’t want to be caught unaware.”

“No,” she sighs as his teeth nibble against her, “you wouldn’t. Do you expect me to read this?”

“That one wasn’t for you. Grab the one with the white ribbons tied around it.”

Emma leans forward enough that he loses his grip on her and that his lips fall away, and he takes the opportunity to start unlacing her corset. He takes pride in being able to do just as much as any other man with his hook, and for the most part, he’s able to. However, he appreciates that Emma has loosened the first few strands and that he’s able to undo her dress while he presses his lips to the back of her neck, breathing in the vanilla scent of her soaps and the flowers of the potions he knows she slathers on her wrists and her neck.

“Tales of Arendelle.”

“A collection of love stories,” he tells her as her dress begins to fall from her shoulders. “The rumor is that most of them are true, if not embellished the slightest bit. One in particular caught my eye for you.”

Emma shrugs her shoulders to help him get her out of her dress until she’s left in nothing but a thin white shift. “And what was that?”

“A princess who fell for a pirate.”

Her head is thrown back in laughter, and she turns around to face him, her lips parted and cheeks flushed. “That is a little too on the nose, even for you.”

“What? You do not care for hearing a story similar to ours?”

“Who says I’ve fallen for you?”

“You do.”

Emma hums and deftly unbuttons his vest, dragging her mouth along each patch of skin that’s uncovered. “I don’t seem to recall saying anything of the sort.”

“I wrote it in my logs if you’d like to check.”

“I think I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“That would be a first.”

She huffs and pushes him back until he’s stumbling to his bunk and propping himself up on his elbows while he watches Emma dispose of her shift until she’s left wearing nothing. Her skin has always been so beautiful. In the summers, it is a darker color that makes the rosy tint of her nipples blend in more, but now she’s as pale as the snow that occasionally coats the ground. She’s like porcelain, but she does have her imperfections.

He thinks he loves every damn one.

Well, he knows because he loves her. Ages have passed since he has loved someone, but he knows the feeling enough to know how he feels on the days when he is able to see Emma.

On the days and weeks and months when he isn’t as well.

Emma quickly undoes his leathers, each brush of her fingertips stirring him to life, before she carefully takes off his brace with his hook, kissing all of the permanently red scars there. She’s the only one who has seen this part of him besides the men who helped heal him, and she’s the only one who will ever see the red scars and the place where his body is broken like it was not before.

He’s got a reputation to uphold, one of a fierce pirate captain who survived losing his hand to the Dark One and who takes what he wants when he wants it, but none of that applies to Emma.

None of it has ever applied to her.

She is the sun in his life when two hundred years have been covered in dark clouds that have blocked all light out.

Light looks a hell of a lot like emerald eyes and golden hair with a smile that’s worth more than any treasure.

“I’ve missed you,” Emma finally says as she tosses his hook to the floor and crawls on top of him until her knees are pressed on either side of his hips, her folds pressing against his cock until he can feel exactly how much she already wants him. “The next time you leave, I either need to come with you or you have to be away for fewer months.”

“How do you propose you come with me?”

Her hands run across his cheek before pushing his hair back off his forehead. “I simply leave my parents a note that there’s no need for me to be with them as they have dinner with diplomats and royals from different realms. I’m simply something pretty for everyone to look at. They don’t need me.”

“Ah, but you know how that is not true.”

“It is.” She shifts her hips and rubs herself against her while arching her back and letting her locks cascade in flowing waves down her back that remind him of the sea on her calmest days. “My brother is the one who is tasked with being the diplomat, with taking over it all, and I do not wish to be him for a moment.”

“You’d make a wonderful queen, my darling.”

She laughs and leans forward to finally press her lips into his. They’re as soft as always. He has never quite been able to figure out how it is possible for her lips and her skin to be as soft as silk, but he’s thankful for it. He’s thankful for the way that her mouth expertly moves over his, pulling and pushing, taking and giving, and for the way her hands thread into his hair, tugging on the strands until their noses hit each other’s cheeks. His hand finds her hair, anchoring there, while his stumped arm wraps around her back until her breasts are pressing into his chest hair.

Many a siren has tempted to lure him into their graces, but none has been so successful as Emma.

“I do not want to be queen. I’m thankful the laws couldn’t be changed to make me so. I want the freedom I cannot have behind those stone walls.”

“You are my queen, my love.”

“And you are my freedom.”

Emma shifts once more until she’s sinking down onto him, her warm walls enveloping him and pulling him into her as heat stirs deep in his belly. It’s always been like magic between the two of them, like the light magic that flows from Emma’s fingertips and emanates from deep within her, and he’s often thought that she loses control of her magic when they’re joined like this. She has never mentioned it, never discussed feeling it like this, but there is something about the way his skin prickles and his heartrate picks up that has him know that something about this is different.

Something about her is different.

Killian has never been a fan of magic. It has taken everyone he loves and his hand away from him, but he is undoubtedly a fan of Emma’s magic.

He is undoubtedly a fan of every part of her.

There is not much to her movement today. Emma is controlling the strokes and controlling how both of them feel. She always prefers this position to any other, and he cannot say that he blames her. It allows her walls to squeeze him and for her to keep the pace when that is something he would normally do. It allows for their lips to constantly stay connected, only straying in order for him to wrap his mouth around her rosy peaks or for Emma to bite down on the underside of his jaw. It allows them to be connected in every single way, and while Killian expected their coming together after so much time apart to be fast and harsh with heavy strokes and no soft affection, it is the opposite of that.

He has a particular penchant for taking her from behind and allowing himself to sink all the way inside of her with his hand firmly on the roundness of her bottom, but he will never complain about having her like this.

He will never complain about having her in any way when he was never supposed to have someone so good in his life.

“I have thought of you every day, my love.”

“So you’ve kept your promise then?”

“Aye,” he sighs, pulling his lips away from hers and pressing his forehead to hers as sweat begins to drip down her back and hit against his arm. “I have dreamed of your voice, of your taste, of the way that you look when you want me. I have dreamed of the sound of your laugh and the way that you could spend all day reading without wanting for anything. I have dreamed of nothing but you.”

“I thought of you every day, Killian.”

“Good.”

He wraps his arms around her waist and carefully shifts them until Emma is on her back and he’s caging her in. When he slips out of her, he hisses, but he easily pushes himself back in until he’s controlling his strokes and their tempo. She’s unbearably wet, and when he pushes her knee back to move even deeper inside of her, he knows that he won’t last too much longer.

Emma is too irresistible for that.

The breathlessness of her moans and the way her eyes flutter closed every time he presses inside of her nearly cause him to perish, but he presses on, wrapping his fingers around her thigh and digging his nails into her skin while his arm rubs into where they are joined. She’s always been a fan of that and a fan of the way the roughness of his skin feels, and he can’t help his own smirk.

“You are incredible, my love, my darling, my queen. I need nothing more than you and this. I need nothing more than us.”

“Killian,” Emma whines, her back arching, “please.”

If she wasn’t so breathless, he knows she would have words about his terms of endearment for her.

“Please what? Tell me.”

“Faster,” she pants, and he obliges, leaning forward and biting into her collarbone before soothing it with his tongue, moving in and out of her until she’s a quivering mess and her limbs barely have any function.

When she falls, it is to his name, a breathless whisper that is only heard by him, and Killian treasures the sound, committing it to memory and allowing himself to treasure having her in his arms. He will not leave for many fortnights now, will be seeing her as often as they are able, but every moment like this is a moment he wishes to commit to memory and to be able to mark down as easily as he marks his gold in his logs.

Her magic is everywhere, flowing in the room and surrounding them, little pinpricks of pleasure intensified until he’s falling too.

There is nothing else in the world like this.

There is no one else in the world like Emma, and he has traveled to all of the realms and lived for centuries. Time stood still for many a year, his body and face not aging, and as much as he dreads lines appearing around his eyes and the darkness of his hair fading away, he thinks growing old with Emma would make it all worth it.

If only they could.

“I love you,” Emma whispers later. They haven’t redressed, are still only covered by the cloth on his bunk, and her fingers are trailing through the matted hair on his chest and the silver chains that lie there while he reads to her from another novel he brought home for her. This one is another tale of love, but there are no extenuating circumstances. It is simply a man and a woman who love each other and are able to live their life together.

“Aye, I love you, darling.”

She nuzzles her cheek into his chest and sighs. “I told my parents I had a suitor while you were gone.”

“You jest.”

“No, no. I did. I – fuck, Killian. I’m nearly twenty-five now. We’ve been seeing each other for two years, and I do not want to be with someone else. My parents are proper people. My mother has lived her entire life as royalty, and she isn’t going to allow me to wait to marry for much more time. I have already put it off for long enough.”

“Emma, your parents will never approve of me. I know you see this side of me, but to the rest of the world, I’m a pirate. I’ve stolen and killed and caused damage in my path. I have hurt people who did not deserve that hurt.”

“You don’t do that anymore.”

“I do if it’s necessary.”

“Killian.” She moves away from him and manages to find space on the bunk to sit up and cross her arms over her chest, not bothering to cover herself with a sheet. “I am not kidding. I have told them I have a suitor. I have started the process, so I can finally stop living my life in secret. If they don’t approve of you, I can leave. I’m not the heir. I don’t have a responsibility. I can live with you, and we can go wherever we want, do whatever we want.”

“I will not ask you to leave your family for me.”

“You’re not asking me. I am telling you that this is what I want!”

He arches a brow. “And you’re sure?”

“You were away for four months. I thought through everything. I know every possibility, and as much as I am hoping for the most favorable outcome, I’m prepared for the worst. My parents will always love me. I have no doubt of that, but if they cannot accept that I will be unhappy living as the wife to a man I do not love, then I must leave. Will you take me away if it comes to that? Will you?”

Killian hesitates. There is nothing he would love more than to no longer have to meet Emma at odd times and only at certain days, but he knows deep within his heart that her parents will never accept him. He was once a lieutenant in Emma’s grandmother’s Navy, but he’s no longer that man.

Maybe to Emma, but not to the world.

He reaches up and tucks strands of her hair behind her ear. “I will do anything you ask of me as long as you are sure it is what you want. Your heart’s desire, love. That is all I want you to have.”

“My heart’s desire is you.”

“Then we shall tell your parents, and I will prepare for every outcome.”

Emma’s smile is one of the most beautiful he’s ever seen before she falls back against his chest and wraps herself around him. “You said there was a tale of a princess who fell for a pirate? How did that one end?”

“I shan’t spoil an ending.”

“Even if I ask?”

His lips softly brush against her temple. “Our ending will be better than that of the book simply because it is ours and ours alone, my love.”

[honestsycrets]

Soiled VI: The Shieldmaiden, Gunnhild.

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | in the aftermath of the attack, jonakr doesn’t react how you might expect. of course, that doesn’t mean you’re happy.

❛  warnings | mention of death, assault, angry hvitserk, elements of misogyny.

❛ sy’s notes | another chapter as requested by... i feel like @alicedopey​ did at some point.

x x x

A few stabs. Ten, fifteen, twenty swishes of an ill-fated blade. Maybe a hundred. It’s a great big blur of red-- of just how many times your sax met his limp body. Only that your blade snaps into two, leaving you clinging onto the handle of horn, shaking. A bloodied hunk of meat in your tower. The blood streams in rivulets from the puddle of blood freely, and as you stand, your miserable sobs break from your lips. Come tomorrow— Jonakr would see what you had done. You lack remorse for killing this man. But Jonakr… he was different from his brother. A man of honour.

You would feel for his loss. Even if this man— Valtýr sickened you to the bones. 

On his belt, you find keys slippery with blood. Your fingers tremor, making quick work of the castle door. This doesn’t make sense— you tell yourself, why princes had to fight over someone who was so clearly not worth it. You were a daughter of slavery, no matter where you went, it chased you to the ends of the earth. You swing the door open. There you find Jonakr standing on the steps, his large fists turned over one another. Your one and only instinct— run. 

You slip down the steps. He doesn’t dare, nor his men, to stop you.

Once out of the tower you found Hvitserk’s camp beside the brothers’ own. Your feet carry you within his camp despite the succession of voices shirking, like a woman in childbirth, within the tower. “Hvitserk,” their voices weave among one another. A thrall guides the flaps of his tent back. He sat with his cup to his lips, and he stops, jerking up to stand. 

“What are you doing here?” he says. 

“Clothes.” 

“Why do you need--” 

“Hvitserk,” you whirl about. “Please. His blood is seeping into my skin.”

“His blood?” Hvitserk prompts as if he could not articulate the gravity of the situation completely. He steps back, allowing for you to strip out of the sodden, iron dress. He lurches out to draw the flaps of his tent shut, barking your name. 

“(Y/N),” he curses your name. You would too if you could. Curse the very day you were born. Because now you were here, living and breathing, knowing you want neither to live nor breathe for what you’ve done. The gods might see it as just, but all the same, your maiden’s dress is nothing to be thankful for. “What have you done?” 

“Shut up Hvitserk! Shut up!” you pace, your fingers picking and lifting the matted down blood on your cheek. Hvitserk looks off to the flaps, then back to you, sweeping up a bucket of water. A cloth bobs in the water. He seizes it-- and brings it to your bloodied cheek. 

“Stop just-- hold still. There, that’s it.” It’s cool by now. The water that had once been boiled and warm frosts your skin. In small circles, Hvitserk bides his time. The warm tears spilling over your cheeks help loosen up the blood.

“I killed him,” you say. “I killed Valtýr.” 

Hvitserk remains silent, keeping to his work. His patient, caring eyes serve as the only indication that he heard you-- truly heard the tremble in your voice. “Jonakr will come to kill me next.” 

“You know he won’t.” 

But you wish he would. You wish he’d come put an axe through your head, because at least then-- for that split second of pain, there would be no more anxiety of knowing what might be coming next. That if you lived, who could tell what poor, awful man might treat you next? Hvitserk’s toy, the brothers’ little wife, and still-- what next? Hvitserk ran the cloth down your chin before walking to the roll of clothes over his makeshift bed. He unrolled a deep green tunic and offered it to you. 

“It’s a little short,” he says, almost humorously, and helps you into it. 

A knock at the wooden post is short-lived. Then, bending within the tent, you spot Jonakr. His large frame overwhelms the door, filling it like a great bear. Although, instead of charging forward, he tilts his head. Your lips part posed to say something, not for yourself. For his sorrowful eyes. Hvitserk shifts in front of you. Blood stains Jonakr’s muddy tunic red, painted in long streaks, as if by the god’s own hands. He holds up his hand to stop you from offering condolences. Or excuses. 

“You needn’t do that. I’m not here for revenge,” Jonakr says, shifting his head to look around your shoulder. “I knew why he went to your tower. He told me what he planned to do.” 

You glance up, staring at his large bloodied hands, then beyond him to the pale tend behind him. You wonder how it would look, bloodied, splattered. Take a step back. “What did he plan on doing?” Hvitserk prompts his question. 

Jonakr ignores him, takes a step closer. “It’s not your fault.” 

“Maybe,” you say noncommittally because there is no part of you that believes that. It’s a lie. Pain follows you like a second skin. Even now, the moments only hours ago feel like a distant dream, hazy like the blood over his belly. “But that doesn’t make him any less dead. You should do it-- you should…” 

“No,” he says, a slight frown furrows his brow. “He wasn’t in his right.” 

Wasn’t he? He said it himself. A woman wasn’t her own. She belonged to her countrymen. That was why what happened was such a sin. Your eyes flit back from the tent behind him, over to him, his eyes somehow cold and somehow warm all in one. He wasn’t looking at you but through you. Maybe some part of him was torn between what he wanted to do-- and what he couldn’t do.

“He wasn’t.” He repeats. “It… I’m is not right for a man to slaughter a woman. Whatever the reason, the gods chose you to live. I know you don’t want to marry me. Perhaps it isn’t… it… It’s better to let you go. I give you your freedom.” 

Your arms fell at your sides, peering up toward him, astounded by the offer and perhaps, distrustful. You’re smart enough to know that a Viking didn’t mean his words. But a man like Jonakr is different. Perhaps he does not want to meet the wrath of the gods for killing an innocent woman. 

Perhaps he was punishing you further by sending you back home. Back where Ivar the Boneless was with his corrupt rule. Where Thora would be stomping around, showing off the product of her beauty-- stealing away the man that you thought, and knew, and loved as yours. 

“If that is decided, we pack to sail home,” Hvitserk readies his roll. At that moment, Jonakr turns, starting toward the door. Without thinking you rush forward, fisting Jonakr’s braid, and tug him back. Hvitserk drops what he works on, barking your name ostentatiously. 

“What are you doing, woman?” he barks. 

“Don’t you do that. Don’t you stand there and treat me like a lady after what I’ve done.” You bark out, snapping his braid around your fist tight. You rope it around your fist, forcing his head to your knuckles-- shaming him further. So what, you think, what have you to lose? Hvitserk calls out to you, your name rolling off his lips like a curse.

“Let him go.” 

“I am not going back home to Kattegat. The gods-- they’ve shown me. I want to learn to fight. I want to be a shieldmaiden.” You snap your head toward him. His expression was soft as butter, and almost wounded, as if the same sax you ran Valtýr through with had turned upon him, carved his heart out. It was easy for him to make that face, you told yourself. He got all that he wanted. Thora, the fight, you. It all fell into place for him. Everything always fell into place for the sons of Ragnar. 

“What are you talking about?” he asks. 

You loosen your grip, allowing for Jonakr to stand upright, careful and measured he looks down upon you. “I am a warrior. I can’t show you to be a shieldmaiden. You would need the shieldmaiden Gunnhild.” 

“Who is she?” 

Hvitserk crosses the room, snatching your hand upon Jonakr’s hair, and forces your fingers to give. His voice is clipped and concise. Jonakr stands upright at your side. “I left her in Kattegat for you.” 

“A shieldmaiden who left for Norway. She married an earl in York,” he continues. Your chest pulls, an excitement so distant and strange there, and Hvitserk rolls his eyes, carrying on as you return to Jonakr. An earl, you repeat, turning against him again. At that moment of a heavy heartbeat, Hvitserk grasps your waist, whirls you around. 

“(Y/N), don’t do this. Come home, be with us. We can find a way. A shieldmaiden? You’ve never wanted to be a shieldmaiden.”

Perhaps its that instant. The instant your hand connected with his full cheek, blotching over, then caressing the space as if you never struck him. It’s that moment that you caress him, and purse your lips against his forehead, that he understands. His hold on your waist loosens. Disheartened, disenchanted. Somehow, he accepts it.

“You won’t do it.” 

Your press your lips to his, cradling his jaw like an after thought. Tense in his surprise, Hvitserk brings a hand to your side,keeping you there in place against him. Your warm breath trickles over his lips between soft, sweeping kisses. His facial hair scratching you occasionally through the kiss. You begin to draw back when he tugs you forward again, maybe for the last time, with a kiss that simply pleads for more. For the time being, you humor his kiss, allowing him to take you in a way that’s light and soft. He pulls away, half-lidded, resigned. 

“I’m sorry, Hvitserk. I can’t do it.”

x x x

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit​ @deathbyarabbit​ @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr​ @lol-haha-joke​ @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania​ @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071​ @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia​ @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl​ @chinduda​ @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa​, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl​ @sallydelys​ @bluearchersstuff​ @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots​ @ivarandersen​ @stra-vage​ @tgrrose​ @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim​ @msmorganforever​

[ashes-and-ashes]

27.  “You’re perfect the way you are.”

“Hey,” Harry says.

Draco looks up at him. He’s sitting on the bench in the team room, gripping the wood with nerveless fingers. The crowd was so loud outside, shouting and screaming and roaring, thousands of people about to watch him fly.

He’s terrified. He’d already thrown up in the trash can, the morning’s breakfast gone in an instant. His stomach is still twisted in knots though, so tightly he doesn’t know if he can breathe, pulling tighter with every pounding beat of his heart. He swallows, hard; Harry’s face tightens.

“Draco. Calm down. It’s okay.”

Draco just shakes his head. His fingers grip the bench tighter, nails biting deep into the aged wood. Harry looks down at his hands and frowns.

“You’re going to break that.”

Draco sighs. “Do I look like I care?”

“How come you don’t grip me that tight when we - “

Draco shoots him an evil look. “That’s not helping.”

Harry falls silent. He looks beautful, wrapped up in robes of gold, hair mused from unsteady fingers. The scar stands out against his skin, shocking silver against the brown, streaks of lightning in a moonlit sky. The crowd always cheered whenever Harry came on - and why shouldn’t they? He was the Savior, the Boy Who Lived, every inch the majestic hero and every inch the righteous King.

Harry reaches out, takes Draco’s hands in his own. Draco flinches, just a bit; they still hadn’t told anyone about their relationship, besides Pansy and Blaise, Ron and Hermione. Draco could already see the headlines, new ones, on top of the ones already published - ‘Harry Potter Turned to the Dark Side!’ ‘Harry Potter and the Death Eater who Loved Him!’ ‘Harry Potter and the Seduction of a Malfoy!’

He’s smart enough to know they’ll never work out. He’s stupid enough to keep trying anyways.

“Hey,” Harry says again, soft and insistent. His hands rest lightly on top of Draco’s - he knows better then to try and wrench his hands off the bench. He’s perhaps the one other person who understands, the need for pain under his fingernails, clawing onto something so desperately as the world tilted under their feet. “Draco. Relax. You’ll be fine.”

Draco shakes his head. He can still remember when the first draft picks had come out, standing in an arena with his broom by his side and his head held high. Stepping forward when the announcer read his name, onto the stage and staring out at the millions of people.

Silence. That’s all there was. No cheering, no applause, nothing but that hateful, vengeful silence.

He had stood there for several minutes, alone under the lights, willing the tears not to flow. Not one team had stepped forward - not one. No one wanted him, a Death Eater, a Malfoy. Never mind that he had higher scores then every other kid here, higher scores then everyone but -

Harry had stepped forward then, hair brushed out of the way to reveal his scar. “I want him.”

There had been confusion, murmuring in the stands. The Ministy official had leaned over, concern in his eyes. “Sir,” he said tentatively. “Player can’t speak for other players.”

“Then bind,” Harry had said simply. “Bind our contracts. Package deal.”

After that the offers had come pouring in - though not for Draco. It was Harry - it was always Harry. Draco was nothing more then a sidethought.

Harry’s hands were firm on Draco’s, pressing his palms deeper into the wood. Draco winces and releases his death-grip; there were marks carved onto the bench now, the marks of someone drowning and trying to stand. “You’ll be fine, Dre. They love you.”

“No,” Draco whispers. “They hate me. They think I’m a Death Eater.”

“Fuck them,” Harry retorts. “You’re the best player in the League.”

“Second,” Draco corrects. “I’m second best. You have more catches.”

“Yeah but I only ever can play Seeker. You’re the second best Seeker and at least top 3 for Chasers. And you’re wicked as a Beater - you basically can do everything.”

“It’s not enough though,” Draco whispers. “It never is enough.”

Honestly, he didn’t even think he was going to make it this far. His world started and ended with Voldemort, with Death Eaters and Dark Marks. It was only 8th year, finally free of Voldemort’s noise that McGonagall had called him into her office, shoved a piece of parchment into his hands.

“I would have played professionally,” she said, eyes drilling riff into Draco’s soul. “I was the best player in the country for 3 years. If it weren’t for my shoulder, I would have signed with a team when I graduated. This - “ she indicated to the number scrawled on the parchment - “will allow you to get into contact with the Harpies. I have given Potter the same number as well. Do what you want with it.”

And he had. He had taken that risk and joined the league. He had trained and trained, honed his talents until he was one of the most versatile players on the field and yet he hadn’t played a game yet. Harry had refused to play as well - “We’re a package. We play together.”

He can hear the crowd outside, the screams and the shouts. He wonders if anyone would every cheer for him like that.

“I wish,” he starts, then cuts himself off. “I wish that I had known. About this - all of this. I wish I had another option then Him.”

Harry gives him a small smile, one born out of their shared pain, their combined sorrow. He’s still holding Draco’s hands - they’re close now, so close that Draco can feel Harry’s breath against his skin. “You didn’t have a choice Draco. Don’t worry. You’re perfect the way you are.”

Draco musters a brittle laugh, one that he didn’t really feel. “Of course I am.” He leans in, kisses Harry, hard and swift and certain before pulling away. He loses a shakes breath, still refusing to let go of Harry’s hand. “Okay.”

They get into position; brooms across right shoulders, gloves on and robes untucked. Draco looks at Harry and his heart hurts - he’s never played with Harry, together instead of against, wearing the same colours - gold instead of red and green. Harry looks radiant, all loose lines and messy hair, relaxed and powerful and all the things Draco wanted to be.

He can hear the whistle, the warning to get into position. Draco shifts the broomstick on his shoulder, takes a deep breath, lets the cheers of the crowd sink into his bones. Beside him, Harry shoots him a questioning look.

“You sure?” he asks, and Draco suddenly remembers their hands, fingers woven together, sleeves rolled up to their elbows. Draco hesitates, before giving a gentle squeeze.

“Whatever. Fuck them, right?”

Harry laughs, golden rays of sunlight. “I’d rather fuck you.”

“Later,” Draco promises, a smirk on his face. He pulls Harry in for one more quick kiss, his heart pounding too fast in his chest before stepping back. “Ready?”

Harry winks. “Let’s do this.”

They step onto the field to the screams of the crowd, golden robes and intertwined hands and Draco has never felt happier in his life.