#hero and villain encounter

[klonoafan5]

literally no one:

me: when you really think about it, aaron choosing to switch from sniper to soldier in episode three of the empty server series is not only a neat way of foreshadowing his development as the official protagonist, but him as a person

to go from a class whose playing style requires you to be a observer finding the right ways to effectively kill a fellow player in a long distance to a class where you march straight into the heat of battle reflects his change from passive victim to active fighter so well-

[jazztag]

Captain using his scary dog privilege to walk around the base..

[itz-pandora]

I am an advocate that you shouldn't trash on other people's ships and shouldn't trash on ships for being popular, BUT ALSO. Shippers, please also look at your characters without their partner interfering with them and they can talk about something other than their partner and have an identity outside of them (UNLESS you want to emphasize the character is dependent on their partner, but in that case you should emphasize it's probably unhealthy.)

Look at the characters and how they interact with anyone except for their partner PLEASE. Study them under a microscope

And please don't trash other characters for "getting in the way of the ship". QUIET!!! be NICE to them

And please don't flanderize the characters. It's so much more fun with nuance, trust me

[abrokenherocomplex]

whispers in my ear

prequel to this: tangles in my hair

The heroine had finally found an out, gliding to the edge of the dance floor and narrowly resisting the urge to elbow people out of her way. She carefully avoided the drinks table at the front of the ballroom lest another dancer try and “cut in,” as they so chivalrously say. She forced herself not to lean against the cool stone wall of the ballroom, though she made a show of occupying herself with adjusting her dainty bracelets as if they had come unclasped. Mostly to avoid eye contact. 

She eyed the only socially acceptable exit – a set of oak-wooden French doors atop a grand staircase. One she’d demurely floated down nearly three hours earlier, carefully following her assignment orders – her first assignment, at that – by greeting allies, enemies and those in-between. She’d shared dances, collected their secrets, until she was dizzy. And now her feet ached, and her stomach grumbled and all she really wanted was to return to her apartment.

Intent on studying the ballroom, the heroine noticed far too late the hand snaking around her waist, pulling her behind a tapestry, into a hidden alcolve. Before she could react, a second hand clamped firmly around her mouth, the arm around her waist pulling her flush against a warm body. 

A stupid, irrational part of her brain went, this is kind of nice. At least, compared to the clammy hands who’d danced with her all night long. But that stupid, irrational voice shut down when something sharp and cool pressed into her gut. Her breath hitched, and a voice was warm and low by her ear. 

“You are not to make a sound.” A woman, surely. “Nod if you understand.”

The heroine nodded, cursing herself for letting her guard down, but acquiescing all the same. 

The hand dropped from her mouth. 

“Good,” the villainess purred softly.

The heroine’s heart jackhammered in her chest. 

The knife moved up from her stomach to the exposed spot at the dip of her neck. 

“Just where I want that to be,” the heroine managed. She immediately regretted it, feeling the pressure of the knife against her voice box. 

The villainess chuckled low and deep. “Thought I’d make you comfortable.”

The heroine forced her breathing shallow, lest the knife cut into her skin. 

“Of course,” the heroine muttered. “We wouldn’t want that.” 

The villainess chuckled again. “They didn’t say you were funny, too.” 

“Who-”

“Is it true you are a part of the agency of magical heroism?” The villainess said it like an insult. To some, it was. 

“You are wearing their colors this evening,” the villainess added. 

“Observant,” the heroine clipped. 

“My job,” the villainess replied, as if that were an explanation. “You’re a piece in their agency, yet you are caught so easily. How is that?”

The heroine wanted to protest, but she had to admit… she was the one in a full body hold. Caged in the arms of a woman barely taller than her. 

“I’m an intelligence officer,” the heroine explained. “Not a soldier.” 

“And an evergreen one at that.” The heroine had to wince at the clear read on the villainess’s part. She could practically hear the thoughts turning over in the villainess’s brain. “They sent you to the ball with hardly any protection.”

“I can fight-” the heroine protested.

“Clearly,” the villainess deadpanned. 

“It’s just not my forté.” The heroine cursed herself. She was giving away far too much information. But the villainess’s voice worked like a charm, boiling her blood and loosening her tongue. She’d try to shake herself out of it but the knife to her throat remained ever-present. 

“And what is your forté?” The villainess prompted. 

The heroine remained silent this time, forcing herself to gather her wits. In response, the knife pressed deeper into her throat. The heroine forced herself to focus. 

“Let me go. And I’ll tell you.”

The arm around her waist tightened a fraction. A lover’s embrace.

“Now why would I do that?” the villainess crooned. 

The heroine forced herself to breathe. “You can’t very well kill me where I stand. Even hidden away, there are too many witnesses. Liabilities.” The heroine swallowed. “And I wish to see the face of my assailant.”

The villainess remained silent for a moment before letting the knife fall. The grip on the heroine’s waist loosened, enough that the heroine could step out of the villainess’s grasp, legs shaking with adrenaline. She shivered, struck by the sudden cold of the back hallway, her body calming just a fraction, being directly out of harm’s way. When she turned, the villainess hadn’t moved, standing alert and assessing. She wore a silky black dress, long gloves and a matching black mask over her eyes. With a pang, the heroine realized she’d noted the villainess upon entry to the ball. She too had been unaccompanied A lone representative of whomever she worked for. But the heroine hadn’t noticed her sneaking out of the ballroom and, well, sneaking up on her. For that, the heroine mentally kicked herself. 

The heroine glanced at the tapestry, torchlight spilling in from the other side. 

“You could run,” the villainess said quietly. Mockingly.

“I could scream,” the heroine suggested sardonically.

“And be the talk of the ball,” the villainess agreed, leveling her with a cold stare. “The agency’s newest informant can’t seem to hold her own on a night out. Overtaken by a bureau operative.”

The heroine froze, her blood running cold.  

“You’re bureau?”

Bureau operatives were the slyest, most cunning, villainous-

“Oh, don’t get so high and mighty with me,” the villainess curled her pretty lip. Painted a deep red, the heroine had to note. Her gaze softened fractionally. “I’m not here to hurt you. At least, not if you answer my question. What is your role in all this, little hero?” 

I don’t know, the heroine wanted to say. It felt like the truth. But not technically the correct answer. 

“I told you,” the heroine tried. “I’m an intelligence officer. A diplomat.” 

“Inter-agency relations,” the villainess suggested. 

“Sure,” the heroine nodded. “Alliances, treaties. That sort of thing.”

The villainess looked satisfied but worry still curdled in the heroine’s stomach. There were agency enemies and then there were agency enemies. The villainess was the latter. And she knew far more than the heroine was comfortable with. Still, a deal was a deal. 

“Your face,” the heroine said. “Show me.” 

Surprisingly, the villainess nodded once before reaching up a silken gloved hand to remove the mask hiding her features. 

She was beautiful, the heroine had to admit. High cheekbones, sharp, assessing eyes that roved over the heroine’s every expression. She forced herself to stop staring. 

“Am I free to go?” she asked instead. 

The villainess nodded again, and the heroine ignored the disappointment pooling in her chest. 

“Very well,” the heroine cleared her throat, stepping past the villainess. 

In a quick move, the villainess grabbed her arm, not enough to hurt but the heroine stopped in her tracks. The heroine’s stomach swooped as the villainess leaned to whisper, breath hot against the shell of her ear. 

“The man you were dancing with before. Collins?” 

“Yes?” the heroine breathed. Their lips were far to close. 

“Avoid him. And leave by midnight.” 

“I-”

Before the heroine could process the words, the villainess had pushed her back into the party, disappearing when the heroine whirled around. 

The heroine left by midnight. A good thing too. The heroine would later learn Collins had been caught drugging the drinks of his adversaries at the height of the ball and plunging the rest of the party into brutally bloody chaos. At that point, the heroine was already safely in her apartment, reeling from the events of the night. From the mysterious lady and the whispers in her ear. 

Fin... for now.

@elle297382 I believe ya wanted a tag!

[yuseirra]

Day after day, the same as the last, tomorrow no different from today. But then, at the very moment I thought, "This is impossible now, I can’t bear it any longer," You appeared, carrying a dazzling spark of the extraordinary…!

Help me, Mayday, Hero Idol!! Fly to me, Save Me, Hero Idol!! With a decisive, ultimate, never-missing rocket punch, Smash evil to bits, Hero Idol!!! Moral dilemmas, Unforgettable traumas, I’ll give you everything you need to shine. Rise above adversity, Hero Idol!!!!!

[the-girl-in-the-high-castle]

Me seeing this post again and immediately thinking about Timeless:

[inamindfarfaraway]

So Kyle was knowingly bait for Task Force X’s trap in “Zero Day: Part One”, but regrets it at the end, both because of how badly Clark was hurt as a result and because of the genuine, unwavering kindness Clark showed him with no personal benefit. If he’d actually been on Clark’s side, they probably could have rescued his teammates. Instead Intergang and an irrefutably heroic person are all trapped under the control of Task Force X, who are very torture-happy. Intergang are carelessly selfish, but they love each other, are naive, inexperienced criminals and want money and respect, not death, suffering and destruction. They’re way in over their heads entangled with the other villains. If the “work release program” is a lie and it was all for nothing, I can see them turning on Task Force X. Maybe even if not. I don’t expect them to fully reform (though Cadmus is good in this universe, so anything’s possible), but I hope they get some development.

[crazynerdandproud]

Alright that’s it, Gerry Keay is my favorite character in tma. Just listened to episode 111 and I am emotionally devestated. Also glad he gets to rest. Also I love him. I refuse to call him Gerard (cause apparently it’s that and not Jared Jon why have you been saying it like that) from now on I’m just calling him Gerry. That or goth king.

[angst-is-love-angst-is-life]

If I had a nickel for everytime an Arrowverse hero received a back related injury from a villain dressed in all black —during their first encounter with said villain— that caused them to lose confidence in themselves and have flashbacks during training that are totallyyyyyyyy not symptoms of PTSD— nope— they’re fineeeee

I’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice right?

[yngai]

what i like about ada's report, & i'll get into it more eventually, is that despite it being ada explaining the plot (& her motivations) to you directly, it presents an interesting relationship between ada, a known liar & manipulator, & the audience. while she withholds information from other characters & skirts about on mystery throughout RE4 & separate ways, there is one person to whom she doesn't lie, to whom she does tell the truth, at least a part of it, & that is you, the player. it is a very neat narrative device that wouldn't work as well in a different medium

[burnsopale]

"Another self-referential touch comes at a scene in a tavern when Sir Percy, in disguise as a fat gap-toothed cross-eyed sailor, places a pepper pot on Chauvelin’s table (Way, p. 196). This apparently innocuous gesture, carried out with slow deliberation and accompanied by Sir Percy’s distinctive laugh, produces an instantaneous reaction from Chauvelin. He clenches his knife and fork, his cheeks turn ashen grey, and he strides quickly out of the room. This is a double humiliation, betraying emotional weakness and underlining Sir Percy’s power over him. Having failed to penetrate the disguise, he is depicted as a gullible victim of the Englishman."

From Baroness Orczy's Scarlet Pimpernel: A publishing history by Sally Dugan

*pulling out my megaphone* BARONESS ORCZY'S POOR LITTLE MEOW MEOW

*puts away megaphone*

Actually, no, I need to-*pulls out megaphone again* DO Y'ALL THINK BARONESS WAS AWARE THAT AS HER UNIVERSE BECAME SERIALIZED, THE SISYPHEAN NATURE OF THE VILLAIN'S BATTLE AGAINST THE HERO WOULD MAKE HIM INCREASINGLY PITIABLE? DID SHE REALISE THAT SHE WAS SLOWLY TURNING HER VILLAIN INTO A SYMPATHETIC PROTAGONIST AND MAKING HER HERO A TERRIFYING, MERCILESS FORCE OF NATURE?

[kossithmercar]

I am still going to reblog the jokes but I did want to say that it was just a weird take? To say that Rook is worst than or the same as Solas when the gameplay is making it very clear that they aren’t?Yes Rook fucked things up but they were actively stopping the magic equivalent of a Killing Machine while Solas was OPERATING that killing machine. Yes, we know Solas reasons, yes he was trying to fix things just like Rook was, but it’s still very different scenarios

[enchantingepics]

Story Prompt 43

In the dimly lit room, the air was thick with tension, and the man's raspy voice sliced through the silence.

He leaned in, his icy eyes piercing through the shadows, a history of battles etched into their depths. A blade pressed against the captive's skin, a silent threat in the dance of danger.

"I used to think I could save them all, you know," he muttered, bitterness clinging to his words like a stubborn stain.

The restrained figure stared back, a mixture of defiance and numbness in their eyes. "Maybe you just didn't have the guts for it."

A wry smile played on the man's lips. "Guts? Oh, sweetheart, it's not about guts. Life has a way of breaking even the bravest."

As the tension escalated, the captive's response cut through the room like a gust of wind. "You're not strong enough to face the storm, my friend."

The man's grip tightened on the knife, a flicker of anger in his gaze. "You think this is a game? You're playing with fire, and you'll get burned."

A soft, mocking laugh escaped the captive's lips. "You can't burn what's already ashes."

Their noses nearly touched as they exchanged words in the shadowy dance. "Paint me as the villain in your tale," the man hissed, the blade gliding smoothly against the skin. "I'll be the one to end you."

A spark of challenge ignited in the captive's eyes, a smirk playing on their lips. "You don't hold that kind of power. I am the storm."

[pendragora]

bestie, my single braincell is again wreaking havoc on my brain.

BUT, as I know you are a fellow enjoyer of jason todd, I'd like to say that he is the better man between him and aemond.

why? I shall illustrate it quickly.

his attempt at kinslaying didn't end up well (if you don't consider all the aus in which he does succeed, but hey...).

he has an actual code of ethics which involve never involving minors in his murder sprees, don't you think that's charming?

in conclusion, considering I loved jason since I was 18 my taste in men has grown worse.

alright, alright I am off, but babe I hope you are doing alright and having a lovely life!

If we do put them on a scale, I would say that Jason is a better man than Aemond due to his stable morals. I MUST ARGUE THO, they are completely different when it comes to the type of character they both are:

Jason is a tragic hero, a survivor, a very classic Greek Tragedy type. He is the by-product of what happened to him, of his trauma - the ressurection, the death by Joker's hand and receiving no justice whatsoever. The main motive for him is mainly in the fact that his death, his suffering was pointless and devalued because Bruce never took action Jason expected to be taken, which makes him take the action into his own hands. He does what he does for the sake of others, not for the personal gain, but because he does not want anyone to go through the things he went;

Aemond is... moraly grey perhaps? He cannot be called a hero at all. He also comes from a place of trauma, of neglect, of mishandling, of the harsh realities the world and society around him is shaped and shapes him. But he is not a righteous hero type. He is heroic, sure, in his own way, in the way he does what he does for his family, but there is so much boiling rage that breeds violence, and the more he allows himself down this path - the more he likes it and revels in the way he is. Aemond is a fallen angel that was corrupted by dark things that he learned from people around him and he learned to enjoy them (unlike Jason, who is neutral to what he does).

What they have in common is killing people, being a second son to a high-moral character, having a tragic fate, being a nerd and being doomed by the narrative. It's technicalities that make draw them out as different characters completely (tho Jason was Aemond-like piece of shit not so long ago ^^)

I personally like the tragedy and trauma aspect to both, but in my own mind I can't put them together because I enjoy them very differently (they are both hot tho. they are both so hot in all that dramatic tragedy-driven meow meow type of way)

ANYWAYS I WENT OFF THaNK YOU FOR THE ASK LOVE YOU SM BBY 💖🌹🥺

[tobiasdrake]

Something I'm fond of saying is "The villain drives the plot but the hero sets the tone." Something that's very important about this is that the resolution to the conflicts presented need to match the hero's tone. If your story doesn't believe problems can be solved the way the hero wants to solve them... why is this the hero?

If you want your problems to be solved with brutal catharsis, then your hero should be someone who believes in brutal catharsis.

If you want your problems to be solved with forgiveness and reconciliation, then your hero should be someone who believes in forgiveness and reconciliation.

They don't have to begin there. This can be something they come around to over the course of the story, as they grow and change per their character arc. But by the time of their ultimate encounter with the villain, their values should be the values that drive the story forward.

There's this thing in D&D that some DMs do. Where, when you roll enough damage to deplete the monster's hit points, they'll turn to you and say, "That's a kill. Describe for the group how you take the monster down." And you're allowed to come up with some cool maneuver or something that your character did in order to deliver the finishing blow.

The hero's ultimate triumph over the villain is a lot like this. More than any other part of the story, this moment is their apotheosis. It should be a celebration of everything they are and everything they stand for.

You have defeated the villain; Now describe for the group what form that victory takes.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Far Cry Cradle.

Pairing: Yandere!Lilia x Reader (TWST).

Word Count: 4.1k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Non/Con, Somnophilia, Kidnapping, Slight Breeding Kink, Infantilization/Dehumanization, and Implied Pregnancy. Slight Spoilers for Book Seven.

Humans were skittish creatures.

Lilia knew that better than most, but even if he hadn’t, it would’ve been plain to see. Their soldiers required battle cries and marching songs to keep their nerve on the field, their royalty barricaded themselves behind gates of iron and castles of brick, and even the lowliest among them fell back on rumor and superstition to vent their anxiety, telling each other tales of heroes and villains and treachery and valiance as to best root a bit of bravery in one another where they’d failed to plant it in themselves. It was an admirable effort – albeit, a misplaced one. There were things in the world worth being afraid of. Trying to forget that was as foolish as succumbing to it.

You were a skittish creature, certainly. Your condition was no worse than that of the state he found you in, and yet, your trembling had only grown more violent, your muffled noises quickly becoming too pitiful to ignore. It’d been a struggle just to get you back to his cottage, and you’d scrambled into the smallest, darkest possible corner as soon as he’d let you go. It was a miracle you didn’t make a break for the door. At least he knew that, whatever you thought he was going to do to you, it couldn’t have been worse than whatever you’d encountered in the for—

“Please don’t eat me.”

Your voice, cracked and hoarse, brought his attention back to you. He sighed, pushing himself away from the wall and ebbing closer until he stood in front of you. Despite your brazenness, you shied away, sinking that much deeper into your corner. He wondered how long you’d stay there. Any more than a few hours, and he might start to worry.

“I’m going to… eat you?”

A sharp inhale, followed quickly by a shaky nod. “I—In my village, they used to say nocturnal fae considered human flesh to be a delicacy,” you managed, in time. Lilia had to bite back a laugh. “I don’t want to be eaten. If you have to kill me, I’d understand, but I don’t want to be—”

“Relax.” It was more of an order than he meant it to be. Instantly, you went rigid, pulling your knees into your chest and staring at him, doe eyed.

With your panic momentarily thrown into paralysis, he took a moment to evaluate you. You really were in bad shape. Fresh bruises and cuts lined your bare arms and legs, and your clothing had been torn, mended, then torn again. You carried no supplies, but judging from the defensive edge to your posture, the extent of your distress, you’d been fending for yourself for quite a while. Most worryingly, you were barefoot. Wandering through unfamiliar terrain, hungry and cold, was unpleasant. Wandering through unfamiliar terrain, hungry and cold and forced out of comfort so suddenly, you didn’t have time to grab even the most obvious of essentials, was significantly more unpleasant.

He cleared his throat, then fell into a crouch, lowering himself to your height. “Why are you in Briar Valley?”

Your answer came quickly, reflexively. “I was lost.”

“Alright, what were you doing when you got lost?”

This time, your response was less easily provided. “.. picking berries?”

Perfect. You didn’t have nerve to meet his eyes, but lying to his face didn’t seem to cause you so much strife.

Surprisingly, you spoke up without prompting, uncurling slightly. “Are you going to let me go?”

Lilia grit his teeth. Letting you go would be a bad idea, not only because it was the dead of winter and travelling just about anywhere in your state was a death sentence. You were fickle, and nervous, and more than a little disoriented, but you were human, too, and he was in sore need of one of those.

“No,” and then, rolling his eyes as you let out another keening whimper, “For two reasons. Firstly, it’s winter, you’re injured, and if I let you go back out there, you’d only get yourself killed. Secondly, I need—”

As if rehearsed, an ear-piercing cry broke through the cottage’s quiet, immediately replacing any semblance of peace with a misery that outmatched yours ten-fold. Lilia, as exhausted as he’d ever been on the battlefield, let his head fall, forcing himself to take a deep breath before soldiering on. “I have a son,” he said, only just managing to speak over the child’s wailing. “You’ll be taking care of him, during your time here.”

In retrospect, he could’ve been nicer about it – less brisk, more accommodating, leaning more towards a suggestion than a command. But, it wasn’t in his nature to ask questions where he could dull out orders, and if the idea of childrearing was as aversive to you as that of admitting where you hailed from, you did a decent job of masking it. If anything, your expression seemed to soften, your eyes darting in the direction of Silver’s nursery. For the first time since he’d found you, you managed to say something half-way rational.

“…can I meet him?”

Lilia considered it. Waiting until tomorrow morning may have been wiser. You’d have a chance to gather yourself, and he could tend to Silver on his own in the meantime, ready the child to meet someone other than Malleus and himself. It was probably the more considerate thing to do, the smarter thing to do, but the wailing grew louder, and your eyes caught the dim moonlight in a way that almost made you seem eager, and with a rasped sigh, he stood to his full height, signaling for you to do the same. “For a minute or so. He ought to be asleep, by now.”

He turned away from you, and without a word, you scrambled to your feet, tripping over yourself to follow after him.

~

Humans were sentimental things.

Strangely so. Inexplicably so. Silver had warmed to him immediately, sure, but he’d been a newborn at the time, willing to love anyone who could coo his name and make lights in pretty colors dance on their fingertips. Adults had fewer excuses. Baur’s new son-in-law was rumored to have fallen in love with his now-wife the first time he laid eyes on her, and you…

You could’ve loved a dried patch of thistle, so long as it needed your help.

Lilia made a habit of watching you, generally speaking, but he made sure to hover a little closer whenever you had Silver in your arms – which you almost always did, these days. It was clear that your experience was limited, but you took to childrearing like a fish took to water; dedicating yourself to tending to Silver’s needs as you would’ve your own flesh and blood. Currently, you were sitting by the fire in an age-old rocking chair, bouncing him on one knee and balancing an open book on the other, doing your best to read out some nonsensical fairytale to an unruly audience of one. Or, two, he supposed. He was catching more of it than he’d like to.

When you got to the part about the princess being woken up from an eternal sleep by true love’s kiss, he cut in. “If those are the kind of stories you’ll be telling the boy, it might be better not to speak to him at all.”

Your fear of him seemed to fade more and more with every passing sunrise. Now, you only responded to his chiding with a chime of a laugh, a quick shake of your head. “Talking to children is important. It doesn’t matter what you say, so long as they hear your voice.” You paused, leaning just a little closer to Silver. “Plus, it means you’re going to love me way more than your dad when you’re older. By then, you’ll already know he’s no fun.”

By way of reply, Silver clapped merrily and curled a tiny first around your sleeve. You shot Lilia a triumphant smirk. “See? He’s already playing favorites.”

Lilia pursed his lips. “He never seemed to mind being along with me.”

“Only because he didn’t know any better. You were trying to nurse him on wine, and—”

“Fruit juice,” he corrected.

“Fermented fruit juice. In other words, wine.” Almost protectively, you gathered Silver in your arms, propping him against your shoulder. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to say his name more, either. You should get into the habit while he’s still too young to remember being called ‘the boy’.”

At that, Lilia turned away entirely, huffing. He knew you were right. He’d known that when he named Silver, when he decided he was fit to raise a child with a face he still saw in his darkest dreams. Still, to love a child unconditionally and to be a father were two very different things. He was currently stumbling through the latter, but accomplishing the former was proving more difficult than he would ever care to admit aloud.

With a sigh, he edged closer to you, perching himself on the arm of your chair. “May I hold him?”

You feigned reluctance, but didn’t put up a fight. Silver was passed from one pair of hands to another, and Lilia held the child in his lap. “Silver,” he muttered, bringing up a hand to pinch his cheek gently. Good-tempered as always, Silver stared at him wide-eyed, as if in anticipation. “My first son was much more durable. Then again, he did have the decency to hatch from an egg.”

“That actually explains a lot about Malleus.” You straightened abruptly, clapping your hands together. “Oh, and we’re running low on powdered milk. You should ask him to pick some up, if he plans on visiting this week.”

 It was Lilia’s turn to laugh, now – not at anything you’d said, but at his own early misconception. He’d been too embarrassed to say anything after your hasty correction, but now, the confession came more easily, more naturally. “Honestly, I thought that’d be less of a problem with you here. I suppose I was under the impression that humans can make their own.”

A beat passed, then another. When he glanced toward you, he found your head bowed, a prominent flush spread over most of your face. It was cute, in a vulnerable sort of way. Lilia took longer than he should’ve to look away. “…some humans can. Only after they’ve had, uh, a child of their own first, though.” You shrugged. “There are a lot of conditions that have to be met before it’s something you really have to worry about, I guess.

“And you haven’t met those conditions, yet?”

Your blush darkened. “No, I haven’t.”

Ah.

On second thought, you weren’t very doe-like after all. Even a deer would’ve had more talent when it came to hiding its expression.

You were quick to divert your attention, pushing yourself to your feet and smoothing over your skirt. “The sun is setting and I’m getting hungry. Could you watch Silver while I start dinner?”

“I was actually thinking I could—”

“I’d rather starve.”

~

Humans were confounding things.

Emotional, irrational, ineffective. Pleasure and comfort were put above survival in almost every circumstance, hierarchy was treated as more of suggestion than a rule, and attachments could be formed to anything your unknowable minds deemed worth pitying. The weather grew warmer, the snowstorms fewer and further between, and yet, the idea of you leaving was never revisited. He wasn’t especially eager to broach the topic either, but Lilia had a good reason to want to keep you nearby, to make sure Silver had another set of eyes to watch over him. The same couldn’t be said for you.

“Mind if I join you?”

He glanced up and, of course, found the source of his misery. The picture was perfect; the set that of his cottage painted in the colors of dusk, the focus you dressed in the simple dress and apron gifted to you by Malleus. There was a low huff, a shallow nod, and you crossed the shallow stream, setting yourself next to him where he kneeled. “Silver just fell asleep,” you explained. “I’d give it a good hour or so before he so much as stirs. That kid could sleep through a war if he wanted to.”

“I think he might’ve,” Lilia muttered. You only laughed, leaning into his side.

“So,” you started, peering into the steam, empty save for the occasional chunk of ice drifting on the current. “What are we looking at?”  

“Lost in thought, that’s all. There won’t be anything worth looking at until Spring.” He sighed. “I suppose you’ll have returned to your proper home, by then.”

To your credit, you only faltered for a fraction of a moment – catching yourself before you let so much as your sweet, simpering smile fall away. A lesser man may not have noticed it, but Lilia was not a lesser man.

“Do you want me to leave?”

No. He’d give an arm and leg to keep you here. He’d let it snow through Spring, Summer and Fall. He’d teach Silver how to cry whenever you so much as thought about a home outside of his cottage. There were few things he wouldn’t do, if it meant you never left.

“I might be old, but I’m not delusional.” He forced himself to chuckle, the loud airy and only somewhat strained. “There’s some place you belong, some place you came from, and I don’t think it’s in this valley. It’d be selfish of me to keep you any longer than you ought to stay.”

He made a point of not looking at you, his gaze focused on the lining the streambed. There was a long exhale, then a hollow thud as you fell back – collapsing to the half-frozen ground. Just barely above a whisper, you admitted, “I like it here, Lilia.”

“Surely there are things from your own world that you miss.”

“Not as many as you’d think.”

“Comforts, then. I’ve heard wonderful things about electricity.”

“I’m plenty comfortable already. More than I ever was back home.”

“There has to be someone you miss, (Y/n).”

He heard the grass rustle as you rolled onto your side. When he stole a glance in your direction, he saw that you’d left your back to him. “Yeah.” And then, after a long moment, “I guess there should be.”

In an act of either sympathy or cowardice, he gave you time, allowed you space. Long seconds passed before you pulled yourself upright, letting your hands fall into your lap with a weary sigh. “I’ll leave on the first day of Spring,” you decided. “Before you forget how to take care of Silver on your own.”

“He’s still my son, you know.”

“Sure.” And just like that, you were back to beaming. This time, Lilia couldn’t stand to tear his eyes away from you.

“But I’m always going to behis favorite.”

~

Humans were softened things.

You, more so than most. Your skin felt like milkweed and velvet where his calloused fingers grazed over it, growing softer the farther up he travelled. There was still a winter chill in the air, but the weather was warming steadily, and at some point during the night, you’d kicked your quilts and blankets to the side, leaving you sheltered by only a cloth sleeping gown with sleeves prone to slipping down your shoulders and a skirt eager to pool around your waist. Any other night, Lilia might’ve rolled his eyes, lit the hearth in your bedroom, and left you to your own devices. Another other night, but not tonight.

It was strange, the way he loved you. He’d loved Maleanor, and a part of him always would, but that’d been different. To love Maleanor had been to love a force of nature; a storm as untouchable as it was destructive. He was never going to have her, and in a certain way, he’d always known that. You were different. You weren’t Maleanor. You weren’t distant, or untouchable, or destructive. He already had you.

All he had to do was make sure you couldn’t get away.

He’d expected there to be more guilt, more resignation. Instead, there was only relief as he propped a knee on the edge of your bed, rested a hand next to your sleeping face, allowed himself to ebb and sway closer to you until he was positioned in the space between your legs, his chest nearly pressing into yours. His gaze never left your expression; panicked and contorted, not completely unlike the face you’d worn when he first brought you home. Poor thing. You were having a nightmare.

Removing your dress came first. You were a fitful sleeper, prone to waking at the slightest disturbance, but he wasn’t green to delicate work. You whimpered as he dragged a pointed talon from your collar to your navel, but didn’t stir, didn’t shift, didn’t do anything that might’ve stopped him from bringing his mouth to your collarbone and pressing a feather-soft kiss into the base of your throat, the curve of your chest, the last blue-ringed bruise you carried from the night you met. A selfish, territorial part of him hoped it would never fade, that you’d always carry a mark connecting back to him. A more optimistic, more reasonable faction reminded him that he could simply make more.

His mouth wandered in time with his thoughts. He was careful, cautious as he curled his hands around your thighs, kneading with as much force as he could risk. You were beautiful in your obedience; spreading your legs reflexively, letting out a soft, breathy noise as Lilia settled into the now-open space. The thin fabric of your panties gave away as easily as your gown had, and Lilia’s patience reached its breaking point. Weary of his fangs, he bowed his head and—

Ah.

Humans were sweet, too.

And reactive. Even unconscious, you responded to each hasty swipe and drag of his tongue with a moan, a whine, a mewl so pitiful and so heartbreaking, the idea of ever letting you travel beyond his sight suddenly seemed irresponsible, cruel, unfair to a creature so delicate, it could hardly stand imagine itself to be unwanted. He sighed, letting his hands drift to your waist as he lapped over your clit, as eager to pleasure you as he was to drink in the fruits of his labor. It wasn’t long before your sleep turned restless, your body shifting underneath him in an attempt to escape unfamiliar stimulation. When he refused to let you go so easily, you reacted on instinct; snapping your thighs shut around his head and drawing out a low, reverberating grown from your willing victim.

More. That was what you must’ve wanted – more. He buried himself that much deeper in his task, nuzzling into the inside of your thigh as his tongue spread you open, curling against the walls of your cunt, seeking out anything sensitive, anything vulnerable, anything to make your hips buck into his mouth and your thighs shake where they were still trapped in his hands. He let his teeth scrape over the tender junctions between your thighs, and when that wasn’t enough, ground the bridge of his nose into your clit. Admittedly, it was messy effort; too hasty for your first time. He was tempted to chide himself for being so overly enthusiastic, but the awareness that this was only the first time of countless was enough of a comfort to spur him on.

It wasn’t long before he felt you tense underneath him, sucking in a harsh breath as your cunt clenched around his tongue. He nursed you through your climax (your first ever climax, he chose to believe) until your little whines had turned to near-pained whimpers, until he could no longer stand to limit himself to simply rutting against cold, lifeless bedding. With one more fleeting kiss to the apex of your hip, he pushed himself onto his knees and took to aligning the leaking head of his cock with your entrance, now dripping with arousal and spit. His gaze fixed on your peaceful expression, he thrust into you, no longer patient enough to be quite so gentle.

It was in a state of unparalleled bliss that the watched your eyes snap open, immediately finding him. Your lips parted, a scream already rising in your throat, but he forced his hand over your mouth before it could surface. It wouldn’t do to wake Silver, not at a time like this.

“Easy, love, easy,” he cooed. Your only response was a wince, a twist, a ragged sob reverberating against his palm. He might’ve been offended, had he not been able to feel you growing warmer, growing tighter around his length. “I apologize if there’s any pain. Can you try and relax for me?”

Apparently not. Your hands found their way to his chest, clawing frantically thought the thin material of his tunic. You tried to move his legs, too, but he was quick to put a stop to that, leaning his weight against you and pinning you to the bed. A bit selfishly, he took the opportunity to press his chest to yours, his hips to yours, to root himself that much deeper into you. It was paradise, the way you clung to him. He could only wonder why he didn’t realize how precious you were sooner.

“Easy,” he repeated, more breathlessly. “Would you rather I restrain you?”

The clawing stopped immediately. After a moment, he felt you shake your head.

“And you don’t want to end up hurting yourself, now, do you?”

Another shake, this one more trepid than the first.

“Then listen to me.” He rested his chin on your shoulder, careful not to raise his voice. “Make all the noise you want, but don’t scream. I’m not afraid of seeking out more permanent solutions.”

That was enough to get you to stop moving entirely. He held you close for a second, then another, before pulling away. True to your word (or lack thereof), you kept quiet, catching your bottom lip in your teeth and shutting your eyes so tightly, he could almost believe you no longer cared to look at him. With an airy laugh, he rested a hand next to your head and started to move.

It was your first time. It had to be. If you’d had any experience at all, you wouldn’t have responded to every slow, sentimental thrust with such adorable squeaking, wouldn’t have clung to the sheets with such a heartbreaking desperation. With your compliance ensured, he tried to be delicate, to give you time to adjust, but you made it difficult not to seek out the reactions you seemed so ready to provide. You made it hard not to use more force than he should’ve, not to root himself deeper than he should’ve, not to grind and rut and fuck like some drooling animal, caught up in its own heat. He could tell you were trying to ignore him, but even that had to break, eventually; your hands shooting to his shoulders as he lost his pace, your nails digging into his skin as he found something more substantial, something bordering on rabid. This time, he welcomed your violence. It was the least he could do, to help ground his distraught little love.

“You’re going to stay here.” He didn’t realize he’d meant to say anything aloud until he heard his own voice, low and drawn-out, playing just above your miserable whines and pleasured moans. “You’ll never have to leave. You’ll belong here. You already belong with me.”

“I don’t—”

“You won’t have a choice,” he assured, the comfort in his voice thick and prone to clotting. “Not after tonight.”

He watched horror flash across your expression, then something else, something he couldn’t quite name. It didn’t matter. His lips were already crashing into yours, dragging you into a kiss put off for far, far too long. Light flashed behind his eyes, and some unnamable tether drawn taut inside of him finally snapped. With his hips pressed flush to yours, he stilled and came undone. You followed a moment later, milking him for all he had.

For minutes, it was all he could do to stay trapped there; your warm body pressed into his, your stifled crying the only sound filling the empty space. When he did break from his trance, it was with an airy laugh, a brush of his cheek against yours before he dipped lower, taking shelter in the crook of your neck. Whether or not you could hear him was irrelevant. You’d have plenty of time to listen, from now on.

“You’re going to be a perfect mother.”