#his ability to move is really sporadic

[shaadowmilkcookie]

One of Shadow Milk’s many prop replicas of himself, left behind. Even though the eyes are forever staring straight into the distance… Oddly enough, you still feel like you’re being watched.

But surely, though, it won’t hurt to take it home and touch up the colours, right? :)

[pedropascallme]

Stars Above

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x f!Reader

Summary: "Perhaps sensing your discomfort, he smiled, and the thin remnants of his lips cracked open to display yellow teeth. 'You ain’t never seen a ghoul before, vaultie?'"

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) canon typical violence and lots of it, threatening language, angst, description of a panic attack, descriptions of cannibalism and dead bodies, age gap obviously (Cooper is canon 200+ years old; reader is written as early 20s), guided masturbation (f receiving), themes of voyeurism/exhibitionism, a ton of dirty talk, very mild degradation, phonetic spelling of Cooper's accent because I can, if I missed anything please let me know!!

AN: part 2 here!!

You had miscalculated just about everything about the surface.

You’d underestimated the ability people had to be cold and calculating in their cruelty. You’d underestimated the difficulty of navigating the endless Wasteland. You’d underestimated the effects radiation might have on you, leaving you fatigued and nauseous despite the Rad-X you’d been sure to pack away safely in your satchel.

Maybe you should’ve read the warning label.

What was worse, you thought, was how badly you had overestimated yourself. You were so certain you would be able to make a name for yourself—make a name for those you would meet; find kindness in the sand and friends in low places.

But you were just a small drop in the bucket, and nobody wanted a name. They wanted to survive in silence and safety.

You were out of rations, and nearly out of water. You’d sweat gallons through your vault suit, making the fabric itchy as it clung to your skin, and causing you to shiver sporadically as the setting sun invited a chill over the landscape. You dragged your feet over the sand, leaving a path behind you, and part of you wondered if you should just drop dead right there. The sand was soft, warm, and maybe dying on your own accord would be more comfortable than dying by the hand of someone who would kill you simply for the sheer rush of spilling blood.

You stopped moving, slumping down to the ground and coughing. There was a deep ache in your lungs, and heaving up dry air did little to quell the overall discomfort.

You wove your hands through the sand, letting it fall through your fingers.

Could you just go home? Had you ever really had a home?

You pushed down a wave of nausea, swallowing the bile that pushed up against your throat, Tumbledown buildings crumbled around you, and for once in your life you felt truly small. Once, when you were young, you had been sent to your room, and in a moment of frustrated panic you’d felt as though the walls were caving in on you. You’d stood on your bed, pushing up on tiny tiptoes, pressing your hands to the ceiling, refusing to let the walls squeeze you into a cube of yourself.

You smiled at the memory. You wished now more than ever that you could stand on your toes and push against the sky.

You heard something echo in the distance, and, flinching, squinted up into the horizon. Metal rooves reflected against the fading burden of the sun; another echo sounded, something like spurs on scrap, and you sighed, heart heavy in your chest.

Maybe this town would be the one to offer solace.

You stood on tired legs, making haste in the direction of the noise.

~~~

The tinny sounds had ceased long before you walked through the broken arch announcing the town. It was desolate, as if everybody had vacated the area before you’d made contact. Part of you took it personally, and you pouted rather childishly.

In the dimly lit dusk, you roamed the empty paths under flickering lights, stepping over caps and carts that had been turned over. When you came across a body, it became apparent that the clamor you had followed was the result of a gunfight.

You stepped over the body, too.

You had never stared at death before making your way to the surface, and it had come as a shock to you that it didn’t bother you more. Blood wasn’t as bright as it was in the movies, nor did killers give any heated last words before pulling the trigger. Any executions you had seen thus far were dull and hurried. You thought back to an old movie you watched once, one that ended with a cowboy executing a rowdy criminal, and you wondered if anybody bothered to monologue their slaughters the way he had.

You’d long forgotten the title of the film and the name of the actor, but you remembered finding him handsome.

You stooped on bent knees to pick up a piece of fruit that had fallen from one of the overturned carts. You sat there, gnawing at it, feeling the sour bites you took fall into your empty stomach. You made it to the core, tossing it over your shoulder and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. But you paused, remnants of the bitter juice still on your lips when your head shot up to analyze your surroundings.

Someone was watching you.

The sound of footsteps approaching were made all the more unsettling when paired with a boisterous, ugly laugh. Still on your knees, you squared your shoulders, looking up to meet the eyes of a man in bloodied garb and a gun on his hand.

“Saw you eating that,” his teeth were sharp, and his voice high, “Not good to litter, vaultie.” He stopped in front of you, hands on his hips as he scrutinized you. “Why don’t you go crawl over and pick that up.”

You didn’t move. He put his hands on his knees to lean over you, fumbling with his revolver.

“No,” you tried to sound confident, though your voice was quiet and didn’t carry far, “I don’t want to. Thank you.”

He howled, and it made you wince. “Thank you, now that’s sweet,” his gun came up to poke under your chin, “Thank you…I wasn’t asking, girl.”

You tried to find your voice again, but the barrel of the gun was pressed into your neck, and you knew he would seize on any reason to pull the trigger. You inhaled through your nose, trying to buy yourself some time.

A shadow came up behind you, wrapping you in darkness as something approached soundlessly. The man in front of you faltered, and you watched as the confidence drained from his eyes.

“Ain’t that sweet…” A drawling voice, almost saccharine, came from the source of the shadow, and you knew then that it was someone. “Find y'self a toy there, Otis?”

The man—Otis, maybe—who had previously seemed so cocky with his demands, retreated into himself slightly, straightening back up to his full height to meet the eyes of whoever stood behind you.

“You’re not welcome here, Ghoul,” he scowled, “Finders keepers.”

“Well, now, I don’ think y’really in any position to give orders.” It was only now you that wondered whether you were being fought over not out of any sympathetic, weeping heart on behalf of the person behind you, or whether this was a battle for who got to see your blood flow.

“Yeah?” Otis chuckled, “Why’s that?”

You saw the man behind you gesture with his gun in your peripheral. “You got a hole in yo’ neck.”

You watched Otis squint in confusion in the split second before a shot whirred above your head and hit him clean through the throat. He crumpled to the ground, gagging on death, before he let out a damning noise and ceased all movement.

You took deep, shaky breaths, finding the courage to stand up, to turn around and get a good look at your savior.

When you did finally came face level with the man called ‘Ghoul,’ you felt that your initial instinct in referring to a thing behind you had been more apt after all.

His skin was reddened and chapped, marred with scars that covered his face and ran down his neck. He was hairless, as far as you could tell, and his eyes were sunken deep below the ridge where his eyebrows should’ve been. He was decked out in a cowboy costume, long duster to match his Stetson, gun strapped to his hip that paired nicely with his ammo belt.

He had no nose.

Perhaps sensing your discomfort, he smiled, and the thin remnants of his lips cracked open to display yellow teeth. “You ain’t never seen a ghoul before, vaultie?”

You continued to scan his face, and after a few fleeting moments you met his eyes; you couldn’t tell what color they were, if they were hazel or brown or maybe just yellow, muted by the evening, and the shadow cast over his face by the brim of his hat.

No matter the color, you thought they were pretty all the same.

You hesitated, shaking your head.

“Well, ain’t you lucky. Now yo’meetin’ The Ghoul.” His eyes widened, menacing but amused, and you took a step back, nearly stumbling on Otis’s lifeless feet.

“Th—um. Thank you,” you ignored his grandiose introduction, “For…” You gestured behind you.

The Ghoul tipped his hat forward, “Not a problem.” He took a step back, mirroring your movements, “C’mon now. S’dark.”

You made a face, “Oh—no, I…Thank you, for, you know, for helping me out, but I don’t—I’m not really looking for—”

He whistled, and the shrill cut you off, “You really don’know a question if it hit ya in the ribs, sweetheart.” He smirked, “I wasn’t askin’.”

“But I don’t,” you started, watching as he unraveled a rope from his side and tied a knot into it, “I would rather not go with you. I’m—you caught me at a bad time, really, I’m usually just fine by myself.”

“Well…” He tightened the knot, “you keep tellin’ yourself that while we walk.” He swung the rope over his head, and you realized too late that he had been tying a lasso. It came down around your midriff, trapping your hands at your sides when he pulled.

“Hey!” You tried to fight, moving your elbows beneath the constraint and burning your skin in the process.

The Ghoul circled you, stooping down to pick up the gun that had fallen off of Otis’s person, before his face came to peek over your shoulder, cheek to cheek with you. “Hi, there.” He smirked, tugging your restrictions.

~~~

You were used to endless roaming by now. It’s all there was to do; outrun the danger before it could find you, then do the same again when faced with a new conundrum. But the Ghoul walked fast, long strides made tuneful with the help of the spurs on his boots. There was a nice consistency, the metal almost sounded like a lilting voice, though you wished it was less frantic.

You had lost feeling in your fingers, unable to grip your belongings properly, and in a kind gesture that you hadn’t expected from him, the Ghoul hoisted your bag onto his shoulder. You were stiff and sore, and maybe the rope was keeping blood from rushing to your brain, because you couldn’t stop staring at him from behind, watching the way his gloved hand pressed into the bag—your bag—on his hip.

“Where are we going?” You piped up, breaking the silence you’d been stewing in for the past hour. You got no response, so you pushed on. “Where are you taking me?” He didn’t break his stride, pulling you along like the lost puppy you were. You pulled your body against the strain of the rope, digging your heels into the ground and stopping in your tracks. “And what’s a ghoul?”

You watched his shoulders slump as he, too, came to a halt. He let out a sigh, turning around to face you. “Nowhere,” he counted on his fingers as he began to answer your questions in order, “Wherever I go. Me.”

You shifted awkwardly on your feet. “So…you’re the only one?”

“Never said that.” He turned his back to you again. “Y’see that clearin’ there,” he pointed into the distance at a group of rocks sunken into the sand. “That’s your bed t’night.” He started walking again, and you followed suit.

The night cast long shadows over the expansive nothingness, and the air made you shiver. The wind pushed at your hair, which in turn clung to your temples with the excess sweat of the day.

“You aren’t the only one, then,” you kept talking, “Are you—is it the radiation? Or are you a…a people?”

He let out a short chuckle. “The only people left. Far’s I’m concerned.” He skirted around your question, leading you around the rocks and finding a comfortable spot that left you hidden in the darkness. He dropped the rope, tossing your bag to the side as he did so, and you grumbled about how he shouldn’t be so careless with things that weren’t his own. He ignored you, walking over with an expressionless face and deftly tugging the knot from the rope. It fell in a heap around your ankles, and you let out a thankful, happy noise. He tossed a glance your way, eyeing you almost curiously, before beginning to make a small fire at the center of your open-air hideout.

You fell to the ground, exhausted, and addled by the events of the past few hours. You closed your eyes and tilted your head back. The rock behind you may well have been a pillow, the ache in your bones finding comfort in even the most unyielding of resting places.

You opened your eyes tentatively, reluctant to see any more of the Wasteland that you had so callously thought would welcome you with open arms. When you finally blinked up, the blackness of the night blanketed you, and with it, there were stars.

Not stars like the ones on a TV screen. Not stars like the ones behind your eyes after staring into your lamp for too long. Not stars like the ones you drew on your ceiling as a child. Not stars like the ones projected in the common area during a dinner you were told was meant to authentically replicate a Fourth of July celebration.

Real stars.

Gaseous beings that reflected against the sand, lightyears away but close enough to touch, if you could just reach out and grab one; cradle it in your cupped hands and let the fire permeate your palms.

Treat it like a child. Treat it beautifully.

“What’re you lookin’ at,” the Ghoul’s rasp broke you from your existential musings.

You looked forward, finding his sunken eyes across the light of the fire that paled in comparison to the light above you. “If you…if you wanted to kill me, I’m ready now.”

You watched weathered skin stretch taut across his yellowed teeth. You knew it was, perhaps, a bit inappropriate, but for a moment you couldn’t ignore the way the word ‘beautiful’ bounced around your head when you looked at him.

“Not gonna kill ya,” he poked at the fire with a stick, “No good t’me dead.”

“Well then, what?” You lost your filter, uncaring. There were stars in the sky, there was air on your skin, and you didn’t care if you died in the middle of the barren land your ancestors would have once called home. “What good am I to you alive?” You let a laugh out, thin and strained, “Are you just keeping me around so I—so I don’t get lonely?”

He tossed the stick to the side, and the sand caught it with a pathetic thump. “How long you been in them vaults?” He leaned forward.

You made a face, searching for a tone in his gaze. “My whole life,” you scoffed. He knew that.

“’N how long you been up here for?”

You looked away, embarrassed, and tried to hide how you attempted to count the days on your fingers. “I…don’t know…” You gave up.

“You don’ know,” he stared into the fire, “Don’t know shit about lonely.” There was a beat of silence, and the whisper of the wind filled the gap in conversation. He straightened out, meeting your eyes again and smirking as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just been thrown back to a time when he would’ve come home to a freshly cooked meal and his daughter on his hip and his dog circling his feet. “Plus,” he rustled a hand in his pocket, pulling out an inhaler and taking a puff, “You’ll make good bait.”

“Good bait?” You interrogated him.

“Ya noticed how bad news seems t’follow you round here?” He stretched his arms behind his head, and you felt a sudden heat on your cheeks that you chalked up to sunburn. “Pretty thing like you pro’ly has a whole army o’folks after her. ‘N I’m guessing them folks ain’t the kind you’d like t’hang around.”

“Like you?” You raised a brow, throwing his words back at him.

“You’d like that,” he huffed. “Darlin’, I’m playin’ the oldest game there is: set a trap ‘n the critters will fall into’t.”

You mulled over what he’d said, narrowing your eyes and looking at your hands as you came to your conclusion. “You’re talking about—you’re a bounty hunter…” You looked back up at him, and he was grinning. “And you’re talking about using me as a decoy!” Your posture straightened, and you stared daggers into him.

“Guilty as charged,” he tilted his head at you.

“You can’t do that—I’m not just going to let you do that.” You fumed.

“Don’t have to,” he shrugged, jutting out his lower lip, “Can leave right now, ‘f’ya want.” His features morphed into a grim smirk, “But I don’t think a li’l vaultie like you knows a goddamn thing 'bout what’s waitin’ round the corner.”

You swallowed, trying to form a biting response, but he continued.

“But, hell, f’you wanna risk it…” he put the inhaler back into one of his pockets, “Be my guest, vaultie. Free t’go.”

You huffed, and he smiled. He was right, and you both knew it; left to your own devices, you'd be dead in that town he found you in. You settled into your fate.

“Don’t call me vaultie.” You muttered, tired of the way the seemingly derogatory title had been hurled at you since you first emerged from the safety of your life underground.

“Gonna have to tell me y’name, then,” he tilted his head, waiting. You told him your name, and he laughed. “Look’it that. Friends already.”

“You’re not my friend,” you didn’t know where the venom was coming from; somewhere between him helping you out and him sitting in front of you now, you’d decided he was attractive, charismatic, maybe not the worst company you could be stuck with. But after learning what your new role was, you felt more than a little cheated.

“Damn right I’m not.” He whistled, and you turned away from him, curling into a ball on the ground.

“’M going to sleep,” you grumbled. “Wake me up if you decide to go fishing,” you raised your head for a moment, “You’ll need your lure.”

That got you a real laugh, the first genuine sound you'd heard from him.

And you liked it, despite the ire you felt towards him now. 

~~~

You woke up under the blazing sun with sand in your hair. You blinked hard, trying to remember where you were, how you got there, and what had happened to your bag.

Your questions were answered when a shadow engulfed you from above, and you looked up to face the Ghoul.

He had his hat off, letting you gather more evidence to support your belief that he was completely hairless. He stayed quiet, looming over you and watching you groan under the misfortune of wakefulness.

You grunted at him, pushing yourself up to stand, shaking the sand from your body as you did. “You didn’t wake me up last night.”

“You complainin’?” He knit his naked brow.

“No…just, I figured you might want me to keep watch,” you dug sand from your ear, “You trying to tell me that you’re fine just going without sleep?”

“Succeedin’, by the sound of it,” he smirked, and you pursed your lips. “You can stay up as late as ya want next time, darlin’. Don’ let me stop ya.”

“I won’t.” You snatched your bag from his hand and turned to find a way out of the maze of rocks you’d slept in.

He grinned. “Lead on, then.”

And you did, spending several days on a loop; walk, rest, walk, sleep, wake up, pick a direction, repeat. He shared rations and water, he let you sleep when he could’ve forced you to take watch, but he was quiet. It was as if he was so used to life as a predator that he couldn’t even toy with the idea of letting his guard down when there was nobody but you around for miles upon miles. And it wasn't as if you were any threat to him.

It drove you crazy. The benefit that came with having someone like him, skilled and sharp, was greatly dampened by the lack of any real socialization.

You were grateful, at the very least, that it had only taken him a night to decide you no longer needed to be constrained; you liked being able to carry your own things, and, even more, being able to use your own hands. Your arms still felt raw, fading rope burn wounds licking shallowly at your skin under your sleeves, but at least you were free to stretch them now.

The Ghoul stayed several steps behind you when you walked, always keeping his distance but watching closely as you struggled to pretend to know where you were going.

Now, you wiped sweat from your forehead, stopping momentarily to let a cool breeze whip at your face.

“Hell are you doin’ now?” The Ghoul’s dry voice was carried to you by the wind. It was the first thing he’d said to you, unprompted, in two days.

“Feels good,” you sighed, turning to him with your eyes closed and holding your arms out beside you, “The wind. It’s nice.”

“Won’t be in a second.” You opened your eyes to green clouds in the distance behind him. “Because that,” he motioned back at the clouds with his head, “s’a radstorm. And you,” he tipped his hat at you, grazing the brim with his fingers, “Ain’t gonna do too well out in it.”

As if on cue, a bolt of lightning shot down, followed by a loud clap, emphasizing the Ghoul’s words.

“Better have some Rad-X in that bag, sweetheart,” his lips were parted, and you noticed that, although his teeth were yellowed by years of chewing on god knows what, they were remarkably straight. “Oughta get ya under cover.”

You’d heard about radstorms, and assumed, in your naivete, that you’d be able to make it through one without any problems. But the speed at which the disagreeably green clouds approached, and the tone of voice used by your companion, made you feel as though this, too, was something you’d been wrong about.

Maybe you went pale, looking as nauseous as you felt, but then there was a guiding hand on your waist. You jumped, unprepared for any contact and ready to gripe about it, before following the man’s gaze beyond a small sand hill.

“C’mon,” his eyes stayed trained on a ramshackle house just a short distance away, “Can wait it out.”

You nodded, falling over your own feet when he began walking at a brisk pace. The hand he’d placed on the small of your back worked as leverage to get you to hurry up and match his stride.

You closed the door just as the wind started to pick up.

“Woo,” the Ghoul raised his arms above his head, stretching. “S’a nice place we got here.”

You looked around the building; some remaining wallpaper clung to the walls for dear life, there was a couch that looked to be more sand than cushion, and a single table, overturned, in the corner.

“Is it?” You questioned.

“Ya wanna go check outside, see f’ya prefer that?” He challenged, and you backed down, scowling at him.

“How long will the storm last?” You trailed your eyes over the cabin, trying to see if there was anything worth looking at.

There wasn’t.

“An hour,” the Ghoul situated himself on the sofa, “A day. Maybe two.” He took off his hat, fanning himself with it.

“So…we’re stuck here?” You finally let your eyes wander over to him, finding yourself oddly enamored by the way his high, hollow cheekbones framed his face.

“You got somewhere you wanna be?” He stretched his arms over the back of the couch, leaning back and spreading his legs. You blamed the pulse that went through you on radiation, turning away to rummage through your pack for Rad-X.

“Just not much to do.” You swallowed the pill, kicking at a pile of sand that had found its way onto the wooden floor.

“Welcome to the surface, darlin’,” he gestured vaguely, and you rolled your eyes, trying to hide the smile that etched itself onto your lips.

“Doesn’t help that you don’t talk.” You tried to fill the silence that you knew was imminent.

“Talkin’ now,” he shot back, moving his hips from the couch to get properly settled, and you knew you couldn’t blame radiation for the way you squeezed your thighs together.

“Yeah, but,” you acquiesced to your urge to join him on the old sofa, “I’ve known you for less than a week, and even I can tell it’s a rarity.”

“Maybe I just don’t like you,” he smirked, putting his hat back on, and you frowned at him.

“Then you wouldn’t be keeping me around for company.”

“Bait,” he corrected you.

“Call it what you want,” you let your head fall back onto the couch, “Still choosing to keep me around.” You waited anxiously to see if he would point out that it was you who had taken the opportunity to stick with him, after his vague threat of what loomed in the wastes made you back down from your plan to run that first night.

You closed your eyes, listening to the storm batter the house outside. He took the moment to look at you, analyzing your features. He took in the positive glow that reflected off of you, yet to be rubbed off by the experiences you were sure to have.

Maybe he’d be able to buy you some time. Maybe that glow wouldn’t fade.

“Sure,” he nodded, “Whatever y’wanna tell yourself.”

You nudged his knee with yours. It was an adolescent approach, something you would’ve done during classes; playing footsie with the boy you thought was cute, with his hair slicked back and his vault suit pressed and tidy. Something done for attention, in the hopes that maybe he’d take even the smallest of hints and return the childish gesture of affection.

The Ghoul was not pressed and tidy. But, and you were slowly admitting it to yourself, he was cute.

You couldn’t see yourself ever admitting it to him.

“You never answered my question yesterday,” you realized now was as good a time as any to quiz him, stuck with you while the storm raged. “What’s a ghoul?”

“Yes, I did,” he had let his eyes close, too, “I am.”

“That’s not a good answer.” You tsked, “I wanna know—I want the real answer,” you moved to sit on your knees, “Give me the real answer.”

He opened his eyes, scanning you up and down. “Yer damn good bait, sweetheart,” he nodded, giving in and facing you. You thought maybe he was paying you a compliment, but you swallowed the urge to ask him what he meant. “I don’t know what to tell ya other than I am a ghoul.”

“Why?” You pressed.

“Why’d’ya think?” He countered, “Case you didn’t notice, we ain’t in one o’your underground lairs. Radiation’s gonna get us all, and when it does,” he leaned forward, “Y’gonna look just like me.”

You swallowed, unsure if this was a threat or a warning. You looked down at his gloved hands, then back up at him. “Does it hurt?”

His expression was blank. You continued.

“Your—is it your skin?” You tried to clarify, “Does it hurt?”

His expression gradually changed to one of confusion as he processed your words; nobody had ever asked him something as simple as that. “Don’t hurt. f’I get shot…stings for a sec, but…y’get used to it.”

“So, you can’t really feel it?”

“Oh,” he let out a low chuckle, “I can feel it. Where it counts.”

You stuck out your tongue, and heat crept over the back of your neck. “Don’t be crude.”

“Ain’t try’na be,” he smiled, “You’re the one whose mind’s wanderin’.”

“So it just feels like skin?” You changed the subject, “Or is it more like muscle…or scar tissue?” Without thinking, you raised your hand and extended it forward, curiosity getting the best of you. He caught your wrist in his hand, the leather on his fingers pressing softly into your bone. You gasped, and he looked at you, cautious, fingers shifting on your skin. As if in slow motion, he raised your hand to his face, and you stretched out two fingers to ever so gently graze down his cheek.

His breath caught in his throat, startled by the intimacy of having someone touch him just to touch him. To feel him.

Similarly, you’d stopped breathing all together.

His skin was ridged and rough, but the small grooves between the scarred flesh were smooth, almost downy. You didn’t look him in the eyes, though you could sense his as they bore into you. You chose to examine the rest of his face instead, the bumps and scars and jagged edges that your hand ghosted over. Finally, you gave in, looking into his eyes for only a brief moment.

He had eyelashes. Small lashes, barely noticeable beneath his hat and the sunken hollows of his eyes, but they were definitely there. He looked pretty, this small part of him capturing some kind of hidden essence of humanity underneath his daunting character. The tiny detail had caught you off guard more than the act of being allowed to touch him had, and your fingers faltered, stuttering against his skin.

You let your hand go limp in his grip, and he let you retract it.

“So?” He questioned after a beat.

“What?”

“What’d’t feel like?”

“Oh,” you remembered what had led you to the opportunity to touch him in the first place, “Scar tissue.” You landed on, easier to say that than trying to explain that you thought his skin was as comfortable as velvet to drag your fingers across.

He lifted a brow, nodding in approval.

“How come you don’t have a nose?” More questions bubbled from your throat before you could stop them, eager to force the tension in the atmosphere to dissipate.

“God almighty, y’ask a lot of fuckin’ questions,” he wiped a hand down his face, “Decades of radiation ain’t forgivin’ on cartilage.”

“Decades?” You narrowed your eyes playfully.

“Don’t you go askin’ more, now,” he chided, “Ain’t polite to ask someone their age, they not teach you that down there?”

You dropped it for now. “You still have ears. Those are cartilage.”

“Not part of the original model.” He smirked, and when he saw you tilt your head, confused, he took a deep breath and continued, “Sometimes, darlin’, ya gotta use what ya find.”

Your eyes went wide, “They’re—you stole body parts?” Your eyes narrowed again, “You’re lying.”

He didn’t answer verbally, just shot a devious smile your way.

“How come I can’t see your brain?” You bounced to your next question.

“Would ya like to?” He shot back, and you cringed. “Didn’t think so.”

“But how come—”

“Jesus Christ,” he dipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out his inhaler and taking two short puffs, “Can I get a word in, here?”

You let your next question die in your mouth, shelving it for later. You nodded.

“Why’d you come up here?” The Ghoul’s voice took a softer edge, and you couldn’t tell if he was mocking you or if he had some genuine interest in your case.

Either way, you thought it was improper, and you shook your head, barely enough for it to be noticeable. You’d been trying to ask the obvious questions, things you were certain he was asked all the time, that he’d have answers for at the ready. You hadn’t asked about his life, how he got out here or why he dressed like a goddamn gunslinger. You could’ve, but you were trying to be at least a little bit polite.

“That’s not fair.” You said simply.

“Alright, how come you got a nose,” he smirked, letting his words hang in the air before they dropped at his feet when he saw the way your demeanor had changed on a dime. “Now, look—I didn’t mean to make y'upset, sweetheart—”

“I, uh…” You took a long breath, gearing up for the challenge of communicating a logical answer. “…Do you ever sit somewhere so nice for so long, and then after a while you start thinking that it’s too good to be true?” You looked up at him, and the tears in your eyes were evident, “Like, maybe you sat on something, or the whole time there was a snake in the grass right next to you...or something?”

The Ghoul watched your face intently, hardly nodding.

“And even though the snake didn’t lunge at you, or, you know, you got to enjoy the peace and quiet before getting up and noticing you sat on something, it’s like, you’re flooded with these what ifs about what would’ve happened if you’d been sitting just a second longer…” You were looking at him, but you weren’t, really; your eyes went right through him, and you pictured a time when you thought nothing could ever go wrong. “Or if you’d never sat there at all.” You blinked, shaking your head, and you wiped a tear that had dared to breach over your lash line. “I had to get up, right? Outfit was stained…and I could see the snake getting ready to…make quick work of me.”

You cradled your chin in your hands, trying to control your breathing so you wouldn’t have to subject yourself to the embarrassment of crying in front of someone that likely wouldn’t care.

Your explanation echoed in the Ghoul’s mind. He thought about his divorce, that dumb fucking suit he’d been conned into wearing without really knowing what it meant.

A snake and a stain. He understood.

“Ain’t no snakes up here,” he tried his hand at reassuring you, “Can’t promise y’won’t get dirty, though.”

“I know,” you sniffed, “Got blood on me already.” You knew it was stupid to complain about, but you didn’t even know whose blood it was.

“There’ll be more,” he sighed, “But you’ll care less.”

You let yourself laugh softly. “Yeah,” you wiped your eyes, “Yeah. I hope you’re right.”

“I tend to be.” He smirked, back to his carefree, cocky demeanor. You rolled your eyes weakly, laughing quietly, and you found yourself leaning against him. His shoulder was stiff beneath your head, like he wasn’t sure how to hold himself in the situation that you’d put him in. You turned your head slightly, nosing his neck, and he didn’t stop you, though he stayed rigid.

You let yourself breathe him in; arid and smoky, the leather of his clothes mingling with the scent of sun that clung to his skin. There was something else, a note of iron buried under the warmer scents, the cold bouquet of dry blood. Having death flood your nose like that, you recognized, probably should’ve been alarming, perhaps even petrifying. But it wasn’t—not on him.

You liked it.

You sat back up, your face close to his, and if he had a nose, you were sure it would be touching your own. He didn’t look upset as his eyes darted over your face, which felt reassuring, even though you already knew you hadn’t really done anything wrong.

“Y’hear that?” He muttered.

“What?” You turned your head, trying to listen for whatever he was hearing.

“Storm stopped,” he cracked a small smile at you, and you breathed a sigh of relief. He stood up, making his way over the floor. “C’mon, darlin’,” he gestured to the door, “See if we can catch ourselves a rainbow.”

You let out a real, honest to god laugh. It gave you a hint of whiplash, how the Ghoul had managed to save your life, make you hate him, and then make you want to kiss him in such rapid succession over the course of only a few days.

You found yourself suddenly aloof to the idea that he was threatening to use you as a lure for unsuspecting bounties. He was keeping you around, keeping you safe, and you liked him just fine.

Maybe even a little more than that.

~~~

How far, at this point, had you walked? Miles of ground in front of you, miles of ground behind you. It felt like you’d gone nowhere, despite the thousands of steps you’d taken over the course of the week. You were going nowhere, you reminded yourself; aimlessly trekking across the Wasteland and finding what there was to find, looking at what there was to look at.

The Ghoul didn’t seem to have a job at the moment. He’d made it clear that he was employed—if you could call being a bounty hunter a regular nine-to-five—but he hadn’t made any moves to imply that he was searching for anybody, or anything, unless you were to count the vials and chems he ransacked from every hole and hovel he came across.

He continued to surprise and delight, and occasionally disgust, you. You’d seen him eat the raw flesh of dead and desiccated creatures—some that looked human—off the sand. (“Remember what I said, ‘bout usin’ whatcha find?” “That’s disgusting, you don’t know what kind of germs could be crawling around there.” “Think someone that looks like me’s worried ‘bout germs, sweetheart?”) You’d seen him draw a weapon faster than you could take a breath; you’d seen him kill a man without blinking.

But you were wowed by him all the same, the rasp of his voice and the way he whistled through his teeth, the life behind his eyes that teemed with stories of a past you hadn’t been able to shake out of him yet. You hadn’t touched him, had barely closed the often yard-wide gap between the two of you that had become the unspoken norm, since the day the radstorm hit.

Maybe it was for the best. What would your family say about him? They'd be disgusted, horrified by the mere thought of him.

That just made you want him more.

“Can we stop soon?” You withdrew yourself from your thoughts, tired of the way your muscles tensed with every step. The Ghoul didn’t respond, side-eyeing you from beneath his hat. “I’m tired. My legs hurt.” He smirked, and you thought you heard him huff a laugh, but the distance between you was too vast to pick up on the smaller sounds. “Don’t laugh at me, I can’t help you if I can’t move.”

That got his attention. “Y'think you’re helpin’ me?” He smiled. 

“Not burdening you…” You argued about what he’d left unsaid.

“Not doin’ much work, either.” He grunted, and you shot him a dirty look. “Keep on walkin’, darlin’.”

“I don’t want to.” You stomped your foot, regressing into the same shielded, spoiled vault-dweller you knew he thought you were.

“Then how ya gonna get over there’?” He nodded forward, and you followed the direction of his gesture, squinting to see a large, semi-burnt down storefront. “C’mon, sweetheart.” He kept walking, picking up his pace and forcing you to speed up after him. “Y’wanna break, or what?”

The building was in alright condition, as far as the other spaces you’d seen; the windows were broken, the glass finding its way to the ground and becoming sand after what must have been centuries of effort. Someone had started a fire, and ash flaked off the brick. You forced yourself on tired limbs to close the distance between yourself and shelter.

“Go on,” the Ghoul leaned against the doorframe of the store’s entrance, “Check it out.”

“You’re not coming?” You whispered. You knew he wasn’t. This, too, had become common: you were sent in—bait—and he followed behind you at a distance to keep an eye out on who- or whatever might jump out.

He stayed quiet, showing his teeth, and you pouted at him, making your way deeper into the old store.

There was no electricity, but the sun seeped through the cracks in the walls as it began to dip in the sky, creating an almost cozy ambiance. It was huge, the ceilings were high and the store itself must have once housed a near infinite amount of material goods.

You’d be lucky now if you could find a corner that hadn’t already been raided.

Everything was bathed in grays and blues, and you couldn’t tell if it was just the way your eyes adjusted to the dim light, or if the building had been standing for so long that the color had drained out into the desert. Either way, it was eerie, and your finger trembled on the trigger of the rusted pistol the Ghoul had given you as a means of self-preservation. You didn’t really know how to use it, but it was the principle of the thing, you figured.

You maneuvered your way around spent bullet casings and glass, trying to stay silent despite the echo of your footsteps. You heard spurs behind you, the Ghoul following your trail at a safe distance. There was a clamoring, something further into the building down a dark hall that sounded like machinery groaning. You jumped, and the gun in your hand slipped from your grip, sliding across the floor with a harsh skid.

You froze, wincing, and listening for any sign that you’d been heard. The sound of the Ghoul’s steps behind you had also stopped, and you knew then that you’d fucked up—if he was listening, waiting the way you were, then there was cause for alarm. With your heart beating in your ears, you bent forward, fingers creeping across the floor until you managed to get a grip on the tarnished metal of the gun. Standing with a sigh, you worked on regulating your breathing, trying to ease the way your heart beat in your ears.

And then you heard the snap of glass shattering, the rhythm of voices without any real words besides grunts and snarls. You jumped, and your back hit a wall with an unceremonious thump before you fell to your knees.

The sources of the noise approached, surrounding you and leaving you with no route out. You looked straight ahead at withered limbs, clothing torn around ankles and skin peeling off of bone.

And when you looked up, it was him.

Except it wasn’t, not really; the Ghoul was only one man, and before you stood four. All similarly scarred, with broken teeth and missing noses, but there was no individuality—no light in their eyes to tip you off as to who they may have been, once upon a time. The sounds they made were inhuman, screeches that seemed torn from their lungs, maybe due to pain, maybe due to joy, you couldn’t tell. And as they circled you, you didn’t want to find out.

You fumbled with your pistol, unsure of whether the safety was on or off. Your aim was unsteady, and the darting movements of the figures that crowded you made it even more difficult to find a proper target. You winced, aiming at a leg and pulling the trigger.

There was a bang, but it didn’t come from your weapon.

“Gotta do all th’fuckin’ work,” you heard the Ghoul, snide and confident even despite the gravity of the situation. He shot to kill, quick to find weakness, and chuckling when they fell in heaps atop their own feet.

You watched him kick at a corpse. The noise subsided as he holstered his weapon, but you had covered your ears and were unwilling to remove your hands.

“Hell was that?” The Ghoul was standing in front of you now, his voice muffled through your palms. You stared past him at the bodies on the ground, at one point daring to let your eyes dart from the deceased to the man who killed them and back; the similarities were glaring, and it made bile rise to the back of your mouth, fighting your throat’s constriction as you choked down tears.

And suddenly you were sobbing, pulse beating hard against your skin and sweat collecting on your back. You felt sick, you felt scared—maybe even betrayed. You were panicking, unable to breathe or speak or think, only aware of the fact that you were utterly terrified.

“Well, now—hey,” You’d uncovered your ears, wrapping your arms around your knees and squeezing them to your chest, letting the Ghoul’s voice travel to you with more ease.

“Y—” you felt like you were hyperventilating, “You.” Trying to voice your concerns proved difficult in this state.

The Ghoul watched on, the muscle in his jaw tightening as he debated what to do.

He didn’t like you like this. He liked you feisty and stubborn, chatty and glowing. In the dark light of the building, splattered with feral blood and choking on your own breath, you were far from what he’d gotten used to. It startled him a little, not the image of you crying—he’d seen you cry before, and he'd seen far worse from others—but the knowledge that, to an extent, it was his fault.

And he could blame his response on the part of him that still felt shame, something that morphed into a nagging urge to defend himself against accusations of being a downright monster. But he knew, deep down somewhere, that it was because of the part of him that still felt compassion; empathy, even fondness, for you.

That’s why he sat next to you, sliding his back down against the wall while you spluttered and coughed through tears.

He eased the old pistol away from you, pushing it into a crack in the wall and cursing himself for letting you have it in the first place. You’d be better off without it; he’d do all he could to keep you protected.

“Not me, darlin’,” he kept his voice low, “Ferals. Of which I am not one…” Yet, he could’ve mentioned, but even he could choose denial.

“They look—had your face.” You heaved, rocking back slightly.

“You really think I’m that ugly?” He laughed, but you remained despondent, painted with a thousand-yard stare. He took on a different approach. “Listen, now. C’mon, sweetheart, look.” He draped a hand over your shoulder, and despite the loose, open-ended nature of the touch, you felt significantly more grounded. “’Member how I said this face’ll be everybody’s someday?”

You nodded, remembering his jab at your question during the radstorm. Your heartbeat wailed against your skull.

“’N then, someday…” He hadn’t experienced difficulty in picking his word choice like this since trying to answer Janey’s question about where babies came from. “Someday it all turns to shit. You turn into a—a nameless drop in the bucket.” He said, frankly. “But it’s, uh…it’s preventable, to an extent.”

“You don’t have a name.” You stared at him, skin blotchy and eyes swollen. It broke his heart a little. “You already don’t have a name.”

“Happens to the best ‘f us.” He tamped down the stutter in his chest, finding a way to circumvent your unspoken question. "All ghouls, eventually...go a little feral."

“All ghouls turn feral…” You repeated the moral of his story, and he nodded.

He fished a vial from him pocket, holding it out to you. “Long as I got these, I’ll be jus’ peachy.”

You let him drop the vial in your hand, looking at the off-color liquid inside of it and squeezing it in your palm. “I don’t want…” You let go of the glass, holding it back out to him. “I don’t want it to happen to you.”

“Makes two of us,” he put the vial back into his pocket, sighing. “But I got plenty o’these, ‘n there’s always more t'be found.”

You stayed quiet, letting your limbs finally relax and spreading your legs out in front of you. There was a long pause that you spent calming your heart rate, letting your lungs relax.

“I like you the way you are.” You whispered, and it was those words that finally made him own his feelings; the way you are. Not the way you were, not who you could’ve been or who you were meant to be. You appreciated him as he was, and it was the first time in more than two centuries that he had felt any sense of warmth from another living thing. It was the first time in just as long that he’d felt like a man and not a monstrosity.

It was why he didn’t fight it when you wrapped yourself around him, arms tugging him down into a tight hug. He scoffed at the display of what he assumed—hoped—was affection, but he let his arms circle your body.

Your face pressed into his neck, firmer than the brief moment you’d shared on the couch, and you breathed him in now just as you had then; the heat and the tin of his skin, the leather of his duster, and the iron of his ammo belt that dug into your front. He was softer now, malleable to your touch, unlike the stiff, unmoving man he’d been when you leaned up against him all those weeks ago.

He rested his chin on the crown of your head, taking a long, deep breath. “’N I like you much more when you ain’t blubberin’ like a goddamn newborn.”

You giggled, knowing that it was the closest he'd get to telling you that he cared, even a little bit.

“The stars,” you mumbled against him, and he pulled back, trying to look down at your face.

“What’s’at?”

“That first night, outside. You asked me what I was looking at,” you explained, “And I told you that you could kill me if you wanted, instead of just answering you. But I was looking at the stars…” You sighed, settling back against the wall.

He scoffed. “Jus’ stars.”

“No.” You argued, “Not just stars. They’re everything.” You tilted your head at him, and he accepted with a shrug.

He let his head loll back, removing his hat and scanning the surroundings. He caught a glimpse of something in his peripheral, a wide crack in the upper part of the wall that let the night seep in. He elbowed you, nodding his chin in the direction of the hole that opened the building to the sky.

“Look‘t that.” He smiled at the way you lit up next to him, and he followed your gaze to appreciate the view in silence with you.

Comfortable next to him, centimeters replacing the usual feet between you, you saw life in the stars the same way you saw life behind his eyes. And he didn’t understand your excitement, until he looked hard enough and saw the same shimmer in the sky that he saw in you.

“Cooper.” He mumbled, still looking at the stars. You turned to him, lips parted in preparation to ask what he was talking about. “My name. I got one—Cooper.”

You smiled, an inexplicable sense of tranquility washing over you as the new knowledge settled in your brain. “Cooper.” You said, testing the weight of the letters on your tongue.

“Don’t go usin’ it up. Make me regret tellin’ ya,” he smirked, trying to hide his satisfaction upon hearing you say his name behind a veneer of callousness. “Got a reputation t’keep.”

You breathed deep, not quite a yawn but more than a sigh. “I know, Cooper.” You rested your head on his shoulder, not to test the waters or attempt a romantic gesture; it was just pleasant to experience something quiet, personal, like this. “I know.”

~~~

“Christ, you sleep like a fuckin’ rock.” His voice was the first thing you registered when you opened your bleary eyes. Your neck was stiff, your cheeks felt crusty with the residue of dry tears, and the floor was crooked. You’d fallen asleep on him, perched just under his shoulder, and he’d let you. “Snore, too.”

“Yeah, well,” you sat up, rolling your neck and wincing at the cracks that sounded from your joints as you stretched, “Sleep comes easy when I have my guard dog watching out for me.”

He scoffed, a small smile forming on his lips. “Don’ expect me to bark for ya, sweetheart.”

“All you do is bark.” You rolled your eyes, beginning to find the motivation to stand.

“S’not true,” there was a glint in his eye that you couldn’t read into fully, “Could bite ‘f’I wanted.”

You’d seen him land a shot without so much as glancing at his target. He was telling the truth.

You sighed, finally standing. You folded yourself over your front, touching your toes and trying to loosen the knots in your back. “Well, Coop,” you straightened, “Can I call you Coop?” You second guessed your courage, unsure of whether or not he’d take kindly to you shortening the name he’d only just entrusted you with.

“You my fuckin’ publicist?” He quirked a brow up at you, recalling the dozens of conversations he’d had that had begun just like this.

“I should be,” you straightened out, rolling your shoulders and shooting him a grin. “You could use one.”

He scowled at you. “Y’gotta question or what?”

“What now?” You shook out your limbs lazily.

“What now?” He echoed your words. He stayed on the floor, legs in front of him crossed at his ankles. “What’ya mean, darlin’?”

You didn’t really know what you meant; usually it was him calling the shots, but he seemed to be waiting for some kind of prompt. “You know, I mean…what should we…do…today?” You spoke slowly.

“Today?” He laughed, “Today…sweetheart, today’s come ‘n gone.”

You knit your brow, confused, and he pointed in the direction of the crack in the ceiling. It was still dark—dark again if you understood him correctly.

“You let me sleep all day?” The notion made you feel a bit frantic for some reason, having grown accustomed to sleeping for barely four hours at a time over the past few weeks. His constant need of movement made it hard to rest easy.

“You needed it,” he shrugged, picking at a spot on his duster.

And you had needed it, but the idea that he had let you doze for what was, as far as you could tell, close to a full twenty-four hours was more than a little puzzling; that he had let you sleep on him for the duration is what really threw you for a loop. Maybe the fact that you knew him by name made him nervous. Maybe it made him nervous enough to let you make decisions for the both of you now, for fear of the fallout.

Or, and much less likely, you thought, but much more appealing: maybe he just wanted to let you rest. Because you needed it. And he didn’t mind acting as a placeholder for a pillow.

The butterflies in your stomach made haste upwards in your body and settled in your heart.

“I did.” You deflated a little. Regardless of any reason behind why this had happened, you still felt guilty about making him lose the span of an entire day that could have been spent wandering in whatever direction called to him. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Ain’t got a reason to be.”

“I made you—”

“Didn’t make me do a goddamn thing, sweetheart.” He ground his teeth together, jaw swaying back and forth.

“We could be somewhere else by now.” You tried to argue, squaring your shoulders.

“Got nowhere to be.”

His words were spoken with a sense of finality, and you knew when to back down.

“I been thinkin’,” he piped up again when you got quiet. He finally made the move to stand; he winced as he bent his knees, his body having grown accustomed to staying in the same position for so long.

“About?” You watched him stretch.

“You still wanna wear that?” He waved his chin at your figure, forcing you to examine the tattered sleeves of your vault suit that were caked in dirt and debris—and more than likely a few pints of blood from various donors. “Just—seems like more of a hindrance than anything.”

“It’s fine.” You sneered at him, unsure of why you decided to get defensive. It was a creature comfort, of sorts, and while it certainly got the wrong kind of attention out in the open, getting rid of it felt like stripping yourself of the only identity you’d ever really had.

And he knew that, which is why he had voiced his thought. Not only was it something people would use—and they had used it—against you, but it was obstructing your ability to move on completely. He felt a sense of responsibility in ensuring that you managed to maintain a level of dignity in your soul searching.

“It’s hangin’ off o'you in shreds.” He continued, and you shifted on your feet. You couldn’t deny that any emotional connection to your outfit was outweighed by discomfort of the holes and tears it had collected. You bit your cheek, looking down at the floor and back at him in silent acknowledgement of his point. “Y’gotta change o’clothes in that bag?” He grinned, and you frowned.

“No...” There was no use now in coming up with any snark retorts. He licked his top teeth, staring at you “So, what?” You tried to find his point, “You want me to strip down and wander around naked?” If he asked you to, it was more than likely that you would obey without a second thought. By now, you knew better than to feel disgust for confessing things of this nature to yourself. But even so, you knew this admission was probably not a good reflection of the unrelentingly self-contained attitude you tried to show him.

Not to mention that nobody had ever so much as seen you without a shirt on, let alone the whole nine yards.

He bit back any response that might expose the interest he had in your suggestion, though he raked his gaze up and down over your body, smirking, before sucking his teeth and shaking his head. “We’re in a fuckin’ store.” His eyes finally met yours, and you stared back at him blankly. “Full ‘f clothes.” He continued, and you understood.

“There’s nothing left,” you spread your arms out for emphasis, gesturing to the run-down remains of gutted shops.

“Ooh, I bet ya there is.” He turned on his heels, taking long strides that had you jogging to catch up with him as he made his way down a corridor and towards a defunct escalator.

The sound of his boots against the tile floor echoed across the building, and even despite your long period of rest, you felt sluggish and unprotected; your back was an easy target, and with every click of his heel you found yourself turning your head, peering back into nothing, just in case.

“Nobody here,” Cooper noticed the constant swivel of your neck, “Relax.”

“How do you know?” You tried to cement your gaze forward.

“Would’a heard.”

“That’s—you can’t expect to hear people coming in this building, it’s huge.”

“Can hear you,” he gave you a pointed look, and you quieted yourself. “Here we go.” He nodded to a heap at the far end of the open space you’d found yourselves in. You squinted at the pile, and you could make out individual shapes and parts.

Bodies. Stacked atop one another as they wasted away into soggy organic matter. You began to make out whole people, some fresh enough that they could still leave an identifiable fingerprint.

“Cooper,” you froze, shoulders rigid and eyes wide in fear and disgust, “I don’t—”

“C’mon now, sweetheart,” he walked right up to the collection of putrefying bodies, bending down to peel a strand of flesh from a bloated arm that flopped out of the mass. “Clothes for you, meal for me.” He smirked, rolling the loose skin in his fingers before putting it in his mouth.

You sucked your lips into your teeth; the primal actions he often displayed made you feel pure in a way you wanted to rinse yourself of, shower in the wild side.

But only if he was the one scrubbing.

You shook your head. “This is the best you could do?”

“Tailor’s outta town,” he sneered, “Could’a just said thank you.”

“I—no, I respect the…attempt…” You dug your toe into the worn floor.

“But…” Cooper tilted his forehead at you, picking skin from his teeth with his tongue.

“But this is gross. Come on, even you know this is gross.”  You crossed your arms, peering up at him beneath knit brows.

“Use what’cha find.” He said simply, reiterating his mantra. You huffed, letting him have the final word.

You rounded the pile of bodies, looking out from behind Cooper as he sorted through the gore to find a suitable mark for his next move. He let out a triumphant noise when he turned over a man who was yet to begin the latter process of autolysis, providing the ability to smoothly undress him.

“This feels wrong.” You grit out when Cooper had removed the corpse’s overshirt. “This goes against—this is unethical.”

“You wanna change o’clothes or not?” Cooper rolled his eyes, and you piped down.

Despite your protests, spoken and cringed, you continued to watch as the body was stripped of its earthly possessions. Shirt, shoes—lucky bastard even had socks. Cooper tossed them all your way, throwing the clothes over his shoulder and at your chest. When he reached to undo the man’s belt, you felt your chest tighten; it wasn’t discomfort, per se, but it wasn’t anything pleasant, either. Something about seeing someone naked for the first time in this context made you feel melancholic. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, both in the sense that you felt that you were invading the privacy of the dead, but also in the more selfish sense that you felt it would be ruining something for you.

You turned around, trying to find something else to stare at instead of following the Ghoul’s hands as they roamed over the corpse for any hidden gems. He didn’t notice your movement, holding the jeans he’d unfastened from the dead man behind his shoulder to pass on to you.

“What the hell’re you doin’?” He turned to face the back of your head after a minute of shaking the denim at you. “Don’ tell me you decided t’get squeamish now, darlin’.”

You turned around to swipe the pants from his hands. “Not squeamish,” you started walking away, scouting out an area that would offer some seclusion, “You’re just being gross.”

“Me?” He feigned shock.

You stopped walking, turning to face him, rolling the skin of your cheeks between your teeth. “Come on…smells bad.”

Cooper waved you off, unsheathing a dagger and butchering a nearly unidentifiable limb off of a corpse. He flopped the meat over his shoulder, putting the dagger back into the sleeve it had been pulled from. After fiddling for a few more moments with the bodies, discovering two more vials of his precious chem in threadbare pockets, he held the carved appendage out to you; he swayed it as if it were part of his own arm, urging you forward. You scoffed, turning to walk away, staying several steps ahead of him.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

~~~

You had to hand it to him, Cooper knew how to scavenge; the clothes he’d taken off the body were only slightly too big on you. It was nothing rolling the cuffs up and tearing off some excess fabric couldn’t fix. You felt less constricted—free to move about without the limitations, both physical and mental, of your ruined vault suit.

“Couple holes.” You ducked out of the old storage room you’d found to change in and made your way back to the Ghoul. He’d started a campfire on the linoleum flooring, and you didn’t question how or why.

“You’ll live.” He tore chunks of flesh from the decomposing arm he’d procured. “Better than what ya had.” You watched as he rotated the meat clumsily over the fire with his hands, barely giving it enough time to rise back to living temperatures before taking it off the flame to gnaw from the bone.

“Yeah,” there was no point in arguing. He was right, and you felt silly for finding issues with what you supposed he might consider a gift.

You sat next to him in silence, knees grazing but not creating any real tension. Something about him was so much more reassuring now, a sort of consolation to being stuck in a world so far from what you’d imagined, than just the mysterious man with no nose or empathy that you’d pegged him for that first day.

Even if he was noseless, you tried not to laugh at your internal monologue, he definitely had more feelings than he let on—he cared and commiserated and let you sleep for way too long.

And you felt safe in a way you’d never felt safe before; far from any made-up threat you’d been taught to watch for in the vault, faced with genuine danger for the first time in your life, you still felt that, somehow, by his side, no harm would come to you.

It was more than a feeling. It was a fact.

You stared, unashamed, as he continued to take bites out of the disembodied arm. Cooper glanced at you from his peripheral and slowed his chewing, daring you to say something.

“What’s it taste like?” You finally gave in.

“We playin’ twenty questions again?” He shot back, swallowing what was in his mouth and throwing what was now mostly bone and muscle to the side.

“Is it like regular meat?” You pushed on, ignoring his quip.

“Y’ever had reindeer?” Cooper leaned back on his hands, and with his face only a few inches from yours, the position felt oddly intimate.

“No…” You tilted your head.

“Gamey,” he explained, “Like beef.” He smiled, “Course the flavor, it varies…person to person.”

“Funny.” You stuck your tongue between your teeth. You still thought it was gross, but you couldn’t deny that he made even cannibalism a light subject.

“Yeah? My turn now.” He sat up, “Why’d you get weird ‘round the bodies back there?”

“I was weird with the bodies?” You tried to play dumb.

“Got all prissy.”

“Did not.”

“Oh, yes y’did.”

“You were being disgusting…”

“When am I not?” He pointed out, grinning, and you conceded with a small smile and a nod of your head. “Cmon sweetheart…did it really bother you to see me doin all’at?” He seemed genuinely puzzled by you in this moment. You looked away, staring at your thumbs as you twiddled them in your lap. He took a chance, gloved fingers coming up to your chin and brushing your skin ever so gently. He refocused your gaze on him. “…Cause I won’t do it no more if it makes y’feel…weird.”

“No. it’s not…” You took a deep breath. Maybe it was stupid to get sensitive about it, maybe it was stupid to feel strange about the situation in the first place. You doubted that anybody in the Wasteland ever thought twice about seeing another person’s body—dead or alive. “I’ve just never seen anybody naked before.”

Cooper’s hand dropped from your face and into his lap. “Y’fuckin serious?” He grinned, “You’re kidding.” He was clearly on the verge of laughter, whether from amusement or shock, you couldn’t tell.

“No, I—look. I know it’s not a big deal, it’s probably not something people even think about up here. But it felt—something about seeing another person naked when they’re not…like, when they’re completely lifeless and unaware, it felt wrong to do that.” He didn’t respond, so you continued, “And honestly, it probably sounds insane, or, at the very least, maybe, a little selfish, but I felt like it was wrong because it would be stripping them of a choice, but it would also be stripping me of any choice. You know? Like, maybe it doesn’t matter to everybody else out here, but I’d like to…I mean, I want it to matter as much as it can, at this rate.” You sucked in a breath, deciding that you were done with your rant.

The Ghoul stared at you, his eyes wide but his bald brow knit in an obvious combination of delight and curiosity.

“You never seen a naked body before?” He tried to make his voice come out evenly, hiding his amusement.

“I…never like…” you failed to think of something that might lessen the blow of your revelation, “Not really, no.”

He let out a whistle, shaking his head. “Hell are y’all doin’ in the vaults if you’re not fuckin’?” It was rhetorical, you knew that, but you still felt defensive.

“There’s plenty to do.” The words came out flat, and you laughed nervously to lighten your tone.

He chuckled. “I bet.” He sucked his teeth, letting his eyes flicker over you again. There was a pregnant pause. Dead air hung between the two of you while you tried to ignore his gaze, opting to pick at a loose thread on your new shirt.

“Plenty to do…” You tried to steer the conversation somewhere—anywhere—that would help ease the tension.

“Yeah,” Cooper let his head loll back, “Let’s hear it, then.”

You scooted back on your hands to give yourself the room to properly face him, situating yourself a foot away to allow for the physical space to think.

“Movies to watch and…chores to do…” You tried to think of anything worthwhile you’d done growing up in the vaults but found yourself coming up dry. “Sometimes there were, you know…events.”

“’N you never found yourself at one o’those events with some arm candy?” He was taunting you, and he wouldn’t be ashamed to admit that he was getting a sort of sadistic thrill out of seeing you squirm under his playful interrogation.

“Slim pickings.” You huffed, staring into the fire.

“I’ll be,” he smirked, “For someone so sure of herself, you ain’t seen nothin’, have ya?” He was thinking out loud, analyzing you to your face.

You felt the need to correct him, both out of self-preservation, but also because, and this was a bigger reason than you cared to own up to, you wanted him to know that you weren’t scared of anything—especially not the thing he was implying.

Maybe you were naïve, but you weren’t stupid.

“Don’t really need another person to have a good time.” You made a point to catch his line of sight, eyes holding his as you tilted your head against your shoulder.

The Ghoul whistled, long and low. “Well, now. Talk about self-sufficient.”

You felt heat rise in your face, dappling your neck with a rosy veil. “I’m not stupid, Cooper. I know what you’re talking about.”

“What am I talkin’ ‘bout, darlin’?” He goaded, fingers toying with a button beneath his collar.

“Just cause I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I’m some sort of—I dunno, some sort of…poor shrinking violet who can’t figure it out,” your heart was in your throat now, afraid to take the conversation too far but so desperate to get a reaction out of him. “I know how to…to, you know…” You let your voice fade, chickening out when he failed to change his facial expression.

There was another long stretch of silence. Cooper let his head fall forward, arms coming to rest, folded, over his stomach, as he anticipated the end of your sentence. When you didn’t come out with it, he prodded you verbally.

“Know how’ta what?” He grinned, yellow teeth on display and tongue darting between them in a movement you were sure he wasn’t even conscious of. He leaned forward further, moving his face towards you without actually budging an inch from his spot on the floor. “You don’t know how to deal with death, how t’use a gun—y’barely even know when you’re too tired to stand…” His tongue pushed through the crack in his top and bottom rows of teeth, wetting his lips. “But ya expect me t’believe that y’know how to make yourself cum?” He let his tongue rest on his bottom lip before closing his mouth, sneering mischievously. There was a bright speck of something in his eyes that seemed to be fighting with the more devious glint brewing in him, and paired with his brazen statement, it tugged at your core.

And despite it all, you felt completely at ease; the sudden suspense and the violent thrum of your heartbeat aside, you were almost entirely calm. You knew you were safe, that the solace he cloaked you with spanned to even the most random and uncertain situations or conversations.

So you continued on.

“Took some trial and error,” you felt nervous laughter bubble up from your throat, “But I got the hang of it.” You smiled, before quirking your brow and addressing yourself more so than him, “I think.”

“You think…” He repeated, eyes narrowing as his gaze turned inquisitive.

“Just, you know…” You squirmed under his gaze now, “Not really a how-to manual on touching yourself…”

He exhaled, laughing through the hole where his nose should’ve been. “Maybe not in the vaults.” He dug in his pockets, unsure if the lightheadedness he was feeling should be blamed on a lack of chem in his system or on the topic of conversation. He took a puff before settling again. “Plenty o’guidance up here.”

“You mean, like…porn?” You smiled, shooting him a knowing look.

“At one point. Not anymore,” he sagged a little, “Lucky if ya find a fuckin’ playboy mag up out here.”

“You seem disappointed by that,” you prodded, teasing.

“That’s cause I am,” he shot back, stretching his shoulders.

“Well, all I’m saying is I know what I’m doing.” You rested your back against the wall, hands clasped in your lap.

“And I’m sayin’ that I sincerely doubt it.” He put the inhaler back into his pocket, deciding it was definitely the conversation that was to blame for the way his head swam.

You let his words hang between the two of you momentarily. Then, on a whim, figuring that you’d had plenty of chances before, and being unwilling to let another one slip away: “I could show you.” You didn’t look up at him, but he stiffened, his eyes unwittingly falling to stare at your hands. “How I…how I touch, I mean.”

You braced yourself for rejection, looking up sheepishly and letting your hands fall to your sides. He was already looking back at you, lips parted and eyes half-lidded—he could say no, and he thought about it for a moment. But, Christ, it had been a long time. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he couldn’t say no.

Not to you. Not when it came to something like this, a vision, a woman untouched by the grit and grime of the surface, offering up something that now seemed so holy.

He sucked in a breath; he had never been a church goer. He thought maybe now was a good time to make up for all the sins he’d committed—worship at the shrine of you, talk you through your own wrongs and absolve himself of the thoughts he’d been having since he’d first encountered you all those weeks ago.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, sweetheart…go on ahead…”

You exhaled shakily, not even realizing that you’d been holding in a breath. You scrambled to lose the jeans he’d gifted you, eager to expose yourself, immensely grateful for the chance that had dropped in your lap.

“Hold’t,” his voice cut through your motions, and you froze. You’d gone too far, surely. He recognized the error he had made by giving you the go ahead and was now taking it all back. “Y’gonna listen when I say you’re doin’ it wrong?” He sucked on his lips.

“I won’t—I don’t do it wrong.” There was no bite to your argument.

“I asked ya’a question,” he continued, “Y’gonna listen t’me? Gonna fix your mistakes ‘f’I tell ya to?” He bent one knee, resting his hand limply between his legs. “Do what I fuckin’ say to do?”

You bit the inside of your bottom lip, trying to hide the impact his words had on you. “Yeah,” you nodded, “Yeah, Coop. I will.”

You thought maybe you heard him growl, but any noise coming from him was muddled by the sound of your zipper finally coming undone.

“Good,” he nodded, “Knew you could be a good girl. Just need’a blow off some steam, huh?”

This time, you couldn’t avoid the soft moan that slipped past your lips. Cooper let out an amused exhale in response, eyes trained on your hips as you wiggled your way out of the pants.  

“Yeah, you like this,” he got comfortable, resting one arm behind his head, only nearly knocking his hat off. “Like gettin’ bossed around more than you let on, darlin’.”

“Shut up,” you tried to keep it together, kicking the jeans off your legs and tossing them to the side. But your words were unconvincing, especially with the way you barely smiled, breath hitching already and eyes wild and blown out. You did like it—but only because he was doing it.

He tsked at your response. “Not very nice. Big talk from someone with no panties on.”

In such a short time span, you’d already forgotten that you’d ridded yourself of your underwear. It was gross, and you’d had no change, and it wasn’t as if you’d be thrilled to peel the undergarments off a corpse. You figured commando was the most obvious way to go.

“That a bad thing?” You goaded him, running a palm down your naked thigh and seeing how long it would take to break his collected demeanor.

“Never said that,” he drawled, following your hand on its path down your leg. “Y’gonna keep puttin’ on a li’l show f’me, or ya gonna do what’cha promised?” He licked his lips.

“You don’t like a little showmanship?” You squeezed your thighs together, not missing how his chest rose.

“With my killin’,” he found your eyes, “Not with my pussy.”

If this was a competition to see who could keep it together the longest, you’d be losing by a landslide.

“Spread those legs f’me, baby.”

And with all the pet names he’d given you in your time with him, something as simple as the word baby falling from his lips and landing on your skin had you flooded with arousal.

You did what you were told, straightening your legs and feeling the tile of the floor cling to your skin as you opened them. The Ghoul’s gaze flickered between your face and your core, both positioned perfectly towards him.

“C’mon,” he nodded, “Show me how good ya make yourself feel.”

You knew what he wanted to see. Even after his claims of disliking the display you were putting on, you could tell that he was just being impatient for show. You wanted to draw this out, watch him come undone in sync with you despite the physical distance.

You let your hand roam over the tops of your thighs, feather soft touches making goosebumps erupt on your skin in anticipation for what was to come.

“How y’feel?” He disrupted the otherwise silent escapade you were undertaking.

 “Soft…” you mumbled, “Warm.” You didn’t know if he was asking about your emotions or for the physical description of what your skin felt like on your fingers, but your mind was blank with adrenaline, so you subconsciously chose to focus on the latter.

He took a deep breath, afraid that if he were to blink, he would miss something. “How ‘bout you drop that hand a li’l lower.”

You sighed as you followed his instruction. The pads of your fingers brushed your clit, and you squeaked out a moan.

How long had it been since you’d gotten any time to enjoy yourself? Certainly longer than the month or so you'd been on the surface; with Cooper, you never had the solitude or time to let yourself unwind, and even before joining him, you were more focused on surviving than you were on unwinding. 

You let your fingers circle your clit, building the pressure with every swipe. The friction made you buck your hips gently, sweat-slick skin sliding on the floor. You could feel the way your cunt began to drip, and you spread your legs wider, wanting to give him a proper view. You looked up at him, your face painted with an underlying uncertainty behind the overarching pleasure.

“You got it, sweetheart,” he reassured you, briefly biting down on his tongue when he saw the way your slit glistened, “Show me.”

You relaxed into your own body; fingers dropping lower to tease your entrance were met with a backing score of delicious wet sounds as you let the pads graze beyond your folds and kiss at your hole. You moved your hand at an angle to allow one finger to push into your cunt down to the first knuckle, but Cooper tsked at you.

“Not yet,” his breath was already becoming labored, “Show that pretty pearl a li’l more love first.”

The timbre of his voice made you shiver despite the heat that engulfed your skin. You nodded, staring up at him for guidance, just as you always did—though this circumstance was far different.

Your fingers came back up to toy with your clit, and you let out a breathy sound. He had been right to tell you to slow down, to continue to enjoy the friction instead of diving straight into the penetration; you felt light and malleable, like your body was taking a natural route towards the apex of pleasure without needing the frantic thrust of your finger.

Another moan slipped past your lips, and the Ghoul groaned in front of you, eyes glued to your center as you massaged gentle shapes onto your clit.

“Knew ya didn’t know what y’were doin’,” he chastised softly, voice uncharacteristically tender given the state of events unfolding. “Impatient thing like you just needs some instruction. S’at right, sweetheart?” He leaned forward, bending a knee, “Needed someone to tell ya how t’do it so it feels real good?”

You bucked against your hand, in the midst of discovering something new about yourself; maybe you did need it—maybe you liked it. It could have been the simple fact that it was him taunting you, telling you what you wanted and how you wanted it, but his words had you keening, and you let go of any remaining inhibition.

“Yeah,” you mewled, “Yes…” Your movements were getting sloppy, fingers frantic against your swelling bud. “Like—like it like this.”

He growled, pushing air through gritted teeth that formed a menacing smile meant only for you. “Slow down there,” he wanted to grab your wrist, to replace your hand with his own, but something about the chaste, urgent nature of how you touched yourself made him all the more eager to watch how your own movements played out. “Don’ gotta rush it, baby.”

You knew you'd been right—he did like a little showmanship.

“But—” You wanted to argue; it felt good, and the thought of stopping made you squirm harder. But with his eyes on you the way they were, and his hat tipping forward to emphasize his demand, you let the response die in your throat, slowing your fingers.

“Atta girl,” he praised, and your smile was paired with a small whine. “You like the way I’m talkin’?” He was playing with you, flirting while making sure the waters were still welcoming.

“I do,” you responded with a whimper, thrilled by the noises you made, having only ever touched yourself in silence for fear of getting caught.

“Good. Cause I’m’a keep goin’,” he leaned back once more, shifting slightly to ease the tightness that had sprung up in his trousers. “Give that pussy what she needs—slow, now.”

You pressed a finger into your hole, watching it soak in the wet that dripped from you. You wanted to go faster, to push it in completely and fuck yourself on it, but you refrained from the urge to do so and went leisurely as instructed.

“Fuck,” you breathed when the webs of your fingers stretched over your lips, as deep as you could get inside yourself. “Been a—it’s been a minute since I’ve done this.”

“Easy, now—s’why I’m goin’ slow.” He spoke as if he was the one touching you, as if his finger was buried within you in place of your own.

“Can I…” You fidgeted around your hand, “What next.”

“So fuckin’ eager t’please,” he chuckled, “Where was’s obedience out there, huh?”

“Had to make you work for it,” you smiled, your words carrying no malice as your hand became more saturated with your juices.

“Curl’at finger up,” he ignored your retort with a blunt demand, “Like yer callin’ me over.”

You did, and the spot your finger grazed made your limbs buzz and your core tighten. Your face must’ve changed to display your sudden pleasure, because Cooper let out a proud grunt.

“Didn’know’at was there, did’ya?”

“No…” You didn’t bother to explore the shameful feeling that nipped at your heels for being so unfamiliar with your own body after talking such a big game, too focused on exploring the tantalizing feeling that traveled through you when you nudged at the spot again. “Fuck, that feels good.”

“I know,” he looked smug, clearly impressed with himself for teaching you something new about your own body. “Add another.”

“Another finger?” Your skin flushed.

“Go on.”

“I—I’ve only ever done one.” You explained, more embarrassed about this fact than you had been to strip and fuck yourself in front of him.

 “Y’can do it,” he shot you a jagged grin, “Would I ever lead y'astray?”

You swallowed your reminder to him that he used you as a lure in any situation he could get away with. Your head drooped, and you watched as you pulled your hand back enough to press a second finger to the one that had been nestled inside of you. You prodded your entrance, sinking them in slowly as you had with the first one. You hissed, unfamiliar pressure filling your abdomen, though not in an unwelcome capacity; it was a warm tension, weighty and grounding, and you quickly found pleasure in the new sensation.

The way you stared down at yourself, legs spread and lips parted, nearly made him snap; you were so curious, so hungry for instructions to follow—so deeply trusting of him. Cooper’s mouth went dry, and his hand fell to his crotch, palming at the growing tent there.

“Look’t that,” he licked his lips, “Y’feel the stretch, sweetheart? Feel nice?”

“Mm,” you whimpered out an answer, remaining focused on the way your hand met your cunt, swallowed to the last knuckle and still wanting more.

“Curl ‘em again f’me,” he muttered, squeezing his cock through the fabric of his pants.

You did, throwing your head back and hitting that same spot he’d directed you to earlier. The sound you made was desperate and primal, coming out husky from deep in your chest.

“God!” You felt like crying happy tears. Something built inside you that you couldn’t stop, and it felt good—it felt right.

“He can’t help ya now, darlin’,” the Ghoul’s mouth hung open, hypnotized by the urgency in your sounds and the way your body contorted as you tried to keep up with your own pleasure. “Now pull ‘em out ‘n’do it all again. Fast, now—you got it.”

Hurriedly, you pulled your fingers back, then pushed them back in with equal haste, bending them upwards and grazing the delicious spot you’d been missing out on for god only knows how long. You did it again, and again; your repeated movements helped you chase the high you were looking for, hurtling you towards the finish line, and you wanted him to see it as badly as you wanted to feel it.

“Look’t me,” his voice was gruffer now, a dominant edge finding its way in by way of his own lust. “Lemme see y’feel good, sweetheart.”

“C—ooper,” his words hit you exactly where you needed them, finding his gaze with your own and falling apart completely. You pulsed around your fingers, gluey and hot, your skin pricked with gooseflesh despite the humidity and the rush of warmth you felt all over. You moaned, loud and long, but your ears buzzed and your eyes screwed shut so that not even your own sounds could distract from the intensity of the orgasm that washed over you.

When you opened your eyes, squinting in the light of the fire while you took heaving breaths, you expected a blanket of embarrassment to wash over you, some type of mortification for what you’d just done—exposed to another person for the first time, allowing him a view you’d rarely ever even given yourself.

But when you peeked up at him through heavy eyelids, gulping down air, he looked dazed, his mouth agape and eyes wide. And suddenly you felt pride more than anything—you’d managed to leave the most feared man for miles at a total loss.

His hand was still on his crotch, raking his eyes over you, your form illuminated by the campfire. His throat felt dry, and he coughed a few times, hunching over to collect himself before he made eye contact with you again.

“Goddamn,” he gasped, swallowing his coughing fit, “Fast learner.”

“Good teacher,” you grinned, toeing at the discarded jeans that had been left in a heap at your feet.

“Pretty when you cum,” he rolled his shoulders back, still foggy with arousal after seeing you whine and writhe for him.

That made you blush, not out of embarrassment, but because it was the first real compliment he’d paid you. “Never done it like that before.”

“Never had a ghoul teach ya how t’do it right.” He joked, and you smiled at the way he returned so quickly to his usual snark.

“Never cum that hard, that fast.” You admitted, shooting him a glance before leaning forward to grab the wrinkled denim off the floor.

“Had me fooled,” he took out his inhaler, “Needy fuckin’ thing.” That sent a buzz through your body, and you pressed your thighs together to alleviate the ache in your cunt.

“You liked it.” You quirked a brow, dropping your gaze to your legs and pulling the oversized pants back on.

“Never said I didn’t,” he pointed out, “Almost made me cum my pants like some fuckin’ schoolboy.”

“Never done that either,” you yawned, “Made someone else cum.”

“Don’t think it’d be a hard lesson for y’t’learn,” he smirked, “Natural’at you are.”

“It’ll have to wait,” you didn’t know why you assumed it would happen at all, subconsciously hoping that this wouldn’t be forgotten in a day’s time, “Tired.”

“Course y’are,” he offered no explanation, shifting in his spot. He raised an arm and beckoned to you, encouraging you to come closer.

You did, no stranger to doing what he told you to do, and found yourself curled against his side. He smelled like smoke and sex—musky and dewy in a way that made you feel at home.

“I got first watch, y’fuckin—” he cut is taunting short when he looked down at you, seeing you fast asleep.

☆Like my work? Buy me a ko-fi :)☆

[hetafice]

Can you do yandere!allies with an oblivious / insecure reader? I'd really love that -🪽

sure can! i included canada as well. enjoy below the cut!

England

At first, Arthur would assume you weren’t interested in him. In his eyes, there was no other explanation. He spent countless hours devising how to best court you, all to no avail. That can only mean one thing, right?

Finding out that you were oblivious to his feelings would be equal parts relieving and annoying for him.

It would give him a boost of confidence; he would try to reassure you to the best of his abilities, outlining why he likes you and why you should agree to let him take care of you, but he would struggle to do so gently. 

Expect a few callous words and unintentional insults. He would not intentionally hurt you (at least not at first). He is just not at all patient when it comes to you and wants to fast-forward to the part where you’re madly in love with him.

Arthur is not at all above engineering a situation where you need to be dependent on him. He craves having people look up to him and chase after his affections. He would love nothing more than to be in complete control of your emotions, knowing that he was the only one who could affect your mood or self-consciousness.

France

He is so upfront with you that it is impossible to remain unaware of his feelings.

Francis would not do anything to alleviate your insecurity, in fact, he might try to make it even worse. In his eyes this would be a perfect tool to control you, with you always chasing his validation, you would never step out of line.

He subtly and sporadically feeds into your insecurities over time until you are constantly seeking his reassurance. Francis, ever the romantic, would use this as a full license to shower you with open and public displays of affection. If he has his way, the whole world will know how deeply in love the two of you are.

You may love it or hate it, but with how badly you need his affection, you won’t ever have it in you to complain.

Russia 

Ivan is constantly looking for an excuse to place you under his care.

If you come to him about your insecurities, that’s all the better, it’ll save him the effort of manufacturing one. 

Someone or something must have poisoned your thoughts to make you so self-conscious. Ivan, being as kind and purehearted as he is, has to step in and re-educate you. It’s the right thing to do. A few months sequestered with him should do wonders for your self-confidence, no?

Or as oblivious to his feelings as you may be, his intentions will be made perfectly clear when the only person you can interact with is him. He’ll have all day to tell you about his feelings, and how the two of you are meant to be together, forever.

He isn’t above small gestures of affection to show that he cares. He’ll often think of you while the two of you are apart, bringing back the occasional well-thought-out gift. In his calmer moments, he will be sure to tell you how much he appreciates you being with him, regardless of whether or not you came by force.

Canada

Matthew finds everything about you incredibly endearing, flaws and all; and would move mountains to keep you happy. 

Any hint of self-doubt from you has him spiraling. At first, he would place all the blame on himself. Was he not attentive enough? Should he give you more compliments or gifts? Did you have feelings for someone else? After ruling all of those out, he settles on another possibility.

Being prone to overthinking, he would jump to conclusions, assuming someone had to have hurt you for you to act like this.

Having intimately understood what it feels like to be overlooked, this would set him off. Regardless of why you’re insecure, he’s going on a rampage, looking into your past and exacting revenge on anyone who has ever made you feel lesser. All of this is done without your knowledge, of course, he wouldn't want you to think he was overbearing.

Being shy himself, he could also understand you struggling to pick up on his subtle cues, but for you, he’s willing to overcome his own anxieties and confess his feelings for you.

China

Yao is an expert at reading people and understands your general character and personality traits soon after meeting you. 

Despite knowing that you may take a while to understand his intentions, or that you may deal with insecurity, he won’t try to overcompensate for that by being extra nice - his pride simply won’t allow him to.

He has the money and power to manipulate you right into his arms, but he needs you to come to him on your own, despite how badly he wants to rush the process.

No stranger to playing the long game, he’ll let you take as long as you need. He knows that he’s the only one for you. Forget a confession, he has always let his actions speak louder than words, and you are certainly no exception.

In your time of need, he will always be the first one there, helping you out for nothing in return, while always somehow knowing what you need the most.

Over time he may let a few of his more intense emotions slip out, just enough to let you notice, to help you understand how deeply he cares for you.

America

Alfred’s relatively short but storied time on this Earth has made him a deeply distrustful person.

There is not a single second where he is not at odds with someone, where he’s not fretting over a potential mistake or trying to plan against an inevitable betrayal.

Alfred is so outwardly showy that even the most oblivious person should be able to understand his feelings towards them.

To him, your refusal to accept his compliments or a lack of response to his teasing has to be some sort of mind game. You can’t think so poorly of yourself; this has to be some sort of tactic to endear yourself to him. Fine by him; he just assumes you enjoy the chase and finds it cute.

He may decide to up the ante, approaching you with increasingly grand romantic gestures. In this way, he’ll “play into your game” while also showcasing how ideal of a partner he can be. 

The longer you take to deliver a satisfactory reaction, the more intense he gets. He likes you, and he makes sure to tell you that at every opportunity, so what is it that you aren’t getting? Why haven’t you reciprocated anything? What else could he possibly do to get you to stop playing coy? 

Being as tenacious as he is, he’ll keep trying until you openly return his affections.

[lonewolfel]

Lightning that makes her Kingdom Fall - Chapter 1 Aftermath

Summary: Zeus’s attack had consequences that no god had expected. Athena has been rendered human and is in critical condition. Odysseus is still trying to make it home. Telemachus just wants to get rid of the suitors and to know what happened to his friend.

Notes: I forgot to post this earlier my bad. It is here on AO3. Spoilers for God Games.

Chapter Master List

The gods watched in horror. Athena had always been Zeus’s favorite child. Intelligent, cold, strong, arrogant, prideful Athena now laid there in a puddle of her own ichor. Her last words before she lost consciousness was begging their father to free a mortal.

Zeus left the arena. He seemed to be the only one who could move after witnessing this horror. Apollo was the next to move.

Apollo the god of healing was the best one to be in action. He moved over to Athena slowly as if she was playing dead to strike her prey. Athena though didn’t move. He knelt beside her to treat her injuries. Zeus had never ordered the gods to do nothing to help Athena, so Apollo should be fine treating her...right?

Hera and Hephaestus both left. They didn’t have a particularly strong relationship with the goddess of wisdom but then no god really did besides Zeus.

Aphrodite rushed forward. Tears started to stream down her beautiful cheeks. Ares seemed to linger behind his lover. This was a shock. Aphrodite and Athena never got along how could they when Athena scorned the very thing Aphrodite represented? Ares was always Athena’s rival, both were of war, and yet Athena was praised while Ares was spat upon.

Apollo saw quick and sporadic breaths from his half-sister's chest.

“She’s alive.” The words didn’t come out the way he wanted. They showed just how much Apollo had been shaken by what happened.

“She had just learned,” Aphrodite sobbed. Apollo looked at her in confusion but said nothing. Aphrodite was a difficult god for him to understand. She acted irrationally and was far too focused on emotions. It was best to let Ares deal with her.

Apollo instead turned his intentions to healing Athena. Their father’s abilities weren’t ones that Apollo could heal, no, they would take eons for her to heal fully. Most of the damage was focused on the head and arms. Apollo wasn’t sure what the lingering effects of the lightning on Athena’s mind and that idea was concerning considering her role as the goddess of wisdom, but Apollo pushed the fears out of his mind to focus on the healing he could do.

He removed the lightning still coursing through her body. Stopping it from hurting her further and undoing Apollo’s hard work.

“Tell me that isn’t what I think it is,” Ares’s voice broke through Apollo’s thoughts.

Apollo looked up at the war god. In his arms was a slightly calmer Aphrodite who had her face buried in the god’s chest. Ares himself was gesturing towards Athena’s face with a mixture of barely contained rage and horror.

Apollo frowned and looked over at where Ares was gesturing. He turned Athena onto her back and moved her brown hair away from her face. Then Apollo saw what Ares was talking about.

There were red streaks running down her cheeks like tears. These red streaks were different, Apollo wiped one away and felt it. It felt like mortal blood. A sinking feeling entered his gut as he tried to tell himself that it came from one of the mortals Athena cared so much about, but then it was replaced with the exact same liquid coming from her eyes.

“Apollo?”

Frantically Apollo touched her head and using his abilities tried to find her divinity. He pushed aside the memory of her divine light faltering and fading while she begged for the mortal. Yet as he searched for her dormant divinity, he found nothing. There wasn’t even a trace of it left. Apollo tried to tell himself that it would come back when she was healed but deep down, he knew otherwise.

“She’s mortal,” Apollo breathed.

Aphrodite sobbed so hard that she likely alerted Hades to the happenings on Olympus. Apollo couldn’t bring himself to care about the goddess's outburst. He was too shocked by the implication. Zeus had removed his own daughter’s divinity, rendering her mortal.

Apollo could have laughed at the twisted justice of it. Athena had defied Zeus to free a mortal and now she had become one. Apollo felt sick.

“How?” Ares snarled.

Apollo could only shrug his shoulders. He looked down at Athena and it registered that she was going to die. Mortals were delicate they couldn’t handle Zeus’s lightning bolts. Even if she did survive how long? Would she ever recover? Would she ever be able to fight, to have a complex thought again, or would she simply become a vegetable waiting to die? And die she would. If not now, then in some mortal years when her mortal body finally fails.

“If he can do this to his favorite then...” Ares didn’t need to finish his thought. They were all likely thinking it. What would Zeus do to them? If Zeus didn’t hold back for Athena, then why would he for any of his other children or even the gods that aren’t his children? It was a chilling thought that made Apollo uneasy.

Apollo pushed down the thought. It didn’t do any good to dwell on them. Right now, Apollo had to focus on healing Athena.

“Ares, help me move her. Aphrodite, go grab Asclepius and have him meet us on Delphi.”

Aphrodite rushed off to do just that. Ares nodded and moved over to Athena’s feet.

[fayes-fics]

OOOO HI I CANT BELIEVE I DIDNT REALISE ITS OCTOBER!!!!! Im in time by like an hour i have been blessed, can I request Anthony + regency + FWB :,) lots of love x

Kinktober: Anthony + Overstimulation

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

Paring: Anthony Bridgeton x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering.

Author’s note: hi lovely 🫶 to make FWB work in Regency reader is a young, rich widow enjoying some pleasure with her good friend, the Viscount 😂😁 I really hope you enjoy this 🧡

“What are you….?” 

Your words die in your throat as he keeps going, his hand between your legs, your back pressed into a gnarly tree trunk. Crisp autumnal air swirls around the glazing on your thighs as the edges of your orgasm still buzz in your being. And yet, he has made no move to stop his ministrations. The very reason you are in such a torpid state.

“Once is not enough with all the delightful noises you make, Countess Sedgewick,” Anthony attests velvety against your cheek, the silk layers of your dress pooled over the forearm of his jacket as he keeps swiping a thumb over your throbbing clit.

“Don't call me that,” you frown even as you bite your lip. “Call me by my maiden name, Lady Y/l/n,” you add, a hand gripping the trunk behind you, licking your parched lips, eyes fluttering closed at his continued teasing.

“Of course, Lady Y/l/n. The unexpected delight of being widowed so young, hmm?” his response laconic, switching his hand position to sink two fingers into your dripping pussy. “Yesss, that's the noise,” he goads as you moan behind gritted teeth and writhe.

“No more Bridgerton,” you warn, making no attempt to fight him off, revelling in the gentle pump of his fingers stretching your walls that still flutter sporadically.

“I know you do not mean that,” he chuckles, bemused, with an arching eyebrow, and turns his hand back into a flurry of movement that has you crying to the skies, so overwrought from the pleasure mere moments earlier.

“Again, Lady,” he implores, but it sounds close to an order, greedy for you to break again so soon.

“How about you?” you pant, grasping his forearm to anchor yourself as you spiral quickly. “Do you not wish the favour returned?”

His fingers press more insistently, wiping out your ability to form sentences. 

“My pleasure can wait,” he assures, even though he leans bodily into you a fraction so you can feel his cock heatedly press your hip.

You are powerless to stop the tide of a second pleasurable wave hitting you full force, slumping into his caged embrace. He makes triumphant noises as you fracture around his fingers again, limbs shuddering, your body and mind floating somewhere among the rust-coloured leaves above.

“Perfect,” he opines. “Just once more….”

You make a weak noise of protest, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder, the woollen fabric slightly scratchy on your dewy skin.

“Oh yes,” he counters, almost a tart edge to his answer. “You can and you will.”

You pull up to look into his eyes, which are blown wide, his lips flushed dark pink, aroused by your arousal, mirrored back in your inky black pupils. He shuffles closer, leaves scrunching under his heavy riding boot, holding all your weight now you no longer can rely on your own twitching, overwrought leg muscles.

“Come on, Lady Y/l/n,” he purrs. “What is a clandestine lover for, if not hitherto unchartered pleasures?”

You can see the pride in his eyes—that he alone has been the only one to ever do this to you. Make you mindless with pleasure. He knows he has won the argument even before you nod weakly and wrap your arms around his tighter.

Then again, his hand is a frenzy, fingers plundering your depths as he roughly strokes your clit with his thumb. All you can do is cling to him, robbed of your voice, whimpering, sweaty and frayed. Your body burning from overlapping accumulated pleasure, your skin zinging as if caught in a lightning storm. 

Your third orgasm is almost serene, reaching a peak that makes your mouth fall open in a silent scream, your whole body stiffening and then bearing down hard upon his fingers, gushing into his hand as you let out a sob of release, completely overwhelmed, feeling your heartbeat in every fibre of your being.

“There it is,” he gloats, triumphant, kissing your damp temple as he finally gives you reprieve.

No taglist as these drabbles are so short

[azulyrae]

❛ —— 𝐈 : The Pawn.

his life had been but a recurrent and miserable passing of time; plagued by the constant questioning regarding his value; the nagging behind the point of his meaningless existence and the place he occupied in the reality in which he was inserted. azriel had not lived; rather survived, doomed to loneliness despite the amount of friends he had made. one could not be overjoyed with such a fate; one could not see the point to insist on the stubbornness of life, if one could not share it with a partner.

after five centuries, azriel had felt the bond snap inside his heart; a dagger that tore the flash of the muscle; whose blade twisted and spilled his blood. for once, his agony was but self-inflicted; the pain, a consequence of the emotional absence of [name] archeron, his lightning bolt. azriel had been a lonesome wanderer, grasping to an abstract concept and companion that had finally found him mid-travel. and after quiet ponder and the insistence of his mate’s sisters, the shadowsinger decided to steal her from the tortuous path of self-sacrifice, and led the queen and king of their chess game to quite an experimental and potentially catastrophic game.

the first chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.

azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

word-count: 10K.

“I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.”

― Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

The leisure room’s stillness brought the male comfort. His thoughts, once a swirl of revolt, were reduced to mere pondering. The sound of his pacing, incessant during the first half-hour of his arrival, ceased with the time spent in silence. Azriel sat on his most favored elbow-chair: made of charcoal-colored leather; with enough width to accommodate his wings; the one further from the hearth; and had not left since then. The hollow pair of his eyes were fixed on the peeling brown-paint of the walls near the shelves — even if they did not perceive a thing.

When he had reached the familiar space of the House of Wind, Azriel scurried to the least frequented room and enclosed himself inside. By then, the sun held itself with pride in the middle of the day sky, burning and fierce, while a warm whiff entered sporadically through the opened doors of the balcony and the wind swayed the linen curtains. The Shadowsinger poured himself a generous amount of aged scotch with ice and proceeded to lose himself in mute and almost betrayed speculation.

The male didn’t need, nor did he ask, for the eventual reports of his shadows regarding the time passage. Azriel could deduce the lingering of his presence according to the light’s position. Although he had drowned the first dose of whiskey inside a luminous room, by the time his twentieth one doused his sore throat, the full-moon shone, its bright light a rival to the countless stars in Velaris’ night sky.

The House lit the hearth at least three hours prior, and Azriel commanded it to extinguish the flames. It wasn’t the first time, and the Spymaster doubted it’d be the last too, in which he wasted precious periods of his day staring into the meaningless and oppressive void; seconds and minutes and hours converging into a single unity until Azriel could no longer discern, nor notice, their passage. Pale and ethereal, the weak moonrays entered the ambient — that grew more frigid as dusk arrived — and the peeled pattern of the old tint could scarcely be seen in comparison to the daytime’s. But Azriel would’ve been able to point each furniture with precision, or move without hesitation, for he knew every centimeter that constituted the House of Wind’s extension. More than all, the Spymaster could’ve reached a particular point of the leisure room even if he was tied and blinded.

His sight burnt figurative holes in the untouched chess board, still secured inside the store’s package, despite the fact that it had been gifted to her months before, during the Winter Solstice. It rested under a pile of unwrapped presents, each thoroughly thought and given by a member of the Inner Circle. His High-Lady, Mor and Elain had spent weeks trying to convince her to join them for the Winter Solstice, their promises of amusing and private festivities not fazing her in the slightest. So, before their departure, Azriel had told Clotho to leave their gifts somewhere in the library where she would see them, for not a soul managed to learn where she had ventured to. When he returned and found the damned pile, Azriel felt a sudden wave of rage trespass his very being. Because the Spymaster lacked Cassian’s patience, such an offense was not ignored.

Azriel was left both enchanted and wary once his eyes fell upon her figure for the first time. Prythian was close to war against Hybern then, and they were in dire need of allies. In order to contact the Mortal Queens, Feyre had resorted to her sisters, and though she’d granted them an overview of their personalities and shared past, the female was particularly vague regarding the older one. The Spymaster was half-expecting fidgeting and condescending women, quite uninteresting and avoidant. However, she held none of those said characteristics.

With briefness, she had informed Feyre of the occurrences the sister had missed after her return to the Fae Lands. Their father sailed to where she theorized to be the farthest west, and with the man gone, her, the oldest — [Name] — was in charge of their coin, the employees, and their mansion’s maintenance. Feyre once confessed that was it not for one of her sister’s sacrifices, she would never have survived a single winter to wield a bow. The fact alone granted the said woman great respect amongst them all, though her identity was only confirmed when Azriel and his brothers faced that force of nature.

Feyre had advised — rather threatened them — to maintain a certain and specific distance. The three were given no further details, yet, were all glad to adhere to her orders. Still, with her clear avoidance regarding the topic and the deep sorrow in her eyes whenever she covered her older sister’s brief character, Azriel had managed, to a certain extent at least, to connect the pieces of the puzzle. And with what he presumed to be a precise knowledge, the Spymaster expected a strong, yet secluded woman; one who’d offer her home out of consideration for Feyre without engaging with their troubles any further.

How wrong he was.

When the soon-to-be High-Lady informed the three sisters of their need, Nesta’s discontentment came in brisk and sharp words, while Elain remained silent and, in fact, quite nervous over the prospect of a discussion. But all [Name] had asked her sister was whether she’d need anything more. As if offering Feyre her home was no bother; as if she was willing to offer her entire being, if it meant granting the youngest sister a solace of her own.

She led them to the private office upstairs, and Azriel absorbed the small glimpse of her ferocious spirit, overwhelmed by her scent and presence in every centimeter of the room. A shelf took over an entire wall; there were countless maps of the Mortal Lands plastered on a mural, most with colorful arrows traced with either red or blue paint, as if to showcase hot and warm currents; and an enormous table placed on the center, with pages whose scriptures varied from long, handwritten notes to numbers and formulas Azriel himself couldn’t understand, despite the five centuries he’d lived. The chessboard was the last thing he saw. It was placed in a corner, a melancholic sight to a male as himself, who adored the strategies and competition the game’s matches granted him. [Name] had no opponent; no friend she could invite to play against.

The Spymaster had then noticed the clear loneliness of the Archeron sisters. He could still remember Feyre’s haunted and paranoid figure, resorting to self-isolation for she was not taught to accept the offering hand of potential allies. The parallels were absurd as [Name] fished a silver-necklace from her dress’ collar, using the small key hanging from it to open one of the many drawers from the center table. And from the inside, the mortal pulled a detailed plant of the mansion’s entire extension. She was distant, her words were sharp and matter-of-fact. Yet, the older sister was analytical and prone to listen, quick to action and unafraid to voice her opinions. Despite their five centuries of experience, [Name] somehow managed to catch on to a concept or idea the brothers oversaw, and didn’t hesitate to point clear errors on their strategies, nor was she embarrassed to acknowledge possible improvements regarding her schemes. And once Azriel noticed the manner with which Feyre’s eyes shone with pride and admiration; how close they held one another when the female was to return to Velaris; he knew [Name] had, unbeknownst to her, passed some of her coping skills to the younger sister.

During the first reunion with the mortal queens, they were all left with a sour instinct and anticipation. Yet, [Name] was the single one immediately sure of their betrayal, as if, somehow, the female grasped onto aspects of their stances and personalities the others overlooked. It was her certainty that drove Rhysand to order Azriel to return regularly to the Archeron mansion until their next scheduled reunion. While his High-Lord was off to the Summer Court, the Spymaster was inside that same private office, studying more recent mansion-plants that [Name], somehow, convinced the architects to let her borrow, as Nesta watched them like a hawk with an untouched novel in her hands.

As expected, [Name] was indeed detached and blunt; disdainful, even, when annoyed. The surprise of it all, whatsoever, came with the fact that she was also hotheaded. [Name] seemed to him as a powerful fortress. Her words coated in sarcasm, voiced with little forethought or regret; her ruthless honesty and logic. She was not warm, nor was she raised to. Instead, [Name] was reliable. The tree that never bent; the castle built on a mountain rock, impenetrable and magnificent. One would not imagine that under such coldness hid a chaotic thunderstorm. A well-phrased insult and he could almost catch a glimpse of her lightning; an arrogant grin to prove her wrong and he could see a twitch in her plain features. Azriel, surprisingly, noted that he quite enjoyed the act of annoying the oldest and provoking a reaction. Even better, for his own personal and secretive satisfaction, the male also proved to be great at it. 

But once those banters were put aside, one would notice that [Name] wasn’t cruel nor prideful, and whenever Nesta grew tired of their technicalities, with Elain assuming the chaperone’s position instead, Azriel managed to strike less task-driven conversations.

He learned that [Name] first engaged in chess matches at the ripe age of seven, when, bored to no end, she saw their old mansion’s chief of cuisine play by himself. The man taught her well, and what he could not answer, she searched for in books. The mortal was dutiful to her studies, quick-witted and with keen observation skills that, combined to her well-chosen words, left every single one of her father’s late investors at her disposal, regardless of her young age. And when they weren’t lost in provocations and meaningless competitions related to who could come up with the most logical and efficient strategies to the possible outcomes of their encounter with the Mortal Queens, Azriel enjoyed sharing stories of Prythian with [Name], covering the continent’s territories, and listening to her theories. His favorite part of the whole interaction was noticing how the woman’s eyes would shine with anticipation, her imagination running wild at his words. He noticed then, her endless fierceness; how her core shook with thunder and catastrophe. There was more than the simple desire to learn more of the world; there was rage for what she would never see, resentment for her mortal limitations, and grief for the one she could’ve been.

Although he didn’t quite consider her a friend, Azriel wasn’t blind to their similarities either. The eldest of their respective families; the ones assigned to the ugliest, most dutiful aspects of their homes; the paranoid and distant personalities that granted both of them a fearsome first impression. He had no doubt she would’ve made whatever sacrifice, gone whichever length necessary, to free her sisters from related burdens. And — she had once said — if the trail ahead required her to taint her hands red, [Name] would comply, wash them after the process was done, and repeat the cycle for as long as it was needed.

Azriel had spent his almost half-six centuries of miserable existence yearning for a twin-flame; one that would be more pure and moral, empathetic and sweet, less prone to brutal logic and violence. The Spymaster once believed that if Morrigan, the female of pure altruism and resplendent strength, was to bless him with reciprocal love, she would purify the darkness within him; adore him until he learned to see himself through her perspective. Yet, during those comfortable conversations, Azriel couldn’t contradict the inherent truth of the fantastical feeling of being thoroughly understood. Although he remained sick and twisted, a vile creature built on hatred and violence and revenge, the male found that [Name], with her bottled rage and strength; her obstination to understand various concepts; to surround herself in theories and studies and schemes; to gather private informations from possible threats just in case; was a more comforting companion than a pure, immaculate female could ever be.

Azriel had no expectations, whatsoever, to match the mortal’s good heart. He caught a glimpse of her paperwork once, and noted that she was investing part of the re-gained family’s coin in business in less fortunate regions to increase the employment tax. Feyre had also told them that her sister learned not one, but three different languages in a decade, to communicate better with the foreign investors, and to aid the illegal immigrants that worked for their family at the seaport. And though it didn’t seem possible that [Name] could understand and match his struggles, during the quietest moments of dawn, Azriel liked to pretend otherwise.

Duties, however, were a constant call, and the Shadowsinger was assigned to spy on the Mortal Queens, rather than to return to the Archeron’s household. The bitterness on his tongue lingered through it all, both from the unforeseen difficult character of his mission, and from the sudden thought of Cassian visiting the mansion by himself. However, whatever infatuation Azriel labored for her, grew cold during the aftermath of Hybern’s mischievous plan.

[Name] was the first. She was chained, and struggled in her fight as the males threw her inside the Cauldron. The sight of her desperation was overbearing. He had wanted to slash those who held her in half; needed to protect her from the rising waters of her past. His sudden response to her screams was what granted him a week-worth of time spent on a sickbed, for the single movement to reach her had been enough for the poison to spread. Hybern was astute enough to catch on to the female’s importance to her sisters; he knew that, by destroying her fighting spirit, the other three would soon follow. However, the Cauldron expelled her after no more than half a minute, as if whatever happened between their brief encounter, whatever it saw in her, was too disturbing; vile; dangerous. It didn’t wait for Hybern’s soldiers to grab the borders and turn it, throwing the female on the ground in the process. 

No, the Cauldron moved on its own, the pitch-black water stinking of surprise and desperation when the artifice fell and the female arose, reborn. Hybern himself had been shocked and afraid. For the months that ensued, Azriel wondered if his poisoned mind had deceived his sight, for he had met the sister’s eyes then, and stared into the thin pupils of a dragon; he wondered whether the poison was to blame for the devastating tug on his heart, the brief light that sliced through the darkness of his core and shook his very being with its power.

However, when he next saw her, [Name] was a High-Fae — taller, her movements more fluid, and a stance that was both terrifying and compelling. Yet, it was the sheer strength and promise of violence that undid him. The eyes that met his own were determined and hostile, challenging and commanding, as if [Name] noted her enforced physique and decided not to hesitate if the time urged her to use them. She was desirable and breath-taking as a mortal, with hypnotizing complexions, too; a woman aware of her attributes and influence and unafraid to use them as she saw fit. But being a High-Fae made her more lethal, a fantastic and splendid female granted with the means necessary to pursue her goals, to back up the violence hidden under the sarcastic retorts.

Azriel’s knees nearly buckled. He wasted precious centuries pitying himself, for he had been assigned the burden of aggression. His hands were scarred and eternally tainted with blood, vile things that were the living proof of his fate. However, [Name] embraced the future the Mother drew; she’d be the serpent and the bite and the venom; she’d be the tortuous pain that preceded death. And if that meant protecting herself and those she cared for, the guilt would be non-existent. Nothing but twenty-five, and the female made peace with the demons that had been plaguing him for five centuries. 

She had a pile of books clutched against her chest, and maps that depicted what seemed to be the detailed territory of every Court and Faerie Realm of Prythian, rolled up and secured between her biceps and forearm. His shadows began to hum a soft and low ballad, dancing around their bodies. The Spymaster waited for [Name] to recoil, yet, she stared at the dark-tendrils of smoke with slight curiosity and the gleam of something else. Her eyes moved between his shadows, in a manner he learned to be those of her scheming. The hall in which the Spymaster stumbled upon [Name]’s renewed powerful figure seemed to diminish as he, enchanted, stepped closer. However, the curiosity that pooled in her eyes a second prior turned into hard-steel, a sense of despise and deception covering the grateful stare. Azriel noted the silver-blue color of the dragon’s eyes; the thin pupils of a violent storm retributing his entranced glance. His steps ceased; his shadows recoiled; and Azriel managed, a tad too late, to mask the hurt from his features.

The male wasn’t sure of what he had done wrong. Nevertheless, despite his initial surprise, and after a more attentive glance, he managed to find the hidden signs under the fearsome veil of those hard-expressions and astute irises. [Name] was in a disheveled state, with purple bags under the tired eyes and a mark between her eyebrows, of what he presumed to be left by constant worry. Azriel found himself wordless, sent into a foreign state of near-fidgeting. Ever since he’d left the burdens of a green-boy behind, Azriel had ceased to be nervous around females. He was desirable, confident, and managed to seduce them just fine, with no need for a repertoire filled with poems and romance quotes. But with [Name], it was as though the green-boy had returned, now laughing at his matured silence and nervousness. He yearned for the previous camaraderie, but had no clue of which phrases to use in order to reach it.

His hesitation wasn’t well-received. The female’s grip on her books grew tighter, and a sudden, powerful scent filled the air as she said: “If there’s nothing you wish to tell me, clear the way.”

He remained glued into place. Even if the Spymaster attempted to move left and grant her a free passage, his body had turned into nothing but a wayward bag of aching bones. For Azriel had words unsaid, his muscles were stiff and unnatural. He closed his fists in frustration, aware that his eyes were a pool of hatred. Not even his shadows ought to move, paralyzed in the scarce space between him and the female.

“You’re looking like crap,” he lied, for [Name] hadn’t demanded him to be true in his statement, only to speak up.

[Name] didn’t flinch nor showcased hurt, as if she’d found the real aspect of his thoughts somewhere within his cloaked expression. He wouldn’t confess his desire to hold what he presumed to be quite a heavy pile of books; to help her find whatever information she was searching for; to offer the distraction of a long and well-pondered chess match. Yet, her eyes flickered with acceptance and sorrow, the fate of a self-imposed loneliness one thought to be worthy of.

“I don’t need your help,” [Name] said. Grasping onto the late thoughts of lending an aiding hand seemed as though trying to capture water with a closed fist. Whenever the male found himself close enough to the instinctive wish to help, it slipped through his fingers as a volatile liquid. Despite his best efforts, Azriel caught himself fighting against the sudden lack of free-will, for, once again, nor his mind or body were his own. “You won’t offer to help me, either. I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own.”

“Of course you are,” he agreed in a haze, his words sounding slurred and disconnected.

The Spymaster hated himself for being susceptible to that treacherous manipulation; hated her for wielding it, too, and displaying all but a small remorse in the process of stealing his freedom. He connected the lines then; from the venomous scent of power to the abrupt fear of the Cauldron when it had expelled her. A hypnotizing voice, one that managed to control even his intangible companions. He wondered where the limitations of such power were placed, while fearing there were none. The previous concern related to whether or not he should propose to carry her books seemed small and meaningless in comparison to the inescapable authority he was trapped under. He, instead, began to fear for his entire Court, for there was nothing besides, perhaps, her sisters, capable of stopping [Name] from stealing Velaris from under their noses.

“I have no intentions to cause harm,” she said, waving his worries as though they were a nagging fruit-fly. Opposite from the female’s previous statements, this one didn’t feel as a demand of her part. The well-justified suspicions remained rooted in his mind, instead of slipping through his consciousness before he could even process the thought. 

However, what scared him the most was the fact that [Name]’s mental-powers surpassed those of a daemati. The Shadowsinger never once left his mind-barrier unattended; it had been a wall of revested, pitch-black steel, ever since he learned of the existence of those able to read his thoughts. He was sure they were intact, and yet, she slipped inside as if it meant nothing.

“Meaning you draw the line at generalized battles, but find it acceptable to read one’s mind without their verbal permission,” Azriel retorted. The male crossed his arms against his chest, the anger overpowering the modest shine that accompanied the beating of his heart. The Spymaster looked down on her, resorting to the glance he used to terrify his opponents and prisoners. He had noticed a tad too late that his stance mirrored his father’s, and both disgust and regret enclosed his once arrogant and spiteful stance.

But rather than recoiling, [Name] raised her chin, the eyes of the dragon returning with a barely-contained rage that matched his own. “I was thrown inside a Cauldron without granting them permission to do so; I was Made and kept hostage inside a Fae-house I’m not allowed to leave. My youngest sister is gone, and I wield powers that are directly connected to emotions I’ve spent my entire life repressing. I can’t control whose minds I can read. This place is cacophony of thoughts and fears, and I would’ve given the entirety of my lost riches to be mortal again; to not hear the suicidal and terrified intents of my sisters.”

Azriel felt a sense of shame creeping up his spine. Even if his anger of her commands for him to remain distant, and ignoring his every nerve rebelling against doing so, had lingered, the Spymaster found quite a soft-spot upon hearing her point of view. She seemed pained and confused, a lashing animal that adorned herself with claws and fangs, scales and poison, because she failed to envision a different perspective. The sudden reminder of Feyre’s tendency to self-isolate and self-sacrifice, and from who she’d taken said characteristics, went as a brisk breeze, refreshing his consciousness for too little: since the acknowledgement of [Name]’s pain meant he’d want nothing but to reach for her and help, and the female had denied him that right.

He had never resented her more, doubted he ever would. The pressure, placed upon his jaw because of the effort to struggle against those commands, was quick to bring an ache. The Spymaster had no doubt that soon, the too quiet hall would be filled with the sound of the crack of his bones.

“I can manage by myself, I don’t need nobody,” she repeated, the slight mark reappearing between her eyebrows as her expression shifted into one of obstinate confusion. 

Despite the order, Azriel’s insistence prevailed; his words were near to spill, that fucking, stupid offering to carry her books, but the scent of her hypnotizing power managed to inebriate his senses at last. 

“I. Don’t. Need. Nobody. It’s my tragedy alone to endure.”

The resistance must’ve faded from his features, for the female’s eyes returned to their normal appearance, and she passed through him. Their shoulders touched — Azriel’s bare muscles brushing against her clothed skin — and a terrible shiver went through her. The female gritted her teeth, searching for that armor of nonchalance and uninterest. 

“I don’t need nobody,” she said, his back facing her own. “But Elain does. She’s lost, and I’m sure you owe me no favors, but my sister treated you well during our scheming afternoons, and isn’t the one to blame for my character.” 

He hadn’t felt compelled to reach for Elain, enough an indicator that [Name] was but giving him the right to choose for himself whether he wished — or not — to keep an eye on said sister. As it seemed, [Name] didn’t care to wield her voice if the consequences fell upon her shoulders alone, but refused to drag others into her labyrinth of thunderous hatred. Azriel didn’t answer, and his shadows were in a mingled commotion of confusion as their desire to check on the female was countered by her own command to be left alone.

Rhysand had then approached from where he, for sure, observed their interaction. The male was quite conflicted, noticing the rebellious instinct Azriel couldn’t conceive. Instead of flying to the balcony, to then winnow to the River House, they decided it was less bothersome to dialogue inside the nearest, more private room of the House of Wind: that being the leisure room. His brother updated him of the most recent occurrences — those he’d lost during the week under an induced sleep — and Azriel himself was left puzzled at the end of Rhys’ report.

[Name]’s commanding powers bloomed after Feyre’s departure to the Spring Court. Upon failing to find the youngest sister, she invaded the private reunion of the Inner Circle — Rhysand, Morrigan and Amren, the three conscious at the time — and demanded to be informed of Feyre’s position, leaving them all aghast with their willingness to answer. Azriel observed, through the mental glimpses Rhys offered, the internal fight of his brother’s brain, and how she had, too, crushed his desire to uphold that particular information. A High-Fae whose mind was closed to the daemati, wielding a tongue that could put even a High-Lord to his knees. She suddenly was a threat twice as dangerous and unapologetic, willing to use her power whenever underestimated, and Azriel’s wariness increased with the fact.

However, [Name] hadn’t needed to repeat her orders until then. Her powers had been enough to intoxicate the minds of two of the most powerful Fae alive, and an ancient creature, at the same time. With that in mind, both were left to wonder why Azriel, out of all people, showed such resilience against her commands, and though the possible answer seemed obvious, the Spymaster refused to nurture such hope, especially since he wasn’t sure where his trust was placed with the Archeron sister. 

Azriel maintained his distance. He, indeed, began to check on Elain. At first, the male did it as both a taunt and a peace offering. Yet, despite his efforts to grasp [Name]’s attention, she had enclosed herself inside the House of Wind’s library, the books she borrowed being supervised by Clotho. And with all honesty, Elain was rather a comforting companion, her silence matching his own. The female indeed was in need of someone; someone who had no expectations, nor judged her mad for her incoherent mumbling. She grew to be a friend, one that had catched on Azriel’s ragged breath when he laid his eyes on [Name] for the first time in days; who had then begun to state the burdens of her sister and how, although used to loneliness and with her heart buried deep within, she was desperate to see the day where her duties would no longer be overpowering, while also terrified with the idea of leisure. Azriel understood her better then, and was given the confirmation of their similarities once again. Yet, that meant nothing, for the female continued to avoid them all. 

Her situation improved in the slightest when Feyre returned, and their shared conversation later-on influenced his High-Lady to encourage [Name] to accept Morrigan’s help. The females spent the next months vanishing during most mornings, whereas [Name] was nowhere to be seen later on, deciding to spend the remnants of her day lost within her studies inside the library.

Morrigan, who was Azriel’s loyal friend — and once, the biggest love he knew — understood his anguish. And though she seemed to empathize with [Name]’s motivations as well, the female made sure to keep him attuned on both [Name]’s physical and mental evolution. She kept most things to herself, of course. And considering the amount of time the two spent together, it was half-expected for [Name] to be a modest swordswoman; though she did improve, it became clear that they were discussing other things, too.

When the War was declared, [Name] abandoned her months of quiet isolation in the library or private training sessions with Mor to help them strategize and scheme. Azriel glimpsed the storm underneath the long period of sorrow and concern; fell victim to the same banters and competition and even went as far as to share a deep and meaningful conversation outside the Archeron’s sisters tent. At the time, Elain had just been rescued, and although the three of them slept inside, [Name] refused to do the same, choosing to guard them instead.

Azriel’s tongue felt heavy and useless on the morrow, when he attempted, once again, to offer his help. The male thought of a dozen synonyms and different speech forms to bypass her command, but they were all in vain. And even if she learned to control the mind-reading aspect of her powers, Azriel’s efforts must’ve been crystal clear, for she rose from the ground, her steps crushing the autumn dried leaves, and repeated: “I don’t need nobody.”

He grew tired and revolted then. It was easier to obey her desires when one had given up on contourning them. The last battle came, and Azriel’s mind was set, for he refused to keep walking around those walls’ borders, to venture on the female’s stubborn need to retract herself and put on a veil of feigned detachment. The Spymaster would no longer care, no longer offer help. And it was only when the dragon emerged from the battlefield — dark scales with blue and silver undertones — that he’d noticed those weren’t his desires, but the consequences of her command inside his mind. Though he was once resolute, a second later, the male wished for nothing but to claim the skies with the magnificent flying serpent. Considering the quickness with which his mind changed, Azriel grew both scared and amazed at the extension of her will. It was the first time he’d experienced what Rhysand and the others must’ve felt during her first morning at the House of Wind; the first confirmation that her imposition worked differently on him, as if he was made to pass through the venom curtain and sit close to the female behind it, granting her the companionship she didn’t deem herself worthy of.

At the time, the sight of the dragon was magnificent: the shadow of a flying serpent, covering the sunlight; the strong scent of ozone that hang in the air as the creature flew to the open sea, where Hybern’s fleet was seen in the horizon; the open jaw — one the size of a grown Illyrian warrior — that breathed not fire, but lightning. [Name]’s rage had resulted in the screams of a thousand soldiers, their pained cacophony reverberating as the water — the best conduit for electricity, he’d soon learn — helped murder whoever intended to plunge against them through the sea. Yet, the sight of the Fae’s eyes after such occurrences wasn’t at all welcoming. She was broken; shallow; tired. Even if he could still catch a glimpse of the brilliant and breath-taking dark scales under the common flesh, there was something amiss. Not guilt, but perchance, a sense of adamant worry and disorientation, as though she had no idea what to do next.

Azriel waited until the Inner Circle returned to Velaris. The Archeron sisters were granted the offer to find a home of their choosing, and although Elain agreed to live with Feyre, Nesta found herself a decrepit apartment in one of the poorest districts, while [Name] had insisted on staying in the House of Wind. It made sense. Between the three Made females, [Name] was the one that did not need to face the ten thousand steps whenever she wished to leave; she could shift into whatever winged-animal she saw fit, and fly to whichever path she meant to take. Although Morrigan and Feyre were quite harsh with both him and Cassian, warning of the consequences were they to invade her personal space, Azriel was glad — and hopeful, even — that she decided to linger for more than just the desire to resume her constant visits to the library, or the wish to part ways from her sisters. The future was promising without the war and the perspective of peace, and he’d have enough space to return to that old camaraderie. 

Or so he thought.

The female gave him a single glance and repeated those four fucking words. Their first dialogue was built on sarcasm and bad manners, both mistrusting one another and wishing to test their motivations and boundaries. Of course the bond would sing the loudest then. Not when the dragon emerged or when [Name] was Made; not during their heartfelt conversation outside the tent; but when he was mad with anger at her obstination, wishing to grab her shoulders and shake her to her senses. Still, a malicious sense of victory, one his entire family would disapprove of, glowed with the unprecedented truth. [Name] enjoyed being several steps ahead but could not have predicted their mating bond in a thousand years. She wasn’t aware that with the unilateral snap, her commanding powers lost considerable strength against his mind. 

So, when [Name] said she didn’t need his help, Azriel had answered: “Of course you don’t.”

Ever since then, in between the not-at-all accidental stumbles on different routes of the House, he made sure to pretend. Pretend to be at her words’ mercy; pretend to be affected by her commands. All in the while decreasing their late distance with poisonous phrases and acts of his own, that [Name] was quick to retort. However, he didn’t expect her latest one to be so vile and spiteful; never would’ve thought his mate would be so cruel.

Nuala and Cerridwen’s report was but a kneaded ball of paper, falling victim to the Shadowsinger’s unmatched anger. He stared at the pile of unwrapped gifts. Feyre had given her older and most admired sister a personalized chess board: the pieces had the texture of a dragon’s scale, and each group-piece was represented by a thoroughly designed flying serpent; the board was made of enhanced glass, and the structure underneath was a pitch-black pattern of the lightning of a violent storm crashing against the stones of a dozen mountains. Rhysand chose a long leather coat, its shoulder pads with silvery-blue spikes as those she had on her dragon back. Elain gave her a beautiful vase of colorful dragon-flowers, one he knew [Name] began tending to. Amren picked a silver necklace, the pendant with — according to her words — a blue kyanite, the rough stone carved as if to resemble a dragon head. Cassian bought three books, one being his most favored about battle strategies, and the other two — personal recommendations from Clotho, who said she was searching for the subject, and couldn’t find nothing close to it in the library — of The Story of Prythian’s Currency: Volume I & II. Whereas Morrigan was more subtle. The female said she’d give a gift related to her past experiences, one it wasn’t made to be seen by their curious eyes.

Each of the previous gifts stood in the unwrapped pile, but Azriel’s was nowhere to be seen.

He spent months trying to come up with something. It’d be the first Winter Solstice with his mate; the first gift he’d give her. Since his memories were no longer lost in a haze, the male was brought back to their first true conversations months prior. [Name] told him she had learned how to properly wield daggers and throwing knives, for someone had taught her, and she trained tirelessly ever since. Morrigan complimented that aspect, too, commenting that [Name] had quick-feet, with an agility that was made for close combat. So Azriel gave his mate two sai daggers. The butt-end was of dragons’ heads, designed in a way as not to hinder her moments; the grip was made of cool and weightless leather, with an undertone of dark blue, and one silver-colored bolt of lightning on both sides of the material; there was a stone in the middle of the wing-base — the shade, the same blue of his Siphons — and the steel from both the wing-base and wings had the pattern of scales. The shaft had a thin scripture written in the runic-language of Ancient-Fae — a courtesy of Amren, who, he was sure, felt the bond between them — that said: “The bolt that cuts through darkness, the light that breaks the night.”

Azriel placed an order to the smith for a set of throwing knives too, and this time, instead of choosing a dragon, Azriel went for two swallows taking flight and staring at one another, placed at each side of the guard. However, he prided himself more in the pair of personalized sai daggers. The Spymaster knew the Inner Circle would pick the dragon alone, for they didn’t know that at each dawn, [Name] shifted into a white and blue swallow, small and silent, and ventured through the night skies, returning on the morrow under the same form. What better metaphor for such a fast, small animal, if not throwing daggers? Regardless, he found her choice odd. Why would one prefer to be a swallow, instead of an eagle, or even a dragon? He came to the conclusion that perhaps [Name] and her unspeakable past did not wish to be perceived; after a lifetime of being placed on top of a pedestal, attracting both admiration and lust from those who stared from underneath, it seemed as though she was glad to be a merely invisible bird, rather than a devastating creature. He respected that, but nevertheless, [Name] didn’t seem to have enjoyed the gift.

When Azriel searched for the sai daggers and knives, he wasn’t sure what would’ve hurt more. The prospect of finding them yet wrapped, or in the same state as the rest of those on the pile. He never once thought they wouldn’t be there at all. The Spymaster left clear and severe orders to his shadows, and despite his companions’ wishes, they weren’t allowed to search the House of Wind — especially [Name]’s room — for the gift. Hope was an unreliable feeling, and nurturing it was a direct step into disappointment. Rage and resentment, however, came easier. Azriel was sure that his shadows had disobeyed him, and were desperate to share their information. Yet, he didn’t welcome it. Instead, the male fell straight into the rabbit hole of his duties, making it all the easier to ignore his mate. Summarizing it all, said decision was what brought him to that current dismal state, and guided him to the emptiness of the leisure room. 

Not two weeks had passed since the Winter Solstice, and Azriel was already assigned to infiltrate Montesere’s barriers. Considering the land’s history of allegiance with Hybern, and the infertile political situation between the Courts after the Wall between Fae and Mortal Lands fell, his brother and High-Lady’s concern regarding Montesere’s silence was well-based. At first, the Shadowsinger thought it’d be an effortless task. Yet, during his first attempt, he was met with a barrier that countered each and every power he had at his disposal.

The male had faced such a bothersome obstacle before. The Mortal Queens once wielded a similar protection; one that had avoided his net of spies and his own shadows for months. Azriel still remembered the consequences of his failure; the fatal mission that had him laying on the floor with poison in his veins; that left Cassian with ruined wings and pain written all over his near-unconscious expressions; the yet-human Archeron sisters being thrown, one by one, inside the Cauldron. The fatality that led [Name] to her current state, one he failed to foresee and prevent.

There was a small knock on the ebony door. A crevice — all but large enough for the head of a winged-Illyrian warrior to pass through — presented Azriel with the sight of his brother, his ever-present grin appearing as soon as he laid eyes on the Spymaster at the elbow-chair. Azriel’s previous thoughts were put on hold, his surprise apparent, and his shadows moved around him, their whispered words sounding hurt and worried: “We warned you, we warned you.” But the male, once again, didn’t hear a single thing.

Those occurrences weren’t rare, nor something he was unfamiliar with. Azriel found himself frequently tangled within them, as if his thoughts were a labyrinth with deviant entrances and constant, creative traps, he never seemed to dodge. The worries and self-loathing gave way to a frozen and profound lake; the water was corrupted, viscous, carrying a darkness Azriel himself wasn’t used to. Avoiding those traps felt as though walking with heavy boots on the thin ice that covered such a lake. He was bound to fail — to fall, — and once Azriel was captured by it, he scarcely attempted to swim, to leave; no light could reach him there, no sound or positiveness, it was a place not even his shadows dared to enter. The Spymaster wasted hours inside it, and only managed to leave it once an external presence pulled him from the putrid waters of his thoughts.

As Cassian had done, entering the leisure room and choosing the elbow-chair in front of his own. His brother glimpsed at the near-to-be empty scotch bottle, an eyebrow raising in the process. The male seemed to believe Azriel had more than enough, for he grabbed it from the center-table and gave it a gulp directly from the bottleneck.

“Are you kidding me?” The Spymaster complained, his voice a mixture of both frustration and anger towards his brother. Azriel wouldn’t dare to pour himself more after that, finding it unhygienic; all in the while, Cassian was quite aware of his brother’s antics, and drank it on purpose.

“Don’t be all selfish, Az,” the male mocked him, drinking another mouthful of the scotch. Azriel rolled his eyes, placing his empty cup on the center-table with unnecessary strength. “You’re done for the night, at least.”

“I’m not even drunk,” he argued. Cassian — the bastard — shrugged.

“That’s because you have a high alcohol tolerance,” his brother’s eyes narrowed. He placed the bottle on the ground, near his feet, and sat with a straightened back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Azriel, in fact, didn’t. His scarred left hand clutched the kneaded report, the sound of paper ringing through his ears. That stupid piece of scribbling what was led him to that position in the first place. The Spymaster flew to the house his High-Lord and Lady shared, filled with a modest amount of shame. The twins had been surveilling Montesere’s magical barriers for almost an entire month, searching for a pattern, hoping to catch on to an immigrant or some poor other bastard attempting to leave. Azriel held that strategy to no hope, aware of the fact that it was doomed to failure. Yet, facing the predicted truth gave him a sour tongue.

Once he told the dreaded information, a reunion was summoned. However, with Cassian at Windhaven and Morrigan returning from Valahan, Azriel had a few hours ahead of him to wait for the reminiscent members of the Inner Circle, and decided to accompany Elain in the kitchen. The female, for sure, must’ve been feeling quite lonely since the twins’ departure to Montesere, and Azriel didn’t mind talking to her either. Elain, after all, was a terrific and attentive friend, with observant eyes and the willingness to listen. The Spymaster thought her thoroughly underestimated during most times, and made sure to let her know that he was, too, willing to train her if she ever thought needed.

Although he expected not much from the conversation at hand, Elain had trapped him a few minutes in. At first, the female repeated the familiar questions he’d been mostly glad to answer. However, at some point, Elain moved to place the trail of dough inside the oven, and her voice had reverberated from where she knelt.

“How is she?”

Azriel knew who she was referring to. Considering the male’s seen proximity with the oldest Archeron sister, and the fact that she barely left the House of Wind, Elain had but few choices besides the one to ask for his words regarding her sister’s state. During the past months, however, Azriel made sure to avoid [Name], and had no answer besides the honest truth no one wished to hear: she remained the same. 

The entire Inner Circle grew worried. During the first stages of the War, [Name] spent hours inside the library, hovering over a pile of books, studying every subject regarding Prythian’s history and territory; memorizing each drawn line of the borders; trying to predict their enemies’ movements, and coming up with retaliations to those, too. She also had a peaceful relationship with the priestesses, and after [Name]’s self-isolation, Clotho was instructed by both Feyre and Rhys to send a weekly report regarding the female’s behavior. It wasn’t ideal, but his High-Lady’s heart rest assured that her sister was, at least, within physical reach.

Those weekly-informations were scarcely enough. [Name]’s dragon form, and how she had saved them all to some extent during the last battle, couldn’t be forgotten nor ignored. Of course, the female’s acts to protect her sisters during poverty — and before that, even — weren’t overlooked by Rhysand, either. His brother had the bigger sense of gratitude between them all, and weren’t for Feyre and Elain, Azriel would state that he was the most eager to help [Name] somehow.

Despite Azriel’s attempt to change the subject, stating that he hasn’t been to the House much and that Cassian was a much better option to inform her, the female didn’t allow him to run. Elain insisted that [Name]’s self-isolation tendencies came from the fact that she, after the War, had no perspective. The female was taught to be of use to her sisters; to provide for them, no matter the cost; to be the anchor in which the three youngest ones could rely on during hardships. However, Velaris had changed that need for the better. And Elain was sure that, despite the fact that [Name] was glad the younger pair found solace and comfort and didn’t need her to sacrifice herself any longer, she was also lost and alone. Without her duties and the position of command that she was placed on at a very young age, [Name] was left to deal with the memories and consequences of her life’s decisions all by herself.

Azriel had lost it then. He’d been attempting to reach for his mate for months, and all she did in response was demand him to leave her alone, going as far as to use her hypnotizing voice to achieve such an end. And once he voiced his discontentment and the fact that self-isolation was [Name]’s choice, their first discussion ensued. Elain, shockingly, had snapped at him. Though she remained quiet on behalf of [Name]’s past, the female’s words were forceful and precise. She covered her sister’s relationship with both their parents and how she chose to be there for the three of them, while denying them to do the same for her; Elain pointed most of [Name]’s personality, and during it all, Azriel’s retorts grew short, since the male was again reminded of how much he related to his mate in levels he dared not confess. 

His silence wasn’t wasted either. Elain argued that [Name] needed to be of use, to feel that she was protecting her sisters somehow, in order to accept her healing process. Azriel feared that the female found out their mating bond then, but no sooner that doubt was discarded and he regained his calmness, Elain’s next phrase threw that out the window. 

“You should train [Name] to be a spy and assign her to Montesere.”

Azriel’s mind went blank. His rage was nearly blinding. He didn’t care how Elain had learned of his struggles regarding Montesere’s barriers, for all he saw was [Name] — his mate — under a complicated position, thrown into a territory they had no intel of, somewhere no one could reach.

“No.”

He refused to wear a more active and demanding voice with the members of his family. Azriel hated the possible wariness it could cause, for the sound of itself was enough to make their prisoners wet themselves in terror. But Elain didn’t falter. She gritted her teeth, meeting his gaze, her eyes a shade of silver, and continued to defend her sister.

“[Name] speaks four languages and is learning the Ancient Fae speech by herself. She has a commanding voice that worked in a room filled with High-Lords, can shift into different mortal-shells, a lightning dragon and smaller animals and beasts, too. She’s smart, light on her steps, and has enough physical training to face stronger opponents,” Elain closed her eyes for a second, as if trying to avoid the memory of a particular vision. 

Azriel was reminded of the Seer’s words when she still lived in the House of Wind, staring at the window with no emotion plastered on her face: ‘The scaled-beast of myths that flies through the airway, destined to rescue those lost in dismay. The bolt that cuts through the darkness, the light that breaks the night.’

“All she needs,” continued Elain, the familiar brown back into her eyes, “is guidance.”

Because [Name] was meant for so much more, was so much more, than the astute, self-sacrificing and scarred oldest sister. Because regardless of Azriel’s unwillingness to train her, his mate’s destiny was calling to her; growing closer to her calves with each passing day. And with, or without the Spymaster’s interference, she’d have to face it.

Azriel sighed, the prospect of it all bringing a sudden headache that made him crease his forehead. “I’ll ask Rhys—”

“Rhys agrees,” his brother said, entering the kitchen. Azriel turned, half-betrayed by his shadows, who didn’t warn him of his arrival, and half-shocked with himself, for it had been a long time since he’d been so invested in an argument, he failed to hear a third person’s approach. “Do you agree, Feyre darling?”

His High-Lady entered the kitchen, striving for Elain’s freshly-baked biscuits. She shared a knowing, yet proud, look with her sister, and hummed her approval, giving Azriel an apologetic smile. Cassian, Amren and Mor entered soon after, and the Spymaster learned that their argument was, in fact, heard by all of them. Nevertheless, once the [Name] topic was cleared, the reunion began. After it was clear their kitchen wasn’t big nor comfortable to accommodate the entire family, they all moved to the living-room — Rhys didn’t want his office to be filled with biscuit’s crumbs — and covered other worrying subjects, such as the Mortal Queens’ sudden silence; Mor’s first week at Valaham; Lucien’s eventual reports about Jurian and Vassa; Nesta’s condition, and the twins’ report. Azriel was but a shell of himself during it all, his mind drifting to Montesere and [Name]’s training, the inevitable destiny that awaited.

Once the gathering was over, Azriel barely bid his goodbyes before winnowing the closest he could to the House of Wind. Rhys’ voice entered his mind as soon as he landed, his question the same as the one Cassian had made: “Do you want to talk about it?”

His brother would understand the dilemma the best. Rhysand had stayed an entire month without news regarding Feyre’s well-being when the female acted as a spy inside the Spring Court. Azriel wished to ask him how he had managed it; how could it be possible, or at least bearable, to wait in Velaris as his mate was risking her life somewhere he couldn’t reach. But their situation was different. Rhysand could’ve winnowed to the Spring Court to assist Feyre if the female was in need; Azriel had his wrists tied against one another, aware that if [Name] managed to enter Montesere’s barriers, he’d have no news, no way of learning whether she was safe.

So, he gave Cassian the same answer he gave Rhysand: “I’m fine, there’s no need to worry.”

And as the latter, Cass respected the boundary drawn between them, didn’t question any further. Instead, he stared with curiosity as Azriel rose from the elbow-chair.

“Where are you going?”

“To give [Name] the great news.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“She’s awake.”

Azriel didn’t care enough to continue that game of pretense, one where he didn’t voice his certainties regarding the female’s state in order to maintain their mate bond in utter secrecy. Considering Cassian’s lack of reaction — besides the clear amusement — the Spymaster was sure most of the Inner Circle’s members already had their suspicions.

“Good luck!” Cassian taunted as Azriel left the leisure room. The male’s hands grew sweaty with anticipation, and he rubbed them against the cloth of his trousers.

[Name]’s decision to continue living in the House of Wind came with an inevitable change of rooms. He had to walk up one extra floor, for the female chose the bedchamber placed on the hallway above the one he and Cassian shared, and his shadows began to move with a mischievous lack of control once they noticed the Spymaster’s intentions.

Azriel knocked on the door, announcing his presence through the shadows that peered inside. Not a second later, he heard [Name]’s frantic steps, and she, as expected, didn’t seem as though awakened from slumber. Her eyes were suspicious, and the female was dressed in traveling clothes. She didn’t care to state otherwise, nor to hide her provisions and backpack placed on the corner of her room.

“It’s a little late for a visit,” [Name] stated, although not surprised. Instead, the female seemed to analyze him, trying to find out why he was there in the first place.

“It’s a little late for tracking,” he mocked. If she was anyone else, Azriel would’ve supported his shoulder-weight on the door, a foot pushing against the crevice, inviting himself in. But [Name] left him wary of his words and acts; with a sense of unknown anticipation. Azriel felt, once again, as though a green-boy unaware of a female’s tastes. [Name] placed him on a chess board, and Azriel was left under the impression that she needed but a single misstep of his to steal his king.

“It was a spontaneous decision,” his mate answered, unresponsive as his shadows reacted to her voice-tone and began to flutter closer, like small and innocent butterflies.

“So was mine.”

“Bold statement coming from someone who’s been ignoring me for months,” she bit. Azriel didn’t allow his surprise to rise to his features. Both managed, after all, to wear a veil of nonchalance despite the implications behind their words.

“Bold judgment coming from someone who commanded me to do so.”

“You never seemed to listen,” [Name] answered, waving her hand.

“Were you sad that I did, for once?”

Her stance changed, if only for a mere second, but he caught on it. Mother be damned, he tucked that information closer to his heart than he should have. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Your sisters are worried.”

[Name] accessed him, aware of the low blow; the mouse-trap he placed on the board. She ignored it. “They’re welcome to visit me anytime.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What are you doing here?” [Name] repeated, and Azriel was caught by surprise. Her commanding voice was, at least once, only triggered if she used an imperative phrase. The Spymaster never saw her use it as a question, which meant that she had been training somehow, it was only left for him to find out in whom.

Azriel was physically close enough to the point where pretending to be affected by her demand was useless. She would’ve noticed the absence of haziness coating his eyes; the overall alert state of his body. The male moved his pawn, the information he kept a secret for so long, finally clear for her to see. “There’s something we need your help with.”

Her eyes grew wide, a slight shift in her scent that indicated neither fear or anger, but excitement. Azriel felt a sudden tremble that went through his entire body. The fact that [Name] now knew would change every single damned thing between them for the better. The Spymaster could already anticipate the fierceness of their future competitions, her obstinate glance and taunting grin, the quick-pacing of his heart. Mother be damned, he already yearned for the sight.

“You’re immune,” she pointed out with slight wonder, clearing the path for him to enter the room.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough.”

“This isn’t an answer,” [Name] bit, her tone assuming one of annoyance and anger. He forgot how good he was at bringing that side of her to the surface. Never again, Azriel decided. Never again would he be departed from her long enough to forget of their banters.

“It’s the one you’ll get,” he insisted, kneeling near her backpack. “Where were you planning to go?”

His mate grew quiet, as if pondering her next movement and the consequences it would cause. She seemed to decide whatsoever, judging the odds favorable. “The Mortal Lands.”

Azriel’s back stiffened. He had no doubt that the adaptation was rough, but he didn’t suspect, not even once, that she could’ve been missing her late home. The male rose from the ground and away from that pack, as if the object was forsaken — wrong, — turning to stare at her instead.

“Why?”

“I have unfinished business,” [Name] ignored his disheveled state, staring at him as though he — and his entire social-circle, for that matter, — were stupid for thinking she had left nothing behind after twenty-five years of living in the Mortal Lands. “Something that, coming to think of, I could use your help with.”

Azriel gave her a stare most would cower from. She returned with one most would lose their confidence against. The male envisioned that damned board, memorized the position of his pieces, and made his move. “I presume your sisters weren’t informed of your plans.”

“Obviously.”

“So why,” he taunted, moving closer while still leaving enough space between them, “would I cross my High-Lady’s wish, and help with whatever it is you came up with?”

[Name] crossed her arms against her chest, reading in between the lines of his expression and coming to terms with his words. “It will be faster with your winnowing, but this isn’t what you wish to hear, is it? You want to strike a deal.”

He grinned, victorious, as her eyes trailed to the paintings on his forearms and exposed shoulders. His knight was so close to her king, he could almost hear the check-mate coming from his lips, even if that was all but a metaphorical game on a metaphorical board. 

“You’ll help me get to the Mortal Lands, then what? What am I supposed to do?”

“Train with me outside Velaris. You’ll be the Court’s spy, and once judged ready, I’ll assign you to a mission in Montesere.”

[Name]’s eyes narrowed, as if seeing the plastered map of Prythian on her mind. Azriel had no doubt the female had studied the land’s expanse and history, had no doubt she wasn’t clueless, at least not entirely, as to why the Night Court needed someone inside the magical barriers. There was a gleam there, and her lips curved with the same malice she wielded during their strategizing, when she saw something he didn’t; when she was sure he wouldn’t be able to counter her movements. Azriel shuddered then, not with fear but with expectation. It had been ages since the last time his mate showed enough patience and will to strike, to enter a mental competition. That game of theirs, filled with taunts and strategies and low-blows, was exciting; the type of conjunction between a sense of immaculate victory and determination upon defeat one could only find when their competitiveness was perfectly matched. 

One [Name] forgot she enjoyed until Azriel invited her to play again.

“As I see it, I’ll do as I’m told and then be given a reward,” she said, moving left to her murals. [Name]’s room was a bigger version of her late office, with books and maps and annotations plastered wherever the eyes could reach. His mate grabbed a white powder from the inside of a drawer, its scent sleep-inducing, and Azriel was left aghast at her abilities; her potential. “That doesn’t seem fair, especially considering that you might need me, but I don’t need you. Not crucially, at least.”

“Put me to sleep, and once I’m awake, I’ll inform the entire Inner Circle of your intentions,” the male answered matter-of-factly, because there was not a chance she thought that plan would lead somewhere.

“Then, what? You’ll follow my trail, because I could command everyone else to turn a blind eye? Where would that lead us, if not the Mortal Lands?”

“I’d find your trail before you even managed to reach the Day Court,” Azriel answered, his words filled with well-based arrogance. [Name] inserted two fingers inside the small, glass-made pot, and smudged her digits with the white powder. The female grew closer, and his shadows danced around her neck and waist; her thighs and arms; all of the places Azriel himself yearned to touch, but didn’t dare to.

“I don’t think you’re understanding your position. A dragon might be easy to find but what of a beetle? A serpent? What is a sparrow-hawk in the Autumn Court, if not a single bird between many others?” [Name] discarded the powder, and repressed a smile at whatever his shadows had whispered. “I’ll vanish and tend to my business, and you’ll have my sisters’ wrath and a lot of frustration to take care of.”

Somehow, a knight drew closer to his king too. Azriel’s smile was bitter, sleep no longer hazing his senses, as he glimpsed the situation, noticing the inevitable siege that had formed around his pawns. “I would’ve managed nevertheless, but this isn’t what you wish to hear, is it? You want to strike a deal.”

He purred those words — her words, — and [Name]’s grin widened, voicing the phrase that would grant her a plain upperground. “I’m sure my sisters came with the training aspect, so I’ll follow along, if only for their sake. We’ll train outside Velaris, and once I’m judged prepared, you’ll winnow me to the Mortal Lands.”

“And Montesere?”

“I’ll go there after we see to my business, not a heartbeat before.”

The feigned training would grant coverage to their departure to the Mortal Lands. Azriel wouldn’t need to report his dismissal to either Rhysand nor Feyre, and [Name] would leave the House of Wind, as it was expected. Their small venture would prepare the Spymaster for the idea of leaving his mate, by herself, near Montesere’s barriers; perhaps he’d even find another possibility until then. He offered her an opened hand, the sign of his agreement. 

“That’s a deal,” said the Spymaster. [Name] touched his palm with her own, seeming to anticipate a shudder that didn’t come. Azriel’s shadows tangled itselves in between their hands and stretched arms, accompanying the route of their tattoos, shielding the male’s gaze from his terrible burnt scars.

“That’s a deal,” she repeated. He felt as those words drove the magic to his back; traced the mark that seemed to form the letter S, from the bottom of his waist to his right shoulder. A dragon, his shadows had informed, surrounded with the illustration of scars left by a lightning strike.

Somehow, Azriel knew her back had been marked, too. And his first chess match against his mate had ended in a draw.

general notes: i am deeply thankful for all of the support this story has been given since the very first time i have posted about it. the entire thing is wrapped up in my mind, and i am so excited to see your further reactions to [name], that became such a beloved writing of mine. regardless, thank you once again! i hope you have enjoyed this bible of a first chapter. xoxo <3

taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @rachelnicolee

[cosmicallylyss]

Blue Lock Baseball AU

Hello everyone I am a baseball/softball enjoyer and would like to share my thoughts about what positions I think the Blue Lock boys would play! This will be multipart as ideas will come to me sporadically, with analysis under the cut.

Characters included in this part are: Egoist 4, Raichi, Barou, Aryu, & Aiku

Isagi Yoichi:

Left fielder. Now you might be saying "lyss why are you putting the protagonist in the outfield??" and to that I say 1) this is baseball not soccer 2) if you don't think this position is important you don't know the sport. If a ball is headed for the outfield it's most likely headed somewhere between LF/CF and those players will need good communication in order to coordinate who's going for what. Despite Isagi being a beast on the field to his rivals, we know he can do teamwork exceptionally well. Left field also requires great knowledge of the game, and his meta-vision being able to predict what the runners will do will be able to help him by making the perfect throws to the infield for a given situation. He's got a great view of the entire field and although he probably won't be making any outs aside from outfield catches (which he can make a lot of!!!) he is indispensable when it comes to holding off the runners from advancing.

Bachira Meguru:

I want to put him at second base. The middle infield has him bouncing around a lot, as he'll have to cover both second and first base depending on which way the ball is hit, and I am solid in my belief that Bachira can handle that. As a technical player, I really like putting him in this position as I imagine him getting a lot of contact with the ball and being a playmaker for the team. Tagging runners, getting a cut from the outfield, and just generally getting a read of the field by being in the middle of it has me solid that he'll be able to make great plays from this position. I imagine that Bachira's monster/instinct has him making a lot of double plays. He'll be able to get someone out at second and then make a great, yet unexpected throw to first or home for another out.

Chigiri Hyoma:

He's so centerfielder to me. With how well he's performing in Manshine right now it makes sense to me to give him a sort of "leadership role" in the outfield. He'd definitely be the player in the outfield who has to move around the most and I think his speed would be best utilized here. Whether its for making amazing running/diving catches or running in to pick up a ground ball that manages to slip past second and short, I think putting Chigiri in centerfield gives him the opportunity to use a lot of his potential. Of course pinch runner Chigiri would be fun to see as well, maybe he's not in the batting lineup but when the pitcher or catcher gets on base he subs in for them to run the bases. Honestly thinking about CF Chigiri was what got me wanting to write this whole thing, he means so so much to me.

Kunigami Rensuke:

Third baseman. Yes I'm foaming at the mouth about this thought. Sue me. Not only does Kunigami's strength make him a great person to put here because of his ability to make great throws to both first and home, I think it's best to have your more physically dominant players toward the last bases. As the opponent progresses along the bases, it becomes more and more vital to get them out before they can make it home (duh). I think Kunigami, especially post-wildcard would be really aggressive on the base (occasionally to his detriment), enjoying tagging out players rather than going with an easier route of just stepping on the bag. He's probably also a clean-up hitter or at least close to the top of the lineup. I want to imagine he's also a lefty batter, maybe he's a slap hitter and it annoys everyone else. But yeah I really want to see him dominating third base and the whole foul line honestly.

Raichi Jingo:

He would be such a great shortstop okay just listen to me. The nature of middle infield is running around a lot (covering third, covering second, backing up second) and although it's not a lot of distance to cover, you're alternating between these positions a lot and Raichi definitely has the stamina to keep up with the demands of middle infield. We've seen it. I also think his tenacity is great for making him an awesome shortstop. He'll fully throw himself in front of a line drive to catch it (this works most of the time), ignoring the sting in his hand. I also imagine if a runner is about to steal third and Raichi is in possession of the ball, he'll charge at the runner to fully scare them back into staying at second before getting the ball back to the pitcher.

Barou Shouei:

The most egotistical pitcher you will ever meet dear god. His whole king shtick with the whole field revolving around his playstyle??? You literally can not put him in any other position. He's a menace on the field, trash talk both to his team and his opponent, but his money is where his mouth is. His great physicality would lend itself to fast, accurate pitches, but I imagine pre-development his short temper would lead to a lot of outbursts that affect his accuracy. He will get angry every time he doesn't pitch a no-hitter. Every time he's reminded that he has a whole team behind him to back him up if the batters hit, he'll bark that it's just him versus the batters and he will strike them out. Barou is the guy you don't wanna hit against, because he's good and he's annoying about it.

Aryu Jyubei:

This is a first baseman. Hear me out. First base gets quite a bit of action so Aryu's got the opportunity to be flashy and get a lot of notice, but that's like 10% of why I'm putting him here. Functionally, we see him dominate in air battles and with his long limbs it makes the most sense to put him on such a pivotal base. He's gonna get thrown to a lot, and it's undeniable that some shitty throws will be sent his way. His height/limbs will allow him to still catch virtually any ball sent his way even if it's far from the bag/overthrown while still keeping a foot on the bag to hopefully get an out. He's got the bag on lockdown but also a good few-foot radius around it.

Aiku Oliver:

Alright everybody act surprised when I say catcher. I know it's the obvious choice but that's because it makes so much sense. Obviously whenever your team isn't at bat you're on defense, but catcher is definitely the most defensive position one can think of, and that's where Aiku excels. I think his strength will be an asset behind the plate, as it'll be easy for him to throw to any base necessary, and he could also be a pretty formidable player to run toward for any opponent trying to steal home. I think his leadership that shines as captain of the U-20 team would also allow him to sync nicely with whatever pitcher he's teamed up with, and I also think his game sense will allow him to make quick decisions on where to throw the ball if he doesn't try to throw out someone stealing and just send the ball back to the pitcher.

[indecisivekitty]

“Why didn’t you call? Or text? Or anything—something! Just something to let me know you were still alive.”

Gaz’s jaw clenched, and he licked his lips at your words, trying to figure out what to say while he watched the stream of tears cascade down your cheeks till they fell to the ground. His mouth opened, but he couldn’t say anything. What was there to say?

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he said finally. But he does know. He knows how the distance weighs on you both. He knows what it does to your relationship. And he knows he doesn’t have the heart to tell you he wants you to leave him so you’ll be free from all this.

If he doesn’t stay in contact with you while he’s working, maybe you’ll start to forget him (or even start to resent him), and it’ll be easier for you to move on when he finally breaks up with you. At least that’s what he thought.

Now he’s here, watching you pick at your skin with tears staining your swollen face. Your breathing was sporadic, and your chest was heaving.

And he wonders how he could go back in time and send you the letters he wrote before burning them.

a/n: distance is hard with the one you love though would he really do all this to “set free” the one he loves because he feels bad for how much he’s gone? i wanted to write something angsty because i’m bored but i’m not sure how i feel about this. gaz is the levelheaded king but he has his moments and limits huehuehue (⇀‸↼‶)

(i just assume the constant distance is weighing on him and making him torn about helping people or keeping you) ((like is losing the love of ur love worth the lives of everyone else? especially when u know u can and have the ability to help? lol)) 😥

[princessjojo-x]

AquariusVenus ★ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

💝 despite him appearing distant & unbothered, he needs just as much attention as his sister sign leo venus. he hates being ignored or forgotten, yet he will never tell you that, making him hard to read. he’s so good at hiding his attraction from her. he’ll watch her from afar for some time before making his move meanwhile she’ll be clueless of his interest.

💝 he is the “come & go, hot & cold” type. he’s known for being inconsistent in his displays of affection & attention. indicators of his interest are sporadic & confusing, ranging from acting like you doesn’t exist to wanting to hang out with you. others often think his feelings are unstable, but it isn’t abt feelings, it’s abt aquarians need to withdraw & be alone for some time. he’s often surprised why others view him as inconsistent when his love isn’t actually wavering, he just needs space to recharge himself mentally. he will come back eventually, acting as if nothing happened, technically nothing happened for him. this is just his default nature & more codependent types may find it offensive. although he is in & out, he never really forgets you (he’s a fixed sign after all).

💝 he’s not quick to enter rxships & it takes a lot for him to fall in love. but once he’s eventually locked in there’s no going back. he’s a fixed venus sign after all so he has a tendency to stay in rxships even if they don’t serve him.

💝 he’s just as serious as capricorn but just as talkative as gemini. he’s great at communicating his wants & needs. but he can be somewhat critical when maintaining his strict boundaries & standards. also, he may express his feelings through late-night texts, sharing thoughts he might hesitate to say in person.

💝 others often feel comfortable opening up & revealing secrets to him bc he’s non-judgmental, openminded & unemotional.

💝 aquarius is ruled by uranus, which governs freedom & liberation. aquarius is abt being different & breaking boundaries. he may be very open minded in regards to his s3xuality.

Turn On’s & Off’s:

💝 he values an unbothered & nonchalant woman, whom has a collected temperament & the ability to detach. she is aloof, distant & unattainable. she knows how to regulate her emotions & thoughts, whilst viewing things from a logical perspective. consequently, she doesn’t lose her cool in any way, shape or form.

💝 for the sake of the rxship & your well-being, ensure to act less interested than he is & don’t be overly expressive of your love. you have to be subtle & strategic with him. he hates when his love interest makes it too obvious she likes him. he feels like that restricts his freedom & the last thing he wants is to be trapped. if he realises she doesn’t want to take it slow & let him be free, then expect him to completely ghost! the tighter she holds him, the more he runs away. he perceives his partner acting too obsessed & mushy (especially early on) as cringey & suffocating. he’s completely turned off by neediness & insecurity so never attempt to tie him down! he wants what he cant have & he desires romance that is unattainable to him.

💝 emotional scenes & emotional outbursts from others scare him off. when emotions get too intense he tends to find the quickest escape plan. this explains why he’s perceived as cold-hearted.

💝 he dislikes bossy & demanding partners who put too much rules on him. if you even slightly try to control him, not only will be ghost you but he will completely rebel by doing exactly what you didn’t want him to do.

💝 he wants someone who doesn’t follow the crowd & is outside of the box. ensure to respect & admire his weirdness, call him unique & original, tell him he’s nothing like you’ve ever seen or will see again.

💝 to impress him, wear something that isn’t basic or trendy. dress authentic & unique as he thinks someone expressing themselves is the sexiest thing (chelsea lee art vibes). he doesn’t care abt matching colours or patterns. glasses, space buns, holographic boots, chipped nail polish.

💝 he’s often not interested in conventional rxships. he may enjoy quick flings or anything that is weird & interesting.

💝 aquarius is the ruler of 11th house, which is the house of friendship. he enjoys friendship based foundations & treats his lover like his best friend. he loves someone who can make him laugh & make him feel comfortable.

💝 all air venus’s like to be impressed intellectually.

[whatthefishh]

omg first of all CONGRATS ON 500 BABES OMG

Second, I want Jake with ALL SIXTEEN of the sinful sentences, but I'll take this one:

“Please, mark me.”

If you want to :) Idk why, but I need some Jake. If you wanna toss the other two in there as well feel free but no obligation.

(also if you felt like doing a playlist or moodboard for A Bit Dodgy I wouldn't stop you but no pressure because one thing is already so much I love you and congrats you hoe)

I LOVE YOU. Have some Steven.

Okay 500 words of jake smut under the cut lmfaoo, love you THANK YOU ❤️

Your nails were digging into his back on every hard thrust, your leg draped over his shoulder. He was starting to huff a little heavier, grunt a little deeper and thrust a little sloppier.

Jake had already made you come once on his fingers, and the way he was grinding into your clit on every push his hips had the next wave already threatening to pull you under. He had come to you a little worse for wear, and on some days he wanted to let out his tension on you, while on others… Well. He wanted you to make a mess of him.

You started with pushing him down on the bed and all but ripping his pants off of him until your mouth found him, sucking him off until he was fisting the sheets and begging you to stop before he came. Quickly flipping you under him, he slid into you ridiculously easy, not surprised in the slightest at how wet you were from just having your tongue on his cock.

Fast forward to now, the air being punched out of your lungs from the heavy slams of his hips and his noises getting louder with every second. Mustering up the energy to encourage him, to really push him over the edge as you knew he needed, you spoke up.

“Come on, Jake, you can fuck me harder. So pretty when you let go for me like this.”

You didn’t sound in control in the slightest, especially with the way he was gripping your hips only to ram his own into them on every pass. His eyes were focused on where you were joined, on where you were soaking the sheets. Your arms trailed down to his pecs, scratching his nipples and making him hiss.

“Please,” he growled at you. You didn’t know what he was asking for. “Please… touch me. Mark me.”

It was said so lowly you almost didn’t register it over the slap, slap, slap of his hips into yours. But his eyes flashed to yours for one desperate moment, you lost the ability to breathe and you know that’s why he said it again.

“Mark me.”

Wordlessly moving forward to latch onto his chest, you obediently sucked a mark into his skin, laving it with your tongue drunkenly. Licking the sweat off his neck you moved your mouth to leave another mark on his collar bone, on the junction between his neck and shoulder, and right under the skin beneath his ear.

You think you know why he asks, but you don’t ask to confirm. He wants reminders of you, when he’s not home and when he’s not in control. The others waking up with no clue as to how they got their love bites and hickies but he knew. He could see from where he was in the headspace and felt some sense of reassurance in knowing he didn’t just make you up.

That you loved him, cared for him. That you were real.

That he was real.

The pressure was at an all time high and after one more grinding thrust on your clit, you came all of a sudden, his groans of pleasure almost drowning out your release. Not like it stopped him from fucking you, though.

“I’m here, Jake, come on. Come, please.”

And he did, he grunted his last few thrusts loudly and sporadically and came so hard his vision blacked out for a second with his head thrown back.

Pulling out and dropping on the bed next to you, cheers heaving as you caught your breath. Your hands found their way to each other and loosely intertwined even as your dumb stare was on the ceiling.

“What if they-“

“They won’t. It’s fine.”

“I just worry sometimes,” you tried again.

“I know, bebita,” he was rubbing his thumb on your hand now. “I know.”

Idk if that makes any sense but I hope you guys understand also Ty for reading love you all

[haz311bl0gs]

Kitt | High Half-Elf | Dagger Wielding Sorcerer | Immortal (200+ years old) | Agent of Raphael | Neutral Evil |

Backstory under the cut (He's not a Tav, he's just a BG3 OC).

Kitt (real name unknown) is a selfish and narcissistic man but extremely powerful. Kitt comes from a noble family that had vast amounts of arcane knowledge and priceless arcane artifacts. Bored and in love with himself he feared aging, death and missing out on the carnal pleasures youth could provide. He struck a deal with Raphael to become his immortal agent and live a life full of pleasure, Kitt would want for nothing. For this Kitt gave up the souls of his family (5 souls total) along with all the arcane knowledge and artifacts that the house possessed. His family was forgotten and vanished like they never existed. 

Kitt's memory was mostly wiped clean, he remembers what he sacrificed but he doesn't remember what the importance of the items and knowledge he gave up were. His ability to wield magic like a master and fight with his dagger also remains intact. Kitt basically remembers everything in order to be Raphael's perfect guard dog and messenger boy. 

Kitt idolizes and loves Raphael to a fault. He takes great pride in being the property of the man that gave him eternal life and pleasure. His admiration for Raphael set in slowly but when it set in, it hooked into him, and that hook has no plans of letting go. He would lick Raphael's boots clean if he was told to. 

Some points about Kitt: 

Kitt is immortal but not unkillable and there are two ways to take him down. He must be stabbed in the heart by Raphael with a special dagger named "Warm Embrace" that Raphael gave to him as a gift. The other condition is that Kitt perishes should Raphael meet his demise. 

The dagger is magically bound to him and will return to him if out of a certain radius. It’s pretty much his leash.

Kitt met Raphael in his 30s which means Kitt has been in Raphael's service for almost 2 centuries. 

Although Kitt is very sure his Master cannot be slain, he will often be found at Raphael's side in moments of danger. Kitt is selfish at the end of the day, and he will do whatever it takes to make sure Raphael does not come to harm. 

Raphael chooses Kitt's clothing.

Kitt's good looks were another driving force behind Raphael making a deal with him. He finds Kitt very attractive, but Kitt wishes for more attention than his Master can provide. 

Kitt is a play on the word Kitten. Only Raphael can call him this, anyone else with this knowledge will not be able to utter the word towards him but only in the House of Hope the rest of the world it is free reign but not everyone knows this little fact. 

He detests being asked his age. He loathes the concept of aging and even though he doesn't show it physically he is over 200 years old. He also can't really recall as he stopped counting 100 years in. 

His fighting style is quick and sporadic. He moves in flashes with teleportation and creates illusions. Fighting him can be very disorientating. 

He's all about pleasures of the flesh, he loves sex. 

His favourite fruit is pomegranates, he likes things messy.  

He's never been with Haarlep, he hates them, and he won’t without Raphael’s say so (and that’s never happened). Raphael knows how weak Kitt is for carnal pleasures and fears Kitt may do something stupid if left unattended with Haarlep. 

He doesn't get to lay with Raphael as much as he would lead you to believe, and he hates it. 

He is so jealous of Tav/The MC it makes him sick to his stomach but he’s very good at hiding it. 

Fun or not so fun fact, if you slay Raphael, you can find Kitt's dagger and bones in the teleportation room in the House of Hope. (I'm still fleshing this and his ways of tying into the game out). But because I can be mean to my OCs I like to think he sensed something was wrong a bit too late and was trying to get back, but his attempts were in vain. 

You can find out that his name is short for Kitten and use it as a fun little dialogue option to piss him off. He will call Tav/MC a "little rat" in response.

I’m still figuring out romance with him, but it would be a one-night stand if anything. If you ask him about Raphael post sex he will be amazed that you even needed to ask and he will tell you how he sleeps with him every other night (a lie) and how wonderful it is (the truth to him at least).

Anyway, that's all I have on him for now. I know it's a bit wild just inserting him into the game like that but hopefully he's believable and stuff.

[roetrolls]

DREAM SEQUENCE RECAP PART ONE: The Arc Thus Far

As you all know, my dear beloved Chase @sasster and I discovered around two years ago that we really like making stories together. We've gotten very good at it, I think!

But no matter how good at it we are, it can be a bit hard to follow a plot that's moving along as sporadically as this one has been. That's not a knock against us, life can be demanding.

But, for both our sake and yours, I thought it might be helpful to write up a summary of everything that's happened in this narrative so far. So sit back, take a nap, and let's go over what we know ✨

FIRST: THE MAJOR PLAYERS

The Church of The Divine Dreamer - A non-clown religion built upon the worship of dreams. According to its devotees, dreams take place in the divine world, which we are linked to through subconscious thought. They believe that the act of dreaming is in itself holy.

Nymira - A spacey blackblooded mutant who is, purportedly, a fledgling god. With a host of abilities related to dreaming, she is seen as a bridge between worlds and the personification of divinity. She can conjure objects from her dreams into the waking world, and though she is less practiced in it, she also possesses the ability to traverse the dreams of others and pull them into her own.

Cylion Lefera - The current head of the church and eldest child of its founder, Cylion serves as Nymira's prophet, mouthpiece, and even guardian at times. He claims to possess no abilities of his own, but trusting anything he says could prove to be a mistake...

Somnia Poppet - The middle child between Nymira and Cylion, Somnia proselytizes for the church and acts as its head of security. He's a weaselly little thing, but he's powerful in his own right. Though perhaps there's a caveat?

Favion Lefera - The church's founder, Nymira's first (and imperfect) prophet, and the father of the trio above. There is something wrong with Favion... But we'll get into that later. For now, what you really need to know is that Nymira loves him dearly, and she even uses her powers to create a tonic that can help with his condition.

Little Friend - Nymira's dearest buddy and closest confidant (a position he happened to steal from Cylion). LF is a doll, created in Nymira's dreams and brought to life through the generous aid of the Restorer-- It seems the Roatus clan might just be wrapped up in this too!

THE BACKGROUND

So now we know who's on the board... But perhaps we could understand these players a bit better.

First, just a quick peek into the dynamics at play within the COTDD. These are less crucial to the actual events of the plot, but say a lot about the characters themselves. Have some drabbles about:

Nymira and Cylion Favion's lovely treatment of Nymira One of Cylion's core memories With the supplemental reading out of the way, let's jump back in time, shall we? Because it turns out Favion and Ailzea have some history...

Childhood Woes - In this drabble from the Restorer's youth, we learn several important things about Favion. The first is that, once upon a time, he was a under the thumb of Ailzea's abusive ancestor. The second is that he loves torturing Ailzea's dolls. Third, he has always been fixated on getting a true reaction out of his "friend." And fourth? Favion has died at Ailzea's hand.

That last point is especially vital, because unlike most people Ailzea revives, Favion possesses the innate ability to dampen the powers of other trolls. He came back... But not quite right.

And he really hates the Restorer.

Good thing he doesn't know about his daughter's greatest treasure, huh? Cylion knows, though.

And Cylion loathes that thing.

It doesn't help that Little Friend knows about some of the secrets Cylion is keeping from Nymira... Like the fact that he has the power to manipulate dreams, and many of the messages she receives to guide her hand come straight from him.

Table Talk - We learn that little tidbit here. Somnia thinks it's hilarious. It also helps explain a little semi-canon something that happened earlier. See, Nymira sometimes struggles to tell whether or not she's dreaming. So when the same person who helps someone differentiate the two is also able to dictate what they dream?

Well. Sounds like a recipe for dictating that someone's very reality.

That fact might be why Nymira's had so little practice with her second ability. She can't exactly go visiting dreams while she's having custom-made ones pumped into her head, now can she? Still, the dream-hopping she does manage to do is very important to her, as we learn in Hallways, a drabble about Nymira's routine and thoughts inside her own domain.

That drabble ends in a rather unique way, though. One of the visitors she comes upon speaks her name, cementing her certainty that these are real people and real dreams that she is poking into, not just figments of her subconscious mind.

Cylion wants her to believe that's not the case. As much as she trusts her brother, it's frustrating to feel that he's not listening to her.

Hello, seeds of unrest. Shall we uproot the status quo?

UPROOT WE SHALL

Have you ever met Marrie? She's Ailzea's daughter, a life-sized marionette with an adorable smile and a heart of gold. She's also friends with Nymira! Little Friend needs to visit the House of Restoration regularly to stay in working order, and Marrie delights in the task of ferrying him between the churches. Especially because it allows her to speak with Nymira, even if Cylion sometimes tries to keep that time short.

Quick Visit - This time Cylion's busy, though. And that's about to cause him quite the headache. You see, Marrie's bought Nymira a journal... And some pens...

Thing is, Cylion goes to great lengths to keep writing utensils out of his sister's hands. After all, when he benefits so much from being able to decide for her what's real and what isn't, what could he possibly stand to gain from allowing her to leave notes about? No, that won't do at all.

Missing? - No worries. It doesn't take long for Cylion to notice the pens, though he doesn't know where they've come from. In fact, he assumes Nymira must have conjured them herself. Easy fix, then, right? He probably thinks so! Until, of course, he discovers that someone else can corroborate their existence... Time to think fast.

Too bad for him, it seems Cylion has forgotten something about his sister–– she's trusting. Not stupid. And even the most naive troll can notice a lie if it's sloppy enough.

Especially one who combs through details with such idle frequency that they've formed an absent tick of counting how many fingers they have.

Nymira is uneasy.

And then Marrie meets her dad.

SHIT HITS THE FAN

Pretty Doll - Remember that thing we learned about Favion? The one where he really, really likes breaking Ailzea's creations? Marrie is one of those. You can see where this is going.

Or... Where it would be going, at least.

Interception - Because Cylion and Somnia aren't the only brothers hanging around this arc, and Archie Roatus will be damned if he lets someone hurt his sister and get away with it. Welcome to the narrative, Archie! You're gonna have a great time, don't even worry about it.

Archie gets Marrie out with minimal damage, just a single arm left behind. That's minimal, she's made of wood. She's fine. It's fine.

Reminder - Except it isn't. Because Nymira's here to witness the aftermath, and she is not happy. Especially after overhearing that Cylion intended to hide Marrie's arm before she could see it. In a fit of near hysteria and with her pens bled dry by her brother, she takes drastic measures to ensure she won't forget what she's learned. Black blood must look remarkably like ink, don't you think?

White Bear - And she's not the only one keeping this incident in their thoughts. Archie's back, and he's having trouble moving on from what Favion has done to his family. He promised Ailzea not to act on those feelings, but, well... Ever heard of the white bear experiment? Archie accidentally activates his powers and teleports to Favion. Whoopsie!

In the resulting interaction, he realizes that Favion's abilities mitigate his own, and he buys time to get out by mouthing off and generally being a little shit.

And there we go! That's all we've got, at least for now... Let's see what we dream up next.

[zannithinks]

Fathom, please!

Thank you for the ask! It's so motivating ♡ Apologies for the delay, I got sick :( but here's a bit more of my crazy Fathom story. Be Warned: there are inconsistencies abound, this thing has a lot of context going on behind the scenes. If you're confused, don't worry, so is Jim. (This occurs just a few lines after the first snippet I shared, which is linked below) Fathom Snippets Part 1 | Part 2

“Gown off.” 

“What?” Jim hunches like the guy is about to rip it off of him. Rationally he knows a doctor wouldn't do that, but the frequency in his head flickers enough to sow deep rooted doubt. Someone’s ripped the clothes off his back before, it tells him, it could happen again. 

“Visual inspection for edema, lesions, rashes, the sort. It’s just me here, kid, ‘aint no one you gotta impress.” 

Jim doesn't move. The moment he reveals his skin, he’s gonna reveal something that shouldn’t be found out, but a snowstorm of static in his brain keeps him from remembering exactly what it is, and Bones keeps looking at him like- like-

“Doesn’t the tech tell you that?”  Jim’s hands curl over the edge of the biobed like the grip will ground him into the here and now. He’s pretty sure the doctor just glanced at the readings, probably seeing his elevated heart rate, but Jim can’t do anything about that, he’s too desperate to stall and too frustrated about not knowing why. 

“Don’t trust the machines with everything, that’s why they still hire me, don’t they?” 

This guy’s cocky. Not in the bold way Jim can be, more in the sheer amount of confidence he has in his own abilities to pick up more than bioscanners can. Competence is always a turn on, but Jim can’t focus on that. Really, he can’t focus on anything. Not since the red alert started blaring. His chest tightens at the reminder of his nightmare. Or was it a memory? 

The doctor settles into his stance, looking perfectly ready to stand there all day. “There’s no rush, Kirk. When you’re ready we’ll continue.” 

He flinches. “Don’t call me that.” 

Bones doesn’t call him that unless he’s pissed off or trying to be annoying. The doctor’s not angry, but his frown is deeper, so Jim’s gotta be doing something wrong. This isn’t his life. Sporadic bursts of small truths come through his brains buzzing static. Jim's from a place where he's going to live alone and die alone, and that's how it's supposed to go.

“What should I call you?” 

He risks a glance. Bones looks tired and worn out, but his tone remains patient.

“Jim.”  “Ok, Jim.” 

It teases a smile out of him, even though this Jim wouldn't understand the huff of irritation is actually disguised amusement.

This world belongs to him and Bones, and he’s fucking things up for them. He needs to stop fucking things up. 

“Ok.”  Jim nods, and this has to be the first time he's ever had to psyche himself up to take his clothes off. Or maybe just the first time he remembers.

Jim yanks the tie at the back of his neck and rips the gown off like it’s personally offended him. There. It wasn’t that hard. There was no reason to get so bent out of shape about it. 

Then he catches the doctor's expression.

[mayxthexforce]

Your Dazzling Hue || Sev'rance & Thrawn

Starter for @thrawnur

The sound of smooth jizz flowing through appeared to mix well with the various tones of conversations transpiring in the large room. The atmosphere was perfectly lively for a celebration, as the Emperor —even if he currently stood out for his absence— and all officers and influential families involved, were celebrating the great expansion of the Empire's territories. It was one of the few instances in which Sev'rance had a chance to really relax– that is, if conversing with a load of people about business and political endeavors while having to keep things on a FRIENDLY basis could be deemed as relaxing.

For someone who took great pride in the vast ability of her own memory, Sev'rance almost lost mental count of the various department heads, senators, Moff, and officers of varying ranks she engaged with as far as the current stance on success they were on, and offered her own insight into how they could improve things in their respective systems and outposts. When Sev'rance spoke, people listened. Intently. They always did. And that was because she forced herself to become well-read in the different events taking place around the galaxy, as well as know how to keep the attention of an audience. Several different audiences, in this case, as there was a huge difference between small talk with a lower ranking officer, small talk with a senator and/or their spouse, and small talk with a Moff. Her expression through each conversation she engaged in was one of serious relaxation or collected amusement, depending on what each individual situation called for.

She carefully calculated when and under what circumstances to allow her lips to curve almost imperceptibly upwards into a pleased smile, a quite sporadic, blink-and-you-miss-it gesture that had people engaged in conversation with her because of the aura of mysterious sophistication she made a point to surround herself in. Many people had heard the stories of ruthlessness that had her as the protagonist. But in person, she gave away nothing. Some might have even pondered if they remembered wrong, if the ruthless former Supreme Commander of the Confederacy was a different Chiss. They never asked, not wanting to be the ones to make it obvious they couldn't tell Chiss apart. But Sev'rance could see the conflict in their eyes.

It amused her, greatly.

Until somebody else seized her attention. As it seemed she wasn't the only one keeping people on their toes. Across the dance floor she spotted a man in a white uniform– but it wasn't the uniform that intrigued her, it was the one wearing it. Blue skin, dark hair, red eyes– another Chiss.

Even if aware that she might be biased due to the fact this was the first time she had seen another Chiss in... far too long, Sev'rance had to admit it was rather impressive to watch him navigate the crowd in a way that was so much like hers yet different enough to keep her entertained. They moved in opposite directions: counterclockwise VS clockwise. He was easy to spot despite the visual obstacle that the people dancing posed. The contrast of his white uniform against blue skin made him stand out in a similar way to how the contrast of her own dark red dress against her own blue skin most likely did for her.

Yet, and even as she continued to be pulled into different conversations, she made sure to keep an eye on him.

[midnightfire830]

Hi, I have a question on ghost au! how did Mug perceive his transformation(?). I mean, they were kids, didn't that scare him? and how did Cups take it?

Ooh! Good question!

I’m like half awake when I’m writing this so this might come across as kinda sporadic. Pls bear with me. TWT

First of all, Black Hat was the one who told Mugs that his brother died. Cup was taken to the Devil and stayed in Hell to recover for several weeks. Mugs found out maybe a week or so after the experiment. He was absolutely hysterical. His brother died from a horrible experiment, and was taken to Hell to see the Devil, and he hasn’t seen him for several weeks. My guess is Mugs might have been around 11-13 years old at the time. That’s a lot for a kid that age.

When Cup did come back from Hell Mugs immediately became super clingy and protective over him. Wouldn’t leave his side, freaked out when he was alone for too long or in danger. Eventually he let up about it and got used to the new situation. He’s currently fine when his brother switches between ghost and human form, it’s just when someone asks about HOW Cup died that Mugs has a problem. He shuts down, avoids it, or changes the topic. He hates thinking about how his brother died. (Plus I’m pretty sure in IM Mugs was in the room when Cuphead had the demon blood experiment, so he likely saw his brother die.)

I should mention that while Hat TOLD Mugs about how Cup was a half-ghost now, it still didn’t really prepare him for when he saw his brother turn into one. Mugs probably saw it for the first time either during training or when Cup first came back from Hell. (Cup didn’t have a very good handle on transforming between a ghost and human at first. There were a lot of accidents.) I would imagine when Mugs first sees Cuphead turn into a ghost he’d burst into tears.

Cuphead when he first found out would have been in Hell. His reaction would have been ranging from shock and anger. I mean, Hat made him do this experiment and resulted in his death, of course he’d be absolutely PISSED. He definitely freaked out when he first turned into a ghost. Didn’t know how the hell to move around, float, or control transformations and likely hated transforming because it just reminded him of the fact that he died. Eventually he’d get more used to it, and maybe even enjoy it some. (The prank opportunities available to him now was definitely a plus. And he’s now harder to hit. And can freaking FLY) Knowing Cuphead he’d learn to get past it and use his new abilities to get a leg up in fights.

Thanks for the ask!

[muertarte]

PARTIES: @magmahearts @muertarte

TIMING: A few days ago

SUMMARY: Cass and Metzli go to the zoo to watch Blossom give birth to her calf.

WARNINGS: Mentions of past Emotional Abuse and Physical Abuse

The crowd of people surrounding the giraffe enclosure wasn’t surprising, but that didn’t exactly bode well for the anxious vampire. Having the sun shining was another issue, but the only thing on Metzli’s mind was seeing the calf being born. The hooves had already breached, it was only a matter of time until the nose peeked through as well. 

“I wish there was way to make people go away.” Metzli muttered as they ushered themself and Cass through the crowd. They sucked in a shallow breath, trying to get to the observation dome. Children were pushing and shoving trying to get to get, most not even tall enough to reach the higher dome.

“Blossom is in hour four of labor. Nose will come soon.” Metzli breathed, scanning the area and adjusting their headphones with their shoulder. “Want to go in there,” They pointed at the dome with their chin, pausing at the wall of people trying to get a better look at the enclosure. Blossom was still standing, stomach contracting sporadically as the calf made good headway. The buzzing of the crowd began to die then, the sensations of people bumping into Metzli no longer at the forefront of their mind. Just Blossom and the small oread at their side.

It felt like she was walking on very thin ice. With all she’d been through in the last few days — the mare, the cave-in, the injuries that the masked woman had helped her with that still ached beneath her clothes — Cass was a little more fragile than usual. She’d released Metzli from their promise bind without even really meaning to, though she wasn’t sure she regretted the decision either. Metzli didn’t deserve to be forced into a friendship they didn’t want.

Only they were still here, anyway. Dragging Cass through the crowd at the zoo like nothing had changed at all, like they were still forced into a friendship they’d made it clear they were unhappy about. Cass wondered if there was some strange delay on the promise release, if it worked differently on a vampire than it would on a human. She’d never bound a vampire before, as far as she knew. Maybe it took a minute.

But in any case, she intended to enjoy this while it lasted. And maybe, just maybe, make herself useful enough for Metzli to decide she was worth hanging out with even after the magic faded. She looked up at the dome the vampire wanted to go to, a determined expression on her face. Tapping the shoulder of the man in front of them, she smiled. “I love your hair,” she told him.

“Oh,” he replied, bringing a hand up to touch his bald head. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome!” Cass beamed. “Go stand over there.” Obediently, and bound by the thanks, the man left, leaving an open spot for Cass to tug Metzli into. “Come on,” she said with a grin. “I can get us in there, no problem! It’ll just take a couple of minutes, okay?”

A smile almost took shape, watching Cass use her ability to get people to move away. For a moment, Metzli almost allowed the girl to do such a thing, but there were other ways to get people to leave. As much as they wanted to see Blossom have her calf, it didn’t feel right to take away a person’s free will. Not only that, but Metzli had a feeling Cass was still in her pursuit to deem herself useful to them, to anyone who was willing to be around her. 

They’d seen it more than once, watched her carefully since they had the fortune to thank her. She desperately wanted to squeeze out every moment possible for as long as it would have her, even if it cost her pieces of herself. Metzli wondered if it’d always be that way, even if they told her they didn’t need anything from her. Something they wished they were told when they were in her position.

“Girl,” They called out, bending at the waist to become eye level with Cass. “It is okay. Do not need you to do this. Have other method.” Metzli bonked their head light against Cass’s, handing over the umbrella for her to hold while they retrieved their wallet. “People like money.” They chirped, grabbing ahold of a few bills and handing them out as payment to people who moved away. In a matter of seconds, a path was cleared, parents ushering their kids out of the way to make room for the pair to enter the dome. 

“See?” Metzli moved forward, crouching into the small space to finally view Blossom right in front of them. A grin formed on their face, and they pulled Cass to their side, pointing at the future mother. “She is beautiful, yes?”

Cass was fully prepared to move the entire crowd through little binds, but Metzli’s voice stopped her. She turned to look at them, meeting their eye as they bent to her level. Her heart fluttered with a quick fear as they told her to stop, wondering if she’d done something wrong. Was Metzli angry with her for binding the man? Did it remind them of what she’d done to them after they’d thanked her, the way she’d taken their will away? 

If they were angry, they didn’t say it. Instead, they began handing out bills to people who agreed to move out of their way. Cass followed the vampire as they cut through the crowd, a little more subdued than she’d been before. If Metzli didn’t need her, then how long would they really keep her around? If they didn’t like the way she bound people, how long would they continue to accept her presence? 

Metzli’s method worked just as well as the one Cass had planned, and while it should have made her happy, it only served to leave a sour taste in her mouth. Being unnecessary was the first rung in the ladder towards being unwanted. Cass knew that better than anyone.

Still, she forced a smile when Metzli turned towards her, glad that an expression didn’t count as a lie. “She is,” she replied, and that was true, too. The giraffe was pretty amazing; Cass had never actually seen one this close before. Concern etched its way into her features as something occurred to her. “Does it hurt?”

With her plan interrupted, it was obvious Cass was either disappointed with how Metzli intervened, or worried that they were upset. That certainly wasn’t the case. Cass was fae. Bindings and deals were ingrained in her. 

Metzli could never fault her for using what she knew, what she existed in. It only felt like they could when they had become entangled in what felt like a con. As if the free will they had worked so hard to obtain was stripped from them. Things had changed though, and the fae they had disliked so quickly had turned into someone they wanted to care for. Even share special moments. 

“¿Qué dijiste?” The vampire blinked, unable to fully tear their attention away from the animal they adored. Her stomach was moving, signs that life was on its way. “Oh,” Metzli breathed, finally registering what Cass had asked. It made their chest bloom with something they couldn’t quite decipher, but they knew it was kind for the girl to take the mother’s pain into consideration. At Cass’s core, she was empathetic, often feeling way too much for others. “It hurts, yes. She is pushing out a whole life.” Metzli continued to stare at the giraffe, eyes sparkling with adoration. “But when it is over, she will see pain is worth it. Love is pain very often, but that is what makes it real. Effort.”

Metzli didn’t say anything, and it was better that way. The vampire had often assured Cass that they detested lying and didn’t participate in it themself, but it was often hard for the nymph to grasp this. When Metzli told her that something was fine while her instincts screamed at her that they weren’t, it felt like a lie even if logic told her it wasn’t. And she didn’t like thinking that Metzli was lying, not when she knew how much they hated it. She didn’t like doubting her friends; she just didn’t know how to stop.

Her brow furrowed as Metzli responded to her in Spanish, expression making it clear that she didn’t understand what the words meant. Some of the nymphs back in her aos si had spoken it some, but none had bothered teaching it to Cass. It was only thanks to an elder in the community who had found the idea of any of their number misunderstanding their native language that she’d been taught Hawaiian. No one had wasted time going the extra mile beyond that.

Metzli seemed to correct themself, switching back to English in a way that came as something of a relief, though the words offered nothing of the sort. Cass ached with the idea that there was an animal in pain, and that so many were watching it. If she were hurting, she wouldn’t want an audience for it. But Metzli made a good point — this was a different kind of pain. It wasn’t one Cass understood. Maybe she’d understand the sentiment better if she’d been loved herself. “And she’ll… take care of it? The baby.” The mother giraffe wouldn’t leave her baby on someone else’s doorstep, wouldn’t abandon it somewhere where no one would really care about it. Cass found herself frustratingly jealous of a stupid giraffe, and a giraffe that hadn’t even finished being born yet at that. 

Cass wouldn’t know it, but she wasn’t alone in her jealousy. There was something that ached inside of Metzli at the thought of a being able to follow their parental instincts. They couldn’t recall a time that either of their parents did, or if they could for that matter. It was as if Metzli were a monster, and they were treated as such, long before they were even bitten. Both Cass and Metzli understood what that was like, longing for a family they were prohibited from having. No reason given. The blasphemous act of simply existing was enough. 

“She will take care of it. The herd will help too.” A tinge of pain attached itself to Metzli’s voice, and they had to take to twisting and tugging one of their curls to keep from reacting emotionally. “It is nature for this. The calf will grow big and then will do the same when another mother has a calf. The cycle will continue.” With a deep breath, Metzli leaned slightly away from the glass dome and looked to Cass. “I wonder a lot what that would feel like. To have care. I know you do, too.” 

Most people took Metzli’s quiet disposition as a means to ignore, but that was far from the truth. If anything, they utilized the quiet to observe more, to take in what hidden truths lay around them. It was no different with Cass. She may have even been one of the people Metzli observed the most. In many ways, they were alike, something the vampire wanted to ignore. Now, though? They leaned into it, eager to discover if they could create a cycle similar to the nature giraffe’s followed. “We…can have herd. Like them. We can make one.”

The herd will help, too. It made the ache inside her grow a little more, and she thought of the aos si she’d been given to. In a perfect world, they would have come together to help raise her just as the herd would come together for this calf. Maybe in that perfect world, her human mother would have been welcomed into the community to help, or her oread father would have stuck around to show her how things worked. But in this one? Cass had been alone. And Metzli had, too. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair, but it was how things were. 

She stared into the enclosure so that she wouldn’t have to look Metzli in the eye, watched the soon-to-be mother giraffe strain and struggle with the labor and tried not to wonder if her mother had done the same. She wondered, sometimes, if her mother would have kept her if she’d been human. She wasn’t sure which answer would hurt more. “I don’t know that I would have been good at it,” she admitted quietly. “Being someone’s daughter. I don’t know if it’s something I would have been able to do right.” Was there anything she could do right? Sometimes, she wondered.

When Metzli spoke again, Cass turned to look at them without meaning to. She searched their face carefully, looking for some sign that they might be lying. There wasn’t one. There never was, with Metzli. If they were a liar, they were the best Cass had ever seen. The alternative option — that they were telling the truth — was a more likely one. And a much more tempting one to believe. “You think so?” Her voice was quiet still, but hopeful now. She looked back at the giraffe. “I’d really like that.”

“You were not given chance, girl.” That’s all the vampire said at first, eyes shining with fresh tears.

Sometimes it felt like maybe being locked away was a godsend, like it was protection against the outside world. Out in the crowds of people that overwhelmed them, Metzli would tremble and scream as a child, begging for the noise to stop. Outside was worse most days. Having to rehearse obedience and closing off the insurmountable sensation of existing in a world too loud, too bright, and too textured. There was no name for what caused that then, and Metzli still didn’t know exactly why they were different, but they wanted to be special enough for their parents. So they created a world where they were. Somewhere where maybe, just maybe, there was a loving trait to being told to not be seen or heard. That they were this precious piece of their parents that was kept hidden because if anyone else discovered them, they may get taken away and that would break their parent’s hearts. 

But that was a lie, and Metzli hated lies. They always hurt worse when the truth shattered the illusion like heartbreak.

That moment with Cass, though? It wasn’t an illusion. There were no lies to tell. No longer were either lost children alone, broken away from a family tree that stemmed from a rotted log. They could graft themselves together and shape a herd—a family that could be worthy of a definition that began with the word love. “I think you would do well if you got one chance.” Metzli finally spoke again, watching as Cass stared away at the mother. “Me and…and Leila can try to show you. I only have bad examples from my parents, but I know what to not do now.” They inhaled deeply, hoping their words weren’t wrong. They’ve never been any good at talking. No one ever gave them the chance to practice. “I would like that. We-me and Leila—would like that.” Avoiding any possible look of rejection, Metzli looked back at Blossom, seeing that her calf was almost out. Tears began to fill their eyes and the world went silent. They stared away, not realizing they affectionately placed their hand on Cass’s shoulder, pulling her closer.

“Yeah,” she agreed quietly, “I guess I wasn’t.” It wasn’t fair, was it? There were few things in the world that everyone was supposed to be born with, Cass knew. There were few things that everyone was entitled to by default, but there were supposed to be a couple, at least. You were supposed to have parents. It was a biological fact. Everyone who was born had a mother who bore them, and a father who made it possible. But what were you supposed to do when that was all they did? When they brought you into the world and left you alone? It felt cruel, somehow, that even animals did a better job at it. The giraffe in the zoo would have her calf, and maybe she wouldn’t love it — maybe animals weren’t capable of that in any way that made sense to people — but she’d raise it. She’d make sure it was fed, she’d teach it how to be a giraffe. And maybe it was the bare minimum, but it was so much more than what Cass had gotten.

It was more than what Metzli had gotten, too. 

And it was so supremely unfair, wasn’t it, that this was a thing they had to have in common. It wasn’t right. Your parents loving you, caring about you… It was supposed to be the norm, wasn’t it? It was supposed to be something everyone got. So why was it different for them? Why was Cass alone? Why was Metzli? She wanted to scream, wanted to pull her hair out, wanted to break something. 

But then Metzli was speaking again, and some of that anger faded. She turned to look at the vampire, swallowing around the lump that had formed in her throat. “Really? You’d want to?” Her voice was small, tone uncertain. “I know I’m not… I mean, I’m not an easy person to… to want for that. I know that.” If she were easier to love, someone would have done it. “But if you — If you really want to, I’d like that. I’d like it a lot.”

There was no rejection, no sweeping crash of pain that accompanied the pair in that small dome. Cass had accepted the offer Metzli had placed in front of her, taking into consideration that love and peace could actually come at a bargain. For the small price of vulnerability, Metzli was building a family, experiencing a more pleasant side to emotion. 

“Yes. I want to.” The vampire replied, a lingering hope laying lightly in their tone. It was a miracle, really. Finding people and bidding loneliness farewell, something Leila and Cass and Metzli knew for so long. With a subtle smile, they looked back at Cass, and then to the mother. “L-look!” Metzli’s eyes lit up, watching as the fruit of Blossom’s labor would finally lay bare for all to see. “It’s here. It’s here!” They grinned, eyes full of awe. 

A cheer escaped them and they began to jump up and down with excitement. Lifting Cass into a tight embrace, Metzli let go of tension they didn’t even realize they were holding. “Thank you for being here, mija.” They knew what they were saying. Both the affectionate name and the possibility of a bind. What did it matter, though? If Cass needed a bind, they would oblige. Whatever she needed, as the person taking care of her, Metzli would sacrifice any free will so she’d have a chance. 

Yes. I want to. They were words Cass had wanted to hear all her life, words she’d longed for since she was a child. Hearing them now, from someone who she knew wasn’t using them to manipulate or twist things up, filled her chest with a genuine warmth. Neither of them had ever had anything like this before, but together, they could build a family. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly, the words heavy on her tongue. Metzli knew what they meant, and Cass trusted them not to take advantage. If Metzli wanted to bind her to her thanks, she knew they’d only do so for something that mattered. She looked back into the enclosure just as the giraffe finished her labor, a grin spreading across her face. “Whoa,” she said quietly.

And then she was being lifted off her feet, giggling as Metzli embraced her. Another thanks, a word that she knew the significance of even if she didn’t speak the language. “I’ll be here whenever you want me,” she said quietly, squeezing them into a quick hug before letting go. She knew Metzli wasn’t really the biggest hugger, and that was okay. “You don’t have to thank me for that.” Looking back into the enclosure, she smiled. One family in there, and another out here. It was nice. “What do you think they’ll name it?”

Metzli Cass meant it when she said she’d be there whenever they wanted. She couldn’t lie. There was no contortion of her face and no tension in her body to indicate a false statement. They patted her head and leaned into the dome again, watched as Blossom hovered over her calf and cleaned it up. “I do not know.” 

Datura!

The familiar voice perked Metzli’s ears, and they smiled just a bit wider, grabbing a hold of Cass’s hand. “Grab umbrella. Honey is here. Maybe she can help us convince the workers to let us name the calf. She has better eyes too.” Pulling them  away from the dome, Metzli took one last look at the spot the pair had been standing in just before Honey wrapped her arms around them both. She was always so affectionate, and though Metzli was reaching their cap on stimuli that day, they welcomed her with ease. 

“Let’s go see calf, mariposa. It’s here.” They looked down at Cass reverently, smiling subtly. “You ready, mija?”