#hollow bough

[kindlyfunkn]

Mine is the dense biozone, i love the unique plant-life (especially the big leaves that lift you up) + the big brain rocks, also the colour scheme is the most pleasing to me and it's cool when you dig and the dirt has red and blue on different facets it makes it look shimmery.

ALSO also the winding pits I like traveling up and down them making paths on the sides (also the thrill of one wrong move, and i plummet to my doom (THOSE WALLS ARE SLIPPERY)).

[not-so-ori-ginal]

yep, im not done with these, even if its been 6 months since magma core...

[drgscreenshotsthatgohard]

Big Cave 1: Hollow Bough

[melonisopod]

The fight against Baba Yaga has the instrumental version of Rodion’s ‘Pass On’ playing behind it and it’s just fascinating. The frozen, shambling corpses of her neighbors who she failed to protect, who died because of her actions, are obstacles in her way, while the house of the old woman she killed chases after her, threatening to crush her under its weight. She can’t save her neighbors anymore, all she can do is cut them down and shove them out of her way, she can’t fight the villain, she can only outrun it and hide from it. There is no closure, just a reminder of all the ways she failed.

And yet she’s still telling herself she’s moved on.

[snavian]

NEW POLL because the previous one has made me very curious!

[boinkyspoinky]

Currently helping out with making a silly pizza tower mod (My boy replaces Peppino) and one of my friends made this masterpiece of an image

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

59 / 3.4k / part 3 of shark mermen Gaz and Soap with human!reader <3

kinktober keywords: dubcon, monster mermen, monsterfucking, teratophilia, overt predator/prey dynamics, hypnosis/hypnokink, praise

...

"You gonna behave?"

You bite your lip and keep your arms tightly wound around your upper half. "I thought I was."

The movement catches Gaz's eyes. They darken. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

He reaches out, catching your bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger. He pulls it gently lower and lets it snap back into place, and your lip stings with saltwater. "That."

You squirm in his hold.

Gaz keeps his grip, but lets you keep moving. His gaze drops again to your lips and keeps getting lower until it's obvious that he's staring at your neck. Even if he weren't a predator sensitive to the quick heartbeat and rushing blood of startled prey, he'd see the nerves all over you. He draws closer.

"You're so small," he murmurs.

You press back, but it does no good.

"And weak," Gaz continues. The clawtip of his index finger presses into the damp flesh of your stomach. "I could crack you open like the shell of a clam. Can I touch you?"

Before you can answer, Soap's hands wander up your legs again. You tense. Gaz's tail tightens under you in response.

"Bit late to ask if you can touch her," Soap says in their mer-tongue.

Gaz ignores him. "Stay still," he murmurs, his tail tightening. Not quite enough to crush anything, but enough to restrict more of your movement. "I won't hurt you."

As Soap makes a grab at one of your wrists, the coldness of your skin and the quickness of your pulse sends a small thrill down his spine.

You try to still your movements and steady your breath. It seems like the more you squirm and protest, the more it snags their interest. You're pretty sure by now they're not going to eat you, but their interest in you has taken an unmistakably carnal tilt.

"See?" Gaz says. "You can be good." He drags his claw lightly over your belly again, and you feel all the muscles of your midsection tense. If it weren't for him squeezing you so firmly, you'd almost be lifted out of the water.

"Good," he murmurs again.

"What do you want to see? I already showed you my legs."

"Everything else."

It's a blunt, straightforward answer. The way Gaz says it seems almost disinterested—matter-of-fact—but his gaze is fixed intently on your belly. He wants to see every inch of you, the softness and the curves and the hollow spots and the sharp dips.

Soap's hands find your waist, and he pulls you closer in in a way that forces you to arch your back, bough toward him, and spread your legs wider over Gaz's tail.

You steal a glance down at the glass-sharp rocky sand and the cold waves rising in. "Here?"

They don't bother to answer. Gaz shifts your hips up his tail, contorting you further. Soap stares openly down at your tits through your wet shirt as he drags his massive hands down your thighs and back up in an exploratory motion.

Gaz's scales push up against the crotch of your shorts. Your brain skips. This can't be happening right now and you can't be feeling kind of hot under the collar about it. No, nah, nope.

You plant your hands against Soap's shoulders and push him back. "I said not here! Take me somewhere nice." No, that's not quite right. "Somewhere private."

nsfw ⬇

Gaz digs his fingers into your hips and pushes you further up his tail. The movement grinds you into him like he's starting to feel you get warm and wet.

"Yeah?" Soap purrs, letting you push him away. There's no way you could throw him off unless he lets you, but he does. "Where d'you want us to take you, little human?"

"Somewhere soft and dry."

The two merman trade looks with one another. Gaz tilts his head down at you and narrows his dark eyes. "I know a place."

You swallow. "You do?"

"Mmhm." His tail shifts beneath you. "Have you ever seen a merman's bed?"

"No..."

Gaz’s tone drops to something just above a murmur. "It's carved out of sloping reef rock and lined with the softest, sun-warmed sand. Perfect to lie in."

Despite his attempt to soothe you, Soap's claws catching the hem of your torn shirt make you even more tense. You grab his hand and push it down. A muscle in your jaw jumps with irritation.

Soap stops pushing, but there's a look in his eye that you don't like at all. He knows he's bigger and stronger than you. All he has to do is pull back a little too hard, and he could easily yank you off Gaz's tail and into his own arms instead. He can make you do whatever he wants, and he knows it.

It makes you all the more aware of the strength of his body between your knees. He could pin you down so easily—he could crush you with the sheer size of him—and you'd never be able to do anything about it.

Before either of you makes a move, Gaz growls at Soap in their mer language. Soap's eyes snap up to Gaz's. His face tightens. His hands loosen and slide slowly out from under your shirt.

You watch it happen with an unsteady glare. But now they're watching each other rather than you. It only holds for a moment before Soap pulls his gaze away. He looks almost bored as he lets his hands drift back to your thighs.

"Fine," he murmurs. But the look in his eyes still leaves you with the uneasy feeling that he isn't entirely done with you.

Fine is the only word of it you understand, but you still feel the agitation in their tone and the subtle shifts of muscles in Gaz's back and shoulders against your chest. Still, he seems fine with Soap's hands on you as long as he's not agitating you further.

You look down at Gaz's claws. His grip on you stays tight. He isn't rough, exactly, but his hands are big and his touch is insistent and slightly possessive. His hands drift lazily over your hips, up your ribs, across the tops of your thighs. It feels like he's keeping track of every inch of you he's already felt.

You squeeze your legs together stubbornly when he gets close to your inner thighs.

His grip is like iron. You feel the muscles of his tail working beneath you as he shifts to get you just right again.

"Let me in," he murmurs.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"And why not?" His hands wander up and down the seam of your legs.

You get the impression that he can smell you getting wet when you when you're squished up close against him like this. Does he think you're putting out crazy pheromones or something? A twinge of shame makes you look away. "Because we're mismatched."

"Mismatched?" He snorts and pulls you forward so you're leaning further back and against his chest. It exposes your neck to him and his eyes darken. "Your kind has a real obsession with categorizing everything, don't you? We can be matched just fine."

"But we're not, like, physically... you know... it would be weird. It's like having sex with an animal."

"I don't think humans are animals," Gaz murmurs. He draws his claws over the outside of your thigh--not causing pain or leaving marks, but stimulating the nerves under your skin with small jolts. "Besides in the literal sense. But then we both are."

You say nothing. His fingertips brush up the backs of your knees, and a shiver of awareness travels all the way down your spine to your toes. His voice is low and soft as he speaks to Soap in their language again. He rubs his thumb in tiny circles on the back of your knee.

If you knew what he was saying, you'd realise that he's telling Soap that you're nervous.

"It would be weird," you say again.

Soap scoffs. "You keep saying that word. Weirrrd," he repeats in a voice edged with disdain and mimicking your accent. "Why does it matter? There's no one else here."

Gaz tilts his head down in an attempt to catch your eye. "You're not even a little bit curious? You humans are always so desperate to know why and how things work. You used to poke and prod us. You're usually curious about stuff like this." His voice drops lower. "About new experiences. What if I told you that this could feel good?"

"It's still wrong." Even as you say it, you're starting to wonder. You're already pretty sure they won't hurt you. They would have already if they didn't care, right? But you can't bear to think about how disgusted people would be if they knew you were seriously considering this.

"You think it's wrong?" Gaz’s voice takes on an edge. "Humans have a lot of strange rules that don't make any sense. Do you really think we're that different?"

"Yeah."

His gaze drops to your lips. "That's what you humans get so wrong. You think everything means something. Rubbish. Sometimes things can just feel good. And this" --he strokes the sensitive skin of your ankle-- "could feel so good. If you let me in, you'll be warm and safe. That’s what you want, yeah? To be looked after?"

"I don't... I don't know."

Gaz hums and rubs your ankle. Your skin is softer than the salt-smoothed calluses of his hands, and your leg is so small. He feels like he would barely have to squeeze to break it in two. "It's okay not to know, you know," he says. "You've been through a lot. Can I tell you more about us?" he asks, voice low and soft. "About our kind?"

His voice seems to soothe your ragged nerves. "I guess so."

"Good human." He leans very close, his mouth against the shell of your ear. His hands tighten on your thighs again. You’re at his fingertips. You’ll be his in no time. "We're not so different. We hunt and we play. We fight and we... enjoy things." He traces his claw along the line of your legs again. "We can feel things other creatures can't. Sounds too quiet for other prey, smells under water, under the salt. We like the smell of other creatures. What do humans like to smell?"

"Um... flowers, I guess. And food. Baked goods."

He huffs a laugh. "What a waste of your senses." He slides his claw along the outside of your calf. "You humans like things to be clean, huh? Nice warm water and soap. So many rules and little rituals with your cleaning."

"Yeah, so?"

"But then you spend half of your time dirtying each other again. Fighting and rutting and making messes. Humans are strange. Your rules get in the way of your senses."

"We need rules to protect ourselves."

"You need rules to limit yourself," Gaz says. "No wonder you act so fragile. If you'd let yourself enjoy things, everything wouldn't seem so dangerous."

Soap watches you steadily. He can smell the way you're reacting as Gaz's voice washes over you and the way you melt slightly every time he touches you.

You huff. "That's easy for you to say."

"Humans keep themselves vulnerable. No claws, no callouses," Gaz says as he runs his free hand over your upper arm. Your skin is so smooth, he can feel the tiny hairs standing up as his hand passes over them. You really are like a seal—all big eyes and soft give everywhere and no bite to you whatsoever. Except your words, maybe. " How do you defend yourself like this? How do you hunt?"

You don't reply.

His hand finds its way into your hair, claws tracing lines over your scalp. "Do you know what it is to hunt by yourself? Taking charge when something catches your interest. Taking things that you want."

"Not really."

"It's thrilling."

"To be stronger and faster?"

"More than that. Feeling another creature's pulse beneath your teeth, hearing the crunch of bone as it gives way. Knowing you've caught your prey." Gaz strokes the hair back from your ear. His voice and fingers send pleasurable tingles down your spine. He pulls you closer to himself as he speaks so you can fully feel his large frame cradled around yours. “We don't have many possessions," he says. "We like having something that's ours."

"Oh."

"And humans are small," he murmurs. "So soft and small." He rubs circles into your scalp, and you feel his voice as much as you hear it. "So warm and pliable. Easy to hold and keep."

You catch Soap grin and realize you've been staring at him.

"See somethin' you like, hen?"

You flush and look away.

Gaz shifts to comfort you. "Don't look away," he murmurs. His big hand comes up and catches your jaw to make you look up at Soap again. "Watch his eyes. Listen to my voice."

You blink at Soap. Your mind feels sluggish. But Soap is nice to look at. And Gaz is nice to listen to. His voice is low and soothing. His hands drift. The fingertips of one hand trace your collarbone and the other strokes the softness of your throat. Your eyelids are a little heavy.

Gaz watches you for a moment before leaning very close. "Good," he whispers, and Soap's eyes darken. "Easy to hold. Just like I said."

You feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest. His voice soothes you so completely that the old legends about sirens enticing humans with their hypnotic voices surfaces briefly in your mind. Then it disappears.

His hand continues, and the soft, slow touches lull you further. Your stress ebbs away grain by grain. It’s replaced by anticipation. He rubs the soft skin of your cheek with the pad of his thumb, and you feel the calluses on his hands.

"That's a good human." He keeps using that low voice to praise you. Soft warmth and anticipation curl low in your belly. "Just keep looking." He slides a hand down your spine and across your lower back. Your muscles and your mind unwind slowly like a fraying rope. "You remember when I was telling you about a merman's bed, yeah?"

"Mm."

"That's good. Now pay attention. I want you to hear what I say. They're comfortable," he murmurs. "Warm and soft, all lined with sand that's been warmed in the sun. Perfect to lay in. To writhe in. To sink into." As if to show you, his hands slide under your wet shirt and press against the small of your back. He rubs the warm softness of your skin, and goosebumps rise where his hands pass over. "Imagine it. Imagine sinking in. Sinking in. Sink with my voice."

Your eyelids droop even more. You're sleepy.

"You're doing so well." Gaz feels how relaxed you are—the tension out of your muscles and how your limbs feel like they're melting into his. "Sink with my voice," he repeats. "You don't need to struggle anymore. Everything's alright. You're safe with us. Just let yourself… drift."

A sweet, heavy, warm softness like sinking into a hot bath. Like sinking into the sand under his hands. He guides you into a light doze and continues stroking your back and murmuring praise, your body growing heavy and lax beneath his warm hands.

"Shh," Gaz says. You're sinking deep. He guides you down into a soft, warm haze full of quiet, soothing sounds. Even Soap is watching you with a soft, rapt interest, not wanting to ruin the moment. They're taking care of you right where you belong. Deep. Safe. Warm. Comforting.

"What do you see in that bed with you?" Gaz murmurs. "One merman? Two?"

"Hmm?"

"Can't think straight, can you? You're so relaxed." He moves so his hands slide around your waist again. He knows you can't escape this time, even if you wanted to. And you look so sweet and soft. He knows you're almost asleep, almost floating away from him. "I know. Keep listening. Can you tell me what you see yet?"

"Blankets."

"That sounds so nice, doesn't it?" Gaz murmurs. His hands shift again, one drifting all the way to the back of your neck. His voice is as quiet and warm and comforting as a blanket over you. "Just sink into my voice. Keep listening. What else is in that bed with you?"

"Stuffed animals."

Gaz laughs, but it's low and soothing. "Like a child has? That's cute. But it's not like you need them."

You huff, your hypnotic trance vaguely disrupted by his words. "You asked me."

"And I got my answer." Gaz's hand slides up your neck to rest on your jaw. He strokes your pulse point again. "You're getting a little too close to falling asleep. You need to stay awake for this."

Soap has drifted closer, his dark eyes watching you. He looks hungry, but Gaz doesn't push you towards him yet. Not while you're so out of it. "Fine, fine." He rubs your neck again, and you feel your muscles melt under the pressure. "What kind of stuffed animal?"

"Hmm..."

Gaz hums back, his voice deep and soothing. Your eyes are already so heavy, your body is so relaxed in his arms. Your breath is slow and steady, and your skin feels warmer to his touch. Gaz can smell the change in your scent, your body's response to him—to all of this.

"I'm curious now." His voice is low and dark against your sensitive ear. "If you're going to have stuffed animals in your bed, I want to know what kind."

"Octopus."

"An octopus?" He murmurs. "So you want something with so many arms to wrap around you? Something tight and big?" He's so close to your ear now that his lips brush it. "You want to be wrapped up and covered and surrounded?"

"Mm... maybe. Yeah."

Your voice is heavy with drowsiness. He keeps you skirting that line between consciousness and sleep. Your body in his arms is puppet-like.

"You want to be surrounded by so many arms. Maybe even pressed against us with no space to move, yeah?" He slides a hand down your stomach.

"Mmhmm."

"Mm. So you want to sink into a nice bed, surrounded by an octopus with its big, plush arms. Surrounded on all sides with soft, soft tentacles that cover you. You want something big and soft and heavy on top of you--resting between your legs and keeping you warm and safe." His hands slide around you again. "Would that make you feel safe and protected?"

You murmur an affirmation.

"And do you feel safe and protected here? Now?"

You murmur another one.

Something like a smile curves Gaz's mouth. It's sweet that you're answering without thinking. "Mm," he hums, and he slides both hands down your thighs. His claws trace little circles on your sensitive skin. "Very good. Hold onto that feeling as you come up, human." Gaz lifts his eyes to Soap's. "We're just curious. We won't hurt you. We just want to see what you feel like. Is that alright?"

"What I feel like?"

Soap looks down at you. You barely open your eyes. Barely even react, even though you can feel his claws grazing your thigh, even though his eyes are dark and his lips parted slightly. Your eyes are so heavy, your brain so slow.

"Mm," Gaz murmurs again, and his chin brushes your ear. "Your skin's soft. Soft and warm. We want to feel you." His hands slide up your chest again, your breath shuddering at their passing, and he holds you up so your back is against his chest but your legs are still spread over his tail. He smiles. You're so close to sleep, but he doesn't want you to miss this. "Shh. You'll see. You just need to let us touch you, okay?"

"Oh." You let your legs slide to the sides of Gaz's tail and into Soap's waiting palms. "Okay."

...

part 1 / part 2 / [part 3] / part 4 / part 5

more Gaz / more Soap / more mer au / masterlist

[holyraconteur]

Imagine Spider going into a self-imposed exile not out of bitterness, but as an act of self-preservation and peace. He removes himself from the cycles of pain and resentment that have plagued him since his birth, choosing instead to live in harmony with the forest, and in turn, Eywa embraces him as her own.

Far from the Omatikaya, deep within the heart of the forest, Spider finds solace in a world that neither judges nor expects anything of him. His home is a towering, ancient tree—its roots thick and gnarled, its canopy vast and sheltering. Vines drape like curtains over his modest dwelling, a hammock woven from soft fibers hanging beneath the sturdy boughs. The tree's roots twist into natural pathways, and the inside is hollow, wide enough for him to set up a hammock, to neatly store his few belongings—mostly books gifted by Kiri and tools he’s made himself. Bioluminescent moss glows faintly along the wood, casting everything in a soft, ethereal light.

Each morning, he wakes with the warmth of the sun dappling his skin, the soft rustling of leaves carrying the songs of the wild. He hunts, moving through the underbrush with the silent precision of a hunter, his steps light, his heart steady. He takes only what he needs, offering whispered thanks to Eywa or prayers, his fingers grazing the ferns in reverence as he doodles the fruits and edible plants in the sketchbook Norm had given to him for his birthday.

Unbeknownst to him, Eywa watches over him in ways he cannot see. A predator’s gaze may flick toward his direction, but an unseen whisper diverts it elsewhere. A storm may rage through the forest, yet its fiercest winds and heaviest rains never quite reach his dwelling. His footprints in the damp earth fade almost as soon as they are made.

And he sleeps peacefully, the soft hum of the trees swaying him as if cradled in the hands of the Great Mother herself.

The only soul who knows of his location is Kiri. She finds him, drawn to him as if by instinct—or perhaps by Eywa’s will. She brings him books salvaged from the scientists’ outpost, their pages filled with stories and knowledge of distant worlds, and in return, he tells her of the hidden wonders he's found—the rare blossoms that only bloom in moonlight, the hidden springs untouched by human hands, the secret songs of the creatures he has come to understand.

One day, as she reapplies the blue stripes to his skin, her fingers delicate and sure, she leans in, whispering, “Everyone is searching for you.” Her tail wraps around his waist, a grounding presence, as if she fears he might slip away like a fleeting dream. His friend. His sister.

His twin.

Spider closes his eyes at the thought, exhaling a quiet sigh. They can keep looking. His voice is soft but resolute. I’m happy where I am.

Kiri studied him for a long moment before nodding, a small, knowing smile on her lips. “I will not tell anyone. I am happy that you are happy.”

And so, the world forgets him. But Eywa does not.

And neither does she.

[tadpolesonalgae]

What Lies Beneath The Roots

Beron x reader (x the House)

a/n: I actually haven’t really written anything new (idea-wise) since late November/early December so I’m very much out of practice here. Hopefully this isn’t awful because this piece is written for the @thehouseofvanserra collaboration that was very kindly managed by @readychilledwine who has been an absolute wonder in putting this together, so thank you Liz for making it such a lovely experience 🧡💛

summary: Every year, you take the linens tinted with blood and soak them in tepid water. Each night of the week you bleed, you take the water to the foot of a great oak tree, and give back to the earth. But on the last night, when you’re due to say goodbye for another year, the King of the woodland sprites seeks you out to borrow a power he believes to be the product of your ‘enchantments’. 

warnings: oral (f receiving), fingering, themes of discomfort but the actual sexuality is mutually agreed upon, Beron has three tongues and uses all of them

word count: 4,292

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Night has long since fallen, but the pathway is clear, illuminated from the silver glow of the full moon. 

You cradle the glass jar in your arms, swathed in pure cotton, held within the bandages of fabric. Beneath the moon’s pale blue shine the bloody water instead appears simply cloudy, like mead with residual fruit swirling inside. The golden lid’s gleam is dulled as you enter the forest, bare feet stepping through the mossy underbrush, the pale, tattered linen edges of your dress trailing behind, occasionally fluttering in the breeze whenever the woodland decides it needs to breath again. 

The pathway you take is long and winding, but you’ve been taking this pathways for centuries do, and could navigate your way in and out solely off the texture of the ground beneath your feet. Passing by the cluster of pebbles to the right of the path; a gnarled, ragged root brushing against your calf; the particular whisper of wind that’s funnelled through the stream that passes by just north of the path you’re taking. 

A bough groans in the wind, heavy and aching, and a raven’s crow creeks through the air. 

Before you is the Great Oak. 

She’s tremendous. 

Her roots stretch far out beneath the forest floor, roiling like thick waves that have been turned to wood above ground. Her trunk alone is triple the size of your cottage that’s situated at the forest’s edge. A dark hollow looms far above your head, her mouth opened wide to absorb the woodland’s delights; to keep track of everything that happens in her territory; tasting it on the wind. 

You come to a pause just shy of the red-capped mushrooms that spill in a circle around her, spotted with white patches that blister from their heads. 

Taking in a shallow breath, you hold it for a few moments, eyes gliding shut to bask in the presence of the forest. Fresh, pine air; chilled brushes of the wind’s fingers tracing down your shoulders, spooling beneath your skirts. 

You exhale, slowly. Consciously breathing out, squeezing out the old air in your lungs, keeping them as empty as possible as you cross the boundary. 

Magic crackles in the air, zapping softly through your body, the remnants tingling in your mouth and ears. A shiver runs up your mostly bare spine. 

Looking at her now, from within her enchantments, she’s breathtaking. Tiny glow bugs skitter around her branches like they’re bracelets, fireflies swimming through the air and darting behind broad, widely-scalloped leaves. 

A mindless smile curls the edges of your mouth, lips parted in awe even after all these decades. 

If only she would cradle you within her embrace. Allow you to huddle in her lap. 

But only once before have you dared to seek her space, and undoubtedly she would only ever allow it on an equally dark night. 

A night that is not this one. 

Swallowing, you unscrew the jar’s lid, swirling the bloody water around to stir the sediment up from the depths. 

Now you’re getting older, this practice is limited to once a year. Soaking your sanguine linens in a wooden tub of tepid water, leaving them to soak before filtering the water into seven different jars. Tonight is the seventh night, and the last time you’ll see her, until the next year rolls around and your cycle returns again. 

Settling upon the mossy cushion of the forest floor, you loft the jar in your hands, beginning to tilt the glass until the nourished water brims at the lip. The next second the water is flowing, streaming down into the dirt and sinking low to find her roots. Liquid gathers in the moss, pooling on the floor and spreading rapidly before percolating her mossy bed. Occasionally you pause, only to swirl the jar once more, and finally you’re tipping out the last of your watered-down cycle. 

The last, gleaming droplets vanish into the earth, and you’ve given her all you can. 

With a heavy sigh, you turn the jar upside down, allowing whatever liquid is left on the sides of the glass to trickle down over night. You’ll fetch it again next year. 

As painful as your cycle is, you miss it now it’s passed. Miss the feminine magic that courses through your body over those past seven days. Now you’re healed and finished, there is nothing left to give. 

You get to your feet, dirt having dampened the linen covering you knees, but you don’t mind. 

A flash catches your attention, coming from within her hollow. 

You pause, feet having half-turned to leave, but then the glow brightens, filling the mouth with a flaming orange glow, and you can’t look away. 

The light builds, gathering force, power concentrating as the orange shifts from burnt umber, to the purest sunlight, folding in on itself time and time again until your eyes are burning, lashes singed, heat beginning to warm your skin even from this distance. 

That glow shoots down from the hollow, but you can do nothing as it snares your limbs, curling like snakes around your calves, slinking up over your hips, threading through your hair until your encased in that bright, glittering light. 

What on earth is happening? 

All at once the light dissipates, and you’re left trapped in darkness. Warm, soft darkness, but rendered blind nonetheless. 

You struggle, startled as a cool breeze wraps around your bare hips. 

Your clothes—where are your clothes? 

A frenzied flutter, not unlike that of a bee or dragonfly, drawn near, and spots of turquoise and chartreuse pulse in your vision. Then a hand, rough but warm, captures your wrist, and you jolt as you’re pulled from the warmth you had been swathed in. Fingers settle gently atop your eyelids, guiding them closed, and before you know it, the pounding colours are being healed from your vision. The darkness dissipates, and those finger pads remove themselves. 

With a tentative flutter, your lids slide open. 

Now stood before you, is a male you’ve never seen before. His lips are long and narrow, and his eyes simmer beneath thick, furrowed brows that seem to be made of displeasure. Cropped, auburn hair spikes from his head like the miniature spines of a horse chestnut, though they are at their tallest on the crown of his head, shortening in length down the sides. A hollowed cap adorns his skull, and you realised it’s one belonging to an acorn, carved and crafted into what seems to be some kind of crown. Small, furred roots weave through the main structure, a single peace of moss-green sea glass inset at the crown’s peak. 

“Who…are you?” The words somehow part from your lips, though you can’t manage to convince yourself you’d managed to speak through your confusion. 

The dismal displeasure eases in his features, crows feet losing their rigidity, though doesn’t entirely disappear. “I am the King under the Oak,” the male answers, and his palm finds the side of your ribcage, thumb tracing the smooth arc of the bone beneath your skin. “But to you,” he pauses, amber eyes like the rich syrup that leaks from tree bark as they study you with an intensity. His free hand lowers, grasping your palm and raising it between you. “I am Beron,” he answers, lips grazing the skin of your knuckles. 

You can’t place it, but there’s something strange about the way he speaks. As if the very structure of his vocal cords differ to yours in some way. 

Though the gesture is one of respect, his eyes seem hostile, and your brows narrow in wary confusion. 

“The King under the Oak,” you repeat, suspicion clenching your vocal cords. His brow twitches, and he lowers your hand from his mouth. “I am the ruler of this forest,” the King claims, taking a step back as if taking him in whole will soothe your qualms. 

A cape is pinned to his broad shoulders, made from what looks like preserved, autumnal leaves with spongey moss stitched to the underside. His tunic is a chalky red that shimmers as you tilt your head, tiny glimmers of blue and purple held within the fibres. The buttons look to be made of smoothed bark pebbles, while his trousers are a warm chestnut colour, made from a material you can’t discern. 

You incline your head, “I was unaware this forest had a ruler.” 

A muscle in the King’s jaw flickers, and satisfaction twines down your spine, refusing to be intimidated despite his dominating stature. “Do you claim sole ownership of my woodland then, my Lady?” 

“This wood doesn’t belong to anyone, as far as I’m aware,” you retort, shifting in his hold, trying to hold yourself high while wishing to angle your starkly naked body away from him. His hold seems to tighten, as if sensing your sturdy resistance. 

“No?” He questions, subtly stepping closer so you must tilt your head to hold his gaze. “If not the ruler, then this land’s protector?” 

Your brows furrow. “Protector?” 

“It’s you who nourishes my stronghold. Who year after year performs rituals to keep our enchantments impenetrable. Though recently you’ve been visiting less.” The King peers down upon you, practically looming over the crown of your head, and your throat begins to ache. “Why?”

It’s the first time hostility has bled so blatantly into his voice, and shivers dart up your spine, hands beginning to shift in preparation to push him away. 

You fight to keep your expression forcefully neutral. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.” 

“You deny you’re the being who visits for seven nights every year?” He drawls, then offers a derisive scoff. “Don’t lie to me.” 

“What is this ritual to you anyway?” You divert, pushing strength into your gaze as your fingers collect in the crook his elbow, thumb parting ways from the rest of your fingers in order to be able to firmly shove him away if needed. “You seem awfully fixated on it.” 

“It nourishes the Great Oak; aids with the enchantments and keeps out fortress impregnable.” His hold strengthens, and your spine steels. “I want to know why. If that magic is dwindling I need to keep as much of its power now before it is gone forever.” 

“I perform no rituals,” you snap at him. “They’re merely habits. There’s no magic involved.” 

“But it is you, isn’t it?” 

You blink, and a hint of a smile crooks his narrow lips. “It was foolish to lie to me. You’re the only one who visits.” 

Your lip curls. “Then why bother asking in the first place?” His head tilts, but he holds your gaze, amber blazing fierce in the dark. “To get a feel for the kind of creature you are.” 

“And what kind of creature do you think I am?” 

The King huffs a soft laugh though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It doesn’t really matter what kind of creature you are. I will take your magic one way or the other. It’s simply a matter of gauging what method would best suit you.” 

“I have no magic for you to steal,” you hiss, pushing back against him, but he’s deceptively powerful. His hands must be forged from iron. 

“We’ll see,” he murmurs, then bright, iridescent wings have unfolded from his back, and you’re stunned into silence as he hoists you into his arms and those long, narrow dragonfly wings shoot you up into the air, soaring into the Great Oak’s hollow, swallowed whole. 

Your arms fly over his shoulders, clinging so as not to plummet far to the ground—everything is so much larger now, and once you’re in the air, you can make out your pooled robe on the floor, the pale linen now empty and drained of warmth. 

When the King lowers to land, you’re startled as flame wraps itself around your body, though there’s no burn. Just a mellow heat. 

Soldiers line the inner hollow of the Oak, and you wonder if this is the only entrance and exit there is. Wonder how strictly it’s monitored. 

“What are you doing?” You manage to grit out, legs crossing to conceal yourself as he carries you through the hollow into a far off archway that couldn’t have been any larger than your wrist had once been. Now you’re likely barely the height of your former pinky finger. 

“I’m taking you to my chambers,” comes his clipped answer. 

As he’s carrying you, you catch a glimpse of an image carved into the ceiling of the hollow. A figure dressed in white, crowned in white, holding a golden goblet in her hands, stood before the Great Oak. 

You frown. 

The double doors give way, magic crackling in the air before they are once again resealed, not even a crack to peek out of. 

“You don’t even know how my so-called magic works. What on earth could you possibly hope to achieve?” You snap, nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders. 

“I will secure power to rule my territory no matter what,” he replies, aggression seemingly faded now you’re so deep in his lands. “Do not think you will be a noteworthy obstacle in my endeavours.” 

He puts you down beside a long, stretching banquet table, but it’s plain. Not even a dish in sight. 

You turn, glancing back towards the door. “What right do you-”

His fingers glide up your throat, clasping your chin to direct your gaze to his. “Don’t look away from me.” 

Something shivers up your spine, though it’s hard to figure it out. 

“Is this how you plan to take my magic from me,” you force out, “by beating me in a staring contest?” 

“You seem pretty confident I will be unable to take it,” the King muses, still angling your jaw. “What makes you so convinced?” 

Again, the way of speaking—perfectly understandable, but so strangely shaped. As if his voice is coming from multiple angles. 

It’s your turn to hold something over him, and a devious smile curls your lip, vicious triumph surely shining in your eyes. “The ritual you’re speaking of—there’s no magic to it. It’s little more that tipping bloodied water upon the roots of your Great Oak.” The King stiffens, his touch freezing, and your smile sharpens. “So if you have some magical way to start my cycle once more, then feel free to attempt to extract its nourishment.” 

“Your cycle?” The King repeats. 

You nod, holding firm. 

“Your blood?” He asks again. 

You blink, awful tension beginning to creep into your bones.

What if he tries to cut you up? What if he tries to take the blood of your veins instead? What if- 

His grip loosens, and you shive him away, running for the doors. 

To your surprise, they give way with no effort, but before you can so much as cross the threshold, a swarm of roots gather, thoroughly blocking your path.

“What!” You exclaim beneath your breath. You try digging your fingers in, but it’s useless. She won’t budge. 

“Please,” you whisper. “You’re her, aren’t you? You’re the tree who harboured me in her roots all those years ago.” Your hands flatten over the roots, strength sapped from your fingers. “Please, let me go.” 

You turn on your feet, staring him down from across the room. “Take down these roots.” You demand. “Take them down right now, or I’ll-”

But the King’s brow is furrowed, a look of confusion on his face. “I did not command those roots to block your passage,” he speaks, eyes dropping to the side to glare at the doors. “Neither did I command the doors to part for you.” 

Before you have chance to think for yourself, the King is pinning you with an accusatory look. “You were speaking, just now. Talking to someone.” He takes a step forward, and you bristle, feeling the roots begin to move at your back, their furred ends feathering across your back. “Were you… You were speaking to my House.” 

“I was speaking to the Tree,” you hiss, bristling further as he takes another step towards you. “I trust her. I know her.” 

“My House is not a she,” the King sneers, but as soon as the words leave his mouth a root shoots down from the ceiling, thwacking the crown from his head, both of you staring as it rolls away, turns in a few circles, then promptly falls to the floor. 

The disruption renews your faith. She’s on your side. Though you can’t discern her motives for constraining you like this. Why confine you to a room with him? 

The King turns blazing eyes to you, though they’re no longer accusatory. “We had thought you divine, but you must be a witch,” he speaks in a low, ragged voice. 

“I am no witch,” you return. “I am an elf.” 

“Is that what you call yourself?” The King retorts, cocking a brow, folding powerful arms across his broad chest. 

You’re about to answer, when you his words repeat in your head. “Divine?” 

The image carved into the hollow’s ceiling rushes back to you, suddenly deciphered. And somehow, after such a bizarre night, you have now found yourself at the centre of a religion. A religion of a people you hadn’t even known existed until now. 

You quirk a brow, folding your arms across your chest as you incline you chin, resting your weight to one hip. “If I’m supposedly divine, you should be worshipping me, not stealing from me.” Your upper lip curls. “So you’re a liar and a hypocrite.” 

The King pauses again, watching you as though you’ve grown a second head. You would think he might be floored by your argument, only he doesn’t seem the type to waver so easily. He seems stubborn, and endlessly set in his ways. But then he takes a step forward, and another, and another, until they’ve become paces. And he’s pacing towards you. 

You step back into the roots, but they curl at your back, resisting. Until one prods at your spine. 

It’s gentle, and another strokes across your shoulder, as if coaxing you into a state of calm. 

The King comes to a stop a short distance away, seemingly studying the root’s favouritism. 

“This is my House,” he mutters. “I should be the one to rule over you.” 

Your gaze whips to his. “She’s probably lived longer than you can even comprehend. You have no right to rule over her.” 

“And yet she favours you.” 

You frown. “I would hardly call trapping me in here with you, her favouring me.” Even if the suggestion has warmth blossoming in your chest. 

The root pushes a little harder at your lower back, nudging you a step forward—one step less between you and him. 

The King’s eyes narrow, and you could swear you can almost see the schemes flitting and forming in his mind. “You…love…my House,” he says slowly.

“I love the Oak,” you retort, still wary of the male though he doesn’t seem like he’s going to attempt to dismember you. His brow furrows in disagreement, but moves on, “you trust the Oak.” 

“I do,” you confirm, observing him with heavy skepticism. 

“And…she,” the word seems to come out with some difficulty, “seems to be encouraging you to me.” 

A retort is on your tongue, but the root pushes you forward again, this time with enough strength to have you almost stepping into him. Instead his hands settle on your upper arms, rough, but his hold isn’t strong. Not as it was before. 

“If your Great Oak wishes it,” the King murmurs, peering down at you with that intensity of his, “who are you to deny her, even if you are divine?” 

For some reason, his words send a flock of wings fluttering away in your abdomen. “You have no way of proving your own wishes align with hers,” you manage to argue back. 

Once again roots curl at your back, but this time they’re more firm in their proximity, slinking beneath the fiery cover and wrapping around your waist, gliding over your hips. A shiver runs down your spine, but you startle as one navigates your rib cage, sliding higher to cup your right breast. A wild heat flushes your cheeks, one that has nothing to do with the flames still concealing your body. 

The King’s throat rolls, and his hands trail lower, thumbs settling in the soft dips of your inner elbow. “I believe that’s confirmation,” he murmurs. 

He steps forward, angling you so you’re pushed back against the empty banquet table. 

“My wish is to rejuvenate the power that is beginning to wane in my stronghold,” the King tells you, “and it seems my House—your Oak—knows of a way to do so.” One hand drops a little lower, settling on your hip, though the roots have now given way, sinking back into the walls of the wooden chamber. 

Your legs weaken, and you end up leaning your weight onto the banquet table, losing a few inches in height but the King steps forward again, pressing himself carefully into your body. Monitoring your expression. “Earlier you called me a liar and a hypocrite,” he murmurs, and you realise the flames concealing your body are beginning to subside. “Now you might be right to call me a liar, but you also told me I should be worshipping you rather than stealing from you.” 

“I did,” you breathe. 

“And wouldn’t it make you the hypocrite, if you were to go back on what you said?” 

You pulse spikes. “I don’t think I follow.” 

One of his hands shifts, and the flames part to allow the pads of his fingers to settle atop your sternum, slowly trailing down between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach, until they’re light as a feather atop your abdomen. 

“You claimed it was your cycle that gave nourishment to my fortress,” the King murmurs, and you doubt you could look away from him even if you wanted to. “That it was your blood my House desires. Or so you thought.” 

You’re silent, overwhelmed by such a slight touch, the barest graze of his fingers atop your abdomen. 

“If the power came from your cycle,” he says, free hand dipping between your legs to guide them further open, and you find yourself more than willing to rest a little more of your weight on the banquet table to make room for him as he lowers himself to the chestnut coloured floor. “Then it is clear what part of you I should worship.” 

The breath filters from your lungs as warm flame parts between your legs, only to be replaced by a hotter, wetter warmth. 

Your arms turn weak as his tongue glides up your centre, arousal pooling between your thighs, heat coming to a gentle simmer as your legs are guided further apart. His tongue presses to the apex of your thighs, and presses against your entrance, and- 

You inhale sharply as you peer down at yourself—at the male between your thighs, the three tongues warping in his mouth. Feral heat flushes your body, buzzing beneath your skin as those amber eyes fixate on you, upper tongue swirling around your clit while the other two stroke and lick up your centre, beginning to prod at your entrance. You bring a hand to your mouth in attempts to conceal how flustered he’s made you. 

A root winds down from the ceiling, coiling over your shoulder as it applies a light pressure, encouraging you to recline onto the empty banquet table. 

“Lie down,” the King goads, that strange, warping voice of his all of a sudden making sense, fitting for the three tongues hidden in his mouth. 

You swallow, “But- the table.” 

His eyes flash. “You belong to my table.” His hands guide your legs from the ground, forcing you to lean the rest of your weight on the wooden surface. “You belong amongst my banquet.”

Your back settles atop the wood, and you pull a deep inhale into your lungs as his fingers slip between your thighs, bathing themselves in the hot slick that has gathered there, before slowly working their way inside—to make the entrance for his tongues easier, no doubt. 

The thought shouldn’t be as arousing as you find it, but tingling pleasure is gathering in your lower stomach regardless. 

Those two, dexterous fingers push inside, inclining ever so gently upward, rubbing against a sweet, spongey spot that has your legs shaking, as if he’s beckoning you towards that ledge. One you’re swiftly approaching. 

His digits retract, and a moan slips from your lips as those two tongues push inside—so hot, and wet, and malleable. The King’s upper tongue circles your clit, timed with the rhythmic pulsing inside of you, and there’s no space left between you and that ledge. 

Pleasure brims within your body, magic crackling just beneath your skin as that tingling weightlessness overtakes you. Your eyes slide shut, spine arching as your feet push at the tops of his shoulders, knees hinging further apart to offer him more space, as the pleasure rushes through your bloodstream and this time you can actually see it. The sparks of colour glittering in the air as power filters from your skin, absorbed in the House, the Great Oak. The one who had so patiently guided you closer and closer, until you were firmly within her grasp, at last absorbing what she needs from you. 

And she will take everything she can, though it seems neither you, nor the King kneeling between your legs minds much.

Despite such an abrupt meeting, the two of you seem inseparable. 

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna @acoazlove

[wyervan]

I'm /super/ curious about your yuletide boys! How does yn come to meet them? Any fun facts you want to share? :3

Moonbug

Hi hi bug!!! Flattered by your interest 🥰

Okay, so my twist on the Krampus legend for Moon’s design was that instead of kidnapping or punishing naughty children, he was actually taking children who were abused or neglected or otherwise needy (bc ofc I can’t help but make the bad guy secretly the good guy right 😝).

But this got me thinking about a case where he would take a child from a family who wasn't unkind or abusive in any way—they were just impoverish and had a hard time feeding themselves. (bc ofc AGAIN I have to take a fun lil Christmas AU and make things depressing lololol mood killer wyervan)

so uhh content warning for uhh.... general human suffering lolol?

Within the actual setting of the AU, the human technology level is roughly at a early 1900s level but in a very remote subarctic landscape. Hungry bellies during the long winter months are commonplace. The setting is inspired by the game Frostpunk! Altho things aren't QUITE as dire as the situation in that game.

y/n is the older sibling and de facto parent to a little sister living in a medium-sized village at the edges of civilization. The pair makes ends meet well enough, doing odd jobs and living a humble but content life in a rented a room above a local tavern.

But harvests were sparse this past autumn and come winter, prices for even the most basic foodstuff have doubled. y/n works their fingers to the bone and often passes on their own rations to give their little sister a proper meal but it's still not enough. To make matters worse, they've fallen ill, and when y/n sends out their little sister with the last of the money to buy bread for the night, she never returns home.

Half-delusional from fever, y/n bundles up the best they can, grabs an oil lantern, and trudges off into the night. In a stroke of rare luck, a fresh coat of snow had fallen that morning, and their little sister's familiar bootprints leave a clear trail. They're able to retrace her steps to find that she suddenly veered off from the usual route to the bakery only a few hundred feet from their home. Why would their little sister suddenly decide to go into the woods? Something must have drawn her attention.

Approaching the treeline, you feel your anxiety spike at the sight of tousled snow and small broken twigs at the end of the trail... and the start of another very different set of footprints leading into the dark boughs. Massive hooves the diameter of your entire face.

Picking up one of the bits of wood in the snow, you see that it's not a twig but a broken piece of wicker. You feel as if you can't breath with the weight of the terrible horror of what's happened settling over you. You knew the legends.

But your sister was the kindest person you knew! She was a child, and occasionally acted as such but still, she had only love and warmth in her heart for almost everyone in town. Surely there must be a mistake!

You make your decision instantly. Drawing your long scarf up over your nose and mouth, you step into the trees, intent on following the hoofprints right up to their owner... and demanding the return of your sister.

* * * * * * *

uhh yeah and then a very snotty stuffed up y/n makes their way by lantern light into the wild winter landscape, over the river, through the woods... until a heavy snowfall picks up and obscures the footprint trail. Exhausted, feverish, hungry, and devastated, y/n collapses in the hollow of a dead tree.

Lucky for them, someone had picked up their scent over an hour ago and had been watching and following their slow progress on his hoofprint trail :3c

[aroaceleovaldez]

Jason webweave - (sources under read more)

yippee i have attempted a webweave. this was very fun. i used to make character aesthetics and moodboards and tbh i might get back into it with this.

SOURCES -

Part 1: [The Last Olympian quote] - [Jason Background] - [Up The Wolves - The Mountain Goats] - [Terry Pratchett] - [Youth - Daughter] - [The Lost Hero chapter formatting] - [Andrei Tarkovsky, Journal 1970-1986] - [The Lost Hero cover - John Rocco] - [Coins of Lupa] - ["Singing someone's praises whilst destroying them" quote] - [Yosemite Background - James Lange] - [Jason overlay] - [Always Gold - Radical Face] - [Hollow quote] - [Sweet Hibiscus Tea - Penelope Scott]

Part 2: [SPQR banner] - [Jason nails a bough to the prow of the argo - William Russell Flint] - [The Lost Hero quotes] - [Knight And Dog quote] - [Jason overlay] - [Wolf overlay] - [IMHSBALIDWD - Waterparks] - [Herd dog quote] - [SCA Roman fighting] - [Coins of Lupa] - [Mimi's Delivery Service - Good Kid] - [Take Me To War - The Crane Wives]

Part 3: [The Lost Hero quotes] - [Lab Animal quotes] - [Cuckoo 1] - [Wolf in shipping container] - [Storm background] - [Jason (mythos)] - [Cuckoo quotes] - [Coins of Lupa] - [Wolves biting] - [Cuckoo 2] - [Wolf background] - [Jason overlay] - [Where You Are - Disney's Moana]

Part 4: [Jason background] - [Wolf Children (2012)] - [Lupa] - [Going Postal At The Party - James Marriott] - [You Are Here - James Marriott] - [Your Sister Was Right - Wilbur Soot] - ["What's your wingspan?"] - [Canary in a Coal Mine - The Crane Wives] - ["Everything I love belongs in my mouth, everything I hate belongs in between my teeth"] - [Car Lights - James Marriott] - [Forget-me-nots] - [Coins of Lupa] - [Two gray wolves] - ["I can't remember / I can't forget"] - ["I am very young and learning how to live"]

[arthistoryanimalia]

Grace Hudson (USA, 1865–1937)

The Dawn of Song, 1932 (No. 656)

Oil on canvas

On display at Grace Hudson Museum, Ukiah, CA (86-33-1)

"After the Sun was hung in the sky, the leaves grew green, the flowers came and the whole world was happy. But having been so long in the darkness, it was a quiet world with only the sounds of the night: the falling of a bough, the rolling of a stone, or the angry growl of an animal - until La-Mu, the Gopher Man, discovered sweet notes in the hollow stem of the elderberry tree.

The wind first heard the music, from which he made a song of his own and carried it over the hills and down the hollows, sometimes in a boisterous mood, again in a whisper.

The birds and animals came rejoicing. Each bird selected the notes that pleased him most for his song, which he uses to this day, and the animals found their love calls.

When the birds twitted the animals about not singing, the animals answered 'It is well for you little folk to sing to your hearts' content; you are safe in the tree tops or the sky. For us to sing would be to betray ourselves to our enemies or to our game!' The cat, being the most sentimental, took home a little soft purr for her kittens: and the rabbit, arriving late, found no notes left, so he caught the rhythm by just patting his foot, and from that day to this, he has been 'thumping' his way around the world."

- Grace Hudson

[shares-a-vest]

@steddiemas Day 1: Deck the Halls (Festive Friday)

Something short and silly to start off with. I'm so excited for this event. Thank you sooo much to @steddieasitgoes for creating it 💖💖💖 I love writing Christmas stuff for ST and I have a few things planned for the Steddiemas calendar.

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-laaaaaa.”

Steve would cringe if he wasn’t carrying most of the weight of the Munson’s new Christmas tree in through the front door and trying to avoid scratching himself on either the branches or the metal frame of the fly screen.

Eddie is behind him, muttering the same tune over and over, just high enough for Steve to hear, but not loud enough to call attention to himself.

He’s been like this all day – too cheery and chipper as they decorate the trailer while Wayne is at work. Busying himself with not much more than his chiming, his tone all wobbly and hollow like a kid carolling.

It’s far too early in December as far as Steve is concerned. Hell, he doubts he will even decorate his own house this year.

What’s the point if he will be home alone?

And, as Eddie lets go of what part of the tree he was barely holding in the first place, Steve begins to regret offering his help entirely as he goes careening onto the couch.

“Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.”

“Eddie!” Steve splutters, rolling on his side and palming around on the edge of the couch for support.

“What?”

He looks up to find Eddie smiling and twirling the end of his maroon scarf.

“Could you have actually helped?” he snaps.

“You said you ‘got it’!” Eddie makes half-hearted air quotes and lowers his tone in what Steve can only assume is supposed to be a mockery of his own voice.

“Asshole!” he grumbles.

“Grinch!”

Eddie pokes his tongue out at him before offering a dimple-filled grin.

Steve glares, “Can you at least bring in the box of decorations?”

Eddie turns on his heel and skips back out the front door.

“Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair and groans. Maybe he could just run out the front door, elbow Eddie out of the way of the car and speed off into the distance.

“Why am I here?” he mutters to himself.

He takes the opportunity to catch his breath and looks the tree over. Thankfully, it isn’t damaged - save for the odd fallen pine shoot.

Eddie soon hops back up the stairs, winter boots shaking the metal landing as he cradles the box of decorations they had gathered between Melvads, Goodwill and the dollar store.

“I love Christmas!” he beams as he sets the box on the coffee table to begin rummaging, “Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.”

Eddie hands over a bauble. It’s red and green, the stripes broken up with gold glitter. One that Steve had picked from Melvads’ Christmas aisle.

Their fingers brush as Steve takes the bauble and he looks up to find Eddie grinning from ear to ear.

That’s why he’s here, he thinks, smiling back.

[mudandmire]

WIP Wednesday - Ghost

Azriel made a deal with the Mother thirty years ago: his service in return for Eris's life. Azriel leaves no impression on the world anymore, no footprints or sounds. The only thing he leaves behind are rivers - endless erosions of blood through the stone he bore the day Eris died. His obedience, in return for Eris's survival. There is no other way.

...

There are no footprints in the snow. This close to the border Autumn has with Winter, the clouds hang low to the tops of the conifers. Thick, grey blankets heavy with the flurry of flakes that fall fast to the Autumn floor. Everything is dusted with it, the shells of leaves, the shrubs and weeds that carpet the ground—every burrow is sealed away. Somewhere high in the mountains, the jaws that cut the line of the territories, he waits.

Azriel stands unmoving in a clearing. His feet make no imprint, his breath no steam. The watery, pale light frosts over the scene before him, where even the vivid jewel patterns of autumn fade to grey tones. His chest rises and falls, the only movement apart from the dry bones rustle of barren boughs against each other in the canopies.

Every sense is at attention. The hunter, the executioner—both have been called to this ceremony. He just happened to get here early.

His wings twitch when he hears boots in the snow. The crunching of new frost, hurried footsteps and the scuffling sound of a struggle. All that greets him when he inhales deeply is the crisp scent of cold. A familiar smell from his youth in Windhaven. It burns through his nose all the same.

"Fuck—stop struggling." There, a voice through the trees. Gruff, like it was spoken into the collar of a jacket. He can sense the strain in the words—they're dragging something.

Azriel's head tilts just so. The movement is eerie under his hood, predatory. A wolf cocking its ears. His hands remain behind his back under the fold of his wings. Patience, after all, is part of the fun.

Again, a voice reaches out to him, brought on the hissing tendrils of his accompanying darkness—his shadows.

"I thought you said the faebane would be enough!" It's a normal voice. The rounded vowels of the Autumn Court, and a slight rasp in the throat like he'd been strangled one too many times.

"I—shit, I did. That's what she told me."

The other males scoff is ugly, locked up from the chill this far up the mountain slope.

"That's the last time I let you be in charge of the sedative."

Azriel's tongue swipes out, wetting his chapped bottom lip. He can taste the tang of their stress in the wind; bitter like ripened sweat. He feels the pound of their pulse through the breadth of the snow covered ground if he shifts his feet just so. His eyes close. He won't look, won't cheat. Not yet. Besides, he knows all he needs to know about these males: their heads, the nervous trembling to their blue-tinged fingers, the darting of their eyes to every spare corner of the forest. Cornered, disturbed, unafraid to lash out.

He knows that whatever it is they have, has no right being sedated. Hauled like a sack of rice to a little, forgotten corner of this Court and disposed of to no one's eyes under the unsympathetic grey blanket of sky.

No one's eyes, except Azriel's.

He shifts, finding the thread of the males pulses through the ground. Beneath him, the coating of snowfall lays pristine.

The shuffling grows closer, as does the grunts of exertion. Azriel can smell them now, the acrid tang of their sweat and the fetid scent of their breath. Day old alcohol, still lingering on their lips, high in the rosiness of their cheeks.

"Here, we'll do it here." The one with the rasp says. Azriel keeps his back turned at the hollow thump of a body against the earth.

It's pulse is there; weak, but still thumping. The antsy rabbiting of a heart that knows it needs to fight.

His shadows still. Unnatural in its right; the shadows are constantly moving, shaping, bouncing where the light grows and shrinks its domain. Now, they go preternaturally quiet, the buzzing in his head fades as they slink around his shoulders.

This, this, they whisper. We do not know what to make of this.

Azriel nearly rolls his eyes at them. It is not the first time they've had an assignment like this. In now thirty years it certainly won't be the last.

He figures now is as good as any time. The males seem distracted, their muscles loosened with ease, warm with adrenaline and the thrill of getting away undetected.

Foolish, foolish souls. They are not worth the blood on Azriel's blade.

This, this. His shadows hiss again, a rising chorus of confusion and spite that sparks embers in his blood.

Azriel turns, silent as the flakes fall, and freezes.

Bright, copper hair spills out onto the snowdrift. A streak of an auburn ribbon in the ever-white world, this in between space of bejeweled autumn and pale winter. His face is turned, right half buried in the swell of the drift. A bruise, like a roiling thundercloud, blooms along the left side of his cheekbone up to his temple where it disappears into his hair. He's pale, skin nearly translucent where it's pressed to the cold snow, blue at the lips. The only color that remains, not leached from his body or under his twitching eyelids, is the copper shock of his hair and the purpling, violet-green contusion on his face.

This. The shadows round his shoulders, his wrists, legs, the tips of his wings and hum.

The first male, the one who seemingly botched the sedative, stretches his back.

"Mother's tits," he curses, blowing hot air into his cupped hands. "Let's get this over with so we can get somewhere warm." His dark, brown hair escapes from behind a pointed ear.

Azriel hasn't moved, hasn't drawn a single breath. The entirety of him is motionless, even his shadows don't dare to make sudden movements. His gaze, under the shade of his hood, is locked on the spill of copper hair. They map upwards from there, tracing it like the curves of a river until they land on familiar, but unknown territory.

There's a hollow in him. A space once filled but now not. It echoes when he brushes against it, that old, familiar pain rising up with a gasp and a bite to his heart. Tripping, tumbling, till it knocks against the bones of his rib cage and continues to beat against them. He can faintly feel the bond. This close it's drawing him in: two ends of a book closed together, and he craves it desperately.

Azriel sucks in a breath, harsh and cold, shocking him enough to blink his frozen stare away. Burned cinnamon, and the delectable smell of that nutty, slightly earthy scent greets him.

This, this, this. It's grown into a chant, his shadows moving in the strange, halting way they do when there's an end—a goal.

Eris Vanserra has been brought here to die.

Azriel of the Mother has been ordered here to kill.

...

~~~ This is just a fun lil something I thought I'd share. I've been pondering it for a while, but honestly I just got so caught up in all the logistics and if it would match the lore that I lost interest and passion completely. It's only been recently that I've come back around to it because I said screw it - I like this concept, I want to explore it. If it doesn't match the lore or timelines - to hell with both of them! Fanfiction is for fun! I know SJM lore is important and whatnot, but I'm a little kid playing in a sandbox with my bucket and shovels - there is nothing but limitless potential here :D ~~~

[miasmaghoul]

anything little dick mountain.... PLEEEEASE

anything you say?

okay.

how about little dick mountain and nonbinary intersex mist getting stoned and fuckin around in the woods?

thats something.

"This is nice," Mountain murmurs, twirling a lock of fine silver hair between two fingers.

"Always is," Mist lilts in reply, plucking the half-burned joint from Mountain's other hand. They offer him a slow wink, and Mountain grins.

They've been here for a while now, naked and sprawled out beside Mist's favorite stream deep in the woods. It's a tranquil place, serene and nearly silent. The babble of the water soothes something deep in Mountain's core, as does the late spring sun filtering through the boughs above. The warm light dapples Mist's pale skin, washes them in an ethereal glow, and stoned as he is Mountain can't help but touch.

Mist hums on an inhale as a large hand caresses their shoulder, rough fingers tracing the intricate lines of the tattoo there - a sea serpent with fangs sharp enough that even the ink threatens to cut. Mountain could study it for hours, could spend an age gliding his fingertips along every curve. From the tip of the tongue that sits just above the barely-there swell of Mist's chest to the tail that ends at the small of their back.

Mist's slight hand rests on Mountain's chest, delicate fingers fiddling with his chest hair, and he takes a moment to admire them.

They look exquisite; silver-blue eyes reddened and heavy, hollow cheeks crested with pink, gills rippling as heady smoke flows from them in entracing waves. Mountain lowers his head to drink it down, his hand sliding around to rest between Mist's shoulders while he noses at their throat.

"Greedy," they tease, voice light. Mountain chuffs, dragging the tip of his tongue along their jaw. Mist sighs, tilting their head and taking another deep pull, burning the joint to its end. Mountain feels their lungs fill under his touch, and something about it makes him throb.

"Can you blame me when you taste so good?" Another lick, and Mist trills, amused.

"Not even a little."

Another plume escapes Mist's gills and Mountain sucks it down, holds it in. He pulls away with a curl to his lips and finds Mist peering up at him expectantly, the tip of their tongue poking out between needle-sharp fangs. Mountain threads long fingers into soft hair, grips gently, and when their lips join it's in a cloud of sweet smoke.

It's slow. Languid. A relaxed meeting of tongues, an exchange of breath and saliva alike. Mountain's hand glides down the length of their spine, a brief journey that ends with his palm on Mist's sharp hip, fingers dimpling the subtle curve of their ass. They shift a bit, hook a leg over his thigh, and Mountain chuckles at the almost imperceptible weight of it. He smiles against their lips.

"I always forget how small you are," he murmurs, and Mist rewards him with a sharp tug to his chest hair. He gives them a hiss, one that fades into a pleased hum when cool, bony fingers drift down over his stomach.

"No you don't," they say, clearly amused. Mountain pulls back just enough to catch the sparkle in their eyes, a glint of brilliant sapphire in those pale irises.

They're right, of course. It's impossible to forget how tiny Mist is in comparison to him, how seemingly frail. Elegant limbs, bony joints, slender from head to toe. He has a solid two feet on them, and who knows how much weight, but on the rare occasion Mist hunts him down for these trysts it's never them that seems to feel small.

That wandering hand vanishes between their bodies, and Mountain lets his own hand travel down the creamy thigh over his hip, squeezing along the way. Mist licks their lips, gives him a sharp smile.

"But I could say the same about you, big guy."

They punctuate that statement by wrapping deft fingers around his cock, and Mountain groans as he feels them engulf him completely. The one place where he is decidedly not big.

"Oh, someone's excited," Mist sing-songs, giving his little stiffy a nice squeeze. He shivers with it, hips rolling already.

Mountain can't deny it - truth be told he's been chubby since Mist caught him on his way back to the abbey, arms full of freshly snipped roses that Primo had requested for his chambers. He'd pawned that task off on a nearby sibling, content to follow his dick and the stunning ghoul before him instead. Mist thumbs over his sticky head and Mountain huffs out a tight sigh.

"Sensitive as ever," Mist taunts, loosening their grip and giving him a couple of soft little pumps that have Mountain's eyes rolling back. "Planning to blame the weed?"

He always does, but they both know better.

"I can if you want," he rumbles, hitching Mist's leg higher on his hip. "But it's easier to blame you."

Mist laughs, loud and bright in the surrounding silence. They shift closer, close enough that Mountain can feel the brush of their pebbled nipples against his chest, their piercings pressing chilly into his overwarm skin. Mountain drags blunt nails up their thigh, relishing the goosebumps that appear in his wake. He slips his own hand between their bodies, and Mist smiles. They wrap a spindly arm around his neck, arch their back, and with a loose rock of their hips Mountain feels the firm length of their dick press into his thigh

"Looking to return the favor, sycamore?"

Mountain doesn't try to hide his whine, there's no point. He always gets noisy when they do this, and all the high does is make him more willing to let it out. He wraps an eager hand around Mist's already slick length, and they reward him with a tighter grip on his own. Mountain groans deep in his chest, leaning down to knock their horns together.

"You're really hard," he murmurs, the hand in Mist's hair drifting down to settle at the back of their neck, angling their lovely, handsome face towards his own. "Gonna blame that on the weed?"

Mist doesn't deign to answer, getting a nice handful of his hair and licking a wide stripe over his stubbled cheek instead. Mountain feels himself throb in their hand, feels Mist leak over his knuckles, and as they catch him in a decidedly more hungry kiss Mountain lets himself be overwhelmed.

It's easy to do. The smooth swipe of their tongue along his own and behind his fangs drags him further and further down. The slowly tightening channel of Mist's hand pulls pearl after pearl of pre from his firm little cock, the slick sound of both of their hands filling his head with static. Mist's nails rake over his scalp, just sharp enough to provide the hint of a sting, and Mountain doesn't even try to hold back his moan.

It's nice like this. No rushing, no frantic urgency, no pleading for more. No need for it. They both know Mist controls the pace of these stolen moments, and Mountain has absolutely no problem with it. He lets himself enjoy the kiss, the taste of Mist filling his mouth. Fresh and clean with a specific sort of bitterness Mountain has come to crave, all of it accentuated by the herbal flavor of their shared smokable. It's intoxicating, and before Mountain knows it he's panting into their mouth, starved for more.

He pauses on a downstroke, wraps a finger and thumb around the base of Mist's twitching length and slips two fingers back between their legs. He moans out a curse at the slick heat he finds there, swiping his digits through their folds. He dips just one inside, and the tightness he finds there has his stomach swooping.

Mist purrs into the kiss when he swirls it inside, abandoning their grip on his short length in favor of grabbing his wrist. Mountain doesn't fight when they pull his slippery hand from their body, maneuvering it instead to hold the both of them together.

Mountain has to pull back then, chest heaving and eyes glassy as Mist guides him to stroke. The feel of it is exquisite - his large palm is rough, callused, but Mist leaks so much that it eases the glide in moments. The sensation wrings a pained gurgle from him, and Mountain can't keep himself from rocking his hips. From letting his tip kiss the underside of Mist's, every drag of their cocks against one another sending his head spinning and forcing heat to swirl through his belly.

"Fuck," he breathes, long and low. "Mist, fuck -"

"Feeling good, aren't you?" Mist sounds entirely too calm, as they always do, but the way they pulse in his hand betrays them. "Think the little guy's ready for me yet?"

They rock their hips just as Mountain does, ruts their cocks together, and Mountain makes the most embarrassing sound. He gives a quick nod, sucking his lower lip between his fangs, and before he can do anything more Mist is rolling him onto his back. Straddling his hips. Moving him like he isn't at least twice their size everywhere except where it counts.

"That's better," Mist says on a sigh. They settle on their knees, palms flat on his chest, and Mountain gazes up at them with what can only be called unabashed adoration. Mist smiles down at him, tossing the silver curtain of their hair over their shoulder. Mountain rests his hands on their waist, loving the way his thumbs overlap just below their navel. "Don't you think?"

Mountain offers up a dumb little sound of confirmation, too busy visually feasting on the little ghoul above him. Soaking in every angle and curve, every ridge of their gills, the sparkle of their nipple rings and the shimmering black scales decorating their collarbones and the vee of their hips. His gaze halts there, caught completely on the way their shiny pink cock sticks straight out between their skinny thighs.

Mist doesn't miss it, their lips curling into a positively cheshire smile while they scoot forward. While they settle themselves over his own aching length where it lays on his stomach, leaking pre into the smattering of hair there. Mountain chokes on a moan when they shift just enough to drag their dripping cunt over his little cock, and it's a miracle he doesn't cum right then and there.

Not that Mist would allow that, of course. He knows better.

"So warm," they murmur, moving their hips in gentle circles that have Mountain's thighs quivering. "How badly does he want it, hmm?"

"Bad," Mountain rasps, doing his absolute best not to hump up against Mist's inviting body. "He wants in so bad."

Mist trills, a deeply pleased sound. They raise up just enough for Mountain to see the thick trail of slick that connects their bodies, and his cock kicks so hard he grunts.

"Looks like it," Mist chuckles, gripping him again and giving a slow stroke. A blurt of pre leaks over their fingers, and Mountain's balls ache. "Little thing's drooling all over."

Mist is one to talk, their own dick dribbling a nearly constant stream of sticky fluid that pools in Mountain's belly button. He can't get his breath under control as they raise up, pointing his needy little cock up into the air while they line up.

Mountain isn't sure which of them moans louder when Mist sinks down onto him, impossibly tight and so, so slick. He grips them tight, fingertips digging firm into their back, their stomach. He watches the flat plane of it tense when they bottom out, taking his few inches with an ease that leaves his toes curling.

"There we go," Mist coos, narrow chest flushed pink as their leaking tip. They pluck at their nipples, rolling the stiff buds between their fingers and sighing. "You always fill me just right, don't you?" Mountain nods furtively, not trusting his voice when Mist clenches around him. "A perfect little cuntful."

Mountain lets his head thud back against the warm earth, swallows hard, and when Mist starts riding in an achingly slow rhythm he swears the world tilts.

"Be a good boy and make me cum," they say, low and sultry, peeling one of his hands from their waist and moving it to their swaying cock. "If you do well enough I'll even let you eat your load out of me."

Mountain whimpers, starts to stroke, and silently adores the way Mist laughs at him when he drools.

[the-fiction-witch]

Little Squirrel

Media The Artful Dodger

Character Jack Dawkins

Couple Jack X Reader

Rating Cute AF

Warning for panic attacks + Abuse

Y/n (me) has a baby (named Lillian) (previous relationship; the father was mentally and physically abusive). Y/n’s baby gets sick (not deadly, just a cold or something) but Jack looks her over and instantly falls in love with Y/n. Y/n likes him too but is scared to get into another relationship. Y/n has panic attacks a lot. Jack helps her and takes care of Lillian as well. Becomes a father figure to Lillian as she grows up. Y/n and Jack fall in love and have another child. POV can be either Y/n or Jack. It can have time skips so that it’s not so long, but I would love to read a lot of Jack helping Y/n with the panic attacks and Y/n during the pregnancy of the second child. There can be parts that are NSFW, but that doesn’t need to be the focus.

"Rock a bye baby on the tree top...When the wind blows the cradle will rock... When the bough breaks the cradle will fall... And down will come baby... cradle and all." I sang as my feet danced gently across the wooden floor, my bare feet gracefully moved across the wood as I held sweet little Lillian in my arms, her head on my chest I kept my hand on her head feeling the heat of her fever. She had been feeling sick the last day or two slowly getting worse, But I just wanted to get her to bed for the night, "Hush-a-by baby on the tree top... When the wind blows the cradle will rock... When the bough breaks the cradle will fall... Down tumbles baby... cradle and all." I sang to her giving her a little kiss before I laid her down in her crib, and tucked the blanket over her and her sweet little teddy bear in her arms, "Sleep well little one," I cooed before I sat on my bed. 

I made sure to watch Lillian as I got changed, unable to stop my fear for her.

I left the room and moved to the bathroom standing by the sink to brush my teeth and looking at my pale reflection, my  hair still in the braid I did a week ago, my Y/E/C eyes seemed hollow to it all. As I glanced at my reflection my whole body jumped as for a moment I saw HIM in the mirror stood behind me. I jumped and washed my face knowing in my better judgment that he wasn't there, but as I looked up and met my reflection again he stood beside me his hand grabbed my neck and I screamed, But again. Nothing there.

I gasped my heart racing, my anxiety overwhelming, the sound of the tap running, my own gasping, ringing in my ears and Lillian crying in the bedroom. 

I forced my own emotions away and ran to the bedroom to pick her up in my arms and soothe her cries, until finally, she fell back asleep so I returned her to her crib and laid down on my own bed for a few moments just staring into space trying to feel calm. 

As much as I didn't like it I knew I didn't have a choice, I walked into the Port Victory Royal Hospital with Lillian on my hip in her little cream dress her  hair in a ponytail. Poor little thing had been coughing all night and her fever had gotten no better, I walked in and up to the small window where a man sat typing on a typewriter. He didn't even look up at me.

"Yes?"

"Hello, I uhh I need to see a doctor for my daughter."

The man looked up at me and glared before he looked back down, "Room three Doctor Dawkins will see you." 

I nodded and went to the small room he told me to, I sat on the bed and I gave Lillian the soothe as best I could trying to make sure she felt okay even if she coughed away. 

After a while the door opened to a strapping man in brown lace-up shoes, some tight brown trousers, and a white shirt with some very large sleeves so long that his cuffs that should have been tight around his wrists were loose halfway down his hands and soaked with bloodstains, a textured blue waistcoat that didn't fit him correctly as his suspender clips poked out the bottom, a green tie around his pushed up collar even if one side was flattered down, he had a sweet face, freshly shaven, and a head of blonde and brown hair that seemed to bounce as he swaggered confidently into the room. 

His brown eyes met me and for a moment he stopped short looking me up and down as his smile grew, he moved his hands behind his back and a wide smile moved across his lips, "Morning,"

"Morning, Doctor Dawkins?"

"The Very same," He nodded, "You are Mrs?"

"Miss actually, just uhh just Y/n is fine."

"Y/n." He smiled, "A very beautiful name and a ravishing young lady, You are welcome to call me Jack,"

"Ohh that's alright-"

"No no, I insist." he smiled as he cleaned his hands, "Now how can I help such a... gorgeous young lady." 

I blushed instantly not being used to hearing such compliments even if part of me tried to put up a wall knowing the sort of things that follow compliments. "Oh, Thank you. But not myself doctor this little one," I said bouncing Lillian on my knee, 

"Ohh I see, The even prettier littler lady," He smiled, "May I?"

"Just uhh be gentle with her."

"Of course, I'm a doctor I'm always gentle." he winked before he picked Lillian up and cradled her in his arms she quickly saw his face and began to giggle at him, "Awww aren't you a sweetheart, what's your name then little one?"

"Lillian," I answered, "she.. uhh doesn't speak yet." 

"Humm unusual for girls her age, still we all go at our own pace." He said, "You have a very charming name Miss Lillian, and a very beautiful big sister." He smiled at me,

"Ohh she's my daughter."

"Daughter? Really? You're far too enchanting to be a mother already." He chuckled sitting on the bed with me as he checked over Lillian, I did put a little space between us but I still wanted to be close to her. "Hang on... Miss? and Lillians your daughter?"

"Yes, doc- Jack."

"Alright, I don't wish to impose but her father is he-"

"six feet. I'd rather not talk about him."

"Okay. I'll do my best not to." He nodded, "How long has she had a fever?"

"A few days now, but the cough only started last night."

"I see, I don't imagine she's sleeping?"

"Not much No," I nodded, "I- I worried it could be whooping cough or tuberculosis, perhaps cholera or typhoid," I explained each word filled me with more panic my heart racing, my mind flooded with fear as I couldn't hold my panic anymore,

"Whoa. whoa. it's alright. It's alright." He cooed as he took my hand, "Shhhh shhh shhh, I'm here. I'm right here. Everything's okay." he said as he soothed me down from the edge of my panic, "It's alright, it's all alright. Lillian will be fine. it's just a cold." He reassured, "I can give her some medicine and she'll be right as rain giggling away in no time."

"Thank you, Jack,"

"You're very welcome, my best advice is to give her the meds before bed and get some sleep yourself." He said his hand resting on my shoulder but I flinched away, "sorry... forgive me I-"

"It's alright, sorry I uhh... I think we best be going,"

"Of course," he nodded handing Lillian back to me, "if you need anything I'm always here alright,"

"Thank you," I nodded, 

He got us the medicine and told me how to give it to her and he gave her one more cuddle before we left, "You get better now you hear me, don't want you causing your mummy any more trouble hey you little jumpy  squirrel," he told her which made her giggle, "And keep well yourself Y/n,"

"I will, thank you, Jack." I nodded, "How much do I?"

"You're welcome," He smiled, "No charge don't worry about it Y/n I know things can't be easy for a lady alone so don't worry over it."

"Thank you," I smiled, I left the room trying to hide my joy, such a sweet man but I did my best to force these ideas away.

I sat rather nervously but still, I needed to get it all looked at, as usual, we were sent to the same room and soon enough Jack arrived with a wide smile,

"Awww why hello, if it isn't my two favourite young ladies, she got another cough or some tummy troubles?" He asked as she cleaned his hands and came over, 

"No uhh, it's not Lillian today,"

"No? Oh... Everything alright Y/n." He said sitting beside me, 

"It's my head, these headaches last for days and they just don't seem to want to pass."

"Ohh you poor thing, alright let me have a look." He said moving to sit behind me on the bed, "May I?"

"You may," I nodded even if I was nervous the mere touch of his fingers was enough to make me jolt, 

"It's alright, just me." he reassured me in an almost pillow-talk tone, he stroked his callus fingers across my temple, then through my  hair, and he moved his hands to massage my scalp which admittedly made me lay my head back and almost moan it felt so nice and relaxing, "Ohh christ... you are tense." he muttered, "When you put Lillian to bed how long till you go yourself?"

"Immediately but I'm up a lot with her."

"I see" he said his hands moving down but the moment I felt his hand on my neck my skin boiled, my blood ran cold, my breath became sharp, my heart raced and I moved away as quickly as I could as tears began to flood my face, "whoa. it's alright. I wasn't going to hurt you. I'm sorry... I'm sorry Y/n I should have said something. Forgive me please."

"It's okay... you didn't mean to."

"It's alright, I should have asked first please forgive me."

"It's alright Jack."

"Okay," He nodded as he held my hands and helped me to calm down again, "I think I know what your headaches are,"

"Oh?"

"Tell me even without Lillian waking you do you sleep through the night?"

"No, very rarely," 

"I thought as much, You need to get some rest you're exhausted." 

"Well I have -"

"I know you're a very busy lady, but if you stay here you can get a good few hours of sleep."

"Here?"

"Of course, they're not the comfiest but you can get a good sleep here."

"But Lillian."

"I'll take her,"

"Yo-you'd really do that,"

"Of course," He nodded happily taking her and cuddling her in his arms, "You need to rest Y/n, you need some good sleep, I am perfectly happy to look after her till you get some rest."

"You don't have to do that,"

"No but I want to," he smiled, "You get some rest, she'll be perfectly fine and safe with me I promise,"

"Thank you, Jack,"

"You're welcome," He smiled kissing my hand, "sweet dreams Y/n," He said as he got up carrying Lillian on his hip, "Now you my little  squirrel are going to come have fun with me while your mummy gets a little nap. Yeah? that sound nice. a little fun afternoon with Doctor Jack?" He cooed, "Come on then you can be my little mascot," He told her as they headed out, 

I laughed but washed my face and hands getting into the bed and doing my best to avoid nightmares as I lay down and tried to get some sleep. 

I did get some decent sleep, and when I woke up my headache was all but gone, and as I sat up I saw a sweet sight Jack stood leaning against the table holding Lillian in his arms playing with her, I giggled to see them together. 

"Awww Hi Y/n," he cooed,

"Hi, was she okay?"

"She was an angel, absolutely perfect, such a sweet little  squirrel," he cooed, giving Lillian's head some kisses, "she was my little mascot today round the ward everyone said how cute and well-behaved she was, and she was even my little mascot for surgery weren't you?"

"she was?"

"Yeah she came and sat on my hip like I did the amputation she was good as gold, kept the guy really calm actually said he didn't want to yell cause he didn't want to upset her, I think more doctors should start carrying around babies,"

"That... doesn't seem sanitary." I laughed, 

"Good point, but we washed her little hands, didn't we? Between every patient we stopped and we washed out little hands," he smiled rubbing his hands in front of her and she quickly moved her hands to his like they were washing them, "Yeah there we go, wash wash little squirrel," 

"Aww that's sweet," I smiled "But babies like putting things in their mouth Jack,"

"Yeah, I noticed that she seems to really like sucking on my scalpel handle, 

"she might be hungry,"

"Ahh yes. Good point. I'll feed her if you're still tired."

"Thank you Jack but I'll get her home,"

"Of course, I'm glad you are feeling better. You know I'm more than happy to take her days you need a little rest, maybe even get one of the nurses to look after her and you and I could go out and have some more grown-up fun."

I blushed hard at such an idea, I did want to but my fears were far too intense, "Thank you but uhh I think I should stay with her,"

"Of course forgive me. Have a nice afternoon you two."

"Thank you, you have a nice day too Jack," I smiled, 

Once again I was back here and arrived at the hospital to see our usual doctor sitting on the bed as he wondered in, 

"Ahhh there's my favourite patient." He smiled as he saw Lillian happily taking her in his arms, "How is my little  squirrel? I have heard you had a little bonk?" he cooed, 

"She fell out her crib,"

"Ohh? Well, what do we expect? Little squirrel must have been trying to climb out and go on an adventure." He cooed, "Let's have a little look." He said looking over her, "Let's get you some bruise lotion," He smiled handing her back to me, "And I'm sure a kiss from your mummy will help too,"

"Aww I'm sure it would," I smiled,

"...Do you think... the doctor could get a kiss too?" 

I blushed hard but I couldn't help to give his cheek a little kiss, 

"Awww! See don't you want that Lillian, it certainly made me feel better." He winked, 

"I think she's just upset she doesn't like getting bruises," I said kissing her little head, 

"I know I don't either, but she'll be fine once she gets some bruise lotion on it, and as she's been such a frowny little squirrel, how about a caramel?"

"She doesn't like caramel,"

"Aww, me either. Alright, but I'm only doing this becuase you my little squirrel," He told her going into his pocket, "How about a little lemon sherbert Hu?" Immediately she went to reach for it, so he unwrapped it and snapped it smaller giving her the little pieces, "But don't think you're going to get this all the time, these are my privet little sweets."

"That's very sweet of you Jack,"

"Well, she's too sweet to say no. You both are Y/n," he smiled kissing my head, 

I stood in the alley doing my best to ground myself my body shaking and Tears streamed down my face, as I cried hysterically, my breath short and shaky, my throat choking and tight with every breath, my mouth dry and sickly, my heart raced to jump in and out my chest, my fingers and toes numb, my head dizzy almost to faint, my every limb shook and sweated, my stomach churned and turned like a hurricane, I couldn't even think, or even begin to know where to start to fix myself. 

"Ohh it's my little  squirrel and- Y/n?" Jack approached as he came down the alley himself of course her first spotted Lillian in her pram and then me, "Y/n what's the matter?" He asked as he came over, "It's okay, it's okay, You're not having chest pains are you?" 

I shook my head and he held my hands in his, he kept me close to him and walked me through my breaths wiping my tears and keeping me in a grip that made me feel so safe but not smothered, he gave me time and space and made sure everything was alright until my panic attack began to melt away to nothing but memory,

"Are you alright?"

"Yes... Sorry Jack forgive me I-"

"It's alright. You frightened me. I'm just happy you're okay. You get these a lot?"

"I do... a lot of... bad memories sometimes come back."

"What sort ofg bad memroies?"

".. Lillian's father. Forgive me-"

"No, no I'm here if you need me you know that. You and Lillian. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to." He said wrapping my arms around me to pull me into his chest, for a moment the metallic twang of blood hit my nose mixed with his sweet mahogany scent but I found it somewhat comforting, "I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere, I won't do anything to hurt you, or Lillian. you know that. I wouldn't dream of ever hurting my little  squirrel and her lovely mummy," 

"You mean it?"

"Of course I do," He said kissing my head, "Come on I'll take you both home."

"You don't need-"

"AH. I said I would. Doctors orders I'm taking you both home" He said as he pulled back and took her handle of Lillian's pram, "Hello you, you alright? Happy little squirrel now mummies feeling better? Good come on then Doctor Jack will read you a story," he told her, 

I nodded and led him back to my little apartment where I put Lillian down to bed, "Uhh have a seat, I guess," I said sitting on my bed,

"Is this really it?"

"Yep."

"You and Lillian? just in this little room."

"yes, we uhh her father use to live with us but of course he uhh..."

"Y/n... I don't want to push, you don't have to tell me but... where is Y/n's father?"

"...Dead."

"How'd be die?"

"He fell down drunk, down the stairwell and broke his neck."

"Ohh... Y/n, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright,"

"Did he drink a lot?"

"He did."

"Did he... No. Y/n... Did he... hurt you?"

I nodded frozen at the idea I was telling anyone, 

"Did he hurt Lillian too?"

I nodded, 

"...Is that why she wouldn't talk?"

"I think so. whenever she cried He would slap her. She learnt not to open her mouth. She cries again now but that's all."

"It happens in children, they learnt early on not to talk I'm so sorry Y/n, If I knew I'd-"

"It's alright, over now."

"Is it? or is he still lingering in your mind?"

"he still does I'm sorry Jack I-"

"Hey, Y/n listen to me." he said taking me in his arms, "I swear to you. I would never ever dream of hurting you. Or Lillian, I'm a doctor. All I want is for you both to be happy and healthy. I care about you, both of you." 

"I know you do,"

"Will you let me take care of you? both of you?"

"Just care for us?"

"I think you know I want more than just caring for you both." He smiled, "If you'd let me."

"...I'd like to let you,"

He smiled and rubbed his nose against mine as she stoked my cheek, "May I?"

"You may," I nodded,

He smiled and closed the gap letting our lips meet. 

I smiled sitting in the little hospital room with Lillian on my lap, as the door opened,

"Awww it's my lovely gorgeous stunning ravishing lady," Jack smiled as he saw me coming to kiss me, "And my little  squirrel too? I'm getting spoilt today." He smiled kissing Lillian's little head as he took her and gave her a bounce, "Not that I don't love to see you but why are you here? you were both alright when I left this morning, this couldn't wait till I get home,"

"No, I was coming into the hospital anyway,"

"Not to see me!" He pouted, 

"No to see, someone else."

"Who? What for? you're alright aren't you both?"

"She's fine."

"And you?"

"... I have some news, Jack."

"Wha- what is it?"

"We're gonna have a baby,"

"A- A baby! Y/n, you mean it!"

"I do midwife told me today, we're having a baby," 

He set Lillian on the floor to play and immediately took me in his arms giving me a million kisses, "Ummm I love you. I love you. I love you so so much. You are so beautiful, so perfect, you're gonna grow our sweet little baby!" He smiled 

"I love you too," I smiled, 

"We're gonna have a baby..."

"we are." 

"I couldn't be happier my darling," He smiled before he kissed me and went picking up Lillian, "You're gonna get a little brother, you excited little  squirrel,"

"I'm sure she is." I smiled,

"Now, you are going on a baby-friendly diet, you are going to relax, have nice hot baths, and I will be here to give you as many back rubs as you need." he smiled "No arguments."

"Yes Jack," I giggled,

"Perfect," He smiled, "And I'll look after Lillian so you're not overwhelmed, and even if you get so much as a whiff of a panic attack I will drip everything to take care of you, Y/n. I promise,"

"Thank you, Jack," 

I smiled as I headed to the hospital courtyard where I spotted Jack waiting for us, 

"Aww, there's my lovely ladies," He cooed, 

"Ahh little one has something to show you," I smiled, 

"Oh?"

"Go on then sweetie," I smiled putting her little feet on the grass,

"You're kidding?" He smiled excitedly as he watched her wonder over to him even if she almost fell a few times, but he scooped her up and soaked her with kisses, "Look at you! such a big girl! you're doing so good! My beautiful little squirrel," He cooed, "You are becoming just as beautiful as your mummy," He smiled, "Now you are walking there is nothing my little squirrel can't achieve! she'll be head surgeon by Sunday."

"I think she has a way to go with that yet Jack," I laughed, 

"I guess, but look at your mummy isn't she glowing? absolutely ravishing," He smiled giving me a little kiss I smiled and gave him a sweet kiss, "She's beautiful isn't she Lillian?" 

"I think she'd agree I am a boat." I laughed stroking my bump,

"Awww you're a very beautiful boat. a boat I shall happily steal and live my life on if I must." He smiled, "How is our littlest one?" He asked stroking my bump,

"Kicking away as usual."

"Alright, come on up to the office I'll give you a back rub, put Squirrel down for a little nap and give littlest one a cuddle and a kiss," He cooed, "Come on let's head upstairs," 

I smiled as I sat in the little bed tired but happy, as I held our little boy in my arms his little eyes were barely even open, Jack beside me playing with little Peter's fingers, Jack had just cleaned off his hands from helping me with the birth. "He's beautiful,"

"He is, he's so perfect."

"Are you okay Y/n?"

"I'm alright Jack," I smiled leaning on his shoulder, 

"Good, I was worried for a while there but you did amazing. My strong beautiful wife." 

"Thank you, You were strong too I don't imagine it was fun for you."

"Terrifying. Watching my own son come out of my wife. knowing if I do anything wrong I might seriously hurt both of you. Yeah not exactly a fun time for me." he laughs, "but it's all worth it, for this little guy," 

"It truly was," I smiled, "Shall we?"

"Shall we? I think we shall." He cooed giving my lips a kiss and little boy's head a kiss before he got up and went out for a moment so I gave our little boy some kisses until Jack returned with Lillian in his arms he brought her over in her little blue dress sitting her on his lap as he sat on the bed, "Lillian? Sweetie, My sweet little Squirrel, this is your little brother."

"You're little brother, Peter, he's very excited to meet you," I smiled letting her see him a little better, 

She came closer looking at him playing with his fingers curiously, "P-peter."

Immediately I got choked up to hear her sweet little voice, the first thing she'd ever said to us, 

"yes, that's your little brother little Peter." Jack smiled,

"Peter." she nodded before she gave Jack, I and Peter a little hug, "Love."

"Aww, we love you too Lillian,"

"We love you very much little squirrel, you, and your little brother we both do." Jack told her, "And I love mummy very much too," He smiled at me,

"I love Daddy very much too," I smiled giving Jack a sweet kiss,