#its the way he was so keenly focused on what was in front of him

[ratatatastic]

sobbing into my hands seeing how gently he gives a kid a highfive and then promptly runs over the puck stack like a freight train as he usually does

[snowballseal]

How they react to you feeling insecure (LaDS)

Summary: How the Love and Deepspace boys react to you feeling insecure about various things. Includes Rafayel, Sylus, Zayne, and Xavier. Lots of fluff.

Word Count: they're all around 1000 roughly

Note: Warnings of different kinds of insecurity, ranging from physical to mental. I'm not sure of how well the Xavier one turned out, he's harder for me to write, but I couldn't leave him out!!! Anyways, hope yall enjoy!

Rafayel

His ended up being a lot longer, so it's posted separately.

here

--

Sylus

Being partners with Sylus is a…daunting position to be in.

You always considered yourself a fairly average person, more focused on who you are than what you look like. It’s not that you don’t like the way you look - you do - and you don’t like comparing yourself to anyone, but you don’t plan on being a model anytime soon. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Then you met Sylus, a man who looks like he was carved from the marble of ancient architecture. He could stand in a room of masterpieces and people would still look at him instead of the art. And since you’re by his side now, that means they’re also looking at you.

Being stared down by wanderers in one thing. Being stared down by the most powerful and prevalent members of the N109 Zone? You hate to admit that it gets to you. In fact, it gets so under your skin, that even when you’re dressed in the most extravagant dresses and decadent jewelry, you can’t help but feel…insecure.

Twisting in front of the mirror, you eye every detail of the dress Sylus bought you. It’s perfect, of course. The man has an annoying knack for getting you the most beautiful things and knowing exactly what fits you. The color compliments your hair and it’s comfortable to boot.

Still. You can’t help but feel like a kid trying to fit in at the adults table, wearing your mother’s heels even though they don’t fit. A bit ridiculous.

“Do you not like it?” Sylus appears behind you, dressed in a matching, lavish suit. 

You jump a little, eyes flicking up to meet his in the mirror. His eyes burn into you, reading the hesitation on your face as you curl your arms around your stomach. There’s no fiery retort or witty comment like usual. You just look back at your dress, the tips of your ears tinging pink.

A frown pulls at Sylus’ lips, his voice softening, “What’s wrong?”

“...Do you really think people believe us? That we’re together?” You ask quietly, shuffling your weight back and forth. “That I’m a good match for you?”

You’re keenly aware that you’ve never had a conversation like this with Sylus. For the most part your relationship has been filled with teasing and playful bickering. It’s always light. Or about work. This is new, and while you trust him more than anything, you hate not knowing how he will react.

Sylus hums, low and thoughtful, as he curls his arms around you, “Does it matter to you what others think?”

You let out a sigh, leaning back into his touch thankfully. You want to say no. You want to keep up the air of confidence, but that quiet voice of doubt keeps worming its way through your thoughts.

“I just…I feel like I’m not what people expect. And…” you try to explain, hesitating. Sylus presses a kiss to your shoulder, offering a hum of encouragement. Taking a deep breath, you add, “It bothers me. It feels like I’m being forced into the spotlight but I’m not meant to be there. Like I don’t fit.”

“Hmm, so you feel like an odd duckling.” You give him a small jab, and Sylus chuckles. “My apologies. I think you misunderstand the attention though.” He pulls you closer. You shiver as his lips trace along the crook of your shoulder, pressing delicate kisses up the side of your neck, until he can murmur lowly into your ear, “You’re too humble, kitten. When you walk into a room, all eyes turn to you, not out of judgment, but out of jealousy. Afterall, you’ve tamed the leader of Onychinus. Even if you walked in with your uniform, they’d look at you the same. And I get the pleasure of walking around with the most powerful-” He presses his lips to your jaw. “-beautiful-” His lips trace against your cheek. “-woman of Linkon City. Don’t let the attention of those lesser than you make you doubt, otherwise I might have to find another way to show them just how well we fit together.”

Sylus’ eyes catch yours in the mirror again. They’re dark, like coals surrounded by flickering cinders. So intense you can almost feel the flames licking along your skin. There’s not a doubt in your mind that he’s being genuine. And that sets your heart racing. Along with the way he holds you so close, equal parts possessive and reverent. Like worship.

“Your devotion might scare some people, Sylus,” you whisper, glancing sideways at him.

He flashes a dangerous smile, “Does it scare you?”

You cast one final glance at your reflections before turning around in his hold and curling your arms around his neck. Sylus raises a challenging brow.

“I’m not. I like how you stand up for me, even when it’s against my own insecurities.” You draw him down, pressing a kiss to that carnal smile. Sylus softens immediately, cupping your jaw to draw you into a deeper kiss. The warmth that simmers in each and every touch leaves you a little breathless when you pull away. Pressing against his chest before he can drag you in again, you make sure to say one last thing, “Thank you, Sylus. I’ll make sure to remember all of that…especially the part about you being wrapped around my finger.”

“Hmm, such a cruel mistress, indeed.”

“And you love me.”

A chuckle rumbles through his chest, “Yes, I do. So, will you accompany me to this auction now?”

---

Zayne

“Are you sure it’s okay that I’m going?” You ask, voice wavering with nerves as you straighten Zayne’s tie for him.

“Isn’t it natural to bring one’s partner to these kinds of events?” He tilts his head, brow perked ever so slightly.

You nod, but can’t seem to erase the frown on your lips.

A week ago, Zayne had asked if you would accompany him to his medical school’s class reunion banquet. He had been asked to give a special word, given the reputation he had developed in his time at Akso Hospital, not to mention winning the Starcatcher Award for his work.

At first, you were ecstatic to have an opportunity to learn more about his old life. He has such a thing about living in the present, you hardly get to hear any stories about his time in med school, or when he was doing rotations at the hospital. You were eager to meet the people who he used to spend time with and hopefully catch a few stories you could tease him with later.

But as the night drew closer, you started actually thinking about all the people you would be around, all of whom graduated from the same medical program Zayne did. You can only imagine how smart they all are. And how you’ll get lost the moment any medical jargon comes up. 

The more you think about it, the more nerves you feel buzzing under your skin. You know you’re not the smartest, not compared to Zayne at least. He’s a genius, after all, and could probably outsmart most anyone. You’ve always been better at the physical stuff. That’s what makes you such a good pair. 

It’s not like you can impress everyone by whipping your gun out and fighting, though. All you’ll have are your words, and you’re not particularly good with those…

You blink when a large hand suddenly circles your wrist. Glancing up, you find Zayne looking down at you, brows furrowed ever so slightly.

“While I appreciate your attention to detail, I believe you’ve been straightening my tie for five minutes now.” Heat creeps up your neck. You hadn’t even realized you had been lost in thought. Zayne’s eyes narrow inquisitively.  “What are you thinking about that has your mind so preoccupied?” 

His thumb brushes casually along the inside of your wrist, not so subtly checking your pulse. A strangely endearing habit of his when he’s worried about you. You let out a long sigh and hide your face against his chest, feeling the heat bleed across your cheeks.

How are you supposed to tell him that you’re insecure about how smart all his friends must be?

Zayne doesn’t push right away. He knows you’ll explain when you want to, and if you don’t, then he knows you’re not ready to. It was an unspoken rule between you, something you started with him because you noticed he likes to think his words out. It felt natural to offer you the same when you struggle to express yourself. Like now.

Ultimately, you figure it’s better to just be straightforward. That’s how he would do it, and it’s better than dancing around the subject.

“I guess I’m nervous because I feel like I’m going to be the dumbest person in the room tonight,” you mutter against his coat. Your fingers tap out an anxious beat against his abdomen. “It’s silly and I know it shouldn’t matter, but I just don’t want to make you look bad.”

Zayne remains quiet for a long minute. Your fingers move a little quicker, matching the stuttering rhythm of your heart. His hand slides up, gently trapping them against his body.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“Physical tics are a common result of anxiety,” he hums dismissively, thumb smoothing over your knuckles. “As is your rapid heart rate. This truly bothers you.”

“Of course it does,” you sigh, a bit exasperated, ”You’ve worked hard to get where you are, Zayne. I love you so much, and I respect your work more than anything. I don’t, I don’t want to say something stupid and have it reflect on you badly.”

The doctor clicks his tongue, “First, I would prefer if you stop using that language to describe yourself.”

Your heart falters when his cool fingers touch your cheek, drawing your face up to his. He looks upset, but not exactly at you, the sharp line of his jaw contrasting with the softness of his eyes. Like it pains him that you think this way. Which it does.

“Those words don’t suit you. I wouldn’t allow another to call you them, so why would I allow you to?” He asserts, the corner of his lips twitching with distaste. “I don’t want to hear them again, do you understand?”

“Okay.” A thread of warmth curls around your heart when Zayne nods approvingly. His protectiveness really knows no bounds.

“Second, I do not agree with your diagnosis.” 

Your brow furrows a little. What? What does he mean, he disagrees? He’s literally surrounded by geniuses, you can’t match up to any of them if they’re anything like him. 

Seeing you start to overthink, Zayne shakes his head and gently pinches your cheek. You jolt back a little. The corners of his eyes crinkle, making you pout.

“Meanie,” you grumble, “Fine, explain your reasoning, Doctor Zayne.”

“It’s simple. Intelligence is made up of more than just academic knowledge, which, I assume, is what you are thinking of when you make such comments.” You nod. He’s not wrong about that, you guess. “Intelligence also includes the knowledge of how to use one’s strengths to achieve the best outcome. It is true that for some, this means using academic reasoning. However, it also includes those who develop the skills and discipline to maintain their bodies and fight for those who can’t, like…”

He pauses and gives you an expectant look.

“...me,” you finish slowly.

“Yes,” he hums, stroking the redness of your cheek, “I believe, under these standards, you are far more intelligent than most of the people you will meet tonight, darling. Though there is no comparison in the first place.”

His words sink in slowly but surely, filling in the cracks of your doubt. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he probably has some kind of healing magic, because you can already feel the burden of your insecurities melting away.

Leave it to Zayne to know exactly what to say, but in the most complex sounding way.

“You always know how to make me feel better, huh?” You ask, finally cracking that smile he loves.

“I am simply telling you the truth.” Zayne leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “There is not a lifetime in which my reputation will be more important than you. I would gladly throw it all away if it meant reminding you of that.”

You snort, “Don’t do that, please. I can only imagine the fit Doctor Greyson would throw. He’d be so mad at me.”

“I can handle Doctor Greyson, in the same way I can handle everyone tonight.” He slips his fingers between yours, bringing your hand up to kiss your knuckles. You wiggle your fingers  happily and Zayne can’t help but grin to himself. “If at any point you find yourself uncomfortable, just stay by my side and I will act as your distraction. Though, I’m sure they will all love you, just as I do.”

“...Thank you, Zayne.”

“Of course, my jasmine.”

---

Xavier

Working with Xavier is a blessing, as much as it is a curse. You couldn’t ask for a better partner. Someone who you know will always have your back, who can handle himself completely, who is probably the most talented hunter you’ve ever met in your entire life. He’s undeniably amazing.

On the flip side of that, though, you often fall into the trap of thinking about how he deserves better. Wondering if, maybe, the only reason he chose to stay with you was because of the aether core in your heart. If that’s also the reason you’re in a relationship now…

And some days, these thoughts win out over the rest. Like today.

“What’s wrong?”

You blink, eyes flickering up from the bowl of ramen in front of you. Early on, you had started a tradition of eating a meal together after a successful mission, to just enjoy the peace of your home and each other. But today, you weren’t feeling that hungry, just…tired.

Xavier tilts his head, concern furrowing his brow - he noticed your mood start to shift days before, but didn’t want to push since you didn’t seem to notice it yourself. Now, though, it’s too obvious for him to ignore.

“I’m fine,” you sigh, flicking your chopsticks back and forth to watch the noodles swirl around in the broth, a small frown capturing your lips. It’s a horribly obvious lie.

“Is it something I did?” His voice isn’t accusatory or upset. It’s just a rational question to help him figure out what’s wrong. Still, you feel guilt tug at your chest, and you set the chopsticks down with another sigh.

You don’t want him to think that. You’d never blame Xavier for something like this. That would be like asking him to be a worse person, which is stupid. It’s just you. Your problem. Dragging him into it will only make you feel worse.

“No, Xavier, you didn’t do anything, promise. I’m not upset…with you.” 

“But you are upset.”

Chancing a glance up at him proves a bad idea, making it all that more difficult to keep your thoughts quiet. Behind his normal sleepy expression, worry gleams in the deep blue of his eyes, unyielding and undeniably calm, like waves lapping gently at the beach. 

The sight makes your heart ache and the words are tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop them, “Do you think I’m actually a suitable partner for you?”

Surprise flickers across the hunter’s face. Of all the things he was expecting you to say, that wasn’t even on the list. He doesn’t laugh though, or take your question lightly.

“Do you mean, as a hunting partner? Or as a romantic partner?”

You shift uncomfortably, eyes falling back to your ramen, “I don’t know. Both, I guess?”

He hums softly. You try to ignore the nerves fluttering in your chest as Xavier gets up, watching him out of the corner of your eye as he circles the table to stand next to you. The hunter drips his head, catching your gaze.

“May I see your hand?”

A small frown pulls at your lips, not exactly sure where he’s going with this, but you offer him your hand anyways. Xavier takes your wrist, touch featherlight, and moves it so your hand is held up flat, facing him. Your brow furrows.

“Xav-”

“Look.” 

Pursing your lips, you let out a little huff. He really hates giving direct answers, doesn’t he? Still, you’re in no place to really judge him, or expect anything for that matter. He’s always been a bit of a mystery to you.

You watch as Xavier places his hand against yours. His palm is warm and you can feel the calluses from who knows how many years of hunting. Your hand looks tiny in comparison, his pale, delicate fingers long enough to curl over your own a little. The sight makes your heart squeeze, fondness competing with the feeling of being so…small.

“They’re pretty different,” Xavier hums, voice still calm, his own eyes fixed on your hands. “Your fingers are always cold, and your hands are small. You have a scar here.” His free hand grazes the side of your palm, along your pinky. “And here” He traces another along your knuckle. Your breath falters at the tenderness behind his touch, like you’re delicate porcelain. “Mine are in different places. Yours are skilled at weaving silk balls and mine can…open jars.”

You snort. Xavier’s eyes dart up to yours, sparkling with humor, a brow raised. You try to smother your laughter, rather ineffectively, and motion for him to continue.

“They’re different, but-” His fingers spread apart, and you mimic him instinctually, only for his fingers to slot between yours in one fluid motion. You inhale softly, laughter dying in your throat. It’s like two puzzle pieces fitting together, a perfect embrace that washes over you with a comforting warmth.

Xavier watches you, keenly aware of the way you squeeze his hand tightly, desperately, like you’re worried it might disappear. He gives yours a tender squeeze in return, thumb brushing over your knuckle.

“I think they’re a suitable match. Don’t you?”

God, how could you go without this man? The worries that have been pricking at the back of your mind all week seem to melt away. It leaves you with that warmth, the kind that only comes from Xavier, that he offers you over and over again.

You give his hand another squeeze, finally smiling, “Yah. I do…Thanks, Xavier.”

The hunter leans down, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. You can feel his lips brush against your skin as he murmurs, “Let me know if you ever feel this way again, angel. I’ll be more than glad to remind you.”

“I will.”

---

This was really fun to write!!! I really hope you guys like it! There are so many freaking tags on this puppy.

[cxtori]

Osamu Dazai ✮ Reckless (Angst Version)

summary: you vent your frustrations to Dazai after the crazy stunt he pulled with Fyodor

genre: angst, kiiinda comfort, cleaning his injuries, Dazai being a protective idiot

wc:835

warnings: n/a, some Dead Apple spoilers

tori’s note: I’m posting a second version of this story that will be more lighthearted/fluffy than this one. I just liked the concept and when I started writing I realized this could go two different ways. So I just wrote both lmao. Here's the fluffy version!

You were frustrated. No, that only begins to describe it. You were pissed, furious, irate. Whatever other powerful words there are to describe extreme anger, you were feeling it. 

You pour some antiseptic onto the cotton pad in your fingers, the fibrous material soaking up the liquid quickly. You raise it to Dazai’s back and press it against the deep wound resting there.

“Ahh,” Dazai hisses. “Jeez, you could be a little more careful.” You can hear the pain in his voice, but you can also hear the teasing tone underneath it. Your face scrunches in annoyance.

“Shut up. I’m still mad at you,” you huff and continue to clean his wound. 

He’d explained what had happened, how he’d been quite literally stabbed in the back with a poison coated dagger. looking at its placement, it’s a miracle the blade didn’t hit his spine. just an inch further to the right and this whole situation could have been very different.

“I can’t believe you left like that. You should have told me,” you say quietly. 

“I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have worked out like this if I did, you know that.”

And you did. But still. He disappeared so suddenly and the next thing you knew he was working with someone who planned to destroy your home? You knew Dazai would never betray you like that, not seriously. But at the same time, seeing him in that light scared you.

You finish cleaning his back and apply antibiotics and bandages, adding to the many that were already wrapped haphazardly around him. 

Once you’re done, you move to stand in front of him and begin to clean the various cuts and scrapes on his front side. You prepare another cotton pad and swipe over the wounds, none of them being severe enough to require much attention.

As you work, Dazai’s eyes are keenly focused on you. He watches as you carefully clean him up, a soft but determined look on your face, though it’s almost entirely hidden by the frustration distorting your features. 

A smile spreads across his lips and he wraps a hand around your free one. You ignore him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of falling for his flirty little tricks. 

You were both aware of the effects he had on you and, though he didn’t use it against you often, he would use it to his advantage. And right now it was in hopes of getting you to not be angry at him.

As your eyes scan over the marks scattering his body, your vision begins to blur. Before you can stop it, there are tears falling from your eyes. Are these angry tears, sad tears or relieved tears? You have no idea. Maybe it’s all of them at once.

“You idiot. Why do you have to be so careless?” You ask, your voice just above a whisper. Dazai looks at you, his smile slowly fading into a thoughtful but somber expression. He knows you aren’t expecting an answer, but he replies anyway.

“Because I care for you.” And that’s really all it boiled down to. He recklessly puts himself in dangerous situations if he knows that’s what it’ll take to protect his home and friends. To protect you. Even so, you hated his methods.

“I was so worried, Osamu,” you say quietly, afraid that your voice will crack too much if you speak normally. Despite your low tone, the pain and fear in it rings loud and clear. Dazai’s hand grips yours tighter.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to act like you’re working alone.” He doesn’t reply, only drops his gaze to where his hand is wrapped carefully around yours. 

You’d had this conversation countless times before. That he is part of a team that is more than capable of handling serious situations. That he doesn’t have to jump head first into danger to solve problems. That he has other’s to lean on. That he has you. 

But no mater how many times you said this, it never changed. And it terrifies you.

“It’s just… what if you had-”

“I didn’t, that’s what matters,” Dazai says, cutting you off. His hand leaves yours to rest on your face instead, his palm cupping your jaw as his thumb strokes over your cheek, wiping away your drying tears. 

“Please, don’t ever do that again.”

“You know I can’t make that promise.”

He was right. He will continue to keep you in the dark if he knows that’s what it takes to keep you safe, even if you both hate it. There was no point in promising that he wouldn’t. 

His hand moves from your face to the back of your neck, tangling his fingers into your hair. He brings your face closer to his, his dark brown eyes looking into yours intently.

“I love you, more than anything,” He whispers and places a kiss to your forehead. “And I only want to protect you.”

And that’s what he’ll continue to do.

©Cxtori 2024 please do not copy, plagiarize, repost or translate any of my works. reblogs are appreciated

[transfemmbeatrice]

beatrice muchadoaboutnothing is a trans woman: a brief treatise

thematically, i think in a play about the social vulnerability of women, having a character be a trans woman just makes sense as a way to provide depth to that idea. specifically, i love the concept of beatrice's view of men being informed by her own experiences as a closeted trans woman (it's amazing what people will say in front of you when they think you're one of them) and as someone later facing sexism and transmisgoyny.

usually when someone does a trans reading of this play/character, they look at beatrice's famous speech about wishing she was a man and interpret her as a trans man, which is perfectly valid! but this idea started for me with the simple thought that i wanted an out and accepted trans character to play with rather than a closeted one who cannot transition, just as a matter of personal preference at that particular time and with this particular text. but then i kept thinking.

as above, the concept of beatrice reading men for filth in the context of having lived among them is great. the "oh god that i were a man" speech is extremely disparaging of men and what they claim to be vs how they actually wield their power. what she wishes is that she had the power that men have automatically in her society--felt all the more keenly because there was a time when she was able to wield that power and she gave it up to be happy, to be herself, to be free in a different way. (here is where i sometimes imagine beatrice regretting ever transitioning, believing that her own happiness and health is less important than having the power to protect hero's happiness and health, because i love angst.) but now that the worst has happened, she is reduced to begging a man for help and it's demeaning and infuriating and tragic.

i also love turning on its head the line "i cannot be a man with wishing, therefore i will die a woman with grieving." being a trans person, dealing with internalized transphobia, knowing that transitioning will put a target on your back, wishing you could just be the gender you're born as--but no amount of wishing will make her not a woman. i think she loves herself and her gender but the play is focusing on points of conflict so that's what i'm talking about here.

in a play about misogyny, the vulnerability of women, and the hypocrisy of men, a trans woman has a unique perspective on both masculinity and femininity both as genders and places in society. (in the ideal version, i think john would be a trans man to mirror this experience, but that would require him to be rewritten to have actual depth and personality and all that is a different essay). there is also just a particular kind of strength that comes from having to carve out and defend your identity in that way which i think fits her very well.

lastly, a couple of other miscellaneous things from the text that can tie in:

beatrice recounting "a double heart for his single one" meaning both "i loved him twice as much as he loved me" and "i loved him as two people: [birthname] and beatrice"

benedick insisting he wouldn't marry her even if "she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed." Adam, not Eve. in MY illustrious opinion, this is benedick saying "i don't care HOW big her dick is i'm NOT gonna marry her."

[lukedanger]

Owlcatober - Day 19 - Duty

Prelate Hulrun misses the meaning of certain signs in this @owlcatober while focusing on duty to get through them.

[Ao3 Link]

====

When all else failed, a man at arms could trust in his duty as a reason to go on.

That was what Hulrun Shappok used as his bedrock over the long decades. It was his duty to the Mendevian people, to Golarion as a whole, to stand firm against the horrors of chaos. 

The light of his torch flickered as he made his way through the night. Light always flickered when he needed it for himself. He could remember a time when it had not, back when he was young. Before the brutality of his first crusade - the third of such campaigns. Somehow, that was when he noticed the lights flickering more and more.

Nonetheless, his misgivings were irrelevant as he assessed the streets of Kenabres. They were blessedly quiet tonight. While he was too highly ranked to be wasted on patrols, he could still contribute to that duty as he moved between responsibilities. 

The market square was still in terrible shape, but the bodies had at least been cleaned and fencing had been set up to prevent fools from falling in. A shame that he did not have time to browse them as he once had, but then again with silver coins being heavier and more tarnished in his hands as the years passed on, perhaps it was for the best he had others to do that while he focused on his duties.

“At ease,” he said as a pair of guards - new recruits in the city watch - snapped firm as he walked through the former market.

“Nothing to report, Prelate,” one of them said, the torch post behind her flickering.

He nodded back, continuing past. Up the hill to the temple that had been opposite of holy Iomedae’s. A temple of chaos and lacking responsibility that had so nearly cost them the whole city, cost all Mendev if the Wardstone had indeed caused a reaction in others.

Hulrun had been true to his word and let Ramien and his brats leave unmolested, much as he regretted allowing his duty to go unfinished. He even deigned to respect the temple without a priest. He had instructed it to be turned into an infirmary, one that thankfully could soon be closed down as the wounded were healed.

“Prelate,” said one of the guards at the front - a halfling inquisitor-in-training. “I’m afraid that Sir Jacob is not present - he went to investigate the graveyard.”

Unsurprising - vermleks had infested the city and purging the remnants was time-consuming. “Thank you, squire. Maintain your vigil.”

Hulrun strode past, towards the graves, warding himself against evil creatures with a short prayer to the Inheritor. He listened keenly, for that might be his first warning. And he heard what he was looking for - a sword drawn. Rushing towards the sound, he found Jacob in conflict with a zombie. Jacob’s sword found its mark, but as the creature collapsed another erupted from it - as much worm as man.

“Back, foul demon!” Hulrun snarled as he dropped his torch and charged in, drawing his longsword and bringing it down with both hands for an overhead strike. The vermlek, distracted by the other inquisitor, was unable to dodge in time and was cut through by the cold iron.

Hulrun’s blade did not go all the way through, though, becoming stuck partway through. Unusually stuck as he almost stumbled down as the monster fell. Grimacing, he did not let this setback get in the way of duty: with another tug, he managed to free his blade from material that should have yielded against it.

“Thank you, Prelate,” Jacob said as he caught his breath. He was as old as Hulrun, but the years had not been kind to him - no doubt a result of having been badly wounded several times when he was younger, and not having had as swift access to healers as Hulrun had. “I believe we tracked the source of the lingering undead.”

“Perhaps,” Hulrun admitted as he looked over his sword. Was it just him, or was the quality of his swords dropping? This one had not broken in the ferocity of battle, but he had more than a few that had broken in the last stroke of an engagement. He put it aside - he simply wore them out in his duty. “Yet we must remain vigilant. Who knows what foolishness the Desnans allowed into their hallowed ground?”

Jacob nodded, and both called upon holy light as their torches had fallen dark in the fight. Jacob’s shone brightly, while Hulrun’s flickered occasionally. Annoying, but he could compensate with constant vigilance.

That was what his duty as an inquisitor demanded. No matter how many of his brothers and sisters in faith detested him (which seemed to be more and more every year), how heavy his blade became as he carried out the sentences he passed, no matter how much the light flickered, no matter what inconveniences came his way, he had his duty. To Kenabres. To Mendev. To Golarion. To Iomedae.

He would do his duty, no matter the cost. The myriad dangers of the Abyss and its lackwit lackeys were too great for anything less. Perhaps one day, the things he did would not longer be necessary. Until then, he would do them.

[luckyshotwrites]

Ch. 100 // You're Getting My Help, Dumbass // Day Off

Contents (Warnings): Three (Angst, slight blood warning, hard vore mentions, character and monster info as always). Read full chapter on A03

Wordcount: 2,400+

Song I correlate to this Chapter: Again like far too many!

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Wicks

Throbbing with adrenaline, his mind raced. Millions of thoughts bucked in his skull.

They needed more information on Andras. He used elemental magic the most. Wicks wasn't supposed to worry about curse magic with him. Naturally, Andras could have learned, but overtaking Wicks usually took more effort than the average training magus could expel. 

Not that it mattered—Wicks's head wanted to find a way out. 

How would anyone know?

There wasn't one. Wicks messed up, and now his family would pay for him. The loathsome, heartbreaking reality that Andras would play pretend asWicks made him wish he never existed. He didn't want Andras to talk or touch any of them, yet he would. Any of them could be another of his sick targets, overwhelmed and devoured by Andras using Wicks as a disguise.

Everyone, I'm sorry.

Andras's oscillating inner flesh rubbed against his body, siphoning his energy quickly with its saliva. However, the teeth that pricked his back never closed. Something prevented it from doing so. 

Wicks, bound by Andras's orders, could not move to see what was behind him. 

The fleshy walls retracted immediately, and Andras issued his following command. "Kill him, please, Diageo."

Wicks assumed the mimic pulled back to watch, because he looked far more entertained than worried. It's not Garter.

Garter had his third eye, which perfectly combatted the curse magic controlling Wicks.

Against his will, Wicks twisted on his heels and gazed at the person who had temporarily saved him.

It was the one he considered an enemy. 

Run Away. 

Every part of his body tensed with energy and magic. Wicks didn't want to end someone without it being his choice. Not even him. 

Please, you idiot-

Wicks's hue fumed as their need to end the blonde intensified. They locked on, keenly observing every part of him. 

RUN.

...

Alexander

His sight was useless so he solely focused on their scents and energy. He found one person along the way. Barely breathing, bleeding, a flickering flame of energy. He healed them, though he couldn't stay, and told them he'd be back. 

Mainly because it sounded like the building would collapse under the chaos further inside if he didn't help stop it.

He knew one was Wicks, the smaller blob ahead of him at the far end of the room. There was a flurry of colors trailing Wicks head like Drake earlier. Magic. Magic was the only thing he could see clearly enough.

The other being with Wicks lacked a scent. They only had energy. 

Based on his experiences, the only species he met without scents were mimics. 

He used the band of magic around Wicks head to determine where to place his barrier. He threw one up, since he couldn't human case whatever was in front of Wicks properly without his sight. It collided with it and backed off from Wicks.

His under its curse magic...

Alexander's hair stood up and his instincts strangled every muscles in his body.

Wicks is facing me, isn't he?

Alexander strapped a cloak to his body as he shot straight at Wicks. He would have used 'blink' if he could guarantee he'd end up where he needed to be to undo that band on Wicks head.

The alarming concentration of spells Wicks conjured called his attention. His fist. Alexander swiftly slid his hand across the air in front of him. A barrier struck Wicks's wrist and redirected his punch away, stealing its momentum. 

Due to his assault, Alexander shifted gears, creating a balustrade in a rush instead of a wall on Wicks's side. He flung himself at it and kicked off to reach Wicks's head. 

Wicks threw his arm through the barrier beam Alexander used prior. He broke it, and right before the blonde's fingers could touch Wicks's head, Wicks yanked his head to his right shoulder, and turned his motion to slam his curled hand into Alexander's gut.

Alexander lurched, his body pulled inward by its force, knocking every bit of air out of his lungs in a sputter. His cloak had long shattered, so he took the rest of its force with his wendigo durability—not that it could beat Wicks.

It sent him upward, and Wicks's barely recognizable blur was gone. His energy swirled behind the half wendigo, and Alexander cloaked his body and tilted his palm behind him to conjure a barrier in futile protection. 

It didn't matter, as Wicks appeared behind him, spinning in the air, sent the back of his heel into his target. It snapped the barrier, burst his cloak, and the weight sunk deep into the lower back part of Alexander's neck. 

It sent him down to the floor without the time to catch himself. His body, used like a cannonball, shattered the foundation. Every muscle twitch hurt, his ears rang, and he couldn't feel his face just taste the blood.

Get up. 

He barely willed his hand to lift and wave to his side. He created a barrier under himself, causing it to slam into and push him out of the recess—seconds before Wicks bashed into it from above. 

The strength rippled and caused the interior to shake. Alexander used reversal magic, rapidly healing himself as Wicks got up from the ground where Alexander's head once was. 

Once his legs listened, he forced himself to stand. Alexander lowered his body like a wrestler. I fucking can't dodge him. He's too fast. 

Unlike the half wendigo, Wicks had no problem using things like 'blink' to cover the distance.

Alexander was far too weak, unskilled, and stupidly refused to do anything that could possibly hurt Wicks. 

The dangerously powerful magus sprang up and ran, then closed the distance instantly, aiming right for Alexander's skull. He has no reprieve, every single shot was to kill him. 

Alexander tilted his head, his eyes focused the best they could be behind Wicks, and his already up arms moved higher. He used his left one to block the up-and-coming blow while the other hand tried to touch Wicks's head. 

The danger's fist pulverized his flesh, muscle, and bone in its way. Alexander's arm stood no chance against a full-powered attack. 

And as soon as his fingers grazed the bind, he yelled out in sharp pain. "DISRUPT." 

Right before his head was next to go, he used 'blink' to teleport behind Wicks. His body panged in inescapable agony. His left forearm was eradicated, blood pouring from what was left, and a scalding sensation ran across his head. He couldn't see past the blood in his left eye. 

He fell to his knees, huddled over, and attempted to quickly fix what he could. 

...

Wicks

He heaved. The air that entered him was his again. His distraught sight threw itself back, catching Alexander and the blood pittering from him. Wicks could even feel some of it on his face. 

Alexander's scalp was partially exposed on one side, and his left forearm and hand were completely gone.  

But he was alive. 

He risked his life to undo it.

Wicks's chest compressed. He hated Alexander, and still...the idiot went out of his way to help him. He has no obligation to me.

The enemy didn't let either of them rest.

Alexander worked on repairing himself and Andras took advantage. He slung his right arm like it was a fishing pole and pitched it ahead at Alexander. Being cast, his arm split into a string of squelching bloodless flesh. Its serrated teeth wrapped around Alexander's neck and fortunately his arm stopped Andras from cinching and strangling him.

"Got a big one!"  Then Andras whipped his arm and Alexander back into the wall. His arms flesh returned to normal after.

"This is so sad. I had been wanting short fuse for a while now," Andras's stare fell to Wicks. "But I'll gladly settle for a better prey like you." 

His energy was halved by Andras, who remained full and spry. 

Even so, the pissed-off Hispanic shot at Andras. 

"You want another hug so soon!" Andras yelled as Wicks's body collided with him. Wicks could feel the teeth underneath trying to penetrate his cloak, and the saliva from its mouth dampened it as it took energy.

Wicks got him into the wall, too, but risked Andras's body opening up to consume him again. 

He drains just as fast as I would by touch with his saliva.

He popped his cloak, and Andras dove in. At no point during this fight had Andras been on the offensive. He'd always strike after Wicks. 

Andras hunched and threw his hand out to grab him. Wicks hurled his to counter it. But Andras split his arm down the middle. Each end was serrated with fangs. They curled around Wicks's midsection. He put up another cloak just as Andras threw his head down and wide open, engulfing Wicks's head inside. The feeling of being inside the villain's mouth was kept back by his protection. 

Andras jaw snapped shut to break his cloak. He couldn't. 

¡vete a la mierda! You're not eating me! Wicks went to strike at Andras's abdomen, and instead, it opened up. So he hit into its surprisingly resistant gooey and energy-dampening insides. It was still a powerful hit, rippling Andras's body, but it didn't stop him from trying to consume Wicks.

He soon let go and reduced his size. Wicks saw a size-shifted Alexander over him. It seemed he went to grab and pull Andras's head back. Andras quickly ducked between Alexander's legs and got behind him. 

"Such wasted potential, short fuse, you've had years." Andras's arms latched into Alexander's skin. He didn't break it but ran the electrical currents up it. It made Alexander's body convulse, and the sharp teeth injected from his arms and into Alexanders legs. 

Wicks didn't let it go on when he captured his senses. He went straight between Alexander's legs, too, and ducked low. Andras's abdomen opened up in response, taking the punch. It still sent him back.

Wicks shook off his fist, burst the cloak, and redid it. 

He glanced back at Alexander, who smoked but healed himself relatively fast. 

"I'm sorry," Wicks said, catching his breath. 

Alexander shifted his eyes and dropped down to his resting height. "focus on the fight, not me, dumbass." He exhaled snappy, short breaths, "I'll live."

Andras threw himself at them again. Wicks retaliated, colliding with him. And with his free hand, Andras flicked a finger up, and the spiraling pillar of a barrier rammed its point into Wicks's body. 

"Barriers rely so much on sight. I'm surprised you can even do them with your pitiful eyes." Andras made more of them spring up, then surround and crush Alexander between them. 

Wicks shattered the spike before it sent him to the ceiling. 

Andras laughed as Wicks directed himself down, dropping his 'gravity' using gyro-telekinesis. "Much like Wicks-" Andras's hands sparked with their blue electricity before he threw the blast into one of the barriers instead. 

He used 'blink' to appear behind Wicks in mid-air.

"Focus's too much."

Wicks altered his 'gravity' for a second time, spinning his momentum to strike Andras's ribs with a roundhouse kick. At the same time, the lightning he threw earlier curved off the spike and hit Wicks's back and sent him toward another spiked pillar. His cloak was on the verge of breaking. 

Wicks landed on one of the points that resembled a bamboo shoot and pushed off it. It snapped under him as he launched like a peregrine falcon after its prey. He always aimed for the head. Andras, from the ground, split his apart, and his hands twisted around the arm Wick's failed to connect.

He brought Wicks into his, raised his feet in a drop kick from the ground, and enhanced them like Wicks. Andras struck his torso so hard that the left side of his body spun out, and his right arm loudly popped as Andras dislocated it from his shoulder.

He swung him down by it. 

Only a few individuals, besides his dad, could throw back as hard as Wicks could. So it reminded him how weak a magus was without powerful cloaks and how his lungs slowly filled with blood. 

Wicks scrambled to gather himself and his collapsed chest. Andras tried to take the opportunity to steal another chunk out of Wicks, but Alexander locked his human case again and made a barrier slam into his jaw from the ground. 

Andras snapped through it, the barrier turning to dust in his mouth. He glanced back, not expecting Alexander to have gotten so close.

Arguably weaker, he still delivered a blow directly into Andras's spine. The mimic's chest raised forward. And Wicks lifted his left hand and shot out a basic force blast. 

It sent the mimic spiraling the other way toward where the entrance used to be. 

Alexander dropped down and assessed Wicks.

"You should-" Alexander used reversal magic to speed up the process. 

"Save your magic." Wicks groaned as he sat up. "He's almost dead."

Alexander groaned weakly. "Whatever. Listen..." He squinted in the direction Andras was. "He's using our magic every time he takes a part of us." he held his arm to Wicks. "And since you're the only one capable of killing him, take my energy since you're more drained than I am."

Wicks pushed his arm away, "no-"

"Odds are if it's left to me, I'm not winning, and if he eats your ass, there's nothing any of us can really do." Alexander threw his arm back in Wicks's face, "so take it." 

"ARGH," Wicks grabbed Alexander's forearm. "Distance yourself after this." He carefully took it. There wasn't much between them, but he still left Alexander with enough to do one final thing. 

"I need him to stand still, get him stuck there, and I can kill him." 

He had to end this; they'd both be Andras's meals if he didn't. 

Alexander listened and did what he could. He manipulated the barriers like hands and trapped Andras between them. The daze Andras had lasted less time than Wicks wanted.

Wicks tried to read his mind and distract Andras, and the mimic freely let him. So, Wicks intercepted his thoughts, feelings, and memories. Wicks realized Andras won.

He underestimated Andras's priorities. The psycho focused on releasing his human case. Thus, he opened it before Wicks, begging him to strike the form and become one with it. 

But then, his form unexpectedly shifted back, someone human cased him again. Though he felt it wasn't Alexander. 

Andras's surprise and utter shock said it all, and Wicks could feel his final moments.

The real Andras didn't know what he fought. Mimics were so rare, so far in few. They're generally killed as soon as they're found. They could be anyone; they'd kill them, get their memories and powers, and be able to integrate themselves into anyone's life.  Andras was unlucky. A desperate mimic attacked him without a chance, and he ultimately lost to it. However, his will overtook the mimic. "I hope you burn!" Andras shouted as the mimic encapsulated everything that was him. It adopted every aspect of Andras while keeping its base tendencies. Thus, it never reverted to a complete mimic, which is why instead of being scared.

It smiled at its bitter end as Wicks's fist went through its head. 

...

Hey, you, thank you so much for reading. I'm glad I put out a story that people can enjoy! I hope you continue to enjoy it as WE have a LOT more to go! YOU BETTER KEEP PROSPERING! (Nonnegotiable, as always~).

First Chapter Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Catch up, see some maps/art, or check the latest release dates down below  ↓ ↓ ↓ 

What I’d do for a Livable Income Part 2 (Synopsis/Chapter - List)

[fatecanberewritten-writer]

Card Tricks | Chapter Two: Home

Stars Series | Card Tricks

“Christmas isn’t for another week, do we really have to go home this early?”

From the other room, George Weasley heard his brother laugh. “Yeah, see how that goes over with Mum,” Fred jested, walking out into the living room of their flat. George was sitting at the desk by the window, several notebooks filled with numbers taking up the space, not to mention about two dozen crumpled papers scattered around him. As he approached him, Fred picked up one of the crumpled pages, opening it as he leaned against the desk next to his brother. George had been trying to work out their finances.

“Can’t we just get there when Ron and Ginny get back? It’s only a couple days difference.”

Fred crumpled the sheet once again and threw it at his brother. George, who had been keenly focused on the numbers in front of him, rolled his eyes as he looked up at Fred. “We’re going,” Fred insisted. “We need the vacation, you especially.” As he said this, Fred pushed the notebook George had been scribbling on away from him.

“What we need is an accountant,” George sighed, sitting back in his chair. He ran his hands over his tired face. “Don’t you miss when we were just inventing?”

Fred smiled grimly and clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll get back to it, Georgie. Just you wait, soon enough we’ll have much more than just Verity working for us. We’ll have a whole staff of accountants, and we can just do the fun bits.”

George sighed again, but smiled lazily at his twin.

“Now don’t make me nag you about packing,” Fred said as he pushed himself from the desk. “Mum expects us for lunch.”

With a smirk, George flicked his wand in the direction of his room, and his suitcase came flying out immediately. Fred nearly had to drop to the floor to avoid its path, and in the silent moments that followed, George had to keep himself from laughing as Fred slowly stood back up. As he put his hands on his hips, George nearly lost it as he thought about how much Fred looked like their mother at the moment. “Well,” was all Fred had to say before the two of them broke out into a fit of laughter.

-

“Fred, George! Oh, thank goodness you’re home!”

George looked over to Fred in astonishment as their mother happily bounded out of the Burrow to meet them only seconds after they had apparated into the yard. Fred, with a look that mirrored his twin, shrugged. The both of them had to crouch a bit as their mother wrapped her arms around them.

“Didn’t know you missed us this much, Mum,” Fred commented with a laugh.

As Molly pulled away from her boys, her eyebrows were knitted together. “Of course I missed you!” she claimed, but at the way she didn’t fully meet their eyes, both of the twins knew there was more to the story. Nonetheless, they didn’t protest as she swiped her wand at their cases and they disappeared from their hands, no doubt to their room. “Now,” their mother continued, leading them inside. “Your father’s still at work, so he won’t be joining us, but Bill should be back any minute now and we’ll have a proper lunch.”

“Where’s Bill?” asked George.

“Yeah,” added Fred, “I thought his holiday started on Monday. Shouldn’t he be home?”

“Is he doing something for the Order?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” said Molly with a slight nervous chuckle in her voice. As they got closer to the house, she seemed to be slowing down. “He took the Kumar kids Christmas shopping in Diagon Alley this morning. Should be back any minute, though.”

As Molly hesitantly climbed the steps up to the door, George was beginning to catch on. “Just the Kumar kids?”

Reaching the door, their mother turned and gave them a confirming look. As she opened the door, the twins looked at each other, understanding. Their mother had been left home alone with Fleur.

As they stepped into the kitchen, Fred and George were hit with a deliciously sweet smell of something baking, though as they caught a hint of orange, they knew it was something their mother had never made before. “What’re you making, Mum? It smells - ”

But George elbowed Fred before he could finish, catching sight of Fleur, with her silvery blonde hair tied in an elegant knot on top of her head, walking into the kitchen, an apron over her robes. Molly eyed Fred pointedly, as if daring him to finish his sentence. He stayed silent, going bright red.

“Allo!” Fleur greeted, her French accent thick as ever. She also seemed happier to greet them than she had in the past, and George figured that she, like their mother, was happy to no longer be alone with her future in-law. “They smell delicious, don’t they?” she said to Fred pompously. Molly quietly huffed and left the room. “Madeleines,” Fleur continued, “it’s a Delacour tradition to make them before Noël.”

“I’m sure they’ll be great,” said Fred awkwardly, and satisfied, Fleur turned back to the oven. George was trying not to laugh as he shoved his twin out of the kitchen. 

Molly had taken to getting lunch ready in the living room instead of the kitchen, and she ignored them, Fred in particular, as they came in to join her. Fred slowly walked over to her like a kicked puppy while George flung himself on the sofa, watching amusedly. 

“Sorry, Mum,” Fred said to her quietly. “If I’d’ve known - ”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she snapped, cutting him off. As she finished the last sandwich, she took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders, physically shaking off the incident. “So,” she said, much more brightly, walking over to join George on the sofa, Fred quickly following, “how’s the shop going?”

“Fantastic,” George said proudly. “It’s going really well. Don’t think we’ve had a slow day yet.”

Molly gave them a proud smile, something they rarely saw directed at them. “You know, out of everyone, I think you boys surprised me the most. Entrepreneurs,” she said with a slight I-can’t-believe-it shake of her head. “Successful entrepreneurs at only eighteen. I never would have thought. And to think, I was shaming you over how few OWLs you got.”

“Yeah, we’re doing pretty well for a couple of drop outs,” Fred commented, but as with everything he seemed to say today, he was met with a sharp look from his mother. With an awkward grimace, he leaned over to his brother. “Guess that’s still a bit of a sore subject.”

“You think?” George chuckled, and as he did, Molly’s stern expression broke a bit, to their surprise. 

But before she could say anything more, the low-burning fire in the fireplace burst green flames, and little Regulus Kumar stumbled out of it, holding several bags, and covered in soot. When he saw them sitting on the couch, his eyes widened. “Hurry!” he said, and all three of the Weasleys felt their hearts jump in terror. “Go to the kitchen! Neela and Bill have some gifts that aren’t very well concealed.” There was a collective breath of relief at this, but Regulus was still determined to get them moving. “Quick! They’ll be along any second now!”

Obliging the young boy, Molly, Fred and George stumbled back into the kitchen. Fleur was startled so badly by the sudden arrival of them that she dropped the hot pan full of fresh-out-of-the-oven Madeleines. As the French woman started loudly cursing in her native language, George caught sight of the small grin on Molly’s face. He’d never felt closer to his mother than he did in that moment. 

Only a second or so later, Bill hurried into the kitchen to comfort his fiancée. A quick wave of his wand saved the Madeleines, but Fleur was much more difficult to calm. Neela crept in behind Bill to see what was going on.

Molly gave her a questioning look, and with a thumbs up, they knew they were good to go back into the living room, and they quickly did, desperately trying to get out of Fleur’s warpath. 

“What happened in there?” Regulus asked, coming back down the stairs. 

“Some Madeleines were nearly lost and their creator was not happy about it,” said George. Neela began to laugh at his phrasing, and though it took Regulus a second to fully understand what he had said, he joined in his sister’s laughter. Even Molly chuckled a bit.

After the laughter died down and the twins gave the Kumar siblings a proper greeting, they all sat down around the living room and grabbed a sandwich. Once Fleur was calm enough, she and Bill joined them, and the tension in the house seemed to cease for a moment or two.

“How was Diagon Alley?” Molly asked Bill, Neela, and Regulus.

“We didn’t spend too much time there, actually,” said Bill through a mouthful of ham sandwich. At the confused faces that met him, he swallowed and continued. “Not many of the shops were open, so we spent most our time in Muggle London.”

“Oh,” said Molly. There was a hint of sadness in her voice, but she tried her best to hide it. “And how was that?”

Neela beamed as she answered. “It was incredible. So many people were out, and there were so many decorations - it just felt so Christmasy! We walked around some of those Christmas markets - ”

“ - and Bill took us ice skating!” Regulus excitedly cut in. “It was amazing! We’ve never done it before!”

George leaned over to his eldest brother. “I think you may have just beaten us out for their favorite Weasley,” he joked.

Molly still seemed to be worried as she looked between Bill and the twins. “Is Diagon Alley really doing that badly?”

Fred grimaced. “It’s not looking too good, Mum. Gotten even worse since summer. Half of the shops have gone under, and the other half are just barely holding on.”

“Scared me half to death when I saw the lights off at your shop,” Bill said to the twins. “Forgot you were coming here today.”

George grinned, and seeing the slightly frightened looks on the Kumars’ faces, tried to lighten the mood. “Nah, they can’t get rid of us that easily,” he said in a brighter tone. He leaned over and ruffled Regulus’s hair. “So tell us more about Muggle London!”

Smiles quickly lit the kids’ faces, and they began to prattle on and on about their experience in Muggle London, Bill adding in, and Fleur commenting every now and then. By the time all the sandwiches were eaten, Neela and Regulus looked about ready to fall asleep.

“Were you all able to get more gift wrap?” Molly asked as the conversation died down a bit. 

Bill, Neela, and Regulus’s eyes all widened, looking around at each other. Molly’s famous motherly scowl was beginning to emerge, and it was clear that that was the one thing she’d asked them to pick up.

“Er - ” started Bill, but Fred rescued him.

“Don’t worry,” he said quickly. “George and I can go into town and pick some up.” 

Everyone looked thankful, but George most of all. He didn’t want to be there when the Kumars took a nap and Fleur and Molly were forced to interact again. 

With a grateful smile, Molly reached over and patted Fred’s hand. “I’m so happy to have you boys back home.”

-

“You know, at first, I thought she was just happy to see us because she wouldn’t have to be alone with Fleur anymore,” Fred was saying. In the bright afternoon, the twins thought it’d be best to walk into town. Heavy snow wasn’t supposed to hit for at least a couple more days, so the countryside was peaceful - a frosty, picturesque landscape. With the hustle and bustle of London, George had forgotten how much he loved it out here. “But I think she genuinely missed us.”

George smiled. “I missed her, too. I can’t tell you how excited I am for dinner. Cooking for yourself everyday has got to be one of the worst things about living on your own.”

“I don’t know,” chuckled Fred, “having to do your own laundry gives cooking a run for its money.”

George nodded in agreement as they came into the outskirts of Ottery St Catchpole. “While we’re in town, I think we should pick up something nice for Mum for Christmas. You know, show her how much we appreciate her.”

“You’re on your own there,” Fred scoffed. “I’ve already got Mum a present.”

George stopped in his tracks, looking at his twin with a dramatically hurt expression, right hand to his chest. “You got her something without me?” he exasperated. “You treacherous little - we always get her something together!”

“Not this year,” Fred smirked. “We’re businessmen now, Georgie. What better way to show Mum that we’ve made it than to splurge on her a little? And good luck topping what I’ve gotten her.”

“Oh, so it’s a competition now?” He caught up again with his twin, his hurt expression replaced with a competitive gleam in his eye. They turned onto the main street of the town, a street lined with local shops and businesses, the towering steeple of the church at the very end of it. It was known to be very lively, especially at this time of year, but as it was still the early afternoon on a Wednesday, the street was fairly empty. “What’d you get her?”

Fred chuckled evilly. “Like I’d tell you that.”

“Oh, shove off,” George joked, bumping his shoulder against Fred’s. “First you don’t tell me we’re getting separate gifts, and then - ” 

He stopped mid-sentence, because as he looked up, his eyes had found probably the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, walking just on the other side of the road. Her soft brown, wavy hair blew away from her face with the gentle winter breeze and the quickness of her stride, and even from a distance, George could see the pink flush on her oval face from the cold, and he was already awe-struck by her warm brown eyes. As his words fell flat, he had stopped walking again, caught in an utter trace by her. She didn’t seem to notice him at all.

Fred stopped as well, confused by his brother’s actions until he followed his gaze. When he saw her, his grin grew, and he looked back at George smugly. While they both had attracted a fair amount of female attention while at Hogwarts, Fred had always been the one that would act on it, and while George would flirt occasionally, he had always been pretty indifferent when it came to the girls at Hogwarts. Fred had definitely never seen him like this before, and it was something he very much enjoyed seeing. 

“Looks like it’s your lucky day,” said Fred as they watched the girl walk into a store. George looked over at Fred, flushing red and trying to ignore his brother’s smirk. “She’s going into the paper shop.”

[sanguinesorcery]

Fariah is keenly aware of how close the older of the two Hylians is following her. Normally, this would not be an issue, but she also has her doubts as to his intent. Nothing she would act upon unless in retaliation, but she is allowed her personal biases. It keeps her ready and keeps her people safe. Even if nothing were to happen, she would rather admit to herself she was wrong than to be oblivious to any threat, blatant or undermining.

Such is the curse of the conquering warlord, this she knows. Everyone is an enemy until proven friendly.

One ear flicks back at the concerned disagreement that unfolds soon enough. Her head follows to look as she is addressed, a slow stop in her steps to show her attention is had, if the gilded gaze leveled into the King's eyes didn't say it. She offers a brief glance toward the afflicted, a softening of imperious features in subdued sympathy to his troubles.

"You should have said so before. Although the way is not immediate, the official transition is still shorter than the ... scenic route." she tells him. Though it is not meant to sound condescending, the smooth evenness of her tone could easily be misconstrued as such. It's clearly not intentional as she continues. "No, I let my pride in who we are dictate my actions, rather than considering our climate may be harsh on some. This way is not so steep, but what it lacks in altitude it certainly makes up for in length. I do apologize."

She bows her head slightly to emphasize her sincerity on the matter before she continues onward at the same brisk pace of before. It isn't long before Shrayak himself comes into view, a sign they are nearing the end of the path up. Normally, she would slow to admire the monument as well, cast bronze over the top of the elaborate gates into the lower parade grounds of the charging horse carrying the nefarious First Ariad, his fangs bared in an everlasting roar of defiance on the world below. But this is a point she makes to ignore outside a quick reverent glance to him. There is time for him later.

The path turns abruptly, shifting from its slow easy ascent to a short steep set of stairs carved out of the rocky foundations of the walls into the parade grounds. With a quick, "Mind your step..." as the incline shifts, she glides up to the top with quick practiced steps as though this is hardly more than a dance to her.

She is met at the entrance into the parade grounds, outside the walls, by a small unit of four soldiers. Though their uniforms are sharply-lined to emphasize their builds in turn, they are drab in color save silver braids hanging from their left shoulders. If it were anywhere else but in front of the marble and stone that make up the palace complex's composition, they would have blended in to the background. Their commander makes a fifth, standing as tall and authoritative as one might imagine he should. Aside from wearing the same neutral tones as his charge, a golden braid across his left shoulder and a stripe of red on his side seams betray his rank.

">>Your Eminence...<<" he begins, falling back into the native language as a greeting. He bows to her, his unit follows suit in one fluid movement. ">>Are they cleared?<<"

His eyes are focused now on the trio. Scrutinizing, trying to read each in turn.

Fariah responds in kind, voice low to reassure him. ">>Not yet. I wanted you nearby before I did so. Don't worry, I have a way to avoid suspicion...<<"

The captain merely huffs in recognition of the reply before she turns to address the others. "I am very sorry for this small delay. This is Kubyar. He is chief of security here in the palace complex, my captain of our Imperial Guard, and he takes his job very seriously.

"If each of you could tell him your full names in turn, he will know and remember who you are, and that you belong within the inner walls."

She knows the King's name. The few rounds of correspondence over the past month or so have been signed in it. She knew he was bringing an entourage as any traveling monarch should, but she was not privy to how many or their names.

But it is not merely introduction that names are required, and from the words of each individual in turn. Her face betrays no concern for now, or so she hopes, as she hopes claiming security reasons is a good enough excuse to ask for them.

It's strange how the moment he steps a little too close to the Emperess' space, some magical energy causes enough of a fuss for him to feel it. Ganondorf isn't sure what set it off or if it's from the Emperess or an item on her person, but it's reacting to him, no doubt. That could pose an issue, but he'll have to cross that bridge if it gets to that point.

Fariah's words catch the group's attention, and while Ganondorf and Deedrik are rather eager, Nolon is less enthusiastic. He still looks out at the islands but isn't as impressed as his companions. Deedrik is having the time of his life, watching the busybodies with amazement. He's seen quite a few groups in his life, but this has to be one of the larger ones. Ganondorf mirrors the younger Hylian, though not as enthusiastically. It's been quite some time since he's seen a crowd of this size, but it's one he welcomes.

The turn of her hand directs them to look behind at something rather intriguing. From the little spoken to how it's said, even down to the look of it, the two older men can tell this isn't a place to be spoken of frequently, if at all, to outsiders. Something else to keep in mind is all it is, really, but Deedrik has plenty of thoughts on his mind. Seeing how his two elders aren't replying, it's probably best to keep those thoughts to himself. He can't be having another outburst in front of the king.

While Deedrik and Ganondorf take in the sights, Nolon follows closer to the Empress than one may first think. He doesn't feel like sightseeing at the moment, but what can one do? It could be seen as rude and inconsiderate if he asks to hurry along on account of his aches and pains.

Thankfully for him, it's something his king takes notice of, and after coaxing Deedrik onward, he speaks up for the old Hylian. "My sincerest apologies, but I believe Nolon requires his rest sooner rather than later."

"Your Majesty, you don't-" he begins before Ganondorf cuts him off.

"You stubbornly declined my offer to heal over your pains. The only reasonable solution is to allow you comfortable rest." Though Nolon doesn't reply, his deeper frown shows he isn't happy about this. The Gerudo lets out a soft sigh, glancing at the silent yet concerned Deedrik before his gaze rests on Fariah. "I apologize for any inconvenience this may bring; I only wish to ensure his comfort."

[waka-chan-out]

Ok concept/request, you're riding Iwaizumi in the Aoba Johsai locker room and Oikawa walks in on you two and you feel like everything is about to get really awkward, but then Iwaizumi asks if he could join in?

(I ❤❤❤❤❤❤❤ your stuff so much btw!!!!!!!)

Cool Down

i am OBSESSED with this idea. y’all know how much i like writing multiple characters, huh? 👀 sorry for taking so long on this but thank you for sending in a request! i’m flattered you like my content baby i hope you’re doing well

i exclusively write post-timeskip characters so i’m going to change this to argentina national team oikawa and athletic trainer iwaizumi if that’s alright :) but the concept shall remain the same.

word count: 2k

content warnings: she/her afab reader, established relationship, threesome, oral (m. receiving), double penetration, “sir,” “good girl,” LOTS of pet names, ass play, very low risk public sex, light teasing, light dacryphilia, creampie

You could still hear players shuffling out of the arena from the locker room. Tooru had told his team not to wait up, that he was going to stay and catch up with old friends. Instead, he had pulled you into his team’s deserted locker room and pushed you against the cool concrete wall, too hyped up from his game to even manage a shower.

Somehow that made it even hotter as you tangled your fingers in his lovely blue jersey, holding on as tight as you could as you shifted up and down in his lap.

His breath rushed heavy into your ear, face screwed up in pleasure and pressed into the crook of your neck. Both of you were so wrapped up in each other that the ability to speak was stripped away entirely, leaving behind pants and groans and the occasional high pitched moan.

Your brains and bodies were occupied, and that made it impossible to hear the locker room door clunk open and the heavy footsteps approach the back row of lockers.

“Oikawa.”

The voice fell like a bucket of cold water. You couldn’t run, so you clapped your hands over your face and buried into Tooru’s shoulder. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Tooru turned around, an exhausted smile on his face.

“Iwa-chan.” He let out a cough, unable to catch his breath. “Thought you would’ve gone home by now.”

“I figured you’d pull something like this.”

“But you won’t tell, will you? Because you’re our good little Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi’s face screwed up in disgust.

“I wasn’t going to tell as long as you were in a generous mood.”

You perked up.

“What?” you asked. Iwaizumi crossed his arms.

“Shitty-kawa needs to learn how to share if he’s going to make a mess in our locker rooms.”

Your eyes grew wide and Tooru laughed.

“I don’t know whether to take you seriously or not, Iwa-chan.”

“I could just report you.”

“I didn’t say no, but I’m not the one you have to ask.”

They both turned to face you and your mouth grew dry.

Scanning Iwaizumi’s body, you couldn’t say you’d never thought about it. The few times you had met Tooru’s Iwa-chan in person he had such a presence around him. No matter how out of control Tooru got, Iwaizumi held the reigns, able to shut situations down in only a few words. Not only that, he was almost infuriatingly good looking. His uniform polo looked uncomfortably tight around his chest and biceps, and that’s not even mentioning the way his legs fit into his dress pants.

You wanted his arms around you. Immediately.

“Does the door lock?” you asked. Tooru grinned.

“I knew you were fun,” he said, pressing kisses to your neck. Iwaizumi’s lips curled into a smile and he disappeared for a moment. You heard an echoey click and he returned, already pulling his belt out of its loops. Tooru laughed again.

“Cocky, Iwa-chan. At least get them warmed up first.”

Iwaizumi approached you, continuing to undo his slacks.

“I think you’ve already taken care of that,” he muttered, pushing down on Oikawa’s shoulder so he would laid down on the bench. Iwaizumi leaned down and pressed a gentle but warm kiss on your lips.

“You’ll be good for me, right?” he whispered as he pulled down the front of his briefs. You grinned and tugged him closer by the belt loop.

“Yes.” You punctuated the word by wrapping your lips around him. He was slightly shorter than Oikawa but significantly thicker. You looked up at him and took him as far into your mouth as you could.

“Shit,” he breathed, cupping your chin and running a thumb over your cheek. “What did you do to bag this one?”

Oikawa laughed and laced his fingers behind his head.

“I’m very charming, Iwa-chan. You should know that by now.”

You smiled as much as you could with Iwaizumi’s weight still in your mouth. He looked down at you and combed your hair out of your face.

“Wanna make him shut up for me?” he asked. You became keenly aware of the fact that Tooru was still inside of you and circled your hips. He hissed and tipped his head back against the bench.

“Mean, Iwa-chan,” he gasped. You continued a steady rock in his lap and he let out small, sharp breaths, trying to remain composed as he watched your eyes focus on Iwaizumi’s. “Don’t push her head,” he warned. “She doesn’t like that.”

“Yeah?” Iwaizumi said. His hand cupped your face, gently following your movement as your head dipped and pulled back. “You don’t like when he shows you what to do, huh? What if I show you what to do? Will you let me?”

He pulled you off of him, gently swiping at your lip to clean your face. He pushed his index and middle past into your lips, dragging them over your tongue. You closed your eyes at the feeling and you heard him let out a content laugh.

“That’s my girl. Why don’t you bend over for me?”

You quickly leaned forward so you were laying on Tooru’s chest.

“You really are an obedient little thing, aren’t you?” he said, running a hand through your hair. “Why don’t you behave this way with me, hm?”

“Because you don’t command any respect,” Iwaizumi grumbled. He ran his hands over your ass then down, circling your entrance. You gasped and held Tooru tighter.

“Don’t act so shy,” he said through a laugh. “You’ve done that before and you know you like it.”

“Oh? Is that true?” Iwaizumi asked. You nodded, but he ran his hand over the back of your neck and tugged your hair lightly. “Words, darling.”

“Yes,” you stammered. He chuckled and unceremoniously pushed a finger inside of you. You let out a choked moan and pressed your face further against Tooru’s chest.

“Aw, Iwa-chan, be nice.”

“I am being nice. Feels good, doesn’t it doll?”

“Y—” You paused as Tooru leaned up to your ear.

“Call him sir. He’ll lose it.”

Iwaizumi landed a quick smack on your ass and pushed in another finger.

“What did I say about your words? Does it feel good?”

“Yes, sir.” The words were rushed, nervous. You were sure Iwaizumi could hear the hesitation in your voice, but the low groan that left him was assurance enough.

“Oh, fuck. What a good girl.” You could hear him readjusting his pants and gasped when he pressed up against you from behind. “You gonna be good and take all of me? I know you can do it.” You hummed as he started pushing forward.

“Yes, sir.”

He laughed aloud and continued to slowly sheath himself inside of you. He was going agonizingly slow, and though you knew you needed time to adjust, all you wanted was more.

“That’s right, baby. Take him like you take me,” Tooru said, running his hands over your waist. “I’m still better, though. Right?” Iwaizumi finally bottomed out inside of you and you let out a short, strangled sound, pressing your forehead against Tooru’s. “See? You’ve sent her right back into my arms.”

“We’ll see about that.” Iwaizumi pulled back slowly, dragging a shocked gasp from your throat. “You can’t fill her up like this. Right, sweetheart? Tell me how full you are.”

“So full,” you groaned. As his hips pushed forward again you mumbled, “please.” His laugh was even louder this time.

“Please what? Come on.”

“Please fuck me, Iwa.”

“I think that’s what I’m doing right now. You asking for more?” He moved his hips quickly once and you moaned.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir.” You leaned up and looked Tooru in the eye. “Yes, Hajime. Please fuck me harder.” His eyebrow raised and a smirk pulled at his lips.

“Oh, fuck.” Iwaizumi’s voice rumbled in his chest as he gripped your hips, snapping them against you hard and fast.

“Look at you, doll.” Tooru purred. “Taking his cock when I’m still inside of you. You that desperate? You want me to fuck you too?”

You nodded, face screwed up in a wince as Iwaizumi found a perfect angle inside of you.

“No sir for me? Greedy little thing. I guess you can have my cock. Next time you’ll have to beg.” He joined Iwaizumi in holding your hips, lifting them slightly off of him so he could gain leverage. Then he began slowly moving, cock dragging inside of you and, oh fuck, did it feel good to have both of them pushing inside of you. Tooru quickly build up his pace to match Iwaizumi’s, each of them thrusting into you at the same time. The feeling was overwhelming and quickly brought a sob to your lips.

“Aw, baby don’t cry. You were so ready for us. What happened?”

“Don’t be mean, Oikawa. She’s taking it well.”

“Sure, Iwa-chan, but she doesn’t seem very grateful, does she?” He grabbed your chin and brought your face up to look at him. “Say thank you.”

You choked on a moan as Tooru halted mid-thrust, pushing right up against where you wanted him most.

“Thank you,” you murmured. Tooru laughed.

“Come on, princess, Iwa-chan couldn’t hear you. Say it so he can hear it.”

“Thank you, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi let out a strained laugh but said nothing, too focused on the rock of his hips.

“Now me,” Tooru purred. There was a delicious glint in his eye. You couldn’t decide whether it was frightening or devastatingly sexy. “Say thank you, Tooru. Thank you for fucking you so well and letting my Iwa-chan have his way with you.”

“Thank you, Tooru,” you gasped. “For everything. Please.” You leaned forward and captured his lips. His eyes widened before settling into a smug expression.

“Fuck I’m gonna cum soon,” Iwaizumi said. Tooru broke your kiss.

“Not inside,” he warned. Iwaizumi scoffed.

Tooru seemed to realize that he was close as well, face screwing up and hips moving more erratically.

“Are you going to cum with us, princess? Make a mess all over our cocks?” You whimpered and buried your face into his neck. “I think that’s a yes, Iwa-chan. Just wait. She’s so pretty when she cums.”

“Tooru, please,” you begged, but you didn’t know what for. You were climbing fast, body giving in completely to the feeling of the two men inside of you. You felt so good and so full you almost couldn’t stand it.

“Be nice, Oikawa. Let her cum first.” Iwaizumi’s voice was strained.

“Won’t be too long, Iwa-chan. Just look at her.”

You were so close. You could almost taste the orgasm about to rack your body, more overwhelming than ever due to the second man buried inside of you.

“Please,” you begged, but you didn’t know who you were begging to. “Please, let me cum.”

“Let go, baby. We’ve got you,” Tooru said, staring past you at Iwaizumi. Your body locked up and you let out a small sobbing noise, tightening your grip on Tooru’s jersey. Your body shook and the men seemed to follow soon after you. Tooru mumbled a small flurry of “that’s it”s before holding your hips tight and spilling inside of you. Iwaizumi let out a long groan, continuing a slow slide in and out of you. Despite Tooru’s warning, Iwaizumi’s hips remained flush against your ass as he groaned through his orgasm, making you feel lightheaded but forcing a scowl onto Tooru’s face.

You all lay there panting for a moment, unsure of how and when to move. Your entire body was buzzing. The slightest movement forced a gasp, and a long hiss left your lips as Iwaizumi withdrew.

“Iwa-chan, what did I tell you?” Tooru said, but there was no fight in his voice. He sounded exhausted. Iwaizumi didn’t respond. He tucked himself back into his pants and leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and rubbing your arm. He stared at you for a moment longer before smirking.

“Make sure you stretch before you leave, Oikawa. You missed the cool down at the end of the game.”

Then he turned on his heels and left the locker room, leaving you and Oikawa alone with the echoes of what you had just done.

———————————————————————

———————————————————————

tag list: @ohno-otome @antiqueremains @stationery-store @tanzaniiite @imbearlythere @kitastowel @vminelove @yougivemeglobalwarming @averyaviary @blackstaw @april-avenue

if your name isn’t linked it’s because it wouldn’t allow me to tag you. check your settings and i can try again <3

want to be added? shoot me an ask!

[dreamerstreamer]

Somewhere Only We Know

Pairing: god!Dream / DreamXD x gn!reader

Summary: [Reincarnation!AU & Dream SMP!AU] Being a god can be especially lonely—Dream knows that better than anyone. Yet somehow, you always manage to find your way back to him in every life you live. If only it didn’t hurt so much to love you.

Warnings: tw// mention of death

Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: requested by the lovely 🤡 anon, who asked for a piece based on keane’s somewhere only we know! i got rather carried away when writing this, and it’s certainly quite sad, but i hope you all enjoy it! <3

Dream blinks lazily up at the fluffy clouds drifting across the cerulean sky, his emerald eyes tracing over their soft edges. He hums to himself as one of them drifts in front of the sun, the warm light suddenly leaving his face. Frowning, he sits up a little straighter, raising his arm above his head. He snaps his fingers once, and in an instant, the clouds vanish. Warmth floods his cheeks as the sun’s brilliant rays crash over him once more. He smiles, but it’s melancholic, a forlorn look passing over his face.

Just how long has he been alone like this?

Sighing, he rises to his feet, kicking at the soft dirt beneath the soles of his boots. His viridian cloak is light atop his shoulders, his wings neatly folded underneath the soft fabric. Above his head, his halos glow with a dazzling golden hue, sending beams of amber light flashing across the nearby tree trunks. Rolling his neck, he snaps his fingers again, and his wings and halos vanish in a flash. Just like that, the weight on his back dissipates, and his lips twitch. There—that’s much lighter.

His gaze flickers over to the waterfall lying just a yard away, rushing ripples of water streaming down the short cliff face and into the pool lying at its base. He crouches down next to the small pond, brushing his hand over the soft soil beneath his feet. Sparks shoot up his arm and into his fingertips, the earth suddenly bursting to life underneath his touch.

All of a sudden, a blossom sprouts from the ground, soft and pink as it unfurls its petals and soaks up the warm sunshine. Dream grins as row after row of flowers shoot up from the ground, circling around the pond and lining the trees around the clearing until suddenly, the whole space is surrounded by breathtaking blossoms. He stands back with a satisfied hum, glancing around himself with an almost nostalgic gleam in his gaze.

It’s been ages since he last returned to this little alcove in his favourite forest. He could tell no one else had stepped foot here except for him, too. After all, there was only one other person who knew about this place—the only other person in the world he knew would be able to find it in the first place.

Had it been decades or centuries since he last visited? He’s not sure anymore, but really, he’s not sure if he cares, either. There’s a reason why he doesn’t come back here very often—one that he hesitates to even think about.

It’s far too painful of a memory to relive.

“Hello?”

Dream freezes, his eyes going wide at the sound of a new voice—a familiar voice. Slowly, he turns, his lips parting in awe as he sees a figure stepping into the clearing, a mix of caution and curiosity flitting across your cheeks.

He knows that face—knows you.

His heart aches at the thought.

“Hi,” he manages after a long moment, swallowing ever so slightly.

You flash him a sheepish smile, lowering your gaze to the ground almost bashfully as you brush a stray leaf off your shoulder. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding, or anything. I was just passing by when I saw the flowers, and thought they looked really pretty, and...”

You trail off, your voice growing smaller and smaller until it fades off into silence. Dream stares at you, unmoving as his heart races a mile a minute in his chest, battering against his rib cage as your timid gaze flickers to his.

“I, um,” you squeak out, feeling the intensity of his eyes on yours. “I can go if you wa—”

“No,” Dream suddenly blurts, the word flying out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He can already feel the heat flooding his chest at the way you startle in front of him, and he sucks in a breath.

“Wait,” he says, calmer this time. “Please, I—you’re not intruding at all. You can stay.” He takes a shaky step forward, offering you a crooked yet earnest smile. “I’d love it if you stayed.”

In an instant, your face lights up, and his breath hitches in his throat at the sight. “O-Oh, thank you! It’s nice to meet you. My name’s [Y/N].”

In that moment, he could have sworn his heart stopped and would never beat, again. “What’s yours?” you ask, your eyes shining like freshly cut gemstones.

His eyes scan your face for a moment, taking in the soft panes of your cheeks and the delicate curve of your lips as your smile leaves tiny cuts in his lungs.

“Dream,” he breathes at last. “Call me Dream.”

Suddenly, your eyes curve into tiny crescent moons as you grin at him, and he feels the loneliness flowing through his veins subside the tiniest bit.

Even after all this time, he still can’t bring himself to forget your smile.

Dream hums to himself as he tosses a pebble into the pond from his spot on the fallen tree log. The stream laps at the stone once before swallowing it whole, letting it sink to the murky bottom without so much as a splash. A rustle comes from behind him, and he immediately whirls, his lips curling up into an eager smile.

“[Y/N],” he chirps, bright and keen, “welcome back.”

Your glowing face greets him in return, and he nearly combusts on the spot. He still remembers the way you had promised him you would return to see him again a week ago, when you had first stumbled upon his clearing. His head still spins at the thought, and it almost makes him forget the longing ache that sinks into his bones when his gaze lingers on you for a fraction too long.

Almost.

You wave at him as you jump over a protruding tree root, crinkles forming at the corners of your eyes. “Good morning, Dream! What are you doing here so early? The market only just opened.”

He shuffles over on the log to give you room, raising an eyebrow at you. “I could ask the same of you.”

Crouching over, you settle down onto the space next to him, not at all noticing the way he stiffens when your thigh brushes against his. “I woke up early to watch the sunrise,” you say with a half-drowsy smile.

There is a beat of silence, then Dream tilts his head at you. “The sunrise?”

You bob your head, turning to look at him. “Yeah,” you murmur wistfully, raising your arm to wave your hand up at the sky above. “I love watching all the pretty colours fill the horizon. It only lasts a few minutes, but it’s so magnificent, and I always try to watch them if I can.”

His eyes flash as he takes in your gentle expression. Then, he opens his mouth, thoughtful and slow. “Sunrises, hm? What other things do you like?”

You pause for a moment. “Other things I like?” When he nods, you hum, averting your gaze from his until you find yourself staring over at the bubbling waterfall.

“I like... I like flowers,” you begin, “but you already knew that.” He chuckles at the hint of a smile that dusts your face before you continue. “I like exploring the market every Saturday, too. They always have something new to find.”

Suddenly, your eyes flicker to life, glittering with excitement. “Oh, I also like stargazing! It’s like watching the universe paint a picture with little crystals every night, and something about looking up at the sky makes me feel so small, and I... I...” You gesture vaguely, a frustrated noise escaping your throat. “I don’t know. I just like it.”

Dream cannot help the way his heart melts in his chest at the sound you make, a certain fondness seeping into his soul. You were always so endearing—always, always, always.

“What about you, Dream?” you say suddenly, looking at him curiously. “What things do you like?”

Dream blinks at you—once, twice. Suddenly, his mind is flooded with image after image, memory after memory.

He thinks of the millennia he has lived through, the cities he has watched rise and fall. He thinks of the countless distances he has wandered, travelling far and wide with a heavy loneliness hanging in his barren heart. He thinks of soft kisses pressed to calloused fingertips and fluttering eyelids.

Then, he looks at you, with your enraptured eyes and your glorious grin.

“You,” he says, sincerity gracing his every word. “I like spending time with you.”

He watches as you stammer in reply, your eyes going wide as you gape at him in a mixture of embarrassment and flattery. He laughs at you, and his heart swells in his chest.

He’s missed you—more than you would ever know.

“Say, Dream, have you ever seen the ocean?”

The sun glares harshly into your eyes from where you lie on the earth, staring up at the cobalt sky, but Dream hardly notices—his eyes are too focused on you. “I have,” he murmurs as his gaze traces over the bridge of your nose in wonder. He’s seen more of the world than he would like to admit. After all, he was the one who created it in the first place. But to you, he’s just a simple traveler with a penchant for waterfalls.

Before he can even register it, you’ve bolted upright, bending over him with an excited shout. “Really?! What’s it like?”

He jolts at the sudden movement, all too keenly aware of how close your face is to his before his shuffles into a sitting position, resting his chin on his hand. “Well,” he begins, “it’s really big. So big that you can’t see the shore on the other side no matter how hard you try. It’s blue as far as the eye can see, and the breeze kind of tastes salty if you open your mouth.”

He catches a flash of your awed expression as he waves his arm in front of him to illustrate the vast size of the ocean. “The water,” he continues, envisioning the waves as they crash onto the sand, “is nice and cold, and if you swim deep enough, you might find fish and coral. It’s relaxing to watch the tide come up into the beach. Sometimes, shells wash up onto the shore, too. You can keep those as little souvenirs.”

For a moment, you are silent as you simply stare at him, something swirling deep within your gaze. “Wow,” you say at last, sounding completely breathless. “That sounds beautiful.” You stretch your legs out in front of you, your fingers curling into the grass spread beneath your palms. “My best friend says there’s mermaids in the ocean.” You scrunch your nose. “I don’t know if I believe him, though.”

Something dark ripples through Dream, and the tiniest of frowns passes over his face. “Your best friend?” he parrots.

You nod. “Yeah—his name’s Karl. He’s really nice and likes to goof off a lot. He’s also a really good storyteller!” You look at him then, fondly and with such a kind look it almost knocks Dream right over. “I think you might like his stories.”

His lips quirk up into a coy smile, and he leans ever so slightly forward. “Would I, now?” he croons, a teasing lilt tinting his tone. “What kind of stories does he like to tell?”

You clasp your hands together, excitement brimming in your face. “Oh, wonderful ones! There’s the one about the sleepy fox, the one about the pig who could not be killed, and the one about how we all face reincarnation after death, but my favourite,” you murmur, “is about the creation of the world.”

Dream goes still at that, his smile faltering for a split second. “How does that one go?” he asks softly.

You scoot the tiniest bit closer to his side, your gaze lowering ever so slightly. “Once upon a time,” you start, your voice as smooth as velvet, “a god descended from the heavens and carved the world into the shape it is today.” You traced your finger along the soft dirt. “He made valleys and hills, oceans and rivers, decorating the land with flowers and trees. The world he made was beautiful, but it was lonely, so he filled it with people to keep him company. He was so full of joy to have friends, until one day, he fell in love.”

Your demeanour, which had been cheerful up until this point, suddenly shifted, darkening as you let out a sigh. “He fell in love so quickly and so deeply that he was blind to the nature of his own creations, as they had a mortal lifespan, unlike him. When his lover died, a part of his soul died with them. He vanished after that, never to be seen again.” You curl your knees to your chest, resting your head upon them. “Some people say he wanders the world, mourning for all of eternity. Others say he died of heartbreak. Even fewer believe that his lover lives on and he loves them still, although they’re not entirely sure. Either way, he has yet to appear, and humanity quietly awaits for his return.”

Dream is silent beside you, his lips pressed into a thin line as his chest rises and falls with the timing of his breaths. “Why is that story your favourite?” he finally asks.

You lift your head, surprise shooting across your face. “I’m not sure,” you say softly, pondering for a moment. “I just think he sounds so... sad. It’s a tragedy, what happened to him. He only wanted to not be alone anymore.” Your voice drops even lower. “He only ever wanted to love someone.”

An ache suddenly expands within his gut, digging into his sides of his skull with such ferocity he fears he may never escape it. That same, fleeting sense of solitude slinks around his lungs, squeezing and squeezing until your eyes lock into his, and they halt.

“Do you think that he lives on?” you whisper, your gaze searching his. “That he might have found someone else to keep him company, despite his sadness?”

You pause, something like hope sparking within your eyes. “Do you think... he ever loved again?”

Dream stares at you, and stares at you, and stares at you. Your lips are right there, are so dreadfully close to him as he looks at you, feeling the blood pound through his ears as the pain in his heart begins to lift. It rises higher and higher within him before sliding off his shoulders entirely, leaving nothing behind but tender affection and warmth—a warmth he had been yearning for for so, so long.

He smiles at you then, and for once, this one is real.

“Something tells me he did.”

Dream stretches his wings out behind him with a quiet groan, feeling the cool air ruffle his ivory white feathers. His cloak sits on the ground next to him while his golden halos spin rapidly atop his head from where they float, glowing faintly in the fading evening light. After a moment, he lets his wings fold back up against his back, lowering his arms with a sharp exhale. In the distance, he catches a glimpse of the setting sun just before it dips below the horizon, shrouding the world in darkness. With a bored look, he picks at his nail, curling his toes in his shoes.

He’s already waved you off and watched as you wove your way out of the clearing and between the forest’s tangled trees back to your village. Now, he has nothing left to do but wait for your return the next day, his throat aching for your arrival with every passing second.

How far I have fallen, he thinks distantly to himself, to be reduced to nothing more than a helpless admirer for a human.

A moment passes, and his heart sighs.

A lovely human, at that.

All of a sudden, he hears a stick snap behind him, and Dream immediately snaps his fingers, his wings and halos disappearing in a flash, almost as if they had never existed to begin with. Whipping around on his heel, he narrows his eyes at the clearing entrance, jaw clenched in preparation. His shoulders are raised at his side, tense with anticipation when just then...

...you stumble out of the forest, tears streaking down your face.

Dream’s shoulders fall in an instant.

“Dream,” you choke out, your voice cracking sharply.

You don’t even get the chance to open your mouth again before he’s standing in front of you, his hands gripping your shoulders as gently as he can manage. His eyes scan your face as his stomach churns with agony at the despair painted onto your features. “[Y/N],” he murmurs softly, “what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

You sniffle, lifting your head to look at him through watery eyes as you open your mouth. “Karl—he’s sick. Really sick,” you babble like a winding stream. “The doctor doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, and he’s been coughing so badly that you can just tell he’s in pain. At this rate, I—I’m scared he’s not going to get any better. He... I’ve known him since forever, and I—”

The words die in your mouth as you cut yourself off with a broken sob, and Dream almost feels as though he’s been stabbed in the gut. He never wants to see you in pain, to see you as sad as this, and the fact that you are sobbing at all makes him want to wail himself.

Softly, he wraps his arms around you, pressing you close to your chest as he rocks you gently back and forth with your head resting on his shoulder. Your tears soak his shirt, but he doesn’t mind one bit. “Shh, [Y/N],” he coos quietly. “It’s going to be okay.”

You pull back with a wary gaze, fear etched into your features. “How do you know that?” you whisper. “What if he doesn’t get better? What then?”

Dropping one arm from behind you, Dream slips a hand into his pocket, quickly rubbing his fingers together. Just like that, cool glass that wasn’t there a moment earlier presses against the warmth of his palm, and he pulls out a vial filled with a pale, rosy liquid.

“Here,” he says, pressing the vial into your hand. “This is an antidote I’ve been...” He pauses for a split second, then fibs. “...holding onto for a while. For emergencies.” Slowly, he clasps your fingers until they’re closed around the glass top, sending you a reassuring smile. “Give this to Karl, and I promise you he’ll recover.”

You blink at him, your eyes glimmering underneath the light of the swirling stars overhead. “You swear?” you ask meekly, hope dancing along the edge of your lashes.

Dream swallows thickly and nods. “On my life.”

You inhale a deep, shuddering breath, then raise your hand to wipe at your eyes before smiling at him, warm and full of affection. “Okay,” you murmur as you step back from him. “I trust you, Dream.”

The next morning, you come tumbling into Dream’s arms with a gleeful cry, tears flowing freely down your face as you knock him to the ground. This time, they’re there for an entirely different reason as you ramble about Karl’s cleared airways when the doctor came to check on him after you fed him the antidote.

Beneath you, Dream relishes in the warmth of your body against his, praying you cannot feel the way his heart hammers against his chest.

There were not enough words in the world that he could use to describe how deep his devotion to you ran.

He fears there may never be enough.

Months pass in a blur, and Dream watches with knowing eyes as summer turns to autumn. Soon enough, snow coats the clearing although the waterfall continues to flow. No matter how harsh the weather, you stumble your way back to the forest to him, and each day, Dream feels himself sink deeper and deeper into the very essence that is you.

To think that there was once a time he never wanted to return here at all.

“Dream,” you say abruptly one day, “you know, I think you might be my favourite person in the world.”

He cocks a brow at you, his lips twitching up into a small smirk. “In the world?” he repeats. “I think Karl would be offended.”

You roll your eyes at him, but you can’t stop the smile from stretching across your face. “Maybe, but it’s the truth!” You lift a hand and begin counting off on your fingers. “You’re—you’re so nice, and passionate, and bold, and bright, and...” You pause, then chuckle almost shyly. “I could go on and on, but that’s embarrassing.”

He chuckles at your words, only growing more and more enamoured with each word that falls from your lips. “It’s not embarrassing,” he says gently. “It’s cute.”

Your shoulders suddenly stiffen, and you slowly turn your head to glance up at him. “Cute? You think I’m cute?”

He doesn’t have to think twice about his response. “Very much so. I would dare say that you are even more beautiful than you are cute.”

You whine with a pout, heat crawling up the side of your neck as you dig your thumbs into your palms. “You can’t just say things like that.”

He stares at you for a second, then he flashes you a grin that is both parts wicked and affectionate. “Maybe, but it’s the truth.”

Your mouth drops open at the way he fires your own words back at you, and you gape at him a moment before you groan, reaching over to playfully bat at his arm. “Why, you!”

He laughs at you and loves the way he can tell your heart races in your chest. He loves the way you smile despite your small shouts of frustration. He loves the way you are just so endearing to him in every which way.

He laughs at you and he loves you, hopelessly and wholly.

Dream gazes up at the orange sky with a slight frown and furrowed brows, watching as the clouds coast by overhead on a distant, northern gale. The waterfall babbles restlessly at his side, and he taps his foot against the smooth stones lining the pond with abandonment. The flowers he had once grown rake this petals over the soles of his shoes as he lets out a long sigh, anxiety slowly beginning to paw at his backside.

Are you going to show up at all today? he wonders. There are some days you don’t appear at all, typically because you had to run some errands or something of the sort, but those days are few and far between. He won’t chastise you for not seeing him, of course, but he cannot simply ignore the pang of his heart when he misses you so.

His fingers drum against the cool material clutched in his hands, and a melancholic look flits over his features. It would be a shame if you didn’t appear though, especially given what he had in mind for the day.

Right then, he hears your lovely voice call out for him. “Dream!”

His frown is immediately replaced by a smile as he whirls around to see you, his hands carefully tucked behind his back. “[Y/N],” he greets, striding up to you. “It’s good to see you.”

You’ve only just made it in front of him when he opens his mouth again, excitement filling his words to the absolute brim. “I brought you a gift.”

You blink wildly at him, pointing to yourself in surprise. “For me?”

His grin only grows wider, his heart leaping into his throat. “Of course it’s for you, silly. Who else?”

You squint for a second, then smile. “Karl?”

Dream deadpans at you, and you laugh in return, not noticing the way his eyes melt fondly at your expression. “I’m kidding,” you chide, shuffling a step closer to him. “So, what is it?”

He’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet when he finally brings his hands out from behind him, pushing them towards you. “Ta-da! Here.”

Your breath catches at the sight of his palms, and with trembling hands, you reach up to pull the curved item from his hand. “Is this... a shell?” you whisper, your eyes as wide as saucers.

He nods, his emerald eyes gleaming with pride. “A conch shell,” he says. “From the ocean.”

You sputter as you gently turn the shell over in your hands, your fingers tracing over the solid edges with nothing short of pure shock. “H-How did you even get this? The nearest ocean is at least a week’s travel on horse away!”

Dream thinks of the wings he typically had tucked on his back and how they carried him to the ocean and back in less than a few minutes, but to you, he only smiles and shrugs. “I have my ways.”

You don’t respond for a moment, then two. All of a sudden, you sniffle, and Dream is bending before you in a heartbeat, his hands reaching for yours before just stopping short. “[Y/N]?” he asks in a soothing tone. “Is something wrong?”

Your gaze is watery, but only slightly as you raise your chin to look at him, your lower lip set with determination. “Dream,” you say with a shaky breath, “I have to tell you something.” You gulp. “It’s serious.”

Immediately, Dream’s mind runs through a million and five possibilities of what you could possibly say to him, each one increasingly worse than the last. Your family is in need of funds, or you’re about to leave on a life-threatening journey. Or maybe Karl is just sick, again.

But before he can run himself into the ground with his own worries, Dream lets out a breath and tilts his head at you. “What is it?”

Your gaze falls down to your feet, and you stare at the earth for an excruciatingly long minute. Dream simply stands in front of you, patiently and earnestly waiting for your response when you suddenly open your mouth.

“I—I love you.”

Dream’s lungs feel as though they are about to collapse in his chest. “You do?”

You bite your lip, but raise your head, your shoulders trembling at your sides. “Yes,” you whisper, the syllable steeped with emotion. With one hand clasped around the conch shell, the other reaches up to rest over your chest, palm pressed flats against your left side. “My heart is yours, all of it.”

The world is a blur of colours and sounds around him, and he can feel his head spin faster and faster as a wave of memories come crashing down over him, drowning him whole. He wants to tear his hair out and scream to the heavens above until his throat is raw and he can scream no more.

You love him. You love him back, and as much as he wants to burn your words into the back of his eyelids, something else sinks its claws into his heart and tears a hole right into the flesh.

This is not the first time you have spoken these words to him. No, not at all.

He had done his best to forget them over all those years, had tried his best to outrun the anguish with every century he lived through. After all, when you live as long as he has, it is only natural for him to forget some things. Through wandering across every land he had lovingly sculpted by hand, he had hoped to erase his suffering by engulfing himself in other worldly affairs, isolating himself entirely from others.

But no amount of time could ever truly erase the memories he had of you—the first incarnation of you, from all those years ago.

He remembers how the two of you had shared your first kiss under the light of the full moon, giggling to one another as he wrapped you up in his soft feathers. He remembers the way you would hold his hand and tell him about all the things you could not wait to do with him in the very same clearing he stood in now. He remembers the way your body went limp in his own arms, coughing until your lungs could cough no more. He remembers the agony and the torment as he wasted away, too caught up in the imprint of your skin against his before you turned to dust before his very eyes.

He remembers it all, and he cannot not let himself be shattered like that, again.

“I have to go,” he whispers, jerking his arm back from yours.

You whip your head up, pain shooting across your face. “Y-You’re leaving? What?”

He takes another step back and swallows down the lump in his throat, but it tastes like acid burning his stomach. “I—I can’t stay here.”

Before he can move back again, your hand shoots out to grab at the hem of his shirt, desperation soaking into your face: “P-Please,” you plead, “you can just say you don’t love me back. My feelings for you won’t change.”

He wants to cry. No, he thinks, it’s not that. It could never be that. Not with you.

You clutch at the cloth, hoping your feelings somehow reach him through your anguished touch. “I love you, Dream,” you begin, “I really do. I love how attentive you are, how much you always seem to care. You’re always so patient with me, so kind, so generous, and it makes me melt inside. I love the way your eyes shine so brightly, and I love your little freckles. I want to count them all, and I don’t mind if that takes the rest of eternity.”

You’re almost entirely out of breath by now, and Dream’s jaw has gone slack. He can only stare at you with a look of pure conflicting despair as your eyes search his for answers he knows he cannot possibly give. “An eternity with you would be nothing,” you breathe, your voice cracking. Your grip on his shirt suddenly goes limp, and your arm falls back to your side. “Please. Stay.”

The knife in his gut only seems to twist deeper as he takes yet another step back, his cloak feeling like a boulder upon his back. “I can’t,” he chokes out. “I really can’t.”

Tears line your eyes like tiny jewels, and he wishes he could wipe them away. “Why?” you beg. “Why do you have to go?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, shaking his head. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

In front of him, a look of absolute defeat sinks into your expression, and your voice grows smaller than ever. “At least—at least tell me if I’ll ever see you again.”

Dream’s feels the back of his eyes sting, and he clenched his hands beside him. “Not in this lifetime,” he wants to say. “And hopefully not in the next, either.”

“I’m sorry, [Y/N],” he says instead.

Just like that, he watches as the light fades from your eyes, vanishing from sight as the setting sun watches on with a sad gaze. Your lower lip trembles, and before you can stop yourself, you’re crumpling to the ground in a heap and watering the earth with your tears. You clutch the conch shell to your chest and let it dig into your chest from how tightly you press it against yourself, your vision completely blurred. In front of you, Dream holds back tears of his own, forcing himself to look away from your broken figure as he walks toward the forest away from you.

Your wails follow after him even after he unfurls his wings deep in the forest and soars up into the sky, flying high above the world below as he dries his tears with the harsh wind that bites at his face.

He will not return here for a long, long time.

He doesn’t think he would even be able to bring himself to if he tried.

Dream brushes a stray leaf off his shoulder as he steps over a root, his eyes focused on the bushes before him. A bird chirps as he strolls past a tree, nestling further into its nest as he ducks under the branch. He smiles at the sight, a deep fondness seeping into his heart as he lets his hand run over the tree’s hard bark.

He recognizes this forest—these trees. He knows this sky, has leapt over these rocks. He’s walked this path before.

It’s a shame he can’t remember how long it’s been since he last came here.

He hums a quiet melody to himself as he weaves a path between the trees, drawing nearer and nearer to the place he had been searching for with every passing second. He’s only a few steps away when a sound calls out to him—a sound that isn’t a part of the forest.

“Hello?”

Dream goes stock still, his heart coming to a screeching halt in his chest.

He knows that voice, too.

Sucking in a deep breath, he slowly steps forward, out into the entrance of the clearing. In front of the waterfall stands a silhouette he is absolutely positive he’s seen before—countless times before. Something tells him that he should leave, that he should run far, far away and disappear from view. But as he watches the silhouette take a tentative step toward him, his inhibitions fall away.

Warmth blossoms in the space between his lungs, all encompassing and full of grief as he opens his mouth.

“Hi.”

[vukovich]

peculiar prompt: soulmate au where your dick is the same exact length as your soulmate’s (i guess everyone has a dick in this universe idk 😂) anyways drarry discovering they are soulmates in whatever convoluted way you would like!

Nine and Three Quarters

Summer weddings were an unlikely tradition for a family that ran high to freckles and sunburns, but Harry didn't mind. Usually.

This wedding, though, he'd have just as soon not attended. It wasn't that he harbored any romantic intentions toward Charlie, but seeing him so bloody happy made Harry keenly aware of his own solitude.

Charlie and Constantin fed each other forkfuls of cake and grinned. They were perfectly-matched. Identical white short sleeve dress shirts and gold waistcoats, sparkling blue eyes and mirrored grins as they threatened each other with blobs of icing, much to Molly's horror.

Their matching gold rings felt like an extension of the tattoos on the underside of their left forearms. Charlie's was a dragon, of course. Constantin's was a crouched hippogriff. They were exactly the same size, but different designs and colors.

Forearm tattoos abounded among gay wizards, but it had taken seeing Charlie and Constantin together for him to notice the pattern. A plate of cake floated to his table and set itself down in front of him. He picked it apart with his fork, separating the layers of frosting out from the the cake, then mashed the fluffy cake down into a pellet.

A breathless Charlie flopped into an empty chair next to him and surveyed the wreckage on his plate.

"Got a grudge against that cake?"

"Huh? Oh. No. Sorry."

Charlie slid Harry's cake away, probably for its own good. Constantin and Fleur fox-trotted past, and one of them reached out to ruffle Charlie's hair.

"No date?"

"Nah." Harry licked his fork clean, rolled the bits of cake around in his mouth, and wished he'd have eaten the slice.

"Still doing the playboy thing, eh?"

Harry shrugged. "I guess."

Charlie huffed a laugh. "You guess? What else would you be doing at clubs?"

Harry shrugged again.

"Well, if you get tired of it and want the name of a really good soulmate tattoo artist, let me know." Charlie wiped up a dab of frosting off Harry's plate and popped his finger in his mouth. "Until then, enjoy hunting in the dark."

Charlie rose to leave, but Harry reached out and grabbed him by the buckle on the back of his waistcoat.

"Soulmate tattoos?"

--

--

"But I thought the tattoo went on my arm."

Harry kept his hands in his jeans pockets, just in case the man decided to help him disrobe.

"It does..."

Bushy grey eyebrows rose in speculation, and the man's brown eyes squinted at Harry, unsure of whether Harry was playing a prank, playing dumb, or playing at nothing.

"So why would I take my trousers off?"

"Riiiggght," he said slowly, gently spinning back and forth on his stool. "Why don't you tell me what you do know about soulmate tattoos."

Harry hooked his thumbs in his pockets and looked around the tattoo parlour for clues, but there was nothing but drawings on the walls. Pictures of forearms, too, all with differing sizes of beasts and creatures on them.

"Uhm," Harry started, "they go on forearms." The man nodded and motioned for him to continue. "And... they're... magic?"

The man shook his head and sighed. "The death of gay wizard culture, I swear. I blame that app."

"Wait, there's an app for-"

"Soulmate tattoos are the size of the wearer's dick."

Every tattoo Harry had ever seen ran through his head at once, and he stood slack-jawed for what felt like hours.

The man continued. "And so part of getting one is getting your dick measured. Professionally."

"I... Uh..."

"Men lie on the app. That's why all these boys are running around thinking they don't have soulmates, but older men know better. Back in the day, we'd just walk up to a bloke, line our arms up, and pair off."

Harry looked at the ceiling and tried to imagine a scenario in which that didn't sound both terrifying and oddly comforting.

"Why would you line them up?"

The man stared at him for a long. fucking. time.

"Soulmate dicks match, kid." He grumbled something about the Internet. "Now do you want the tattoo or not?"

"I... Uhm... Maybe later?"

"Suit yourself."

--

There had to be a better way to do this.

Harry balanced on tip-toe, focused on his dick with one eye, and dipped his quill. His tongue peeked out a corner of his lips as he concentrated on tracing around his shaft.

Was the quill angled accurately? Was the nib too far from his skin to be accurate? Was width even relevant?

He let out a held breath and dropped down to his heels. The paper on his desk was an embarrassment.

"Looks like a fucking caterpillar," he grumbled to himself.

Maybe they made enchanted quills for this.

--

The nook of art supplies at Flourish and Blotts was overwhelming, but it smelled good. Needle-sharp enchanted nibs sounded like a terrible idea. Image-grabbing paper sounded equally dangerous. What if he got his dick stabbed or absorbed into a piece of paper?

Someone cleared their throat behind him.

"Can I help you?"

Draco Malfoy met his eyes with a hesitant smile. He looked strangely at home surrounded by paper and ink. He wore a rumpled black t-shirt that advertised in bold white letters "Truth Quills: The Reign of Error Ends Here".

"Uhm... maybe?"

"What kind of project are you working on?"

"I'm... just... tracing something?"

Draco nodded and reached up to grab a pack of nibs just above Harry's head. The Dark Mark on his forearm caught Harry's eye. It wasn't a Dark Mark anymore. The skull wore a crown of red roses, and the snake had been filled in with vibrant yellow and blue markings. Harry decided it looked a bit like a Grateful Dead album cover. But prettier.

"These are good for most projects if you're just starting out."

Draco handed him a plastic box with more thingamajigs than he had any idea what to do with.

"Uhm, okay. Thanks."

"No problem." Draco's eyes wandered down to Harry's forearm and his smile faltered. "Anything else?"

"No, I think I'm good."

--

He wasn't good. He was nowhere near good, and he had black ink all over his dick. Also on his hands, and the table, and the floor, but those were less important.

"Looks like a goddamn Holstein dong."

--

"Alright," Draco said, and his smile was bordering on a smirk. "But what's the reference? What are you trying to trace?"

A dozen dick-shaped things came to mind, and Harry blurted, "A banana."

Draco did not laugh. Not with his mouth. Just with his eyes. His t-shirt today said "Blink Ink: Drier than your ex" in jagged black script.

"Mm hm," Draco squeaked through his nose. "Is accuracy important?"

Harry let out a relieved sigh. "Yes."

Draco cleared his throat and schooled his face. "Here."

He handed Harry a Truth Quill. "That ought to give you an accurate outline of your... banana."

--

"Hot damn!"

Harry held the outline of his cock up to the light. Damned if it wasn't perfect. He laid it face-down on his forearm and frowned. How was he supposed to get it onto his skin?

--

Draco faked a cough and covered his mouth and nose with his hand. "Pardon?"

"I need to transfer it."

"But a backlight won't work because..."

"Uhm... it can't... light can't go through the... other... thing."

Draco's t-shirt today had a frilly, looping font that said, "Nearotica: Almost There."

"Dare I ask what material you're transferring this banana onto?"

Harry focused on Draco's forearm, and the curve of the roses, and the sinewy body of the snake.

"Uhm... leather?"

Draco shot him a challenging look Harry didn't understand. "I suppose you'd want a cautery tool for that."

"Uhm... okay."

--

He wasn't okay. He had two burned dots on his forearm, and a hole in his paper at the base and tip of the outline.

Over a hundred galleons spent, and all he had to show for it were what looked like two mosquito bites that were exactly one penis-length apart.

The hell with all of it.

--

Harry dropped bags of barely-used art supplies on the store counter, and Draco's chin snapped up. He cocked his head and looked at the bags while Harry read his t-shirt: "Thrill Your Darlings: Tropes and Nopes."

"Didn't work out?" Draco asked.

Harry bent down, rested his elbows on the counter, and shook his head. "Can I return it?"

Draco shrugged. "Store credit, since it's all been opened."

Harry buried his face in his hands. "I'll take it in coloring books."

"I'll throw in some markers."

Draco shot him a pitying smile and stood to collect the bags. His eyes caught on the two burn marks on Harry's forearm. He set his elbow next to Harry's and pressed their wrists together.

"Huh," Draco exhaled. He rolled his tattoo against Harry's forearm. The peak of the rose crown touched the mark nearest Harry's wrist, and the snake's tail met the other.

Harry stared at their arms, wide-eyed and panicked in the best way.

"Is it-" Harry started. "Do they, uhm..."

"I... do believe so. If your banana outline was accurate."

Harry gulped. "It was."

"Huh," Draco repeated. "Well, in that case, there's a giant mandala coloring poster I've had my eye on, but it's a bit much for one person."

Harry let a grin spread across his face. "Consider it sold."

[villagerain]

steeleidolon​:

Not the first. Not the last. One in a long, long line of sacrifices at the altar of wealth, demise etched into a foundation of lies. While its concept may have been the dream of a shining future, Midgar was built on the bones of deception. The dead do not want, and the wanting will work themselves to death to survive, so long as the promise of a better life dangles just out of reach.

It’s systemic. It does not take a systems expert to see the pattern.

Unwavering, Kunsel holds eye contact, the battered steel token perched just below his nostrils. While he watches every twitch, every flicker of eyelashes, he breathes.

Scent is tied to memory. Live with someone long enough and you’ll become accustomed to their smells. Sweat and shed skin. Blood and oil. The musk of life. Traces of vitality, primal as pheromones, vain as products, almost impossible to forge. A SOLDIER’s treatments enhance more than strength and agility, but they are only as good as the mind above the body.

The subtlest trace is almost enough to buckle his knees.

Almost.

Hope, though, is conductive. Galvanizing.

At first it may appear as though Kunsel does not hear. He barely blinks. Looming and silent, he gives nothing, expression schooled carefully blank in a way that could indicate threat-assessment, could indicate a potential for true intentional violence, or anything else.

He only looks away for a moment, tipping his chin up to thread his fingers along the standard issue ball-chain around his neck, freeing it from his collar. Five tags in all. None of them bear his own name.

“You have one,” Kunsel observes, unhooking the shorter loop of a tag he knows by feel alone. Another of Zack’s. This one was never worn by its owner; the blue protective film over the front is still attached. Something forgotten, left behind in a bureau or between the seam of wall and carpet in the halls he now treads alone. 

He exchanges them without need of a second glance.

“A heart.”

Now, he reaches out with the less-blemished tag in hand, brushing the red fragments away from the Turk’s shoulders, his sleeves, curving his wrist to slip the spare tag into his inner breast pocket.

“Going to need more to go on than that,” he thrums, almost tender in the way he sets about tidying the rumple of Balto’s clothing. Dexterous fingers flip and fold his collar, trying for symmetry in this extremely asymmetrical situation. They are compromised. Both of them are. If the wrong person sees or overhears, the Company will be forced to act.

Unless this is a snare.

“As specific as you can get. Names. Places. Timeframes.”

The bait was certainly effective. Better to appear as though he’s examining a potential playmate to take home than to pace like a caged beast (even if he is one). Kunsel is here, present, keenly focused. News on Zack’s life for… an escape route? From what? For the Turks as a whole, no word of anyone else. It could be anything. It could be any method.

“Color me interested, but I only make promises I intend to keep.”

“Oh? And here I thought I forgot it back at the bar.”

He is human. If cut, he will bleed. If shoved against a wall by a SOLDIER who can exert enough force through his fingertips alone to crumble brick, his heart will palpitate in his chest as wildly as any rabbit’s. 

‘’ppreciate the reminder,” Balto comments wryly.  

Giving him the replacement tag is a nice consideration. He doubts anyone would care to look closely at the tag to judge its authenticity, but antiquing the metal should be more than enough to produce a compelling visual. A worn dog tag, no longer needed by its owner. 

The tragedy of loss will not gain traction with hope to keep it at bay. It’s not too late until it’s too late. 

One hundred and twelve days have passed since the Nibelheim incident.

Perhaps the mere endeavor will cost them their lives as they rail against the contracts they have signed, the burdens that they have chosen to bear. Bonds that go deeper than blood. The ties that bind them are what little they have to themselves in this world. Connections, connections.

And it would still be worth the price.

Balto tilts his head, marveling at the contrast of ferocity and tenderness that a single pair of hands can convey within the span of a few minutes. 

The Turks have plenty of black marks in their storied history. Their repeated failures with Avalanche, finding their mysterious broker, has left them treading thin ground for some time. It is not terribly difficult to notice that Scarlet and Heidegger have been salivating at the chance to consolidate their power while Verdot maintains his tenuous grip as Head of General Affairs. The President’s obvious contempt does not help, not that that ego-ball of a man could ever wear a mask well even if he tried.

“Would you believe me if I said I don’t know?”

Balto pulls his lips into a lazy grin. He is asking for Kunsel to believe in the absurd. To believe in a feeling when proper planning and action require facts. 

“I haven’t been able to put my finger on it yet. But this business with Avalanche, whoever their informant is–” has all the hallmarks of a complete disaster in the works, and the Turks will be the most obvious ones to take the fall for it. Balto shrugs. “I figure some of us will still manage to hang around when it all goes to shit. We’re sticky that way. Ten people, give or take. Could be in a few months, could be in a year or more.”

A drip feed is the best he can do.  

“Wouldn’t be any fun if you were that easy to please. ‘sides, I need more time to sniff around for more info on your friend.” 

Just enough scraps from the table to keep the beast content in its cage. Dog tags alone aren't a guarantee and close as he is to death, or at least manufacturing it, even Balto does not know the whole truth.

[cinebration]

Too Young (Forrest Bondurant x Reader) [Request]

I’m fine thank you can I describe my request because there is a no word for this at least i dont know I’m 21 so if you include this in imagine i will be really happy i love forrest bondurant he is shy caring strong and little bit mad giant bear a i want it fluffy and little bit angst I thought forrest wouldn’t want to love younger than him. I hope i can tell what i request because english not my native thank you so much again not much forrest imagine i really love this — Requested by @shooterere

This turned into something more than I expected. I had fun!

Warnings: none

Gif Source: fandomfatale

Pa operated one of the smaller bootlegging businesses in the county, but the moonshine he made was worth a hundred of the bottles being churned out by other operations in the immediate vicinity. People paid good money for your pa’s moonshine, though you wouldn’t know it to look at you and your family.

You lived in a ramshackle house on the edge of a farm known for producing one good crop for every five. You had just as many siblings, all of them younger than you, racing around the house like demons and driving both you and your beleaguered mother to wits’ end. So when Pa asked you to make a delivery, on account that the oldest of your brothers was a scant fourteen, and the fact that no one would stop you, you leapt at the opportunity. You put on your Sunday best, though it wasn’t much, and drove the old beat-up Ford truck down the country road into town.

It was there you met Forrest Bondurant. He operated the gas station you pulled up to after you delivered the moonshine. The smell of pie wafting from inside the restaurant behind the station was too good to resist.

He sat alone, his hat resting on the table in front of him. Glancing up when you entered, his brow furrowed as you slowly walked through the restaurant and up to the counter. You ordered a slice of the pie and a small cup of coffee, no cream, no sugar.

“This ain’t the watered-downed stuff,” the waitress told you.

“I know.”

The apple pie was thick and rich with apples and cinnamon flavoring. As you sat eating it, you swept your gaze around the room. There weren’t many people inside, but as soon as you fixed on Forrest, all else fell away. He met your eyes levelly, a frown pulling on his mouth. Tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear nervously, you returned to your meal.

He approached you a moment later, the scrape of his chair back against the wooden floor alerting you to his intentions. You swallowed thickly, working up your courage as your heart fluttered with hope.

“You Frost Farm’s oldest?” The way his voice purred made a shiver roll through you even as disappointment followed it. He wasn’t interested in you, only in who your pa was.

“Yeah,” you answered, looking down.

“What are you doin’ here?”

“Making a delivery.”

“Your pa sends you off to do that yourself?”

“My first time today, but he hurt himself, so I figure I’ll be doing it for some time.”

“How’d he hurt himself?”

“He fell,” you lied.

Forrest’s gaze burned through you. Standing firm, you ate the last of the pie and swigged it down with the dregs of the coffee, the bitter mingling with the sweet down your throat. Excusing yourself, you slipped off the stool and kept yourself from sprinting away to the beat of your thumping heart.

~~

Forrest showed up the next day at the farm. You were out in the field, elbow-deep in the dirt, when the truck engine chugged up the dirt road. You recognized it vaguely as one you had seen parked outside the Bondurant gas station. You didn’t see who exited the vehicle.

Turning back to your work, you yanked out another weed and ignored the beating of the sun overhead.

When your stomach rumbled as the sun reached its zenith, you rubbed off the dirt on your apron and headed back inside for lunch. The truck was still parked outside the house.

As you neared the front door, it opened. You froze in your tracks. Forrest Bondurant stepped across the threshold, bidding your parents goodbye with some mumbled words. He paused when he saw you.

“Mr. Bondurant,” you said, nodding nervously.

He nodded back, putting the hat firmly on his head. His gaze swept over you. You became painfully aware of the dirt across your hands and knees and how it stained your apron and dress.

“I’m taking you for your other deliveries,” he mumbled suddenly. “’Til your pa gets better.”

You blinked in surprise, tried to find words. “Thank you.”

He nodded and stepped past you, leaving you stunned on the porch.

~~

The first few deliveries, made in your truck, not Bondurant’s, passed in awkward silence. You didn’t quite mind it so much, if it weren’t for the fact that being nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with the man was sending your senses quite mad. Not even the Franklin boy from the farm next door had made you as deliciously nervous as Forrest did. Your head swam with it.

But the trips after that improved when you began talking to him. You didn’t say too much, because he seemed too quiet to listen to you ramble on. Rather than complain about your siblings or the lack of help for the farm, you focused instead on the moonshine business.

“I dunno know if Pa told you, but we got into trouble with the law,” you said after a delivery. “They wanted our earnings, but Pa told ’em that we don’t have enough to pay. They broke his leg for that.”

“Were you there?”

“Outside, looking between the slats. I waited ’til they were gone before I went in to help Pa.”

Forrest frowned. “Why were you there?”

“I work the stills.”

He fixed you with a stare.

“It’s nothing,” you assured him. “I like the work, honest. It’s very methodical, and I like that.”

Forrest remained silent for the rest of the drive ’til you neared town.

“Show me,” he said.

You hesitated. “But you’re the competition.”

“I won’t steal your secrets. I just want to see.”

You wanted to show him, to impress him, but the idea of the Bondurants taking over your stills or trying to use your methods nagged at you. The desire to please him won out. You turned the car toward the farm and drove well past it, deep into the woods extending beyond it. Then you hooked a right and stopped the truck.

From there, you walked Forrest all the way down into a small ravine that led to a cave in the hill swelling behind it. The cave smelled cool and a bit damp, but you had remedied that with some techniques to moderate the temperature. Forrest made a circuit of the room, eyeing your still critically as you walked him through parts of your process.

“Figure we could make gin this way eventually, too,” you said, “when they lift the Prohibition.”

He looked at you keenly.

“They’ll do it,” you assured him. “Otherwise we’ll have ourselves another war.”

He grunted noncommittally and took a swig from a nearby bottle, testing the quality of the moonshine. The soft light from the oil lamp you had lit bathed his face in warm golds. Caught up by the vision, you reached out and gently touched his cheek.

He froze, turned woodenly to you. The guarded look in his eyes discouraged you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

“You’re too young.”

“I’m twenty-one.”

He shook his head.

Frustration welled up within you. You glanced up at him, your hand clenching into a fist at your side. “Too young. Too female. Too fragile. You sound like every other man I’ve ever talked to.”

He blinked in surprise, taken aback by your sudden emotion.

“I can do more than you think I can, and I’m not that fragile. I’ve had to grow up fast, because Ma’s too weak and Pa’s not got enough boys yet to help him.” You grabbed his hand suddenly, pressed his palm flat against yours. “Feel that? I don’t have soft hands. Those are working hands. When I’m not in the fields, I’m in here, making the best goddamn moonshine in the county. I don’t have time, you see, to waste on being young.”

Forrest stared into your face as the wind died out of you. You turned away, suddenly embarrassed by the outburst. “Get out of my workshop.”

He didn’t even hesitate. He walked right of the cave. You waited fifteen minutes before realizing that it was rude to let him walk all the way back to town on foot. You raced to the truck and drove down the road until you found him lumbering across the dirt. You drew up beside him and wordlessly opened the door. He hesitated before climbing up into the cab.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

You felt his eyes on you the entire drive, as though he were trying to keep you rooted to the spot. At last, you arrived at the gas station.

“You don’t come with me on deliveries anymore,” you said.

He didn’t get out of the car. “Who else has said those things to you?”

“What things?”

“About you being too weak.”

You shrugged. “Everyone. Probably your own damned brothers, for all I know. ‘Waste of a pretty face, making that girl work the fields. She ought to be providing a family.’ But I like the work. I like working.”

The cab filled with silence as Forrest stared out the windshield at the dark restaurant. Exhaustion settled in your bones from the emotional outburst and the pain of rejection.

“If you worked here,” Forrest said suddenly,” your hands wouldn’t be so rough.”

You frowned. “But I don’t work here.”

“I could get someone to work for your pa on the farm,” he continued in a low rumble. “And you could work here and your workshop.”

“Are you offering me a job?”

He grunted.

“Why?”

He shifted uneasily on the seat. “To keep you around, if you won’t let me make deliveries with you.”

The pieces didn’t quite fit together. “Why would you want to keep me around? I’m too young, you said.”

“I did,” he agreed.

“Then why?”

He fixed his eyes on you with a look that said, Do I really have to say it?

You met his gaze for a long while before slowly nodding, feeling something like hope flutter in your chest again. He nodded back, grunted quietly, and wished you a good night as he climbed out of the car.

[animextears]

DRIP DRIP :|: Akaashi Keiji

akaashi keiji x reader : * :

warnings: 18+ only, smut, moody reader, oral, teasing

wc: 1.6k premise: does he have what it takes to make you feel better?

author notes: ty for your patience & waiting out the weekend for this, akaashi luvers!

You were definitely having a bad day and Akaashi Keiji knew it. He could tell by the way you walked into the room and how your lips do that thing whenever you're deep in thought. That thing which he secretly finds too cute, especially because it gives him an opportunity to try and kiss it right off of you.

He approaches you with care midway through your huff across the kitchen, "Hey. —Baby." stopping you by the waist, stern hands finding their way to a bit of bare skin under your shirt and lightly gripping around them, that somehow, even through your current headspace of disturbances has a way of slipping through the crack of your mood just enough to shoot a tiny amount of electricity straight to the clit. Even so, you brush it off with determination, you’re feeling too pissed off for that.

He tilts his head curiously and dips his knees a bit in order to get closer to your face. His sparkling oceanic eyes are greeting you with concern, passion, questioning and calm all at the same. God, you think, you don't know how he does that, but it's one of the things you adore so much about him. He can say a multitude of things through those profound peepers without saying much.

Akaashi points a finger to run it up the middle of your furrowed brow, pushing upward on the forehead, so as to lift up the expression and unfurrow it for you, "Aww, you ok?" he consoles.

Your exhale is an appreciative one, and you are very grateful that he cares, but you just can't seem to shake this feeling.

An equally sparkling smirk to match his eyes comes forth, "I think I could...make you feel...better?..."

You attempt a small smile, but from being so in your head with the irritating day you've had, you just don't believe anything would help right now.

"No, Keiji baby, thanks, it's fine. I think I just need to think for a bit maybe..." you turn around to the kitchen counter, reaching for a glass from the cabinet and fill it to the brim with water.

“I see.”

He doesn’t really.

And it becomes evident by the way he is moving in on your back with playful lust and a sigh, “Hmm, you sure?"

His arms wrap around you to the front, one hand delicately leafing at the hem of your shirt, when suddenly it traces up your bare rib cage underneath the fabric. He follows through by groping one of your soft tits, lacing your nipple between two of his long fingers, then pressing the space between them to squeeze in on the sensitive bud. Akaashi knows how to expertly massage at the buoyant heft within his handful, like he’s gone pro in the athletic field of tiddie-tossing.

When he sees a trickle of your pleasure break through, he entices you, "Oh...? How about if I add another...?"

As you take a sip of water, his other hand moves in on your other breast and when your mouth separates from the lip of the glass, you release a louder pant. "Mmm, I dunno, baby, you maybe don't seem so sure..."

Enclosing itself behind your body now is the feeling of very stiff, very large excitement pressing in between the line of your clothed bottom. Your eyes shut trying to keep composure because you aren't fully convinced yet that you'll be able to let go of your glowering attitude. But, once his hands are both artfully rubbing on you within your blouse while making an indentation of himself on your lower half, he's right about your uncertainty. Ten sweet fingertips sink deeper into the flesh on your chest as you puff out harder.

"Hm, babe? What was that? Can't hear you." A clink of a full glass taps the counter. Your grip on it tightens.

When your head drops forward, he knows you're done for now.

Fast as he can, Akaashi plunges a hand down into the wet depth of your pants, his chin now resting on your inner shoulder so that his lips are effervescent on your ear. He slides his middle finger up inside you and it's already so soaked he can barely contain his low and prompt reply, "Ohh fuck, precious..." expelling his gratification as he drives it deeper, getting you to finally whimper pitifully because you're still so goddamn upset, but smooth-talking, blue-eyes here has gotten your moody fortresses to fall. "Let me ask you again, angel, how would you like it if I add another-?" Your spine bends forward to respond before your brain can even catch up to formulate words of agreement and— He adds two, twisting in the index and ring fingers up to join the middle like it's a grinding dance party in your pussy. The inexplicable feeling of his fullness leaves you capsized. Suddenly, all your frustration about the day has completely escaped you now. -Wait- what was I even moping about?- His fingers curl in on that hypersensitive spot within and you are fully sopping.

When you start hitting your hips against the counter to get his fingers to dip in further, he slows for a second.

"Turn your head some and let me look at that cute little flustered face..." You look hazily into his alluring eyes, "...mmn, now that's better isn't it, my pretty pouty girl?"

"Mhmn, Keiji...-'t feels better..."

Even ASMR doesn't do justice to the way he whisperingly croons out, "So, does someone want a peck on the lips to feel better?"

When your head leans in to him give one, he quickly diverts his away and declares calmly,

"Not those ones."

You watch his eyes narrow, and with these words, he feels your body reflexively tense in anticipation and it's all the confirmation he needs.

Without waiting for a response he readily unhands himself from within you, so that in a blink of an eye, he's already undone the top button of your pants and the other has swiftly followed to unzip them. With a hard tug, he exposes your ass, releasing your drenched garments, so that the clothes and his knees both hit the floor simultaneously.

He is fierce, yet tender as he bites into the ripeness of your plump cheek. A groan erupts out of you.

Akaashi turns you around, hands sliding along the swivel of your hips. He leans in to hover his mouth just over your little, bare hump, breathing warmth over it as he looks up at you, you down at him.

"I asked you a question," hot, moist words deliberately hit only your clit. He seeks to edge you longer and its something you can hardly handle well. Concentrated heat beats at it again,

“Want me to kiss it? Make it all better?”

You are devastated, “P-please, Keiji,” casting him a sensual nod.

His eyes don’t leave yours as he reveals his tongue and solely places it flat and still on your bundle of nerves, building your arousal. Only after you reactively hitched your third rapid mini breath in a row that has your belly contracting from desire, does he finally close his eyes leaning into his own pleasure of your inviting flavor.

With his tongue, he creates a space in between your soft crease soaking it further with your juices. He motions keenly from the back to the front, then again, slowly to the hole, then quickly back to the tip. When you quiver, he snatches a thigh and hitches it over his shoulder burrowing his face more intensely onto you, shoving your pelvis into a half-way sit position on the chilly counter.

You cry out with soft squeals and your head falls back while clenching through his raven strands.

The sound of lush, compact, oral smacks hitting your eardrums are like a rush of music you didn't know you needed today. All of your skin is resounding in relaxation and applause. His face is so pretty as you watch him enjoy taking all of your troubles away with just the cushion of his drenched muscle. Akaashi is a true giver. A truly giving lover and a super giving man.

He forcefully sinks his tongue up your creamy slit, masterfully jerking it inward while also working his lips upward in a way that now makes your eyesight obscured to the room. You didn't even realize you still had a glass in your hand until your increased thrusts onto his mouth begins to spill water all over, slightly showering you and the crown of Akaashi's head. He barely notices, and you see him humorously smile from behind your cunt because he knows you're about to peak. You don't even want to take a second to stop and put it down because if you do, you might lose your rise to climax right now.

Your voice is a small stirring mewl, "Oh Keiji, oh god, baby- I’m- I’m gonna...gonna come—" He sucks deeply onto that frontal sweet spot, focusing in on it and rocking his lips forward and knows not to stop not stop not stop until after...

—Your body becomes lighting, bursting outward, high-pitched tones vocalize themselves out from your chest. The water from your lazy grasp is splashing everywhere and you can tell he is just loving all of it.

As you descend, he hugs around both of your thighs and gives the swollen lump between them one final faint kiss.

Now that you are both partially bathed, he takes a stand, and flicks an attractive hand through his damp hair to fix it.

He liberates the glass from your hand and takes a sip of the water that's barely there anymore and finishes it, then lightly slaps at your bare ass. He warmly winks, granting you a quick kiss with an armed grin behind it. Before coyly turning on his heel out the room to just leave you standing there gaping with your half-naked frame hanging off the counter, Akaashi proclaims,

"Well, love, that's certainly one way to wash away the pain."

‣ masterlist

[iatethepomegranate]

For now, they had this

So Shadowgast has finally made me write fanfic again. I started this a few hours after the finale, and then woke up to find Twitter confirmation for my reading of their epilogue. So here’s 2k of soft wizards confirming for each other what they already knew, in their quiet way. I’m playing with the timeline ordering of things, so my interpretation is not necessarily the Canon interpretation of how things went between them.

Demisexual Essek is addressed here, without saying it explicitly. I tried. Massive spoilers for the finale, obviously.

____

For now, they had this

As much as Caleb trusted Essek to handle himself, he had to admit he was nervous about leaving him behind in Aeor. But the longer they spent together, the greater the weight of things unsaid, and Caleb had to take care of something first.

He had to go home. Blumenthal.

So he did. Found his parents’ resting place. Buried his letters to them. Grieved.

He didn’t go back to Aeor right away, the weight of the Sending stone Essek had foisted on him heavy in his pocket. Essek didn’t need it; he could Send without expending too much of his reserves. Essek hadn’t said anything, but Caleb was keenly aware this stone was solely for his benefit.

Caleb lingered close to Blumenthal for a time, feeling the finality wash over him. He could sometimes feel the phantom weight of the letters as if they still hung from his book holster. It would take time for him to get used to not carrying them around anymore. Just like he had carried the weight of what he had done for so long. And likely always would. But he was more at peace with that now. He had a mission to prevent this from ever happening again. There were things he had done about it, and things he would continue to do for as long as he lived. Fixing his home would be a lifelong mission, but he was finally ready to handle it.

Essek left him alone for a few days, until he must have grown anxious. Well, more anxious than usual. Essek, Caleb had learned, was an anxious person.

“Caleb,” Essek’s voice appeared in Caleb’s head. Soft, but concerned. “I apologise for the intrusion. Are you all right?” The barest pause. “I am safe up here, but… I am concerned. But no rush. Please.”

“I’m all right,” Caleb replied before the spell could decay, losing the thread of the dome ritual he had begun to cast moments ago. “I will return tomorrow. Stay safe. And thank you.”

Jester would be appalled that he didn’t use all his words, but Caleb was… wrung out. Catharsis was, by its nature, exhausting. His response must have satisfied Essek, who did not Send again.

Caleb began to cast the dome once more, blending the exterior with the greens and browns of the woods, but transparent inside so he could fall asleep under the stars of his childhood one last time.

***

Caleb risked the teleport directly into Aeor the following morning, grasping the paper from the records room firmly in his hand. He mercifully landed exactly where he had intended, breathing the dusty air. His ribs expanded more freely than they had in years.

Essek floated cross-legged just above the floor in the corner, looking up from the pages of a ledger in his hands. He watched silently for a second, as he usually did while waiting for a wild magic surge in this place. When none materialised, he gave Caleb a soft smile.

“Welcome back. Come. I am sure you will find this interesting.”

Essek rarely pushed Caleb to talk when he wasn’t ready; he was grateful, especially now. They sat together on the floor for a time, smudges of salt and soot on their fingers as they dug deeper into the records of Aeor. Stacks of books, long-hidden information, and Essek’s steady, quiet company. Caleb had needed this.

It was only when Caleb threw off his coat to more comfortably crawl among the books, collecting fragments of a damaged volume that had fallen apart at the spine, that Essek said anything unrelated to the work.

“Uh, Caleb?”

“Ja?”

“Your other book…”

Caleb followed Essek’s gaze to the empty side of his holster. “Ah.” He sat back, depositing the rescued fragments on the floor in front of him. “It was… time to let go.”

Essek watched him quietly, but did not press. But, mere weeks earlier, he had listened to Caleb lay out all his plans to save his parents. He had even offered to help him. And had been visibly relieved when Caleb instead destroyed the time travel device and all the notes that could have been used to replicate it. He knew enough to understand.

So Caleb explained. The letters he had written. His plans to give them to his mother and father after he had saved them. But he had to let go.

“So, I…” Caleb had to take a moment, the tears threatening to overtake him.

Essek silently looped an arm over his shoulders and pulled him in, tucking Caleb into the hollow of his throat. Caleb breathed him in, and remained there. 

“I teleported the book into the earth between their graves,” he murmured. “It's the closest I can… it’s with them now. Best I can manage.” Talking hurt too much, so he stopped.

“Caleb,” Essek said softly. “I’m proud of you.”

Caleb let himself cry.

***

Essek was always gentle with him, but even more so in the following days. Passing of materials gave rise to held hands, lingering touches, lingering stares. Slowly, Caleb began to feel better. As much as he believed he could, at least for now. It was better than he had felt in a long time. With time, perhaps, the wounds would ache less. Never perfect, but better.

Having disturbed an absorber of an evening, the resulting scuffle left Caleb too tired to summon the tower. He instead set to conjuring the dome while Essek kept watch. They were a little far to retreat to the records room, but they had managed to barricade an entranceway with damaged furniture despite their pitiful strength. Essek, of course, had demonstrated he was more than capable of surprising everyone, including himself, in moments of great duress. Fortunately, Caleb had not gotten himself trapped under a tower this time.

So, Essek hovered close to Caleb during the ritual, keeping an eye on the door they had barricaded. He was tense, but Caleb had to get this dome up before he could address it. There was also a gash on his forearm that would need dressing… but later. Focus.

The dome popped into existence. Caleb put his spellbook away, feeling his shoulder protest. He would need Essek’s help checking the damage.

Essek ducked into the dome, sighing. “Let us not repeat the events of today.”

Caleb produced a set of clean bandages, a cloth and a waterskin. “Agreed.” He grabbed Essek’s arm and dabbed the dampened cloth against the cut. Essek hissed in pain, but didn’t flinch. He hadn’t in a while. Caleb wasn’t sure if that was a sign Essek was getting hurt far too much, or a sign of trust. Both, perhaps. Caleb bandaged the wound, and held Essek’s arm for a moment longer. He was okay. The fight had been tiring, but they had both come out of it. A cut on the arm was nothing in the scheme of things.

Essek extricated his arm from Caleb’s grip, and pushed Caleb’s coat off his shoulders. “Let me see.”

Caleb hadn’t spoken of the pain, but he also hadn’t tried to hide it. Essek carefully loosened the book holsters--a research journal, for the moment, filled the spot once occupied by the letters--and set them aside. He then ran his fingers gently across the front laces of Caleb’s shirt, until Caleb nodded his consent.

Essek gently tugged the shirt loose until he could pull one side off the sore shoulder. He frowned; Caleb couldn’t see the cause. Essek prestidigitated the washcloth clean and wet it, carefully draping it across Caleb’s shoulder. Caleb closed his eyes as the cool sensation took the edge off the pain. He heard a soft mumble, and sensed movement akin to the somatic components of a basic evocation cantrip. The cloth grew colder.

Essek placed his hand over the cloth, squeezing gently. “I think you pulled something. I will continue to ice it tonight.”

“Thank you,” Caleb whispered.

“Rest.” Lips on his forehead. “I will keep watch.”

Caleb opened his eyes. Essek was kneeling at his side, not floating. Too tired, perhaps. But his eyes were sharp, trained on the barricaded doorway.

“Essek.”

“Yes?” Eyes still focused outward.

“Relax a moment. This has been a hard day for both of us.”

Essek let out a long breath, turning his gaze towards Caleb. “I apologise. I… have a hard time seeing you hurt.”

Caleb’s keen mind kindly conjured for him all the times Essek had seen him hurt much worse than this, but he held his tongue. Frequency did not make these things easier. Least of all for Essek, who had been alive for over a century but had only been genuinely close to a small number of people. Caring was hard. Worth it, but hard.

“I know,” Caleb said. “The very nature of caring for someone… witnessing their suffering… it hurts.”

Essek frowned at the floor, but then lifted his gaze to Caleb. “I worried while you were away.”

“I know. And thank you.” Caleb pulled Essek in with his good arm, laying his head on his shoulder. He felt, not for the first time, the urge to talk about this thing between them. But, as he had felt many times before, now was not the time.

Caleb and Essek were not the kind of people to blurt out complicated feelings in a moment of distress or exhaustion. So he closed his eyes and rested against Essek instead. They were what they were to each other, and Caleb was confident this would not disappear overnight. Putting that into words could wait a little longer.

***

The next day was quiet, spent examining record books rescued from the rampage of yesterday’s absorber. Caleb and Essek needed a quieter day, and the slower pace was welcome. They rarely spoke while in the throes of research, always keenly aware of each other, passing paper and writing implements back and forth, smudging soot and salt against each other’s skin as their touches lingered.

It was everything Caleb had ever wanted.

Taking a moment to stretch his back and roll his aching shoulder, his eyes were drawn to Essek’s form in the corner. So engrossed in his reading and note-taking, he had stopped floating about an hour ago. Hunched on the hard, warped floor of this broken city, eyes intense as he scribbled feverishly. He was running low on ink again.

Caleb chuckled softly and crawled closer, gently nudging another inkwell into Essek’s reach. Essek paused in his scribbles, a small smile softening his features. He reached out, eyes retracing the notes he had just written, but instead of taking the ink, he caught Caleb’s fingers and laced them with his own.

Caleb had figured out he was in love with Essek long ago, but in this moment, those feelings swelled until he thought he would burst into tears. He squeezed Essek’s hand. Essek squeezed back.

And the words finally found their way from Caleb’s heart, and out of his mouth. “I love you.”

Essek tore his eyes from the papers, softening as he met Caleb’s gaze. “I love you, too, Caleb.”

Of course, the curse of a mind as keen as Caleb’s was the ability to have too many thoughts at once. He loved Essek. Essek loved him (Caleb had already known that, but it was beautiful to hear out loud). Caleb was human. Essek was an elf. Caleb probably had sixty years left to live, if he was lucky. Essek would likely live another six hundred or more, if he was careful. Essek was on the run from the Dynasty. Caleb had to return home, at least periodically, to root out corruption and make it the place he had once believed it to be. So many factors. So many barriers.

He wanted what time he could have with Essek, but it would be cruel to entangle him when Caleb’s lifespan was barely a speck of dust in the winds of time, when there were so many things they would have to do apart even before Caleb would succumb to his mortality. Caleb had hurt the people he loved too much already.

Essek’s free hand slid up Caleb’s neck and into his hair, cradling the base of his skull. “Your eyes are sad again, my love.”

“This will hurt you,” Caleb said, “in the end.”

“I know.” And it was Essek who pressed their foreheads together this time. “I will cherish the time we have together, and whatever comes after that. It is… rare for me to feel this way about anyone. I will not give you up so easily, even if I know it will end. I am who I am today because of you, and I will carry you with me long after you are gone.”

Caleb had tried to keep people at arm’s-length before, just as Essek had. But he felt emotions deeply, especially love, and it went against his nature to deny the love he felt. And Essek was the love of his life. It would hurt in the end, but they still had time. Decades, if they were lucky.

Essek and Caleb knew a thing or two about pulling luck in their favour.

The moment stretched beyond words. Caleb reached up to kiss Essek’s forehead. They were both reserved people, not given to grand gestures. It was not necessary. Their love bled into everything they did together, in dressing each other’s wounds, in defending each other in battle, and in their quiet moments--the shared silences, the passing of research materials, the touch of soot-stained fingers.

They were what they were to each other, in the time they had together. The joy would one day turn to sorrow, but, for now, they had this.

[yellowfingcr]

yeleltaan​:

Where the shadow over her face remains impenetrable, and what little can be perceived of her expression unchanging, the same cannot be said for his. Because when he feels her gloved hands cradle him, the way his focused stare falls apart tells a whole story of surprise and puzzlement.

He can’t hear the warnings of his gut, insisting that she’s tricking him again. He’s caught in a forceless hold, lost in a labyrinth without walls, trapped by a touch entirely foreign to him, at which he doesn’t know what to respond. He blinks, his eyes turn to the side as if to find where her fingers are placed. And though he’s still, very still and he doesn’t quite know how to settle in her hold, his jaw relaxes just enough for his lips to part barely, the way that offers a small glimpse at one’s teeth. Her gentle touch blurs his suspicion of imminent conflict like a dulling poison, her tender words erase the last fragments of it in his mind. Thus his faux surrender, motionless and breathless to prepare for eventuality, inadvertedly becomes something more genuine.

She guides his gaze to return to her, and though the narrow shape of his pupils and the pitch black surrounding his iris are very much inhuman, the way the inner corners of his brow rise subtly is anything but. Eyes of a gold entirely different from hers stare from his lowered position as though seeking an answer: what is this? And however fruitless an effort it may be he tries to see it in the void over her lips, because the latter refuse to tell. Why do it to me? Neither mouth or shade will say.

What of her voice? When she makes her request known, her words ring strange. The explicit definition of a damsel suits Heysel unequivocally, so why does it feel like the opposite is true? It may be less that it paints a contradicting picture, and more that it’s made with brushtrokes of colors he’s never really seen her in.

Tentatively, one long-fingered hand emerges from its floppy confines. He thinks back to an old scene in a story, one of many descriptions inscribed on the parchment. The way it played in his mind, it would be false to claim Heysel looks anything like the receiver, and yet can he claim to resemble the banneret that offered the kiss?  

<<Helmet held to his side, sir Caroc took her hand and…>> how does one take a hand? What gesture could carry such gingerly spirit? His claws trace arch of her index until they reach past knuckle, and only then do they move in to easily envelop most of her hand. His thumb presses against her palm to close his unorthodox but gentle grasp. He tilts it away from him until it stands vertical. Cayin looks up at Heysel one last time, then back to what’s in front of him. As his lids slowly shut, he leans forward until his lips touch the front of her ring and middle fingers, above the nail, where they remain.

She loves theatrics. She loves dramatics. She loves the improvised and the farcical and the masked and of all this there now is a fundamental dearth in the stage they made of themselves. The relaxation between her hands was not a lie. Neither was the wideness of her eye as he complied, again, to her demands, and may the shadow that veils her be thrice blessed for the small mercy of its silence- she saw it, how could she not-

The quiet revelation in his mouth. The way he felt in the space between her palms. The questions he asks not with voice. His hand holding her hand.

Behold the man who gazes upon a hunger he didn’t know he carried beneath the floor of his ribs until this exact moment. And she led him there. She did this to him. 

But behold the woman, too, who can barely endure the sight, because she would not see it so keenly and so awfully if she wasn't so very familiar with that trapdoor emptiness, that gravel-sharp yearning. It is common, yes. It’s the most common of small pains. And she’s killed with a smoother soul than the simple act of acknowledging herself as witness to the unpeeling of this small common pain is requiring of her. 

His lips touch her fingertips. The hold is unconventional; the oddness of it finds no purchase upon her perception. Her free hand hesitates for a fraction of a second before cupping his cheek. The contact is soft, but the quality of it matters less than what it is- touch, touch, offering, amend, I see you, I give you.

“All wounds,” she says, her voice carefully excised of inflection, “are now mended, my friend. You are freed.”

The phantom smile remains, deboned of luster. But it persists. She’s good at that. A recital must go on until the end.

“I have been unkind to you, however. I am aware I must have wounded you with my distrust. Permit me an offer: if you so desire, I’ll do the same to you. I’ll bend my knee. Take your hand. Tender my apologies to you.”

She means it. It is his chance, if he desires, to taste a reversal of this power. It is only just that he should be afforded such opportunity- she has taken hers accidentally, she will give one to him with the fullness of her intention. And because neither is fairytale damsel and storybook knight, both can play both roles.