#maw infection au

[moonamite]

CHET SUFFERING YAYYYYYYY

Uh tw scars and Randall’s dead body I guess. And gays

[musouie]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃-𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍 ⋮ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒

broadcasting announcement ⋮ the annual purge begins

DDDNE ⋮ toji fushiguro x fem!reader, explicit violence, gore, fear, purge au, reader in her 20s ﾉ toji in his 30s, attempted murder, bondage, referenced cannibalism, sadism wc: 8.5k

anthology masterlist . . . 𓅨 . . . ao3 version

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 was a smothering hush that only ever came before the Purge. That brought with it something primaeval — perverse and cunning — that slithered through the acrid air of the city.

You could almost taste it — hidden in the metallic twang on your tongue — the bloodlust, the horror...the desire. It came to you in flashes — caused your flesh to prickle and pull itself taut as you pictured an axe through your boss’ head, the bit lodged clean between his eyes as his body crumpled like a ragdoll, brain matter fanning out by your feet. Clinging to your shoes. Staining your trousers.

It was grotesque and inhumane and bestial (and oh-so-relieving), but that was what it always did. Corrupted then soothed. Infected then lingered. In the back of your skull, the spaces between your fingers, the tip of your tongue —

— until you thickly swallowed. Tried to force it down; render it inert. Store it where all the other ugly things hid. (By now they’ve coalesced with each other. Formed a monstrous fusion of rotten flesh, weeping boils, black tar.) 

But this… this was much more potent. More restless. With jagged edges and serrated claws and a syrupy scent that quickly turned sour as you tried to force it down the velvety walls of your throat, phlegm bubbling from the roof of your mouth. It needed to be known, known, known — like an ill-tempered child that hadn’t gotten its way, pulling and tugging, beating its fists against your insides until you bled.

So, you swallowed again. And again and again, until you could feel it begin to burn, burn, burn — like flames from a dragon’s maw — down your throat, warming your belly, and scorching up your oesophagus as it howled with its brethren. Subdued, for the moment, but eager and clawing. (Scratching at flesh, peeling skin back. Where all the other ugly things hid.)

When your lips parted in a sigh, your tongue passed over the backs of your teeth to swipe at the residue — ensure none was left behind.

And none was left, thankfully. No savoury remains lodged between canines and molars. No tinge of metal nor sharp sting of tang. 

...Nothing. 

Now, the only things to fear were those who could not so easily resist. That revelled in the taste — the sourness of it, the relief of it, the depravity of it — shamelessly. That drank in the screams and the terror as though they were the finest of wine, rich and deep, so rare they chose to exploit it:

…The weaker of man —

the purgers.

In the corner of your dim apartment, your dingy radio sputtered to life, broadcasting a morose, wailing tune before a scratchy voice began speaking through the crackling:

“In 5 minutes time,” it warbled, excitement evident even through the fissures in the signal. The buzzing, the low rumble, like the hum of bees swarming close and waiting to pierce skin and tear into muscle.

“I repeat, in 5 minutes time, the nation’s citizens will begin their annual purge, commencing the release of all tensions, frustrations, and violent urges deemed socially and criminally taboo. Caution: once the purge begins, all services — including police, fire, and emergency-medical — will be unavailable. All emergency services will re-operate when the purge ends.

May the odds be ever in your favour.

Happy purging to one and all.”

Happy Purging, happy purging, happy purging.

Happy… purging?

A scowl marred your face as the static petered out, silence trickling back in with the lack of audio to fill the absence. There was nothing happy about the Purge. Couldn’t be…no matter how prettily they tried to wrap it. (Red ribbon and all — bruised, foetid flesh at the centre, straining against its garnish as it was bound tight.)  

To dress it up and water it down — turn the carnage, the destruction, the sheer, animalistic violence into something that didn’t crawl along the underside of the tongue (up the spine, through the marrow), into a time for unwinding, a time of excitement, celebration — was despicable. Made you sick. Turned your stomach into writhing maggots and your throat to dried clay.

Your teeth grinded together as you checked the barrel of your pistol, slamming the magazine in with more force than what was probably necessary, on the verge of grating your teeth to dust. The metal whinged quietly, a high-pitched sound that soon gave way to a muffled groan when you holstered it at your hip, shrugging on a faded grey hoodie that was a size too large, frayed and bunched awkwardly about your wrists.

You then padded across the scuffed floor, heavy soles of your combat boots thudding mutedly across the wood as you made your way to your bed, snatching up a hunting knife you kept underneath your mattress. Carefully, you slipped it into your boot, nestled between leather and your lamb’s wool socks. Safe. Warm. Hidden . Like a babe in the womb.

And just like a babe in the womb, the blade would eventually be drawn forth, umbilical cord severed, and would be set loose. From one darkness to another of a different kind.

(Where all the ugly things hid.)

With a final cursory glance around your small apartment, you flicked off the light switch, plunging the room into darkness as the siren sounded.

As if summoned, shadows seeped and formed. Intruded and flocked to each other as they always did, like greedy crows fed one too many times.

They crept forward, licking at the shabby, moth-eaten rug, and the rusted, bent, broken pipes that snaked across the ceiling, and the cracked, peeling paint on the walls. And then they moved to you, as if compelled. As though they’d just sniffed you out and couldn’t resist a bite.

They writhed and twisted and contorted, stretching their long, bony wisps-for-fingers out towards you. Beckoning, calling, crooning :

Come. Come. Come.

A poorly veiled request, but you saw it for what it was. A demand.

Long, inky fingers crawled across the room, dragged themselves down the walls, grabbed for you and quivered with anticipation.

Come. Come. Come.

But the lone source of light from beyond your window, seeping through the yellowed blinds, seemed to stop them short. Caused them to screech and fizzle and sear as they ghosted near where you were. Repulsed.

Outside, the sky had split open into nothing but the reds, oranges, and violets of hellish flames as the sun began to sink. As its rays trickled in one by one, the shadows shrank away, slinking back into the corners and the crevices and the cracks and the fissures and the holes and the tears.

(And the spaces between your fingers, and the tip of your tongue, and the back of your skull.)

And then finally…you heard the screams. The dreaded, dreaded screams.

The Purge had finally begun, and the beast had stirred.

You were now a mix of the most peculiar kind.

Half woman, half chair. Meshed and moulded and sewn with the worn wood of the seat, the armrests, the legs. Your spine curved in a similar manner to the back of the chair, and your arms were fused by sweat to the rests. Your elbows were locked and your wrists limp, clothed legs weaved into the wooden ones of your perch, right down to the toes.

Perhaps that was why you couldn’t feel a thing below your waist. No creeping tingles in your calves, nor a dull throb in your toes from the nippy autumn air, or even the lancing ache of having sat in one spot for a good couple of hours now.

Just… nothingness …

To stay like this was no good. You knew . You’d have to move eventually — whether by force or mere survival. (Like how birds flocked south, or deer bolted when a twig snapped, or mice scurried to corners, or frogs fled to ponds. Anything to get out of the chair, and out of the chair, and out of the chair.)

But you couldn’t move.

Refused to.

Somehow, you convinced yourself that the moment you rose, if only an inch, the monsters would come. They would smell the fresh blood pumping through your veins, the adrenaline, the fear, the fight . And they would descend upon you, ripping you limb from limb, tearing the meat from your bones, feasting on the innards, and leaving you a hollowed husk.

A shell of what once was.

A blood-curdling scream pierced the air, and you flinched . Torso violently jerking to the side as your head moved with it, legs still tethered, arms rigid. The cries grew in their intensity the farther along they drifted, until they were shrieking. Raw and untamed and enraged , and the only thing louder was the boom-crack of a gun firing. 

Yes ...you were much safer here. In the chair, in the chair, in the chair. Where even Rationality could not touch you. (After so long, it hardly ever tried.)

So in the chair you took root, like a stubborn mutt clinging to its master, unwilling to part. And in the chair your fingernails dug, leaving jagged crescent moons which left your flesh raw and stinging and throbbing . And in the chair you remained, situated between the window and your door, (between certain death) and waited. Listened.

And waited.

And listened.

And waited.

And listened.

Ignoring the slight pressure building in your bladder.

Your ears strained, trying to pick up any sound: the scrape of a shoe, the rustle of clothing, the click of a gun. It’d be comical, in almost any other situation, how desperate you were to hear a sound. Anything . How desperate you were for the presence of another. 

But there was nothing . Only the steady drip, drip, drip of the leaky tap in your kitchen, and the rustling of leaves as their shadows swam across your walls.

You pressed your thighs together.

It was tantalisingly slow, the water, how it seeped from the pipe, hung precariously — for seconds, hours — before eventually relinquishing its hold. A single bead trickling down, down, down the smooth mouth of your sink. Another then following. A second. A third. Each one stacking themselves atop the last like ants until the stream began in earnest.

The stream. Yes, the stream. You couldn’t help but notice it. Hone into it.

Its trickle became a gentle swell, and the gentle swell a rushing torrent — as if taunting, rubbing salt into a festering wound as the pressure against your bladder worsened. Begging you to rise, rise, rise and quell it, make it disappear.

It was a battle that lasted but a matter of moments, and one which you lost with ease, the discomfort and desperation finally outweighing the fear of discovery. (And the madness and the hysteria and the terror.)

You stumbled forward on shaky legs, aching limbs trembling at every step, a dull ringing filling your ears, drowning out any and all sound.

Except for the dripping.

The dripping, the dripping, the dripping.

You gripped onto anything you could as you dragged your anchors for legs across the floor, a tingling sensation peppering itself throughout your toes — your calves, your knees, your hips. A tickle at first, but soon enough, a sharp ache. A pain so excruciating, you were certain you would have screamed.

Drip, drip, drip.

With each step the drops grew harsher, sharper. No longer water but pellets of lead, bludgeoning against the drain as they tore down the steel. An avalanche; a horde. One after the other until they drowned the leaky faucet whole.

Drip, drip, drip.

It strung you along, fish to bait through the murky water, hooked itself straight through your bottom lip, past the molars, and back through the cartilage of your jaw. But even with the hooks and barbs, it wasn’t forceful. It didn’t need to drag you to it, but only led, waiting, trusting — its stream ever-widening into a sea, the staccato thrum turning into a symphony of rolling, crashing waves as you reached the sink.

You were so close. So, so close, you nearly trembled, nearly sobbed. 

And—

A light push was all it took for the sea to cease. For it to go silent. It did not trickle, no. Its end was instantaneous. (A brush of fingers against steel. And then a squeak. A squeal. A screech. Dwindling to a creak as it fell silent.)

—Then,

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Your brows furrowed as you heard the drops sound once more. Hand still on the head of the faucet, you pressed down. Once, twice. The faucet was shut tight … so just what was that sound?

It changed the next time you heard it. One hesitant drip and two loud ones, bordering on that of a bang. You padded around your apartment, making sure to listen keenly. Hoping the monster didn’t follow the sounds of your footfalls, nor the pound of your heart, and instead, focused on the drips. On that incessant drip, drip, dripping —

You turned a corner.

— or the bang, bang, banging —

The sounds seemed stronger towards the front of your apartment. Past the guest bathroom, down the hallway, and…to the door?

— or the knock, knock, knocking.

...Knocking.

So close now, you finally realised what the sound was. And all that it wasn’t. Three quick knocks sounded again — more aggressive this time. Panicked. And after gnawing on the inside of your cheek, scraping at gum and flesh and veins, you relented — moving closer and craning your neck to peer through the peephole.

There were no eyes (white or dead or hollow) that greeted you; no sharp canines or silver claws or black tendrils; no miasmic smoke or smoky musk or any form or any colour at all.

It was just a woman .

A red woman — no . A woman drenched in red. The difference was palpable, almost to a ludicrous degree. While her clothing could very well have been a deep scarlet, or even brown, you knew — felt — the way it clung to her body: her skin, the gory bits. Knew the deep scarlet was as she would remain for all time, the bright and the red, because they were hers . Not the clotted, smeary crimson on your door, not the viscid red that slopped against wood with a wet schluck — but the viscid red which smeared her hands.

All her burden to bear.

“P-Please help!” she cried, as though she knew your eyes roamed over her. Curiously, warily. “My son…” She trailed off; opened her mouth a few times before closing it and frowning.

You watched as she attempted to compose herself, tucking her trembling lip behind her teeth and clenching a fist that no doubt smeared her wound an even deeper shade of crimson.

She was shaking. Trembling like a newborn foal. And through her fingers, and the gushing and gore, her lips peeled back, revealing white, jagged teeth, her breaths haggard as tears carved rivulets through the mess of it all.

As they trailed down her cheek, down her chin, down her neck.

Smearing, smearing.

(Staining.)

“T-They hurt my son…my —” Her voice cracked, a porcelain bowl to tile. “— my Johnny.” She pounded her fist against your door once more, and you briefly wondered how they weren’t bloodied. Down to a pulp. The bone. “I know you can hear me!” She tiptoed between hysteria. “P-please. He’s so young — doesn’t have much more time left. I-I can’t see my baby die. God , I don’t wanna see my baby die.”

Her head hit the wood of your door with an ungracious thump, as did her arm; a solid, decisive, finalisation to her words. One which almost forced you to respond, to crack your door a tad and peer through, if only to check whether her forehead remained intact. If only to assuage yourself with a pat on the back when it was.

“Please…” She croaked. “Please.”

Her hands slunk to the handle sluggishly, as though she did it in a state of near unconsciousness. When she tried turning it and felt the lack of give, she simply didn’t seem fazed. Instead, she whimpered, her forehead sliding down until her face was pressed against the cool, unforgiving metal — eyes squeezed tightly, brow screwed in concentration.

“My boy. My little Johnny. Please, my Johnny. I’m begging you…”

“It’s…the Purge, ” you finally whispered, albeit harshly, scolding her in what you thought was a subtle way.

She seemed shocked at first, that someone truly stood on the other side of the door, that she hadn’t been talking futilely to herself. But so quickly, as she registered your words, her expression melted into one of anguish, the tremor in her lip quickening.

“I kn-know it is,” she rasped. “B-but he’s dy—!”

“— It’s the Purge.”

She begun to wail. “Do you have no heart? My only son is –” there was a gurgle, like she was choking on the blood and phlegm that’d gathered in her mouth. “– dying! Have some humanity… s-some mercy! That’s all I ask.”

You scowled. She’d asked for so much more and didn’t even realise it, or perhaps didn’t care for it, for what you’d sacrifice if you opened the door. Something so irreplaceable, that you were content with playing the monster she so desperately tried to make you out to be. The monster she couldn’t recognise in herself.

“Where is your son?” 

Her face shot up, eyes dancing. There was a twitch in the muscle beneath them; a jolt, a quiver, and soon they widened. “He’s just down the corridor, i-in our apartment a few doors down. I couldn’t touch him, couldn’t bring him, h-he was bleeding so much, I-”

“You left him there, unguarded and alone?”

“N-No! I’m protecting him.” Her eyes were wild now. Desperate. “A-Always, from the minute he was born. I’ve been a good mother. I ha- I have. I-I’d do anything to protect my Johnny, my sweet boy, that’s why you need to come, have to come help. Please, God, just open the door — open the goddamned door! S-So we can save him, so he won’t fucking die!”

There was silence then. Deafening, save for her choked, wet whimpers as she sagged against the door, holding onto the handle as though her life depended on it, on you. “Please…” she softly begged, for the umpteenth time, her voice a rasp and strained, scratchy from exertion.

From the angle of the peephole, you couldn’t see her any longer, but you knew she was still there by the faint sniffling that’d begun —crawled inward. That , and you could practically taste the desperation that oozed from her heap, in great, quivering waves. 

“My son…”

And, foolishly, with that and an easy lick, a sort of silent surrender — an indulgence — you swallowed it whole.

“...Where is he…your son?”

Her breath hitched. “I-In his room. They’d snuck in and... afterwards I told him to stay put.” 

“They left?”

She nodded. “Took some jewellery and money before stomping out the door like they owned the place. Fucking pigs.”

You nodded, a gesture unseen, as alarms sounded in your head, blaring even louder as your hand wrapped around your door handle, and her own slowly rotated it too, in return. How you two synched like a pair, almost in tandem, was a wonder (or a fright). (Her, now the mime, and you, the willing puppet, pulled along by another string of your making, and obliged to dance to the tune of another’s.) 

Nothing good could come from this, would come from this, you didn’t even know if she truly had a son — if it was truly blood that clung to her body. But just the thought of him bleeding out alone, paralysed with fear, squandered all doubts. You saw a piece of yourself in him — a piece that you’d long buried, that’d burrowed beneath dry soil as your father’s blood followed closely behind — perhaps to your detriment.

(The worst thing was your empathy. The worst thing was your empathy. The worst thing was your empathy.)

Like an ouroboros, you began. Biting your tail, you began. An endless cycle of giving when you had no room to, until you were wrung out of all and everything. (You were a fool, a fool, a fool.) With a shaky breath, you slid the deadbolt and unlatched the chain.

And so easily, as though waiting on you, the door swung open.

Immediately, a rush of cold, rank, stifling air greeted you with a soured welcome, its rancid scent strong enough that you were almost tempted to shut the door once more (better safe than sorry, than dead and sorry, better safe and sorry). The red, all the red, slathered across the walls and floor, the grime and guts that trailed and decorated the corridor, was enough to send a foot backwards, inching towards your apartment — towards safety.

But the woman, the mother, with her motherly instinct and motherly resolve and motherly desperation, grabbed your arm, nails digging into the flesh and nearly tearing, the redness from her skin staining your own as she dragged you with an animalistic grip — with no grace, no hesitance, or awareness of her forcefulness. Only pulling — yanking.

Her clipped, gasping breaths rushed hot past your ear, urging you to hurry, to move — and move you did. To the rhythm of her desperation, and the thrumming of your heartbeat as the cold permeated deep to your core, to the muscle, until it turned rigid in a stiffened panic. Past the red, the grime and guts.

“This way,” she rushed, and you nearly tripped over your heavy feet, her fingers pulling and curling around your own before her other hand grasped your elbow, like she was guiding you through a throng of people as you moved onward.

She didn’t seem fazed at all. Or to even notice. Instead, she walked with long, striding steps, pulling you behind her until you finally righted yourself and followed in her bloodied wake. She only stopped when she reached a door with ‘901’ on its front, a trio of numbers that were rusted and dull. 

The door was ajar a crack, just wide enough for a small, narrow sliver of darkness to slip through. A glimpse of the horrors within. But when you stared forward, for longer than you should have, you could hear the faint, lilting shushing sound, barely perceptible — like a rush of wind in the quiet, a rush of wings past ears. Until her panicked breaths filled your eardrums once more; a bird call of her own.

“His room is to the right,” she murmured, pushing on the door until it was wide enough for you both to fit past its threshold. You followed her finger to a closed door, the quiet darkness peeking past the crack inviting you. Comforting. She said something else, but you were beyond listening at that point. And far beyond listening, as a string was tugged and pulled, and you entered the hallway without a second glance.

Once you stepped inside, the air was oppressive. Stifling. Dense. Musty.

In the distance there was a long, deep cry; guttural, and forced. Caught somewhere between a shudder, a cough, a wail — a gasp. The further you stepped into the moon-lit room, you realised the sound was coming from beneath a bundle of sheets and blankets, where they pulsed and shook, as the wheezing grew softer, more hesitant. Almost on the cusp of ceasing.

You quickened your steps, coming to a stop by the foot of the bed — of a green dinosaur — placing a hand atop the mass of fabric. “Johnny?” you cooed, sang in some sort of way. You knew that he’d need coaxing to reveal himself, that, no doubt, he was more frightened than you. So, as he quivered and convulsed, you pulled up the corner of the sheet, and, very slowly, began to tug. 

But as the sheet began to slip away, an arm jerked out — or a leg — and swept it right back into place.

You frowned. “Johnny, I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend of your mommy, I just want to see if you’re alright.”

Silence.

Then a groan, low and wretched and throaty, was stifled beneath the fabric. The mass spasmed in turn.

Your shoulders tightened at his refusal to speak, and so your words came faster, tinged with a neediness which should’ve been absent in your voice. And so was the subtle command: “If you can just show me, it’ll be over in an instant, and I’ll leave.” Your lips quirked. “Pinky promise.”

And, when he made no effort to reply, you persisted. Pulling down the sheets slowly, carefully, inch by inch, a sort of sick amusement in it all. A curiosity, which was eclipsed only by your underlying urge to run.

But as the sheets began to fall, your heart thumped with some sort of triumph. A light lock of hair revealed itself, before another, and then another and another until a patch of skin and a forehead became visible. 

“Good,” you cooed again, breathing heavily through your nose as your heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings. “Just a little bit more and I’ll leave you. Okay?”

A jaw came into view, then the curve of a cheekbone. As more and more were revealed, a pang of nausea coiled and wound itself up your chest like barbed wire. Tightly. Despite yourself, you leaned in closer, brows tightening as you gripped the edge of the blanket, preparing yourself to tear the fabric away completely. To tear and yank and see all and everything that you wished to and—

“Johnny…”

(The worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy.)

Something in you froze as a beady eye peeked up at you, regarding you coldly with a lash-coated glare, crow’s feet prominent and pulled taut in a derisive look that had you frozen on the spot.

“J-Johnny?”

(The worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy, the worst thing was your empathy.)

Teeth revealed themselves next, pearlescent yet decayed, rotting and black in places, yellowed in others, canines pointed like the stab of daggers. Rows and rows and rows.

As you gasped and jerked away, he leaped, soaring right towards you, giggling all the while.

“Gotcha!” 

The man ensnared you in his arms, cradling you to him, clutching so tightly that your breath hitched at the sheer force of his embrace. 

“Mama’s boy!” He shrieked. And again: “Mama’s Boy!” And, as though that was the cue, two more men jumped out from the corners, leaping towards you with crooked grins.

You scrambled backwards, yelping in turn. But instead of escaping, you fell. Like a ball. Fast. Freely. Hurtling with no direction, no guide, no reason, into the depths of nothing, nothing, nothing, dragging the man with you, and—

Down below, a red rug laid. Plush. Thick. Quivering. It stretched infinitely, an impossible length, unnatural.

Even more so, as it curled and warped into a creature: a thing of myth and fantasy, as your head slammed against its leathery skin. You lurched forward with the impact, catching yourself as you dived face first onto the rippling crimson scales, and scrambled to right yourself and escape.

“Nuh uh, not so fast sweetheart.” The one with the emetic grin leered at you, smile still plastered across his face as he tightened his grip around your leg and pinned you to the ground. “We worked hard to get ya’. Waited so long for one of yous.” He brought his face close to your hair and inhaled deeply, sniffed like a hound – a beast. “A beaut. ”

From your left, one with a rotted face, mottled and grey like a half-eaten maggot-ridden fruit, grabbed your shoulders and wrenched them down, forcing you flat against the rug. They both hovered above you now, two pairs of eyes trained on you as you squirmed about atop your fleshy cushion,

(which rippled and thrived with your every movement)

as the third — with his ashen skin and long nose, like a snout or a hook — perched himself between them with a cheshire-like smile, thin-lipped and crudely forced. It curled into his eyes, crinkling them until it became nearly too wide — too inhuman. 

It went on like that for a terrifying minute: the staring, the breathing, the thumping of your heart and the trembling of your limbs (The horror, the horror.) It was only when you gasped at the hands on your shoulders, that began to move in a circular motion — as if to soothe — that the quietness severed.

“We’d never let ya’ go so quickly.” It was the rotten one that spoke, that rubbed. “Yer our lil’ prize after all. Can ya’ believe tha’ good fortune? That we get a taste a’one of yer kind? Pretty little things, damn near perfect . Nothin’ like the ones out in th’ country… a sour lot, all of ‘em.”

The hooked-nose man snickered at that. Cackled really, like a hyena. Like a madman. Clutching his ribs as though he’d never heard anything funnier — and soon enough, everyone had joined in on the chuckling. Everyone but you.

(The scales beneath you bunched and juddered and squirmed, moved along with their jerking motions as they shook with mirth.)

“Bonnie!” Mama’s Boy called out, amusement still rippling through him. “C’mere.”

You heard a faint shuffling, shoes against the hardwood floor, and before long, the red woman appeared in the doorway. Her eyes widened as they flitted from Mama’s Boy to you, and her face screwed with a mixture of distaste and sorrow, like she’d just bitten into a fruit long past its ripeness, the rot souring her tongue. “I’m so sorry—” she began, before Mama’s Boy cut her off.

“—Fuck a’ ya’ sorry for, Bonnie? You done good. Got us a real treat, didn’t ‘spect that from ya’.”

“H-he threatened to kill my Johnny if I didn’t bring someone to him!”  She wildly gestured to her side, and it was then that you noticed the little boy clinging to her leg. He couldn’t have been more than seven, face pudgy and round, a tell-tale sign of youth — of innocence . And yet, your lip curled at them both, twisting into an ugly thing as you noticed he hid further behind his mother when your gaze settled on him. His red, red mother. “I couldn’t let him do that — couldn’t let anyone hurt my Johnny. I’m a good mother, I told you that. A good , good mother. I…”

“So it’s okay if I’m hurt?” You nearly growled, and the men that restricted your limbs began to whoop. 

“Feisty one too, ain’ she?”

“Love the ones that have a lil’ spunk to ‘em.” 

You ignored them, despite their nearness. Their intrusion.

“It doesn’t bother you that I’ll die in order for your son to live? That you dragged me out my home, to save your son that is perfectly fucking fine?!” By now you were shouting. Shouting and trembling and livid.

“Hey hey hey now,” the one on the right — Maggot Face — growled, slapping a dirty, bony hand across your cheek. You flinched. The sting had you seething. Teeth baring in a display you were sure looked pathetic. “She did what she had ta’ in order ta’ protect ‘er offspring. Yous a smart girlie, got no right gettin’ upset ‘bout somethin’ like this.”

“No — no right ?!” you sputtered, disbelief forcing a mirthless laugh from you. “I— You...I never agreed to being a��fucking kill!”

In response to your outrage, he placed a dirty knuckle beneath your chin and lifted, forcing your face near his rotten one. “Aye, I got it. She’s all feisty ‘cause she don’ know what’s gonna’ happen to ‘er. Guess I’d be mad too, if I were a mere sow like ‘erself. Innit right, boys? Clueless bitch wouldn’t get it any other way.”

Hooknose nodded as Mama’s Boy stroked a hand through his oily hair, murmuring a “They never do I ‘spose. S’only their nature.”

Maggot Face leaned in closer to you, and this close, you could practically see insects crawling. Smell the decay — the death — and all the sourness it brought with it. “I’ll tell ya’ then, yer fate, since yous so damn upset over it.” He grinned, and it’s then you realised the difference between him and the others:

He truly was a rotten thing, no semblance of life in him. When he smiled, you saw that all his teeth were brown and had been sawed down to nubs. As if they too, had endured his wrath. 

“Ya’ ain’t just a kill to us, girly. Yous a…” He turned his head, looked to the others. “What’s the word again?”

Hooknose simply shrugged his shoulders, but Mama’s Boy chuckled. “Release.” 

Maggot Face digested the word. Chewed it between what little teeth he had in that big, burly maw of his, one of a beast, and nodded. “Aye, a release. Yous a release to us. Much more important than just some kill…kills we don’ care for. S’all ‘bout the fun, then. With you,” his knuckle moved up up up, pressing against the fat of your lip. “S’all about… savouring your taste. The perfect meal takes time don’ it? Even the Last Supper was built upon anticipation an’ longing. And I want to make sure all o’ ya’ has ta’ be ingested thoroughly and with relish.”

Your lip quivered as you wrangled to move out of his grasp, but oh-so-quickly — so terrifyingly — like a switch in him had been wrenched upwards, his grip grew harsh, fingers biting your skin enough to bruise. 

“So don’ be difficult , you spoilt lil’ city bitch. Yer special…ain’ that whatchya ’ want? To die a meanin’ful death?” 

You understood all that he left unsaid, it translated itself through the hunger in his gaze — the greed : Tonight, you were dying regardless. 

And so, you screamed. Screamed and screamed until a greasy hand moved to cover your mouth, muffle your wails, and you shook and sobbed.

“I’m sorry. I-I’m so, so sorry.” Your eyes shot up to the red woman, chin lifting just a little. You’d nearly forgotten her, presence closely akin to a coat rack; in your remembrance you screamed louder. Her trembling reached a near violent degree. “J-Johnny let’s go. Let’s go. Mama’s tired, let’s go.” 

You watched as she ushered the little boy out the room in a tight grip, prying his curious, wide eyes from your form with the twist of his head. Her apologies continued, reverberating throughout the apartment long after she’d exited. 

“Oh, don’ fuckin’ scream now. Shut yer fuckin’ trap or I’ll do it for ya’,” Mama’s Boy snarled, grip so cruel that he forced your skin to fold and lift, pushed your features together like you were nothing more than something for him to break.

But you only screamed louder, blood rushing to your ears. It sounded warped — distorted and deep. Nothing like your voice, but more a macabre mix between a deep gargle and an elongated squawk. You looked like an animal — were being treated as one, so why not behave as such? You’d scream. Yelp and hiss and bite and lash out if it meant giving them something other than a docile and obedient kill. You wanted to be the last meal they ate, the one that ruined the fun.

“Get the rope.” Mama’s Boy ordered over his shoulder, before turning back to you, teeth razor sharp and glinting in the moonlight. “You enjoy bein’ a stupid, bad girl, dontcha?  Fuckin’ city cunt wants to behave like a bitch, well she’ll get treated like one. Won’t ya’? Now gon’ look what you done.”

Your head lolled to the side as you watched Hooknose trek to the corner where he’d hid. There was a faint rustling, of fabric against fabric and a zipper being yanked before he shuffled back over, rope coiled in one hand and —

Your eyes bulged from your skull as a whimper escaped your lips, muffled by the palm of his hand, still pressed so tightly to your mouth. 

— a ball gag in the other.

“See, this is what ya’ made us do. This is what bein’ bad gets ya’,” Mama’s Boy cooed, but even with his gentler tone his grasp grew tighter. It had you whimpering more, body convulsing. The corners of your vision grew spotty and blackened — frothing darkness encroaching inwards and outwards at an alarming rate until it was nearly all you could see. Until nearly all of you had turned black and bruised. “Open wide now, pretty. ‘Fore I really gotta hurt ya’.”

You shook your head violently, defiantly, from side to side — to which his face morphed into something even more grotesque (if even possible), lips peeled back, expression almost savage, near rabid.  You were so focused on the vulgarity of it, ensnared by the sheer ugliness, that you didn’t register his hand drawing back, so far behind his head, until it connected with the tender flesh of your cheek and you let out a muffled screech, pain blossoming and leaving a dull throb in its wake. A pulse. Punctured by a “stupid girl.”

Your head snapped to the side, copper filling your mouth and causing it to part around a gasp. He took advantage of that, fingers crawling towards your jaw and tugging its hinges wide, stretching and straining and ripping without remorse until you were sore. Aching. Sourness welling inside your mouth — upon your tongue. 

“Go on. Shove it in der.” Hooknose moved closer to you at the command, eyes watery and quivering and eager and fixed on your mouth, gaze roaming as if just now he saw for the first time.

He offered you a pitying smile. Or perhaps, he intended it to be. But it was stiff — as though something in him found it difficult to contradict his nature, and fought against his feeble attempt at benevolence. 

He held your gaze as his fat, stubby fingers pressed against the seam of your lips, ghosting your tongue as he wedged the plastic ball into your mouth. He rubbed it gently across the wet muscle, and it grew firmer the wider he stretched your cheeks to make room for the intrusion; until eventually, he clicked the device into place and brought his thumb to wipe along your tears, soiling the salty fluid with grease. 

At the sound of the click, Mama’s Boy grunted with contentment. “Good. Good, she knows now. Learned . Learned we can make it all hurt, all nasty an’ painful, so she’ll do wha’ she’s ‘spose ta’, right?”

You blinked owlishly. He chortled.

“Get ‘er feet, boy. Don’t bind ‘em too tight, don’t wanna ruin tha’ soft skin of ‘er’s...then ya’d miss out on the finer parts, eh?”

Hooknose grunted. Moved around to grasp your legs, held onto them like prongs of a ladder as he uncoiled the rope in his hand, once, twice, three times. Three full rotations.

You noticed that his hands, coated in grime and black dirt, shook and trembled, and if the trembling weren’t so apparent and grossly prominent — so entirely aberrant and incongruous — you would have said that the hands on you were almost delicate.

Before you could think about it further, Mama’s Boy sighed. Almost wistfully. “M’boys ‘nd I… we ‘aven’t eaten in months. ‘Aven’t had a proper, satisfying fill in a real long while either. Course, none a’ the meat down at tha’ slaughterhouse tastes nothin’ like yer kind does, it won’t ever hold a candle to it neither. City pigs taste different, breed better than the ones we get out there. Small and lean and nice an’ tender. Just like you are right now. So fresh…so damned fresh.” 

“Aye,” Maggot Face chimed in, tone equally drenched that you tensed , bile flooding into your mouth as your limbs went rigid.“Ah’m nearly giddy. Haven’t tasted yer kind for so long. Missed it, missed it a lot. Ah bet yer meat ain’t hard t’eat none.”

“Bet it slides right off th’ bone.”

Maggot Face hummed. “An’d pair real nice with sum’ whiskey. Ain’t that right?”

Hooknose said nothing, just began to twine the rope about your ankles. Slowly, too slow, as though the languorous motion would cause his fingers not to tremble or waver, would make the shame dissipate from him and prevent his neck from reddening with his guilt.

(It would never do. It never did.)

As the other men busied themselves with fantasies of all you had to offer, all the pleasure your tender corpse would soon give, he shakily bound your ankles, began to crawl his hands up your calves and squeezed, encased.

(Did he see how your flesh bunched beneath his fingertips? The swell, the way the tendon protruded beneath his touch — because of his touch — like a mountain range, birthed?) 

You squeezed out a whimper, one filled with all the helplessness and agony you could muster,

(A storm, a deluge.)

and slowly — agonisingly so — he peered up at you with drooping eyes, eyelashes fanning his sockets like paper fans.

His mouth parted, grip slackened, and you knew you had a sliver of a second to act quickly. You drew your feet back, poised taut like a bowstring, before ramming the pointed edges of your heels right into his soft, fleshy abdomen. The impact drew a choked yelp from him, spit flying to land on your thighs, and he fell to the ground with a loud crash, gurgling wails ripping from him as he cried out the first word you’d heard from him all night:

“Fuck!”

All attention then shifted towards you, gazes accusing.

Angry.

From then on, it was all a whirlwind.

Screams atop of screams and filthy curses spat with their drool,

(Lips forming around the vulgar words — city bitch — again and again and again,

until the syllables lost their meaning and their sound turned to that of a skipping record)

and bony hands scuffling your hair, turning you onto your stomach

slamming your skull against the floorboards,

nails scraping your scalp as you fought their every attempt at restraining your arms.

If anything, the struggle spurred them on, snowballed their ever-growing lust for violence — and the thought frightened you to the point where you were nearly deaf to the scathing words whispered in your ear:

“Yous just prolonging yer inevitable end. No more ai’ght?  We gonna be gentle no more.” You heard a click. It was only when a cool metal pressed against your forehead that you registered just exactly what it was. “Thought a city bitch like ya’ would have a bit more manners. Coulda’ been a smooth, nice night for ya, really coulda’.”

(He was wrong; a lie that slipped from his tongue so easily he nearly fooled himself. You knew they meant every bit of the torture, were planning it in the seedy, gutters of their minds with relish.)

With a snarl, Mama’s boy clicked off the safety of the revolver. “Guess the only thing gonna get through yer thick fuckin’ skull is a bullet.”

You closed your eyes. He shook you.

“But don’t go an’ take yerself off to dreamland, girl. Ther’s a slow death comin’ to ya, no mercy for sows like yerself. Yer gonna feel everythin’. Every. Fucking. Thing. An yer gonna scream, scream real good, scream fer us. Ya hear me? Hear me, cunt? Open yer eyes an listen, goddamnit , or I swea r— I fuckin’ swear, I’ll put a bullet right between yer pretty lil’ eyes right now, an’ leave yer body to the maggots. I’ll let ‘em feast on yer rotten flesh, eat their way through yer bones ‘till yer nothin’.”

You wanted to laugh — hysterically, manically, deliriously, and tell him you wished he would. Wished he were to finish you off already, if only to put a stop to the gnawing emptiness swelling in the pits of your chest, the festering soreness in your jaw.

But you only kept your eyes closed.

There was a low growl, a series of them, a harmony. And then —

(Your heart beat and beat, wild and untamed and ferocious.)

— gunshots. Three. In quick succession.

Bang, bang, bang!

(Your ears began to ring.)

Before you could even draw a breath, gasp around the gag or bring your palms to clutch the scarlet drops above your lashes, a choked gurgle met your ears. It sounded of something gutted, eviscerated; or something drained of all life and then filled with water. And then so suddenly, without warning, a heavy weight slammed into your back, knocking the wind from your chest and causing your eyes to bulge.

Warmth spread through your hoodie, seeped and clung as something viscous splattered against your forehead, thick, almost clumped, in the shape of droplets. They rolled down your forehead and curved over your brow, down your cheek and tickled your chin,

(a trail of kisses — odious and slow and inching and —) 

and they hung from the precipice before severing their tether and dropping to the scales beneath you, undoubtedly marring the rug with red blotches, blossoming before you in uneven spatters.

(Petals unfurling at their own leisure, gory and fresh.)

You lifted a trembling hand to your forehead, intercepting a few drops that clung to your flesh, warm and syrupy like molasses, yet so different in nature, not nearly as enticing. The tremor in your hand caused them to smear beneath your touch — spread, fan out — and bile rose in your throat as you caught a whiff of their coppery stench. Pungent and stifling and intruding and not yours, not yours, not yours.

You gagged, dry-heaved, retched until your throat was just as sore as your jaw, your head just as strained as your legs, your sense gone, gone, gone — as you didn’t register just how this had happened. How , why, Mama’s Boy ended atop you, stiff and losing warmth, coating you in blood, limbs splayed and a hole probably the size of your finger in his skull.

Your hysteria didn’t cease until you heard heavy footsteps, boots clomping through a red sea, and then a gravelly voice. Coarse and abrasive, rock against rock.

“You okay? Can ya’ move?”

(Thousands of palms were on you. Or two. You couldn’t tell as they began to peel away the darkness — the death.)

Your lungs seized, an odd choking, croaking sound — not of death, not of the gunshot —  as the ball gag was swiftly unclipped and fell from your skull.

The only sounds after were heavy panting, grunts, and groans — of the human kind, and they were nearly indecipherable to you, enveloped within the throbbing pulses that spread throughout your body. A stuttering of breath. Pain finally swept you away.

You fought against the encroaching darkness.

— you saw a scarred lip, torn flesh like crinkled linen.

And to the darkness you lost.

No longer did your façade of sleep work on the man.

“How much longer are ya’ gonna lay there? S’been hours.”

You ignored him. Kept your eyes shut as you tried to regulate your breaths, slow and deep. In and out.

“Fuck, don’t ya’ gotta piss or somethin’?”

In and out.

“Never met someone s’eager to be around a bunch o’ bodies before.” He tried again, and you could imagine his lips pulling into a smirk. “Must be a real fucked up fetish.”

At the mention of bodies, your breath hitched; you heard a scoff.

“Knew you were awake.” He stomped from wherever he was, around the corpses and meaty chunks of flesh and brain matter, to make his way to your side. A leather boot gently nudged at your shoulder. “Ain’t gonna hurt you none, if that’s why your tail’s between your legs. They ain’t gonna hurt you none either.”

You peered up at him with a narrowed eye, and it strained against the swollen bruise around it, pulsated and quivered and fought to close. The mammoth of a man motioned a hand outwards, and your gaze followed his lazy gesture around the room, over the corpses that littered it, the gore that wasn’t there before (The teeth, the hair, the innards. Everything that belonged inside, outside.), and then back to him. The broadness, the solidity, of him.

His lip twitched. The linen ruffled.

“This…” you croaked, voice hoarse and throat dry, so you swallowed. Tried again. “This was all…you?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

His dark brows knitted together. “Why?”

“Why’d you help me?”

The man shrugged, broad shoulders rising just briefly before falling. “You were screamin’ like a banshee. It was loud and it was pissin’ me off a bit. Didn’ expect to see a group of men tryna kill a girl, though. Thought it was some kinky shit or somethin’. A bit disappointed, really.”

You blinked. Slowly, as not to bring too much pain upon yourself.

And then, you laughed.

It was a raspy, broken sound, and it sounded more like a wheeze than anything else. But it was laughter, and it was genuine, and it was the first time in a long while you had felt something so human. So real.

You smiled, and the skin on your cheek pulled and stung. “You’re an asshole.”

He smirked. “So I’ve heard.”

You pushed yourself upright, and the man took a step back, allowed you the space. Your hands shook, trembled, and your fingers were numb, and you brought them up to the sides of your face, covered your eyes and pressed hard, until white spots danced across the backs of your eyelids.

The man eyed you carefully, and then he turned his attention to the bodies.

They were strewn about the room, some in pieces, some still intact, and they were all dead. Their blood pooled and stained the floors, and their innards had spilled out, and their faces had been blown apart, and their limbs were bent and twisted and—

You dropped your hands, and you looked up at him.

He was watching you.

And then, he offered a gloved hand.

You stared at it.

It was large, and the leather was worn and torn and stained, and it was a nice contrast against the muted, olive brown of his skin. Skin littered with cuts and scars and bruises yet so inviting.

You stared at his hand, and you wondered what kind of person could kill three men, gut them and tear them apart without flinching, yet offer a hand so gently.

So kindly.

You stared at his hand, and slowly, you reached for it.

His fingers were warm when they wrapped around yours, despite the fabric that covered them, and he helped you stand, careful not to touch your bruises, brush against the cuts. 

“You live on this floor?”

You nodded.

He hummed and gripped your hand a little tighter. “You gonna show me where it is?”

Your brow furrowed and you winced, heart picking up if only slightly. “What?”

“You need help. You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“But I can manage.”

“You can’t.”

“I’ve managed for this long.”

He snorted. “Not well.”

You frowned, the cut on your lip stung.

“C’mon.”

“I-I don’t even know your name.”

He paused, and the corners of his lips tugged upwards. The linen ruffled again. “Toji.”

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐞 © 2024 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. it is prohibited to reproduce, distribute, or transmit my works in any form or by any means! ﾉ masterlist

@madaqueue (●'◡'●)

[infinite-hearts-333]

Credits:

Au by @onyxonline !!

Zane: @moonspiritleaf

North Heat: @north-heats-stronghold

Sunny: @novalizinpeace

Zelda: @svetikfandomfrom0902

Merrit: @fishy0bishy

Halt thou beast, bare your scales waxed with sins.

Bare your neck.

Here you’ll perish.

Ouroboros.

Ouřa Thorn’s feet barely made a sound as they walked, head hung low as they trailed slow circles around the kitchen island, into the lounge, in front of the tv, before looping back around into the kitchen.

There was a word for this in animals, they vaguely remembered.

Zoochosis. Some form of stress disorder that made them do repeated things to soothe themselves or deal with a problem that they can’t solve.

Ouřa Thorn growled, a low rumble in their throat that echoed in a quiet cackle they heard the birds make back on their planet, stopping beside the door that led them outside to the halls.

Their scales prickled up, sharp, sharp,,

Having to mind how they stood, being careful around those smaller than them, constantly being aware of their large spines and tail..

Ouřa hissed, chomping down on their spiny arm, grinding their sharp teeth into the hard plating. They huffed through their nose, quivering, inhaling and exhaling.

Too unreliable, too dangerous, they really were just a monster.

The thunder of rage from the Beast as their eyes had landed on Zelda- who was not at fault for being infected with red smoke-

Ouřa gritted harder, little drops of blood welling to the surface.

“Thorn?”

Ouřa’s eyes snapped to the movement in the hallway, their back hitting a wall with a thud as they stared.

It was just Merrit.

It was just Merrit.

Why weren’t they breathing?

The Ferret’s brows furrowed, and she slowly lifted her hands. “Thorn? You don't look to good, buddy,”

She started to move over, and faintly Ouřa could hear another door open form the hallway.

No… no, no, they couldn’t let them see them like this.

Ouřa made a muffled panicked noise, jerking away from Merrit, they had gotten close enough to touch (they were SHARP, don’t get CLOSE).

“Merrit? What’s going on?” Came Zane’s voice, half awake and dazed as he flicked on the light.

It was like a flare gun went off.

Ouřa shrieked in agony, tearing their arm from their maw to claw at their eyes- the bright blinding light stunning them as they stumbled back, feeling the edges of their consciousness being tugged at.

And like any frightened animal- Ouřa reached out.

——————————— Zane’s POV ——————————————

To be frank, Zane wasn’t sure what was worse, Ouřa Thorn screaming, or when the howl of agony was suddenly cut off, the large lizard’s voice cracking a little at the end, their body jerking, their head hitting the wall once as they stumbled back.

Merrit was perfectly still, her eyes flicking in concern, as if she was trying to figure out what was exactly happening. She winced at the thud of Thorn hitting their head, reaching out to help again.

Ouřa Thorn must have seen the movement, cause they yank their hands from their face to snarl like a cornered animal, their snout pulled back to bare all their teeth.

Their three large spines catches the light- as Zane jerked a little, just fast enough to yank Merrit back a little at the snap of the lizards teeth - wait- when did Ouřa Thorn have more then three spines?

“Thorn!” Merrit called, worry lacing her voice as fumbled with her hands, half between reaching out again and raising them as if to calm an aggravated animal.

And then something snapped.

Zane froze, feeling his breathes start to quicken as Ouřa Thorn began to change- the lizard they had come to like as a friend rapidly changing, their bones breaking and voice wailling in hoarse crying screams, their spines splitting and growing into skewers, as if the humanity was being drained from them.

Zane couldn’t help but be reminded of Asta- when he had injected himself with the red smoke and had turned into a monster.

“Ah, shit,” Merrit said, seeming familiar with this, as Thorn snarled overhead, now far too large for the room, seeming determined to back themselves into a corner, their tail lashing uncontrollably behind them. It hits the couch, sending it sliding across the room just in time for Sunny, followed closely by Zelda to come into the living room, probably awoken by the noises.

“Oh dear,” Sunny said in a rush, before dashing back down the hall, yelling for North. Zelda watched silently, her eyes wide as the Beast taking up half of their living room, growling and snapping at Merrit every time she tried to get close to calm them down.

“Thorn, Thorn, please, calm down-” Merrit pleaded faintly, as Zane continued to stare, unmoving.

He’d been right.

He knew, from the get go- the staying over, the panicked nature, the weird occurances around the lizard-

He knew something was up with them, and he’d been right.

Zane startled a little at the sensation of something clambering up his arm, jerking and nearly knocking off the large blue spider frantically clambering up his arm. He paused- he’d seen it in Thorn’s room, or occasionally nestled in Oura Thorn’s spines.

It was waving it’s little feeties toward the large beast that was Thorn, chattering frantically. Zane paused, before looking up at Ouřa Thorn, hesitating.

They looked scared.

Sure, they were big- but they were just scared.

Inhaling, Zane offered his hands to the spider, who looked up at him for a second silently before clambering into his hands. Now armed with a blue spider, Zane marched straight past Merrit, to Ouřa Thorn, the spider held out in front of him.

North Heart had finally made it to the chaos of the living room, bed ruffled and confused, before spotting Ouřa Thorn, and then Zane, flaring his wings in slight panic.

“Zane, Merrit, back up NOW,”

Ouřa Thorn had whipped their head to Zane and snarled, their maw opening to reveal a blood red maw of razor sharp teeth and large pointed spines. Their breath still smelt of the mint they had been eating before Zane had headed off to his room for the night.

He smiled faintly, willing all of the fond memories he had of his time with Ouřa Thorn, as the spider made a soft, vibrating purr.

“You're okay,” He mused slowly, shifting the spider into one hand so he could slowly start to reach out to touch Thorn’s large scaled muzzle.

Ouřa Thorn snarled a little, but it was quieter, weaker.

They were just scared, Zane reminded himself, gently rubbing his hand over the scales.

The sharp slits that were Thorn’s pupils slowly started to dilate, their breathes becoming slower, and therefore easier to hear each shaky inhale and exhale.

The spider clambered across Zane’s body so that it could reach his arm on Oura Thorn and nestle in between their eyes, purring with all their might that their abdomen was practically rattling.

Thorn’s eyes flickered over Zane, before their eyes close with a defeated, exhausted huff, pressing their head into the wolf’s body, nearly knocking them over.

The living room was dead silent, before a low, trembled whimper emitted from the larger lizard, their spines quivering as their defences slumped.

Zane looked over to North Heat, who was staring in bewilderment, relief, and pride. “I guess this is their power?” He murmured softly, stroking down the side of the beast’s face, getting a gentle rumble.

“Yeah, how did you get them so calm?” North mused, taking a step closer. Ouřa Thorn’s eyes opened, and they made a low, defensive thunderous growl, one large claw hoarding Zane closer.

Zane squeaked a little, mindfully watching the sharp claws. North took two steps back, hands in the air.

“Unsure, Cap. Um. I think I’m gonna be here a while, could someone get my pillow?”

Sunny snorted, nodding a little. “Sure. I think for safety were all gonna stay out here to make sure spikey here stays calm.” He chimed, nodding at the large lizard, who had settled back down, tail coiling defensively around them.

“Well, I'm gonna get some popcorn then. Doubt anyone will be sleeping for a while.” Zelda huffed, already moving to the kitchen, pulling Merrit with her.

Zane smiled a little, his tail flicking as he got comfy, looking up at his now larger than usual friend.

I wont let you be scared, Thorn. Not anymore.

[whumpsday]

Give the Little Man to the Dogs (Dungeon Meshi fanfic)

Writing masterlist / AO3 link

content: whump, hurt/comfort, starvation, animal attack, captivity, temporary character death, broken bones, autocannibalism, kinda death wish, begging, infected wound, rescue, amputation

Whumpmas in July Day 6: Left Behind

what's this, a fanfic? from me, oc-torturer extraordinaire? i wrote a 4k-word dungeon meshi whumpfic? yes. thank you to @heffawhump to inspiring me with her own chilchuck whump!

(this fic is intended for a whump audience, if you got here from a dungeon meshi search please... be mindful of the tags...)

this is an AU spiraling out from this situation in episode 13:

“A little man, a depths-dweller, a long-legs, and a long-ears! Interesting! I’ve never killed a long-ears before. I’ll handle it.”

As the orcs’ captain spoke, the pressure eased from Chilchuck’s back, where one of the orcs had him pinned to the floor. Before he could even think about running, he found himself lifted by his neck warmer, breathing suddenly a struggle.

Their wargs eyed him hungrily, huge doglike beasts easily more than twice his size, their sharp teeth bared to nip at his feet. He pulled his legs up with an attempt at a gasp, curling himself into a ball.

“Give the little man to the dogs. They’re craving some entertainment,” she continued.

“Wait,” Senshi cut in before Chilchuck could say a word in protest, “You are–”

It all happened so fast.

The captain plunged her spear through Senshi’s throat, his beard suddenly wet with blood.

“Senshi!” Chilchuck shrieked, struggling fruitlessly against the orc’s hold.

“For moles, they don’t put up much of a fight,” The captain remarked. With a sickening squelch, the blood-slick spear pierced the unconscious Laios’ and Marcille’s unarmored chests in turn, before twirling upright and ready in her hand. “Well, long-ears don’t die any way special.”

“No! Stop!” he cried out, his voice growing weaker with his neck warmer digging into his throat. He tried to kick at the orc holding him, hoping it might at the very least surprise him into dropping him, but the orc simply held his arm further out, dangling him above the wargs.

“Enough out of you, mole,” he huffed, giving Chilchuck a little shake that felt like he was being hanged. “Like the captain said, to the dogs.”

He broke away from the group, the captain’s musings on elves barely audible over the rushing in Chilchuck’s ears. Only the wargs followed, as though they understood they’d been promised a treat. Were his esophagus not clamped shut, he might have been sick.

The orc roughly snatched the tool pouch off Chilchuck’s belt and tossed him through a metal-barred gate. Like everywhere in the area, the floor was all hard cobblestone, and the wounds Marcille had freshly healed ached again as he took the fall. He coughed and retched, trying to catch his breath so he could say something, anything, but the orc was gone before he could speak.

He barely had time to push himself to his feet before the dogs followed.

Chilchuck scrambled to the back wall of the warg pen, but it was no use. The orc locked the gate closed and left, trapping him here as the wargs bounded for him.

If his protests had been useless to the orcs, they were even more so against their dogs. A sharp “Stay back!” may as well have been an invitation, the beasts knocking him right back to the floor and not letting up. A giant paw pressed against his abdomen, claws threatening to poke through the protective padding of his vest.

Their teeth did more than threaten. One went for his ear, its gaping maw so close to his face, and tore. Chilchuck screamed as blood burst from the wound, the warg chewing on his flesh and cartilage like a dog bone. Another chomped at his right ankle, the joint uttering a horrible crunch that somehow still failed to capture the agony of it. His boot came loose with it, snapped up in the warg’s fangs.

Somehow, Chilchuck was able to think through it all, a single thought dominating: SURVIVE. As soon as he could wriggle out from under the warg’s paw, he curled up again, protecting his vital organs and weak points. If worst came to worst, he could live without a leg. He couldn’t live without his stomach, his drink-ridden liver, his panic-rapid heart. He balled his hands into fists in a desperate attempt to save his fingers.

He cried into his knees as the dogs bit and tore, his ruined clothes stained redder and redder. The wargs batted him around like a toy, and still he stayed firm, forcing breath after shaking breath.

When the wargs finally got bored and let up, Chilchuck was still alive.

Everything hurt. He had thought the dragon was bad, but that was nothing compared to this. His head was gushing blood; his leg felt like it had been mulched. One of them had broken through his vest and clawed down his back, and the sharp pain whenever he breathed told him a rib or three were broken despite his best efforts. And this time, Marcille wasn’t here to heal him.

His sobbing intensified as he thought of the bodies in the next room. They were dead, but not gone, not yet: they still had time. Chilchuck had been revived enough times himself to know that.

But who would do it? Marcille was dead, and the chances of other adventurers stumbling across them this many floors down were astronomically low. Falin could, but she’d disappeared, and something was wrong with her. Even if she managed to clear her head and make it here, the orcs would just kill her, too.

Falin could get help. If she could somehow make it back to the surface alone, if she could work out that something had happened to them, she could hire another party to come to their rescue, like they’d done for her.

With what money?

Deep down, Chilchuck knew the truth. No one was coming. Namari and Shuro were right, he never should have come on this doomed expedition. Why had he done something so stupid? They’d defeated a dragon and saved Falin against all odds, and they’d all die before they could make it back home to tell the tale.

Unless he managed to escape. Unless he was the one making sure it got done.

Chilchuck sucked in a pained breath, then another. He needed to stop the bleeding before anything else, and all he had were the clothes on his back. Watching the wargs chew on his boots, he carefully ripped one of the sleeves off his shirt, balling it up and pressing it to the side of his head.

It took him longer than it usually would through the haze of pain, but he inventoried.

He had his ruined clothes. Useful as fabric to stop the bleeding. The wargs had taken his boots, his gloves, and his snapped belt, all reduced to chew-toys. Trying to take them back would be suicide, even if the belt was the closest thing he had to a weapon.

Looking around, he could see bones of various shapes and sizes–any of the others in his party would have been able to tell him whether they were human or not, but Chilchuck had no idea. There were three fluffy-looking dog beds made of some sort of pelt, two of them occupied. There were troughs lined up against the side of the pen: one full of water, one scant but for crumbs. Someone would have to come in to refill it at some point.

Chilchuck was fast, but not on a broken ankle. He wouldn’t be able to rush past, he’d be caught immediately if he tried.

The gate itself seemed designed to spite him specifically. The only part of the room not solid rock, its iron grate was still much too small for him to fit through, even at his size. He could stick an arm through, which would be perfect for picking a lock, if it weren’t for two things.

The orc had taken his picking tools, and the lock was twice his height up.

It made sense. If it were lower, the wargs could potentially bite it through the bars, a disaster waiting to happen. But if he tried to climb the grating, even if he managed to keep quiet through the pain, he’d surely draw attention. Even if he didn’t, there was nothing to pick the lock with. That was the first step: he needed something to pick the lock with.

Chilchuck laid there on the hard floor, growing dizzier and dizzier, hoping he would feel better when he woke up.

-

He didn’t.

Chilchuck shot up with a scream as a warg nipped at his injured leg, kicking at it with his good one half-asleep. The warg didn’t like that at all, only clamping down harder on his ankle. A broken cry dragged on as the warg chewed at him experimentally, then released him and went back on over to the others.

He pulled in ragged breaths, trying to get his bearings. He was still trapped in the warg pen, his party still dead. The bleeding had stopped, at least, dried blood caked into his clothes. The ringing in his ruined ear was almost as unbearable as the pain, and his mouth was dry, his throat longing with thirst.

He waited until he could take a clear breath, then shouted: “Oi! Hey! Somebody!”

An orc holding a spear stepped into view, bewildered. “You’re still alive?”

“...Yes.” Chilchuck did his best to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Talking his way out of this was his only option, and he’d never been good at that. He wished Senshi was here. “Now that we’ve established that, let me out of here. You made your point. I’ll take my friends’ bodies and we won’t bother you again.”

And how are you supposed to get them out of here? You could barely carry Marcille without a broken ankle. There’s three of them, they’re all bigger than you, and you can’t walk, his rationality pointed out. But he had to try something. He would figure it out when he got there.

The guard averted his gaze, uncomfortable. “S’not what the captain said to do. You broke into our camp.”

“We weren’t spying on you! We were running through the walls and ended up here by mistake–”

“Listen,” the guard cut him off, “You’re not making it back up to the surface on that leg. You’ve gotta know that.”

“So what?” Chilchuck snapped, shrill. “What are you suggesting?”

“When the captain said to give you to the dogs, she meant as, you know, a one and done deal. Dog food, basically. Now, they’re taking their time with it, which isn’t… great for you. I don’t like doing this, but, uh, if you really want, I could… make it quick?” The guard tapped his spear, still refusing to look him in the eye. “So it doesn’t hurt so much.”

“Don’t you dare come near me with that thing!” Chilchuck grabbed a pebble off the floor and hurled it through the bars, where it bounced harmlessly off the guard’s chest.

The guard shrugged, walking away. “Works for me.”

Chilchuck’s heart pounded. It was an offer, not a threat, but that didn’t make its barbs lodge themselves in his heart any less.

Slow death and quick death couldn’t be his only two options.

If he wanted to live, he’d have to do this himself.

Chilchuck dragged himself over to the wargs’ water trough, clenching his teeth through the sharp spikes twisting in his ankle at every movement and freezing entirely whenever he caught the wargs’ attention. It was slow and agonizing, and when he finally made it there, utterly humiliating. But he did it.

He dipped his head into the trough and drank.

-

On the third day, Chilchuck was awake when the wargs were fed.

It wasn’t anything appetizing, scraps and bits of meat left on bones and animal feed, but his mouth watered at the sight. He hadn’t had anything to eat since they got captured–since he got captured and the rest killed–and he wasn’t as young as he used to be. Two days without food used to be nothing to him.

“Where’s mine?” he asked the guard as the wargs gathered ravenously around their feed.

“You’re not even supposed to be alive, and we barely have enough for ourselves,” he dismissed. “No way the captain’s signing off on wasting food on a dead man right now with how short we are on everything. Offer’s still on the table.”

Chilchuck flipped him off.

“Right,” the guard grumbled. He left Chilchuck there with nothing but the sound of the wargs enjoying their meal.

He had to be patient.

Chilchuck watched them for hours. Even after the wargs abandoned the trough, he waited, biding his time.

It was only when all three wargs appeared fast asleep that he made his move.

As quietly as he could manage, he dragged himself over to the food trough. There was nothing left, really, just crumbs. But if crumbs were all he could get, he had to. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been eating weirder stuff just days ago.

The second he reached a hand inside, a force tackled him to the ground.

A warg pinned him by the chest, a growl low in its throat.

“Fuck,” Chilchuck whispered. He tried to pull away, but he would have had trouble with that even at his fittest.

The warg clamped its maw around his thigh.

Chilchuck wailed, trying desperately to get away, but it was no use. The warg growled and ripped and tore until it managed to bite a chunk of flesh out of him, bloody and raw. It swallowed it happily, trouncing back to bed, where it spat up the piece of fabric it had torn out of his pants.

He panted, a trail of blood following behind him as he pulled himself back to the opposite side of the pen. Another sleeve went as he frantically wrapped his wound, soaked thick with red almost instantly. But there was little else he could do.

Still hungry, he sobbed into the floor until he lost consciousness.

-

Somehow, Chilchuck woke again the next day, a small, sticky puddle under him.

He couldn’t wait for an opportunity anymore. The guard had been clear about what he was: dog food. And if the orcs barely had enough to feed themselves, there was no doubt he would be taken apart piece-by-piece until he died. And if he went much longer without food, he would be too weak to act when an opportunity presented itself anyway.

Biting the inside of his cheek to muffle the evidence of his pain, he picked through the bones littering the floor until he found one small and pointy enough that it might work. It was nowhere near as sophisticated as his usual tools, but it was all he had.

It was lucky that the leg the warg had bitten last night was the same one where his ankle swelled like a balloon. Better to have one real-bad leg and one good one than two gone to shit.

Now, he just had to do this.

He ripped strips from the bottom of his shirt, makeshift cords. He tied his chosen bone to the longest he could find, the leg of something obviously not human, and lifted it up high.

It took incredible concentration for him to feel the motions of his tool so far down from it. It was barely a tool. There was no way this was going to work, but his only other option was to lay there and die, so he did it, hiding the bones whenever someone passed by.

Hours and hours and hours, his leg and ear throbbing, his stomach empty and his arms weak.

By some miracle, after what must have been close to the full day, he heard a click.

With bated breath, Chilchuck carefully pulled the door back.

It opened.

Eyes wide and alert, he undid the cord connecting the two bones, stowing the small one in his pocket and hoisting himself up by the other as a cane. He hobbled out of the cell, looking for an exit: he had no hope of getting his party out of here, he’d have to send help to come back for them–

“Hey! Mole’s out!” This wasn’t the same guard he’d talked to before.

“No! Stay away!” Chilchuck cried. He hobbled away as fast as he could, but the guard caught him with ease, scruffing him like he’d been on the first day. “Stop!”

He wailed, kicking his good leg, but the guard tossed him back into the cell. He screamed as he landed on his bad leg, a shock of agony running through his whole body.

The click as the lock he’d worked for double-digit hours to open closed once more rang through him all night. He couldn’t make the tears stop.

-

The wargs went for him again.

It was two of them this time. One had its jaws around his arm, his better arm, his lockpicking arm. The other gnawed at his bad leg, dangerously close to the wound on his thigh, but not quite there.

Chilchuck didn’t dare move. Neither was ripping chunks out of him, just chewing, like he was some kind of dog toy.

Entertainment, the captain had called him.

He kept his hands clasped over his mouth, trying to keep quiet and still. Even though they weren’t being as violent as they could, they were still rough, and it hurt. He shook, and he couldn’t tell if it was from pain, fear, or all-pervasive hunger. Small whimpers escaped him despite his best efforts.

Eventually, the wargs grew bored and left him gasping on the floor.

Hours later, someone came to take the wargs. It was something Chilchuck had witnessed often, and he didn’t bother appealing for freedom anymore.

But this time was different. They took all three wargs at the same time, something that hadn’t happened since the day he was captured.

It had been four days since he’d last eaten.

Chilchuck dragged himself to the food trough. It was more difficult to move every time he tried, but he’d started leaving himself by the water trough instead of the door for precisely that reason, so at least he was closer.

There were only crumbs in it, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t even muster up the energy to feel humiliated as he dug out every miniscule scrap he could manage, crying at the taste. It was nowhere near enough to fill him up, but it was all he had, and he licked them up like they were the best meal he’d ever tasted.

He was slow. He was slow with everything, now. Slow to move, slow to drink, slow to think.

Terror shot through him as he heard the wargs approaching.

“Wait,” he begged, trying to get away from the food trough. “They–they’ll–they can’t see me. Can’t let ‘em, they’ll bite again, just wait, please.”

The orc outside stopped with his hand on the door. “Oh, uh, sure. Go on, then.”

Chilchuck let out a ragged sigh of relief and made his way back over to the water trough, grunting with every movement. His only mercy, the orc waited as requested until he’d collapsed on the floor to let the wargs back in.

-

Something was happening to his wounds.

They hurt more and more every day, especially the one on his ankle. Pus showed itself among the blood in greater and greater amounts, everything was swollen, and the area all around was angry and red.

It didn’t take an expert to figure it was infected.

Chilchuck was dying. He knew he was dying. Even if he weren’t, he’d be dead soon from something else. Wargs or starvation or something. The only question was what would do him in first.

There was another option, of course. One besides slowly dying of infection or starvation, or being torn apart by the wargs.

The guard’s offer to spear him became more tempting with every moment of agony. He was starting to see how the offer was made in good faith.

And he was considering it.

It could be over, just like that. No more pain, no more hunger. He could join his friends in death sooner rather than later.

His friends lingered in his mind. They were counting on him, the only one who could save them from death. Not that he would be able to succeed in that.

Chilchuck closed his eyes and thought of his daughters.

He knew, as long as he remained coherent enough to picture their faces in his mind, he wouldn’t take the guard’s offer.

But if he wasn’t taking the easy way out, he had to eat something. And if he couldn’t get close to the wargs’ food without being attacked, there was only one thing left to eat.

He curled in on himself to hide his actions from the wargs. He didn’t want them getting any ideas.

Chilchuck had gotten a lot of practice riding through pain in the past week. By some miracle, he managed to keep mostly silent as he methodically gnawed the flesh off his arm.

-

He couldn’t remain conscious for long anymore. He knew that one day soon, he’d stop waking up.

Given that, it was a miracle that on the day marking a week in the wargs’ pen, he was awake to recognize a familiar voice outside the bars.

The other orcs. The ones from the third floor. The ones who were friends with Senshi, who had let them pass through and shared a meal with them. That’s where he knew that voice from.

“Zon!” His voice came out raspy and broken, but he made it as loud as he could. “Zon! Zon, help!”

“Huh?”

There he was, just there, beyond the bars. Zon. The only friendly face he’d seen throughout this whole nightmare. 

“What’re you doing in there?” he asked. He turned to someone Chilchuck couldn’t see. “What’s he doing in there?”

“You know him? That’s a mole who snuck into our camp!” the captain said. “He’s still alive?”

“Zon,” Chilchuck pleaded. “Help.”

Consciousness faded once more.

-

A sharp pain tore through his leg. Chilchuck screamed, awake for only a moment before he went out again.

-

When he woke up, he wasn’t in the warg pen.

He was cradled in strong, fuzzy arms, the world swaying as the person carrying him walked. His ankle hurt more than it usually did, and that was already a pretty high bar. He couldn’t feel his foot.

“Where’m I?” Chilchuck asked.

“You’re safe,” Zon assured him. That’s who was carrying him. His fur was soft and warm, the first nice thing Chilchuck had felt since his capture. “We’re on our way up to the third floor.”

“I’ve got your friends,” Zon’s companion piped up, another orc Chilchuck recognized but couldn’t place a name to. His arms were piled high with the corpses of his party, looking worse for wear after a week. “Also your foot. Still revivable, we think.”

“My–my what?” Chilchuck asked.

“It was infected bad,” Zon explained, “Had to cut it off or you might’ve died before even making it to the surface. Your friend can probably put it back on with her magic once she’s alive again.”

It was something he should have been freaking out about, but he just couldn’t gather the energy. “Okay.”

He watched through half-lidded eyes as they made their way back up to the third floor with an ease his party never could have managed. Zon set him down, and before he knew it, there was a warm bowl of stewed vegetables in his hands.

Chilchuck didn’t even wait to be given a spoon, tears running down his face as he ate.

A large hand gently patted his pack. “There you go. Eat up,” Zon encouraged.

Zon had to leave shortly, but someone else came to take care of him. It was a blur as someone applied a poultice to his wounds and draped a blanket around his shoulders. He mumbled a “Thank you,” trying to keep himself conscious.

Someone tried to take the empty bowl out of his hands, and without even thinking about it, he held it close and growled. The orc chuckled lightheartedly and let him keep it. They didn’t understand how serious it was.

He fell asleep clutching it in his arms.

-

“Chilchuck?” Marcille asked, waving her hand a little. “Are you okay?”

It had been a week since they’d returned to the surface. Chilchuck stared down at his plate. It was the first meal he’d ever eaten made by Senshi outside the dungeon. There were no weird monster ingredients, and it was just as good as his food usually was, even a simple lunch of sandwiches and chicken noodle soup. Chilchuck wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to turn down food again, even the monster stuff.

“Huh? Yeah,” he said. “Why?”

“You got that look again like you’re somewhere else,” Laios supplied helpfully.

“Laios,” Marcille hissed under her breath.

“I’m fine,” Chilchuck insisted.

Senshi patted him on the shoulder and took a seat. Chilchuck could tell he wasn’t fooling anyone. Even Senshi, the most subtle of them, had served him first, and he had a look in his eyes while he did it. Somehow, Chilchuck got the feeling Senshi knew more than he was letting on.

“You guys are really going back down there?” he asked.

“We can’t just leave Falin,” Marcille pointed out.

“The dungeon is my home,” Senshi added. “I don’t like being up here on the surface.”

“Mm.” Chilchuck took another spoonful into his mouth, warm and savory.

He wanted to beg them not to go. He wanted to warn them. But he knew there would be no convincing them, and… he got it. The thought of Falin down there all alone… he wouldn’t want to be left there like that, either. He was lucky he wasn’t. Everyone kept telling him how lucky he was. Lucky he wasn’t dead, lucky he made it home, lucky he didn’t lose more than a foot.

The patch on his arm didn’t match what he’d taken out of it. No matter how much else he ate, he swore he couldn’t make the lingering taste of his own flesh leave.

“Laios?” he piped up.

Laios looked up. “Yeah?”

“Sorry I called you weird for wanting to eat monsters.”

oneshots taglist:

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@whuarri

@reborrowing

@paperprinxe

-

@what-if-i-just-did

everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps​

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@sowhumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

-

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

@lonesome--hunter

@whumpy-wyrms

@alextries

-

@wolfeyedwitch

@starfields08000

event:

@whumpmasinjuly

[madametamma]

One of the things i liked in MAWS, was how much Kryptonite seem dangerous for Kryptonians, in other series and movies it would just make them feel to the ground like they are out of energy or feel weak, but this version make it look like they are really in pain, and i really liked the green veins and bits of it growing on their body. Makes me wonder how would other types of Kryptonite affect them visually, like red, gold, blue or even pink Kryptonite.

I would LOVE to see other colors of Kryptonite in MAWS. It's hard to keep track of which colors have what effects on the character. It seems to change from iteration to iteration The ones I remember are red alters your personality. Silver makes you drunk/stoned. Was it blue or gold that removes powers? Also pink can make you horny, or gay, or make you fall in love, or change your sex? I'm not sure.

Here's some ideas:

1.) One where Clark finds a type of Kryptonite that temporarily takes his powers away and at first he loves it. It's a little embarrassing trying to hide the blue crystals coming out of his skin. (Maybe they pop up close to his eye and he wear sunglasses to cover them. or long sleeves over crystal veins on his arms) But for the first time, he really is a normal man and it's all on his terms because he took the kryptonite knowing how long the effects would last. But of course there's an emergency and he needs his powers ASAP to save the day but it's still a while before they can come back.

2.) Clark gets high off of some kryptonite and Lois and Jimmy have to stay by him so he doesn't wander off.

3.) Jimmy finds some of that "Makes you fall in love/makes you horny" Kryptonite and can't help his curiosity but to try it with Kara with overwhelming results. (Or Lois does that with Clark.)

4.) Something scary. The gang finds themselves in a post apocalyptic alternate dimension that was ravaged by a destruction thirsty Superman who had his personality altered into that of a monster because of some red kryptonite he got infected with. He is pretty much a horror movie monster in this one, with red crystal veins all over his body, and they need to find a way back to their home dimension with our Clark now developing a HUGE phobia of getting infected with personality altering Kryptonite.

5.) Combine them. They're playing around with various different Kryptonites. Jimmy is trapped in his apartment with a Kara who just wants to cuddle. Clark on a Kryptonite high wanders off into an alternate dimension where he's a horrible monster and once he sobers up, he's infected with Blue Kryptonite so he's on the run from his evil AU self with no powers.

[destiny-in-the-universe]

Renegades: RC9GN Infection AU

TW // FLASHING LIGHTS GIF

Good timezone, my lovelies~

So- if anyone remembers my infection AU for RC9GN, I decided to write a little more for that verse! Fair warning: this one might be a little more intense, please be advised before I continue.

Now if anyone remembers the first post I did, the infection comes from an advanced form of the power from the Sorcerer's pearls- once an individual becomes fully infected, they're permanently stuck as stanked monsters and will infect others through contact (saliva for instance- upon being bitten). The story begins when the Ninja is facing off a stanked victim, only to realize they're not turning back and everything gets gradually worse from there.

Pre-Lore Information // Reader Discretion Advised

As mentioned from the original post, the Ninja - Randy Cunningham - was facing off a stanked victim; to his horror however, the stank was not leaving- the victim themself was growing more and more agitated. If anything, it was like dealing with a feral animal, something rabid and certainly not-human. Norrisville High School erupted into chaos. What were they meant to do when even their protector couldn't do anything about it?

Though, it all fell apart from there-

In an attempt to flee from the stanked monster victim, the Ninja was injured; left weaked, he and Howard Weinerman were forced to flee, leaving the city temporarily defenseless. There was nothing to be done.

With the Ninja missing, Norrisville was left to their own devices.

Randy was weak, injured- he hadn't been able to protect them. Leaving Howard to care for him, they eventually ran into Julian which led to an untimely alliance; the trio didn't have a choice but to lay low in an effort to come up with a plan.

Unfortunately for them, nothing would ever be the same again.

TW // Implied/Referenced Gore

Norrisville was slowly becoming overrun with the monsters- they hadn't ever seen anything like this before, and the Ninja was gone; had he been killed? Was there no hope left for them anymore?

The monsters were rabid- like wild creatures lost in their own minds, unable to return to their normal selves. Their eyes were red; pupils looking almost scratched, tainted. Like beasts. A green substance would drip from their maw- a sickly neon green and their body disheveled more. They were quick, almost guided by scent above all else.

Seeing little choice, survivors attempted to flee. They took refuge in secluded areas but others? Well, they dared to fight; believing they couldn't stand by doing nothing else, they armed themselves and decided to take on the monsters, no matter who it was. (they just weren't human anymore)

The boys - Howard, Julian, and Randy - found a cabin; at least then, it would give Randy the time to rest and recover before facing the damage left behind. Norrisville was akin to a wasteland now, and nowhere was safe. Not really.

(They were completely cut off- there was no way to contact anyone. All they had to do was survive)

The guilt was beginning to eat Randy alive- he was stressed and tense, and he began avoiding the nomicon. He couldn't deal with the fact he wasn't able to stop it. He was the Ninja, so then why- why had this happened?

Howard was frustrated, attempting to keep firm that the Ninja would help them.

Julian could only watch, offering support from the sidelines. He hoped it would be enough, but as their resources began getting smaller- they knew a choice would have to be made.

Either they stayed there, as if there was anything left to save- or they had to fight.

Though as it turned out, they weren't the only ones stuck in a rut.

Some ways ahead, the girls - Heidi, Debbie, and Theresa - were seeking refuge in the remains of the school. Debbie was certain if Heidi could simply broadcast a message, eventually someone would come get them. There were monsters. Once their classmates, and now they were something else- and even adults fell victim to the stank.

Unfortunately, their communication was almost entirely cut off.

(No one seemed to be coming)

They were on their own. Debbie took charge as the leader and Heidi was hoping from some news to reach about Howard- even with being siblings, she needed to know he was safe, alive. Theresa, of course, maintained the hope that the Ninja would come.

Even when Debbie attempted to tell her that it was possible this was entirely out of the Ninja's control.

They were completely doomed.

Or so it would seem.

Tag System

renegades au / rc9gn infection au - main tag

renegade fowlham - ship tag for the infection au

[the-night-writer1]

A Bull and his little mouse

This takes place in the Red son of the dead au. Readers aggression is advised.

The night air was cold as Red Boy looked over how much supplies they had left. He wanted to reach the smaller stockhold before Tuesday. Mother had it well stocked for father's return before hell's madness became a threat. So surely that stockhold had medicine, it had too. Mouse wouldn't make it to the fortress stockhold. Plus they didn't have food to get that far. They only had enough for three days a week if he didn't eat.

Red boy wouldn't ask or even let his little mouse not eat. Shanyao needed the food for energy to stay alive. Red boy owed Shan his life after all. The little mouse grabbed him just moments before he could be locked out of shelter amongst the rapidly growing infected. Though that shelter was filled with paranoid assholes. As soon as his little mouse started getting sick they threw him to the curb. Fearing it was hell's madness even though he had no bite,scratch or wound that could lead to it. For fucks sake Mouse stripped Infront of the entire group and they still kicked out.

Thus Red boy left with him taking a enough food to get to the bull family bunker Stockhold in the middle of Megalopolis city. That was three weeks ago and Mouse had only gotten worse. He was loosing the ability to walk for himself and they had to start traveling by ground because he couldn't breathe on the rooftops. As much as Red Boy hated it, they were running out of time.

Each day they wasted was another day closer to mouse dying. He promised mouse, he promised Shanyao that the smaller man see his brother again. Red boy thought back on that promise as he checked on Mouse who was sleeping beside him.

Shanyao's breathing was labored as even while sleeping he couldn't win. Red boy careful pulled him onto the demon's lap to elevate his head and make breathing easier. Just one more day and Red boy be in jumping range. Then they could get the medicine and mouse recover.

"we'll get there soon my little mouse" Red Boy stated softly as he gently ran his fingers through shan's hair.

----

A monsterous roar echoed across the buildings as Red boy and Shanyao reached crimson alley. Much more powerful than a normal brain dead bastard. The voice was carried in the wind as Red Boy shivered.

It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. They were so close, it couldn't be! Red Boy's heart was racing, he only knew one voice that carry in the wind like that. One person alone, a person he knew too well.

Iron fan was infected.

He quickly grabbed Shanyao and ran to cover. Pressing his back against the wall as soon as he felt the slight breeze get harder. He had milliseconds to spare as her teleporting wind brought her right to where they were just standing. Why why why?!

Of all powerful demons and gods who walk among mortals did his mother have to be infected?! Father he could at least out run and as much as he hated the thought Red son would have offed himself to save their mother. He held his breath and held Shan to his chest as he peaked out.

He had to see how decayed she was. He could hear her sniffing the air but mother had a horrible sense of smell. Red boy silently gagged, her eyes looked hollow, she only had one hair horn together. Flesh just hung from her gapping maw as she stared with milky white dead eyes.

Had she eaten his brother? No he'd felt it in the core of his being if his twin had fallen. Yet that thing recently fed. Others were here. Had they tried to raid the stockhold? Had Red son been there? Questions for another time.

Mouse was gasping under his hand and they had to move. He needed a distraction, something to draw it away long enough to jump.

The scream that came from another scavenger farer away gave him the chance he needed. Thank the gods some people were stupid and didn't check for traps. He hosted Shanyao on his back and leaped while it went to feed. Ignoring the tears in his eyes, careful leaps got them to the entrance.

It was still shut tight, thank his brother only family could unlock it. Mouse was coughing again as he ran to the keypad quick and entered the pin. The anniversary date of their first reunion. Hopefully he'd see Red son soon as this was over but for now he needed in.

Those big metal doors opened slowly and Red Boy squeezed in with Shan as soon as he was able too so he could close those doors. He set Shanyao down on the clean cool floor before closing the door. Mouse was coughing bad as the doors shut.

"I know mouse I Know but we made it! We're here love please keep breathing I'll be back as fast as I can" Red boy said as kissed mouse's forehead before sprinting towards the medical storage as quickly as his tired legs could carry him. Mouse first then he could collapse. Then he could absolutely break down but he had to get the medicine for mouse.

He was panting as he got to medical storage grabbing a wall tablet and typing in the systems Shan had. Glad this place had private generators since mother didn't trust the city power grid. He was also grateful for his brother's creation of M. I.B. the medical intelligence Bull clone which was approaching rapidly.

"I'm not the patient follow me!" Red boy ordered leading M.I.B to the barely breathing shanyao was fighting for air at this point,"He's the patient. MIB hurry. Shanyao shanyao stay with me. Come on stay with me! MIB do something!"

[Starting medical procedure] the robotic voice stated as MIB hooked shanyao to an oxygen mask. Which for a moment made Shan hack harder for a good minute before a thick chunk of mucus was puked on to the floor beside them.

The next few minutes or hours were a blur for Red boy. Tears of unknown origin were falling from his eyes before his mind shut off. His mouse was alive and they had what he needed.

---

"Cherry burn, Cherry burn wake up" A familiar voice said softly as Red Boy opened his eyes. Mouse was looking a lot better, color had returned to his face and his fever was gone.

"hey mouse how long was I out?" Red boy ask as he caressed Shanyao's cheek gently. Had Shanyao showered while he was asleep and was there a shower in the stockhold?

"long enough for me to get communication with someone who knows you" Shan said as he coughed in to his hand,"their waiting on the line"

"okay I better get going then" Red said as he got up and walked over to what he assumed was the device Mouse was using to communicate with people outside," hello?"

"Brother! Thank the gods you're still alive"

[fever-project]

What if the LU guys get cursed into beings of endless agony. What then. Idk, I’m kicking and screaming to not get back into my creepypasta phase(I don’t think it’s working) and I finally watched a few mlp infection aus(basically zombie aus). I got inspired. Please ignore the crappy names I gave them, I just felt like I needed to put something there. The colors are also off(I didn’t even properly color Marin, I just blocked out the shapes). I got lore for them ig and reason for why. Yeag

So it’s like an au where the black blood can like, infect people, specifically the Links. Marin, the Dream Granter, comes from Legend’s infection. He gets trapped in a twisted version of Koholint with that thing chasing him around. He has to wake himself up by speed running getting all the instruments and waking the Wind Fish all over again. All the while plant-based body horror is happening to his actual body. Plant-based body horror actually freaks me out so bad, so I can’t draw that hah. But he will free himself in the end and will be coughing up various plant things for weeks. He’s overall fine physically in the end 👍

Warriors is the smallest one I drew, Heroic Face. He’s actually coated in black blood, and crying it out. Eyeless Jack looking mf lamo. He hostile to everyone, but can eventually be talked back into reality. The Links cannot fight him, he’s used to fighting many enemies at once. He keeps mumbling about not being an actual hero, about the war, about how different he is compared to the other Links. So, they enlist in the power of friendship to help snap him out of it. Of course, that’s not all they have to do, they also then need to beat him into next Tuesday. Wars will still be fighting them, he can’t control that, but he will hold himself back for a moments, letting them get a few hits in. At the end, he’s better mentally over all. Physically, he won’t really be able to move much for a while.

Idk how Ravio would work tbh, maybe even after being infected he would act like his usual self for a while. But over time, he’d get more and more aggressive, hating things that bare any sort of resemblance to him. Of course that mean he would eventually go after Legend and the other Links as well. I’d image there is a giant maw under his bunny head, he would try to bite his friends and also just try to attack them any way he can. They have to smash the mirror to finish the first phase, after that he’ll be inconsolable, unable to be reasoned with at all. Before that he’s more aware of what he’s doing, but can’t really stop himself too much. It’s like the opposite of Warriors fight. They still need to beat him into next Tuesday. He’s doing terrible at the end, physically AND mentally. Though being technically a Link, huh.

I’m also thinking of it infecting the Zelda’s as well, but idk yet. Idk if I’ll continue this. Tell me if you want more ig lol.

[activate-shadow-of-the-window]

Okay so this is a little project I started just a few days ago and I’m not done yet, but I’m so pleased with the results so far that I just had to share them! These are five of the fifteen banners of the hermit civilizations of my Horizon to Horizon au, fully designed and colored by yours truly! It’s been way too long since I attempted colored digital art, and since the fantasy bug has me properly infected, I thought that this would be a great opportunity to change that. From right to left, we have the banners of:

Climbing Spires, Cub’s sleek redstone-powered nation of horse-riders and former nomads in a badlands biome built on the sandstone ruins of ages long past

The Maw, Doc’s subterranean industrial powerhouse of miners and machines beneath a rare and treacherous ice spikes biome

Umbra, False’s wooden cyberpunk country of reclusive faeries and outcasts under the shade of a roofed forest

The Watering Hole, Jevin’s neoclassical trading hub of refugee fish-folk and artisans who can’t stand the cold of the north around a freshwater lake

Elsewhere, Joe’s confusing mishmash of anyone and everything seemingly held together by sheer force of will and charisma in the middle of a prairie

Part 1 (this one) | Part 2 | Part 3 | More to come? I will be doing my empires designs eventually, but when is the more important question…

In game banner patterns below the cut

[ryqoshay]

Putting on Hairs: Post Production - Maddening Dreams

Primary Pairing: TsubaHono Rating: T Words: 634 AU: Monsters, Eldritch Beings Prompt: Galaxy

---------

Summary: Honoka dreams of Him

Author's Note: Primary entry for the 15th

---------

Madness.

Darkness. And Despair.

Honoka slid out of bed lethargically. It felt like she hadn’t slept at all.

Another night of dreams.

Dreams of a bubbling, seething chaos. And mouths. So many toothy maws, blindly and hungerly devouring anything that came near. Planets. Stars. Entire galaxies.

They were dreams of Him. The Blind Idiot God. The Daemon Sultan. Azathoth.

The average human would likely be left terrified at best, or suffer enough SAN damage to destroy their minds entirely. However, as the spawn of an Elder Thing, Honoka merely experienced existential dread, and was left exhausted by it.

But why the heck was she dreaming of Azathoth? Elder Things were not descendant of Him. Descendants of Cthulhi like Tsubasa, or of Cthugha like Setsuna should be more affected. It was all quite vexing.

With a sigh, Honoka opted for coffee instead of hot cocoa for the caffeine content. And a sprinkle of ɥʇoƃƃoɥS pǝʇɐɹƃ for an extra boost.

---------

“Honoka-chan! There you are.” Tsubasa poked her head into the café owner’s office. “I’m surprised you’re back here not out on the… oh…”

“Sorry, Tsubasa-chan.” Honoka could barely bring herself to stand and greet her girlfriend with a hug. “I’m not really feeling like myself today.”

“Are you alright?” Tsubasa’s voice was full of concern. “Did you catch Setsuna’s ploƆ?” She placed a hand on Honoka’s forehead.

“I don’t think so.”

“Mmm… yeah, your temp seems fine.” Tsubasa confirmed. “Have you been sleeping alright?”

“About that…”

“Mm?”

“I keep having dreams… about Him.”

“Him?”

“The, uhm… Blind Dreamer.”

Tsubasa’s eyes widened. “What? How? Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, uhm, don’t take this the wrong way, but do you want to stay at my place tonight?” Tsubasa offered. “Perhaps my nature can act as a buffer?”

Honoka smiled. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

---------

Honoka opened her eyes and sighed.

Sadly, it seemed staying at Tsubasa’s place had not prevented the dreams.

Then she noticed a strange shaking sensation. As she focused her sleep addled senses, she realized the woman against whom she was snuggled was trembling.

“Tsubasa-chan?” Honoka pushed herself up to get a better view of her girlfriend’s face.

Terrified eyes skittered toward her.

“Ho… Hon…” Tsubasa raised a quaking hand.

Honoka grabbed Tsubasa’s shoulder, rolled her onto her side and pulled her against her chest. Tsubasa responded by wrapping her arms around Honoka’s waist. Tightly.

“I’m sorry Tsubasa-chan.” Honoka apologized. “I’ve only made it worse.”

Honoka continued to hold her shaking girlfriend, paying no heed to the moisture seeping into her pajama top. Until the trembling and the tears subsided.

---------

“Honoka-san. Hello.” Setsuna answered.

“Hey, Setsuna-chan.”

“You sound terrible, Honoka-san. Oh no! Did you catch my ploƆ? Ayumu-san has the recipe for ʇɐǝH you gave her. I can run and get the ingredients and she can make it if you need. It’s the least I can do after all you did for me.” Setsuna scrambled through her words.

Honoka let out a soft chuckle. “Thank you for your concern, Setsuna-chan. But no, it’s not ploƆ.”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

“I’ve been having dreams of Him. And I’ve infected Tsubasa-chan with them now.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Have you had such dreams?”

“Yes.” Setsuna confirmed. “Let me get in touch with Rina-san and Kotori-san.”

“Kotori-chan?”

“Yeah, they made me a nightmare consuming pillow.” Setsuna explained. “Well, it actually just stores them and Kanata-san and Haruka-san actually do the dream consuming.”

“Somnophores can handle eating eldritch dreams?”

“So it seems.”

“Actually, Kotori-san mentioned she made pillows for you and Umi-san years ago.”

“She did, but they don’t store nightmares.”

“Maybe she and Rina-san can modify your existing pillow?”

“I’ll ask Kotori-chan. And maybe have them make one for Tsubasa-chan as well. Thank you Setsuna-chan.”

“Hope it helps.”

Honoka thanked Setsuna again before hanging up and dialing Kotori.

---------

Author's Note Continued: One of the out of order entries for the ploƆ arc that I mentioned earlier. But I was also able to connect it to yet another entry from a prior Promptober. That said, don't ask me why this was the result for this prompt, other than the fact that I wanted to try to avoid the obvious Sumere reference that I assumed others would use. At least I got to use it as another excuse to write more TubaHonk.

Prior Prompts Used: Dream Hot Choco Coffee Nightmare

[moonamite]

Updated Javier plus Randall sketch plus sneak peek new design

And a slight adjustment to Chet :)

[fieldofdaisiies]

Ultima Ex Nobis | ch. VII

-all rights reserved-

Nessian AU word count: ~2,6k words warnings: mentions of bad mental health summary: Six years into a global pandemic which was caused by a mass fungal infection that turns hosts into zombie-like creatures and makes the whole of Prythian collapse, the former army general Cassian Cadell is tasked with one very special mission – escorting Nesta Archeron, one of the few immune survivors, across a post-apocalyptic Prythian to a group of people of the name L. Their identity  is unknown but they can make an antidote.

masterlist

All Cassian can focus on is Nesta’s bone-shattering scream. He has never ever before heard anything like that — a cry of so much pain and agony, it pierced through his ear drums like a fine needle. Not even in the army have such sounds reached his ears. He can’t even imagine the pain that has just filled Nesta, but there is no time — as much as he wants to— to focus on her. They are here, they have come for them, they have crowded them, have snuck on them despite their awful noises. 

There they are — surrounding them. Clickers. Around five or six or more of those blind creatures —their eyes having been pushed out of the sockets due to the advanced fungal growth— surround them. They use a form of crude echolocation by producing rapid clicking and croaking sounds and now are all around them. 

Two erratically twitching creatures are at Cassian’s side, trying to snatch at him with their moldy hands, sprouting with fungal growth. Under different circumstances Cassian would have been grossed out, grimacing about the state of their body, but disgust is now truly the last thing on his mind. 

Damn it!! Cassian's gun is out of reach, his fingertips are still inches away when he moves his hand back, but has to duck under the arm of one of those fungus fuckers. He dodges the fist that comes flying at him, backs away which puts more distance between him and Nesta and makes dread coil in his gut. His palm has turned sweaty from the rising panic — a feeling the former general is not really used to, unless it comes to Nesta apparently— his damp fingers slip over his gun, not grabbing it. So this is how it's going to go he thinks to himself, fists it is! 

Cassian knows that even without his gun he will fight to the bitter end, fight to protect Nesta. His safety is his priority, the only way to save the world.

A maw of jagged teeth snatches at Cassian, but fueled by the rising anger he lands a blow right into the creatures skewed face. It doesn’t do much harm, the woman only stumbles backwards, but it buys Cassian enough time to wipe his hand on his pants, reach for his gun, load it, and finally pulling the trigger, blowing the bullet right through the in fungus growth covered female’s head. When the bullet has fully perforated the infected brain of his second attacker, the headless body clumsily stumbling backwards before lifelessly falling to the ground, Cassian wastes no second before heading for Nesta — she is the only thing on his mind, the only thing that matters in this moment. Matters more to him than surviving. He steps over the second headless body on the ground, over the dirty, bloody ground, his gaze trained on Nesta while he shoves his gun back into the strap.

She is wreathing on the ground, a dead infected next to her, her knife prodding from its in mold and scaly fungal growth covered head. She is so strong, Cassian thinks, I have truly underestimated Nesta Archeron.

The young woman screams in pain, pressing her hand to her right lower arm. “Nesta.” Cassian falls to his knees, scrambling over to her. Dread collides with utter pain inside the general and he knows he has never felt that way. When Tanwyn died in his arms, he only felt empty. But this time it is panic — and it somehow feels even worse in this moment. Back then he knew there was no bringing her back, right now he knows there is hope for Nesta. Nesta has survived this already, but that does not mean she can do it a second time. There is only hope and Cassian is normally not one to dwell on hope, but that is about to change this very day. 

A sob parts Nesta’s dry lips, she groans loudly and tosses her head back in pain. It hits the hard soil, making her wince even louder. Blood is leaking from the wound, icy heat blazing through her veins and yet she manages to part her lips enough to shout, “Behind you, Cassian!”

The warning has come right in the nick of time, the former general is quick enough to grab his gun, aim it right at the creatures head and pull the trigger. The bling and twitching creature stumbles backwards, his head exploded into a million pieces when Cassian pushes the gun back into its strap. He sucks in a sharp breath, his hands reaching for Nesta. “We need to get you inside the car, Nes. Stay with me.”

Nesta sucks in a sharp breath, wailing through gritted teeth. She shudders and Cassian does not know if it is because of the infection or the fear, both are similarly dreadful and make his chests tighten. 

“Hold on tight, Nes.” Cassian slings his arms under her back and her knees, hoisting her up, holding her to his chest. He throws a glance over his shoulder, hearing the clicking and croaking sounds once again closer and louder. Azriel is fighting one off, reloading his gun while kicking out his foot to shove the being away. Cassian’s attention moves back to Nesta, he holds her tightly in his arms when he hears the familiar sounds of yet another shot. He shivers, his heart beating unsteadily, his chest aching with his inhales.

And relief only comes in slow and tiny waves, never fully reaching him, like you stand to far up on the beach and the water only reaches your toes. 

But they are dead — all six of them. Azriel puts his gun back into the strap, wiping his hands down his pants.

The sun is setting on the horizon, a soft breeze starting to blow below their heads. It carries along the smell of blood and decay and makes bile creep up Cassian's throat. He curls his arms tighter around Nesta, cradling her to his broad chest. “We are nearly there," he tells hers. He sets out again, large steps carrying him over the ground. Nesta head lolls back, cold sweat grazing her skin, her face pale. 

“She got bitten.” Cassian’s shudders when he faces Azriel. On the man’s face appears a gloomy grimace, and he parts his lips, starting to walk. Yet he suddenly stops dead in his tracks, eyes going wide. 

“What the actual fuck?” Azriel's jaw nearly touches the ground and he extends one protective arm, shielding both Cass and Nesta when lifting his other arm, holding the pistole tightly in his scarred hand. 

“Shambler…” Cassian holds Nesta tighter, but not so tight as to hurt her. “I—“ Azriel fires the first shot, taking a step forward but Cassian stops him with his voice. “You cannot get closer Az!”

Azriel whips his head back to Cass, giving him an incredulous look. 

“You can’t get close or their toxic smoke will cause damage. Also you know what happens when they…explode.”

It is true, those Shamblers have to be killed from a far. Now it is disgust that fills Cassian from the the tip of his toes to the top of his head. At this stage — the forth— the infected are basically pustule clusters that often spray acidic gas and spores which can cause severe damage. Cassian has only heard about them, never seen on in real life. Until now. And he knows that they will explode in a cloud of spores that can harm you, and he really does not want to experience this. 

The content of stomach of his sours when regards the oversized head of the stumbling being, his torso covered in dozens of pus spores. The eyes are partly visible but covered by fungual growth and a shudder courses through Cassian’s body.

His brother inclines his head at him and then Azriel reaches one hand back, finally grabbing the big rifle strapped to his back. It wasn’t needed when fighting the Clickers, but now, now it is definitely needed. The only way to defeat this being. Nesta starts coughing, shaking in Cassian’s arms, a gurgling sound erupting form her deep in her throat. “Get back to the car, I’ll take care of him,” Azriel orders. He hefts the rifle into his hands, weighing it for a moment. He fits the gun to his shoulder with graceful simplicity, all his focus on the target and he then without further ado pulls the trigger.

Nesta’s cries are drowned out by the sound of one shot after the other. Cassian is keeping her close to his chest when he heads for the truck, knowing Az is able to handle the situation. 

The Shambler explodes with violent force, emitting a cloud of spores that Cassian is happy none of them is in reach of. 

He starts running again, towards the truck. Holding Nesta up with one arm, Cassian manages to pull open the door, lifting her inside, leaning her against the seat. Nesta’s shoulders hunch, she bends forward, screaming in pain. “It hurts so much!” she cries out, blood leaking from the wound and covering her hand that she presses onto it in a dark red colour. Nesta is visibly sweating, writhing and shaking. Her systems seems to collapse any moment.  

“You got this, Nes,” Cassian says in a soothing pitch and squeezes her thigh. “You are strong, Nesta. You got this.” He climbs into the seat next to her and just a moment later the door on Azriel’s side is pulled open. With more force than needed he pushes the start button of the truck, his foot slamming down on the gas pedal and they are heading off. 

No words have been spoken for at least twenty minutes. They have been driving in absolute silence, save for Nesta’s weeping that makes the crack in Cassian’s heart tear even further open. He somehow questions himself why it hurts him so much, but most importantly he searches for ideas to help her. They have brought medicine, but he doubts anything would help with that. And anyway, most of it has been the in backpack that is somewhere and definitely not with them. 

Nesta’s body knows the infection and now it is fighting against it. Cassian’s hand moves to Nesta’s thigh again, giving her gentle squeeze when he turns to her. “You can do this. We only drive for a little then we will take care of the wound, yes?”

They have to get away from this place. Obviously they don’t know how many more there are, how largely they would be scattered across the area. It will only be safe for them miles away. 

Azriel is driving at full speed, his knuckles turning white from how tightly he holds onto the stirring wheel, his jaw tense. 

“It hurts,” Nesta mumbles, her head dropping to Cassian’s shoulder. He gives her a sidelong glance and only then notices—

“Fuck,” Cassian breathes and it catches Azriel’s attention. The former government spy glimpses at his brother and raises a brow. But Cassian is fully focused on Nesta. He shifts a little, so she can still lean onto him but he also gets a better look at her. Carefully the former general brushes his hand up her lower belly, shoving her shirt aside. There is a large slash that blood is leaking from stretching over her belly. 

Cassian wastes no second before reacting. He leans Nesta back against her seat. Stripping out of his own shirt, and presses it against her belly to stop the blood flow.

“She needs to have the wound cleaned out,” Cassian states, panic ringing in his voice. The content of his stomach sours at the helplessness he is feeling, his heart skipping a few beats, beating in his throat. He finally looks up at Azriel, his breathing suddenly so much heavier.

“I will try to find another stream or lake or something. We stop there. You clean out her wound,” Azriel says, his tone flat, his posture rigid. He is terrified as well, Cassian gathers, understanding his brother’s emotions. 

“Why me? Why should I clean out her wounds?” still Cassian questions then, his gaze moving over Nesta once before looking back at his brother. 

“You know exactly why.” It is a statement, flat and without any emotion.

The sun has nearly fully set by the time they come to a halt. There is a small stream nearby, they had to take a path of the beaten track to get there, but it is fine for now. Azriel has driven around the small area for around twenty minutes, there is no sign of life here. He climbs out first, informing Cass that he will load up the tank while the general should go and wash out Nesta’s wounds. Cassian agrees, a kernel of nervouseness blooming in his chest. He carefully lifts Nesta, whose body has gone fully limp, out of the trunk, hoisting her into his arms and carefully carries her to the stream.

“Nes,” he whispers. Her lips quaver and her chin quivers a little when she blinks open two blood shot eyes. “Yes?”

“I will have to touch you a little. Only your arm and your belly. I promise I won’t hurt you. Please, tell me you are fine with that.”

Nesta’s whole body shudders, her skin clammy with sweat when she stutters a weak yes. 

Cassian softly places her down on the grass, shoving her shirt up and removing his that has been pressed against her skin. He collects a handful of the cool but absolutely clear water —Cassian assumes it comes directly from the mountains close by— and slowly lets it trickle onto her belly. Nesta winces, her breath coming in quick, ragged pants. “I am sorry, Nes.” 

He slowly starts to clean the wound when Azriel arrives with the first aid kit he had in his truck and places it onto the grass next two his two companions. Finding appropriate medical care for this case is difficult, because normally people don’t survive a bite and stay human. Still, Azriel fishes out some pain killers, some cream for wounds and bandages. It has to do for the moment. 

The thick red liquid has stopped flowing, blood clots have formed around the wound that is now partly cleaned. Cassian holds her chin when Azriel lets a pain killer fall into her mouth and pours some water after it. “Swallow, Nesta.”

She does as told, her dry throat working down the pill. Her tears have partly dried on her cheeks, she is still shaking though and Azriel passes Cassian the creamy paste he should put onto her arm and belly. 

Cassian is as careful as if holding a little baby. With soft and slow movements he applies the cream to her wounded skin, carefully working it in so he can put a bandage on. 

When all is fixed, Azriel releases a loud breath. “I really don’t want to dim the mood even more but we have a flat tire. It is too dark to fix it now, I will try my best tomorrow.” “You are shitting me right now, Az, aren’t you?”

Azriel’s expression is somber, his eyes empty when he gives his head a little shake. 

Dread collides with panic inside of Cassian and for the first time in many years he is truly worried. Worried about a woman. And that woman is exactly Nesta Archeron. 

~~~~~~~~~~

tags: @helhjertet @moonlightazriel @aayo-whatt @crushedcloudsx @brekkershadowsinger @girasoli-e-sorrisi @ignite-me @swifti-ed @cassiansbigwingspan @burningsnowleopard @headcanonheadcase @banasheefan56 @a-frog-with-a-laptop

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

The Fallen

ao3

Summary: He finds her too late.

Author's Note: AU from the other one-shots (except maybe Protector) because Leara is married to Ulfric in this fic. If last night's Stay was Rosewing at its corniest, this is Rosewing at its most tragic.

Grab a box of tissues.

#######

       He could not find her.

         Thunder crashed and lightning split the sky in quick succession. The rain was such that the world around him was obscured, shrouded in curtains of ice water. He never had trouble flying through a strun before, but this gale might be enough to ground him. It would have if he was out for any other reason. But he would not be grounded. Not even Alduin himself could have ordered him to land.

         The one Odahviing served was greater than Alduin, and it was for her sake that he weathered this strun.

         Rain slipped between his scales, stinging the skin underneath with frozen teeth. Winds howled with the cries of wolves, ripping and tearing at his wings so that Odahviing could not keep his course. A shadow loomed ahead. Beating his wings against the gale, Odahviing avoided a mountain peak by the fangs of his maw. Hissing, he beat his flight higher, above the jagged teeth of Keizaal’s many strunmah. His wings were numb from cold and wind.

         If he could not find her soon, Odahviing was certain he never would.

         Faintly on the wind, a clear note below the howling wolves, came the familiar, “OD AH—"

         Then silence. Nothing but the strun.

         But it was enough.

         Tearing against the winds, Odahviing wheeled westward. The strun raged across all of Keizaal, drowning the world in frozen waters that would soon ice over, killing the last of the summer greenery and hastening on the bitter winter. Odahviing would face a thousand bitter winters if he could find her.

         Her Thu’um rang from the far west, beyond the city on its arch and the winding range of snow burnt mountains. High above, Odahviing could not see the ground. It was lost in the strun. The fire in his belly raged against the cold. Against the entire situation.

         She should never have ridden out from the Strunkodaav’s city. Not alone. Not after the Vokuntuz.

         With a growl, Odahviing circled the ground. He was near her, he felt the echo of her Thu’um in the air, but the ground was still clouded by the rain, He dared not dive down for fear of crashing.

         The strun was no better on the earth than it was in the sky. His head tucked low to the ground, Odahviing peered through the thickening darkness. Now grounded and near to her, he found his limbs slipping through the icy mud. He crawled low to the ground, his chest and belly sliding through the sludge as he inched forward. Raging yol boiled up in his throat, but Odahviing tampered it down, his ved faas deeper than his rahgot. Where was she? Where was his Dovthurjud?

         Lifting his head into the air, Odahviing shuttered his eyes against the jagged rain, staring into the dark. All around him was the sound of the strun, crushing the gol with hammering liz. She was nearby. He was certain. Perhaps, now—

         “LAAS YAH NIIR DOV AH KIIN!”

         The raging strun drowned out his Thu’im, but – yes, he was close enough.

         Slowly, careful not to slip, Odahviing crawled across the frozen gol. She was there, long stretches of the wing away, but he could see the faint smear of red light that was her soul, shining out despite the veil of rain. Burning, brilliant . . . unmoving. The ved faas gnawing at his zii bit harder, infecting him with a cold poison that ate at his bones. She was so near yet still so far. What happened? Why did she not move?

         Like a worm struggling through the mud, Odahviing clawed his way through the strun and gol toward her, his eyes never wavering from her even as the effects of his Zii Koraav were washed away by the rain. Tiid unslaad passed in his struggle to reach her. The lok ahrk gol could wash away in the ahzid strun, but he would still inch toward her. His lokaal . . . his mid to her drove him forward. It would always drive him forward.

         There was no fanfare when he reached her, his skin stung numb and his underside caked in icy earth. Odahviing gave no thought to himself once he saw her, shining silver and supine on the stones. Heedless, Odahviing scrabbled to her side, his legs slipping and his wings, frozen and trembling, dragging beside him. Then he was at her side, his great horned head held over her small form to shield her from the biting rain.

         “Ysmir,” he said, his voice washed away by the strun.

         She was still, her hair unbound and strewn through the mud in a dark halo. Gently, Odahviing lowered his snout to her chest, flicking his tongue and tasting the air around her.

         Bein! Krent qeth ahrk mahlaan sos!

         “Ysmir, Konziiyol.”

         He bowed his head closer to hers, as closely as he could. Her skin was liz, marbled ice. But there was nothing else. Nothing more. The light that drew him to her from across the strun lok se Keizaal was . . .

         It was. Not.

         Against the heavy rain and the winds buffeting at the nearby cliff face, Odahviing coiled himself around her, a shield and a protector against the winter fury of the strun. He did not know what else to do. His zii felt . . . tempered, weak as if somehow subdued. As he settled his head beside her, his wing spread to blanket her from rain, he knew that it was. The pure firelight burning within him had been snuffed out, blown away by . . .

         Dur Vokuntuz!

         Ved yol raged in his zii in the absence of her kun, gnawing at his bones with a burning rahgot for the ruth Vokuntuz and her dur bahlok! Ruth ek!

         It was only the need to guard his Dovthurjud now that kept Odahviing from braving the strun again and hunting down the lir. But he would. He would find her in whatever hole she dug herself into and devour her as Alduin once devoured sillesejoor in Sovngarde!

         But his burning rage dampened into an ache as he stared at her still face and prone limbs. He remembered her laughing face, the graceful smile that curved across her face whenever he answered her call. He always answered her call. He—

         The rage boiled again, this time at himself. He failed her. He did not protect her as she needed and now she was gone. His Kunziiyol was gone.

         He remembered her face, bright and full of light like the yunvu whenever he saw her. When she returned from Sovngarde, limping but euphoric in her victory over Alduin’s thur. She was beautiful then. Worthy to be Judsedov. Demanding his loyalty and protection. And he gave it, even when she did not understand her significance to the dov, to him. Even when she bound herself to the mey Strunkodaav.

         A deep growl rumbled in his throat, in tune with the thunder crashing overhead. The Stunkodaav failed her. The mey joor failed the vahdin who loved him. Who chose him over the skies of Keizaal and the worship of the dov! Who trusted him! Some ahmul. Some ahmul! Odahviing was not always there to keep her from danger, but as her ahmul, the Strunkodaav’s first oath to her was one of protection. Midrot kren! Once he devoured the Vokuntuz, he would—

         He remembered her face, her joyful eyes when she first told him she was with child. When she first introduced him to Kendov and later, Kaandrem. Her kiir.

         They were without her now.

         His rage turned again. Inward once more. Their monah was gone. He could not take the mal geinn’ bormah too. His Kunziiyol would not like that.

         He flexed his claws in the frozen mud, restless. Once the storm abated, he would bear her to her family one last time. A final flight. Then he would take wing again, his hunger for the Vokuntuz’s soul driving him.

         Coiled around his Dovthurjud, Odahviing made plans. He would hunt the Vokuntuz to her own death, but he knew he could not do it alone. He needed someone with a joor slen to weed her out. The lir was a shadow walker, an assassin’s blade. She would smell him on the wind and scurry into her hold. He could claw open the face of the gol to find her, but such destructive measures would make his Dovthurjud frown. She always handled things so delicately, so carefully. Everything. . . . except this hunt, it seemed. No, he needed a lighter touch, and for that, Odahviing would need Miraak.

         The Traitor, granted mercy by the Judsedov. Others would try to understand the bahlok nahkriin burning through Odahviing, but Miraak alone would share it. After all, hadn’t he also loved and lost the Dovahkiin to the Strunkodaav?

         No heart burned hotter than a dovah’s, and Odahviing’s was an inferno that threatened to consume him. He would not allow it to do so, but he would devour the one who hurt his Kunziiyol. He would burn the Vokuntuz’s world to ash.

·•★•·

Dovahzul:

Ahmul – husband

Ahzid Strun – bitter storm

Bahlok – hunger

Bein – foul

Bormah – father

Dovah/dov – dragon/dragons

Dovahkiin – Dragonborn

Dovthurjud – High Queen Over the Dragons (lit. Dragons’ Overlord Queen)

Dur – cursed

Gol – earth

Joor – mortal

Judsedov – Queen of the Dragons

Kaandrem – Kyneiren Stormcloak (lit. Kyne’s Peace)

Keizaal – Skyrim

Kendov – Martin Stormcloak (lit. Warrior)

Kiir – children

Krent qeth – broken bone

Kun – goodness, light

Kunziiyol – Pure Fire Heart (lit. good/light fire soul)

Laas Yah Niir – Aura Whisper Shout

Lir – vermin

Liz – ice

Lok ahrk gol – Heaven and earth (an expression)

Lokaal – love (from the Legacy Dictionary)

Mahlaan sos – spilled blood (lit. fallen blood)

Mal Geinn – little ones

Mey – foolish

Mid – loyalty

Midrot kren – Oathbreaker

Monah – mother

Nahkriin – vengeance

Rahgot – anger

Ruth – damned

Ruth ek – damn her

Sillesejoor – mortal souls

Slen – body, flesh

Strun – storm

Strunkodaav – Ulfric Stormcloak (lit. Storm Bear)

Strunmah – mountains

Thu’um – Voice, Dragon Shout

Thur – tyranny

Tiid Unslaad – Time Eternal

Vahdin – woman

Ved – black

Ved Faas – Despair (lit. black fear)

Vokuntuz – Artanis Felagund (lit. Shadow Blade)

Yol – fire

Yunvu – new dawn (“yun” taken from Legacy Dictionary)

Zii – spirit

Zii Koraav – Aura Whisper (lit. Spirit Sight)

[words-are-fireproof]

Blood Upon the Snow: Seven Years Post Outbreak (1)

Summary: Joel meets a group in the forest outside of Boston.

Content/Warnings: canon typical violence, hunters come with their own warning, Joel comes with his own warning, death, guns, canon disabled character, disabled original character.

A/N: My timeline is all over the place, but I don't care. So consider this to be slightly AU at this point. Thank you to @wyn-n-tonic for listening to me moan about this story for weeks now. Thank you for looking it over, too.

Word Count: 1.2k

[Masterlist] || [Series Masterlist] || Part One || Part Three

-----

Dark eyes peered down the scope of a hunting rifle. The sounds of the forest behind him buzzed with the low, muffled sounds of animal life. They were easy to ignore. With the fresh snow that had fallen the night before, he could barely hear them.

He should be worried; any manner of creature could sneak up behind him, clickers included, and he wouldn’t know it until it was too late. He tried to ignore that thought as it sent a light tremor down his spine. Years spent fighting the infected and other hunter groups should’ve made him care a bit more about his self-preservation, but he found he couldn’t care less. If he were to go out, his body dragged across the snow, turning the white crimson with his spilled blood, so be it. 

A sharp pop pulled his focus down the barrel of the gun again. A body some yards in front of him fell to the ground and in his confusion–unable to hear the yells in front of him, their gaping maws the only indication of talking–he didn't know what to do or where to go. So, he watched. Watched the leader of the small mass of bodies yelling muffled orders as the band of inept gunmen fired aimlessly in the hopes of meeting their target. 

Then he saw the hunters. A stealthy throng of people with well kept rifles appeared from the shadows of the forest. Another sharp pop and another body fell. He didn't know either group. No face looked familiar from this distance. The ragged and dirty clothing didn't offer any identification. No patches. They weren't Fireflies. They definitely weren’t FEDRA. They were just…people. Trying to survive. 

And doing a poor job of it. 

He had two choices–one, the most logical one, had him turning around and returning to his own camp. Two, the one most likely to get him killed, had him going to help. Both viable options. Neither sounded appealing. 

Joel Miller lifted his rifle, trained it on a hunter, and fired. The sound triggered a bout of tinnitus, his ears ringing with a high pitched squeal that made his fists clench around his rifle. But he had no time to let his frustration get the better of him. One hunter down. Four more to go. All bodies present looked around in equal parts fear and confusion. 

He took another shot. The ambushed party fought back, another hunter falling in the snow. He stood with a wince, his knees cracking unpleasantly as he took off in a sprint. The last hunter fell before he could fire off another round. Relief spread warmly through his chest as he approached the hapless band of travelers. The pocket of air lingering around them felt warm and sticky with the humidity of breath pluming around them and the anxiety pulsing between them. The smell of iron filled his nose. It barely phased him anymore. 

“Thank you,” the nicety caught him off guard. Hardly anyone used those words anymore. The ones who did usually weren’t to be trusted. 

He shrugged. “Looked like you needed help.” 

From the corner of his eye, he noticed a woman and the person he assumed served as her interpreter. Her hands moved quickly but rather hidden behind the bodies of the other members of the group. He tried not to stare at them, and if he found himself staring at her, then so be it. Even before…seeing sign language was rare, even in his large hometown. He often wondered if the Deaf community hid themselves away from society, in plain sight, the perfect disappearing act. 

The silence between him and the rest of the group ebbed awkwardly. If they lingered any longer, they’d be picked off one by one. 

“We’d better get going,” a burly man announced in a loud and largely muffled voice to his left. Joel was right. Clearly he was the leader. 

“Where are you trying to go?” Joel asked quietly. Years of sneaking around taught him how to be silent when it mattered. 

He’d just taken down a group of hunters. Others were bound to be somewhere nearby. 

“Boston,” a clearer voice, female, rang clearly to his right. 

“Nothing good in Boston.” 

His gaze flicked to the woman and her interpreter again. Her eyes watched her interpreter’s hands closely, but he swore he felt her hazel eyed gaze land on him more than once. He tried to ignore it, and her, but the way her hands moved mesmerized him despite his best interest. 

“We’re trying to reach the quarantine zone,” another voice sounded among the group. He couldn’t tell the direction it came from which meant it came from around his bad side. 

He sighed with a sharp frown, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re about forty miles from there. Clickers and hunters are all around these parts. Good luck getting through.” 

A murmur rippled through them as Joel shifted in the snow. The hair on the back of his neck raised. Something felt weird. He couldn’t describe it. It just felt off. He couldn’t be sure if it was a hunter or one of the infected. Or it could be an animal stalking its prey. When the first of the infection hit, the zoos remained locked up, the most dangerous animals safe behind iron bars. But slowly the animals were released or died or the bars rotted away. There was no telling what stalked the woody areas outside the quarantine zone. 

The burly man he immediately pegged as the leader turned to speak to the group. Joel waited, mulling on the dilemma presented before him. He could help. He could ferry them safely to Boston. He knew all the back trails and nonpatroled areas. He had a safehouse not but a few miles from where they stood, hidden behind vines and overgrown bushes, an old homestead that his own people knew about but couldn’t pinpoint if they tried. He had another much closer to the QZ and one further off he could use to throw the hunters off. A two day’s hike with semi-experienced survivors didn’t appeal to him. But if he didn’t help, they’d be picked off easily. One by one. Until there was no one left. 

The hazel eyed deaf woman would be the first to go.

“Forty miles in which direction?” 

He pointed to the north. “Sun’s about to set. You won’t get far tonight.” 

“What’s your suggestion?” 

He let out a long breath. “I have a safehouse. Ten miles in the opposite direction. We’ll get there before the sun sets.” The leader opened his mouth to say something, but Joel cut him off. “One time offer. Take it or leave it.” 

The leader glanced between his group, his red, beady eyed gaze bouncing between everyone. Joel’s own dark gaze avoided his, settling on the woman as she said something to her interpreter. The interpreter turned to the leader. 

“We shouldn’t go with him,” he said, repeating what the deaf woman had signed.

That didn’t surprise him. He wouldn’t trust himself if he met himself in a snowy forest. “Tell your friend this is the only offer I’m giving you.” 

She frowned, eyes narrowing as she shot off something obscene. He didn’t need to know sign language to know that she said something untoward. She could talk all she wanted. It didn’t make a difference to him. 

“We’ll go with you,” the leader finally acquiesced. “We’ll kill you if you try anything.” 

Joel wanted to see him try. 

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

THE PAINT DOESN’T MOVE THE WAY THE LIGHT REFLECTS ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; when the king puts you under the supervision of a dashing knight, you promise to make his job as difficult as possible. unfortunately, suguru geto is the patient sort.

word count; 21.1k (this accidentally turned into a novella idk how it happened either nobody look at me 💔)

contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader, knight!sugu x royalty!reader, royalty au (not accurate to any time period ever), technically a bodyguard au, slowburn, reader is a brat and suguru likes it a little more than he should, reader also has thinly veiled daddy issues, protective sugu :3, he goes feral in one part (descriptions of violence and bloodshed), reader gets briefly kidnapped lol, very fluffy overall though!!, includes shifting povs & time-skips, also lots and lots of devotion, knight!sugu is real & beautiful & loves you specifically <33

a/n; HAPPY late BDAY SUGU MY BABY THE LOVE OF MY LIFE this fic has been in the works for a WHILE now and means a lot to me much like sugu himself :’3 dedicated to my beloved @kissxcore for infecting me w this concept & also my dear @mossmurdock for bringing knight!sugu into my life, both of u have made the brainrot infinitely worse and i will never be free (and ofc @softgirlgonehaywire & @dollsuguru & @jtkys for being the sweetest always) I LOVE U ALL!!!!!!!!

like most things, it begins and ends with a dream.

images form in the depths of your subconscious, wild and vivid, splattering on the canvas of your mind. a dream of cold metal, dark thickets, iron-scented skin — and a knight. 

(or… a wolf?)

before you is a small clearing. trees sprout from the rugged grounds, blooming proudly, clogging up the wool-coated sky. all around you lie empty, discarded suits of armor, dirty with rust and something that smells of death. wilted sunflowers stumble under their own weight, and dragonflies buzz in a frenzy, manic, driven to hysteria. in the distance you think you hear the shrieking of ravens.

and there’s a knight, just ahead, tall and imposing, covered in steel from head to toe. holding a blinding sword, facing the sky, doing nothing to stop the pitter patter of raindrops ricocheting off his burganet. you stand by the entrance of the woods, and watch him in silence. 

he looks a little lonely. 

and in comes the wolf. gracious, growling, big and bad, snarling and showing off the white of its fangs. dragging its claws against the ground, unruly fur ruffled by the harsh breeze; widening its maw, a silent fury on its tongue. from this angle, it looks a little like a grin.

the wolf begins to chase the knight. or maybe it’s the knight chasing the wolf — you can’t really tell. they run in circles around each other, like the sun and the moon, an orbit of violence, matching their steps. almost in harmony — almost, but not quite, because suddenly they’re closing in on you, great and ugly, beasts wearing different hides, and —

and that’s when you wake up.

”your highness!” 

a groan pushes past your lips, groggy with fatigue, and your eyelids flicker open like the drawing of a flimsy curtain. a series of mismatched little blinks, until your vision clears. 

above you waits a familiar face. impatient. one of the maids, your foggy brain tells you — and she isn’t pleased. but all you do is drag your limbs up to cover your pillow-creased face, sluggishly, muttering beneath your breath.

”a wolf…”

silence. 

the maid tilts her head, with a furrow of her brows. 

”… excuse me?”

”there was a wolf,” you echo, a dreamy exhale muffled against the skin of your palm. stifling a yawn. ”and a guy… he was cool.” 

she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. settling back into her usual rhythm. mildy berating. ”did you have another one of your dreams?” she asks, a little irritated, and for a second you think you hear a tick-tock ticking down. ”at any rate — you need to get up. the king and queen demand your presence.”

ah. of course.

a huff, displeased, even as you force yourself into a sitting position. stretching your limbs like a grumpy feline. ”demands…” you murmur, a click of your tongue. ”they think they can just wake me up whenever they want? at the crack of dawn?”

”it’s 11 a.m, your highness.”

”early as hell,” you rasp, willfully tuning out her murmur of mind your language. letting your legs hang off the bed. ”what do they want, anyway?”

following your silent cue, she hums, walking towards the edge of the room. picking up your discarded blouse, and bringing it to you. ”i was told it was of utmost importance,” is all she says, lifting the fabric as if getting ready to dress you.

”i can do that myself,” you hiss, snatching the white silk from her outstretched hands. as always, she does nothing but sigh, sigh, sigh. it’s all they ever do. ”i’m not a toddler.”

from your position, still cozied up in bed, on messy sheets and fluffy pillows — you can see the view beyond your translucent window’s glass. a sky so gray it’s almost comforting, dark clouds forming in the distance, silently ruminating. when the maid pushes it open, and a cold breeze slips through the gap, you can smell the rain. heavy, earthy, daffodils and oak wood. in the distance, sunflower fields seek shelter from the downpour. 

but your eyes remain glued to the woods. far ahead, but still close enough to see — the woods you long for. the ones you’ll never get to see up close. 

a bitter taste blooms on your tongue. 

(spitefully, your teeth sink into the tender flesh of your bottom lip.)

”fine,” comes a heavy sigh, ruefully resigned. forcing yourself into compliancy. before you can change your mind, you hop off the mattress, running your fingers through tousled strands of hair. ”i’ll go see them.”

and she brightens. visibly, disapproving frown smoothed away with the breeze — for now. ”thank you. they are worried, i’ll have you know.”

a scoff, as you cross the threshold of your private quarters. laced with humour. ”i bet they are.” 

”your highness,” she calls, following close behind. her tone is reprimanding, now. you will yourself not to shrink. ”we almost lost you.”

”i almost got kidnapped,” you huff. ”not the same thing.”

again, that exasperated sigh. it’s a wonder her lungs haven’t run out of air.

”do you have any idea who that man was?” 

the question makes your mind still. shifting gears, a clockwork coming to life, repeating it inside your head — do you have any idea who that man was? 

”… he was hot.”

a sigh. the loudest one yet. you hear it before it comes, and raise your lips on instinct. 

”no, i mean it!” you ensure her, throwing a fleeting glance behind you. ”he just had that rugged look about him, you know? the scar and everything…” a blissful little exhale, as you gush over your would-be killer. ”what a waste. if only he had gotten away.”

”with you in tow?” the maid quips, raising a brow. her words are steeped in irony.

”of course!” another disapproving glance. ”i mean, did you see those biceps —”

”behave.”

with a flutter of your puffy sleeves, you turn around to face her. and ah, there it is. the hardness of her jaw, those frosty pupils, the impending signs of her dwindling patience — you can see it, hear it, that eerie tick-tock signaling the breaching of her limit.

all humans have one. a clockwork heart, of sorts, ticking down to the moment they run out of leftover kindness to give unruly heirs. over the years, you’ve gotten expertly good at making the clock tick quicken. a skill you’re very proud of.

”and what if i don’t?” you bite back, just barely restraining your growing grin. delighted at the attention. ”he had nice biceps! what, am i not allowed to tell the truth?”

and the tick-tock quickens. she stills, just behind you, hands on her hips. frustration bubbling beneath sharp syllables. ”my god, you are impossible today!”

for a moment, you stop to look at her. weighing your options. should you reel it back in, try and appease her? or keep pushing?

the answer, as always, is push. it’s all you’ll ever do.

so you turn on your heel, and take a step forward, a spiteful grin curved into your lips. ”deal with it, or leave.” a beat. ”i don’t remember asking you to accompany me.”

before you round the corner, your ears pick up on one final harsh sigh. she makes no move to follow you.

(hmph.)

”where is your maid?”

in front of you stands a throne, proud and luxurious, polished marble, two seats right next to each other. the quarters of the royal pair are the same as always, vivid paintings hanging from every wall in sight, wolf pelts thrown over tables and windowsills. the scent of dried lavender seeps through the air, suffocating you. 

and, of course, the king. speaking to you with the same judgemental voice as always; one you’ve grown painfully accustomed to. 

”i wanted her to get me breakfast,” is the lie you decide on, finely tailored in white. just to make sure she doesn’t get into any actual trouble. ”you didn’t exactly give me time to eat any.”

the king sighs, mild disappointment laced into the breath. nothing new. when he says your name, it comes out sounding like a bad joke. ” — you aren’t a child anymore. one day you’ll be ruling this kingdom; forcing the maids to do your bidding won’t win you any favours.” 

”mhm.” absently, you fidget with the sleeves of your blouse. not quite listening. ”so, what did you want? it’s not often i’m allowed here.”

an evil glint shines in your eyes, for a moment. you cast a meaningful glance at the maid by your father’s side — his personal favorite. 

”don’t you have, ah…” you taste the words on your tongue. ”more pressing matters to attend to?”

he doesn’t flinch. as always, he pretends not to know that you know — that everyone knows. 

yet he still gives you that cold, cold look, colder than the howls of wind beyond the castle walls, cold enough to send a shiver down your spine. it makes you want to push, push, push. break the clockwork in half.

but he’s wise enough to follow your lead. “let me get to the point, then,” he cranes his neck, showing off the fox pelt snug around his shoulders. ”the queen and i thought it best to hire a new knight for you.”

you blink. eyelashes fluttering. all you can hear is the pitter patter of rain against the windowpane. 

then you groan.

”another one?” you whine, barely resisting the urge to stomp your feet on the floor. ”please, no. it’s such a pain getting rid of them. you know they won’t last long!”

”we aren’t talking about any ordinary knight,” he tuts, as monotone as ever. ignoring your little temper tantrum. ”after what happened with toji zenin, we aren’t taking any chances.”

you tilt your head. confused, for a moment. ”toji?” the gears of your mind turn, clicking into place; zenin. a family of assassins, a man with a scar on his bottom lip. ”ohhh — the hottie.”

your father pretends not to hear you. 

”it was a close call,” he hums, and you muster the strength not to crack another joke about his biceps. it takes restraint. ”we need someone who can protect you properly. indefinitely, from even the stealthiest of assassins. so…”

your eyes meet his. gazes overlapping, the same colour, one above and one below. he’s always, always towered over you. for as long as you remember. 

that is what royalty means — absolute dominion. 

(it makes you want to curl into a ball.)

”today, you’ll be meeting with the greatest knight.” he says the words with an odd sense of pride, an inner satisfaction. ”he’ll be here any moment. i thought it best for you to get acquainted as soon as possible.”

a moment passes. you’re broken out of your bout of compliance, like a rubber band snapping. a clock tick quickening. ”wait, what?” you gape. ”father —”

”your majesty.” 

…

the correction is stern. gritting your teeth, you force the words from out your throat. ”… your majesty,” there’s a slight grumble to your voice, ”what the hell? now? i haven’t even —”

”you have no choice in this matter,” he cuts you off. coldly, coldly, coldly. ”behave, and there won’t be any complications.”

behave.

behave, behave, behave. it’s all they ever want from you.

(you might as well be a pet.)

the queen is silent, as always. eerily so, not saying a word, like a puppet on a string. she hasn’t looked you in the eye even once so far, not even a passing glance. not like you’d expect her to. her clockwork heart stopped beating for you a long time ago. 

automatons, the both of them. making decisions for you, like there isn’t a sliver of rational thought in your brain. how irritating.

you’re just about to part your lips, when —

”… am i interrupting?”

you still.

a velvety voice. silky, smooth, tailored by the finest seamstress — tucked between the slightest raspy vowel, a hint of something deeper. it sounds like honey, wine, a molten mass of spring clouds. 

the king ahead of you brightens, suddenly, lips curling up into a smile. it looks almost warm; you didn’t know he was capable of making that kind of expression. ”ah, suguru!” he calls out to the source of the noise. ”no, certainly not. forgive me for the short notice.”

when you turn around, you see a knight.

he’s beautiful. gorgeous, even. fair skin, sharp facial features, no scars to be seen. a sword hangs in a scabbard by his hip, and he��s wearing a set of armor, still glistening with the aftermaths of the rain beating down outside. his hair cascades down the metal like a black river, loose and silky, a single strand obscuring his pretty face. and his eyes are a soothing shade of brown; you’re almost certain they’d look warm, if there was any sunlight to engulf them. as it is, in the shadow of a murky spring morning, they’re a dark cedar, almost obsidian. but they look kind. 

and they’re fixed on the king. he’s smiling, too, a dangerous little tilt. disgustingly charming. he hangs his head in a bow, hand on his heart — reverent.

(ah. he’s one of those knights.)

”my king,” the strange knight greets, tongue wrapping around the vowels like a dragon curling around a pile of gold. ”not at all. i’m always grateful for an opportunity to see you.”

(oh god. it’s even worse than you thought.)

”i should say the same of you,” the king echoes, with a warmth that you’re wholly unaccustomed to. your stomach churns, swirling with discomfort. ”our nation’s pride and joy.”

the knight chuckles; muffled by his closed fist. he’s feigning embarrassment, you can tell. ”you flatter me,” he purrs, words flowing smoothly from his lips. too smoothly. ”i’m simply doing my duty as one of your subjects. though, needless to say — i’m honoured to have earned your respect.”

finally, his gaze shifts to you. and you think he must notice how disgusted you are, the reproach you feel for him, that silent contempt. because you aren’t trying to hide it; it’s there, clear as day, in the crease of your brow, your frosty pupils. lips pursed, like they’re aching to bare and to bite.

but he continues to smile. warm, still, like a mellow summer breeze. a well of pizzicato drops.

you feel a little nauseous.

”ah, and you must be the royal heir?” a tilt of his head, knowing. a shimmer of recognition painted in those ashen eyes. ”or should i say…. my liege.” 

he walks towards you, in long strides, slow and steady, only to get down on one knee. ew.

”forgive me. my name is suguru geto — your knight, from this day forth.” his palm unfurls, cedar eyes crinkling with feigned endearment. holding it out towards the subject of his newfound devotion. ”i’m delighted to finally meet you.”

(suguru geto.

you’ve heard of him, of course. who hasn’t?)

his hand stills in the air, waiting patiently for yours. waiting to bring it to his glossy lips. but you don’t do anything — nothing, other than to study his smile, picture perfect, tailor-made, sweet enough to melt on your tongue. so sweet you know it must be at least a little bit fake — the smile of a liar. 

it’s a smile you know well.

so you mimic it, a bitter glint in your eyes, only for your hands to retreat to your pockets. and out comes a purr. ”you’re a bad actor.”

silence. the knight doesn’t flinch, not even close, but he blinks, a flutter of his dark eyelashes. like a raven taking flight. that everlasting smile never falters, but for just a second, a clock-tick or two, you swear you catch the slightest hint of something flickering through his keen iris.

interest?

”forgive them, suguru,” the king is quick to chip in, finally stepping down from his throne to join you on the floor. the queen doesn’t move, but she gives suguru a fond smile, and it makes your grimace deepen. ”they woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning. and they’re a bit of a problem child — i’m sure you’ve heard.”

that makes you snicker, silently. maybe just a little bit smug. you’re sure it must be a headache for him to deal with.

”i can’t say i haven’t,” suguru chuckles, raising himself up from the marble floor. your smile falls. ”but it’s not an issue. i understand.”

he looks at you, really looks at you, and you give him an unimpressed stare. wholly disinterested. trying not to squirm under his scrutiny. 

”i’m sure it must feel suffocating — being under this kind of supervision.” he gives you a tilt of his head, strands of charcoal following the movement. smooth, like a waltz, one you didn’t agree to. ”isn’t it?”

ah. the sympathy card.

before you can answer, he bows; hand on his heart. knights and their rituals. ”i’m at your service, my liege. if i make you uncomfortable, at any point, just tell me.” once more, he meets your gaze, a sincerity in his own — reserved just for you. ”really.”

… ugh.

to your right comes a pleased voice, deep and satisfied, as self-affirming as ever. ”i knew i could entrust them to you,” the king speaks, placing a palm on your shoulder. you try not to flinch. ”aren’t you grateful? this handsome, kind man is all yours.”

a sharp scoff is all you can muster, nails digging into the skin of your palm. but suguru only chuckles, good-natured.

they continue to speak, about this and that. you tune out most of it, caught up in preparing for the long headache ahead. sure, you’re an expert at getting knights to quit, but it takes time. weeks, sometimes, just to make them finally crack, push and push until their patience reaches its limit. and suguru seems resilient. more than anything, he seems thoroughly loyal to the king; that really doesn’t bode well for you.

before you can formulate a step-by-step guide to making his job a living hell, the sound of your name snaps you out of your trance.

it’s the king, of course, as always. you hate that you still instinctively respond to his call. like an obedient puppy. ”show suguru to your quarters. he’ll be accompanying you indefinitely, from now on. don't give him any trouble.” his voice finally sounds cold again; a warning. ”i’ll hear about it.”

(indefinitely.)

a moment passes. then you sigh, deep and heavy, haphazardly hiding a roll of your eyes. ”yeah, yeah, yeah,” you cross your arms. ”i got it.”

suguru meets your furrowed brows with something gentle, a soothing little smile. offering his arm, for you to hold on to. knights and their rituals. ”shall we?”

but you brush past him. stubborn in your independence, in your desire to make this as discomforting for him as it is for you. ”follow me,” is all you say, a dissatisfied huff. loud enough to pick up on.

to your great displeasure, he matches your hurried pace. side by side, as you walk down the halls, the clicking of his shoes echoing against the marble. a shadow you can’t shine away; one that’ll stay with you indefinitely. you feel his gaze burn into you.

”my lord.”

”don’t talk to me,” you sigh, sharp like the sword by his hip. a low click of your tongue. ”just so you know, i didn’t agree to this.”

”that was my question, actually,” he grins, ever so slightly. fingertips tapping against his scabbard. ”i am sorry, you know. i meant what i said — i’m sure it’s difficult for you.” he casts you another one of those meaningful glances, a meaning you have no intention of discerning. ”but i have my orders.”

you bite back a laugh. ”you guys love those, huh?” when you turn your head to face him, still walking forward, he’s met with a taunting smirk. ”your little orders.”

but his smile doesn’t falter. damn.

”not a fan of knights?” he asks, instead, a playful lilt to his syrupy voice. coaxing, accommodating. infuriating.

”nope.” your footsteps quicken — but he keeps up, effortlessly. curse those abnormally long legs. ”you’re all just bootlickers. especially you.”

”oh?”

”don’t oh? me,” you snap, practically growling, ”like you weren’t seconds away from making out with the king back there. it’s all so fake.” the comment makes the corners of his lip quirk up, but you don’t turn around to see it. ”now that you’re alone with me, you’re already acting way less uptight, see?”

he hums. ”i figured it’d make you feel more at ease.”

”god, will you just cut it out?” a hiss breaks out of your throat, sharp and exasperated. tired, drained. you just want to go back to sleep. ”quit acting like you care about what i think. you’ll do whatever the king asks of you — that’s all you really care about.”

suguru stays silent, this time. matching your steps, observing you silently, out of the corner of his eye. the frown on your lips, the crease between your brows. etching them into his memory. you’re pissed, that much he can tell. and you definitely, definitely don’t like him. 

(”you’re a bad actor.”)

the knight comes to a standstill. parting his lips, enough for his voice to flow through, silken sheets and molten honey. a raspy tilt he tries his best to hide.

but his words carry a sincerity he could never fake. 

”from now on, i serve you.”

when the clicking of his shoes against cold marble flooring fades away, you halt. turning around, hesitantly, quirking a questioning brow. rain beats on beyond the window to your left, flicking against the glass, droplets clinging to the translucent surface. marigold petals kiss the windows in a flurry of cream and orange, fluttering about with the harsh bites of the wind, carried from the castle’s orchard. the endless hallway you find yourselves in smells of rainwater and spring.

suguru looks steadfast, where he’s standing, immovable. a little like a pillar of salt. when he speaks it sounds like he’s reciting a scripture.

”i’m loyal to the king. i have to follow his orders.” there’s something about his words that you can’t quite pinpoint. is it guilt or pride? ”but i am at your service. certain things are set in stone, but not others. i’ll let you decide how this goes.”

the hallway goes silent. he smiles, again, smaller this time. somehow more genuine.

”from now on, i’m your knight.” the pitter patter of rain mashes with the steady beating of a clock; rhythmic, soothing, a lullaby of rust and time. ”that’s all. i won’t be anything else.”

you stare. lips pursed, awaiting a clarification, but it doesn’t come. he’s giving you time to respond.

(he’s your knight, now. indefinitely yours.)

an inhale. the clock hands of your heart begin to move. ”in that case,” you exhale, lips curling up into a taunting smile. pleased with yourself. ”i promise to be the most insufferable lord a knight has ever had. i won’t make your job easy for you.”

and suguru only chuckles. raspy, like the bark of a tree, claw marks on the ground. ”good,” he grins, eyes rich with mirth, golden pears hanging off the branches. ”i wouldn’t have it any other way.”

he looks sincere. sounds sincere. all you do is blink, a sense of frustration nibbling at your heart, but the knight before you doesn’t falter. he only offers his arm to you, once more; a silent step towards reconciliation.

you watch him, silently. 

then you’re turning on your heel, swiftly, a low grumble at the base of your throat. ignoring him and his offer, walking towards your room with irritated steps that fade as you turn the corner.

behind you, suguru’s smile only grows.

”good morning, your highness.”

blinking sleepily, still regaining your ability to form coherent thoughts, all you can do is stare. studying the figure above you, towering over your half-asleep form, the deadpan expression on your face.

black hair, and amber eyes. a disgustingly charming smile. 

the gears of your mind finally click into place.

a whine flows from your lips, meek and disapproving, and you roll over to your side. pulling the covers over your head, as if to protect you from the existence of your newly hired knight. so it wasn’t just a bad dream.

but he doesn’t fade away, like an apparition. he stays right by your bed, crouching down next to it. you feel the weight of the mattress shift when he rests his elbow on the cushion. ”still too early?” he asks, soft enough not to grate your sensitive ears. ”i was told you usually get up around this time…”

a muffled groan. ”leave.”

”i’m afraid i can’t,” he hums, but you don’t sense much remorse. ”i’m not supposed to let you out of my sight for more than brief intervals at a time… that’s one thing i can’t compromise on.”

”i don’t care,” you whine, petulant. tightening your grip on the blanket surrounding you, desperate to savour the leftovers of your fuzzy dreams. ”’m not getting up…”

a click of his tongue. quiet, contemplative. until he decides on a course of action.

”would you like me to bring you breakfast, then?”

…

slowly, your eyes flicker open, consciousness beginning to stir. the tasty temptation rouses you from your half-slumber, ever so slightly; because he sounds sincere. he sounds like he really will bring you breakfast, if you just give him the order. 

it’s tempting. dangerously so. 

(how long has it been since one of the maids actually bothered to serve you breakfast?)

”… whatever,” you croak, finally. weighing the value of your own response — putting effort into not sounding too excited. ”sure. do what you want, just let me sleep.”

a relieved little breath slips from suguru’s lips, as he watches the lump under the blanket stir. ”alright,” he breathes. ”what would you like, my lord?”

(suddenly, you get an idea.)

a smug grin crawls up to rest on your lips, fresh mischief on your mind. ”figure it out yourself,” you chirp, awfully pleased. 

silence. 

then, you hear him hum — rising to his feet with a quiet groan. ”understood,” he quips. ”i’ll be back as soon as possible, your highness.”

when you hear the creaking of the door, as he steps over the threshold, you barely restrain the urge to kick your legs in victory. now he’s sure to get you the wrong breakfast; and then you can be as difficult as you please, demanding something else, over and over. an ungrateful, spoiled little brat.

that’ll definitely make him quit. 

— sadly, it seems you were underestimating him. just a tiny, tiny bit.

before you, on a silver tray, lays a wide variety of breakfast foods. everything from syrupy pancakes and buttery croissants to neatly cut sandwiches and porridge, slices of fruit and fresh lemonade, coffee with cream and sugar, tiny jars of marmalade and jam. sparkling, glittering, begging to be devoured. handmade, you can tell, meticulously crafted by someone who knows what they’re doing.

with a gulp, you attempt not to openly salivate — you had no clue the kitchen workers were this talented. too speechless to muster up even a sneer, all you can do it sit in silence.

he really went ahead and got you some of everything.

stumbling for the right words, any words, the only thing that escapes your throat is a meek huff. meant to sound displeased, but coming out just a little awestruck. ”this is… way, way too much. are you insane?”

he only shrugs. a sweet smile on his lips, sharp jaw resting on the heel of his palm. ”well, you wouldn’t give me any specifics,” he reminds you, a bit too smug for your liking. ”just eat what you like. i’ll keep your preferences in mind.”

you want to protest, want to put up a fight. want to resist his charms, his little peace offering.

but your stomach growls, suddenly. loud enough that you’re sure he hears it, but you don’t turn around to see any silent laughter — just picking up the fork, embarrassed, eager to just get rid of the ache in your gut. eager to get a taste of the delicacies in front of you. with hesitance, you cut into one of the fluffy pancakes, slathered with syrup, trying to ignore his expectant gaze. biting into it with your eyes closed.

when the sweet taste curls around your tongue, you physically feel yourself perk up. letting your eyes flutter open, your eyebrows raised, a sweetness that makes you sit up straighter. it practically melts in your mouth, honeyed and buttery, and it takes all your willpower to withhold a blissed out little sigh. 

it must be evident, on your features. because suguru sounds amused when he asks; ”good?”

”... better than usual, i guess.”

despite your half-assed attempt at hiding how pleased you are, his ever-present smile extends. ”oh, really?” he leans back in his chair, right next to the bed. exhaling in relief. ”i’m glad. i was worried my cooking wouldn’t be to your tastes.”

…

you pale.

silently, both awestruck and horrified, you look up to meet his teasing gaze. ”wait. you…” a pause. silent, palpable, dreading his answer. ”… made this?” 

”yes.”

another pause. 

”… like. all of it?”

”mhm.”

your gaze falls down to seek solace in your lap. avoiding his own, biting down on your lip, not quite enough to sting. fuck — you accidentally complimented his handmade breakfast. not off to a great start.

wallowing in your silent loss, you simply dig in; desperate to savour it, despite the lingering taste of failure on your tongue. once you’ve sipped the last of your coffee, foamy and rich, the knight to your right speaks up.

”so, your highness,” he begins. tactful, careful. clearing his throat. ”now that you’ve woken up a bit… and, forgive me if i’m overstepping, but —” he searches for your guarded gaze, playing with the beginnings of a smile. ”i was thinking it’d be good for us to get to know each other better.”

”ugh.”

a chuckle — seriously, does nothing offend this man? — flits past his lips. ”oh, don’t be like that, your highness. don’t you think it —”

”cut it out.” you shoot him a glare, voice set to a shivering tilt. ”stop acting like some perfect servant. it’s so obvious you’re playing it up.” a tiny huff, as you pop an apple slice into your mouth. ”makes me sick.”

”… right. you called my acting bad, before.”

”it is,” you nod, a mocking imitation on your tongue. eyes fluttering shut as you bring a hand to your chest. ”oooh, look at me, i’m so humble and loyal! why, of course i don’t mind being summoned with no prior notice! would you like me to lick your shoes, my sweet king?”

and, honestly, you expect him to get at least a little bit angry. the last guy certainly was.

but suguru laughs, suddenly, from the bottom of his gut — a genuine sound. sunshine spilling from his lips, amusement laced together with the octaves. his eyes are crinkled at the edges, like the leaves of a golden ginkgo tree. ”okay, okay,” he puts his hands up, as if readying for a smooth surrender. still amused. ”i’ll try to be more… unguarded, then. would that satisfy you?”

you give him a look. 

he returns it with a smile. ”i’ll take that as a yes,” is all he croons, reaching a hand out. it hangs still in the air, waiting patiently for a response. a familiar sight.

you blink. looking at it, silently, as if trying to solve a puzzle in the pattern of his fingertips. 

then you sigh. ”for the last time, i’m not letting you kiss my hand, you —”

”a handshake,” he cuts you off. soft, reassuring, a tilt of his head; awfully charming. ”no kissing involved.”

a handshake.

(come to think of it, you don’t think anyone’s ever tried to shake your hand before. it’s something you see other people do; maids, knights, butlers. people on equal ground with each other.)

after a moment of silence, you avert your gaze. there’s a slight, slight flush to your cheeks, one you hope stays hidden from his keen eyes. you grumble, intent on not appeasing him.

”… i’m not shaking your hand, either.”

suguru quirks a brow, smile yet to fall, waiting a few moments more until he gives in. ”you are difficult,” he chuckles, and it sounds almost pleased. ”kento was right.”

kento? now, why does that sound familiar…? 

”— but that’s okay. i look forward to getting to know you better, either way.” his hand retreats to his lap, pliant. ”eventually.”

”that’s not happening.”

”oh?” you swear that smile of his grows, just a little. a man who enjoys a good challenge. humming, closing his eyes for a brief second, switching tactics as if shifting gears. ”then, tell me — is there anything you’d like to know about me?”

hell no, is what you want to say. and you almost, almost do. eager to move one step ahead of him, stubborn in your desire to scare him off.

but then you remember the tale.

so you still, ever so slightly, and suguru leans forward. by a hair, noticing your expression, maybe, the curiosity simmering in your veins. seeping out, little by little, and even though you know you shouldn’t — you just can’t resist the temptation to ask…

”… is it true?”

he tilts his head.

”the … you know.” you move your hands, a bit, as if hoping they’ll say the words for you. they don’t. ”your sword. did you really…” a pause, as your eager gaze trails down to his hip, the scabbard attached to his belt. and then a gulp. ”… pull it out of a stone?”

a series of silent blinks. then suguru chuckles — dripping with fresh amusement, a glimmer of teeth behind his lips. ”oh, so you’ve heard?”

and, like a pair of shooting stars, your eyes flicker over to meet his. almost gleaming with newfound excitement, a little erratic. ”is — is it true?”

”it’s an old folktale,” he’s quick to intercept. ”gets told about basically every great knight… or, what the public deems as great, anyhow.”

(ah. the humble facade slipped away.)

in a matter of seconds, you deflate, slumping back until your spine meets the headboard. sulking silently. ”so you didn't pull your sword out of a rock?” you huff, mood souring again, a lemony flavour in your veins. ”lame.”

”stone,” he corrects, unperturbed. ”and i'm afraid not.” he gives you another one of his placating smiles, barely concealed amusement swimming in his amber eyes. ”i pulled mine from an oak tree.”

…

”wait, really?”

the gleam in your eyes is back. suguru almost, almost feels bad.

”depends,” he shoots you a lazy grin. ”how gullible are you, my lord?”

(... oh. he was teasing you.)

an embarrassed heat crawls up your neck, rooting itself into the column of your throat, and all you can do to distract him from it is to scoff. sharply, as if hoping just the sound will be enough to cut into his smooth skin. ”whatever.”

suguru continues to smile, crows’ feet by his eyes, something deliberate in his silent stare. so you stumble for something, anything to say.

”also, can you quit the my lord stuff?” you settle on, taking a shallow sip of the lemonade. sour and sweet, nice and chilled on your tongue. ”it’s creepy.”

he blinks. a flutter of his dark lashes, fingers tapping at his bended knee. he looks contemplative, for a moment. ”does it make you uncomfortable?” he asks, tilting his head. ”i can stick to my liege, if that’s better. just say the word.” 

”god, you’re so annoying,” you groan, licking the lemony residue off your lips. ”just use my name.”

suddenly, suguru stills. fingertips frozen, for a moment, no longer tapping at his thigh. he traps his bottom lip between his teeth, a hesitant hum crawling up the confines of his throat. 

”that….” he trails off, thumb absentmindedly smoothing over the leather of his scabbard. ”seems a little much.”

when you turn to look at him, he seems a little put off. uncomfortable, maybe — or just caught off guard? it’s hard to get a read on him. for someone who smiles so often, his emotions don’t appear very bright.

a pang of something grasps onto your clockwork heart, and a frown pulls at your bottom lip. frustration gnawing at your veins. ”you’re here to service me, aren’t you?” you ask, with a shallow huff. ”just do as i say.”

”well, i still have my boundaries.” suguru leans back, crossing his legs, gazing at you with slightly lidded eyes. ”and, on paper — i’m only here to protect you. the servicing is my own choice.” 

a very, very judgemental look. he returns it with a tug of his lips. 

”… you really do like being ordered around, don’t you?”

suguru shrugs. playful. ”makes me feel needed,” he purrs, watching you wolf down the breakfast he made.

once you’ve had your fill, he’s quick to gather the silver tray in his steady arms, and you do your very best to hold back from thanking him for the meal. it aches a little, but you can’t give in — you don’t have a choice. you can’t allow yourself to be anything other than the most ungrateful, annoying royal in the kingdom.

anything to snap his clockwork heart in half.

a week passes by with no particular developments.

you try your damndest to bother him, but suguru is stubborn. stubborn enough that you’re starting to doubt he’ll ever leave you alone, no matter how much you ignore him, or hiss at him, or whine at him to make you an annoyingly specific assortment of breakfast foods. he never stops smiling, no matter how bothersome you’re being.

the tick-tock of his patience remains unbroken. 

(so for now, you figure you’ll just have to adjust.)

a sense of contentment simmers in the open air, when suguru knocks at your door, waiting for a groan and a grouchy come in. it takes you a few moments longer to respond than what he’s used to, and he notes that you sound a little less irritated when you do.

as he steps over the threshold, bowing his head instinctively, he’s met with the sight of you fully immersed. holding a paintbrush between your fingers, lifting it, movements delicate, self-assured. like it comes to you without thinking. you’re seated right by the window, enough for the would-be daylight to flicker in. as it stands, the weather is still sour. 

he walks up to you, as always, never more than a few steps away.

and, for a moment, all he does is watch you. silently, as you dip your brush in smeary cobalt paint, a splatter of colour on the white canvas. melting together with the indigo and obsidian. there’s a certain rhythm to it, a kind of dance between you and your mind and the painting in front of you — not even close to being finished. a dip of your brush blooms into a jaw, a flick of your wrist into a set of fangs. cobalt cream and silvery edges, an imitation of what you saw in your sleep. murky, blurry, a dream-like clearing in the woods. 

as you work, a sense of relaxation smooths along your sinuses. coaxing you into breathing out, into letting your clenched jaw rest for a while. turning all your irritation into brushstrokes. into a hungry, hungry wolf. 

finally, your knight opts to break the silence.

”you’re quite talented.” 

it’s an earnest comment. filled with respect, not the idle flattery you’re so used to. and despite yourself, you can’t help but grin — glowing a little beneath the praise. prideful, smug, almost giddy. he watches intently as your expression shifts, as those fleeting flickers of joy dance along the contours of your cheekbones. as you lap up his praise like the chamomile tea he served you this morning.

suguru smiles. you have a cute side, he thinks. for no more than a mere moment, he finally feels as if he’s getting somewhere; getting closer to breaking that thorny, thorny shell of yours. closer to meeting the little lamb beneath the wolf’s hide.

but your mind quickly catches up to your body, realizing that your lips are curled up into a pleased smile, and you clench your jaw again. mindful not to let him see it. painting makes you far too careless, too unguarded; you have to be mean.

stuck in a bout of frustration, you put a little too much force into the motion of your fingers, a small slip of the hand. but that’s all it takes. suddenly, the smooth, calm sea of fur on the canvas turns violent, a little more unruly, and you withhold a wince. doing your best to mend the damage. flick, flick, across the canvas, as if to appease the hungry wolf. 

from behind you, a tiny exhale. laced with a kind of stifled amusement, one that makes you snap your jaw in his direction. brows knitted in anger.

”what?”

suguru clears his throat. ”nothing, my liege,” he hides a smile behind his knuckle. eyes gliding across the murky smear of fangs and fur, interest piqued. ”i’m just curious… why a wolf?”

a huff. briefly, you consider ignoring him, but….

(something in his tone convinces you not to.)

”… i saw one,” you admit, absently, staring at the blue and gray of the canvas. flick, flick. violet, navy, a little more depth. ”in my dream.”

silence. your knight doesn’t respond. surely, he must think you childish; everyone else does. why would he be the exception? why did you tell him anything at all? a sense of regret mixes with the paint.

the weight of a brush in your hand truly does make you careless, doesn’t it?

”… huh.”

a clenching of teeth. you muster the will to turn your head, just to give him a questioning look, a silent aggression. biting before he can. but he’s not looking at you; he’s looking at the painting, the wolf that isn’t quite a wolf yet, just blue and gray on paper. a blur of messy motions.

then he shakes his head. ”no, nothing.” 

you quirk a brow. 

but you don’t say anything. falling silent, falling back into the rhythm of it all, painting until you grow bored of it. the wolf looks at you both, still thoroughly unfinished, jaw half-painted, no trees or knights to keep it company. solitary, blurry; baring its fangs towards no one at all.

a sorry spectacle of teeth.

a couple days later, as you’re walking through the castle with suguru in tow — still adamantly refusing to curl your fingers around his bicep — a loud crash breaks you out of your hushed banter.

the two of you share a look. it came from farther away, just beyond the next turn, a certain hallway decorated with delicate vases. one the castle maids desperately tried to keep you from, when you were younger, worried about your habit of jumping around while pretending to be some sort of feral animal. worried, of course, about the safety of the porcelain rather than the safety of the child.

it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the source of the sound. and, lo and behold, what waits beyond the turn ahead is a crying boy and a broken vase.

fat tears cascade down his reddened cheeks, silent fear knit into the way his face is scrunched up. he can’t be older than six or seven; one of the maid’s children, you assume, the kind that doesn’t have the luxury of making mistakes. he looks panicked, down on his knees, holding a large piece of porcelain, painted flowers etched into the front.

what a mess.

when the clicking of your shoes reaches his little ears, he looks up at you with wide, shameful eyes. still sitting amongst the littered shards, the spilt water and irises soon to wilt. it reminds you of something, a memory you don’t quite want to recall; a different child, tiny and alone. taught to feel shame at the moment of their birth. 

it makes your pace falter, a bit, but suguru moves without hesitation. long, careful strides, one foot after the other. 

he crouches down in front of the boy, gentle as he takes the shattered piece of porcelain from his tiny palm. ”hey, hey, it’s okay,” he soothes, speaking even softer than usual, his voice like a flurry of feathers and jasmine petals. ”are you hurt?”

he’s patient. smiling comfortingly, considerate, grounding, a blanket of wool like the one forming on the border of the horizon. but the child continues to sniffle and hiccup, curling into a ball as if readying for a strike. like an abandoned puppy.

you sigh.

after a moment’s hesitation, you’re stepping forward, figure slipping from the shadows and coming into view. joining the miserable pair, the jagged shards on the marble floor. 

there’s a cold, cold look in your eyes when the boy raises his head to meet them.

a flick of your wrist; you wave your hand once, then twice. ”shoo. hurry up.” 

he blinks. tears clumping his lashes together, cheeks flushed from the panic of it all. he stammers when he parts his lips. ”b… but —”

”didn’t you hear me?” comes a scoff, harsh, cutting through the air. right through the fear and panic. ”that was an order. just run back to your mommy already.” you cross your arms, shaking your head in disapproval. mimicking the king, though you think it’s lost on your spectators. ”all that crying is making my head hurt, geez.”

a series of hesitant blinks. crumbling beneath your commanding gaze, the child stumbles to his feet, sparing suguru one last unsure little glance before scurrying off. the sigh that slips from your lips is quiet, barely audible, tinged with relief. 

when you look down to the floor, you find that suguru is already looking at you; a furrow to his brows. angry, for once. just a tiny, tiny flicker of distaste. you reward him with a cold smile. 

(so this is how you get under this skin. cruelty, aimed not towards him, but towards the defenseless. 

what a picture-perfect, self-destructive little knight.)

just as the child turns the corner ahead, you hear the echo of a maid calling out from behind you. her voice is dripping with fatigue, exasperation, a flurry of sighs you’ve grown far too familiar with.

”your highness! what have you done now?”

there it is, you think; the curtain call you’ve been waiting for. with a swift turn of your heel, sheepish expression ready to go, your focus shifts onto one sole objective — act annoying.

”walked into a vase,” you chirp, proudly, just the slightest bit theatrical. gesturing dismissively towards the broken spectacle, as suguru raises himself from the floor. ”my bad. not my fault you make them so easy to break, though.”

she inches closer, with a disapproving stare, and you hear a tick-tock in your ear. sensing the limit of her patience. ”i’ll have you know these vases are expensive,” she clicks her tongue. ”do you truly think you can go around breaking whatever you please?”

”… i mean. i do kind of own this place, don’t i?” you tilt your head, faux contemplation on your features, shifting into a spoiled smile. ”or i will. so — technically — i broke my own vase. no harm done!”

”… my lord —”

”quiet.” suguru stiffens, ever so slightly, following your sharp whisper. ”don’t fuck this up.”

he looks at you, silently. not saying another word.

(there’s a shame in his eyes that you don’t turn your head to see.)

it doesn’t take long for the maid to shoo you away, pinching her brow at your carefree laughter, bitter at the prospect of cleaning up your mess. she makes sure to give suguru a sweet smile, though, and doesn’t bother to hide the sympathy in it. sympathy for him, such a handsome, well-behaved knight, forced to service such a brat.

the smile he gives her in return is a stiff one. almost, almost cold. but he bows, and follows your retreating form, until you’re all alone together.

the walk is silent. maybe just a little heavy, as you try to ignore the stare burning into your skin, trying to swallow your own displeasure. it’s subtle, something you learned to internalize long ago, but it’s there; a slight sadness. you don’t enjoy getting yelled at.

a thick silence stretches on, before crumbling into dust. you aren’t sure how much time has passed when a certain velvety voice curls around your senses.

”your highness.”

he’s come to a standstill, again. you really should just ignore him and keep walking. but you still, anyway, following his cue, turning towards him with a look that says what now? — you aren’t sure what to expect. certainly not the sentence that ends up spilling from his lips, like a spring breeze through an opened window, tinged with something you fear may be close to fondness. 

(in your chest, your heartbeat tick-tocks.)

he smiles, gentle, with eyes that see right through you. and he speaks. 

”you’re actually kind, aren’t you?”

…

”… huh?”

he pays no mind to your stupefied expression. continuing, unperturbed, eyeing you with a look you distinctly dislike — as if he’s trying to glimpse into your mind. ”the vase,” he hums. ”you took the blame, even though you didn’t do it.”

a huff escapes you. face hardening, setting into firm lines. ”that wasn't intentional,” you grumble, defensive. ”i just wanted him to leave.” 

but suguru shakes his head. ”you could’ve left when the maid came. but you stayed, and lied, and got yelled at so he wouldn’t have to.” a second passes, silence thick with meaning. intentional on his part, you’re sure. ”is that not what you’d call kind?”

another moment gone, little tick-tocks of your heartbeat counting down. you part your lips, but no sound comes out, as you stumble for words to say. irritation stirring in your veins. or is it nervosity? you think your skin feels a little hot, suddenly. 

just what the hell is happening?

”i’m… i’m not — ” you bite down on your lip. harshly. stammering, voice cracking a bit, to your great dismay. ”… not kind. i hate all of them.”

”but you protect them,” he whispers, ”look after them.” his smile doesn’t waver, never ever, but you’ve never seen it look quite this knowing. and suddenly, he’s closing in on you, gazing at you with laughter in his eyes. 

you try to stand your ground, wanting nothing more than to flee, curl into yourself, scratch at him until he leaves. but your throat feels so dry, all of a sudden, a sensation that only deepens with the next words he breathes into life. 

”a little sweetheart who pretends to be all big and bad…” he eyes you up and down, a meaningful look, raven locks moving as he tilts his head. towering over you. ”is that what you are?”

nothing. no smart reply comes to you. all you can muster is a harsh glare, a low hiss crawling up your throat, like you’re preparing to lunge at him. it serves as a warning, but the amusement in his eyes doesn’t fluctuate. ”you…”

he chuckles. raspy, breathy, a shiver down your spine. ”your acting is even worse than mine.”

”shut up,” you snap, baring your teeth. it comes out almost like a growl, hot and heavy in your veins, and you don’t understand where all this emotion came from. strangling you, bubbling up within your bobbing throat. ”you don’t — understand me, okay?”

no one does. 

and that’s fine. you don’t want them to. 

(you just want him to stop looking at you so fondly.)

”not yet,” he admits, eyes fluttering shut. a thoughtful hum on the tip of his tongue. ”… but i think i’m beginning to.” 

he’s looking at you, again, amber and honey and raven lashes, lapping up every hint of a tell in the way you shift from foot to foot. speaking like he knows you, like he’s known you all his life. ”you act difficult, scare everyone away… but deep down, you love them, don’t you?”

a scoff. desperate. ”no.”

”you want to loved,” he continues, not allowing you to flee. relentless in his pursuit of whatever he imagines must be hidden inside your soul, beneath all those layers of frost. ”understood. everyone does.”

”not me.”

”your highness.”

…

the knight continues to look at you, and you avoid his gaze like it could burn you into cinders — like it could turn you into dust. but he parts his lips, anyway, and speaks. so sincere it makes your chest hurt. words that echo through the endless hallways of the castle, against the surfaces of glass that line the walls. words that make your skin flush under the shadows of rain soon to fall.

he smiles, wide, teeth showing. and he speaks. 

”that was very, very kind of you.”

silence. so thick you wonder if you’re about to faint, or fall to the floor, or something equally embarrassing. a sentence so simple shouldn’t be making you feel this way, this weird. you don’t understand why it makes you feel anything, anything at all, and you don’t understand why your eyes suddenly feel a little glassy.

(someone saw through the act.)

”… whatever,” you squeeze out, at last, but it sounds a little meek. a tiny puff of air. turning around, sharply, blinking rapidly to shoo the tears away. ”i just didn’t want to hear that brat whining. it was hurting my ears.” 

suguru bites back a coo.

as he watches your back retreat, hurrying back to the comfort of your room, he’s almost certain that he’s making progress. that your walls are beginning to crumble, slowly but surely, bit by bit. the path before him clears — a thorny, foggy path through the woods, until a sunsplatter falls on the ground and tells him where to plant his feet. 

it���s not much, barely anything, but suguru’s always liked his hunts blindsighted. 

you turn a corner, and he follows suit. sparing a passing glance at the clouds on the boundary of the horizon, the sole ray of sunlight breaking through.

then he’s catching up to you with long strides.

(it’s his duty, yes, but he doesn’t think he’d mind it so much — getting to know his kind, misunderstood little lord.)

sadly, disappointingly, to your great shame —

you begin to grow used to suguru’s presence in your life. constant, always close behind, always ready to be of service. as infuriatingly patient as ever. it’s a stretch, but you may have become just the slightest bit fond of it. maybe, possibly, you’ve even silently decided to stop trying to scare him away. stop acting so difficult with him, all the time.

or, well — sometimes.

”take me outside, please?” you whine, bottom lip jutting out into a deep pout, accompanied by a flutter of your lashes. the voice that spills from your lips is hopelessly meek, pleading, so sweet you’d get cavities if you didn’t know how fake it was.

effortless, perfected, your one god-given talent; an irresistible pair of puppy dog eyes. 

suguru answers with a smile, tight-lipped. ”no.”

a beat.

”aw, come on,” you whine, barely resisting the urge to stomp your feet. frustration bubbles up inside your veins, trickling down to your wrist, nails digging into your palm. ”why not? you’re supposed to listen to my every command!”

”still no, sweetheart.”

a series of grumbles scratch at the base of your throat, but suguru pays them no mind. patient, patient, patient. he’s even kind enough to ignore the way you pointedly avoid his gaze after the term of endearment slips past his lips. ”sorry, but that part is non-negotiable. you know i don’t have a choice.”

you do know. but it still makes your mood sour, pulls a sigh from out of your lips. he moves closer, familiar silver tray in hand, dragging a chair to where you’re seated by the windowsill.

”i did bring you this, though,” he gestures towards a particular glass bowl, filled with red berries. they shine like rubies in the light. ”strawberries, like you asked for. wasn’t easy to get a hold of.”

he places the tray right next to you, smiling as he takes a seat. ”cheer up, hm? don’t be so grumpy.”

your pout remains, but you do settle down a bit. just the teeniest, tiniest bit. definitely not because he was kind enough to indulge your cravings.

”… thanks for breakfast.” 

suguru beams, and you avoid his gaze, like always. biting into one of the rubies, the soft murmur of thanks still burning your tongue, soothed by sweet nectar. he lets you flee, lets you continue on like nothing happened, like it isn’t obvious how much you’ve warmed up to his presence. 

”you’re welcome, my lord.”

…

(even after spending more than a month together, he still won’t call you by name. won’t even entertain the idea. why does that bother you so much?)

peacefully, your morning ritual continues. the same as always; you eat, while suguru watches, a sweet smile on his lips. the silence remains until he opts to break it.

today, he sounds a little hesitant.

”say, your highness…” he picks at a piece of lint on his cloak, absentminded. ”could i ask you for a favour?”

you almost drop your fork. gaze snapping up to meet his own, as a few silent seconds tick on by. tick-tock, tick-tock. then you clear your throat, regaining your composure. trying to sound nonchalant. 

”what is it?” you probe, cutting across the yolk on your fried egg. watching the orange seep out, trickling down, sinking into the crust of your toast. suguru hums. 

”a friend of mine — he’s also a knight…” he wrings his hands together, legs parted. tapping his heel on the floor. ”we’ve been sparring together for a while. once a week, at least. but ever since the king hired me, we haven’t been able to.”

you watch as his gaze flickers down to his lap, then up to you again. it’s smooth, charming, but you still think it seems a little out of place. he must not be used to asking for favours.

”i was wondering if you’d be willing to accompany me? just down to the training fields by the castle.” his fingers tap against his bended knee, slow and methodical, from pointer to pinkie. ”the king gave us permission to spar there, but i’m obviously not allowed to let you out of my sight…”

you bite back a huff. obviously. he waits for a response that doesn’t come.

”… so?”

you meet his gaze, expectant. hopeful, maybe. it’s a nice touch — matches with the amber of his eyes.

”would that be alright with you?” he inquires, again. you think he sounds just a tiny bit unsure of himself.

a moment passes. silently, you look down at your lap. folded hands, itching to do something. something fun, new, exciting. 

your tongue forms around a wish. it spills into the air like a shooting star, a meek little whisper.

”… i wanna swing a sword.”

suguru blinks. once, then twice. ”you…” he tastes the words on his tongue, turning the image of you around in his head. ”want to swing a sword?

you nod. glancing at him, coughing a little under your breath. summoning just a bit of audacity, eyes trailing towards the sword by his hip. longingly. ”… i’ll only watch you spar if you let me try it.” 

a brief pause. he studies you intently, a mystery he’s yet to solve.

then he chuckles, light and airy, full of mirth. a sound you’ve grown fond of. ”well, okay. that’s fair.” he rises to his feet, smiling down at you. ”thank you, my lord.”

you don’t respond. but your eyes glitter with excitement, as you dutifully finish your breakfast, wolfing it down. waiting patiently for him to head down to the kitchen with the tray, for him to change into his training gear. 

when he knocks at your door, he’s wearing a flimsy little blouse. almost see-through, if you squint your eyes enough, exposing his bare skin. you think you see a scar curling up from his chest, reaching for his shoulder, just below it by a hair. and you can see his biceps, the fat, the muscle, practically begging to be bitten.

(tantalizing.)

he’s speaking to you, saying something, but you tune him out. focused on trying to restrain your growing urges. when he reaches up to fix his hair, tied up into a bun, the muscle of his arm twitches.

and, suddenly, you can’t contain yourself. 

giving in to the salivating temptation, you grab hold of his bicep, sinking your teeth into it — gentle, but enough that he feels it, enough to leave a set of teeth marks soon to fade. gnawing at it like a dog with a bone.

suguru blinks. pupils wide, quirking a silent brow, quick to smooth over the surprise in his eyes. 

you don’t move. teeth planted against the fabric, the firm muscle beneath it, surprising even yourself; his arm just looked so biteable. you wonder if he’s put off. upset.

but, as always, he’s eerily placating. like nothing you say or do could rock the ship of his patience, an endless sea. smooth, airy laughter flits past his lips, giving way to an indulgent smile. he studies you with fascination, like you’re a creature he hasn’t encountered before.

ever so gently, he grabs hold of your jaw — and the warmth of his touch shocks you into letting it go slack. before you can say anything, he’s rolling up his sleeve. exposing the tender skin.

”go wild, your highness,” he grins, offering his arm up like a lamb to a hungry fox. a teasing mirth in his eyes, his voice coming out as a low purr. ”i don't mind a mark or two.”

to your horror — it flusters you terribly.

you cough. taking a step back, averting your gaze, suddenly disinterested. feigning indifference, anyhow; that was definitely a scar. and a cool one, too. you think you might even have caught a glimpse of a birthmark or two. 

”i’m… just keeping you on your toes,” you stumble for an excuse, still unable to look at him properly. missing the way he stifles a bout of laughter. ”for your training, y’know? gotta stay on your guard.”

”of course. i appreciate the help,” he quips, fond, as he gestures for you to take the lead. ”he’s waiting for us. are you ready?”

for a second, just a second, you consider grabbing his arm. letting him guide you. but the thought is fleeting, like a bundle of peach blossoms, brushed away by the sunshine seeping in through the window’s glass — illuminating the marble flooring. 

a mellow excitement simmers in your bones. 

you head down to the training grounds with a pep in your step, and your loyal knight follows suit. just behind, always, wearing a smile you can’t see.

”suguru!”

the man that greets you with cheerful fervour, seated cross-legged under a peach tree, isn’t quite what you expected him to be. 

when you heard knight, you imagined someone a bit more… intimidating. but this guy is far from imposing. a little shorter than suguru, brown locks stopping right around his ears, exposing his sunkissed skin. freckles scattered across his nose and cheekbones, a happy little grin curled right around his lips. 

he’s cute. a bit like a puppy. not very knightly, though.

”haibara,” suguru greets, a mellow warmth to his voice. the man in question shoots up from the ground, stumbling towards you both, excitement in his hazel eyes. suguru gestures towards you. ”this is the royal heir. the one who doesn’t like having their hand kissed.”

your head whips towards him, an angered flush to your cheeks — you’re almost sure that he’s smirking, giving you a teasing glance, but haibara’s exclamation prevents you from voicing any protests. 

”hi!” he beams, bowing deeply, so sudden that you jolt a bit. his head whips up instantly, brown locks stirred by the breeze, voice warm and smooth. like honeysuckle nectar. ”thank you so much for letting us spar, your highness! i’ve heard so much about you!”

”… um.” your gaze falls down to a pebble on the ground. unsure of how to act, murmuring under your breath. ”you — it’s… no need to thank me. i wanted to get some air, anyway.”

he continues to look at you, eyes shining with a pure kind of cheer. glittering, honeyed and sweet, too bright to look at directly. you hear suguru exhale amusedly to your left. he’s looking right at you when you glance towards him. 

his hand inches closer to his scabbard, fingertips trailing down the leather. ”shall we get started?”

haibara brightens even further, if possible. ”oh, right!” he exclaims. ”you wanted to try swinging a sword, your highness? that’s so exciting! is this your first time?”

a blink. you aren’t really sure how to handle this guy; he’s a bit too sunny to be snarky to. like a fuzzy ball of sunshine given human form, bouncing on the balls of his feet, tail practically wagging behind him. all you can muster is a weak cough. ”uh, yeah.”

”well, you’re here to learn.” suguru speaks up. guiding you both towards the center of the field, hand still at the sword on his hip. ”let me show you.”

in one smooth motion, he’s pulling it out of its sheath, a stripe of silver absorbing the rays of the sun. glimmering, slicing the blue sky in half. 

you’re a little awestruck.

and then he’s facing you. leaning forward, with a familiar tilt of his head, offering the blade with a smile. ”do you want to try swinging it around a bit?”

barely containing your excitement, you nod. making grabby hands at it.

that makes him chuckle. he makes no move to stop you when your fingers curl around the hilt, only parting his lips for a quick warning, a split second too late. you take it into your arms. ”careful, it’s a bit —”

— the sword clatters to the ground with a thud.

silence.

haibara breaks out into laughter, sudden, fond and warm, but enough to have your cheeks burning. fresh with embarrassment, humiliation, before you even hear the breathy chuckle that slips from your knight’s lips.

”… i was going to say it’s a bit heavy,” he hums, one closed knuckle in front of his lips and obscuring his smile. ”i’m sorry, my lord. do you —”

”whatever.” a hiss escapes your throat, and suguru winces. he knows where this is going; knows a bundle of thorns just erupted from the stalk of your spine, that you're about to get defensive. ”like i’d ever want to touch your dusty sword. get — get real.”

he tries again. patient, patient. the familiar tick-tock of his never-ending kindness. ”hey, we aren’t making fun of you,” he soothes, hoping it’ll make your edges soften. like scratching a feral dog behind its ear. ”it’s understandable. you weren’t expecting it. i’ll let you try again, hm?”

a tiny pause. 

(you’re being childish, again.)

brows furrowed, hanging your head, you kick at a pebble on the ground. having collected yourself a bit. ”… maybe next time,” you finally speak, still grumbling. after you’ve spent some time lifting weights in your room.

suguru tilts his head. speaking softly. ”you sure?”

”yeah.” taking a step back, you raise your head to meet his gaze. ”i’ll just watch you. it’s fine.”

”… okay,” he exhales. leaning forward to pick up his sword from the ground. ”i can spar with you next time, if you want. you’ll be a pro in no time.”

he gives you another sweet smile, bangs fluttering with the breeze; painted in cerulean sunshine. he’s so gorgeous it makes you angry.

a sharp huff. ”don’t patronize me,” is all you can mutter, meeting the eyes of the knight by his side. standing up straighter. ”haibara,” you call. ”knock him around a bit for me, okay?”

from the corner of your eye, suguru pouts.

but the puppy-knight only grins, as bright as the sun in the sky. ”you got it, your highness!” he salutes, cheeks flushing with giddy excitement. 

as you sit on the benches a little farther away, dragonflies buzz in the air. fleeting glimmers of chartreuse and cerulean, chirping happily, keeping you company as you watch the knights spar. the clangs of their blades, the elegance in the way suguru moves. a violent little waltz. he’s sweating, just a bit, but you can see it, droplets glittering in the sun.

he looks like he’s having fun. he looks like himself. like he isn’t holding back, isn’t acting obedient or well-mannered for the sake of pleasing his superiors. like this, here and now, he looks wild, free, a dog that turns into a wolf under the glow of the sun. 

for a second, your eyes meet — just as he narrowly avoids a slash. 

and he smirks, ever so slightly, suddenly gaining a little more momentum. flashing a brief grin, sunlight reflecting off his white teeth.

you huff. heat crawling up your neck. 

show off.

”excuse me, your highness?”

the sudden voice snaps you out of your stupor. mesmerized, by the spectacle before you, the glimmer of their blades and the sight of your knight’s smile. it’s an unfamiliar voice, close, close enough that your head turns to meet the stranger’s ugly grin — inching closer still.

(uh oh.)

— just up ahead, lost in their own worlds, are two knights; huffing and smirking and narrowly dodging each other’s strikes. suguru takes the lead, as always, guiding haibara into improving his swordsmanship. but they both learn from it. and it’s fun, lighthearted, a respite from their more gruesome duties. 

it’s helped suguru more times than he can count; those tiny flickers of normalcy, in a wholly unpredictable profession. a life of bowing and bowing and killing what needs to be killed.

slash, slash, and then two steps back. the same old dance. haibara’s starting to lose momentum, he notices, adam’s apple bobbing with his heavy breaths.

so suguru stills. ”alright, that’s enough for now,” he calls, stretching idly. craning his head, looking around him absently. he wonders if you’re still watching. ”i think i see what the problem is.”

haibara perks up, obeying without a word, wiping the sweat off his forehead and walking towards his friend with a sunny smile. ”okay, great!”

but suguru isn’t looking at him, anymore. 

he’s looking towards the benches, where his little lord is seated, speaking to an unfamiliar man. one who currently has his hand on their forearm, caressing it. you look guarded, irritated, a little like you’re about to bare your teeth. trying to pull away, but he doesn’t let you. and suguru recognizes that look — the one that means you’re about to start biting and hissing, inching your claws into whatever’s within reach.

(not to injure, but to ground yourself, he’s learned. like how you clutch onto the fabric of your clothing when you’re nervous, sink your nails into your palm. not to injure, but to feel safe.)

in the blink of an eye, he’s making his way towards you. beckoned by his duty, his natural instinct, a protective itch that curls around his ribcage and crawls up his throat. large strides, much swifter than usual. he moves without thinking, and he’s there before he has the time to form a coherent thought.

with as much gentleness as he can possibly muster, he grabs hold of the stranger’s arm. smiling, tight-lipped, cold. ”excuse me, sir,” he greets, ”i need to borrow them for a moment.”

the man meets his gaze with a sour look. bitter, ugly, oddly possessive — like he thinks he owns the arm he’s holding. it makes suguru want to teach him a lesson, show off his sword, but he resists the temptation in a way you never could. his expression is a warning, though, enough to scare most rowdy drunkards and snobby royals away.

and it works. the stranger looks to you, briefly, before finally letting go of your poor arm. something rigid in suguru’s jaw finally relaxes. ”who are you?” comes a question, as the man turns to face him with a look full of contempt. ”their knight?”

before suguru can say anything, you’ve hopped off the bench. clinging to him, with a firm nod; your arms around his bicep. ”yeah. he is.”

(suguru fails to stifle a smug smile.)

with a string of bitter mumbles and a silent frustration, the man scurries away. hesitant, only after being met with another warning glance from the knight in front of him. intimidating, far less subtle, towering above him like a predator over their prey.

as soon as he’s out of sight, your knight turns to you, scanning your face for signs of discomfort. loyal, attentive. ”are you okay?” he asks, a silent shame in his voice. if only he had noticed sooner. ”did he do anything to you?”

you shake your head. ”it’s fine. probably one of the king’s friends — stops by every now and then.” a sigh, a little fatigued, following your explanation. ”they’re mostly harmless. just creepy and touchy.”

”that doesn’t sound very harmless…” suguru lets you pull away, quick to hide the disappointment that flashes in his eyes as you do, waving haibara off with a silent gesture of give us a minute. ”don’t worry. i’ll keep an eye out, from now on.”

still a little guarded, you nod. letting suguru guide you by the small of your back, taking a seat on the solid bench once more. together, this time. 

”there are a lot of those types around the town square,” he exhales, weary, stretching out his limbs before leaning forward. elbows resting on his bended knees. ”they’re a pain to deal with. i’m sorry you have to.”

”are there?” you ask, tone laced with curiosity. ”in the town?” 

”well, i’m sure you’ve heard. that place is a bit of a mess, these days…” a click of his tongue. ”more work for the knights.”

a dragonfly settles on the bridge of his nose. suguru blinks, smiling gently, until it flutters away with a raspy squeak. fading away, melting into the blue paint of the sky. you bite down on your lip. 

”… i haven’t.”

he turns to look at you. raising a brow.

”i haven’t heard about it at all. the king told you, right?” you meet his eye with a rueful smile, before leaning back, nose turned up towards the sky. for a second, you think the air smells a bit of rain. ”i’m not allowed to go out into town.”

your knight falls silent.

so you continue. grinning, with no humour to it. maybe a bit eager to overshare, to break the silent rules you’ve been given. the secret tastes like honey on your tongue. ”i’m a bastard child. he probably told you that, too.” you wouldn’t be surprised. ”thinks it's optimal for everyone involved if i just stay cooped up in the castle.” 

closing your eyes, your voice drips with something close to longing. barely above a whisper. ”i haven't been to the town in a couple of years, now.”

…

he only hums. ”i see.”

(there’s sympathy, in his amber eyes, but you don’t turn around to see it. you don’t turn to look at him until he’s finished sparring, and haibara’s about to leave. 

you wonder if he’ll meet your gaze the same way as before.) 

that evening, suguru knocks at your door right as you're about to fall asleep. three rapid knocks, the same as always, knuckle against wood. rousing you from your rest.

when you open it, he’s holding something out towards you.

”here,” he says, voice set to a mellow tilt. upon closer inspection, he’s holding a bottle. transparent, see-through, stuffed to the brim with sea glass. smooth little colourful pebbles, green and blue and pink and orange, like frozen camellias. ”for you, my lord.”

blinking sluggishly, you take it into your arms; holding it up in front of your eyes. when the light of the moon flitting in through the curtains hits it just right, it blossoms with colour, sparkling with every shade you’ve ever seen. shining like a heap of jewels, in your hands, like something out of a picture-book. magical.

it’s mesmerizing. 

”i asked haibara to get it from the town,” he explains, drinking in your expression of awe. ”this one lady — she collects them herself. i see her by the beach nearly every time i go there.”

when you look up, his smile is serene. peaceful, if just a little bit tired. but he looks pleased, lips curling around silky syllables. ”i thought of you.”

it’s odd, you think. you aren’t a stranger to gifts; you get most of what you desire if you just say the word, an easy way for the king to keep you compliant. as if to make up for the plethora of experiences you’ve missed out on since your birth.

but this — this particular gift…

…

”it’s pretty,” you murmur, finally, unable to voice even a sliver of the emotions clogging up your chest. shying away from his gaze, feeling your heart pulse against your ribcage. ”… i guess.”

suguru just smiles. always, always, always. no matter what you do. ”i’ll get you something else next time,” he promises, ready to go back to standing guard outside the castle. ”get some sleep, okay? be good.”

and you can’t bring yourself to protest. not even a tiny huff of don’t tell me what to do. you can’t bring yourself to do anything but nod, soft and pliant, still gazing at the bottle of sea glass in your hands. like you might turn into one of those transparent pebbles, if you wish for it enough.

that night, you dream of waves crashing against sand, the taste of seafoam on your tongue. every colour in the world. a newfound, reawakened wish —

a wish to see more of it.

”are you trying to sneak out again?”

owlishly, all you can do is blink. propped up on the windowsill, immersed in the process of tying pillowcases and bedsheets together to form a rope. caught in the act — by none other than suguru, standing by the threshold, hand on his hip, watching you with silent disapproval. you didn’t think he’d come check on you this late.

you swallow a gulp. ”… no?”

and he sighs. walking towards you, brows furrowed, running a hand through his raven locks. you can tell he’s trying to be a little more sympathetic, this time, but it only makes the bitter taste on your tongue thicken. 

”look — i know it’s not fair to you, but the king and queen specifically ordered me —”

”i get it,” you cut him off, with a hiss, a little harsher than you meant to. you soften your voice before continuing. "i know. okay? i know.”

resigned, but frustrated, you clench the silken material of the bedsheets. glaring at them like it’s somehow their fault that the queen couldn’t bear an heir, that your father has a knack for sleeping around. like it’s their fault that he’s so ashamed of your existence that he doesn’t want you integrating into society on anything other than his own terms, until he’s dead and gone and doesn’t have to take accountability anymore. 

like it’s their fault that it’ll always be like this, forever, that it’s better not to hope for more.

(why can’t you just accept that?)

the knight before you exhales. troubled, watching your nails dig into the fabric, watching the way you bite down on your lip and rapidly blink. all signs of your frustration, your sadness, that you always try so hard to hide. 

”hey. how about this?” he tries to get your attention, voice soothing enough to coax you into raising your gaze. ”i’ll tell you a story instead.”

he stifles a chuckle, at the dubious look you send his way, teetering on the edge of a glare. slithering towards you. ”i’ve seen a lot of places. i can tell you about them, if you’d like.” he takes a seat right next to you, on the windowsill, a slice of the moon in bare view. ”what do you want to know?”

you’re silent, for a second. gnawing at your bottom lip, in contemplation, the tiniest bit of nervosity. like you aren’t quite sure if you’re allowed to speak your wishes aloud.

”… the woods.”

suguru blinks. quiet.

his silence makes you want to bare your fangs, a bit, misinterpreting it as judgement. your voice comes out cold. ”what?”

but he’s quick to smooth over his features with a smile, as always, cocking his head amusedly. ”sorry — i was expecting you to say the sea, or something. it's the woods that you're so curious about?”

a pout slips into your lips.

”… you can see them from here.”

his head turns towards the window’s glass, squinting his eyes to see the sea of dark green in the distance, a cluster of thick trees. he hums. ”yeah, you can. well… that particular spot isn’t too bad. not many bandits or beasts.” your gaze stays glued onto his lips, every word that spills from them. ”there are wolves, though. this side of the kingdom is crawling with them.”

”they sell their fur,” you state.

(that’s one thing you do know. you spent more of your childhood around wolf pelts than your own parents. they might as well be your legal guardians.)

suguru nods. ”they do. it's a big portion of the kingdom’s exports… general market, as well.”

a frown tugs at your lips. you think of your fluffy childhood guardians, unable to howl or even make a sound; hunters turned decorations.

”isn’t that… kinda fucked up?”

he smiles, revealing no emotion. ”do you think it is?”

you only shrug. ”i’m not surprised that they eat us.” you think of all the stories you’ve heard, the fairy tales you grew up with. “if i was a wolf, i’d hate humans too.”

”would you, now?” familiar amusement, seeping from his tongue, soft crows’ feet by his cedar eyes. ”good thing you aren’t a wolf, then. we’re lucky.”

”mhm. you’d be my first target.”

that makes him chuckle, a little deeper this time, and you drink in the glimpse you get of his teeth, the fondness that dances across his face when he looks at you. 

a sudden urge overtakes you. 

”… i wanna know about something else.”

”oh?” he tilts his head, soft locks framing his kind eyes. ”and what would that be, my dear?”

”you.”

… 

for a moment, the mask falls. a silent, subtle kind of surprise, something in the way the tips of his fingers twitch that tells you he’s caught off guard. it coaxes you into continuing, following through with your question. swallowing the embarrassment. ”i wanna know more about you. how you became a knight, and… stuff.”

suguru looks at you with a strange glint in his eyes. undecipherable, unspoken, just watching as moonrays glide across your soft skin. ruffling your hair. 

a hum buzzes in his throat. he scratches at the back of his neck, resisting the urge to dodge your question. clicking his tongue. ”… well.”

anticipation blooms in your eyes, and you cross your legs, waiting patiently to hear him speak. he can’t deny you, when you look at him like that — so suguru simply exhales. a breath of indulgence. 

”it’s not a very interesting story,” he leads, closing his eyes in remembrance. ”they scouted me when i was pretty young…. a bit of a troublemaker, honestly, but i got lucky." memories flash behind his eyelids, fresh bruises, sliced fruit. bittersweet. ”ended up around some powerful people. they liked me. knighthood felt like the right choice.” 

he meets your entranced gaze, speaking with sincerity, devotion dipped in honey and holy water. sinking deeper still. ”it’s my purpose in life,” he breathes, a flurry of whispers on his tongue. heavier than either of you know. ”truly.”

you cock your head. ”being a knight?”

”protecting the weak,” he says. recites. like he’s said it a million times before, in the face of beasts, in the reflection of broken mirrors, a mantra to live and die by. ”protecting those who can’t protect themselves.”

the look in his eyes frightens you. deeper than the deepest lake, dark and murky, dragging him down. a devotion that smells of iron, tastes like steel. mania disguised as loyalty.

(knights love duty. almost as much as they love dying for it. that’s what your father always says.)

”but, honestly — this kind of thing isn’t bad,” he breaks you out of your trance, grinning sheepishly, almost boyishly. ”it’s been a while since i had so much fun on the job… thank you for that.”

he’s looking at you, right at you, into your eyes, an expression reserved for you and you alone. terribly earnest, grateful, a sincerity he wouldn’t show anyone else. ”honestly.”

you can do nothing but avert your gaze. swiftly, meekly, feeling heat crawl up your neck, blooming across your cheeks like the branches of a plum tree. suguru grins, gulping down the slightest coo — but he can’t resist the urge to poke fun at you a bit.

”… you’re a shy one, aren’t you?” he searches for your gaze, chuckling when he doesn’t find it. when you don’t let him. ”can’t even look people in the eye if they’re being nice to you… how precious.”

”oh, shut up,” you groan, glaring out into the night sky. blinking slowly, drowsily, biting back a yawn that your attentive knight still manages to notice. 

(he looks a little enamored.)

”ah… is my sweet little lord getting sleepy?”

”no,” you scoff, far too quick. ”i’m… tired.”

”of course.” he reaches out, carefully, to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. ”tired — not sleepy. that would be outrageous, wouldn’t it?” 

a yawn. ”it would.” 

low laughter bubbles up at the base of his throat, like seafoam, melting roses. deep and summery. ”alright. that’s enough stories for tonight, i think.” and with that, he gets up. ”let’s get you to bed, hm?”

rubbing your eyes, absently kicking your legs, you give him a slow nod of your head. making grabby hands at him that you’re sure you’ll be embarrassed about in the morning — but it feels easy, to be greedy, to know that your wants won’t be ignored when you’re with him. ”carry me, suguru.”

an indulgent smile. he doesn’t say anything, only curling his arms under your thighs, lifting you up and cradling you to his chest. you can feel his firm muscles, like this, trace them with your fingertips, hear the beating of his heart. tick-tock, tick-tock. a lullaby. a sense of safety, when you can’t tell where your heartbeat ends and his begins.

lost in that fuzzy, sleepy feeling, a blink away from falling into dreamland, fatigue washes over you — but you cling to his sleeve, even as he tucks you in, dragging the blanket up to cover you properly. 

”suguru,” you murmur, so quiet you doubt he hears it. ”will you tell me more stories tomorrow?”

”of course.” right before sleep coaxes you into its cradle, you feel the weight of his palm on your head; ruffling your hair. ”as many as you want, your highness.”

he smiles, as your eyes flutter shut, at the soft little breaths that flow from your lips. before he slips out, he blows out the candle on the nightstand, a silent prayer that your dreams will be kinder to you than his. 

one week of nagging later, suguru’s resolve finally crumbles.

it’s progress, at last, a tiny crack in his clockwork heart — but for once it works in your favour.

”do you really want to see the outside world that badly?”

he’s got an arm locked around your waist, stopping you from one of your numerous escape attempts. you’ve gotten bolder, sneaking away the moment he takes his eyes off you, but suguru isn’t easy to fool — catching up to you just as you stepped outside the castle, now stuck in place under the portico. it’s to be expected, with that sixth sense of his, the one that seems to alert him as soon as you think the thought to get him in trouble. 

but you still can’t help but pout, huff and puff, pushing at his chest in a helpless attempt to break free. he’s sweet about it, gentle, but entirely unmoving. like a big, annoyingly handsome rock.

”what do you think?” you scoff, narrowing your eyes at him. ”no, of course not. this whole time, i’ve just been trying to escape for fun. like, as a bit. how could you tell?”

he rolls his eyes, and you break out into a grin. ”mind the sarcasm, please.” he barely resists the urge to pinch your side; letting you loose, instead, trusting you not to scurry away. he’d catch up to you instantly, anyhow. "i’m just saying, it might not be as interesting as you think —“

”what are you, stupid?”

”what did we say about letting people finish their sentences?” he raises a brow, and you try not to cower. rolling your eyes, instead. suguru just sighs. ”i understand why you want to leave. but you have a good life, here. better than most.”

”… i know that,” you grumble, biting down on your lip. a resignation in your eyes that your knight can't protect you from. ”i just —”

you sigh. 

”it’s just so suffocating.”

suguru falls into a contemplative silence. weighing his options, studying the flicker of emotions in your eyes, the tapping of your idle fingers. hands eager to fidget with something. 

moments pass, one at a time, a familiar lullaby of pitter patter ricocheting off the ground just outside your vision. the air smells of marigolds, burning wood, wet concrete. the beginnings of summer.

finally, he makes up his mind. 

”okay, okay.”

when you look up from the ground, what awaits you is an outstretched hand. a familiar palm, and a familiar knight, with a familiar smile on his face. ”but don’t get used to it, alright?”

…

you part your lips, but no sound comes out. gaping like a fish out of water, hunting for the right words. suguru waits. patient.

”w — hold on,” you stutter, eyes blooming with hesitant hope, studying him intently for any signs of trickery. ”you mean — seriously? like, for real?”

he shrugs. ”it’s my duty to keep you happy.” devotion clings to his tongue, sweet indulgence. ”figure i can make an exception this once.”

another moment passes.

(there isn’t a hint of deceit in his features.)

a grin breaks out across your lips, like a joyous bolt of lighting, and you lunge into his chest — throwing your arms over his broad shoulders, jumping up and down, planting a wet kiss against his cheek. bubbly, giddy, heart racing with disbelief. you don’t even have it in you to be bratty. ”thank you, thank you, thank you!”

suguru makes a choked out noise, a little comical, breath hitching in the back of his throat. stabilizing you with a palm on the small of your back, patting it softly, once or twice, before retracting his arm and pulling away. clearing his throat. ”… you’re welcome.”

(his ears burn a cherry red.)

”but this is our little secret,” he reminds you, firmly, collecting himself. or trying to. ”got it?”

”yep.”

”if anyone asks, you —”

”yep, yep, understood.” you brush him off, still grinning brightly. ”don’t worry! i won’t tell a soul, i promise. swear on my mother’s grave!”

your knight exhales. worried, maybe, a little exasperated — mostly just trying to mask how infectious your joy is. how addicted he is to it, now that he’s seen it up close. he’s only caught glimpses in the midst of your painting sessions; to see it directed at him instead of the wolf on your canvas is a treasure he won’t soon forget. 

sneakily, stealthily, like a pair of bad dogs, the two of you begin your journey to the woods on the horizon. wearing cloaks, sticking together, until the sun begins to set and the sky drains of colour. 

and before you know it, it’s right there in front of you. a narrow path into the woods, a cluster of trees, a world you’ve always dreamed of. dark and gritty, beautiful, brimming with bugs and sights yet to be seen. creatures you could only ever see in picture books. a dreamlike world that takes shape before you, like paint splattered on a canvas, as you follow suguru’s lead — right behind him, clinging to the fabric of his cloak, excitement flooding your veins. heart thumping erratically in your chest. 

when you’ve made it to a tiny clearing, you stop in your tracks. suguru’s holding a lantern, a flicker of orange in the dark green world before you, attracting fuzzy moths. proud trees stand tall all around you, keeping guard, mushrooms and forget me nots scattered across the dewy patches of grass. keeping them company. 

everything smells of life, earth, oak wood and thinly veiled secrets. you want to live here forever.

suguru turns to look at you, noticing the way you’ve stilled. completely mesmerized, bewitched, eyes gleaming with childlike happiness. he tuts, doing a bad job at hiding how pleased he is. the sound makes you meet his eye.

”careful,” he croons, inching closer. fingertips ghosting over your wrist, right above your pulsepoint. ”could be wolves around. stay close.”

”i’ve already got one right next to me, though?”

the comment earns you a flat expression, unimpressed, and it pulls a giggle from out your throat. the corners of suguru’s lips curl up, unwillingly, as he shakes his head; exhaling a tired breath. exasperated. 

then he hums. ”well, at least you're aware.”

suddenly, he’s walking forward, slipping away, cold air replacing the buzzing warmth of his skin on yours. hot blood, ever flowing, hidden within his veins — pumped out from his heavy heart. it’s there and then it’s gone. tick, tock, one step after the other, until he’s turning around to face you again. unfurling his outstretched hand, waiting for you to grab hold of it. 

his long hair sways with the breeze, smooth and unburdened, black like the night sky above you. a starry glint in his eyes. his voice comes out deep, a raspy lilt, like the scraping of metal against concrete. 

when he smiles, you think you catch a glimpse of sharp teeth.

”will you trust this wolf to keep you safe?”

under the web of shadows cast by the trees, barely illuminated by the shivering moon, all you can do is watch him. his gleaming eyes, the curl of a toothy grin on his lips. a knight, a wolf, a friend.

your protector. 

finally, finally, you grasp onto his offered hand. his fingers intertwine with your own, a puzzle finally solved, and his palm feels a little calloused. skin littered with tiny scars, years of training and killing, but it’s still somehow so soft. nice and smooth. 

he’s warm. and now he’s smiling at you, like you put all the gold of the world into his palm. 

”yeah,” you grin, a little cheeky. stepping closer, clinging to him without restraint, knowing he’ll indulge you. ”keep me safe, wolfie.”

his laughter rings out into the air like a cicada song, sweet and nostalgic. or a howl, maybe. it makes you want to gnaw at his bones; memorize his taste, so you’ll never quite be without him. it’s not your fault he looks so chewable when he’s smiling like that.

”i will,” he promises, vows, pledges, hand on his heavy heart. knights and their rituals. ”you don’t have to worry about a thing. not while i’m here.”

and you don’t. you know you don’t. because suguru is the greatest knight, the coolest wolf, and his clockwork heart never ceases to tick. it won’t break under pressure, no matter how much you push — so you don’t bother holding back. wrapping both arms around his bicep, cozying up to him, tugging at his cloak with a pep in your step. 

”c’mon, c’mon!" you beckon him forward. "i wanna see how everything looks up close.”

and he just lets you manhandle him, for a bit. following your lead. ”your wish is my command, your highness.”

the night stretches on, seemingly never-ending, like the branches of the oak tree you find in the heart of the woods. broken, beautiful, stretching out in all directions — a garden of forking paths, covered in jagged bark, but still somehow so warm to the touch. you’re sure there’s a heartbeat in there, somewhere. maybe a couple of swords too.

all good things must come to an end. but you refuse to leave the comfort of your mossy haven until suguru promises to bring you back, someday, maybe, if you play nice. it’s a deal that you’re willing to take.

only then do you begin your journey back towards the castle. having gotten your fill, for now, left to wallow in the newfound sights etched into your memory. still clinging to your knight like a child with their favorite doll, babbling into his ear about something or another. about how you’re almost sure you saw a wolf in the bushes, about how pretty the cicadas’ songs were. how you’re gonna convince him to take you there every single day.

the sun is yawning, stretching its endless limbs out, getting ready to rise and envelop the world. the sky is a calm blue, soon to be painted orange and pink, but you aren’t tired at all. you must sound a little incoherent, but suguru nods along to your every word. listening attentively.

so kind. so patient. sure, he’s a tease, and more than a little patronizing — but you don’t think you’ve ever liked anyone this much before. it’s weird. it’s fun. 

(you wonder if he feels the same.)

”hey, suguru?”

he keeps his eyes locked on the road ahead, but still spares you a brief glance, just to let you know you have his full attention. a second of hesitance is all your sleepy brain allows you, curiosity enveloping most of your functioning thoughts.

”would you… i mean. if i was, like… a different person —” you pause. suguru quirks a brow, and you suddenly feel a little flustered. ”um, what i mean is! like, if the king ordered you to be someone else’s knight… would you protect them like you do with me?”

he blinks. once, then twice, meeting your hopeful gaze. stifling a yawn, and parting his lips. 

”of course.”

…

your face falls. lips dropping down into a soft pout, rich with disappointment, paired with a barely audible huff. suguru furrows his brows, playfully, smiling in the way he always does when he’s about to tease you.

”ah, my bad,” he croons. ”were you expecting something else? a… forbidden romance, perhaps?”

before you can begin to protest, warmth rushing to your cheeks, he stops walking. dropping down on one knee, dramatically, with a flutter of his cloak. theatrical. gently, he grabs hold of your hand, bringing it to his lips as his eyes flutter shut. you bite back a squeak.

his voice comes out low, sultry, honeyed — so heavy with emotion that it’s obvious he’s faking it. ”the only person i yearn to protect is you, my liege,” his breath feels hot against your skin. ”i could never love another. my existence is for you, and you alone.” 

suddenly, he’s smirking. you feel it against the knots of your knuckle, right before he cracks a single eye open. glimmering with deep amusement. ”… is that better?”

and you huff. sharply, doing all that you can to avoid getting flustered, his heavy gaze burning right into your own. it really, really doesn’t work. ”you’re so mean.”

”not mean,” he chuckles, rising to his feet. dusting off his cloak. ”i’m just… managing your expectations, my lord. they’d have my head on the chopping block if i so much as touched you without their consent — you know that.”

another little huff. ”i never said i wanted you to…” 

suguru hums. ”i’m your knight,” he reminds you, as always, until you get tired of hearing it. steadfast, irrefutable. ”that’s all. remember?”

(something bitter settles on your tongue.)

but you nod. ”that’s right,” you hum. ”mine.”

a teasing mirth flickers through his eyes, like the first setting sunrays reflecting off cathedral glass. reverent, dyeing the world in all the colour it asks for. and he gives a raspy chuckle. ”possessive little thing…”

that’s right, you remind yourself. he’s your knight. your lying, teasing, playwright of a knight. always wearing a mask, hiding behind a suit of armor, playing one role or another. only baring himself under the light of the sun, when no one is around to see. he’s infuriatingly patient, endlessly loyal, the greatest bootlicker you’ve encountered in your life. but he’s kind, too. maybe a little too kind. 

and he always, always kneels. 

such a large man, all toned muscle and tall stature, broad shoulders and a firm chest — kneeling at your feet. like a loyal dog. with a rustle of armor, a flutter of fabric, a sigh and a smile. as soon as you ask for it.

”c’mon. let’s hurry back,” you hear him say, biting back another yawn. ”before anyone finds out i kidnapped you. don’t want me to get in trouble, do you?”

”i kinda do.”

a silent look. unimpressed. it’s the most sincere expression he knows how to make, and also the most comical. ”careful,” he looks ahead, hiding his amused smile. ”wolves eat bratty heirs, you know? better stay on my good side, your highness.”

a bout of sleepy giggles. you curl an arm around his bicep, putting your weight onto him, but he doesn’t stumble. ”sorry, mr wolf! please, by all means, eat my dear father instead.”

”don’t be disrespectful.”

”sorry,” you quip, entirely unapologetic. ”i forgot you had a crush on him. that’s my ba — ow!”

suguru brushes by you, walking forward, hiding his growing grin. leaving you with an ache in your hip and two wide eyes. 

”hurry up, my lord. we don’t have all day.”

”wha — you pinched me!” you stumble after him, barely containing your quiet delight. ”they’ll have your head for this, you know!”

silent laughter. you don’t need to hear it to know that it’s there, just ahead of you, tucked into crows’ feet and a curl of his lips.

suguru always kneels.

but, sometimes, he talks to you as if you’re equals. sometimes he takes the lead, pinches your hip, tells you off a little. teasing, patient, but there’s an edge to him that he doesn’t always hide. sometimes, he lets you see it, and you figure that must make you at least a little bit special.

sometimes, he feels like your best friend.

careless, careless, careless.

how could he ever be so careless?

everything blurs into a puddle of red. murky, sticky, everywhere all at once. all he sees is red, all he feels is burning. his heartbeat pulses at the base of his throat, bottom lip bruised and aching from hours of sinking his teeth into the flesh, over and over — every single nerve of his body running on adrenaline and nothing else.

(adrenaline and fear, maybe, but they’ve always been synonymous. never one without the other.)

the slaughter is mindless. suguru knows that’s how they like it, anyhow — knights aren’t supposed to think. they don’t need to. 

suguru certainly isn’t. cutting his way through the bandit’s den, practically growling, sword painted such a dark shade of red that he doubts he’ll ever be able to wipe it clean. harsh slashes, pure instinct, wildfire inside his veins, iron on his tongue. 

suguru isn’t thinking, he’s hunting. sniffing like a bloodhound. eyes scanning the area before him like a hungry beast.

suguru is hunting — for you.

and when he sees you, at last, tied up and barely conscious, he’s almost certain he’s going to grow claws, fangs, matted fur. that he’s going to turn into a beast beneath the fading moonlight.

but he falls to his knees, instead, like a wounded dog. throwing his burganet off, with a clatter, crawling closer. heaving breaths, untying you with shaky hands, greedy fingertips hunting for a pulsepoint —

and only when he finds it does he allow himself the luxury of breathing again.

when you come to, veins dragged down by a fuzzy sensation, your vision is blurred. foggy, dull colours on the canvas of your mind, gradually washed away as you struggle for control. you stir, and finally see the figure above you. 

what you see is a knight, a wolf, a beast beneath the moonlight. a kind, kind man.

suguru.

bloodied armor. sweaty, messy hair, sticking to his forehead. pure panic in his bloodshot eyes. he cradles your face, cold metal on your cheek, dirty and smelling of iron. he moves his mouth; you delude yourself into thinking that his bottom lip is trembling. forming around familiar vowels.

he’s saying your name.

there must be something wrong with you, you belatedly realize. the last one to do so. because you’re hurt, scared, but you still feel a skip of your heartbeat. 

(he finally said it.)

you muster all the strength at your disposal, eyelids fluttering. and you try to answer, you do, reaching for that thread between your brain and your tongue — but it comes out as a garbled little thing, more air than noise. 

it’s enough. the tense crease between his brows melts away, and he sighs.

”oh, thank the heavens.”

another sensation. he’s touching your hand, now, cold metal on warm skin, bringing it up to his lips; a shaky little exhale brushing against the knots of your knuckle. his lips are chapped. 

then he’s scooping you up, cradling you close, as close as metaphysically possible, as if willing to cut his stomach open to fit you inside. his grip is firm, comforting, desperate, a mother wolf carrying her cub to safety by the skin of her teeth. his hair tickles your skin, but you don’t mind.

only when he brings you back to the castle does everything fall into place. he explains everything, as you sit in bed, still recovering. a sudden attack, from within the castle, a kidnapping. some enemies of the king, a scandal to do with you and your blood. something, something, something. you’ve grown used to not understanding why you keep getting hurt. 

and you’re too distracted by the sullen face of the knight in front of you to pay attention.

suguru wasn’t there to stop it — wasn’t there to save you, be your knight in shining armor. the king had invited him to a game of chess, and you had been adamant in your refusal to join them.

so you don’t understand why he’s apologizing.

he’s smiling, but it’s weak, as flimsy as a piece of paper. his lying smile, tight-lipped, betrayed by the redness of his eyes, the puffy skin beneath them. dark crescents. he sits by your bedside and looks a little like he wants to curl into a ball. 

”i’m sorry.”

and ah, you think; there it is. guilt. always, always clinging to him, a ghost haunting him wherever he goes. it’s been there since the beginning, in the scar reaching for his shoulder, the nature of his never-fading smile. guilt, guilt, guilt. you wonder if he's ever gone without it. you wonder if knights begin to crumble when they stop feeling ashamed. 

he looks sad.

with a breathless inhale, you part your lips. you want to tell him that he has nothing to apologize for, that you’re fine now — that you could never be mad at him. not really, never truly, never at him. you want to tell him that he’s your favorite person, not just your favorite knight, that he’s allowed to make mistakes without demanding that he suffer for them. 

you want to tell him that it’s okay, really. seriously.

but all that leaves your lips is a meek little sniffle. as the shock of it all finally settles, sinking deep into your bones, the fear of being captured, the dull ache of your skull meeting the ground. you can’t tell him any of the things you want to, and you feel so awful — 

because suguru’s face falls. like you just thrust a knife into his sternum and twisted it. he looks like he could cry, too.

”i’m sorry,” his voice cracks, right down the middle. like a broken vase. ”i’m so sorry.” it’s not at all what you want to hear, but you can’t tell him that either. he’s bundling you up before you know it, dragging you into the comfort of his chest, one large palm on the back of your head; tugging you closer still. he smells of soap and oak wood and peach blossoms. ”it was scary, wasn’t it?”

and you nod. into his neck, wet tears brushing against his skin. not stable enough to act tough. you don’t think he is, either.

suguru exhales, shaky, clutching you like he could lose you if he lets go. lose himself. he knows you’re scared, but you let him soothe you. it means something, he thinks. it means something that you let him come so close, closer than anyone’s ever been. so he swallows the guilt until it’s no longer clogging up the back of his throat, if only so his voice can flow out through the gap, give you the comfort you need. just rubbing your back until you calm down, apologizing silently — over and over again. manic, like the tick-tock of a clock.

until your voice breaks him out of it.

”it’s not your fault.”

he stiffens. still holding you, feeling your heartbeat settle down, hearing your voice break out of your throat. it comes out as a weak croak, with just the slightest hint of disapproval.

he gulps.

”don’t worry about me, right now,” he hushes you. a silent plea. ”i’m not the one who’s injured.”

”suguru —” you sigh, almost a hiss. ”i hit my head. once. that’s all.” you wipe away the wetness of your cheeks, biting back a sniffle. ”… you’re acting like i’m fucking dying. cut it out.”

(for once, he’s relieved to hear that sharp edge of your voice. it means you’re feeling better.)

a weak inhale. ”… they kidnapped you. it must’ve been terrifying. please, just…” and a tired exhale. ”please just don’t strain yourself.”

”it wasn’t your fault.”

…

”your highne —”

”i’m serious.” you’re pulling away, suddenly, clasping onto his cheeks with your tearstained palms. squishing his face together. ”it wasn’t your fault. it was mine.”

he shakes his head, eager to protest, so you squish his cheeks with more force, and shake his head for him. like a misbehaving dog. ”nope. if you even think about apologizing, i’ll start crying again.”

he lets out a huff. frowning, sadly, a downcast pair of eyes.

”don’t pout. i’ll bite you.”

it’s slight, barely even there at all — but you think the corner of his mouth twitches upwards, just by a hair, exhaling through his nose with just the slightest hint of amusement.

he places his palm over yours. 

a moment passes, slow and steady, both of you catching your breaths. calming down, letting the fear of it all seep out of your aching bones. you hope the warmth of your skin against his soothes him as much as it soothes you. 

”… you know, your highness,” he murmurs, softly. meeting your puffy eyes with his tired pools of amber gold. ”there’s something i never told you.”

you blink. he continues.

”just the night before the king reached out to me… i had a dream.” he musters a weak, exhausted little smile. ”dreams… i don’t have them very often. and when i do, they’re nothing good. but this dream…” 

his eyes flutter shut. a curtain closing, a raven taking flight, the tick-tock of a heartbeat. you can’t look away. ”it stuck out to me.”

silence.

your voice comes out soft, like the bedsheets beneath you, the man before you. a tiny breath of a question. ”… what was it about?”

he smiles. smoothing a thumb over your knuckle, reverent, as if memorizing every ridge and dip.

”a fox.”

…

”it had…” his hand slips from the small of your back, reaching for your cheek, pinching it gently. ”a cheeky smile.”

your skin heats up, beneath his touch. and you blink, not saying a word, because there isn’t any need to. all the words you could ever want have already been painted out.

(well, maybe not quite all.)

”suguru.” you lean close, just a little, drinking him in. and he listens, as always, so you don’t bother beating around the bush. swallowing any embarrassment your tired mind can still feel. because your knight is right in front of you, eyes still red from crying, and you want him to be happy. “i think you’re my favorite person.”

he stills.

then he’s burning up. 

”wha — where did that come from?” he stammers, a strawberry hue to his ears, his neck, the tips of his fingers. enveloping him like a blanket of warmth.

you only shrug. ”you told me the truth. figured i should return the favour, for once.” a giddy, exhausted smile. “we’re both awful liars, huh?”

suguru opens his mouth. then he closes it, again, desperate to collect himself. you think he must be a little too exhausted to, and you wish you could say you felt bad. ”you… you can’t just —”

he squeezes his eyes shut. sighing. giving up, the gears of his mind grinding to a halt. your grin blooms wider.

”hehe.” you poke at his flushed cheek, and he cracks a single eye open. ”you’re blushing.”

he huffs, leaning away from your touch, and you find yourself enjoying the reversal of your usual roles. very much so. he tries to smile, tries to get one up on you, but he only blushes a deeper shade of red once your words reach his ears. 

so he settles for using cheap tricks.

”you’re hallucinating,” he scoffs, shoving your head into the fluffy pillows all around you. ever so gently, listening to your muffled giggles. trying to stifle his own joy. ”go back to sleep.”

”my blushy knight,” you coo, and he drags the blanket over your head. biting down on his lip to stop himself from joining your bubbly laughter, blushing more than ever. 

(the word knight sounds very pretty, when it’s falling from your lips.)

”i swear,” he exhales, heavy and exasperated, but you can hear the smile in his voice. ”just what am i to do with you?”

it’s fond. delicate, even in his bouts of teasing, the light instances of manhandling. and you’re happy, because he’s not apologizing anymore, and he’s happy because you aren’t crying anymore. give and take. there’s a rhythm to it, a point where everything else becomes background noise, whether it’s memories of a kidnapping or a decade-old guilt.

he stays with you all night, even after you’ve fallen asleep. just watching you, safeguarding you, checking your pulse every now and then. content to watch as your chest rises and falls, with the tender ticking of your heartbeat.

that night, you dream of a kind, kind wolf, and a painting yet to be finished. 

before you lies a field of stars.

you’re seated on a blanket, with a pretty knight to your left, up on top of a grassy hill. daffodils bloom around you, sweet nectar hanging in the air, a field of sunflowers waving at you from below. dragonflies greet you with a scratchy song. 

everything is perfect. a midnight rendezvous, a picnic under the stars — suguru’s own idea. to celebrate the time that you’ve spent together.

(well, that part was your idea. but you’re sure he appreciates it, too.)

the basket next to you is filled with fruit and berries, marmalade and jam, bottles of herbal tea. suguru’s delicious sandwiches. you bite into one of them, humming happily, and he’s quick to brush the occasional crumb from the corner of your lip, ghosting over your skin with a smile.

there’s another basket, too, just in front of you, that you brought on your own. hiding a secret; one you're just about to unveil. 

you clear your throat to get his attention.

like clockwork, he’s looking at you. listening, when  you tell him to close his eyes, only giving you a questioning raise of his brow and an amused exhale. 

you’re quick to lean forward, uncovering the basket, revealing the secret you’ve hidden so well. suguru is still waiting, indulgent, patient. you feel a little hesitant, but still part your lips.

“… okay. you can open them, now.”

he does. instantly, two ravens taking flight, and the sight that awaits them is that of a painting; a painting of a wolf, in the middle of the woods, empty armors and wilted sunflowers all around it. dragonflies and dragonflies, a knight just out of view.

he stares, silently, and you do your best to hide your growing nervosity. even as he takes it into his lap, and your gaze falls to the blanket below you. ”it’s… not my best work, but —” his eyes stay glued onto the painting, as you stumble blindly for the right words to say. wringing your hands together, clutching at the fabric of your sleeves. ”i’d… like you to have it. i mean, unless you —”

”thank you.”

you raise your head.

suguru is gazing at the canvas with the softest pair of eyes you’ve ever seen. melting amber, crinkled at the edges, accompanied by a sweet grin. 

”i’ll treasure it,” he vows, meeting your eyes, voice dripping with warmth. hand on his heart, and you can’t even poke fun at it. ”always.”

his earnest acceptance is enough to fluster you, enough to make you feel as it your heart is about to collapse, but he continues to look at the painting with enough awe to fill an empty lake with water, and it makes you terribly shy. 

until his smile drops.

”uh, actually — i…”

now it’s your turn to stare, silently, as he fumbles with something in the basket at his feet. gentle, as he takes out glass jars and wrapped sandwiches. out comes a sheet of paper. 

then he’s clearing his throat. handing it to you, pointedly avoiding your gaze. ”i’m not an artist, so you know. i just…” he coughs, a little out of his element. “well. here.”

with delicate hands, you accept it, bringing it down to your lap. big, curious eyes taking it in.

it’s a sketch — made with coal, a little smudged, but awfully charming. pretty, delicate.

it’s a sketch of a fox.

wide-eyed, all you can do is stare. gaze flitting up to meet his own, his nervous expression, before falling back to the little canine. ”you — this…” back and forth, over and over again. ”for — ?” 

you point to yourself. 

suguru chuckles. ”yes, it’s for you. who else?” he taps the pads of his fingers against the handle of the basket, watching you silently admire the mischievous fox. not saying anything; so he continues.

”like i said, i’m not an artist. you can always throw it away, if you’d —”

”i’m gonna frame it.”

…

”i'm gonna frame it,” you repeat, eyes shining with sincerity. a little manic. ”i’ll hang it on the wall of the castle hallway so everyone can see it. it’ll be there for centuries to come, passed down —”

”please don't —”

”d’you think a gold frame would fuck up the vibe? maybe a modest silver is best.” you turn to face him, ignoring his blatant embarrassment. ”oooh, hang on! father knows this guy who makes them with real minerals. i’ll just —”

”your highness,” the knight cuts you off, almost with a squeak. ”please. it’s just a dumb drawing. i just… wanted to give it to you. that’s all.”

a pause. you look into his eyes, flickering with hesitance, an earnest desire for your approval only. so you hum, though a little hesitant.

”… alright. if you say so. i’ll hang it in my room, then.”

he sighs. relieved. ”that’s better. really, you —”

”thank you.” you whisper, blinking away the wetness at your lash-line. staring at the sketch with a dreamy, dreamy smile. ”i love it.”

you grin, happily, practically beaming. suguru wants to keep it there, always, on those pretty lips; he wants to lay his life on the line to protect it. but something tells him that would just make it fall. 

finally, everything clicks into place. the air fills with the scent of herbal tea, fresh strawberries, acrylic paint and hushed whispers. your own ritual, repeated over and over, like a loving waltz. 

as always, it’s suguru who breaks the silence. shatters it with the tip of his tongue. 

”hey,” he calls, softly. “my lord.”

mouth full of bread, you simply look at him. chewing silently, attention piqued. swallowing with a gulp. he places his folded hands on his lap, exhaling a little breath. ”… i’ve been thinking.”

”uh oh.”

he gives you one of those silent, flat, unimpressed looks of his, and you quiet down with a grin and another mouthful of bread. quirking a brow, he exhales amusedly, then shakes his head and continues.

”i retract my earlier statement.”

when you glance up again, he’s smiling. showing more teeth than usual, a little wider, a little wolfish. a little more himself. you want to paint it, keep it hidden away somewhere only you can see.

”if it was someone else — anyone else…” he trails off, tasting the words on his tongue. “i doubt i’d feel this way. i doubt i’d want to protect them as fervently.” his voice flows out like a river of gold, just a little scratchy. it always is, when it sounds this sincere. 

he meets your eyes, and everything falls into place. 

”you’ve become precious to me,” he admits. ”i can't remember what it felt like to not be yours.”

his tongue curls around a familiar set of syllables, and your name seeps from his lips like a prayer, a vow, a trickle of honey and wine. devotion sticks to his tongue, to the vowels, a heavy fondness — something devout. something you've only ever heard from the mouths of priests.

and then he’s smiling. 

”i think i’ll be your knight until the day i die,” he breathes, and deep down you know it’s a vow. “even if the king discards me of that title.”

silence. except for an increasingly loud mantra of tick-tocks, from the depths of your own chest, echoing in your ears. your knight is in front of you, and he’s yours, and he’s smiling like he loves you. like he always will.

”… suguru.”

he hums, eyes lidded, blinking slowly. serenely. he lets you cling to him, pull him close, practically dragging him into your lap.

”stay with me,” you plead, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. too desperate to feel embarrassed. ”forever. promise me.”

an exhale, right by your ear. it sounds so fond you could cry. 

“i promise,” he whispers, fingers intertwining with your own. a perfect puzzle piece, a functional clockwork. lifting your hand, bringing his glossy lips to your knuckle; where they belong. ”until death tears me away from you.”

”it won’t,” you deadpan, partly to distract him from the growing heat of your fingertips. mostly because it’s true. ”you won't let it.”

he smiles against your knuckle, breathing out an airy laugh. ”clever little thing…” his free hand goes to rest on your spine, as always, and you lean back to see him properly. knowing he’ll catch you if you fall.

“.. but yeah," he sighs. "i won’t.”

before you know it, you’re leaning back in. because his eyes are the warmest shade of brown you’ve ever seen, and his hair is just a little tousled, and he looks so kissable it aches.

his jaw trembles, a little, when you press your lips against the curve of it. his whole body seems to still, for a moment, and you pull back just to see if he’s blushing. he is. 

but he must have anticipated your teasing, because he’s tucking you under his chin before you can see it through. pressing you close. and he tuts, a click of his silver tongue, a touch of restraint. ”… you little tease,” comes a whisper. ”how am i supposed to hold back now?”

”don’t hold back, dummy,” you grin, muffled against the column of his throat. you just barely resist the urge to sink your teeth into the skin. ”you’re a bad actor, anyway. the worst.”

and he is. he’s been looking at your lips this whole time — he couldn’t be more obvious if he tried.

suguru laughs, breathy, overflowing with fondness. chest rumbling with the noise, blending together with the rhythmic thumping of his clockwork heart. ”okay,” comes a soft lull of his tongue. ”i won’t, then.”

a drowsy feeling overtakes you, just as you feel his lips meet the crown of your head. it’s not much, but it’s a start. and it’s tender, tender enough to get you choked up, to get you to close your eyes to stop any tears from forming. because one person in this kingdom understands you, and he tells you that he’ll never leave. and you think you can actually find it in you to believe him. 

one person’s clockwork heart never breaks for you, and maybe that’s enough to convince you to stop trying to push it there.

”you can sleep, if you’d like,” is whispered against your hair. soft, soothing, his palm on your spine. ”i’ve got you. always.”

(one person in this world can make you feel safe, with just four little words. and isn’t that something?)

so you doze off, on the shoulder of your very own knight. your favorite knight, always and forever, a sword at his hip that was forged to protect you. or so he’ll tell you, years from now, when he’s got you in his lap, when there isn’t any need for him to act anymore.

and you dream a perfect dream. a dream of a wolf, and a fox, and a garden of stars.

[kordeliiius]

Part 2 of the Crewmates AU character profile series ^^ Story info, headcanons, and other notes under the cut

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4

(Again- I should note that heights may not be exact; scaling in this world is weird because even though the Transmission stretched the kids past their would-be natural heights, they still look small against all the oversized architecture and furnishings. Through a combination of researching average heights by region, comparing comic panels, and also general feeling I’ve reached some okay approximations)

One

Age: 22 Gender: Man (he/him) Ethnicity: Mexican Height: 6’9

Story Info: Chased out of his homeland by an entity known as the North Wind, One fled to the Maw accompanied by the Ferryman out of desperation for safety, but not before being cursed with the Wind’s same torrential power out of spite. Fearing he would bring harm onto more innocents, he retreated to the deep corners of the ship and remained alone until a small group of fellow stowaways eventually found him. They began to view him as somewhat of a leader, a role that came naturally to him having been raised with a younger sister, who he lost on his journey. To this day One continues to guide his younger companions and offer advice whenever needed (along with Flicker).

Roles: Cartographer, mediator, cook, general handyman

Magic: Wind magic – Mainly used to levitate himself or smaller objects via controlled drafts of wind, but is also capable of producing powerful gusts.

Wardrobe: Prefers casual clothes in bright, warm colors like yellow and orange as if to seem more pleasant and inviting. Usually has his favorite charm from his homeland on hand.

~

Two

Age: 21 Gender: Woman (she/her) Ethnicity: Korean/Swedish Height: 6’3.5

Story Info: Two and her younger half-brother were stripped from their family home in the North by an unforeseeable and vicious wildfire, infecting her with the flames’ power and leaving both of them in the hands of the Ferryman. Two met One while chasing after her wandering brother in the Maw’s dark recesses, and she is credited with building the Campfire that eventually summoned more children to their side with its light. Despite being a vocally stubborn individual, she’s adjusted the routine aboard the new Maw and the challenges the job brings.

Roles: Attendant, fire starter, energy analyst, secondary translator

Magic: Fire magic – By conjuring sparks at her fingertips, she can start fires for both everyday use and self-defense. While she can’t directly produce flames, she can maintain and manipulate flames by channeling energy through a particular object. Her “weapon” of choice is an upscaled metal fire poker that’s longer than she is tall.

Wardrobe: Often dons a military-inspired look with button-downs and boots that reflects her brash nature, yet is also very fond of cute skirts. Green remains a favorite color, but likes warm hues as well.

~

Three

Age: 21 Gender: Woman (she/her) Ethnicity: Jordanian Brit Height: 7’5

Story Info: What started as an innocent haunted house expedition left Three with a permanent injury and a severe phobia of mirrors. Despite having all the reason to fear the place the Ferryman took her to, Three sensed help deep within the looming tunnels of the ship and arrived at the Campfire. Despite her physical limitations, she aspires to do anything she can to help on board, and has gained everyone’s respect as well as the “gentle giant” persona.

Roles: Crafter, seamstress, occasional strongarm

Magic: Clairvoyance – Predictions of the immediate future that manifest as gut feelings rather than visions, and are more useful for spur-of-the-moment decisions. She can make broader, clearer predictions using mirrors, but her phobia dissuades her from doing so.

Wardrobe: Wears a hijab like she did in her childhood, only now crafts a variety of makeshift styles out of anything suitable she can find. Sticks to full cover that is sometimes fitted. Likes the look of earthy tones with hints of white.