#possibly commander thorn as well

[mirkwdmstrss]

by the river’s edge

summary: gil-galad feared the worst in not knowing whether you lived or died in the siege at eregion. upon being reunited, you take him to a clandestine hideaway to help cleanse his body and mind of the horrors he witnessed on the battlefield. with a full heart and clear mind, he asks you something you did not expect

word count: 4.4k

pairing: gil galad x reader

genre: hurt comfort, fluff

tags: implied sex, mild blood, nudity

Branches whipped across his face as he blindly pushed through the dense foliage, never minding the sharpened thorns or abrasive barks stinging at his exposed flesh. Such was the nature of this valley, to protect those that sought refuge within its walls. Another might have torn their sword from its sheath and slashed at the maze of vines and tangles of tree limbs, but Gil Galad was not so far yet lost to his fears and anxieties to cause undue harm to the natural world.

You are alive. You are well.

These are the words he’d kept repeating to himself after nearly having lost Galadriel hours earlier. To have lost her would’ve been a blow to him unlike any other. To have lost her while also not yet knowing if you lived or died caused immeasurable fear to shadow his heart; and he wasn’t sure if he’d survive the loss of either of you if that was what the Valar had deemed to happen on this day.

Hope. He held to hope. If they had all survived what they had thus far, surely you, and the rest of those trapped in the Siege at Eregion had been able to escape. Galadriel had been unable to speak when he and Elrond had worked tirelessly to stabilize her injuries. He knew in his heart though that she would’ve done her best to help as many as possible escape through the secret tunnels in her pursuit of Sauron, a Lady of Light in the darkest of times. Though he’d intended to stay by the commander’s side, Arondir and Elrond had promised her safe delivery to the valley in which the survivors had been rumored to flee to and encouraged him to go on ahead without them to find you.

And as he drew upon an opening in the thicket all around him, his heart swelled to hear the language of his people. As he broke through trees, their tongues fell silent; stunned to find their high king in such a disheveled state. His eyes rapidly scanned the gathering crowd, though it was not very big to begin with. Had so few made it out? Surely this couldn’t be everyone.

“Where are they?” he asked no one in particular, eyes unable to focus on any one person for too long.

“Who, High King?”

Gil Galad turned at the sound of his title and was surprised to find Vorohil. He was sure he’d died in Eregion after being struck by the enemy's arrows; and though he cradled his left arm close to his chest, he seemed otherwise unharmed save a few cuts and bruises on his face.

He spoke your name and his heart sang upon Vorohil’s face instantly brightening. With his right hand, he pointed toward an outcropping of rocks near a small waterfall. “Just past those boulders, my lord. We’ve established a rudimentary infirmary. They’ve been tending to the wounded night and day. I probably wouldn’t be here to tell you of it had it not been for them.”

Gil Galad parted from him, a brief word of thanks rolling off his tongue as he swept down the hill, never minding the praise and thanks his people extended towards him as he rushed past. This battle was not won by him alone, by the Valar, this battle hadn’t been won at all; but they survived due to the leadership of many, and he would address his people formally once all were present.

For now, all that mattered was you.

As he rounded the mass of boulders, the expanse of land opened up into a dell shadowed by enormous trees and the gentle rush of a number of small brooks flowed freely over smooth stone.

At least a dozen elves, soldiers and civilians alike, were laid out on makeshift beds of grass in various states of health and wellness. Some had suffered broken bones, some penetrating stab wounds. A couple of elf maidens he recognized from Eregion busied themselves over an elf that had suffered an arrow to the shoulder who cried out as they withdrew the shaft and immediately packed the wound with bandages that looked like they’d been made from someone’s cloak. He greeted them and they startled.

“High king,” they greeted in turn with a bow of their heads.

“Please,” he said in dismissal, waving them back towards the injured. “I don’t mean to interrupt. Tell me, where is—”

His voice faltered and a choked sob escaped his lips as you appeared from around a bend in the rock formation.

Gil Galad was upon you in an instant, a breath of air whooshing from your lungs as two strong arms wrapped around your middle, forcing you to drop the basket you’d been holding. Clean linens spilled about your feet as the High held you close against his mud and blood stained chest plate, his large hand cradling your neck and fingers tangling into your hair.

“Thank the Valar you’re alive,” he breathed into your ear.

“Me?” you questioned, pulling back to look into his deep brown eyes as you cupped his cheek in your hand. “From what I heard, you llead a charge with less than two dozen elves at your backing. You’re lucky you made it out with only a scratch.” You ran your thumb along his jaw where a rather nasty cut split the skin of his cheek. “Come, let me tend to you somewhere more private, my lord.”

Gil Galad inclined his head as though he wanted to say more, but then realized all eyes of those that were conscious were currently on the two of you; and though he cared not if they saw him show affection towards you, it was probably the last thing they expected to see at this current moment in time. With a nod of his head, he relented and allowed you to curl your fingers around his and tug him along down a path that curved on between the rocks.

The sun shone overhead, breaking through the boughs of the trees dappling the path in swirls of golden light. Birds chirped in their branches and the sound was so sweet, it nearly puzzled Gil Galad for he’d not heard the birds sing in weeks and wasn’t sure he’d ever hear them again for the carnage of what had transpired in Eregion.

As you wandered down the path, eventually, he could no longer even hear the voices of those back at the stream’s edge.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, craning to look around your frame.

You turned to look at him over your shoulder, and he smiled upon finding both adoration and amusement shining back at him in your eyes; a welcome contrast to the horror and fear he’d seen reflected back at him in the eyes of his people as they’d fallen around him in battle.

“Somewhere I can get you cleaned up, would that please the High King?” You asked coyly, batting your lashes at him.

A smile hooked the corners of his lips as your playful tongue expelled the images of war from his mind. Without thinking further of it, he tugged on your hand and with one strong pull of his arm, twirled you around the path so you were flush with his body and had to arch your back in order to gaze up at him, the press of his hand against the small of your waist making you feel more safe and secure than you had in weeks. A moment of silence stretched between you, but only a moment, before you both launched yourselves at one another.

You threw your arms around his neck as he hoisted you up into the air to press his lips against yours. He tasted like blood and sweat, but you didn’t care because he was there and he was alive. He moaned into your mouth as he squeezed you tightly and you laughed against his lips, feeling joy for the first time since you couldn’t even remember.

Pressing your hands against his shoulders in a gentle signal to let you down, you kissed the corner of his mouth. “There will be plenty of time for that later, let’s get you cleaned up. In the coming days, we’ll have little time together with all the responsibility that will fall to you. You’ll need to look a little bit more presentable for your people.”

Gil Galad arched a brow in response as he placed your feet back on the ground. “Are you saying I don’t look presentable right now?”

You smirked in response, giving him a once over. “I suppose you could stay dressed in that.” A wicked glint entered your gaze. “Or you could allow me to help bathe and dress you in a fresh set of clothes. Your armor has seen better days, after all.”

Gil Galad nodded his head slowly, an eagerness in his eyes you’d not seen in ages. “It has, hasn’t it?”

You murmured your assent and led him off path through a break in the dense foliage where a clear blue waterfall gushed into a wide pebbled pool beneath. Wide rocks poked out of the water, bathed in sunlight. Oaks and other trees grew tall, curving toward the sky in beautiful arches. The surrounding mountain of the valley and thick brush encircling the space kept it hidden from those just following the path, so there would be plenty of privacy here.

“How did you find this place?” Gil Galad asked as his eyes looked about in wonder. Vines of wisteria crawled along the canopy, filling the space with a sweet and delicate scent.

“I was searching for herbs to use in poultices and salves for the injured.” You gestured towards the sandy bank where a number of small baskets were packed full with various herbs and plants. Beside that was a larger basket you’d used to wash linens, a number of which were stretched out to dry on the sun drenched rocks.

A knowing look entered the depths of his brown eyes. “Very far to wander on one’s own, don’t you think?”

You squeezed his hand as you continued to lead him down towards the falls, “We can always go back.”

“No, no,” he replied. “This will do just fine.”

“Good,” you said softly, backing up towards the water’s edge, your feet sinking just so into the smooth sand surrounding the pool. With a delicate hand, and without breaking eye contact with him, you curled your palm around his wrist, undoing the straps of one gauntlet before following suit and removing the other. You tossed them onto the sand and followed the length of his torso, seeking out and undoing the latches of the chest plate along his sides and those holding it in place over his shoulders. Gil Galad breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled it over his head and let it fall away, not minding how it hit the sand with a firm thunk. Finally, your fingers found and made quick work of the buckles holding his pauldrons in place.

Fire danced in the depths of his deep brown eyes as you took a measured step towards him and reached for the belt at his waist, holding his long sword tight to his hip. His fingers folded over yours, threading through them to undo the buckle. He gripped his sword as the belt from around his waist and dug his weapon into the earth with one powerful thrust of his arm. You swallowed thickly and felt your heart hammer a steady beat against your ribcage as you dared to gather the fabric of his tunic into your hands.

“Go on, then,” he said, voice low. Your fingers skimmed the trail of dark hair beneath his navel as you pushed the fabric of his shirt up and over his shoulders, allowing him to tug the remainder over his head and cast it aside in a ripple of golden fabric. He shook out his hair and it fell across his broad shoulders in deep brown waves.

When he took a step closer to you, closing what little distance remained between the two of you, every muscle in your belly clenched with heat. “Are you just going to watch me bathe?” he asked softly. “Or shall you join me?”

“Whatever my king prefers,” you answered with a small bow of your head. Your breath hitched in your throat when his fingers gripped your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to look at his. “What have I told you about calling me by my name?”

A blush coated your cheeks as a shy smile played about your lips. “Years now, we’ve spent together, and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way your name rolls off the tongue.”

Gil Galad dropped his fingers from your chin to fall upon the bare skin of your shoulder. As he curled his fingers around the back of your neck to make quick work of the knot holding your simple halter shift dress in place, his lips brushed the shell of your pointed ear. “Perhaps, we can see how it rolls off the tongue whilst mine lavishes the body it belongs to.”

“Bite your tongue,” you scolded playfully.

“If you ask nicely,” he purred, tugging the knot free and with it, your dress fell in a pile of fabric around your ankles.

Your nipples immediately peaked in response to the gentle breeze of the warm summer day; the sun on your back instantly warming you through to your core. As you toed out of your sandals, you stepped forward to reach for the ties on his trousers. His hands curved over your hips and you gasped as he grabbed your backside firmly in his palms causing you to fumble the laces. When you finally managed to pull them loose, you watched as he kicked out of his boots to shimmy them off, casting them aside and leaving him completely nude before you save for his ring, Vilya, whose ruby glittered in the sun.

You found yourself unable to look away from him, bared like this to you in the open air; and you to him. There was as much beauty in it as there was vulnerability and you craved him now more than ever.

Before you could place a hand on him, he lunged towards you. A squeal escaped your lips as he tackled you into the pool; arms wrapped tightly around your waist as he turned his body to take the brunt of the impact with the water’s surface. The water was cold, yet refreshing, and you both spluttered and laughed as you kicked yourselves upright. You reached out a hand to brush a lock of hair out of his face and rubbed your finger along the dried blood on his cheek.

“I’m so glad you made it back safely,” you murmured as your laughter fell away.

Gil Galad turned his head to place a gentle kiss upon your thumb which lingered there. “When I have something so important to come back to, I do everything in my power to make it so.”

“This is but a lull in the storm,” you ventured, fear lacing your words.

His eyes flashed with concern, irises flickering as he searched for solace in yours. “Do not trouble yourself with such dark thoughts, not when I have found strength in your gentle arms.” He folded himself around you then, fingers splayed against your back as he buried his nose into your hair.

You closed your eyes, reveling in the touch of his strong and gentle caress. “I want to show you something,” you whispered in his ear, causing him to pull back and regard you with bemused curiosity.

Releasing his hand, you took slow, measured steps back. Fortunately, you’d had plenty of time to explore this place in the days since you’d taken refuge in the valley. The roar of the falls grew louder as you backed up closer and closer to it. A devious grin pulled at your lips as you took a breath and held it before stepping back through the curtain of water into the secret cavern behind it.

You waded back and swam in a slow circle, taking in the smooth rounded out walls that tapered up high towards an opening in the ceiling overhead. The sun cut across the top, reflecting off the walls in shimmering silver and golden light that danced along the cavern walls.

Gil Galad appeared then, swiping a hand over his face to smooth his hair back. His lips parted as awe struck him, head tilting back to admire the clandestine space.

“Ulmo must be fond of you to have revealed such a place,” he breathed, completely wonderstruck as he turned to admire the expanse of smooth flat stones that made up the perimeter of the space, dipping and forming alcoves where one could sit or out of the water. He could picture you now, stretched out across one while the water lapped at your flesh and he lapped at your—

“The vines that grow down through the opening in the cavern are soapwort.”

“Soapwort,” Gil Galad repeated, mind returning to a more appropriate topic.

You nodded, swimming over to one of the vines curling down the wall and plucking a flower from it. You rolled the petals between your hands until a gentle lather foamed between your palms. You plucked a handful and made your way over to a cluster of smooth rocks. After taking a seat on one that resided just beneath the water's surface, you waved Gil Galad over to join you.

You set the flowers on a dry portion of rock sticking out of the water and placed your hands on his chest when he drew near, pressing down in a quiet order to sit. When he did, you smoothed his hair back over his shoulders. After breaking down the herbs in hand, you massaged the lather into his hair, kneading his scalp with your fingers as you did so.

The murmurs of satisfaction that left the High King’s lips brought a knowing smile to your own. So often he busied himself with the kingdom, as was his duty, that he never took true time for himself. If you could offer him but a moment’s respite from the horrors he’d seen befall your people, then that would be enough. After rinsing the sweat and dirt from his hair, you shifted your attention to clean the marks of battle from his flesh. Gil Galad winced as you worked the herb’s lather into the cut on his cheek, but you only smiled.

“I will not see the High King of Lindon felled by infection if you don’t let me clean this and keep squirming like that.”

“It’s not a pleasant feeling,” Gil Galad quipped, though his eyes betrayed his amusement.

You only smirked in response and continued to wash the memory of the siege from his flesh, gently guiding your fingers over every inch of his skin; not missing the way his cock twitched several times in response to your heated touch.

As you turned to pluck more soapwort from the vine for yourself, Gil Galad’s hulking silhouette shadowed yours as he reached an arm above your head to pick several blossoms just out of reach.

“Allow me,” he offered, voice rumbling: and as he sat down on one of the partly submerged rocks, he looped an arm around your waist to pull you down into his lap. “I doubt you’ve paused to pay any heed to your own needs.” He pressed a soft kiss to your temple and you closed your eyes, leaning your head back to rest against the crook of his neck as your spine laid flush with his torso. “Let the carer be cared for in turn.”

He tended to you then with as gentle a hand as you had shown him and when his hands swept across your chest and torso, you couldn’t fight the way you arched into the wide plane of his body.

“Do you like it when I touch you there?” he murmured in your ear.

You nodded as his hand curved around your belly, fingers creeping ever lower. “And what if I were to touch you elsewhere?”

“I think I’d like that very much,” you breathed, voice raspy.

Gil Galad hoisted you into his arms then eliciting a delighted shriek from you as you threw your arms around his neck to keep from falling back into the water.

“Then allow me to treat you like the royalty you’ll one day be at my side.”

•••

Gil Galad rolled off of you and onto his back beside you, both of your chests heaving with labored breaths after the love you’d just made on the shores of the falls left you fully spent and sated. You turned on your side to face him, dragging a finger along the fine layer of hair covering the expanse of his chest. He reached an arm across your back to pull the edge of the cloak you laid upon up and over your lower bodies to provide some protection from the sun beaming overhead, though he marveled at the way its light danced along your bare skin.

When the silk had settled over you, he stretched one arm behind his head to look upon you better and with the opposite, reached forward to stroke the skin of your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Your skin is flushed,” he murmured, a tender smile playing on his pink lips.

A laugh tumbled from your throat as you regarded him keenly, “And who’s to blame for that, I wonder?”

“If worshiping your body is wrong,” Gil Galad mused as he leaned forward to nip at your chest, which was already littered with purple-blue marks from the way he’d suckled your skin. “Let me never be right. Place all blame on me and judge me guilty.”

His eyes glittered in the afternoon sun and you saw the promise of his words reflected back at you in them. You pressed a featherlight kiss to his lips and moaned into his open mouth as his arm tightened around your back, as if he could bring you closer together than you already were.

“Never doubt the love I have for you,” he breathed as he touched his forehead to yours. “In these dark times, it is the light that guides me through each peril; the star that will always lead me home to you.”

“How could I ever doubt that which you make so clear to me in every word you speak and every gentle touch you place upon my skin?”

“Then let me declare it to all who dwell in our kingdom,” he said resolutely, eyes brightening.

A huff of laughter tumbled from your lips at the sudden excitement gleaming in his eyes.

“Wed me.”

Your smile faltered as you searched his features for a sign that he was joking, but all you found was determination. “What?” was all you could manage to stammer out.

His smile widened as he propped himself up on one elbow, his dark hair falling in a curtain across his shoulder as he smoothed an arm down your bicep.

“Let us be wed,” he repeated. “In this place, in this valley. Let the first act in defiance of the spreading darkness be one of love. Marry me.”

Tears brimmed along your lashes as he withdrew the ring adorning his pinky finger and held it before you. Sunlight reflected off the thin gold band and the sapphire adorning it gleamed brightly in the afternoon rays.

“When the time came, I thought—” his voice caught in his throat. He pressed his lips together as he looked down at the ring, a deep sadness entering his gaze. “I thought I might have Lord Celebrimbor craft you a ring fit for a royal of our realm, but now…” A tear slipped from the corner of his eye and you watched as it slid down his cheek. He ran his finger along the smooth gold and held it tightly. You cupped his cheek in your hand, wiping the tear away with your thumb and he leaned into your palm, finding solace in the warmth of your touch. With a deep breath, he continued. “This was the last ring he’d made for me before crafting the Three and I know he’d be honored by my asking you to wear it for all our lives and with it, bind yourself to me and me to you.”

He gazed up at you then from beneath his lashes, eyes sad yet hopeful. “I come before you now, not as a King, but as a lover; as your partner, your equal in every way.” His brow rose as an almost shy smile curved the corners of his mouth. “Say yes and I’ll spend the rest of my immortal life loving you with all that I am.”

You bit down on your lip, eyes flickering between his and the ring he held before you.

“Yes,” you whispered, lips trembling as you smiled and threw your arms around him, knocking the wind from his lungs as he fell back against the sandy bank. You pressed your lips against his and murmured the word again and again. “In this lifetime and every henceforth.”

Gil Galad pushed himself upright into a sitting position, and you with him. You turned in his lap so that you were facing him and wrapped your legs around his waist. The High King took your left hand in his and you splayed your fingers so he could slip the ring onto your finger.. “It fits you better than it did me,” he mused with a soft smile on his lips.

You held your hand up to the light where you could both admire its beauty. “The Lord of Eregion truly was the greatest of Elven smiths. I should’ve liked to have told him that.”

“One day,” Gil Galad said as he took hold of your hand in his. “When our time to sail comes, he’ll be there to greet us on silver shores and we can rejoice in the sorrows and joys of our lives, including this moment; which I know will forever remain my singular and most treasured.”

And as the sun parted between the trees once more, the wind gently stirring their green and golden boughs; you could see forever staring back at you in the eyes of the High King alongside a firm hope for a brighter tomorrow at his side.

[tired-fandom-ndn]

Something that I actually really enjoy about The Inheritance Cycle is that it's a war. And wars are a focus of a lot of media, especially fantasy, but they rarely get into the nitty gritty of it; the realities of war are a vague backdrop to the protagonists' stories, if they're mentioned at all, and the war always culminates in one or two huge and dramatic battles that look good on screen.

But Eragon is IN A WAR. The armies are marching but it's not directly to the capital and it's not an easy march. They struggle with supplies, food lines, creating space for camps, fortifying said camps, illnesses, escalating disagreements among both foot soldiers and commanders, families moving with the soldiers, dwindling moral, etc.

They have to launch sieges against well fortified cities and there's nothing glorious about it. There's lomg stand-offs where the Varden isn't willing to engage with a city's defenses (like Thorn resting on Dras Leona's walls) or where a city is well-supplied enough to be able to close their gates and wait out the enemy forces on their doorstep. They build siege towers and struggle to break through walls and gates while the majority of the army tries to find anything to do. There's a lot of time spent just in camps, either moving to a new location or anxiously waiting for something to happen.

Even the battles themselves aren't usually glorious like they are in similar stories. There's tense waits for enemy forces to arrive that last so long that Eragon falls asleep. Sometimes the POV character completely misses the culminating action because they were too wounded to continue or they ended up somewhere else. Even the magicians aren't usually flashy and dramatic because that's a huge waste of energy, so battles with spellcasters are usually tense and silent and often involve both sides anxiously waiting to see which magic user falls first. The commanders have to grapple with their soldiers looting homes and the fact that many people in captured cities are magically bound to the king and that's not THEIR fault but they still can't be trusted.

And Eragon is THERE for all that! He's not above the realities of the wars, he's not some shiny weapon only pulled out of his comfortable hiding place when he's needed at the peak of the battle. He's marching with the army and sleeping in a tent and wandering around camp and eating the same meals everyone else eats and just generally trying to be as helpful as possible even when he's not in a battle.

It's just such an interesting change of pace from how war is typically handled in fantasy and scifi and I'm sure plenty of people found it very boring but I for one am LOVING it.

[dipperscavern]

jon snow brainrot rn.

like imagine finding him after the whole thorne execution, post-death and post-revival

i need to hold him so bad🙁🙁 in spite of the horrid crawl of his skin, hair at his nape standing on end, urging him avert his gaze as you approach, he can't help but seek your soft stare, his own eyes weak with feeling, brows curved with vulnerability. and his heartbeat is quickening, and his breathing grows sharp

his hand trembles and no matter how desperately he tries to hold fast, he crumbles when you near, raising a hand to his cheek; warm and soft and tender. his breath hitches violently in his chest and his head falls to the crook of your neck, his silent sobs disrupting the quiet with small soundless gasps

and you hold him close, with a gentleness he deserves that he'd never before recieved, a hand in his curls and the other a firm warmth on his back as he helplessly leans his weight on you to finally release the overflow of agony he'd all but drowned in 🙁🙁🙁

SWEET BOY, I NEED TO HOLD HIM💔💔

SONGBIRDS — JON SNOW

pairing: jon snow x fem!reader, 3.1k words

synopsis: the ask above <3

authors note: ouh this was a rough one! i did in fact steal sentences from this ask, so thank u anon!! i love u!! become a writer!! thank u to my febu frongers @useralba & @eldrith for helping me not lose my sanity over this, love y’all!! enjoy i guess 🙄(if possible) (i’m gonna be quiet now)

SNAP

you’re brought out of your thoughts with a jolt, startled so badly you near fall out of the tree you’ve found sanctuary in. that doesn’t sit well with you, you’ve always been steady.

so was bran, a small voice whispers. so was he, another part of you agrees — and the one it mentions has naught to do with climbing.

was, your mind echoes bitterly. it seems like everyone who once surrounded you is only that anymore, a was. a whisper of the past, faces seen nowhere but in living memory; and now, he has joined them.

fresh tears roll down your cheeks, and you wipe them as soon as they join the conversation of grief. bitterness — mourning — desperation, all cradling you at once.

you readjust your form, limbs beginning to fall asleep from the tight position they’re in. if only you could do the same. it seems the gods have deemed you unable, as every time your eyes droop, you see the face of the lord commander.

the mere thought of him is paining, and the sight of him was entirely too much to bear. so much so that you fled, the memory squeezing uncomfortably at your chest.

his eyes, once ever-expressive, dulled to nothing but an expressionless saccharine blur. lips parted, yet no air being brought in to fill his lungs. the snow beneath him was stained a bloody crimson, and you can almost feel the familiar cold of the icy ground beneath your knees as you kneel beside the form of the man you love.

at first, you had cried. whispering pleas to whomever would listen, clutching any part of him you could reach — you had even attempted to stop the bleeding. stupid, stupid girl.

then, it seemed to occur to you that you were touching death. slowly removing your hands, looking down at the lifeless body of jon snow. and just like that, repulsion had entered your veins. no — rejection.

you rejected this. you rejected death, you rejected the finality you had been dealt. you had stood, clutching your bow, arrows lightly jostling from the movement. hunting.

you had been hunting while jon was dying.

if only time had dealt you a mercy, perhaps you would’ve made it back in time. to save him, or just to say goodbye, you’re not greedy in your wishing.

you glance to your hands, still stained with his blood. suddenly, your eyes flutter shut as you see the image of his body again — his wounds smoking in the cold nights air. it feels like a lifetime ago. rejection has long since abandoned you, leaving bitter acceptance in its wake.

you blink, eyes threatening tears, and your gaze finds the white and red blur of a weirwood tree. you return to the woods to escape, yet the gods find you anyway; what cruel mockery.

how could they, yet again? don’t they see all you lose? they must, you think, as they’re the ones who keep taking. is that the only joy a god may find? maybe now, that’s why you hunt; to send them a life as sick compensation for the one they took. what an acidic dance.

CRACK

this time, when a twig breaks, you are not so foolish as to think it only by coincidence. you aren’t the only hunter out here — yet you did not think to find yourself as prey.

whatever stalks you is enough to bring you out of the cynicality of grief, snapping you into a different mindset. though previously unsure how much more you can withstand, your body proves otherwise, flawless in its transition and execution.

you heart increases its rhythm, surefire in its performance, allowing extra blood flow and oxygen to be pumped to your aching muscles. your breathing changes, now quick and rapid breaths to take in more air which prove effective as you shift yourself from your sitting position.

you had chosen not the tallest tree, but the thickest and most concealed. it gives more room for stability, allowing you to exercise your position; a small decision you now are thankful for as you move forward, outstretching yourself on its thick limb to try and catch glimpse of whatever it is that seeks you.

unfortunately, the concealment that hides you does its job too well. you try to peer through the branches and leaves for what feels like ages, but they prove too thick. you curse under your breath, withdrawing from the branch to retreat back to the trees trunk once more.

closing your eyes, you listen. the gust of wind, the rustling of leaves, a raven cries in the distance. you wait.

there — your ears are graced with the light chirp of birds, in your own tree and in others nearby.

“If danger is near, the birds don’t sing.”

ned starks voice rings through your ears, so loud and clear that for a moment, you almost lose concentration. if asked why, you’d never be able to directly say why your eyes didn’t snap open, why your head didn’t swivel around, looking for the source of the voice you’ve heard. can you and the gods share a secret, if it’s one they decide not to include you on?

as the melody of songbirds continue, you shift to begin your descent.

in any other scenario you would stay in the tree, concealed by its branches until the threat was certainly gone. but things are different. jon is dead — you seek a fight. (do you, or do you refuse to allow the stranger your soul as well?)

the decision made, even in grief, isn’t a rash one. whatever it is isn’t nearby enough to silence the singers, and this may be your only window of opportunity to flip the coin; restoring yourself as predator, not prey.

your feet hit the ground, and you wince at the noise made. it’s midday, so you cannot hope for nightfalls rescue of concealment.

you pause, peering around you while you allow yourself a moment to think. your hunting grounds have always been the forest that surrounds castle black, and you had retreated to the very edge of it. your hunter has come from the north — funny enough, from the direction of castle black itself. if you’re careful, you can make a loop back east, foregoing your usual trail. swallowing your nerves, you begin to move your feet.

your senses are heightened, alike to how they are in battle, but this is different. instead of blood pulsing in your ears, they’re attuned to every sound, no matter how minuscule. the smell of blood and death is replaced by nature, the scent of oak & pine leaves fighting to not be smothered by the cold.

you don’t make much progress before you turn a corner and yelp in surprise, being met with a hulking figure, red eyes boring into you.

“Ghost—!” you shout; in surprise, frustration, and relief all at once. your breathing heavies, heart now beating wildly, ready to supply you should you need to run at a moments notice. then, somehow, you’re smiling. you smile at ghost, at the birds, who didn’t notice him enough to quiet themselves, and the childness of it all. you kneel, shouldering your bow and outstretching an arm.

ghost seems like he’s been waiting for your action, stepping forward immediately. you register his willingness — had he been searching for you? or did he find jon dead and left, as you did, finding you accidentally? if only he could speak; the phantom of a thousand words.

he’s soft under your hands, a small comfort parading in the wake of sad relations. and suddenly, you feel guilty. how long has ghost been by jon’s side? how fierce, the loyalty the direwolf has shown him? how fierce the devotion jon had shown him in return? he mourns alongside you, grief arguably more substantial, as he was given no explanation. how could he understand such matters?

an idiot thought, you're quick to push it away. you both have every right to grief, there is more than enough to go around.

eventually, ghost pulls away, and begins padding in the direction to castle black. you think he means to be solitary, but after a few paces, he stops, turning to look back at you. expectant.

though your breath hitches and grief nags at you once more, you swallow it down, and begin to follow the only remnant of jon snow — a piece of him that the gods saw fit to leave you. what cruel mercy, coming from the same hands of injustice.

though content to wallow in your anger, your disbelief, you refuse to allow the direwolf to return to castle black alone. strangely, the farther you follow him, the more you get a sense of deja vu. it can’t be more than a few minutes before you see a tree with bark missing, torn off and left bare its left side, which is now your right. a mark you had left to remember your trail. ghost has tracked your scent from castle black.

with the realization arises conflicted feelings, as if they can’t agree on how you feel. loyalty rings faintly in the back of your mind, the things done for love.

you forcibly close your mind, numbing yourself as to be fully in the present. you’ll have the rest of your days to dwell on it; but only now are you here, in the company of trees and wolves and birds, oh how they sing.

and suddenly, the melody is quiet.

time itself has been stopped, halted in its tracks. there’s no rustling of branches, of leaves, no sound of birds, no sound at all — the world has become inaudible.

you and ghost mirror each other in the ways you both lurch to a halt. a sick feeling infects your gut, hairs rising on the back of your neck, and the instinctual need to flee almost takes over. but something keeps you there, rooted to your spot, feet unmoving. what anchors you, is another secret between you and the gods; another peculiar joke that you stay the punchline of.

then, after a moment, a gust of wind graces the forest. it blows your hair, rustles through the trees, and almost hesitantly so, the birds begin their song again. ghost looks back at you, surveying as if this is the first time he’s seen you.

he begins to lead the way once more, but a thought still lingers in the back of your mind, and you’re unable to shake off the unease in your gut. what has dismantled the harmonious balance among living things so?

━━━━━━━━━━༺✰ ━━━━━━━━━━━

he wakes with a gasp.

━━━━━━━━━━༺✰ ━━━━━━━━━━━

it must be hours later when you approach the gates of castle black. one of the guards on watch takes notice, shaking the other awake. as they both stare down at you, you wonder.

are they close enough to see the mourning that rests forefront on your face? were they the same men who opened the gate for you upon your return last night, only to do the same thing minutes later after you found jon? do they feel guilty? should you?

the wooden gates protest opening, loud creaks and groans as it gives you access, and at first, you don’t see it.

at first, you walk in, and your gaze is trapped on the ground, lost in thought. you’ve come back empty handed, as you came back to jon — or rather, his body. but you don’t think anyone was expecting a stag draped across your shoulders. amidst the unexpected.

when you finally do look up, you’re startled for the ? time today. four men hang in the middle of the courtyard.

you stop in your tracks, but this time, ghost pads on ahead of you. he stops not for anybody, curving them all to fair left. the direction to jon’s chambers.

you don’t have long to dwell on the wolfs mistake, as peoples eyes find your frozen figure. among them, friends; edd, grenn, pyp, others you don’t recognize. some, not dressed in black. wildlings. you begin to walk forward, and a tall, ginger bearded figure spots you. tormund walks to meet you, an expression on his face unreadable — unable to be identified by your tired eyes.

confusion — surprise — apprehension — curiosity; all fight for their seat at the forefront of your mind, but they’re forced to share.

as you and tormund find each other, you glance past him at the hanging men. then to your left, expecting to see ghost still scratching at jon’s door — but he’s not there. was he shooed off? did you misread his intention?

“I don’t— what’s…” you start, but don’t finish. how could you even begin?

tormund reaches for you, hands settling on your biceps. whether he’s keeping you in place or checking for injury, you don’t think you care. the weight and warmth of the gesture is welcomed.

“Tormund, you’re scaring me—” your admission wouldn’t usually come so easy, but you can’t be bothered to guard yourself. you’re exhausted, your muscles are stiff, you’re confused, and you hurt.

he only turns you toward jon’s chambers, pointing, a hand on the small of your back. “In there, little bird.” he says, and you wish to tell him what a help he is. but you don’t. for some reason, you bite your tongue, sparing a last glance at him, before slowly making your way over.

all of the eyes on you make you nervous, and frustrate you all the same. why do they all act like they’ve seen the father?

it doesn’t take long for you to reach the door, curiosity guiding your step. you see ghosts muddied paw prints on the wood, but they don’t turn left or right — ending at the chamber door. your brows furrow almost instinctively. you can’t help but linger on the thought, setting your bow & arrows to lay nearby; your shoulders welcome the reprieve. with bated breaths, you push on the wood, stepping inside. what you find is beyond even your wildest imaginations.

what you find is jon’s head turning to look at you, and you can’t help the sharp inhale of air you take.

his bottom half is clothed, but his upper is uncovered, torso wrapped in bandages; covering the stab wounds that you know took his life.

you think him a hallucination, mind willing his fate to change so desperately it has conjured up its own delusion. but you glance to ghost, dutifully curled by his feet, and shift to turn, looking at the paw prints that led you here.

you turn back to (jon?), closing the door behind you. while your own flickers to ghost once more (an affirmation), jon’s gaze remains fixed on you. you inch closer, surveying him.

his eyes, now encasing life — not quite the same as you knew, but life nonetheless. lips, parted, as to suck in air to fill his lungs. lungs that in return, work in correspondence with his heart, beating to keep him alive.

no. this can’t be…

but it is.

he’s rigid — uncomfortable, yet a part of him fights to relax in your presence. how can it all be so unbalanced and so right all at once? you’re here. you’re all he’s ever wanted. but a part of him keeps him withdrawn, fighting him on reaching out for you.

perhaps it’s the horrid crawl of his skin, urging him avert his gaze as you approach. even so, he can't help but seek your gentle stare, his own eyes weak with feeling, brows curved with vulnerability. you see it as you close in — the turmoil within himself.

a different part of him wins, and he reaches for you. you’ve been waiting, it seems, and reach for him with equal fervor. his hands are cold on your waist, strikingly so. your eyes widen, disbelief written on you like ink on parchment.

you had not expected to feel him. no, you expected for him to vanish underneath your very fingertips.

one of your hands find the bare skin of his torso, experimentally reaching out. jon is hungry for your touch, offering any part of himself for your taking. he has craved you desperately ever since he awoke.

he watches, patient as you register the warmth underneath your hand. there’s blood circulating through his veins. your pupils blow wide in the realization.

you’re anxious for more assurance, your right hand moving to his forearm to keep him in place (jon wouldn’t dare to move), as your left finds his chest. specifically — the part of his chest that keeps safe his heart. you feel it beat underneath your palm, and your reaction is immediate, eyes fluttering shut.

if he didn’t want to be touched, jon would’ve shied away from you by now. but he hasn’t. no, his eyes bore into you with the attention only divine beings receive

jons breathing heavies in anticipation, expectant. he gauges every ounce of your reaction, waiting for your evaluation of him — as a sinner would their god. is he worthy? do you deem him so?

when your eyes open, something clicks into place. jon is here, in the now, alive and breathing; your fingertips said so themselves. you don’t know how, but you can’t find it in yourself to care much in the present, not when you finally have him in your hold once more. what you would’ve given for this, hours ago in your tree. what wouldn’t you have given?

and now, your eyes roam over every part of him, drinking in all that you can. your gaze trails fast, mapping the expanse of his shoulders, down his arms, to his torso, across his bandages again.

your hand removes itself from his chest, only momentarily, but jon chases your touch all the same. you can’t bear to leave him wanting, sliding a hand up his shoulder, feeling the lithe muscle beneath it. you’re desperate to ground the feeling of him, to commit it to memory — and jon seems equal in his need.

you hand stops it’s ascent when it reaches his neck, cradling the juncture of it, thumb smoothing over the soft skin of his cheek, as you meet his gaze. your touch is warm and soft and tender, and in an instant, his eyes are watery. the hands on your waist tremble, and his breaths turn shaky in an attempt to hold himself together. his brows pull together, and his breath hitches violently in his chest. something stirs in you at the sight, the expressions of a broken man.

jon has passed your test of realism with flying colors, and when he realizes, he crumbles.

his head falls to the crook of your neck, closing the small distance between you. you’re quick to wrap your arms around him, and jon’s immediate in pulling you closer — as close as you can get. the tears begin their flow easily, releasing the buildup of emotions harbored from death snaring & absolving him; akin to poison swallowed and retched before fully digested.

your touch is gentle, a hand in his curls and the other a firm warmth on his back. he leans himself into you, almost helplessly so, as if he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. you accept his weight with open arms. if jon was asked why he fights so desperately, even in times it seems hopeless, he would say to repay the gods for their gift to him; you.

the only things that disrupt the steady quiet that surrounds you are his silent sobs, accompanied by the small soundless gasps that flow from his lips as a river of melancholy.

his grip is tight; he drowns in a vast sea of agony, and you alone are his anchor.

[sleepingelvhen]

The Bat Boys 🦇

A Court of Thorns and Roses NSFW Headcanons [Rhysand, Azriel, and Cassian] Minors DO NOT Interact Masterlist

RHYSAND

As the High Lord of the Night Court, Rhysand has been feared as long as he can remember. Lord of nightmares, Amarantha’s whore, Death Incarnate…he’s heard it all and he’s learned just as well to ignore the daggers the words stabbed into him. His inner circle are the only people he trusts, finding it easier to mask himself with the cold cruelty the world expects. But what if someone sees through that mask? When you look into his hardened gaze and see the kindness beneath – it’s enough to break even him.

SFW

His lips will press into your neck, arms wrapped around your body to keep you held against his chest. It’s impossible to step away, not when he desperately needs to touch you in some way, to keep reminding you that he loves you because he will not dare risk you forgetting. Try to pull away and you’ll find him giggling into your neck, leaving trails upon trails of soft kisses along your neck, your cheek, and into your hair until he tells you no and holds you tighter.

When I tell you this man loves physical affection, I mean you're being cuddled tightly in his sleep, your arm is always hooked into his own, you’re sitting on his lap when he has business to attend to, and every time he sees you, he leaves you with many kisses.

You’re always lavish with gifts. Jewelry placed upon your bed in the morning, chocolates and other snacks always appearing in the kitchen wrapped with ribbons for you. He likes to feed you these snacks, hold you on his lap and press one of the little chocolate truffles into your mouth. He looks so innocent, smiling as he does so. He just wants you to like his gifts, that’s all.

It’s scary to see his face turn cold when the two of you are in public, far away from Velaris. Rhys will keep his arm around your shoulder, body radiating danger to any who approach. One would see a possessive and violent male, keeping his mate so close they could never get away if they tried. But you know it's all an act. Indeed, he’d rather die than let you feel trapped or hurt. It was simply something he had to pull off, keep those within his court afraid and obedient. They respected his strength and coldness, and as such they respected you.

Sometimes it gets a bit too scary. Even you can get caught off guard at the command in his voice, especially when it turns on you. Your playfulness is not fully tolerated, especially when it pushes his cold mask. And with a stern voice telling you to stop, you can’t help but feel a little hurt. He will make it up to you as soon as he can, flying as fast as possible to Velaris, whispering so many apologies and kissing every part of your face so you can forgive him. He promises he’ll make it up to you. He promises.

NSFW

Rhysand loves seeing your face as he rolls his hips, rutting himself inside of you. You can see his face wrought in pleasure, as he stares into your eyes, moving slowly at first, letting you get used to his size. He wanted so much more but he was far from cruel. He coos softly, murmuring gentle praises about how gorgeous you look beneath him, how good you’re doing, taking him so well. But he wants to hear your voice, he wants you to moan and whimper, the sweet honey of your voice would hypnotize him.

He is the dominant one here, loving to be on top, loving to take control. He adores seeing you mewl beneath him, loves how he can grab you and move you around to his heart’s content. He will tease you through the whole way, touching you without reaching the parts you need to be pressed into, licking and kissing you but never letting you have what you want. It brings a cruel smile to his face, as you become putty in his hand.

Make him go completely weak and feral by wearing clothes that barely cover you. Teasing him with how he can nearly see everything, but not enough, the one spot he wants to see is covered with cloth, so tight against your skin. He’s drooling at the sight, and desperate to get you in bed as soon as possible.

Be careful when turning him on. He is unafraid to take you whenever and wherever. In fact, he gets off when people are watching as he’s stroking and rubbing and licking you. Your embarrassment would fuel him even more, loving the pink fluster upon your face, the way your lips tremble as you try not to let your body twitch and shake as he works you into the next orgasm.

And, of course, he will take you in the sky. Focused on flying but seeing you in his arms, legs wrapped around his waist. You're irresistible, so much so that he can’t help but lose control and take you right there. Who cares who sees? Who cares who hears how loud he’s going to make you? All that matters is getting his cock sheathed in you and allowing the canted movement of his wings to carry the two of you through the air as he desperately breeds you.

He’s unafraid to please you, he wants to please you. It doesn’t matter if he gets off or not, he wants his face between your legs, sucking at every sensitive bit, his tongue reaching places that make you scream. Fingers digging into the plush of your thighs, keeping you spread as he slurps up everything he can get. It’s like a fine wine to him, and he can’t get enough.

AZRIEL

Decorated in blue siphon and cloaked in shadow; Azriel is one of the most feared Illyrians in the land. Hidden and quiet within the dark, all the information his to know and no one’s to discover. It’s an understatement to say he’s intimidating, brooding in the corner of almost any room, listening to any gossip he can hear, and gaining even more information from the whispering shadows that coil around his feet, licking at his calves. And yet, as intimidating as he is, you can see the kindness behind his eyes. The desperation for someone to understand who he really was.

SFW

His eyes are always on you, watching over you as often as possible. Protective is an understatement, but he wouldn’t provoke…no, a cold gaze was often enough to ward away anyone who approached you with ill intent. But having him brooding in the corner wouldn’t do. You’d bring out the playfulness in him, grabbing his hands and dragging him into the party. People were uncomfortable but you…he could focus on you. A shadow of a smile was all you needed to know he was okay.

Azriel would be nervous of physical affection at first, worried he’d make you feel uncomfortable, afraid to push you away by moving too fast or coming off as too needy. Even after you’ve shown you’re okay with it, the most you get in public is him standing close in your space, his hand on your shoulder when guiding you or talking to you, or his hand planted on the small of your back, thumb rubbing circles in comfort.

He likes giving you little gifts as well. Almost like a crow, he’ll come up to you with a pretty little gem or stone he found or bought, looking to the side as you accept it. Maybe he’d buy some jewelry for you but he enjoys making you things, little crafting projects that make him think of you. It would be adorable if you taught him how to make cheesy friendship bracelets, the colorful cheap braided creations something he would find joy in making for you.

Do you have a lot to do today? He will offer his help immediately. If he’s not busy, he’s helping you with chores, or even silently doing something he knew you were gonna ‘get to later’. How did he know? Well…he’s a spymaster for a reason and the shadows aren’t just for show.

He loves just spending time with you. You don’t have to do anything together, but being in the same room as you, reading or cuddling, he doesn’t mind. As long as you’re there and you’re together, he’s happy.

Speaking of his little shadows – they adore you. They don’t just act as his little spies, they also show a bit of his own emotions and where he is a little on the edge about showing affection, they are swirling around your ankles, poking your face or curling around your wrist. Like little animals, swaying side to side once they see you, singing a melody only the two of you can hear.

NSFW

When I say this man is the kinkiest fucker. He’s needy and desperate and can’t keep his hands off of you. Squeezing your sides, pulling you roughly beneath him as he straddles you. Breathing in your scent and moaning into your ear, hands groping and stroking any part of you he can find. The way he will lick your inner thigh before searching for more with his mouth, ready to make you moan and writhe beneath him, desiring more than anything to hear your sweet sounds. He’s going in with one goal: to make you forget how to think.

Here’s hoping you are into the same things he’s into. He wants to tie you up, gag you, choke you, pull your hair, leave bite marks all over you, and spank you. And that’s not even all of it. Azriel is taking you in multiple positions, moaning obscenities into your ear, praising you for being such a ‘good slut’, because you take him so fucking well. One large hand wrapped around your throat while the other digs into your hips, crescent shaped marks left in your skin.

Lingerie really fucks with his man. Wearing any lacey, silky, article of clothing makes his mind instantly fog up and there will be no escaping him as he grabs your hand and pulls you towards the bed. He’ll make you keep it on while he pulls it to the side to slot himself in, growling as he fits so perfectly into you, his wings shuddering in pleasure. Grab his wings if the opportunity presents itself, rub them and scratch them, and you’ll hear the loudest moan you’ve ever heard from him.

As quiet as this man is, he has the dirtiest mouth imaginable. He’s insulting you, praising you, telling you what he’s gonna do to you to make you scream, and if it isn’t the hottest thing in the world. Go ahead and struggle, he loves it when you struggle against him, fighting futilely as he drives himself in deeper, holding you down with a grin. 

He knows he’s done well when you start crying from overstimulation or pain. Azriel is licking up your tears, mocking you as he goes harder and faster, laughing darkly into your neck while sucking on the bruises he already made there. 

You know his shadows are playing too. Wrapped around your wrists and ankles, pushing into you like separate appendages. Wherever he isn’t touching, they’re making up for it, and it’s so strange but amazing how they rub against you and push between your lips. Blanketing both of you in the heat of the moment in a cascade of shadows.

Azriel calms down a bit after multiple rounds of this, holding you close and whispering in your ear praises and apologies, worried he hurt you or that you hate him. Run your fingers through his hair and hold him close. You both will need a long bath afterwards, one you will end up sharing, cleaning one another.

CASSIAN

One of the most playful of the bat boys, Cassian is all cocky grins and flirtatious phrases. It’s a mask of sorts, hiding the negativity within him as best as he can. Many are intimidated by him and his strength, being the commander of The Night Court’s armies. Where others may cower from his shining gaze, you don’t see his strength as a trait to hide from. You can see the genuine kindness in his eyes, and the pain he hides below. And as someone he feels he can trust, he is unafraid to be vulnerable.

SFW

With a wide, cocky smile, Cassian will take you everywhere with him. It doesn’t even have to be work-related, and most often has nothing to do with it. You said you want to go see the stars? He’s flying you to the best vantage point, strong arms holding you close to his chest. You wonder what the other courts look like? Guess you’re going on a vacation. And he’s by your side every step of the way.

He loves holding your hand. As mundane as it seems, he loves seeing your small hand captured in his. He’ll be comparing your hand sizes, making fun of you for how small you are compared to him, and kissing your forehead while he keeps your hand entwined with his.

Joking around is his favorite way to show how comfortable the two of you are. He makes fun of you, and you make fun of him. He avoids any topics that would make you uncomfortable, and teases you in only the ways you find funny. He likes to poke your sides, sneak up on you and pick you up, and throw food at you. 

If Cassian’s jokes do go too far, you just have to say so, and you’ll be met with apologies upon apologies. He’ll be sure to avoid whatever hurts your feelings in the future. Jokes and playfulness are meant to be all in good fun, and if you are feeling hurt then he knows he did something wrong.

Now, he may not be overly possessive, but if someone is flirting with you or making you uncomfortable, he is striding up, his arm wrapping around your shoulders while he glares daggers at whoever is even trying. The smile stays on, teeth glinting in a threatening kindness. You can complain and poke fun at him all you want, but he’s not letting anyone think they have a chance with you, not while he’s alive.

Expect long mornings laying in bed, his arm trapping you to his chest as he snores, his nose nuzzling your neck. He likes sleeping in as much as he enjoys training with his brothers. And his love of sleep only increases when you’re involved. “Five more minutes,” he's huffing into your ear, one of his hands covering your eyes. “Go back to sleep.” Any chance of leaving this situation disappears when he drapes his wings over your body like a second blanket, his arms wrapping around your stomach, and he throws his leg over your own.

NSFW

Sleepy morning sex. You’re just waking up, still hazy, and you’re finding yourself trapped in a tight cuddle. And as you struggle to get up for the day, he’s groaning and kissing your neck, slowly waking up. But he starts to press his hardened cock against your ass, his husky voice greeting you with a lust-filled, “good morning,” and you don’t know why you thought you’d be leaving the bed.

Cassian likes to move a bit slowly at first, hands caressing you, his hips rubbing against your body – teasing you in every spot you want him. Maybe he’s being lazy, or maybe he wants to hear you actually beg for it. Because, oh, when you beg for him, he’s smirking and shoving his hand into your bottoms, thick fingers rubbing you in all the right places, hooking inside of you to feel every inch.

And when you moan, he’s chuckling in that deep voice, praising you for your sounds. “Such a pretty noise,” he groans out. “Do that again.” And the more noises you make, the more impatient he gets. Soon enough, he’s pressing you into the mattress, your clothes half pulled off as he’s rolling his hips into you, moaning out in delight as your body wraps around him.

Cassian loves the little noises you make as he fucks you, and they get even more delectable when he pulls your hair. He can’t help how his hips stutter, his body shivering in delight as you gasp out, his hands tugging at the strands of your hair. He swears you tightened around him just then, and he plans to test out if that’s true.

Cassian certainly has a high sex drive, and one that can flare up at any time, often at inopportune times as well. You’re cooking in the kitchen? He’s wondering how you’d look bent over the counter. You’re talking with his brothers? His mind is going wild wondering how you’d feel if he just started touching you in front of them. And don’t think he wouldn’t do it, him and the bat boys have done some things around each other, and he’d be lying if he said the thought of being watched didn’t turn him on.

You want him to go crazy? To lose his mind? Ask him to breed you. Tell him you want to have his babies, and the next surface is where you're being pressed into for the next hour or so. Legs over his shoulders, arms wrapped around your waist, all while he’s rutting himself into you with reckless abandon. He just wants to fill you up and the thought of seeing you pregnant…well, now he needs another round.

Don’t worry about being exhausted afterwards, he’s immediately carrying you to a bath to clean you up. You need warmth for your muscles, and he needs to watch you covered in soap and tease you about what just happened. After your lovely little bath session, your back to cuddling, and falling asleep with him never once letting you go.

[frostbitebakery]

There’s a room where the Light won’t find you

Surrender AU

There are certain misconceptions when it comes to the… the them of them, Cody has to admit.

“I would like to have proof of life of my General,” he says instead of answering the same question the Commander has asked him twice now. The statement sits uncomfortable under his breastbone. He lost count how often he’s had to say it in his life.

“Are you that codependent,” the replica of his mouth snarks back. Curious, usually he and his counterparts have more patience than this.

The answer to that is a definite yes. Obi-Wan and he, they’re woven together. Only Obi-Wan’s lightsaber could cut them apart. He wonders where it is after they’ve taken it from its resting place above his heart.

“You’ll protect it,” Obi-Wan had asked, voice cracking and begging, closing Cody’s palms around the weapon’s hilt. It had been after Ghost had rescued them from that hellhole, after Obi-Wan’s hands had become too weak to wield his lightsaber despite the trials of reconstructive surgeries and physical therapy.

“Like your life,” Cody had sworn, lips finally not sore anymore from the ripped out stitches, the punishments from their captors that were so much more effective when delivered on Cody than Obi-Wan himself.

“I would like to have proof of life of my General,” he says again.

The Commander pushes out a sigh. “He’s… okay.”

Debatable. Cody isn’t there and no one knows - can know - how Obi-Wan’s hands spasm after a while, how his knee is acting up. How his grip on himself has been slipping, recently. The tight control even in the chaos had held steady for so long. Because even changed like this, Obi-Wan has been a master of his own self. Until they found these counterparts at least.

They’re so Light, hammers into Cody’s head.

“General Kenobi is asking him some questions himself,” the Commander states like he’s dangling bait.

Cody sincerely wishes him good luck with that. Getting an answer to “What do you want for breakfast” is a discovery of heretofore unknown wells of patience and the higher ground most days. Honey toast, by the way. “I would like to have proof of life of my General.”

Cody, they’re so Light. Obi-Wan is alone with a beacon to the Light he’s been desperately searching for in dozens of universes. He will do something well-thought-through and stupidly risky.

The Commander watches him for a few long moments, and Cody watches right back. He doesn’t smirk in triumph when the Commander activates the comm on his vambrace.

“General, could you put—,” Cody’s mouth twitches at the Commander’s faltering, the steeling for the reality of them, “the Sith on the comm?”

A moment later Obi-Wan is in the holo. Bound but whole, because the good guys don’t believe in torture. “Are you alright?” he asks, sickly golden eyes roving over what the holo displays of Cody.

Cody smiles, softening further once Obi-Wan echoes him with his own. “Yes. You?”

There’s misconceptions about them. Other people’s delusions of knowing them seem to think Obi-Wan and he can only be brutal, be cruel and harsh. Towards everyone else, and towards each other. Trapped in a bloody dance or something rivaling that kind of stupid. Those people don’t, thankfully, know the gentleness flowing through their touches. They kiss the other in reverence, soft and precious monster. What is between them, a connection forged in blood and pain, is anything but. It’s the one thing where they’re truly selfish. Holding each other close, burrowed into each other.

When Obi-Wan had asked him what he wants, the answer had been simple and sprouting thorns.

“You,” Cody had answered, sure and steadfast.

Obi-Wan had almost flinched, cane scraping over the floor. “Even as I am now?”

Always. At every second their lives had existed in orbit to each other. Every possible face Obi-Wan had worn, Cody had wanted him. But— “I think,” he had replied, stroking the paper-thin grey skin under a yellow eye, “this is the only version I’m allowed to have.”

“I miss you,” Obi-Wan says on the holo, and Cody goes cold.

“Obi-Wan, don’t—“

The connection winks out and he knows that it was Obi-Wan, that the Force suppression cuffs must have some fault he detected and exploited.

He whips his head up, urgency clocking in inside his chest and ticking. “Stun him,” he grits out, just to not yell, and startles the Commander. “Make him unconscious any way necessary.” He swallows. “But please don’t kill him.” I need him.

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

OmfffffGGGG the fun I had writing this chapter GUYS—

I mean start to finish, I've been giggling like an idiot the entire mfing TIME

Well, alternating between giggling like an idiot and snickering deviously like a witch huddled over a cauldron but that's neither here nor there

Of course we have banter between Garp's dippy ass and Bogard's far more poised and reasonable demeanor, but also

BUT ALSO—

No

i cannot

I can't spoil it I cannot I will not I must not I shan't it would be positively rude in all honesty i will not—

Just———muffled screaming

Look I'm sorry in advance I had way too much fun with this

even mihawk is done with my shit at this point

Flight Risk

Young!Mihawk x Marine!AFAB!Reader

Ch. 4 of who even fcking knows at this point honestly, five? Six? Fifty? Whatever just let me vibe

Brief summary of The Story So Far: Your mission, as a Marine and Zoan type devil fruit user (gray parrot), is to gather intel on Dracule Mihawk, a pirate on the Grand Line who has become a thorn in the Marines' side over a relatively short period of time. Your first recon mission, while more or less a success, left you wounded and your commanding officers more divided than ever over the operation at hand. You have since arrived at Marineford to complete your training for the mission, and gods only know where things might go from here....

Previous chapter, First chapter, Next chapter

SFW for now, but not in later chapters

No Trigger Warnings in this chapter. Possible future Trigger Warnings for imprisonment, mild torture (definitely psychological, maybe physical)

Tags: Enemies to lovers, eventually NSFW, idk maybe more later Word Count: 4,832

Taglist: @i-am-vita thank you so much you have no idea how much this means to me

♫♬Halloween Blues - The Fratellis♬♫

Well, I'm gonna make ya love me, gonna make ya wish that you'd never been born

Now ya wish you'd never met me, I could be the joker that you couldn't shake off

It was agreed upon by all parties involved that not a word would be spoken of your ill-advised “test” at Kuraigana Island to anyone but Fleet Admiral Sengoku. The brunt of the chastisement fell upon Garp and Bogard, as the commanding officers overseeing the mission; and while you were scolded yourself for getting far closer than your orders had suggested you should, you were still commended for providing valuable new information.

The Marines were now aware that Kuraigana Island was home to a population of large primates, of undetermined size or intelligence but with enough intellect to use basic weaponry.

The Marines were also now aware that the presence of Dracule “Hawk-Eye” Mihawk on the otherwise abandoned island was confirmed, and that the volatile pirate had most likely set up at least a temporary base amid the desolate castle ruins.

You were permitted to keep in contact with your mother over the following months of your training as promised, with the stipulation that your letters would be screened to ensure you didn’t relay any confidential information to outside parties. As such, you wrote your final letter aboard a small unmarked vessel bound to pass by Kuraigana Island perhaps four months after the first, and had handed it over to Bogard to scan over.

Hi, Mom!

I’m still doing great, I promise. Training has been exhausting but I’ve learned a lot, and it’s been a breath of fresh air to be among people that actually seem to like me. My commanding officers are a little annoying, but I guess they’re okay. I trust them.

This will be the last letter for a while since I’m being deployed. You don’t have to worry, it’s nothing serious and I’ll be fine, I just won’t be somewhere that I can receive any mail. You can still write me though, and I’ll be able to reply the second I get back to my base. I don’t know exactly how long that will be, but the tentative estimate is two months. It could be sooner, but it could be a little longer.

Love you, and give my love to all our feathery friends.

“Ten minutes out,” said Garp, sitting against the railing with a doughnut hanging out of his mouth as he finished filling out the remainder of the paperwork he had put off until the very last minute.

“‘Commanding officers are a little annoying, but I guess they’re okay,’” Bogard read aloud, lowering your letter to glance down at you with a wry look.

“She’s not wrong, you’re pretty damned irritating,” said Garp. Bogard lowered his eyes to the vice admiral sitting on the deck of the ship, lifting an eyebrow.

Garp only raised his doughnut with a nod and took another bite before returning to his report. Bogard huffed out a sigh and folded the letter, turning his gaze to you as you paced back and forth across the small deck. The vessel was little more than a sloop, designed for no more than one or two people to sail on their own, sturdy enough to withstand the unpredictable weather patterns of the Grand Line but far less advanced than the standard Marine vessel. You barely noticed his gaze upon you, staring down at your feet as you paced, counting the nails in the deck boards in a futile attempt to keep your mind clear from the quickly approaching start of your mission.

You stopped in your tracks the moment Bogard cleared his throat to get your attention, lifting your head sharply and standing at attention.

“A…at ease,” he said slowly, watching you shuffle your feet and fold your hands behind your back. “Your letter will be sent once Garp and myself return to Marineford,” he assured you. “Once you have left this ship, your own contact with the Marines will cease for a period of no less than two months, unless you are forced to make emergency contact. Emergecy contact will only be employed—”

“Under the circumstance that my own life is in immediate and unquestionable danger,” you responded immediately, to which Bogard gave a curt nod.

“Correct,” he agreed. “There will be a covert Marine presence at every island neighboring Kuraigana. Should you require rescue, the closest vessel will be able to arrive within twenty-four hours.”

“She won’t need it,” Garp chimed in through the last bite of his doughnut, and in a rare break of his iron composure, Bogard reached into one of his overcoat pockets and threw a pen at him in response. You watched as Garp caught it and used the implement to sign his name at the bottom of his paperwork before flicking it across the deck of the ship. “Have a little faith, Bogard. We have at our disposal a trained weapon of subterfuge.”

Garp wrapped his hand around the railing behind him and pulled himself to his feet, strolling over to your side and clapping you on the shoulder.

“Trained under our own supervision,” he went on proudly, while Bogard closed his eyes and heaved a slow, impatient sigh, waiting for him to go on. “Who has already provided us with more up-to-date information on the target than anyone else in our ranks—”

“—I’m still not saying your impulsive little test was anything but idiotic—”

“—and humbly declined to take credit for any of it,” Garp went on , ignoring his partner. You jolted as he gave you a sharp pat on the back. “She’ll be just fine. Won’t ya, kid?”

“I’ll—perform my duties as expected of…” You trailed off into a sigh yourself when Garp rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” you said stiffly. “I’ll be fine.”

“See? She’ll be fine.”

Garp gave a firm nod, as if your word was more than enough to affirm your fate as solid fact.

And then his brow furrowed as he stared across the deck.

His eyes narrowed into a squint, and he turned his head the slightest bit, his hand lowering from your shoulder and back to his side,

“No…that’s not…”

By the time Bogard turned his head, Garp was already striding across the deck, extending a spyglass as he leaned over the railing and stared through the scope. He gave a growl of annoyance as he held the scope out behind him for Bogard to take. Your heart raced as you slowly crossed the deck to join them, your already thin resolve faltering when Bogard slowly lowered the scope to glance at Garp.

“This changes—”

“It changes nothing,” said Garp, jerking his head to look at Bogard.

You didn’t need the spyglass to see the foggy haze around Kuraigana Island past the railing, no more than you needed it to see the small ship docked near its southern banks. You couldn’t make out much about it, but you could see the one thing that mattered—it flew a black flag.

“Red-Hair,” said Garp. “I knew he’d be trouble. I told Sengoku, I told him—”

“Why the hell would he be here?” Bogard said slowly, looking back out toward the island. He glanced behind him, and held out the spyglass for you to take. You moved to the railing between them, holding it to one eye and shutting the other to look through it at the distant ship. “There’s no chance any information has—”

“No, there isn’t,” agreed Garp, as your vision adjusted against the magnification of the lenses. You scanned over the small ship, which appeared to be empty, before lifting your head to focus on its flag—a jolly roger, decorated with a pair of crossed cutlasses and a skull with three slashes across one eye.

“Red-Haired Shanks…?” you said slowly, lowering the scope, glancing between Garp and Bogard as they stared out at the ship. “Ah—three hundred million, two hundred sixty-two thousand berry bounty.”

“Sixty-three,” corrected Bogard absently, glancing at Garp. Garp remained focused, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the ship, his grip tight around the deck railing. “Vice-Admiral.” He glanced over sharply when Bogard spoke up. “This does change—”

“It changes nothing,” Garp growled firmly.

You didn’t particularly like the way Bogard leaned over the railing, holding his hat in place as he shook his head, staring at Garp with no small degree of trepidation. Your eyes shifted to Garp when he turned around to face you, frowning down at you thoughtfully,

“Or it could change things for the better,” he said slowly, letting out a small chuckle. “Well, lass. This is your call. Seems more than just Mihawk might be docked at the island ahead of us.” You nodded shortly to show you were following, waiting for him to continued. “Not much is known about Shanks as yet…to the masses.”

“Garp—”

Garp held up a hand when Bogard tossed a warning look at him.

“—but I have on good authority that he trained under Gold Roger himself.” Your eyes widened, flickering back toward the ship in question, as Bogard let out a growl of annoyance and stormed back toward the opposite side of the deck. “This is an unexpected turn.” Your gaze shot back toward Garp as he straightened out, folding his hands behind his back and staring down at you. “We can head back toward Marineford and go through all the meticulous to-do’s of officially changing our plans, spend a few more months buried in paperwork, or—”

“I’m going.” He raised his eyebrows, his lips already twitching toward a smile at the firmness of your words. “The Red-Hair pirates would be no more aware of who I am than Mihawk. There’s no point wasting any more time.”

“No, I guess there isn’t,” he agreed, grinning. He cleared his throat, cupping a hand around his mouth and making a show of calling across the small expanse of the deck to Bogard. “You might just be able to gather us a little more intel than we expeced. Hear that, Bogard? No need to delay!”

“No need to pull a muscle patting yourself on the back, either,” Bogard grumbled, just loud enough to ensure Garp heard him.

“Alright, kid,” said Garp, happily ignoring him as he leaned against the side of the railing. “We’ve got under ten minutes, so here’s the rundown.” He turned his head, looking out toward the ship moored just off the edge of the island. “Shanks, as I said. Captain, pupil of Gold Roger himself. Primary weapon is a sabre. Straw hat, bright red hair, difficult to miss. There’s Yasopp, the first man to join his crew, at the time he was regarded as the sharpest shooter in the East Blue. Dark skin, dreadlocks, carries a pair of flintlock pistols.”

“So...that’s his first mate?”

“No.” Your brow furrowed. “That would be Beckman. Dark hair, ponytail, built like a brick shithouse. Carries a flintlock rifle. He’s a damn good shot himself but he’ll use the thing as a club in close quarters. Lucky Roux, the cook, bastard’s probably as wide as he is tall…”

You listened closely to Garp’s continued colorful descriptions of the crew officers of the Red Hair Pirates—and the potential dangers they could pose to your health should anyone discover what you really were.

“Red Hair isn’t the brightest match in the box,” he went on, “but there’s a great deal of evidence that he closely rivals Dracule Mihawk in swordsmanship. Should the two end up fighting, you keep your distance. Otherwise, be exceedingly careful around Benn Beckman. He’s the idiot’s first mate for a reason and probably accounts for ninety percent of the collective brain cells of the entire crew. You’ll have to keep a close eye on him while you keep up your act. There’s no telling why they’re docked here, and it would be in your best interest to figure it out. If they’re going to be around for a while, keep your distance.”

“I...sort of doubt any of them are ornithology experts,” you said, frowning.

“As much as one might doubt that a species of unknown primates could learn to use relatively modern weaponry.” You turned your head sharply at the sound of Bogard’s voice close behind you—you hadn’t heard him cross the deck. Your frown deepened as he gave a pointed glance at the scar spanning nearly the entire length of your right upper arm. Garp, gestured to the other Marine pointedly at his statement, and you couldn’t deny that he had a point either. “You’ll keep your distance. Fooling one pirate alone is going to be a great deal easier and safer than attempting to fool an entire crew of them.” He turned his head to Garp. “This is still the most ridiculous mission I’ve ever had the displeasure of being involved in.”

“Ah, girl’s got her act down fine,” he said dismissively—and Garp wasn’t wrong about that. Your favorite part of your training by far had been simply flying around the massive base at Marineford, taking tally of how many of the staff and officers you could fool. The only individuals privy to the exact nature of your mission were Garp and Bogard, a small selection of admirals and vice admirals, and Fleet Admiral Sengoku himself. Your performance had been enough to levy a unanimous vote to go forth with the mission. “Your persona, cadet?”

“Gray parrot, previously the pet of a pirate crew that perished in battle, therefore comfortable around pirates in general,” you said. “Able to repeat a number of sounds and phrases that might be heard aboard a ship, capable of learning new phrases and words faster than most other similar species of bird. Particular disdain for Marines and may fly into a frenzy at the sight of their vessels.”

“See?” said Garp, clapping you on the back hard enough that you flinched. “I’d say we’ve got this in the bag.”

Bogard stared between the two of you for a moment, frowning, before shaking his head. “God help us all,” he muttered under his breath, lifting a hand to rub his eyes.

The final few minutes of the voyage were spent with Garp and Bogard grilling you about the small amount of information known by the Marines about Dracule Mihawk, about the quick briefing you had just received on the Red Hair pirates, about your memorization of the den den mushi numbers you were to contact in the event that your life was in immediate danger or that you found any information useful enough to wrap the operation up early. Garp gave a resolute nod as you neared your destination, around a mile and a half off the shore of Kuraigana Island, and Bogard gave a heavy sigh and a short nod in silent agreement—no matter how little he approved, you were as ready as you were going to be.

“Alright, then, cadet,” said Garp, his wide grin a direct contrast to his partner’s pessimism. “Bird mode, activate.”

“Must you call it that?” said Bogard, tossing a weary look at Garp as you gave a quick salute and immediately shrank down into your devil fruit form on the deck. You fluttered your wings enough to hop up onto the deck railing in front of them, and Bogard frowned down at you. “Best of luck,” he offered. “Should all go according to plan, we’ll see you again in no more than two months.”

He cringed the slightest bit when you raised your wing in another salute, squawking out over Garp’s snort of laughter, “Wind in your sails!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Garp, waving you off. “Now shoo, bird. And no getting yourself killed.”

And once more, you found yourself flying out toward Kuraigana Island.

You made a high pass over the Red Hair’s ship, squinting down toward it as you soared overhead, and the cause of their mooring near the island became quickly clear—it appeared that there was work being performed on a few sizable cannonball holes on the port side of the vessel. You were surprised to see a handful of the crew on the beach near the edge of the forest, seeming to be laughing among themselves and having a grand time, the primates that had attacked you nowhere in sight. Lucky Roux was easy enough to pick out, exactly as Garp had described him—striped shirt and tinted goggles, easily as wide as he was tall, sitting against a tree and taking a bite out of what looked like an entire leg of lamb while another crewmate assisted in bandaging his arm.

Perhaps they had had a run-in with the local apes.

You took that as enough reason to remain vigilant as you flew high over the forest, scanning the treetops below for any signs of movement. It was a relief that there seemed to be none—if the Red Hair pirates had come in contact with the violent creatures, it seemed they had managed to beat them into submission. You considered how Garp had told you that no one had ever entered the island on foot and lived to tell the tale, and it sent a shiver over your spine to think that the crew might be that formidable.

The first signs of movement you witnessed came only once you neared the castle itself, and you nearly faltered in your flight.

Your target was directly below you.

Sitting on a broken piece of stone wall in the courtyard, clad in a white shirt with a ruffled collar and a pair of black pants, his hat sitting to the side next to him, his massive sword lying across his lap as he polished the handle. You slowly, cautiously circled lower, keeping a fair distance, your eyes remaining on the pirate. His mouth seemed to be fixed in a scowl, his posture tense.

You cautiously landed in one of the castle windows several feet away, side-stepping until you were perched in the very corner of the indentation, your gray plumage a perfect camouflage against the rugged stone, and the reason for Mihawk’s clear irritation became immediately evident as the sound of a nonchalant voice tore your gaze away from him.

“Nice place you’ve got here, Hawk-Eye.”

Shanks.

Garp’s description had once again been right on the money—his stringy scarlet hair was capped by a straw-hat, his hands tucked behind his neck as he paced across a pile of rubble that might have once been a wall, a long sabre tucked into his red cloth belt at his right hip. He hopped down to the ground as you watched, resting his elbow on the hilt of the sword as he stared up at the castle. “Be a shame if something happened to it.”

He reached over with his left hand, wrapping it around the handle of the sword, and you tensed immediately, prepared to take flight as he grinned and glanced over at Mihawk.

“Divi—”

Mihawk was on his feet in a flash, his sword extended out at arm’s length, the blade less than an inch away from Shanks’s neck, his sharp yellow eyes narrowing to threatening slits as Shanks lifted his hands up in mock-surrender, still grinning.

“Only kidding,” he said, taking a cautious step back from the edge of the black blade.

Mihawk eyed him with a venomous glare for a few seconds longer before pulling his blade back swiftly to his side and rolling his eyes, a growl of annoyance leaving him as he turned on his heel and stormed back over to the broken wall, sitting down once more. “Remind me of what the hell you’re doing here and precisely why you haven’t left yet?”

“Am I not allowed to visit my friends?” said Shanks, clutching at his chest dramatically in feigned offense. Mihawk ignored the redhead as he sat down heavily on the ground, grabbing a bottle of dark liquor propped up against the pile of rubble and working the cork loose. “Hey, it’s not my fault. This is where the Log pose pointed us. We needed to do a few repairs on the ship. Noticed your old rowboat moored nearby—”

“Rowboat,” Mihawk repeated under his breath, one of his eyes twitching the slightest bit.

“So what’s with the pissed off monkeys, anyway?” said Shanks, nodding toward the forest before taking a swig from the bottle and flicking the cork over his shoulder. “Few of them were damn near as good with a sword as you are.” Mihawk’s eyes shot toward him in a warning glare, and rolled away when Shanks gave a broad grin in response. “Train them yourself?”

“No,” he said shortly. “The humandrills were already quite capable with a variety of weapons when I arrived—”

“Aww, you named them?”

“I discovered the name among the historical documents in castle,” he said through his teeth. “It seems they learned to use weapons by watching their human neighbors before they managed to wipe themselves out. Perhaps,” he went on, before Shanks could speak up again, “your time would better be served overseeing the repairs on your ship so you can leave the moment they’re done.”

“Oh, the repairs are almost finished,” said Shanks, waving a dismissive hand. “Just waiting for the log pose to finish linking up.” He took a sip from his bottle, lifting his eyebrows. “Why? Aren’t you enjoying the company?”

“Oh, yes, immensely,” Mihawk responded dryly.

Your eyes darted between the pair of pirates amid their exchange, keeping yourself perfectly still in the stone windowsill. It was clear that Shanks, at least, was enjoying himself, and that they seemed to have some sort of history between them. It was equally clear that Mihawk would have very much preferred that his company take a long walk off the nearest short pier. He still kept his irritation in check, though whether it was out of any actual sense of camaraderie or he simply didn’t feel like wasting his energy fighting remained unclear.

Their exchange gave you an almost overwhelming sense of déjà vu, and you made a mental note to inform Garp and Bogard of it the next time you saw them.

“Oh, so grumpy,” Shanks commented, leaning back against the rubble behind him, stretching an arm out across one of his knees. “Why don’t you go take a nap, old man? I’m sure there are plenty of beds more than suited for someone of your positively regal manner.” Mihawk went on polishing the golden handle of his sword, not bothering to glance up. “Probably more than enough beds for any number of guests—”

“No,” said Mihawk coolly, still keeping his eyes turned down toward his sword.

“Oh, come on,” Shanks groaned in complaint, laying his head back. His mouth turned down into a despondent sort of pout, tilting his head to look over at the castle—and you tensed immediately, holding your breath, remaining still as a statue. “I’ve never even been in a castle before—”

“No,” Mihawk said again, louder this time, his yellow eyes fixing on Shanks with a firm gaze this time.

“You’re absolutely no fun at all,” Shanks huffed, lifting a small piece of stone from the ground and tossing it in his direction in a half-hearted manner. “You know, you’re going to die sad and alone one day in your desolate castle.”

“And what a peaceful end it will be,” said Mihawk disinterestedly, rolling his eyes back down to the sword across his lap as he buffed a rag across the gleaming blue gem at the end of the hilt.

“But not friendless,” Shanks added, completely ignoring him. He offered another broad grin. “I’ll always be your frien—”

“Would you just go away already?” Mihawksighed wearily, lifting his head and tossing the rag aside. “It’s abundantly clear what you’re attempting to do, and it isn’t going to work.”

“Oh, and just what am I trying to do?” said Shanks...and he seemed to bite his tongue for a moment, before adding in a cheeky tone, “...friend?”

“You’re fishing for a fight,” said Mihawk, gritting his teeth, briefly gripping the handle of his sword before releasing it from his grasp. “And I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh come. On,” Shanks groaned once more, leaning back heavily and pouting. “I’m bored. There’s literally nothing on this damned island except a pile of rocks and a bunch of trees and a particularly nice castle—”

“No.” Shanks gave a huff of irritation, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Mihawk. “Go off and play with the other monkeys if you’re so damned bored.”

“They’re already afraid of me,” he huffed, pouting like a child. He brushed a few unruly strands of hair away from his eyes, turning his gaze out toward the forest. “Stupid apes.” Mihawk only rolled his eyes, shook his head, and returned to the idle task of sword maintenance. “I’m frankly surprised you didn’t just slaughter all of them the moment you set foot here.”

“They make for a decent security system,” he said levelly.

“Or you’re secretly just a big softie—”

Shanks straightened out and gave another broad grin when Mihawk tossed a sharp glare at him...and then slumped back down in defeat when his supposed “friend” gave a heavy sigh and turned his attention back to his sword.

It went on this way for some time—Shanks continually poking and prodding, attempting to annoy Mihawk enough to coax him into a fight; and Mihawk persisting in the task of sword maintenance, running a whetstone across the already razor-sharp edge of the blade as he fought to keep his composure. The entire spectacle was rather like watching an excitable puppy yip at a surly cat.

You shifted your gaze to the edge of the nearby forest when Shanks looked over, the young captain waving once the rustling of the dense leaves gave way to a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black shirt, picking leaves out of his ponytail—no doubt Benn Beckman, from the description Garp had offered you. There was indeed a large rifle slung back across one of his shoulders, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He glanced toward Mihawk, before stopping just short of his captain, looking down at him.

“Repairs are finished and the Log Pose’s set,” he said, his brow furrowing when Shanks frowned in clear disappointment. “We getting off of this rock or are you still antagonizing the current inhabitants?”

“I am visiting with a dear old friend,” said Shanks, giving an indignant huff and crossing his arms. He rolled his eyes back over to Mihawk. “Isn’t that right, Hawkie—?”

“Call me that again and you’ll be leaving this island wearing your entrails as necklace,” said Mihawk coolly.

“See?” said Shanks, gesturing toward Mihawk. “We’re just catching up on old times.”

Beckman stared down at his captain for a long moment, frowning, his cigarette smoldering at the corner of his mouth. He finally shook his head and stepped back a couple paces, leaning back against a pile of stones and crossing his arms. “Alright,” he said. “Have fun.”

“Oh, I am,” Shanks assured him with a positively gleeful grin. He rolled his shoulders and took a drink from the bottle of liquor clenched in his hand, his eyes drifting back over to Mihawk. “Well, it seems our all too pleasant reunion may be drawing to a close, Hawkie—”

Shanks’s grin only widened when Mihawk lifted his gaze to glare at him, his hand gripping tighter around the whetstone.

Shanks seemed to bite his tongue for a moment, pursing his lips to suppress his growing amusement at Mihawk’s growing annoyance, before his expression spread back into a grin as he lifted his eyebrows.

“How about a little kiss goodbye—y’know, between friends and all—”

“That’s it—”

Mihawk was on his feet in a flash, tossing the whetstone away.

Shanks was on his feet just as quickly, a look of absolute glee brightening his features as he drew his sabre.

Beckman took a few casual steps off to the side, pulling his cigarette down from his lips to flick the ashes away, shaking his head, his hand tightening around the butt of his rifle almost imperceptibly.

And you, in spite of yourself, let out a tiny squawk of alarm at the entire spectacle...and quickly realized your mistake.

While Mihawk surged forward with his blade drawn, while Beckman kept his sharp eyes flickering between him and his captain, Shanks’s gaze flickered over toward the sound you had just let out.

And his eyes widened the slightest bit as his eyes met yours.

And he lifted his sword to block what would have been a deadly blow from Mihawk as he continued staring at you as you froze in the windowsill, your feathers ruffling out the slightest bit in response to the terror dawning over you.

Beckman also followed his captain’s gaze, lifting an eyebrow as he noticed your presence.

Shanks drew in a sharp breath, his eyes growing even wider, wide as the eyes of a child with a bottomless wallet in a candy shop. One single, almost breathless word left his lips as they spread into a delighted smile:

“Parrot.”

Next chapter link again, for your convenience

First chapter link again, for your convenience

[saintsstranger]

the art of lies | t.s. (fantastic beasts) - chapter one

Summary: all your life you had been handling the dirty truth, and here he comes presenting you with his sweet lies. 

Pairings: Theseus Scamander x Fem!Reader

genre: romance, mature audience intended

warnings: mature themes, implied sexual content, sexworker protagonist, pleasure house (brothel), smoking

the art of lies masterlist

IN THE ABSENCE OF DAYLIGHT, Paris comes alive, after all, it is known as the City of Love.

Love in the form of freshly picked flowers from the florist.

The sweetest chocolate that tickled your taste buds.

Hand-written poems that rivaled world-renowned poets.

A love so sweet and tender that it caresses you gently in the night

But that certainly wasn’t the truth, it never was. Love wasn’t like that. 

Love was the thorns that hid beneath the roses.

Love was the bitter taste that lingered in your mouth after your first dark chocolate.

Love was the letter from lovers that had written goodbyes instead of ‘I’ll stay’.

Love was the harsh tug of your hair, the rough hands that hold your wrists, saying the words ‘You are so beautiful’ only when you are in the middle of the bed, spread willingly to the desires of man. 

Here, in Paris, is nothing but filled with nights of debauchery where all senses are thrown out the window. The sickening smell of expensive perfume and wine drowning you in the world of sins. And Paris was notable for it, here you are free! Or so they say.

Truth be told, you could never be free, always staying in hiding from the Non-Magiques. And here you were indebted to your handler, Madame Blanche, the owner of the renowned luxurious Maison close ‘Amour Délicat’. 

Like her name, the whites in her hair and the sharp look in her eyes tell her story. She was a former courtesan before and when the first war of the non-magiques happened there she learned something that would give birth to her only child, the Amour Délicat. When she shared the truth of what was happening in the world of the non-magiques to the Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France (Ministry of Magical Affairs of France), Madame Blanche was greatly compensated, and there from the ground up, she built her history. 

Madame Blanche is far from the harsh and ruthless handlers in the non-magiques world of prostitution; she is commanding and ruthless. When she saw the reality of the world, it opened her mind to do whatever it takes to protect herself, and that is by being well-known that you create a sense of security in being seen. Here she opened her doors to those willing to work for her, at first, many were wary as to join and take employment, the look of disdain and gossip were indeed not for the faint of heart. 

And you who had nothing to lose, took the first bite and jumped straight into death potion. 

You, who only had your name and the clothes you wore on your back crawled straight inside Pandora’s box. 

Madame Blanche had saved you, she had given you a roof, food, clothes, and the protection that you needed. The life you formerly had was long gone; it was all in the past, thrown into the sea to be forgotten.

And here you learn to be a great witch. She first-hand, had taught you how to be a legilimens, as her first courtesan, she has taught you how to traverse the mind easily, to learn secrets, and how to use them to your advantage.

“The most powerful of witches and wizards can all be defeated by the secrets they hide.”

While the other courtesans were only taught surface-level legilimency, you were a natural. Not only can you do it nonverbally and wandlessly, but you can also communicate with others telepathically. Madame Blanche had opened you to all possibilities, and with that, she entrusted you with the highest position of being her right hand.

And your skill at legilimens always comes at night when you bed another clientele. And in the middle of pure ecstasy, they reveal the truth unwillingly. Here in the dimmed candlelight, you walked through the halls of their mind unlocking every door with a skeleton key of your abilities. No matter how many layers, or how many locks they keep, trust you could open it with ease. Secrets like marital affairs, financial debt, graft and corruption, illegitimate children, crimes, enemies, first love, their favorite color, the last thing they ate, their thoughts at that very moment… you can see and feel. An out-of-body experience, stripping you naked from yourself, from what you are and who you were. Here you forgot you were even breathing.

You didn’t realize you had been lying on the bed still for the last few minutes, the house elf, Bernadette, had been looking at you worriedly, and in her hand was your dressing robe, colors almost like the blinding light.

“Was the man harsh on you today, Miss?” She asked, placing the mulberry silk robe on your hand. You gave her a small smile and shook your head. The faint marks of rope were the clear sign of your lies, yet you were accustomed to it.

“It is alright. Run my bath for me?” With a wave of her hand, the bed took itself towards the laundry room and came in a small golden tub that fit your frame. Muttering a spell it filled the tub with bubbles and water, you stood before it before hitting it with a wave of your wand. The gramophone in the room suddenly erupted into soulful jazz music. With a scrub and a bar of soap ready at hand, Bernadette tried to assist you but you declined. Stepping foot into the warm bubbly bath.

“I would like a moment alone.” You waved your hand as soon as the words left your mouth, the house elf knew to leave you to your own devices. You were a grown woman, a woman who has been doing these for the last decade. And whenever you tried to look into your future, all you could see were the grand walls that painted your very eyes, the moving wallpaper depicting fields of various white flowers, you were stuck in Amour Délicat for the last moments of your life. This was the only thing you will ever know. You were indebted and grateful to Madame Blanche, and that led to your loyalty. She protects you and everyone in the Maison close. Outside these walls was uncertainty.

In the hot water, you submerged yourself trying to wake yourself up to the fact that this is your life. Yet when the warm glow of the city, fireworks erupted the skyline, muffled by the water you sat straight to peer at the noise. Without even looking, you knew families were in their own homes, enclosed with the scent of pastries and the warmth of their own fireplace. It was just a few minutes before New Year's Eve, and here you were working. Alone, staring into the distance, craving the sense of a warm home. 

Holding your knees close to your chest, you stared at the skyline as Muggles and Magical people alike celebrated the night with a bright display of fireworks. 

Unbeknown to you, Clarice, the receptionist had been preventing the members of the British Ministry of Magic from stepping foot towards the quarters an hour before the new year would start.

“You cannot go inside; this is a private and respectable property,” Clarice spoke, her accent rushing the words as panic littered her veins. Her arm at ready with her own wand. The lounge was filled with thick air as the British aurors pointed their wand at the girl, not understanding a word she shouted. 

Click-clack! Click-clack!

With every slow step, Madame Blanche descended the stairs. 

“And what do you English want? Here to close Amour Délicat? You don’t have the right.” Madame Blanche boasts, looking at the men below with her chin pointed upwards. Looking at them one by one, the Madame could not read their minds, the British aurors have been trained in occlumency. Remaining calm, she stood on the balcony, overlooking the whole crowd below.

“We were looking for one of your workers. I believe they have the answers to the disappearance of one of the assistant delegates of the British Department of the International Confederation of Wizards.” Torquil Travers claimed, holding a photograph of a man in his middle 30s-40s. 

Summoning the paper in the grasp of the Madame, she looked at the photograph intently, racking up all the lists of their clients. Without even showing hints of recognition, Madame had thrown the paper back into the hands of the aurors.

“I believe you must have a permit before we further your inquiries. If not, then leave.” Turning around, she waved a hand to open the large doors.

“We have it, signed and approved by your own Minister.” Stopping in her tracks, the auror walked up to the steps and held it right in front of the Madame’s face. Now a hint of annoyance was painted on her pointed brows.

“Come to my office, only I can accommodate two of you. Choose wisely.” Madame Blanche said in a cold tone, not even bothering to wait for aurors as she walked straight to the lift.

“Scamander! Come with me.” Travers could upon the young man, the older auror respected the young man’s abilities and thinking, after all, he was a respectable war hero.  

Stepping into the lift, the walls were decorated with moving painted white flowers, the madame touched the button to the highest floor, and the black lining of the lift showed its elegance. As the Aurors stood behind her, eyes darted across each other in nervousness. The Brits showed no sign of anxiety, even if that was far from the truth, the Madame held an air of regalness suffocating them with the scent of floral perfume. As soon as the doors of the lift parted for her, the room was quite the luxury and beauty with its eclectic interior, engulfed with knick-knacks from travels, moving statues, paintings from famous muggles, and the large glass pane showing the night sky. 

In the middle of the room was a velvet green chair, a large glass table, and a lone flower sitting in the golden vase.

“Sit.” She pointed toward the chair in front of her, while she remained standing encircling the room looking at the Englishman that disturbed her home. 

“Our clients value discreteness, we simply could not disclose it easily… yet since you presented me with a hand-written note by our minister I must oblige to your request. Then talk, what is it that you want?”

“We are looking for Charles Moore. He has been in charge of communications with the French Ministry as a part of assistant delegate for our Ministry, he asked to be assigned here after the Muggle World War. The day he was posted to return, he didn’t. And we believe that in his letters to his sister, he claimed to be…”

Madame Blanche raised her eyebrow at Torquil Travers waiting for him to spit it out.

“In love.” Theseus replied. “He claims that he has found the love of life here in Paris and was planning to buy off her indenture. Or so we believe.” 

Madame Blanche scoffed.

“There are many dames in Paris, and he chose to settle with a courtesan?” Madame Blanche laughed, making Travers find it humorous as well. In the keen eyes of Madame Blanche, he saw Theseus's brows turn into a frown before shifting back to biting his cheeks.

“Are you certain that it was in Amour Délicat?”

Theseus answered with a nod. 

There were three letters in total from Charles Moore to his sister. And for the past few days, Theseus had been assigned to look for the exact description of the building. He alone took the time of the day, looking at details of every establishment and brothel in Paris, from the world of the muggles to hidden alcoves of the French Wizarding World. After 2 days, he had seen the exact description of the magnificent-looking walls lined with silver and the sweet nauseating scent of flowers, that’s when he knew this was it.

First Letter:

Dearest Ange,

I believe I have found the love of my life! No one is ever as beautiful as her. No amount of theatrics on the show could ever take my eyes off of her. She sat there like a flower, waiting for me.

As soon as the play was over, I tried to approach her. Tell her to take my hand and run away with me. Oh, Ange! I never felt something like this. This must be what love is. Yet, my heart turned to pieces when I saw her taking the arm of another man, walking together side-by-side as they left the theater. I trailed behind them, and saw the most luxurious of buildings, sparkled with silver linings and flowers decorating its walls. Then I stopped and stared, and the man left her there. That’s when I realized what it was… I know this might sound ridiculous, but she is working in the red-light district and with that, no amount of apprehension could hinder me. I know you would flip the whole house upside down, but Ange this is love. I am certain of it. No amount of your denial could keep me away from this.

                                                                                                             From your darling brother, Charlie.

Second Letter: 

Dear Angelique, 

With the amount of your reply, I take that your silence was your approval. 

Today, I took liquid courage to go ahead and talk to her. But the only way was that I had to pay a fortune. I walked to the receptionist with high hopes, and with her assistance, she immediately gave me a room. With flowers in hand, I waited for her only to get my hopes up when another girl walked into the room. I was filled with disappointment. I asked the lady of the night for the description of my love, and she claimed that she was part of the ‘bouquet de blanc’. First-time patrons' pocket money is not enough to gain an audience. And me being an assistant could only lead me to certain places, yet I will persevere. 

 Give me a few more days and I’ll be able to, no matter the cost.

                                                                                                             From your brother, Charles.

Last Letter:

To my Darling Sister,

I hope this letter finds you well, I could not disclose to the ministry the cost of my expenses… but I found another way. Worry no more. Today, I will finally be able to talk to her.

The day that I return home is when she is with me.

                                                                                                             From your loving brother.

Placing the letters right in front of the Madame of the house, with a lifted finger her smile faded into a scowl. Someone from the inside was spreading information about her courtesans; Bouquet de Blanc was valued in secrecy. This was a catalog of their courtesans that had regular high-paying patrons, and this was not open for viewing so easily. Patrons that were deemed valuable to her and her Maison close were accommodated, the pure-blooded noble families, higher ranking officials, royalty even. And someone from the lower ranks of her courtesans had their tongue quite willingly.

Waving her wand, she summoned a large logbook. There inside was information such as names, professions, ages, nationalities, and ranks of their patrons, of course, the courtesan they were assigned to. Whispering the name Charles Moore, it skimmed through the pages with ease, and there in bold letters was the name of the auror the Brits were looking for. Travers tried to peer at the other listed names, his curiosity taking the best of him.

“Curiosity is the lust of the mind, Mr. Travers. Why don’t you sit still, and I’ll call upon her.”

Closing the book harshly, Madame called upon Bernadette. Apparating next to her mistress, Madame Blanche whispered to call the girl. Nodding the house elf disappeared within a blink of an eye. Behind them, the elevator dinged, while the Madame tapped on the book with carefully manicured nails. 

“It is New Year’s Eve; would you like to avail of our services? It can easily be arranged. I know it’s a long journey and your work for your ministry is greatly appreciated, it wouldn’t hurt to take the night off— to indulge yourself in your sensual desires.” 

The older man shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Suddenly they were interrupted when the elevator doors dinged, signaling the arrival of the courtesan. Turning around a slender figure stepped foot in the room, She wore a long flowing green nightgown.

“Come in here and greet the Brits, Maeve. They would like to talk to you about Charles Moore.” Madame Blanche pointed to the aurors in front of her, the back of the courtesan’s neck grew in a cold sweat.

“I–I do not understand Madame Blanche. I didn’t do anything wrong! The man asked– and I swore that was the last of it, I told him what he wanted to hear.” The girl's pleading cries fell on deaf ears as the aurors could not understand what she was crying about. Theseus' eyes darted between Madame Blanche and the girl’s tear-stricken face. While Torquil Travers stood to show his authority, ready to apprehend the girl.

Within just a few seconds, Madame Blanche had already seen the inner linings of the girl’s mind. The fear registered in her thoughts while she traversed doors upon doors to look for the memories of the missing delegate, and right there she found what she was seeking.

In just a few quick strides, Madame Blanche towered over the girl with a look of disdain painted on her red lips. The old mistress, jaw held tightly as she wiped the tears of the girl. Only to hold the young girl’s face tightly, her long nails pierced through the delicate skin while she stared straight down into the young woman’s eyes with an intense look, unblinking. 

“You may leave, pack your bags, and look for work elsewhere. I do not take it kindly to those willing to open their mouths willingly to my secrets. Bernadette, escort her out of here. I have found what I’m looking for.” 

The girl refused as the house elf dragged the wailing girl back to the elevator, screams of ‘no’ echoed through the walls. 

Travers, who was far too confused, shouted for the house elf to stop as the girl was a key witness. Even pointed his wand threateningly at the old mistress, ready to cast a stunning spell within the tips of his lips. The madame disarms him with a flick of her wand, his wand went flying right off his grasp and cluttered on the hardwood floor. Madame shook her head no when the auror Travers tried to pick it up. 

“You’re a legilimens.” Theseus muttered; Madame Blanche turned around to face the man giving them a tight-lipped smile and nodded. 

“Would you like to view the girl’s memory and be done with it? I need to run my business after all.” Offering to perform legilimency to project the memories to the aurors, they declined. They knew not to, after all, they too have secrets that protect their ministry. 

“We decline. We, Aurors value our minds and do not open them so willingly.” Travers stated, still apprehensive of Madame Blanche. “But the girl needs to be questioned, we have to have her testimonials as to Moore’s disappearance.”

“Then you must trust my word because I too have my secrets to keep. That girl didn’t kill or cause his disappearance. He came in here one night, to question about the catalog of my courtesans and that was it–”

Cutting off the handler of the brothel, Theseus insisted; “Charles Moore stated in his letters about a ‘bouquet de blanc’. I hope that might ring a bell, after browsing through your catalog in the lobby earlier. I couldn’t find traces of this list, is this a secret that you are hiding from the ministry?” 

Madame Blanche’s eyes narrowed at the young auror; her piercing ice-blue eyes almost looked like they could kill.

“No, of course not. My bouquet de blanc is the Amour Délicat trade secrets. I could not easily say it out loud for fear of our competitors copying what I built from the ground up. If you would like to browse that catalog, then let me— although I must say, we do not easily offer our services freely.” Walking towards a dark oak cabinet grabbing a large book with golden linings. Placing right back at the table, Madame Blanche flipped through the pages with images of different courtesans, and right on its last page was a picture of you. 

“I believe she is the one he is asking for.” She pointed with a manicured finger, right before your name was a title given to you. 

Queen of the Night; Night-blooming Cereus

You were smiling, looking right at the onlooker like it was destined. While others bashfully hid their eyes, sultry looking to get admirers, you didn’t need to do that. You had your charm, something that allures the onlookers to choose you. Madame Blanche tried to flip the page to show them another photograph of you leaving nothing to the imagination to the spectator, but Theseus stopped her.

“I think that is enough, could you summon her to talk to us.” Theseus declared with a cough, standing up to close the book and stepping right in front of Travers' line of sight. “Please.”

Madame Blanche smiled, this time it was far different. “I believe your permit only limited you to talk to one of the key witnesses… And since Mr. Moore was not a benefactor of bouquet de blanc, I know because I am the only bookkeeper of that catalog… you must pay a hefty price.”

Now, the Aurors were stuck in the beginning, only pieces of blocked paths. If Charles Moore was not on the list of high-ranking patrons, then they could only comply with the demands of the authority and right now it wasn’t them who was holding the winning cards. When Travers' authority gets threatened, he scoffs, ready to drag Theseus out of the old woman. Madame Blanche truly was a businesswoman, she played them a fool. Whether they get out of the establishment empty-handed, or with empty wallets was their choice. They could simply not arrest the old woman, this was out of their jurisdiction, they were out of their element and far from their own country, and they simply couldn’t do whatever they wanted. 

“Either you pay full price, or you will tell me why such a simple assistant is being hunted down by the best Aurors of the British Ministry. Pick your price.” She sat arms folded right in front of her face, holding her chin while she grinned at the standing men.

Within a minute of no one budging, Travers' patience wavered. With a deep sigh, he faltered. With one last glance at Theseus, he held his head low. 

“Charles Moore stole 4,000 galleons. We believe that he tried to buy her indenture and convince her to come to London with him.” Travers confessed. That was the half-truth, Theseus’ senior took out the part that it was from the subsidy for international affairs. And the way he stole it was undetected like he had some insiders to help him, they were now battling an unseen threat. They only noticed it was missing after 3 months, when Theseus looked at the accounts and noticed that something was awry.

Madame Blanche started laughing, “He believes he can buy off her indenture for 4,000 galleons. Oh, what a joke! That’ll only cost him half an hour at most”

When Madame Blanche stopped laughing, she pointed back to the lift doors. “Head to the floor below. I’ll tell her I sent you.” The aurors nodded and headed to leave only to be held when the Madame halted them to stop.

“You endanger my investment; I’d rather you stay here than be near one of my priceless courtesans.” She stated, pointing at the older auror. Theseus can see his senior jaw tightened, and the veins on his neck grew red in anger. Not only was the older auror disarmed, but he was also being held under surveillance in fear that he might endanger you, now his patience and authority wavered on thin ice, and his eyes clouded with anger.

“I’ll talk to her and I’ll find what we need.” Theseus whispered as soon as he stepped foot in the lift. The doors closed slowly; he saw Madame Blanche’s eyes watching the other auror like a hawk. 

When the doors for the lift opened, what greeted him was a vast hall painted like the night sky. With a slight shift of his eyes, he can see the tiny freckles of stars that decorated a lone white door. Unlike the outside of the establishment, this seemed out of place with the flower motifs of Amour Délicat. Here he can feel the cold breeze of the winter night. Knocking on the white door, he called out to the name he had seen written on the catalog. 

You who had been preoccupied with your thoughts; wishing to know the feeling of stepping out of your body, floating, freely, like the ghosts that linger down the dark alleys. Right outside the window, the streets erupted in cheers as they all greeted each other another happy new year. Drinking down the champagne that was given to you by a patron, noting a taste of toast and coffee and a subtle spice drowning out all your other senses. When the fireworks ended, you lay there looking at the skylight as the only glow of the light left was the moonlight.

A subtle knock started you as you let Bernadette waltz her way in. Her company and the cup of tea are greatly appreciated when your water has now gone cold. But instead of the house elf, what replaced her was someone far taller than her; there he stood only the silhouette of his slender frame seen. 

Theseus didn’t expect what he saw, a lone woman basking in the golden tub, a melancholy look written in her eyes.

Sad. You looked sad. 

The only sound that could be heard was the faint hum of the gramophone across the room and the muffled cheers that erupted right behind the glass windows. With the faint sparkle of light, you saw a slight frown on his face. Realizing your predicament, you went back to wearing the mask when you were at work.

“Would you like me to keep you company?” You asked, turning around delicately, careful not to show another ounce of skin. Tilting your head to one side and smiling at him, the same one he has seen in the photograph earlier.

When Theseus realized what you were implying, he held his hand and shook his head, showing you a metal badge indicating the words ‘auror’. You had a fair share of French aurors that came to you for a night, often playing the role of the captive and captor. What a lack of imagination, if this is the role he wants to play then so be it.

“You would like to play that role? I, the convict, and you the detainer. Would you like that darling?” You asked, ready to approach him when he realized what was happening, he turned around not to face your naked form. The tips of his ears went red in embarrassment. 

“I didn’t come here for your service; I was sent here by Madame Blanche to question you. My name is Theseus Scamander, I was sent by the British Ministry of Magic.” He announced. 

Ahh… A British Auror. You hummed and stood to grab the white robe and placed it on your body. Hearing the sound of faint footsteps, Theseus waited until you gave him a signal. 

“I see… talk I don’t have all night to entertain you.” This time you put your weight and one foot, crossing your arms across your chest. Your hand laid steady on your wand.

Turning around, you pointed toward the chair that sat across from you, and he agreed to your request. As soon as he did, you went and grabbed the champagne you had been drinking earlier and procured another glass to pour him one. Placing it next to him, you stood in front of him and drank yours, waiting as he did too. Theseus eyed it suspiciously, but you continued to drink it on your own accord.

“A gift… something lighter than the fire whiskey.” You replied as you down the glass in one gulp. He nodded and carefully took a sip of his. You sat in front of him and grabbed the bottle to pour more down into your glass.

When he exhaled in satisfaction, you knew it tasted amazing. Theseus knew what you were doing, trying to lower his guard, not sitting to show you were in control, and intoxicating him to vulnerability. Yet, he remained calm, showing no signs of threat to you. If Madame Blanche was a legilimens, there was a high chance you were too, all he needed to do was throw you off his scent.

And just like he had predicted, right at the moment you tried to pry his mind. A knot on your brow formed when you stared intently at him.

‘You looked sad.’ Those were the thoughts that circled his mind, like a mantra. You can feel it. Feel him. It made you nauseous, the bile in your throat rose as his thoughts engraved into yours. No one had looked at you and thought you were sad; it was always beautiful. Sadness and you were never to be put in a sentence, and when his thoughts did it terrified you. 

To be seen broken makes you fear. To be seen feeling sadness made the feeling of being stripped naked for the whole world to see. All your life, you had built these walls that made you stand on your own two feet. The ache in your mind becomes unbearable, you weren’t beautiful… underneath all the expensive clothes, and pearls that glittered your skin— you are crooked, battered with bruises, wrecked by time, your skin filthy with sin, you were a tragedy… a rotten work.

“Stop.” With gritted teeth, you fail to look at his eyes and his mind. A slip of the tongue made you realize what you had said out loud, that was all Theseus needed to know that you too are a legilimens. “State your purposes.”

Right in the pockets of his coat was the photograph of Charles Moore, he carefully placed it on the table in front of him waiting for you to pick it up.

“Do you recognize him?” He placed the picture within your line of sight. Pausing he tried to scope for your reaction. “It’s Charles Moore, an assistant delegate of the British Department of the International Confederation of Wizards.”

“He has been missing for months and the last contact we had from him was a letter to his sister, trying to have an audience with you.” 

Your eyes examined Moore’s photograph. And minutes passed your silence almost became too heavy to Theseus's dislike, but he needed to thread your waters carefully, you were already agitated for unknown reasons.

“I believe I do not know who this person is.” You smiled and stared at Theseus, the first time you met his eyes after your outburst earlier.

He pointed out another slip of your strong facade right at its mark. “Yet you do not deny that you do recognize him.” 

“Maybe I do… Maybe I don’t. It is possible he is one of my long lists of admirers, doesn’t erase the fact that I do not know him at all.” 

“I highly doubt that. You’re a legilimens, and I am not; that is true. I need to know if you have met with him once, and if you are proven to be telling the truth then I would leave this room. But I can tell you’re lying. Skilled legilimens can procure memories into another person, and all I needed was the time and date, any people that were trailing him. Your truth is all I need.” He proposes.

“Or would you rather we do this the hard way? The choice is yours.” He leaned forward as his head rested on his knuckles.

“You give me the illusion of free choice when all you want is to pry my mind. Is there something you are not saying, Mister Scamander? Tell me the truth, what is in it for you? What would you get to look into the inner workings of my mind? You expect me to believe that you honestly want nothing else? Just my memory? I hardly doubt that.” Challenging his proposition, you leaned forward as your palms hit the glass table harshly with a loud slap, not before rebutting his claims. “Surely it could not be just you are looking for a testament, you wouldn’t work hard on that, all you needed is a vial of the strongest veritaserum and it would be done. Then why are you pushing hard to look into my mind?”

“You play a cruel game of trust.” He sighed, making you scoff. “Mr. Moore had said in his letters about how he will get the currency to meet you, his means to getting it is unsaid. And that was a clear sign that he needed someone to work with him to get that from a subsidiary of international affairs, you are simply a madman to be able to work alone. And all I need is— you. All I need is you.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. 

“I need you to work with me. You knew better than just mere rumors, you knew everyone and could see their thoughts.”

Working with the British Ministry, consider it treason. Yet, you never were loyal to this land. Your loyalty lies elsewhere, it stays to those who have given you a sense of protection. Your loyalty is within Madame Blanche’s hands. Hands that remained choking you to stay. 

Still, you let Mr. Scamander entertain you with his words.

“It would have to take you a valuable price, Mr. Scamander. I am an expensive woman, yet, I am considerate. Give me leverage and I will give you what you want.” That’s when he stopped and stared at the photo, avoiding any eye contact. “What could you possibly offer Mr. Scamander, tell me.”

You grinned as you took a sip at the champagne, just like a war, both of you had been disarming and hurting each other for the kill. Breaking down every barrier with a small slip-up of each other, both of you were professionals at your trades. He is an Auror, he knows how to spot lies and negotiate, give you the feeling of support to make you break down your armor. Meanwhile, you pride yourself on being a great liar, you know what to say to appear compliant, and you know how to adapt and play the games to your tide. Every word and sentence uttered until one of you would lose the battle of wits, one slip and the fallen would crash and burn.

Leaning back you gave him a smile, your wand procuring a cigarette that lay on the table. Placing it gently on your lips, the tip of your wand lit up a flame. With a deep inhale, you knew you were already winning the battle. You didn’t need to look into his mind, to know that he was fighting a losing war. His occlumency was far useless when the knot on his forehead and the jaunt of his chin told you he was conflicted.

“I have been offered riches that could fill De Nile, clothes that were woven from the rarest of silks, jewels that shone brighter than the sun, houses that housed thousands of rooms, paintings of the most beautiful landscapes, songs and sonnets about my beauty, the most exotics of creatures that lay hidden within the government’s grasp… Pray tell, what could a simple auror like you have that can overthrow all those proposals?”

He was silent, expression never changing. And no matter how hard you try to pry to look into his mind, it remains still like he is right in front of you. 

“Safety.” Your smile faltered. “I offer you safety.” 

You blinked and blinked. Trying hard not to show that your jaw was slack in silence; the timeliness of the gramophone hitting its ending notes was fitting. His words lay heavy on your mind.

Amour Délicat had always offered you protection, but never safety. Safety was a word often associated with emotional aspects that were never visible in your job, safety offered you the sense of never needing to keep your secrets in this line of work or needing not to utter a word that would be your downfall in these walls. Protection kept you free and sheltered from physical aspects and threats, like the two guards that trailed you whenever you needed to do outside work, or the walls that shielded you from the rain. Safety is a foreign word, way too foreign that it burns you with curiosity. A thrill you never experience on a silver platter. It gives you hope— and hope gives you greed. A greed that surpasses all material things known to man. You want to take it all, consume your being until all is left is the safety that you wanted, the safety of being able to walk free, to run away, the security of not needing to know that this is the place where you would meet your demise. 

You knew how Madame Blanche worked, she took pride in knowing secrets and that is her leverage. And right now Madame Blanche would be none the wiser when you will take his deal. And there is one thing in the world that the Madame hated, and it is to not know anything at all. 

“Give me your hand.”

“What?” 

You held your hand to him and stood up, apprehensive he stood up as well taking your hand in his. Looking up into his eyes, you called upon the house elf. Bernadette immediately appeared right beside you.

“Don’t promise me empty words.”

“I won’t.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we made an unbreakable vow.”

Your hold on his palm tightens, only to travel into his wrist. Without breaking eye contact you give him a minute to decide what his choice would be. Does he trust you enough to do it at the expense of his life, or would he rather fear being the one to dictate his actions?

His palm pressed tightly into your wrists, not like the rough hands that occupied your wrists hours ago, his hold was gentle, not imposing. Nodding at Bernadette, a thin tongue of flame issued at the tips of the house elf's fingertips and wound its way around both your and Theseus’ hands. It felt like a burning wire, keeping your skin aflame.

“Will you, Theseus Scamander, promise to provide my safety, as he and I work together?”

“I will.”

“Will you, abide by our oath, to only tell the truth to me?”

“I will.”

a/n: dialogue that is formatted like this “dialogue” is in French. i tried hard to make it one-shot i really did, buT I SIMPLY CANT SO HERE I GIVE YOU WORLD BUILDING AND MORE LORE UPON LORE ON THIS FIC.

[moonlightazriel]

Chapter 2: New world same problems /// Azriel X F!Reader

Summary: Y/N meets their leader and get some answers.

Word Count: 3,2K

Warnings: Just some angst and swearing.

Notes: I hate how tumblr posts drafts when you edit them, so we had another leak with this one. Great just great. Also, if you're not getting notified even if you're in the taglist, please let me know!!

Main Masterlist

Worlds Apart Masterlist

Green liquid dripped from the beast's exposed teeth, as well as the thorns adorned the tail he had placed in front of her as a barrier. They had no way of getting closer to her, the option was either get eaten or get poisoned, if the flowers dying where the liquid touched was any indication of it. 

Cassian knew that too, and he motioned for Azriel to leave his shadows by his side so he wouldn’t scare the female. If he dared turn away from her, he would see that his shadows were already pooled by his feet, calmly resting like they did when no threat lingered around. 

“You’re in Prythian.” Cassian started, hands projecting away from his body in an attempt to appear friendly, voice loud and calm, she had to trust them. His eyes were slightly wide with panic, the monster she called a pet making his bone chill.

“We’re not in Erilea?” The female spoke in clear shock, her eyes squinted as she analysed her surroundings. The city in the back, a bit far away from where she stood now. They wouldn’t be able to call for help quick enough if she and Meraxes decided to attack. The wyvern’s head went forward in motion with her clutching her sword harder and sliding a foot forward, to give her stability to jump on them.

Azriel could almost hear the engines turning around in her head. She had maybe thought this was Wendlyn or some of the other fae territories she hadn't visited yet. And then his ears caught the lack of whispers, not a single word left his shadows, and he dared looking down. They rested peacefully, some strands looking like they were running after others, in a playful game of hide and seek. 

He didn’t know what this could possibly mean. He tried to command them to go after her, some of them darted towards the female, spinning around her calves. She looked down, confusing lacing both of their features. She bared her teeth, sword going down with a low whistle, cutting the shadows connecting them both.

“Keep them away from me.” She barked, and the dragon growled in unison. Now Cassian was 100 percent sure that the monster would do anything to protect its rider, which really complicated things a bit more. 

“We don’t know what this place is, but you’re in the Night Court, in Prythian.” Cassian elaborated, bringing back the attention to him, her eyes scanned his face for any signs that could indicate that he was lying but found none. Rhysand scrapped their mental shields, telling them that Morrigan was going there. 

Y/N watched as a female appeared from the shadows, right in between the two males, eyes of a dark brown and a long blonde hair tied up in a ponytail. Mor watched the scene, looking at the female and her companion, eyes sparkling with admiration at the huge thing. 

“Who are you?” She inquired, blue eyes glued to Morrigan’s. Her body was so tense, feeling so rigid, like a band ready to snap. Her eyes glued to the trio in front of her, she wanted to look up, to where that gap had been, spitting her into this unknown land. She clutched her free hand in a fist as a thought took over her head. 

How the hell would she go back home? 

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, forcing the wild waves of emotions that threatened to flood her chest and drown her to calm the fuck down. Never show others that you’re weak, never let them see your emotions, you were born for war, born to be a weapon, act like one. That disgusting voice of the Martron filled her mind and she took a deep breath.

“I’m Morrigan, and I'm here to help.” The two flanked the female and she thought that maybe she was their queen. Steadying her breath, focusing on keeping her wobbly knees from giving out, she spoke. 

“Finally.” She groaned, hand still gripping the sword, but she clicked her jaw, her iron teeth going back inside her gum. “I’m assuming you’re their queen, exactly who I would like to speak to.” She started, but the male covered in red stones laughed, his laughter sounding like thunder. She looked at him with her eyebrows rising to her hairline. 

“Please, never say something like that again or else she will become an even bigger asshole.” Even the quiet male with the shadows smiled at that, a beautiful smile, that once again felt so familiar that her heart ached. Morrigan rolled her eyes.

“They wish I was their queen, but do you wish to speak with our leader?” Y/N nodded. “We can take you to him.” She offered. 

“How do i know that the second i let my guard down your two bats won’t kill me and my wyvern?” Azriel watched the beast, finally putting a name to it. His gaze turned back to her, she had a very fair point.

“Because my power is the truth.” The female replied and before she could ask what the fuck that even meant, she continued. “I cannot lie, if I tried I would be in immense pain right now, and I know when others are lying.” She concluded. 

Just like a human King once could, she had heard about the power of the truth, Dorian possessed it even if he thought it was related to his sword. Asterin told her about it, she could almost hear her voice as they reunited around a fire, when she deserted from the Ferian Gap and ran away with the Thirteen to find the Crochans. 

And if she closed her eyes, she could see Asterin smiling at her, telling her to open her heart more, and that she should follow the female. She took another deep breath to steady her heart, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, with a shuddering voice, she spoke.

“Lead the way.”

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

Meraxes’ wings carried her over the city, towards a mountain. She looked down, buildings adorned the streets, people stopped in their tracks, watching with curiosity the winged shadow that crossed just above their heads. A river glistened in the sun, following in the middle of the city until it disappeared between the mountains. Shops everywhere, people buying things, kids laughing and running. She thought of her home, and how hard they were working so they could have something like this to call their own. 

She dreamed of leaving the palace, having a small cabin for her, a garden with a large tree so she could rest by the end of the day, sitting in its shadows and reading her books. A tiny library to store them and a kitchen to perfect her baking skills, she wanted to learn about so much, and have a place to belong. 

She also wanted to learn about gardening, harvesting her own vegetables and fruits to bake fresh goodies, but mostly because she wanted a big flower field, with so many flowers that Meraxes would never get tired of getting to know every single one.

She shook her head, letting those thoughts be carried away with the winds that whipped her hair against her cold face. And as she looked forward again she spotted a residence carved into the mountain, the two winged males flew in front of her, guiding the way. She knew this was probably not the smartest idea, but if she wanted answers, who’s better than the owner of the place?

The males landed on a balcony, and Meraxes did the same, its claws digging into the stone of the mountain, waiting for her to get off the saddle and slide down his leg. Its huge head turned towards something in the distance and she groaned in annoyance.

The males watched her, and they had to hold back a smile as she adjusted her clothes, getting ready to walk forward, just to be brutally shoved by the wyvern’s nose, she almost fell. She turned to him with a death glare, in a staring match like they were having a conversation. 

“Fine!” She gave in. “If they kill me, at least have the decency to take some of your precious flowers to my fucking grave.” The wyvern roared and the whole mountain shook when it flew away. 

“Where is he going?” Azriel asked, eyeing the beautiful creature, its powerful muscles contracting as the wings moved in the sky. Cassian on the other hand was looking at it with worry. Would they really let that dangerous animal fly around as it pleased? 

“There’s no need to worry.” She stopped in front of him. “Meraxes is rather fond of flowers, the only thing he’ll destroy are the poor fields.” She pointed to where he flew in the distance, completely ignoring the city and aiming for the open fields away from the houses. The male with the red stones seemed to relax a bit hearing it. 

“Welcome to the House of Wind then.” Cassian gestured to the open door and she entered, the two following her close. She looked around, dark stone walls, fancy furniture adorning the space that looked like a living room. Hallways leading to hidden rooms and a big fireplace was lit. She noticed that in that room the only door was blocked by the two males, but there were plenty of windows she could jump out if things went south. 

Power lingered around the room, darkness sweeping in the corners of her mind. From the corner of a room a male appeared, he had violet eyes and dark hair, pointy ears peeking from his hair and a very tired expression. He looked just like her. 

Y/N hissed, her claws and teeth ready to attack, she backed away, her back hitting the hard chest of the Shadowsinger. The feeling of her tensed back pressed against his front, and the fact that she didn’t even realise what she had bumped into sent a wave of electricity zipping through his body. Her smell hit his nose, he had never smelled something like her before, but it somehow felt so familiar that he almost lost himself in it. She smelled like a rainy day with a tint of red wine, completely addicting. 

She felt the wall behind her back, not daring to take her eyes away from him, feeling her chest move with rapid breaths, she was trapped there with that demon. By the amount of power she could feel, and the slight scrape in her mental shields, she knew what he was before he even opened his mouth.

“Let me out, Valg scum.” She spat, anger lacing her tone. She didn’t have fire magic, but removing his head would be efficient too, even if she had to use her teeth to rip through the skin. The male looked at her confused. 

“This is our High Lord, Rhysand.” Azriel spoke from behind her, she turned her head to see him standing there, golden eyes fixed on hers, his figure towering hers, and as much as the idea of killing him made her feel weird and made her chest heavy, she would have to start with him if she wanted to kill the valg standing in front of her. 

“I don’t care about his name, I know what you are.” Not again, the horrors the Valg had done to her people, she had seen the witches being used to breed their babies. She stepped forward, to create some room between her and the male behind her. But now she was trapped with the three circling her, she cursed under her breath. 

“I won’t harm you.” Rhysand approached, she was clearly distressed, he could smell her nervousness, the anger boiling in her veins. Her eyebrows were furrowed, a defensive stance. She reached for her sword, prompting Azriel to reach for his dagger and Cassian for his sword too. “I don’t know what a Valg is, but I can assure you, I'm half fae and half illyrian.”

“Funny, Maeve also claimed she was a fae, but she was a fucking Valg Queen. Do not get closer to me if you don’t want to get impaled by my sword.” Nothing she said made sense.

“I’m not Valg or anything.” He started, hands lowering in the air to tell the illyrians to lower their weapons, this would only make her more nervous. 

“Prove it.” She challenged him.

“How?” He inquired, rubbing his temple in a tired motion, he had dealt with so much today, all he wanted to do was to be by his mate and son’s side. 

“Just a small cut, Valgs bleed black, like the putrid beings they are.” The two males behind her shared a look, he wouldn’t do it, would him? 

“Then do it, to prove that I'm speaking the truth.” He extended his arm to her, Y/N grabbed his wrist harshly with one hand, with the other, she dragged her iron claws along his skin, he winced, but red blood started to leak from the cut. “See? Not black.”

She immediately relaxed, letting him go. It didn’t make any sense, he looked so much like her, their powers almost the same. Her shoulders slumped and she let out a shaken breath, those emotions threatening to spill once more. She sheathed her sword back into place and closed her hands in fists to ground her, iron claws digging through the flesh, the pain helped her to stay in reality and keep her emotions controlled. 

Azriel smelled the faint metallic scent of blood, his eyes immediately drawn to her clenched fists, a tiny trail of blue blood slided down her hands and he had to hold himself from grabbing her hands and make her stop, the feeling in his chest of seeing her in such distressed state was strange, he couldn’t tell what he was feeling and this made him confused, he hated not knowing what to feel or say. 

“Please, have a seat, we have a lot to talk about.” Rhys gestured towards the comfortable couch in front of her and she sat, before her knees failed and she fell to the ground.

“I suppose we do.” It was only then that he noticed that despite speaking their language, she had a thick accent to it, one he had never heard before but  he liked it very much, and the Shadowsinger found himself wanting to hear more of it. 

“Let’s begin with simple questions. I’m Rhysand, these are Cassian..” He gestured to the male with red stones and longer hair, he nodded his head towards her. “And this is Azriel.” Azriel, she repeated inaudibly, wanting to test the words in her mouth, the name lighting something within her. 

“I’m Y/N. Y/N Blackbeak.” She introduced herself. “And that was Meraxes, my wyvern.” If she wanted them to help her, she would have to give them information, those kinds of things only worked with trust as Sorrel once told her. The male nodded.

“Where are you from?” She clearly wasn’t from Prythian or any land they knew, and Rhysand had a vague memory crossing his mind, the shooting star, the different smell and his power hitting it, slowing it down. 

“The Witch Kingdom in Erilea. I’m an Ironteeth witch.” It all made sense then, the claws and the teeth she had. Interesting. 

“We have never heard of such a place, how did you get here?” Rhysand asked, saying he was confused was a nice way to put it, he was completely lost. 

“I was having a beer with Fenrys..” She stopped, in a swift motion she was standing, like she could go back to him, she knew he would be looking for her soon, he had lost so much, she didn’t want to add more to his suffering. “Oh Mother, poor Fenrys.” She spoke to herself, slumping back in her seat.

 Azriel watched the scene, the male’s name making him puff his chest and take a deep breath. Cassian looked over at his brother and if he didn’t know any better, he could swear that Azriel was jealous. 

“They said I was being called to deal with the gap, so I flew there with my alliance. I got there and this slit was there, it felt like it was calling me, sunlight peeked through it. I got too close and when I opened my eyes again I was in that field and the gap was gone.” Rhysand didn’t know what this meant, a gap that made you travel to another world?

“So you didn’t come here because you wanted to?” She scoffed.

“Well, i was dealing with a lot of shit, but i don’t think  jumping to another fucking world would solve any of them, so no, i didn’t came here because i wanted.” Sarcasm laced her tone and she crossed her arms over her full chest. “I just want to go home, they need me there.” She said, and she wasn’t sure if it was to convince them or herself, she shoved the thought in the darkest corner of her mind, not wanting to think about it right now. 

“I’m sorry this happened to you, we have no idea how to send you back, but you can stay here while we figure it out.” Rhys offered and she nodded, she didn’t have anywhere else to go anyway. 

“Thank you for your kindness.” She felt her head throb and the scar itchy, she looked around and caught Azriel staring at her, his eyes glued to the scar on her face, she cringed in her seat, trying to resist the urge to hide whenever someone stared for too long. 

“You’re welcome.” He turned to the males. “Az, can you show her a room?” His tired eyes made Azriel accept. He started to walk and he heard her getting up to follow him when Cassian cleared his throat.

“HEY.” They all turned back to him. “Aren’t we discussing the most important matter?” Azriel watched as she tilted her head to the side, in a really cute way.

“What matters, Cassian?” Rhys sounded tired, he just wanted to go home.

“What does that thing eat?” Y/N looked at him, what if they didn’t have sheep for him? His favourite food. 

“Firstly, he’s not a thing, do not talk about Meraxes that way.” She warned, those strangers wouldn’t treat her baby that way. “Secondly, he loves sheep, as long as you guys have it, he will be fine.” Cassian cracked a smile.

“I wasn’t expecting sheep to be his favourite meal, I was guessing on innocent screaming people.” She rolled her eyes trying hard not to smile. 

“Nah, they make him throw up.” And with that, leaving an astonished Cassian behind, she followed the Shadowsinger. 

They walked in silence, she felt her chest heavy and all the events of the day weighing on her, she had her control slipping through her fingers, and when Azriel opened a door to a bedroom, she ran inside, knuckles turning white as she held the wooden door.

“If you need anything, my room is on the other side of the hallway, " he pointed to the door in front of her.

“Thank you, Azriel.” His name on her tongue sounded divine. She closed the door with a loud thud, leaving him standing on the other side, his shadows wanting to reach out for her from under the door, but he held them close to him.

She felt the room spinning, her breath getting stuck in her dry throat, and when everything finally sunk in, the dam broke.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

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@willowpains

[varpusvaras]

Fox and the Guard first learn about sugar once they start to do rounds in the Senate. They have these nifty little caf machines in the halls there, with these little cubes you're supposed to mix in to your liking. Thorn steals few of them once and puts one in Fox's morning caf. Sugar becomes the most trafficked substance in the Guard.

Some time later, after one really, really long day, that had included dredging in the lower levels, running up and down more stairs that was humanely possible, and being hosed down in cold water multiple times (why was all the water always cold on Coruscant?), Commander Fox goes to report to Senator Organa. He's one of the nice Senators (the nice Senator, if you ask Fox), and the man gives him one look and makes Fox sit down, and hands him a cup of something warm.

"I'm not really a chef", Senator Organa says, "and my office doesn't really have cooking equipment, so this is all I have at hand, but you really look like you need some warm food inside you, Commander."

It's against at least seven different protocols and regulations to accept anything from the Senators, let alone food, but Fox is tired and cold and the last time he has had something warm to eat that wasn't caf was...honestly he's not sure anymore.

The liquid in the cup looks to be some sort of soup, and Fox takes a sip from it. He stops and stares at it.

Senator Organa tilts his head.

"Is everything alright, Commander?" He asks.

"Yes, Sir", Fox answers quickly. "I just wasn't expecting the taste."

Senator Organa looks a bit puzzled, even if he is doing his best to to hide it.

"Well, it is rather easy to make, if you like it", he says then. "The ingredients are really basic, so I could bring some down to the Guard. It's just some roots and salt-"

"Salt?" Fox interrupts before his own thoughts have even finished. "Like, from the ocean?"

Senator Organa looks both really puzzled, and kind of like he wants to laugh. What Fox wants to do, is to die immediately.

"Well, some places do get their salt from the ocean", Senator Organa says, and then pauses. "...am I correct in my assumption that salt isn't widely in use on Kamino? Senator Burtoni complains every time her food has even touched it."

"It appears so", Fox says, trying not to sound like his next step is jumping out from the office's window.

"I see", Senator Organa nods. He then looks at the cup in Fox's hands and smiles. "Do you want some more, Commander?"

Fox also looks at the cup in his hands. It's empty. Fox doesn't remember finishing it.

Senator Organa already has more soup out, and Fox feels like it would be more impolite to say no.

"Yes, Sir", he says.

He finishes three more cups before he has to go, and Senator Organa looks vaguely like he has been robbed of a great joy in life as he cannot continue feeding Fox more soup. Fox also vaguely feels like he's been robbed.

(The rest of the Guard also seems to feel like that, judging from the looks on their faces when salt appears in their base's mess one morning, and their food starts to...have a taste.)

("Do you think it's too soon, if I introduce spices to them?" Bail asks the hologram of his wife on his desk.

"Start slow", Breha answers. "And no chilis without warnings.")

[what-did-you-just-say]

Hello, can I get Shaxx, Cayde, Drifter, and maybe Crow with a reader who is really shy, and timid but if there tired or angry they just couldn't care less, they'll just pop people's heads off practically.

HELLOOOO! Hi, sorry I didn't react sooner but I saw your request and kinda forgot about writing it! I'm so sorry!

So here it is!! Well, I tried to be as close to the characters as possible without them being OOC. I hope you like it!

(I know they're a little short, I tried my best)

Lord Shaxx

- he'd be...surprised, honestly. Shaxx is the kind of man who encourages your might in the Crucible but he came to terms with your shy and timid nature.

- he finds it cute if we're being honest here, it just goes to show how well your characters go together.

‐ Shaxx is loud and not at all embarrassed by his words while you're a little off to the side and rather not interact with many people you don't know that well.

- So to see you in the Arena, feeling a little off with that tinge of tiredness, not wanting to actually do much except get the match over with, worried him a little.

- Well, that was until you got angry at some hunter taunting you across the map. He's been an irritating thorn in your side this whole time with his arrogant cockiness and that stupid shit eating grin you swore you saw through his helmet.

- Now, Shaxx being the man he is and encouraging your might in his matches, practically thrives off your newfound determination to bring the enemy team down.

‐ He gushes about it aswell, flexing that his S/O was crushing the enemy team and brought the win for their own.

- but he comforts you afterwards, truly. He'll be all over you with affection that same night and tell you how well you did and coo in your ear about your achievements and your victory over that damn hunter.

Cayde-6

- oh jeez...well, okay, Cayde isn't that bad but he'd also be a big encourager on his part.

- he loves the fact he can coddle you and tease you for your shyness and timid nature, finding it incredibly endearing when you blush and try to hide from him.

- he's your voice in moments it really counts in, speaking for you when something bothers you or whatnot.

- but when he (surprisingly enough) managed to get out of the tower and "aid" you on patrol on Mars, he really didn't expect you to start popping Cabal heads with little to no care!

- all because they scratched your armour too! You've been feeling tired already, not wanting to go on patrol in the first place but being tasked by Commander Zavala himself to simply take a look around the perimeter.

- now your new armour has been scratched, you were already tired and these Cabal weren't letting up either!

- Cayde just simply stood off to the side and gawked at you like you were a completely different person!

- his sweet and cute S/O, as shy and timid as they are most of the time, is casually killing Cabal with headshots left and right like they were nothing!

- (he was a little turned on, let's be fair)

- to say everybody in the Tower knew of your little outburst would be an understatement, that loveable Exo of yours could not keep his damn mouth shut.

Drifter

- he might be the damn reason you're so nagged in the first place, honestly.

- so we all know Drifter and how he is, always that bravado he puts on for a rogue lightbearer. He's got an image to uphold.

- so this man would also be an absolute tease, cracking jokes and cooing right in your ear on a private comms channel just to see you get flustered and all.

- but he knows when to stop aswell, don't get me wrong.

- that instance would be when you both were on a mission on Europa. He had perched himself onto a vantage point where he could observe and cover your back if needed.

- you two were just casually chatting around, talking about the most mundane things while you were walking the perimeter.

‐ until...you suddenly got ambushed. You were already tired and these Fallen constantly crawling out of their hiding spots and caves and whatnot just irritated you further. It was supposed to be a simple Intel mission.

- so Drifter, being the good boyfriend he is, covered your back and shot Eliksni after Eliksni while making sure you weren't too overwhelmed.

- yet he did feel baffled when you just popped their head like nothing, like they were flies.

- for him it felt like you and that person sporting your armour were two different people.

- don't get him wrong, he liked you this way. Unbothered and uncaring but it was a stark contrast to your usually sweet personality.

- he did tease you after everything had calmed down and you two managed to meet up but he did make sure to at least try and get you to calm down.

Crow

- oh my god– are you trying to give this man a heart attack?

- not only was he worried because you were already feeling tired, which made you so easily agitated, but you also had to go on a patrol WITHOUT him nearby.

- he knows of your act of....not being bothered with anything at all but he was still worried, he knows you can take care of yourself

- Crow loves your shy behaviour, it complimented his own well. Your timidness making his heart soften.

- he was...shocked? To say the least the first time he caught you in that state of "You breathe at all? Bullet to the head." and it did worry him a little.

- (even a little turned on, dare I say? He's a sucker okay for badass partners imo)

- he tries his best to calm you down if you reach that state of anger or try and convince Zavala to send someone else when you're feeling tired but got handed another mission.

- Crow just wants to care for you</3

(Hope you enjoyed reading it and send in requests if you want something specific! Have a great day/night!)

(Love, creator hihi)

[warsamongthestars]

Since we could always use more Clone stuffs, how bout I go through some clone names and we can all find (or have a nice review) of who got what name and what it means.

COMMANDER CODY The first named clone trooper, and the first unique clone onscreen as of Revenge of the Sith. So its only fitting we start with him. The name "Cody" originated as O'Cuidightheach, a gaelic name, and effectively, it means "Helpful" or "Helpful Person" Cody, out of universe, got his name based on old movies of Commando Cody--of which, Lucas was a fan of. In the extended Star Wars universe, Cody is a Republicized variant of the Mando'a word "Kote", which means Glory.

CAPTAIN REX Rex's name means "King" in latin. It can also refer to the Dinosaur, the Tyrannosaurus Rex. And it is also a common name for pet Dogs. Take that as you will.

LIEUTENANT JESSE Another shockingly ordinary name, and a Hebrew derived name. Coming from Ancient Greek of "Iessei", and then from Hebrew itself "Yishai". It means "Gift of God" or "God Exists" But more than likely, given that such historic-terminology does not exist in Star Wars. LT Jesse's name is more likely derived from the idiom "Give someone a Jesse"... Which means to give them a scolding or a beating.

KIX I've discussed Kix before, but I might as well do it again for posterity. Kix, is derived from Kex, the archaic english term for the plant "Hemlock". TBB fans, go wild.

HARDCASE You might assume this means that this someone who is hard-nosed and a hard nut to crack, but that isn't the case for our Hardcase. Hardcase is derived from New Zealand Slang, as An "amusing, funny, witty, or possibly strange person."

DENAL There is no specific case that I can make for Rex's early command squadmate, save that Denal is probably meant to be Denial.

BOIL While we can make jokes about the skin abrasion, it probably refers to his temper. A Boiling point, as it were.

WAXER It could be referring to someone who waxes... But, it could also refer to the term "Waxing", as it the growth of something. Given his "Glass half full" personality, perhaps its "Glass half waxing".

COMMANDER BLY The Commander of Aayla Secura's legion, and whom fired upon her during Revenge of the Sith. The term bly, a dialetcic english term, means "Likeness" or "resemblance". Means Bly literally got his name for resembling another person (Wow, no Shit). Whoever named him, basically called him the clone variant of Manny, beacuse He Man.

COMMANDER GREE Introduced in Revenge fo the Sith, as being decapitated by Yoda. While in the extended universe, he's named after animals... The term "Gree", English Obsolete, refers to either "One of a flight of steps" or "one of a stage of ranks". Dude literally got the name "Rank".

COMMANDER BACARA Introduced in Revenge of the Sith, for firing upon Kit-Mun-Di. Bacara is Romanian for Baccara, which in turn refers to Baccarat, a card game. Absolutely nobody knows where the word came from originally.

COMMANDER PONDS Retroactively intorduced in Attack of the Clones, as the Clone Commander who greets General Windu. It... It just means Pond, but pural. It probably refers to the fact that Kamino is an Ocean, and the earth's oceans are sometimes refered to as ponds in slang.

COMMANDER NEYO Revenge of the Sith. It probably is meant to mean "Neo", which means New or Young, in Ancient Greek.

COMMANDER APPO Revenge of the Sith; Marched on the Temple. Does not, in fact, outrank Rex despite himself. Appo is an obsolete english Prepostion, referring to an object as "Before", "After", "Behind" or "nearby". It derives from Latin, "Apud", which means "in the presence of" or "among" (AMOGUS?)

COMMANDER THORN Named after Thor, from Marvel. There's even an old english letter called Thorn.

COMMANDO GREGOR The name Gregor, means "Watchful" or "alert". Which, given his character, is quite ironic.

CAPTAIN HOWZER I am unable to find that name specifically, but I theorize its based off of "Howitzer", which is a firearm cannon There is a lot more clones, and I can't make a post of every one of them. But lemme know if you want me to find anyone else.

[blaisenova]

a little drabble i shat out teehee. super experimental, super angsty, super shorter than usual. i wouldn't have it any other way.

as always, ao3 link is in the reblogs.

no warnings for this one other than the usual messed up relationship bs i don't think, but let me know if i missed anything and i'll tack it on

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A heaving breath disturbs the dust that has gathered on the bright red scarf that hangs on a bent nail sticking out of the wall. Once, perhaps, it would have reminded you of someone else, but all you can see now is a warped version of yourself that clung to both it and all of the memories that it held despite how much it hurt him. 

And, that was the problem, wasn’t it? 

That he was too much like you, only broken in different ways. Like looking in a mirror that had been shattered, seeing a distorted reflection that might have been you if the light had shone at another angle, or if the ones that had broken you both had done so more similarly; if there weren’t parts that had been removed; replaced; rearranged. You were imperfect echoes of one another, simultaneously too alike and too different; warped by the way your sound bounced off of the walls.

In the end, it hadn’t really mattered that you both wanted the same thing; to be seen, and to be loved despite how ugly the view was.

You had always known that you weren’t something worth seeing – weren’t convinced that you could be seen – and he’d been convinced that not seeing every part of him all at once, all the time, meant that you didn’t see him at all. 

You’d feared him just as much as you’d adored him; he’d hated you almost as much as he’d loved you.

And, that was the problem, wasn’t it?

You both had held on to things that would only ever hurt you, and neither of you had known how to let it go until you were already so thoroughly intertwined with one another that you had to rip and tear at the thorns that bound you so that you just might have a chance at escaping. You’d thought, at some point, the bleeding might stop – now that his binds weren’t tearing open your body just to be certain that you’d still bleed at his command – but, even though your soul is no longer connected to his, the thorns remain, and you are an open wound; a bleeding heart; a walking haemorrhage.

Nightmare wouldn’t like that you were staining his carpets so.

You weren’t sure you could bring yourself to care.

Gently, you rub his scarf between your fingers. It’s thin and threadbare, and some part of you finds kinship in that fact. The feeling is rough – unpleasant – but familiar.

Does familiarity have to be a good thing?

“I miss you,” you confess to no one, because something about the admission makes you feel filthy. Thick tar falls from your sockets and stains your cheeks, and terror lances through you as you realise that maybe you never will be anything more than this ever again. 

Your breathing comes quick, and you hold your breath so as to not disturb his dusty remains any further than you already have; and, you wonder why you treat him with a reverence that he would never return.

You wonder if he could ever understand just how terrified he made you – of being nothing more than this; wonder why it matters so much to you that he understands; know he can’t possibly, when he is the one making you so afraid.

What were you, before? What are you, now?

Pieces and parts of yourself: removed, replaced, and rearranged. 

You think of a story you read, once, long ago. The books you managed to get your hands on before were worse for wear – yellowing pages that were putrid and warped from the journey they’d taken when they were discarded and forgotten; nothing like the pristine, well taken care of books that you had access to now, though something about that made them mean less – but you absorbed what they had to offer you with an appreciation you were sure they’d never been granted before. They spoke of gods, and humans, and monsters, and they wondered in ways you’d never wondered before; ways you wonder now.

You think of the story of the Ship of Theseus.

Pieces and parts: removed, replaced, rearranged.

Is it the same ship? Are you the same you? Now that you’ve been rebuilt – removed, replaced, and rearranged – are you still the person you once were? Can you be rebuilt again? Or, are you stuck like this, now that the one that was constructing you is no longer around to restore your weathered parts? Are you trapped, half-finished and without a purpose? A boat built with perforated wood? 

Water rushes in the gaps, and, through the same rifts, your blood pours out. Because, despite being free of his ties – the thorns are gone; you ripped them out; you tore out their roots, so they can’t possibly grow back, right? – you still tear yourself open just to be certain that you can still bleed, should he command it.

He’s not around to command you anymore.

Somehow, you feel you still need to be prepared for it.

“I miss you,” you confess to yourself, and something about the admission makes you feel vile. Thick tar falls from your sockets and drowns you, and you’re horrified because, even now, you’re still exactly how he reconstructed you – removed, replaced, rearranged. You fear you’ll never be anything more than this.

Can you be anything more than this?

You weren’t rebuilt to be a person. You weren’t remade to have desires or needs. You’re not sure he knew how you were meant to function, when his hands were deep within your very mind; your very soul. You’re not sure he knew how thoroughly he was stripping you of the programming that kept you alive. You’re not sure it matters whether he knew, when the result is the same.

His hands left you, coated in oil, or tar, or blood – whatever it was that flowed through you – and he’d wiped sweat from his brow – smeared you across his forehead – after a job well done.

Pieces and parts of you: removed, replaced, rearranged.

Refashioned to please a person that can no longer reap the rewards.

The fabric between your fingers grates on your bone and wears you away. The feeling is rough – unpleasant – but familiar.

You wonder if familiarity is ever a good thing.

“Killer,” a voice calls, and you numbly raise your head to meet a bright cyan eye with your own two empty ones. His sockets are half-lidded, and his expression is tight. When he speaks, his tone is harsh. “You serve no purpose, serving someone that no longer exists. Come back to me. Let him go.”

Again, your gaze falls back down to the red on your hands, and you wither at the sight. You feel light and heavy, all at the same time. “How?”

He sighs, and the sound makes you flinch; apologies taste bitter as you swallow them back down like bile. In a way that is certainly contrary, he kneels before you – pulls your chin up with his hand in a way you know is uncharacteristically gentle – and smiles; wider, when you smile back. His hand outstretches towards you, open and empty. “Let me help you.”

You stare at the offer, gripping your grief in closed fists, and, carefully, you allow your fingers to fall open. Uncertainty shakes you as you reach for his hand, and you’re careful not to make contact when you deposit your soul – heart-shaped; unstable; ugly – within his grasp. Your fingers dart away from the construct before you can change your mind.

“Good,” Nightmare praises, but you wince as he draws your soul up and away, right before his face. His eye watches its shifting form in fascination, and, this time, his smile almost feels real. He looks back at you, and you already feel the oncoming sting. “Don’t worry, love. We’ll fix you.”

“I miss him,” you confess, and the admission makes you mortified. Thick tar falls from your sockets, and you can’t breathe.

“I know,” he says, “but you won’t.”

He brings your soul to his teeth, and a choked sound of agony catches in your throat as he bites down and consumes you. For a moment, panic locks you in place – punctuated by the way your breath stutters with each excruciating soulbeat – but the feeling disappears as quickly as the rest, and you’re left with nothing but the pain that serves as the cost of numbness.

As you barrel towards apathy, laughter pouring from your chest – you’re not sure why you’re laughing. It’s not funny – you think that you can never be more than this.

Pieces and parts of yourself: removed, replaced, rearranged, always in someone else’s name.

[1-800-crscnt]

overall, i hc the Commanders to be unhappy and guilty over Thire's promotion to Commander. more under cut because this got longer than expected.

Fox feels the guiltiest because he feels as though this is a death sentence he could have prevented if he protected Thire more, and because he already felt bad over Thire possibly becoming like him, and in turn tries to help him get demoted. He also ends up teaching Thire the exact things he hates himself for doing, but tries to keep him to investigative work with instead.

Stone feels guilty and scared for the same reasons, but also because he thinks it's directly his fault for even teaching Thire a lot of the stuff that everyone praised him for. He's set up several emotional barriers though and keeps using a few coping mechanisms to get through all that and help Thire with his new duties, but unfortunately this means their relationship is worsening from the admittedly healthy and great one they had in the beginning.

Thorn is angry with himself, Fox, Stone, and Thire because he sees this as their collective fault, and makes this known to them. He also sees this as a death sentence like Fox, but becomes very overprotective and borderline rude when it comes to Thire and takes over most of his training. Thire was already pretty wary of Thorn before, but this makes him resentful despite the gratitude he feels when he learns something useful. Thorn's mental state is a wreck and he secretly cries over the thought of Thire having to do the things he does.

i know this all sounds pretty negative, but most of these feelings are well-hidden and don't actually ruin their relationships entirely, just make them way more complicated as time goes on. they all still love each other (in varying amounts), get along, & work together perfectly. most of the time. weeeeeeellll...

[clonemando]

@blackat-t7t Here is your Fox/Thorn H/C with a cuddle pile at the end. Enjoy.

There was a ringing snap as the old rusted barrier along the walkway gave out under the weight of a fully armored trooper crashing into it and Thorn watched as Fox’s gaze met his own wide with fear before he was falling backward over the edge. Thorn dove for him with a scream but his fingers barely brushed over Fox’s chestplate before his partner was gone swallowed up by the dark depths of Coruscant’s seemingly endless levels the same way many cadets ended up swallowed by Kamino’s waves.

For a moment he just stared feeling a void echoing the one he was staring at being torn open in his chest. Then Rex’s voice broke him from his daze.

“I didn’t mean- I didn’t- Thorn I- Fox-” He struggled to get anything out, horror replacing the rage that had been on his expression just minutes earlier as he corned them on their patrol to yell at Fox for avoiding him.

“You didn’t mean to kill him? Like he meant to kill Fives you mean? Well, you did. Guess you’re the brother killer now, Rex. Congratulations on your revenge.” Thorn said, voice level and empty as he watched Rex flinch and step back.

“What- What do we do now? Do we call-” Rex started eyes flickering around as if looking for some sort of help.

“Call who Rex? The Guard? I am the Guard and there’s nothing I can do now. He’s gone. He’s not a person, there won’t be an investigation. He’s not the first we lost over an edge and he won’t be the last and there’s never anything to do. You just… finish your patrol. Report the lost republic property to the Chancellor and put a few troopers on double shifts until we can get a replacement from Kamino.” He said starting to walk again. He had to finish his patrol. He was already late now and Fox would be upset if Thorn got himself punished for being late.

“You can’t just… just keep working! Shouldn’t you call Thire or something? There’s bereavement leave. The Kaminoans even approved it to keep their products at their most effective. The Jedi-” Rex started as he followed Thorn and finally he snapped.

“If you have forgotten, the Guard doesn’t have a Jedi. We had Fox. That’s it! We had Fox and he could only get us so much because he’s not considered a person either! Now we don’t even have him and we will all need to take triple shifts to cover all the stuff he has been shouldering on our behalf! I don’t have anyone available to cover this patrol. That’s why Fox and I were doing it. We just lost three shinies to senators and a full team was wiped out in a gang raid the week before. We don’t get things like leave or whatever the kriff bereavement is. The Guard belongs to the Senate, the Jedi abandoned us, just like you GAR bucketheads. So kriff off and go cry to your jedi for your extra days off and let me take care of my family. You’ve done enough Rex.” He spat darkly before turning on his heel and continuing his patrol. Rex didn’t follow him this time.

He raised his wrist to access his coms after another ten minutes.

“This is Commander Thorn reporting a 9-12 slash D. Commander Fox was lost to faulty railing in Sector 12-A. We will discuss promotions and schedule changes at the dawn shift change. As his second the Marshal position falls to me now. Carry on with your duties.” He murmured numbly before letting his arm fall and continuing to move on autopilot almost hoping the Separatists would chose to attack now so he’d have an excuse to shoot something. But the rest of the patrol was quiet.

~

Fox was exhausted. He had spent the last two days slogging through filth and fighting off the weird pollution corrupted creatures that prowled the lowest levels just to make his way to the closest working lift. Then he had to sit on the floor listening to the worst possible sort of music as he slowly ascended out of the dark toward his family and home. His arm was definitely broken and Shark was going to shoot him up with every hypo they had with complaints about the bite wounds he had getting infected but Fox was pretty sure he had gotten off easy.

He couldn’t explain how he was alive. The concussion made it hard to think straight but even with that he knew he had to have fallen at least 100 levels if not more. But at the last minute something had caught him and slowed his fall enough the injuries were survivable. He didn’t really take stock in the Jedi’s fancy force shit but maybe there was something out there looking out for him.

Once he was above the com-cut line where they lost signal to their coms he immediately reached out. “This is Commander Fox. I am injured and will need a medic and pick up from the lift in Sector 12-D, could someone also bring me some caff? I’m kriffing tired.” He grumbled into the line and smiled when it immediately started blowing up, resting his head against the side of the lift and letting his family’s furies and delighted voices wash over him like a warm blanket.

“Cut the chatter! Fox, Shark and I will be waiting for you once you reach the top. I… It’s good to hear from you but you have a lot of explaining on how you’re alive.” Thorn’s voice finally cut in and Fox’s smile grew.

“You’re going to be waiting until the Senate turns for that answer my rose, I have no kriffing clue. Woke up at the bottom with a concussion, broken arm and some jostled ribs but I was able to drag myself up and start walking to the lift not too long after the fall.” He sighed not even realizing he had used his pet name for Thorn until the line filled with cooing from the rest of the guard.

Fox passed out not long after that and only woke up again when Thorn was lifting him out of the elevator and onto a hover-cot and Shark started cursing him out. He squeezed Thorn’s hand then passed out again.

He flickered in and out of consciousness a few more times before finally waking up feeling better than he had felt in years. Blinking open his arms he was unsurprised to find Thorn plastered to his side and Hound using his stomach as a pillow. Shark must have allowed them to take him to the barracks at some point because he was laid out in the middle of the three mattresses they had shoved together at the beginning of the war so they could all sleep together and he was buried under his Guard.

“I thought… I thought you were gone for good. I thought I lost you.” Thorn’s voice was soft with fear and sleep and Fox ran his fingers through the long blond curls.

“Told you I was too stubborn to die. Can’t get rid of me that easily. I still have to scare the Senate into giving us rights so I can marry you one day.” He said with a small smile and Thorn sighed.

“While you were gone I shot the Chancellor. We’ve been dressing up in his robes and pretending he’s got the cornellian flu until we figure out what else to do but now you’re back it’s your problem. I’m taking a thing Rex told me was called bereavement.” Thorn said and Fox’s eyes opened fully from where he had started drifting off again.

“YOU DID WHAT?! THORN! I was gone two days!” He shrieked.

“He implied you were better off dead and I was in mourning. There’s scientific data proving making people work through grief lowers productivity. It’s not my fault!” Thorn whined and nuzzled his face in Fox’s neck while Fox tried to wiggle free but he couldn’t move from how he was buried under so many siblings.

“I’m going to kill you once I’m free. I’m going to kill all of you!” He growled but they all ignored him in favor of continuing their nap.

[lady-quen]

Verse: The Hound, The Haggard, and the Haunted

Posting an initial version of the lore being cooked between myself, @rostomanologist and @commanderteag ! The context will pretty much be necessary to understand most of the humor oscillating between these chucklefucks :) Chaos plant trio is a thing now.

The Dawnborn Maelmordha and Duskborn Kimarse have known one another since approximately 1320 AE as saplings, at least until Mael's Wyld Hunt and Kima's run-in with the Inquest ensured no further contact. The two wouldn't properly meet again until sometime after 1330 AE, during Commander Maelmordha's Elonian campaigns.

Owing to his death at the hands of Balthazar, Mael, now a lich, struggles with controlling his Diabolist powers, opting to utilize sealing tattoos and enchanted chains to stall the demon essence from consuming his soul. It was after the conflict with the War God that Maelmordha and Kimarse met again, the latter traveling in the area out of curiosity about the Awakened Inquest rampaging in Tyria.

The so-called Thanatologist caught onto the "deal" with the Pact Commander rather quickly and, armed with potential blackmail material, figured it most beneficial for them both to engage in a contract. An undying subject for the death scholar and possible help with his condition for the Commander, especially with Kimarse's Revenant former acquaintance in the picture - Noereen, haunted by the spectre of a legendary White Mantle well-versed in bloodstone magics. A bloodstone collar could be forged to act as a magic buffer, but a sample was required, and, well, with most equipment simply dissolving within the Commander's chest portal and the man himself being unable to perform the procedure, Kimarse thought it best to ward her left hand, plunge it in and hope for the best. She managed to pull out the demon core now replacing the Commander's heart for study, but lost the appendage to extreme frostbite. A tradeoff, just like Tyr lost his hand in the jaws of Fenrir - in order to apply Gleipnir.

Enter Maolmuire, a formidable Mesmer with an unsettling connection to the Dream and the sword Caladbolg.

Maolmuire of the Noon, awakened approximately 1330 AE, is a member of a cycle which suffered malformations following the Pale Mother's injury at the claws of the Shadow of the Dragon. Born with a warped right arm and a pair of wings, he stands out from his fellow sylvari, but what happened to his corporeal form is scarcely his only affliction. His connection to the Dream far too strong to the point of being unable to separate his own memories from those of its denizens, Maol's waking and sleeping moments alike are dominated by the three Knights of the Thorn: the Valiant Riannoc, the Marshal Trahearne, and the Commander, Maelmordha. The three personalities blend within him, and a destiny laid out by the Astral Ward itself sends him on a quest into the desert to find the Commander. With expert mesmeric magic, he is able to infiltrate even the Order of Shadows until he eventually confronts the Commander, now a different beast altogether than the pre-death image which yet remained of him inside the Dream.

In spite of being walking reminders of one another's worst traumas, Maelmordha and Maolmuire work together, with the former's condition and ever-fresh grief for the Pact Marshal making the burden of the lich-slaying Caladbolg infinitely heavy. Following the campaign against Palawa Joko, he attempts to return the sword, only to be met with rejection - for now. Indeed, it isn't long before the Mother receives a mysterious vision and nominates the Fourth Knight, who happens to be none other than Maolmuire himself.

The three keep in contact and work together in the future, out of selfless and selfish reasons alike.

[galaxyshine24-7]

The Silver Bullet🥂

 Chapter 7 White Wine

Tw: Blood, Violence, Child abuse

Thunder cracks overhead as the wind kicks up around them. Riddle’s bangs hide his eyes as a red spot appears on his cheek it with a wave of his specter he sends Ace flying back into rose bushes. 

“Ace!” Deuce and Yuu yell as a gust of wind causes them to fall back. 

“Riddle!” Trey yells his final plea to get everyone to stop. 

“I am, I am absolutely possibility right!” Black tears stream down his face as a pool of ink surrounds him. 

Is this… an overblot? Yuu have only heard about it in stories, seen pictures yes, but never the real thing. The rose bushes around them blackenn as thorns burst out creating large thorny vines. A sharp pain shots through Yuu’s ankle as a vine wraps around their leg. Yuu acts fast taking out the dagger they have concealed on their thigh. The stab at the vines just enough until they can release themselves. Yuu takes a look around to see many other Heartslaybul members getting pinned by the vines dragging them into the foliage of the bushes. 

“None shall dare defy me!” Riddle’s form gets covered in dark ink as his skin and outfit change in front of everyone’s eyes. 

“Riddle stop this now!” Trey holds out his wand. 

“I am the King and all should bow down to me!” Riddle raises his hand as they all watch in horror as a giant creature forms behind him. The creature follows Riddle’s command slamming the ground beneath it and cracking the earth towards the group. 

Trey doesn’t waste any time using his magic to block the attack. 

“I thought you’re unique magic was only for food!?” Ace yells. 

“I can use it to override whatever I want,” Trey explains. 

“What? How can you?” Riddle steps back, but soon grows redder by the second. “Are you saying that this whole time you’ve been hiding your power from me?! You can not be stronger them me Trey, nobody can!” Riddle releases another attack to quick for Trey to counter as it sends them flying back. Yuu expects a heavy fall but is wrapped in the arms of Cater, and so is everyone else. “Thanks for the save Caters.” Cater let’s out a smirk as his clones give him a thumbs up. 

“Quick we need to knock Riddle out before his magic completely runs dry!” Trey yells as any available Heartslaybul members rally to his cry. Ace and Deuce compose themselves once again.  

“Oh, I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” Ace grins. 

“Me too.” Deuce cracks his knuckles. 

Yuu gets into a fighting stance, might as well give it all they got. 

“Ace, Deuce he’s about to attack watch out!” Yuu yells just in time for the two to dodge out of the way. 

“Good call Yuu!” Deuce pants.

“Keep doing that!” Ace launches some wind magic at Riddle managing to stun him. 

Yuu’s eyes dart around searching for any dangers for the others to watch out for. 

“Trey watch from above!” Yuu shouts as rose bushes fall from the sky. 

Trey manages to dodge the attacks as Riddle readies himself for a more powerful strike. This can’t go on for long, Riddle is on a time limit they need to get closer and knock him out. Yuu ventures forward as Cater’s double watches in surprise. 

“We need to get closer!” Yuu yells pushing through the harsh wind that kicks up. 

“Yuu stay back!” Deuce yells. 

Riddle’s eyes turn to Yuu as they advance closer a wicked grin adorens his face. 

“Riddle! You need to calm down! You’ll die if you keep this up!” Yuu pleads. 

“So what?! If all that I’ve suffered meant nothing then what’s the point?” He lets out a laugh black tears streaming down his face. “If I’m not right then what good am I!” He unleashes a large blast of energy causing Yuu to fall to their knees. Hopefully, the others can find an opening with Yuu distracting him. 

“You can't live like that Riddle!” Yuu yells over the thunder and wind. Rain starts to fall as everything gets drenched around them. 

“I have to be! I have to be…” Riddle’s voice dies down as he sways his body going to give out. 

Yuu doesn’t waste a second to catch him as the creature lets out a bellowing roar. 

“Now!” Yuu yells as the boys gather up their magic to cast one final blow. 

Yuu closes their eyes as a white light blinds them and their world goes black. 

“Mama…” 

Yuu’s eyes flutter awake as they look up at a grey sky. The sound of a child crying causes them to turn their head. The child is in a field with everything black, white, and grey. The only color is the child's bright red hair in the center crying into his hands.

“Mama why isn’t it working.” The boy wipes his tears.   

Yuu slowly rises from their spot approaching the child with caution. 

“Hello there.” Yuu gets down on one knee raising their hands to not startle them. “What’s wrong?” 

The child just cries louder making Yuu get closer. 

“It’s going to be okay.” Yuu slowly brings the child into a hug. 

“I don’t know what to do, I did everything Mom said.” The child cries into Yuu’s shoulder.

“I followed all the rules and I studied hard, but the pain isn’t going away!” Small fist bang on Yuu’s chest. “I did everything, and I’m still not right!” Big eyes full of tears look up at Yuu as they can finally see the little ones face. Striking red hair and big eyes all point to this being Riddle. Memories of the battle flash through Yuu’s mind. Is this Riddles mind? Maybe the root of the overblot? Yuu looks back at Riddle taking a deep breath. 

“You must have went through so much trying to follow every rule.” Yuu brushes a a tear with their thumb. “But it’s clear those rules did more harm then good, you shouldn’t live your life by someone else’s rules.” Yuu explains, as little Riddle goes silent. 

“I’m scared, what if I make a mistake.” He sniffles. 

“Well it’s apart of life, but you can always learn and do better.” Yuu ruffles his hair. 

“Riddle!” The voice of Trey echoes throughout the field.

“Wake up dude.” Cater’s voice comes in next.  

“Who’s that?” Riddle tilts his head.

“Your friends.” Yuu smiles. 

“Mommy didn’t let me have friends.” Riddles looks down at the ground. 

“And how did that make you feel?”

“S-sad, and angry they always played with me and even brought me an amazing strawberry tart. Something I wanted more than anything in the world. I wanted to spend more time with them, but Mommy got mad and I never saw them again.”  Riddle rests on Yuu’s shoulder. Yuu rubs his back bringing him into another hug. 

“You still can they are waiting for you to wake up. You can always make things right.” Riddle gives Yuu a nod as he takes a deep breath. As the world around them glows a bright white. 

Yuu feels a rain drop on their cheek as they open their eyes to a cloudy sky. Ace and Deuce hover over them, their bodies full of scratches and bruises. Yuu looks over to the side to see Trey holding Riddle in his arms, the housewarden stirs awake with tears streaming down his face. Yuu takes a deep breath glade its over. Their body aches as they sit up with the help of Deuce and Ace. 

“I’m sorry!” Riddle’s cries break through the atmosphere as the fearsome leader is reduced to a crying child. 

Ace rolls his eyes getting up from Yuu’s side and flicking Riddle in the forehead. Which only makes the leader cry more. 

“Stop your crying, your crocodile tears won’t sway me. It’s going to take a lot more to make up for the bullshit you pulled.” Ace puts his hands on his hips. 

“W-what do I need to do?” Riddle sniffles. 

Ace begins to list off all the things Riddle needs to make up for as his voice starts to drown out in the background. 

“Are you okay Yuu.” Deuce still holds them his voice full of concern. 

Now that Yuu thought about it they did feel tired resting their head on Deuce’s shoulder.

“A-ah Yuu!” He stutters. 

Yuu takes in the smell of roses and rain closing their eyes for a deserved sleep.