#still not sure what shade of blue they are but its very pale but still definitely blue?

[mamamittens]

Got another charming rendition of Nikia! (Same lovely anonymous person as last time!) And I'm not so tired I forgot to share lol so here!

She looks so cute, like she just spotted a friend and wants to play it at least a little cool but is super happy lol

Usual, rambling blurb beneath!

So there's this thing about wearing glasses that's easy to forget, even if you regularly wear glasses.

And that's that glasses bend light.

Hold on! I'm not being sarcastic or getting super into a physics lesson or whatever!

But basically, depending on if you are near or far sighted (able to see better up close or far away respectively) your lenses will be shaped differently to bring things into focus. Specifically, if you can't see up close (or need to see even closer up close, like with magnifying glasses) the lens is convex, which is basically just saying the glass bubbles up in the middle/focal point rather than concave (indenting towards the focal point).

This is why you have shots of people with those ridiculous headgear magnifying glasses for whatever eccentric shit they're doing and their eyes are like... Massive.

It's literally magnifying on both ends and this is generally what reading glasses do (though not as dramatically as this skit here).

But if you can't see well far away (and slowly but surely far ends up being not very far away at all if you're like me and unlucky like that), it makes your eyes seem smaller by increasing increments based on prescription. Which generally seems to be the case in anime shows where 'secretly pretty glasses protag removes glasses to reveal the most beautiful eyes, luscious lashes, and intense gaze you've ever seen' or whatever.

Where am I going with this?

Well, much like a lot of my own traits, I gave Nikia my shitty ass eyesight as well (and is the inspiration for Oh Sweet Child of Mine's bad eyesight as well by the way).

I haven't really illustrated this well because honestly it's hard to keep track of and looks goofy irl anyway if you focus on it too much. But her eyes definitely look pretty small compared to how they actually should be. Combined with a resting bitch face with naturally lowered eye lids, it's quite shocking to actually see her eyes clearly.

And where am I going with this all, really?

Well, for quite a while after their first meeting, Thatch makes several assumptions (as does Izou but he'll never admit it).

Mainly at first that she's a young man (got that nonbinary, vaguely masculine vibe about her). Then, after a short bit, that she's super cold and perhaps a bit bitchy and strict. She's a good host, but definitely more about safety than actual, warm hosting like most others on her home islands. Not helped by the static, standoffish expression she wears, eyes just deep set enough to be mostly shadow in the firelight where her glasses don't catch the reflection.

He does work through her awkwardness enough to recognize her actual traits and ends up a little (a lot) obsessed. Izou being a good sounding board and reminding him that not everyone is bitey bastards and that genuinely well meaning but awkward people still exist.

And then.

One day he gets a little smile from her and it's basically that. Face lit up with delight and Thatch (and Izou watching in great interest) are hit from several directions all at once.

Darkened, colorless eyes bright and pale blue like a winter sky. Lips curled into a small, somewhat awkward smile that clearly struggles to not be a flash of teeth with delight. Not the most dramatic expression, but so clearly happy it floors them both.

They know her fairly well at this point. But it's that somewhat hesitant smile that seals everything in place for them. Stamped into their heart with a soft, throaty chuckle.

[tonycries]

Bad Boys Bring Roses - G.S.

Synopsis. You’ve never dealt with the yakuza - not once. So why is the future head of the Gojo clan suddenly coming up to you, demanding that you marry him for 30 days?

Pairing. Yakuza boss! Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, yakuza! au, fake marriage, annoyances to lovers, elders suck, mentioned k*lling (not reader or Satoru), Satoru is INSANE and SO down bad, one bed trope, praise, biting, oral (fem receiving), fíngering, unprotected, créampie, spitting, overstim, flower language, kníves, bit dark, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 9.1k (whoopsies)

A/N. I just HAD to get this out of my mind like I wanna write an entire book series on this. Spent too long researching rose language as well so see if y’all catch that hehe.

You thought the wedding invitation was a joke when it had arrived - a delicate, lacey little card that you’ve probably read over a million times by now. It had been stuffed haphazardly into your mailbox, along with a ridiculously large bouquet of purple roses. Seemingly inconspicuous when you first tore into the thick envelope, wondering which one of your friends was getting married now. 

And it was - that is, until you saw your name at the very top - right where the blushing bride’s was supposed to be. 

We hereby formally invite you to the marriage of…

What? 

No return address. No date. No groom’s name either. Only yours, written in beautiful, golden writing - inviting you to your own wedding, exactly a week from now.

You remember perfectly the way you’d flipped it over and over in your hands, the gears turning in your head as you tried to crack down on the motive behind this invitation. A threat? A joke? Texting all of your friends about what a cute prank that was - only to get a shared confused reaction, and a few “April Fool’s has already passed, y’know.”

Hell, you’d even cornered the mailman, desperate to get to the bottom of this. But that wasn’t particularly helpful when he was only able to shake his head in protest, pale as a sheet, and trembling ever-so-slightly as he sped away from you. Weird. 

Without a clue as to who sent the letter, or even a follow-up in the days after, you stuffed the invitation somewhere deep in the back of your closet and handed the bouquet to your mother. Not bothering to tell your parents where it was from - because who’d worry over a stupid prank like this? It was probably one of the kids from down the street that’d gotten their grubby lil’ hands on a printer. 

You, however, had more important things to focus on - like trying to help your father revive his failing diner. It was a family business, a quaint, hearty little shop. One that was quickly, and dangerously, losing both customers and employees with the brand new fast food place that’d popped up right across the street. 

Which is why you found yourself here - working overtime on a Saturday night, looking over the empty chairs and stacks of boxes from behind the counter. Whatever, it was only a few weeks until relocation anyway.

You heave out a sigh, eyes flitting to the clock beside you - 11:21pm.

Nine minutes more, you drum your fingers in boredom, maybe you should just close up early. Because sure as hell no one else was-

“Oh? Still open?”

“Ah- Uh, yes, welcome!” Jolting out of your reverie, you stand up ramrod straight, taking in the customer standing at the door. He wasn’t one of the regulars - no, you think you’d remember if he was. Cloudy white hair, piercing blue eyes that twinkle from above his shades, even in the dim light of the diner. He was so very tall, taking up almost all of the doorframe, only getting more and more imposing as he walks up to you in quick, long strides. Magnetizing. 

And if you dared let your eyes wonder, you caught a few tattoos peeking out from his unfairly snug button-up, clashing with its flashy blue color. Dragons? Trees? Or were they flowers - roses?

“Roses.” the man in front of you answers your unspoken question, voice so very deep, and melodic - tinged with something playful in it that you wouldn’t have expected at first glance. At your raised brow he continues with a wink, “Could tell ya were checkin’ me out, sweetheart.”

“F-forgive my rudeness, sir.” you sputter, face burning. You look away from the way his muscled ripple as he crosses his arms, immediately turning to fumble with the menus, “Please take a seat and I’ll be there with you shortly.”

You’d expected him to take up a booth, or maybe head towards one of the good tables around the corner. What you did not expect was for him to plop down on the stool right in front of you, flashing you a playful grin before humming, “S’alright, m’just waitin’ for someone.”

Oh. Well, it made sense that someone like him would be taken. Swallowing, you hand over the menu, before giving him a close-lipped smile, “A lover?”

Resting his head on his palms, not bothering to even glance at the list of dishes before him. “My fiancée.”

“Congratulations, Mr…”

“Gojo Satoru.” he tilts his head, looking way too happy with himself. “Please, call me Satoru.” 

You nod softly, picking up your pen and notepad to get this conversation over with - and maybe to also avoid his heavy stare that made something hot and uncomfortable coil in your stomach. “Right, Mr-” at his disappointed whine, “Satoru. Congratulations, must be one heck of a thing to plan.”

“Oh I’m having fun with the wedding planning.” He waves off your words with a chuckle, missing - or pointedly ignoring - the way you were waiting for his order. “How’s it going for you?”

What?

You narrow your eyes at the way Satoru was batting those long lashes up at you, deceivingly innocent and waiting for your answer. “I’m sorry- Me? Did you mean with the diner relocation plans or-”

“No no no.” he laughs, loud and boisterous. And usually you’d have a thing or two to say at someone interrupting you if you weren’t so mesmerized by that little dimple at the corner of his grin. One that moves as he plows on, “M’asking how wedding planning is going for you, wifey~”

There’s a beat of silence. One. Two. With you gaping at the pure audacity as Satoru quiets down to little titters, seemingly studying your reaction in amusement. Which slowly, but surely, drains from his face as you grit out a sharp, “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, sir. We’re very busy and don’t have time to entertain your pick-up lines.”

Those widened blue eyes sweep the painfully empty diner, letting out a low whisper. “I can see that.” you let out a strangled noise of embarrassment at that. “But you’re really gonna ask your husband to leave?”

Huffing in frustration, “I don’t have a husband.”

“...you do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t. And who the fuck are you to tell me I do?”

“What?!” Satoru jumps out of his seat in shock, fast enough that the stool clatters to the floor with a deafening clang! Hands slamming on the counter as he leans over it - so close that you could feel his minty breath fanning your face with each hurried, shrill word that tumbles out of his lips. “What do you mean you don’t have a- I’m gonna kill those fuckin’- After I bought Canva premium just to make that invitation? Did the flowers come at least?”

And while Satoru is panicking, words spilling out of his mouth a mile a minute - only one of those rings in your mind - invitation. 

“You.” you hiss, barely audible over meltdown in front of you. Pointing a finger accusingly, “You’re the one behind that prank with the dumbass roses.”

That seems to snap Satoru out of his dramatic monologue - and you’re glad it did. Because he looks up to meet your glare, “Hey! You didn’t like the roses?” 

And for the first time, you see Satoru more serious than he’d been ever since stepping into this diner. Eyes somewhere behind you, ablaze and almost…frightening. “Didn’t you ask him?” 

You whirl around to see your father, who’d apparently rushed downstairs at the commotion. Baseball bat to fight off the intruder hanging in midair as he stands frozen, taking in the scene before him - but more importantly, that man in front of him. “You.”

---

And, well, it’s not everyday that you’re having late night tea with your parents and one of your father’s…business associates. Even rarer when said business associate is…you gulp, praying to whoever’s above that this is all some sick dream you’ll wake up any second from. 

“So, let me get this straight…” you sigh, pinching your nose in frustration. It’s been an hour or two of trying to understand whatever this was. Giving a stern look at the two men squirming across from you in the booth. “My father was conned by one of your-” you gesture your head at Satoru, which only makes his smirk grow, “-men to take a loan from your um-”

“Family, yakuza. Anything goes.” he supplies helpfully.

You wave him off, trying as quickly as possible to brush off the ‘yakuza’ bit that makes your stomach lurch. “And now he owes you a favor of…what exactly?”

Satoru leans across the table, t-shirt opening tantalizingly. Voice dropping to an almost-pleading murmur, “Look, I just need you to pretend to be my doting, loving, charming, gorgeous-” backtracking at your withering glare, “...Anyway. I just need a fake wife for a few months, convince my family to get off my back about arranged marriage n’ carrying the Gojo legacy. Then bam! you stomp all over my heart, we divorce and I’m too heartbroken to ever get married again. Easy.” 

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You bet Satoru’s disappointed groan echoed across all 23 words of Tokyo, because it was definitely ringing in your ears amongst whirlwind thoughts of marriage? To a yakuza? Completely, and utterly ridiculous. And from his talks of “carrying the family name” it seemed like he was some sort of future head as well. Though, he definitely wasn’t acting like it right now. 

“Alright. Plan B, then.” 

Oh? You couldn’t help but think that maybe he wasn’t that much of a manchild as sits up from where he’d been splayed all over the table in tragedy. Lacing his fingers together before turning to your father, continuing in a more diplomatic tone, “But I want the cash you took. In full. Now. Gonna hafta disguise my best friend as my wife, n’ dresses for a six foot man aren’t cheap.”

Your mother looked like she could faint right then and there. Choking out a noise of surprise, “B-but we’ve deposited it all for the relocation- Please, can’t we pay any other-”

At the firm shake of his head, you stammer, “Now? Aren’t you some yakuza nepo baby, can’t you just ask your parents for money?”

“No.” Satoru chuckles, in a tone which told you that he probably could but might just lose his head for it. Only further supported as he muses, “Not unless I want a finger cut off for dealin’ money on the side. Seriously, sweetheart, why did you think I sent you the invitation last week?”

“Take me instead.” you father cries, trying to negotiate above Satoru’s half-joking mutters of “Ugh, I’m not into ol’ men dumb enough to sign yakuza contracts.”

It was all too much. You couldn’t take out the relocation deposit - it was a new start, possibly the only thing to save your family. Nor do you have enough in savings to pay back the loan. And if Satoru’s warning was anything to listen to, then you knew that dealing with the yakuza could be dangerous. Why you? Why you? Why you? 

“Fine.”

The moment that word leaves your lips, it’s like the whole world freezes. Everyone in the room - including yourself - unsure of whether they heard you right. “I’ll do it.” you clarify, voice hesitant but firm. Eyeing the way Satoru’s eyes begin to sparkle, the beginnings of a smile curling his lips. Raising a finger to shush your father’s protests, “But for a month, until we leave this place. After that m’going with my family and you’re never to contact us ever again. Deal?”

And oh Satoru seemed over the moon, reaching out to grasp your hand in a handshake - so warm, and softer than you’d imagined. “Swear on m’life, wifey. You can kill me if not.”

He was so intimidating - and intimidatingly exhilarating.

Only an hour more of arguing and a quick phone call later, men - yakuza, you assume - were flooding your family’s little diner. All tattooed and burly, looking somewhat comical as they carried your few packed-up suitcases outside. Well, at least they stayed for a late dinner. 

And ended up being witnesses to a very rushed, very rushed signing of marriage agreements. Evidence to really show up your alleged marriage. It barely even lasted a few minutes before, well, that was that - you were married, to the son of a yakuza head. 

You say a quick goodbye to your teary parents, soothing them with promises of “I’ll be back before you know it. One month. That’s all.” 

“And don’t worry about a thing,” Satoru sing-songs, coming up behind you. “If there’s anyone she’s safe with, it’s me.”

“You better keep your mitts off of my baby.” your father warns, raising the baseball bat still clutched in his hand menacingly. 

“I won’t lay a hand on her, father-in-law. And anyone that even thinks about it…” he cackles, breath hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I’ll kill.”

Prancing off to hold the door of that shiny black Mercedes parked outside open for you. “Ladies first.”

With another quick hug to your parents, you hastily make your way inside. Feeling extremely out of place amongst the overly luxurious interior in your slightly-stained work uniform. God, the covers on these cushions themselves probably cost more than your house. 

“Like the car? I can buy you one. Or four, as a wedding gift.” Satoru grins. 

Oh, right. You weren’t in here alone - you were here with your new…husband. The word felt so strange to even wrap your head around, instead you turn to meet his easy smile. Clenching your jaw as you grit out, “So how do we act m-married?”

You swear he brightens up impossibly, scooting closer to you on the seat. Heart lurching as he raises his eyes to meet yours, dizzy with the heat of his proximity, he promptly pulls out his Notes app. 

“Well, you see. I forgot to send this with the invitation so you better memorize this before we get home.” flashing you a long, long list of likes and dislikes, “Here’s my favorite color and my favorite Digimon and-”

That car ride could not have been longer. Because in addition to arguing with Satoru about who the best Digimon was, you had to fill out your own version of his overly extensive list. “So we can be foolproof.” he’d whined. And you’d been so engrossed in the process that you barely noticed the looming estate out the window.

“We’re here, young master and madam Gojo.”

It took a second to register that the driver was talking to you as well as Satoru, immediately pushing your face against the window to take in the scenic site before you. Heavy wooden doors - probably taller than an average house - opening to reveal sprawling gardens. Koi ponds and rose bushes lining a pathway that led to a traditional Japanese house - all power and glory. You half wondered whether you were still in Tokyo. 

“Home sweet home.” Satoru grunts. “Such a beautiful hell, huh?”

Your home, for the next month. At least. 

And if you had any doubt that Satoru was in fact the future yakuza head, that all went out the window at the welcome you got. Men lining the wooden hallway, bowing at the waist while your all-new husband wraps a hand around your shoulders, pointing out the various rooms and ornaments as he led you in. 

“-and this is going to be our room.” he brings you in front of a large tatami room, one the size of your entire diner. 

“Ours.” you repeat. Walking unhurriedly to the king-sized bed in the middle - the only bed. Heart pounding as you take it all in. 

“Ours.” Satoru echoes, happily. And if he was any bit as affected as you are, then he doesn’t show it, instead pulling out a blue yukata from the closet, a golden Gojo emblem stamped on the back. Made with such a pretty, delicate fabric that it made you shiver to think how much it cost. “Now, I had these made jus’ for you last week. You can give me a lil’ fashion show tomorrow, so make sure you get some rest, wifey.”

It’s only when he says the word “rest” that you realize exactly how tired you are. Your long shift and the entirety of this having your eyes feeling heavier than usual. 

“Um…” you start, risking a glance at the bed. 

Satoru jolts, “Ah- don’t worry, sweetheart. You take the bed.” beginning to saunter outside to meet his team. “Got some work, so I’ll be sleeping in my office. Dream of me~”

And, really, you almost felt bad splaying yourself out on the crisp navy sheets. Sinking into the heady smell of fabric softener, and something so so Satoru. Addictive. Like an expensive cologne that made your head spin, one that wafted through your mind as you dreamt of summer weddings, and blue, blue skies.

“Ichiji.”

“Yes, young master.”

“See to it that the madam is safe. Anyone try anything funny and you bring them back alive. I wanna be the one to play with them, okay~?”

“Of course, young master.”

---

Admittedly, you probably have the best sleep of your life at the Gojo estate- or, it would’ve been if your husband didn’t burst in every morning at 7am. Handing you a ridiculously big bouquet of white roses, straight from the garden, before dragging you outside. 

Milling about the estate, Satoru was never too far behind, chattering away. Letting you hold onto his strong arm crossing the bridges, occasionally having you show up to yakuza meetings as his plus one. Relishing in the rumors spreading all through the yakuza syndicates in Tokyo. Gojo Satoru, and the commoner wife he’d do anything for.

Weirdly enough, some strange little part of you thinks he puts in a lot more work than necessary for some pretend relationship…

“I think that stupid plan is really working, y’know.” you muse to him after a few days of this. Dipping your fingers into one of your favorite koi ponds with a nod at the figures watching you from a distance - Gojo clan elders, you assume. “Those old coots hate being within a five mile radius of me.”

Satoru huffs out a laugh, “That so? S’probably the method acting then, huh? Taking good care of me, wifey?” he wiggles his eyebrows, nudging you from where he was holding an umbrella beside you. 

Furrowing your brows mockingly, “S’funny for you to say, they don’t even look at me. But they follow me around everywhere.”

“Do they annoy you, must I do my duty as a husband and gouge their eyes out?”

He…didn’t sound like he was joking. 

Rolling your eyes, you pointedly ignoring the way your heart lurches at the word “husband.” Still so jumpy at the idea. “Speaking of, your parents give up the marriage proposals, yet?”

At this, Satoru clenches his jaw. “Still nagging, but they’re finally considering you as my actual bride rather than some hijink.” he spits out, seemingly recalling whatever conversation they’d had before. “And they want to have some family ‘dinner’, but it’s going to be awful and you don’t-”

“Let’s go.” you interrupt, nodding determinedly. “The realer this marriage seems, the faster we can divorce, no?”

He blinks at you slowly, “That’s…true. For the divorce, then?”

“For the divorce.”

And, well, that was settled - you were to meet your new in-laws. The ever-elusive heads of the Gojo clan. Also one of the most powerful yakuza in all of Japan, but, semantics really.

You spend the evening cooped up with Satoru in the library, poring over the bloody history of the yakuza - with the Gojo’s heading them all. The only time he actually leaves your side is a few hours before the dinner. 

“For you.” he’d murmured, lips ghosting your ear, slipping something cold onto your finger. You look down to see one of the most beautiful rings you’ve ever seen - gold, with delicate blue and white diamonds encrusting it, cut in the shape of roses. “Can’t be married without a wedding ring, huh? Think of it as a good luck charm for tonight.”

And with that he’s swept away in a flurry of bodyguards and ruffled men, and you’re left standing there all alone. Cheeks burning, wondering how the hell he knew your perfect fit. 

You worry longer about the dinner than you spend actually preparing for it. Though, that’s probably because of the group of stylists that come into your room to help you dress. Wordlessly fussing around you despite your weak attempts at conversation, eyes averted. Almost like they were…scared of you. 

But there wasn’t much time to think of that - not when you’re being marched off in the direction of what you remember Satoru had called the family dining room. “More like a fuckin’ meeting room for those hardasses.” he’d snarked.

The moment you step in, all eyes turn to you - the only ones you recognize being Satoru’s, who immediately stands with a smile. “Ah, wifey! Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” pulling you into a tight hug. His voice drops into a low, raspy murmur in your ear, “Ya look fuckin’ gorgeous in my colors, y’know.”

Traitorously, jolts of electricity run down your spine. Especially at how fucking gorgeous he looked in traditional wear. Whispering back, “Playing up the doting husband bit, huh?”

“Only for you.”

Pulling away, you drink in his dangerously handsome state. Hair so effortlessly styled, tattoos winking at you from just above his yukata - blue, to match yours. So pretty.

Stammering out, “Corny.”

“Only for-”

“Now that the girl is finally here, may we begin with dinner?” A stained voice sounds from behind Satoru, old and tinged with a tone that years of customer service told you did not bode well. Craning your head, you look over his broad shoulders, meeting the eyes of several disapproving elders. 

Shit. Some of the most dangerous people in this country right now. 

Gathered here - for you. 

Automatically, you knew which ones were his parents - painfully upright, and hauntingly beautiful in a cold, calculated way. Sat right at the head of the long table. With a jolt, you realize that you two are seated right opposite them. 

“So.” his mother starts, as you take your seat with a bow. Satoru doesn’t waste any time on niceties, plopping down right next to you, scooting closer than necessary. “Congratulations on the…wedding, my son.”

My son. You ignore the way both parents pointedly avoided looking at you. Your husband, however, does not. “What~ Not gonna wish my dear wife as well?”

It’s a silent staredown - one that has the entire room on edge. You don’t realize that you’re clenching your fists in tension until Satoru untangles them, slipping his larger hands into yours. Gaze still alarmingly intense and locked on the other side of the table.

He wins.

“Congratulations. Let us begin now.” 

You breathe out a sigh of relief, the tension only slightly broken as butlers stream into the room, carrying decadent trays of food. Well, at least the food might make up for how appalling this dinner is going to be.

It’s only 15 minutes in that you realize how very, horribly wrong you are - because the elders of the Gojo estate really don’t hold back, do they? Thank God you memorized every part of that stupid likes and dislikes list.

Besides picking apart every aspect of your relationship that they could manage to squeeze out of you between the appetizer and the main course, the main scrutiny tonight seems to be you. But in that icy, subtle way that has Satoru’s jaw clenching tighter each second. 

Lips curling, Gojo senior eyes you over his wine glass. “So, dear,” voice dripping with underlying venom despite the pet name. “Is it true our Satoru missed an esteemed marriage meeting with the Zenin group to ambush you at some rundown old diner?”

You fight to keep the smile plastered onto your face, painful and cracking under the pressure. A hand squeezing under the table to stop Satoru from opening his mouth to retort, you answer instead, “Well, ambushed wouldn’t be the word. You could say we fell in love over the counter - at my family’s diner.”

“A waitress, she said?”

“Now we know why it was this rushed. Probably pregnant.”

“The scandal. How far the Gojo name has fallen.”

The few stifled gasps from the other end of the table are so dramatic that you could almost laugh. But you don’t. Breath hitching as Mrs. Gojo chuckles, “Marrying the daughter of a lowly diner owner? How... quaint.”

“Mother, be quiet or-”

“What?” she throws her hands in exasperation. “Can’t I say anything around here. Honestly, Satoru, I’m just trying to make conversation with your new wife.”

Before either you or Satoru can react, his father speaks up, apparently not done with the interrogation. “You understand that we’re just worried, right, dear? Especially with marrying into prestigious families, of course.” The emphasis on “prestigious” is not lost on you.” And it drives you insane. 

Steeling yourself, you train your eyes on the untouched food below you. “I understand.”

Plowing on as if trying to infuriate you, “And you understand that this position is dangerous? You’ll be targeted.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Don’t be swept up in our Satoru’s charm and wealth, dear, my son just wants a way out of duty.” tone dripping with disdain, Satoru’s grip becoming tighter and tighter on yours. “The Gojo syndicate owns half of this city, we could bulldoze over that little diner of yours with only one phone call”

“My wife and I are leav-”

“I said I fuckin’ understand.” Your words hang in the air like a foul stench, and you raise your head to glare. If looks could kill, all the elders in this room would be six feet under and you’d be dancing on their graves already. “Neither me, nor my husband would ever let that happen because he knows a thing or two about respect, unlike you.” Lacing your fingers tighter with Satoru’s. “So shove your mighty family up your wrinkly asses. I don’t give a flying shit.” 

Eyes wide, jaws dropped, the old couple opposite you finally seems stunned into silence. And if it was any other situation you could’ve almost laughed at how similar they looked to Satoru when he found out you thought his proposal was a prank.

His father adjusts his glasses. “Perhaps that is so.”

Ah, if only the rest of the table would be quietened just as easily. 

“Not only is she a slut she’s a-”

Thud!

It all happens so fast you’re not even sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. Because in a split-second, the knife that was at your side is suddenly embedded, deep into the wooden table - barely even an inch away from the elder that had spoken up. 

“You’re lucky I’m matching with my wife n’ didn’t want to dirty this new yukata.” a voice sounds from your side. Melodic and so so eerie that you don’t realize for a second that it’s Satoru - your Satoru. 

He loops an arm under your legs as he stands up. Easily maneuvering you into a princess carry, forcing you to cling onto his robes for dear life as your feet dangle from the floor. You look up - maybe to snap at Satoru to put you down - only for the words to die in your throat at how absolutely fucking feral your husband looked. Eyes wide, aura menacing. A grin gracing his features, not the familiar one which had your heart racing, no - something so dangerous and cold. 

“Now,” he hums. Turning his back to the room, gaze still locked with the shocked heads inside, “My lovely wife and I will be retiring. Won’t you all say goodnight to your future madam?”

You don’t know what shocks you more - the way everyone in that room mumbles out a disdainful little “Goodnight, ma’am.”, or the way Satoru cackles as he carries you to your shared bedroom. Laying you gently on the mattress with a quiet, “Be right back, sweetheart.”

What the fuck happened?

He could’ve killed that man. And looked like he wanted to. 

Your brain yells at you - run away run away run away- But you weren’t…scared? In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever been less fearful in your entire life. Especially not when Satoru stumbles back into the room, clearly rushing. Something warm spreading in your chest at the trays of food in his hands.

“Dinner’s better without a bunch of fossils on my kill list.” he grins. Settling right next to you on the bed, setting out the dinner he’d brought for you. And, well, you didn’t doubt that they really were on his kill list. 

“Hey, wifey.” Satoru speaks up after a few moments of silence, satisfied with the food laid in front of you. “M’sorry for putting you through that. No more family dinners from now.”

You inch closer to lay your head on his sculpted shoulder, a hand bringing up the food to his pretty lips. He smelled so good, faintly like pine, and clouds. It made you so dizzy. “Eat, Satoru.”

That’s all which is said, because maybe that’s all that was needed. And for a second there, you almost forget that this is all pretend.

---

“Hey, uh- mister. You alright?” you call out, voice barely audible over the rain. 

The sullen figure didn’t react at first, soaked through and eyes trained on the ground. Unmoving, even when you hesitantly drew closer, umbrella quivering in your hands. 

You should turn around - walk away like everyone else on the sidewalk was doing. But no, something about the way he sat alone, stoic to the storm around him made you inch closer. “Here.” you hold out your umbrella. “S’our diner’s, but you look like you could use this more than I do.”

He jolts, as if hearing you for the first time. A flash of blue, so quick you almost think you miss it. Still not raising his head fully, the man’s snowy hair tousles as he jerkily closes around the handle. Pretty. And so so sad.

“It’ll be alright.” you nod. 

And with that, you turn, running back in the rain to the haven of the diner, where your father was waiting impatiently - he’d just bought the boxes to start packing up for relocation. Fingers still burning ever-so-slightly where his hand had brushed against yours. How strange, you wondered his name.

---

Satoru stayed true to his word over the weeks that followed. His parents seemed well and fully intent on avoiding you. And, well, other than a few disdainful remarks, the elders mostly scurried away in fear at your very sight. 

The only thing that made your skin prickle was that the housekeepers had a penchant for peeping in on the two of you. Increasingly following you - they always did, but now…honestly, it was a bit disconcerting. 

But other than that, it was almost…peaceful. You wake up every morning to a large bouquet of burgundy roses at your bedside table - and a husband. Because Satoru had taken to sleeping on the little couch at the corner of your room every night - saying something about not wanting to rouse suspicion because if he actually had a wife he’d be “taking her to bed every night”. Somehow, you didn’t doubt it. 

“Funny how it’s getting close to a month of being married, but you haven’t even kissed me yet.” you deadpan. Looking down at where he was resting his head in your lap, sprawled across the soft grass in the garden.

Something else also happened - something different.

Because Satoru was a bit touchier, a bit closer. Like right now, preening into your fingers carding through his soft hair. “Oh~? Why, wanna take me to bed, wifey?”

“You wish.”

“Maybe I do.”

Your hands still, pulse racing as your eyes bore into Satoru’s, trying to figure out what sort of bad joke this was. Subconsciously, you find yourself leaning down closer - too closer. Close enough that you could count every shade of blue in his hungry gaze. But by the grace of whoever was above-

“Young master, please excuse the intrusion but you have-”

Sitting up abruptly, addressing the newcomer in a stone-cold tone. “How many fuckin’ times have I not told you to never bother me when I’m with my wife?”

The servant bows apologetically, sputtering out apologies as you move to get up. Flashing a smirk at Satoru’s dramatic pout, “I have to catch up on some reading anyway. See ya, Satoru.” 

“Noo~ my sweetheart don’t leave me~” 

You stifle a laugh at his little tantrum, so different from when he was serious. He was so….dizzying. “You’ll be okay, Satoru.” Glancing up nervously to meet the servant’s intense stare, studying the scene before him, how different his master was. “I’ll be at the library now.”

And Satoru notices - of course, he does. He sees that tiny flash of concern in your eyes. One that you might not have noticed yourself. He lowers his voice as you walk away, so you don’t hear him speaking behind you. Words dripping with a similar venom he always heard from his parents, “Now, tell me who you’re spying for. Names, first and last.” 

Satoru doesn’t join you in the library that day, the first time in weeks. And you find yourself missing him more than you should. It’s dark out by the time you’re raising your head from the books, joints aching from poring over them for hours. The house seems a lot quieter. Somewhat bigger. 

Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. 

Scratching the back of your head, you wander through the wooden hallways to your bedroom - wondering what was amiss. Your feet take you there as if on autopilot, thankful for Satoru’s meticulous tours. 

“Hey,” you smile softly at a servant making your bed, “Where are-”

Your question dies in your throat at the way she yelps at your words, hurrying down the corridor with a jerky bow. Weird. Leaving you all alone, and confused, muttering to yourself, it’s only then that you notice the flash of red by your bedside table. 

Not a bouquet. Only a single, red rose - a note tied around the stem, something you’d never gotten before. 

“The marriage proposals have been revoked, your contract is fulfilled, my ex-wife.”

Oh, reading that hurt more than it should’ve. You should be happy at being free, a few days earlier than expected at that - but it was over - just like that. You didn’t want to leave him. You didn’t want to leave him.You didn’t want to leave him.

 Were you going insane?

Clutching the flower like a lifeline, heaving out a sigh, “Maybe Satoru knows…”

“Thinking of me?”

Startled, you whirl behind to face your husband. In the dim-lighting, making out the stoney expression on his face, eyes wide and a little duller than they had been earlier today. 

“Satoru?”

His eyes light up at the mere sound of your voice - then you’re engulfed in him. Wrapping you in his arms, bowing his body into yours, so tight that it almost hurts. But you let him, fisting the fresh yukata in your hands - and that’s when you realize, he’s changed his robes since this morning. “Are you okay?” you whisper into his shoulder. Drinking in the smell of his cologne, and something faintly metallic. 

Every cell in your body is screaming at you to take the opportunity - to run away from this yakuza and his slaughter and whatever this was. But how could you? Staying rooted to the spot, not even a speck of fear.

Satoru heaves out a heavy breath, tickling the hairs at your nape as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Those nosy elders won’t be bothering you anymore, sweetheart. You’re free to go.”

A shudder runs down your spine at his words, and you didn’t want to think too hard about what they meant. Instead, you guide him to your bed - and, surprisingly, he allows you to. Letting the two of you sink into the plush mattress. With Satoru still in your arms. He repeats, “You’re free to go.”

Run away. Run away. Run away-

There it was again - that strained little manta. You stare right into his eyes, voice thick at the sinking feeling in your stomach. “My 30 days aren’t over yet.” 

“Leave. Please.” he grunts into the crook of your neck, like your hands drawing patterns down his back had broken some dam. “M’not a good man.” 

You press your lips to his forehead, searing and a desperate attempt to soothe the man. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I’m yakuza, sweetheart. Doomed to follow my parents here.” he mutters, strained and voice more unsure than you’ve ever heard. And once he started, it was like Satoru just couldn’t stop, rambling into your skin, “I hate it here, and you should, too. All these fuckin-”

“So go with me instead.”

“What if-”

“Toru.‘ you cut off his words, slurring and spilling out of his mouth. Gently, you pry him away from his little haven, reeling back to take a good look at the face he’s been hiding for so long. Hair mussed, curtaining his whirling eyes - all disheveled and vulnerable where he was once so suave. 

Your eyes bore into his, unwavering. “It’ll be alright, Toru.”

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. Only when his lips meet yours, soft, and so so sweet, do you realize that this is everything you ever want right now - possibly these past few weeks. “Y’can kill me if you don’ want his.” he mutters into your open mouth.  

It’s so desperate - a messy clash of teeth and saliva, Satoru was drinking you in like you were the last drop of water on Earth. He tasted so sweet, like candy almost, and the gentle caress of a lover. You were addicted like you could do this forever and ever and-

And then he’s pulling away. A disappointed little whine leaves you involuntarily as he parts, delicate strings of saliva snapping in the space between you two. Satoru’s mouth drops into a soft oh! at the noise, surging forward minutely like he was about to kiss you senseless again. Only to halt with a pained grunt, just a hair’s breadth from your lips. 

“M’sorry.” Claiming your lips once again, like a man possessed. Drinking in your breathless gasps. Like he never wanted to let go. “F-fuck, sweetheart. Y’don’t know how crazy you drive me.” he pants.

“Why did you pick me?” you blurt out, a question that had been nagging at the back of your mind every time Satoru slipped his hand in yours, introducing you as his loving wife. “Was it just the debt?”

He’s kissing your pulse now, canines hovering over the erratic little cadence. Breathing you in like you were intoxicating. “No.” he’s licking a long, languid stripe up your neck. Pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down every inch of skin he could reach. 

“Then why?” your words come out in almost an embarrassing plea. But by the way his breath hitches, you know that Satoru loves it. 

“Because.” he breathes, “You treated me like a human.”

He’s capturing your lips with his again, nipping at your bottom lips. You squeal as he pulls, suddenly wanting him to tease you like this everywhere. To have him absolutely ruin you like you know he could - treat you like the wife he claimed you were. 

But Satoru wasn’t done yet - far from it. He chuckles, kissing down your neck, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Remember that night? You probably don’t, was rainin’ so hard I thought I’d drown out there.” Worshiping the valley between your breasts as he hastily unbuckles your bra. “That night was when the marriage proposals had come in. They said I’d either carry the legacy or be forced to leave the family. Kicked out of my own home.” 

And you’re reeling from both his words and the way Satoru was rocking his hips into yours now, something hot, and so achingly hard pressing in the damp area between your legs. “Thought I was gonna take ‘em all out that night.”

“Take them all out?” your breath hitches.

“Every. Single. One.” Fingers dancing across the hem of your panties. “Wouldn’t have felt bad about it either.” 

Satoru’s licking down your navel now, humming in confirmation into your skin. “But then…” he groans, taking in the first fucking sinful sight of your drenched panties. So flimsy and already dripping for him - and after just a few kisses, really? You were heaven on Earth. “But then along came you. So pretty and all worried f’me. The daughter of that diner owner I’d loaned money too.”

You watch, heart racing as Satoru swallows in awe. Darkened gaze locked on the way your slick beads out of your pussy, bare thighs trying to close - give yourself some semblance of dignity. But no- how could you? When Satoru’s holding them apart.

“And then I knew…” he’s sliding his index underneath your panties up and down, grazing your swollen folds. Pooling your sweet sweet juices on his fingertip before popping it into his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut at the taste, and you’ve never seen him look so blissful. “I just had to have you.”

Rip! 

The cold air brushes against you before you even know it - only when you feel Satoru’s hot breath against your dripping cunt does it hit - this bastard just ripped your panties off. And he was dangling it like a badge of honor, breathing in your juices so animalistically. 

Your lips wobble as he just admires your pussy, the way it glistens and clenches around nothing. “Hah- please.”

“Please what?” he grins, and you can feel him licking little circles around your inner thigh. So close. “The wife of a yakuza boss has gotta know how to use her words.”

“You’re awful.”

“And yet you married me.”

With such a cute lil’ whine that makes Satoru’s cock twitch so painfully, you buck your hips closer to his hot mouth. “Wan’ your mouth on me, to eat me out. Please, Toru.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, “There’s my girl.”

You gasp when he surges forward, burying his pretty face nose-deep in your pussy. Holding your breath as he lazily licks up your folds - long, sloppy movements of his tongue all the way from your base to your swollen clit. Swirling deftly around the sensitive nub. 

Drunk off your pussy with the way he’s so messy - seemingly unable to decide between sucking harshly on your poor, ravaged clit to dipping into your sloppy hole. And it’s driving you mad, keening and pulling at his soft locks. You haven’t been touched this good in ages, and Satoru was well and fully intent on ruining you. 

“Shhh, don’t worry, wifey.” words muffled into your cunt, “Your husband’s gonna take care of you.” He’s throwing your legs over his broad shoulders.

“Real good care of you.” Then he’s plunging knuckle-deep in your plushy pussy, the tips of his long fingers massaging your plushy walls. Messy enough that your slick is trailing down his wrist. Roaming for that one spot he knows will have you moaning deliciously. Pressing down, hard.  “Found it. Gonna have you screamin’ my name til’ the entire estate hears.”

You tug on his hair, urging Satoru’s mouth towards your cunt - partially because you wanted him there, partially because you really needed him to shut up right now. 

And shit how could he ever say no to his pretty wife?

Satoru is grinning, you can feel it on your throbbing clit as he wraps his pretty pink lips around it. Pumping his fingers in and out, hitting that little spot each and every time. Looking like he was absolutely in heaven as he rolls and swirls his tongue against your clit over and over and-

“Sh-shit. Toru-”

“Mmm, yes- fuck, love it when you call me that.” he groans. And oh he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you - eyes half-lidded, such a pretty blush disting his cheeks - and making out with your pussy just as much. Tilting his head back, back, back so that your juices slide down his throat. “Feels good? Ya like when m’ruining your pretty pussy?”

“Yes!” you squirm. Shaking, bucking your hips into his touch so desperately. “Wanted it s’bad.” 

He’s becoming frenzied now, drinking in your cute little whimpers like he was addicted. But it wasn’t enough - it never was and fuck Satoru wanted more more more-

“Move your hips, yeah- jus’ like that.” Satoru’s grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Letting you pull and angle him just as you please. 

“Gonna be the best fuckin’ husband you’ll ever have. N’ anyone that says otherwise, m’gonna fuckin’ kill.” The vibrations have your body jerking violently. “Make you cum harder than y’ever have. C’mon, say yes.”

And with that, he’s alternating between lapping at your clit and bullying his tongue through your swollen folds. Stretching you, thrusting in and out of your sloppy hole. Jaw grinding deeper into you as he eats you out like his last meal. “Ngh- fuck, yes yes yes-”

“Beg for it, beg for your husband.”

“Wanna cum- Ah! Please, wanna cum, Toru.”

One hand so messy toying with your dripping entrance - not having the patience or the sanity to even draw circles anymore. Just quick, hurried patterns to get you off. The other digging into your hips, so hard you were sure it’d leave marks for tomorrow. Making you drag your sloppy pussy senselessly all over his mouth. Using him. 

“Hngh- Toru! Ah- fuck fuck Toru Toru T-”  You’re shaking - crying out as you cum. A guttural, strangled moan of your husband’s name. So violent, and hard that you don’t even realize at first. Just that you’re rocking your hips into Satoru, white-hot pleasure behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears.

And he doesn’t stop - not even once. If you were in any better state of mind you’d wonder whether it hurt - whether his fingers were cramping up, and his tongue was tired. If they were, he didn’t show, only letting you chase your high as roughly as you want. 

Greedily lapping up all your juices. Even when you’re blinking your vision back, chest heaving as you try to regain our breath. “S-Satoru.” you mewl, stars behind your eyes with each flick of his tongue. 

“Jus’ a bit more. Wanna taste all of you.”

You weren’t going to make it out alive.

Big, fat tears pricking at your eyes from the overstimulation as Satoru finally rises from what you almost worried would be his favorite seat. “All done. Now, keep that pretty lil’ cunt on display f’me, my girl.”

And your cunt is clenching in- fear? Anticipation? As your husband finally unties his yukata, letting it slide off those milky, toned shoulders. And shit he was such a fucking masterpiece. The dim-lighting bouncing off every curve and dip of those carved abs. Delicate swirls of his tattoo inching from his collarbone, down, down, down, hugging Satoru in a way that made you so half-lucidly jealous. All the way till the last inky thorn meets the neat tufts of white hair peeking up from the hem of his underwear. 

“Touch me.” he groans into your ear. The words barely leave those pretty lips before your hands are everywhere. Dancing down his tattoo, groping at this pecs - too much to worship, not enough time. 

“Toru…” you trail off, hand reaching out to brush his waistband. Tugging just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, hitting his sculpted abdomen. Red, and so so angry, fat tip weeping down his length, already so soaked in precum. He was so intimidatingly long - longer than anyone else you’d had before. Thick enough that you wondered whether you’d hurt yourself. 

And he sees right through you.

“Now now, none of that.” he tuts, pushing your bare thighs as far apart as they’d go. He spreads your cunt so shamefully with his thumb. Spitting once, twice. Some of it splatter against your thigh as Satoru mixes his saliva with your slick. “Don’t worry, wifey, m’gonna make it feel good for ya.”

You flinch as he uses you like some object. Dangerously liking it more and more as he drags his fat head down your folds. Wetting himself, all the preparation he was going to give you because fuck Satoru needed to be inside your pretty lil’ pussy right now. 

Then you feel like you’re being split apart - as if Satoru’s cock was pushing all the way to your lungs as he presses through the first ring of muscle.

“Ah! Ngh- Toru, s’too big!” you yelp, eyes locked on the way your lips were stretched so lewdly around his tip. Clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in, inch by fucking inch. No mercy. Absolutely none at all. 

And while he sounded like he was on cloud nine, you were having your head spin, torn between wanting to run away from his massive cock and just push yourself down for more more more. His lips claim yours - absolutely animalistic because God he needed to shut up your pretty whines or else Satoru was going to cum right here right now.

“Breathe, sweetheart, breath. Ngh- You can take it.” Satoru pants into your mouth, fucking into you in mindless, shallow little thrusts just to fit inside your snug cunt. Sounding like he was losing his sanity each time your heavenly walls milked him. “So fuckin’ tight. Jus’ relax f’me. Oh yeah, jus’ like that. You can take it you can-”

You gasp for air when he finally bottoms out inside you, tears streaming down your face and clawing at his back. 

Satoru only coos, letting you mark him up all you want. Pace increasing relentlessly, “Aww, my good lil’ wife. Taking me so well, huh?” Starting to rock his hips just a bit faster into yours, “Always knew y’would.” 

“Can y’feel me, right-.” Balls smacking against your ass, his finger tracing an invisible line halfway down your tummy. “-here?” Thumb stroking where he could feel himself bulging inside you, pressing down. Hard. 

You almost sob at the pressure, jolting - you should’ve expected that the yakuza boss would fuck so mean.

And shit you can just do nothing but take it, hips jerking wildly as Satoru pounds into you with reckless abandon. Clutching at his shoulders, the sheets, his hair - just anything. 

“C’mon~ Don’t run away from me,” he grunts, strained like he’s struggling to maintain restraint. Lacing his fingers on top of your head to slide you impossibly deeper onto his cock. “Jus’ fuckin’ got you, so don’t you dare run away.”

You can only nod. Eyes glazed, cockdrunk and letting him thrust so sloppily. “Won’t run away Toru…” you babble, “Wan’ you to make me yours.”

“Mine? Gonna be all mine?”

“All yours, Toru.”

And maybe you were an idiot, maybe you were a mastermind - because with a choked out little moan of what sounded like your name, Satoru’s pulling you both to sit up. The gravity makes you bury his cock deeper and faster into your tight pussy.

With the new angle, your husband’s hitting all the right spots easily, almost as if he knew your body better than you did. Veins rubbing so deliciously against your walls, shifting around your hips to fuck up into that poor, abused spot. 

“Ya like this, huh?” he groans, fingers now toying with your ravaged clit. Rolling it around harshly between two fingers. “Always knew this cute pussy could take me s’well. Just didn’t know it would feel this fucking heavenly.”

Faster, sloppier. Bouncing you on his rock-hard cock  like he was claiming you from the inside. So, so desperate and debauched.

And exactly where you wanted to be. 

You leave delicate pink bites down this pale neck, alongside those roses - marking him in your own way as you edge closer and closer. It was too much. Everything was too much. 

“Toru-” you sob. And he already knew what that meant. With how your voice breaks so adorably and the way you’re clenching around him hard enough that it’s almost difficult to ruin that cute pussy. 

“Close?” 

“Mhm…”

“Well then.” thrusts getting sloppy, with no reason or rhythm now. Grip on your body tightening like a vice. “Cum f’me like a good lil’ wife, then.”

And that makes you throw your head back in ecstasy - it makes you cum. Thighs quivering, jolts of electricity running down all the way from your overstimulated cunt to your hazy mind. It has you chanting Satoru’s name like a lifeline while his teeth dig into your flesh. Hard enough that you distinctly wondered whether he was out for blood.

Letting out low, muffled moans into your neck while he cums as well. Hot ropes of seed filling up your poor, bloated pussy, painting your walls such a sinful white. Cumming and cumming so hard you wondered whether you’d make it out alive.

And because of the obscene position, you could feel the way it dribbled down your legs. Thick globs landing in a pool on the overpriced sheets below, smearing so lewdly between you two. Hips still fucking up into you - not even thinking about it as he pushes his seed deeper and deeper. 

You managed to raise your eyes, still dazed to meet his - exhausted, and dark with lust and something else that you really weren’t in the right mind to decipher right now. 

And then Satoru’s lips find yours again, biting and tugging lazily. Tasting so unfairly of candy and sweet, sweet trouble. Body melting into you like all the worries have been lifted from his shoulders. He’s looping his arms tighter around your waist, crushing you into an almost-painful hug against him. 

Something soft. Something new. Something that makes a little part of your heart twinge to break the kiss and pull away mere millimeters. “We better not divorce after this.”

“Of course not.” He chuckles into your lips, resting his forehead against yours like he was trying to map the constellations in your eyes. “I haven’t even given you my wedding gift yet.”

Smirking, you lock your legs tighter around Satoru’s toned waist as he lets the two of you fall back into the mattress. Sinking into it - and each other - with both exhaustion and something of a quiet, unspoken little fondness. Batting your lashes up at him, “Mhm, I remember someone talking about giving me four mercedes as a wedding gift and I’m leaving if not.”

“Well then, better get to it. Four for my in-laws to get on their good side, too,” he nuzzles the bite mark on your neck. “Because I plan to stay like this for a long, long time.”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.

[youryanderedaddy]

Tw: captivity, obsessive behavior, made up fantasy lore, mind fuck (?)

He never calls for you - he only ever sends his servants, poor, confused little creatures of the night once lost just like you. They gather at your door like an army of darkness, scratching and biting at the delicate wooden frame, howling piteously with full chest until you're faced with the choice of either opening the door, or suffocating yourself with the fluffy white pillow. You give in after what feels like an appropriate time - not too soon as to feed his ever - growing ego, yet not so late that the creatures' heads start to roll under your nose.

You slowly walk down the endless corridor, refusing to look at anything for longer than a second - even as it calls to you with the sweetest voice of desire. Everything is enchanted to the very last candle on the wall. The countless paintings depict wealth and opulence beyond your wildest dreams, an adundance of riches upon riches, of honeycomb amber and pure green emeralds. The silk carpet is as soft as a dandelion just before it bursts open, and the crystal chandelier embarks such a soft light the human eye can never properly adjust to the tender shades of yellow and blue. The castle is tempting you with every passing breath - begging you to stay here forever. Begging you to love it, and everyone inside - especially His Majesty, the Lord.

You try to calm your disheveled thoughts as you carefully open the heavy gates to the throne room. Your breath hitches deep into your throat as your eyes gaze upon the feast spread out before you, and suddenly you're starving like a wolf. By now you should know better than to let yourself be lured in by magic - but the pull is too magnetic and you quickly find yourself stepping closer to the piled up table. You take in the smell with unsatiated hunger - golden apples baked inside fine sugar crystals, tender deer fillet dripping with berry sauce and smokey mushrooms, the sort you can only find inside an enchanted forrest. Cream puffs and mountains of stripped ice soaked in jam and vanilla essence upon stacks of fruit and more goblets of red wine than you can count. And yet he remains ever the centerpiece of the vision.

"You're late, mona grece tide*." His voice slowly fills the room with its overbearing softness, always on the verge of dropping into silence. It's painful to look at him - as if everything about the mythical man was created a touch too symmetrical, to the point where the sharp features all blend together. His lips are too full, his eyes - if the golden slits beneath his brows may be called that, are way too bright under the sun, and they reflect a time you don't wish to remember. And his hair is so long and pale, so very white and smooth, you have to stop your hands from reaching into the wounded transparency of his wild locks, less you want to lose a finger or two.

"Tidea." Khaal snaps his finger more aggressively when you don't respond to his call the first time. You squint in an attempt to block the light coming from the tiny cracks in his face - the birth lines of his dragon. "Sit down. Don't make me come to you."

Tide. Tidea. Love, as you eventually learnt the meaning of the word in Lohemian. My little love, the words still rest on his tongue, because what are you if not a small, fragile human?

"I'd hate to inconvenience you so, my Lord." You eventually bite back, breaking out of the trance. Slipping in and out of consciousness and constantly guessing your surroundings is taking a toll on you, but you'll lose your sanity before you give into his madness. "Touching a filthy human like myself will surely sully your pretty golden flakes." You smile with venom, tearing into the nearest sun-pear. He watches the juice drip down your chin with angry narrowed eyes, and with another swift snap of his fingers he's standing before you, towering above.

"Insolent child, you are." He grips your face carelessly, inspecting it from all sides before finally materializing a clean cloth and wiping you clean. "You're foolish just like any other human." His brows twist together with anger, but his expression remains angelic to the untrained eye. "I can give you everything you've ever wanted. The sun at your feet, the moon on your shoulders. All the knowledge of the world." His fingers suddenly stop rubbing along your jawline and his gaze falls upon your cold, quivering lips. "All I ask in return is your loyalty." His sharp nail begins stroking your lower lip. It doesn't draw blood, but you wish it would. You can't stand the anticipation - the moment before the violence entails.

"Don't let your eyes wander. Gift me your warmth." The dragon king pulls you closer to his chest, and all fight leaves you. His form is perfectly defined with thousand metal - like flakes, one on top of the other like a flawless shield. It's probably a great weapon on the battlefield - but it lacks the naked vulnerability of human skin, and it's so cold it hurts to stand close, much less touch it directly. "Look at me!" He suddenly roars, and you fall back from the sheer power of his voice.

Everything hurts - as if the floor is suddenly melting, you feel like you will never stop falling down.

"I can't. It's too painful." You whisper weakly between hoarse broken sobs threatening to tear off your heart in two. "I wasn't made for this world, f-for your... world." You bite your lips, averting eyes to the ground. "Everything in you wants me dead. Your love will kill me." You whimper, squeezing your left hand to your chest. The dead weight of the broken bone is pulling you down, luring you deeper into sleep.

"I'd like to see you try, mon'tidea." He sinks down to your level, quick as a shadow. Stealing a kiss as light as a sparrow, he pushes you down. "Die as many times as you want. You'll always end up here in my arms." His lips are grazing your ear, warm breath hitting your neck. Another illusion, you realize - his body can't create warmth. It's simply reflecting your warmth back to you. "Because once you enter my realm, there's no coming back."

[infinite-orangepeel]

“get too close to your muse & you, the artist, will lose all ability to decipher one shade from the next on your palette. keep your distance…”

fall quarter begins at the curly roots of eddie munson’s ineffable head, runs its’ labyrinthian course through passageways of blue veins & black ink, & ends at a set of hairy crimson painted toes.

steve finds himself squandering every waking moment of his lifeblood & attention somewhere, egregiously, in the middle.

“say you’re drawing a bed of flowers,” his professor lectured a few weeks back, “what happens if you put your nose in the middle of those flowers & try to recreate the details on your canvas? you come up with color and shape, sure, but it’s blurry—isn’t it? it’s a big blobby blur of nothing. that’s not very good life drawing, i’m afraid.”

flash forward to the present—

the bed is firm but comfortable. reminding you of its’ presence.

it doesn’t encourage daydreaming &, yet, steve is ignoring the better advice of his mentor & pressing his curious nose directly into the bud of an all too striking flower.

he knows the intimate contact could kill the rose, is aware of the thorns lining the stem, but he can’t stay away.

he’s struck by fear and temptation and self-loathing and a beauty that stings like a slap across the face.

eddie’s his roommate, his friend, his muse for the most important project of steve’s career as an art student.

& getting too close is lethal, so he creates a sort of optical illusion.

designs an environment in which he can pretend they are star-crossed lovers in a broken world that won’t let them be together. in which touch is a small death each and every time.

steve flits to eddie like a dragonfly to water—

never touching.

never spending too much time in his orbit before making up an excuse to leave & jerk off to the smell of old cigarettes in the bathroom.

everything he really wants to say sits in the back of his throat like a painful, malignant lump & gets spat out onto his sketchbook in a tragically romantic exorcism.

doing the dishes next to him is enough to drive him insane.

drawing him, butt-naked, is another story.

“is it supposed to be so….erotic?”

eddie arches an eyebrow as steve traces the outline of his cock into his sketchbook.

“it’s not that erotic,” steve says, blushing into his charcoals, “besides no one will know it’s you. it’s art.”

art is supposed to be weird & naked. now, hold still, & let me draw you.”

it’s definitely erotic.

there are roses—de-thorned, for safety—shrouding eddie’s dick & leaving a trail of pink petals across his pale thighs.

eddie’s hand is draped over his head; exuding a certain brattiness, lust, boredom—

as if he’s lying there because he wants someone, like steve, to stumble upon him & use his body the way it so clearly needs to be.

his lips are parted on the precipice of whispering some filthy secret into steve’s ear while milking him like a simple farm girl with nothing better to do.

fuck.

he can’t be this close to eddie without losing his mind.

fuck. fuck. fuck.

it’s just a body. just limbs and a huge cock and—

eddie’s quiet for a little while which is rare for him, before he pipes up again.

“what if we painted the flowers together?”

steve wipes the sweat from his brow, drops his pencil, and looks up at eddie across the mattress. working overtime to avoid staring at the erection sticking out amongst the bouquet of roses.

“the piece isn’t supposed to be very colorful. i’m going for muted tones. that’s why i picked the pale pinks and whites.”

eddie giggles a little and, it’s so cute, steve has to pinch his own thigh through his shorts just to maintain composure.

“i don’t think you’re understanding—the colors wouldn’t change much. except for some more white, if you catch my drift,” eddie pumps his hand over his cock several times and mimes cumming stop the petals, “might look cool. might get you extra points with that asshole professor of yours. you’ve said he likes ‘shock value.’”

“i—i guess you’re right. that’s a pretty….different and unique….um….idea. yeah.”

it’s like this that steve strips naked and clambers as close to eddie as he can possibly get without laying a finger on him. adhering to the rules—keeping a particular distance between artist & muse.

they lay side by side. sunlight streaming in through the blinds & bathing eddie’s spindly fingers in gold as he touches himself.

“harrington, don’t act like you haven’t been dreaming about this since day one,” eddie snarks, “i’ve seen the way you look at me, sweetheart. your eyes are gonna burn holes in my ass if you’re not careful. touch that pretty cock of yours, lemme see you.”

before steve can do anything about it or change his mind, he’s got a fist wrapped around his own cock and the other hand pinching his nipples. left and right, back and forth, dragging his nails through the hair sprouting around them.

“didn’t think you thought about me like that,” steve whines, watching as eddie edges himself methodically—

moving faster, slower, squeezing at the base, thumbing over the slit, cupping his balls, slapping the insides of his own thighs until they match the pink petals.

“i like a little pain,” he comments when he catches steve’s wide eyes, “and i’ve always was hallucinating the first time i walked into this room and saw you on the bed—thought i was going into the light and seeing an angel.”

“you’re so full of it.”

“i’d like to be full of you,” eddie breathes against steve’s neck, not allowing his lips to pass the barrier, “but i don’t know if you can handle me, big boy. you’re blushing like a nervous little schoolgirl.”

“am not—”

“are too, &, you’re about to cum just listening to my voice. it’s so crystal clear. look at you—fucking yourself so stupid.”

eddie looks so beautiful.

laying there like a forsaken god locked out of heaven.

steve’s been so good about keeping his hands to himself, about keeping his nose out of the flowers, but desire and temptation are stronger than any amount of remaining willpower he has.

he grabs eddie’s shoulder with his freehand & kisses him until they’re both seeing stars.

celestial explosions of pleasure & truth & this thing that’s been growing violently between them since the moment they first met.

“i’m cumming. i’m gonna—fuck steve, it’s gonna be on the flowers—i hope that’s okay—”

they cum in tandem over petals of pink and white and thornless stems.

steve gets an A+.

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[chickenparm]

By Choice or By Accident (Wanderer/Reader)

Spoilers for Interlude Chapter: Act III Inversion of Genesis

i made the executive decision that the traveler fucks around a bit and takes a good while longer to decipher what scara changed with irminsul and wow, that's a convenient amount of time for him to get real soft on someone huh-

(also i believe scara says he doesn't like sweets only because ei DOES like sweets and he secretly loves them you cannot change my mind, back off)

AO3 LINK

Wanderer/Reader

5,258 Words - SFW

Nothing heinous. Fluff, 2 seconds of Angst, meandering narrative, skipping time a little bit, Reader is a candy maker. Very indulgent, don't take this seriously.

---

Despite its status as a hub of commerce, it’s rather obvious when a new face arrives in the Grand Bazaar. Even more so when they’re dressed like that - soft blues against striking azure, a wide hat and carefully placed body armor to show martial skill. 

When the grocer across the way brings home a straggler, your initial thought is to be wary. There’s an unsettled quiet around him as he keeps his head ducked low and his face carefully hidden. The protection on his arms and shins suggests some martial skill, yet there’s no vision to be seen on his person. 

In the beginning, you’re wary - and rightfully so. Then his head lifts and his eyes move around the bazaar before he realizes you’re staring, and something fundamental changes in that split second. The air around him shifts, the guarded expression in his eyes bleeds away, and you’re left staring at excited eyes and a smile that shines with both anticipation and trepidation. 

The grocer’s new stray becomes a fixture. One that you quietly watch from your stall of handmade sweets, your gaze occasionally broken by the excited child or curious adult, all of whom are the sources of your livelihood here. But even your regulars find it hard to keep your attention when something so interesting is just across the way. 

Initially, the first word you’d use to describe him is untouchable. Like something priceless to be placed on a shelf. Only to look at, never to hold in your hands and sully it with your touch. Even as he works diligently at the grocer and displays less than fragile tendencies, you still can’t keep yourself from marveling at the otherworldly sort of perfection. 

Then, just like that, it’s swept away in the span of a short interaction. 

While you’ve overheard his quiet arguments with the grocer about not accepting pay, you know for certain he’s been tipped on deliveries to their customers. It’s what gives him the means to tentatively cross the walkway to your stall, stand a respectful distance away, and let pretty violet eyes wander over what you have on display for the day. 

And they are pretty. A color you’ve never seen before, even in a city like Sumeru where fabrics in all manner of hues are commonplace. You’re not entirely sure that someone could accurately recreate such a shade of purple. 

Quietly, as if to keep from imposing on you, he steps a little closer and squeezes the pouch of mora in front of him with a grip so tight his knuckles turn just a little lighter than the rest of his pale skin. It’s painfully obvious that he’s nervous, but his chin lifts and his chest expands with an inhale, and you’re impressed with the bravery he’s showing to simply peruse a candy stall. 

“Please recommend something to me!”

He says it like he’s about to run into battle - and your heart that was wary at first melts. Any caution is thrown to the wind as your shoulders relax, and a smile spreads across your face, and you ask, “What do you like?”

To your surprise, he clams up for a moment, twisting at the ties of the mora pouch until you’re certain the ropes are going to unravel. The last thing you expect is a quiet, “...I’m not sure.”

Okay. You can handle that, as strange as it is. Going into your usual sales pitch with gusto, you try your hardest not to be distracted by the way he cocks his head and leans in, listening with rapt attention as you point out each little piece, which were handmade and which you had brought him, which were your favorites and which ones most people seemed to gravitate toward. 

“These ones aren’t popular, but I like them. They’re sour, but once you get to the middle, there’s a sweetness that chases it away. Just don’t eat too many, they’ll make your mouth sore!”

“It’s sour, but you say they’re good?” His fingers pinch his chin in thought as he looks at each flavor you have of the small selection. It’s no use keeping a large stock when its audience is few and far between. “Sour on the outside, sweet on the inside, huh?”

“It makes the sweetness that much nicer if you can make it through the tough bit. It’s kind of like life, isn’t it? Once you make it through the difficult parts, the moments that are softer are that much better when you’re in them.”

Violet eyes watch you in wonder, lips gently parted as he mulls over your impromptu advice. With warm cheeks, you busy yourself with straightening the rows, the smallest bit of embarrassment making your fingers shake. They don’t look any neater when you’ve finished.

He picks one of everything you indicate as your preference, carefully counting out the coins and giving a little extra that you try to place back in his hand. But he grasps your wrist until your palm is up, pushing the extra coins there and using his free hand to curl your fingers around them securely. The smile on his face is wider than any you’ve seen, cutting into his cheeks and making the corners of his eyes squint in its wake. 

“Just for being kind, that’s all.” And his touch lingers for a moment long enough to make your heart skip, your fingers itching to grasp at his own so he could stay just a little longer. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

“I don’t think you’ll get through all that candy in a night.” Or he could, you’re in no place to judge him for it. Certainly, children much smaller than him have performed that feat before. 

In return, he smiles sheepishly and focuses on his hands holding yours, his thumb pressing against the pulse point of your wrist. There’s no doubt he can feel your heart racing from his touch and his presence, his soft grin and the slight flush on the apples of his cheeks. “Maybe not. But… just to talk to you? I’d like to know you if you’d let me.”

If he notices your persistent giddiness for the remainder of the bazaar’s open hours, he mercifully doesn’t make any comment on it. He simply returns the next day with praises over what you’d sold him the day before, exclaiming that the sour candies were his favorite, and an earnest question. 

“Could you teach me how to make this?”

And how could you say no? When his hands were fisted at his sides to hide how they shake at the prospect of such a simple question, there’s no way you could deny something so… sweet.

That evening, after he closes up with the grocer, he crosses the pathway that separates you and offers to help you carry your goods home for the day. It’s with great pleasure you gesture to a house just two doors down - your home and workshop all in one. He doesn’t let you carry your goods, anyway.

“It must be nice, living so close. I’m glad to see it.”

“Glad?” You ask, watching carefully at how he carries a box with one arm that you often have to drag across the ground on a nightly basis. He must be deceptively strong. The hat he wears is tucked beneath his other arm, leaving his smooth hair a little mussed after a day of wearing it. 

His head bobs as he watches you unlock the door with a key from your pocket, the hinges groaning as you step inside and urge him to follow as you work to light the lamps. The answer you asked for comes as the room illuminates. “I’d hate for you to have to walk so far at night. It’s not very safe.”

“True, but the bazaar is one of the safest places in the city. And I’ve lived here all my life.”

“Spending your life somewhere doesn’t always make it safe,” he pauses, just long enough to set the box of goods down on the table that dominates the center of your home, “but it’s not really my place to be overbearing about your safety. I’m sorry if that was too much.”

“No! It was… nice. Thank you for caring.” The words strike him into stillness, his hand resting on the lid of the box, thumb curling around the edge to press into the wood. His other hand rubs over his chest, just beneath the dangling ornament and pinion that jingle slightly in the comfortable silence. 

The swallow he makes is audible, a show of that nervousness that comes when he seems to be faced with sincerity he doesn’t know what to do with. To his credit, his voice doesn’t waver, even a little. “You’ve been nothing but nice to me. Of course I’d care, even a little.” And that endearing pink comes back again, barely visible in the lights that are just beginning to grow stronger as the flame catches the wicks.

“You’ve been nice, too. Give yourself a little credit.” 

Outside, other merchants are making their way home. The sound of carts and laughter trickles into the room, breaking the tension that’s somehow formed despite such an innocuous topic. Clearing your throat, you ask, “You know, I don’t actually know your name. You’ve never told me.”

While the tension is gone for you, it doubles down on him as his shoulders clench, and he pointedly looks away. The far corner of the room suddenly becomes impossibly interesting to him, at least compared to how you begin to move closer to unpack the box. 

“That’s because… I don’t have one. I’m just a wanderer. Any name I might’ve had, I don’t remember it anymore.”

“Do you not remember by choice, or by accident?”

You don’t miss the way his eyes follow your movements as you bring the sour candies out. Pointedly, you pull a few from their bag and push them across the table to him. As if he were afraid they’d disappear, his fingers wrap around them and drag them closer. One pops in his mouth, and he waits until the sweetness makes itself known before he finally answers.

“A little of both, I think.” The candy clacks against his teeth, running along his molars from one side to the other, as if he’s preventing a single spot from being scoured by the sourness. Perhaps it’s also a tactic to delay what comes next, something you only realize when he says it. “You should know… I’m not exactly human. I’m-... I’m a puppet.”

“Okay.”

“...Okay?”

Giving him time to ruminate over that, you finish unloading the box before stowing it away beneath the table. It gives you enough time to formulate a tactful response. Palms on the table, you lean to get the weight off your feet from standing all day, and explain yourself. “That doesn’t change anything. I still like you, I’ll still teach you. You must’ve lived a long time then, huh?”

He doesn’t give you a number, and you don’t exactly ask, but the way he exhales until his lungs are empty tells you that in his mind, it might have been a few too many years to walk through. Has he wandered all that time? Alone? It doesn’t feel right to ask - so you don’t. 

Instead, as you begin to lay out supplies for tomorrow’s stock, you quietly make a promise to yourself that if you can help it, perhaps he won’t need to use the term lonely to describe himself ever again. 

—

When you first opened your stall, it was commonplace for you to grow sick after contacting so many people on a daily basis. It was just expected, it came with the territory, and you only needed a handful of months for your body to grow used to it. Nowadays, you hardly find yourself feeling ill at all.

Then there were days like today, where the world is too bright, and your skin feels too hot and too cold, uncomfortable no matter your position. The softness of your bed curls around you, cradling your aching joints as you struggle to maintain a comfortable body temperature. The windows facing the street show that the sun is already risen, though at this time of day, not as much of it makes it down to the bazaar, even at the outskirts as you are.

Wrapped in your blankets in the throes of a cold chill is how the wanderer finds you. His steps into your home are tentative - you’d given him a key, and you thank yourself for the foresight. Looking into your bedroom, his expression goes from curiosity to something that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than fear.

“What’s wrong? Look at me-”

“I’m okay.” Talking makes your head feel thick and muddled, stuffed too full of the meager thoughts it requires to get words out. But he’s kneeling next to your head now, hands hovering over you but not quite touching, like he’s unsure of what to do next. It lightens your mood a little, seeing him fret like this. “Just a little sick - it goes around this time of year.”

“What do you need me to do? Do you need food? Have you had anything to drink today? Hang on, let me get a washcloth.”

And he’s on his feet, moving to your kitchen and out of your ability to call him back. A quiet laugh leaves you as you roll onto your back, snuggling beneath blankets and listening as he sifts through your cabinets to find a bowl, then fill it with cool water to bring back to you. His eyes are more focused on the bowl as he enters, determined not to spill it until he’s able to set it down on your bedside table. 

Before you can say a word, the back of his fingers press to your forehead, and he hisses through his teeth. There’s no need to say that you’re burning up, not with how he hurriedly wrings out the cloth and folds it delicately on your forehead. Even chilled as you are, it feels like heaven, and you all but melt into the blankets as the fingers of his hand linger along your brow. 

“Better?”

“Mm… yes, thank you.”

“Okay. It’s okay.” He sounds more like he’s reassuring himself, rather than you. There’s something haunted in his eyes, something that’s clawing at the back of his mind. Far be it from your place to ask, but the fever has lowered your inhibitions, and you can’t help but lick the chapped dryness of your lips before asking what you wish to know. 

“Why are you afraid? Look at you, you’re terrified.”

The answer is immediate, maybe even instinctual. “I don’t know.” His eyes linger over your face, trailing over the dark circles beneath your eyes and the weariness that lingers. “My mind is telling me terrible things, almost like I’ve… lost someone like this. But I’ve never-... I haven’t been around anyone long enough to care. Not like this.”

He cares. About you. Sure, that was obvious enough at this point, but the fact that he puts it into words so candidly makes your heart flutter nervously. It’s been a long time since anyone would go to these lengths for you in your time of need, and for it to be him… It makes you feel leagues better already.

“I’m… I’ll make you something to eat. And get you something to drink. I’ll be back.”

The words tumble out of him, one after another, with little control. He’s nearly out the door by the time you comprehend that he’d been pink in the cheeks, fingers nervously twirling the golden feather on his chest. He cares. What a novel thought.

It doesn’t take him terribly long to return. Just long enough for your eyes to droop closed and your mind to wander off into dreams of pretty violet eyes and the faint scent of flowers that you’ve never come across before. Soft smiles, a hand running down your arm, a thumb across your cheek as a familiar voice urges you to reawaken. 

“Just a few bites, then you can sleep.”

Easy enough, when the spoon finds its way to your mouth of its own accord. Yet it’s not sentient - it’s held by lithe fingers that guide it steadily. At your back is his arm, helping you sit up so you don’t spill over your sheets. Quietly, you shift a little closer and bask in that faint floral smell that’s like nothing in Sumeru. The only way you can explain it is if you were describing the wanderer himself.

Drinking is an easy affair, thanks to the straw he’d somehow found you, and once he’s satisfied you’ve completed the tasks he’s laid out, so too does he lay you back on your bed. With distance comes a stark loneliness, and you reach for his hand as he stands from where he’d been kneeling. “Stay? Please?”

“Let me grab a chair at least. Your floor hurts.”

You want to tell him to just climb in your bed. To let you curl around him for all the comfort he can offer, greedily taking and taking because he’s always so willing to give. But the last bit of your self-control pulls you back in, releasing your grip to allow him to drag a chair across the floor to sit at your bedside with an exasperated smile. 

“Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake.”

“Hm… Promise?”

“I swear it on my life. I’m not going anywhere.”

The last thought before you drift off is a quiet murmur of your heart repeating that he cares. About you, about your wellbeing. He’ll be here when your eyes open, hopefully with less of that fear he’s still holding onto. The washcloth on your forehead is changed, slim fingers wipe away stray water droplets, and all the while he hums a tune under his breath that sounds like the sweetest song.

—

The wanderer has only one devastating, debilitating flaw - he’s a worrier. 

Whether it’s after a long day and you’re bone tired, or you were too busy to eat lunch, or even if you’re just feeling a little ill, he has an incessant need to coddle. On anyone else, it wouldn’t be a good look. You’re a grown adult, you can take care of yourself, keep yourself safe and cared for. 

But something about the way he does it soothes any outrage you could possibly feel. Insistent, quiet, offered with a smile that seems almost pleading. And you know that while he’s making you dinner and taking on the duty of meticulously creating fruit-shaped candies for tomorrow’s weekend sale, it’s for his own sake as much as it is yours. 

And so, if it keeps him smiling as he carefully pours soup into a bowl for you, you’re more than willing to let him get away with it. 

Chin propped on your hand, elbow on the table, you let your eyes drift closed as the weariness of the day catches up to you. The festival over the weekend was one of the biggest in a long time, and your preparations were wearing you impossibly thin. It meant longer evenings to finish creating stock, longer days to account for new tourists, and all the stress that comes with it. 

Not to mention the last straggling bits of your illness that had kept you homebound for days, still lingering after two long weeks. Your muscles still felt weak, your head still fuzzy.

But the wanderer had been a huge help, especially as the grocer had all but kicked him out of his stall to send over to yours. The grocer had been trying to foist him off on you for weeks now, and he hadn’t really needed to try that hard at all. 

The sound of ceramic sliding across the table in front of you is the indication he’s dropped your food off, and you crack your eyes open just in time to see the golden pinion of his ornament dangling in front of your face as he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. 

Both of you freeze. 

But he doesn’t pull away, and neither do you. Instead, you reach with a shaking hand to the golden feather, grasping it lightly with your fingertips and rubbing your thumb along the subtle ridges. Your curiosity serves an alternate purpose; it keeps him close, prevents him from backing away from you. 

A sigh breezes along your scalp, humid from his breath, and a shiver from you breaks you both out of the odd trance. 

“I’m so sorry-”

“It’s okay.” You cut him off, already anticipating the unwarranted apology for something you desperately wanted him to do again. Even standing above you, he looks incredibly small as his hands clutch at the opening of his kimono, worrying at the edges without a care for the wrinkles he’s creating. 

Letting the feather drop back to his chest, you reach for one of his fretting hands and hold it tight enough in your own that you can’t tell if the tremors come from you or him. It could even be both. Suddenly you’re filled with anticipation so strong it makes your stomach turn painfully. 

But it’s not bad. It’s welcomed, wanted. The only relief you know of is sought after with a simple question. “Could you do it again?”

“...Again?”

“If you’d like to. If it wasn’t a regretful accident.”

His lower lip disappears between his teeth for a moment, then pops out with a pink hue from the abuse. You’re only allowed a second to admire the shade before the only thing you can see is alabaster and violet, your view of the world cut off as he presses his lips to yours with a clumsiness that is borne from inexperience. 

A thud rocks the table from his palm hitting it, an attempt to brace himself as he leans further into you until he’s nearly climbed into your lap. A whine brushes across your cheek through his nose - a high-pitched, cracking sort of sound that’s sweeter to your ears than any song could be, any candy could taste. 

That evening, the wanderer becomes your wanderer. 

And the world seems more vibrant, the music of the festival is more joyous than anything you’ve ever heard. Your wanderer closes your stall and guides you to the theatre to watch Nilou spin and sway. Her movements are nothing short of hypnotic, but hardly enough to catch your attention as you lean against him and let your eyes follow the cut of his jawline, the brush of his hair against his ear, the subtle pink of his blush as he catches you staring from the corner of his eye. 

For an evening, the entirety of Teyvat feels like it’s in harmony. He smiles down at you, and the stars above shine just a little bit brighter. An arm winds around your waist to hold you closer, and the lyrics to the music lose their meaning, the tune grows meandering and unimportant compared to how he smiles so, so gently. 

If asked, you’re not sure that you’d be able to think of a single thing you wouldn’t give up to recklessly chase after this feeling with him. Safe, warm, loved. It’d been there from the beginning, quietly growing subtle roots until it ingrained itself too deep to remove - as if you’d want to. 

That night, you nearly tell him you love him. Something stays your tongue, but you’re not quite sure what it might have been. Tomorrow, you promise yourself as he brings you to your door and kisses you so sweetly that you can do nothing but melt in his hold. Tomorrow, you resolve as you watch him backpedal down the street, giving you that smile you favor so much. 

Tomorrow, you promise the following day as the market quiets following such a busy event, unwilling to break the peace for a confession you’re not entirely confident he’s ready for. Instead, you prop your elbow on your stall’s counter and watch as he smiles at the grocer. As he squats to the level of a child that’s examining fruits, and offers one of the familiar candies from your stall to him. 

Over the child’s head, he catches your eye, and the placating smile turns to one that’s teeth and pink cheeks, embarrassment at having been caught with such softness but not ashamed enough to stop. In the heat of the afternoon, the quiet murmur of the bazaar, the daylight stretching the shadows long as the sun crosses its apex and begins to descend, everything feels the closest to perfection you could ever achieve.

Tomorrow doesn’t come. 

Or rather, it does, but he’s missing. The grocer mentions he’d stepped out of the city to make a run for sunsettias, then left on an errand with a golden-haired newcomer and their floating companion. The Traveler, you recognize vaguely from gossip through the grapevine. They’d keep him safe, surely, but you can’t help but feel a looming sense of dread when he doesn’t return that evening. 

For the first time in months, you eat your dinner alone. 

—

The tables are turned, for once. It’s you that worries over his well-being, so much so that you close your stand for the day and pace around your home like a caged animal. Certainly he must be fine, but he would’ve mentioned it to you if he were leaving, wouldn’t he? It feels wrong to not be aware of his presence, to not simply turn your head and have him at the corner of your vision as a steady presence. 

The grocer stops by to drop a few pieces of produce off, an attempt to check on you and reassure you of the wanderer’s safety with the Traveler. It does little to assuage your fears - nothing does, until the door opens and it’s filled with a familiar silhouette.

Except it’s… not. 

There’s a different set to his shoulders. A tension that lingers for a moment too long before it bleeds away at the sight of you. But his eyes are still the same, taking you in with immeasurable reverence that doesn’t fade even as he steps into your home that’s dimmer than the midday market outside. One, two, three long strides bring him to you, close enough to yank you to his chest and hold you impossibly tight with both arms. 

“I’m sorry.”

Even the tone is different. It’s lower, more tentative, almost as if he expects you to refuse him. Adamant, you wrap your arms tight around his waist and link your hands together, squeezing with everything you can muster as you mumble into the fabric over his chest. “You should be. You had me so worried.”

“That’s… I’m sorry for that, too.”

“You’re sorry for something else?” Pulling your head back, you look up at him. Nothing could have prepared you for the way his face falls, his lip drawing between his teeth as he takes in the sight of your confusion and weariness. 

There is no stalling further. His hand comes to the back of your head, bringing you back close again as he speaks over your shoulder. “I need to ask you something. Don’t be afraid to tell me the truth. Even if you think it will hurt me.”

“And if it will hurt me?”

“It’ll hurt more if I don’t ask it at all.” His chest beneath your cheek shudders with his exhalation, its wavering shaking you to your core as you realize it’s tinged with tears once he continues. “If someone walked in here that looked and sounded just like me, but they were inarguably an evil person… would you still want to stay with them?”

“Looks and sounds like you…?”

“If you couldn’t tell the difference, beyond the knowledge that for the entirety of their existence, so many of the actions they’d taken were for horrible, inexcusable reasons.”

It shouldn’t be a simple answer. The question he’s posed to you has so many layers despite its surface-level simplicity. But with the way he looks at you - wild, desperate, clinging to the hope for an answer that lets him stay close to you - it only takes you a moment to come to a conclusion that settles into place like a key turning a lock. Smooth, easy, with a satisfying click.

“Whoever that person might’ve been… they’re not who you are now.” His breath hitches, stilling under where you rest your head. Whether that’s the right answer or the wrong, you’re unsure, but you’re too far to backtrack now. “I know who you are. People are allowed to change, that’s just what humans do.”

“I’m not human.”

He’s not. He’s told you so himself that he was created, not born. But it’s easy enough to forget that fact when he’s here in front of you, trembling in your arms and clinging desperately to the normalcy you’ve unknowingly provided. The front he puts up is so convincing that you’re not sure it’s even false anymore - he’s experienced all there is to being a human.

“But you’re close enough, aren’t you? You laugh, and you hurt. You’re hurting right now. And the most important part of being a human is love.” Pulling back enough to look at him, to note the shine of tears and the harshness of his bite on his bottom lip to hide its quivering, you ask, “Do you feel love?”

“Yes. So much, it’s killing me.”

“Ah, you just need to let it out then. Of course, I’d stay with you. If it’s like you say, then there’s a long road ahead, and I’m happy to walk it with you, if you’ll let me.”

Choked laughter leaves him, high-pitched and disbelieving. It signals the floodgates of his tears falling, and he releases one arm from you to rub at his eyes to catch them before they fall. It’s a futile effort, one you’re happy to see, even as he surges forward to kiss you, wetting your cheeks with his own. 

Against your lips he murmurs, muffled and sloppy, “Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou-”

As if you would have left him after coming to know him like this. It only hurts for a second that the thought had even crossed his mind to doubt - and perhaps that doubt will creep back in over the coming days. When things are difficult or when stirrings of a life past-lived come back to rear its head, threatening the tenuous peace he’s found. 

There are times that he looks at you with eyes that aren’t as familiar. They’re darker, edged sharply, but it’s still him. A different facet shining in the light, but if you tilt your head, you can see the core of him that lies beneath. Still the same, no matter how he refracts it. As he comes and goes, it feels as if a new page turns each time - some new, some old. A wildness exists that seeps through, visible only when he holds you a little too tight, kisses you a little too hard. 

Unsteadiness is something he’s worn since the first day you’ve met him, and with the return of memories he’d lost, it doesn’t settle over him as often as it once had. Only when you notice the shift does he avoid your gaze, the sheepish little smile lifting the weight on your heart, and his in turn.

He’s trying. That’s enough, you think.

[husbandomail-archive]

hello I have returned! thank you everybody for your patience while my family moved; we’re still not entirely settled in, but I’m slowly reaching the point where I can resume writing. so here’s what I’ve been working on!

Idia/reader

in which he can’t see the screen.

“—damn! Again?! Isn’t that the same place as last time, too?” You sighed from your position on Ignihyde’s floor, shoving your hand into a bag of chips as you glanced back over your shoulder at your gaming partner. “You okay back there, Idia? Do we need to stop and level grind?”

As he made eye contact with you, Idia’s face and the tips of his hair turned pink. He shifted on the couch, crossing his legs and lifting his computer into his lap. “There’s no time for that,” he mumbled, chewing on his bottom lip, “The event ends soon, and we still don’t have enough materials to craft another set of that armor—” His voice slowly trailed off as he busied himself with the on-screen menus.

You stretched a bit, twisting your body until it was easier to stare up at him from your little next of pillows on the floor. The two of you had been trying this raid even for hours with no luck. Now, if you had been playing this game by yourself, or even if you’d used the lobby to team up with randos, your lack of success would make perfect sense— but no, you were playing with Idia. That’s what made this string of failures so suspicious.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Idia?”

He huffed, and a strand of hair went flying away from his face. “I’m fine,” he said, although it didn’t sound very convincing. One of his hands came up to comb his flickering bangs from his eyes, but the blue embers were insistent on hanging directly in his line of sight.

No wonder you guys kept losing— he couldn’t see the screen.

Laying there propped up on your side, you watched Idia for a quiet moment, enjoying the soft sounds of his keyboard as he blatantly tried to avoid looking at you. His long blue hair cascading down his shoulders, flickering endlessly as his delicate hands continued to brush it aside, the flames melding at his touch—

Your own fingers twitched. What did his hair feel like?

Idia glanced up at you from underneath his bangs. His hair changed color again, more soft threads of pink appearing when he realized he still had your attention. His painted mouth pulled into a pout. “Don’t look at me like that! We only lost because of RNG— let’s try again.”

“Let’s take a break, actually,” you stretched again, finally pulling yourself up onto your knees, trying to rub the screen-strain from your eyes.

Idia winced at even the slightest rejection, but he nodded, setting his computer down on the couch cushions and vaguely turning in your direction. “—what are we doing now, then? A different game? A movie?”

“Don’t you think you need a haircut?”

Idia jolted backwards immediately, his spine pressed into the back of the couch, eyes going wide as his hair paled to almost the same shade as his skin. “St— hey, stay back! No scissors!”

A beat of silence, followed by a laugh that bubbled its way out of your throat. You almost doubled over at the expression on his face. “That’s not what I meant!” It took a moment for you to catch your breath, but as soon as you did, you waved off Idia’s concerns. “I’m just making conversation, Idia. You should try it sometime.”

Without waiting for a response, you untangled yourself from your nest of pillows sprawled across the floor, stepping over to where you’d dropped your bag hours ago. Idia’s eyes widened yet again as he watched you fumbling through your bag, clearly looking for something specific. “...Hey, you’re not gonna—”

“Calm down,” you said gently. Once your hands closed around what you were looking for, you pulled them from your bag slowly, as if trying not to startle a skittish pet. “I’m not gonna cut your hair.”

“But you do intend to do something.” His eyes narrowed at you. No point in dodging that accusation, because it was true; you held up the bundle of personal treasures from your bag, letting Idia examine them before you made any sudden moves.

Hair ties. Decorative barrettes. That small brush you always forgot you were carrying.

“Let me put your hair up, Idia.”

The dorm leader sat quietly for a moment, his sharp eyes flickering between your hands and your face; if you looked any closer, you’d be able to see his own hands trembling. What kind of dating sim scene is this turning into—?

“Okay.” He immediately pressed a hand to his mouth, as if to catch the word before it fell. You had clearly already heard him, though— your face lit up in a way that made his chest twist.

“Really?! You’ll let me?” Honestly, you hadn’t expected him to say yes.

Idia turned his face away from you as if to hide his blush, although that did nothing against the kaleidoscope of his hair colors. “—hurry up before I change my mind!”

You nodded happily, stepping around the couch to stand behind him. He’d agreed so much easier than you’d expected, so you’d better take the chance while you have it.

Sitting in front of you, Idia shifted nervously; for someone with anxiety, being able to feel but not see a person behind him sent adrenaline through his veins, even though he knew it was just you. He began to turn his head so he could stare back at you over his shoulder, but your warm hands landed gently on the side of his face, directing him to stare forward again. “Sit still,” you chided— and then finally, you began to run your fingers through the ethereal flames he called his hair.

The first thing you noticed was that it didn’t burn. In fact, the flames weren’t even warm. You hummed in vague surprise as you twisted a few strands around your fingers, admiring the texture, memorizing the color. When the sound left your throat, Idia shifted again.

“Wh— what’s that noise supposed to mean?” He tried to sound demanding, but his voice wavered and he winced; talk about undermining himself.

“Nothing bad,” you assured him, continuing to fiddle with the ends of blue strands. “I’m just surprised— it looks like fire, but being able to touch it is just so…”

Idia leaned further back against the couch and tilted his head to look up at you, bemusement painted across his face. The movement sent his long hair shimmering like a waterfall over the back of the sofa. “Of course it’s not as hot as regular flames,” he said, “do you have any idea how uncomfortable that would be?”

You laughed lightly at that and nudged his head forward again.

You took your time running fingers through his dancing flames— never knew if you’d get this chance again, after all. As your nails gently dragged along Idia’s scalp, he let out a soft sigh and leaned back into your touch, his shades of blue beginning to flicker lavender instead. Experimentally, you began to gather as much as you could hold in one hand, to see if a ponytail would work.

When your nails gently scraped against the nape of his neck, Idia shuddered. His eyes flew open— when had he closed them?— and he jolted forward, the movement dragging his hair out of your grasp. “Watch it,” he bit out, although there was no real force behind his voice.

“Sorry, sorry,” you hummed, although it was fairly obvious you weren’t sorry at all. As Idia grumbled and settled back against the couch, you decided to move on from just playing with his hair. He’d get restless if you didn’t actually get to work, after all. You picked up your small brush in one hand, regathering his hair in the other. “Are you tender-headed?”

“...I don’t know,” he admitted, “It’s not like I brush it often.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” you said lightly. Before he could bite back, you ran the brush through Idia’s hair, and any remaining snark died on his tongue. Instead, he gasped sharply, leaning back into the feeling.

Brushing his hair was an odd feeling for both of you. His flames were, of course, tangible enough to hold, but they weighed practically nothing in your hand, and there was no resistance as your dragged the bristles through his blue waves.

For his part, Idia felt like he was actually on fire this time. Since his hair was so fluid, he’d never felt the need to pay much attention to it; the feeling of a brush was already fairly foreign to him, but knowing you were the one brushing it for him sent a current of electricity up his spine and back again.

He squirmed in place, messing up your progress. You twisted a strand between your fingers again, tugging sharply so he felt the brief sting on his scalp, earning a hiss from his throat. “Sit still,” you ordered; Idia huffed, but obeyed.

As one of your hands pulled the brush through his long hair, your other hand came up to play with the shorter strands closer to his face. Some of them were tucked behind his ear, or gathered into place where the brush could drag them along; others, you detangled with your fingers, arranging them to frame his pretty face. Your fingertips gently ghosted along the edge of his jaw and Idia shivered again.

Folded in his lap, Idia’s hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting. He tapped his fingers against his knees, he pressed his fingertips together, he folded and unfolded the hem of his shirt— all the while, his hair changed color back and forth, threads of shy pink and purple following the trail of your hands like waves returning to shore.

“—is this comfortable?” You asked quietly, as to not shattered the gentle atmosphere that had settled over his dorm room, resting on your shoulders.

Idia was silent for a moment, long enough that you almost wondered if he’d fallen asleep. When he did finally speak up, his voice sounded a bit dazed. “It’s fine.”

It was more than fine— he leaned into your touch like a cat trying to convince you it had been ignored all day. When he thought about it— and thinking straight was damn hard, with your hands in his hair— Idia couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched like this. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched at all, actually.

The brush in your hands changed direction all at once. Instead of running downwards to detangle the bright embers, you twisted his hair and lifted it away from his neck, running the brush upwards along the underside, preparing to shape it into a proper ponytail. Idia couldn’t help himself— his eyes rolled, and a soft sound clawed its way out of his throat. You stopped immediately, and he could feel your presence getting heavier behind him as you leaned closer.

“Idia? Was that a—?”

“Shut up!” He bit out. He practically doubled over on the couch, propping his arms up on his knees so he could bury his face in his hands. His hair betrayed him yet again, every single lock of flame flaring the brightest pink you’d ever seen. You had to press a hand to your mouth in order to stifle a laugh.

Idia groaned into his hands. “I want to reload this scene and pick a different dialogue option.”

You bit your tongue in order to regain control of your voice. “It’s okay to enjoy this, y’know. Can I keep going?” You gently twisted another strand between your thumb and index finger, sending a wave of goosebumps across his pale skin. Idia let out a shaky breath— but in the end, he nodded, and you could feel your face light up again.

Gathering his hair in your hand once more, you brushed it into a loose ponytail at the crown of his head, gently tugging it into several different positions to decide which worked best. “Your hair is so pretty, Idia,” you hummed as you set the brush to the side. Before grabbing a hair tie, you took the chance to scratch your nails at the nape of his neck once more, messing with the tiny flickering baby embers. Idia moaned again, much less shy about the sound that time.

You combed all his hair into your hand once more, making sure you didn’t miss any of the longer strands, and then finally snatched up one of your hair ties to secure everything into place. Once that was done, your hands landed on his shoulders, making Idia jump; he tilted his head back again to stare up at you with wide eyes.

“Is that it?” he asked, a hint of confusion creeping into his voice. “That wasn’t nearly as HP-draining as I thought it would be/”

You snickered a bit and tugged on another long strand of his hair, just hard enough to earn yourself a cute little whine. “Hang on, I’ve gotta add a final touch.”

Before he could protest, you’d gathered your barrettes and hair clips and swept his bangs away from his forehead, pinning them in place with a string of colored butterflies. “There,” you said happily, “you should be able to see the screen now.”

Once you’d moved back, Idia scrambled to grab his laptop. It had fallen asleep, so the screen was dark, and he used that to examine his reflection. When he moved, his long hair swished; as he stared at his reflection, his hand came up to run his thumb across the butterfly clips.

Idia turned back to you with a huff and a pout. “Open your inventory again,” he demanded, “I want a different accessory.”

[asp1diske-art]

Your technical skill with lineart and shading is amazing in itself, but it's your ability to convey emotion and atmosphere in your work that is trademark to me :) its incredible how you can show through gesture and body language just what these masked, expressionless characters are feeling, and how the environment itself conveys that. Your lurien comics, especially the one that ends in something along the lines of "I return to the kingdom you abandoned" are I think the spark that made Lurien go from Some Guy to Deeply Interesting for me, and your use of color pop and shaky line contributed so much to the feeling in those comics. You are one of the artists whose skill at evoking emotions I aspire to <3

Oh wow, I've been reading and re-reading this for the last 20 minutes this is amazing.

So, emotions!

If there is one thing I'm proud to have accomplished during my time in Hollow Knight, it's the skill of expressing tone. Because here's the thing, facial expressions are just one of the many components of tone. (I even wrote about this in another ask some time ago.) Colors, gestures, camera angle, lighting, paneling, lines and narration - all of these come together to convey the mood of the scene.

Check out these wips from the Watcher and the Watched comic, for example.

You can see that color played a huge role in setting the atmosphere in the comic. It shows that this comic is taking place in the Watcher's Spire, but it also gives a dark, subdued feeling that wouldn't come from idk, a yellow background. The backlight emphasizes the ominous tone of the last page. As does Lurien's pose - coupled with the butler looking up and Lurien looking down, it makes it look like Lurien is looming over his butler (and the reader). All this builds up to deliver Lurien's lines with maximum impact.

So yeah, a lot goes into conveying tone in comics, and I'm very happy to hear that it was recieved well!!

The Lurien, Dreamer comic. It's almost 2 years old now but it's still one of the favorite comics I drew about him. Together with the City of Tears comic, it's the epitome of my interpretation of Lurien. My characterization of Lurien's relationship with the Pale King was quite different from the usual fanon at the time (I don't know how it is now, I haven't gone into the tags in years haha) and I wasn't really sure how people would take it. So I'm glad to hear that it got you interested in Lurien!

It's the one that took the longest too lol. Usually I draw comics in a single setting, but that one took 3 days. Besides Two Ghosts (which was an 18 chapter+@ comic that was over 50p and took about 2 months), no other comic has broken this record. I put in a lot of care into it, and it still holds a special place in my heart.

Honestly half the reason I use messy, sketchy lines is that I suck at drawing clean lines lmao. But I like to think that I've made the best of it and utilized it as an art style. In that comic especially, because the whole thing takes place in the dream realm and I wanted to give a rough, unreal feel to it.

I'd show breakdowns of this one too but the file is so big it keeps crashing lol. (Pro tip - draw your comic pages in separate files. Don't be like me and draw 300dpi 10p comics with 30 layers in each page in a single canvas. It will crash and you will be sad.) But drawing the White Palace was a interesting challenge because I usually draw in highly saturated colors whereas the Palace is, well, white. So I had to work out a way to color this without making everything looking grey, while also making it recognizable as the palace. iirc I used a lot of overlay & burn & dodge layers along with a few difference & subtract layers to give the white a slight yellow tint to stand out from the dark blue. (I'm pretty sure they're the culprits crashing the file.)

Sorry this got long, I really took this as an invitation to ramble about my art hkfsldjkflj

Thank you for all the compliments! It's an honor to hear that my art could be someone's aspiration, and I'm very happy that all my Lurien art got someone else into Lurien. I hope you have a nice day :D

[spandex-if]

Artbreeder may not be everyone's cup of tea, but could we please get ROs physical descriptions, including their height?

i likely won't be making artbreeders, with how contentious it is regarding ai art and creative work, but i might look at getting commissions of them done one day! in the meanwhile, here are their physical descriptions!

hayden/hayley:

has slightly wavy dark brown hair in a two block undercut (m)/cut at shoulder length (f) and hard hazel eyes. hayden styles his hair with a blowdryer every morning while hayley usually puts it up in a simple ponytail or with a claw clip. she has curtain bangs pushed to the sides to frame her face.

they have strong features and the build of an athlete, with warmly tanned skin. hayden is 1.77m (5' 9'') while hayley is 1.67m (5' 4''). at the right corner of their lips is a small, almost unnoticeable scar from where they got into a fight in middle school. often, they wear a slightly irritable and impatient expression on their face (they never used to look at you like that).

they prefer to wear comfortable jeans or khakis with well fitted shirts for ease of movement, and cycle between the same two jackets — a casual black bomber and a brown leather jacket.

(if married prior) the ring that used to be the other half to yours is absent from their left hand, now.

ronan:

they have a slim figure — m!ronan is 1.79m (5' 10'') while f!ronan is 1.69m (5' 6''), with sharp facial features. their hair is a light shade of dirty blond with highlights and their eyes are a shade of pale grey blue. m!ronan's hair is in a layered cut while f!ronan's hair is in a tassel cut that comes down to her chin. f!ronan also likes a dark red lip, if she can be bothered to put it on.

ronan is often dressed in loose, plain linen buttoned shirts (but prefer to leave a few undone) tucked into slacks. sometimes, they pair their outfit with a form fitting suit vest or a slightly oversized jacket. and if they're feeling really generous, a doctor's coat.

they often have a lazy, amused look — much like a cat's.

lin:

rather long-limbed and tall, but they make it work for them. their black hair is in a messy wolf's cut, and their ears are accessorised with silver piercings. their skin tone is quite pale but in very good condition, and their eyes are big and dark, even if they rarely betray what is going on in that mind of theirs.

they're always seen with a pair of headphones around their neck (with active noise cancelling, just because) and dress in loose, oversized hoodies, tees or sweaters — whatever's comfortable. sometimes, when you bump into them while throwing out the trash, they have on a pair of large, wire rimmed glasses.

you often see them with a tote or sling bag, carrying their laptop and headphones over their head. most of the time they look as though they've just rolled out of bed, but hey, they still look good, okay.

scott/stelle:

they have a head of bright red hair — you're not too sure if it's natural. scott's is a curly mop on top of his head, while stelle's is often pulled back into a messy ponytail. aside from that, they are the most average person that has ever averaged. average height at 1.75m (5' 9'') for scott, 1.63m (5' 4'') for stelle. average build. there is a faint smattering of freckles across their cheeks that become more obvious when it's hot or they're embarrassed. they have soft brown eyes — and the speed at which they blink is directly proportional to the numbers of coffees they've had in the morning.

they wear cardigens (one has the picture of a goose with a knife held in its beak) with simple clothes beneath. when they come into the office, you hear the jingle of their bag before you see them — plastic keychains with hero merchandise hanging from almost every available zip.

[velidewrites]

Don’t Look Back

Five hundred years ago, the humans fought hard for their freedom in the Great War and won. Now, their former masters seek retribution in a rebellion that grows stronger year by year. When Elain Archeron finds out marrying Greysen Nolan might be the only solution to keep her family safe from the ancient, cruel Fae, she doesn't hesitate to fulfil her duty. What Elain doesn't know, though, is that the man with the fiery hair and russet eyes is not her fiancé, but his killer—and when she finally finds out, well…it will be far too late to turn back.

Chapter 3/15 || Read on AO3 || Go to Chapter 1

Lucien did not realise he had fallen asleep in Greysen Nolan’s jacket. It was the stiff, navy fabric that had stirred him awake, digging mercilessly into his underarms. Greysen’s build had not been frail by any means, Lucien was reasonable enough to admit—but he was also vain enough to decide that, whatever physical training the lordling had undergone in his youth, it could hardly compare to the decades Lucien had devoted to hunting in the forest.

It felt good to be back, strangely. He even missed the wet, cold ground that was currently serving as his bed, despite the undoubtedly luxurious chambers he could have had at the Archeron Manor in New Prythian. After witnessing the grandiose of the engagement ceremony, Lucien suspected the Merchant was a man who valued appearances above all else, which surely must have included appropriate accommodations for his son-in-law never to be.

Oh, well.

He would mourn the plush mattresses and feathery pillows later. There was something about being back in Old Prythian that filled Lucien with relief. A faint trace of magic still lingered here—untainted magic, so unlike the Merchant’s precious artifacts, all bearing a familiar, human stench. Here, in the forest he’d grown up in, Lucien could smell the Old Magic in the mossy earth, however wet it was. With the spring nearing its full bloom, the remaining signs of winter had almost melted away.

When he was younger, Eris would often tell him of the power that had once kept the seasons unchanged. In this part of the island, magic had stood still—the forests of Braemar had always grown in shades of auburn and gold, the waves warming the shores of Adriata had never reflected so much as a cloud above, and the lakes of the North had been nothing but pale, blue ice. Parts of New Prythian, Eris had told him, used to be nothing but rolling green hills, ruffled by a gentle, spring breeze. Today, they had become towns, industries—homes the humans had stolen from the Fae and made into their own, just like everything else.

The High Lords keeping that magic alive were long gone, though. Autumns in Braemar had become rainy and bleak, even the occasional sunlight somewhat pale as it peered through the trees. As if the very sun itself had fallen ill to the human sickness.

There was no sun shining above Lucien, though, as he made his way through the camp. The path snaked down to where he knew his brother would be—right by the stream’s muddy shore, the gentle whoosh of the running water muffling the voices ahead.

Thankfully, the sturdy bark of an oak tree provided Lucien with enough shelter to eavesdrop. Eris may have been family and—Lucien thought with some bite—his direct superior, but that didn’t mean the prick ever felt inclined to make Lucien privy to his plans and schemes.

And if there was one enemy the Vanserras had never quite managed to conquer, it was curiosity.

“…understand,” a familiar, male voice reached him, barely audible despite Lucien’s Fae hearing, as if its owner had deliberately hidden it in the crinkles of the water. Lucien’s attention strained. “I should have been made aware of the plan, and you know it.”

Lucien rolled his eyes—though the knowledge that even Azriel was not always entitled to Eris’s designs did, admittedly, provide him with some consolation. He leaned in a few inches to study the male, finding his tattooed arms crossed in expectation—and a pair of those menacing, bat-like wings tucked in almost as tight as his lips.

“And you know how important it was that the details of the plan remained discreet,” Eris responded, head angling slightly as he searched Azriel’s gaze.

“By the Cauldron, Eris.” Azriel shifted on his feet, those wings rustling heavily behind him. “I had no idea you would actually kidnap the girl.” Those strange, smoky shadows slithered around his feet—as though in agreement.

From the shelter of his tree, Lucien could practically hear his brother roll his amber eyes. “She’s fine, is she not?” Eris shrugged, his tone hardly inviting an answer as he surveyed the darkness slowly climbing Azriel’s broad frame. Then, “Why do you care so much?” he questioned.

Azriel sighed deeply. “I just…” A pause—as though he was weighing the risk those next words could carry. “I don’t like it when you don’t tell me things,” he finally said.

That makes two of us, Lucien thought bitterly.

He glimpsed a hint of a smile on Eris’s freckled face. “Well,” his brother countered, “I’m not exactly in the business of sharing my secrets with pretty shadowsingers.”

Lucien stifled a groan.

The shadows behind Azriel’s arms curled, the corner of his mouth following suit. “Pretty, huh?” 

Eris opened his mouth—no doubt to tease his spymaster even further—but then Azriel halted, the smile dying on his lips before it ever truly began as he turned to the darkness whispering to his ear. 

Great.

“We have company,” he told Eris, his expression sour.

His cover well and truly blown, Lucien stepped out of his hiding. “Took you long enough,” he said in a manner of greeting, reaching the pair in four long strides and turning towards Eris. “You may wish to reconsider your choice of a spymaster, brother. I can’t say I’m very impressed,” he added, not gracing Azriel with another look.

Eris crossed his arms, the bronze of his jacket catching some of that pale sunlight. “How fortunate for me that I make decisions here, not you,” he said, his tone carrying enough of a bite that Lucien braced himself for the earful he was no doubt about to receive later.

Eris turned to Azriel. “I’ll speak with you back at base,” he said, the words apparently enough of a dismissal.

Azriel’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Make sure that you do,” was his only reply, and he moved to walk away.

A few of his shadows lingered in place for a moment—as if hesitating. Only when Eris cast them a look Lucien couldn’t quite discern did they skitter back, happily following the quiet steps of their master.

Lucien arched an eyebrow at the strange scene. “Trouble in paradise?”

Eris’s attention cut to him. “You do not question me in front of my subordinates.” His brother’s face may as well have been set in stone. “Understand?”

“I do,” Lucien agreed. “That doesn’t change the fact that I don’t trust him.” 

Eris straightened. “Azriel has been with us for six months now, and has proven invaluable to our efforts.”

“Six months is nothing,” Lucien countered. “What was he doing for the five centuries before?”

Eris ran a hand through his hair, the auburn glistening with the movement like liquid metal—Lucien couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it long and draped over his back. Eris had cut it shortly after Azriel’s arrival, he supposed, realising the past six months had indeed somehow managed to have stretched into near eternity. “I thought he was dead, Lucien,” Eris said, his voice tight. “The War took so many. His entire family is gone—they have been for a while. You want to know what he’s been doing since then?” he asked, and when Lucien offered no answer, he added, “The same thing as us. Trying to survive.”

“Strange that he’s chosen to survive with us, of all people,” Lucien grumbled, more to himself now than Eris.

His brother watched him closely. “There aren’t many of us left. I doubt he’s had a selection of choices,” he added. “Besides, he is of use to me.”

“I’ll bet he is.”

“Watch it,” Eris warned, a bright-red flame flickering in his eyes. “Or I’ll think you’re suggesting something.”

Lucien couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. “Oh, I am,” he assured him. “I’m suggesting you’ve never been very good at keeping a sound judgement around your, ah…what did you call him?” He made a show of considering, letting his long claws drum on his crossed arms. “Oh, yes. Subordinates,” he finished with a smile he could only hope portrayed his smugness appropriately..

Eris’s gaze narrowed. “Excuse me if I don’t take your concerns to heart, little brother,” he said slowly, dragging out those last two words as if they were no more than an insult. “Your judgement has hardly been exemplary in recent days.”

“My judgement has been nothing short of impeccable,” Lucien huffed.

“I’m sure,” Eris crooned, a shit-eating grin sprawling on his own face. “Strange how Elain Archeron passed out on her father’s floor from one simple kiss on the hand,” he mused. “Unless, of course,” he added, “it wasn’t her hand you kissed.”

Bastard. “Are you questioning me, Eris?”

“Your ability to follow orders?” Eris asked. “Always.”

“I did follow orders,” Lucien pressed. “Nuan must have been wrong about the dosage,” he added, praying to the Mother and all her small mercies Eris hadn’t caught the hesitation in his voice.

Strangely, though, the Mother had never seen too merciful wherever Lucien was concerned. Most of the time, he could handle it: the anger, the frustration, the fighting. But there was just something about the disappointment in Eris’s face that made Lucien’s insides shrink with guilt as his brother told him, “Nuan has not been wrong once in the four hundred years I’ve known her.” A truth if Lucien had ever heard one—a rarity Eris was offering him. “She’s saved your life on more than one occasion,” he continued. “You’d do better showing her work some respect.”

Blaming it on Nuan had been wrong, and Lucien was no less of a bastard than Eris for it. But Lucien had worked too hard for this assignment, had spent too many decades fighting to be seen by Eris as more than a liability and a painful reminder of the family they’d left behind that he grabbed on to whatever lies he could to not be tossed aside again.

Perhaps that was precisely why even the Mother herself had abandoned him.

He wasn’t sure what to say—wasn’t sure if there was anything to say, in truth. He simply watched the stream ahead, unable to drag his gaze back to Eris’s as if its weight was too much for him to carry.

Eris relieved him of the burden. “Is she awake?” he asked, whatever emotion creeping in his tone earlier now replaced entirely by the voice Lucien had come to know far better. A Commander’s voice—a leader’s.

“Not as far as I’m aware,” Lucien simply replied, his voice as hollow as the echo the river carried into the forest.

“And the camp?” Eris pressed. “We should get moving within the hour.”

“Not nearly packed.” The small legion they’d taken to New Prythian with them had still been mid-breakfast when Lucien exited his tent.

Eris sighed. “Excellent,” he said, and from the corner of his eye, Lucien made out two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Go help Nuan in her tent,” Eris instructed, Lucien’s shoulders straightening at the command. It was easier this way—to fall into the roles they’d been acting for as long as Lucien could remember. He finally turned to Eris, then, offering a short nod of acknowledgement.

 I’ll get everybody else on their feet,” Eris added, half-looking over his shoulder as if his Fae eyesight could still somehow see the camp ahead. “I will notify you when she is awake.”

“Oh, good,” Lucien grumbled. Seeing her was exactly what he needed to make his morning even more miserable.

Still, he could’ve sworn a shadow of a smile passed through Eris’s face. “Lighten up, little brother,” he told him, reaching towards Lucien’s shoulder to fix some phantom crinkle in Greysen Nolan’s jacket. “I’m sure your fiancée will be delighted to speak with you.”

***

Elain dreamt of eyes so blue they must have been crafted from raw, hardened ice—frozen somewhere deep beneath a lake, perhaps never to come alive again.

She tried to reach for them, as if to make sure they truly were beyond saving, and yet every attempt at caressing their owner’s face only seemed to push her farther and farther away. Elain opened her mouth to call out his name, to cry out in desperation, but found her throat frozen, too, something like frost slowly creeping its way up the cords of her voice.

“Greysen,” she rasped, the word more a gargle than the syllables making up his name.

He heard, though, if the shift in those eyes was any indication. The ice cracked—snapped in half, ready to shatter into a thousand pieces—and revealed the true colours pouring out of the man’s piercing gaze. A liquid flame, a symphony of reds, golds and oranges, burning so bright Elain had to squint lest it blinded her entirely. She could practically feel it on her skin, feel the promise of its warm embrace as it moved in closer, closer…

The fire crackled—and Elain sat upright, the sound violently ripping her from sleep.

“I’m afraid Greysen is not here, Lady Archeron,” a smooth, male voice reached her. “A true disappointment, I’m sure.”

Elain blinked—then blinked again as she realised she had woken up from one nightmare to another.

She was in a tent, of some sorts. The canvas was roughened with what had to have been weeks, if not months of travel, yellowed by grass at the edges and stained with old, dried-out mud. In some places, Elain’s sleep-dusted sight managed to spot specks of a rusted shade of red, the unmistakable proof that blood had been spilled within the tent’s constraints on more than one occasion. Elain’s blood was likely to be next, if the owner of her newfound lodging was any indication.

The man half-leaning on the wooden pillar was smirking down on her, his mouth curled in a way that could only mean Elain was in more trouble than she had anticipated. It wasn’t his expression she deemed as her immediate concern, though—no, it was the actual, living fire blazing from his freckled, open palm, casting dancing shadows over the canvas beside them.

It was then that she noticed his long, arched ears, the hint of long, sharpened canines peering from that smirk of his. The fire was not burning him at all—it seemed to yield to his command, in fact, like a pet would submit to its master. In that moment, Elain also realised he was standing rather dangerously close to the flammable structure, even as he himself appeared entirely unbothered about the fact.

Elain swallowed something heavy in her throat. “You—” she tried, then cleared her throat. “You’re Fae.”

The faerie’s smile widened. High Fae, Elain understood, inspecting his every movement, every flick of fingers as the flames in his hand chased each other happily. “A cunning observation,” he noted, then looked to that magical fire of his. “And they say humans are short on wit these days,” he muttered, as though he was addressing those flames directly.

She must have been going insane. There was no other explanation—she was just at the ball back home, her own engagement celebration, kissing Greysen Nolan like her whole life depended on him. On her fiancé.

Right now, it seemed that her life was entirely in someone else’s hands.

She swallowed again. Hard. “Are you planning to kill me?”

“Planning,” the High Fae mused, his gaze still transfixed on his hand. “Plans, Lady Archeron, are very much like this fire.” The flames danced again in confirmation. “Unpredictable. Ever-changing. Easy to slip out of control…” The fire blazed, and Elain’s body moved back an inch of its own volition, and the man found her eyes at that. “If wielded by the wrong hand,” he finished, that secretive smile making its way back onto his lips.

“You’re the man in charge, I take it,” Elain simply said.

His eyes, like liquid amber in light of his magic, narrowed on her slightly. “Male,” he corrected, apparently offended by her words. “I am hardly the animal you mistake me for,” he added, that former aloofness returning to his tone. “But yes. I am.”

Excellent. “What did you do to Greysen?” she asked.

The man hummed, bouncing off the pillar at last. His flames skittered with the movement, then vanished entirely as he crossed his lean, muscled arms. As if they never existed in the first place. “I didn’t do anything to your pretty little fiancé,” he said, and, even though he hadn’t so much as moved a step closed toward her, Elain found herself pulling back.

“But you gave the order.”

He waved a hand. “Semantics.”

“Is he…” She couldn’t bear the question—not when the answer seemed so obvious. “Is he dead, then?” she managed.

“Oh, yes,” the man answered as though it was the weather she’d just asked him about, not the death of another man. “I am told he was rather easy to kill.” He met her gaze. “It was a swift and merciful death, if it brings you any comfort.”

It was as if all the air was knocked out of her lungs, a fire of her own replacing it completely—simmering, threatening to boil over. “Comfort?” Elain asked, the anger now rising through her throat. “You ruined my future!”

Not once did she ever imagine she would yell at a faerie and live to tell the tale. Perhaps she wouldn’t.

But all the man—male—did was scoff, looking at her in a way that made her wish she had canines of her own, if only to rip his throat out. “And what a bright future it was,” he said. “Married off and shipped to the far side of the world to be nothing but a weak lordling’s broodmare.” Something darkened in those eyes as he added, “I’ve seen it happen before. Trust me, such stories do not end well.”

“I would rather die than trust you,” Elain spat.

He studied his nails, short and perfectly trimmed. “That can be arranged.”

“You know nothing about Greysen Nolan.”

Something like amusement crept into his face. “Don’t I?” he asked. “I know more about your fiancé than you can imagine, Lady Archeron. I’d care to explain had you not just so loudly declared your distrust of me,” he added, his eyes returning to picking some invisible grain of dirt off his immaculate hands.

Elain found herself seething. “How dare—”

“Not another step.”

It wasn’t the bastard’s voice that had warned her, though—and perhaps it was what made her stop dead in her tracks.

Elain hadn’t even realised she’d rose from her bed at some point in her anger until a figure appeared before her, so large and imposing it nearly blocked everything else from view. She had never seen a man so—

Wings. He had wings.

Elain was going to die today.

“I am handling the situation, Azriel,” the fiery male said from behind him, his voice dropping to a lazy drawl.

If she was going to die, she might as well have gotten the last word. “I am not some object for you to handle,” Elain spat.

The male chuckled. “She’s feisty,” he said, auburn hair glistening with the shake of his head. “I must admit I’m growing quite fond of your company, Lady Archeron.”

“She’s his daughter,” the winged male—Azriel—rumbled, his voice like thunder in a midnight storm. “For all we know, she could be hiding ash weapons beneath her skirts,” he added, a disgusted grimace twisting his otherwise beautiful face.

Elain sucked in a breath. “You—”

“She isn’t,” the other male said, stepping closer towards them, Azriel’s wings rustling back as if to make space.  “We had her searched,” he explained to his companion.

“You what?” Elain whirled to him, heat flaring red in her chest, her face. “You dared to—”

“I thought we’ve established I am not the monster you think me for,” the male told her, something like distaste filling his features. “I did not come near your tent until a few moments ago.”

“But someone did.” Someone had been in here while Elain had been sleeping,

He sighed deeply, Azriel’s gaze finally leaving Elain’s to dart towards the sound. “You’ll meet her soon. Have you not realised you’re not wearing the ballgown from the night before?”

“I—”

“Humans,” he sighed again, then turned to Azriel. “Did you have something to report, or are you just here to disturb me?”

Azriel’s wings shifted heavily behind him. “My job is to protect you, Eris.” That must have been the leader’s name. Elain catalogued it in the corners of her mind—in case the Queens of old somehow kept her in their favour, she would report it to the Governor once she escaped.

“Your job is to be my spy,” Eris told him, something in his stare telling Elain he didn’t exactly appreciate Azriel betraying his name, either. Still, he turned to Elain, smiling as though they were no more than two old friends catching up. “Illyrians can be so overprotective.”

Elain stilled. “Illyrians?”

I can already imagine his eyes light up as I hand him the pair of wings your sister had sent in from Hybern, her father’s letter said.

Azriel moved quicker than time itself.

In one moment, he stood right before her, the edge of his right wing nearing Eris’s shoulder, the perfect picture of his leader’s protector. The next, she felt a dark breeze whoosh past her, and a heavy, menacing presence appearing behind her—and a strange, cold pressure on her neck.

Azriel’s voice was colder than ice as the sharp edge of his knife grazed Elain’s throat. “Tell me what you know.”

It looked like she wasn’t getting out of here alive after all. “N-nothing,” she uttered, suddenly very aware of her heart thudding through every vein in her body. “Please.”

The knife did not move.

“Azriel,” Eris’s voice reached her, but even less than two feet away from her, he still seemed too far. As though Azriel had pulled her underwater, and, whatever Eris’s command was, it could not swim deep enough to reach them in time. “Azriel.”

But then the fire crackled again, the same snapping sound that had pulled her from her sleep, and everything ended as soon as it began.

Elain gasped, a long, raspy breath pouring into her chest, her lungs, her neck suddenly free of the cold steel and its owner. She blinked the blurriness away, like a fog lifting itself off her gaze, and Azriel appeared before her again, wings tucked in tight as he sheathed his blade somewhere deep into the leathers on his back.

For a male who played with fire, Eris’s stare was nothing but pure darkness as he looked at Azriel. “I think it’s time for you to go,” he said, no trace of that former theatrical laziness lingering in his tone.

A muscle jutted in Azriel’s powerful jaw. “Fine,” he grumbled at last, then dared another glance at Elain. “But I want to interrogate her later.”

“We’ll see,” Eris said, the words sounding too much like an agreement.

Panic rose through her again. “No,” Elain protested. “No, you will not—”

“See,” Eris turned to her, auburn brows knitting in a frown. “Now you’ve frightened our guest.”

“She has no reason to be afraid,” Azriel said. “Yet,” he added, meeting her gaze directly.

Elain felt her stomach tighten.

Perhaps, if she retched her guts out in front of their feet, they would let her go. What could a pair of Fae killers want with her, anyway? She was the Merchant’s daughter, but without him as a prisoner by her side, Elain was nothing. Had nothing. Anything they might have wanted from her father was left behind in the Manor—days away from wherever they’d hidden her, according to Eris, at least. So why was Elain here?

“She’s not afraid, shadowsinger,” someone said from behind Azriel’s wings—someone so familiar Elain nearly stopped breathing again. “No, I think our little fawn is angry.”

She knew that voice—deep and honeyed, the same way his hands felt on her waist when he’d pulled her closer into his arms, the same way his lips tasted as she searched them with her own. It was impossible—it had to be—but Elain peered over Azriel’s shoulder all the same.

Eris had told her he was dead. Killed, quickly and without hesitation.

And yet here he stood, in the same navy-blue jacket that offset his long, auburn waves the night before, the golden gleam in his eyes that reminded her of sunlight as they met her own. Beautiful.

Alive.

“Greysen?” Elain breathed.

Greysen smiled, then—and Elain’s breath caught in her throat.

She wasn’t sure she would ever breathe again as a pair of canines, so similar to Eris’s yet even sharper, somehow, flashed at her from the smile. As a hand, broad and strong as it led her through last night’s dance, rose to run long talons through his hair, to tuck a loose strand of it behind an unmistakably arched ear. As the male she thought was a man looked at her in a way that told her everything she knew about him was a lie.

“Not exactly, Princess,” he purred.

“There you are,” Eris drawled like the world hasn’t just collapsed around them. “Lady Archeron,” he turned to her at that, “allow me to introduce to you my younger brother. Meet Lucien Vanserra, Seventh Son of the Autumn Court, Lieutenant of the Golden Leaf and former courtier and emissary.”

Elain could’ve sworn a mockery of a smile bloomed on Eris’s lips as he added, “And, evidently, your betrothed.”

[eidingate]

B A S I C S

Name Eidin Kupfohcwin Nicknames Probably more than she remembers. Eid to some, Little Fox to family friends. Age Turning 32 right before Dawntrail Nameday 32nd Sun of the 3rd Umbral Moon (RIP to her parents hoping she would be delayed one more day to be born a under the nice steady month of Byregot rather than the capricious month of Oschon) Race Sea Wolf Roegadyn Gender Cis female? More likely genderfluid Orientation Bisexual Profession Part-time Warrior of Light, full-time menace against the Empire, occasional craftsperson.

P H Y S I C A L     A S P E C  T S

Hair Turquoise with golden highlights, reminiscent of oxidized copper. Currently worn short with a metric ton of pomade keeping it styled. Eyes Marigold orange Skin Pale turquoise green Tattoos/scars Hands are heavily scarred with nicks and burns from reaching into still-hot magitek machines. She's definitely earned some more significant scars over the years across her back and torso. What tattoos she has are strategically hidden, but one is a jackdaw, representing her family.

F A M I L Y

Parents Wintgeim - Mother. A mechanic and former sky pirate. She leads a band of roving magitek scavengers, the Winter Jackdaws. She has a big, fierce personality and is strongly protective of her little band. Kupfohc - Father. A Sharlayan scholar who hired her mother as a guide while he investigated the environmental effects of magitek around Ilsabard and wound up never returning to his studies. He's a gentle soul with a love of music. He was basically disowned when he chose not to return to Sharlayan. Siblings Thuvwilt - Older brother Fraeswys - Younger sister Grandparents Opylona - Grandmother. She basically raised Eidin and her siblings when they were too young to go on scavenging jobs with their parents. In-laws and Other Her mother's scavenger band is her wider family -- some by blood and many others not. Not surprisingly, this ambiguous style of adoptive family has translated into her adopting the Scions as well. Pets Sadly she never stays anywhere long enough to want the responsibility of pets long-term, but she falls in love with many friends' pets and spoils them rotten.

S K I L L S

Abilities In combat, Eidin's skills lie in dancing around the edges of the battlefield before delivering quick, precise strikes. She is master of all physical ranged weaponry, but often turns to the Red Mage foil for its versatility. She is constantly on the move, weaving in and out of range of the enemy and scanning for weaknesses. Out of combat, she dumped all her stats into charisma. She's adaptable to different groups of people of various cultures, high class and low. She's quick to gain people's trust, and trades often in favors. She dabbles in new skills wherever she can, making her very much a jack-of-all-trades, but rarely sticks with anything for long. Hobbies She's a bit of a tinkerer who delights in taking things apart just to put them back together differently. She likes making little clockwork contraptions out of scrap parts -- nothing so intelligent as a mammet (she's not sure she can take the existential questions around creating something smart enough to talk back), but with some basic functions. She also plays the violin, though this is one of the few things that she is shy about performing in front of others.

T R A I T S

Most Positive Trait Give her five minutes, and she will become your best friend. Warm and open and fascinated by everyone around her. Most Negative Trait Being everything to everyone and constantly changing yourself to suit their expectations surely has no long-term repercussions right??

L I K E S

Colors Gold, orange, shades of blues and greens Smells Lavender, campfire smoke, fresh bread, crushed pine needles, bergamot tea with a splash of honey Textures Well-worn leather, smooth chocobo feathers, freshly-polished gemstones Drinks Chilled mead in the summer, warmed rum on chill nights. Rich heavy porters. Black tea with a bit of milk and honey.

O T H E R    D E T A I L S

Smokes Only socially. You never know when you might need to offer a cigarette to a bored Garlean sentry to keep them occupied or press them for information. Drinks All kinds. The local establishment is the best way to learn about a new place, after all, and what kind of liquor a place produces says much about their culture. Drugs She's been known to partake of the fogweed on occasion Mount Issuance Eidin loves chocobos so so so much and turns to them during quiet periods when there are few dangers expected on the road. Her company-issued chocobo is named Fisticuffs for its habit of trying to fight everything and everyone. She has a few favored chocobos that she'll rent out in different regions when her own is too far away. There is no in-game mount that quite fits, but I like to think she's got a heavily modified magitek vehicle that's flight-capable -- something like the Magitek Sky Armor but much more homemade. Been Arrested Ask her about this after a beer or two.

------

Tagged by @elliewiltarwyn! Thanks for the tag!

I feel like I'm late to the party on this BUT just in case you haven't done it yet and are waiting to be tagged, I nominate @ravandfriendsxiv, @amons-hat-enthusiast, @oathkeeper-kima

Totally optional, of course!

[miasmaghoul]

Mushy May - Day 1

(ENORMOUS thanks to @forlorn-crows for putting together this month of prompts for all of us to mush over. 💜)

Prompt: Bathtime Rating: Teen Pairing: Aether/Swiss Contains: mild hurt/comfort, cozy tub times, Aether forever being a caretaker Word Count: ~1.5k

Summary: Aether and Swiss share a hotel room and make a delightful discovery.

“This is swanky,” Swiss remarks with a whistle, eyes flitting everywhere. “Imperator must’ve really shelled out the big bucks for this place.” 

“Seems like it,” Aether agrees, tossing his duffel onto one of the plush beds.

The hotel room is nice - probably too nice for the lot of them, honestly. Not exactly opulent, but nice. Spacious, open, the walls a very pleasant shade of blue and the carpet pale gray. The beds are identical, dressed in all white with entirely too many pillows, bracketed by an oversized window on one side and what must be the door to the bathroom on the other. He knows they passed the closet on their way in, he caught a glimpse of an ironing board. 

“Look, there’s even a minibar!” Swiss trills, scrounging through the small fridge housed next to the dresser beneath the massive flatscreen tv. He grimaces a moment later, holding up a packet of trail mix. “Nothin’ good though, all healthy shit.”

“Just skip the nuts and eat the chocolate, that’s what Dew does,” Aether mumbles, toeing out of his boots.He sits heavily on the edge of the mattress and sinks back into the duvet with a low groan. 

He feels dead on his feet. Has for days now. They all seem to be in the same boat, even the excitable ball of energy that is Sunshine having become worn and quiet. The tour is wrapping up, only a few shows left, and Aether’s pretty sure the exhaustion has seeped into his bones. He lets his eyes slip shut while Swiss continues his exploration of their space, tuning in to the mechanical hum of the air conditioner. A door clicks a minute later and Swiss makes an excited ooh sound.

“Aeth, c’mere,” he beckons, “you gotta see this.”

“I’d rather look at the insides of my own eyelids for the next several days, thanks.” Aether scrubs his face with both hands when Swiss gives a soft snort, prodding his arm.

“It’s worth it, I promise.” 

Aether can hear the other ghoul’s smile in his words and sighs, prying tired eyes open and finding Swiss grinning at him from just inside the bathroom. He heaves himself up with great effort and shuffles his way over to find -

“Is that…a hot tub?”

“Yep,” Swiss says with a grin, patting him on the shoulder. “That is most definitely our own private jacuzzi.”

“I’m going to kiss Imperator for this,” Aether groans, already shrugging out of his t-shirt and tossing it out the door. He starts working at his belt and Swiss makes an amused sound.

“Someone’s in a rush,” he teases, moving to sidle back into the main room. “I’ll leave you to it.” Aether catches him by the wrist before he makes it more than two steps.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Swiss looks up at him, raises an eyebrow. 

“Figured you might want some privacy,” he replies, giving a half shrug. “I know you’re wiped out -”

“We’re all wiped out.”

“Well, yeah,” Swiss concedes with a soft chuckle, “but you always get it the worst.” 

“All the more reason for you to stay,” Aether says, slipping his belt from its loops and popping the button fly of his jeans. “You can scrub my back. Help me relax.”

“I mean, I could,” Swiss murmurs, eyes following Aether’s fingers, “but, uh, I think we both know I can’t be trusted around you naked.”

At least he’s honest. 

Aether smirks, flashing his one gilded fang as he lets his pants fall to his ankles. Swiss follows that too, watches Aether step out of the pool of denim and move to turn on the tap, perusing the selection of soap bottles on a shelf over the tub. 

“You’re a big boy, I think you can control yourself,” Aether lilts, swirling a hand through the water. He can feel Swiss’s eyes where they’re stuck on his ass, still clad in his boxer briefs.

“See, you say that,” Swiss mutters, but Aether can hear him shucking his shirt. “I’m not so sure.” 

Despite the words and Swiss’s overall flirty demeanor, Aether can hear how tired the other ghoul is. Can hear him wince when he moves the wrong way, still nursing a sore back after that nasty fall. Neither of them have the energy for more than this tonight, and when Aether turns he catches Swiss in a yawn. He gives the other ghoul a sympathetic smile.

“Bad tonight?”

“Yeah,” Swiss says with a nod. There’s no use hiding it from Aether and they both know it. “Been a rough few days.” He turns to the large mirror over the sink and runs a hand along the still-purple spot along his ribs. “Looks a little better, but fuck is it sore.”

“Looks like it.” Aether joins him in front of the mirror, rests gentle fingers on his spine. “Know what would help?”

“I can think of a few things,” Swiss mumbles, leaning into Aether’s touch and grinning at him in their reflection. Aether gives his shoulder a flick and Swiss sticks his tongue out. He yawns again then, and Aether finds it contagious.

“In the tub,” he instructs, patting Swiss on the back and moving to gather a few towels, “before we both pass out.”

Swiss doesn’t argue further, letting Aether get everything arranged. He pads to their bags and grabs their toiletries - he’s sure the products here are fine, probably better than what they usually use, but there’s a comfort in the familiar scents they carry. Aether strips himself of his underwear and socks before venturing back into the bathroom, finding Swiss settling into the water with a hiss.

“Too hot?” 

“Nah,” Swiss sighs, laying his arms along the curved edge of the tub, “I shower with Dew too much for heat to bother me.” 

Aether hums in assent - he knows firsthand that their fire ghoul prefers his showers just shy of boiling - setting their respective shampoos and soaps on the edge of the tub and pausing to scratch at Swiss’s scalp. The other ghoul purrs deep in his chest, nuzzling Aether’s hand and sinking deeper into the water. He looks so relaxed already, Aether can’t help but smile. Swiss returns it easily, deep crinkles at the corners of his tired eyes.

“Scoot,” Aether says softly, gesturing, “let me in so I can take care of you.”

Swiss grumbles far less than he normally would, sliding forward just enough to allow Aether to climb in behind him. The water is definitely on the scalding side, but it feels all the better for it. Stripping away the strain and tightness lacing their bodies with each passing moment. Aether gets his legs around Swiss’s, rests back against the wall of the tub with a sigh, and Swiss immediately leans back into him.

“How’re you always so comfy?” Swiss squeezes his thigh and heaves a deep sigh when Aether rests those massive hands of his on his shoulders and begins to work out a knot.

“It’s a mystery,” he says, amused by the catlike way Swiss kneads at his legs. “Now hush and let me work.” Swiss doesn’t argue.

Aether focuses, reaching past his own exhaustion to tap into his power. It bleeds from his fingertips in soothing waves, soaking into Swiss’s skin, and when Aether leeches away his pain the other ghoul’s resulting moan is pure relief. Aether lets out a tired huff, slips his arms around Swiss’s neck to rest over his chest and relishes the way the other ghoul melts back into him.

“Fuck, thank you,” Swiss slurs, turning his head to press a kiss to Aether’s chest. “You need to figure out how to bottle that shit, you’d be rich.” Aether chuckles, resting his chin atop Swiss’s ducked head.

“If I did that I wouldn’t have an excuse to get you like this,” he murmurs, eyes drifting shut. The water is so pleasantly warm, and Swiss’s weight against him is infinitely soothing.

“You say that like you need one.” 

Aether could make a jab about Swiss being easy, but his banter batteries are officially drained. He sighs and gives Swiss a fond squeeze instead, bringing one arm back to paw at the edge of the tub.

“Where’s the damn - ah, here we go.”

Aether presses a button and the tub’s jets whirr to life, surrounding them in roiling waves of bubbles and a cloud of steam. He settles back against the wall and pulls Swiss with him, the other ghoul twisting in his arms until he’s on his side with his head pillowed by Aether’s soft but strong chest. Aether tips his head back, lets it rest against cool tile while his hand strokes the length of Swiss’s spine. 

“Still gotta return the favor,” Swiss murmurs, the words muffled by the bubbles and the way he’s speaking directly into Aether’s chest hair. Aether hums, but makes no effort to move.

Soon enough they’ll make the initiative to actually clean each other. A quick pass of shampoo and soap before they rinse off in the shower and fall into bed, probably still damp and in much the same position they’re in right now. Or maybe Swiss will slide those strong arms around his waist and sleep on his belly, wrapped up in Aether’s legs. Or maybe they’ll be spooned, Aether lulled to sleep by Swiss’s rumbling snores. He’s not sure, and it really doesn’t matter, because for now,

“This is enough,” Aether assures, holding Swiss close and closing his eyes once more, “this is enough.”

[gingerteaonthetardis]

autumnal writing prompt:

fallen leaves but it has to take place inside the TARDIS. any doctor + companion and/or pairing

hiiiii thank you for your prompt and for your patience <3 tbh, i loved this concept and i spent a fair bit of time on the execution, trying to get the vibe close to what i was seeing in my head. not sure if i succeeded. but i hope you enjoy it anyway!

i went with the tenth doctor for this one, set post-runaway bride, reflecting on the loss of rose.

to read on ao3, click here!

-

When the time came, he let the TARDIS guide him there.

He never knew where it had been or would be. He never knew what it would be like either. That was part of the Solarium's charm: it was a place which could only be found when it wasn't sought. Its unpredictability made it what it was.

And it had been a night for unpredictability. But he'd delivered the bride safely home. Snow still sugared the shoulders of his suit when the halls began changing.

"I'm not ready," he felt himself say. The words echoed hollowly ahead of him, down funny sharp turns and looping passages. He was raw and exposed and though he was very alone, he didn't feel alone—he felt stifled by memories, ghosts crowding the edges of his vision.

He needed time. He needed more of it, reams of it, an endless fountain of it. He needed all the time there was, and more—because that's what it would take.

But he followed the lights anyway. What else could he do?

Down corridors and stairwells, he let the ship lead him. Up a spiral staircase. Behind a false wall. The TARDIS was rarely consistent, but she was kind: she let him take the long way 'round.

When the arched doorway finally presented itself, the weak light was already filtering out through the cracks. Dry, brown leaves skittered and hushed as he put his palm to the creaky wooden door and pushed.

Autumn.

Inside the Solarium, it was autumn.

Outside, too. The atmosphere beyond the high, domed glass and iron lattice work appeared blue—a pale, eggshell blue, verging on grey. Clouds melded seamlessly with sky. The chill of it was almost a visible thing.

Within the Solarium, everything was in its proper place: the sundial, made now of stone, though in the past it had been many things—wood, then ceramic, then glass, then gleaming quartz; the pond where nothing lived and nothing grew, but the water itself danced. The ivy still crept perpetually up the lattices.

And in the center of the room, the tree still stood.

The tree in the Solarium belonged to no particular genus, had no particular name, though he'd searched the TARDIS library to find one. The bark of its massive trunk was smooth and unobtrusive, marred only by the occasional scar of some long distant, unknown trauma. It never fruited, though he'd seen it in every season. Its leaves often changed shape or grew irregularly, patchy and strange.

And at present, it was an explosion of colour.

The Doctor said nothing.

Gold, gold. So many golden leaves hung from those broad branches. Shades varied from the palest sunrise to a hue so rich and dark as to be nearly orange. In some spots, clusters of browning, dead leaves hung, poised to fall.

His eyes avoided those patches, drawn instead to where the vibrant colour was thickest. It was the gold of hair, of puddled sunlight, of a young sun. In spite of himself, he began crossing the tiled floor.

The loose laces of his plimsolls disturbed the occasional fallen leaf, a crackling announcement of his presence. But he still approached slow, like he would meet a wild animal. He stepped cautiously over where thick roots had broken through the floor.

It was only when his hand began to lift, fingers extended, that he paused.

"I'm not ready," he whispered, scarcely a moment before a vibrant daisy-heart-yellow leaf broke free and fell—right into his waiting hand.

     "I'll never get used to this. Never. Different ground beneath my feet," and she's jumping, bouncing on her heels, and she's smiling, and it’s lovely, "different sky… What's that smell?"

     "Apple grass," he tells her, eager to share everything he knows.

     "Apple grass… It's beautiful. Oh, I love this. Can I just say, travelling with you, I love—"

"No."

The Doctor's hand spasmed, and the leaf fell, taking with it the scent of a different world. Apple grass. Such a crisp, fresh smell. He could never smell it again without thinking of her.

His throat felt tight. He wasn't ready.

Yet how many times had he stood just like this and let the memories wash over him?

Often they were green—hopeful springtimes of gentle past, a balm when he needed it most. Reminders of the goodness which existed in pockets of the universe, waiting to be discovered.

Sometimes, they came frost-fanged and bitter, serrated edges cutting him to the bone. Regret was grey. Steel grey.

All his companions had bloomed and withered here, on these unreal branches.

But this—the season the tree offered him was too cool and serene for what he felt. This… gentle giving-way. There was a storm inside him.

She had not passed gracefully into another season; she had been torn from his world, and her world, and the TARDIS, and him. How could that be beautiful?

How could that be golden?

He moved in a rush, grasping suddenly at the nearest withered clutch of leaves. He was only just tall enough to reach, and when he closed his fist, he came away with—

     Pleading. "Help her."

     But he isn't moved. "Everything has its time," he says, "and everything dies."

—and,

     "No." Sarah Jane stands firm. Sure in herself. "The universe has to move forward. Pain and loss, they define us as much as happiness or love. Whether it's a world, or a relationship," and the guilt cuts him open as he thinks of her, the leaves on her tree; then he thinks of Rose. "Everything has its time—"

—and,

     "Why don't you ever just say what you mean?"

     "Rose—"

     "It's always talking with you, but you never…" She shakes her head, hair catching the light of the console. He wants to hold her so badly he can barely speak. "Just tell me this, Doctor: you and me, is it ever gonna change? Will we ever…?" She drifts off, uncertain.

     "Everything changes." It's not really an answer, but it's the best he can do. "I promise."

—and in a blink, his fist closed. The brittle memories crushed to dust in his hand.

They were still there, of course: in him, in the TARDIS herself, and they always would be. They would grow anew, changing shape over time. Even at the topmost parts of the tree, people who were long gone lived forever: his granddaughter, with her untameable smile; an old historian who loved cocoa and cake and driving him spare; a young boy who was so brave, and so clever, and so very foolish; an Edwardian adventuress who followed him into madness.

The companions of his many lives.

They crowded their way up into the highest branches. One day, Rose would live among them, a golden crown to this ancient tree.

But even that knowledge held no comfort.

"No more," he said, "please."

Around him, the room gave a faint, irritated huff—like a creaky groan and a hum at once. And from somewhere else, a wind stirred. Focused and strong. Pay attention, it seemed to say, or else did say, in its own language.

A leaf the colour of liquid gold wriggled and broke loose, and he knew better than to run from it. All he could manage was to stand his ground as it smacked, with unusual force, into his chest.

The image burst over him.

     "Anything else?"

     "Why don't you ask her yourself?"

     He sees where the woman—the bride—is looking. Over his shoulder. His gaze follows her, and he feels all the air leave his lungs. There is an infinite space between one heartsbeat and the next. But it’s real. It’s really her. No hologram or vision or ghost. No memory.

     In the darkness, a light. Blonde hair glinting, her eyes holding his. And then he's running. Running flat out.

     She's all he can see.

     The feeling inside him is like nothing else. Like being reborn.

     Her smile crosses the distance, gilded and lovely, meeting him before his arms can reach her. But even before his touch lands, he knows he’s already home.

The Doctor blinked. A hand rose to wipe down his own face, smearing the tears he hadn't felt fall. His from another time.

His feet stumbled forward, and he caught himself against the tree's giant trunk.

"Not a memory," he whispered to the silence, in all its enormity, its electric potential. "Not yet."

Prescience, passed down to him by the brush of a leaf. This had never happened before.

But then, there had never been anybody like Rose before, had there? She'd left her mark on the TARDIS, on the vortex itself, every bit as much as she'd left her mark on him.

The pads of his fingers felt out a scar in the wood. One he hadn't seen before. It had an odd shape to it, an asymmetry that reminded him a little of an animal in profile: a jagged protrusion, and the swell of a haunch.

Something with its nose to the sky.

He traced it twice before he understood. The muzzle. The howling. His chest felt weightless, for a moment. Uncompressed by longing and grief, his hearts beat freely.

The Doctor, with his hand to the wolf, wheezed out a shocked laugh as he suddenly remembered that these leaves were also the colour of flame. Of timeless, endless burning, searing and rewriting.

     "I bring life."

From its bark and its branches, from its roots and its high crown, the tree seemed to shiver out a very long sigh as he finally grasped its message. Everything has its time, it breathed. Its hope was golden.

The shades of it all swirled together and tangle, an infinite vortex, laden and dripping with life still to come, and it was beautiful.

The Doctor smiled, removed his hand, and turned from the tree.

Her time—and his—and theirs—was not yet over.

There was more to be done. And he was ready.

[crazylittlejester]

I can yap about anything? Sweat. So I have this LoZ AU I’m slowly making, it’s set post TotK. I’m calling it Royal Depths and let me tell you most of the plot I have for it. This is so long but I must ramble.

TotK!Zelda and Link went missing a few years after the end of the game. Link died and Zelda was captured by a dark force, who was somebody who was close to her. They became “king,” bidding their time in a slow process to reinstate the monarchy back to its formal glory over several Hylian generations. They made sure to have 7 children each generation, becoming the 7 maidens who each oversee different parts of the kingdom. Later in the king’s years, there would be a “chosen successor” to the king voted by the people, but the dark force would always replace the successor after they “died.” After doing this around 3 time already is when the story starts.

Link, the hero, had been reborn as a Zora to King Sidon. He is cursed to be a middle child. He has an older brother named Blueberry(TotK!Link named him) who’s based on a shortfin mako shark and a little sister named Mipha who’s based on a lion fish, like actual Mipha’s concept art. Link is a white tipped shark. He has singing magic, because I like the musical magic in the previous a bunch. Whenever he starts to speak or sing something else, the magic is ceased. After the Zora equivalent of his 16th birthday, he received the Triforce of Courage on his left hand. The spirit of TotK!Link(im just going to be calling him Tears from now on) also appeared, and tries to act like the Hero’s Shade in TP. Link though, is utterly horrified and doesn’t want to even think of being a hero. Hyrule has been peaceful for so long already. Ganon and Zelda have even been born yet. So he traps himself in his room most of the time. He trains and studies in preparation for the worst, but he doesn’t want to make any more connections. People call him the Hermit Prince, and his family is very worried about him. He also has a habit of slipping out of the Zora Domian in the middle of the night.

Zelda hasn’t and will not be reborn, because she is still alive and is being kept as a power source for the kingdom. Yeah. But, she is able to use some of her magic to contact someone, anyone, and to be able to give the Triforce of Wisdom to them. Enter Helix, a mostly regular adult human living in Lodrum. They’re a friend to the Oracles, who only recently appeared this generation, and they are cast out as heretics by the Hyrulian monarchy. Helix doesn’t really care about that, he’s a human after all. Until they receive Zelda’s message and power. In a dream, she tells them that they must go to the castle and stop an evil king with the help of Link. Very vague. Helix goes to the Oracles and they send him off the Hyrule Castle. Suddenly she’s now crowned as the “true” successor of the long missing Princess Zelda. Her name is now Zelda “Helix” Hyrule. They still like to go be Helix, that is their name after all, but they tolerate being called Zelda by the Hylians. His only goal and focus while he’s here is to find the hero, and kill the evil king. He thinks that it would be Ganon, based on the legends.

Ganondorf, or just Ganon, is only like, 10 years old in Gerudo years, but like 12 in human/hylian years. He’s a child, and is trapped within his home and garden by his mother, who believes she’s doing the right thing. She is not, she’s sealing her own demise like this. Everyone believes that he would grow up to be the demon king, just like he did every other time he’s been reincarnated. He’s lonely and scared, scared of himself and what everyone’s telling him he will become. He’s not doing well. Then, one day, an odd bird appears in his garden. It has a long, sleek white body, with pale blue wings. It cozies up to him pretty quick, when all other animals seem to be afraid of him. Soon after that, an oddly dressed purple-cladded Hylian jumps over the garden walls, calling for his bird, Sheerow. Enter Ravio, the main character of this story.

Ravio is the secretary for Hilda, the Prime Minister of Lorule. Lorule is further along in industrial progress compared to Hyrule, Lorule having 2010s vibes while Hyrule is in its equivalent of the Victorian Era. Ravio has magic, but he prefers to do magic tricks rather than actual magic. It’s more fun for him. He was named after Ravio the Merchant, aka AlbW!Ravio. Ravio is obsessed with the story of the Merchant and the Hero, the story of how Lorule was saved with the help of a hero from another world. One day, he receives his world’s equivalent(I’ve been using this word so much)of the Triforce of Wisdom, which looks like where the Hylian Triforce of Courage would be if you turned the Triforce upside down. So when Hilda shoves Ravio in the now open portal to Hyrule, people think that he could be the new hero. He constantly says he’s not, but is his counterpart and is searching for him. He first gets dropped in the middle of Gerudo desert, and a couple of Gerudo help him get to Gerudo Town, since he looks enough like a vai and he also doesn’t know what the words “vai” and “voe” even mean.

But yeah, he goes to Gerudo Town(which is much larger than it was in TotK), and basically adopts Ganon and brings him with him to Hyrule Castle. Well, it’s more like Ganon brings him along to the castle since there is this royal meetup between the kingdoms of Hyrule. Ganon and his “””””mother””””” are representing the Gerudo, Old man Tulin(he’s so old guys but he’s still full of energy) is representing the Rito, Yona and her children-including Link-are representing the Zora, and Helix is also now the main representative of the humans and hylians, along with the king.

Ravio and Ganon have gained permission to explore the castle, and the eventual reach this big garden with a long river at the end of it. Ganon loves it, he loves gardens, and is having such a good kid with the biggest smile on his face as frolics around the place with Sheerow by his side. Ravio’s known this kid for less than a week but is more than willing to kill someone for him I’ll have you know. The garden is also the place where Helix goes to relax and de-stress, which is not happening when she sees the future demon king she’s convinced she’ll have to kill running around in it. She’s very confrontational, only calming a bit once Ravio reveals his mark of the Lorulian Triforce. She’s convinced for a hot second that he’s the hero, but he’s not, just his counterpart from another world, which Helix just can’t seem to get. Another world? How crazy is that?

Then, they both hear a scream coming from Ganon, near the river. A corrupted, monstrous looking thing that looks like it’s made of fire crosses over it in one step, and the battle commences. They’re trying their best, Ravio trying use ice magic(not very effective), Ganon trying to use his own fire magic(not very effective), and Helix doesn’t even know how to use his newfound light magic properly yet(again, not very effective). She pleads to Ravio to go get the Master Sword, since he’s the only one who has a chance of pulling it out of its pedestal. Then, someone is singing. It starts to rain, it starts to pour down hard. Ravio drapes his cloak over Ganon so he doesn’t get hurt by the harsh rain, and the three watch as the monster screams and quickly dies right there and then. On the ground there is this odd, clearly evil, glowing sphere, which gets hit with a Zora spear, shattering it. Link jumps down from the castle roof, says hello, and the rain almost immediately stops once he speaks. He walks directly towards Ravio, while the group are just staring at him with wide eyes and agape mouths. Link introduces himself to Ravio and only Ravio, asking if he really is from another world. Ravio asks back if Link has been there the entire time they were fighting, and Link enthusiastically says yes. Ravio punches Link squarely in the face.

Uh uh, that’s enough of direct storyline for nowww. The Happy Mask Salesman is also here, and Tears lead Link to him to get a Hylian mask. So he can also transform into a Hylian. During the night, he runs off to the circus, and is a semi-famous acrobat. And he can’t speak while wearing the mask, since normally when he speaks the magic he casts stops. But the mask’s magic is way too powerful for him, so he just can’t speak.

Also Ravio, Helix, and Ganon can see Tears, thanks to the Triforces they have. Link has to pretend he can’t see or hear him while in his normal Zora form. And because he’s a Zora with a Hylian soul, he has maybe gender(species?)envy of Ravio. He thinks he’s in love but he’s not, he’s aroace, he just wants to be him not be with him. Ravio also hates Links because of aforementioned stuff above, and also because Link acts very suspicious around him. Ravio has major trust issues. He also is obsessed with the hero, which is also Link. Isn’t that fun? Oh, and everyone calls Link “Herm” because he’s a so called hermit.

A good chunk of the story is focused on the Depths, and the group exploring it to figure out why these monsters are appearing. Eventually, they find Zelda underneath the castle, Tears just breaks because he didn’t know where she was and that she was being used as a power source, and the king finally reveals themselves as the big bad. To the heroes he does at least, but he manages to convince a good chunk of the public that they are the bad guys, because Ganon.

And that’s about it for now haha. 1,708 words, ho boy. Wanted to talk about this for a while, feels great.

Sorry this took me so long to respond to, I wanted to really make sure I had the time to sit down and read it all, and I finally did so YIPPEE!!!

Link died and Zelda was captured by a dark force, who was somebody who was close to her <- GOD DAMN.

They made sure to have 7 children each generation, becoming the 7 maidens who each oversee different parts of the kingdom <- this sounds like a fairy tale almost and im OBSESSED.

Link, the hero, had been reborn as a Zora to King Sidon. <- LETS FUCKING GO ZORA LINK?????? OH MY GOD!!!

BLUEBERRY. PERFECT.

The spirit of TotK!Link(im just going to be calling him Tears from now on) also appeared, and tries to act like the Hero’s Shade in TP <- WOAAAAAAAAH.

Link though, is utterly horrified and doesn’t want to even think of being a hero <- he’s so real for that actually, i adore him

People call him the Hermit Prince, and his family is very worried about him <- Okay so I’m completely obsessed with your blorbo. I am holding him so gently rn

Zelda hasn’t and will not be reborn, because she is still alive and is being kept as a power source for the kingdom. Yeah. <- DAMN.

Enter Helix, a mostly regular adult human living in Lodrum <- OOOOOOOH

Suddenly she’s now crowned as the “true” successor of the long missing Princess Zelda. Her name is now Zelda “Helix” Hyrule <- WOAAAAAAAAAH

Ganondorf, or just Ganon, is only like, 10 years old in Gerudo years, but like 12 in human/hylian years. He’s a child, and is trapped within his home and garden by his mother, who believes she’s doing the right thing. She is not <- OUGH???????? HE’S TEN????

Everyone believes that he would grow up to be the demon king, just like he did every other time he’s been reincarnated. He’s lonely and scared, scared of himself and what everyone’s telling him he will become. He’s not doing well <- you are so evil. you are so so evil (im clawing at the walls screaming btw, holy SHIT!!! /pos /pos /pos)

Enter Ravio, the main character of this story <- FUCKING PLOT TWIST??????

Lorule having 2010s vibes while Hyrule is in its equivalent of the Victorian Era <- Fucking obsessed with this btw

Ravio has magic, but he prefers to do magic tricks rather than actual magic <- HE’S SO ME OH MY GOD

basically adopts Ganon <- OH GOOD, SOMEONE NEEDED TO

Old man Tulin <- TEARS IN MY EYES

Ganon loves it, he loves gardens, and is having such a good kid with the biggest smile on his face as frolics around the place with Sheerow by his side. Ravio’s known this kid for less than a week but is more than willing to kill someone for him I’ll have you know <- Ravio im right there with you

Then, they both hear a scream coming from Ganon, near the river <- LEAVE THAT LITTLE GUY ALONE /ref

Ravio drapes his cloak over Ganon so he doesn’t get hurt by the harsh rain <- i hate you so much for making my heart hurt over this mental image what the fuck (i love you. /p)

Ravio asks back if Link has been there the entire time they were fighting, and Link enthusiastically says yes. Ravio punches Link squarely in the face. <- I LAUGHED OUT LOUD

During the night, he runs off to the circus, and is a semi-famous acrobat <- WHAT A LEGEND

He thinks he’s in love but he’s not, he’s aroace, he just wants to be him not be with him <- OUGH.

Tears just breaks because he didn’t know where she was and that she was being used as a power source <- i am shaking you rn, but so gently and with so much kindness. But also how could you do this to me

Wanted to talk about this for a while, feels great <- IM FUCKJNG INVESTED

I have no idea if you’re writing this, drawing this, exclusively letting it live in your mind, but if you do like produce it physically anywhere… PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SEND IT TO ME IM EATING THE DRYWALL IN EXCITEMENT RN THIS IS SO FUCKASS /POS I LOVE ALL OF THIS OH MY GOD GOOD LORD I LOVE UR BLORBOS I AM HOLDING THEM SO SO SO SO GENTLY RN OH MY GOD!!!!!!

as you can see i am god’s most normal man. Anyways, THANK YOU FOR SHARING!!!!!

[livingfast04]

Alright, so when Steve is with his parents and finally allowed to shift, is he actually horrifying? Because Steve, while Steve is definitely experiencing some body horror while looking in the mirror, what does it look like from your author perspective?

Because in my mind it could go one of three ways:

1) It's genuinely a bit horrifying and gruesome. Steve looks like someone who's been partially flayed, parts of skin skin look like they've been rubbed raw, and there are chunks of him that's just raw muscle or bone. He is literally exposed and vulnerable.

Or maybe his body has extras bits? Maybe his finger got so long he needed to add an extra joint in his fingers? His skin leeches all the pigment out, and you can see every blue vein in exquisite detail. At random point during the day, he'll grow extra teeth and have to grow his jaw longer and longer to accommodate them all until its no longer a human jaw.

2) He's incredibly beautiful to look at, and it's terrifying. Maybe his brain is pulling from his mental database of features and selecting the "best ones" in order to make his body "better." So while he's recognizable as Steve, everything about him is so polished and perfected it's not Steve at all.

3) He's not ugly or beautiful; he's massively unsettling instead. His face has become a kaleidoscope shifting from one shape to another and another and another in an endless cycle as a sort of mental exercise to make sure his Steve face is the one he wants to keep.

Or he looks like a department store mannequin with no recognizable features at all. No pores, no freckles, no moles, his eyes are the lightest shade of grey possible, he has no eyelashes to speak of, and his mouth is basically a slash where lips should be. He looks like a lot of scar tissue surrounded by flawless skin.

Just, what do shifters look like when they aren't actively keeping a hold on their appearance?

Hi! Okay, Steve's a little different than the rest because he's still recovering from almost dying. but for the most part they do look pretty skeletal! At least the Harrington branch of the family- (Shapeshifters "Shapeless" form depend on genes!)

They are kind of horrifying to look at, mostly because to the untrained eye- the sort of look like corpses. But they are also just generally not human like. Very pale, can see most of their veins- Steve has a shit ton of freckles and moles the pigment in his skin condenses- He's short, but his arms are long, and his fingers are spidery?? long thin and boney.

Some shapeshifter families try and "breed out the anomalies" they are perfect. Uncanny Valley perfect, no blemishes, no freckles, perfect heights, perfect teeth- too human. Some are more monster-ish, some are tall, in human tall, some just don't have regular features for the most part, a nose that's basically not there, skin pressed down to their skull no cartilage to make defining features. They wanted to become the monsters under the bed when they weren't playing "house humans"

Because Steve is hurt, he looks worse, he views himself looking worse. Eddie's going to see it as face value- Steve's unsettling to look at yes, because he's not human. And it's very noticeable now.

It is traditional for shapeshifters to cover "imperfections" while holding a new shape, so all of Steve's freckles go away, and he keeps a few moles because a family member hundreds of years ago hated the way the freckles looked- so they can't carry them in the gene pool; but they liked the moles. Any scars are hidden because they are "abnormal" and they draw attention. The bigger and more traumatizing ones can be down played and hidden under less vivid scarring. The ones other people saw them get. But they don't heal while shifted. so they visibly scar the real skin ten times worse because they fester. So many have pieces of exposed bones, muscles, or large gaping holes in their skin. Where their real bodies can't function outside of holding a different shape and put energy into healing.

His teeth don't fit in his jaw perfectly either, he's basically got 6 canines, three on the bottom and three on the top.

Shapeshifters bodies don't usually shift without conscious thought. But they can be scared- or startling- so they "Jump out of their skin" which is normally a terrifying amount of body shifting and bones moving- in a very short period of time.

When shapeshifters change bone shape- it's very loud, they are breaking and reshaping their skeletal system. it's not "poof" change height. They get pretty bad stretch marks sometimes too! It's not all magic. Sheading a fake skin is easier than getting a new one. A fake skin comes off like water (besides bone shape, that one is still creepy and hurts like a bitch) but the action of basically becoming something else, takes a huge toll on the body!

At this point I'm not even sure I answered your question properly.

[maeselc]

Wip ask game: Maybe OMB 👀

(For the WIP ask game)

Thanks for the ask 😊

I can't quite remember why this is called 'Maybe OMB', because this is straight up a post-OMB fic lol. My guess is that I started drafting the smut before anything else so I wasn't sure if it would make sense in an OMB context 😅 The premise is: they meet in the Agent Bashir holoprogramme the next day for 'lunch' ... They do not have lunch.

I have a note in this file to credit @wanderingwriter87 for inspiration via Don't Rain On My Parade and and I'm the king of fools cause baby you're the queen of white lies, two absolutely incredible fics that influenced my OMB-related garashir brainworms.

I keep thinking I'm about to finish this one and then stalling (there's a *vibe* I'm aiming for that I haven't quite got to my liking yet, plus it currently switches back and forth between their perspectives quite a lot and I can't decide if I like that), so although I've got over 3k written of what i don't think will be a very long fic, I think it will be a while before I get it finished.

The opening (515 words) is under the cut. I've been fiddling with it a lot for a long time now and it may change before I post the fic in full, but I'm resisting the urge to mess with it any more before sharing now!

'Am I late?' Julian asked crisply.

Garak rose from the couch. 'No.'

'I know.'

Julian looked at Garak steadily, and Garak gave him his most bland of smiles in return.

Julian looked away first, turning to walk to the bar. 'Drink?'

'Are we not here for lunch?' He saw the exasperation even as Julian kept his face turned away.

'We can have a drink first.'

'Delightful!'

Garak walked over to stand at the bar and watched as Julian busied himself with the various liquids and accoutrements he produced from within its shelves. It all struck Garak as rather needlessly fussy, but he thought perhaps that was part of the point of the whole gaudy construct.

Julian was wearing his uniform, which, though disappointing, was as Garak had expected. Garak had also expected that his own choice – yesterday's tuxedo with a fresh shirt, this one a pale shade of blue that he understood to be non-traditional – might have elicited some reaction.

Oh, well. One for two.

'Is your friend expected? The colonel?' Garak asked. 'I haven't checked the boudoir. I shouldn't like to intrude, were she expecting you.' He idly rolled his finger over the bar, then flicked an imaginary dustball to the floor. 'Though I must confess to some curiosity.'

'About what?' Julian asked, his voice flat.

'What she really looks like.'

'Why is that?'

He walked around the bar and moved in to hand Garak his drink as Garak turned to face him. Garak took the drink and stepped in closer.

'Just call it idle interest.'

'I'm sure,' Julian said. He made no move to walk away. 'Didn't you say you'd seen more than enough of my fantasy life?'

'Hm.'

There was a long silence.

Garak blinked first, tilting his head just slightly, arching a brow ridge. All just subtle enough. An invitation, perhaps. A query, not a challenge.

Julian narrowed his eyes. 'Is this still how it's going to be?'

Garak elevated the other brow ridge.

'How long would you have us go on like this?'

'Like what, Doctor?'

'This,' he said, leaning in. 'Whatever this is. Both of us just waiting for the other to call our bluff?'

Garak tilted his head the other way. 'And who is bluffing?'

Julian stared him in the eye for a long moment. Then, he stepped in even closer, one foot wedging in between Garak's.

Garak drew himself up and tilted his head back so that he could almost convince himself he was looking down his nose at Julian. He heard the clunk of a glass being set on the bar, and then warm hands settled at his hips. He suppressed the urge to gulp.

'Who indeed,' Julian murmured.

'Certainly not me, my dear doctor,' Garak said, resting his hands lightly on Julian's forearms. 'My cards are on the table.'

Julian pursed his lips. 'And what table would that be?'

Garak had to fight to keep the irritation off his face, but after a second, Julian seemed to soften.

'They are, aren't they?' he murmured. And then he leaned in and brushed his lips against Garak's.

[johaerys-writes]

Follow up then So, maybe a fic from Patrochilles kid days in Phthia and their shenanigans. I like to think they were quite the pest. Maybe the time when they truly exaggerated and got Phoenix and Peleus sincerely angry because they did something dangerous I'm thinking explosions maybe. Like, it's a normal lazy day at the palace, everything is quiet ... too quiet

Something like that

Thank you for this prompt! You asked for explosions, so explosions it is :D Here's Achilles and Pat being their goofiest, most naughtiest selves. ENJOY!! <3

(~2k, fluff, humour, Gen)

****

The merchant that showed up at Phthia’s gates that day is an interesting fellow. 

His long flowy robes are in the brightest shades of red and blue Patroclus has ever seen, and the golden chains stacked around his neck in an extravagant display of wealth rattle when he moves. The stiff, circular cap he’s wearing gives him an almost comical appearance, but the man’s dark eyes are earnest and his smile is broad; he even greets Patroclus with it and pats him on the head when he and Achilles are summoned to the throne room to meet him.

“He comes from Babylon,” Phoenix tells them later, after they’ve all taken their seats at the table in the large hall. “His ship just docked this morning. The biggest vessel the port has seen in months.”

“What’s he doing all the way here?” Achilles asks, his eyes drifting every so often to the merchant seated by his father’s side on the table. The two men are talking animatedly, Peleus filling and refilling their cups. 

“He has an interesting proposition for your father, no doubt. His wares are quite… unusual.” 

Naphtha, Patroclus overhears as the men talk. Liquid fire, they say, granted to the Babylonians by one of their strange gods: a thick water-like substance that bursts into flames when the sun touches it. Volatile and destructive, it has turned the tide in many battles ever since the tribes in the desert there started using it against each other. 

Patroclus doesn’t regard the merchant with the same appreciation after learning this. 

“Why would your father even want such a thing?” he asks Achilles as they head towards their room, after the feast is over. “It sounds… dangerous.”

Achilles shrugs. “He said it’s for defence. There are always wars breaking left and right; if your enemy thinks you have some hidden trick, they’re less likely to attack you.”

Patroclus isn’t quite sure it’s that simple, but he trusts Peleus’ judgement. If anything, his unusual tactics have managed to keep the peace between Phthia and its neighbouring kingdoms for years. 

Sleep comes easy for Patroclus after a busy day. He’s dosing, half-caught in a dream, when he’s roused by a poke at his shoulder. 

“Patroclus. Wake up.”

He grumbles and opens his eyes, blinking blearily. Achilles is looming over him, the moonlight that’s slithering through the open window a pale halo about his head. 

“What happened?”

“Get up. Come with me.” 

“Where are we going?” Patroclus asks, shifting at the edge of his pallet to put on his sandals. When he fumbles sleepily with them for more than two seconds, Achilles impatiently kneels down beside him and helps him put them on. 

“The armoury.” 

Patroclus feels like he’s sleeping still— Achilles isn’t making any sense. “And why are we going there?” 

“Hush, someone might hear us,” Achilles whispers crisply. He hurries ahead and Patroclus can do nothing but follow him through the castle’s dark and silent corridors, groggy and quite befuddled. He just wishes he was back in bed.

They cross the empty inner yard to reach the armoury. It’s a place that Patroclus very rarely visits: the large room filled with swords, spears, shields and arrows is reserved for the soldiers, guards and squires in the palace. Ever since starting training with Achilles, Patroclus hasn’t had a reason to come this way. Achilles glances left and right to make sure they’re alone before lifting the heavy bolt that holds the door shut. 

“Will you finally tell me what we’re doing here?” Patroclus asks once the door closes behind them. He listens as Achilles fiddles with his flint and a torch; soon, the oiled cloth catches fire, illuminating the space. 

Achilles turns to him then, and gives him a wide, fiendish grin. The torch’s trembling light dances in the golden flecks of his eyes. “To see that liquid fire for ourselves, of course.”

Patroclus gapes at him, lost for words. Fear creeps up his stomach, but also alongside it a sort of dreadful excitement. “Please tell me you’re joking,” he says, but by the way Achilles spins on his heel and marches towards the far corner of the room makes it clear that he isn’t. 

“Peleus will string us up by the ankles if he finds out, “ Patroclus hisses under his breath, hurrying to catch up with Achilles. His friend only laughs. 

“When have you ever known my father to do this?” He stops short in between two long racks of swords; after a moment’s contemplation he turns the corner and strides to the end of the rack, where the large crates filled with round stones for the hunters’ slings lie. 

Patroclus swallows thickly. There’s really nothing he can say to change Achilles’ mind once it’s set on something, he knows this well; besides, Patroclus can’t deny that there’s some sort of morbid curiosity stirring inside him at the thought of seeing this curious liquid with his own eyes as well. 

“Aha! Found it. I think.” Achilles stands over a large crate. It is firmly sealed, and the sturdy make and unusual shape of it is very much unlike the rest of the crates in the room. “Hold this.”

Patroclus obediently holds the torch while Achilles tugs at the lip of the crate’s seal with a wrench, huffing and puffing. Eventually, with Patroclus’ help, the seal finally yields, and they slide it off together. 

They both stare down at the crate’s contents. There’s a handful of clay balls with delicately carved shapes on their surface, nestled amidst the straw. No burning, lethal liquid that Patroclus can see. 

“What even is this?” Achilles asks, picking one of the clay balls. He inspects it dubiously, tilting it this way and that. 

“Are you sure this is it? Maybe there’s another crate somewhere.”

“No, this is the one. I heard my father speaking with Phoenix.” He brings the artefact under the torch’s glow to look at it more closely. “What is this?” he asks, holding out the short wick dangling from the bottom of the ball. 

Before Patroclus can respond, the fabric on the torch sputters softly. A spark lands on the wick. It starts burning. 

Achilles and Patroclus look at each other for a moment before realisation dawns on them both. Achilles’ eyes widen in horror. 

“Go, go, go!” he shouts, tossing the clay ball back in the crate and pushing Patroclus summarily towards the armoury door.

*****

Peleus is winding down in his council room, having a quick drink with Phoenix before retreating to his bedroom, when a loud, booming crash echoes through the palace. The stones beneath his feet tremble with its force. 

Phoenix is up and on his feet even before Peleus is, running to the door. There are soldiers and servants already rushing about, roused by the alarm that the guards on duty raised. 

“Was there an attack?” Peleus asks a passing guard. “Is the palace under enemy fire? Report, man!”

The guard snaps at attention, setting down the bucket he was holding. “Not that we know of, my king. There was an explosion in the armoury, and that whole section is on fire; that’s all we know.” 

Peleus lets the man go and joins the crowd towards the armoury, Phoenix in tow. 

It takes a while to get the fire under control and prevent it from spreading to the rest of the palace. The sky is pink and gold with early dawn by the time he retreats, exhausted and smelling of smoke from head to foot, to his rooms. He is halfway there when he remembers his son. 

“Where is Achilles?” he asks Phoenix. “Did you see him anywhere?”

His old friend shakes his head. They turn around and head towards the prince’s quarters. The door of the room cracks open just a bit at the sound of their footsteps when they draw near, and Patroclus’ tousled dark head peeks out. 

“King— King Peleus,” the boy mutters. He opens the door and just stands there, his big dark eyes somewhat fearful. 

“Where is Achilles? Is he with you?”

“Yes. But— um.” He glances over his shoulder, then bites his lip. “It isn’t as bad as it looks, I swear.”

Peleus follows his gaze into the room, where Achilles is sitting on the bed. His chiton is darkened by smoke and dirt, and his knees are scraped and bloody. A bandage is wrapped around his head, and there’s still blood along one side of his face. The ends of his hair look singed. 

The boy just waves and smiles at them. “Hello.”

Peleus rushes into the room and kneels before him. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

“Yes, about that…” Patroclus shifts from foot to foot, his cheeks flaming dark pink. 

“We set fire to the armoury,” Achilles says. “Sorry, father.”

“You did— what?” Peleus stares from his son to his therapon and back. “How did you— what?”

“We had to see the naphtha. It sounded… interesting,” Achilles explains, smiling awkwardly. “But we didn’t expect it to be— well, quite like it was.” 

“Oh, gods.” Peleus presses his palm over his face, letting out a groan. “So you just had to sneak into the armoury and examine it for yourselves. I see now.” 

And, oh, does Peleus see. Dozens of bags of gold tossed uselessly into the bottom of the sea, as well as a wrecked armoury out of which very few weapons will be salvaged. The damages and costs make Peleus’ head swim just with a quick, rough calculation, and his temper flares. 

The anger dies down almost instantly, though, when he looks up and sees the apologetic look on both of the boys’ faces. They both look like guilty and drenched cats, their tails between their legs. 

“At least you’re both safe,” he says. “You could have been gravely injured— you could have died. You know that, yes?”

Achilles nods. “Yes, Father.” 

“I don’t want you anywhere near the armoury again, understood?”

The boys nod again, more eagerly this time. “Understood.”

Peleus pushes himself up and turns to Patroclus. “Keep an eye on him for the rest of the day,” he says. “That head wound looks nasty. If he starts feeling drowsy or nauseous, take him to the healer straight away.” 

“Yes, sir,” Patroclus says, standing protectively over Achilles.

“And you.” Peleus glares at Achilles. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this so easily. Something tells me it was your idea.” 

His son —his brazen, wild, beyond foolish son— must have realised by now that Peleus would never mete out a harsh punishment, no matter the crime. He grins. “It was wicked, though,” he says. “You should have been there.”

Peleus lets out a long, long-suffering sigh. 

“Don’t even say it,” he grumbles at Phoenix once they’re out of Achilles’ room and walking down the long corridor. 

“Say what?”

“You know what,” Peleus says with a sharp wave of his hand. Smoke is still rising towards the sky from the wrecked armoury building. “I can hear you thinking it.”

His old friend’s lips widen in a crooked smile beneath his beard. “That boy,” he starts merrily, linking his hands behind his back, “does remind me of someone I know.”

“I said, don’t say it,” Peleus groans, though he can’t stop the smile from creeping into his voice as well. He’s exhausted and frustrated and more than a little worried about all the repairs he’ll have to fund, but pride still has its way of sneaking in. 

“He’s as wild as they come, isn’t he,” he chuckles, shaking his head. They’re finally inside the king’s quarters; Peleus doesn’t even ask Phoenix before pouring a cup of wine for them both. “He’ll drive me crazy one of these days. Will probably find himself in big trouble one day, too.”

“You’ll have an easier time taming thunder than bringing him to heel.” Phoenix grins, accepting the cup. “I wonder who he took after.”

“Ah, yes, something something the apple under the tree, something, something,” Peleus says with a bored wave. “Close enough, I suppose. But, just for the record, I have never almost burnt down a palace.”

“Not one of your own, certainly. Others’ palaces? Not so lucky.”

Peleus laughs and downs his wine. It’s strong and heady, just the way he likes it. He closes his eyes and rubs at his pounding temples. “I’m too old for this, Phoenix.” 

“Nonsense. Spring chickens, both of us.” Phoenix follows Peleus’ example and tosses his wine back, then stands up. “Now get some rest. You sorely need it.”

“Yes, yes. Sleep nurtures children as the sun does oxen, I know.” 

On his way out, Phoenix sets his hand on Peleus’ shoulder. “He’ll be alright,” he says softly. “And thank the gods he has that boy by his side.”

“Patroclus?”

“Mhm. Never far from him, that lad. Reminds you a bit of the two of us, doesn’t it?” He’s smiling, Peleus can hear it in his voice. “He’ll watch over him. As I have you.”

The words warm him. Peleus touches Phoenix’s hand where it rests upon his shoulder. They stay there in silence for a bit, watching the sun rise through the window.  

His old friend has it right, Peleus thinks. They’ll be alright, all of them. 

****

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