#tentatively ship tagging again

[crowttore]

Somehow, my Amphoreus self insert is moving towards fairy vibes... I'd be remembrance with the white crow as my memosprite >w<

[javierduffy]

kieran and javier finding moments or even seconds of domestic bliss in canon pls

my friend i have scoured, deep sea dived, deep cleaned, poker all-inned and i have never once in my rdr2 career ever been able to find a positive interaction between them in canon. i didn’t think they even had ANY for the longest time until someone found one and its literally javier threatening kieran … which i would personally not categorize as “domestic bliss”. i think our best bet for canon content is crossing our fingers and praying that the ai for them in camp has them sit next to each other momentarily

[zae-heeyyy]

Causerie

Summary: You send Arthur a letter. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word Count: 2,185 Tags: Male Masturbation, solo handjob, mentions of oral and unprotected p in v, dirty talk, long distance relationship, high honor Warnings: 18+ MDNI

an: So this came out of nowhere LMAO It's a bit different from what I'm used to, but I ran with it. The mentioned photo was heavily inspired by @sir-walton-goggins's under-the-cut sketch of their OC, Kris Blake. 😍😍😍 I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

Causerie: an informal conversation

Channeling the self-control of a brigade of soldiers, Arthur willed his unruly cock flaccid as he left the post office. An envelope addressed to Tacitus Kilgore in familiar dainty cursive teased him from inside his satchel. The nagging twinge in his gut could only be satiated by his fist wrapped tight around himself in the solitude of his tent. 

He didn’t know how he’d make it through the rest of the day without losing his sanity. Once you’d unknowingly planted the seeds, his thoughts of you grew wild and untamed like the weeds at your feet. He’d never seen something so ridiculous—a woman in her day dress, the lacy hem stained with dirt, trying to repair a loose fence post on her own.

“No man ’round here?” he had asked, holding his hand out for the hammer.

“There is now.”

You beamed, your smile stunning him like a camera flash. Unbeknownst to him, that grin was a brand, marking him as yours for a long time to come. 

Every time he passed by the quiet homestead, he found himself lightly pulling on Boadicea’s reins and scoping out something to fix. Your ways of showing gratitude, like a hug or kiss on the cheek, turned his neck to shades of crimson, yet he’d still come knocking again some time later. On his last visit, you were dragging him to your room by cotton suspenders, mouth attached to his before he could get a word in.

An innocent lamb you were not—he was sure of it now in a half-daze, hypnotized by your breasts as you bounced on top of him. Matter of fact, you must’ve been a witch or a succubus; he’d never felt so used, drained, and perfectly satisfied.

And guilty, too. He couldn’t even look at you as he confessed to his life of criminality, finally admitting what he’d come to tell you in the first place. After this job, he was leaving for good.

To his surprise, you didn’t put up a fight—just wished him well—and dammit, that made him want you even more. You didn’t follow him outside—only watched from under the blanket as he said his last goodbye and promise.

“I’ll write t’you.”

Receiving your letters kept his heart ticking and dick aching. What started as a pile of polite notes quickly transformed into a library of erotica. His hands trembled in anticipation as he opened the latest letter. 

Dear Arthur, 

Are you still alive? I hope you haven’t gone and gotten yourself killed. I’m sorry if I kept you waiting. A new photographer opened up in town, and I stopped by the studio one evening just before he closed. I may have batted my lashes and stood a little too close when I asked for his help. A special photo of me would be the perfect gift for my dear husband, who was about to be shipped away to war in the Philippines. You should’ve seen how red he got when I dropped my blouse. I tried to sit pretty. Did it work?

A photo? Arthur checked the discarded envelope, searching for the supposed gift. A small photo was still tucked away in the envelope. He took it out and held it up to the lantern to get a good look.

Christ.

You were directly in the center of the camera with a lazy smile on your face. Pearls adorned your neck, and velvet cloth draped over your shoulders, just barely covering those twin humps on your chest. Fuck, he wanted to rip that photographer’s head clean off his shoulders for capturing you like that, but goddamn, he wanted to shake the man’s hand too. This slip of paper was a slice of heaven on Earth.

And for what he was about to do with it, he was going straight to hell. Setting the letter aside, the gunslinger undressed down to his union suit with the ardor of his twenty-year-old self. As he settled back onto the cot, he locked on to your sultry eyes and sighed contently.

I had a dream about you. Do you ever dream about me?  

The bulge in his pants begged for attention, and he appeased it, palming himself idly while his eyes stayed trained on the photograph. He’s too old and weathered for this—pining over some girl and touching himself like he’d gotten a second wind of puberty. 

But he couldn’t help it. Even after deafening gun fights and vicious animal attacks, he’d find a letter to re-read, and now he had this picture to accompany his fantasies. His gaze shifted from the photo back to your words on the page. 

We were in this beautiful room in a palace or someplace like that, swimming under blankets. It was far from my humble bed, but it felt like paradise. 

If only you knew, that little bed was his paradise.

Dream you tasted like whiskey and ash and smelled like leather and gunpowder. I don’t think it was too far off from the real thing. We weren’t wearing any clothes, of course, and your head was tucked between my thighs. 

Breath shaking, his hips shifted upward, the memory of your thighs on either side of him overwhelming his senses. Arthur sucked in his bottom lip and didn’t waste any more time undoing the bottom two buttons of his union suit. His cock sprung free, twitching and yearning. Flicking his eyes to your photo once more, his right hand moved on its own, kneading his leaking tip. He peeked over the edge of the paper, watching precum drizzle down his shaft, imagining it was you leaking around him. 

Oh, Arthur, I could feel your lips on every part of me at once, kissing up my stomach, bosom, arms, thighs, legs, all over. But when you found my lips again, I don’t know how my pounding heart didn’t suck me out of the dream. Has anyone ever told you how gorgeous your eyes are or how heavenly your hands feel? And your back, Mister Morgan, is like a brick wall. How I wish I could’ve dug my nails into it.

Arthur’s fisted pace quickened as he stifled a groan, trying his very best to keep the sounds of his sin quiet. He urged himself downward into the cot, hoping the friction could mimic the sting of your nails dragging down his spine, but it was no use. Tightening his grip in frustration, he turned his attention back to the photograph of you. He wanted to study your hands, to imprint them in his mind’s eye so he could imagine them scratching his back and pleasuring his cock.

But the photo was too close up, only your face and a peak of your breasts captured at that moment in time. Would he be too brazen to ask for another? To request a pose? Hell—he’d stuff the money in an envelope with a list of the depraved positions he’d like to see you in. Your hands on your bust, legs spread open, on all fours, one with your pretty fingers in your mouth, and a full body shot with just the pearls. Dammit—he’d kill for it. 

But then, at the very end of the list, he’d ask for a respectable one. One of you with your hair pinned up under a fancy hat, dressed in your finest, wearing a necklace, earrings, and a bracelet with your hands folded politely over your lap. One that was sweet and proper. One that he could tuck in his journal, frame, or pin up on the wagon. One that he could take out in broad daylight and pretend, just for a moment, that he really was that war vet admiring a photo of his loving spouse.

His hips moved involuntarily again, jutting up into his fist—the placeholder for the pussy of the woman he’d one day make his wife.

I didn’t plan to get you in bed that night, as unbelievable as that may sound. You were just so damn handsome and so so kind. I couldn’t help it. I needed to know how you’d feel inside me. I hope you don’t see me as just some Jezebel.

“No,” he gasped out. Wet sounds of his strokes accompanied his declaration.

I really did and still do have feelings for you, Arthur. It’s quite scary, actually. Maybe that’s why my dreams about you are so vivid? I realized just how much I cared that night, looking down into your eyes. I don’t take you as the type of man to just give yourself away on a normal day like that, so I hope you feel the same way as me. Did I ever say thank you? Thank you for being such a giver. I have a tendency to take, take, take when I’m on top, but you got payback in my dream. You had me pinned under all of your weight, damn near suffocating me. It was the good type, though. When you pushed into me, I forgot all about it. I never took you for an eager man either, but you were drilling me into those blankets with the fervor of a threshing machine. Are you an eager man, Mister Morgan?

He answered in shallow pants, twisting his fist around his length and rocking his hips. 

I have a curse of waking up right when I’m on the edge, so as you can imagine, I had a wet problem to take care of. My fingers just don’t quite do it like you. I wish we could’ve had more time together. I get the feeling that you do a lot of taking care of other folks and don’t get that in return. Am I right? I’d take care of you, Arthur. I’d keep your belly full and drain your balls all in a night.

They tightened at the thought, and his hips were a piston now, going up and down on their own accord.

I know you’d never ask because you’re too nice, but I’d get on my knees for you and take care of you in that way. I’m sad we never got to try it, that I never got to taste you. The thought gave me the silliest idea. Are you looking at my picture? Imagine that pearl necklace is your spend on my chest.

Jesus—the perverted imagery hit him like a train. He looked at the pretty pearls atop your chest. Goddamn, minx. 

Don’t think me too crass, but do you touch yourself to my letters like I touch myself to yours? Yours are more well-mannered than mine. But still, I wonder, is your fist wrapped around your cock?

“Yes, darlin.” 

Goddamnit, he was talking to himself now, arm cramping as he pumped feverishly at his engorged dick, his orgasm waiting to explode behind his eyes.

Do you imagine it’s me instead? I wish it was me. I wish I was on top of you again, milking you for everything you’ve got. Would you give it to me this time, Arthur? Would you spill inside of me?

And spill he did, teeth gritted and grunting, as hot ropes of lust spurted out over his hand. Once again, he’d made a mess of himself on account of you.

Shame crept in as he floated back to reality and stared up at the canvas of his tent. He brought the letter back to his face to read the last paragraph. The least he should do was finish it—dirty old bastard. But when he landed on your words and processed them, he was left with a numb, longing ache in his chest.

If we were together, I’d help clean you up, then maybe we could spend the rest of the night all tangled up in each other. I’m sorry I’m not there to touch you for real, but I hope these letters bring a little light to that hard, lonely life of yours. If I can make you feel good, even from far away, that’s enough for me. I miss you. Any chance you could come see me soon? 

Yours.

Arthur sighed and folded your letter back up neatly, tucking it away in his now hollowed-out copy of Rambles Through Woods and Plains. Though your photo and letter were out of sight, his mind refused to wander from the subject of you.

An assortment of motion pictures flickered in his memory: the way your head tipped in laughter at his dry sarcasm, how you so graciously welcomed him to that sitdown meal, the way you worried about him just as much as he worried about you, and how your words, even from afar, brought him unmeasurable comfort. Making it back across the Upper Montana could be a brutal fight, but he’d outrun the law and take a few bullets if he had to. He’d bare it all to bring you back with him. 

As he relaxed into the cot, another thought drifted by, small and almost weightless like a dandelion seed in the wind: maybe he wouldn’t have to bring you back at all. Perhaps he could stay right there with you.

[charles-leclerizz]

driver diaries : collection #3 when you're shy

models : CL16, CS55, MV1, LN4, OP81

VIP guest's in the front row : [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @lorarri], [@dallaavv, @nichmeddar, @sisinever] IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED, PLEASE SEND IN AN ASK, AND MUTUALS LET ME KNOW IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE REMOVED ON PRIV !

availability : pre-dating with all drivers

designer's comments : she's backkk. missed this series I cannot lie to you all <333. this was requested ! so so sorry I took eons and eons to reply, hopefully it was worth it, if it wasn't (ok stone cold bitch) feel free to request again <33.

Charles Leclerc 16 thinks he did something wrong

You’ve always been a little shy around Charles. It’s not that you don’t like him - God, if anything, that’s the problem. He’s too much. Too pretty, too charming, too aware of how his smile lands like a punch to the chest. 

So, you tend to shrink back a bit when he talks to you. Glance down instead of meeting his eyes. Keep your hands in your lap and your words short, because you're scared that if you say too much, it'll be obvious how badly you're trying not to fall for him. 

Charles notices. Of course he notices. 

But he doesn’t read it for what it is. He sees the way you flinch slightly when he sits beside you at the team event, the way you freeze up when he compliments your earrings, the way you laugh politely but never quite look at him. And after a few days of it, the light behind his smile starts to dim. 

He starts keeping a little distance. Stops seeking you out with the same warmth. Doesn’t sit next to you anymore. When you speak now - quietly, nervously - he just nods, gives you a polite smile, and turns away. 

You don’t understand what changed.  You start thinking maybe he just never liked you in the first place. 

The breaking point comes one afternoon at the track. You catch him alone in the hospitality tent, scrolling through something on his phone. He barely looks up when you sit beside him. 

“Hey,” you say, softly. 

“Hi,” he replies, not cold, but… not the usual Charles. 

You hesitate. “Did I do something wrong?” 

That makes him pause. 

He sets his phone down and looks at you, expression unreadable. “No. Not at all.” 

You twist your fingers together in your lap. “You’ve been… distant. I thought maybe-” 

“I thought you were uncomfortable around me,” he interrupts, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “You never really talk to me. You always look away. I didn’t want to make things worse by pushing.” 

Your eyes widen. “Charles, no. I’m not uncomfortable.” 

His brows pull together. “Then… what is it?” 

You swallow. “I just- I get nervous. Around you. You’re... you.” You gesture weakly, blushing. “And I’m not good at this kind of thing. I didn’t want to come off weird.” 

He blinks. “You’re nervous because of me?” 

You nod. 

And then he laughs - not unkindly, just like something’s clicked. Like relief is flooding through him. 

“Mon dieu,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his curls. “I thought you hated me.” 

“I don’t!” you say quickly. “I… like you. That’s the problem.” 

He grins then - the real one, the one that lights up his whole face. And it knocks the breath out of you. 

“You should’ve told me,” he says, voice warm again. “I wouldn’t have pulled away.” 

You’re still a little pink as he reaches out and takes your hand. 

“I’ll be patient,” he says, threading his fingers through yours. “But you’ll have to look me in the eye eventually.” 

You do.  And this time, you don’t look away. 

Carlos Sainz 55 he thinks he makes you uncomfortable

Carlos is observant - but not always when it matters.  And with you, he just can't figure it out. 

You’ve been around the paddock for weeks now - part of the extended PR team, quiet and composed, never in the way. Always polite. Always smiling. Always… distant. 

At first, Carlos thought you were just shy. But then came the way you step back when he gets too close. The way your voice goes faint when he greets you. The way your eyes drop the second he compliments you or calls you guapa under his breath. 

And suddenly, it stops feeling like shyness and starts feeling like discomfort. 

So he backs off.  Stops lingering near your workstation. Cuts the jokes shorter. No more smirking comments, no more casual touches. It’s like he’s folded himself in - tighter, quieter - and now you miss it more than you thought possible. 

You don’t understand why it hurts. You weren’t trying to act cold. You were just… shy. Intimidated, maybe. And yeah, he’s gorgeous - of course he is. But it’s not just that. It’s how warm he is. How bright. How hard he makes your heart thump just by looking at you. 

So the silence feels sharp now. And you're the one who's confused. 

It all comes to a head when you’re cleaning up the Ferrari media lounge after a promo shoot. Carlos walks in to grab something, sees you, and does a half-turn like he’s about to leave again. 

You panic and blurt out, “Did I do something wrong?” 

Carlos stops halfway through the door and turns. He looks at you - really looks at you. “No,” he says, slower now, more careful. “I just… thought I did.” 

Your brows furrow. 

He sighs, crossing his arms. “You seemed uncomfortable. Around me. I didn’t want to push.” 

Your heart sinks. “Carlos- I wasn’t uncomfortable. I’m just-” You pause and shrug. “Shy. Especially around people I… like.” 

He blinks. “Like?” 

You feel your cheeks go hot. “Yeah. Like.” 

There’s a beat of silence. Then he laughs, soft and a little sheepish. “You’re shy?” 

You nod. 

He crosses the space between you in two long steps. “And you like me?” 

“I said that didn’t I?” you mumble, fiddling with your fingers as you watch him approach you. 

He’s smiling now - soft and golden. “I thought you hated me.” 

“You’re too nice to hate.” You glance up. “Too nice to handle sometimes, maybe.” 

He touches your arm gently. “You should’ve told me.” 

“I thought I was being obvious.” 

Carlos smiles, eyes flicking down to your lips. “Next time, maybe say it with words.” 

And then, when you don’t flinch away, he leans in - kisses you slow, patient, sure. Like he’s waited a long time to know where he stood. 

Max Verstappen 1 he thinks you don't like him

Max isn’t good at mixed signals.  He likes directness - clean lines, no guessing, no mess. He prefers it even. So when you start shrinking around him - going quiet, keeping your arms folded, never quite meeting his eyes - he files it under one thing: you don’t want him around. 

Fine. 

He doesn’t take it personally. At least, that’s what he tells himself. You’re shy, sure. Quiet. Polite. But there’s a tightness to it around him, and he’s not dumb. He can read a room - especially when he’s the one dimming the light in it. 

So, he pulls back. Keeps things curt. Efficient. He still greets you when you pass by the garage, still nods if your eyes meet - but the warmth is gone. The teasing, the charm, the slow smiles he used to throw your way like skipping stones? All gone. 

And it breaks your heart a little. 

Because you do like him. So much it sometimes feels stupid. He’s just… a lot. Intense. Beautiful. And impossibly hard to act normal around. You don’t mean to be distant - you just don’t want to embarrass yourself by being obvious. But now? Now it’s like you’re strangers. 

It gets to you one day. You’re both stuck in a driver’s lounge before a media block, alone, quiet. He’s scrolling on his phone, leaning against the far wall, not even sparing you a glance. 

“Did I do something?” you ask, soft but sharp with worry. 

He doesn’t look up. “No.” 

“Then why are you being like this?” 

His eyes flick to you, guarded. “I thought you were uncomfortable. Around me. So I backed off.” 

Your mouth parts slightly. “I wasn’t uncomfortable.” 

Max scoffs, just a little. “You flinch every time I speak.” 

“I flinch because I like you.” You surprised yourself with that one. 

The silence goes still. His eyes lift. 

You swallow. “And you kind of… scare me. Not in a bad way. Just… you’re Max Verstappen. You don’t exactly make it easy to think straight.” 

His brows crease. “So you’re shy.” 

You nod. 

A long pause. Then, a faint huff - amused, almost. He sets his phone down and walks toward you slowly. 

“You should’ve said something.” 

“I’m saying something now.” 

He stops in front of you, hand reaching out to trace a light touch down your arm. “I won’t back off again,” he says, voice low. 

And when he leans in, the kiss is softer than you'd imagined. And everything clicks into place. 

Lando Norris 4 he makes you nervous

You’re shy - painfully so - and the worst part is, Lando notices.  Of course he does. He’s the sun in every room he walks into, and you’re just a shadow in the corner, trying not to catch fire. 

You laugh too softly at his jokes. You look away every time he leans in. You wave awkwardly, never quite speaking first. And the more he tries to get you to warm up, the more your nerves clamp down, making you feel like a walking malfunction. 

Lando thinks it’s his fault. 

The teasing stops. The goofy smirks fade. He gets quieter around you - still nice, still polite - but less… Lando. No more little nicknames. No more playfully asking if you’ve missed him. No more light bumps against your shoulder as he walks past. 

You think he’s tired of you. He thinks you’re creeped out by him.  It’s chaos. Silent, unspoken, and spiraling. 

It all unravels in the worst possible place: McLaren HQ, the sim room. You’ve been helping run logistics, and he’s just finished a long session. He brushes past you without a word. 

That’s the final straw. “Did I do something wrong?” 

He freezes. Turns slowly. “What?” 

“You’ve been... weird. Avoiding me.” 

He blinks. “You avoid me. Every time I talk to you, you look like you want to bolt.” 

Your throat tightens. “I don’t want to bolt. I’m just... not good with this stuff. I get nervous.” 

Lando stares at you. “I make you nervous?” 

You nod, miserable. “You’re Lando Norris. You make a lot of people nervous.” 

A beat of silence. Then- he laughs. Relief spreads across his face like sunshine. “I thought you thought I was creepy or annoying or something.” 

You shake your head fast. “No! You’re just, hard to talk to because I like you, okay?” 

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “...Wait. What.” 

You groan into your hands. “I’m going to jump out the window.” 

“Don’t. I like you too.” 

You blink. 

“And I’m very into flustered,” he adds, stepping closer. “So, if you keep blushing like that, I’m going to kiss you.” 

And he does - right there, with your heart in your throat and the sim computer humming behind you like a witness. 

Oscar Piastri 81 he just ... gives you space

Oscar isn’t loud. He isn’t showy. He notices things in silence. 

Like how your eyes never quite meet his. How your voice gets quieter when he walks into the room. How you always seem to smile at everyone but him. 

He assumes he makes you uncomfortable.  So he gives you space. A lot of it.  He’s polite, respectful, kind - but distant. Detached. Careful not to make you feel boxed in. 

What he doesn’t realise is that you feel boxed out. 

You don’t mean to shrink away from him. You just… don’t know how to be normal around someone you’ve been quietly crushing on since the first time he looked up from his phone and asked if you wanted the last packet of crisps. That small. That stupid. That unforgettable. 

And now he’s cold. Or not cold exactly - but quiet in a way that hurts.  You miss the version of him who caught your eye across the garage with a flicker of a smile. The Oscar who made jokes under his breath and bumped your shoulder when he passed by. 

You think maybe you broke something.  And you don’t know how to fix it. 

It comes out when you’re stuck helping pack gear after a long shoot. Just the two of you. Silence thick enough to cut. 

You can’t stand it anymore. 

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask, your voice thin. 

Oscar glances at you, surprised. “No. Why?” 

“You’ve been… different.” 

He hesitates. “I thought you needed space.” 

You frown. “Why?” 

“You never really talk to me. You seem tense when I’m around. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

Your chest tightens. “Oscar, I’m not uncomfortable. I’m just... shy.” 

His expression shifts slightly - not dramatic, but you see it. A flicker of oh. 

“I thought I’d done something,” he admits. “So I backed off.” 

“I was scared I was being obvious.” 

“Obvious about what?” 

You blush. “That I like you.” 

He exhales, almost a laugh. Then steps closer. 

“I like you too,” he says, and it’s so simple, so steady, that you almost miss it. “And for what it’s worth… I like the quiet. I just don’t like being a stranger in it.” 

You meet his eyes. “You’re not.” 

“Good.” 

And when he kisses you, it’s gentle - like everything else he does. Like he’s promising you’ve been understood now. 

[sm-baby]

I want to see all the carnival AU bios again, but finding Zooble's is too hard, even when using the search. I hope there's a more organized way to view them.

(Trying to come up with nicknames that said characters would give my characters.)

CARNIVAL AU MASTERPOST + BOUNDARIES

Augh... I never know how to organize stuff! But here is a mini master post of the TADC Info Cards (edited):

The Main Cast (Minus Zooble :C)

Zooble ( Plus Zooble!!! :3)

Shiny Cards ✨

Lesser AI

THE GLOINKS!!!

Level layout

OFFICIAL COMIC:

The Entire Comic has also been dubbed by @volticglitch !! If you're not a reader, You can watch their dubs instead!! Here is the dub

Your best friend!

Jesterly duties

The hallway

Crying

First clue

Special event!

Foul language - a silly

Excuse me?

Leave!

A word with Bubble

Let it Settle

I'm sorry

CONCEPT ART:

Characters Relationship Chart ( Bonus, OC relationship Chart!)

The Tent

The Funhouse

Cutscene

Pomni expressions

Character design

Meet Pomni

ALT character skins (Bonus, Maid skins because of course I did)

Pomni expressions AGAIN!!! (and a bonus)

The Jester's Circus tent (and a bonus)

References

Shape language ramble

LOREEE:

Neck pieces

Neck pieces (prt 2)

Neck pieces (prt 3)

Silly Frilly

Toxic Positivity Duo

Quick Ragatha Doodle

The Rabbit

Non-sentient Pomni

Pity Laugh

First act of violence

First and only visit

DOODLE DUMPS:

First look

Meet Jax

Meet Ragatha

Meet Kinger

Meet Able

Zooble's room

Theatre shinanigans

Thanks for listening

Jax Doodles

Ragatha doodles (Feat. Kaufmo)

Caine doodles

Queenie?

Colored doodles

Eye popping

Jax Ko-fi request!

SILLIES!!:

The "Sillies!!" Section is moved HERE becuase the mastpost couldn't take any more links!

╔══ ❀•°❀BOUNDERIES/FAQ❀°•❀ ══╗

"Can I make OCs In Carnival?" - Yess!! Multiple people already have and they make me so happy! do whatever, as long as you're happy and having fun!! " Can I make NSFW?" - Yas and slay, just be sure to warn and spoiler it, etc. etc. be responsible when posting NSFW! " Can I make Fanfics?" - Yes and please show me!! that would be lovely!! " Can I dub/voice your stuff?" - Yes but, I have only one rule... show me pleaaasseeee pls pls pls 🥺🙏 " Can I ship the characters/self ships/ OC x Canon?" - Aughh.. this is gonna suck to explain cuz its a lot to ask.. You're allowed to ship any ship! My only boundary is that it doesn't include either Pomni or Caine being with others who are not eachother! For example: Ragatha x Jax ✅ Pomni x Jax❌ Kinger x Queenie✅ Kinger x Caine❌ As long as the ship does not include Pomni or Caine individually, I'm all aboard!! I respect Jax x Pomni shippers, as well as Kinger x caine shippers, I just don't like them myself and don't want to accidentally stumble upon them in the tag! I do apologize if that's a lot, it just makes me uncomfy! Bounderies can be very tight! :')

[bbapplegirlie]

Little Apple Shorts

A Love and Deepspace Caleb Fic

°˖✧~*♡*~✧˖°

NSFW! ADULTS ONLY!

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Author’s Note: Hello, this is my first time writing Caleb fic :3 He’s such an interesting and multifaceted character—I’m feeling compelled to explore all his different sides (especially him being a perverted freak). I want to start with some short little head canons and moments, and maybe progress towards a longer, story-driven fic someday. I don’t have any beta readers or writing buddies, this is 100% me and my unhinged obsession with this man!! This one takes place when Caleb and MC are busy in college. It is very loosely inspired by this comic. If you saw me post and delete this a hundred times, no you didn’t, Tumblr formatting is confusing!! I won't do it again, I promise :,) I hope you enjoy!! xx

Content Tags: Smut, nonconsensual voyeurism, fantasies of punishing you, Caleb sneakily jerks off while watching you, Caleb comes in his pants like a virgin loser

Length & Status: Roughly 2.5k words, completed one-shot

Caleb’s Length & Status: 9 inches and hard as steel ;)

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Caleb regretted buying you those little apple shorts.

Well, perhaps regret wasn’t quite the right word. It certainly wasn’t regret making his cock throb so hard that it tented even the stiff canvas of his pilot uniform. And, fuck, did that friction of fabric on the swollen head of his cock feel good; he was nearly ready to rut against his own clothing to chase the pleasure.

Seriously, what had he been thinking, ordering those for you?

He thought he’d had pure intentions when he bought them.

When he saw the ad for them online, the embroidered apple halves and slices along the lettuce-hem trim were so cute and so you that he’d shipped them to your shared childhood home right away. He’d been away at the Aerospace Academy so damn much that he wanted to spoil you in any way he could.

He thought the shorts would be a sweet gesture to show that you were always on his mind, even when he was gone.

But now, Caleb had suspicions about his subconscious motivations.

Had he known just how… vulgar they would look on you? Was that why he’d really ordered them?

You were laying in your bed on your tummy, faced away from where Caleb hovered in the doorway. You were swinging your feet in the air, listening to music through your kitten-ear headphones (another present that he’d gotten for you some months ago), completely oblivious to Caleb and the perfectly tantalizing view you were giving him of your ass. No wonder you hadn’t raced to meet him at the front door when he came in; you hadn’t even heard him. He’d have to scold you later about how loudly you played that music. It wasn’t safe to be so unaware of your surroundings, and the hearing damage alone was enough to be concerned about.

But for now, he was content to take advantage of you being caught unaware by guiltily, shamefully drinking up the sight of you in those damn apple shorts.

The fabric looked soft but thin. Too thin, pulled so taut across the swell of your ass cheeks, he could make out the black lace trim of your panties underneath. Had he ordered them a size too small? Had he subconsciously done that on purpose, too?

Caleb audibly whimpered as you reached down and adjusted the waistband, pulling that too-thin fabric up into your ass cheeks, not leaving a single detail of the shape to his imagination (which he’d, admittedly, used quite liberally in the past whenever it involved you; now, he wouldn’t need to.)

Not only were the shorts thin, but that little adjustment made him all too aware of how short they were. They might as well have been underwear with how they conformed to your body; they were so short that the crease where your ass met your thighs was fully visible. Caleb became briefly consumed with the thought of running his tongue along that crease. He fought hard to hold back the moan that was rumbling to life in his chest. The music wouldn’t block out every sound if he didn’t contain himself.

There was no way in hell he would ever let you out of the house wearing those shorts. He debated taking a lap real quick around the house to make sure all the blinds were shut, just to make sure no one could see even an inch of your body.

No one but him.

He’d pictured a sweet, cheerful, hug-filled reunion when he returned home for summer break, but those plans were quickly evaporating. There was no way in hell he could hug you right now, not with his cock as hard as it was. Perhaps it was a blessing that you had your headphones on, after all. He needed to hurry down the hall undetected to his old bedroom and get a grip on himself before greeting you properly.

Get a grip on himself…

Just thinking those words had him fighting back another moan, because it made him picture literally getting a grip on himself, wrapping his slender fingers around his vein-laced cock and fucking into his own hand like the touch-starved animal he was.

The logical side of him argued that it was just an intrusive thought, that it wasn’t too late to turn to his room. It ordered him to take a cold shower to clear his head before he got caught ogling you like a pervert.

But the years of yearning, the years of picturing you while he laid alone in bed and bucked his hips up into his own fist, the bittersweet poison of being so close to you but never close enough…

He could only take so much.

He was only a young man himself, after all. He had needs, and jerking himself alone to the thought of you wasn’t cutting it anymore.

Jerking himself to the real life sight of you was definitely an improvement.

Before he knew it, and against his better judgment, he was leaning his luggage against the wall to free both of his hands. It was like a gravitational force with the might of a black hole had consumed him, forcing his palm towards that aching part of him. The first brush of his hand over the fabric strained by his already-weeping cock had his hips bucking forward sharply with an equally sharp intake of breath. He had to use his other hand to catch himself on your doorway for stability from just how quickly he was being overridden by desire. He winced when the floorboard creaked loudly below him with the shift of weight, but you still didn’t notice, happily humming along to one of your favorite songs.

The chorus came on, loudly enough that Caleb could hear it from where he stood. You swayed your hips along to the beat. The plump, curved flesh of your ass jiggled in tandem with the movement, and Caleb’s palm clenched over his constrained cock in response.

Rubbing himself over his clothes wasn’t enough.

Leaning harder against the doorframe, he oh-so-carefully undid the belt of his pilot uniform. He cursed at how loud each click and clank of the metal was, but you really were completely oblivious and lost in your own world. Caleb was both infuriated by it and grateful for it. Were you ever out in public like this, with your guard down completely, sitting like prey, waiting for any number of predators to swoop down and take advantage of you?

It didn’t escape him that he was that predator right now as he unzipped his fly and slipped his hand into his pants. His cock bobbed up and down in greeting, a heavy, hot drop of pre-cum emerging from his tip with the motion.

He didn’t waste time wrapping his fingers around his cock fully then, the skin-to-skin heat of his palm on his shaft making him thrust forward again… but this time, he didn’t stop the motion. He kept up the firm, unyielding rhythm, his hips and hand working in tandem in a well-practiced dance.

You kept dancing to your song, and Caleb marveled at how you swayed across your silky bedsheets. Every little movement rippled across the fabric as well as the flesh of your ass; it had Caleb fixated like a dog on a bone.

He wanted to get closer to you.

He wanted to kneel on those same bedsheets. To run his palm along your body, to grab the perfect indents of your waist, to hoist you up by the hips and line his cock up with the center of you… he wanted to see if he could get you so wet that it was visible through your panties and shorts. With the fabric as thin as it was, he was sure it wouldn’t be too hard.

He wanted to pull the shorts and panties to the side and press himself up against that hot, slick part of you that he’d dreamed about for years. He wanted to fuck you while you still wore them. He wanted to know your warmth, to worship it. Of course, he would also have to spank you for allowing yourself to get caught off-guard so easily; but he’d make sure it was worth enduring his punishments. He was just looking out for you, after all. Everything he did was because he loved you so deeply.

He wanted those shorts soaked in sweat, slick, cum, tears, and spit; yours and his. He wanted to take them back with him to Skyhaven so you couldn’t wear them again without his explicit permission. He’d let you wear them, sometimes, but only around him.

And when you two were apart, he would keep them under his pillow, the perfect keepsake to remember your scent while he was away.

Your sudden movement interrupted his reverie. No, you weren’t just dancing—you were getting up.

In a panic, Caleb ducked back around the corner, terrified you were about to turn around and find him out.

But you didn’t end up moving too much.

No, you were just trying to reach for something that you were laying on top of. With one eye peaking around the edge of the doorway, Caleb watched you try to grab your phone charger. You lifted your hips up, tilting backwards in such a way that your back arched beautifully, your butt aimed high. He could see every inch of you, and those shorts were doing absolutely nothing to cover your most intimate parts. Now, he could see the lace undies covering the sweet bud of your lips as they peaked out on either side of the tiny excuse of a gusset on the shorts. Whatever moment of terror Caleb had experienced was gone; no, he was entirely enchanted by you. The adrenaline of almost getting caught only fueled his pleasure, his cock pulsating with the rush. He resumed firmly stroking his cock, speeding up the pace along with his panting breath.

“Fuck, pips…” he uttered, completely hoarse, still unheard over your music. He could feel his gut tightening, his stomach muscles rippling, his cock throbbing and swelling painfully. Something like an omen of lightning sparked along his spine, threatening to strike at any moment. He’d cum quick to the thought of you too many times to count, but getting to see you right there in front of him, to smell your perfume and natural scent mingling in the small bedroom as he touched himself, oh, it was just too much, he was going to cum even faster this time���

The moment came hard and fast, overriding his every sense to the point of blindness. No, blindness wasn’t the right word… because he could still see you. It was the rest of the world that faded away with the ecstasy of his climax, and you were all that there was, all that he could see, all he could think about in that incoherent moment of bliss. His cock pulsed a heartbeat of its own. The cum plummeted from the head of his cock in unbelievably long torrents, hot and sticky and getting everywhere. All over his shaft, dripping down his balls, his legs, soaking into the fabric of his pants.

He wasn’t quiet about it, either. He was a whimpering, moaning, pathetic mess, and he had to pray that the music you were listening to continued to be loud enough to protect him at that moment. He quivered against the doorframe, humping his hips against the wood as if it could possibly replicate the warmth of your body.

Fuck, his orgasm just kept going on and on. They usually had faded by that point; he didn’t think he could have so damn much cum in his balls at once, now spilling all over himself. He rode the wave of pleasure, all control lost, picturing that it was you wrapped around him instead of his hand as he milked himself of every ounce of his seed.

His manic rutting into his hand didn’t come without a cost, though. The wood of the doorframe creaked, loudly, and it timed itself perfectly with the silence in between songs on your headphones.

You stopped your dancing and humming, finally alert to somebody else in the house. It all happened too quickly—you slipped your headphones off, sat up in bed, and spun to face the intruder, and all the while, Caleb was still cumming.

He hadn’t gathered enough mental capacity in his short-circuiting brain to even begin debating running down the hall by the time you had fully faced him with a beautiful smile on your face. His cock pulsed out the last few beats of his orgasm at that sight, a mix of love and adrenaline rendering his limbs shaky. He held on to the doorframe for dear life, fearful that he might just collapse into a heap at your feet.

“Caleb! You’re home!" you greeted, oblivious to his overpowering orgasm. You pushed yourself up from the bed, clearly just as eager to see him as he was to see you; perhaps he hadn’t been alone in daydreaming about this reunion.

But of course, he had to go and ruin it. He lifted one hand in a gesture to dismiss you, his other hand straining to keep his cock from popping out of his unzipped pants. “N-no, pipsqueak, you don’t need to get up for me! I need to get freshened up, and I, ah, uh, j-just give me a moment, okay, would ya?” He was rambling, he knew it, but he couldn’t manage to find composure. He was desperately trying to maintain his position that showed his face and not his dangling belt, unzipped fly, and cum-stained pants, pressed up against the wall and only half-way leaning into the doorway to greet you. “I need to get my bags p-put away and get settled in first. I’ll be back in just a m-minute.” He stuttered as a few aftershock pulses of pleasure from his climax hit him, even more cum somehow finding its way out of the head of his cock and into his lap.

“Oh!” You seemed a little confused by how out of breath he was, but thank god, you laid back down anyway. Good girl, Caleb thought, grateful that you had listened to him for once. “Okay, well, I’ll see you in a minute. Hey, thank you for getting me these shorts! They just arrived in the mail today, they’re so cute and comfy.”

“Oh, y-yeah pipsqueak, I didn’t notice, I’m glad you l-like them!” He called back, already hobbling away down the hall. The mess was sliding down his thighs and quaking knees. “But I heard it’ll be cold tonight, s-so make sure you put some real clothes on before you go anywhere.”

“But Caleb, it’s summer—”

But he didn’t hear. He had already scurried off to hide in his room where he could clean up the cum he’d spilled in your honor for the thousandth time.

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[foolinafable]

It's for the best .ೃ࿐

Keith Kogane x Fem!Reader Synopsis: locked in a cell, the white paladin remembers her happier times and hopes that she can make it back to a certain black paladin. Word count: 3.7K Tags: slight angst, flashbacks, mentions of torture but not graphic, set tentatively around season 4 Notes: Apparently, vld is having a resurgence so send in some requests!

You knew it was for the best. Sat cross-legged in the confines of your cell with a small smile on your lips, contented, knowing that you have done everything you could, that this wasn't in vain- rather it was what was supposed to happen. For the betterment of the entire universe, sometimes sacrifices need to be made. You remember telling Keith something similar during one of his many brooding moments. Now wishing that you could remember which conversation it was or maybe just that you had paid more attention to your time together, especially now you didn’t think you would ever see the boy with the mullet again. 

You were sat next to Hunk, the pair of you looking up giddily at Takashi Shirogane, the famed astro explorer. He was speaking to the class about his recent accomplishment as he had just broken the record for the fastest orbital velocity. Everyone had tried the flight simulator and despite not being able to get passed level 3- like the rest of the class you were still excited by the prospect of meeting the youngest pilot to ever lead a mission in space. Even more happy that you had done better than James Griffin in the simulator- as he never stopped going on about his good grades and how much better he is. So to wipe that smirk off his face made it all worth it. As you and Hunk were fangirling in the corner you heard Griffins whining causing your attention to go back to the simulator, where apparently one more person was having a go. The pair of you walked towards the commotion as the annoyed brunette sounded out “No way! Keith made it past level five?! Thing's got to be broken.” That was the first moment you saw him, well properly at least. The young boy with a mullet and a ‘disciplinary issue’ if you were to listen to what your teachers told you. He walked away from the training simulator with a grin on his face and you couldn’t help but smile too. Especially when he looked your way as he walked off. 

‘He doesn't even know you're gone’ you muse to yourself, and it’s true. The last you had heard from him was on the other side of a screen during a planning meeting with the Blade surrounded by your teammates, who similarly had yet to know the fate of the white paladin of Voltron. They would soon realise when you don't return through the wormhole and when they find your lion broken and alone. But then it will already be too late, as the galaran ship that held you prisoner was already galaxies away taking you towards inevitable doom. You think you're pathetic, as you are already giving up but what else can you do, your weapon is gone, lion missing,  and you are locked in a cell with only your body inside of it with nobody even knowing where you are- not even you. Worry roots deeply inside of yourself as you think of your friends, a lump in your throat growing at the thought of them discovering that you're gone- they have all lost enough already. You’re sure Lance would try to be enthusiastic, claiming that they found Shiro so they could find you. Still, even he would know the saddening truth that the galarans won’t make the same mistake twice as he tries to hide his tears from Pidge who would be clinging to Hunk, begging him to tell her it’s not true- she only just got her brother back and now she has lost her sister- blood related or not. You knew it would destroy the team if you couldn’t get back to them and what worries you is that you're struggling to see a way that you can.

It was nerve-wracking, waiting to find out who Iverson and the rest of the teachers decided to team you up with for the simulators. It was a big deal, as this was going to be your team for the rest of your time in the Garrison. Last year you couldn’t wait for this moment, but maybe that was because you were certain that the boy with the mullet would be by your side as you were as Shiro put it “the only person that can put up with him” but he left, dropped out without so much of a goodbye, and you could understand, the loss of Shiro, Matt and Sam was difficult for everyone but nobody took it worse than Keith and you suppose it made sense as Shiro was all the boy had. You shook the thoughts of him out of your mind when Iverson finally came into the room, twiddling the rings on your rings on your fingers as you stood near Hunk who looked ghostly pale and going on queasy as you both prayed that the older man would do you both a solid and put you two together. You listened as he called names into groups, feeling somewhat better when Griffin was put in a group that didn't include you. Then your name was called and you were told to stand next to a tall Cuban boy wearing blue, you smiled as you walked up to him and he smiled back seemingly just as nervous as you were, then a smaller boy with round glass and a green jumper joined the group, your eyes squinting when looking at him, almost as if you had seen him before but you couldn’t place where. But before you could question it Hunk's name fell out of Iverson’s lips, you looked up in alarm as you saw Hunk coming towards your group, shocked that your prayers had been answered. The fear that was eating away at you was dulled slightly as he came to stand next to you. Sure it wasn’t the team that you wanted but maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Being in space has always made your internal clock question how long has passed, but it seems to be worse when alone in this cell. You believe it has been a few days based on the number of trays of food delivered to your cell, the only interaction with another you’ve had this whole time. At least you think, as you find yourself waking up exhausted with pains and aches all over your body, but you have no memory of doing anything or even anyone coming into your cell in the first place. You thought you would've been face to face with Zarkon or his witch by now, but as time passes, you struggle to believe that would happen at all, which causes a pit to develop in your stomach as the unknown of your future begins to dawn on you.

You can still hear the conforming hum of your lion in the back of your head, trying to reassure you that all is well but as the days pass by you begin to believe it less and less simply repeating to yourself that it was for the best.

“Things could’ve been a lot worse” you theorised. Sat with Pidge in this trash heap with your lions completely shut down. At least you were together and there were (up to now) no enemies trying to kill you both. To be honest, you wouldn’t want to be stuck here with anyone else. After Pidge finally revealed to everyone that she was in fact a girl, something you had figured out back in your garrison days, not long after you had become a team and saw the photo of her and Matt taken prior to the Kerberos mission, but you only knew because he had shown it to you first, during one of his many tutoring sessions with you. You liked to think that while Shiro was Keith’s mentor, Matt was yours. A sentiment he very much enjoyed, so much that Pidge later told you that she had already known who you were when she met you. A fact that made your heart swell. Your friendship with Matt was one of the many reasons that Pidge thought of you like a sister and the main reason you looked after her so much- you wanted to look after her for him while he couldn’t and while this mindset got you into many arguments with Keith over putting her safety over your own you wouldn’t change a thing because you knew it was the right thing to do (Also Keith couldn’t really say anything as he constantly put himself in harms way for everyone on the team.) You couldn’t help but feel protective over her as she was the youngest out of your ragtag bunch and was annoyingly the only one you could baby as you were the second youngest of the group as Lance loved to remind you. While being here with Pidge definitely made you feel a little better, you couldn’t help but be relentlessly worried for the rest of the group, as they always found some way to get into trouble- especially Lance and Keith. It was like trouble sought them out, always getting into some sort of issue whether it be with aliens or with each other. So you couldn’t help but double over in laughter when Pidge using her junk-made paladins started an argument between the fake Lance and Keith.  Eventually, you both decided that you had waited around for help long enough and decided to try and find your own way back to the castle. Pidge made you gather together materials to make a home beacon signal in hopes that it could reach the castles of lions to allow them to find you two. No surprise to you Pidge’s brilliance worked its magic as the castle of lions appeared in the sky from a wormhole, the pair of you hugged each other happy knowing that you weren’t going to grow old on a trash pile as you had both dramatically claimed. You two were more than ready to return to the fight against Zarkon to save the universe and hopefully, find Pidge’s family.      

You dream of him, black hair, violet eyes and his grumpy temperament clouding your thoughts as you try to rest. But, when you wake cold and alone in that dark cell you are reminded of the present and how you need to try and stop yourself from dreaming of the past.

Thought it was “just goodbye for now” you bitterly mumbled as you awoke from another dream of him. This time the memory sticks with you- of the goodbye you shared as he left to find himself with the blades, those were the words he uttered to you as you blanketed him in your embrace. That it was temporary, that you two would come back together again and you remember how you smiled through your sadness nodding at his words, believing him truthfully- as you always did. But you are now struggling to believe it anymore and you don't know if you are more mad at him for uttering those words or yourself for trusting them to be true. Up to now, all attempts to contact your lion have failed miserably but you can still hear your lion if you concentrate enough- as though you two are connected to the same string and you pray that it never snaps, clinging onto it like a lifeline.

You were buzzing, tapping your hands against your legs as you bounced on the balls of your feet, waiting for Pidges Lion in the cockpit while the rest of the team looked at you, amused. Lance, clearly feeding off your joyous attitude, ruffled the hair on your head, messing it up slightly. You turned to the boy, pouting as he withdrew his hands, using your own to try to flatten whatever mess he had made as he giggled at your reaction. A smile quickly returned to your face when Pidge stepped out of her lion with a familiar boy following behind her, you ran towards the pair, wrapping your arms around Matt’s shoulders in welcome, your smile only increasing when he hugged back with just as much gusto, you could hear Lance muttering something about someone being jealous if they were here to Hunk and Shiro but you weren’t paying close enough attention to anything he said, instead, you were very happy that the man who you would call a brother was really okay and just like Shiro had survived the Kerberos mission. When the family reunion had ended Pidge introduced Matt to the rest of the group, except for Keith as he was yet again away on some mission with the Blades. You watched amused as Matt’s eyes landed on Allura and something similar to what you see in a romcom played out as he screamed “You are so beautiful!” you struggled to keep the giggles to yourself as you saw Coran turn red in anger, clearly seeing this as an inappropriate way to talk to the princess and finding humour in Lance’s clear jealousy as Hunk made the boy walk away from the group. You decided to do something similar telling Pidge to give Matt a tour of the castle ship as you walked away with Coran and Allura, pulling both the alteans away with your hands.

Calming down an angry altean was albeit harder than you expected, especially when Allura was of no help at all as she was just laughing at how worked up the older man had become, but you understood it was because he felt so protective over her especially since there was no Alfor to help him and she was like Coran’s little girl so nobody would ever be good enough, you whispered just as much to him as Allura was talking to her mice and that seemed to make him less annoyed, knowing that somebody else understood him. It wasn’t until later when gossiping with Allura about your lives before all this, that she mentioned that it wasn’t just Matt’s interaction with her that annoyed Coran but also his interaction with you, claiming that he always got annoyed when others in his eyes tried to “flirt” with you, her or Pidge. However, she quickly noted that he never got annoyed or got Lance and Hunk to intimidate Keith like he did anyone else when it comes to you a comment made your cheeks burn.   

You startle awake to the sound of your cell door being opened, eyes darting towards the light, confused when the door continues to open, eyes squinting from the light now surrounding you for the first time in weeks as you try to identify the body in front of you when a voice gasped out and a familiar voice spoke your name. All worry evaporated from your body as Matt Holt wrapped you in a hug and you knew for the first time in weeks that everything would be okay and that maybe Keith was right- it was just goodbye for now.

You now sat in the control room of the ship you had been captured in surrounded by freedom fighters. After hearing over hacked intercoms about it carrying ‘precious cargo’ for the emperor, they had infiltrated and taken control of the ship.

“And that was me was it?” you mused looking towards the Holt boy to which he cracked a smile sending you a simple nod in response. You had changed into your white and silver spacesuit and your bayard had been retrieved for you. Now more than ready to return home to the castle of lions, to the paladins and to him. 

The first thing you saw, unsurprisingly, as the ship came out of the wormhole was your lion, growling in happiness, bounding towards her paladin only stopping when she was at the front of the ship, eyes locked onto you. You smiled gleefully at your lion feeling your connection stronger than ever, as though the string that attached the you two was unwavering, unbreakable. As soon as the ship reached the castle of lions you were enveloped in the paladin’s embrace, you would’ve fallen over when Pidge launched herself into your arms, legs wrapped around your middle like a koala,  if weren’t for Lance keeping you balanced by surrounding you in a hug from behind. Hunk joined the misfit group of cadets finishing off the group hug similar to how they used to in the Garrison when they, for once, completed the training simulator much to Iverson’s shock. Thoughts of worry could be seen swimming through Shiro’s eyes as you caught them when looking up, he nodded at you, the tension flinging off him like water down a hill as you turned back to your family holding Pidge and Lance by the backs of their heads, smiling and reassuring them that this was real, that you were real as tears dropped from the twos eyes. You could feel Hunk’s laboured breaths, clearly trying to stay strong for the group as the rest were blubbering messes. Walking away from your embrace and towards the freedom fighters with Shiro shaking hands and thanking them for getting you back to them as the trio dropped towards the floor, holding onto each other like it was the last time. 

It was only later when you had changed into your everyday wear, speaking with Allura and Coran holding both of their hands, stroking them gently that the paladins noticed the new scars decorating your arms and some scorch marks adjourned your neck along with bruising that you wouldn’t comment on. Or rather that you couldn’t as you claimed to not remember anything except for the dark room you were kept in and then Matt saving you. Another change was your hair, which had a white streak in it, you simply chuckled at the development turning to Shiro claiming "We match now" causing everyone to laugh and they supposed it fit you well - “As she is the white paladin” Lance claimed.

It was only when Coran transferred your memories temporarily into a crystal that they all saw what you endured on the ship, you were beaten and tortured for answers, electrocuted, burned for sport and tested on by some druids. At that point, they stopped watching as Shiro was looking rather green, probably from remembering his own time with those vile creatures. But you mused that you were lucky as you still had all your limbs and according to Coran who looked at your scan results from the healing pod whatever they were trying on you didn’t work as you were the same as you were before, “except for a few scars and a new hair colour that is” He pondered twiddling his moustache. And he was right of course you didn’t feel any different, maybe a bit more anxious at night and a few more nightmares but who could blame you after being trapped in a dark room for weeks. Of course, the memory loss was slightly concerning but they all believed it to be a coping mechanism to keep you sane and you were glad that you could only properly remember the dark room, that it was all that really haunted you at night and that those things you saw on the screen projected from your mind didn’t and you hoped it stayed that way.

The entire universe that was apart of the coalition let out a sigh of relief when it was revealed by Allura on comms to the members of the alliance that the white paladin of Voltron had been found and returned mostly unharmed.  However, nobody’s relief could be felt greater than that of Keith Kogane who had been fighting with Kolivan for weeks when they received the information of your disappearance and probable capture, he remembers the way his legs nearly gave out from under him when during a meeting with Allura the altean claimed that Voltron couldn’t come to the rescue this time as they were missing a paladin- missing you. He Surprisingly didn’t even need to sneak out on a blade ship to try and find the castle of lions to see if it was true, rather Kolivan who was probably fed up with his moping simply turned to the boy and gave him ship and co-ordinates simply asking him to back in time for the next meeting. The older Galaran didn’t think he'd see the boy move so fast, mumbling annoyed about how much more work would get done if he did. 

You didn’t hear him on comms asking for Coran to allow him into the cockpit, too busy in the training deck with Shiro and Allura showing them that despite being out of action for a few weeks you were ready to get back out there because as you told them “the galra don’t wait for anyone” and that “this revolution wasn’t going to fight itself.” You didn’t even hear your teammates asking for you to come to the control room over comms, far too busy fighting the training dummies and your comms device left on the side. What you did notice was when you were lifted from behind, a pair of pale arms grabbing you by the waist causing a gasp to erupt from your throat, You spun around ready to attack until your eyes met his, and then your sword dropped to the floor as Keith held you in his arms, staring intensely at you as if you would disappear if he dared to look away for even a second. You quickly returned the embrace, arms circling his back as you threw your head onto his chest, almost unbelieving that he was there, his arms moved, crowding around your head pulling you impossibly closer to his body as he noticed the white strand of hair, his fingers pressed against it confused as he rested his nose atop your head, breathing you in, reminding himself that this was in fact, real and not just one of his sick dreams he has been having since finding out you were gone. 

Being held in his arms made everything real, and you thought that if you had to through everything all over again just to have this moment, in his arms, you would. It was all be for the best if you ended up in his arms at the end of it all.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddie-week.

All Hours

Day #1 - Prompt: Secret Relationship | Word Count: 1125 | Rating: T | CW: Language | POV: Steve | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Good Uncle Wayne Munson, Steve & Wayne

Steve parks outside of the trailer park and walks in. Careful to avoid the streetlights and the corners where there are known yapping dogs.

He approaches Eddie's window on the back side of the new trailer, and moves to push open the screen, to let himself inside without waking up Eddie, or Wayne. He just hikes his foot up into the sill when he's startled. 

"We do have a front door, you know," comes the lazy drawl, and Steve nearly jumps out of his skin, heart hammering wildly in his chest. He tries to suck in a breath, gripping the edge of the window frame, finally looking over at Wayne as he sits on the back steps, cigarette burning between his fingers.

"I'm sorry," Steve says, taking a step back from the house, pulling the window closed, putting some distance between himself and the room where Eddie is surely sleeping.

Eddie sleeps all the time these days. The doctors swear it's just part of his healing process, the recovery, but Steve still worries. All the time. Everyday. It's impossible not to. Eddie's healed so slowly, after being so close to death, that Steve's terrified he'll never fully recover.

"C'mere, kid," Wayne says, and pats the step beside him. 

Steve goes, but is a little wary. Wayne and him haven't really spent that much time together, they were just ships passing in the night while Eddie was in the hospital. Each taking their turn, and then handing the baton off to the other.

Steve sits down, and folds his hands in his lap.

"I know you've been sneaking in and out of his window during all hours of the day and night, for, well, months now," Wayne says, just barely above a murmur. 

"I'm sorry. I just worry about him," Steve says, and that's the truth. Most of it, anyway. 

There have been a couple quick, tentative kisses, but that's it. Eddie isn't strong enough for anything else, definitely nothing as tawdry as Wayne seems to be implying. It's pretty innocent, this thing they've got going. 

Steve's snuck in a lot of windows in his lifetime, but none compare to crawling over the sill of Eddie's window, and onto the chair Eddie now leaves there to ease Steve's entrance. None have been as chaste as this either. Steve's never spent months pursuing someone, hell, loving someone, that he didn't win over.

Even Robin, he counts as a win. It's platonic love, for sure, but he worked his Harrington charm on her, and got her to love him.

"I know you worry, but we have a front door. You're welcome to use it. Day or night," Wayne says, low and almost too soft to hear, even in the still of the night.

"Oh," Steve says, like this hadn't been something he'd ever considered, and honestly, it hasn't been, "okay."

"Okay," Wayne agrees, and he digs in his shirt pocket and fishes out a single key on a ring. "Here. So I can lock it. I worry about him, about someone coming after him again. And I wanted to put better locks on all the windows, but Eddie protested. Any idea why?" Wayne asks, and it's playful, in a very dry way.

Steve laughs, reaching out and taking the key, closing his hand around it, tight.

"Okay, I'll come through the door."

"Thank you," Wayne says.

"And I'll help with the window locks. If you want," Steve offers, and Wayne nods, like he's accepting this offer.

Now, Steve isn't sure if he should get up and leave, or keep sitting, or what. He stays.

"I don't care, you know," Wayne finally says.

"Don't care?" Steve questions, wanting him to clarify. 

"If you boys are more than friends," Wayne says, and Steve hadn't expected it.

"Oh," Steve breathes out.

"He's my boy, and I want him to be happy. Whatever that means for him," Wayne explains and Steve suddenly feels like his eyes are burning.

He wishes his dad would be as invested in his happiness as Wayne clearly is about Eddie's.

"Thank you," Steve says, "it's…nothing, not really. We're just friends."

Wayne turns to look at him, and grins, "If you say so."

Steve feels like he's lying, even if he isn't. Not really.

"But we could be more than that, maybe, someday. When he's feeling better. Maybe, if he's interested in that," Steve rambles.

Wayne smiles, takes a deep drag on his cigarette, and blows it up into the night sky, "Oh, he's definitely interested. Steve Harrington this, Steve Harrington that. Let me tell you. I've heard your name more in the past few months than I've heard my own."

Steve laughs at that, unexpected and far too loud, and it doesn't take long before Eddie's bedroom window is being shoved open, his head popping out. His hair is a mess, tangled and frizzy, but he's on his feet, and that's a damn good look on him.

It's a beautiful sight. But he always is.

"What? Are you two having fun without me?" Eddie asks, like he's not at all surprised to see them together. Like this whole sneaking through the window thing wasn't a top secret operation.

Was it not a secret?

Steve turns back towards Wayne, "How long have you known I was coming through the window?"

"Since the first night," Wayne admits, "I heard you floundering in, and came to the door to check on him, but I heard Eddie laughing, so I knew he was okay. I asked him in the morning who was making such a racket, and he said it was you."

Steve laughs at himself, apparently he was trying to be stealthy for Eddie's benefit, but they weren't on the same page.

"C'mon in, Harrington. Henderson brought over some new tapes earlier," Eddie says, and Steve stands.

Wayne nods his head towards the back door, "It's unlocked. But your key will work there, too."

And Steve pulls it open, heading towards Eddie's room. Eddie is back in bed, propped up, remote in hand for the VCR Steve had set up in Eddie's room months ago, thinking they'd get better use out of it here, than Steve would at home, these days.

Steve settles next to him, "What do we got tonight?"

"Back to the Future, have you seen it?" Eddie asks.

"Only while very drugged by the Russians," Steve admits, "it'll be nice to see it again."

Steve's sure there's no chance Eddie will stay awake for an entire movie, but he'll be happy to sit with him, no matter what.

"You're so weird, Harrington," Eddie says, but it sounds affectionate, and Steve will take it, as Eddie leans his head on Steve's shoulder.

"Yeah, well. Back at ya, Munson."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddie-week and follow along with the fun!

[morverenmaybewrites]

A Crown of Bone

Pairing: Changeling! Reader x Fae Lord! Zhongli Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Additional Tags: Fae!AU, Implied Reincarnated Lovers!AU AO3 link Notes: Thank you to @sgri-sgri for beta-ing this!

Summary:

Imagine being a changeling child and living your life in quiet yearning.

You had been found in the dead of winter, or so your mother tells you, a half-fey child abandoned in a snowbank.

Imagine a lifetime of secrets: your first memories are of a spring that does not belong to the mortal realm. You dream of golden eyes gleaming at you from the darkness as your mother picked you up and carried you away.

Imagine keeping these things to yourself, tucked away against the curve of your ribs, right next to your slow-beating heart. Secrets that are half-yearning and half-memory: someone had left you there in that snowbank, and there are days that you think that they did not do so willingly.

And you hope that one day, they will find you again.

Story:

Imagine being a changeling child and living your life in quiet yearning.

It is a life of hollow hunger and a longing for something you cannot quite name.

You had been found in the dead of winter, or so your mother tells you, a half-fey child abandoned in a snowbank. She has told you this story many times before. Sometimes in fond reminiscence, more often in hushed whispers, her eyes fearful and haunted as she recalled your unnatural stillness, the way the snowflakes that landed on your skin did not melt.

You don’t answer whenever she tells these stories; she is already frightened enough. You do not tell her that while you had been found during winter, your first memories were of spring.

Except it is not the spring of Snezhnaya, where you had been raised. It is not the cold sun, finally rising after months of not showing its face. Nor is it the first tentative buds of snowdrops, pushing their way up from the melting snow.

The spring you remember is brilliant, bursting with vivid color. You remember walking underneath trees whose leaves were the color of fire; you remember the taste of wine against your tongue.

And sometimes, in those odd moments between dreaming and waking, you would remember seeing the gold of someone’s eyes and the curve of black, gleaming bone.

You do not mention this to your mother, who is already half-afraid of you. Nor to your father, who gazes at you with a resigned sort of acceptance.

Instead, you keep it to yourself, tucked away against the curve of your ribs, right next to your slow-beating heart. A secret that is half-yearning and half-memory: someone had left you there in that snowbank, and there are days that you think that they did not do so willingly. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Imagine arriving in Liyue during winter, a season of cold and gnawing hunger. The trees that dot the landscape are now bare, their branches the color of bleached bone. Whatever flowers that once bloomed in its fields are now gone, their colorless stems now covered by frost.

It is also a time when ice forms in the harbor, icicles as thick as spears, cresting with each wave. No ship dares to land on the Liyue Harbor during winter. During winter, food, paper, and cloth grow scarce. The shrines you pass by on the road show only a few, meager offerings: a single piece of fruit, the skin shriveled and mottled with mold. A carved wooden statue of a carriage, half-burnt, for fire does not survive long in this cold. You wonder what the Good Folk make of such meager offerings, whether they are as quick to anger as your Tsaritsa.

Something gleams at the bottom of the bowl, wet and dark. You come closer to inspect it and feel a shiver of disgust when you realize what it is.

Teeth, still bloody and steaming in the cold air. You step away, stomach twisting, and you think: the Tsaritsa would approve.

Perhaps Liyue and Snezhnaya have more in common than you thought.

You reach your destination, some remote village on the outskirts of Liyue, and feel a sudden shock of fear at what you find there. The woman who greets you stumbling at the gates is already half a stranger. The Aunt Baiji you knew had been both vivid and beautiful, with dark hair that gleamed like oil even in the dim sunlight of Sneznahya’s endless winter.

She had been strong, too. As a child, you remember how her voice shook the walls of your small household, as she shouted down both of your parents. You remember looking down at your burned hands, still steaming from holding iron cutlery, and wondering if you are worthy of such rage.

She had handed you a pair of chopsticks before she left, carved from bamboo and coated in dark lacquer.

“They’ll see sense soon, little Dragonfly,” she had said. “In the meantime, use these instead.”

You had carried the chopsticks with you on the long journey to Liyue, wrapped in wool like a shroud. You find that they give you courage for what you are planning to do.

They give you the courage to lie now, and it tastes like iron against your teeth.

“It’s good to see you, Auntie.”

But it isn’t. The woman who throws her trembling arms around you looks nothing like the one who had defended you all her life. To hold her is like holding a skeleton, you can feel the individual knobs in her spine, the skin hanging loose over her flesh.

You feel it then, like the flitting of a bird against your chest: fury, bright and pure. And with it, the determination to see this through.

“You came,” she whispers, and her voice is as insubstantial as a ghost. “Oh, my love, when I got your letter, I didn’t believe…You know I would never ask you to do this. You don’t have to do this.”

Yet, in her eyes, you can see her raw, desperate grief and the way she swallows down her tears as if they are poison in her throat.

“Yes.” You say it as gently as you can, and even then, she flinches. “I do. Show it to me.”

She sucks in her breath as if struck, and you hasten to add, “It’s not him, Auntie. You know this.”

She gives you a shaky smile, one that makes the wrinkles on her face as deep as mountain crags. “I know, Dragonfly, I know. But it–”

Her smile shakes, then cracks like porcelain, and with it comes her tears. First a trickle, then a flood. And you watch as the woman who had never shed a tear in your memory cries as if she will never stop.

“I’m sorry, Dragonfly, it just looks so much like him…I can’t…He’s still lying there.”

Her head is bowed, her thin shoulders shaking, as if the weight of her grief is enough to split her in two. Watching her, you feel a knot forming in your throat, and you wonder if grief can be contagious.

You take her hand in both of yours, guiding her. She has grown so thin that you can feel the bones of her wrists pushing up against her skin, the way the current of rivers curve over stones.

“Let me show you, Auntie,” you say. “There is nothing underneath.”

She lets you lead her, childlike, through the doors of her own house and it is as bare as you have ever seen it. Gone are the oil paintings from Mondstadt, the tiny figurines carved from noctilus jade bartered from night market stalls at the Harbor, the bolts of embroidered cloth you had sent over from Snezhnaya. Apart from the small cot lying in the corner of the room, the small room is almost obscene in its nakedness.

You say nothing, but an image unfurls over your mind: that of your aunt selling her belongings, piecemeals, making offering after offering to appease the ones who have taken her son.

You remember the teeth on the shrine, still steaming from the heat of someone’s mouth, and you shiver.

“He’s in my room.” She pauses to inhale, as if she has to force the next words out. “I can’t bear to leave him. Or look at him. I’ve been sleeping here instead.”

The crib is made out of woven horsetail; you can see the pink cotton of their seeds curling around its base like flowers. A mobile of figurines carved out of sandalwood hung above it, circling slowly, providing toys for a child that neither saw nor cared about them.

Behind you, you can feel Aunt Baiji shaking.

“We don’t have to do this,” she whispers through bloodless lips. “Perhaps we are wrong. There is still time to call the funeral parlor. Burn offerings for him in the afterlife.”

Her hand is cold and shaking as she puts it on your shoulder; it is like being touched by a corpse. And for just a moment, you feel a shimmer of dread, the world splitting as if into fractals.

Aunt Baiji’s son’s had been declared dead for nearly a month, the time it took you to prepare and travel to Liyue. It had been long enough that the hell gates that welcome the souls to the afterlife are about to close.

During this time, the proper offerings should have been burned to accompany him to the afterlife: joss money to line his pockets for bribes, delicate wooden carvings of servants to serve him, a pagoda carefully painted on rice paper so that he may have a place to stay in the afterlife.

And perhaps, most importantly, food. So he did not spend his afterlife with an endless hunger gnawing at his belly.

And just for a moment, you are scared to look into that crib. Nausea pulses in your gut like an open wound as you take one step, and another, then another. Your fingers curl around the woven horsetails, and your eyes seek the mobiles gently swaying in the wind.

And you look down.

You had been there to witness every moment of Aunt Baiji’s pregnancy, written in careful hand in her many, many letters to you. You had been the first person she told about when she felt the flutter of quickening in her belly, when she first felt her son kick inside her.

I have not seen him yet, but he already owns half my heart. She had written once, the letter feeling soft and sun-warmed against your shaking hands.

I have decided to name him Sevastyan. After his father. I cannot wait until the two of you meet each other. You will love him like a brother.

Brother.

In Snezhnaya, where nearly everyone knows your story, you had nothing to keep you warm. There is only your mother’s wintery stares and your father’s endless silence. But now, in a remote village on the outskirts of Liyue, the word beats against your throat like a swallowed star.

But when you look down, the child inside the crib does not look like a brother.

After he was born, Aunt Baiji sent you letter after letter, describing the dark mess of curls on his head and the fat of his cheeks that resembled fried dumplings. She described the shape of his mouth that resembled his grandmother’s and the curve of his nose that was like his father’s.

He is perfect, my Sevastyan, she had written. He is beautiful.

And he is. But the child in the crib has all the cold beauty of a carved statue, perfectly still and silent. No dreams chased behind his closed eyes and his chest did not flutter with each breath.

He does not look dead like the doctor had said. Instead, he looks like he had never been alive.

This is how you know, all those months ago. You have read enough stories and listened to enough legends about your kind not to know. The child in the crib is not Sevas, as your Aunt Baiji had feared.

Your hand hovers over his face, and on your fingers you can see the numerous cuts and bruises from your long hours of labor.

You’re shaking.

Perhaps from the cold, perhaps from fear.

As your hands close over the child’s face, you can feel it, magic pulsing against your fingers like the threads in a loom. All it takes is a slight tug and the weaving collapses. Aunt Baiji lets out a wail as the child’s face warps and twists, then it finally collapses into a pile of twigs and dried leaves.

“Oh, oh Archons. My son is alive. But they–they’ve…”

Her lips tremble, unable to form the next words.

“The Fae have taken him,” you say. “And I mean to get him back.”

And then your legs are collapsing from underneath you, shaking so hard that you are afraid that they will never stop.

And then your heart is pounding against the cage of your ribs like a frantic, dying bird.

You can feel your bones creaking, pinned under the enormity of what you must do. It is a surprise that the weight of it doesn’t crush you.

For the Fae have taken your aunt’s son, and you mean to get him back. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Imagine wintertime in Liyue and all of its quiet menace. It is a time when the trees shed their golden foliage, leaving their branches bare and skeletal. No birdsong echoes through the woods during the winter, and no crystalflies light the way with their glowing wings.

It is only the light of the moon that guides you as you deliberately stray away from the beaten path. It is something children learn, even in Snezhnaya, never to do.

Do not go too deep into the forest. Do not stray off the path. Do not catch the attention of those who dwell in the dark.

You have caught glimpses of them as a child: the glint of the moonlight reflecting off their eyes as they peer at you through the foliage, the curl of fingers with too many joints as they grasp onto your windowsill.

You had always wanted to stumble after them, wanted to follow them down into the dark.

Take me with you, you had wanted to say. Tell me why you left me here.

But they never did.

This time, however, this time you mean to give them no choice.

You stand there, at the heart of the forest, shivering violently, for the robes you are wearing are not made for the cold. Instead, the robes you are wearing are reminiscent of spring. For the first warm day in Snezhnaya, when the sun’s rays finally split the frozen river in two, signaling the end of the cold months.

The silk is the blue color of rushing water, bursting free from underneath the ice. You had used silver thread to embroider the slow dance of the last of the snowflakes, doomed to melt before they ever touched the ground.

Your fingers still ache with the effort of embroidering them into the fabric. And yet, you consider the effort well worth it. The Good Folk are a hungry lot, and they were known to covet things they don’t have: love, music, and things of great beauty. They are often known to take the most well-cared-for children, the best dancers, the singers whose voices could wring tears from a stone.

If you are going to draw their attention, you need to bring your best creations.

Hours pass or perhaps only minutes–past a certain point, it doesn’t matter. Your fingers feel frozen, your face raw and frostbitten from the wind.

And finally, you see them.

Your breath stutters in your throat as they slowly form into existence, like the hazy figures in a dream. First came the light of their bonfire, only a faint glow in the beginning, then brighter and higher until you can feel its warmth spreading across your fingertips.

Then their music, the sound of lyre and war drums. It is something ancient and wild and speaks to the very core of you. You can feel your muscles tensing as if your body wishes to join in the laughter and the revelry. Or perhaps it longs to run free in the forest, and sink your teeth into the throat of some small, living creature, to feel the wild beat of its heart as it dies in your hands.

And then, you can see them. The Fae.

They are known to have as many forms: as many as there are types of fish in the ocean or birds in the sky. The ones who came to you this time are unfamiliar: the curves of a naked woman combined with flowers you have seen in the field. Their hair flows into petals, and their skin is as smooth and unblemished as the inside of a tulip.

There are three of them, dancing around the bonfire, their feet so light that they barely touch the earth. And yet, in the shadows, you can see the twisted forms of creatures, their clawed hands plucking the strings on a lyre, their palms beating a frantic beat on the drums. You can feel your pulse leap to the sound of it.

But you do not move to join them, even as your fingernails dig into the meat of your palm, even as you down on your lip so hard that you taste blood.

It is they who must approach you.

And finally, finally, one of them breaks free from the circle to approach you. You can hear the other two, giggling and making jokes, their laughter resembling the chittering of insects.

The one who approaches you has the pale blue skin of a mint flower. Leaves sprout from the top of her head, flowing down to her shoulders like hair. But the eyes that behold you are the eyes of a reptile: cold and calculating and nothing human in them at all.

Her hand is cold as she grasps the sleeve of your robes.

“This is beautiful,” she declares, and her breath sends a gust of cold wind against your cheeks. “Almost like a river before it is frozen over. Please, may I wear it?”

“You may wear it.” You speak through gritted teeth so that she can’t see you chatter. “For a price.”

The smile that unfurls across her face is slow and fluid, the slow trickle of water before the flood.

The hand that was once on your sleeve slides down your skin, until they are resting on your near-frozen fingertips. She looks at you, eyes half-lidded, and you see that her eyelashes are rimmed with frost.

In her presence, you find that the wind does not howl so loud and that you can no longer feel the cold. In fact, you begin to feel warm, as if there is a fire burning at the center of you.

“Name it.” Her voice comes as if from very far away. “I will pay a great number of things to wear a robe of such beauty.”

A price?

Your thoughts are muddled, like the hazy silhouette of people in a snowstorm. Your skin is burning.

You remember feeling the same way, in the snowbank where your mother found you, so many years ago. The same heat at the center of you. The same exhaustion.

And you remember a hand reaching out to you, a flash of gold through the trees.

The memory sears through your thoughts like a bolt of lightning splitting open the sky. You know this creature, and you know her story. Of the travelers she leaves on snowy mountaintops, naked, except for the frost that grows on their skin like moss. You step back from her, your voice almost cracking from the cold.

“My Aunt’s son. Your kind have taken him.”

The smile she gives you is nothing human, and when she reaches for you again, this time, you know enough to avoid her.

“Ah, the child. We left another in his place so she doesn’t miss him.”

“Wood and dried leaves make for a poor son,” you snap. “Give him back and you may wear the robe for the night.”

She grins at you, and you can see bits of gristle stuck between her teeth. Behind her, the fire roars, and her two companions dance faster. The creatures playing the instruments stamp their feet and lift their voices, their howls feral and inhuman. You can feel the pull of their magic as if your skin means to rip free from your body and, still streaking blood, join their dance across the snow.

“Of course. But first, you must join us around the fire.”

And this, you know from the countless stories. Of young men and women, joining the Fae on moonless nights, dancing to the beat of their wild, dark songs until daybreak.

And if the Fae end up liking you, they may grant you a favor. A good harvest. A fated marriage.

A son.

This time, when the snow-woman reaches for your hand, you do not flinch as frost forms where your skin meets hers. Your shoes barely skim the earth as she leads you to the fire, where the music thrums in your ears as frantic as a pulse. You grit your teeth even as the fire burns high enough to blot out the stars.

You remind yourself that you must be brave.

But perhaps, you have not read enough stories.

Or perhaps the snow-woman wishes only to trick you.

Because before you start to dance with them, you make the mistake of glancing at one of the musicians’ faces. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

You wake under sunlight and with the taste of blood in your mouth.

You do not have the boy.

What happened?

You try to sit up, only to gasp and curl around yourself like a newborn. Your entire face is pulsing with pain. When you touch it, your hands come away stained with blood.

And then, you remember.

Not the musician’s face, but what you had done after you had seen it. You had raked your fingers across your face and dug deep furrows into your cheeks. You had taken your thumbs to your eyes and pushed until they popped like overripe fruit.

You had taken out your eyes.

Yet, you can still see.

Carefully, with the gentleness of one afraid of what they might find, you explore your face. No scars meet your questing fingers, and your eyes are still intact in their sockets.

And yet, you remember: lying in the snow, blinded and sobbing, hot blood trickling from your eyes like tears. You remember, too, listening to the three beautiful creatures arguing about who got to wear the robes first. Their voices growing higher and angrier until they resembled the chittering of insects.

You remember they had come at you with teeth and claws, grabbing at whatever bit of fabric they could reach. Pulling at the silver thread so that they unraveled from their patterns, curved claws slashing away at the sleeves, cutting the soft skin underneath.

You remember screaming for them to stop.

What had happened?

By all rights, you should be dead. Blinded, and dead.

The robes you had worked so hard to make are shredded. You flush, realizing that you are almost naked, but the skin that peeks through is whole and unblemished.

“How–”

Your voice is cracked and hoarse. You can taste blood on your lips.

How are you alive?

You scour your memory for the answer but you do not know the answer. You only remember one other thing. Your hand is shaking as you raise it to your eyes so that it blocks your view of the forest.

Your skin is cold. You can feel the calluses formed from your many hours of sewing over the years.

But it is not the hand that rested over your eyes last night.

It is not the hand that healed you.

Someone had saved you last night. Someone who could heal the many cuts the Fae have left on your skin, someone who could restore your sight and your face, after you had taken your fingers to them.

And yet, you cannot remember who.

You remember only one other thing, seen only in the fleeting edges of your restored vision: a great curve of bone, rising over you, gleaming as dark as obsidian. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Imagine Liyue in wintertime, when the rivers grow black and treacherous. No man or animal dares cross them, lest they come out blue and frozen on the other side. Underneath the wild torrents, you can see the twisting images of the creatures you’ve come to seek.

The image of a child, face bloated and black with rot, rises briefly to the surface. You remember, three years past, about a fisherman’s son who had drowned in this river. His playmates had claimed that they had seen him playing with a nobleman’s horse near the water. A scream rises in your throat like vomit when you realize that his eyes are boiling with maggots.

You stumble, water lapping at your ankles, making the hem of your robes heavy. You remember your own eyes, the sensation of them popping underneath your thumbs.

Perhaps you couldn’t do this.

Aunt Baiji will not blame you if you come back empty-handed. You know the truth of this with a heaviness in your bones. Perhaps this would have been easier if you knew that she would rage, that she would point an accusing finger at you and demand her child back.

But she wouldn’t. In fact, in her letters, she had begged you not to try. She would live if she lost her son, she wrote.

But she could not lose you both.

For her, you think as you step back into the river. For her.

And, perhaps selfishly, for something else. For the person who had placed their hand over your eyes and healed you.

For answers.

This time, you do not have to wait as long. The Fae do not come with the beating of drums or the sweet lilt of plucked lyres. Instead, they arrive in silence, rising from the churning waves, their forms still streaming water. Water-creatures that look like herons flap their wings, droplets of water flinging from them like feathers.

A trio of mallards circle the river, their bodies rising from the river, their feathers gleaming with barely-formed frost.

The boy who had drowned in the river grins at you from the banks. You can smell the stink of him: rot and the congealed blood of gutted fish, left to soak the deck of a fisherman’s boat.

And finally, it arrives. Faceless, its body formed from the river’s black torrents, it floats through the air as if cutting through water. This creature is old, old enough that no one alive remembers its name. All that is left are the stories: of the creature who lived in the rivers near Qingce Village, and who drowned any mortal who dared approach.

Its flippers glow like the wings of crystalflies as it approaches, beholding you with one gleaming eye.

“Your clothes are beautiful.” Its voice echoes through your head. You can feel it thumping against the walls of your skull.

You are struck with the sudden realization that this thing, just with its voice, can shatter you apart. Make its voice loud enough that your bones splinter into a thousand tiny pieces, like rocks of a cliffside crumbled away by the ceaseless waves.

You struggle to form an answer. Your thoughts are muddled as if your head is underwater.

As a child, you had spent hours upon hours in tea shops, sipping fragrant osmanthus tea and listening to the storytellers on the stage, their voices heavy with emotion and tragedy. Liyue is an old land, rife with legends, and you collected them like a magpie collected treasure for its nest.

You wear one of their stories now.

This time, your robes are the color of the skies over Liyue. And in its fabric, you have embroidered thousands of crystalflies, their wings glowing with the color of starlight.

It is one of Liyue’s most famous legends and one of its most tragic.

“Take them off and leave them here, so that they can decorate my riverbed,” the Oceanid demands.

The glow of its single eye is endless, and you find it nearly impossible to look away.

But still, you manage to shake your head.

“You can have my robes. But only if you are willing to trade.”

You can feel its disappointment and roiling anger like a sudden weight on your chest. You feel a sudden, fleeting panic that your cribs might crack in two, but it is all swept away by Oceanid’s rage. For thousands of years, it has been worshiped, fishermen and kings alike leaving offerings at its banks.

And yet you, stinking of your mortality, come to its waters and demand a trade?

Your skull thumps with the weight of its emotions, and for a second, you are sure that you will collapse. Your skin will split open, your bones will splinter, and blood will explode out of your screaming lips as thousands of gallons of pressure bear down upon you. You imagine your organs floating to the surface of the river, to be feasted upon by the mallards and the smiling child sitting on the banks.

But then, a word rises through your thoughts like an oncoming wave: Rhodeia.

And you are sure that you have found the creature’s name.

“Rhodeia.” Your word comes as if from underwater. “I have a story.”

You shake your sleeves so that the pale threads glint in the dim moonlight. You direct its attention to the crystalflies you have sewn into the fabric, so detailed it seems as if they are taking flight. On your back, the crystaflies form a bridge, cutting straight through the heavens, so that two lovers can walk across the sky.

You had embroidered their entwined figures just below your neck, at the curve of your spine. The star-crossed lovers of Liyue, cursed only to meet once a year for a single day.

And then you can breathe again, falling to your hands and knees on the soft, sucking mud of Rhodeia’s riverbanks. It floats in the air in silence, heedless of your strangled coughs. Somehow, you are sure that it is staring at the embroidery on your back. At the two entwined figures.

“Fine,” it says. “Name your price.”

Your lungs burn as you struggle for words. “I have a cousin who has been taken away by your people. Give him back to me, and my robes may decorate your riverbed until the end of time.”

“Done.”

Its tone is clipped and precise. Impatient. It holds out a limb to you, like the way a human would hold out a hand. It could have been a wing of a flightless bird or the fins of a leaping trout. Or it could have been nothing at all, as shapeless as water.

You grit your teeth. The Oceanid had agreed too easily.

“Show him to me, so I know that you’re not lying. Show him to me, so I know that I am not trading my work for bones.”

It beholds you, silent. And then, the churning waters of the river change, turning smooth as glass. In them, you can see him. Sevastyan.

And you think to yourself: he really is beautiful. This is not the carved statue that lay still in its crib. This is an actual boy, whose fat little fists wave in the air as he screws his face up to cry. He is still swaddled in the blankets you had sent for him, and you feel a painful twist in your chest as you remember your aunt writing that he adored the one decorated with sea turtles.

When he opens his eyes, you realize with a start that they are the same color as your Aunt Baiji’s. Black like the wings of beetles that crawled on your hand like a child.

These are the eyes of someone who had loved and defended you your whole life. Strange as you are, half-human as you are.

Your breath catches in your throat as Aunt Baiji’s words rise in your memory, as relentless as an oncoming tide: I have not seen him yet, but he already owns half my heart.

I cannot wait until the two of you meet each other.

The image dissolves into foam and the river begins to flow once more. You let out a startled cry, reaching out a shaking hand towards the current.

“Do we have a deal?”

In your head, you can feel the Oceanid’s biting impatience. You stand on shaking feet, the mud still thick on your open palms, between your toes.

And you let Rhodeia lead you into the river. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

You wake to the feeling of silt and mud curving underneath your spine. Your clothes are sodden, making your movements slow and your limbs heavy. The fabric is heavy, swollen beyond repair, the rich dye bleeding off of it like molten silver.

The dress is ruined.

And you do not have Sevastyan back.

You place a shaking hand over your eyes and curse softly.

“Fuck.”

Disappointment churns your gut like acid, and you are gripped with the sudden urge to vomit. There is a reason why people had spent centuries leaving offerings at the Oceanid’s banks: unlike the Fae in the woods, it is known to keep its bargains.

Then what happened?

The child. At the banks.

You remember his shadow, darting underneath the waters as the Oceanid guided you. A hand, webbed and pale and bloated with rot, reaching out to grab and pull you under. The rich fabric of your clothes had immediately become heavy and sodden, making you unable to swim.

Unable to move.

Perhaps the creature in the river had been a child once, but he is certainly more–or less–than that now. He had darted through your flailing limbs as nimbly as a fish. You remember seeing its twisting shape.

And you remember–

Its teeth.

Not sharp. Flat, like that of a horse. Ripping out a chunk of your arm. Then your leg. The muscles in your neck. Over and over until your vision ran red. And when you had broken the surface of the river to scream, you remember–

It had been so cold that you felt frost form in your lungs. Your scream frozen like hoarfrost inside your throat.

And the child had pulled you under again.

Like the first time, you should have died. Drowned and bitten to pieces, your bloodied entrails floating to the surface of the river for the mallards to feast on.

Then what had happened?

You are cold, yes. Your limbs feel stiff and frozen from your time in the river. But you are not dead. You pull up the skirts of your robes to examine your legs.

You remember, with a shudder, the child-thing’s flat teeth tearing into the soft flesh of your thighs, ripping apart at the fat and strands of muscle. Crunching through bone. The water going oily from your exposed marrow.

You touch your thigh, shaking. The skin there is smooth and unblemished.

And that is when you notice the river. You scramble back onto the banks with a small scream, slipping on the mud and your sodden clothes.

The river is no longer a river.

What was once a raging current is now nothing but dark earth. It is less like it had been filled in like there had never been a river at all. You can even see the small buds of something new and green beginning to push up from the soil.

“How…”

A curve of bone. Gleaming black as obsidian.

Whoever–or whatever–had done this, it had been done as an act of rage. Perhaps for the child. Or perhaps of the Oceanid. Perhaps both.

You’re shaking, feeling your arms about to give way underneath you. Hot tears flow down your face, from eyes that should not have even been there in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” you cry, the words forming gusts of clouds into the cold air. “I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders shake, and you gasp clouds of frost in the cold winter air. “I have to get him back. I have to keep trying.”

Someone’s hand. Warm over your burning, bleeding eyes. You cannot remember the last time you had been touched so tenderly.

You try to stand but slip down onto the earth. You have to grit your teeth and try again, and even then you’re afraid you’d fall.

“If you—” Your teeth are chattering with enough force that you can barely get the words out. “If whatever you are…if you keep trying to save me. From the Fae. The Good Folk. From these monsters, why did you leave me in the first place?”

A child swaddled in a blanket decorated with sea turtles. His eyes are the color of the wings of beetles.

“I have to get him back,” you say and you hope that whoever saved you is listening. “I’m not you. I’m not going to leave him to some…some stranger to be his family. I have to get him back.”

And as you make your way up the river that is no longer a river, a memory rises in your mind again. Not from the forest, and not from the river.

But from the snowbank, all those years ago.

That of golden eyes, peering at you from the snowbank as your mother picked you up and carried you away.

Imagine Liyue in wintertime, when the land is at its most treacherous and barren. During summer, the trees are laden with fruit, so heavy that their branches bow from the weight. The skin would still glisten with morning dew as one plucks them, their juices bursting against a hungry traveler’s teeth.

But in winter the trees are empty, their branches bare and skeletal. No game wanders in the woods, and all of the animals are warm and asleep in their burrows until spring. Liyue in wintertime is a time of silence, and if one is not careful, it is also a time of death.

By the time you reach your destination, you are weak with hunger, nearly maddened by thirst. It is a live thing that twists and claws at the hollow place in your belly; it pulses like heat against your parched throat.

You find that you can barely stand as you gaze at the entrance.

Imagine a place in Liyue, one you have only heard of once or twice, in those strange, dreamlike hours before dawn. When all of the lanterns have been snuffed out, when all the tea has been drunk and all that remains is their scent, hanging heavy in the air like a ghost. When all the storytellers have closed their paper fans and set aside their gavels, ready to turn in for the night.

Perhaps, one of them–always, always someone ancient, so old that their skin slides over their bones like a river over stones–will have one more story in them.

About a cave, somewhere deep in the mountains. And a tree, large enough that its trunk towered over mountains and its leaves can cast entire towns in its shadow. Here, they say, lies the oldest and most powerful of the Fae.

Here, no human should ever disturb the earth with the sound of their footsteps.

Here, there are stories: of mortals transformed, their screaming faces turned into the bark of trees, their fingers dissolving into blades of grass, their tears becoming the spray of water from a rushing creek.

Here you stand, shivering and afraid.

The robes you have brought with you no longer fit you right, but it does not matter. It does not matter that there is a new hollowness to your cheeks or you can feel a fever burning behind your eyes.

Because you know that the Fae will come, to this most sacred of all places.

Because this robe is the most beautiful of your creations, and perhaps your last. It is the rich dark color of a patch of earth that used to be a river. The color of a tree bark in summer, when it decorates the forest with leaves the color of fire. The color of a farmer’s field, freshly tilled and awaiting to be sown with new seed.

In Liyue, it is the color of life.

Once upon a time, this color could only be worn by those of royal blood.

Once upon a time, wearing something like this would have gotten you executed.

Perhaps it still might.

You had used gold thread to embroider images of crystalflies, glowing with the color of Geo. You had embroidered the ginkgo trees in full bloom during summer. You had embroidered the tiny jade slimes you would see at the Harbor, carved with a chisel the size of your fingernail. You had embroidered delicate golden corals from across the sea in Inazuma. You had embroidered every little thing you think Sevastyan will miss if he is not returned to the human world.

And on your back, its scales glinting with gold, is the great Dragon of Liyue. The one who had shaped the mountains with his hands. The one who had driven the sea back so that his people could thrive on land. Across your shoulders, in the darkest thread you could find, sits his crown: a great rack of antlers, as black as obsidian.

You do not know how long you will last in this cold. A feathering of snow settles across your shoulders. Against your cool skin, they do not melt. This time, you do not have the luxury of waiting.

Instead, you unsheathe a knife from your belt. Even in the gloom, you can see its wicked edge. The curve of its blade. The scent of cold iron.

You swallow down your fear, beating against your throat like a heart.

The first cut burns like the cold, blood welling up from your palm as you slice into the meat of it. Your skin smokes, your fat bubbles, the oil of it running down your wrist.

You have not touched iron since you were a child. Since your Aunt had stood up for you, all those years ago. You think of the chopsticks she had given you, carved from bamboo and coated in lacquer. Just one of the many ways in which she loved you when you feared no one else did.

You let your blood drip down onto the snow, gleaming like rubies, the color so vivid that it makes your head spin.

Quickly, quickly. You do not know how long you will last. Hunger and thirst have taken much of your strength, while fear and exhaustion have taken the rest.

You call out to them, out to the shifting shadows you can see at the center of the cave.

“I am…” You can smell your burning skin. “I am one of you. Who you have left to die so many years ago. You have taken something precious from me. You have taken my brother. By heart, if not by blood.”

You sway, standing on shaking legs. The knife drops from your hand.

You bleed.

You burn.

You continue.

“Return him and you may have…”

Eyes, golden and glinting, stare at you from the darkness. You grit your teeth. You can feel yourself falter. Twice now, you have done this. Twice now, you have failed. And here, inside a cave forbidden to mortals, you know that you might fail. For you will never make anything more beautiful than the robes you are wearing now. If you fail this time, you might never have a chance.

Your voice cracks like porcelain, your words die in your throat.

You try again.

“Return him and you may have…”

The robes, the robes. Tell them they can have the robes. Tell them they can have anything.

Perhaps it is hunger that gnaws at you endlessly like a starving beast, or perhaps it is the sight of your blood, running down your wrist and staining your robes. Perhaps it is grief, or all three; you cannot tell.

But before you can finish your speech, your great and final offering to the Fae, your vision goes black and you collapse, unfeeling, onto the snow. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

This time, you gain consciousness slowly, like someone waking from a pleasant dream. For the first time since you started your journey, you do not feel the cold. Quite the opposite, it feels as if you have been basking underneath a summer sun: your skin feels as warm as honey, your muscles loose and relaxed, as if your body no longer remembers all of its suffering.

Someone is stroking your hair. A hand is resting over your eyes.

You shift and whoever is stroking your hair stops. Somehow you feel a keen sense of loss at that, so sharp that tears prick your eyes. It is something like craving, something like hunger. You find that you do not wish for them to stop.

You cannot remember the last time you had been touched so tenderly.

“You’re awake.”

You can feel his voice echoing inside of your head, like you did with the Oceanid. Except this time, it is a call returned from a great chasm, the feeling of the earth shifting underneath one’s feet, the roar of a river now rendered silent.

Whoever is speaking to you isn’t human.

You rest your trembling fingertips on the hand resting across your eyes. There are legends, the way there often are, of Fae who are so beautiful or terrible that to gaze upon them would cause madness. Your mind would spiral into insanity as it tried to make sense of something inhuman and unknowable.

You are too afraid to look. So instead, you speak to them blindly and pray that you do not offend.

“Who are you?”

When he speaks, you can hear a note of amusement in their rich voice, and you wonder if this is another trick devised by the Fae. “Do you not know?”

“I don’t–”

You fall silent as you explore the hand resting over your eyes with trembling fingertips. And though there is only the slightest bit of pressure, the gesture feels sharp with memory. You remember blood streaming down your ruined eyes like tears and a gasp flutters against your throat like a caged bird.

“Were you…” Your voice cracks before you can continue your sentence, snapping under the weight of both terror and wonder. “Were you the one who healed my eyes? After I tore them out with my thumbs?”

“Yes.”

You realize with a start that the hand over your eyes did not feel like flesh. It is too smooth, too hard. Like a skilled sculptor had carved a perfect likeness of a human hand, entirely out of jade. You think of what you had seen, glittering at the edges of your restored vision: a great curve of bone, rising over you, gleaming as dark as obsidian.

You think of the image you had embroidered onto your robes, the crown of antlers unfurling across your shoulders.

And you swallow down your rising fear.

“And the river?” you whisper. “Were you the one who pulled me from it?”

“Yes.”

“And…” You think of the river that is no longer a river. The small buds of something green and new pushing themselves up from the earth. “You are the one who…you are the one who destroyed it.”

You feel a sudden stillness in whoever is holding you, the coiled tension of an animal just before the strike. When he speaks, you can feel a new anger in his voice, and a shiver runs through you. You can hear the creak of dried branches, the flutter of a bird’s wings.

Birds?

You think of the silence you had found in the woods. The absolute lack of birdsong. Most of them travel to warmer places for winter. And yet, for a second, you can hear their panicked chirping.

“Rhodiea was unable to control one of her subjects and ended up breaking her contract with you. She knew the consequences.”

In your head, his voice is magnified a thousandfold, and it is the Oceanid all over again. His anger is palpable, the slow grind of stone against stone, the feeling of the earth shifting underneath your feet, the sound of entire mountains crumbling overnight. You clap your hands over your ears, hoping to block out the way his voice echoes in your skull.

All of a sudden, it stops, and you are left gasping for air. You can feel blood welling up from between your clenched fingers, there is a new, endless ringing in your ears.

“Forgive me. I forget that you are now half-mortal.”

A Fae who asks for forgiveness?

You cannot remember if there are stories of that.

Will it anger him for you to accept his apology? Will he think that you consider him beneath you to do so? Will it anger him even more for you to remain silent? You tremble, and you remember: Sevastyan’s life hinges on your answer.

It is the Fae-Lord who decides for you, those strange hands lying on top of your bloodied fingers. You recall the forest. And the way he had held you, blinded and dying, before he restored your sight.

The ringing stops.

“Than–” You stop yourself, biting your lip so hard that you feel it split underneath your teeth.

You had nearly thanked him. A mistake that would have cost you a lifetime of servitude.

“If you wish to thank me, I give you my word that I will not use it to bind you to me. That is not what I wish to do.”

His word. You do not know if what he said is binding or if he is simply luring you into a trap. With a start, you realize that you can no longer rely on old legends or stories to guide your decisions. You are treading through the path of your own tale, and there are no old roads to follow.

Briefly, you wonder if the heroes of all the stories you’ve loved have ever felt so afraid. If they’ve ever felt at such a loss what to do.

You think of the Oceanid and her lost river. The consequences of a broken contract. You decide to take a chance.

“Then…then, thank you, Great Lord. For healing me. For saving me. I owe you my sight, my hearing...”

You think of sinking underneath the churning waters of the Oceanid’s river. Of both the current and the child dragging you under. You think of your scream freezing in your throat, of frost forming in your water-logged lungs.

You had drowned in that river, you are sure. And yet somehow, you are still here.

“...and my life,” you finish quietly.

He does not answer. The silence stretches out between you, and this time, you are sure that you can hear the faint snatches of birdsong, the carefree chittering of insects, and the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves in the trees.

The land you had passed through to get here had been covered with frost. The cave you entered had been as solemn as a tomb. You suck in a shaky breath, and you could have sworn you can smell the scent of flowers in full bloom.

“Lord?” you call softly.

“Yes?”

“May I see your face? Will it not…” You pause. Your throat feels dry with fear.

You think of your eyes popping underneath your thumbs like overripe fruit. You think of the musician, whose face you do not remember. And you think about how that might be a mercy.

“Will it not drive me mad?”

He does not answer for several long seconds, and then, you hear a slight exhalation of air. It could have been a sigh, it could have been his quiet laughter, or it could have been nothing at all.

“Mad? No. It will not.”

You remember the glimpse of him you had seen: the curve of bone, rising over you. The golden eyes glinting from the darkness. The shadow of a figure from across a snowbank, all those years ago. The knowledge suddenly comes to you with an almost painful clarity, it twists like a knife between your ribs: you had seen his face before.

He makes no move to remove his hand, still resting over your eyes. And you realize that he is waiting for you. Gently, you push his hand away so that you may rise to your knees in front of him.

What hits you first is the cave. Gone is the swallowing dark and creeping hoarfrost. Golden leaves blanket the ground you are kneeling on, and trees, gnarled and ancient, rise over your head. Birds of every color sit on their thick branches, snatches of their song filling the air. The fat buds of flowers sprout from the ground, in full bloom and so heavy that their stems almost bow to touch the earth.

The cave is now in the full flush of summer.

Or perhaps, it is something else. For the birds that stare at you from atop their branches are not ones you have ever seen. Their feathers are too bright, their colors too vivid. From inside a knot in a tree trunk, an owl with a human face blinks at you.

Even the flowers glow with their own strange light, summoning crystaflies as if from thin air. A few of them alight on you, touching their embroidered counterparts in the sleeves of your robes.

Perhaps, it is not summer that has visited this place, then. But something else. Something wild and ancient and free. Perhaps this is what the cave had been thousands and thousands of years ago before the first humans had even existed.

And yet, when you glance outside the mouth of the cave, you can still see the lands in the grip of winter. The trees, their branches bare of leaves, like skeletal hands reaching out towards the sky. Even inside, you can hear the howling of the wind, see the way the snow falls in sheets like rain.

You wonder what power the Fae Lord beholds, to be able to bring life wherever his feet touch the earth.

Finally, you turn to your savior. The Fae Lord that you owed your sight, your hearing, and your life.

Your first thought is that perhaps it is worth it to go mad, to feel your thoughts spiral away from you like a bird taking flight, just to be able to behold this man for a few fleeting seconds. Gleaming hair, the color of the bark of the oldest trees, long enough that it spreads across the forest floor where he sits. His face is smooth, unblemished, inhuman in its perfect symmetry, as if someone who has only ever heard of humans from legends had to carve one from jade. But it is his eyes that disturb you: it is the same shade of gold that you had seen glinting from the trees, the same eyes that had beheld you as you sliced your palm to offer your blood.

They are strange and reptilian, and they gaze at you with such fervor that you find it hard to look away. And on his head, like a crown, sat a gleaming rack of antlers, as black as obsidian. With a choked gasp, you realize that they match the embroidered ones on your robe perfectly.

And suddenly, your forehead is touching the earth before him, your vision spinning from the speed at which you had thrown yourself into a deep bow.

“Lord,” You force the words out like you are choking on them. “Please, forgive me. I did not mean to offend.”

In any other Fae, this show of subservience would have spelled your doom. The Good Folk are capricious and cruel, quick to try and humble humans with tricks and glamour. But the being before you is the great great Dragon Lord. The one whose legends tell of how he shaped the land with his hands, who had driven back the sea so that his people could thrive on land, whose spears had created mountain ranges. It would have been child’s play for him to destroy the river of an Oceanid.

It would have cost him nothing to save your life.

You feel him placing his hand on the back of your head, as if in reassurance, and you shiver at the contact. You think of legends of ancient kings, whose royal blood meant that they must not touch the skin of ones who are of lower status than them, lest they debase themselves at the contact.

You think about how, in ancient times, this gesture might have gotten you executed. You bite back a whimper of fear, trying not to cower like a frightened dog.

You feel his hand touching the back of your head, as if in reassurance.

“Forgiveness,” he repeats. “For what?”

For your insolence. For being in his presence. For a thousand other things you cannot hope to name.

Even with your wealth of knowledge in stories and legends, even with your endless hunger for contact with the Fae your entire life, even if you have started this journey with the knowledge that you may not survive, you find yourself at a loss for words. You grit your teeth, unable to come up with a satisfactory answer.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, still bowed so low that your lips nearly touch the earth.

“If you do not know, then perhaps you have done nothing that requires my forgiveness. Rise. I wish to see your face when you speak.”

You rise, still terrified. You realize that there is dirt stuck to your forehead and your cheeks, and you scrub away at them, feeling your face burn in shame. In the face of the Fae Lord’s beauty, every flaw you had seems magnified.

“Tell me, then,” the Fae Lord begins. “Why did you call me?”

“Call you…?”

You lift your hand to continue scrubbing at your face, and then you remember: your blood gleaming in the snow, the knife slicing through your flesh. The cut has now been healed, all that is left is a scar, stretched across your palm. And you wonder if you had the Fae Lord to thank for that once again.

He notices you staring at your scar and says, almost reproachfully, “The knife was made of iron. You would have died if you had cut yourself any deeper with it.”

“I did cut myself deeply with it.” You remember the stink of your own burning skin, the sound of your bubbling fat.

You remember, as a child, trying to feed yourself with iron cutlery. The burns you had suffered after. The way the skin around your fingers had gone tight and resisted movement. It had taken weeks before you could hold something again.

“I should have died,” you found yourself saying. “Why didn’t I die?”

The Fae Lord’s shrug is easy, almost careless, as he looks away from you. But you catch a glimmer of blood on his lip, gleaming like a precious stone. An image flashes before your eyes, a memory hazy with pain and exhaustion: that of the Fae Lord with his lips on your bleeding palm, sucking the poison out as one would a snakebite. You feel a sudden flush of heat at the thought of his mouth against your skin. You find yourself tracing the scar with your fingers as if to recall the feel of his kiss on it.

“You saved me again.” You bow your head. “Thank you.”

“It was a foolish business with the knife. I would have come even without your offering of blood.”

“Foolish, perhaps,” you say quietly. “Or desperate.”

He closes his eyes. “Desperate, then. Why?”

You think of your Aunt Baijin, who had greeted you at the gates of her village, already half a stranger. You think of her belongings, sold piece by piece, so she can buy offerings for the Fae. You think of her many, many letters, begging you not to try and get him back.

You think of chopsticks wrapped in wool, carved just for you so that you will not burn your hands when you eat.

You think of a boy, swaddled in blankets decorated with sea turtles, with dark curls and eyes the color of beetles. You think about how Aunt Baiji had hoped that the two of you would grow to be as close as siblings.

“For love,” you answer. “And the promise of it.”

When the Fae Lord opens his eyes to look straight at you, they do not look quite so reptilian. Instead, you see something human in them: sorrow, perhaps, or the memory of it. Once upon a time, maybe he had lost someone, too. He stares at you with something like grief.

“For love,” He speaks slowly, carefully. You can feel the weight of his power in each word. “For love, then, you may ask of me a single boon.”

Somehow, you do not think that he is thinking of Sevastyan.

“A boon?” you repeat, your pulse pounding.

This is, after all, what you have been searching for this entire time. You sigh the long, bone-deep sigh of a traveler who sees home. Here, at last, is the possible end to your journey. But before you can speak, another memory resurfaces: that of the river, of your breath turning to ice inside your throat. You think of frost forming inside your water-logged lungs.

You had drowned in that river, you are sure. And yet you are still here. When your lungs have turned black and rotted from the water, you remember that he had pressed his lips to yours and given you his breath.

“Why?” The word comes out harsh and labored. You speak as though your throat is filled with broken glass. “Why go through so much trouble for me? Why save me, over and over again?”

He looks at you, but he does not answer. But your anger has turned your words into a raging flood, you find it impossible to stop.

“Why did the Fae take my brother?”

“Why did you…” Your breath is sharp. The question is like a knife pulled clean from the curve of your ribs, it leaves you bleeding on the way out. “Lord, why did you leave me?”

You can feel something hot on your face. You do not remember crying. But the Fae Lord’s face is devoid of expression. He is so still that he could have been carved from stone. You wanted to scream, you wanted to reach out and shake him.

“Please,” you whisper softly. “Please, answer me.”

“Is that your boon?” His voice is sharp and clipped. “Answers?”

You can feel your breath stutter. The way he spoke, as if in warning. If he gives you this, his tone said, you cannot have Sevastyan. If he gives you this, he cannot give you anything else. You look at him, and you can feel something split into pieces inside you. Here, at the edge of the thing you have longed for your entire life, you find that you must turn away.

“I have spent years searching for answers,” you say through gritted teeth. “For my brother, I can wait a while longer. This is not my boon.”

The Fae Lord speaks almost gently, as if he knows what it must have cost you to choke out those words. “Then what do you wish to ask of me?”

“My Aunt’s son,” you say quickly. “My brother, by heart if not by blood. Your people have taken him, and I wish to have him back.”

After a few seconds of silence, you add, “Please.”

He speaks, still in that same gentle tone, “Even a boon from the Fae will require an exchange.”

“An exchange…?”

Horror churns like acid in your belly as you glance down at your ruined robes. The silk is damp with tears and melted snow, the sleeves are stained dark with your blood. The greatest and most beautiful of all your creations, ruined. You have nothing left to offer. And yet, you have come so far.

The Fae Lord is still waiting for your answer.

You think of the words that had beat against your thoughts like a drum when you had sliced open your palm with an iron knife.

Tell them they can have anything.

You think of the Fae Lord: his hand over your eyes as he restored your ruined sight, his lips over your bleeding palm, sucking iron out like poison from a snakebite. You think about how he had kissed and given you his breath when you were drowning.

You think of the snowbank, and golden eyes glinting at you from the darkness.

“Lord. If you let me take my brother home. Then you may have…”

You pause. You can feel your bones creaking, pinned under the enormity of what you must do. It is a surprise that the weight of it doesn’t crush you.

For the Fae have taken your Aunt’s son, and this is what it means to get him back.

“You may have me,” you say resolutely. “I will give you my life and my name. And I swear on both of these things to live for you and serve you and stay with you for the rest of my days.”

Finally, the Fae Lord’s calm veneer cracks, like ice splitting over a frozen lake. He exhales, and for a second, you feel as if the sun in that small cave glows just a little bit brighter. You think you can feel the earth moving underneath your feet.

This. This is what he wants. Not the clothes that you have rendered with painful detail, now stained and useless. Not your skill, or your sanity, or your blood.

You.

“I accept.”

The words roll over you like thunder, and you sway in your place. The air is thick with his magic, and crystalflies manifest out of thin air, bursting into golden life around him. It is done, you think, raising a shaking hand over your eyes. Your life is no longer your own.

“What do you require of me?” you ask.

“Only your name, as you have promised.”

You look at him. Even sitting, he towers over you. The crystalflies that he has brought to life flutter about him as if drawn to his presence. A few rest on the horns on his head, and they look like they belong there. You are reminded that he is not human, that this is a creature who has seen hundreds of lifetimes. Perhaps, in that knowledge, lies your answer.

“I think,” you whisper quietly. “You already know it.”

The corners of his lips twitch as if he is pleased.

“I do,” he confirms.

Your skin jolts at this newfound knowledge. You feel as if you have been struck by lightning. In every story you have heard, every legend you have read on ancient, yellowed scrolls, you have always been warned of one thing: never to give your name to the Fae. To give your name may mean a lifetime of servitude, it may mean never leaving their realm again. It may mean your death.

But this no longer resembles a tale you have heard in a teahouse or something you have read in a book. You are treading through your own story, and there are no old roads to guide you.

“Then it is yours,” you say. “As am I. To use as you see fit. For…for the rest of my days.”

As a child, you remember walking down the darkened roads of Snezhnaya, hoping to catch fleeting glimpses of the Fae. Hoping that they would remember you and take you home. To think that all of your choices will lead you here.

“Thank you,” the Fae Lord says, and he sounds like he means it.

Again, this Lord breaks all conventions. You lick your lips and feel the split in them left by your teeth.

“If I am–” You have to pause, frozen perhaps, by your fear. Or perhaps it is something else. Frozen by the knowledge of hundreds of legends telling you not to do. But you have already given everything to him in exchange for Sevastyan. You find that you have nothing left to lose.

He waits, as still as the mountainsides. You find that his patience gives you the strength to continue.

“If I am to serve you, to be your companion, then may I at least know your name?”

His gaze is gold of the summer sun, peeking through the leaves of trees, it is the color of honeycomb, the skin of sunsettias as they burst between your teeth. It feels like you have known it all your life. And when he speaks next, you find that there is truth in his words.

“You already know it.”

“I do,” you realize.

Even the oldest, most ancient of storytellers had dared not mention his name in their stories. To speak the name of a Fae draws their attention to you, and they dare not do so, for fear that they will not wake the next morning, their flesh split open by a thousand glittering gems.

And yet, you are sure of it: you know this Fae Lord’s name.

“Then speak it,” he says.

This time, it is a command. You can feel the pull of it, tugging at the space behind your ribs. And you wonder if this is what it means to give your name to one of the Fae. Your lips move as if they are on strings.

“Morax.”

You feel it again, the sensation of power rolling over you like gathering storm clouds. Except this time, it is yours. Morax closes his eyes and you think you can hear his breath start to shake, his shoulders shudder at the way you say his name.

You wonder: if giving him your name meant a lifetime at his side, then what would it mean for you to know his?

“It is done,” he declares with an air of finality. “You may bring the child back to its mother.”

Sevastyan winks into existence, with a suddenness that makes you jump. First, there is nothing, and then there is a child, lying on a bed of golden leaves. He is still wrapped in a blanket decorated with sea turtles, and when he opens his eyes to look at you, you can see the shape of your aunt’s eyes in them. You find yourself scrambling on your hands and knees to reach him.

You do not know how to hold a child, how to keep him safe against the cold that you know is waiting for the two of you outside the cave. His skin feels warm, and when you lift him in your arms, he still smells of milk and sandalwood. The blanket that he is covered in feels too thin. After all, you had sewn it for him to wear in fall, not winter. It will not protect him against the cold.

And so you do the only thing you can think of: you strip yourself of your robes, the most beautiful of your creations, stained with your blood and your tears, and you wrap it around him. Underneath, you are only wearing a thin shift, meant to protect the rich silk from your sweat.

You stand on shaking legs, cradling the child to your chest. Morax stands with you, and in his presence, you feel small. His eyes are fixed on Sevastyan, at the clothes you had wrapped around him.

“And you?” he asks.

You blink, “What about me?”

“The journey is long. And you will be cold.”

You shake your head. Despite his words, you find yourself unafraid. After all, you had already gone so far and survived so much. You are confident that you can survive this, as well. But before you can answer, he does the same thing you did only seconds prior: he removes his cloak. Unlike your frantic movements, he does it slowly, languidly and there is an intimacy in it that makes your throat run dry. You find that you can’t look away. You see the expanse of his chest, the glitter of scales on his skin. You can see his hands and his arms, and you realize that you had guessed correctly earlier: they do not appear as if they are made from flesh. Instead, like his antlers, they look as if they have been carved from obsidian. Glimmers of gold run through his skin like the glint of veins in an ore.

You think that this is not the first time you have seen him like this.

When he finishes, he wraps his cloak around you. It is the color of the leaves underneath your feet, as light as air. As if someone had grasped threads of sunlight and used them to weave the cloth. You think of the forest, of lying almost naked in the snow, your clothes shredded from thousands of cuts. You think of the river, of the water-logged fabric, dragging you down to the riverbed. After you have faced only suffering and humiliation for your work, Morax chooses to clothe you in finery.

Gratitude keeps you silent, you do not know how to voice the enormity of what you feel. Perhaps he reads it on your face, on the tears that burn at the corners of your eyes, for he places a cool finger on your lips. You remember the cut there, and you wonder if he will kiss this one new as well.

“Wear my cloak. Go with my protection and return the child to its mother. Then return to me to fulfill your end of our contract.”

You nod and turn to leave. But something holds you back. You glance back at him, the question burning in your throat.

“Was I…always meant to come back here? This place?”

Was I always meant to come back to you?

But you had already asked for your boon, for the child shifting sleepily in your arms, and as you expected, he does not answer. You find that you do not mind. You will get your own answers, in time.

After all, you had promised him a lifetime.

“I will come back,” you say resolutely.

“Yes,” he says. “You will.”

“Not for contract,” you say. “For you, Morax.”

He looks surprised, staring at you with reptilian eyes that for just the briefest of seconds, look almost human. And then, he smiles. Something tugs like quicksilver at the edges of your memory.

This is not the first time you have seen him smile.

“Good.”

It is all he says.

It is enough.

Hugging your brother to your chest, you walk out of the cave.

[beanarie]

this was inspired by chatter in the tag earlier in the week about tommy not having the reflex to ask for help, not having an emergency contact, etc. bucktommy nation, i'm loving it here.

more a request than a proposal

Wednesday afternoon, as the 118 drove back from a small grease fire, Buck received a text from Tommy.

gonna need a raincheck on hiking Saturday

He kept his expression neutral so his friends wouldn't notice and start giving him a hard time. No problem. Everything okay?

yeah of course. brunch instead? I'll order in

He spent the rest of the week telling himself there was probably nothing wrong.

Saturday, at the agreed upon time, Buck showed up at Tommy's door, looked down at the boot Tommy was wearing, and felt a burst of something ugly which he instantly tried to squash. At least he wasn't getting dumped. "Uh, hey. What happened there?"

Tommy rolled his eyes at himself. "I broke my foot a few days ago."

"What?"

"Yeah, Tuesday night. I'd just maxed out my flight hours and-" He cocked his head. "Why is your face doing that?"

Buck walked away, got in his car, and sat there as Tommy stopped blinking in confusion and went back inside.

Ten seconds later, Buck was ringing the bell again.

Tommy didn't raise an eyebrow, but the muscle twitched like he'd considered it. "I'd ask if you left something behind, but you didn't actually get through the door."

"I was off on Tuesday," Buck said.

"Okay?"

"You knew that. We compared both our schedules for the week. That was how we settled on Saturday."

"I recall." Tommy grimaced. "Look, can we go inside? Standing is not my favorite right now."

"Oh!" Shit. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

Following close behind as Tommy settled on the couch, Buck grabbed a throw pillow for his foot to seem marginally less useless. Now inside, surrounded by all things Tommy, he felt decidedly off-kilter. "Do you... want me here?"

"I thought I did," Tommy said, laying his head against the arm of the couch with a tired sigh. "Go on, tell me what your problem is."

From there, Buck could see the kitchen table laden with takeout containers and a pitcher of orange juice. "Food's getting cold," he pointed out.

"I didn't have much appetite anyway. The food was my clever way of luring you here." He smiled at that, a little, rueful one.

Buck wanted to smile back. He wanted to say Tommy was the only lure he needed. "How did you get home from the ER?"

"I mean, my crew still had more than half a 24 to go, so." He lifted his phone and shook it a bit.

"Uber," Buck said, wanting to break something.

Tommy melted more against the couch as the penny dropped. "Evan, we've been dating three months. I didn't want you to feel obligated."

"It's been a big three months," Buck said.

"Yeah." Tommy gave another little smile. "Sinking ships and runaway grooms and drug cartels, oh my."

"You showed up for me on multiple occasions in that time." The only other options for seating were too far away. Buck knelt on the carpet near the couch.

"You look like you're proposing." Tommy snorted, then looked mildly alarmed. "Take out a ring right now and I'll scream."

"Shut up," he said with a quiet laugh. Tentatively, he reached for Tommy's hand, and smiled as Tommy let their fingers tangle together. "Sorry for being weird. It's just, I like you a lot."

"Ditto," Tommy said, rolling his wrist a few degrees, watching their hands with a strange light in his eyes.

"It hasn't sucked, right? Being my next call after my family when something happens."

"No." Tommy looked thoughtful. His thumb rubbed the back of Buck's hand. "Sucked is not the word I'd use."

"You've been in pain this whole time and I had no idea. I hate that."

The second sigh was more weary than the first. "Evan, it's okay. I'm-"

"If you want me to- to go, I will." They were still so new. Buck couldn't insist on anything, he could only offer. "I know you can take care of yourself. You don't have to, though. Not all the time."

Tommy tugged on their hands, pulling Buck closer. "Stay."

[erin-orolin]

First line tag game

Thanks @lemonlimelea for the tag (read their great first lines here). Here’s the first lines from my last 10 fics. A mix of all sorts of ships!

Sanctuar (Charlie/Draco, 12k)

If Charlie were any other Weasley, the first thing he would’ve done when Draco Malfoy stepped foot in Romania would’ve been to punch him right in the pointy face.

One More Round (Harry/Draco, 14k)

Draco is serving behind the bar, pint of the week’s featured ale half-poured, when Harry Potter appears in the flesh for the first time in three years.

Tongue-Tied (Ron/Pansy, 3k)

Pansy is quiet when they meet again, six years after a war that tore them all apart.

Save The Date (Harry/Pansy, 13k)

Pansy’s day started badly from the moment she woke up, bleary-eyed and late for work.

In Your Dreams (Draco/Hermione, 7k)

There were a multitude of ways that Draco Malfoy was responsible for fraying Hermione Granger’s last nerve.

Victory (Oliver/Marcus, 4k)

The final time it happens, Gryffindor have just been announced as the winners of the Quidditch Cup, and the air is reverberating with the sound of three quarters of the student population cheering and stamping their feet.

Invincible (Harry/Theo, 4k)

The first time Harry Potter notices Theodore Nott it is Christmas Eve.

Five Days of Distraction (Harry/Draco, 7k)

On Monday, it’s Draco’s silver ring that snags Harry’s attention.

Present Tense (Tom/Hermione, 10k)

Hermione Granger is working in her office late one summer evening when the earth shifts tentatively on its axis and everything changes.

Beds, Knobs & Broomsticks (Oliver/Blaise, 20k)

Oliver Wood was someone whose life had been diligently planned out from the age of seven, when his Grandpa David strung a violet and gold scarf around his neck, took his mittened hand in his weathered palm, and apparated him to his first quidditch match.

Not sure who has done it yet but tagging anyone else who wants to do this! Rules are post the first line from the last 10 of your fics (or all your fics if you’ve written less) @thetacowrites @zeebee3 @youhavemyswordandmybow @sweet-s0rr0w @faiell @mourningliliesmorningglories @chiquita-3

[lilypadlys]

Enter Night

Phantom has a nice little wet dream but it quickly ends up being a bit more real than he’d first realized.

Ship: Swiss/Phantom

Word Count: 1,918

Rating: NSFW

Tags: bondage, shadow bondage, quintessence fuckery, somno adjacent, anal sex, sounding, multiple orgasms, CNC adjacent but the scene is clearly implied to be pre negotiated and enthusiatically consented to, safe sane and consensual

Read below the cut or on AO3

- - - - - - - - - -

Phantom has dreams like this fairly often. Nice ones that have him waking up stiff and leaking; needing to get a hand on himself or whimpering at his bed mate to take care of him until they’re both panting and need to change the sheets. It’s a common occurrence for any new summon though Phantom’s dreams haven’t become any less frequent now that he’s been almost two years topside. Not that he minds in the least though.

Tonight finds him waking in a sleepy daze. His sheets are all helter skelter at the foot of the bed where he must have kicked them. It leaves him bare to the cool air; he had slept naked. Still he doesn’t mind that either; his skin more than warm enough in his worked up state. He can’t quite remember his dream this time, but that’s fine. He’s got any number of fantasies to work from. Lucifer knows the sounds Mountain has been pulling from Rain in the next room over recently has given him plenty of material.

Only as soon as he tries to get a hand on himself, he feels something tug at his wrist. In fact there's a sense of pressure around all his limbs. He squints in the dim light.

It’s not rope or chain or any other material he expects. Instead it seems as if shadows have materialized into ropey tendrils and wrapped themselves around him; wrists, ankles, and waist. Despite naturally being visual anomalies, these have a hazy but solid form. He doesn’t have much time to contemplate this as he feels movement between his legs.

A thin tendril curls up around his left leg, the tip raising like the head of a snake. Its surface undulates like smoke in the rays of moonlight that filter in through the gap in the curtain. He can only watch as the tendril moves slowly, almost playfully, towards his middle. It pauses just before his cock, which rests heavy in the crease of his hip.

Go on, he thinks at it; curious to see how this plays out.

As if granted permission, it inches forward and slowly winds itself around his length; giving him a tentative squeeze.

Phantom responds with a sharp inhale. While the pressure is delightful, the limb is as cold as the void. Suddenly though as if sensing his thoughts once again, the tendril subtly warms and becomes almost tingly. At the same time it begins to ripple and twist around his cock. It starts slowly at first until Phantom’s pleased little gasp encourages it to speed up.

“F-fuck. Just like that.” He sighs, head falling back and eyes drooping closed as he basks in it. It’s like the shadows know him; sensing when to twist, where to squeeze. It’s not long at all before he’s properly leaking a steady stream of pre and his leg begins to twitch involuntarily with how good it all feels.

It’s all over when the tendril starts playing with his foreskin, wiggling underneath to rub over the sticky head of his cock. He gives a little yelp as he feels the rubber band of pleasure snap and he’s falling over the edge. It’s a good one, like riding a nice wave as the tendril jacks him through it until he’s panting and letting out a breathy laugh.

Phantom stretches, rolling his shoulders. He’s all but ready to roll over back to sleep, mess be damned, but the shadows are far from done with him.

The tendril around his cock stops twisting but it maintains its grip around him, pulsing gently. At the base of his cock it wraps harder. A faint tingle of energy ripples through it and into him, magick working to wick away overstimulation and keep him hard. Then two more tendrils join in. The first one he doesn’t even see. Instead he feels it prod against his backside; teasingly slipping in and out the barest amount. The tip is thin but he gets the feeling the rest of it thickens out. The second tendril is much smaller in comparison. It's no wider than the blades of grass Mountain likes to chew on while he works in the greenhouse. This one joins the one around his cock but rather than squeezing, it waits, poised over the head.

Phantom has a feeling he knows where this is going. He flicks his eyes up and…there. Over in the darkest corner of the room float two little golden specks. Blink and you’d miss them but Phantom knows what to look for. He gives a little cheeky grin, speaking to the room this time.

“Go on. I know you want to.”

At once both new tendrils get to work. The one below him sets to working him open. Sure enough it's thicker farther down. It also seems to be able to adjust its thickness on a whim, the girth steadily growing even without strides in depth. The tip of it finds his sweet spot, evidenced by the little moan Phantom can’t contain. That's when the one at the head of his cock that had just been caressing and teasing the slit, angles itself and starts to push in.

“Oh! Ohhhh yeahhh.” Phantom’s yip becomes a drawn out moan. The sensation is odd for sure. Foreign and with a bit of a sting. It's definitely not entirely comfortable, but to be touched this way? He feels so exposed now. It makes him throb. And as it works in deeper, also growing slightly in girth, it settles into a delightful pressure that he knows he’d be remiss without.

Phantom knows he could stop this in a second. He’d merely have to think the word and all the shadows would become just that, shadows. They’d just fade away. But he really doesn’t want it to stop. It feels way too good for one. And those golden flecks across the room watch him hungrily. And well, Phantom is never one to deny a voyeur; watching is one of his own guilty pleasures. Instead, he just pushes his hips into the tendrils. Encourages them to delve deeper with his frantic pants and mewls. The push and pull has him drooling, from mouth and cock alike, in no time.

It keeps going just until he’s all worked up and about to cum again. He’s right on the edge of that peak when suddenly it all slows down and the shadows fade into nothingness once more. And maybe that’s a good thing. Phantom is so out of his mind at this point that the break allows him to come back into himself. Still he whimpers as his orgasm recedes. He hears a chuckle from the darkness.

“Don’t pout. You know I’ll take care of you.”

Phantom just puffs out his bottom lip in his cutest sulk. “That was still mean though.”

Swiss laughs again, coming into full view at last.

“Maybe.” He shrugs with a grin as he mounts the bed. Phantom doesn’t have a chance to complain further as Swiss grabs him by the hips and practically tosses him onto his front. “C’mon. Show me how bad you need it. Yeah there you go.” Swiss purrs in approval as Phantom dips his back in a lovely arch to present his ass. “So pretty back here Buggy. So pink and wet.” He brushes a thumb over Phantom’s stretched hole to watch it wink.

“Prettier around your cock.” Phantom huffs. “Just fuck me already!”

The multi ghoul snorts and ensures the gripe becomes a whine instead by lining himself up with his prepped hole.

“Hush Doll. I’ve got you. Okay, one, two-”

Swiss shoves all the way in before he gets to three, cackling when Phantom practically starts reciting the opening lines of Year Zero. He was careful to prep Phantom just enough to take him but so there’d also still be a bit of a stretch like he knows the quint loves. Swiss rolls his hips in small circles allowing him to adjust.

“Mmm yeahhh.” Phantom melts further into the bed, forcing Swiss to hold him up by his hips. “Fucking finally.”

“Yeah finally? I thought you enjoyed being teased.” Swiss lilts playfully. “You're the one that asked me to draw it out.”

“Yeah but now I wanna be fucked.” Phantom cranes his neck back to shoot Swiss his trademark puppy eyes.

“Haha fine.” He gives a quick thrust to make Phantom jolt. “How do you want it?”

“Hard. Wanna feel you for days.”

“Ouagh, fuck sweetheart. Yeah we can do that.” Swiss tightens his grip on Phantom’s hips, digging his claws in a little. “Gonna give you some nice bruises, sound good?”

The quint’s reply is a pleased churr.

Swiss pulls out almost all the way only to slam back in and they both groan in unison. As the multi ghoul gets into his rhythm, he finds he agrees with Phantom. The teasing is nice but this is so much sweeter. The way Phantom is quickly reduced to drooling on the sheets and mewling with each thrust, the infernal heat of both their bodies growing even hotter, the way they're so intimately connected. It’s already hot, then add Phantom’s desire to wear the marks of their coupling. Despite this being Swiss’ first real stimulation of the night he wonders if he’ll bust first.

He’ll just make sure Phantom’s there with him when he does.

“S-shit, like that. Right the-re!” Phantom makes a wonderful choked off noise when Swiss finds and begins to repeatedly nail his prostate.

“You close yet Buggy?”

“Gettin-hah-there.”

“Let me help.”

Swiss shifts one hand under the quint to begin jacking him; a hard and fast counter rhythm to the punch of his hips. He also leans over Phantom to drive deeper but more importantly, begin to suck marks into the soft flesh of his neck.

“Hahh y-yeah.”

“Uh huh?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Gonna look so pretty, all marked up. Everyone will know what we were up to. That you’re mine.”

Phantom clenches around him and they both hiss in pleasure.

“I’m close!”

“Good boy. Taking me so well. Make one more mess for me okay?” Swiss doesn’t give Phantom a chance to respond, just sinks his teeth in deep to the junction of the quint’s shoulder. Phantom yelps loudly and goes rigid except for the frantic clenching of his hole as he shoots his load without warning. Swiss is maybe a second behind, prolonging Phantom’s orgasm with the feeling of being filled so thoroughly. It’s drawn out for both of them but before too long they both collapse to the sheets in a sweaty but pleased pile of purrs.

After a while when their breathing slows down, Swiss pulls out. They adjust and Phantom rolls over to snuggle into Swiss. The multi licks his shoulder soothingly.

“Ohh that was so good.”

“Nothing was too much?”

“No, I loved it.”

“Good…” Swiss blinks at Phantom’s mischievous grin. “...what’s that look for?”

“Can we do it again tomorrow night?”

Swiss snorts. “Sure why not? Unless Cirrus and Rainy get their claws into you for interrupting their beauty sleep. I think you just shook the entire abbey.”

“We. We made a lot of noise.”

“Nope, just you. You have zero volume control.”

Phantom can’t deny that so he sticks out his tongue playfully.

“Well, guess I can see who makes me get louder; you or them.”

“Oh now it’s on! We don’t need to wait til tomorrow. C’mere and I’ll make a soprano out of you yet.”

[lxshoxk]

What?! I Love seeing my blorbos smooch, how do you know?! 😍😌 Thats a wonderful Idea for an event and I am so excited for the chance to make a request for it 🥺🧡 Thank you!

Alright after bouncing between three ideas I have finally decided on a ship!

Its Ace x Sanji ✨ an oldie but a goldie in my opinion! I'd Love to see Ace in your Artstyle ! 🥺

(Close second was ZoSan if you'd like to know)

I wish you an amazing day! Looking forward to all your creations for this event ! 🫶🏻✨

Sanji x Ace | event masterlist

Haaaaiii Coco! So I hope you can forgive me--this isn't exactly a Kiss is it? I know some of the ones I did were more tentative but...this isn't even quite that. Though, I hope the vibe is there enough to count. I was having trouble finding a pose reference that felt like it fit the vibes I picture with these two--one way or the other. And I didn't want to keep taking time with it so I went with this one that I just felt really fit them...even though it's not quite a kiss. I also struggle with these two in general. Something about their hair really messes with me???

Anyway! This is the LAST PIECE for this event, bringing it to it's final end (albeit a little late...). Thank you SO MUCH for taking the time to submit a pair for me draw and I truly hope you enjoy it. These two are a vibe. A cook and a glutton--what a match.

notes: not much else to say, again im sorry its not actually a kiss. please forgive 🙏🏼

tag list: @pandora-writes-one-piece @jintaka-hane @armiliadawn @fanaticsnail @chibinasuu @daydreamer-in-training

[bleachsmutfest]

So here is a tentative schedule for writers who want to participate! Again, reblogging/posting older content created by you is perfectly ok!! Will just have to tag me on the reblogs so i see it.

Here is a rough list.

I am open for suggestions!!!

June 22: Alternate Universe (prompts provided or pick your own!)

June 23: OCs (stories, profiles, artwork, songs, inspirstions etc)

June 24: Drabble Challenge 100 words or less (prompts provided or use random generator)

June 25: Favorite ship/ self ship/ poly ship etc

June 26: Recreate and rewrite your favourite Bleach moment in your own words! (thank you @myrottingbrain for the suggestion)

June 27: Kink and Tropes (combine a kink and a trope. Pick your own, have someone pick it for you or random generator!) OR ooc (let’s write a character completely out of character)

June 28: end with PRIDE!!!! Celebrate PRIDE Month 🩷

[mimsynims]

Fool For Love

part 6

~~~

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

~~~

Author's Note: Sorry it took longer than usual! The first bit I wrote was shorter than I wanted, so I kept writing - and now you'll get more than usual instead haha... (Sorry not sorry about sneaking in a bit of a side ship I have, but it fit in this part and I want Karlach to have her hot blacksmith - yay HeartForge!)

Thank you for the comments! <3

Oh, and as I think I mentioned before, this will of course stray from canon but I have and will use things that actually happen in the game too (act 1/2), just FYI.

~~~

Astarion x reader/Tav

Tags: angst, pining, pining while fucking, jealousy, minor Karlach/Dammon, eventual happy ending

Summary: You thought you knew what you were doing when you let Astarion into your bed. He doesn't have feelings for you, and vice versa. Only... now you do. And you're not handling it very well, making a rash decision you will regret. Is there a way to undo it?

~~~

It’s eerily quiet when you get back to camp. Not that you expected your friends to still be awake, but the silence feels ominous.

Or perhaps it’s just your guilt making it seem that way.

You’re not sure breaking things off was the wrong decision — the jury is still out on that — but you regret how it happened. Regret being so harsh.

Regret not waiting until morning to have the conversation.

A noise coming from the direction of Gale’s tent snaps you out of your musings. Your body tenses up, readying for battle. Scanning the area, your hand drifts down towards a weapon that isn’t there. You must have dropped it sometime during… during. It aches thinking back and you can’t bring yourself to go back. Not now, anyway. 

You spot a flash of purple and instantly relax. Gale must be awake still. 

Perhaps the gods decided to be lenient after the night you had, giving you the opportunity to stomp out at least one fire you’ve accidentally started before it becomes an uncontrollable inferno.

“Still up, Gale?”

“Tav!” He smiles. “Yes, but I was about to tuck in for the night too.”

His eyes roam over you, but if he suspects what you and Astarion were up to after he and the others left, he doesn’t mention it.

“So, Gale…” You clear your throat. “I actually came over to apologise.”

“Apologise?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “Whatever for?”

“I think I might’ve given you the impression that I’m interested in more than friendship. And that was careless of me.” And apparently, you’re too much of a coward to admit that you used him. “I’m sorry.”

Gale takes a moment before he answers. “You were careless, yes. But I think I may have an inkling as to why.”

“Ah.” Of course he does. “For the record, the circumstances surrounding that… reason, have changed, one might say.” Because you were acting without thought, yet again. “Which doesn’t affect things between us — you and me, I mean. I value our friendship dearly, but–”

“Tav.” Gale holds up a hand to stop you. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

He sounds sincere, and searching his face, you find nothing to suggest otherwise. “Thank you. For what it’s worth, I did have a really nice time tonight.”

“Good. Me too.” A half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I can’t pretend I wasn’t disappointed when you invited the others, but in retrospect, I think you did the right thing.”

“You’re a good man, Gale.” A hug seems inappropriate, so you place a hand on his arm instead. “I’m sure someone better and kinder than me is waiting somewhere out there for you.”

His smile turns wry. “And I’m sure you and your ‘reason’ can sort things out once you both stop being stubborn arses.”

It’s probably because you’re still a bit drunk and in need of sleep, but you can’t stop yourself from bursting out laughing. “I think we would need a miracle for that.” Gale isn’t wrong, both you and Astarion are often too stubborn for your own good.

You expect Gale to at least chuckle, but instead, his expression softens. “It seems a miracle we’re all still alive, so who’s to say we can’t have another?”

He sounds so serious you stop laughing just as abruptly as you started. The hurt from before resurfaces, because there’s a bigger obstacle than stubbornness in your way. “I think I would need more than one miracle to accomplish what you’re talking about, and I doubt that I’m that lucky.”

Because even if you would talk, he still doesn’t love you, and in your current miserable state, you doubt that he ever will. To your dismay, you feel tears threatening to spill. Perhaps you should’ve waited until tomorrow to talk to Gale, after all.

Gale comes closer and puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it, sympathy plain on his face. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

This conversation has taken a turn you don’t want to face right now — and with Gale, of all people — so you just nod.

“Thank you for your honesty, Tav. Now off to bed with you.” Taking a step back, Gale lets his hand drop, Gale. “We both need all the sleep we can get, I think.”

“We do, yes.” You turn to leave but not before giving him another smile. “Thank you, Gale.” You don’t elaborate, but you can tell that you don’t have to as he bows his head in understanding.

“Goodnight, Tav. Sleep well.”

“You too, goodnight.”

As you walk over to your tent to change before going to bed, you think you see movement in the corner of your eye, but when you turn your head to look, there’s nothing there.

“And now you’re imagining things,” you mutter to yourself. “No more alcohol for you until we’re somewhere safe.”

Whenever that may be.

The following days go by in a whirlwind of events, and even if you somehow would have plucked up the nerve to talk to Astarion, you never get the chance. 

First, it was Elminster showing up to talk to Gale. You’re still not convinced it was a good idea to let him into your camp — most likely not, considering the message he was here to deliver.

You know you probably should’ve waited to let Gale have the time to process, but he insisted you press on and next thing you knew, your party was in the Shadowlands, facing goblins and driders and Harpers.

And Jaheira.

Astarion has been ignoring you as much as he can since the night, but you could sense his approval when you refused to drink the wine Jaheira offered you. Perhaps you can mend things between the two of you, in time. You desperately hope so, because a part of you already misses the chats. His embrace. The connection.

Last Light Inn turns out to be a place with many familiar faces, but after the long day you’ve all had, you decide to rest before reacquainting yourself with everyone — with one exception. 

To your — and Karlach’s — delight, you find Dammon in the stables outside the inn building.

You hide a smile when Dammon lights up at the sight of the Karlach. He may be greeting all of you, but his eyes rarely leave the Tiefling, even when he talks to you and the others. It soothes your aching heart to know that things might work out for at least one of you, even if your own love life seems doomed.

Somewhere along the way, she’s become one of your best friends. She deserves nothing but happiness, and it feels like she’s one step closer when Dammon tells her that he can craft an insulating chamber for the infernal engine. It’s not a permanent solution, but it’s enough, for now, to finally allow her to touch people again.

You stand back as Karlach instals the chamber; Dammon looks at her so intently it almost feels like you’re intruding.

The chamber clicks into place.

“Go on,” Dammon says, lifting a hand. “Give us your hand.”

Circumstances aside, it’s a lovely moment, watching the two of them.

“Damn. I’m good.” Dammon laces their fingers for the briefest of moments. “And you — you’re very touchable.”

They’re both so adorable you wish you could grab the others and leave these two be. And perhaps you also wish that this could be you and a certain vampire that is currently looking everywhere but at you.

Letting go of Dammon, Karlach turns to you with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen from her yet.

“Tav! I can touch you now!”

“I’m so happy for you, Karlach! May I hug you?”

“Yes.” Her smile wavers with emotion. “Please.”

Her skin is hot against yours but it’s not unbearable, so you wrap your arms tight around her, glad to finally be able to hug your friend.

“Thank you.” She sounds close to tears. “Talk more back at camp, yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Karlach? I need to explain the bad news too.”

You can feel a hitch in her movements and when she pulls back, her smile is strained.

She listens to what Dammon has to say, but you’re not sure she fully accepts it. You decide to leave it, for now, not wanting to dim her joy more than necessary.

Back at camp, Karlach keeps touching everyone here and there — even a moody Lae’zel accepts it, albeit reluctantly — and her happiness seems to lift the spirit of the others, too.

When everything calms down for the night, you seek her out. You can feel Astarion’s eyes on you, and in a moment of bravery, you decide you’ll talk to him after you’ve spoken to Karlach.

“Karlach? May I come in?”

“Of course! You’re always welcome into my tent, Tav.” She’s ever-moving, still brimming with energy. “Everything alright?”

“I’m fine.” You decide to get right to the point. “I’m actually here to talk about you.”

“About me?”

“It was impossible not to notice the chemistry between Dammon and you today. With everything that’s happened, and considering what the future seems to hold for us… I think you should seize the moment. Go and find him. Be happy, while we still have time.”

Karlach stops to look at you, uncertain. “You think he would want that?”

“I do. He looked just as smitten as you clearly are.” 

“He did, didn’t he?” Her expression turns a bit bashful. “I didn’t just imagine it?”

“No, definitely not. And we won’t be rushing out of here just yet, so if you find yourself inclined to spend the night with him…”

“Tav!”

You shrug, holding back a grin. “I’m just saying.”

“Right.” She nods to herself. “You’re right. I should go right now, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes. Go, shoo.”

She laughs. “So eager to get rid of me. Planning to seduce someone yourself, Tav? I’ve seen your looks towards a certain someone.”

You don’t bother holding back the curse as you both leave her tent. “Am I that obvious?”

“Yeaaah. But it’s fine, and I’m rooting for you.”

You look around, searching for the man in question. “Does that mean that everyone…?”

“Think so, yeah.”

“Fuck. Double fuck.” So everyone knows. And Astarion is nowhere to be found. Again. “He’s not here.”

“Wanna tag along to the Inn? Perhaps he’s there?”

You’re not sure you’ll be able to approach him if he’s there but not alone, but then again, there’s probably no use waiting in camp either. “Yes, why not?”

You tell yourself that if he’s not there, you’ll drink one beer — because gods know you need it — and then you’ll head back. It’s been a long day, and even with everything buzzing around in your mind like a swarm of hornets, you’ll probably have no trouble falling asleep the moment your head hits your bedroll.

It turns out that Karlach is right, Astarion is there. You spot him right away, sitting on a barstool, a goblet of wine in his hand. But he’s not alone. He’s sitting very, very close to someone. You can’t see their face, but the way Astarion holds himself, the way he moves his hand to touch their shoulder…

It seems he has found someone else to spend the night with.

As is his right, but the pain is more than you can handle. You won’t stop him, but it’s impossible to stay and watch it happen. The jealousy would break you. As unluck would have it, Astarion chooses that moment to glance over his shoulder, and before you have time to react, he sees you.

Leave. You have to leave. You spin around and flee through the door, almost bumping into one of the Harpers. You’re making a fool of yourself, but you’d rather have that than seeing a smug expression on Astarion’s face.

Half-running towards camp, you decide it’s time to get over yourself. Astarion clearly has moved on — and so should you.

~~~

[the-kr8tor]

Salt in the Wound

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 6.6k

Tags: Use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mentions, CW innuendos, TW blood, TW death, CW violence.

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Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

CHAPTER 11 >>> CHAPTER 12

Tears run down your cheek as you see the sailboat get to the island as fast as its rickety wood can handle. The wind is on their side, blowing the sails towards the small patch of land.

“Y/N,” Hobie's voice echoes above your sob, he tentatively cups your elbow, and like the sun, you let him pull you in. “They're alright,” he whispers atop your head, sighing, letting himself meld into you. “We're alright, yeah?”

Pulling away, you nod, “go, I'll be here.”

Shaking his head, he cradles your face, you can still smell the soil clinging to his palms, you don't mind it simply because it's him.

“We'll greet them together. They're as much your family as mine.” His words spill over you like the tears brimming in your eyes. Leaving your side, he encourages you to follow with a nod and shining eyes. “C’mon, scuttlebutt, let's meet the crew halfway.”

Your poisonous words are still stamped in his mind, clinging to him like invasive vines. But he's not going to be cold around you, or it might prove your words right. He's still figuring everything out, every syllable of your words is sticking to him. He'll do better, he promised himself right on her empty grave, but how could he do that when his hunger for revenge claws at his bones?

He wishes he could do both.

“Alright.” You utter quietly, “I'll be behind you.”

Sparing you one tender look, Hobie sprints towards the shore with a grin, salty water crashing against his legs. You lag behind, watching Gwen jump from the boat even though the water still reaches up her neck.

Swimming towards each other, Hobie tugs her hand, pulling her close, embracing, squeezing and laughing in relief. Pavitr and Miles follow a second later, completely drenched, wading the water towards Hobie and Gwen. They join them, hugging and clinging to each other like barnacles on a ship.

Hobie does his best to embrace the trio in his arms while James tackles the four of them to the sand. With a splash, they untangle themselves. They yell happily even when they get a mouthful of salty water.

The water laps at your feet, drenching your shoes, tears still streaming down your face. Your weeping gets Gwen’s attention. She weeps when she sees you standing, heart still beating.

“Y/N,” she says through a wet sob, reaching towards you, the men waits for you to join them in the sand.

But before you could even get close, you hear loud splashing, Yuri swims towards you speedily.

“My wife!” She yells, eyes welled up and red, arms at the ready.

You open your arms to her happily. With how fast she's running, Yuri crashes her body to yours then you both land on the wet sand with a loud *plop.

Embracing her middle, she hides her cry on the crook of your neck. With your eyes facing the heavens above, your vision slowly fills with their faces. Smiling down, sniffing and tearing up, you reach up and they take the invitation to lay on the sand with you, letting everything out like Yuri.

Hobie watches the pile of pirates as they all have a good cry. He can see the relief in their faces, shoulders shaking yet their muscles are relaxed. Letting the tides wash over him as he sits on the soft sand, he observes your hands and how it holds on to everyone tightly.

He gets reminded of what could've been if not for Mathias. The fire that was quelled by you roars back to life inside his chest. His eyes train towards the empty graves, the ugly beast of revenge hungers once again.

One call of his name from your lips calms it down immediately even if it's brief.

With your smile, he thinks you've found what you've been looking for.

Miles leans away from you first, untangling his limbs, he makes his way towards Hobie with a wobbly smile. The navigator clasps his shoulder for only a second before deciding that a proper hug is better.

“Took care of ‘em for me?” Hobie asks, holding Miles by his shoulders, eyes brimming with tears when the kid he watched grow up nods at his question.

“I'm glad we found you because I'm never doing that again.” He jokes, earning a laugh from Hobie.

“Good, you did good.” Hobie pats Miles’ shoulder before tugging him in, hoping that he shows his gratitude through the hug.

Yuri lifts her head up from your neck, sniffing then groaning at the weight on top of her. “You all smell! Get off!”

“We're having a moment, Yuri! Could you not ruin it?” James exclaims from your side, his hand cradling the back of your head.

Everyone laughs at their bickering, you look at the fishing boat, expecting two other bodies to appear. With heat behind your eyes, you cry again.

“Look what you've done! You two made Y/N cry again!” Pav wipes his eyes with his sleeve, choking back a sob. “And now I'm crying too!”

“Pav!” Yuri, now sitting up, her hand holding yours, beckons him over. Her voice cracks but she still comforts Pavitr.

He frowns, sniffing and closing the small distance to get to Yuri's open arms. “They're alive.” His words squeeze your heart.

Yuri pats his back, “They're good, Pav.”

You and Hobie look at eachother at the same time. He smiles softly, mouthing something you can't decipher. Opening your mouth to ask, Gwen lays her head down on your chest, you think she's listening for your heartbeat.

“I'm alright, Gwen.” You brush her hair away from her face, her cheeks are red and sunburnt, frowning lips moving to ask you a heavy question.

“Is he alright?” Her voice is merely above a whisper, sitting up, you follow suit. “Are you alright?” You know what she's truly asking.

Shaking your head with teary eyes, you glance at the graves hidden behind the trees. “I really don't know, Gwen. But we're getting there.”

As the others head towards camp and away from the sun, Gwen helps you up to your feet. “I'm just glad you're both alive. That's all that matters.”

James suddenly exclaims, “you were living in damn luxury! Look at this camp!”

Pav calls for you and Gwen, wiggling his eyebrows towards you with a teasing smirk. “And only one bed oho!”

The blonde next to you raises a brow, a smile slowly spreading across her lips.

“Don't—” you warn nervously.

“I wasn't even gonna say anything.” Gwen puts her hands up in surrender, walking away from you with a smirk similar to Hobie's.

Yuri cackles loudly, arms full with your stash of chocolate. “You're holding out on us, Hobie!”

“That's not yours, you goblin!”

“You already have her, let me have the chocolates at least! Learn to fuckin’ share!”

Hobie has his hands on his hips, shaking his head whilst Yuri gives him a shit eating grin, tempting him to say otherwise. He doesn't.

Chuckling, you make your way towards the group. Hobie notices you coming and he gives you a small flitting smile before he leaves you and Yuri to your own devices. He then drags James away from the makeshift tent.

Grabbing him by his feet while James shrieks, yelling out, “I was just checking out your place! It's so tiny, how'd you two fit in there?!”

The tears turn into laughter, and the frowns shift into smiles.

Pav elbows your side, “you cuddling our captain?”

“Oi, Pav, I just realized I haven't hugged you yet.” Hobie stomps over to him, arms wide open, eyes glaring at his teasing.

“Yes you did—” With Pavitr’s surprised oomph, the captain tackles him to the ground, James joins in, adding himself to the dogpile.

—

James chews loudly, pomegranate juice sliding down his chin and arms. Ruby liquid leaving thin pink lines on his skin.

“Christ” Yuri says under her breath, wiping her hands clean on her pants.

Everyone sits around the fire, fishbones and pomegranate skins used as kindle, turning the smoke into an unsavoury mix of smells.

Hobie sits across from you, watching him chat with Pavitr through the flames. The orange and reds cackling around him, you think he fits right in. But he shouldn't be.

All the while, you feel eyes on you. Blinking, you crane your neck to look at the source of the disturbance. Miles’ eyes are narrowed into slits, not angry or frustrated, like he's trying to find something that has changed in you.

“Miles, what the fuck?” Your words turn heads. Hand limp around the stick you use to poke the fire.

“You look well,” He makes a face. “Considering you were stranded here for a month.”

Pavitr hides his laugh behind the fish he's eating. Yuri and James share a look while Gwen waits for the scene to unfold. Hobie warns Miles with a stare. He doesn't budge.

“Do you want to trade places?” You jokingly say. “We've got plenty of room.”

“Hmm” he contemplates, flicking his eyes at Hobie. “You also look alright. I mean you both look really well.” he said teasingly, a smirk playing on his lips. “Took care of eachother huh?”

With Miles’ last sentence, the crew lets out a loud guffaw that has the birds nesting in the trees to fly away frightened.

If only they knew.

“Come off it.” Hobie throws a wet pomegranate seed at him. Hitting him right on his head.

“What?” Miles asks, still giggling. “I was just saying how well you took care of eachother! I mean compared to us who were just trying to live day to day in the capital, you two were living like royals!”

Pav nods at you. “Very jealous right now.” You give him a wordless look, saying ‘really?’ through the simple stare.

Yuri elbows your side. “Did he give you his magic fingers?” She wiggles her own fingers, eyebrows dancing.

“Yuri!” You gasp while Hobie almost chokes on his pomegranate seed.

They all giggle, Gwen has a disgusted look on her face. You hear her audibly groan despite her suppressing it with her hand.

“Sorry,” Yuri says without genuine apology, still laughing. “I meant his ‘magic hands’ y’know Hobie's great at massaging. Even though he rarely shares that gift.” She jokingly glares at her captain.

“You don't deserve my magic hands.” Hobie adds, flicking a fish bone at her.

She dramatically sighs, “after so many years of service, I still haven't reaped the benefits of having a masseuse as a captain.”

It's your turn to chuckle, the sound getting Hobie's attention.

Yuri flicks her eyes between you two with a soft smile and raised eyebrow. “Shit, I should flutter my eyelashes at you too eh, cap? I might get that massage if I do.”

“Oh I want a massage too!” James exclaims with his mouth full, he then blinks rapidly towards Hobie who turns James' face away with his whole palm atop his face.

“When we get Mathias everyone gets a bloody massage.” Hobie didn't let the teasing go under his skin, he just couldn't take the way you were smiling at him. If the joking got any further and with your smile all carefree and filled with genuine happiness, he won't be able to resist himself.

Then the teasing will definitely get unbearable.

“Better yet, once we get to the mermaid’s head we all line up to receive our massage compensation.” Yuri adds, Hobie's smile flattens into a line.

“I agree,” Gwen proudly says. “I think we all deserve one after what happened.” she smiles at Hobie, it fades slowly once she sees his eyes alight.

He throws his half eaten pomegranate at the fire, the flames roar to life, illuminating the lines on his sharp face, and you see the same Hobie you met. The grey clouds warn you of a storm coming, warning you to hunker down and hide, but instead you want to greet it so you could calm it down once it's all said and done.

The air is suddenly thick, the searing heat singeing your skin. And they all feel it too.

“We'll talk about that later. For now you need to say goodbye, we need to leave before nightfall.” Standing up abruptly, he makes way towards the trees.

“Goodbye to who?” Pavitr asks you, confusion on his face, voice tensed.

“The crew” you answer sadly.

It was enough for them to join Hobie.

—

You sit on the sand, eyes down, chin tucked atop your knees, fingers drawing mindlessly on the sand— flicking away pomegranate seeds that were left discarded. Listening to the crashing of waves, you let it wash over you, tempted to join it.

You're happy that they've found you and Hobie, grateful to whatever entity paved their way towards safety. Your heart swells that Hobie can finally breathe again now that he has the knowledge that they're all alive and in one piece. But the muffled cries behind you bring tears back to the surface.

You gave them space when Hobie showed them the graves, letting them say their goodbyes without you– you who was a complete stranger back then, who, compared to them, was just a visitor in their lives. You thought they would appreciate it, but his grey eyes never left your back, silently inviting you in. If only you had eyes behind your head.

Fingers brush atop your hair, you would've thought it was him but it's somebody else just based on the different callouses.

You know him by touch alone.

“You alright there? We were waiting for you.” Gwen asks, sitting next to you.

“Everybody seems to ask me that question lately.” You don't mean to sound rude, but you couldn't help it after hearing Pavitr calling Finn's name when he saw the graves, it would put anyone in a whirlwind of emotions with how his voice breaks.

Your emotions are running high, afraid of what's to come, afraid of all the uncertainty.

“Well, are you?” She looks at you pointedly.

You give her a tight smile. “What happens now?”

She sighs, fatigue written all over her young face. Staring at the horizon, watching the sea swallow the sun whole as the waves crash on the beach, she closes her eyes; letting the breeze cool her cheeks.

“I'm sorry it took us this long to find you.”

“What happened to the crew after…everything?”

“We docked on the nearest village, surprisingly there weren't any navy waiting for us.”

“I don't think anyone could survive that.”

“But you and Hobie did.” Gwen cranes her neck to finally look at you, “We all did—”she gestures towards the others. “I…” She continues with a pained look. “After we recuperated from our injuries, one by one people started to leave. By the time we were setting up to try and find you, it was just us five left. Y/N, there's no bloodsail pirates anymore. It's just us.”

“I'm sorry,” you feel like it was your fault, from Finn's death to the ship sinking. And you have no idea how you could forgive yourself for it. You might've said goodbye to the perished crew, reigned in your grief but the guilt still presides in your throat. Slowly choking, slowly leaving you breathless. “I'm so fucking sorry.”

How could Hobie still sleep next to you when all you did was ruin what he had?

That's why the island tempts you to stay, let the others leave you here as a penance for what you've done. Because on your island, everything stays how it is. You silently wish you were a part of it, even if he isn't there by your side. But it's alright, as long as he can forgive you.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Gwen says, reading you like the open book that you are. “Finn chose to help, and we chose this life. You have no hand in this.” Her words shakes your guilt ridden self. “Their deaths would mean nothing if you don't live, Y/N.” She grabs your shaking hand, “that's why we're leaving, we're tired and you were right back then, we deserve to live too.”

“What do you mean?”

“We're going back to the mermaid's head, and if Hobie wants to join us he can. But if he doesn't then that's that.” Gwen sniffs, fighting the tears. “There was no traitor, we asked, we interrogated everyone who was left. I kinda wished there was, because it means that Mathias wasn't that good, that he didn't just know everything. That he can be beat.” There's anger in her voice, it's faint but it's there. “You can't fight someone that powerful. Someone that’s always two steps ahead of us.”

She hesitates for a moment. “If Hobie doesn't stop or at least let us breathe then we're all moving on.” Swallowing thickly, you squeeze her hand. “Part ways. We all talked about it, and we'd love it if you could join us.”

“Leave Hobie?” The thought has your heart cracking for him. “What would happen to him?”

Gwen scoffs, “I don't know, but I know he can handle himself.”

“If I can convince him to stop, will you stay?”

You know you can't persuade him, the flames have engulfed him, he's used to the heat and the burn. You've tried your hardest to dissuade him the entire time you've been on the island, thinking your efforts were enough for him to let his anger go, thinking you were enough. But you failed, your promise to Karl lay broken at your feet. But you understand him now more than ever, you understand him more than you understand yourself.

Now all you can do is to make sure he survives the embers, to rise through the ashes when it's all said and done. He has to survive, he has to or the fire would consume you too.

“He won't, Y/N, he said it himself just a minute ago. He's not gonna stop until Mathias' head rolls.”

“But—” It's futile.

“Listen, I've seen him look at you, you could be the only person who can convince him.” She shakes her head, wiping a single tear that escaped from her eye. “He's not the same Hobie as before, we love him but we can't keep watching him destroy himself—”

“Gwen.” Hobie's voice echoes through the clearing.

Your head turns speedily towards him, Gwen looks on with her head held high. His face is unreadable, jaw clenched, grey eyes staring down.

“Time to go.” His strides are heavy on the sand. He's sharpening his knife once again.

You've forgotten he's a pirate with all his soft touches and tender eyes he has given you during your stay. Revenge once again rears its ugly head, and you see him stand tall, answering its call once again.

—

The sky is slowly turning dark, the clouds red and orange in the horizon, stars appearing one by one, dotting the forlorn heavens. With the island fading away from view, you stare at it until it's a mere dot in the distance. The thought that the piece of land has been there before you and it'll be there after you're long gone fills you with ease. The marks you and Hobie left in it will hopefully stay for years to come, with the pomegranate seeds, you wish that it may grow into a tree and one day help someone who needs it.

With the soft rocking of the boat against the waves, you're back at sea.

Blinking away the thought, you watch as Hobie sails the small boat, the small lamp tucked in the corner illuminates his face, all his worry and responsibility brought into the light. he hasn't talked since your conversation with Gwen. And you hadn't had the chance to speak to him.

The sea is rough with wind blowing harshly on the sails, but nothing could compare to the thick tension in the small boat. It's deadly silent, Gwen and the others stand on one end of the ship, whispering to each other; while Hobie stands on the other. You sit in the middle, crouched down, hunkering down for the heavy conversation that's about to happen.

Yuri sighs, footsteps thudding loudly on the wooden floorboards. Suddenly you're brought back to the day that Mathias almost had you in his clutches.

“Hobie.” Yuri calls, voice rising above the loud wind.

“What?” He asks, hand tightly gripping the helm.

“We need to talk.” She's steadfast, back straight, nails digging into her palms.

“Then talk.” His voice is firm, words uttered through gritted teeth.

Yuri sighs, eyes roaming around the small crew. Her eyes stop over to you, so you look away.

“We need to talk about where we're heading and what we're going to do.”

“Simple, we kill Mathias and we go home.” He says without looking at Yuri.

Yuri scoffs, “home? Where the fuck is that even? Our home is now at the bottom of the sea.” You stand up, still avoiding everyone's eyes. “When will you wake up, Hobie?”

Hobie turns around, eyes alight. “Do you think I'm doin' this for fun? He needs to go down, Yuri.”

“I know he does!”

“We’re tired, Hobie, we need to regroup.” Miles pipes up. “Come on, man, we can't beat him in this dingy boat.”

“We had an entire month to rest. We were this close to getting him.” Hobie wavers but he continues on his path. “Just—we need to find a ship, then we hunt him down, and be ready for what he throws at us. Be better.”

“With what crew?!” Gwen cracks, frustration marring her face. “It's just us, Hobie. No one else.”

“We've been through worse—”

“Enough is enough!” Gwen's voice breaks. “I love MJ too, but she's gone, Hobie. She was a navy spy who was supposed to bring us down. And now Mathias is using her against us again. Please, we miss you, you haven't been yourself for a long time.” She quickly wipes her fallen tears, not letting Hobie see it.

You had a glimpse of it, the old Hobie in your little slice of paradise, he's still in there, underneath his tensed muscles and shaking knuckles. You've accepted the other side of him too, all bared teeth and bloodied skin, it's what you were used to. You know he can be both, and you're terrified to admit you love them both.

“We understand your pain, Hobie,” Yuri adds and Hobie scoffs. “We do,” her voice is soft, lacking venom. “Her death has been chipping away at you but can't you see that you've forgotten why we do this? Why we joined you? Trusted you?”

The raven haired stands her ground. “Revenge has blinded you, Mathias was a fuckin’ drop in the sea of assholes we needed to take down but you let that single drop drown you. All this time we could've gone after worse people then came back for him, but you wouldn't listen.”

“Mathias killed Ned.” James pipes up from his corner, arms crossed on his chest. “I miss the little shit as much as you do.” He looks at Hobie. “But we're too weak right now, we can't kill him with seven fucking people and a fishing boat.” He stands next to Hobie, “I'm not gonna leave you, cap, but It's not Mathias' time yet.”

“James—” Yuri calls him sharply.

“I'm staying with Hobie. If he agrees to rebuild.” James waits for Hobie's reply.

Like a cruel twist of fate, Hobie looks at you.

“Don't bring Y/N into this, Hobie.” Pavitr comments next to you. “I don't want to leave you either. You're our captain, but we've been at it for three straight years, put up with all of it, followed you because you're our captain. We just need you to let us breathe. Please.”

“We will never be able to breathe again until he's gone. So we can't let him heal, he's at his lowest and if we strike now—” With Hobie's words, the crew walks away. He turns to you, face full of hidden sorrow.

“Drop us off to the nearest dock.” Gwen says without looking back.

You stand in the middle of everything.

He calls your name, looking towards you for something– anything to help him.

But in truth, you have no idea what to do and which side to choose. The voice inside your head screams for you to run, to get away from what's in front of you.

So you do the opposite. That's not you anymore.

Your feet feels heavy when you walk towards him, numerous eyes dig at your back. But you don't turn around.

They shake their heads, leaving you two alone to head below deck. You can hear their muffled voices, frustrated and angry.

“You leavin’ me too?” he asks, turning back to the helm, trembling hands gripping the wheel, brows furrowed and frown deepening with every second that passes.

You hold his hand, slowly uncurling his fingers away from the wheel, kneading his skin softly.

“Haven't decided yet.” Looking at him through your lashes, you massage his hands like he taught you.

“Not funny.”

“Wasn't joking.”

Hobie blinks, conflicted. “What's there to decide? You either leave or you stay, easy.”

“No, it's not easy.” You avoid his eyes, turning his hands, palms up, you trace the lines over it with your thumbs. “I honestly don't know what to do.” You chuckle nervously.

His eyes follow your hands that squeezes him tender and gentle. Too gentle for someone like him.

“But I do know grief, I may not understand it well but I know you shouldn't adjust your feelings to make other people feel comfortable. But at the same time, you shouldn't neglect the people that are still around you.” You look at the rain clouds in his eyes. “They love you and I—” you pause, and his heart almost stops. “—they don't want you to destroy yourself. Do what you need to do, just don't let him try to kill you the second time.”

You continue, heart thudding loudly like cannons in a ship. “I know you, and that everything you do is out of love. Love for the crew that you've found family in, love for the people that you've helped and the people who you'll help.” Your words are soft and gentle. “Love for your ideals that never waver. And dare I say, love for yourself. You've done so many amazing things against all odds, I know you'll conquer this too.”

“Don't act like you know me.” he says it forlornly like he doesn't want to believe his own words. Truthfully, he wants you to, needs you to know him as much as he knows you.

You smile softly, eyes roaming around his face and all the sadness he harbors underneath. “Hobie” you call his name quietly, shaking your head subtly, you tell him otherwise, conveying that his words aren't true at all.

The dark clouds part in his eyes, and he twists his hand to hold yours. “But you do. Fuck,” he inhales sharply at the realization. “You do.”

“I do.” you take your hand away, reaching up to cup the back of his head, fingers grasping gently at the baby hairs. “And it's alright if you don't know me. You don't have to.”

“What if I do, I do know you.”

You chuckle, “it's an honour to be known by you.” Holding on to him tightly with your breath fanning against his skin, your face is solemn, “just don't make me choose between them—Hobie!” you gasp at the end, gripping on to his shirt, eyes wide with fear at what's behind him.

He follows your line of sight, a large ship looms just behind the boat, and it's heading towards you at great speed. It's sails are all open, stark white against the dark sky.

“Go tell the others.” He frantically twists to look back to you, maybe he shouldn't have, for your fear stricken face would haunt him for the rest of his days. “Love,” shaking you back to reality, he takes your face in his hands. “Go below deck and hide.”

“I'm not fucking leaving you up here.”

“I don't see any flags, chances are it's a merchant ship. I'll talk to them, now go” He reassures you, hiding his own fear, tamping it down for your sake.

With one last look at Hobie, running quickly while he maintains speed, casual, trying not to alarm the other ship. He has talked his way out of situations before, he can get out of this, for the crew and for you.

He hears footsteps, and just like back on his ship, the great sea spider weaves his webs around the crew, instructing them, guiding them like always.

“Hobie,” Gwen calls as they all watch the large ship sail next to them, the shadow casting over the smaller boat, hiding the moonlight from their eyes. “Did you teach her how to swim?”

“Aye, I did.” he whispers, eyes boring into a man with a large frame, his brown hair blowing softly in the wind.

“Good,” she says, hands never leaving her weapons. “We might need to swim.”

The remaining bloodsail pirates stare at the well dressed men looking down at them, their faces unreadable from the height, their swords glinting in the moonlight.

You hunker down below deck, legs tucked, body hidden behind crates, arms braced over your head, waiting for impact. The force doesn't arrive, instead, you hear a booming voice outside, deep and commanding, the sound lights your nerves on fire. Then you hear your name from the man's lips and you close your eyes tightly, imagining that you were back on your island, with him, with the sweet pomegranates and the sand between your fingers.

Maybe you should've stayed.

Hobie's voice is clear as day, bringing you back to the present. Tone laced with anger and resentment, but to you it's the light at the end of the dim cave, without it you would've been lost in the past.

“No Y/N here,” he says convincingly. “Must've gotten the wrong boat, we're just fishin’ ‘ere.”

“What fisherman carries a blunderbuss? Two at that.” The former admiral says gruffly and impatiently. He sighs audibly, “can you at least tell me if she's alive?”

“‘m tellin' you, mate, we don't know anyone by that name.”

“We've got a shipment scheduled for tomorrow. Do you really want our families to starve just because you're looking for a bird?” Gwen adds, her voice is steady.

“I think your father's well fed at the stables, miss Stacy.” You can practically hear their shuddered breaths from below. Holding your dagger close, you watch your mirrored disheveled expression on the steel. “You've been traveling with her for months, I highly doubt you don't know her.”

Hobie seethes, teeth clenched, he masks his voice. “Ah, that one. She's dead, drowned when your old friend Mathias attacked us.”

“He's not my—” Miguel clears his throat. He pauses, then he calls your name once again, louder this time. “I’m not here to hurt you, just please show yourself.” His voice is tired, fatigued. “I have your necklace, and I'm—”

“She is not here” Hobie enunciates every word uttered. “You want her that bad hm? She's at the bottom of the bloody sea, now kindly fuck off.”

You hear the unmistakable click of guns. There's an image in your head, a morbid vision of your friends lying dead on the floor, blood pooling from their broken bodies, head cracked open. Hobie's eyes dark and lifeless, lips uttering your name softly. So you run towards danger, for them, for Hobie.

He sees you come up in slow motion, eyes glossy, irises small and erratic, hands gripping the pommel of the silver dagger. Your eyes meet the hurricane inside him for a second before you stand in front of him.

“I'm here,” you say, stance unwavering despite everything. “Put down your weapons and we'll talk.”

Pavitr and everyone else gets flung back to the day you stood in front of them just like this. Back straight, fingers curled around your dagger, voice as powerful as the sea. Fire licking at their feet, corpses of people they once knew littered on the floor, their blood spilling over the same floors they once called home.

They can't have a repeat of what happened that day.

But all they could do is watch, having no plan and limited bullets. The heated fight before melted everything in them. All they could do is watch and be ready to grab you and jump overboard. Even if they have to swim for a thousand miles.

All Hobie could do is hold the hem of your shirt, subtly, more than ready to yank you away from the danger in front of you. He knows he can't fight the former admiral, he now realizes he can't fight Mathias in this state. It's too late now for he has destroyed the trust of his crew with rotten words he threw at them with his thirst for revenge destroying everything he once held dear to him.

Miguel's face morphs into relief, telling his men to stand down, eyes never leaving your form.

“I meant it when I said I won't harm you. Do you think I chased you across the country and sea because I hold a grudge?” His voice wavers. “How could I when you're a mirror of your mother?”

“Wha– I'm not—” you grow furious. “Jess? Is she with you? What have you done to her?!” Like a caged animal, you take your anger at him, teeth bared, claws ready to strike.

“She's not here, I— can you let me talk for once?” he presses on the gap between his eyes. With a sigh and sympathetic eyes, he tells you the truth.

“I'm your godfather and I'm here to bring you home.”

Your resolve cracks, the word ‘godfather’ is foreign to you but one word echoes through your chest— home. You've got someone waiting for you.

Looking behind you, smiling softly, chuckling with tears streaming down your face, and you see it again, the anguish on his face. Scars stretched on his skin with his deep frown. And you get lost in the silver of his eyes, molten rivers of steel, you'd do anything to protect those eyes. Even if it ends up hating you.

Hobie takes you by the elbow, his own body hiding you from Miguel.

Said man groans, rubbing at his eyelids, exhausted and lacking energy in his sloppy movements. In your peripheral you see a familiar woman trailing next to him, resisting the urge to smack him upside the head with a roll of her eyes.

“What if he's lying?” Hobie whispers, thumbs wiping your tears away. “What if he's only saying that to get you?”

Miles and the rest of the crew circle around you both, never turning their back away from the men watching from above.

“Is he the same guy you told us, Hobie?” He asks, dark eyes trained above, an excuse to avoid Hobie's face.

Your body tells you that you belong in the circle, not outside of it, forever observing as an outsider. Yet your mind screams for you to question Miguel, ask him about your family, ask him where you truly belong.

“You all know?” Your voice shakes as Gwen squeezes your arm. A reassurance that they mean well.

“I told ‘em just in case he tries to chase after you again. It was for a good reason, Y/N, I had to tell them.” Hobie lets your face go after remembering there are numerous eyes on him. They can't know he cares for you lest they use you against him.

“I'm not mad at that, I trust them.” You roam your eyes around their faces like it would be the last time you'll ever see them. “I trust all of you. But you can all leave, sail away far from here and I'll talk to him alone. I won't hold it against you. This is my problem, not yours.”

“If it's your problem then it's our problem too.” Pav says with his whole heart and everyone agrees. “You're part of the crew, Y/N, if you stay, we stay too.”

As you roam your eyes around their faces, faces you've come to care for, it wouldn't be so bad if Miguel was lying. But you have to know, or all the unanswered questions and curiosity will eat at you until your end of days.

With a small nod and sharp inhale, you continue. “Can you trust me?” you smile at them, they can see the sparks in your eyes.

Yuri smirks next to you, hand never leaving the handle of her gun. “Sounds like you've got a plan eh, wifey?”

“I do.” And I hope it works. You think. “I'm not getting on their ship. If he wants to explain himself then he can go to us.”

Hobie smiles proudly, while the others nod approvingly.

“Hah,” Gwen pats your back. “Just like what we did near the coast of Malta.”

“Good times.” James adds, elbowing Pav like there isn't danger ahead.

“If I find out he's lying, I'll cut him myself.” You say bravely.

“No,” Hobie interrupts. “I'll do it. 'm not lettin' you be alone with him.” He knows men like Miguel, skin traders who will lie and sink their teeth in just to get a bag of coins in return.

The crew thinks you would protest until you nod. You'd be crazy to decline, and now they know how much they've missed throughout the month you two have been alone on that island.

“I'll be at the helm,” Pav whispers, “just in case we need to get away fast.”

Hobie clasps his shoulder in thanks. “James, stay near the mast, help Pav steer the bloody thing.” James, thumps his knuckle on Hobie's chest before going to his station. “Miles, be at the door and listen in if we need an extra pair of hands in bringing him down.”

“Gladly.” Miles says, leaving the captain's side to keep watch.

“Gwen and Yuri, you two know where to shoot.”

They look at eachother with determination.

“I'll take the helmsman and you take the gunner.” Gwen instructs Yuri.

“Aye aye.” The raven haired beams mischievously.

Now alone, he opens his mouth to say something but you beat him to it with a simple call of his name.

“Hobie.” Arm slipping out of his grasp to hold his hand properly. Squeezing it, remembering where every single indent and scar on his knuckles are with just your touch. Brushing your thumb around it, without a second thought, you lean towards him, lips pressing like a feather on his cheek.

As quick as the tides, you lean away from him.

Hobie wanted it to last forever, to meld his skin atop yours, to forever be attached to you. But he knows what the kiss entails, it wasn't just your affection bursting at the seams after months of longing; it was a goodbye.

He barely felt it but it doesn't mean his heart didn't skip a beat when he felt your cold lips. With a shuddered breath, he takes you in, simmers in your soft smile, bathes in your eyes. You do the same as his familiar scent wafts over you, sea salt and sea breeze, you now know why men choose the sea.

“I won't let him take you.” He promises.

“And I won't let him kill you.” You promise.

And with your final words, you turn towards Miguel with fire in your eyes fueled by your will to continue.

“Come down here and we'll talk.” In that small ship you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders.

With the loud thump of his weapons falling from his waist to the wooden floorboards, hands up in surrender, he agrees wholeheartedly.