#the height difference is making me crawl up the walls of my enclosure

[raapija]

gremlin and gremlin protector

[morgana-ren]

my kink is shiggy going absolutely feral and wrecking the pussy

 I am soooo sorry this took so long to respond to. I’ve been working nutty hours and it’s been busier than usual. I’m also sososo sorry the quality sucks. I wrote half of it tonight and I am crazy sick. I’ve got some sort of awful flu and I’m like coughing to the point where I can’t breathe and my mouth tastes like blood and my body feels like I was hit by a train. I hope you like it though :/ (BTW this ended up way longer and weirdly… sweeter than I originally intended? I hope it’s still okay though)

He’s sitting at the bar, and admittedly, he’s had a few more drinks than he usually has. Originally, he just wanted to take the edge off, but now he’s feeling a little bit loose. His inhibitions are definitely lower than they should be, so he’s maintaining his composure by trying to keep to himself. He very rarely allows himself to relax like this, but it’s been one hell of a week, and his pent-up rage and anger is threatening to boil over unless he lets himself decompress. It’s for his sake, and more importantly, for the sake of everyone around him, so he allows himself this one.

There’s only one little problem.

That problem is you.

Even at his most attentive, the absolute height of his prowess, he was starting to realize that there was something a little different about you. Don’t get me wrong, he cared about all of his team. They were his family now and he was content with that. But occasionally he found his eyes lingering on you a little too long, getting a little too lulled by the sound of your voice. He would even go as far as to say he felt something akin to giddiness when you would plop down on the stool next to him at the bar.

Tomura was no fool. He knew what it was. He understood in some capacity that he was attracted to you. He had been since you joined. He figured it was inevitable to some degree. After all, he wasn’t exactly a people person, and the ones he did surround himself with weren’t exactly suited to his sexual tastes. He felt for Toga like a big brother would (not to mention the fact that she was underage and that was definitely not his cup of tea.) And the rest of the team? He’d rather shove a nail in his foot.

But you? You seemed a little too perfect.

He tried to play it off as his loneliness. A young female around his age with a powerful quirk and similar views? Of course nature would take its course and veer his attention toward you. That didn’t mean it had to be genuine, right? Surely it would die with time, fading into the background until it was nothing but a dull echo and eventually nonexistent. He was just touch starved, feeling particularly lonesome and isolated recently. It had nothing at all to do with the fact that you had been running circles around his mind lately. Nope. Not at all.

He didn’t spare you any extra attention, gave you no favors. He didn’t let his libido steer his judgement, letting his rational mind keep control instead. He was the leader after all, and it was his job to refrain from bias toward any member of his team. Favoring one or the other, especially because one had a face and personality partial to his own personal tastes, was not a good look. He was a professional. He needed to act like one.

He thought he was doing a pretty good job.

At least until now.

His grip on the glass is a little too tight, just a bit too strained. He can hear you laughing behind him, at what he doesn’t know, but he knows it was ashtray that made you do it. It had been like this the last half hour. You and Dabi had been playing some sort of drinking game and clearly having one hell of a time. Exchanging stories, bantering, and joking back and forth.

Tomura might as well have been a fly on the wall.

Neither one of you seemed to pay him any mind, letting him drink alone in peace. At least as much peace as he could have while you two were practically rioting behind him. With his back turned, you couldn’t see how unbelievably irritated he was either. He told himself it was the noise. He had a headache and you two really should keep it the fuck down. That’s what he told himself.

“Hey dollface, you ever played ‘never have I ever?”

Dabi’s slurring slightly, clearly already deep in his cups. Whatever bullshit game you had been playing before, you had obviously been winning. You seem essentially sober, and yet you were still humoring this asshole. Shigaraki closes his eyes and rolls them. You two were utterly juvenile.

“Not since I was a kid.” 

“You wanna play?” The suggestiveness in burn-unit’s voice is just a little too palpable. Shigaraki forces down another coming wave of irritation. He didn’t need to be subjected to this. Two of his subordinates acting like fucking baboons. 

“Sure. I hate playing quarters with you anyway. You suck at it, but the quarters you use get too warm and they keep burning my fingers.” 

“Can’t help it. I’m hot.” He raises his arms in a joking prostration, nearly falling off of his chair in the process. You chortle, snorting under your breath at his pathetic display. Shigaraki notes that you don’t disagree, however. 

“Tell you what, if you can keep your ass in that chair, I’ll play it with you.” 

“Ladies first.” Dabi resituates himself on the seat, loudly pulling himself forward several times until he’s level with the table once more. 

“Okay, let me think… Never have I ever…” You pause for a moment, thinking. “Stolen a car.” 

“Fuckin’ seriously? I had you pegged all wrong, doll! You’re definitely more boring than I thought.” 

“Well? Have you?” You seem to already know the answer, but that’s the point. 

Tomura knows the answer too. In fact, Dabi has stolen cars under his orders. Looks like ashtray loses this round. With any luck, he’ll eventually black out soon and maybe things would calm down.

“Yeah, yeah, give me the cup.” There’s the sound of a shot glass being passed across the table, and then a very loud crash that nearly makes Tomura jump. 

“Bottle’s empty.” Dabi says nonchalantly, as if he didn’t just knock it to the floor, shattering it on accident. “Go get another one.”

“Yes master.” 

It’s blatantly sarcastic and Shigaraki knows it is, but it still makes him flush slightly. Those words from your lips are not what he needs to hear right now.

You scoot away from the table, walking over behind the bar where Shigaraki is seated. There’s a pair of cabinets hanging overhead above him that you’ve got your eye on. However, as you stand in front of him and reach up to scrounge through the inside of them, he does his best to shake his shaggy hair in front of his eyes, trying to cover his ruddy face. You don’t quite realize it, but as you’re digging around up there, you’re giving him an exceedingly generous view of your cleavage.

He tries to tear his eyes away, trying to look anywhere else butat your overexposed chest. It’s unprofessional. It’s crude. It makes him feellike a dirty pervert, leering at you when you’re so oblivious. He doesn’t want to look. He’s not going to look. He’s going to pick up his drink and go in the next room and…

He’s looking. 

Look, you can’t just do that, okay? I mean, you don’t know what you’re doing but still! He might be the leader, but he’s also a man and he has needs. Wants. Desires. And right now, there’s a pair of tits almost directly in his face, so achingly close that he could touch them if he wanted. His fingers are digging into the skin of his palm, trying to quell all the desperate urges he’s feeling right now, chastising himself in his head for even thinking that way. He holds out, thinking of strategies or games or something, anything to beat off those thoughts. Beat off. Fuck.

Finally, you slam the cupboard shut, apparently not having found what you were looking for. He could have technically told you that there was no liquor up there, but far be it from him to make your life any easier. You opt instead to look behind you in some cupboards lining the wall. He takes another sip of his drink, watching you as you fall to your knees, rifling around in the dusty, cobwebbed enclosure. 

“What the fuck is taking so long?” Dabi pipes up from the back, kicking at the glass shards on the floor. 

“I can’t find any!” You call back, before sparing a glance towards Shigaraki himself. “Hey boss, can we-”

“No.” He curls his hand protectively around his own bottle. Like hell he’s giving his liquor to that drunken moron behind him.

You sigh, returning to your efforts. He watches in slight amusement as you toss shit around on the inside, very clearly growing frustrated with your lack of success. At least until you bend down, practically crawling inside. Your upper half is encased on the inside of the cheap wooden hutch, but your bottom half… 

Your backside is perked out directly toward him. You’re wiggling and worming, smacking things out of your way in your quest for more booze, and it’s definitely not helping. He can see the lines and contours of your ass through your pants, moving and shimmying around so much that he’s subconsciously brought his hand up to his face, biting deeply on a knuckle as he watches. 

He doesn’t want to watch. He wants to close his eyes, to look away, to roll his eyes into his head, anything but ogle you like this. His pants are becoming increasingly tight, straining against his crotch. He’s acutely aware of this, shifting in his chair uncomfortably. 

Fucking alcohol. It really has been a while.

“Got it!” You maneuver your way out of the alcove, clutching a bottle of musty liquor in your hands, holding it up triumphantly. Shigaraki snaps out of his haze, face blossoming into a deep shade of crimson. Maybe he’s had enough for tonight… 

“Yeah, yeah, hurry it up half-pint. I’m losing my buzz.” Dabi is very blatantly more than ‘buzzed’, and he seems hellbent on getting black out. It’s no skin off Shigaraki’s ass, at least that way he’ll probably fall over and pass out and you two will finally leave him alone and give him time to compose himself and chase away these intrusive thoughts. 

“Here you go, you big lug.” 

He reaches for the bottle in your hands but you pull it away, shaking your head at him and pouring the shot for him. He shoots you a glare, but takes it none the less. His head lulls over as the liquor burns down his throat and Tomura is betting two more and he’ll be on the floor. 

He just has to hold out until then. It’s probably a good thing that Dabi is on the brink of black out, because Shigaraki is rapidly running out of patience, dropping levels lower every time he has to hear Dabi’s goddamn voice. He’s almost always baseline annoyed with patchwork, but something was making him exceedingly irritating tonight. Every time he spoke you to you, Tomura found his lip twitching at the poorly concealed inflection in his voice. He doubted you even noticed it, but he sure as fuck could.

“My turn.” Dabi manages to garble out, leaning forward toward you on the table, smiling deviously. “Never have I ever… Fucked a member of the team.” 

Tomura can barely hear your shock above his own. Heat prickles painfully below his eyes, mouth slightly agape and both his hands curling into fists. He doesn’t understand why he’s so mad, so angry at it, but he doesn’t exactly care enough to analyze it right now. It’s the typical sort of bullshit shenanigan that drunk people get up to, but it sends his rage meter through the roof. He’s at the end of his rope.

“What?” You laugh anxiously, a barely concealed look of discomfort on your face. “I mean like, yeah, neither have I.” 

Dabi leans even more forward, pushing up from his chair and stabilizing himself on the table as he enters your personal space. His eyelids are lowered, either from the drink or his drunken attempt to be seductive, but either way, it’s a bit laughable. “Do you want to?” 

“That’s enough!” 

Tomura has shoved himself off his stool, kicking it aside as he faces you both. You look utterly started, but Dabi seems unsurprised by his outburst, cocking his head over with a bored expression. “Whattaya want, creep? We’re busy over here.” 

Shigaraki opts to ignore Dabi, instead narrowing his eyes on you. If he didn’t know better, he’d say you looked frightened, eyes popped like a deer in headlights, no doubt wondering why it was you getting the brunt of the scolding when it was very clearly Dabi who was crossing boundaries in front of the boss. Right now, he doesn’t care. 

He stalks over to you, harshly wrapping four fingers around your wrist and dragging you off into the nearby hallway. “I need to speak with you. Now.” 

You gulp almost audibly as he yanks you across the room and into the darkened corridor while Dabi rolls his eyes and scoffs, reaching for the bottle again. Tomura can feel your anxious eyes on the back of his head, no doubt wondering what you were in for, and honestly, even he didn’t know. He had acted on impulse, being led entirely by some instinct that had taken over his brain. 

He brings you down deep into the bowels of the building before he finally stops. It’s where you’re certain no one can hear you scream, no matter how many times you tell yourself that this is your leader and he wouldn’t do that to you. He’s got you against a wall as he stares down at you, crimson irises burning into yours. He looks pissed, but he’s just glaring down at you silently, letting the tension build to unbearable levels. 

“Boss?” You squeak, unable to handle not knowing. 

“Quiet. I’m thinking.” He hisses, snarling at you. 

“B-but boss, I didn’t-”

“I said shut up!” He slams his hands on either side of your head, narrowly avoiding decaying the wall behind you. He’s leaning down, face is so close to yours that you can feel his breath against your cheek, moist and chilling you to the bone. You’re unsure of what exactly is about to happen, and for a moment, he is too. He’s frustrated and flustered and he has no fucking idea what the hell he’s even doing here.

That doesn’t last long. 

Fuck it. 

He crushes his mouth to yours so hard he knows it probably hurts you, but you don’t seem to register it. Your eyes are snapped open, mouth slack and unmoving against his own in your stunned state. To hell with it, he needs to get this out of his system. If you want to hate him later, fine, but he needs to do this. He can’t handle it anymore.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is that after your initial shock wears off, you rake your hands through his hair, pulling him tighter against you, returning his fevered kiss with equally intense fervor. You’re practically devouring him, trying to slip your tongue between his closed lips. While his motions are automatic, his brain practically short circuits.

You’re… kissing him back?

It hits him like a kick in the ass. You’re kissing him back. You are reciprocating. Hell, you’re practically directing at this point. Your hands are clawing at his silver locks, yanking him closer and closer until he can barely breathe. He doesn’t care, he couldn’t care less if he never breathes again as long as you keep yourself pressed against him.

He can feel your body flush against his own, bathing in the warmth of your heat. This is all happening so fast, almost too fast. He never in his wildest dreams would have imagined that you could want him back, and it’s spurring his mind into overdrive. He knows what little self-control he has slipping, and the urge to shove you back further against the wall and take you is becoming a little too overwhelming. He needs to slow down while he still has the ability.

He pulls away if only slightly, just enough that he can croak your name, nails digging into your shoulder in warning. You can see his flushed cheeks, eyes glassy and low. His adam’s apple bobs, swallowing hard against your throat and you can tell he’s doing is best to not envelop you completely in his haze. It’s physically paining him in more ways than one, and you can feel a certain thick hardness worrying between your thighs. Gauging by his facial expression, he’s trying so desperately to communicate to you what’s going through his head without needing to say it.

You get the message. You know he’s trying so hard to keep in check, and no matter how badly he wants it, he’s going to resist. It’s his last defense.

Unfortunately for him, your only desire is to throw gasoline on that fire. You want it, and you want it bad. So, you pull a very unfair move.

You purse your lips in a pout, a simpering little whine emitting from your throat. Your hands make their way down to his narrow hips, gripping him closer between your parted thighs as you roll your body against his overly excitable nether region. Biting your lip, you bring your face close to his ear, whispering.

“Tomura…”

You feel him tense up, seizing as if frozen. His breath is caught in his chest, unable to move or think or breathe. There’s no mistaking the tone in your voice. Your head is in the same space as his. Is he asleep? Dreaming? Alive, even? There’s no way someone like him made it into heaven, so what the fuck was happening?

For the first time since you met him, he looks confused. His thin brows are furrowed, mouth open as if he wants to say something but can’t even find the words. Speechless, for once. He’s not even looking at you anymore, usually thin pupils dilated and switching rapidly between alternate sides of his eyes as if he’s expecting some sort of ambush. He’s utterly lost, and for a moment, you almost feel sorry for him. He’s clearly not used to this. He just needs a tiny little push.

“Fuck me.”

His eyes snap back to yours, a small gasp leaving him. All he needed was your permission, and you just gave it to him. Once you opened that door, there was no closing it. He knows it. You know it. And you’re more than okay with that.

“Please?”

He gives you exactly one second to inhale before he’s on you again. Hands clawing down your back as you struggle to undo your pants which seem exponentially more complicated than they did hours ago. As you kick them down your legs, he catches the hint that your clothing is optional, opting to rip and tear at your shirt rather than take the time to undo it properly. You want to scold him for ruining it, but that’s a bit difficult to do when his tongue is so far down your throat that it might as well be your own. You have a feeling he wouldn’t care even if you could.

You try to do him the favor of unbuttoning his pants, tugging them slightly down his hips, but before you can finish, he grabs your wrists, guiding them up to find anchor behind his neck. You can tell he’s trying to be as gentle and careful as he can, but his hands are shaking and stuttering against you, prying his pinkie fingers back so far that you’re sure it’s cramping him. He doesn’t want to risk harming you, but every bone in his body is screaming at him to tear into you like a predator.

You cling to him as he jerks his jeans down just enough and awkwardly frees himself with one hand, eyes never leaving yours. He’s waiting for you to shove him away, push him off, tell him you were kidding and laugh at him, reject him somehow. But you never do. Even as you can feel him against your legs, he pauses, needing some sort of final confirmation before he goes any further.

You let one hand unhinge from behind him, tracing his jawline and then grabbing his face gently in your hands. He looks vulnerable, almost confused, barely holding back whatever overwhelming need he has and it’s for your sake. You do the only thing you can do, the best reassurance you can think of.

You give him a gentle kiss on the lips, and then nod.

The switch flips.

You barely have time to clasp your hands back around his neck before he’s hiking you around up around his waist by your legs. You manage to lock your ankes together before he’s on you like a feral beast, burrowing his head in the crook of your neck, growling and gnashing his teeth on the tender skin of your throat. He’s grinding his erection between your thighs, rubbing against you and teasing your clit until you’re working against him with equal ferocity, practically ripping his hair by the roots.

He’s got you pinned between his lithe body and the wall, his nails digging into the thick skin of your thighs as he groans against your collar bone. He can feel how wet you are and it’s driving him into a frenzy, your little whimpers only serving to harden his already aching cock. The barely controlled undulation of his hips against yours but a taste of what he’s going to give you, and if he makes you wait much longer, you’re going to lose it.

He lets go of one of your legs, letting you steady yourself with your fastened ankles as his hand creeps between your waiting thighs, stroking and rubbing your nub until you’re bucking your body up into his touch. You’re breathing heavy, gyrating your body to try and increase the friction he’s providing you but it’s not enough. Your pleading looks and half formulated sentences coax a small, cruel giggle from him, reveling in the fact that you’re practically as needy as he is.

“You want it?”

His words are deceptively calm, but the truth of the matter is reflected in his eyes. Wide and bulging, blown out in lust. He’s barely even blinking, memorizing every detail of your wanton body on display for him. His fingers are twitching on his cock as he lines himself with your entrance, every single muscle longing to slam into you full force, but he wants to draw this out. Wants you to beg, needs it.

You nod your head vigorously, a pathetic whine all you can vocalize. You’re squirming in his arms, trying to impale yourself on him and failing. A frustrated groan and a pleading look later, and he decides that it’ll suffice.

”Take it.”

He plunges in, bottoming out inside you with one swift motion. The pressure is intense, stinging even with as wet as you are, but the moan that escapes him is unlike anything you’ve ever heard from him before. He’s always so calculated, so meticulous, but the sheer unadulterated carnality of the sigh that leaves him makes you clench tighter around him. You didn’t think something as simple as a sound could arouse you so much, but something about seeing him so uninhibited makes you hotter than you thought possible.

It takes him a second to adjust to your tightness, but he quickly gets his bearings. Hissing under his breath, he begins thrusting, canting his hips in rhythm as he fucks up into your pliable body. He’s pulling no punches, battering you into the wall until you’re certain there will be bruises. Tenderness is a distant memory but you don’t seem to mind as your cunt is squeezing him so tightly that it’s almost as if you don’t ever want to let go. Your hands untangle themselves from his hair, grabbing onto his shoulders and shredding into his hoodie as you desperately try to stable yourself as he bounces you recklessly on his cock.

Your lecherous moans echo off the walls alongside his huffing and cussing in a cacophony of sin, but neither one of you can muster concern about anyone else hearing you. All you can think about is taking him deeper, rolling your hips in time with his as he pounds into you. He couldn’t give a fuck less if anyone else walks in on it either, even All for One couldn’t command his attention anywhere else but you. The only thing he knows is that he needs to be inside you, needs to feel you and he’ll kill anything that tries to get in the way of that.

Briefly, in the heat of the moment, your eyes meet. Both of you are glossed over, running purely on the fumes of the lustful haze, but there’s something underneath it all that softens you, going beyond pure greed and lasciviousness. He must sense it too, because his free hand comes up to cup your face, puckering your lips with his fingers before he slams his lips to yours once more. There’s a passion to it, an urgency that says something that neither of your words can, and even as you lose yourself moaning into his open mouth, he never lets you go.

Between the frantic pumping and the heated neediness of the kiss, breath is few and far between. You’re both panting in time with each other, desperate for air and each other. You can feel the sweat building on his brow as he rests his forehead against yours, muttering something deep and incomprehensible between consuming you. You’re building up, both reaching your peak and soon his pistoning becomes erratic and broken. You breathe in his ragged, shuddering exhales, swallowing every ounce of himself that he gives you. You never want to let go. You never want to let go.

His cock throbs deep inside you and your orgasm proceeds his. You feel hot ropes of cum coat your insides and your walls milk him even further into completion, clinging fiercely to each other for purchase. Your head is thrown back, practically sobbing as he ushers you into a pleasure so intense that you’re not entirely sure your body can handle it. You’re left drowning and breathless, legs wrapped around him so tightly that it’s cutting off blood flow, arms coiled around his shoulders for dear life.

His mouth is open in a wordless cry, fractured wheezes ripping themselves from his throat as he tries to pull his soul back down to his body. He can’t feel his fingers anymore, can’t feel his extremities, all he can feel is you and your embrace and he decides he never wants to lose it as his lips find yours again, swallowing your cries of pleasure.

Even as you both float back down from your bliss, he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to. He knows what’s coming and he’s desperately trying to keep it at bay. He knows he has to let you go eventually, no matter how much he fights it. It’s inevitable, but he’ll draw it out as long as he can.

You don’t stop him.

He kisses you until one of you has no choice but to break it to breathe and he curses the function. With the break, he knows the moment is over.

Gently, he puts you down and does his best to keep you steady on weak, wobbly legs. Your thighs are twitching, already beginning to bruise where his hipbones repeatedly beat into them. He wants to say he feels bad about it, but he doesn’t. It’s a reminder of what you shared. You don’t seem to mind either, even as you nearly fall on your ass trying to gather your pants back up around your legs. Instinctively, you go to button your blouse, but you are quickly reminded that it’s no longer wearable as you realize there’s a gigantic rip through it, and several buttons scattered around on the floor beneath you. You quirk your brow at him, giving him a look of faux annoyance as you take it off and throw it at him.

“Oh.”

He catches the hint but seems lost for a minute. He’s looking around at the walls and the floor as if there’d be a convenient dresser that would pop out of thin air, and you have to resist the urge to laugh. He’s clearly still post-orgasmic delirium, and there’s something just so adorable about seeing such a serious, brooding figure so utterly clueless.

Eventually, he sighs, placing four of his fingers underneath the bottom hem of his hoodie and carelessly yanking it up over his head before chucking it at you in the same manner. He says nothing, but you understand. You look at it for a moment before raising it up over your head, awkwardly trying to maneuver your head and arms into the proper holes in the dark hallway. It takes you a good minute, but you manage.

“I’ll get you a new one.” He’s bashfully scratching the back of your head as he holds your shirt in his hand. He seems embarrassed now, which makes it very hard to resist the urge to giggle at him.

“Don’t even worry about it. I didn’t care about it that much.”

You tuck your hands into the pocket of the hoodie, and you realize just how comfy it is. No wonder he always wears it. You’re probably going to steal it. It definitely, absolutely has nothing to do with the fact that his scent is bombarding you now. Nothing to do at all with the fact that you can still feel the warmth of his body while you wear it. Nope. No chance. No way.

“You should bring that back to me when you change.”

You’ve been foiled.

“I’ll be up. You know where my room is, right?”

Oh.

OH.

You grin cheekily at him, shaking your head. “Yeah, I know where your room is. Give me a few minutes and I’ll drop it by.”

You could swear you see him smile a little when you agree.

“Good. That one’s my favorite.”

You want to make a joke about whether he’s talking about you or the hoodie, but he’s already stalking off. You’re not worried, you’ll see him soon enough.

You have to cross through the kitchen to get back to your room, and you are very surprised to see Dabi still sitting in the same chair where you left him. Well, not surprised to see him, but surprised that he’s not on the floor and is still very much awake. He looks over at you, frowning as he slides a shot glass across the table towards your direction.

“I think you have to take that last shot now.”

[sketches-of-stories]

Glass Shards

It had been exactly nine days since Azar the fire nymph had been stuffed roughly into the lamp that was now her home and prison. Exactly nine days since she had been taken from Flint, her human friend, and caregiver. Azar had started tallying the days on the glass bottom with broken bits if half-burnt matches. In the nine days, she had been imprisoned by the Orc Lord, Azar had seen many different creatures. Hobgoblins, orcs, elves, the occasional human, and other nymphs but none of them were willing to help her. The door of the tent, containing her lamp, was snapped open revealing Warog the Orc Lord. 

"Light," he barked out the command as he had done for the past nine days. Azar rolled her eyes as she ignited her fire-proof hair. "Ahhh," he sighed. Even his sighs were rough, like sandpaper scratching yet forming words. "That's better." He lumbered over to the lamp and peered down at her with one yellowish eye. "But why is your light dimmer?" Azar's dark cheeks flared angrily. She thought of Flint who would never ask such stupid questions. Everyone knew a fire nymph's flame would begin to burn out when he or she wasn't properly cared for. And the nymph would begin to die. 

Azar snorted disgustedly. There was no way that she would die because of some idiotic orc, who wouldn't care for her properly. "Watch your tone missy. You'll get into a mite of trouble with that attitude," he said shaking his head disapprovingly. "So, why are you burning low?" What could she say? Obviously she couldn't just say something about how she was slowly dying because of lack of care. 

"I have a rare disease." Hmmm. How to work with this? If she said the wrong thing it would be the end of the road. "It causes my flame to burn low from time to time. That's all." Warog rolls his eyes. "Meh. I need light to calculate my sales." That was another constant over the nine days. Every night he came in to calculate his sales. Azar had begun to think this Orc Lord was a merchant type.

No matter what he was he sat at his table and added, subtracted, multiplied, and divided until he came up with a total and left the room until nightfall. Today's process seemed slower than usual, but after a while Azar saw Warog tidying up his desk area. It was strange, she thought to herself, that such an ugly, stupid-looking creature could actually be somewhat smart. She laughed softly.

"Off," he grunted. Nevermind, thought Azar irritably as she extinguished her light. The Orc Lord lumbered out of the room leaving her alone in her lamp. As soon as she was sure he was out earshot she started mumbling to herself, trying to formulate a plan I'd escape. After several long hours of planning, tears, and banging her head repeatedly against the walls of her prison, Azar hatched a plot.

Step 1: Wait until midnight. Warog and everyone else in his camp would be asleep except the Nightwatch. And she would be too small to be seen.

Step 2: Break her lamp prison. Quietly of course. Well, as quietly as possible, she reasoned.

Step 3: The easiest step by far. Climb down the table and sneak out of the camp. Fire nymphs lived in small rocky caves, so Azar was a natural climber.

Step 4: Hide for the night and rest until she could find Flint. Or died trying.

"Four easy steps, four easy steps, four easy steps." She chanted the same thing over and over until it was embedded in her mind. As the night wore, on the chant was the only thing that kept her awake.

Finally after what seemed like years Warog strode into the tent, changed (Azar averted her eyes. She did NOT want to see that ugly brute changing), and laid down on his cot. A few minutes later he began to snore. An hour later Azar began to shake her enclosure, trying to knock it over and break it.

"Almost there," Azar grunted through gritted teeth. The lamp fell to itS side and shattered with a crash. Desperately she looked at the sleeping figure praying that he hadn't woken up. He hadn't.  

She picked herself off the wooden tabletop and dusted off the ash, clinging to her tunic. "Not a scratch!" Carefully she took a step forward. A sharp pain seared through her foot. "Bandit's bum," she cursed sitting down to examine her foot. A shard of glass no bigger than a pebble had embedded itself in her foot. She had no way of taking it out safely.

"Guess that will have to wait." Gingerly Azar limped over to her broken match calendar and pulled one of the larger pieces aside. She then used a shard of glass, to cut a thin strip of cloth from her toga and tied it around her injured foot. "Alright," she whispered to herself. "Just use the match to pull yourself up," she trailed off with a sharp intake of breath, as her foot seared. “Ok. Slower this time." Over the course of about five minutes Azar managed to use the broken piece of wood to haul herself upright into a standing position. She let out a long shaky breath before hobbling nearer to the table's edge. Soon she realised exactly how hard it would be to climb down the table leg with an injured foot. Azar steadied herself and once again began to inch toward the edge. Her leg seared with every step she took but, she reasoned, if I can escape it will have been worth it.

The edge of the table was like a cliff dropping off into the sea. The hard ground was far below. The thought of hitting the ground made Azar shiver, but she didn't let it stop her. Slowly she lowered herself over the edge and onto the table leg. It had no handholds, but had a single ledge, spiraling down the side. If Azar slipped and fell from this height she would surely die. 

Softly, she limped down the ledge, praying not to fall. As she walked, the pain in her foot increased. Azar tasted blood, but still bit harder on her lip to keep from screaming in pain. After what felt like hours Azar reached the bottom. "Finally," she muttered, as she breathed a sigh of relief. The silent tent did not respond and thankfully, neither did it's occupant. Tiptoeing as well as she could with the glass shard still embedded in her foot, Azar tiptoed across the room. In a rush she ducked under the tent flap and stood triumphant in the fresh night air. A gust of cold wind whipped her hair around in her face, as she stood exposed for anyone to see her. Azar didn't care. She was free and on her way to find Flint. Life was finally going right!

The moon was still in the sky as she set out on the last step of her journey, hide and rest for the night. Avoiding the dead leaves scattered everywhere she half ran, half limped to the outskirts of the encampment. The wind whipped her hair and tunic all around her. Azar shivered as the wind began to grow cold. "Ouch, ouch, ouch." Every step caused more pain in her foot but still she continued. She was free. Nothing could stop her now! The edge of the encampment was near, she only needed to crawl under the makeshift gate that was the entrance and exit. 

Azar was biting her lip harder now. She couldn't make a sound. Not when she was this close to escape. She could see the other side through the cracks in the gate. No glass lamps, no orcs, and no burning low. And Flint, her friend and caregiver was somewhere beyond this wall looking for her. Victory was in reach.

She looked back at the tent she had been imprisoned in for the past few days. It was smaller than it had looked like from the lamp, not that Azar cared. Anger bubbled up inside of her and for a brief second she considered burning it. She decided against it after realizing how much walking would be involved, but she spat in it's general direction.

Slowly she sunk to her hands and knees, preparing to crawl under. A leaf crunched under her hand. A rustling noise sounded from the other side. Her eyes went wide. Her heart thudded. Someone or something had heard her! Silently she waited on hands and knees, eyes wide and breath held. The sound subsided.

Azar let out her breath slowly. She could see through the cracks and none of Warog's guards were outside the gate. She slid under the crack in the gate. "Hello," she called out softly. "Is- is anyone there?" No answer, the trees were silent other than the faint sound of wind through leaves. "See Azar. Nothing is out there." Still she wasn't so sure. Yes she was free, but she felt as if she was trapped again. Trapped in the gaze of something hidden. She reached down and picked up a stick from the forest floor. If worse came to worst she would us her hair to ignite the stick and burn whatever was watching her. If she got the chance.

Azar ran as well as she could with her injury and pushed through the bush ahead of her. She couldn't help it. She screamed. Azar didn't care if Warog found her. She needed to get away. Inside the bush was what looked like a dead body. The dead body of someone she knew. The dead body of Flint. The body jerked up at the sound of her scream. It was Flint but he wasn't dead. A bit scratched and bruised but alive.

"Who's there," he asked sharply. He was not half asleep and mumbly like he normally was. Tonight he was alert and wary. "Where are you? What have you done with Azar? What have you done with my friend?" He drew his dagger with a faint scraping sound.

"Flint it's me! It's Azar!" She limped to his side. His eyes widened.

"But, how? I thought you would be imprisoned in something not roaming around." For the first time in nine days Azar smiled. Really smiled. Flint had come to save her. Her best friend was here with her. She didn't need to search. She wasn't going to die.

"I um... escaped. By myself." She tried to make her tone light and casual. Flint would know the truth though. He would know how she had cried the first day and a half because if how scared and alone she had felt. He would know the anger she had felt moments before she had found him. And he would know the despair she had felt when she had begun to burn low, trapped dying in a lamp as a slave. 

"We need to go. They'll be looking for you in the morning. We need to get as far away as we can." Flint looked down at her and noticed her bandaged foot and ripped tunic. "As soon as we're safe I'll fix you up and get you a change of clothes ok."

"Ok."Azar nodded. The weight of her many late and sleepless nights seemed to be crashing down on her all at once. Flint could tell. He placed his hand on the ground and allowed her to step into his palm. Slowly so he wouldn't drop her he raised his hand to his pocket. Carefully he slid her inside. Azar curled up in the corner, safe at last. Flint rose and began to walk. As the pocket rocked Azar slowly drifted off to sleep, warm and safe in the coat pocket of her best friend.

"Good night Azar." Flint touched his pocket lightly to ensure she was safe and walked onward. No one was going to get her away from him. Flint would make sure of that.