#there is nothing heavier to him then the crown. If he can carry that he can carry anything

[druidonity2]

2021 Wrynn class swap

[sturnsbae]

SLEEPY - WILL SMITH

summary: will comes home from work to a very sleepy y/n passed out on the couch

—

within the last few days, your fatigue has been severe. you’ve fallen asleep hours before you usually do, and getting up in the mornings has become increasingly more challenging. this is a telltale sign that you’re getting sick.

will, your boyfriend of two years, has a game against calgary tonight. unfortunately, you’re far too ill to actually attend the game. of course, it broke your heart to tell your boyfriend that you wouldn’t be able to make it, but he was more than okay with you getting your rest rather than watching him chase a rubber puck for three hours.

you’re currently sat on the couch of your guys’ shared apartment while the game illuminates the dimly lit room. your eyelids become heavier as every line change occurs, but it eventually becomes too unbearable to fight. as you fall asleep, you’re cuddled into the fluffy blanket, along with being swallowed by wills boston college hoodie. you’re so knocked out, that you end up missing macklins goal during the second period, followed by everything else that happened after it.

will opens the door expecting you to be wide awake, but quickly slows his movements when he sees you sprawled out on the couch engulfed in his hoodie and a blanket. he chuckles to himself softly as he puts his hockey bag down by the door, careful not to wake you. he walks over to the couch and sits down next to you, gently moving hair out of your face.

“baby?” he quietly asks.

you stir awake and rub your eyes softly, stretching your limbs with a loud groan as you sit up. “oh, will? what time is it? i thought you should be-“ you quickly come to the realization that you had fallen asleep. “oh,” you say.

will chuckles with a grin, “yeah, you fell asleep.”

“i’m so sorry…” you mutter, fixing your hair and adjusting his hoodie.

“you’re sorry? what are you apologizing for, y/n?” will asks, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

“missing your game. i feel awful! it’s enough that i didn’t even physically go, and then i still end up missing the entire thing!”

“y/n, please don’t apologize. honestly, you missed nothing. it was an embarrassing loss anyways.” will says, and you can hear the pain in his voice.

“oh baby i’m so sorry.” you sigh, wrapping him in a hug. he chuckles, the vibration of his laughter against your body makes you smile. despite being half asleep, he still never fails to make you happy.

“are you feeling any better?” your concerned boyfriend asks.

“i’m just still tired, i’m sure i’ll wake up sick tomorrow” you laugh, which makes him pout.

“y/n, you should really get to bed baby…” he says, making you sigh. you know he’s right, but you also wanna stay up and talk to him… but he knows you too well and immediately stops this thought. “y/n, we can talk in bed. cmon, i’ll carry you.”

he swoops you up bridal style, letting the blanket fall beneath his feet as he walks you to the bedroom. he gently places you down on the bed and plants a kiss on the crown of your head. “i’m gonna shower really quickly, but don’t stay up. go to bed, it’s okay.” you nod, but you both know you’re gonna force yourself to stay awake until he comes back. and that’s exactly what you do.

will exits the bathroom about ten minutes later and shuts off the light, crawling into bed with you. you immediately snuggle into him as his arm wraps around you, the smell of his body wash filling your senses. “how badly did you guys lose?” you ask softly.

“3-1, mack got the only goal” he replies. you smile at the thought that will and mack must’ve been so happy about it.

“tell him i say congrats, but maybe leave out the part where i fell asleep,” you joke, making will laugh. you two talk for another 5 minutes or so before you drift off into sleep again, leaving will with a smile on his face and a sleepy girlfriend on his arm.

[freelancearsonist]

when the sun came up, you were looking at me

➔ Din Djarin x gn!Reader - 2.4k

➔ A bounty on your head and a bad ship wreck are just a few of the circumstances that have you questioning if you and Mando will ever be out of the woods.

➔ Rated PG-13 for curse words that are probably not canon in star wars, reader is generally able-bodied but otherwise is completely a blank slate, mando is probably ooc but we’re all a little delusional here, lots of blood, i don’t actually know how concussions work and we’re taking some broad liberties with injuries here.

➔ this is another submission to @beskarandblasters's Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge! (if you're reading this kel ily <3) this fic is non-linear so pls bare with me - the timeline will make more sense at the end!

You keep your head down and walk quickly, ignoring the frantic heartbeat of city noise surrounding you as your legs carry you down a dim street.

This is the last place you want to be right now. Even with your cloak’s hood drawn up around your head, you feel too exposed.

The apothecary is a very little hole-in-the-wall type place; you walk past it twice before you finally locate it. The facade looks like it’s about to crumble, and the single window is caked in a thick layer of dust. It looks like it’s been abandoned for decades, rotting with the telltale signs of neglect.

The storekeeper inside looks even worse. She’s a decrepit little woman, squat and skinny, white hair brittle and tangled. Just looking at her makes you want to slowly back away and apologize; say you have the wrong building and run away as quickly as you can.

This is the only shot you have, though; the only place that won’t immediately call the authorities when you step through the door. If you get picked up, everything is fucked.

With a deep breath, you swallow your nerves and summon Din to mind. You think of his easy, authoritative tone and you try to emulate the confidence that modulator always used to convey.

You hear the crash before it happens.

It’s unlike any sound you’ve ever heard before. A high pitched whistle in combination with the deep, metallic scrape of mechanisms working overtime.

And then you feel it. It shakes the very earth you stand on, sends tremors and shockwaves up your legs all the way to the crown of your head. Even after the ground has stopped trembling, your fingertips tingle with the sensation.

You grab a blaster and you run.

You know before you even find it that it’s Din’s ship. There’s a churning, nauseous wrench in your gut and you just know.

There’s so many thoughts swirling through your mind that it doesn’t feel like you’re thinking at all. Your body simply moves on autopilot, like you’re watching a holovid. You traipse bravely into debris and ruin, locating the crumpled remains of the cockpit.

All that beskar is a damned curse, because he blends right in amongst the crumpled and twisted metal of what used to be a functional ship. Stolen, sure, but functional all the same–and the only one either of you had. 

But you push aside your anger, because he isn’t responding. You’re calling his name and shaking his chest and he’s just laying there. Not joking about you smudging his armor, not breathing a little heavier at the sound of his name on your tongue like he always does. He just lays there, limp and unresponsive, and you’ve never been more terrified in your life.

There’s smoke and everything feels hot, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, adrenaline surges through your veins and you start dragging him. More than two hundred pounds of bulky man and armor but it doesn’t matter because if he dies like this you’ll never fucking forgive him, never fucking forgive yourself.

You drag him out of the wreckage and dump him unceremoniously on the grass, and then you get really scared. He hasn’t made a single noise, hasn’t even tried to help you with his weight.

You thump a little harder than you should on his chest, desperation outweighing any logical train of thought. “Din, wake the fuck up!”

It’s the slightest of movements–just a barely discernible turn of his helmeted head–but it’s enough. 

“Where are you hurt?” You beg, plead, cry. “You have to tell me where you’re hurt, I can help, but you have to tell me.”

His neck is just the littlest bit exposed, but it’s enough. You see scarlet red rivers tracing paths down corded muscle, and it makes your gut clench so hard you almost get sick right then and there.

“You have to take it off,” you whisper–your hand comes to rest at the side of his helmet, the only thing between living and dying at this point. “You have to take it off, Din, I can’t do it for you.”

His fingers twitch indecisively at his sides, and you realize with a gut-wrenching pang of fear that he might not be strong enough to do it himself. 

Or, even worse: that he might rather die than show you his face.

As soon as you’re back out the door, your body tremors with a sudden wave of previously repressed anxiety. You want to break out in tears, but you can’t yet. If there’s ever a time you have to be strong, it’s now.

You tuck the bag of supplies underneath your cloak and draw the fabric tightly around your torso as you walk back down the street the way you came.

You don’t think the storekeeper alerted anyone who shouldn’t know about your presence here, but you walk as quickly as you can anyway. It’s better to be safe than sorry.

The ship is old and barely functional, but it’s the best you could scrape up on short notice. It works well enough for these little in-system supply runs, even if it does shake a little more than is comfortable when you take off and land.

After what happened to Din, you swore you would never fly again. That promise went pretty short-lived.

“You’re late. Again.”

You’re used to the deep, gravelly tone of his modulated voice by now, but that doesn’t stop the shiver that works its way down your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you say, as meek as you can sound. You set a bundle of herbs and vegetables down on the counter, hoping the offering will appease him at least a little bit. “I found a garden and–”

“And you shouldn’t be going that far alone.” His voice is firm, there’s no room for negotiation.

“Din, I–”

“Don’t. Argue.” And there’s just something about that authoritative tone that makes your traitorous heart seize in a way it shouldn’t. “You are in danger. I brought you here to protect you but I can’t if you keep running away.”

“I wasn’t ‘running away’, I just wanted to be helpful.”

But he’s not budging–not on this one. “You can’t be helpful if you’re captured or killed.”

He stands towering next to you, so solid and imposing. He sets his hands on his hips and you hate the disapproval radiating from him. More specifically, you hate that you’ve disappointed him.

Your voice sounds small, meek–you hate it. “I didn’t do it, Din.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re a galactic fugitive with a bounty on your head.”

He’s not wrong, but it makes the hairs on the back of your neck prickle defensively anyway.

“You said we were safe here. You said we could lay low here until my name is cleared and no one would find me.”

“If you follow my orders,” he adds firmly. “You’re reckless and it’s going to get you killed.”

“I’m restless!” You correct, throwing your hands up in the air. “I hate being fucking… cooped up! I want to go out, and I want to do things, and I want to be able to take care of you the way you take care of me!”

There’s a heavy moment of silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. You know as soon as the words are out of your mouth that you’ve said too much, but you don’t know how to backtrack now.

“I can take care of both of us.” His voice is so much softer and gentler, you almost think you’ve misheard him. Surely you have, because it’s only been a few weeks since he rescued you from certain death–since he decided the price of the bounty on your head wasn’t more valuable than your innocence–and he’s been a stoic enigma the whole time. Always quiet, always imposing. You’ve never been able to get a good read of what’s going on behind that visor, so you’ve always assumed there wasn’t much.

Maybe you were wrong. You so desperately want to be wrong.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, stepping a little closer. Approaching him like a wounded animal, terrified of scaring him off. “I’ll be more careful.”

And you hear it–the hitch in his breath through the modulator at your proximity. You’re closer than you’ve ever been before by choice, and he knows it.

“Good.”

He turns on his heel and retreats into the back room of the little cottage you’ve commandeered and fixed into somewhere livable, and you can do nothing but slump in defeat.

He barely gets the helmet over his ears before he passes out, but it’s enough. Your hands catch the heavy beskar before it can slide back down over his face and you pull it the rest of the way off to toss it safely out of the way.

You’ve seen little peeks of his skin before–mostly his hands when he tugs off those heavy leather gloves–and you know right away he’s too pale. His face is completely drained for color, and again you feel that uncomfortably sharp twist in your gut. But you tell it to fuck off and your hands spring into action, desperately trying to find what’s wrong.

There’s a small yet jagged piece of metal sticking out of his neck, right under where the helmet's protection ends but above where the neck of his shirt would normally sit. Just the smallest strip of exposed skin, but it’s enough. Luck wasn’t on his side today.

You have to pull it out to get a better idea of just how deep it is, but your fingers are so slick with his blood that you can’t get a good grip on it. That’s when the frustration kicks in and your eyes well with tears; your blurry vision only makes you more frustrated, until you’re helpless and sobbing into his stomach.

But you feel it–the slow, unsteady rise and fall of his chest. He’s fighting, but he needs your help. You need to get it together because you’re the only chance he has.

You take a deep, unsteady breath and wipe the blood from your hands–and then you reach for that jagged piece of metal again.

You have to sit in the cockpit of your rusty, scavenged ship for a moment to catch your breath after you land safely and in one piece. You’re not even scared of crashing, you’re scared of dying and leaving Din alone. Din, who believed you when you said you didn’t commit the murder you were charged with. Din, who took you to the safety of this mostly uninhabited planet and assured you that no one would find you. Din, who swore that he would protect you.

Din, who has yet to wake up since he fainted lifelessly in your arms.

The metal wasn’t imbedded that deep, thank the Maker. He lost a fair amount of blood over it, but not so much that he couldn’t recover, and it didn’t knick anything too important that you couldn’t stitch back up even with your unskilled hands. 

It’s the concussion that worries you. You’re certain it’s not the first he’s had, but it’s definitely got to be the most severe. His skull must’ve bounced around in that damned helmet like a stray pinball. You’re able to take a small amount of comfort from the way his pupils retract when you lift his eyelids, at least, but that comfort wanes with each passing day that he doesn’t wake up.

This is your third time returning from that shady little apothecary on the next planet over, but it’s the first time his eyes have been open when you come through the door.

And for one horrible, gut-turning moment, you think he’s dead. He stares so blankly at the ceiling that you want to fall to the floor and die yourself.

But he hears you approaching, and his eyes flicker over to you. Those deep, chocolatey brown eyes that you’ve come to crave meet yours for the very first time and you start to sob with relief.

You push his back firmly against the mattress when he tries to get up, and you shake your head when his lips part around unspoken words. You just need to cry right now, so he lets you.

Everything comes up all at once–days of panic and fear, days of never knowing if you would ever hear the sound of his voice again, days of tears that you haven’t cried because you haven’t allowed yourself to. It all comes to a boiling point and spills over the edge of the pot, and poor Din just lays there and lets you cry into his chest because there’s nothing else he can do.

It takes longer than you wish it did for you to regain some composure, and when you finally pull away you’re feeling a little more than self-conscious about the very apparent display of emotion.

He must sense it, and even though his face is unreadable, he catches your hand before you can retreat too far.

“H-helmet?” He croaks, throat dry with misuse.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’ll go get it. I… I didn’t see your face, as far as this is concerned. You’re safe with me.”

But he doesn’t let go of your hand when you step to retrieve the helmet–if anything, he squeezes it tighter.

“S’okay,” he whispers hoarsely. “K-kinda… feels ni-ice.”

And it makes your heart flutter in a way it shouldn’t. That not only is he letting you see his handsome face, but he might even be enjoying it.

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” you murmur as you start to remove the bandage from his neck. It’s healed down to a thin line now–the bacta’s run its course, and it’s faded to a simple scar. It could be years old if you didn’t know better. “I… I was so scared.”

“M’sorry.”

And you laugh, because it’s so ridiculous that he feels the need to apologize. It’s so ridiculous that he could think you’re upset at him for getting hurt when all you feel is pure, unadulterated relief.

He takes a deep breath and catches your hand again. “Saved me.”

“You saved me, too,” you murmur–before you can think about it, you ghost your lips in a feather-light kiss over his knuckles.

His eyes flutter shut from that minimal amount of contact, but it’s enough. He’s okay, you’re okay, and it’s enough.

➔ beta: @shakespeareanwannabe; dividers: @saradika-graphics

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[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"Another Betrayal"

[EPIC the Musical, Scylla from Eurylochus POV]

Masterlist

Warnings: angst, deaths, mild depictions of gore

Word Count: 890 words

A/N: This is for my friends birthdayyy! Happy birthday, lovely/p :3

"You're quiet today," Eurylochus said, standing by Odysseus.

Odysseus gives him a small, tight smile. "Not much to say."

Eurylochus couldn't hold it in any longer. The guilt had been gnawing at him for days, clawing at his mind, and now, with the cliffs closing in and death looming, he had to say it.

He sighed shakily. "I've got a secret I can no longer keep," Eurylochus whispered, voice tight with shame. "I opened the windbag while you were asleep."

Odysseus didn't move at first, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. On the narrow path, their ship now navigated between the towering cliffs. His jaw was set, his brow furrowed as though he hadn't quite heard what Eurylochus had just admitted. But then he turned, slowly, his face betraying nothing, though his eyes flickered with something dark.

Eurylochus swallowed hard, his mouth dry. This wasn't how he imagined telling Odysseus. But he couldn't keep the words in. Not anymore.

The two men stood in silence, the sounds of the sea and the groaning of the ship filling the space between them. Odysseus didn't respond. He didn't yell or accuse. He just stared at Eurylochus, his expression unreadable.

But that silence—the coldness in his eyes—cut deeper than any words.

Eurylochus's chest tightened. He'd thought that finally confessing would offer some relief, that the truth would free him of the burden he'd been carrying. But as Odysseus turned away from him, gaze shifting back to the cliffs, the weight only grew heavier.

"Eurylochus light up six torches," Odysseus commanded firmly but quietly.

It didn't matter, did it? His confession wouldn't change anything. They were still lost, still facing death at every turn.

He nodded stiffly and turned around, going to the crew to get to it. Once the torches were lit, he carried one and handed off the other five to his comrades.

It didn't take long before the cliffs rumbled, a low sound like the growl of a sleeping beast. Eurylochus felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Something moved. Eurylochus's breath caught in his throat as he saw them—six long necks rising from the cliffside, each one crowned with a snapping, snarling head.

Scylla.

All sailors knew the stories of the dreaded sea monster. The one even the God of the Sea himself couldn't face. No sailors believed she was real. It felt impossible.

She was real. She was more terrible than anything any sailor could have imagined.

The ship lurched violently as one of the heads shot down with lightning speed, jaws wide. One of the men screamed, but it was cut short as the monster's teeth closed around him, dragging him into the air and out of sight.

Panic swept over the deck like wildfire. The men scrambled, shouting, but there was no escape. Scylla's heads darted down one after another, each time claiming another man, pulling them from the ship like toys in a child's hand.

Odysseus stood firm at the bow, his gaze locked on the monster, his sword still unsheathed. He looked like a man facing his fate, unmoving in the face of death. But Eurylochus could see the strain in his posture, the way his jaw clenched just a little tighter with every man they lost.

Another scream tore through the air as another man was snatched from the deck. Eurylochus turned, watching helplessly as Scylla's heads continued their dance, taking his comrades one by one.

A man stumbled, panic etched across his face, and Eurylochus rushed to him, gripping his arm tightly to pull him back from the brink. "Stay close!" he shouted, passing the torch to his friend as he steadied him.

But just as he turned to reassure another sailor, he heard a sickening snap. He looked back in horror, eyes widening as he saw the man he had just saved, the one now holding his torch, lifted off the deck in a blur of scales and teeth. The torch tumbled from his grip as Scylla's jaws closed around him, dragging him away into the darkness.

He stumbles back as the man in front of him is also taken, his torch falling into the water.

A chill gripped Eurylochus's heart. The realization crashed over him like a wave: Scylla wasn't just taking men—she was targeting those with torches.

And Odysseus was the one who commanded it so.

Just as quickly as it started, Scylla stopped. The silence that followed was suffocating.

Blood of the six dead crewmates stained the wooden deck. The air was thick with the scent of salt and fear, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. Odysseus didn't move from his place on the bow. Just looked on as if in a daze.

The ship sailed slowly onward, seemingly unaware of the massacre that had just unfolded on her decks.

[crownmemes]

Royalty Sentences, Vol. 1

(Sentences for royal muses. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"The weight of the crown is heavier than anyone can imagine."

"Nothing lasts forever. Even the longest, most glittering reign must come to an end someday."

"Only in death does duty end."

"Everything I do, I do for my country."

"You look like you're carrying the weight of the world."

"A true leader listens to the voices of their people."

"The legacy of a monarch is measured not in wealth or power, but in the hearts of their subjects."

"Kings aren't supposed to think."

"There's all sorts of gossip in the press about you."

"Does the burden of responsibility ever ease?"

"To rule, there must be love."

"Do you dance?"

"None of us can do exactly as we please."

"Our traditions define us."

"If he thinks that being King gives him the right to say what he likes, he is a bloody fool."

"I shall, of course, give my absolute loyalty to my leader."

"There's a thin line between obligation and obsession."

"Can duty truly bring honour?"

"Everything I do, all my work, I do for the good of the country."

"The crown is my inherited burden."

"The crown is not a prize to be claimed, but a duty to be fulfilled."

"The life of royalty is a performance that is always under scrutiny."

"Power may be inherited, but it must be earned to be respected."

"Must you always sacrifice your happiness for your sense of duty?"

"To rule through fear is inefficient."

"Duty should be a choice, not an obligation."

[slytherinzz]

A crown of thorns chapter 2

After the dust settles from Ranrok's rebellion, Cassandra is left with scars-both on her skin and in her heart. The past year was a whirlwind of betrayal, loss, and impossible choices. Now, in her 6th year at Hogwarts, she finds herself navigating the fragile remains of her relationships with Sebastian Sallow and Ominis Gaunt.

Sebastian, consumed by guilt and the pull of the Dark Arts, pushes everyone away-but Cassandra refuses to give up on him. She's determined to repair the bond they once shared, even if it means walking through fire. Ominis, too, has distanced himself, his silence a cold wall between them. Cassandra's heart aches for the boy who once held her close in moments of despair, whose quiet comfort was her anchor.

But as the trio tries to heal, a new threat lurks in the shadows of the wizarding world. Secrets unravel, old wounds reopen, and Cassandra finds herself caught in a dangerous game that could tear them apart-or bring them closer together.

And amid all the chaos, Cassandra realizes that maybe there's more than just friendship between her and Ominis. But how can she break through his icy walls when the past still haunts them both?

A story of redemption, loyalty, and the painful journey of love.

Every week at least 2 chapters: buckle up :)

TW: Violence, blood, trauma, drinking, sexual teams. Characters aged up.

Wattpad link - you can find more here :)

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

After what felt like an eternity of packing, double-checking, and repacking, I finally stood in front of the door to my small cottage, staring at the threshold as though it were a portal to another world. My sixth year at Hogwarts awaited, but I didn't feel ready. Not even close.

I'd gone over my belongings at least five times—every book, every article of clothing, every trinket I could think to bring. The careful organization wasn't preparation; it was stalling. A way to keep my thoughts at bay, to avoid stepping outside into the unknown. But now, with my trunk neatly packed and reduced to the size of a handbag with a flick of my wand, there was nothing left to do.

I let out a heavy sigh, the sound carrying more weight than I intended. Turning, I took one last glance at the modest little cottage that had been my refuge—or my prison—over the summer. The creaking floors, the drafty windows, the stubborn enchanted ivy that always crept back no matter how often I trimmed it—they'd all become a part of me. The idea of leaving it behind stirred something in my chest, but it wasn't nostalgia.

It was fear.

Fear of what waited for me beyond the winding path back to Hogwarts.

The road stretched out before me, bordered by rolling hills and dense forests. The September air carried a deceptive kind of warmth, as if the world itself was trying to comfort me. I used to love this walk, the way sunlight kissed the hills and the breeze tousled my hair. But today, the beauty of the landscape was lost on me. My eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, my thoughts storming relentlessly.

I couldn't stop thinking about them.

Sebastian. Ominis.

What would I say to them? What could I even say? It had been months since that day—the day I begged Ominis to help keep Sebastian out of Azkaban, the day he turned his back on me without a second thought. Since then, silence had been my only companion. No letters. No word. Just the aching uncertainty of whether they were even still themselves.

The thought twisted in my gut. Did I even want to see them again? Or would it be better if I didn't?

Lost in my thoughts, I barely noticed when the towering spires of Hogwarts came into view. The castle loomed against the horizon, its grandeur unchanging, but to me, it felt heavier—oppressive. Its shadow stretched long across the landscape, a reminder of everything that had been torn away within its walls.

My feet carried me through the gates, past students bustling with the excitement of a new year. Their chatter swirled around me, but I didn't hear the words until it was too late.

"The Hogwarts Hero..." "Do you think she'll talk about what happened?" "I heard she fought Ranrok herself..."

Their whispers stabbed at me, the curiosity in their voices like a thousand tiny needles. I kept my head down, my pace quickening. I wanted nothing more than to disappear.

By the time I reached the common room, my hands were trembling. I reached for the door, ready to slip inside unnoticed, when a voice cut through the haze.

"Cassandra!"

The sound of my name echoed down the corridor, bright and eager. My heart jumped to my throat as I turned instinctively, only to find Imelda rushing toward me, her face lit up with a grin that could have brightened even the darkest dungeon.

She threw her arms around me before I could react, her embrace warm and tight. "I've missed you so much, Cas!"

Her energy was infectious, her excitement like a balm against the cold knot in my chest. I smiled, but it felt forced. "I missed you too," I managed, and it wasn't a lie. But even as Imelda launched into stories about broom racing and Quidditch drama, my eyes darted around the room.

Searching.

I didn't see Sebastian. Of course not. He always had a flair for dramatic, last-minute entrances. The thought almost made me laugh, but the sound caught in my throat.

It wasn't Sebastian who stopped me cold.

It was Ominis.

He was sitting by the fire, his back ramrod straight, his posture as rigid as if he were being judged. The flickering flames cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting how much he'd changed—or maybe how much I'd failed to notice before.

His cheekbones, once delicately defined, now jutted out harshly, as though he'd been sculpted from stone and left to erode. His skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched tight over his frame. Even from a distance, I could see the tension in his body. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles white, trembling with a barely perceptible shake.

It wasn't just the physical changes that struck me. It was the hollowness in his expression. His silvery eyes, once so full of quiet confidence, were dull. Lifeless.

The Ominis I remembered had carried himself with quiet strength, a sense of grace that belied everything he'd endured. But this... this wasn't him.

I swallowed hard, my gaze drifting to his neck. A faint shadow—barely there, but impossible to ignore—ran along his collarbone. Bruises. Faint, but undeniable. My stomach turned, my mind racing with unspoken questions.

What happened to him?

As if sensing my presence, Ominis turned his head slightly in my direction. For a fleeting second, something flickered in his expression—recognition? Pain? Or maybe I was imagining it. Just as quickly, his face smoothed over, a mask of indifference settling into place. He turned away, his attention fixed once more on the flames.

The silence between us stretched, heavy and suffocating.

I didn't know what hurt more—the state he was in, or the way he refused to acknowledge me.

Imelda's voice jolted me out of my thoughts. "Cas? Are you even listening?"

"Sorry," I said quickly, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes.

But my heart wasn't with her. It was by the fire, sitting with the boy who looked like Ominis but felt like a stranger.

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Heirs to Empty Thrones (ao3)

In the absence of the king, Nesta finds herself carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and there's only one knight in the world that can take her mind off it. (For @cassianappreciationweek day 5. We're playing very fast and loose with the term 'lionhearted'...) (psst, @c-e-d-dreamer)

The gold circlet at her brow was heavy.

Heavier than before— heavier than it had been that morning. It was a burden, a chain around her neck, and it didn’t matter how fine or gilded it was— the hammered band was a mantle she did not wish to bear, and now there was an invisible weight crushing and pressing and bearing down on her as the strain worked its way into her very bones. It curled up around her veins and grew tighter, squeezing until it felt like the cold, thin band was constricting, determined to make her bleed.

It ached.

Everything ached.

Her father was gone— abandoned them a decade ago to wage holy war in lands so distant they seemed like another world, and now every day that dawned brought a horde of dissatisfied noblemen to her door, in their fine clothes and gold rings, horses hooves clattering in the courtyard every morning as the gates to the castle were thrown wide. The same men who had decades ago refused to accept a woman’s rule now crowded in her hall, begging her to write to her father and bring him home, as if her words could do anything, as if they were of any value at all.

Nesta shivered, the nighttime chill seeping through the stone of the central keep, and through the thick-paned and lead-lined glass she saw the torches glowing on the curtain wall, flames stark against the night sky, devouring the dark.

Beyond the light of those torches, in the distant miles outside that high stone wall, the realm crumbled. The roads were filled with bandits and rebels, taxes went unpaid, and as each day gave way to night, the laws of the realm seemed ever more breakable, no stronger than reeds swaying in the wind. Her father had left her uncle as regent, charged him with the protection of the crown and its lands, and yet unrest had never been so widespread. There were rumours of men in the forest stealing from the rich to give to the poor, tales of children starving, and with no king to call on there was no solution to be had, nothing to be done.

Nothing— and Nesta dropped her head into her hands now, wondering when exactly she’d been the one to pick up the weight her father had dropped ten years ago. She had been a child when he left, the eldest daughter he’d gotten in place of a son, and for so many years she had awaited his return, watching for his ship on the horizon, counting the sails of every vessel that came to port. In vain— she had waited in vain, and when her mother and sisters had returned to their estates in France, Nesta had stayed behind, a woman now, all alone and bearing the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders. 

Weary, she sighed.

The hour grew late, the darkness deepening, and yet Nesta didn’t move. She remained sitting alone in the small chamber branching off the great hall with only the silence for company. A single candle cut the dim, sweet wax scenting the air as night descended, the flame flickering in the draughts that crept through the stone.

Already, she knew sleep would not find her tonight.

Her head began to throb, the coronet she wore unbearable. Her people suffered, her realm burned, and what was she but a princess in a world that didn’t hear the voice of women, powerless and vulnerable until her father returned? She shook her head, and with a steadiness that surprised her, she lifted her hand and removed that God-forsaken band, casting it onto the thick wooden table before her, leaving it to sit in a pool of candlelight, gold and shining and bright with something she had once thought to be promise. The jewels winked, garnets and emerald and sapphires, cut stones set into the band, and oh, once Nesta had looked at the diadem and thought it pretty.

Once she had thought it beautiful.

She didn’t think so any longer.

And with her head resting in her hand, she sat alone in that chamber, lost, only waiting for somebody to find her.

It didn’t take long. 

Soon enough a knock sounded at the door, echoing through the silence, and Nesta almost opened her mouth to ask for peace— but before her lips could part the door was opened, iron hinges creaking as old wood slid across even older stone. Footsteps sounded, muffled by the rushes scattered across the floor to fight the chill, and as Nesta looked up, fingers still resting against her temples, she glimpsed the bulk of a man slipping around the doorframe, a silhouette against the candlelight.

Somebody had found her indeed, and as she straightened in her chair, she realised that perhaps she didn’t mind so much that out of all the souls in this castle, he had been the one to seek her out. 

Cassian.

The man who had helped her off her horse so many months ago, when she’d first arrived at this particular castle, so close to the coast. He was her father’s knight, a broad span of hardened muscle with hands no strangers to the hilt of a sword, and yet when he’d lifted her down from her horse at that first meeting, when her hands had slid down the length of his chest, his fingers had curled around her waist and brushed her spine, and she’d felt a jolt go through her that had her suddenly wanting to ride every day, if it meant he would be the one to lead her horse to stable when she returned.

When her feet had hit the ground, his hands had lingered at her waist as hers had tarried at his shoulders. He had dipped his head as he took her horse’s reins, wrapping the leather around his fist, and when he’d glanced up at her from beneath thick eyelashes, he’d murmured welcome home, princess— and Nesta had known then that she was in trouble, swimming in dangerous waters, at risk of drowning.

He’d been knighted by her grandfather before the late king’s death, earning his spurs fighting rebels, and daily he could be seen in the courtyard practising with his blade, so lethal it was a wonder her father hadn’t ordered him to lead the armies fighting in the Holy Land. Silently, secretly, Nesta was glad he hadn’t. Cassian was confident, arrogantly so, but loyal to a fault, and since that very first day he’d worked his way into her good graces, slipping so easily among her thoughts it was though he was always supposed to be there, taking up space inside her head. 

And now she prayed for meetings on the turrets stairs, chance encounters in darkened halls, where his hand might brush hers, or his smile might make her heart race.

“You should be in bed,” he said now, looking at her across the candlelit chamber, over the long wooden table surrounded by empty chairs. “It’s late.”

His familiar face eased the ache that had plagued every part of her, and as his eyes dropped to her circlet lying discarded on the table, Nesta tipped her head up to see his face, raising an eyebrow as she rested her hands on the arms of her chair.

“Are you my nursemaid now?”

Cassian let out a small laugh as he stalked closer, prowling through the darkness as his eyes studied every inch of her he could see, as if searching for injury, looking for strain. As her father’s household knight, he was honour-bound to protect and serve her, but as he raked his gaze across her face, Nesta knew with certainty that it wasn’t honour that had him closing the distance between them with even, determined strides. Slowly, he tilted his head, giving her a brazen smile.

“Would you like me to be?”

He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as he came to a halt, standing on the other side of the long table. His silhouette was stark in the golden light— broad shoulders lined with muscle were covered with a simple linen tunic dyed a watery, washed-out red, the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms. Golden brown skin shone almost bronze beneath the glow of the candles, and his wrist lay idle atop the pommel of the sword hanging at his hip. Nesta dragged her eyes over him, from his leather boots to the silver bracelets at his wrists— a matching pair, each studded with a single large garnet. They glimmered, deep crimson stones shining like molten rubies, and even though they were far from extravagant, Nesta’s eye caught them anyway. Cassian lifted his wrist from his sword as he crossed his arms over the wide span of that chest, his gently curling hair spilling over one shoulder and brushing his collarbone.

He was…

He was everything she shouldn’t want, and everything she couldn’t have.

And yet still she met his eye, his hazel gaze a delectable blend of gold and green and brown— rich and warm and sweet. Cassian didn’t blink, and just as she always did, she felt stripped by the intensity of his gaze. He looked at her now, expectant.

“I can’t sleep,” she admitted at last.

Cassian frowned. “You seem troubled.”

Nesta barked a laugh, one that was bitter and as sharp as shattered glass. She shook her head, and even without the golden circlet around her temples, she felt the pressure still there, pushing in on all sides. 

“Do I?”

“You do,” Cassian nodded, taking another step forward until he stood directly behind one of the chairs tucked beneath the empty table. He reached out and braced his hands on it, fingers curling around the wood as he leaned down to her level, canting his head to the side and sending his long hair tumbling over the other shoulder. Something thick and heady stirred in his eyes, something that seemed like concern mixed with something… something else, something she couldn’t recognise. His face softened as he let out a breath, tension seeping from his jaw as his fingers loosened on the chair.

“Tell me,” he said after a moment. “Tell me what burdens you.”

Nesta blinked. “It’s your brother that’s advisor to the crown,” she said, thinking of Cassian’s adopted brother— Rhysand, the one who was, even now, with her father in the Holy Land, kept deep within the king’s confidences. “Not you.”

Cassian shrugged. “I don’t want to be an advisor to the crown.”

“Just advisor to me, then?”

His lips split into a grin, one that made her heart ache. 

“If you’ll have me.”

Nesta shook her head again, dipping her gaze to her hands, just to stop herself from dragging her stare over every inch of him, over the forearms where his exposed skin shone in the candlelight.

“I can guess,” Cassian continued, his voice a drawl through the otherwise silent chamber. “What it is that brothers you— I can guess. Your uncle is causing chaos outside these walls, princess. Soon there will be riots.”

A chill gathered at the base of her spine. Nesta knew this already— had spent hours being lectured on it by the very men who her father had trusted to keep his lands safe. And now they looked to her, as if she could fix it— as if she had any sway at all over the man who had left when she was a child. The king had become a stranger to her, hardly a shadow in her memory, and she was naught but the princess of a failing kingdom, the daughter of an absent father. What did she have— what power did she hold at all?

“The law means nothing anymore,” Cassian said with a wave of his hand, lips pulled downwards in distaste. “Your grandfather I respected, but his sons leave him a poor legacy. Your uncle takes what he wants when he wants, and his retainers are worse. The taxes he levies are brutal and—”

Nesta let out a sound, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “I don’t want to think of it anymore,” she said, tired. “I want to forget about it— about all of it, for just one night.”

She looked up, at the warrior on the other side of the table. His words died on his tongue, and the silence stretched for a beat too long as he met her gaze. Her heart seemed loud enough for him to hear, and as the night pressed against the windows and the candle flame flickered, Nesta looked at him with a challenge - a plea - in her eyes. She blinked, but he merely looked at her the way he always did, like he knew her down to her bones.

“I want to forget,” she repeated, a whisper as he pushed away from the chair and took a step towards her, bringing him close enough to touch, now. “Let me forget, Cassian.”

Silent, he nodded. In the gathering dark he reached for her, lifting her hand from the arm of her chair and bringing it, reverently, to his lips. His mouth was warm against her skin, his hand tightening around hers, holding her against him as though he wanted to keep her there forever, and though this ought to have been a knightly gesture, something chivalric and gallant, there was something in the way he held her that made it deeper, made his kiss something far more than a show of loyalty from a knight to his lady.

Something far more meaningful— and something far more dangerous.

“I can help you,” he murmured, his voice little more than a breathless whisper in the darkness. Nesta found her eyes drifting closed, and even though he lifted his lips, he didn’t drop her hand. “I can make you forget all of it, princess. Just for tonight.”

Her eyes fluttered, and oh, it was a kind of treason— to let him touch her, to let him press such a lingering kiss to her skin, to let him speak to her as though he knew her, body and soul. With effort, Nesta forced herself to remember where she was— who she was, because with that raw heat dancing in his eyes… oh, yes. It was treason to touch the king’s daughter the way he did.

“My father…” she began.

“Is absent, princess.” Cassian let her hand slip from his, and the absence of his warmth was jarring. “Your sisters are in France. There’s nobody here but you and I, and no king on these shores to object to anything.”

“Treason,” Nesta breathed, her voice soft. To speak against the king, to speak of him with such disdain… that was treason too, or as close as one could get without lifting a sword. But Cassian only let a grin curve his lips, crooked and charming as he pulled away just enough to draw his sword an inch from its sheath.

“Will you end my life here, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Brave, Nesta thought wryly, looking at the hand wrapped tight around the hilt of his blade. They called her father coeur de lion, but it was Cassian who had a lion’s heart. A foolish heart— but brave nonetheless. He smirked a little still, even as he unsheathed his sword all the way and set it on the table. The steel was bright, polished, and the hilt was simple— wrapped in leather with a silver pommel. Her father’s was decorated with gold, vines engraved down the blade, a groove down the middle to wick away the blood he shed. Cassian’s was far simpler, but no less sharp— no less deadly. It lay between them as he nodded.

“Go on, princess.” He tilted his head to the side, eyes dark and daring. “Attaint me. Have me stripped of everything I own, take my name and ruin it.” His voiced dropped lower, his gaze turning heated. “Because even if your father were here, my loyalty would be to you. I wouldn’t go to the edge of the courtyard for a man that abandons his realm for ten years. But for you— for you I’d go to the ends of the earth, and you’re right princess, that’s all kinds of treason, so you should do everything that I’ve just said. Have me attainted, confiscate my lands, and then have someone slit my throat, because death is the only thing that could stop me from doing this.”

With an unwavering gaze, Cassian lifted a hand.

Slowly, purposefully he cupped her cheek, his touch far too bold and far too brazen as his fingers strayed across her jaw, sliding into her hair— braided and bound and up. His rings snagged on her braids, the plain silver bands he wore with swirling engravings reminding her of the woad tattoos she’d once heard about the ancient Scots decorating their skin with, and as his lips neared hers, her heart began an off-kilter beat inside her chest. His touch was one of devotion— unyielding and unshakeable and so very, very treacherous.

She didn’t move— couldn’t. His eyes roamed her face, searching, as her lips parted he looked at her like he’d just found whatever it was he’d been looking for. He risked his life, his neck, and yet something thrummed through her as she felt his callouses against her skin, rough from all those years with a sword in hand. The cool metal of his rings pressed against her cheek, and it felt all kinds of forbidden and yet— she didn’t pull away.

The gold circlet on the table was all the reason in the world that this was a bad idea, but outside the world was already going to Hell, and Nesta just wanted one moment of peace— one breath of it, no matter how brief. Cassian looked at her like she was the closest he would ever come to Heaven, like he’d already resigned himself to his damnation, and she knew without needing him to speak that she was the only thing he’d kneel for, the only altar he would worship at. 

“You can’t,” she whispered as he tilted his head. Those eyes - those damned eyes - were afire, blazing with a kind of heat Nesta had only ever heard about in songs and chansons de geste— epic, lyrical poems. They were certain to be her undoing, those eyes. Her unravelling. But as the candlelight glowed, reflected in that unwavering, steadily burning hazel… Nesta longed to fall, to let herself come undone.

“And why not?” Cassian asked with a rueful smile, daring to drag his thumb across her cheekbone.

“Because I—“ she began, but her breath faltered as he moved his thumb to her lips, tracing the bow in the centre before dropping to her chin and circling beneath her jaw. Nobody had ever touched her before— nobody had ever dared. “My father is the king,” she forced out.

“Your father hasn’t been here for ten years, sweetheart.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” she said, forcing her eyes open even as they threatened to drift closed. 

Cassian let out a breath, and when he spoke next his voice was firm. “Princess, your great-grandmother sank this country into a civil war to get the crown. You could too, if you wanted.” He didn’t waver, and his touch didn’t slow, exploring the planes of her face with a gentleness that contradicted the sword on the table, the scar through his eyebrow. Treason danced on his tongue, but he spoke of war and bloodshed as if it were nothing, as if he’d serve up this realm to her singlehanded if only she’d ask.  “And I will cut down every single person who stands in your way, if I have to.”

“That really is treason,” she whispered. 

“I care not,” he murmured, dipping his head until his lips were barely an inch from hers. She felt his breath on her cheeks, felt her heartbeat grow wild.

“Fool,” she said softly, but there was no ire there, none at all. He only hummed, nodding in agreement.

“Only for you,” he answered, and it seemed, somehow, like a promise. Like a vow. “Only for you would I draw that blade— only for you do I kneel.”

The candle flame flickered in the corner, and with the moonlight drifting through the windows, she let herself, for just a moment, lean into his touch. She turned her face into his palm, and he hummed again, daring to let his other hand curl around her hip. 

She felt herself slipping, falling. With the golden light dancing on his skin and setting his hazel eyes aglow, she felt herself forgetting all of the turmoil outside of these walls. Tomorrow— she’d deal with it tomorrow. For tonight she only wanted this— the man who looked at her like she was the sun and the moon and the sky itself, who offered her the sharp end of his blade, hers to command as she wished.

“No one can know,” she breathed. “About this— whatever this is.”

He smiled softly. “I always have been exceptionally good at keeping secrets.”

Nesta smiled too, and with every beat of her heart catching, stumbling, she reached for the hand he had rested at her hip. She tangled their fingers together, his rough against her smooth, and Lord have mercy on her— she melted at that touch, felt herself sinking into it and letting it enfold her, engulf her. His thumb moved across the back of her fingers, his lips parting on an exhale, and with all of the weight and authority that she could muster - every ounce of regality that circlet gave her, that her royal blood gave her - she lifted her chin and sought out those eyes of burning, burning hazel.

“Kiss me,” she said.

Cassian smiled, his fingers squeezing hers, tightening his hold. Nesta longed to feel the curve of those lips against hers, yearned for it, and just before Cassian pressed his lips to hers - just before he gave her everything she had ever wanted - he let out a soft breath, one hand moving behind her back, resting between her shoulder blades to pull her closer, to hold her pressed to his chest. As Cassian’s lips brushed the corner of her mouth, he smirked.

“As you wish, princess.”

[cabezadeperro]

🤎 for Kix/Jesse (if you are still playing)

hi!!!!

established situationship, T, alcohol mention. canon compliant (sorry)

🤎 multiple kisses / kisses all over / kiss after kiss

---

“You have him?” 

“I have him.”

Kix crouches in front of Jesse, trying his best to not touch the disgusting floor of the alley. He didn’t have as much to drink as Jesse, but he’s had more than enough, and keeping his balance is harder than it should. 

He looks over his shoulder: Rex’s attempting to duck from under Jesse’s arm, but Jesse won’t let him go, his hand wrapped like a vice around Rex’s bicep. Rex is flushed and sweaty, his eyes bright, and when Jesse tugs him closer he rolls his eyes and allows it. Jesse smacks a kiss on his cheek, loud and wet and kind of gross, and Rex snorts. He smiles, big and wide and bright, and Kix feels something clench within his chest—it’s been a while since the last time he saw Rex smile like that.

He looks away, and when Jesse stumbles, Kix’s there to stop him from falling. He wraps his hands around his thighs, his fingers slipping slightly in the sleek fabric of Jesse’s dress greys, and then he stands up. Jesse’s arms wrap around his neck, and he rubs his unshaved jaw against Kix’s smooth one like a tooka. 

Kix starts the long, slow walk towards the barracks; Rex stays behind, cigarette already between his lips, his hands cupping the flame of his lighter. He paid for everyone’s drinks—Kix’s pretty sure the general gave him the money: Skywalker has known Jesse for a long, long time, almost as long as Kix and Jesse have known each other. Jesse’s chest is warm against Kix’s back, and Jesse’s lips are on his jaw, on his cheek, not quite kissing the skin.

“Are y’gonna stay tonight?” Jesse asks suddenly. Kix pauses in front of the turbolift, steps inside when the doors slide open. Jesse is heavy, but Kix’s carried heavier for longer, and—it’s fine.

“D’you want me to?”

Jesse sighs. They are alone in the lift—it’s so late it’s early, and anyway, lately most civvies avoid the area. Too many clones on leave, and too many shock troopers on duty.

“I always want you to stay,” Jesse says under his breath, his lips moving against Kix’s skin. He blinks away from his reflection, breaking his own gaze. 

Jesse’s very drunk. Kix knows he means it: that’s irrelevant. If Jesse were sober, he wouldn’t say it out loud. Kix clears his throat.

“You have a very early morning tomorrow,” Kix replies. And you’re very drunk. “Sure you want me to keep you up?”

Jesse says nothing, and after a while. The lift stops: Kix tugs Jesse higher over his hips and starts making his way towards the barracks. He can see them at the end of the street, huge and dark against Coruscant’s night sky. 

He’s beginning to think that Jesse’s fallen asleep when he shifts. “That’s not what I meant,” he grumbles. “And you know it.”

Kix presses his lips together. He nods at the boring troopers standing guard and steps inside. He blinks and makes a face when the lights come on, the sensors ticking as he walks towards the place where the 501st is billeted.

Jesse exhales. He starts shifting, trying to get off Kix’s back: Kix ignores him, ignores it, and doesn’t stop until they’re at Jesse’s cot. The long, dark room is quiet, mostly empty: most of the battalion is out in the city, making the best out of their leave. Kix unceremoniously dumps Jesse on top of his mattress, and then he kneels on the ground and starts unlacing Jesse’s boots. Jesse allows it, but Kix can feel the heat of his glare on the crown of his head.

After a beat, Kix sighs. He finishes tugging off Jesse’s boots and glances up at him: Jesse’s scowling, but he’s not actually angry.

“I’m sorry,” Kix says. He looks away, down at his own feet. He moves to sit down on the edge of Jesse’s cot, his thigh against Jesse’s hip. “I just—”

He trails off: he doesn’t even know how to explain it to himself.

“I know,” Jesse says. Kix blinks and glances up at him: Jesse’s shrugging out of his jacket, turning and shifting on the bed so that his head lies on the pillow. He’s looking at Kix with sad, liquid eyes: he’s already half-asleep.

Kix makes him drink some water, and then watches him until Jesse makes his sulking way through a stale civilian protein bar Kix finds in his locker.

And then it’s time to leave, to find his own bed, to sneak into someone else’s, and it wouldn’t be the first time but Kix finds he’s just not in the mood. It didn’t quite sink until that moment: Jesse really is leaving. Not forever, he’ll just be away for a few months, and then he’ll return, but he’s the only one left. Fives dead, Hardcase dead. Echo dead as well. Rex—well. Rex is Rex. 

“It’s only ARC training,” Jesse grumbles. He’s closed his eyes, and he’s lying on his side, his hands under his cheek like a child. There are chalky crumbs on his lips and on the pillow. “Don’t look so tragic.”

Kix huffs.

“Move over,” he says. Jesse blinks his eyes open.

Kix can feel Jesse’s gaze on him while he undresses, leaving his rumpled greys where they fall. He slides under the thin sheets, and then Jesse’s wrapping arms and legs around him, tucking his head under his chin. Kix sighs, tries and fails to breathe through the pressure on his breastbone, through the tightness in his throat, and falls asleep to Jesse’s lips on his throat.

[author-morgan]

Title: Pleasures of Politicking Rating: M Pairing: King Ecbert x fem!Reader Summary: Sometimes, you’re the only one King Ecbert desires to see. Can be read as a sequel to The Best Laid Plans. Part one of the planned birthday fics for wifey: @mrsragnarlodbrok. 🎁❤��🍻 Happy Birthday!!!

THE PROBLEM OF the Northern invaders weighs heavily on his mind —and the crown upon his brow is a heavier weight still. Ecbert may only be the King of Wessex, but he shoulders the weight of all England. None of the other petty kings have his strength and will, not even Ælla of Northumbria, for all his pride and bloodlust.

Lesser lords, nobles, and smallfolk alike fill the great hall of Wincestre —all come to voice their concerns and woes. Most are piddling requests to appeal to and stroke Ecbert’s ego. Others have come with calls for justice against supposedly broken oaths, unfaithful spouses, and stolen sheep. It’s dull and tiresome and wears on the king’s patience. He loves his subjects, as all good kings should, but one can only endure so much yapping over insignificant squabbles in the face of the pagans who have come to murder, rape, and plunder riches from Wessex and the entire English countryside.

Ecbert lifts one of his hands from the throne’s armrest and shakes his head, cutting off Ealdorman Wulfstan’s declared grievance against his neighbor and known political rival, Leofric. “I will hear no more today,” he announces —the morning court has worn on his nerves enough as it is.

Whispers of indignation rustle through the hall, even amongst the nobility and gathered clergymen. It is not like the king to end court so soon and after hearing so few of those who have traveled far to reach Wincestre. “All of you” —Ecbert looks over those gathered, anger stirring in his gut— “leave.”

The doors of the great hall open wide, letting people shuffle out and to the courtyard. Æthelwulf stays, lingering after most have cleared —he does not understand the cause for his father’s short temper this morning. He steps to the dais, and Ecbert’s gaze falls upon his son —his only son. “This includes you, Æthelwulf.” There are protests on his son’s tongue and lips, but Æthelwulf quells the extempore thoughts and bows low before leaving too.

You step from the shadows near one of the great stone pillars —gaze lowered in piety. “What of me, my king?”

King Ecbert almost laughs —it’s an absurd question for the one he considers his closest confidant to ask. No, right now, you are the only person he wishes to speak with. The only one who truly understands the inner workings of his mind and heart. “Never you, my dear,” he answers, extending his hand toward you. “Come,” he beckons, motioning to the space beside him on Wessex’s throne. “Sit with me.”

You go to him and take the space at his side. Ecbert swore never to marry another after the death of his wife, but there are times when he wonders if such an oath is worth breaking or if you should both carry on as you do now —as king and fidus Achates. If nothing else, marriage would finally make the bishop and priests’ woeful complaints of his sinful ways out of wedlock null. But even without ceremony, you are the Queen of Wessex in all but name —everyone knows it, and nobody with half a mind would dare say otherwise.

He draws you into his side, arm draped over your shoulders as you both look ahead at the empty hall. “Did you hear?” Ecbert inquires —his hand slipping from your bicep to the nape of your neck. “Ragnar Lothbrok and his band of pagans have left our shores.” The news reached him in the early hours of the morn, and he had not wished to wake you so early for such affairs. Where once there were ten longships anchored on the river, now there are only two and a handful of lingering tents. The scouts watched from the forest for hours, but Ragnar Lothbrok was gone with his dark raven banners and shields.

“So suddenly?” You were there when Ecbert made his offer to Ragnar Lothbrok, not but five days past —an exchange of land for the help of the Northmen in strengthening Wessex. It seems a strange thing that such a fearsome and capable man as Ragnar would tuck tail and run after coming to treat with King Ecbert. You cannot imagine what drove him and his kin back across the sea with so little to show for their travels.

“A smaller party remains,” he tells you —twisting a lock of hair around his ring finger and tugging on it every so lightly, just enough for you solely focus on him. “Though, it does raise the question of what is to be done.” He’s thought of summoning the most senior of those left to treat with, but that will only serve to anger the lords and residents of Wessex even more.

“We cannot trust these Northmen.” It’s obvious, of course. In truth, it is likely foolish to put any trust in Ragnar —or any pagan. An oath not sworn to the Father or on the Holy Book is hardly an oath at all. Ecbert smiles and nods his agreement. “Nor should we entertain their presence and whims.” Their supplies are not endless. Soon they will turn their gaze to villages and towns to plunder. Such behaviors cannot be tolerated.

“No,” Ecbert concurs. “That is why I am sending Cuthberht and a score of men to remedy this.” To either drive them back across the sea or slaughter them. He hopes it will be the latter. A slaughter will be cleaner —no loose ends. You nod. It is a sound choice, an easy one too.  

Still, even with one encampment eliminated, more will return —of this, you are certain, and so is Ecbert. There has been no peace since the first raid on the monastery at Lindisfarne, and now their gaze has turned southward. But England will not be able to fend off the Northern invaders if every petty king is at each other’s throats as they are now. With Northumbria, Mercia, East Anglia, and Wessex divided, England will have no choice but to fall into ruin. “England must be better prepared for the future when Ragnar and other Northmen return,” you advise.

“Yet we cannot unite amongst ourselves,” he sighs, reaching for your hand, thumb running over your knuckles —and the bare spot on your finger where he’s considered putting a ring too many times to count. Perhaps that should be his ambition —to become the King of all England and finally crown you as his queen. Ecbert lifts your hand and presses a lingering kiss on your knuckles.

You twist your hand in his grasp, threading your fingers with his, and fall silent as you ponder what can be done, what should be done. “If you could bring Mercia under heel and yoke.” It is not the first time you have considered such measures, but it is the first time you have spake of them to Ecbert.

He shifts on the throne. His curiosity piqued by the proposition, and his hand slips from yours and to your thigh, fingertips pressing into your flesh through the linen and silk of your dress. Ecbert always enjoys listening to your ploys. Often, they are taken to heart and implemented too. If you’ve a plan to unite England, he will hear it. “How would I do that, my dear?” He asks, brow raised. “Since Offa’s death, there are no less than a dozen claims to the Mercian throne.” Mercia would sooner tear itself apart than cooperate —a large host of Northmen may even be able to take the kingdom for themselves and instill Dane Law.

“Ælla.” Ecbert smiles at the mention of the boisterous King of Northumbria. Mercia lies between Wessex and Northumbria. The two kingdoms could serve as pincers and bring the unruly lords of Mercia to heel. “Ally with King Ælla,” you tell him, reaching for the golden pendant set with a polished black onyx resting on his chest, “and quash this petty rivalry among kinsmen.”

The King of Wessex goes quiet, a hand stroking over his beard while he thinks over everything you’ve said and what he’s long been considering. “Split the kingdom?” He proposes. A fair bid to share the land of Mercia, so long as it's divvied equally.

“Or install a puppet ruler,” you supplement, tugging on the pendant to draw him nearer.

Ecbert shifts again, and this time he gathers you in his arms, pulling you across his lap. The smile beneath his golden and silver-speckled whiskers twinkles in his steel-grey eyes —as do the golden flames of the candles burning in their wrought iron candelabras. “Sometimes I believe you are crueler than even I am,” he muses, one hand squeezing your waist, the other cradling your cheek. It is not the first time your advice has led to bloodshed. “And then I thank God you whisper in mine own ear and not another lord or king’s.”

You smile for him, reaching to comb your fingers through his beard, and he leans toward you, closing the distance. His lips are on yours before either of you can think further about the consequences should someone decide to barge into the great hall and see such sinful deeds. You answer his kiss, slowly at first, then with more fervor when you settle your hands on either side of his neck, drawing yourself closer.

Parting, you press your forehead against his and meet his heated stare. “Surely you have already considered such things, though.” You refuse to believe this is the first time he’s considered such actions.

“Perhaps,” he professes —one of his hands slides over your long skirt and then under it, his fingers running over your ankles and calves —masked from his touch by wool stocking— and finally to your knees and thighs, bare and warm. His palm is hot, resting against your inner thigh, his thumb rubbing distracting circles. “I do so love to hear you speak of politics,” he admits, his voice suddenly rough with want.

You shiver under his touch and burning gaze. “Ecbert,” you chide, doing your best to keep a stern tone and countenance —you cannot deny your desire for him, but here of all places to commit such sacrilege? You’ll not be able to look upon the throne of Wessex the same afterward. Ecbert cares little, though. He is king, and he would gladly take you at the foot of a church altar were you willing. 

He knows how to play you like the court bard does his lute, and he kisses you again, but this time he catches your bottom lips between his teeth and gives a light tug, pulling a muffled cry from your throat. A final detrimental crack in your resolve, and then the tips of his fingertips stray farther, brushing against the damp folds of your cunt, and you shatter completely, caving into him. Ecbert makes a strangled noise of approval upon finding you so ready and willing for him.

Resignation passes over your expression, alas, and Ecbert’s lips twitch upward —another victory, even if it is small compared to winning a battle or kingdom. A gasp and weak moan escape your lips as the pad of his thumb circles around your clit, his other fingers slipping through your slick folds —teasing. “Shh, my dear.” He hushes you with his mouth as he strokes his fingers through your heat, feeling your muscles tense and flutter and his cock twitch —already straining against the ties of his britches. Ecbert nuzzles his face into your neck —lips dragging over your pulse, the beard on his jaw scraping against your skin. He’ll see you come undone by his own hand before taking his fill.

Nimble fingers fill you without warning, first one, then two. He bites his lower lip, twisting and scissoring his fingers deeper inside you, making you squirm, then repeats the same motion —this time slower, ensuring you feel the torturous drag of his knuckles. You can’t help but softly moan as Ecbert curls his fingers inside you, sweeping repeatedly over just the right spot for your vision to blur and your limbs to tremble. Ecbert watches your face twist and the warmth rise to your cheeks, his name a hushed whisper on your lips.

He curls his fingers again —moving faster— his thumb pressed tight against your clit as you rock your hips, trying to increase the friction. “Ecbert!” You plead, a little louder and breathier than before. The coil in your stomach tightens, and when you gasp aloud, he presses his mouth to yours, swallowing the noise as a man starved does a warm meal.

But his impatience wins over —he needs to be sheathed within your warmth— and Ecbert withdraws his fingers, letting you up. He fumbles with the laces of britches once your rise, just enough to free his cock, and you quickly ruck up the skirts of your dress and straddle him fully. He’s so hard and warm beneath you, cock twitching —aching— all for you. Ecbert’s cheeks are flushed in the summer air, fighting to keep his regal and temperate composure. But you hold an obscene amount of power over him —even without sitting astride his lap with a hand lazily stroking his cock, guiding him into your cunt.

Ecbert helps lower you onto him, grabbing handfuls of your thighs and bottom, and as you sink onto his cock, you clutch at his back, nails digging into the rich-blue fabric covering his shoulder blades. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, groaning as he slowly slips into you, inch-by-inch, letting you reacquaint yourself with every vein and ridge of his cock dragging along the walls of your cunt. When your hips meet, you both still —a moment to adjust. But then he rocks his hips against yours, urging you to move too. His thrusts soon meet yours, hips rising from the throne. You squirm atop him, the head of his cock striking that place deep inside you with every roll of his hips.

The coil in your stomach tightens again, and this time you’ll have your end —you can feel it build inside you like a million sparks racing through your veins. “Ecbert,” you whimper, the fire in your core burning brighter, stomach fluttering with each husky grunt rumbling through his chest. He lays his lips on your neck, and you know he’ll leave more than just a small mark there —you’ll have to conceal it at mass so as to not draw more scrutiny from the bishop. Sighing into him, you direct one of his hands to your clothed breast, silently begging him to touch you there. He obliges a merciful king, indeed. 

You balance yourself better with a hand on his shoulder, sliding your other hand between your bodies, but Ecbert pushes your hand aside, replacing it with his own. He tussles around, moving your skirts out of the way, and presses the pads of his fingertips against your clit, rubbing tight circles. The friction draws a long, drawn-out moan from your parted lips that you do your best to muffle against his neck as you cling to him.

The falter of your pace causes you both to fall out of rhythm, but it doesn’t matter. Not with how your cunt is clenching around his cock with each thrust. Ecbert makes a noise, halfway between a grunt and moan when your fingers twine into his gold-silver hair, tugging lightly at the roots, then your name spills like a prayer over his lips, and you can’t help it —between the smooth grind of your hips and the little whimpers and groans betraying both your lips— you press your mouth to Ecbert’s, feel the warmth of his tongue against yours. He relinquishes beneath you, giving himself over wholly in a surge of heat.

Ecbert ruts up into you thrice over, fingers still rubbing at your clit until it's too much. The warmth of his release, the friction, the tightness in your gut. Your head lolls back, eyes closed, and lips parted, and only when you are descending does he pull his hand from between your bodies. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you flush against him. You rest your head against his shoulder, labored breathing slowing in unison with your beloved king’s.

He presses his cheek against the crown of your head —all the annoyance and ire he felt earlier during court is gone. Perhaps he will be more amicable now should he invite the leeches and lepers back into the great hall to continue the morning’s affairs. He’ll have to reconvene at some point anyways.

But his thoughts stray from duty to desire again —though there is no reason why those cannot be one and the same given some circumstances. Ecbert runs his hand up your back, under a veil of hair, and comes to rest on the side of your neck, his thumb stroking the edge of your jaw and cheek affectionately. You lift your gaze to meet his, smiling lazily, but his expression is one of curious intent. “How would like to become Queen of Wessex?” Ecbert queries.

All you can do is kiss him —and it is both an answer and a promise.

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[redactedgoose]

Here's my piece for the first day of Phantasy Phest- Fantasy Eldritch AU @phantasycentral

Danny stares up at the building. It's nondescript, just some random office building in Chicago.

Or, so one would think.

He takes the last few steps to the door, raises his hand, and knocks.

Truth be told, some random, nondescript office building in uptown Chicago wasn't exactly what he was imagining when he agreed to go to the Conclave.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and stares up at the door, waiting to be let in.

Becoming the King of Ghosts wasn't something that he had planned on. Finish middle school, go to high school, go to college for something STEM related and get his master's degree or go to one of the NASA pilot schools, and be an astronaut. That had been the plan.

And then... zap, and ghosts were real and also his problem.

Danny sighs and knocks again.

"You know, if you don't let me in I'll just phase through the door," he calls.

He's in his human form right now, which is probably why they're ignoring him. Though, it is his first time at the Conclave, and the first time a ghost has been to one in a very long time.

The door opens soundlessly; no one stands there. Alright, he can appreciate the creepy aesthetic.

He strides in through the door, head held high. As he crosses the boundary, he lets his transformation wash over him. His steps lighten as his hair does, gravity and color both bleeding from him. The faint chill and weight of his crown settles over his head and his shoulders become just a tad bit heavier as his cloak manifests out of the aether, the fabric-but-not flaring out behind him as he walks.

The inside of the building is nothing like the outside. The plain, ordinary facade outside is carried over for about seven or eight steps before he comes upon a shimmering barrier. Stepping through it feels like walking through a cool mist, faint popping spreading over his skin from the magic in it.

Past that point, the interior design matches up better to his imagination of the locale of the Conclave. It looks like the inside of an old castle, the dingy grey linoleum switching to a warm, wooden floor covered in a blood red carpet. The walls are stone instead of the off-white painted drywall, stretching high up to thick, wooden beams that bracket the tall, arched ceiling. Torches are positioned at regular intervals on the walls, burning with a pale purple flame; heavy and dark metal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, that same pale purple flame burning there instead of any candles.

He continues to walk down the red carpet—ha—to the massive, sweeping staircase at the end of the hall. The thing is made out of what looks like the same stone as the walls and the carpet continues up the stairs to the large, arched double doors.

Honestly, if it wasn't for his innate sense of space, he'd think that the magic barrier was a teleportation spell. As it was, it was only thanks to just that that he knew this was a sort of pocket dimension. He was in the same general area relative to where the building was, but slightly... to the left? Tilted. A little liminal, which he liked. He wasn't too familiar with the living's magic, but even he could tell that this was an impressive feat.

Danny finishes his ascent, finally standing in front of the double doors. They're similar to the chandeliers in that they're made out of that same dark metal. It couldn't be iron, though.

He opens the doors with a push of his telekinesis and strides through. A massive, circular table seating eleven greets him, the marble covered by a black runner and topped with more of those silver light candles in an intricate candle holder.

"Hello," he greets the assorted eleven mildly. "You have me at a disadvantage. My name is Danny Phantom. You all are...?"

Oh, some of them bristle at that. He can taste their irritation and incredulity. If he came back to another Conclave, they'd get to know very fast that he wasn't one to be respectful unless it was earned. Yes, these people were the rulers of their respective species. No, Danny didn't give a shit.

Surprisingly, one's threshold for respect and the like tended to shift after getting into fistfights with gods at the tender age of fourteen.

The woman at the head of the table speaks up first, raising her chin. "I am Queen Adelaide of the Witches. We tend to the this hall that hosts the Conclave, and bid you welcome to our table."

Her purple eyes flick over to look to the man next to her. He's thin-boned and almost waifish, reminding Danny of a hummingbird. His ears are also long and come to a point, but the feathers that sprout from his brows and wrap around his temples to mix into his hair strike out elf.

"I am King Ashok of the Avians."

Danny inclines his head to him. Just as before, though, the next person starts to talk almost immediately afterwards. He's tall, even sitting, with broad shoulders. His face is long, and his thick, bushy sideburns stretch down to his chin.

"King Bedwyr of the Werecreatures. I represent all the Were tribes."

It makes sense, since his eyes are also an inhuman amber gold. A werewolf, perhaps? Or a werebear? Danny dips his head once more. He's not too well-versed in were politics, since the Dead tribes are fiercely independent and territorial. Wulf was a bit of an outlier in that regard.

"Welcome, Phantom," the next woman says with a smile. It's sharp, though, and the lack of a title before his name is quite telling. "I am Myrto, Queen of the Sirens."

Ahh, alright.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he returns, just as mildly as his greeting. "I've always enjoyed talking with Queen Peisinoe when visiting her domain in the Realms. She's told me many stories about her time amongst the living. She and Lady Pandora are some of my dearest friends."

It becomes a little difficult to hold onto his mild smile as her eyes widen slightly and her face twists like she's bitten into a lemon, though.

He might be young, but he's been dealing with ghost politics for a while now. He can recognize the snub and return fire just as well as any of these people.

Peisinoe had told him how bratty the current Siren Queen was, though, so he's not too surprised.

"'ello!" The next woman, a chubby and red-cheeked lady with long, brown hair and a fur coat smiles at him. "I'm the Queen of the Selkies. Just call me Boann, though, King Phantom."

"Call me Danny, then," he returns, smile growing and morphing into something a little more genuine.

"I am King Celal of the mer. I represent all from under the water. It is a pleasure to meet the keeper of the Below Deeps."

Right. In the mers' religion, that's their afterlife. It's a pretty cool area, even if Danny doesn't often go. He makes the water too cold for some of the people living there.

"Well met, King Phantom." The next man looks similar to King [Avian], but without the feathers and with longer ears. His hair's long and thin and his skin is almost unhealthily pale. "I am the Erlkönig, the Elf King. You may call me Eadric."

"Well met."

"I'm Enitan, King Under the Mountains. Nice to meet ya!" The dwarf king is taller than Danny would've imagined, but the impressive, braided strawberry blond beard he's sporting fits right in.

The next person starts to talk even as Danny's still nodding at the Dwarf King.

"I am Verner, King of the Dragons." The man's eyes are like liquid gold and slitted like a cat's. Faint golden scales trail across his pronounced cheekbones up to and across his forehead, though it's harder to see them there thanks to the King's blond bangs.

"I am Doroteia, Queen of the Nymphs," the final woman says. She wouldn't look out of place in the Realms with her green skin and plant matter hair, vines and leaves cascading down her back.

"And finally, I am Ciprian, King of the Vampires." The last man says. He sits next to the Witch Queen, on the side opposite to the Avian King. They almost look like siblings, with the same pale skin—though Adelaide's was paler—and long dark hair. The only other distinguishing mark between them was the Vampire King's blood red eyes and more angular features.

"Thank you all for the welcome," Danny says, nodding to everyone in general.

He floats forward from the doors to the table, not putting on the pretense of walking. There's one open space there, but no chair.

Danny stops a short distance from the table. The others' chairs look standard and not like they'd brought or made them, so it wasn't a test of any kind.

Hm. Well...

"Queen Adelaide, you bid me welcome to your table. Was that merely a platitude?" He asks, perfectly and unnaturally still.

Tsk, tsk. Offering hospitality and then not being hospitable was quite the dangerous business—she of all people would know, keeping an elf in her council.

"Phantom," Adelaide starts, a pretty smile gracing her face despite the snub she just dealt, "You are the first of your kind in centuries to grace our halls. Please forgive us, of course, for being..." she trails off slightly, a tilting head cascading dark hair off her shoulder. "Hesitant."

"Oh?" Danny fishes.

"You wear an oversized crown, child," Verner butts in, chin high and draconic pride very clearly showing through. "More to that, you look human. What proof is there that you are whom you say you are?"

Ah. Ah.

Danny takes a breath. Then, he... relaxes. The boundaries between living and dead, thin that they already are in him, dissolve down to the merest atom, a whisper of a breath on knife's edge. Power whips about him with enough force to tousle his hair and toss the ends of his cloak about even as it shifts, lengthens, the night sky growing from his shoulders. His form unspools from his remnants of mortality, growing and bathing the space in him. Nebulae dance around the edges of the room, a starlight glow emanating from his form. The chill of deep space is contained easily enough, massing with the inexorable pull of gravity that makes up the dark of his chest and limbs. His crown floats over his head, burning the cold blue of ice planets, spikes of the stuff climbing in delicate spires. Small satellites orbit his crown—four of them, all different colors.

For all that Danny was starstuff, his eyes always were of the Realms. Green, green like the air and the earth and the everything that made up the Realms. Pure ectoplasmic green burns in his eyes, bright enough to be supernovae in their own right.

"Is this what you imagined? Am I properly monstrous now?" Danny asks, voice echoing throughout the room. He watches the Were King's fur raise, the Avian King's feathers ruffle. "I maintain a visage of humanity by my own liking, but I am so much more than just that."

He lets his form drift just a little more, his chest and arms whisping out like his legs until he's more or less a star-studded amorphous mass with a head on top. Even that, though, is... Other. His mouth is too large, he knows, and his eyes too deep and too many, all contained within his sockets, irises many and varied as stars in the sky.

His crown burns cold over his head, hanging in the air.

"I am the Shield of the After, Protector of the Beyond. I am the One Between, the Balance, the Shepard, and the Guiding Star. The Tyrant-Killer. Deathless and Lifeless. I am the High King of the Infinite Realms."

As much as he had raged against taking the crown—all he was trying to do was protect his town, after all—he couldn't help but admit to himself that he... kinda liked it. Not the power, of course. That he could do without. All that paperwork? The bowing and scraping? Nah.

But the fact that he was able to do these things, to be these things... to help the dead as much as the living... it soothed something in him, fulfilled him in a way that being the protector of Amity did.

"I accepted the invitation to this Conclave with the hope of improving relations between the Living and the Dead. I did not come to be ridiculed and doubted, especially by mere mortals such as yourselves."

He can see the various Rulers' breaths misting in the air, the temperature dropping father by the second. Space was cold, after all. Danny very graciously doesn't allow the oxygen and atmosphere to vacate as it would in actual space.

Mostly.

He doesn't want to kill them, after all, just... give them a little scare.

The edges of the room waver, the witches' spellwork trembling under his presence. He extends what may have once been a hand but now resembled more of a tendril, or perhaps a bit of a galactic swirl, towards the nearest surface.

It happens to be the table.

It takes laughably little energy to shore up the witches' spellwork, the space growing more defined in an instant.

Pettily, he also adds a chair to the weave. It's just barely bigger than the others' chairs, made from ice and upholstered in neon green fabric.

He positions his form above the chair and beings the annoying process of reeling himself back into something manageable and humanoid, gravity increasing and compounding until the black of his body folds onto itself, defined edges forming once more. He reels the stars back into himself, tucking plenty inside his cloak. The chill, however, doesn't completely disappear.

Danny's head is the last thing to come back to normal, growing smaller and less mindbendingly awful and settling in its proper position on his neck. His eyes don't quite go back to normal either, though. He keeps the depth and the multiplicity, since he's been complimented on their fear-inducing properties many a time.

"Now, may we begin?" Danny asks politely, voice merely ethereal instead of booming and all-encompassing.

Pale, the Witch Queen just nods.

---

"So, how was it?" Sam asks him later, fastballing a chocolate chip muffin directly at his forehead as he walks in through the door.

"Did the vampires sparkle?" Tucker yells his question from further into their shared home.

Danny snorts, snatching the muffin from where he'd instinctively made it bob in the air, held inches away from his skin. "The vampire didn't sparkle, Tuck. And it was pretty fun! I got to go full abomination!"

"Hell yeah." Sam holds her hand up and he returns the high five. "Whatever they did, they deserved it."

Danny laughs as he drops onto their couch. "Yeah, they're not going to make that mistake again any time soon."

[dickens-daily]

CHAPTER XVIII—A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH

We hope our readers will not be alarmed at this rather ominous title. We assure them that we are not about to become political, neither have we the slightest intention of being more prosy than usual—if we can help it. It has occurred to us that a slight sketch of the general aspect of ‘the House,’ and the crowds that resort to it on the night of an important debate, would be productive of some amusement: and as we have made some few calls at the aforesaid house in our time—have visited it quite often enough for our purpose, and a great deal too often for our personal peace and comfort—we have determined to attempt the description. Dismissing from our minds, therefore, all that feeling of awe, which vague ideas of breaches of privilege, Serjeant-at-Arms, heavy denunciations, and still heavier fees, are calculated to awaken, we enter at once into the building, and upon our subject.

Half-past four o’clock—and at five the mover of the Address will be ‘on his legs,’ as the newspapers announce sometimes by way of novelty, as if speakers were occasionally in the habit of standing on their heads. The members are pouring in, one after the other, in shoals. The few spectators who can obtain standing-room in the passages, scrutinise them as they pass, with the utmost interest, and the man who can identify a member occasionally, becomes a person of great importance. Every now and then you hear earnest whispers of ‘That’s Sir John Thomson.’ ‘Which? him with the gilt order round his neck?’ ‘No, no; that’s one of the messengers—that other with the yellow gloves, is Sir John Thomson.’ ‘Here’s Mr. Smith.’ ‘Lor!’ ‘Yes, how d’ye do, sir?—(He is our new member)—How do you do, sir?’ Mr. Smith stops: turns round with an air of enchanting urbanity (for the rumour of an intended dissolution has been very extensively circulated this morning); seizes both the hands of his gratified constituent, and, after greeting him with the most enthusiastic warmth, darts into the lobby with an extraordinary display of ardour in the public cause, leaving an immense impression in his favour on the mind of his ‘fellow-townsman.’

The arrivals increase in number, and the heat and noise increase in very unpleasant proportion. The livery servants form a complete lane on either side of the passage, and you reduce yourself into the smallest possible space to avoid being turned out. You see that stout man with the hoarse voice, in the blue coat, queer-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, white corduroy breeches, and great boots, who has been talking incessantly for half an hour past, and whose importance has occasioned no small quantity of mirth among the strangers. That is the great conservator of the peace of Westminster. You cannot fail to have remarked the grace with which he saluted the noble Lord who passed just now, or the excessive dignity of his air, as he expostulates with the crowd. He is rather out of temper now, in consequence of the very irreverent behaviour of those two young fellows behind him, who have done nothing but laugh all the time they have been here.

‘Will they divide to-night, do you think, Mr. ---’ timidly inquires a little thin man in the crowd, hoping to conciliate the man of office.

‘How can you ask such questions, sir?’ replies the functionary, in an incredibly loud key, and pettishly grasping the thick stick he carries in his right hand. ‘Pray do not, sir. I beg of you; pray do not, sir.’ The little man looks remarkably out of his element, and the uninitiated part of the throng are in positive convulsions of laughter.

Just at this moment some unfortunate individual appears, with a very smirking air, at the bottom of the long passage. He has managed to elude the vigilance of the special constable downstairs, and is evidently congratulating himself on having made his way so far.

‘Go back, sir—you must not come here,’ shouts the hoarse one, with tremendous emphasis of voice and gesture, the moment the offender catches his eye.

The stranger pauses.

‘Do you hear, sir—will you go back?’ continues the official dignitary, gently pushing the intruder some half-dozen yards.

‘Come, don’t push me,’ replies the stranger, turning angrily round.

‘I will, sir.’

‘You won’t, sir.’

‘Go out, sir.’

‘Take your hands off me, sir.’

‘Go out of the passage, sir.’

‘You’re a Jack-in-office, sir.’

‘A what?’ ejaculates he of the boots.

‘A Jack-in-office, sir, and a very insolent fellow,’ reiterates the stranger, now completely in a passion.

‘Pray do not force me to put you out, sir,’ retorts the other—��pray do not—my instructions are to keep this passage clear—it’s the Speaker’s orders, sir.’

‘D-n the Speaker, sir!’ shouts the intruder.

‘Here, Wilson!—Collins!’ gasps the officer, actually paralysed at this insulting expression, which in his mind is all but high treason; ‘take this man out—take him out, I say! How dare you, sir?’ and down goes the unfortunate man five stairs at a time, turning round at every stoppage, to come back again, and denouncing bitter vengeance against the commander-in-chief, and all his supernumeraries.

‘Make way, gentlemen,—pray make way for the Members, I beg of you!’ shouts the zealous officer, turning back, and preceding a whole string of the liberal and independent.

You see this ferocious-looking gentleman, with a complexion almost as sallow as his linen, and whose large black moustache would give him the appearance of a figure in a hairdresser’s window, if his countenance possessed the thought which is communicated to those waxen caricatures of the human face divine. He is a militia-officer, and the most amusing person in the House. Can anything be more exquisitely absurd than the burlesque grandeur of his air, as he strides up to the lobby, his eyes rolling like those of a Turk’s head in a cheap Dutch clock? He never appears without that bundle of dirty papers which he carries under his left arm, and which are generally supposed to be the miscellaneous estimates for 1804, or some equally important documents. He is very punctual in his attendance at the House, and his self-satisfied ‘He-ar-He-ar,’ is not unfrequently the signal for a general titter.

This is the gentleman who once actually sent a messenger up to the Strangers’ gallery in the old House of Commons, to inquire the name of an individual who was using an eye-glass, in order that he might complain to the Speaker that the person in question was quizzing him! On another occasion, he is reported to have repaired to Bellamy’s kitchen—a refreshment-room, where persons who are not Members are admitted on sufferance, as it were—and perceiving two or three gentlemen at supper, who, he was aware, were not Members, and could not, in that place, very well resent his behaviour, he indulged in the pleasantry of sitting with his booted leg on the table at which they were supping! He is generally harmless, though, and always amusing.

By dint of patience, and some little interest with our friend the constable, we have contrived to make our way to the Lobby, and you can just manage to catch an occasional glimpse of the House, as the door is opened for the admission of Members. It is tolerably full already, and little groups of Members are congregated together here, discussing the interesting topics of the day.

That smart-looking fellow in the black coat with velvet facings and cuffs, who wears his D’Orsay hat so rakishly, is ‘Honest Tom,’ a metropolitan representative; and the large man in the cloak with the white lining—not the man by the pillar; the other with the light hair hanging over his coat collar behind—is his colleague. The quiet gentlemanly-looking man in the blue surtout, gray trousers, white neckerchief and gloves, whose closely-buttoned coat displays his manly figure and broad chest to great advantage, is a very well-known character. He has fought a great many battles in his time, and conquered like the heroes of old, with no other arms than those the gods gave him. The old hard-featured man who is standing near him, is really a good specimen of a class of men, now nearly extinct. He is a county Member, and has been from time whereof the memory of man is not to the contrary. Look at his loose, wide, brown coat, with capacious pockets on each side; the knee-breeches and boots, the immensely long waistcoat, and silver watch-chain dangling below it, the wide-brimmed brown hat, and the white handkerchief tied in a great bow, with straggling ends sticking out beyond his shirt-frill. It is a costume one seldom sees nowadays, and when the few who wear it have died off, it will be quite extinct. He can tell you long stories of Fox, Pitt, Sheridan, and Canning, and how much better the House was managed in those times, when they used to get up at eight or nine o’clock, except on regular field-days, of which everybody was apprised beforehand. He has a great contempt for all young Members of Parliament, and thinks it quite impossible that a man can say anything worth hearing, unless he has sat in the House for fifteen years at least, without saying anything at all. He is of opinion that ‘that young Macaulay’ was a regular impostor; he allows, that Lord Stanley may do something one of these days, but ‘he’s too young, sir—too young.’ He is an excellent authority on points of precedent, and when he grows talkative, after his wine, will tell you how Sir Somebody Something, when he was whipper-in for the Government, brought four men out of their beds to vote in the majority, three of whom died on their way home again; how the House once divided on the question, that fresh candles be now brought in; how the Speaker was once upon a time left in the chair by accident, at the conclusion of business, and was obliged to sit in the House by himself for three hours, till some Member could be knocked up and brought back again, to move the adjournment; and a great many other anecdotes of a similar description.

There he stands, leaning on his stick; looking at the throng of Exquisites around him with most profound contempt; and conjuring up, before his mind’s eye, the scenes he beheld in the old House, in days gone by, when his own feelings were fresher and brighter, and when, as he imagines, wit, talent, and patriotism flourished more brightly too.

You are curious to know who that young man in the rough great-coat is, who has accosted every Member who has entered the House since we have been standing here. He is not a Member; he is only an ‘hereditary bondsman,’ or, in other words, an Irish correspondent of an Irish newspaper, who has just procured his forty-second frank from a Member whom he never saw in his life before. There he goes again—another! Bless the man, he has his hat and pockets full already.

We will try our fortune at the Strangers’ gallery, though the nature of the debate encourages very little hope of success. What on earth are you about? Holding up your order as if it were a talisman at whose command the wicket would fly open? Nonsense. Just preserve the order for an autograph, if it be worth keeping at all, and make your appearance at the door with your thumb and forefinger expressively inserted in your waistcoat-pocket. This tall stout man in black is the door-keeper. ‘Any room?’ ‘Not an inch—two or three dozen gentlemen waiting down-stairs on the chance of somebody’s going out.’ Pull out your purse—‘Are you quite sure there’s no room?’—‘I’ll go and look,’ replies the door-keeper, with a wistful glance at your purse, ‘but I’m afraid there’s not.’ He returns, and with real feeling assures you that it is morally impossible to get near the gallery. It is of no use waiting. When you are refused admission into the Strangers’ gallery at the House of Commons, under such circumstances, you may return home thoroughly satisfied that the place must be remarkably full indeed. [1]

Retracing our steps through the long passage, descending the stairs, and crossing Palace-yard, we halt at a small temporary doorway adjoining the King’s entrance to the House of Lords. The order of the serjeant-at-arms will admit you into the Reporters’ gallery, from whence you can obtain a tolerably good view of the House. Take care of the stairs, they are none of the best; through this little wicket—there. As soon as your eyes become a little used to the mist of the place, and the glare of the chandeliers below you, you will see that some unimportant personage on the Ministerial side of the House (to your right hand) is speaking, amidst a hum of voices and confusion which would rival Babel, but for the circumstance of its being all in one language.

The ‘hear, hear,’ which occasioned that laugh, proceeded from our warlike friend with the moustache; he is sitting on the back seat against the wall, behind the Member who is speaking, looking as ferocious and intellectual as usual. Take one look around you, and retire! The body of the House and the side galleries are full of Members; some, with their legs on the back of the opposite seat; some, with theirs stretched out to their utmost length on the floor; some going out, others coming in; all talking, laughing, lounging, coughing, oh-ing, questioning, or groaning; presenting a conglomeration of noise and confusion, to be met with in no other place in existence, not even excepting Smithfield on a market-day, or a cock-pit in its glory.

But let us not omit to notice Bellamy’s kitchen, or, in other words, the refreshment-room, common to both Houses of Parliament, where Ministerialists and Oppositionists, Whigs and Tories, Radicals, Peers, and Destructives, strangers from the gallery, and the more favoured strangers from below the bar, are alike at liberty to resort; where divers honourable members prove their perfect independence by remaining during the whole of a heavy debate, solacing themselves with the creature comforts; and whence they are summoned by whippers-in, when the House is on the point of dividing; either to give their ‘conscientious votes’ on questions of which they are conscientiously innocent of knowing anything whatever, or to find a vent for the playful exuberance of their wine-inspired fancies, in boisterous shouts of ‘Divide,’ occasionally varied with a little howling, barking, crowing, or other ebullitions of senatorial pleasantry.

When you have ascended the narrow staircase which, in the present temporary House of Commons, leads to the place we are describing, you will probably observe a couple of rooms on your right hand, with tables spread for dining. Neither of these is the kitchen, although they are both devoted to the same purpose; the kitchen is further on to our left, up these half-dozen stairs. Before we ascend the staircase, however, we must request you to pause in front of this little bar-place with the sash-windows; and beg your particular attention to the steady, honest-looking old fellow in black, who is its sole occupant. Nicholas (we do not mind mentioning the old fellow’s name, for if Nicholas be not a public man, who is?—and public men’s names are public property)—Nicholas is the butler of Bellamy’s, and has held the same place, dressed exactly in the same manner, and said precisely the same things, ever since the oldest of its present visitors can remember. An excellent servant Nicholas is—an unrivalled compounder of salad-dressing—an admirable preparer of soda-water and lemon—a special mixer of cold grog and punch—and, above all, an unequalled judge of cheese. If the old man have such a thing as vanity in his composition, this is certainly his pride; and if it be possible to imagine that anything in this world could disturb his impenetrable calmness, we should say it would be the doubting his judgment on this important point.

We needn’t tell you all this, however, for if you have an atom of observation, one glance at his sleek, knowing-looking head and face—his prim white neckerchief, with the wooden tie into which it has been regularly folded for twenty years past, merging by imperceptible degrees into a small-plaited shirt-frill—and his comfortable-looking form encased in a well-brushed suit of black—would give you a better idea of his real character than a column of our poor description could convey.

Nicholas is rather out of his element now; he cannot see the kitchen as he used to in the old House; there, one window of his glass-case opened into the room, and then, for the edification and behoof of more juvenile questioners, he would stand for an hour together, answering deferential questions about Sheridan, and Percival, and Castlereagh, and Heaven knows who beside, with manifest delight, always inserting a ‘Mister’ before every commoner’s name.

Nicholas, like all men of his age and standing, has a great idea of the degeneracy of the times. He seldom expresses any political opinions, but we managed to ascertain, just before the passing of the Reform Bill, that Nicholas was a thorough Reformer. What was our astonishment to discover shortly after the meeting of the first reformed Parliament, that he was a most inveterate and decided Tory! It was very odd: some men change their opinions from necessity, others from expediency, others from inspiration; but that Nicholas should undergo any change in any respect, was an event we had never contemplated, and should have considered impossible. His strong opinion against the clause which empowered the metropolitan districts to return Members to Parliament, too, was perfectly unaccountable.

We discovered the secret at last; the metropolitan Members always dined at home. The rascals! As for giving additional Members to Ireland, it was even worse—decidedly unconstitutional. Why, sir, an Irish Member would go up there, and eat more dinner than three English Members put together. He took no wine; drank table-beer by the half-gallon; and went home to Manchester-buildings, or Millbank-street, for his whiskey-and-water. And what was the consequence? Why, the concern lost—actually lost, sir—by his patronage. A queer old fellow is Nicholas, and as completely a part of the building as the house itself. We wonder he ever left the old place, and fully expected to see in the papers, the morning after the fire, a pathetic account of an old gentleman in black, of decent appearance, who was seen at one of the upper windows when the flames were at their height, and declared his resolute intention of falling with the floor. He must have been got out by force. However, he was got out—here he is again, looking as he always does, as if he had been in a bandbox ever since the last session. There he is, at his old post every night, just as we have described him: and, as characters are scarce, and faithful servants scarcer, long may he be there, say we!

Now, when you have taken your seat in the kitchen, and duly noticed the large fire and roasting-jack at one end of the room—the little table for washing glasses and draining jugs at the other—the clock over the window opposite St. Margaret’s Church—the deal tables and wax candles—the damask table-cloths and bare floor—the plate and china on the tables, and the gridiron on the fire; and a few other anomalies peculiar to the place—we will point out to your notice two or three of the people present, whose station or absurdities render them the most worthy of remark.

It is half-past twelve o’clock, and as the division is not expected for an hour or two, a few Members are lounging away the time here in preference to standing at the bar of the House, or sleeping in one of the side galleries. That singularly awkward and ungainly-looking man, in the brownish-white hat, with the straggling black trousers which reach about half-way down the leg of his boots, who is leaning against the meat-screen, apparently deluding himself into the belief that he is thinking about something, is a splendid sample of a Member of the House of Commons concentrating in his own person the wisdom of a constituency. Observe the wig, of a dark hue but indescribable colour, for if it be naturally brown, it has acquired a black tint by long service, and if it be naturally black, the same cause has imparted to it a tinge of rusty brown; and remark how very materially the great blinker-like spectacles assist the expression of that most intelligent face. Seriously speaking, did you ever see a countenance so expressive of the most hopeless extreme of heavy dulness, or behold a form so strangely put together? He is no great speaker: but when he does address the House, the effect is absolutely irresistible.

The small gentleman with the sharp nose, who has just saluted him, is a Member of Parliament, an ex-Alderman, and a sort of amateur fireman. He, and the celebrated fireman’s dog, were observed to be remarkably active at the conflagration of the two Houses of Parliament—they both ran up and down, and in and out, getting under people’s feet, and into everybody’s way, fully impressed with the belief that they were doing a great deal of good, and barking tremendously. The dog went quietly back to his kennel with the engine, but the gentleman kept up such an incessant noise for some weeks after the occurrence, that he became a positive nuisance. As no more parliamentary fires have occurred, however, and as he has consequently had no more opportunities of writing to the newspapers to relate how, by way of preserving pictures he cut them out of their frames, and performed other great national services, he has gradually relapsed into his old state of calmness.

That female in black—not the one whom the Lord’s-Day-Bill Baronet has just chucked under the chin; the shorter of the two—is ‘Jane:’ the Hebe of Bellamy’s. Jane is as great a character as Nicholas, in her way. Her leading features are a thorough contempt for the great majority of her visitors; her predominant quality, love of admiration, as you cannot fail to observe, if you mark the glee with which she listens to something the young Member near her mutters somewhat unintelligibly in her ear (for his speech is rather thick from some cause or other), and how playfully she digs the handle of a fork into the arm with which he detains her, by way of reply.

Jane is no bad hand at repartees, and showers them about, with a degree of liberality and total absence of reserve or constraint, which occasionally excites no small amazement in the minds of strangers. She cuts jokes with Nicholas, too, but looks up to him with a great deal of respect—the immovable stolidity with which Nicholas receives the aforesaid jokes, and looks on, at certain pastoral friskings and rompings (Jane’s only recreations, and they are very innocent too) which occasionally take place in the passage, is not the least amusing part of his character.

The two persons who are seated at the table in the corner, at the farther end of the room, have been constant guests here, for many years past; and one of them has feasted within these walls, many a time, with the most brilliant characters of a brilliant period. He has gone up to the other House since then; the greater part of his boon companions have shared Yorick’s fate, and his visits to Bellamy’s are comparatively few.

If he really be eating his supper now, at what hour can he possibly have dined! A second solid mass of rump-steak has disappeared, and he eat the first in four minutes and three quarters, by the clock over the window. Was there ever such a personification of Falstaff! Mark the air with which he gloats over that Stilton, as he removes the napkin which has been placed beneath his chin to catch the superfluous gravy of the steak, and with what gusto he imbibes the porter which has been fetched, expressly for him, in the pewter pot. Listen to the hoarse sound of that voice, kept down as it is by layers of solids, and deep draughts of rich wine, and tell us if you ever saw such a perfect picture of a regular gourmand; and whether he is not exactly the man whom you would pitch upon as having been the partner of Sheridan’s parliamentary carouses, the volunteer driver of the hackney-coach that took him home, and the involuntary upsetter of the whole party?

What an amusing contrast between his voice and appearance, and that of the spare, squeaking old man, who sits at the same table, and who, elevating a little cracked bantam sort of voice to its highest pitch, invokes damnation upon his own eyes or somebody else’s at the commencement of every sentence he utters. ‘The Captain,’ as they call him, is a very old frequenter of Bellamy’s; much addicted to stopping ‘after the House is up’ (an inexpiable crime in Jane’s eyes), and a complete walking reservoir of spirits and water.

The old Peer—or rather, the old man—for his peerage is of comparatively recent date—has a huge tumbler of hot punch brought him; and the other damns and drinks, and drinks and damns, and smokes. Members arrive every moment in a great bustle to report that ‘The Chancellor of the Exchequer’s up,’ and to get glasses of brandy-and-water to sustain them during the division; people who have ordered supper, countermand it, and prepare to go down-stairs, when suddenly a bell is heard to ring with tremendous violence, and a cry of ‘Di-vi-sion!’ is heard in the passage. This is enough; away rush the members pell-mell. The room is cleared in an instant; the noise rapidly dies away; you hear the creaking of the last boot on the last stair, and are left alone with the leviathan of rump-steaks.

[1] This paper was written before the practice of exhibiting Members of Parliament, like other curiosities, for the small charge of half-a-crown, was abolished.

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[hiddcnhorizcns]

tristan felt her words like a blade slipping between his ribs—slow, deliberate, piercing deeper with every soft admission. he had always known eira better than she knew herself, reading the truth in her eyes even when her lips spoke the polished words of a future queen. and yet, hearing her resignation aloud now, hearing her accept a fate that bound her so tightly, it stirred something fierce inside him, something that defied the duty he was sworn to uphold. when she said his words were false, he wanted to argue, to tell her that nothing had to be written in stone. but he knew better. this was the kingdom’s reality, a reality she was born into and one she could not escape. as much as he hated it, as much as it twisted his heart to see her resign herself to a life of obligation, there was a helplessness in his chest that he couldn’t shake. he could protect her from any enemy on the battlefield, but how was he supposed to protect her from this? from a future she had accepted even when he could see the yearning for more in her eyes? the way her voice softened when she said she could always count on him, that he was the one person who accepted her for simply being eira, nearly undid him. his resolve wavered as her fingers brushed his skin—just the lightest touch, but it ignited something buried deep within him. a long-forgotten memory of what could have been, had the crown not already claimed her. he swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he forced those thoughts back where they belonged. fantasies. that’s all they were. and they had no place here, not now.

"i’ll always be here for you," tristan said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. he knew how dangerous they were, how loaded with the things left unsaid. his chest felt tight, like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, knowing full well that if he let himself fall, there would be no going back. "you’ll never have to face any of this alone." it was a promise he had made long ago, one that seemed to grow heavier with each passing year. and yet, here he was, making it again, knowing full well that the cost would be his own heart. she was to be queen, and he—well, he was only tristan. but if being the one person in her life who didn’t ask for anything, who simply stayed, was all he could offer, then he would. even if it meant standing by while she was swept away by duty and a future with another man. her laugh, so genuine and full of life, broke through the weight of the moment, pulling him back. for a brief second, the tension eased, and they were just eira and tristan again, walking under the stars, away from the eyes of the court. he couldn’t help but smile at the sound, the corners of his lips tugging upward as he glanced at her.

"i can be terrifying if i need to be," he teased, though the warmth in his voice betrayed him. "i’ll have you know there’s a very short list of people who’d dare cross me." but as her words sobered, as she spoke of endurance and the reality of her future, tristan’s smile faded. the quiet strength in her voice, the acceptance that she had no choice but to endure the hollow propositions of nobles and the gilded cage of the crown, twisted something inside him again. he hated it. hated that she had to bear this burden, hated that the future felt so inevitable. still, when she looked at him like that, with her guard down just a little more, letting him see the part of her that still longed for something real, he knew he couldn’t abandon her. not now. not ever. "i won’t let anything change," he said firmly, his voice low but steady. "i don’t care what the future brings or what anyone else expects of you. i’ll always be at your side, eira. i don’t need anything from you—except maybe a smile now and then." he tried for a lighter tone, but his words carried a deeper truth.

speaking to tristan so earnestly was both cathartic, yet unsettling. he had never been the type of man to just take her words at face value because he knew her. sometimes, when they were children, it felt like the man had the ability to peer directly into her soul. it had a way of making her vulnerable just standing before him, like she felt now. “you and i both know your words are false, tristan.” how many times had she tried to convince herself of the same? that maybe, somehow, she could shape her own path within the confines of the role she had inherited? yet every time she tried, the walls only seemed to close in tighter as the weight of her duty pressed her down harder. at this point in her life, she simply wanted to live her days as peacefully as possible, which included this time with her childhood friend. “settling is merely a fact of life that i have grown to accept. i will be queen of this kingdom; i will rule over its people with my husband and i will do so graciously. i have to.” the sooner he accepted her fate, the better. yet he continued and she ducked her head as a solemn smile graced her features. “i know i can always count on one person to accept me simply as eira.” when her gaze lifted and her eyes met his, her smile grew. “and that person is you.” her hand reached out, fingers ghosting over his skin. once upon a time, she could see herself being happy with him, but those fantasies had died when her marriage had been announced. now he’d always just be her friend, kept at bay.

luckily, the conversation returned to the court and its extracurriculars and she laughed, a genuine and loud sound in the quiet of the night. “you, tristan? terrifying the nobility?” she shook her head. “i’d pay to see that.” sobering up, she continued. “but no, i suppose i have to endure their offers … at least for now.” she hesitated, her voice lowering. “though, knowing you’re here, that you’re still … you, it helps.” she let her eyes meet his again, letting her guard down just a little more. “i don’t expect you to change the course of my future, but having you at my side — someone who doesn’t ask for a single thing in return — that is more than enough.” for all the pressure and expectation that she faced every day in her life, for all the hollow propositions she would face in the days to come, at least here, with tristan, she could still find a sliver of herself. that part of her wasn’t yet lost to the crown or to duty.

“you’re always been there for me,” she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of years spent together. “and i don’t know what i would do if that ever changed.”

[greatgodempresspan]

Only place I know I feel safe (I’m gonna call this home) [fic]

Fandom: Critical role (C3, references to EXU)

Summary: In which Fearne is Orym’s emotional support Druid, Orym is (unknowingly) Fearne’s emotional support Halfling and they discuss how best to give Dorian emotional support. Depending on your shipping goggles, hints of Dorym, Fearym, Dorne and/or airship ot3.

Warnings: Discussion of Dorian’s self esteem issues, caring for your friend and letting your friends care for you. Unbeta’d because I have no impulse control.

“Fearne, can I have a word with you? It’s important.”

“Important” from Orym means a serious, Poe-faced discussion is forthcoming. It would be a drag if he wasn’t so earnest.

Luckily, Fearne knows that if you’re a friend of Orym’s and you use the word please, he’s incapable of saying “no”.

“Okay. Can you please sit in my lap while we do?”

“Er…okay?” Orym sets his glass of tea on the table and ponders her thighs for a moment. Fearne brings them together and gathers her skirts to drape across her lap, trying to make it a bit more comfortable. He smiles at her in thanks and carefully sits so his legs dangle off the side with less fabric.

“What brought this on?”

“You sit in Opal’s lap all the time.”

“Opal’s my pretend Mom,” Orym points out. “And also most of the time she’d just lift me there herself. So thank you for asking.”

“You’re welcome.” Fearne likes it, she decides. It feels nice, like when Lil Mister’s sitting with her, except Orym’s heavier and more careful of her dress.

Orym’s always the first to remind them of how small he is, but he very rarely actually lets himself be small in front of them.

She remembers cupping his cheek, him closing his eyes with the effort not to lean into it. She’d been charmed by it then, seen nothing there but the affect of her own charms.

Travelling with him for year she now knows it wasn’t (just) that.

“So what did you want to talk about?”

Orym frowns. “I’m a little worried about Dorian.”

Fearne nods, ignoring the small twinge of jealousy. This is how Orym is; he worried about Opal, Dariax and Dorian when they were carrying the crown. He worried about her when they were approaching the portal to the details. You never know when Orym’s worrying about you, unless he feels the need to confront you about something.

“Because he got pickpocketed the last time he was here and it’s clearly really easy to do around here?” Fearne asks. It’s probably not that, but Fearne has some concerns. Especially compared to Orym and Fearne, Dorian looks like an easy mark.

“No. I mean - not just that - if you could make sure no one steals from us, that would be great.”

“Always do,” Fearne tells him, tapping the side of her nose. It earns her a small smile behind Orym gets serious again.

“Going by some of the things that Dorian’s told us, I think we might be close to Dorian’s home.”

Fearne frowns. That is a problem. Dorian’s never outright said anything, but what he has let slip about growing up sounds terrible.

“You know how he gets when he feels like he’s failed.” Orym adds. “He’s going to be doubting himself, talking himself down-“

“His confidence is where he gets his power!” Fearne says. “In battle and as a performer.”

“Exactly. I just - I think we need to be a little more vocal in our support and appreciation right now, y’know? Talk him up a little, remind him how great he is.”

“He’s so great!” Fearne says, starting to feel a little distressed that Dorian could forget this about himself.

“Right! We just - y’know, we don’t over-do it, because then he’s going to feel patronised.”

Fearne nods slowly. That doesn’t sound quite right to her, but Orym clearly needs the reassurance.

Suddenly, Fearne’s ears prick up. “Hey! What if, when we need a room, we tell Dorian that we need to save money, so we have to all share a bed? Then we can cuddle up to him and he’ll know how much we care!”

Orym’s face goes carefully blank. In Fearne’s experience the best way to get her own way is to keep going.

“He’ll feel cared and supported, and there’s no chance of him feeling patronised!” Of course, she and Orym are both hot. People don’t mind being patronised if you’re hot.

“Maybe,” Orym says, cheeks flushing. Probably embarrassed because he’s realised it’s actually a brilliant idea. Or because he wants to say “no” but can’t think of a “good” reason. Even when he’s making a decision based on his feelings he needs to justify them somehow. Fearne’s tired just thinking about it.

“Just make sure you let him support you too,” Fearne adds, dipping her head to better hold his gaze. It doesn’t have quite the affect as when the lady cloaked in leaves did it at Orym’s home, but then Orym’s expression isn’t closed off the way it was with his archdruid.

“We came because we didn’t want you to do this alone. So we could support you, help you - heal you. Don’t let Dorian feel like he’s failed at that.”

Orym ducks in his head, ashamed. Fearne purses her lips to keep anything else from coming out; anything about how guilty and worried Opal and Dariax had been to not come with them, about her and Dorian working together to make sure that they both have healing spells.

Fearne wraps her arms around him and presses her cheek to the top of his head, resisting with every fibre of her being the urge to just squish him in a tight hug. Orym wouldn’t like that. 

“We all look after each other. Right?”

A small rough hand rests against her arm. “Right.”

“Am I interrupting?”

Fearne looks up to see Dorian, lute slung across his back. There’s a defeated slump to his shoulders and while his tone is teasing there’s an edge of anxiety there. 

Orym hooks his chin over her arm. “Fearne ‘a missing Mister,” he says, giving Dorian a Significant Look not unlike the one that started this conversation. “I’ve promised her group hugs to make up for it.”

Fearne nods. “Orym just isn’t the right size,” she says holding out an arm for Dorian.

He frowns, looking more confused than anything. “Do I…have to sit in your lap too?”

“Yes!” Fearne says, tail twitching in delight. Two birds, one stone!

“C’mon, Dorian, it’s comfy here!” Orym says, reaching for him.

Dorian looks about to object, but after a moment breaks into a wide, helpless smile.  He carefully puts his beloved lute on the table, perched on Fearne’s unoccupied knee and pulls them both into a bone-crushing hug.

It’s a little uncomfortable, what with people’s armour and concealed weapons, but Dorian’s much lighter than Fearne was expecting and she gets to have two of her boys in her lap. 

Fearne could get used to this.

Notes: Title is from Jimmy eat world’s “The world we loved”.

[katsukikitten]

Warnings: 18+ NSFW, mentions of animal harm, sexual themes, god/fantasy au for BNHAREM this badboi is 8k so enjoy~

The sound of a wind chime echoes across the small field just outside your home. The breeze carries the smell of summer bloomed blossoms and with it the threat of rain as it comes from down the mountain. 

A soft brown creature catches your eye as your mother picks flowers and berries for the festival. 

“Bunbun!” You exclaim, pointing as you tug on your mother’s tattered kimono, she responds with a soft hmm. Her eyes still focused on the wide range of flowers although her vision blurs. 

But at least you weren’t picked for this festival, no it would be many years before you would be in the running. Your mother’s only wish was for you to be unfavorable. Mother is so engrossed that she does not see you slip away, slowly following the bunny into the forest. 

Soon the soft brown creature begins to hop, faster and faster as you giggle running full speed ahead. Not noticing how the trees thicken or how dark eyes seem to peer through the trees, their mawls salivating with unsated hunger. With gnashing teeth they stalk ever closer all the while you rush to catch the creature just for it to jump high into the air. Nose diving straight for the ground, you copy its actions but the bunny is faster than you. Slipping into the burrow with ease as you fall face first into dirt and rocks. 

“O..ow. Momma!” You sniffle, turning around for some much needed motherly love, but instead of your mother hunched over collecting boring things in her basket you are met with a dense forest. The setting sun washes over the trees giving the thick pines and maples a ghoulish red hue.  Suddenly you are hyper aware of the sounds around you, a stick snaps in the brush. Your head turns as if you were a startled deer, eyes wide, heart racing as you strain to hear over the rushing blood in your ears. Dark figures move in the long shadows and haunting laughs echo around you. Beady eyes shine in the darkness causing a small whimper to leave your lips. Acting on instinct you rush to your feet, running through the woods. Briers snatch at your small ankles, leaving angry red lines in their wake, wanting nothing more than to make you a child of the forest.

“MOOOM!” You shout, panting as they force you further into the mountain, you take a quick left when one jumps from the right causing you to trip over a branch falling into a small clearing, faintly you hear the rush of a spring.

Scuffling rouses a sleepy garnet haired man who lounges in a steaming hot spring, that’s sprinkled with fallen petals of mountain flowers. He thinks to dismiss it until a scream cuts through the serenity of the pines. Whatever animal it is, it sounds small and this stirs something in the mountainous man. Sadly this was the circle of life, he reminds himself as he sinks deeper into the burning hot spring. 

“MOMMA HELP PWEESE!!” You scream, trying to get up but this time you are entangled in a briar patch, thorn and vine twisting around your tender skin. It seems the wicked green plant will have its wish. 

All the while the shadows stalk closer, their bright beady eyes blown wide as their jaws unhinge for their meal. They get on their haunches to launch themselves at you until something causes them to freeze. The trees shake around you while the Earth rumbles as if there were a thunder storm beneath the rich dirt. 

“Hello little flower. Are you lost?” You whip your head towards the sound. Lip quivering as you stare up at a tall, built man. But it was his eyes that stood out the most. 

His glistening rubies glow as fading sunlight catches his hair, emphasizing that the strands are a red so deep one could mistake it as black. Your eyes play tricks on you as the air seems charged and yet calm, giving him a surreal aura. He stands tall, half relaxed as one arm is lazily hanging from his dark rose kimono while the rest of his sculpted body is exposed to the slowly cooling air. You weigh your options as best you can before you scramble to your savior. Clinging to his leg as your tears begin to stain his kimono. 

He breathes in deeply and before he can speak the dark figures vanish, melting into the shadows that stretch in the last winking light of the Sun. He crouches down to you, pushing hair past your face. 

“Don’t cry little flower. Here.” A beautiful flower crown appears in his hands. The  white petals with contrasting amethyst stripes down the center seem to have their own shimmering bio-luminescence making it feel other worldly as he places it atop your head. He chooses the dietes flower for its symbolism and rarity, unknowingly sealing your fate. 

“Is that better, little one?” You nod in response, sniffling softly as he scoops you up walking you until he can just see what must be your home through the thick trees. He watches what he assumes your mother to panic, as the village shouts what must be your name. 

“You’ll have to walk the rest of the way okay little flower?” He sets you down gently before you give a big nod. Cold bare feet crunching the leaves against the forest floor. 

You come into the clearing of your home, the sea of yellows, pinks and reds winking in the stark light of the moon. 

“Momma…” You call softly, the world stops turning on its axis before she rushes to you, pulling you into her arms before her eyes are filled with overflowing fear. Fat droplets leave her long lashes as she snatches the crown away, but it is too late. It has been seen by all. 

“Oh she is favored by the Gods.” Someone comments. 

“If she grows into anything like her mother she will be the best choice to appease the Mountain God!" 

"Let us mark this day and the family name so we may remember 16 years from now." 

They continue to gossip as your mother squeezes you tight enough that it hurts. Her mind racing as she carries you inside, she tucks you in without a word of a scolding. Coaxing you to drink some lavender tea that pulls you into a deep sleep beneath the symphony of crickets and the like.

You do not hear your mother return and if you do, you guess she is doing her nightly routine. Fluffing your blankets and making sure your futon is warm enough but what you weren’t expecting was the cold bite of a blade pressing into the flesh above your left eyebrow.  

"Mom…Momma’s sorry baby.” She chokes on her sobs as she pulls the cool metal hard and deep, crying so loud she can barely hear your scream.  

But that was how long ago? Almost two decades? You toss a rock into your reflection, distorting your marred face as your childhood flashes before your eyes. 

You remember there was shouting, lots of shouting of how you are now “unfavorable” “dishonorable” “an abomination” the next day and from then it’s a blur of insults and isolation. Nothing but the wind in your hair, the creaking of the trees and a dream of glistening rubies kept you alive, desperate to return to the last time you were happy. Although you were unsure of who you saw in the mountain that fated night, a part of you could guess. It had to be the Spirit of the Mountain, Kirishima. Because who else actually looked like the painted scrolls that littered the village and shrines? In your opinion they had his image all wrong. 

He does not scowl or wear a grimace, no his smile is sharp toothed and bright. You sigh, wondering if you will ever bump into him again. 

An inhuman scream tears through the serenity of the babbling brook causing a chill to run through your spine. If you had to guess it was most likely a fox or wolf finally catching up to its meal. 

“They must eat too…” You murmur to yourself, drawing your knees to your chest. The wind rustles the leaves overhead giving you sharp visions of beady black eyes from the past. 

“Don’t let it get away!” A shout from your left before the animal comes scurrying through the brush, running smack into your lap. It is a small fox, its tail missing and in its wake a crude weeping cut. Your vision blurs red as you take off your top layer of kimono, wrapping the poor thing in the brown fabric. 

The culprits come into view, the village elder’s son holds the tail while his favorite goon holds the knife. Red falls to the Earth in nauseating droplets. 

“Well well well, looks like we found something else we can carve up huh?” The goon asks with a smile, “Just keep quiet freak." 

The elder’s son is hesitant, something odd grows in his eyes and chest. Suddenly the tail feels a lot heavier than what it was moments ago, especially so under the weight of your single gaze. Your left eye although clouded over seems to stare straight into his soul. Can you see the desperation he has? Worst yet can you see how tainted he is? 

"Oi Kenji” The goon nudges him, clearly only hanging around the future heir for his influence and with it a hope of immunity to terrorize as he pleases. 

The motion brings him back to the present while a plan begins to form in his head. Would anyone believe the dishonorable, disowned freak over him? Could he do things to you that no matter how loud you screamed the truth it would fall on deaf ears? 

His cruel smile is an answer in of itself as he takes a step towards you, it wouldn’t be hard to make you his. You take a step back, mindful of the sun’s position and your surroundings. They both creep nearer as you hold the shaking animal to you, you turn on your heel rushing through the woods. They were fast and well trained however no one knew these woods like you did. 

It was as if you knew of every fallen leaf or broken branch as you rushed through the deep green leaves. Dodging low branches that they hit face first, holes they tripped in and even a dead deer carcass that you bound in a single leap. You hear a crash and one of them gag as your feet urge you forward, looking over your shoulder. 

That is until your run into something so solid you fall right onto your ass, the small animal gives a whimper on your lap. 

“I could have sworn…” The sound of rushing water swallows up the rest of your thought as you look up to what you’ve run into. Wholly expecting a tree stood a man, with deep garnet hair and a sharp toothed smile. Immediately your blood turns cold, the air about him seeming other worldly as the forest quiets and slows in his presence. 

“Ah, are you alright?” He asks, extending his hand to you, gingerly you take it. His calloused hand is warm and strong as he lifts you to your feet, ruby eyes staring at the bundle in your hand.

“May I?” Hesitantly you pass the bundle, he frowns at its contents before setting the small fox on the ground, waving his fingers to heal its wound. The fox looks at the healer, seemingly giving him a small bow before rushing back into the safety of the brush. 

“The fox told me what you did. Thank you.” His smile is blinding and dazzling. He offers you a single white flower, the amethyst stripe up the middle causes your stomach to tighten.

“Do you always give out good fortune?” You ask quietly, turning the wild iris over in your hand. He laughs, if he recognizes you he does not show it but you are sure this is the man who gave you an abundance of “good fortune” years ago. Your scar burns from the thought. Your mother did tell you stories of the Gods playing cruel jokes. 

But was Kirishima truly a maleficent God? 

You bit your lower lip. A warm hand cups your chin, a soft smile on his face as he turns your left side to you. 

“Do I know you dear heart?” His voice is soft, eyes half mast almost lazily gazing upon your features. You tuck the iris in your ear and it seems to jog his memory. 

“Little flower!” His voice becomes larger, sharper, as his thumb swipes over the deep fissure on your cheek “What happened?!" 

His touch is comforting but not enough you wish to relive the trauma again. 

"I wish not to speak about it.” Your eyes catch the position of the sun. Gently you step from his soft grip.

“I must return home for dinner before I cause my mother to worry.” You bow formally, presenting the flower “Thank you Kamisama but I cannot accept your blessing." 

You stand like that long enough your back begins to hurt causing a deep fear to flow through your veins.

Was he angry that you dared to reject him? 

Your feet burn with the urge to run but you dismiss it, finally his large fingers grasps at the small stem holding the rarity in his hands. Eyes roving over you, you peek up to check his gaze and while he looks level headed to you, you decide to leave before you find out if he isn’t. 

He stares after you, eyes curious and yet not surprised as to how he could have forgotten about someone as remarkable as you. 

But how could he remember? 

You are nothing more than a mere mortal and you were a child at that. A blip, a hazy day dream even, in his infinite lifetime. 

So what interest would he have in a life so fleeting that should he rouse from a nap he would be meeting your great grandchildren who could remember nothing more about you than your name? 

And yet when he looked at you now, as a full grown woman, something bloomed in his chest. Your scar adding to your mystic beauty, especially after what the fox had told him.  

His ruby eyes return to the flower as he ponders over your question in his head. 

A week or so passes, as you’re sure to avoid the Mountain God. Still fearing he may be angered by your rejection. 

But you cannot stay from the depths of the forest long. Staring down at your reflection in the water you sigh, running your hand through the cool water debating if you will bathe in one of the many hot springs tonight. A scurrying in the bush pulls your attention to the here and now. Muscles rigid as you worry it will be an encounter with the heir and his goon, shimmering orange rushes from the brush easing your mind. 

"Ah hello friend!” You call and the fox stops in its tracks, task or hunt at hand long forgotten, “Did His healing power work?" 

You cannot help the glee in your voice as you see your friendly fox sit near your feet, it swishes its tail and just like that another seems to appear. Wagging like an opposing pendulum beside the other. 

"You have two tails now, oh” You give a sly smile, “Are you here to steal my liver?" 

The kitsune chuckles at your joke, his little laugh echoing in the clearing. The haunting sound brings an odd comfort to you as he tilts his head as if someone is whispering to him. He gives a small nod before approaching, setting something in your lap that his black lips were not holding before. 

A note of sorts and the flower he attempted to offer you earlier. The note reads in glowing golden red hue,

"Let’s start over again. Tea by the blue moon wild flowers at midnight.”

You sigh deeply, placing the card and flower deep in your tattered kimono with the thought of not showing up.  Why would a God want tea with you? You who wears a scarred face and milky white eye. You give the kitsune a soft pat before standing, brushing the dirt from your deep brown kimono. 

You spend the rest of the day as you told your mother you would, picking flowers to both practice arranging and drying for the upcoming festival. There were only a few weeks left and you had done zero practicing as you has promised. Your mother claimed this would help earn your keep with the village but you were sure that was more for her peace of mind than the truth. 

With your basket heavy with the finest of flowers you head towards home, careful to avoid the path you last saw the God on.

And anytime you had thought you caught wind of his intoxicating smell of soft musk, pine and the biting threat of snow you turned on your heel as quickly and quietly as humanly possible, ignoring the gemstone gaze that bore into your back. 

After a small dinner with your mother and hours of twisting flower streams to make crowns of, you finally get the chance to lie down to sleep. 

But sleep doesn’t come, instead you’re wide awake as the moon leaks in the through the small cracks in the walls. Dust dancing on the low light as you sigh as if you were in love. 

Deep, unsatisfied and often. 

The invitation burns in the folds of your kimono and suddenly you are filled with action. Gently you rise, fumbling with your hair as best you can before you mumble curses to yourself. Placing a practice crown on your head and rouging your lips with the remnants of berries before you set out into the darkness. 

Your feet seem to guide you on your own as you weave through the trees. Fireflies lazily floating in the air as crickets scream their symphonies at your feet. Finally you come across the mostly hidden spot.

Hesitantly you step into the clearing, blue moon flowers glitter in the light of the quarter moon as if sprinkled with stardust. Their silver sheen invites you in further as a wind sweeps through the patch. Your eyes rove over as you look for the Mountain God. When your search comes up empty you feel your heart free fall into your stomach. Heated foolishness creeps into your throat and cheeks. 

Why would a God invite a mortal? 

Blinking away hurt tears you turn briskly, stopping yourself from running from the clearing incase he is watching for the sake of his cruel joke. 

That is until a deep voice rings out, vibrating the very bones in your body with a comforting hum.

“Little flower, Are we not having tea?” His tone is innocent and when you turn around with half a mind to fuss you see it. A beautiful hand woven rug that holds a low tea table, atop the dark wood sits finary. Foods, desserts and tea ware that would make the emperor jade green with envy. 

“This is…” You whisper but he reaches his hand towards you, gently guiding you to a plush cushion, his strong hand wrapped steadfast around yours. He waits until you are seated comfortably before he sits close to you. 

Almost too close, his shoulder could easily brush against yours in movement and it does as it takes you an eon to realize what exactly he is doing. 

Preparing the tea. Immediately your stomach flips as shaking hands fumble to stop him, grabbing onto his large hands with a fervor unmatched. A quizzical look before a sly smirk paints his handsome features. 

“A..a..a God should not be serving a m..mortal tea.” You trip over your words feeling self conscious as your palms feel is if they are sweating. Shame radiates through your chest as if a hot rod were shoved through your heart. 

“Then let us not be a God and a mortal.” He smiles, lips curving upward gently as his shining teeth glint in the low light. You should be scared, frightened that you may have insulted him or worse yet earned the infamous Wrath of the Mountain God. 

But you aren’t, if anything you’re on the complete opposite of the spectrum as the breeze shifts his scent closer to you. The forest alive at night, the sharp smell of snow mingling with the gentle fragrance of bloomed flowers. 

Suddenly you feel dizzy and his next words do not help. 

“Let us be more.” Again you feel the comforting hum in your chest, you decide now is a good time to let go of his hands. 

He sets the tea before you, again you are faced with a pitiful reflection. You blow on the green liquid disrupting the steam and with it your image. It is quiet save the sounds of late night summer although it is not uncomfortable silence that passes over the hours between the two of you. It is easy as the two of you sip your tea and for a moment you think you’ve forgotten the sin you’re committing by forgetting who he really is. Occasionally the two of you would share a laugh, his shoulder brushing against yours before he comes closer, close enough your forearms touch as they rest against the table. His skin feels warm and smooth like a rock baking in the sun, his smile dazzling as his face seems to get closer. His finger hooks into your palm, lazily tracing the lines as if they were an old and familiar map. 

“Why do you love the mountain forest so much?” His voice is so close you feel breath fan your cheek. Butterflies take rapid flight in your stomach. 

Was it that obvious? I guess it would be with how much of your life you spent within these thick trees. 

“There is so much to love in this place of solace. Every new clearing brings something of wonder. A waterfall, a field of flowers, a hot spring to soak your aching bones. Even just a small fawn grazing on the seeds the trees and flowers offer is more beauty than I can imagine." 

His fingers stop, leaving an odd tingling sensation causing your nerves to stand on edge. Attempting to reach towards the soft touch once more. Kirishima looks to the moon and how it begins to set. 

"Another day little flower.” He whispers, voice honeyed yet sharp as you find yourself standing on the edge of the woods, staring at your small home. You turn in a full circle and see no sign of the God causing your heart to grow heavy. Gripping at your chest as you make your way back towards your home, you thought maybe he didn’t like your answer. Maybe he read your honesty as a poor attempt of flattery. 

What you don’t know is that he liked your answer a little too much.  

It isn’t long before you find yourself in the same patch of flowers at a questionable hour sitting beside Kamisama himself. You swallow thickly, nails biting into your palm as again he pours your tea. 

Is this right? Would your mother approve?

You were sure she wouldn’t, and not from your lack of manners but seeing the very man she so feared and having tea with him nonetheless.

“Something troubling you my blossom?” Flustered over his familiarity you stammer out a response.

“Just…just thinking.” You offer a shy smile as he returns a wolfish grin, you do not know that he can hear just how fast your heart is beating. 

“Hmmm.” The hum rumbles in your own chest and large bottle flies take flight in your stomach. He brushes some hair out of your face so he can better see it. He smiles softly. 

“I’ve been curious about why you are collecting so many flowers lately.” Rigid beneath his touch you fear you have angered him but it won’t be long before you realize just how infatuated he is with you. 

“A festival for you Kirishima, Kamisama of the Mountain.” He lets his fingers play and twist in your hair. You try not to look away. 

“You’ll be the guest of honor then?” His fingers brush down your heated cheeks. 

Despite the intimacy of both his touch and proximity you give a loud laugh. Eyes looking at a blurred green version of yourself in your cup. 

“No, I’m sure I could never be favored.” At least not by the villagers. 

But you seemed to be favored by the Gods. You swallow thickly, of all the talk and importance of the festivals your mother never let you attend, so you are unsure what happens. 

While you’re left home alone you could hear the loud beats of the drum, their feet hitting against the stone of the square and their joyous singing. 

Sometimes you think you hear a scream. 

But you cannot reflect on it long as a pair of soft lips press against your cheek. Then when you do not move they graze along your jawline before finding their way to your pulse. You give a small gasp and when he gives a small suck you a raspy moan.  He growls against your throat, a sudden heat grows between your legs and you swallow desire whole. 

He feels how tense you have become and eases up from your throat. Guiding you by your chin so you may face him before he steals away your first kiss. 

Not that you would have given it to anyone else. 

The next month is a game of cat and mouse. Both of you eagerly seeking the other out, yet making it seem as if it were a mere accidently. All the while a now three tailed fox smiles knowingly.  It’s a blur of tea, mountain top views over valleys, and deep passionate kissing. 

But this last encounter truly was by pure chance for both parties. 

The pungent smell of sulfur tickles your nose, although this is the least offending spring. Its water a lovely milky blue that you’ve decorated with a few left over flowers heads. You sigh as you sink deeper into the borderline scalding water being sure to soak your aching hands and feet. 

You’re thankful that the rushing water settles here in this cluster of rocks despite the small current that carries it away just a few feet down. A sigh leaves your body, eyes lingering to the light of the full moon before they flutter close. Your guard completely down as you know no one is going to be wandering around these woods. 

It is the night of the festival after all. 

And no one was sure as hell gonna be out looking for you.  

Not even Kamisama as you were sure he would oversee the festival, it was held in his name was it not? 

Sleep threatens to pull you beneath its veil so much so you do not hear the footsteps that approach.  

He steps closer to the spot of his favorite spring and when he sees your head titling back onto the rocks, a fine blush blooms on his cheeks. 

“My little hana?” His voice is soft yet concerned, startling you. The water splashes around as you turn to face him. 

If you were flustered before you’re beyond that now. He has his back to you as he gives your privacy, face slightly turned but his eyes are not overlooking his shoulder. Your eyes widen as they take in His beauty. His hair tied up in a messy bun, winking blacks and deep reds beneath the moonlight. His broad shoulders exposed, eyes trailing down his sculpted back to see his bare buttocks. Strong, thick legs holding up this God of a man.  

Well he was a God wasn’t he? 

“Are you alright, lovely blossom? I didn’t know you’d be here I can come ba…" 

"No. No no!” You interrupt, “I…" 

It’s silent for a moment, lust moves your lips. 

"I wouldn’t mind the company.” Your voice is barely heard over the swirling, rushing water. 

But the smirk on his soft lips tells you that he had heard you.  And he will never forget the invitation. 

He turns to join you, your eyes following down the trail of his abs to his pointed V, you do not allow your eyes to travel further south and force them to his face. His glowing eyes bright, two shining rubies lighting up the night. He sinks into the water across from you, letting his arms spread and rest on the rocks. 

You release the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Sinking into the water as you realize just how exposed you are.  The weight of his gaze is doing something to you. 

He keeps his eyes locked on yours, the heat of the spring makes you a bit dizzy and you’re beginning to wonder if it is his merlot eyes that have you on cloud nine. 

That have you so bold. Bold enough you float yourself beside him, right into the crook of his arm. He gently slides it around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his chest. 

“How was your day my sweet?” His voice is soothing but you’d rather not recount your day or the number of flowers you set just right. 

“Boring. Yours Kirishima?” He smiles as you use his name.

“Same.” He places a chaste kiss to your damp hair line. It leaves you wanting more. 

“A..again please?” He goes to kiss your forehead again but you tilt your face upward. He smiles, putting his hand at the nape of your neck. Leaning in impossibly slow holding your gaze. His look makes you impossibly higher and then his kisses your lips.

It is soft, it is slow, but each movement of his lips become more feverish, more bold. Like a cracked dam after a rain far too heavy, it is going to burst. 

And it does. 

Your mouth openes to him and he slides his tongue between your teeth, swirling and tasting your earthly, mortal form. You moan into the kiss, giving him more entrance, your hands clawing at his hair, his back while his hands follow your curves. Running up and down your sides, pinching at your nipples turning you into putty in his hands.  You do not resist, you would never deny him and you’re sure he would never take. 

He does nothing more than light exploring, commiting your skin to memory. You let out another moan, this one louder than before enticing his primal needs. As his tongue slides over yours his hand snakes to your lower back, pulling you into his lap.  

You feel his harden asset resting close to your throbbing sex. 

Would…would it be okay to bed a God? For a mortal to be touched by hands that can create and destroy in a matter of nanoseconds? 

Suddenly you feel too hot, too flustered, too high as the world spins rapidly on its axis. You push back, gasping for air and immediately his lust is replaced with concern. He sees tears forming in your eyes, signs of some internal battle. 

It reminds him of when he pours you a cup of tea but tenfold. He looks up at you, one hand traces down your spine before his other wipes away your tears. 

“Blossom for me when you’re ready not when I want you, my little flower.” His voice is soft, reassuring, causing you to cry more. His fingers gently trace your scar, follow your spine, and continue to wipe away your tears when needed. 

You nod helplessly, removing yourself from his irresistible lap, he pulls you to cuddle. A soft kiss to your hairline. The moon begins to climb higher in the sky and although your mother will not be home for some time, you still need to beat her home. Maybe he can read minds as he says. 

“Let’s meet later tonight? Our usual time after your mother has returned home?” You nod against his chest, slowly stand. He supports your weight as he holds onto your hand as you ease out of the comforting water. 

You look for your brown kimono but with every second you cannot find it panic seizes your bones. 

“M…my kimono. I…I can’t find it!” You realize you may have misplaced it or worse yet placed it too close to the water. 

Oh Kami did it get washed away? 

“Flower, love. It is fine. I can help.” He snaps his fingers and you’re adorning the most stunning kimono you’ve ever seen. More so than what any painting of any God and Goddess meeting you’ve ever seen.  You twirl in the ombre kimono. It starts out black, like a moonless night at the top before lightening until it is put glowing starlight at your ankles. 

“Its gorgeous. But it is too much." 

"Nothing is too much for you.” He stands, a kimono appears on his body as well, ombre again, black at his shoulders until it is blood red at his ankles. The bottom reminds you of the first time you had seen him when you were little. When he saved your life, a halo of setting sun emphasizing his status. 

“We will meet again?"  You nod and he cannot bring himself to say he is going to the annual meeting of the Gods because if he did, with you wearing this star woven kimono, he would whisk you away with him. 

"Until we meet again." 

With the sound of the window fluttering through the trees you find yourself on the fringes of the woods, just outside your home. 

Gingerly you step into the field of flowers, slowly walking towards your house as you relive the time you most felt alive. 

His lips, his hands, his body pressed against yours.

So caught up in your daydream, in your promise of later tonight, you do not see the eyes lying in wait. 

Those prying eyes take note of your kimono and how it shimmers and shines with an otherworldly glow as you slip into your home. 

It isn’t long before you hear a string of screaming and see a set of lights coming your way, close enough you can make out silhouettes and what the woman is screaming.

"SHE IS UNFAVORED! LOOK AT HER SCAR SHE IS TAINTED BEAUTY!” You realize quickly that is the wails of your mother. 

Frantically you try to strip yourself of your kimono but a large hand strips away the door. Your faces are illuminated from the soft glow by your ankles making it clear to see a set of hard steely eyes with hurt but never regret as they should. 

“Just like I said. A blessed kimono.” Kenji’s voice is as hard as his eyes as his father peers in, he smiles with delight.

“We are surely saved from the drought now. Kenji bring her to the festival." 

"No.” Your voice is small, a foreboding dread feeds your panic as your mother cries, restrained by Kenji’s goons. You step back but he lunges for you, squeezing you so tightly you cannot breath. 

The walk to the center seems like ages as you kick and scream, crying out for Kirishima. 

“Yes call for our God. He will be happy to receive his gift, time is running out.” The elder speaks. You elbow Kenji square in the face, everyone panics as you begin to run. Kenji catches you again.  The moon hands high over head, perfectly in the middle of the sky. 

“There is no time left. Let’s do it now!” Kenji’s goon from before shouts, sending the crowd into a boisterous agreement. 

Kenji withdraws his knife, both of your struggling for power. He leans in close, nose touching yours as the smell of copper and ash cling to his skin. 

“You should have just stayed in your place ugly. Should’ve let me have my way.” He slices at you and for a second time a blade marrs your skin. 

He is supposed to make this quick for you, one quick motion against your throat. Instead he lets the blade sink deeper, carve harder until his is splatter in your life’s nectar. Only you and your mother cry out. The rest of them pray and sing. 

Kenji picks you up and tosses you into the brush of the woods. 

“Have her now Kamisama and bless us with rain!” He speaks as if he is the current elder. Grey eyes cold as they look down at you.  They retreat to their usual planned activities, dragging your lost mother with them to drink to their heart’s content. To make her watch what an honor it was for her child to have been chosen. 

It hurts, Kami it hurts as you drag yourself through the woods. Briars tangle around your quickly growing limp limbs as you pull yourself deeper. 

“Kiri…Kirishima!” Your once loud screams turn into hardly more than whispers. But that shouldn’t matter. He should still hear you shouldn’t he? 

Was this not his domain? He can hear every rustling leaf, every snap of a twig, surely he could hear the pained cries of his lover.

No, no you shouldn’t call yourself that, you were not his lover, you were just favored by him. 

And isn’t that always what you wanted? To be desired? Loved? 

This was a festival for Kirishima himself so why did you think any different? 

And why do you still call out his name? 

Your vision blurs in purplish blues and blacks as you fade in and out, a soft sweet scent is tainted with stinging copper. You cough and more dark liquid sputters from your lips. 

It reminds you of his eyes. 

Kitsune comes into the clearing helping frantically. But you smile as you notice his fourth tail. 

“At least I will not die alone…” You breathe as the fox attempts to lick at your wounds, “Why, why is he so cruel?" 

Fat tears fall down your cheeks and the fox panics further. He opens his mouth, his voice comes out gravely and close to a growl without the animosity.

"Master does not know of this, master would never allow this!” He laps at your blood in a desperate attempt to heal you with what little grace he has been bestowed. 

But it doesn’t matter as your world fades to black. 

Kirishima steps through the portal near the top of the mountain to be met with a horrid sight, not realizing it could be worse than that. Kitsune’s normal Auburn fur is tainted a sticky black substance, Kirishima gets a closer look causing his blood to run cold. 

He appears in the field of flowers, following the trail you left as a wispy form of you stands through your drained body. 

“No.” Quiet before deafening loud, birds and animals flee away from him, “NO!" 

The shades circle the clearing, too afraid to enter but too hungry to leave. 

Kirishima shakily grabs onto your glowing hands, tears fall down your cheeks. 

"I…I…” Tears prick his eyes, rage washes over his features, “Who?" 

Your spirit cannot speak as you are still tethered to your fast cooling body. He follows the direction of your eyes, music and laughing become louder further angering him. A thought occurs to him, he reaches for the small golden chain that is at your spiritual ankle connecting you to your real body, he could keep you here, he could….but before he can break your life’s chain a mist of black appears. 

"You know you cannot do that.” From within the mist comes a man with the head of a raven or a tengu, Kirishima is not sure. All he knows is that he loathes to see Death come too close to the things he loves. 

“But.." 

"Look around you Kirishima-kun. You’ve tried countless times to keep mortals before and what becomes of them? Shades, unwavering, thoughtless hungry shades as I’ve told you. Their spirits are so far corrupted they could never return to the cycle.” Death speaks the truth but it does not stop the anguish that sweeps through his body. 

He cannot allow it just yet. He watches as your golden chain is unhooked, you walk backwards, keeping your eyes on your God as Death guides you. 

“Until we meet again.” It is a whisper on the wind, a rustle in the leaves, a huff of a nearby fawn and babbling of the hot spring. He nods, eyes glued to you as you fade away into the black mist. 

He breathes deeply as he picks you up, cradling your cold body to his hard chest. He walks gingerly with you as if he feared he would wake you, he only had on destination in mind. It does not take long before he is walking towards the center of the small town, houses darkened as the square is full of life. The smell of wine and food waft the cool air. 

This only fuels his intentions. 

He stands on the fringe of the crowd and it only takes a blink or two before the roaring party dies to deafening silence. People falling to their knees, their foreheads pressed into the bloodied bricks. 

“K..Kamisama Kirishima, had we known you would grace…" 

"SILENCE!” His voice shakes the very foundations of the homes, the shingles clinking in the wind. The trees quiver in his presence as the Earth seems to roar beneath his feet. His eyes are hard and dark like raw diamonds as he looks over their merriment shredding them with his gaze alone. The moon above suddenly glows red as if washed over with your blood, illuminating him in an ominous tone. The hue paints the village in eerie light as it fully bares witness to the wrath of the mountain God.  

“Is this how you honor me?” A rhetorical question as he wonders how long this had been going on, the shades most likely and happily, eating the remains before Kirishima could have ever found out. He shakes, unable to reign in his rage. 

“Look at her.” Three words, three words has well over fifty people shivering. Eyes barely coming up to look at the limp woman in his hands, skin already graying. Both eyes now clouded over and lips stained a peculiar red. Their eyes shift to the God they worship, the one they had been giving their most beautiful women too. 

He holds eye contact with each and every one of them for a moment, staring into their black souls with a malice that could maim. He spies your mother, his lip snarls as he thinks of your scar. 

He begins to wonder if this is why she had done it. He finds the elder, the one who wears the fine kimono. One of the few garments that is not tattered, dirtied or sullied red. He grinds his teeth. 

“May you never forget this moment in all of your reincarnations. May you never forget her face and may you always feel an inkling of what I’ve felt.” The people weep, not for their own lives but from the feeling of the God’s heart overflowing in them despite him never shedding a tear. They do not ask forgiveness. 

They cannot ask for forgiveness. Just as he sealed your fate all those years ago, he is sealing theirs now. With a stomp of his foot the Earth rumbles, slowly opening up into a jagged mawl. People scream as they reach for one another, grasping onto nothing. Only your mother waits for death silently. Her own tears streaming down her face as she etches into her last moments the sight of her failure. Of you taken from the world too soon. 

The village is swallowed whole and now that it is over, he is still unhappy. The void in his cheat is far deeper than the Earthy chasm before him. He cries out in anguish pulling you impossibly closer. A fissure runs through the ground, deep and fast through the next village and the one after that.

In a loud puff of smoke a man appears beside the mountain God, he pulls down his black hood and his hair shines gold in the moonlight. His eyes like molten lava gleam with destructive glee. The Earth threatens to crumble beneath the new God’s feet, the dark chasm glows a bright hot red in his presence. 

“No one ever strikes your ire.” His voice is dark yet excited, “And never enough to summon me. Need some pointers from the God of Destruction himself shitty hair?”

“Bakugou, I…” The mountainous man’s voice cracks, causing his friend’s brow to furrow. Bakugou takes in the sight of you withered in hands through ghastly means. Of the decimation and the level of it. Reaching over to another village and possibly the next two. This level of destruction would get the Mountain God into a lot of trouble but it was evident he did not care. Bakugou gives his back to the sight and finally speaks, lying a warm hand on his friend’s broad shoulder.

“If anyone asks, I destroyed the villages.” Molten eyes watch tears fall onto you and the ground beneath his friend’s feet. The golden haired man sighs, gently taking you from the arms of his friend who tries to desperately hold on to what is left of you. 

“It’s alright, it’s okay.” A rare comfort from his companion, he takes your small frame and turns. He is going to gently lie you in the cooling Earth. A destruction God destroys in order for something new to be created. He plans to give his only friend a blessed grave for you so he can visit until, what Bakugou hopes but heavily doubts, Kirishima forgets. 

“W..wait. wait. She needs…” His voice shatters as with shaking fingers he creates the very thing he had intended for you to have. Good fortune in the shape of deities or wild irises, circling one another to be a stunning crown. Instead of white they glow gold as he sets it atop your crown. Kirishima squeezes your limp hand a final time before letting you go. Bakugou breathes deeply as he works, pulling the ground back together with sheer force as the lava recedes. He does so until the two shelves barely meet, a rich bed of soil lies before his feet. Gently he lies you in the bed of dirt. 

“Ashes to ashes.” Your body ignites from within, glowing in a golden flame until there is nothing left but dust on the wind and the golden flower crown. Bakugou pulls the dirt over your remains.

Kirishima falls to his knees, pressing his hand into the Earth, fearful he will forget a mortal like you, a mere blip in his infinite lifetime. The ground beneath him bursts and blooms in great color. All deep reds, golden yellows and blinding whites for miles. 

“I will always love you my little flower." 

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The summer breeze feels warm as it rouses the scent of rain and the sound of chimes. You close your eyes and day dream of something long forgotten, of stories retold from an old book of legend you never read. Nervousness thrums through your veins as you stand beside your ash blonde friend, patiently waiting for the third party to arrive. The impatient man growls beside you as he spots someone he recognizes behind you. 

"Oi shitty hair hurry up! Iris and I have been waiting here all damn morning!” Bakugou shouts, using your hero name. You turn to see your new patrol partner for future missions. The sun illuminates behind him, almost giving him a heavenly glow and you realize that there is something odd about the man who approaches you. His long flowing garnet hair is unruly in the wind, shining a red so deep in hue you first mistake it for black. His smile is sharp toothed and easy, causing a swarm of butterflies to take flight in your stomach. With your heart hammering out of your chest you cannot shake the feeling that something seems off about him. It is both other worldly and familiar, you feel as if his name sits on the tip of your tongue. A shiver runs down your spine as his glowing ruby eyes drink you in.  He sees a faint mark traveling through your left eye as if it were a fading scar, maybe it was something you could not shake from a past long forgotten. His heart hammers in his chest as he speaks, your reaction to his next words will tell him what he needs to know. 

“Hello my little flower, it seems we meet again.”

[strongestavengerthor]

"Brother, if you do not think that Mother could sense you the second you landed, you are sorely mistaken," Thor said, flashing his brother a knowing smile. Heimdall had probably sent word ahead per her explicit request. This was a day she had been waiting for, and Thor had born witness to the pain in her gaze each time he stepped into the throne room alone for the past year. And before that... When Loki was still believed lost to them. The grief that had sat on their shoulders a heavier burden than any kingdom or crown. Perhaps it was the chill in the air that took him back to such dark times. Thor did not mention it, didn't wish to draw attention to his brother's newfound abilities. Nor did he reply to the comment about Odin. He tightened his grip as Loki pressed their foreheads together, as if he could press warmth into his brother's body through sheer willpower. "I know," he replied. "If I could carry this for you, Loki, you know I would," he insisted. His own powerlessness here sent an edge of desperation into his words. They were princes, the sons of the Allfather. And yet so much was out of their control. But that wasn't what sent a pang through Thor's heart right now. His baby brother was in turmoil -- and he could do nothing but stand beside him. He hoped that would be enough.

Contrary to what his brother might think, Thor did know when to be quiet sometimes. So he said nothing for a long, long moment. Not until Loki spoke again. "We could always run away," he offered lightly. "Remember, we planned to once as children? I forget what made us so unhappy... But we were to meet at midnight and disappear forever, just you and me. What an adventure it would've been," he said, laughing lightly. But the sound died out even before Loki spoke again, his words so fraught with uncharacteristic vulnerability. Thor couldn't remember ever seeing his brother so frightened, so overwhelmed -- and he had seen him aboard Thanos' vessel. Thor took a deep breath, and moved his hands, so that both gripped Loki's shoulders tightly. "Brother. Nothing could pry me from your side. All the monsters in all the realms could try and fail." It was strange now, to count his father amongst those monsters. "You can do this," Thor assured him, instead of lingering on that particular thought.

He slung his arm over his brother's shoulders and guided him out. Nodded to the guards standing by the throne room. The doors were opened, the great hall stretching out before them. "Father," Thor bellowed. His voice echoed all around them, and his practiced smile slid into place. There was no crowd, only his father on the throne, mother by his side. Thor took a step forward, arm still across his brother's shoulders. "Your valiant sons have returned to Asgard to answer your summons."

asgcrdianprince

Loki just looked at his brother when he hesitated. Realizing he’d taken him off guard, he opened his mouth to take over, but Thor beat him to it. “Shit,” Loki breathed when Thor called out to the guards. “Thor, what the hell – “ he started when his brother led him to the side chamber. “Good way to alert Mother of our arrival.” Frigga was either going to come find them or know something was wrong. Which, to be fair, she probably already knew something was wrong, so that wasn’t Thor’s fault. “I don’t care what irritation it causes him.” He turned when his brother came over to him, closing his eyes when Thor attempted to meet his gaze. But he did relax against Thor’s touch. Which was good, because Loki felt the temperature in the room take a nosedive. He took another deep breath, willing himself calm, and let his forehead drop forward to rest against his brother’s. “I don’t want to do this,” Loki said, after a moment, voice lacking the sharp malice it had just moments ago. He let out another breath and lifted his head, this time meeting Thor’s gaze. “I know the longer I put it off, the worse it’ll be. I just don’t want to.” But he’d left. Let their Mother think he was dead. He’d make himself for her. And he knew he’d have to do it eventually, so it was better to do it with Thor at his side rather than alone. He had to come back sooner or later, because he knew whenever Thor became king, whatever he would say or do against it in the meantime, he’d be back in Asgard by his brother’s side.

“Okay,” Loki said after a moment, completely lifting his head and standing up straight to look his brother in the eye. “Let’s just get it over with.” He’d have Thor. He’d have Frigga. He didn’t have to be alone with him. Loki felt the temperature around them regulate again and he hated the relief he felt when it did. Because it was like that part of him didn’t want to draw their father’s attention to the side of him he hated. But before he could let his mind go there again, he looked over to Thor. He’d have him. He’d have Frigga. He didn’t have to be alone with him. “Just – “ Loki started. “Don’t leave me alone and do the talking. I’ll be able to do it then.”

[bohica160]

Firefighter Chris (pt.2)

ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗMinors gtfo, this isn't for youᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

(I am so sorry this took forever. Dumb stuff popped up at work, which didn't give me much time there to write, and then I kept passing out when I got home.😅

I was going to do this in 1 part but I feel like it would have been too long with both fem reader and gn reader versions.)

Thank you @awanami08 for the idea <3

A few months have passed, and your house was fixed up, looking like a fire never happened. You still spent a lot of time over at Chris’s place, still in the honeymoon phase of your relationship. It was date night, and Chris wanted to surprise you with a home-cooked meal. He also had a little surprise for later that had to do with a conversation he overheard you had with one of your close friends on the phone. After you got home from work you quickly changed into something more comfortable, before heading next door.

As you made your way into the kitchen, you saw your large burly boyfriend wearing a cream-colored apron. “Look at you. You’ll make a fine house husband someday”, you snickered walking up to him, getting on your tippy-toes to kiss his scruffy cheek. He gave you a very unimpressed look which only made you laugh more. “What are you cooking chef?”, you asked, peeking into the pots and pans. “Just one of your favorite dishes”, he replied with a small smile as he continued to stir the contents in the pan. “Do you need some help?” you wrapped your arms around him, pressing your chest into his side as your hand of his firm abs rubbed up and down. He placed the wooden spoon down before turning in your grasp and placed his hands on your hips. “Want to set the table?” You nodded with a smile, tilting your head up to him. He dipped his head down to yours, capturing your lips in a soft languid kiss. You pulled back only for one of his large hands to move to the back of your head to pull you back in. You smiled into the kiss with a hum. Your hands trailed up to his pecs as he pulled you impossibly close into him. You pulled away for much needed air, biting your lip “Easy there big boy. We still need to eat”, you teased with a wink before slipping out of his hold to grab the silverware and plates.

You crack open your favorite bottle of wine as Chris brings the remaining dishes to the table. You both unwind, venting about work, talk about places your coworker told you about that would be nice for a little weekend get-away. As usual, the topic will somehow end up about music. After dinner, the two of you clean up the kitchen before heading over to the couch for tonight's movie. Lounging on the couch, you start looking through your phone to find the movie you wanted to stream. Chris comes up behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders, rubbing his thumbs into the muscles. "I'm going to take a shower real quick before we start." You nod your head as you let out a small moan as he works out a knot. "Since you made a mess" You commented with a smile. You look up at him, head against the headrest, face tilted up towards him. "Thank you again for cooking handsome." He leaned over you giving you a kiss, lips lingering on yours for a moment before placing one on your forehead.

As Chris left the steamy bathroom, towel hanging on his hips, he peered down the hall to see your feet dangling off the armrest, while you patiently waited for him. He haphazardly whipped himself off as he made his way into the bedroom. He rummaged through his work gear in the closet. Finding what he was looking for, he quickly pulled them on before calling your name. “Y/n. Can you help me with something?” You pushed yourself off the couch, slowly making your way to the bedroom as you continued to look at your phone. “What do you need help with?” There was a pregnant pause before you finally pulled your eyes away from your phone to see a half-naked Chris sporting his firefighter pants with red suspenders. Hair still damp from the shower, droplets of water roll down his sculpted pecs and over the ridges of his abs.

You take in a deep breath almost forgetting how to breathe. Your eyes trail over every inch of him, bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyebrow arched. You saunter over to him, hips swaying. “Now what can i-” you stopped short in front of him, fingertips trailing their way up the suspenders. Hooking your fingers under the fabric running up and down over his pebbled flesh, he flinched at the contact, “-help you with sir?” you purred as you looked up at him through your lashes. He looked down at you with lidded eyes. Your fingers slid down against the suspenders, going aching slow as you got closer to his pelvis.

Your eyes glance down at the very prominent tent in his pants. Dragging your hooked fingers into the waist of the pants, grazing against his skin, watching the muscles contract at the light teasing. Looking up at him with such an innocent look on your face, “Is this what you need help with sir?” you asked tilting your head to the side. Stretching up onto your toes, pushing your chest up against his. Feeling the warmth of his skin seep into you. Your reach down just a bit lower into his pants just barely missing the hilt. Chris dips his head towards you, his large hands cupping your cheeks. Taunting him with your plump lips, pulling back just before his lips ghost over yours. All while playing cat and mouse, your hands slither further down giving light touches around the base of his shaft, thumbs sweeping the underside, brushing against his heavy balls. Chris's breath became heavier and heavier, sharp inhales caught in his throat.

Your lip caught between your teeth as the corners of your mouth turn up. Eyes switching between his parted lips and his hungry eyes. Taking one of his calloused thumbs and running it slowly over the bottom of your lip, while the other roamed to the back of your head. Feeling his fingers comb through your hair before grabbing a handful, pulling at it causing you to crane your head up at him further. The gasp that left your mouth, caused him to twitch in your hands, feeling his hot breath hit your lips before he fixed his mouth over yours. He gave your hair another tug, using it as an advantage to slip in his warm muscle mapping out your mouth.

Hungrily swallowing all your moans, he nudges your feet apart with his. You obey giving his thick cock a squeeze before moving your hands from the confinement of his pants, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands slowly run down your body, giving each curve a squeeze before resting them on your ass. Getting a nice firm grip on your cheeks, he lifts you up like you weighed nothing. You squeaked against his lips, before wrapping your legs around him. He carried you over to the bed, placing you on the edge. You grabbed him by the front of his pants, pulling him closer placing light kisses at his pelvis as you unbuckled the suspenders, then undid the front. His hard member springing out from his pants, slapping against his abs. Letting the piece of clothing pool around his ankles, you placed both hands on his outer thighs holding him still. Peering up at him through your lashes, you ran your tongue over your bottom lip before tracing up the underside of his cock. Following the ridge all the way up to the crown of his cock.

His mouth hangs slightly open, trying to watch every second of you lather up his cock, but as you firmly press your tongue against the sensitive ridge, he couldn’t help but close his eyes as his head tilts back on the sensation. He let out a deep groan as you licked at the small slit at the head with the tip of your tongue, lapping up the salty precum. You wrapped your warm wet muscle around smooth reddening skin before closing your lips around it giving it a nice suck before sinking further down his length. You stilled as your nose brushed against his trail. He looked down at you, feeling your throat constrict around him. He was doing everything he could from not thrusting further into your throat. You pulled away slowly, watching as a string of saliva connected from him to your lips. Eliciting a soft fuck from him before he quickly moved to help you out of your clothes before climbing on top of you.

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