#there's a melancholic filter over these

[maximura]

[vampiefemme]

a soft n smutty piece for fall coziness… <3 the changing seasons always make me feel melancholic and i feel like ellie would take care of r if she was the same :)

tw: depression, nsfw, 18+ only

the sun filters into your bedroom through the half-drawn curtains, a warm glow that paints everything golden. you stretch out under the covers, hand reaching for sunlight, palm open against the blankets as warmth envelops your fingers. numb with cold, you defrost.

even as your hand soaks in the warmth of the sun, guilt twists inside you, ice cold. the phone in the kitchen has rung out three separate calls today, shrill and blaring in the silence of your apartment; you've melted too deep into the mattress to answer. the kitchen may as well be miles away.

she’s probably worried, you fret. what if she thinks i’m dead? i need to call her back.

but as much as you want to force yourself to leave the comfort of your duvet, the you-shaped crater in the bed, you can’t do it. you just can’t.

you’re not surprised when you hear the sounds of your girlfriend’s arrival, ellie’s key scraping the lock before she swings the door open. you’d given her your spare key months ago. she’d only used it on days like this.

you hear the rustle of plastic, the harried zips and thumps of ellie removing her boots at the front door. and then she’s appearing in your doorway, her face twisted with worry; brows drawn together, lips turned downward. she looks heartbroken.

“baby,” she says, voice tinged with a cocktail of equal parts relief and concern, “god, i thought you were—”

“dead?” you interject. your voice softens when you add, “i’m okay, el. i’m sorry i didn’t pick up the phone.”

“no, it’s okay, don’t worry.” she pads over the worn carpet, plastic bag crinkling at her side as she approaches you on the bed. “i brought breakfast.”

she holds up the bag for emphasis; you can see three to-go boxes inside. the smell of hash browns and scrambled eggs and pancakes wafts out towards you, and you hate the way it makes your mouth water. she knows breakfast is your favorite. you can hardly resist it, even this late in the day, as the sun sets outside your window.

“thank you.” you smile up at her. it’s forced—it doesn’t meet your eyes. she notices, because she always does.

“you don’t have to eat right now,” she clarifies. hazel eyes swoop over the bed, appraising the blankets splayed out over you in disarray, and she hesitates. you hold out your hand for her in encouragement. “come here, ellie.”

so she does. she sets the bag of breakfast food on the nightstand, then climbs over you with a clumsiness that seeps through her caution. you smile. genuinely. and then she’s kissing you, soft lips pressed to yours as her auburn locks tickle your cheeks. the kiss is gentle and languid, slow and soft and encouraging. she tastes like home, and you realize you’ve been aching for this feeling all day, body numb in the confines of your bedroom. you lose yourself in her kiss, sighing deep through your nose. her tongue is warm and wet against your lower lip; she works your mouth open and licks into you, sending heat rushing to your belly where it pools like molten gold.

you’ve found yourself in a haze lately: a fog so thick that it blurs out all feeling, leaving you spent in the silence of your apartment even after days of doing nothing. days of just thinking.

but ellie breaks through the fog as her hands cup your face, thumbs brushing soothingly over the apples of your cheeks. her tongue slides deliciously over yours and you moan without thinking. she freezes for just a moment. she draws back and you nearly whine, eyes barely opening to peer up into his.

“we don’t have to do anything,” she assures you as she leans forward to kiss the bridge of your nose. “not if you’re feeling down.”

your heart swells with affection for her: her disheveled hair, her soft gaze, her flushed lips swollen from kissing. her consideration for you. her love.

“but i want to,” you breathe. “i want it, ellie.”

so she disappears into the crook of your neck, the warmth of her mouth sending a shiver rocking through you as she presses kisses to your sensitive skin. each kiss gets more heated, her lips parting to suckle on the flesh right over your pulse. you moan and she pauses before murmuring against your throat, “are you sure?”

you nod almost frantically. “i’m sure, i’m sure.”

it doesn’t take long for her to undress you, which you’re grateful for. she works your shirt off and rolls your panties down your thighs, her hands smoothing back up over the supple skin.

on days like this, when you’re hardly afloat in the tidal wave of your melancholy, she tends to hold you with gentle wariness, as if you’d shatter if she moved too quickly. and you love it. the obvious adoration in her gentleness, in the need to take things slow.

but you decide you don’t want that today.

when her face is within reach again, you pull her in for a heated kiss. it quickly evolves into all tongue and spit and teeth, your lips smacking audibly as you trail your hands down her sides. you grip the soft cotton of her shirt and slowly pull it upwards, exposing inch by inch of pale, freckled skin, and when your fingers brush over her ribs, you feel the slow shudder that afflicts her. her body responding so instantly to your touch makes you dizzy with arousal; that pool of heat in your stomach grows ever-larger. it doesn’t help that she’s touching you too, the calloused pads of her fingers delicious against your skin. she grips and squeezes you in all the right places, drawing sharp breaths and high moans from your throat as her hands explore every inch of you.

suddenly, it’s hard to remember what came before this. the haze that had lingered over you for days. all you can think about is the feeling of ellie’s body against yours, her jeans scratchy as she rocks her hips down to yours. you hook your legs around her waist, bare cunt desperate for friction, even through a layer of denim.

you pull back from rushed, sloppy kisses to gasp at the sensation—you shamelessly rub yourself against her through her jeans, unable to find it in you to worry about the mess you’re making. ellie watches you in awe, your eyes half-lidded as your hips roll upward, your pretty lips parted in a delicate “o” shape.

“fuck it,” she rasps, and she’s lurching back to sit up on her heels, ripping her clothes off in a blur of fabric. her shirt falls off first, and then she works her way out of her jeans, so eager she stumbles a few times. you beam at her, eyes clouded with lust, and when she finds her way back between your legs, the feeling of her bare skin against yours has you gushing impossibly wetter. you find yourself in the same position as before, only now without the barrier of ellie’s clothes between you. you grind yourself up against her, twitching and gasping each time her pelvis glides over your clit; you can feel how wet you are, how messy you’re leaving her. and she can feel it, too, evident each time she moves her hips against yours and moans with her head tucked against your shoulder.

your impatience is a balloon that’s been filled and filled and filled, and it finally pops. you reach between your writhing bodies to ellie’s cunt; her teeth close around your shoulder when you give her clit a few slow strokes, fingertips pressing hard into the bundle of nerves. she soothes her bite with her tongue and then laughs under her breath, uttering lowly, “i’m sorry, fuck, just feels good.”

you hum in response, pausing to reach into the nightstand drawer, where you keep a harness and strap for situations like this. she draws in a shaky breath, turning her head to kiss your neck again, tongue circling your skin before she pulls back to slip into the harness. then she’s back on you, pulling you in for another heated kiss as she drags the tip of the strap through your folds and up to the bud of your clit. you’re soaked everywhere, and her cock feels so smooth as it glides effortlessly over you; you’re barely breathing.

ellie’s voice is in your ear, quiet but thick with lust. “let me eat you out first.”

and it sounds amazing, it really does. any other time, you’d relent, let her mouth at your cunt for hours until you’re so fucked-out you can’t think straight. but that’s not what you need right now.

“i need you inside me,” you tell her, voice low and sultry, almost unrecognizable from its usual timbre. ellie hears it, too, the husk in your tone making her grit her teeth with a low, gravelly moan. “shit, baby—can’t say no to that.”

she slides into you so easily, your cunt opening smoothly around her as she pushes in to the hilt. you both sigh in pleasure, you at the feeling of being so deliciously full, her at the satisfaction of watching your expression dissolve into pure bliss.

“so fuckin’ wet, goddamn,” ellie murmurs. she draws back only to fuck into you again, and you whine when she brushes up against the end of you. the spot that only she can find. that only spurs her on—she starts fucking you in earnest without much buildup, too pent up to be patient and slow and intentional. she knows what you want, you realize, flooded with arousal as her hips slam into yours. her strap drags perfectly through you, so deep you see stars behind fluttering eyelids.

“ellie,” you moan, brows pinched together, mouth hanging open.

she doesn’t slow down, skin smacking against skin as she fucks herself into you. “what do you need, baby? i’ll give it to you. i’ll give you anything.”

another moan tears out of your throat at her words, your arms moving up to snake around her neck and reel her in for another sloppy kiss. “more,” you gasp, your foreheads pressed together, slick with sweat. “more, please, more.”

ellie gives you one last, searing kiss, then pulls back to readjust. she stills inside you while she grabs hold of your legs, palms squeezing the doughy flesh of your thighs before she pushes them toward your chest. your knees are up by your shoulders like this, and you reach your hands around to support yourself, though your own touch can’t rival her. “good girl,” she praises when she notices what you’re doing, allowing your hands to replace her. she instead brings her attention to your hips, holding them still while she pulls almost all the way out and fucks back into you. and it’s rougher, now, more intentional. ellie moves faster, harder; you cry out a blissful oh my god, tears burning in your eyes from the sheer pleasure of it.

this is it—this is what you needed. and ellie gives it to you exactly how you want it, her body smacking against your ass and the backs of your thighs, her cock hitting that sweet spot within you so rhythmically that you find your brain is entirely empty. the ceaseless noise in your head has quieted, in its place is sheer pleasure.

your release sneaks up on you; you’re not thinking straight, overwhelmed with lust and the warmth it floods through your veins. you come suddenly but with so much force it nearly knocks the wind out of you. squirming and shaking under ellie’s towering form, your cunt spasms around the silicon cock and she groans out in delight.

spent, ellie lowers her weight on you, still careful not to crush you beneath her. you’re both catching your breath, but she can’t drive away the urge to kiss you. slower, this time. more loving.

“hey,” she says, “i love you.”

you smile against her lips, giving her another few pecks before you tell her, “i love you too.”

her arms are warm, lithe, and strong around you, holding you as close as she can. but when you start to wiggle underneath her, she groans in disapproval.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i just—i really wanna eat some pancakes.”

[comfortless]

The way you write König makes me cry and dry heave cuz you balance his loser unhingeness and his heartbreaking tenderness is✨ ART✨

Now I feel like you would be able to EAT this prompt up but imagine König as Frankenstein’s creature that is this big ass hulking mass of body that immediately makes the town grab their pitchforks but he can DESTROY them in seconds. But inside he is just a little guy who just wants somebody to hold and love (and other activities if ya know what I mean

Keep doing what you do❤️

A Place For Us

Frankenstein’s creature! König x fem! horologist reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. discrepancies!, reader is implied to have anxiety, angst & fluff, non-malicious stalking?, loner/loner dynamic my beloved.., brief mentions of previous murders and religious imagery, codependency, smut; masturbation, unprotected piv.

notes: receiving this ask was so funny to me because @melancholic-thing and i have been bouncing this idea around forever (i simply could not have brought this any justice without ghost’s input— if you see this please know that ily dearly). thank you, anon for your kind words and finally giving me the push that i needed to write it! 💘

wc: 10.6k

You’re good at fixing broken things; tinkering with them with a set of well-polished tools until they begin to tick, or chime, or cuckoo.

Some take longer than an afternoon sat before the wooden desk, weeks or months— a year, once. Oiled parts and small cogs, the three arms that jerk and glide over a face riddled with numbers that all lull you into feeling that your work is not just some monotonous service only the rich buzzards could afford, but as if you were a healer of sorts; a little cleric stationed to bring life into whichever jagged, broken thing has been dropped or kicked at her doorstep.

This one, however… you’re convinced it’s as good as dead.

No matter how many times you take apart the little, gray pocket watch, the arms refuse to move. Its ticking sounds less like that of the beating of the heart and more like the grinding of dry teeth, a corpse begging, pleading to let this attempted resurrection come to an end.

Your tweezers wrench the face free, and all at once it proves too much— bending and warping beneath the metal grip until it cracks, a split right through it, down to its very center.

“How…” Your voice fills the void of ticking, pseudo-silence surrounding you. A word slipped out in frustration and unknowing before you finally toss the wretched little thing onto the desk with a clatter and step aside.

The house is as dark and brooding as always, too large for a woman on her own and a workshop that hardly counts as a proper business. Shelves of broken clocks serve as decor where potted plants and well-loved photographs should sit in their stead. Books of study for modern devices such as these in place of the poetry and worn love letters other women seemed to have in abundance.

This place was starved out of light, even with the flickering glow of candles and the electric humming of the unnatural yellow one above.

The sun is no stranger, either, your curtains neatly pulled aside to allow for it to filter through like an invited guest. Only it doesn’t, not on such a melancholic gray day.

You need a walk, a distraction, or this hungry home would be certain to rip away your work from the shelves and swallow you whole instead.

Isn’t it such a tragedy that, someone who pours her creativity and all of her love into time, all she seems to do is waste it?, the gaudy wallpaper seems to taunt, all the colors of filthy maroon and darkened blue flowers seeming to make it feel more imposing and less of a comfort.

Your hand curls around the handle of your umbrella, a sturdy thing, but just as drab as the rest of the home. Then, the package you’ve been putting off delivering to the elderly woman in town. Best to get it done with now, maybe upon your return the hands that fix could do so once again.

Shame about the clock face though. You would certainly have to patch together another and pray the pocket watch’s owner wouldn’t notice.

The wind is not what you had anticipated.

Outside is different. The howling of it past the windows and shuddering through the attic felt perfectly at home in your shoddy little house, but as the door swings shut behind you, it feels entirely alive. Cold and bitter and angry— the things you keep repressed that nature lacks the tact to.

The trees bend and sway from its invisible yet incessant pushing. The hand containing the package falls down to the lap of your skirt to keep it from flying up just as your other clutches the umbrella ever tighter to keep it from billowing out into the air to be left discarded miles away.

It isn’t a short walk to town, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, it almost seems as though you’re in more tender company than the lumber and the ticking clocks.

The path through the forest is overgrown as always, branches are pushed aside and your skirt is lifted to avoid burrs and thorns.

You should have had the sense to bring along a coat, because when the thunder does strike up and the rain finally begins to fall in heavy, hurried drops, you find yourself shivering terribly with the package guarded against your chest.

Lamplight would have done well, too.

You would have almost happily allowed yourself to toss aside the umbrella and be battered by the rain if you could only see. The forest is dark on days like this, with the canopy of thick branches and their dense leaves blocking out any sliver of light cast down from overhead.

It’s only by sheer luck that you don’t manage to trip, toss your delivery into the shadow of a tree and lose it entirely before you do make it out. When the trees finally part to the barren hill overlooking town you breathe a sigh of relief, a quiet thanks for the grayed light above.

Your steps are hurried as you make your way through the quiet town. The shop windows are all lit aglow with the silhouettes of people inside, strangely dancing like shadows through a fog. A place you can not be, can not touch.

The stares the townsfolk give you make your skin crawl, as though they are so close to being what you are but not, only tied down to your world when they think themselves lofty. Their eyes always seem to question, scrape under your skin with sharpened arms, ticking and flaying, always asking: Why?

You face forward as your skin begins to prickle, not from the wet or the chill but a subdued sort of fear that nestles burning into your chest, sets your heart rushing like a rabbit.

The streets are silent enough, a small blessing; any passing strangers are hurriedly skittering through the rain and muck to hide away in their homes, children ushered with a hand to their back by flustered looking mothers, complaining in hushed voices about the rain. You only smile at them and step aside when your paths cross.

They never smile for you.

It’s why the broken clocks are delivered to your doorstep rather than brought inside, addresses and names from muffled voices calling out beyond your thick wooden door, coins and bills pushed through the mail slot to lie cold on the welcome mat. The bell above the door never chimes, and you only make your deliveries on days like this, when the rain or the dark blanket you up to keep you safe and eternally somber.

You leave the package on the doorstep, covered from the rain by a small, vermillion awning. One sharp knock is given and you’re back on your way, back to the old house, to the simplicity of the ticking, the comfort of the old cobweb on the vaulted ceiling and the drab gray of the bleakness.

There are puddles now, glistening with any light they can suck into their depths, threatening and taunting as the dull stares and that rickety old desk you really should fix. You think for a moment, that perhaps no one would even notice if one of those dark pits of rain water pulled you in entirely, only to splash through it with ease, dirtying the ends of your skirt.

The rain lessens when you crest the hill, the forest less a tangle of clattering limbs and now only a gentle sway reaches the tops of the trees, light filtering through them, as if to guide you on your way. It doesn’t lessen the bushels of thorns, the tree limbs downed and scattered over the path. In some small blessing, you’re able to scramble over them without having to plan a visit to a tailor to repair a ripped gown; scrubbing the mud from it would surely be tedious enough.

The droplets splatter against the dirt and fallen leaves in hushed bursts, the forest alive as always with the cooing of nesting birds in spite of the rain. The only thing that seems out of place is a sudden, soft thud, the snap of a branch underfoot. Just one footfall, and things return to a placid state amidst the sky’s tears.

You raise your head to glimpse in the direction, gaze sweeping over the figure of a man some paces off to your left. Beneath the shadow of a broad, twisting pine layered in thick branches, his details are mostly obscured, a thin trail of silver light only casting aglow the glimpse of a blue eye.

He’s only large enough to notice, shoulders slumped and chest rapidly rising to fall like a frightened animal; as his silhouette shifts just so you even consider that he’s shivering.

There’s something in that stare of somber blue that splinters at the wall of discomfort; it is not accusing, not bitter, worn and cold. Curious. Something akin to your own.

Damn your sweetness, your inability to simply let things be even as that ache twists around in your chest, clawing at a cage of bone and hissing that you keep silent. Be on your way. Don’t look back.

Instead, you extend your umbrella outward, toward him.

“Awful rain, hm?,” you chime.

The figure visibly tenses, seems to shrink into himself for a moment before straightening and giving one solemn nod.

“You can take my umbrella. I’m almost home, anyway.”

That seems to spark something, not much, but the stranger does take a step forward. Your eyes catch on the wet, matted hair clinging to his head, cascading down to shroud a face you still can’t quite make out.

The poor thing stirs something in you, a deep sympathy that clouds even the judgment of that flighty, skittish thing resting deep inside.

Even from such a distance it’s clear that he’s been neglected, likely cast off by the town even less favorably than you have. His scent carries on the breeze, like dirt and wood and misery.

You extend the umbrella again before realizing he won’t come any closer with you being there. So, you lower it to the ground, avoiding the mud as best you could and leave it. If he took it, fine. If not, you travel this path so often it would be collected in time.

The figure mutters something as you rise, a low string of foreign words that you can only interpret as being spoken out of surprise, perhaps even gratitude.

You smile toward him as you wipe fat, slithering raindrops from your brow.

“You don’t want to catch a fever.”

With that, you’re back on your way, thoughts of the rugged stranger weigh heavy on your mind as the roof of your home comes into view, stilted and in the same drab navy as the flowers on the wallpaper.

You could have done more. It had been instilled into you to not to open the door for someone you did not quite know, yet a part of you longed to take care of something not simply fed by oil, something only capable of telling you how much time you’ve sat alone as thanks.

Surely it was best not to let it distract you.

This was good enough.

The key is produced, the door opened, and just like the many times before that you have forced yourself from this place, the house seems less unsettling upon your return.

As what little daylight remains fades away into night, you find yourself seated, toying with the old pocket watch once more. It’s the only one that doesn’t make a lick of sense, a puzzle that can not be solved. For all the polished parts and meticulous tinkering, it still won’t work properly.

It grates and growls as though rusted, the cogs shifting inside with each movement of the arms are well-polished yet seem to do little but hiss and spit.

This is the fourth time you have taken it apart only to put it back together with no improvement.

There was little to be known about the man who owned it, some pompous, arrogant creature that you had only seen in passing. He had turned his nose up to you, you were sure of that, only to deliver this dying thing to your door the following day.

Your work had always been compared to your father’s. Though you possessed a similarity in skill, you were not what the townsfolk had deemed to be respectable. An unwed lady out on her own, biding her time repairing what they had broken rather than feeding hungry mouths delivered from her very womb, how terribly scandalous.

The pocket watch is set aside as you busy yourself tailoring a small sheet of metal for it. The graduations are carved in with a sharp razor, impeccably angled. Then, the Roman numerals, just before it’s slotted back into place.

The likeness to the former face is nearly uncanny, it’s only sturdier and less susceptible to ripping from the mere touch of tweezers. The rust s gone from the casing, and at long last— it ticks; no grinding growl as the second hand begins its revolution. The fickle thing just needed a touch up, you supposed as you flick off the desk lamp and rise to your feet.

The curtains are drawn as they always were when you step into the bedroom. The muddy dress is finally peeled away as you change and slink into the covers, and just for a moment, you almost think that you feel the animal between your breasts begin to settle too.

———

There’s a letter stuffed into the mail slot: crumpled with no postage stamp, scrawled across some scrap of paper that surely was plucked from a garbage bin.

You marvel at the lack of care for a moment before your fingers do find themselves pawing at it, unfurling the worn edges to find the words: Thank you.

Written in thick black ink, there’s a clumsiness to it, the dance of a quivering hand holding pen. You think back to the elderly woman you had made that delivery to only yesterday; had she trudged through the mud and muck just to bring you this?

Her thanks was only needed in the blessing of payment, and she had already generously done just that when she left her little humming wall clock at the door.

You flip the note over, inspecting it carefully. There’s a line there, too, hastily scratched out in the same black ink, the lines crossing and digging leaving little pinprick holes in the paper.

Holding it to the light, you can just barely make out the words: I have been alone.

Your mouth dries at the sentiment, tongue flicking out to try and force a wetness to your lips. The animal begins its keening howl, a chain rattling as claws sink into your innards; the very same agitated fear that starved you out of comfort day in and out.

The man in the forest, perhaps. You were sure that you would have remembered seeing someone so disheveled and tall about town, and if not for a certainty that he had not followed you home, you would have assumed it was him. Gratitude finally said, and well on his way to someplace else.

There’s nothing here for him or anyone else, surely he could see that. Even you could.

The walls around you seem to bulge, the room shrinking once again as every little thing held within begins to taunt and yowl. Safety was only a temporary luxury, it always has been.

The letter is discarded onto a table, as you opt to hazard a peek out of your curtains instead. The gray from yesterday remains as thick clouds crowd above, threatening another storm. The treetops and tall grass dance in the breeze, freeing leaves and breaking flower stems. There’s no one standing there to greet you, to explain themselves for the strange message that they had left.

The town had probably already driven you to madness, picturing things that were not there while old fools jab you with ominous letters and jeering stares to see just how long it would take to watch you fall apart.

Another delivery day it would be, then; best to get it out of the way before the rain begins to fall.

Maybe you could even retrieve the umbrella along the path, discarded, battered from the rain and likely unused.

You don’t bother packaging the pocket watch, choosing to hastily stuff it into the pocket of your coat instead. Courtesies be damned. Tea and a warm bath would do well when the house was sated by your absence, when you were finally given time to breathe.

In your haste, you nearly kick over what’s been left on the uppermost stair leading to your door.

You find a table clock covered in a thick black fabric, a little note attached to it giving the owner’s name and address, and a small bag containing payment.

It’s all securely placed inside, next to the ugly letter on the table.

Your umbrella doesn’t wait on the path, but you’ve hardly the mind to care. Your hand tightens around the pocket watch as you cord your way down the path and back into town, rushing amidst the foliage until the sounds of your footfalls are dulled by the street.

Reaching the house, a towering narrow building that smells like tobacco even from outside, your hand curls to knock at the door in the same breath taken as the chain is plucked to place it on the knob, intent on scurrying away immediately to avoid the disgusted gaze of the man that waits inside.

You don’t quite make it far enough before the door swings open and you’re greeted by a round face, nose upturned and lip curled into a sneer.

That isn’t imagination.

There’s a genuine hate in this man, seeping down into his bones that makes him almost seem to reek like sulfur through the cloud of cigarette smoke that wafts around him. It’s the face of someone who would love nothing more than to see your own damnation, watch the earth suck you in until your wails fall silent and a fire roars upward in your wake.

“This isn’t my watch, dear.”

“Parts needed to be replaced,” you explain, voice tight and keening like a wolf in a trap, “I assure you that I—“

“It’s shoddy work. Any clocksmith up north would have done better for half the price..”

It goes on like this for what feels like at minimum thirty revolutions, but it must have only been five or so. His droning voice makes it hard to keep track, buzzing as he examines your work, hours wasted upon aiding such an awful creature.

He only seems to grow bored of his chiding when you fall to silence. He wants a reaction, not a wide-eyed fretful stare and pursed lips caging in any sound that may bubble up from your throat.

In one final act of detestation, the watch is tossed to the ground, stomped in repetition until the hands snap, the ticking quiets, and you see months of your work brought to ruin in a mere seven seconds.

He storms back inside and slams the door shut as you stoop to collect the little, broken thing, cradling it in your palms. Maybe it wouldn’t be fixed again, but you’ve hardly the mind to let anything be left abandoned like this.

Though the anger builds, white bitter smoke billowing through your veins, it remains tucked away inside eventually communing with the animal, all but entirely snuffed out when your steps lead you to the front door of the house.

The window to the right is open, not broken. The curtains were pushed aside as though to allow a breeze to enter. A muddy footprint, vast and long scales the siding, but there’s no exiting one to join it.

You stare and listen, taking one quiet step towards the open window to strain your hearing. Nothing. Inside, it’s quiet, only the sound of the breeze rattling that note left on the table, the ticking and the familiar creaks and groans of the house settling.

So, you enter.

With the poker from the hearth in tow, the rooms are investigated one by one. Each and every one of them clear of any intruder. Even the attic, for all of it’s imagined ghosts sits empty, stale and silent. There’s no one here, nothing out of place or broken that hadn’t already been cast out from the world and delivered into your hands.

Strangely enough, it’s more peaceful like this; the leaves could be heard rustling outside, birds calling, even the chirps and strumming of crickets too late to flee the onset of chill seeping through this purgatory, filling the mundane void with sounds of life and peace.

You leave the window open.

The pocket watch is left on the desk, the kettle filled with water and placed upon the stove to heat, all before your eyes trail over to that little table beside the front door.

The only thing amiss is there, your intuition roars at you: “Look, look. Just look.”

The table clock from this morning sits there, the wood casing dusty and the hands perpetually stuck to sit at six o’clock, easy to enough to break, and easier still to fix. An overworked battery and a little oil would be its saving grace; if only things could be so simple for yourself, for the thousand or so others that surely must feel the same— clawed, fretful little rabbits.

Your eyes narrow momentarily, vaguely recalling that the damned thing had been covered when it was dragged inside. Something sable and thick, a scrap of a heavy dress shirt perhaps, verily stained. Odd that someone would have broken in merely to steal something so useless, but stranger tales have been told. For all you cared, the perpetrator could keep it.

You entertain the idea of the wild man in the trees, thick and sturdy as one. Perhaps he left the note, stole warmth from your home and found comfort in that useless old shirt after leaving that roughly scrawled note. Though the idea would horrify others, it only sets your ceaselessly racing pulse at ease.

Toying with the idea that someone so very much like you lurks the hills, found a home in your eyes and paid a visit, kind enough to wait until you were in town as to not scare you… and the kettle begins to whistle.

———

You had forgotten to close the window last night. Or maybe it was left as an invitation, a silent offer of your companionship for the unknown thing that occupies your already haunted mind these days. Something in your subconscious dared you to simply forget, see what happens, and you’re not entirely disappointed to find out that yes, something has happened.

There are three flowers laid out there in a row, smushed by the weight of a heavy palm: a daffodil left golden and proud despite the way her petals fray and wither, and two others wild and unnamed with blue and white colors leading to vibrant green stems. And roots. He hadn’t the time to pluck them proper, nor had a sense of gentleness to his touch in doing so.

It’s the first time you’ve laughed in months, a giggling that makes your chest ache from a sudden mirth through all of this wretchedness. Who knew it would only take three flowers and the appearance of someone so disconnected? You take them and place them in a vase in the same spot, careful to add just the right amount of water to keep them living for a time.

Someone brought you flowers— actually brought you a gift, not a job. You remember those eyes, too. His hands may not have been gentle, but that look was.

Though darkness still creeps internally, you’re resolute in what you must do when you prepare for the day. You’ve never really worn this dress— a soft, white thing with billowing sleeves and tight cuffs that brings a swell to your breasts and cinches your waist. One of the women about town had given it to you in lieu of payment for repairing her husband's watch, left a note prattling onward for three pages about how a woman should dress to find a man. Three!

You’ll find him, thank him for the flowers, bat your eyelashes just a little and retrieve your umbrella. That’s all. The rain would be back, more deliveries would have to be made, and if you could manage a friend from all of this well… surely things could work out for you, just this once.

Your steps are less hurried and more tentative this time around. You don’t barrel through the woods like a galloping mare, mindful of your dress as you lift the fabric at the hips to avoid thick, slickened mire. There isn’t much to do about the thorns nipping at your ankles, leaving little scratches like cat’s claws in their wake.

The thought that maybe this was a ridiculous idea only settles in your mind after an hour of searching. You don’t even have a name to call him by, not an idea on just where he may be or what his intentions truly were, all further punctuated by the fact that you’ve found yourself in the midst of a wild orchard, the yellowing grass nearly reaching your knees as you reluctantly allow your dress to flow free. Thick clusters of apples hang above your head, each nearly ripe, some even fallen to leave a fragrant sweet smell in the wake of their rot.

Thunder roars above, distant but loud, cruelly threatening the wake of a downpour that would so easily sully the delicate thing you wear. Your chest aches from exertion, from whichever horrid fear it's settled on today, and you’re nearly fully convinced of your own madness when something does finally catch your eye.

There’s a cabin, nestled between the trees, old and lacking glass panes for the windows. The roof is covered in moss, walls creeping with the old green of vines and nearly hidden away entirely by the tall grass that rises above its face.

You could wait out the storm in the dark there, rethink your steps until you find a way back home and the prospect of actually entering a building that wasn’t the very picture of your own agony stirs something within you.

You don’t bother to knock, only waltz right in and let the door shut softly behind you. It creaks as it goes, whining from the rust laden over its hinges. As expected, the cabin is mostly barren; a set of dust laden chairs sits on opposite ends of a table missing a leg, a large bookshelf housing only a torn copy of Paradise Lost and a journal, a few dirtied dishes are left on the floor, and in the corner…

There are a lot of things that make you feel small.

You couldn’t live up to your father’s name in town. The thought that you were not an equal to the other ladies with their fine jewelry and dresses, rings wrapped around their fingers, that was a sore spot despite the way you refused to admit to it. Even the hounds lurking about the butcher’s shop on lonely night deliveries, baying and growling when your feet carried you too close.

None of those things could even compare to how you felt now.

The rug he lies beneath is large on its own, but your flower-giving, grateful titan seems even more so. It’s as though walking into a bear’s den and expecting a mere squirrel. Even curled into himself in sleep, he seems impossibly huge.

You couldn’t see much of him that first night, but now… where the rags that make up his clothes reveal a series of long scars along his legs, the hairy arms that seem far too thick: all of him, all of him is massive.

Your rabbit heart does not claw or fight you now, it only flutters, placated by the sight of something so… was there really a word for it? The idea that someone so imposing could strike the match of attraction within you. Feelings were strange, each comes sharp and new like the deliberate twist of a knife through a body, soft like warm bread.

You smile as you wander to his side, recognizing the cloth he wears over his head immediately as the one stolen from your house. Your dress is smoothed at your rear as you lower yourself to sit on your knees at his side, quiet and slow.

“Hello,” you whisper, placing a hand on a shoulder that dwarfs it entirely, feeling the bulge of muscle beneath the ripped shirt, the ridge of keloid scars from deep cuts laid into his skin.

The titan’s eyelids flutter for a moment as he begins to stir, staring up at the ceiling, teetering on the edge between waking and dreaming. Then, those cold blue eyes lock onto you. A flash of disbelief crosses them, just for a moment before something flips and from the holes ripped into that makeshift hood you see an expression that seems almost agonized.

“Hello,” he rasps after a long moment, shifting onto his side to prop himself up and raise his head to level with your own.

His breathing is shallow, almost panicked and you finally think to bring your hands to your lap instead, avoid touching him and potentially startling the poor man further.

“I wanted to thank you… for the flowers. They’re beautiful.” You pause as you study what little of his expression you can make out through the mask, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners only giving a glimpse of a smile. All teeth, probably, an excited one that even the imagination of warms your heart. “I put them in a vase. I didn’t want them to die.”

“I should not have…” His voice is softer than you ever imagined that it could be, well-spoken as the words are pulled from his throat. You find yourself transfixed, almost, praying that he continues if only to hear the delicate strumming of his tone, the soft sigh of breath that leaves him afterward.

“Es tut mir leid.”

The apology is followed by a low sweep of his gaze, slowly crawling from the peek of your cleavage to your hips to rest where your hands lay clasped in your lap.

He hardly seems to know what to do with himself, what to say, and all at once the realization dawns on you that no, he isn’t merely paying his thanks and seeking conversation. Perhaps that was part of it then, but now… he seems almost entranced.

You recognize those looks, from men in passing when they leered, but from him… from this weary, haunted stranger. It only seems a silent sort of reverence; as though longing for something he’s been deprived of.

“No, it’s fine, it made me happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yes, it was sweet.”

He falls silent at that, conflicted if the pinch of his brow were anything to go by. Then, sudden, he takes your wrist and jerks your hand toward his face, thumb brushing over the small calluses over each pad of your fingers. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails, even more scaring along those massive hands and you shiver. It’s not fear it’s… something akin to it, opposite by the way it dances and writhes in warmth rather than the cold.

“You have the hands of a maker.”

Strange, sweet Goliath.

His words are spoken somberly, as if there is more to say that he holds back. A part of you warns that you’re not prepared for it anyhow, so you let him continue that motion, brushing over your palm with a featherlight touch until it begins to tickle.

Your giggle prompts him to raise his head, watery eyes threatening tears when he hears that sweet sound bubble up from within you. His hand curls over your own, trapping you in his grasp as though little else matters to him more than the need to touch you in some way.

“You have kind eyes.”

“I am not kind.”

You shake your head at that, flicking your thumb across the top of his burly hand, marveling at the smooth skin of his scars and the rough texture of the hair that dots his knuckles.

“You’re sweet to me, and that’s all that matters.”

It could have been a mistake, how easily you’ve taken to this bizarre titan. Any lady with proper regard for her standing and womanhood assuredly wouldn’t have said something like that to a beast that has the stature and the scent of something wild.

Still, the words leave your lips far too quickly to draw back; he responds with an urgency.

You find yourself pulled ever closer by the iron grip on your hand, tugged into the rug-turned-mattress by this man as he cages you in to meld against his chest. He’s everywhere, warm and burning against the chill of your skin with flesh touched by hellfire.

You only sigh pitifully when his arm wraps around your waist. When was the last time you had even felt an embrace? You couldn’t recall, and even if you had, it would have paled in comparison to one such as this. You breathe him in like a summer’s breeze, tasting a hint of the apple orchard beyond on your tongue when you open your mouth to speak once again.

“See..?”

The tension in his muscles seems to melt away; if your heart is like a hare then surely his must be more akin to a bull. It takes some time before he softens entirely against you, despite his initiation. His breath is almost a pant when his hand trails upward along your back, feeling every ridge and dip and curve, breath catching in wonder as you allow it.

“You are soft like…”

His head dips to press into your shoulder, breathing you in, humming his approval at the mingling scent of clock oil and tea leaves that lingers on your skin. Even from beneath the hood, you can feel the way his lips brush over you, his mouth parted in a voiceless plea.

“… like one of the flowers.”

It’s almost torture really, how someone could be so comforting, so endearing.

His hand trails further, drifting over the backside of your dress to curl against your thigh threatening something if you don’t conjure the sense to stop him. It stokes the fire within you, glowing ember in place of a brain, it seemed. You feel weak, lost in a foreign touch and sweet, clumsily spoken words.

If the townsfolk could see you now, herded up in this stranger’s arms, surely they wouldn’t dare to cast any disapproval your way. Not one of those meek little devils would have a word to say… not now or ever again.

“You’re like… a tree then,” you whisper as you finally will yourself to twist away from the grip, already mourning the loss of warmth as a cold wind filters through the openings in the cabin.

He doesn’t sulk as you pull away, only seems content to have been blessed with that much. That mist remains in his eyes before they shut again, willing himself to rise to sit up just as you do.

“Will you stay?”

You glance over the cabin again, with all of its dust and cobwebs. Your umbrella sits in the corner, propped upright with its handle leant against the wall, out of place amidst the dilapidation prevalent here.

This wasn’t a home at all, just a quiet, cold purgatory. Though the halls of your own may mock your solitude, this place seems to echo his very being: alone, broken, rotting and so, so very cold.

Your heart bleeds as you weigh your options, expression growing sullen and torn. He notices, tentatively takes your hand again in an almost practiced way of providing comfort. Had he ever even…

Your thoughts begin to drift again, and you force yourself to settle on a choice. It’s not your heart that should be damned, but that horrid seed of doubt constantly burdening, stealing from, and clawing at you.

“I should get home, before the rain.”

“Verstanden.”

“You can come too.”

There’s an audible hiss of breath through his teeth, that peculiar look of agony crosses his face again… and finally, he weeps.

———

König, you think to call him.

He teaches you German from time to time, in turn for you allowing him to watch as you work away at the clocks. It feels fitting in a way. Not because he harbors the self-importance of a noble figure, nor his stature; he’s simply become something impossibly important in the week long span you’ve spent together now.

You’ve decorated the guest room properly for him, and in turn he’s brought you firewood, foraged and hunted so that neither of you have had to bother with the town. The fire raged in the hearth as the cold continues to set in, and your walks to town have been enjoyable now. He accompanies you to the hill on some nights, draws you a bath when you come home, even cooks.

So… maybe a king was not entirely appropriate, but calling him a servant certainly wasn’t either. Even with the way he seems to melt and become docile at the slightest brush of your hand, the way you know with a certainty he would die for you if you spoke the word.

And still, you call him König: the king of your heart.

There are flowers at your windowsill each morning, still clinging to their roots. You bake the bread while he cooks stew with herbs gathered from the little garden just beyond the walls of the home, one he’s graciously told you he’s wanted to expand for you. Books you’ve overlooked for years have been read end to end by him, and he especially seems to like those with art of flowers drawn into their pages, always seeking you out to show you, explain their meanings, expressing the beauty that he sees in them and within you.

You don’t know where he’s come from, what his life was like before this, and with the same respect that he gives to you… you don’t ask.

“We’re starting a new story,” you had said the first morning over a breakfast of hastily made apple dumplings. To which he had agreed, with a somber hum, nodding his hooded head.

Though you do wonder about his secrets, his face. Seeing him now is all it really takes to make you smile.

He comes through the door, hauling in the massive grandfather clock that a carriage had left only this morning. The bob and the lyre both appeared broken at a glance, but your heart sinks when you read the name on the note left attached to it.

The same petulant little man that had stomped that poor watch to pieces right in front of you, no doubt he had broken this one too in some sort of tantrum. What was it now? Had the poor clock chimes a bit too loudly during the night? Was that deserving of a foot lodged right into its heart?

“König, do you mind just leaving it there?” You gesture toward the middle of the room, watching as the muscles beneath his shirt don’t even seem to ripple from exertion.

“Natürlich.”

As you set to work, pulling away parts, straightening out bends and replacing what’s broken, he kneels at your side watching with rapt attention. There’s no fixing the pendulum bob entirely, it’s far too bent and scraped, but you wouldn’t be replacing that with work of your own either. The bastard gets what he gets and that will do.

In truth, your work since having König here has only improved, and perhaps you’re showing off a bit, but the way he watches you tinker with the dusty old things as if mesmerized fills you with pride. You could fix anything, yes, with him at your side you wanted to.

The house doesn’t echo wasted time anymore, only that crowding feeling of something buzzing and chirping, budding up in the spaces where shadows should crawl: love. You wouldn’t trade it for the loneliness to return, not ever. A new sort of fear that stings just as much as it does caress.

So you work in silence, only breaking it to answer the sparse questions that he throws out.

When the clock is shoddily finished, you wipe the oil from your hands on a rag, and take König’s own large arm as it’s offered out to you to stand.

“I will carry it for you tonight,” he suggests, delicately brushing a bit of dust from your sleeve. His touch does linger, always lingers, trailing up to massage at your shoulder and cup at your neck. The swell of heat that arrives at your face then, the press of your thighs beneath your skirt… it’s always the same.

“I thought that you didn’t want to go into town?”

Your shoulder meets his chest as you press against him, doing very little to calm your body’s frustrations. The blood within you stirs like a violent wave feeling him this near— cleaned up and dressed in some patchwork conglomerate of your father’s old clothes. He smells like a union between the earth and sea, salt and alder leaf, a hint of thyme and lavender.

His eyes glitter when his gaze roves from your face to chest, hand skittering down to curl at the small of your back. To anyone else, you would look the picture of husband and wife perhaps.

“I would go anywhere with you.”

A fresh normal, like the rise of spring, those words and touches that suggest more: threatening while you plead in silence for him to just give you a push, unlace your dress and finally feel and see him properly.

“Then… yes, let’s get the cursed thing out of here tonight.”

His grip tightens around you just for a moment, fingers curling and flexing into the soft linen covering you, bunching it up just so at your back before he relents, draws away.

“You dislike this one?” König sounds almost hurt, perhaps he favored it, being tall and similar to him in some way. Another odd thing, hard to place, but he’s never seemed to like you talking down about your own work, a habit that needed breaking.

“No,” you begin to explain, curling your arms around his middle as you both stare at the thing, ticking quietly before you, “its owner is just a pain.”

“I can tell. You seem nervous, meine geliebte.”

“You haven’t taught me that one yet,” you point out, not playing coy, despite the look he gives you that suggests you know.

There’s always that ache when his eyes narrow and that playful glint reaches them. How someone could look as though they’ve suffered dozens of lifetimes of pain and still have that look, you did not know, but it excites you. A furious, needy excitement.

“Beloved,” is all that he says.

The stare relents as he heads back out into the garden, leaving you to sort yourself out.

———

“You’re sure that you can carry it the entire way?”

It’s not that you could help, really. The thing must have weighed as much as yourself, strung up over König’s back with a rope he had found lying someplace in the garden.

“Ja, it’s fine.” He’s not out of breath in the slightest either. You realize then that if you put on all your charms bending, arching and delicately maneuvering your hands to fix the clocks, the assuredly this was his way of doing the same. You try to reign yourself in from staring at the damp spot on his shirt, clinging to his broad expanse of chest, the way that his thighs seem to tense with each step forward.

You can’t— you merely trail behind him until you take the lead to bring him right to the other man’s doorstep. Your hands find the ropes that keep the clock saddled to König’s back, carefully untying them as he stoops down to let its wooden legs rest against the ground below. It scrapes, the consequence of being so heavy and forced to stand on those four tiny legs, and only then does it decide to make a cacophony of noise signaling the new hour, a trilling sort of bong that makes even your ears ring as it breaks up the silence of the night.

You don’t even need to knock, because the door flies open immediately. The man stands proud, unperturbed by your giant companion as he shoves past you to inspect his clock. There are no greetings, no pleasantries, and if you were just a bit more careless with your reputation, smacking him would have only brought you satisfaction.

“Not good, but it will do,” the little man huffs, knocking at the glass casing over the clock’s face with his knuckle. “Be a dear and have your friend bring it in for me.”

You’ve no doubt that König senses your annoyance as he cocks his head at you, but when you give a curt nod in response, he does what’s requested. The clock is set in a large den. It’s not as opulent and gilded as you had expected, just a simple home housing a very infuriating man. You watch from the doorway, swaying on your feet as König rights the clock and pushes it where he’s directed. Just a few more seconds and the two of you would be well on your way, and perhaps he would even teach you a new curse for a man like that.

He comes uncomfortably close to König’s side, a smug look plastered over his face that only seems to exaggerate just how greasy and mousy that you know him to be. Something is whispered that you can’t quite make out, a dare, a mocking taunt, something that pisses you off even without the knowledge.

The hood is pulled off by thin fingers, cast aside to the floor beyond the pair.

The man’s face goes pale before you even get a glimpse of König at all. He backs away, mouth gaping as König calmly moves to retrieve the cloth. You think you hear the word “monster” mumbled amidst a slew of incoherent babbling, but when your companion turns to face you, you feel no fear.

König’s face is like patchwork, scars connecting all together. They run like small streams up from his jaw and over his chin, splitting his lip at the corner of his mouth and dancing up to his eye. The nose is broken in places, several times over likely, crooked with a bump that only seems strangely cute. The unkempt hair lining his jaw should be trimmed, but… there’s no monster here. Only a man who has seen and felt pains that you could not bring yourself to imagine.

His head dips when he notices your wide-eyes stare, a sort of shame hidden away behind strands of long, black hair. He shuffles out of the house and shuts the door behind him, standing rigid as he expects the worst, for you to wail and sob and gather a group of townsfolk to herd him far away with fire and stones.

You only take his hand.

“Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t bother to hide himself away again during the walk back, his hand remains in your hold, trembling every now and then and gripping you tighter as he struggles with the thoughts no doubt raging in his skull like a storm. You offer your comfort as you lean toward him, head pressed against his arm even as you turn the knob and step inside.

You warm a bath for him then, a task that is no easy feat. König does not offer his help, resigned to some belief that this is only a temporary pity.

He allows you to peel away his clothes, graze your fingers over his body, over the scars all with a barely contained creature scraping out from inside: the untamed bull that you can not see. You press a kiss there, over his heart, feel it’s beating against your lips, pulling away only when his thumb strokes your cheek.

Each new sight of him is just as wonderful as they have always been. It’s not that you take pleasure in seeing the way he must have suffered; the now healed bullet wound over his abdomen speaks volumes of just what people are capable of when met with the sight of something that they do not understand.

The questions burn at the back of your skull, bitten back as your jaw tightens.

You help him wash with soap and a soft cloth, carefully removing any patches of dirt and dust that have lingered despite his near-daily bathing since living beneath your roof. The rough beard is trimmed in full, until all that’s left is a trail of dark stubble lingering along his jaw, broken up by scars like thin spider silk that make up the entirety of his body.

His hair is a mess, too, matted and clinging to his skull in wild clumps. You’re gentle with the brush as you free the tangles, clipping at what can not be saved with sharpened scissors, and massaging at his scalp as he murmurs his approval. It’s such a subdued, gentle cooing from his chest, a purr almost that shatters your heart and forces it back into place instantly.

Whatever he was or was not, you were certain this stray had never felt a touch like your own, if he had ever been touched by human hands at all.

König seems to settle greatly once you’ve tended to him and it does seem to finally dawn on him that you’re not repulsed, you’ve touched most of his damaged body, and have only brought him the gentleness that should have been commonplace by now. This isn’t some elaborate torture method— it’s only tender.

“Your turn, hm?”

That, however, brings you pause. Your hands rest on his shoulder, carefully trying to loosen a stubborn knot when you abruptly still. As if that were all he needed for encouragement, his hands cinch your waist, pulling you up and over the rim of the tub as you whine your protests in hushed little hisses. All for naught, as you find yourself submerged below the waist.

“I’m still dressed,” you sulk as the water dampens your dress, now seated between his parted thighs.

König only gives a laugh in response as his arms encase you in another embrace, his head resting against the dip between your shoulder and neck as his chest is brought to press against your back.

“And you’re still mine.”

His fingers trail further down to the wet fabric billowing amidst the soft, lapping waves of the water, pulling it up until it rests just above your hips. There’s no tact, only a clumsy sort of desperation rarely seen upon men, especially not of his stature.

You allow him to loosen the strands of lace at your back, bring your clothing up and over your head to leave it resting and dripping over the rim, pooling below onto the boards of the wooden floor. Your undergarments follow to join the flooding pile of soaked linen and lace.

You’re flustered certainly, grateful for the water surrounding that conceals the warmth that echoes your fondness for this titan between your legs.

You even considered that he would be more shy, not… as eager to begin to wash you, and not with the cloth but with his own hands, nimbly moving over every dip and curve coating you in the slick residue of soap, leaving suds in its wake. He starts at your shoulders, breath growing heavy the more you soften and relax against his chest.

It’s only a matter of time before his hands find and cup your breasts, and you swear that you can feel the grin that splits his face as you melt further against him. König gropes at and massages you there, eager fingers deliberately stroking at your hardened nipples until you quiver and sigh.

You find purchase moving your arms to your sides to grasp at his biceps, muscles flexing as he works his way down your trembling abdomen to your mound, kissing at your shoulder as you purr your encouragement.

The praises that leave your lips come tight and barely restrained as a finger trails against your slit, moving up to circle your clit before diving back down to prod at you.

Your head is gently tilted back by his free hand, your face peppered in clumsy, messy kisses as a digit sinks into you. It’s lazy work, trying to find a rhythm with your squirming. He only seems satisfied when it presses further, curling against the spot that makes you mewl sweetest, and finally, he kisses you full on.

It’s delivered as sloppily as his fingering, any trailing thought left in your skull dims, fuzzy with sheer bliss as his thumb begins to pet at your clit in tandem with each push and drag of his index. It doesn’t help that you feel his own growing need, hard and hot against your lower back, throbbing with each sound pulled from your mouth, his hips jerking on occasion to drag his shaft against your backside.

“König, we should get out,” you murmur through a flood of heat that curls and urges and presses at your lower half to seek some satisfaction, have him bed you proper. “We can go to—“

His mouth meets yours again, hungrier and more determined than before, the water rolling with each flick of his thumb. In a mere moment you feel that heat stoke to an inferno, blazing from your stomach to cause your feet to kick out, water sloshing over the side of the tub as you ride out each passing wave of paradise crying openly into his mouth.

When your trembling does subside, he kisses your cheek and pulls you up from the water, wrapping you up in his arms. His stare remains ever burning, pupils blown to a coal black, dreamy in the way he slinks back just to drink you in further. You can’t keep track of all of the places his eyes seem to dart, which touch to settle on and relish as he paws at you from chest to rear, as if mesmerized that you are no mere illusion.

You’re giving him everything; no longer the king of simply a beating organ tucked beneath your breast, but your body, bed, wherever he chooses to conquer next, of all the things that he’s been deprived of.

“We will go to bed, beloved,” he rasps, sounding more present than ever. The nightmares lurking behind his eyes have long past now: all focus is turned to you. You’re the only thing that’s ever loved him in return. “We will… become one.”

“Have you ever…” Your own voice fails you now, the evident want between you two incapable of making this any less… tedious. It was tedious, a flighty feathered thing that seems keen on slipping out of your grasp at any moment. If it were to be his first, surely it should be special, somehow, someway. If it were not… you dreaded that thought, a bitter envy sours on your tongue until it’s shaken off.

“No,” he states simply, shrugging.

Though a sense of relief seems to flood you at that, you dare not show it. You will take him to your bed, climb atop him and show him how these things work, a slow sort of love and the rest could wait.

It was foolish to believe that König would settle for such a thing, wild and only temporarily tamed by your sweetness: he is entirely different the moment you’re herded into the bedroom. The desperation of his touches has faded out entirely, replaced with what feels almost like a rage.

He wouldn’t take out humanities sins on you, no, but he would years of brutal neglect have left him starved and it just so happens that you’re an outlet for it, something to feed from by way of spilling his soul and his seed all into you, taken back with the kisses and praises that would surely come after this union.

You’re unceremoniously pushed onto the bed, lying at your side as he climbs in behind you. He whispers his requests into your hair, even as his hand wraps to pull your thigh up before you can bless him with a nod in response. He struggles for a moment, parting your labia with the obscene, ridiculous thing that hangs between his legs. It drags over you in repetition, oiled like the clock cogs before the head of his cock finally finds the opening his finger explored only minutes earlier.

You almost expect him to break you right then, force you to take what your body— no body- had surely been made for, but he only thrusts the tip inside and gives you some time to adjust, roll your hips down centimeter by agonizing centimeter.

“You are… Does it hurt you..?” His voice is a breathless pant, trying to hold himself together despite the daze he’s found himself in, buried not even three inches into your cunt.

“No… you can move,” you breathe out, eyelids fluttering as you tilt you head to look at him over your shoulder.

König clings to you as he sinks further, grasping at your waist to pull your further down, sharp breaths hissed between gritting teeth as he delights in the way your womanhood grips at his shaft.

Just as before, there’s no rhythm to him, he takes the sounds that leave you as a direction, huffing into your ear words that your mind could not hope to translate. There’s an indulgence to it, shared between you both as his hand curls tighter against your thigh, spread open and accepting of the brutal pace he takes to have just a taste of what it feels to be a normal man.

His words falter at a point, when you feel your body tightening around him, sucking him in, closer, nearer as your head lolls back. The inferno from before pales in comparison to the blaze that overtakes you now, his voice strained with bliss as you begin to moan for him. With each drag and soar of his cock spearing you open, you’re only brought further to a glimpse of Eden. If this were the fall of man, you find you couldn’t question Eve for relishing in it.

“… you gave me a name,” he rasps, “A home…”

All at once that glimmer of heaven crashes down around you, bathes you in the glow of something lofty and holy as he pulls you close and drives himself to the hilt within you. The throbbing and pulsing of his length pulls you over just as his seed spills within, drips thick and flooding as your own sex drools in tandem, sharing a perfect rapture both clandestine and sacred. He gives you another generous thrust, ensuring that he’s carved a space inside no other man could ever hope to fill.

You fret when you find him weeping, quiet tears rolling down his pale cheeks to spill over your shoulder, but the gentle smile on his face is pacifying as you twist around to face him. “And now you have my love.”

“I’ll cherish it,” he murmurs, voice broken and pitiful as you’re maneuvered upward to rest against the feather-stuffed pillows against the headboard.

You curl against him, head resting on his chest, an arm draped over his waist. He takes your hand into his own, appraising it like the first time you properly met. Hands of a maker. Your mind wanders to significance in that statement, the things that needn’t be told are finding ways to curtain you anyhow when he speaks again.

“Could you fix me?” He asks, tracing over the calluses on your fingertips, still bathing in the afterglow.

The question, though you felt it coming, still hurts to hear him speak it: breathing life into a thought that should have never existed to begin with.

“There’s nothing to fix.” Though you speak true, though you know he feels your sincerity, his eyes are heavy when he looks to you again. “Why would you ask me that?”

The story that he tells you then is one of horror. From his maker down to the things he’s done, seen, felt: hated from the moment he woke into this strange world, the horrible loneliness that pushed and bedded down inside of him like acceptance never would. The people that he’s throttled in some desire to finally have someone like him; men, women, it made no difference. All of it is bared with only one message eternally prevalent: he has only ever wanted to be loved.

In truth, he was a monster. Not because he was given the instinctual urge to be, but because it was all he knew. Gnashing teeth from demons hurling that word out with every stone they threw, every shot and stab at his heart.

You listen, despite the way it hurts, pull him a little closer when he ends his tale with your meeting, how he knew you were the only blessing he would ever receive in his lifetime— however long that may be.

You were good at fixing broken things, but König never needed to be fixed. Only found.

———

“Now you’re supposed to say it,” you hum, as his hands reach to the hem of the hood— his- covering your face. They rove beneath the fabric, curling against the skin of your cheeks, tracing small patterns there, some rotations like the clocks, others the childish hearts scribbled into books.

“I vow to take you as my wife.”

“You’re bad at this.” You giggle when he does finally push the cloth up past your nose, above your eyes and further until it’s pulled back like a veil.

“I will love you endlessly,” he continues, returning your noise of elation with a huffed laugh of his own. “I already do.”

“I love you, too.”

No one in town would ever properly marry you two, not if one look could make a weak man fall to his knees in horror, but here, beneath the roof of a home once echoing the same voice that haunts him… it was good enough. The moon seems to echo your vows with dancing rays, stars twinkling in approval as the calls of night birds carry through the open window.

There are no rings, no written formalities to be stored away with dust-ridden papers, preyed upon by mites. It’s far more sacred, genuine than the flippant affairs and arrangements that go on with those that would so readily cast the both of you aside. In truth— the thought of them rarely comes; doesn’t even rile up that intense fear inside of you any longer.

Everything only seems easier with the blooming garden outdoors, and the man who gazes upon you like he sees divinity itself behind your eyes, in the softness of your flesh.

When you kiss, it’s something from a fairytale, flowers strewn at your feet and the veil removed from your hair by a gentle hand.

Eden doesn’t seem so much like a memory lost to time, after all.

[nxsturn]

tumblr girls ( m.s )

warnings: mentions of blunts, obsession, online stalking (if you squint), fluff.

Matthew stumbles across your profile by accident. or maybe it’s not an accident. he’s been aimlessly scrolling for hours, like he does every night, sinking deeper into his own mess of half-thoughts and bad decisions. the screen feels like the only thing keeping him from being swallowed whole by the noise of his head.

and then he comes across you.

he’s not sure what catches his eye first, maybe it’s the black-and-white photo of you lying on the grass with your beats on, eyes half-closed, like you’ve already tuned out the world. or maybe it’s the caption, some obscure lyric from an old song he can’t quite place but knows is perfect for that picture. it’s the kind of thing he would never have the guts to post himself, but it feels like something he should be looking at, something he needs to read.

you’re a goddamn enigma.

he doesn’t even know your name, but that’s part of the allure. you’re one of those girls who’s effortlessly cool in a way that seems so far beyond what he could ever pretend to be. your feed is a series of melancholic polaroids, half-burned cigarettes, music he doesn’t recognize, and captions like “how can you be homesick for a place you’ve never been.” you don’t pose for photos, you’re always caught in these moments that look like you’re not even trying to be seen, like you just happened to be there at the right time. it’s all so calculated, yet so raw.

he spends the next few days stalking your posts like a drug. he falls into your world, pulling away from the noise of his own life, a life that’s getting messier and messier. his friends, his parents, the girl he’s technically dating — none of it matters when he’s looking at you. you’re this perfect mess, and he can’t figure out why the hell he’s so obsessed with someone who seems like they don’t even care.

he doesn’t comment at first. no, that would be too much. he watches. he likes a few pictures. his thumb hovers over the screen, then taps heart like maybe that’s enough to make you notice him. your posts have this air of mystery, like you’re inviting people in but also daring them to get lost.

and then, one night, you post a video of yourself. you’re sitting in your bedroom, messy and chaotic in that way that makes it feel like you’re living in a dream you haven’t woken up from. the camera shakes as you hold it with one hand, your other playing with a blunt, dragging it between your fingers. you’re staring out the window with that kind of vacant look, the one that says, yeah, I’m thinking about something deep and probably fucking stupid, but I’m also not going to tell you what it is.

he watches it on repeat. he’s not even sure why. you’re not doing anything extraordinary. you’re just existing — smoking, barely smiling, looking like you’ve seen the world for what it is and are over it. he feels something twist in his stomach. like this feeling of longing he didn’t know he had.

a few days later, you post something with another one of your simple captions:

"i think i’m just waiting for the storm to pass, but i’m starting to wonder if i should just learn to live in it."

it’s not even that deep, really. it’s just a thought thrown out there like some kind of confession, but something about it sticks with him. maybe it’s the vulnerability in the words. maybe it’s the way you’re so open with a world you don’t even know, even though you hide behind every filtered shot and blurry video.

he finally cracks and leaves a comment.

“same, can’t tell if i’m waiting for the rain or the lightning”

he waits. he’s half-expecting nothing. it’s just another comment lost among hundreds of others. but then you reply.

“maybe the storm’s not the problem. maybe it’s the way we keep chasing it”

his fingers go numb. he reads it over and over again. and then, against every rule he’s ever had for himself, he messages you. not a hey or a what’s up but something a little more reckless:

“you ever think about what happens after the storm? like, when everything is broken and you just.. leave?”

he watches the dotting ellipsis pop up on the screen, then disappear, and then appear again. when you finally reply, it’s short, but it makes his heart race in the stupid way that only happens when you’re sixteen and still learning how to live in your own skin.

“yeah, all the time”

they don’t say much after that. just small talk, nothing groundbreaking, nothing that really connects you outside the digital world you’ve both built. but the connection’s there. it’s electric, in the way that only an anonymous conversation with someone you’ve never met can be.

he can’t stop. he’s obsessed. every time you post something new, he’s there, lurking in the background, waiting for his next fix. you’re a drug he doesn’t want to quit, even though he knows he should. he can’t help it — he keeps getting lost in the idea of you. you’re this gorgeous, broken puzzle, and he just wants to solve you.

one night, everything goes sideways.

you post a selfie. no, it’s not even a selfie, it’s a photo of your reflection in a window, and you’re in a hoodie, face half-hidden behind your hair, but there’s something about it that makes Matt stop breathing.

you’ve noticed him, again.

you’ve tagged him, and a couple others but still.

you don’t need to say anything. it’s like the universe just split open for a second, and he knows. you’ve been watching him the same way he’s been watching you. you’ve seen him in the corner of your feed, just another face in the sea of likes and comments.

he messages you that night.

"you’re not real, are you? none of it is. none of us are."

you reply with a picture of the blunt you’re smoking, barely held between your fingers, a tiny wisp of smoke rising into the empty space. no caption. nothing.

but somehow, it’s everything.

he's addicted, but he doesn’t care anymore.

©nxsturn

yes, this is based off the G-Eazy song.

[n0cturn4]

Series In every universe - 10 . Damian Wayne

Character: Damian Wayne x Reader Summary: "What do you want me to do for you?" Word Count: 654 Land of Ancient Times.

In a distant kingdom, where rivers whispered ancient secrets and trees danced to the whim of the wind. She inhabited the crystalline waters of a river that wound through enchanted woods, her laughter reflected in the currents and her dances adorned with flowers that gently floated around her ethereal body alongside her river sisters.

One morning, as the rays of the sun filtered through the leaves, a young knight with an intense gaze and unparalleled skill approached the riverbank. It was Damian, heir to a kingdom struggling against shadows, a prince marked by pain and responsibility. His steps were silent, but the weight of his title resonated in his heart.

You watched him, fascinated, as he crouched by the water's edge, touching the surface with the tips of his fingers, as if wishing to understand the essence of life that pulsed there. You felt an instant connection, a flame that illuminated the darkness surrounding the prince. However, beneath the water's surface, a subtle sadness lingered, like the mist that rises at dawn.

"What is your desire, noble knight?" you asked, your voice a soft echo of aquatic melodies.

Damian lifted his gaze, deep as the river's abyss. "What do you want me to do for you?" he inquired, his tone laden with longing and curiosity.

You smiled, a serene glow in your eyes, but something melancholic sparkled in your gaze. "I want you to stay exactly as you are. You are already everything." The declaration flowed like water, filled with authenticity and emotion. You saw in Damian not just a prince, but a being who carried the weight of the world, and his essence was so magnificent that you wished to preserve it in all its imperfection.

Surprised by the simplicity of your desire, Damian felt his heart warm. "You are the reason I fight," he murmured, the words heavy with meaning, but a shadow crossed his face. "And you? What makes you happy in such a dark world?"

The gentle breeze that passed seemed to whisper the laments of the waters. "I dance among the currents and play with the rays of the sun. Yet, there is a sadness that accompanies me, like an invisible shadow. The waters surrounding me are also the current that binds me. I am trapped in this river, while the world beyond continues to change." You looked into the depths, where fish swam freely, and a solitary tear rolled down your cheek. "I cannot accompany you to the battlefields, nor to the kingdoms that need courage."

Damian stepped forward, the desire to comfort you burning in his heart. "I do not fear the battles, but I would fear losing you. You are the light that illuminates my path in the depths of the river," he said, his eyes shining with determination. "Whatever the storm, I will always be here, waiting for you."

The connection between you solidified, like intertwined roots beneath the river's waters, but melancholy hung over you like a dark cloud. Damian knew that his role as prince called him away, and the thought of leaving You filled him with profound sadness.

"One day, the current may carry me far away," you murmured, your voice tinged with hope and pain. "And I will be but a legend told on moonlit nights."

"But I promise," Damian replied, his voice as firm as steel, "that until my last breath, I will fight to bring you into the light, wherever the currents may lead you. Your love gives me strength, and I will not let your melancholy become an echo lost in the shadows."

And so, with the sun setting on the horizon and the last rays of light tinting the sky golden, the waters continued to flow, eternal and pure, guarding the secrets of a love stronger than time and deeper than the seas. Yet in your hearts, longing already nestled, a gentle melody of hope and pain, intertwined in the waves of fate.

[harry-on-broadway]

One More

It never failed to surprise you just how well you fit in his arms.

His chest was sticky from sweat and beer and God knows what else, but when he found you backstage and pulled you into his embrace, you didn’t resist. You knew he needed the hug more than you did.

Emotions had been running high over the past few weeks and you were more than happy to be the grounding force he needed as the tour that had occupied nearly two years came to an end. You allowed yourself to be rocked back and forth as he squeezed you tighter, his nose buried in the top of your head as his breathing slowed and the adrenaline left his body. He was clearly starting to calm down.

“Um, Harry? Could you…?” You moved to loosen his arms from around you and take a deep breath.

“Oh, sorry,” he said. His eyes were focused on you but you could tell his mind was miles away. “Give me a few to clean up and then we can head back?” He looked at you for confirmation.

“Sounds good, baby. Take your time.”

He left you with one last kiss and shuffled into his bathroom, towel and robe in hand. As he showered you used the time to clean up your own belongings that were scattered around the room – the glass of wine you’d had before the show, the jacket you’d foolishly brought with you thinking the fiery temps would go down with the sun, and your phone charger, which you’d already forgotten twice in the week you’d been on the road with Harry (something he hadn’t let you forget). When you’d finished your sweep of the room, you planted yourself on the couch. As you’d guessed, a few minutes to Harry meant closer to 90, and you passed the time chatting with the various members of his team that filtered through.

Jeff, Brad, Pauli, Sarah, Mitch, everyone had the same melancholic smile on their face, as if they couldn’t bring themselves to admit that the end was nearing.

“Doesn’t feel real does it?” Pauli asked. “It kind of felt like it was going to last forever.”

You’d never admit it to Harry, but the small selfish part of yourself that you tried to hide was extremely happy that the tour was ending. You’d long been aware that dating Harry meant sharing him with millions of others, a fact he’d warned you of over ice cream on your second date, but his career had never felt this present.

You didn’t know what had made it so hard this time around. Maybe it was the crush of tour dates you’d planned your lives around, maybe it was the attention that came with winning multiple Grammys, or maybe just the fact that you’d both had to return to real life after finding comfort in the pandemic bubble. Regardless, you were thrilled with the fact that, starting on Sunday, he’d be in your shared bed for more than a few days each month.

“Ready to go, love,?” Harry poked his head round the corner. In the heat of the night, he’d swapped his usual post-show hoodie for a worn t-shirt, and had pulled his wet curls back with a clip that you were pretty sure you’d worn on the flight here.

“Took you long enough,” you said with a smirk.

“OK, sassy,” Harry said with a light laugh. “I can just leave you here.”

“You’d never do that,” you scoffed.

“Awfully confident for someone who’s about to spend the night in a dressing room.”

“You’d miss your nightly back scratches,” you said confidently. “Somehow I don’t think those fall under Jeff’s purview.”

“You’re right. That’s Tom’s job.” You both burst into giggles as Harry pulled you into a standing position. His eyes lingered on yours, taking a moment before kissing you gently.

“We should probably head out,” you murmured. “It’s going to be a big couple of days.”

“Yeah…”

You bumped his hip with yours, and he deftly grabbed both his bag and yours in his right hand, taking your hand in his left. The car ride was quiet, even more so than usual, as Harry stared out the window at the passing lights. Even though he was once again in his own world, his hand worked overtime spinning the ring you wore on your finger, a motion you knew was soothing to him.

Back at your hotel, fatigue quickly caught up to the both of you as you moved slowly through your evening routines, drowsily dodging each other around the bathroom sink as you brushed your teeth and washed your face. Pajamas on, you climbed into bed, Harry following close behind as he turned off the light.

You flipped to your right side, facing Harry as your eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room. Like clockwork, his hand found your hip where he began rubbing small circles on the bit of skin that was exposed, while your hand made its way to his bare back, scratching dully at his soft skin.

“Just one more show,” you sighed.

“Yep.”

“Why so sad?” you prodded. “Not ready to come back to my snoring and blanket thievery?” You heard a soft noise come from him. Whether it was a sigh or a laugh you couldn’t tell.

“I’m really nervous.” It was as if the blanket of darkness made it easier for him to be vulnerable. “I’m really nervous about what Saturday is going to be like and everything that’s going to happen…after.” You could hear him swallow thickly. “It’s like I’m riding to the edge of a cliff and have no idea what’s on the other side.”

“That’s a perfectly normal thing to feel, H. It’s a big change.”

“And I just feel guilty too…” The floodgates had opened and there was no going back now. “I’m so excited to just be me. Be us. But like it feels selfish to not want to do anything. Like why do I have that luxury when others don’t.” He took a shuddering breath. “But then there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to end things and stay on that stage forever which is so unfair to you…”

“Hey,” you said sternly. “Don’t you dare worry about me. I’m never going to be mad about getting to spend more time with you, but I also know how much performing means to you. And I’d never ask you to give that up.” You flattened your hand against his back, letting him feel the cool metal band of the ring he’d given you on one knee earlier this year. “You’re stuck with me, Styles. I’m not going anywhere.”

He snorted a laugh. “Still don’t know how I hoodwinked you into this deal but I’ll take it.” He nuzzled in closer to you. “Everything just feels so…big right now. It’s like almost too much to think about.”

“So, don’t,” you said plainly, perfectly aware that your advice was easier said than done. “Saturday is just another show. And then you’re going to take a break and then you’ll just do another show. We don’t know where or when, but I promise you there will be another show.”

You could feel his even and measured inhales and exhales as he mulled over your words. You wriggled even closer to him. “You have one more show, babe,” you whispered against his lips.

“One more,” he repeated.

“So make it the best one yet.”

***

A/N: Just a quick little blurb ahead of the final show 😭 Would love to hear what you think!

[elysiaheaven]

𝐀 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦-𝟎.𝟐-The Fox's wedding!

ꜰᴏʀ ᴊɪᴀᴏQɪᴜ, ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴀᴏQɪɴɢ'ꜱ ᴍɪʟɪᴛᴀʀʏ ʜᴇᴀʟᴇʀ, ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴇɪxɪᴀᴏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇʀʟɪɴ'ꜱ ᴄʟᴀᴡ. ᴀʟꜱᴏ ʜᴇʀ ᴀᴅᴠɪꜱᴏʀ. ᴀʟʟ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ɪꜱ ᴄᴜʀᴇ ꜰᴇɪxɪᴀᴏ'ꜱ ɪʟʟɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴅᴀɴᴇᴅ ɢᴏᴅ ᴏꜰ ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ɪɴɢʀᴇᴅɪᴇɴᴛ. ᴛʜᴏ, ʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀ ʜᴜꜱʙᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ…ᴅᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇ.

Words:2457

Jiaoqiu's eyes fluttered open, his heart racing as the vivid images of the nightmare lingered in his mind. The eerie ceremony, the ghostly statues, the chilling kiss-all of it felt too real. But as he blinked, he realized he wasn't in that cursed place anymore. He was back in the abandoned ship on the Luofu, lying on the cold, hard floor.

For a moment, Jiaoqiu thought perhaps it had all been just a dream-a horrifying vision conjured by his exhausted mind. But as he sat up, his body ached, a dull pain in his head confirming that something very real had happened. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light filtering through the cracks in the ship, and he felt a strange presence beside him.

Turning his head, Jiaoqiu's breath caught in his throat. You were there, hovering just above the ground, your ethereal form adorned in the same wine-colored kimono you had worn in his dream. The black sashes and grey obi were as intricate and beautiful as they were ominous. Your golden fox mask hung by your side, revealing a face that, to his surprise, wasn't twisted in malice or cold indifference but instead bore a soft, caring expression.

"You're awake," you said gently, your voice devoid of the eerie echo it had held before. You leaned closer, your hand reaching out to touch his forehead as if checking for a fever. "How are you feeling? You fainted, and I was worried."

Jiaoqiu's mind raced. The contrast between the you in his nightmare and the you before him now was jarring. He couldn't find the words to respond, confusion and a lingering fear keeping him silent. All he could do was stare at you, trying to reconcile the terrifying spirit from the dream with the figure now hovering over him with genuine concern.

Your hand, cool and smooth, brushed against his cheek as you inspected him further, still floating gracefully above the ground. "You fell hard," you murmured, a hint of worry in your tone. "You should rest more, Jiaoqiu. I don't want you getting hurt because of me."

He pulled away slightly, his gaze shifting to Moze, who lay a short distance away, still unconscious but breathing steadily. The memory of you saving Moze flickered through his mind. It hadn't been just a dream; you had truly intervened, using your powers to protect his friend.

"Moze..." Jiaoqiu whispered, his voice finally finding strength. He moved toward his friend, needing to see for himself that Moze was indeed safe. As he knelt beside Moze, his hands trembling slightly, he checked for any injuries. Moze's chest rose and fell rhythmically, and though he bore some scrapes and bruises, he appeared to be out of immediate danger.

You floated closer, watching Jiaoqiu's every move with a mixture of curiosity and care. "He'll be fine," you assured him softly. "I made sure of that."

Jiaoqiu nodded slowly, his fingers brushing against Moze's arm to reassure himself that his friend was truly there, truly alive. The fear that had gripped his heart began to ease, replaced by a heavy sense of reality. He had made a deal with a spirit, a goddess of betrayal, and now she was his...wife?

The thought made his stomach turn, but when he looked up at you, expecting to see that same malicious glint in your eyes, he was met with something else entirely-sincerity, perhaps even affection. You weren't haunting him, at least not in the way he had feared. Instead, you seemed genuinely concerned for his well-being.

"Why?" Jiaoqiu finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your smile was soft, almost melancholic. "I'm your wife now, Jiaoqiu. It's only natural for me to care about you," you replied.

Jiaoqiu's heart skipped a beat at your words, the confusion deepening. This wasn't the terrifying entity he had feared; this was someone...something else. But before he could process it further, you floated closer again, your presence overwhelming in its intensity.

"Please," you said, your voice gentle but firm. "Let me help. You don't have to do everything alone anymore."

Jiaoqiu looked into your eyes, searching for any trace of deceit. But all he found was a strange, unsettling sincerity. He swallowed hard, unsure of how to feel, but with Moze still unconscious and the reality of their situation pressing down on him, he realized he had little choice.

Without another word, Jiaoqiu nodded. He rose unsteadily to his feet, his mind still reeling from everything that had happened. But as he moved to tend to Moze, you stayed close, your presence a constant reminder of the strange new bond that had formed between you.

You hovered close to Moze as he began to stir, your eyes soft with concern as you waved your hand gently over his body, a faint glow emanating from your fingertips. Moze groaned, slowly opening his eyes, and as he focused on you, he tensed, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Don't worry," you said softly, your voice soothing. "I'm just helping."

Moze glanced over at Jiaoqiu, who was standing nearby, still shaken but managing to keep his composure. "Why is she...?" Moze started to ask, but Jiaoqiu shook his head, a silent plea for Moze to not question it too much.

"She saved us," Jiaoqiu said quietly, his voice filled with mixed emotions. "We wouldn't have made it out if not for her."

Moze fell silent, his gaze shifting between you and Jiaoqiu, clearly conflicted. After a moment, he sighed and slowly sat up with your help, though he didn't make any attempt to thank you.

"We didn't get the herb," Moze muttered after a brief pause, his voice tinged with disappointment. "Everything we went through...and we came out empty-handed."

You tilted your head, puzzled by the sudden shift in their mood. "Herb?" you asked, your tone curious. "What herb?"

Jiaoqiu, noticing your confusion, quickly explained. "We came here looking for a rare herb to heal General Feixiao. It's supposed to grow in this area, but we haven't found it."

Your eyes lit up with understanding, and a wide smile spread across your face. "Oh! You should have said so earlier!" you exclaimed, your excitement bubbling over. Without hesitation, you started to float away, moving with an eager energy as you led them deeper into the ship.

Jiaoqiu and Moze exchanged glances, surprised by your sudden enthusiasm, but they followed you nonetheless. It wasn't long before you led them to a secluded, hidden corner of the ship. There, nestled in the shadows, was the herb they had been searching for-but it was wilted, shriveled, and barely recognizable.

Jiaoqiu's heart sank at the sight, and Moze's expression turned grim. "It's...it's rotten," Moze muttered, disappointment heavy in his voice.

Jiaoqiu could only stare at the withered plant, a sense of hopelessness washing over him. All that effort, all that risk-and they were still going to fail. He clenched his fists, frustration building inside him, but before he could speak, you stepped forward, your gaze fixed on the herb.

"No, it's not over yet," you said confidently. Your hand hovered above the herb, and with a deep breath, you focused your energy. A soft, shimmering light emanated from your palm, surrounding the herb in a gentle glow.

The withered leaves slowly began to uncurl, color returning to them as if life itself was being breathed back into the plant. Before their eyes, the herb was restored to its full, vibrant state, as if it had never been touched by decay.

Jiaoqiu and Moze watched in awe as you worked your magic, the despair they had felt moments ago replaced by a cautious hope. When you finished, the herb stood tall and healthy, ready to be harvested.

You turned to Jiaoqiu, your eyes shining with expectation. You had done what they couldn't-you had given them the herb they needed. Surely, now he would say something, acknowledge your help, perhaps even thank you.

But Jiaoqiu, still caught between gratitude and the unsettling reality of what you were, could only manage a small, uncertain smile. He carefully picked the herb, avoiding your gaze as he secured it in a pouch. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You hovered a little closer, your smile faltering slightly as you sensed his hesitation. "Is something wrong?" you asked, your voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "Didn't I do well?"

Jiaoqiu hesitated, his eyes meeting yours for just a moment before he looked away again. "You did... You did well," he finally said, but the words felt heavy on his tongue, laden with the unspoken tension between you.

Moze, sensing the awkwardness, cleared his throat and stood up, dusting himself off. "We should get going," he said gruffly, trying to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortable silence. "The longer we stay here, the more dangerous it gets."

You nodded, though the disappointment was clear in your expression. You had hoped for something more from Jiaoqiu, some sign that he was starting to accept you, but all you got was a reluctant acknowledgment. Still, you tried to keep your spirits up, reminding yourself that you had done your part.

The three of you prepared to leave, you stayed close to Jiaoqiu. You couldn't help but glance at him every so often, hoping for another smile, a word of kindness-anything to show that he was beginning to see you as more than just the spirit he was forced to marry.

But Jiaoqiu remained distant, focused on the task ahead, and you could only follow...

The three of you made your way toward the Luofu, a thick tension lingered in the air, with Jiaoqiu walking ahead of you and Moze trailing behind. Your natural state-floating-drew curious looks, though most people were too focused on their own lives to stop and stare for long. Still, Jiaoqiu's unease grew with every step.

"Can't you walk?" Jiaoqiu asked, turning back to you. His voice was strained, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of people noticing you. "People will think you're... different."

You smiled, the ghost of amusement flickering across your face as you floated beside him effortlessly. "I'm a spirit, remember?" you said teasingly, as if it were obvious. "Walking isn't exactly my thing."

Moze, who had been silent for most of the journey, suddenly interjected, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. "Then carry her."

The bluntness of his suggestion hit both you and Jiaoqiu like a shockwave. Your cheeks flushed slightly at the thought, the idea of being held by Jiaoqiu making you feel something unfamiliar, something soft. Meanwhile, Jiaoqiu's eyes widened in pure terror, as if the idea of touching you was somehow more frightening than facing an army of enemies.

"Carry her?" Jiaoqiu stammered, glancing between you and Moze as if hoping for a way out. "I... I can't-"

Moze sighed, rolling his eyes at Jiaoqiu's hesitation. "You're already married to her," he said, his tone sharp. "It's not like you have much of a choice now. If you want her to blend in, do it."

Jiaoqiu's face paled as Moze's words sank in, but after a moment, he nodded reluctantly. His hands trembled slightly as he reached out toward you, clearly unsure of how to hold you. For a moment, his fingers hovered just above your waist, hesitant.

You watched him with a soft smile, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks as the reality of the situation dawned on you. Jiaoqiu looked terrified, but his effort to carry you-however awkward-was strangely endearing. As his hands finally settled on your waist, a faint shiver ran down your spine, and for a moment, you let yourself imagine that this was how a real marriage might feel.

With surprising care, Jiaoqiu lifted you off the ground, cradling you in his arms. It was a bit awkward, his grip not quite right, but he managed to support you nonetheless. You couldn't help but notice how close his face was to yours, and for a moment, your heart raced as you stared up at him.

Moze, meanwhile, looked on with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "You should get her some proper clothes," he said flatly. "She's drawing too much attention. Take her to the tailoring shop."

Jiaoqiu nodded, still too flustered to argue. "Y-yeah, good idea."

You perked up at the suggestion, your eyes sparkling with excitement. "A new kimono? How delightful!" you exclaimed. You gently tapped Jiaoqiu's chest, urging him to move forward. "Let's go Husband?!!!"

Jiaoqiu gulped, the word "husband" causing him to stiffen slightly. He nodded again, walking carefully as he carried you through the bustling streets. People glanced at the two of you, but with you in his arms, you looked more like an eccentric couple than a spirit and her reluctant groom.

When you finally arrived at the tailoring shop, the tailor greeted you both with a polite smile, his eyes quickly taking in your current attire. "Ah, it seems we have a special customer today," the tailor said, noting your floating posture even in Jiaoqiu's arms.

Jiaoqiu set you down carefully, his hands lingering for just a moment before he pulled away quickly, his face flushed with embarrassment. "She needs a kimono," he said, trying to regain his composure. "Something... traditional."

The tailor nodded, studying you carefully. "It seems you have a fondness for the old styles," he remarked, noticing your red wine-colored kimono. "I'll prepare something similar but with a modern twist."

"Eh?! You know kimonos?!"

"Yes, I have travelled different places, I know all the designs and not and culture included."

You smiled graciously, pleased by his attentiveness. "That would be perfect," you said. "I do love kimonos."

The tailor busied himself with preparing the fabric, you glanced over at Jiaoqiu, who was standing awkwardly by the entrance, avoiding eye contact. A small, playful smile crept onto your lips as you floated over to him.

"You know," you said softly, your voice teasing, "you make quite the husband. Carrying me like that... you were surprisingly gentle."

Jiaoqiu swallowed hard, still not used to your playful nature. "I-I was just doing what Moze said," he mumbled, clearly flustered by your comment.

You chuckled softly, enjoying how easy it was to make him squirm. "Well, I appreciate it," you said, your tone softening slightly. "Even if it was just to avoid attention, you still made me feel... cared for."

Jiaoqiu glanced at you, his expression softening for a brief moment before he quickly looked away. "I... I'm just trying to do what's right," he muttered, though his voice held a hint of uncertainty.

[cyberslvts]

PAS DE DEUX || w.maximoff

Summary you grapple with the intensity with your feelings for Wanda and through a powerful dance your love and longing for one another are vividly unveiled

Warnings: angst, brief arguing, happy endings, kissing, forbidden love, allusions to homophobia, secret romance, my fav sappic balerinas, they r so cute im gonna sob!!

Pairing: ballerinaWanda! x ballerina!reader

WC: 3.5k

Note: this was sm fun to write i am obsessed

———

In the heart of the cold city, hidden behind a façade of faded grandeur, stood the enigmatic Thornfield School of Ballet. Within its dimly lit corridors and ornate ballrooms, the ethereal art of ballet was practiced with an intensity that mirrored the shadows that danced upon the walls. It was here that you found solace, your delicate movements and haunting grace resonating with the melancholic melodies that echoed through the grand hallways.

The Thornfield Opera House stood silent and grand, its vast expanse illuminated only by the silvery glow of the moon filtering through the tall, arched windows. The night felt like it swallowed you. The silence and loneliness of the dark gave you a heightened sense of focus. Dressed in a simple leotard and ballet skirt, you moved gracefully to the center of the stage. The empty red velvet seats, normally bustling with anticipation, now looked like slumbering sentinels in the darkness.

You were a brilliant and elegant dancer, the prima ballerina of the Thornfield Ballet School. Your every step seemed to weave magic, casting a spell over the audience with each performance. The years of training and dedication cultivated you so that you weren't just a dancer but a conduit for the very essence of the art form.

A sigh escaped your lips as you raised your arms, the opening strains of a haunting melody filled your ears. The music existed within the depths of your memory, each note etched into your soul. It was a melody only you could hear, a secret dance between you and the music of your heart.

With a deep breath, you began to move. Each step was deliberate, each extension of your limbs an expression of the emotions that swirled within you. The moonlight cast delicate shadows that danced along with you, a spectral audience that whispered its approval in the rustling of fabric

Your body twisted and turned across the stage and the opera house felt as if it came alive around you. The soft echos of your footfalls echoed throughout the grand hall, filling the space with a magical resonance.

The empty velvet red chairs surrounded you, blurring into a hue of gold and scarlet as you spun and twirled across the stage. The spotlight illuminated your form, casting long, enchanting shadows that stretched toward the edges of the grand hall. Your body seemed to merge with the haunting music, each note a whispered secret between you and the piano keys

You imagined thousands of eyes on you, each one locked in a mesmerizing trance that only you could break. You lost yourself in the dance, completely surrendering yourself to the music's embrace.

The final strains of the music echoed through the hall, and you froze in a final, breathtaking pose. The world felt like it held its breath for a moment before a figure emerged from the shadows of the audience.

“You know I don't like it when you come and watch me unannounced”

You spoke into the dark crowd. You didn't even need to see her to know who she was. A vibrant flash of red hair was illuminated by the spotlight as she stepped onto the stage.

“You’re glowing my love, How could I not stay and watch” she voiced, coming across the stage, wanting to be closer to you.

Wanda Maximoff, the embodiment of enigmatic allure, graced the Thornfield Opera House with a presence that demanded attention. With each step she took, the air seemed to shift around her, charged with an energy that was at once magnetic and captivating. A vibrant mane of crimson hair framed her face like a fiery halo, accentuating her aura of intensity.

As one of Thornfield's top dancers, Wanda's brilliance on stage was undeniable. Her movements bore the hallmark of a maestro, each gesture calculated and precise, cutting through the air like a sharpened blade. her performances left an indelible mark on the hearts of those who witnessed them.

The contrast between your styles was like a beautifully orchestrated duet: While you danced with the gentle grace of a waltz, guided by the melodies that flowed through your soul, Wanda's dance was a tempestuous tango, a dance with the shadows and the edge of passion. Her movements were sharper, her steps darker, and her presence engulfed the stage like a storm, leaving no corner untouched by her intensity.

Where your dance was a soothing balm, Wanda's was a consuming fire. Your elegance and grace resonated like a sonnet, whereas Wanda's movements told a story of calculated power. In your delicate pirouettes and fluid arabesques, there was a serenity that brought solace to the heart, like a gentle lullaby. But in Wanda's commanding leaps and controlled spins, there was a darkness that beckoned, a realm where passion and pain coexisted.

Wanda Maximoff, with her entrancing presence and mesmerizing dance, had woven her way into your heart in ways you never imagined. From the first time you saw her onstage, you were already hers. The secret romance that blossomed between you two was a delicate tapestry of stolen glances, secret rendezvous, and the softest of touches. Your attachment to her felt like poisonous vines, both intoxicating and dangerous. Squeezing around your heart until there was no escaping its grip.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the intensity of your feelings for Wanda began to stir a twinge of fear deep within you. The opera house, was a haven for your love, a place where you and Wanda could share stolen moments in the shadows. Yet, the world outside those walls was a different story altogether.

The truth was, relationships like yours and Wanda's were not welcomed with open arms within the confines of Thornfield. The Society's rigid expectations and conservative norms casted a long shadow over any love that dared to deviate from the conventional path. If your feelings were exposed, you both knew that you would face the harsh reality of ostracization. Given your elevated position within the ballet company, the fallout could be even more devastating. You yearned to dance freely with Wanda, to hold her close without the weight of hidden affections, but the thought of the world discovering your love kept you trapped in a ruthless cycle of avoidance.

As she began to approach you, you instinctively turned away, a motion that caused a flicker of hurt to cross Wanda's expression. Her smile faltered, and you silently crossed the stage, heading toward the speaker in order to switch to a different song.

“I need to practice, Wanda,” you spoke without facing her, hoping she would take the hint to leave you.

"You've been avoiding me," she suddenly declared, her voice ringing out in the open space. She came to a halt at the center stage, her gaze fixed firmly on your form. The intensity of her eyes holding you in place.

The intimacy you shared with her had grown to such profound heights that the mere thought of it sent shivers down your spine. Each stolen kiss and every whispered promise felt like a thread connecting you to a love that was becoming too powerful to be contained. And so, you found yourself avoiding her, retreating into the shadows like a fragile creature seeking solace from the storm.

In your heart, you knew that Wanda sensed your distance, your absence from her side even in a crowded room. The weight of your unspoken emotions was presence, that casted a shadow over your every interaction. She, with her intuitive nature, surely understood that something was wrong, even if the words went unspoken.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Wanda," you deflected, your voice tinged with a hint of unease.

“Yes, you do.” Her strides toward you were purposeful, carrying an air of frustration and longing

“You've stopped meeting me in the garden. you leave your door locked at night. You won't even look at me during rehearsal.” The light in her eyes dimmed, mirroring the distance that had inadvertently arisen. She, no doubt, grappled with the same intensity of your connection, the love that had burgeoned between you.

The guilt gnawed at you, knowing that Wanda deserved more than your silence, more than your hesitation. She deserved the world, and yet here you were, your heart caught in a tug-of-war between your love for her and the fear that had taken root within you.

"I've just been busy," you offered, your voice lacking the conviction it needed. The truth was, you couldn't bring yourself to lie, especially not to Wanda. Without meeting her gaze, you brushed past her, your eyes fixed on the sea of empty chairs as you prepared for the next song.

"Just as I said, I need to practice. I don't have time for this," you continued, your words slightly rushed, a veil of anxiety underscoring them. The show was fast approaching, and the pressure weighed heavily on you. "The performance is on Friday, and I barely have my part of the pas de deux down, and—"

"Fine then, I'll stay and help you," she interrupted, her voice carrying an unwavering determination. Wanda understood you better than anyone else. She knew that ballet was your lifeblood, your very essence. If that was the avenue she had to take to reach you, then so be it.

As the music began to fade in, she moved closer, bridging the gap between you. You stared at her, a mixture of surprise and uncertainty in your eyes. Was she serious?

Although Wanda wasn't your official partner in the pas de deux, her innate talent and brilliance made it easy for her to memorize the choreography. She had watched the routine countless times, During rehearsals, you'd often catch her gaze fixed on you, burning ache evident in her eyes. You wished it was her presence by your side, her soft, delicate hands on you, instead of the rough masculine ones whisking you through the air.

She took your hand in hers, her touch a warm reassurance that sent a shiver down your spine. You glanced at her one last time before the dance commenced, your movements seeming almost too deliberate, lacking the usual fluidity that came so naturally to you. Every step felt calculated as if you were trying to maintain a distance that your heart was struggling to obey. Wanda's gaze, however, remained fixed on you, unwavering and intense.

With each movement, her eyes searched yours, probing for answers to the questions you hadn't voiced. The emotions that played across her face were a silent plea, a desperate attempt to understand the reason behind your avoidance. Yet, even as you tried to keep your focus on the dance, the intensity of her gaze was a distraction you couldn't escape.

“Relax,” Wanda's voice cut through the tension, her hands on your waist guiding your movements. Your arms extended gracefully on each side, and your toes pointed delicately against the smooth wooden stage

In that instant, Wanda's movements shifted, becoming more edged and intense. She led you through a series of intricate steps, each one a silent declaration of her love and devotion to you. As the music swelled, your bodies came alive, moving in perfect synchrony. You began with a series of intertwining pirouettes, your movements mirroring Wandas with an effortless harmony. With every rotation, your eyes met briefly, a fleeting connection that spoke volumes beyond words.

You battled with your own emotions, your heart warring with your mind. You were determined to maintain the distance you believed was necessary to protect yourself and Wanda from the intensity of your shared feelings. The love you felt for her was a tempestuous sea, and you feared being swept away by its currents.

Yet, As you moved as one there was an undeniable chemistry, an untamed force driving you towards her. Her eyes followed your every move, filled with a love that yearned to be free from constraints.

Wanda's touch was gentle yet firm, her hands on your waist guiding your movements with a confidence that only came from a deep understanding. As you twirled and spun, the world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in a realm where the intensity of your love was matched only by the beauty of your dance.

When the music built to its crescendo, Wanda's grip on you tightened her touch a grounding force in the midst of your internal storm. And in that final, breathtaking pose, as the music lingered in the air, your eyes locked onto each other's, a world of unspoken words passing between you.

As your heavy breathing slowed, the moment was broken when you turned away, walking out of her embrace,

“Why won't you just let me love you,” her voice echoed in the space, a plea that hung in the air like an unanswered question.

"Because I can't, Wanda," You whispered, your voice tinged with a hint of sadness. The reality of the situation weighed heavily, the knowledge that your love existed in a world that did not understand.

“Yes, you can” she countered, coming closer to you.

“People will find out. And when they find out theyll talk.” you exasperated, The weight of the world's judgment pressed down on you, suffocating the love that burned within you.

Wanda turned to face you, her expression determined. "Then hide me. Lock me away from the world if you have to," She breathed out, her voice carrying a plea that mirrored the depth of her feelings. She was willing to sacrifice her visibility, her place in the world, if it meant keeping your love intact. “I just want to be with you Y/n. Why can't you see that?”

It was your deep affection for her that filled you with guilt, knowing that she deserved better than waht you were giving her. You believed she deserved someone who would cherish her openly, free from the shackles of secrecy that bound your love. Wanda's passion, her unwavering commitment, made your heart ache with love for her, but it also filled you with an overwhelming sense of guilt. You loved her so much that it hurt, and you wanted nothing more than to see her happy.

“I can't do that to you, Wanda.” Guilt welled up inside you, emotions spilling over like a river bursting its banks. “You deserve to be with someone different. Someone who can love you without fear.”

“But I don't want that!” Her breathing was heavy and her, eyes burned with anger. "I am yours, Y/n," she declared, her voice sharp with passion. "All I want in return is your love, And you can't even give me that.”

You noticed how her bottom lip pushed out ever so slightly, just like it always did when she was trying not to cry.

The pain of your recent avoidance cut deep into her heart, leaving a constant ache that refused to subside. All she wanted was you, all she ever wanted was you, and your unmistakable withdrawal over the past few months had left her feeling lost in a suffocating pit of self-doubt. Why were you so eager to get away from her? Why couldn't she make you stay, even when she had tried her hardest? Was she not good enough to hold your attention?

These questions ate away at her and she had never felt so small, like an insignificant fragment in a world that once felt whole.

“You ignore me and push me away without any explanation.” Her voice was loud as it echoed across the stage. The hurt and insecurity painted on her face. “You're always leaving me. It's like you don't even care about my feelings!”

“Of course I care about your feelings” You turned to her, your own anger begining to rise up inside you. “You’re all I think about, everything I do is for you!”

Every choice you had made was for Wanda, every step you had taken was to protect her from the storm that could come crashing down upon you both. Your love was genuine, but the fear was suffocating, threatening to eclipse everything

"You think this isn't hard for me?" your voice cracked with frustration, your eyes blazing with a mixture of emotions. "I am terrified, Wanda. Every time I see you or feel you, it's like I'm drowning in the fear of what could happen.”

"You make me feel things I never wanted to feel," your breath came out in rapid bursts, as your vision became clouded by tears. "And I'm afraid that those feelings will be written all over me,” Your emotions began to feel overwhelming, the room closing in around you, suffocating you with its walls and the weight of your fear. “So this is the only way I know how to keep us safe, to keep you safe." Your words were punctuated by a sob, choked and raw. The walls you had erected were crumbling, and you were left standing bare before Wanda.

“and It's hard Wanda, it's so fucking hard. I miss you, all the time.” the confession tumbled out, your voice breaking as tears cascaded down your cheeks, the floodgates finally opening.

At the sight of your panicked tears, Wanda immediately rushed to you, her steps were loud across the stage until she caught you in her embrace, wrapping her arms around you in a warm, comforting hold, Wishing she could take away all the pain and fear you felt at that moment.

“Im sorry, Im sorry sweetheart, I didn't mean to yell.” The tenderness in her voice was like a soothing balm, her arms holding you even tighter, as you fell into her body.

"I can’t-” You gasped, The fabric of her shirt absorbed the tears that fell from your eyes, “I cant loose you wanda”

The sobs that wracked your body were a release, a catharsis of emotions that had been pent up for far too long.

“You’re not. You are absolutely not losing me,” she reassured you, her words slightly muffled as she pressed kisses to your tear-stained cheeks. You instinctively clung onto her, worried she would disappear.

With her arms wrapped around you, Wanda's touch became your anchor. Her hands moved in tender circles on your back, a gesture of comfort that sent ripples of calm through your frazzled nerves. At that moment, the world seemed to blur and fade, leaving only the two of you cocooned in an intimate haven of solace

Your heartbeat slowed and your breathing relaxed against her. Her breath brushed against your ear, her voice was a gentle whisper, "I can't be without you, y/n" she admitted, spilling out the truths in her heart. “I know you're scared but please don't push me away.” The tenderness in her voice deepened as she continued, her words a balm to your fears. “I don't know what will happen in the future but I can swear to you that im not going anywhere.”

In those words, a sense of solace enveloped you, like a gentle embrace for your weary heart. With her by your side, the fear that had kept you captive began to lose its grip, replaced by a flicker of hope and the reassurance that you didn't have to carry the burden alone.

“Im sorry I avoided you” You whispered not bringing your gaze up to face Wanda as if you were hiding from your actions. “I was awful. I should have just talked to you.”

Wanda brought her hand to your chin tilting your face up until your eyes met hers.

"It's okay, I know you're trying to protect us both," she said softly, her voice carrying a weight of sincerity. "But you don't have to do it alone. Whatever happens, We can face it together."

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting Wanda's words melt into your skin. The attentiveness of her understanding touched you deeply, and You started to wonder how you could ever be away from her.

“I love you, so much,” you confessed hoping she could feel your sincerity “And i’m so sorry that I ever made you feel like I didnt.”

Her relief evident in her smile. She cupped your face, her touch grounding you in the present moment. Wanda leaned in, her lips meeting yours in a sweet kiss.

“I love you, more than you could ever know.”

In that stolen moment on the stage, beneath the watchful eyes of the empty velvet seats, your love was a dance in itself – a dance of vulnerability and strength, of passion and tenderness. And as you held each other close, you knew that the opera house, with all its secrets and faded grandeur, held a space where your love could flourish, defying the boundaries of time and circumstance.

[marimayscarlett]

Till looks super fit on recent photos, people are insane

Hi 👋🏻

Apparently, people have some strong opinions on Till and his aging process yet again, this time over on Tiktok (explained in this post by @rammingthestein). Apart from the fact that I'll never understand why people have no filter online and feel absolutely comfortable to share their unasked for (and most of the time negative) opinions about others, it's baffling to me that once again, the aging process of a grown man is criticized, by people who call themselves fans and are apparently literal children (16 year olds seemingly). I haven't seen these comments (I try to stay away from Tiktok apart from concert videos and memes my sister sends me) so I won't dive into what could've been said too much since I don't have much knowledge of it, all I can say is this:

I saw Till last year live, I saw him this year live twice, one time up close (him hovering on his canon 2 meters above me was a highlight of my existence), and let me you. He seems to be much more energetic than last year, his voice is INSANELY good (to the point that my mom and I simultaneously turned to each other looking like this 😳 when he started to sing at the concert) and this is just one really beautiful man with the most melancholic eyes. Of course he is aging, of course he has wrinkles and such, and apparently also some sort of problem with his hip (at least it looks a bit like it when he walks), but the man is 61. This is normal. Let Till, who had to go through a lot in his life, age in peace.

We can feel quite blessed that all of band members felt healthy enough (physically and mentally) to go on yet another tour leg this year. Let's just leave it there. I sometimes have the feeling that this broader sense of thinking is missing in a lot of (young) people's heads.

(gif by @endlich-allein)

[reveryfics]

Hii again ;) ! Hope you're doing alright

I have a request, for Loki (again). Where reader is ftm (again) and this time Loki doesn't know it, and he doesn't even know reader in fact. In whatever circumstances they met and when Loki realize reader's situation he's a bit..clumsy. He knows a lot of creatures from Asgard but never see a transgender person. But he's not mean ! And in fact, he's very intrigued by this person, maybe a sort of ftm worshipping ? In a lower step ofc, not awkwardly

Thank you !! 🎀 The last one was perfect !

Moonlight And Mischief

Pairings: Loki x FtM reader

Summary: A late evening walk introduces Loki to someone new, someone he quickly becomes fond of.

A/n: I absolutely love when I get requests from you, Loki is a huge comfort character so I enjoy getting to write for him!

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The air hung heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine as Loki strolled through the forgotten garden. A low hum escaped his lips, a melancholic tune that mirrored the turmoil swirling within him. His gaze swept over the overgrown paths, the moonlight filtering through the dense foliage casting long, dancing shadows. He sought solace in this forgotten corner of the world, a refuge from the intrigues and burdens of Asgard.

As he wandered deeper, his hum deepened, a haunting melody that echoed through the stillness. Suddenly, it was answered, a softer counterpoint weaving through the air. Curiosity piqued, Loki followed the sound, his senses alert. He navigated through a maze of overgrown hedges, the air growing thick with the scent of lilies. Finally, he emerged before a small, moonlit pond, its surface shimmering with reflections of the stars.

A figure sat on the edge of the pond, their silhouette barely discernible in the deepening shadows. With a graceful gesture, they waved a hand, and a constellation of lanterns sprang to life, illuminating the scene with a warm, ethereal glow.

Loki found himself gazing upon a sight that could have been plucked from a Midgardian myth. The figure, bathed in the soft light, was mesmerizing. They sat with a book open on their lap, their long fingers tracing the worn pages as they dipped their feet into the cool water.

"You aren't invisible, you know," a voice, soft as the rustling leaves, broke the spell.

Loki, startled, cleared his throat. "My apologies. I didn't realize anyone else frequented this secluded corner."

A gentle chuckle rippled through the air. "This place has a way of drawing those who seek solitude."

An unspoken understanding passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the sanctuary they had both found within these forgotten walls. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the water against the shore and the shared melody that still lingered in the air.

"I've never seen you here before," Loki remarked, his gaze drawn to the figure's face.

"Oh, but I've seen you," they replied, a hint of amusement in their voice. "Prince Loki, the God of Mischief, always stirring up trouble."

Loki felt a jolt of surprise. "You know who I am?"

"Of course," they smiled, revealing a captivating play of light and shadow. "Everyone knows the God of Mischief."

Intrigued, Loki sat beside them, the silence between them comfortable and expectant. He found himself captivated by their presence, their aura radiating an inner peace that he craved.

Their conversations became a nightly ritual. They would share stories, both mundane and fantastical, their laughter echoing through the moonlit garden. Loki found himself drawn to their gentle spirit, their quiet strength. He learned to appreciate their insightful observations, their unique perspective on the world.

One evening, as they sat gazing at the stars, the male turned to Loki, his voice tinged with a hint of nervousness. "Loki, there's something I need to tell you."

Loki, sensing their apprehension, leaned closer, his attention undivided. "Anything, my friend."

"I... I am transgender," he confessed, his gaze fixed on the shimmering water.

Loki, taken aback, processed the information slowly. He had encountered many strange and wondrous beings in his travels, but this… this was new. "You… you mean you were born a woman?"

The figure chuckled softly. "Yes, but… I am a man."

He explained, carefully and patiently, the complexities of his identity, the dissonance between his inner self and the body he was born into. Loki listened intently, his mind grappling with this new concept.

"I see," he murmured, his voice thoughtful. "It changes nothing, does it? You are still you."

Relief washed over his face. "Thank you, Loki. I… I was afraid you wouldn't understand."

In the following weeks, their friendship deepened. Loki, ever the curious one, delved deeper into the nuances of gender identity, his initial confusion giving way to understanding and acceptance. He began to notice subtle changes in the others demeanor, a newfound confidence blooming within them.

One night, as they sat by the pond, Loki found himself inexplicably drawn to them. He gazed at the others face, illuminated by the soft glow of the lanterns, and an unexpected wave of emotion washed over him. "You are… you are truly beautiful," he whispered, his voice husky.

He looked up, startled, their eyes widening. "Loki?"

He leaned closer, his breath mingling with theirs. "Your eyes… they shimmer like the stars themselves."

A blush crept up his neck, his gaze fixed on the ground. Loki gently cupped his face, Loki's thumbs tracing the contours of his jawline. "I would… I would do anything for you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Anything at all."

Overwhelmed, he could only whisper, "Loki…"

He leaned in, his lips brushing against theirs in a soft, tentative kiss. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the sensation of their touch, the warmth of their skin, the intoxicating scent of their breath.

The kiss, tentative at first, deepened, Loki's hands finding their way around his waist, pulling him closer. A low moan escaped his lips as he surrendered to the moment, his senses reeling. He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching his face, a mixture of disbelief and wonder in their depths.

"I… I have dreamt of this," he confessed, his voice trembling. "Of your touch, of your lips… of you."

Loki smiled, a genuine, heart-warming smile that reached his eyes. "I… I have dreamt of you too," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

He leaned in again, this time capturing Loki's lips in a passionate kiss, a kiss that spoke volumes of unspoken desires, of a love that had been blossoming in the shadows for far too long. Loki sighed into the kiss, his body trembling with a newfound intensity. He had found his equal, his soul mate, in this unexpected corner of the world.

He pulled back, his eyes shining with an ethereal light. "You are… you are perfect," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "More perfect than any god, any myth, any dream I could ever have imagined."

He cupped Loki's face, his thumb gently tracing the curve of his cheek. "You are everything to me, Loki."

Loki leaned into his touch, his heart overflowing with a love he had never known existed. "And you… you are my everything," he whispered, his voice filled with a profound sense of peace and joy.

As they sat there, bathed in the soft glow of the lanterns, their hands intertwined, they knew this was only the beginning of their story, a love story that defied expectations, that transcended the boundaries of gender, and that promised a future filled with endless possibilities.

[xcerizex]

"Can you hear my voice?"

fem!summoner, Sirius, character introspection(?), 1.5k words

Sirius had long forgotten the concept of familiarity in his life.

He knew what he had to do. The extremes he would have to take to achieve his goal. Any collateral damage would be of no concern to him, not when his heart had long frozen over.

From the day that thing came and took away his only piece of happiness, he was ready to risk everything.

The Constellations willingly despised him however. Because through some sliver of misfortune, he had found himself stumbling upon the doorway of the small greenhouse of Contell's garden in the dead of the night.

Witnessing the girl inside it, and her song.

Looking at the sight before him, he couldn't help but think;

'Is this something really worth losing?'

Moonlight filters through the glass windows of Contell, saturating the hallways with blue and silver. The moon shines bright enough that the darkness becomes irrelevant despite the hand pointed to twelve on the clock, and it makes walking around so much easier. There is no need for a lamplight.

Everything is peaceful.

A part of Sirius loathes that peace.

The reason so many people can sleep soundly in their beds is because of Polaris. They are grateful for it of course, it's not like that they have taken it for granted. On the contrary, they write ballads and books, all praising his genius and compassion. As if he were some sort of hero in a fairy tale.

'...He very much was like one. And to me...'

There was a time where Sirius was the same as them, and looked up to the person who saved his life. Loved him. Adored him even, putting him up on a pedestal.

His impression of him has changed a little since then. Just a little.

'I truly hate that.'

That feeling is directed moreso towards himself. Lost in his thoughts, he doesn't notice the small shadow that passes over him.

A tap at the window is what finally directs his attention to the little bird perched on the windowsill. It wasn't quite a real bird however, just a small form of light taking the form of one.

He quietly opens the window to create as little noise as possible, and holds his hand out gently towards the bird. If anyone he knew were to see him do this, they would claim it an odd sight, the Sirius they thought to know was someone incapable of any form of gentleness...or kindness.

'They wouldn't be wrong.'

The bird hops on to his finger and they start communicating. After while, he lets out a huff of a laugh. The bird flies off, and Sirius starts walking in a different direction towards a determined destination.

A bitter smirk graces his face as he thinks of the Summoner, and the words he will say to her once he arrives.

'It's not sleepwalking this time it seems.'

He chuckles aloud again, how romantic would it be to meet up at midnight no? He tries to imagine the face she'll make once he points it out, only for his smirk to be wiped off his face, as he realizes that he can picture it a little bit too perfectly.

Footsteps echo across the empty hallway which then changes into the sound then of rustling leaves, as Sirius walks towards Contell's smallest greenhouse.

The greenhouse in particular is nothing special, with the only outstanding thing being the stained-glass roof. But even that has lost it's splendor within it's years of neglect. Though recently he's heard that Vega has decided to take an interest in repairing it. Something that had been suggested by the Summoner of course, there's little chance that Vega would have decided on something like this out of nowhere all on his own.

The sound of a violin grows louder as he enters the greenhouse, and the view of the Summoner bathed in moonlight is the first thing he sees involuntarily.

The melancholic song must have drowned out the sound of his footsteps because the Summoner remains unperturbed in her music, her eyes staying closed as she immerses herself in the little world she has created. A world where only her and the little bubble remains relevant. A world where he doesn't exist.

He leans against the glass walls, waiting for her to finish. After all, he would consider himself a criminal to disturb such a work of art.

Once her notes begin to soften and the song begins to fade, she opens her mouth and says, "Hello, Sirius. Don't you think it's a little bit too late into the night to visit the greenhouse?"

He throws his head back and laughs, amused, "Why Summoner, you're one to talk. What on Bound Arlyn could have possessed you to lug such a heavy instrument all the way out here at one in the morning?"

She makes a sour face at him, "You followed me didn't you?"

He makes a hum, the same tune as her song, as he struts forward languidly while tilting his head at her, "So what if I did? I found the idea of our Summoner walking around Contell in the middle of the night a rather intriguing thing. I'm not wrong for being curious."

"You're like a stalker."

He sighs, "I'm a little hurt, Summoner. Won't you call this a romantic encounter instead?"

There it was. The Summoner's expression had scrunched up in a strange mix of incredulity and embarrassment.

...He loved that expression. And he hated it just as much. Hates the feeling of hotness that spreads across his chest like a whip to bone. And what can a dog do other than to bite back when it hurts?

"...Besides, you wouldn't care for such things in the end." Especially if it's him. She doesn't really care when it comes to him. "The Summoner is not going to report me for this are you?"

Instead of retaliating, she simply sighs and turns away from him, holding up her violin up to her chin. His eyes remain fixated to the every slight of her movements and he thinks, 'Again.'

Again and again and again. How infuriating.

The sound of the violin echoes across the silent night, and every note becomes more punctuated than the next the longer the seconds go by. Which was around 30 really, as she abruptly stops and says;

"Of course, I am. Straight to Arcky of course."

Oh.

"I didn't know that was your preference Summoner. Asking for Spica's help would be more effective wouldn't it?"

The words are bitter on his tongue. Out of everyone, the only one with the gall (or motivation) to reprimand him would be Spica. Vega doesn't count. He doesn't get to count.

"Wouldn't it be easier to find me every night if Arcky helped you though?"

The following sound of silence is deafening in his ears, ringing loudly in the dead of the night. His hands fall limply to his side as he lets out a soft exhale.

The jig is up.

"How long have you known?" Sirius asks nonchalantly. The uncomfortable feeling in his chest is gone.

He feels lighter than before. He doesn't have to keep up his pretenses around her.

"For a while now."

The Summoner looks back at him and meets his gaze. Lowering her violin and placing it gently atop of it's case, she makes her way towards him slowly, with every step as graceful as a dancer on a stage.

He almost takes a step back but stops himself as she stands before him only a foot apart.

"I also knew that tonight, you would be here."

He needs to run away.

"Sirius?"

He needs to leave her here right now.

Or else he may be stuck here forever in this bliss.

His unfocused eyes are brought back to reality as she touches his face with her fingertips, a worried smile playing on her lips as if painted by a delicate paintbrush.

"I'm sorry," her apology rings about in the green house. "Was I too forward?"

'Maybe.'

He does not say that out loud, and instead opts to take her hands off his face — by grasping hers as gently as possible — while trying to mask the softness lingering on the edges of his expression. He then reminds himself;

'You must play the role of the villain.'

He hopes that his mask is enough to convince her of the same.

But he also knows that won't be enough.

"If I hadn't known any better," Sirius drawls. "I would have thought that the Summoner had a crush on me."

That keeps her quiet.

Run.

Before he ruins everything for her alone.

She must have heard the venom in his voice. So when her hold on him loosens slightly, he takes the opportunity to leave as fast as he can. Turning around, he pushes open the door and walks out of the greenhouse, masking his fervent escape in the guise of a stroll.

He leaves her there, her face a portrait of confusion and embarrassment. He leaves her behind.

But he knows that she'll simply catch up to him later, knowing her annoying sense of preservance.

He thinks then, he truly is cursed to the depths of the Void.

[descendant-of-truth]

Anyone else find it fascinating that whenever we're shown Roxas's feelings through Sora, it's just kind of melancholic and wistful, but the reverse scenario always feels like you just walked into a psychological horror?

Seriously, the way it's presented, it's like we're meant to see Roxas as an old friend that we miss talking to, but Sora - our original "old friend" that we would have reasons to miss - is hardly even shown as a person. The contents of his memories feel less important than the effect they're having on Roxas, which is usually Extreme Distress and/or physical pain.

And it's insane to me because KH1 was so whimsical! The memories that Roxas and Xion are experiencing are literal Disney magic! But the way they're shown, with the fuzzy filters and the glitch effects, sort of removes the emotions you associate with them and makes them come across as eerie and unsettling.

Not to mention, Sora's memories rarely prompt any feelings of happiness, the way Roxas's might make Sora extra fond of the Twilight Town crew... which might say more about how KH1 affected Sora's mental health than anything.

(I personally stand by the idea that the story revisits it so much as an analogy for how repeating events in your head over and over can alter your perception of them)

But like. how wild is it that this series found a way to take its cheerful protagonist, and without changing anything about him, turned him into this constant, unnerving presence that haunts the lives of two other characters?

And I think another reason Roxas doesn't feel like he haunts Sora in the same way is because no one really... treats Sora like a person while he's asleep. He's either a tool or an object of affection, and regardless of which you pick, his feelings are seen as secondary to the goal of waking him up. As a result, the narrative focuses entirely on Roxas and Xion's personhood, and unlike Sora, they never stop being treated like people once they're made inaccessible due to the plot.

It's probably a bit late in the story to bring it up by now, but I still wonder if we'll ever see Sora be upset with Riku for sacrificing people in his name. Sure, it worked out in the end, and I'm not sure if Sora's even aware of what happened (how likely is it that he's properly sifted through all of Roxas's memories at this point?) but there's a list of things he could still conceivably be mad at Riku about that he hasn't processed, and I want this to be one of them

[kieraplaysthesims]

September 1926

The Schmitz household was steeped in quiet contentment. The soft glow of the afternoon sun filtered through the lace curtains, illuminating the living room where Antonija and Gustav each indulged in their favorite pastimes.

Antonija sat gracefully at the upright piano, her fingers lightly gliding over the keys as a melancholic waltz filled the room. She wore a simple yet elegant navy dress, her hair tucked under a sailor-style cap. The music was a soothing companion to the steady rain pattering against the windows, a rare but cherished moment of peace in their bustling lives.

Gustav, seated on the couch nearby, worked diligently on a cross stitch of a train. His patchwork blazer, a mix of textures and colors, was a testament to his eclectic style. The cloth in his hands slowly transformed, each detail lovingly etched with precision. A stack of books on the coffee table beside him bore titles about history and folklore, further revealing his passion for crafts and storytelling.

Between them, the coffee table was laden with an assortment of embroidery hoops, lavender bouquets, and freshly baked pastries. The air carried the faint scent of lavender and the warmth of sugar, a comforting embrace that wrapped around their shared space. Antonija’s embroidery lay in progress next to her, a depiction of a quaint cottage surrounded by flowers—a reflection of her hopes for their future.

From time to time, they would exchange a smile or a gentle word. Gustav would pause in his work to admire Antonija’s melody, while she would glance over her shoulder to check on his progress, her eyes lighting up with approval. Though they were both absorbed in their individual hobbies, their connection was palpable, a quiet rhythm of companionship that needed no words.

Their home, decorated with embroidered hoops on the walls and books spilling from shelves, was a perfect reflection of their personalities—creative, warm, and full of life.

[femboty2k]

Tactile Sensations

Short story about being trans under the cut. I do feel like some of it is a bit on the nose, but I hope you'll humor me. I had a lot of fun writing this, I hope you enjoy.

Morning is different now, the same way everything else is. Light filters into her photoreceptors and she has a difficult time telling if it's real or not. Memories of how the light felt on her skin back home, how the wind felt in her hair, how the sand felt on her skin, all filtered through a dull thrum in the back of her head. “What time is it…?” Her voice called out to the assistance drone parked in its charging bay. Its eyes shimmered to life at the call, and the smooth metallic being lurched forth on spindle-thin legs. “Current station time is eight-twenty-two. Good morning Cassie, I hope you slept well.” Their voice was as monotone as ever, but she could sense the melancholic concern beneath it. She’d gone to bed early again last night, much earlier than ever before. “I slept for…twelve hours?” “Nearly, ten hours and forty-five minutes exactly. Do you feel rested?” She couldn’t tell, not yet, she wasn’t quite acclimated enough. “I…I think so. Thank you, Levy.” “Of course, Cassie, would you like some coffee? I can put a pot on for you while you get dressed and-” “Coffee sounds great, thank you. I’ll be in the bathroom.” Levy emitted a low tone that sounded like a sad animal before strutting off out of the room.

Cassie climbed out of the pile of blankets she slept in and trudged her way to the bathroom. It still rattled her how conscious she was of every step now. The mirror greeted her in the same half-hearted way it had been recently. A being with tired eyes and ragged hair blinked back at her with the soft glow of amber sensors. “You look like shit.” It said in a voice detached from her throat. “You look like shit and everyone looks at you weird now. Aren’t you happy?” Muffled static fizzled behind every word, rotating servos clicked maliciously as she combed her hair and washed her face, she could barely feel the water. She hadn’t showered in days because she didn’t feel the need to now. She could barely feel her skin, and it didn’t create the same day-to-day dirt that it used to anyway. Her clothes made her feel better though. Hiding the barely visible seams of her skin beneath a soft sweater and flowing skirt made her want to sleep less, for now. “Cassie! Your coffee is ready!” That was her que. “Time to put on that brave face, unless you want to disappoint them again.”

With her senses intact she caught the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifting from the kitchen of her small apartment. Levy always stocked real coffee ever since she mentioned off hand that the synthesized packs needed twice as much to taste the same. “Milk and sugar, just like always. I even made some banana-nut nutribars too. You said you missed them the other day and I found a recipe on OuterNet.” What happened in response to this? Pressure built behind her eyes as she took the cup and nodded thankfully. The taste was the same, perfect in every way, and the bars reminded her of home again. “Cassie…?” The assistance drone crooned in that same sad animal tone. She looked over to Levy somewhat confused. “Huh? Oh the coffee is great, Levy. It’s perfect, as always. A-And thank you for making these,” she gestured with a half eaten nutribar, “Just like I remember.” “Cassie, you are crying.” “What…? I’m…” Setting the bar down she prodded her face to find a steady stream of tears dripping into the coffee and wetting her sweater. “Oh, I am, aren’t I? I’m okay. Just, haven’t gotten used to everything just yet. The doctors said it could take time, remember? I’m okay, Levy. Really.” Levy made a small electronic chirping sound, a telltale sign that they were thinking hard about something.

“Cassie… I am worried about you.” They were trying their best to keep their helper-coded voice to its usual chipper monotone, but ever since she learned how to use her new ears she couldn't unhear the underlying emotion that came with every synthesized word. “Levy, I told you I-” “You have been shutting yourself in your room for two weeks now. You have not attempted to contact any of your friends or family. You have not attempted to talk to me…” Those last words stung the most. “L-Levy I'm fine. Okay? I'm still just having a hard time adjusting. The doctor's said this would happen. I'll be fine. I just need to get through this funk.” Levy’s chirping resumed. “Okay Cassie. I trust you. But please, if you need anything, I am here. I have always been here for you, and I always will be.” She knew that, why wasn’t it obvious? If she thought it was a problem she would have said something, right? Levy had been there since she was woken up, through all the medical appointments, all the moving and transport shuttles, all of it. They should know that she would say something. She should know that. “I know Levy, thank you…” Levy nudged her shoulder with one of their manipulators and she embraced them lightly. “I’ll call Leeda today, see if she wants to hang out for a while. I could probably use the fresh air anyway. How about that?” Levy let out a pleased fluting tone and nodded their chassis up and down a few times. “That is a great idea! I will clean things up here while you are out. Let me know when you are leaving!” They scurried off to start refolding the nest she had risen from moments before, leaving her alone to cast a look of dread at her communicator.

“Fuck… What do I even say? ‘Sorry I’ve been gone for two weeks! My family treats me weird now so I needed to shut myself in my room for a while! How’ve you been?’ yeah right… Just, call her, ask if she wants to go to the Atrium. You like the Atrium. Go for a walk. Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. I can…I can do that…” Her thumb hovered over the confirm key for a few moments, the slightest twitch of hesitation surging beneath her numb skin. “Hello? Cassie? Cassie?! Is there interference?! Helloooooo?!” “Leeda! Hey! Uh…How are you?” The rasp of Leeda’s aqualung respirator fired up as her shrill voice screeched through the speaker. “HOW ARE YOU?! YOU DISAPPEAR OFF THE STATION FOR TWO WHOLE WEEKS AND THAT’S WHAT YOU SAY?! HOW ARE YOU?! I’VE BEEN WORRIED SICK! KEEN’S BEEN WORRIED SICK! WE’VE ALL BEEN WORRIED-” “Leeda please don’t yell…” Her reply came like a wounded hound, limping through the dead air it created. “Sorry, Cassie, you know how worked up I get. Do you wanna hang out today? Keen and I were going to walk around the promenade, you could tag along!”

She wanted to tell her that she didn’t like Keen all that much, that the way he put in little effort to remember her name was annoying at best and soul crushing at worst. She wanted to say how Keen had been a large part of her having to talk to her family so early, and that she regretted ever bringing it up with him. She wanted to tell her about all the snide things she’d heard Keen say about her when he thought she wasn’t within earshot, and berate her for not believing her when she brought it up the last time they saw each other, bust most of all, she wanted to just say no. “That sounds great! I was uh, I was thinking about going to the gardens today… Any chance you two would wanna take the walk there?” Leeda’s beak clicked together in satisfaction on the other end. “Yes! Yes yes yes! That’s a great idea! I’ll get Keen and we’ll meet you there!”

Before she could reply the excitable Vessik had already hung up, plans solidified within a contract of silence that hung over her as she examined her appearance. “Levy?” The droid came scampering back into the kitchen, pile of folded blankets in hand. “I’m gonna go meet Leeda and Keen at the Atrium, we’re going for a walk in the gardens.” Levy chirped in reply, “That is great! I will finish cleaning and then go shopping for the week. Would you like me to pick up anything for you? The doctor recommended a particular type of coolant, I can look for it if you would like.” Her face was grim as the front door slid open to reveal the balcony walkway of her apartment building, morning light lapping at the edges of her shadow. “Yeah…that’d be nice… I’ll see you around, Levy.”

Outside the ever-turning rings of Axial-Tilt Four rotated in their never-ending cosmic waltz. She remembered first being woken up on the station. How she was one of just five colonists to be successfully woken up from their methuselah chambers, and how sick she was by the end of it all. “You have a decision here, we want you to be aware. We won’t do anything you don’t want us to. Things are better now, I promise.” Those words played over and over and over as her reflection walked next to her out in the stars. In her mind there was still a piece of her wishing she had perished with the others on that ship, it was louder on days like this. How easy would it have been to just live in that dream forever, to not have to go through all the pain and trouble of changing and fixing herself in the hopes of feeling more like herself. “The procedures are free, you won’t pay anything. We just want to make sure you understand that this comes with a potentially long recovery period. Some people acclimate quickly, but a lot of factors can cause it to take longer than expected. You’re sure?” If she had said no, where would she be? How many layers of trapped would she be in right now? Trapped on this station, trapped in the medical sector, trapped in a hospital, trapped in a room, trapped in a bed, trapped in her old body. She felt something then that stopped her in her tracks a few feet from the tram shuttle entryway. Her skin crawled at the thought.

It was there as she stood staring down at her hand that she failed to notice the fast approaching cephalopod towing along a short wiry human man. Leeda crashed into her with all the force of a wet jacket, vessik didn’t have a bone structure so it was less dangerous and more unpleasant that the two collided. All she could manage was a staunch “Ooufh” before Leeda’s happy trills and pleased beak clicking filled the air. “CASSIIIIIEEEE!” “H-Hey, Leeda, scrap that kinda hurt…” Leeda recoiled playfully, “Sorry! I think my com hit your forehead! Keen! Keen look, it's Cassie!” Keen, who was still tapping away at the keys of his own communicator, looked up for a brief moment with a rather tired look in his eyes. “Yeah! Yeah hey D. Long time no see, half a lunar cycle even, you been okay?” She could only grit her teeth so hard behind her lips before she had to respond. That single letter moniker dug under her nails and made her hands itch as she fiddled with the hem of her sweater. “Yyyyyyep, been fine. We going for a walk, or what?” A little more confidence, there we go, stare him down and make him uncomfortable. The show of half-hearted social dominance came with the tossing of her unkempt hair, pushing tangles of curls well in need of a touch up into a sad ponytail that lagged behind her head.

Axial-Tilt Four’s atrium might have been her favourite place on the gargantuan colony station. Four had been built with livability in mind, and unlike its three sister stations had a vast array of parks and botanical gardens planned out for the populace. Her favourite of them all was this one though. It was themed after the western coastal regions, a place from old Terra known as the Cascade Mountains, a place she knew as the Oregon regional district. The expanse of carefully created land emulated the pine forests and rocky cliffs of her birthplace in a near perfect display. This was where she did most of her thinking, this was where she felt most at home in the future she’d awoken to. “So uh, what have you two been up to?” “Work.” Keen shot back almost immediately, kicking a stone down the path ahead. “Yeah they’ve got him pulling double shifts until the next shuttle gets here, that last expedition crew took a good number of administration officers with it.” Leeda’s tone was more forgiving, still with that cheerful timbre behind it. “As for me, I've just been in school! This tri-segment has been rough. Getting all the certs to join the banking guild is haaaard.” Cassie nodded along to the words, two weeks had passed and nothing had changed, but yet something stirred within her. The three sat down around a concrete picnic table and exchanged a few more pleasantries. Mostly just Cassie listening to Leeda talk on and on about the intricacies of the Quaala Banking guild and how much math she was having to learn. It wasn’t until Keen piped up from whatever book he was clicking through that she felt the need to speak again.

“So D.-” “Cassie, or Cass, or Cassandra. I’m really not picky, you know.” Her tone was quick, sharp, laced with venom and she hoped he felt it. His eyes widened a bit, but the relaxed look he always had soon returned. “Right right, Cass. How’s the ol’ data entry goin’? Heard you guys got a fresh round of computers in at that processing place you work at. I helped sign off on the shipment, reminded me of you.” Her mind scrolled through dozens of possible lies, but settled unfortunately on the truth. “I’m still on leave… They uh, they give you as long as you need as long as you do regular check-ins with a doctor so, I’ve just been uh…around I guess.” gone was the violence that she had struck back at Keen with, replaced by the timid growl of synthesized vocal chords and nervously clicking finger servos. “Aaaah gotcha, gotcha… So uh… How long do you think you’re gonna… You know, how long do you think it’s gonna take?” How did she answer that? How could she face the reality of her situation? How dare he. How dare he put her in this situation. Made to confront her own bodily neglect and unwillingness to conform completely to the form that she wanted. Clearly she had made a mistake, clearly somewhere along the way she had jumped to a conclusion she could have been talked out of, clearly- “I’m not sure, honestly… I’ve been having some difficulty with the nerve bonding part as of late… I can’t feel stuff very well unless I really try and focus. I have an appointment to get them re-tuned soon though, so, maybe that’ll help.”

Something caught her in the arm. A flick sent from in front of Keen’s snide smirking face. Leeda prodded at him to stop, calling him rude but chuckling along with him as he jokingly added, “Did you feel that?” She stood, fists balled so tightly their clicking was audible, or at least she hoped it was. “Why did I do this? Why do I keep trying to hang out with you?” And off she stormed down a branching path nearby. “What- Hey! D.! D.! Come back! Hey!” She gave them one last glance from over her shoulder before she continued her hurried trek down a path and into a small clearing. She felt it this time, the tears on her face, the pressure behind her eyes. The dam she had built had broken, and in a moment of peace among the swaying pine branches, she wept. It happened there, when it all broke down around her. The carefully constructed walls of denial let loose everything she’d been holding back, and there, right there, she felt something. She felt everything. Every blade of grass, the wind on her face, the dirt beneath her legs, all of it. Her sobs mixed with bubbling laughter as something within her clicked into place. Catharsis never happens when you want it to, the same as true right now. She’d always pictured herself having this moment while at home, hugging Levy and quietly crying into a pillow or something. Rarely did the thought of sobbing in the dirt somewhere out in the woods of Atrium park Cascade cross her mind. A voice called out from some nearby shrubbery, and she looked over to see Leeda tiredly making her way up an incline and into the clearing.

“Cassie! Thank fuck, I found you, oh my fucking stars I found you… Just… Just give me a minute…” She reached up with a tentacled hand and clicked in a button on her aqualung to inject a fresh boost of oxygenized kelp mist into the gently flowing blue formula that allowed her to breath in the open air. “Whew! Much better. Cassie!” Once again the squishy woman threw herself around her friend, arms spiraling around Cassie’s in a distinctly vessik styled hug. “I’m so sorry about Keen… I’ve been talking to him about that garbage and I thought he would at the very least behave but I-” Cassie held a feeling finger up to her beak. “Leeda… Hush… Please… I’ve made my decision, I should have said something… I don’t want to hang out with Keen anymore.” Leeda’s head fins flapped at the statement with inquisitive affirmation. “I know! I mean, I figured, I just thought, well, you two had been through so much and… Then he and I started dating and I always felt like I was intruding on your friendship and… I’m sorry, Cassie…” Cassie laid her head on her friend’s shoulder. “I don’t… I don’t like how long it took us to get to this… It should have been solved way earlier… He doesn’t treat me well… He outed me to my family for fucks sake…” Her words were heavy and laden with the memories they carried. Leeda nodded, “I know… And I should have been more active in helping you instead of worrying about getting in the way. I haven’t been a great friend, Cassie, I’m sorry.”

Cassie shook her head. “I don’t want you to be sorry, Leeda… I just want it to stop… I want Keen to go away, I want it all to just, get better already…” Leeda’s cold grip loosened from her arms as she scooted into a position better suited for Cassie to prop herself up with. “It will! It will get better, we’ll start on that right now. Keen and I were already talking about splitting up, to be entirely honest, we were going to talk it out over lunch when you called.” “Really? Shit, sorry I got in the way of your breakup.” Leeda’s trilling laugh shook the pine needles around them. “Oh no you’re fine! If anything this probably sped things up a bit… After you walked off I got pretty mad at him and he brought up me ‘always taking your side’ in things again so I told him to take a hike.” Cassie stifled a laugh. “Did you actually say that while out on a hiking trail?” A cluster of tentacle fingers poked her in the shoulder. “No but I should have! Dammit why do you have to think of all the clever things to say!” For the first time in an honest while, the two shared a laugh. Eventually they decided to simply sit and enjoy the breeze, but Leeda’s curiosity infamously knew no bounds, and it wasn’t too long before a question lingered between them.

“So… I know you two are like, childhood buddies, but how long have you actually known each other?” Cassie was tracing patterns in the dirt, but stopped when the memories of her old home flooded back to her. “We grew up together, back on Terra… Our parents knew each other so we spent a lot of time playing video games and going on hikes in the public sectors. At one point I thought I had a crush on him but that was a whole different thing… When the Methuselah project came along his dad was one of the chief engineers on the whole thing. He got both our families spots on the colony ships. I didn’t want to leave but, it was very clear that Terra wasn’t going to be the future anyone hoped it would be… I remember the last day before we went into the pods he said, ‘see you in the future!’ and that gave me some kind of weird confidence boost… Like, maybe everything would be okay… And you know the rest. The ship got recovered a few centuries later with a few pods in tact, I got cryo-sickness and he didn’t, and I took the opportunity to act on something I was always afraid of doing back home…” She examined her hand then. How carefully crafted it had been just for her. Bulky but still different enough from her old hands so that she could tell the difference. “What made you consider cybernetics?” Leeda’s usual cheer was replaced with a softer, more genuine curiosity, one that told Cassie she could refuse the question if she wanted.

“It wasn’t much of a choice, really. The doctors told me that I could either go for the cyber-bod or just continue to get treatments. The treatments weren’t terrible, but I was in bad shape, I wouldn’t have been living much of a life outside the medical center. So I took the cybernetics, and the chance to finally… be me.” A stray tear rolled down her cheek. “You couldn’t have transitioned back on Terra?” A more complicated question than she would’ve cared for. She could have but she was too close to her original family, too close to Keen, all people who weren’t very accepting of the idea. “It wasn’t a good time to try… And I was scared… But I thought that, maybe since it was just Keen and I, you know, maybe I could go for it. Maybe he’d come around and maybe he’d regret telling my new folks about it without my permission… But here we are, huh?”

Leeda nodded. “Here we are… I’m still so sorry he did that.” Cassie shook her head. “For the record, my parents have been nothing but supportive… It was just the weight of it all… My depression was keeping me from fully acclimating to my cybernetics and that piled on just so fucking much dysphoria you have no idea… But, you said it… We can make it better now. Keen can take a hike, fuck that guy. I think I’ll call my moms when I get home… Haven’t talked to them in nearly two lunar cycles now, bet they’re gonna tell me off real good for it… Thank you, Leeda, for apologizing. I still think I need some time to like, sort this whole thing out in my head but, I’ll be in touch, okay?” The two stood and exchanged another hug. “Whenever you’re feeling up to it, we should hang out again! I know this really cool thrift shop on the promenade, I could show you!” Cassie chuckled, “I do love a good cheap sweater.” She twirled a bit, striking a half-hearted pose before collapsing into laughter. It felt good, to get some of it out. Her shoulder still slouched a bit on the walk to the tram shuttle, and she felt exhausted when she finally did get home. But the tactile sensations she felt along the way brought a delicate smile to her face.

When she arrived at her apartment she greeted Levy with a solid hug and took a shower while they made lunch. She ran the water cold and stood under to feel the chill snake its way up her spine. The face in the mirror didn’t sneer at her when she looked at it this time, and with a wry smile it repeated the words she whispered aloud, “There she is.” The rest of the day was quiet. A long conversation with her mothers about what had been going on, a conversation with her doctor about how her acclimation had finally progressed, and then some of the most restful sleep she’d gotten in weeks. That night she dreamt of the gardens, she dreamt of visiting her mothers up on Hab level two, she dreamt of standing on that beach back home as the water around her crashed into the rocky cliffs of the coastline. When she finally woke up, half past noon this time, her eyes fluttered to life with the bright glow of amber sensors. Morning is different now, just like everything else is.

[underscar]

Hello~ can I get Kobeni with a Male S/O who's energetic and affectionate towards her. Like always telling her how much he loves her and how cute she is.

ESCAPISM

Pairing: Kobeni Higashiyama/Male Reader

Summary: In the midst of a lively park and bustling street, Kobeni found solace in the enduring glow of the streetlights. As the noises faded into the background, her focus shifted to the person by her side—you. While Kobeni's memories were mostly muted and melancholic, you always stood out vividly in each one, radiating with vibrant colors. After a demanding day as a devil-hunter, you both took a stroll, prompting nostalgic reflections. Despite being financially strained like Kobeni, you generously offered to treat her to some exquisite fried chicken to uplift her spirits, but she declined. Her sole desire was for things to remain unchanged between the two of you.

CHAINSAW MAN MASTERLIST | TAGLIST FORM

A/N: thank you for requesting! your request was somewhat similar to a oneshot i was already gonna write for kobeni, i just shortened it.

WORD COUNT // 1,554 words

CSM TAGLIST: @loveydoveydouche

WARNINGS: spoilers but not really, more like references.

In the midst of a lively park and bustling street, Kobeni found solace in the enduring glow of the streetlights. As the noises faded into the background, her focus shifted to the person by her side—you, who walked briskly beside her. Your face attracted the light and a sparkle twinkled in your eye, she noticed, as she stared. 

After a fun night of drinking with the rest of the division, Kobeni reveled in the joy of dining out. Eating out was one of her greatest pleasures. Once the night came to an end, you kindly offered to chaperone her on the walk to the train station. Though the walk felt more like roaming.

Despite your aimless wandering, a glimmer of hollow light constantly followed you, devouring you. No matter how far you both went, there was always that persistent glimmer. You had a radiant glow for as long as she could remember. Kobeni’s memories were all in a monochromatic filter, melancholic and lagging. Despite the darkness of her life, she met you, her bright light at the end of the tunnel. You shone with vivid color in every memory you shared. She was at a loss for words in the face of your enlightening presence.

Luckily, you broke the silence with ease. "How has work been?" you inquired, curiosity lacing your voice. "I heard your division was assigned to eliminate some devil at some hotel. Which one was it?"

Kobeni's gaze dropped, her hands clasping together in a display of unease. "It was the Eternity devil," she admitted, her tone tinged with remorse.

You nodded, sensing the weight of her words. "Did everything go smoothly?" you asked cautiously.

A shadow of shame passed over Kobeni's face as she took a deep breath. "No, it didn't... I... I made a terrible mistake," she stammered, struggling to find the right words. “I panicked…and tried to stab out the heart of one of my coworkers, it was Denji. But instead, I...stabbed one of my superiors, it was Hayakawa.”

You struggled to conceal your amazement, the marvel evident in your voice. "Woah! That's quite out of character for you, Kobeni," you remarked, though deep down, you knew that her impulsive tendencies were not entirely foreign to you. Kobeni had always possessed a combination of timidity and recklessness, traits that had persisted since childhood. The life of a devil hunter seemed ill-suited for her, you knew that, and witnessing her current state pained you deeply.

Kobeni frowned. “Yeah…I really need to apologize.” She continued, strolling unhurriedly beside you. "How about...your work?" she asked, her voice trembling like a flickering flame, trying to sustain the conversation.

Resting your chin in your hand, you responded. "Miss Makima had requested for me to accompany her on a trip to Kyoto tomorrow, but with all honesty, I don't anticipate anything eventful happening."

"Oh, well, I'll be patrolling with Galgali tomorrow," Kobeni shared. 

You let out a sigh, disapproving of Kobeni working alongside a fiend of all things. "The violence fiend, huh? I wish I didn't have to leave you with it."

Kobeni wanted to defend the fiend, tell you how he wasn't all that bad, but she bit her tongue, opting to remain hushed. "It's alright, really. I wouldn't want to be a bother--" 

You interrupted her, your voice filled with affection. "It's cute how apologetic you are, but Kobeni, know that you could never bother me."

A fiery blush crept onto Kobeni's cheeks as she softly replied, "I'm sorry."

Suppressing the urge to laugh at her response, you decided against teasing her about her apologetic nature. Instead, you simply smiled down at her, letting the conversation naturally come to a close. Sometimes, silence and a knowing smile spoke louder than words, you thought.

You close your eyes, as the cacophony of the city becomes distant, gradually fading into the background. The honking of car horns, the chatter of pedestrians, and the bustling energy of the streets all blend into a symphony of urban life. Instead of overwhelming you, this constant noise seems to envelop you, providing a sense of comfort and anonymity.

At this moment, you allow yourself to detach from the chaos of your daily life. The towering buildings, with their mesmerizing lights and windows reflecting the night sky, remind you of the vastness of the world. You feel like a small observer in a grand spectacle, the world moving around you while you find solace in the stillness within.

“Don’t stress yourself, _____.”

Startled by the sound of Kobeni's voice, you are abruptly jolted back to the present moment. The tranquility you were experiencing quickly fades as your attention shifts from the vastness of the city to the immediate presence of another person.

Turning towards Kobeni, you find yourself facing a familiar face. "Sorry, what was that?" you ask, your mind still lingering on the brief respite you had just experienced. You didn't fully catch what she said.

Kobeni, feeling sheepish, turned away and stumbled over her words. "Please don't stress yourself too much. It's not healthy to work excessively. B-b-but I understand that you need to provide for yourself, especially since... well, your family isn't in the picture anymore. However--" --her sentence was abruptly interrupted by the ferocious growl of her stomach, akin to that of a beast.

Kobeni's face flushed with embarrassment, turning a deep shade of crimson. Overwhelmed by the sudden interruption of her growling stomach, she came to a halt and instinctively clutched her midsection, as if trying to suppress the noise. "I-I-I'm so sorry!" she cried, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.

Having grown up with Kobeni and accustomed to her occasional dramatic outbursts, you shrugged it off. You stopped in front of her, interrupting her string of apologies. "Hmm, Kobeni. Let me treat you to some fried chicken tonight. You know, the good kind near that park we love."

A glimmer of surprise and gratitude flickered in Kobeni's teary eyes as she mumbled amidst her apologies, "Is it open this late?" However, she quickly gasped and shook her head. "Wait, no, no, no! You should be saving your money, not spending it on me!"

You responded with a playful smile. "Oh, I have a few twenties to spare."

Kobeni frowned, her disbelief evident on her face. "No, you don't."

Chuckling softly, you responded, "You're right, I'll worry about that later. Besides, treating you to a delicious meal is worth every penny." Playfully, you hung your arm around Kobeni's shoulder, pulling her close. "Now come on! Do you want chicken or not? You can tell me all about that fiend while we eat! Okay? Please? I'm literally begging you now~"

Kobeni couldn't help but smile at your persistence and the playful tone in your voice. Blushing slightly, she nodded and chuckled back. "Thank you... really. You're too kind."

You released your hold on Kobeni and exclaimed, "It's decided then! Let's hurry up and get there! What are we doing standing around?"

Kobeni's attention, however, became fixated on your face and your radiant smile. Lost in her thoughts, she couldn't hear your words anymore. Deep within, she silently pleaded, "_____, please don't die tomorrow, or the day after that, or any day that follows. Please keep wearing that smile. That's all I truly want from you."

Unaware of Kobeni's inner turmoil, you enthusiastically started walking towards the fried chicken place, unaware of the profound impact your presence had on her.

"Wait!" As Kobeni called out to you, you halted in your tracks and turned around to face her. She stood still, her words catching your attention. "Um, thank you for staying with me... for the long run. I know it's been difficult throughout the years for... both of us."

Arching your brow, you responded, "Hey, we're not kids anymore, Kobeni."

Confusion washed over Kobeni's face as she tried to make sense of your words. Before she could respond, you walked closer to her and gently rubbed her head, messing up her hair in an affectionate gesture. "Don't be crying. You'll make me think you're sad, even after I've been trying so hard to keep you smiling all these years."

Blushing, Kobeni realized tears were streaming down her face, a realization that had eluded her. "O-Oh..." she stuttered, a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude flooding her emotions.

You put your hands in your pockets, a sense of reassurance evident in your posture. "And it's no problem. Let's never separate, Kobeni. I'll always be somewhere," you say with a hint of playfulness in your tone.

Kobeni stutters in response, desperately hoping her words sound platonic. "M-Me too, for you," she manages to say, her voice filled with sincerity. Please sound platonic, please sound platonic, please sound platonic. "I-I love you, _____."

You smile warmly, appreciating her genuine feelings. "You can be really cute sometimes, Kobeni," you mutter softly. Turning around, your back facing her, you respond, "I love you too." Before she can fully process your words, you add lightheartedly, "Now come on, enough with the sentimental talk! Our fried chicken's getting soggy!" With that, you take the lead, both of you moving forward, leaving the heartfelt moment behind as you embrace the present, ready to enjoy the simple pleasure of sharing a meal together.

REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED

© UNDERSCAR 2023 - All rights are reserved to underscar. Do not repost, copy, change/modify, plagiarize, translate or screenshot my work: this will also include not reposting my writing on other social media platforms and writing platforms

[moonchild-in-blue]

gonna ask 'cause this is such a specific combination of things- if you could pick one sleep token song to rec to each bts member, what would you choose (and why, if you're up for it)?

Oh my goodness, this may the best question I have ever received ever in my whole life. THANK YOU SO MUCH WOW, YOUR BRAIN AMAZES ME 💙 Sleep Token ARMYS, what a powerful combo 💜

It really is such a niche combination!! I took this SO SERIOUSLY too 💀 Let me know what you think!! Also, who's your bias? Mine's Hoseok 🥹🌈💚🌞

(Under the cut because long!)

Okay, so I chose these based off what they are usually into, and their vibes (does that make sense?). Some of them were very difficult to nail down (Hoseok and Jimin especially), but I think this is fine.

Namjoon - Take Aim / Vore / High Water

Okay, this eas actually the last one I did, but I'm putting them in oficial order. These three songs are WILDLY different, yes, and don't look very "Namjoon", sure, but! Hear me out!

Lyrically-wise, I believe Namjoon would absolutely LOVE these. The man is a poet, cmon now. These have some gorgeous lyricism and symbolism that I think he'd really appreciate. Sound-wise they are also very unique, but somehow feel like him?

Out of the 7, Joon is the one that has put out the most solo music (including collabs) and the most varied too (in comparison with Yoongi for example, who has also put out A LOT of music, but has a very distinct sound - especially under the Agust D name), so the variety in sound feels right.

Honourable mention to Give because YEAH, it feels like something straight out of Mono.

Jin - Euclid / TNDNBTG

Do you see the vision? I'm thinking about Epiphany and lowkey it fits? The piano, the kinda-hopeful-kinda-melancholic themes? There's something very angelic about it that just fits him so so well.

I actually almost went with Telomeres for him too so there's that.

Yoongi - Bloodsport / Ascensionism / Atlantic

If there's anyone who would be into Sleep Token is Yoongi. Him and Vessel are basically the same person in different fonts. But these three are the most "Yoongi-coded" to me. Gorgeous piano? Check. Interesting song changes/rap? Double check. Heartbreaking sad wet cat lyrics? Triple check. Ascensionism especially is very Agust D, don't you think?

Honourable mention to the Hey-Ya cover and Drag Me Under because those are so so Yoongi to me.

Hoseok - Granite / DYWTYLM

No because I KNOW my man would be shaking his non-existent ass to Granite (Dark Signs too actually). If there's a nice beat, he's all over it. And DYWTYLM - not only is it funky musically-speaking (which is a j-hope staple), I quite like the interpretation of Vessel singing this to himself (in a mirror).

That duality of "Smile back at me // My reflection won't smile back at me like i know it should" SCREAMS Hoseok to me (especially after Jack In The Box came out). We're so used to referring to him as the sunshine boy, and seeing him all smiles and brighter than the sun itself, when in reality there's a lot more in there. We've finally began to see more of him, and I think that inner monologue is just perfect for him.

(can you tell I'm biased? Lmaooo)

Jimin - Sugar / The Summoning

Tell me Sugar isn't such a Jimin song. Think about Lie and Filter and Muse and TELL ME Sugar isn't made for Jimin. I dare you. The Summoning too, it's a bit out of pocket but it feels right somehow? Yeah.

Taehyung - When The Bough Breaks / Aqua Regia

Here's the thing. We know Tae likes jazz, and music that is soulful, smooth, nostalgic. And both of these seem right up his alley. I believe he'd really like the Aqua Regia piano.

Jungkook - Missing Limbs / Like That

He's always been the hopeless romantic boy 🥹 All the ballads he has covered?? Yeah, I think Missing Limbs would be a nice song for him. Alternatively, Fields of Elation would be good too? Idk, something about baby Vessel's voice back then that reminds me of JK. The falsettos probably.

(I just remembered and actually - Like That is fire and it feels like something he'd like).