#this fic finished me tbh

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Caught Under the Mistletoe

♡ featuring: nanami kento x reader

♡ synopsis: alone on christmas, you spend the night with your equally lonely coworkers. of course, your office crush nanami kento wants to party, too. he's a mystery, yet you can't help wanting to be around him. with a little help, can you beat the odds and finally confess?

♡ wc: 8.0k

♡ tags: fem! reader, jjk au, office au, misunderstood nanami, friends to lovers, corny gojo (as usual), praise, switch nanami, whiny whipped needy nanami, lots of overstim, manhand|ing, öral (f!receiving), mäting press, nanami cums quick, multiple órgasms, basically vanilla

notes: im almost a month late for my christmas fic i am sooo sorry! hope everyone had a happy holidays. did i finish this fic or did this fic finish me? who knows :P comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

“Hey, watch your step!”  

Gojo barely catches your calf before you trip off the chair you’re dancing on. You fail to realize your heels are sinking into the fabric. Fortunate for him to be there—the tipsy girl isn’t doing herself any favors twirling on a spinning office chair, but liquid courage has its perks. You’re narrowly balancing a drink in your hand—plain whiskey—while Gojo attempts to keep his swishing in the short glass. His efforts must’ve looked like a game to you, because you’re giggling and patting his arm as if he were an exaggerating child.  

The rest of the office is in an uproar, loose paper scattered about and documents gone unfinished. Some dancing, others chat over burgundy wine or dark liquor. There’s an awful Christmas song playing in the background, but most are too drunk to hear it. You can almost listen to jingle bells above your belligerent assistant manager addressing his qualms about the boss in a haughty manner; ivory shirt unbuttoned, gut spilling out of his too-tight pants as he raises his glass in protest for a pay raise. The two usual troublemakers you seldom speak to are having a concerning amount of fun with the copy machine and their bare rear.  

You’re not without fun though, pencil skirt straining on your thighs while you jump and sing an unrelated song bouncing around in your head. If your boss were here, heaven only knows the trouble you’d be in. Luckily, he isn’t here. Every year, your boss took paid time off to spend time with family during the holidays.  

The other losers with nothing to do spent their Christmas at the office.  

Sometimes you spent so much time at the office you began to consider it home. And so you’d bring a little piece of home with you, holding a high spirit for the holidays. Red and green festivities kept the joy alive, regardless of the depressed groans and sighs you became accustomed to during shifts. You’re still young, still somewhat hopeful about your future career. You put your heart into decorating the department.  

Well, you and Nanami, of course.  

“Santa’s little helper” is what you called him, to which he adjusted his glasses and begrudgingly agreed. He agrees to most of your plans, unless they involve outrageous pranks or a possible HR violation.  

When he first arrived to the building, he exuded such a quiet energy you sometimes didn’t notice him on the clock. When the lights dimmed for the day, and you strolled past his cubicle, a bright blue light casted long shadows. His silence was almost intimidating, and though most people made it a point to avoid contact with him, it felt unfair to you. You made it a point to get to know him, even if it were sometimes overwhelming or tedious—popping your head in during crunch time or offering him a snack. He eventually responded in kind. Not the kind that spoke out of obligation, but genuine respect. You haven’t learned much about him since you met him, and he won’t openly indulge, but you make attempts anyway.  

You’ve been messing with him the entirety of December. More ‘elf-on-a-shelf’ like, leaving mysterious Christmas trinkets for him to find in his cubicle. A tiny Santa here, a gnome there, gag gifts hidden in his metal drawers. You still remember him opening his briefcase to find a small porcelain reindeer standing up on his folders. And let’s not forget when he sat down after a water break and instead of a whoopie cushion, a traditional Christmas song reverberated across the hallway.  

You’ve both done well, spending too much time after hours putting a tree up, blossoming with multicolored ornaments and shapes in no particular theme. Garlands with waxy red berries hang from the fluorescent ceiling lights and removable winter decals are stuck on every wall, next to the inconvenient rainbow bulbs. 

Nanami denied the addition of a mistletoe, to your utter dismay. He truly embodied the little helper role, tending to your every request with an accompanied sly comment or concern. Unfortunately, it didn’t subdue the increasing feelings you already have for him. Within your delusion, you’re even starting to believe he might be flirting with you—ridiculous, right?  

If stone-cold Nanami were flirting with you, you’d probably die on the spot. There’s no chance though, and you’re fine with crushing from a distance. At least that’s what you’ll tell yourself to maintain a friendship.  

He makes it hard, though—incredibly hard. It’s difficult right now, as he leans against a wall away from the crowd, teal button-up taut against his torso, wearing a Santa hat at your request. Nanami, who regularly keeps up with his appearance, looks somewhat disheveled from the alcohol.  

You’ve finally learned something about him; he can’t handle his liquor.  

He won’t show it, but while he maintains the same stoic expression, strands of hair hang over his somber eyes, and his glasses aren’t perfectly perched on his face. The buttons pull at the fabric, and he heaves heavy with his sturdy arms folded underneath the chest, bunching his spotted tie. The light makes it worse, catching on the veins peaking from his skin. You could trace every tendon corded around his forearms, thick hands swirling a shot glass. It’s smaller in comparison to his palm, and you watch his fingers trace the rim of the glass. They look delicate and manicured, but equally rough. How they’d study the curves of a body, snake around a lovers head as he pulled them close. Wrapping his fingers around-  

“You’re drooling” Gojo blurts. You snap your head to him, and he laughs heartily before smacking your back. “Shhh-tt!” You wave a hand over his mouth, but the wide grin he’s sporting goes beyond your reach. He gets in close, not bothering to cover his mouth for the gossip.  

“Go tell him.”  

“Wha- hell no” you shake your head, stepping down from the chair nursing your dwindling drink. You refuse to hear the absurdity he’s proposing. “Why not? Perfect night, ain’t it?”  

You throw back what little is left in the cup and set it on a random coworkers desk. “How so?”  

“Christmas Eve. Lots can happen, y’know?” He presses his hand to the sides of your head and turns your attention back to Nanami.  

“Lotsss.” You swat him—luckily Nanami was engrossed in the contents of his glass. “Fuck you” you whisper, semi joking. He laughs. “Cmon, me and the guy are cool. Let me wingman.”  

“No.”  

“Why not?”  

“Why would I ever let you wingman when you can’t even get a date yourself?” He clutches his chest, feigning pain, “Ouch!”  

“I’m fine with us just being friends, okay?”  

“Pfft, clearly not. I just caught you eye-fucking him.” You roll your eyes, shooing him off mid-conversation. Gojo may be right, but it couldn’t happen today. It wasn’t worth confessing, especially with his gift tucked away in your bag. Life would become too complicated too fast.  

You’ve sobered up some from the harsh reality of your situation. Being sober sucks. However, you’ve neglected to check on Nanami since the party started, and now might be a great time. You walk in his direction, steering your eyes from Gojo’s smug expression.  

Nanami catches you approaching and nods, sleeves busting against his bicep. His brown sugar eyes are half lidded, and a light glow dusts feverishly over his ears and neck. His chiseled bone structure appears gentle with a pinkish blush. You hold your breath, afraid you might divulge the thoughts searing your tongue with sin.  

“How’s my little helper doing?” you ask, leaning against the wall beside him. Your bodies ghosts against each other, never fully touching, always in two separate worlds. You don’t expect his gaze to follow you, and you’re slightly surprised when you turn to him and he’s staring.  

“Pretty good,” his voice permeates like fine bourbon, deep and intoxicating to your hazy ears. He speaks in his usual rigid manner despite the drink. You could listen to him talk forever—embarrassingly so, as you got written up for talking frequently in his cubicle. “All thanks to Santa.”  

“I’m glad. Did he get you everything you wanted for Christmas?” you smile.  

“Yea. She did.” She. You brush it off—a slip of the tongue. It’s hard to trust what a tipsy person says, anyway. You press your nails to the corners of your mouth and pull upwards.  

“Then be happy!”  

“I am” he responds. Blunt. You sigh dramatically.  

“Hmph. But you never smile.” He watches you close, and your nerves cause you to fiddle with the paneled pattern on the glass. So much for wanting his attention.  

“Would you like me to?” There’s no humor in his tone. Did you want him to smile? Of course. But you desire the genuine satisfaction of a pure, unfiltered smile. It means nothing if you have to force it out of him.  

You turn your head from him with a pointed nose. “Nope. I want it to be genuine when you do.”  

Facing him again, you accept the challenge, “I’ll get you to smile!”  

There’s a subtle perk in his brow, and faint creases form at the corners of his drooping lids.  

“Oh yeah?” he drawls, an octave lower. It spurs a feeling within you that crumples your resolve too fast. Breath catching in your throat, the air is suddenly stuffier than before. You grip the glass for dear life, attempting to compose yourself, but you can’t when he’s staring at you like you’re the only person in existence. You watch the way his eyes flick across your face; your eyes, then your nose, down to the curve of your lips, moving quicker as they travel down. You swallow thick, unable to avert your gaze, unable to stop the heavy rise and fall of your chest. You must be imagining it. Or maybe Gojo’s right, what’s the harm in-  

“(Y/N)! Get over here and drink with us!” your assistant manager yells from another section.  

It breaks you out of your trance, and you turn on your heels towards the sound, just enough to hide the blush pooling over your cheeks. “Comin’!”  

•••  

The night has simmered into occasional chatter, with most of your coworkers leaving to go barhopping or get a head start on their hangover. The stragglers—a few employees, you, Gojo, and Nanami—packing up to leave.  

You’re throwing your coat over your shoulders, running to your cubicle to hopefully catch the last bus. Before you can grab your briefcase, a flicker of something shiny draws your eye. You pull your drawer open; a miniature snow globe with two fluffy penguins inside wearing festive hats and scarves, flippers stretched as they gather snow. You shake it up and watch the artificial flakes spin in the liquid. A smile unconsciously beams on your face, even more when you notice a yellow note tucked on the underside. You peel off the tape and unfold the post-it note.  

“Your turn  

-Nanami”  

A bland note from a serious man. Even so, your heart feels full to the brink of bursting. You reread the note over and over. You wish you could’ve witnessed big, intimidating Nanami buying the minature from a toy store. Unintentional poker face pointing at tiny penguins. The image sends you into hysterics. Once you’ve had enough of gushing over the same two words, you tuck it in your wallet, a place you won’t forget, and gently put the gift in a safe compartment in your bag.  

You can already hear Gojo from the elevator; he gets loud when he’s drunk, and unfortunately he’s a lightweight.  

“Cmon, you’re taking too long!” he drones, holding the elevator.  

“Okay, okay!” You shuffle inside. You’re a bit sad that Nanami left before you could say goodbye, but you still have the opportunity to give him his present on the next shift. Gojo leans on handrail, button up popped to his stomach.  

“So, no one’s gonna make a move, huh?” He pity’s you in his smug, know-it-all attitude, “it’s so embarrassing watching you two.”  

You have half the mind to refrain from reminding him about when he broke down midday in front of Geto’s house, begging him to take him back. He gets emotional about it. “It’s not as easy as just saying ‘hey, I’ve liked you since I’ve met you. Please don’t think I’m weird’.”  

“Whatever. Guess this must be the life of people with no game. I feel sorry for you, y’know?” You scoff. If anyone has game, it isn’t Gojo.  

“I don’t see you getting laid tonight.”  

“Spoke too soon, sweetheart. I’m fucking a pretty girl after this. And you’re going home,” he peers under his glasses, “dickless.”  

“You’re such a little-“ The elevator dings, opening into the company lobby. Some people are mingling by the sofa. Nanami’s at the front door, putting his beige trench coat on with his briefcase at his side.  

You’re about to step out when Gojo intercepts you, walking ahead first.  

“Na-Na-Mi!”  

“Satoru.” you angry-whisper, trying to grab him. But he dodges your attack effortlessly and glances behind, mouthing ‘shut up’.  

Nanami turns to Gojo, not exactly peeved but surely not happy to see him. They’re two opposites, and you could tell that Gojo quickly got on his nerves. “Hello.”  

Gojo puts an arm around him, and you watch him visibly clam up. “So formal! The boss isn’t here, you can speak normally.”  

“This is how I speak. Also, happy holidays.”  

“Mhm, mhm. By the way, my friend (Y/N) here wants to-“  

“Also wish you a happy holiday!” you chime in, speaking through your teeth. More like screaming, as you try to grab the attention of Gojo’s massive ego, to no avail.  

“Riiight. Anyway, Nanami-“  

“Shouldn’t we all start heading home?” you add, itching to run from the situation. You zip your coat, but Gojo won’t let you go that easily.  

“We should! In fact, Nanami, (Y/N) doesn’t have anyone to walk her home. She lives far, and you know how dangerous it is for a woman to walk alone at night.”  

You feel your eye twitch. You might actually kill him tonight.  

“I’ve got a date tonight so I can’t do it. And I know you have nothing to do so-“ Nanami side-eyes him, then turns to you. For a second, his gaze seems to soften. You smile, mostly as a silent apology for Gojo’s rambling.  

“Would you like me to walk with you?” he asks kindly.  

“…If you don’t mind.”  

“I don’t mind at all” he’s quick to retort.  

“Great! No time to waste then!” Gojo proclaims. He brings his other arm around you, guiding both of you out the sliding doors and into the cold darkness dotted by frosted streetlamps. He steps back from the throuple and brings Nanami close, practically smushing you together by the arm.  

“See ya!” he waves.  

Nanami surveys the path, giving you ample opportunity to glare at Gojo. He never cared, dopey grin on his face as he mimics a sexual act with his hands. Then he walks in the other direction, leaving you to deal with the situation he created. The bus is long gone.  

“Are you ready?” Nanami says, directing you to the inside of the sidewalk.  

“Yea, let’s go.”  

Snowfall cascades in blooming white sparkles amongst the icy sky. It drapes the parked cars in sheets of powder, and the tips of your shoes in frost. The solid breeze through your pantyhose creeps into your bare legs. Cold, but not uncomfortable. You luckily brought earmuffs, but Nanami isn’t as fortunate. Checkered scarf draped around his coat, you can’t tell if his ears are red because of the chill or tipsy after effects. He looks at you, unaware of the red patch on his nose.  

“Sorry about Gojo” he says.  

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”  

“If you’re too cold, I can call you a taxi, instead.”  

“No worries, I’m fine. Are you cold, Rudolph?” you snicker.  

He unconsciously touches his nose with pinkish fingers. “Is my nose red?”  

You stop in your tracks, “Come, I can fix it for you.”  

Nanami obeys and kneels down to your height, eyes fixed to the concrete gradually collecting more snow. Flakes dance around you, towering amongst his hair and sinking in the woolen scarf. You gently bring your hands around the fabric and loop once around his neck. Your knuckles graze his winded jaw in the process—soft and cool, a bit of stubble you barely noticed. You tuck the fringed end pieces into the loop, close to his nose where hot breaths warm your hand. The back shimmies over his head in a balaclava style to hopefully shield him from the icy onslaught.  

“Done. You should get warmer now.” He stands straight with a soft mien. Nanami always shared an easy stare. Yet the same easygoing stare now causes your face to burgeon unimaginable colors.  

“Thank you.” The ghost of a smile sweeps his lips, so quick you can’t decide if it’s a fluke or not.  

You continue treading through the snow, hands stuffed in coat pockets, legs stiffly shuffling together to preserve any heat. It’s quiet for some time—you’re afraid you’ll overstep. In-depth conversations weren’t often had, and you’re unsure of how to proceed without being pushy.  

“Is work getting easier for you?”  

“Yes. The workload is manageable and I’m making good progress with reports this month. I can get ahead of next month’s fiscal documentation.” Refined and straightforward. A natural born salaryman.  

“You’re always talking about work” you glance at him, “I’m curious, what are your hobbies?”  

When he doesn’t speak, you immediately go into damage control. “You don’t have to answer if it’s too personal.”  

“I bake…” he mutters, a discovery that persists in the space. Nanami is the last person you’d expect to enjoy baking. You half expected him to reply with something mundane like filing taxes. It warms your heart to imagine him in an apron pressing cookie dough through gingerbread molds. He had that endearing quality about him.  

“Really? What’s your favorite thing to make?”  

“Double chocolate chip cookies.”  

Your mouth gapes, “Wait…remember when I stole those cookies from you on your break? You made those?” You recall the confectionary treat and the way it melted in your mouth. You practically stalked his lunchbox for days hoping he’d bring more.  

“Yes.”  

“Oh my god, they were so good!” you chirp, “why didn’t you say you made them?”  

“…I’m not too confident in my abilities yet.”  

“They were amazing, you should be proud” you say, gazing up at him. You’re suddenly hyper aware of the lack of space between you two—arms brushing, shoulder leaning on him a bit. You’ll tell yourself it’s because of the cold. Just this once.  

“If you enjoy them so much, I’ll bring some next time.”  

“I’ll hold you to it.”  

He gives you a faint nudge, calling your attention. He doesn’t seem bothered by the extra weight on his body. “And what do you like to do outside of work?”  

“I read a lot. I write occasionally.”  

“Any specific genre?”  

“No, not really. I’ll read anything if it interests me.”  

“I’d like to see what you write sometime. You have a creative spirit.”  

You recognize it clear as day. The upturned curve of his dry lips, wrinkled eyes sweet and gentle in the dim amber lighting of a street lamp. Freckled by the reflection of steady snow, they appear sparkling as they bore into you.  

“Thanks” is all you manage to choke out.  

“I didn’t know you walk this way.”  

“‘Cause you’re always doing overtime”, you hesitate before you add, “you should give yourself a break once in a while. Take care of your health more.”  

“It’s nothing to worry about.” But I’m worried. It’s meant to be reassurance, but reassurance can only go so far when there’s noticeable eye bags. You step in front of him, spinning to make eye contact.  

“Before we split, don’t go. I want to give you a present.”  

“You don’t have to do that.”  

“Of course I do! We’re friends, aren’t we?”  

Nanami sighs a laugh. “Yes, we are.” He holds the sides of your earmuffs, pressing them tight to your head. Almost as if he’s ensuring you don’t get too cold. “I feel bad now. I haven’t gotten you anything.”  

“That’s okay. Walking with me is enough.”  

“Then could I walk you all the way home?”  

The answer leaves your mouth before you can think, “Sure!”  

You pause, deliberating on your urge to extend the invitation. Nanami regards you closely, watching the minute muscles in your lips twitch as your words come to fruition. You avert your eyes. If only he knew the effect it had on you.  

“It’s p-pretty cold out here. Maybe if you want, you could come inside. Just to like, get warm, y’know?”  

Something flashes in Nanami’s gaze. Brief like other times, yet this one feels darker—full of incomplete emotions you’re not ready to decipher yet. He’s generous with smiles tonight.  

“If you’ll have me.”  

Back at your apartment, you’re fishing for the key in your never-ending purse. You’re somewhat thankful for its disappearance since it gives you time to compose yourself. You’re hoping the state of your home is acceptable to his standard. You hook the key ring under your pinky and pull it out.  

The door, embellished with a Christmas pinecone wreath, creaks open into the narrow entryway. 

“Please come in.” He obliges, following after you as you drop your bag on the cluttered hall tree. You’re too distracted tucking your shoes properly in the rack, aligning them meticulously where it doesn’t count. Then you notice his footsteps came to a halt.  

Unlucky for you, you forgot about the shiny object you’ve had dangling at your entryway since December arrived. It slips your mind sometimes when it’s so out of reach, inches above you. But for Nanami’s height, it draws his attention instantly.  

A pine and cedar mistletoe sprouting red berries hangs from the ceiling by a red ribbon. Meant to be a joke for Shoko when you smother her in excessive love. Meant to complete the other holiday decorations littering your apartment.  

What it wasn’t meant for, was the impulsive invitation to your crush. You stare at it, to which your eyes wander to Nanami, also staring at it. He’s lingering, then he looks at you, amused grin tugging at his lips.  

“Uh, ignore that!” you stammer, a nervous tick in your tone.  

“Were you expecting someone?” He’s already removing his hat and scarf.  

“No, it’s just a silly joke between me and Shoko.” He watches you intently. You have to get used to the laidback version of Nanami, for the sake of avoiding a heart attack.  

“I can take your coat!” you divert, but he dodges your grasp. “No need. You’ve had a long day.” He places it on one of the pegs.  

“Well, make yourself comfortable. Do you want anything to drink?”  

“I’m fine for now, thanks.”  

You quickly scuffle to the kitchen. A tall glass of water to subdue your pounding heart. It’s the fault of your own body, psyching you up to believe that for a second, Nanami might be reciprocating your interest. In a way, conversing with him was easier when you had no expectations, no indication of “like” on his end. You aren’t even sure what like means from his perspective.  

When you leave the kitchen, he’s sitting on the couch, legs spread with an arm resting on the back of it. He shifts in his seat, beige slacks taut on the fat of his thighs. You run to grab the cyan felt gift box from your bag and return to the living room.  

Plopping down, it’s pretty cramped for the span of two people. It's not this crowded when Shoko comes over, but what did you expect when Nanami’s wingspan is twice the size of yours. With your back on the armrest, your knees are inches from his.  

You hold out the box towards him. “Here you go, I hope you like it.”  

He grabs it, feeling the material. Then he glances at your giddy face before opening it. It displays a polished gold chronograph watch with brown leather trim. The ivory velvet interior contrasts against the gold-toned dials, and he marvels it with shock.  

“This was expensive” he says, examining the sub dials like fragile glass. It definitely was, and you did a few overtimes for it, but you won’t tell him that. “I hope you didn’t go through any trouble to get this.”  

“You deserve it. You do a lot for everyone. And you’ve tolerated my nonsense all month.”  

“Thank you isn’t enough for something like this. I’ll do what I can to repay you.”  

You splay your palm. “Aht aht, don’t even think about repaying me.”  

“I’m covering your lunch for the rest of the year” he states, matter-of-fact. You don't correct your touching knees. 

“I won’t let you.” A chuckle escapes through his nose, features softening along the edges of his chiseled cheeks. 

“Then how about those cookies?”  

“…I’ll take that” you beam, “and, I want to be your test subject for any desserts you make in the future.”  

“Whatever you want.”  He slides the watch out of the display and gives it to you. “Would you like to put it on?”  

You unlatch the gold buckle and align the brown straps on his wrist. Fine blonde hair covers his forearm and you couldn’t fit your hand around his wrist if you tried, but you manage with two. “It fits perfect.” 

“How’d you figure out my wrist size?”  

“Remember when I asked for your help with a friend’s surprise gift?”  

“Ah, so that was a lie?” he grins. 

“Just a little one.”  

“Lying's bad for company morale.”  

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not at work right now, huh?”  

“Mhm.” Nanami reaches for his tie, drawing it loose with a finger. “Very good.” 

You slide your shoes off, perching your foot on the other one before sliding that one off, as well. There’s a numbing pressure eating at your heels. You rub the balls of your ankles, persistent aches from the nonstop dancing you’ll sooner feel tomorrow.  

“Does it hurt?”  

“I should’ve taken my shoes off when I danced” you sigh. 

He pats his thigh. “Let me help.”  

You blink. Once. Twice. Does he want me to...? You don’t have the heart to question it. Not when it’s working in your favor. 

“If...that’s okay.” You’re startled a bit when he immediately scoops your leg and hikes it over his thigh in a single motion. You stare at his solid, vein-woven hands encompassing the surface of your ankle.  

“By the way, I don’t ‘tolerate’ you. I had fun when we were decorating.”  

“Oh, really? It didn’t seem like it, haha.” You’re nervous laughing. Between the small confession and the affectionate thumb swaying back and forth, you’re flustered beyond belief. 

“I look forward to our conversations. I’ve never thought of you as a bother.”  

You’re sure he’s talking at this point. You know he is. Yet, the series of firm, delicate touches along your ankle dull your ears to everything besides the sound of rough pads moving rhythmically along nylon.  

“…Do you give massages often?” Nanami doesn’t look at you, transfixed on catering to your calf. He’s passed your point of soreness, traversing up your leg for the massage. His kneading sends your skin aflame. It’s a fervent intensity that starts at your trembling voice and ends in an embarrassing mess between your thighs. You can’t bear to meet his face. A pinkish tint to his knuckles, brushing the back of your thighs and scaling higher. 

“No. I’m practicing for you” he says, breathy and caught in a sharp wind. That’s when you notice his wrinkled collar, buttonholes straining from his tight breathing, and a burning glow poured over his ears and neck. His touches grow impatient, out of sync as if he’s trying to dig under the material to palm raw skin. “I’ll owe you more in the future.” 

The watch reflects bright in the headlights of your Christmas tree. Like you’ve laid claim to him. He’s wearing you on his arm.  

“You look great.” He pauses, finally turning to gaze at you. His glasses are off center, and his eyes—blooming and almost black—crave a certain unsatiable hunger, gnawing at his stomach with a feast just out of reach. He wouldn’t dare eat without permission. 

“It looks great…on you.”  

“You look great too” he whispers through a clenched jaw. Your breaths mingle in the space, thoughts going unsaid while somehow tainting the air with insistent need. You can't stand it. Can’t stand the way your thighs clench, searching to stave off desire. 

Nanami parts his chapped lips, then closes them. He swallows nothing, Adam’s apple bobbing. Restless. 

Every little action he performs elicits a sense of longing once buried in an unattainable sector of your heart. 

“Hah…please don’t look at me like that” he says, tense and on the verge of begging. 

“Like what?”  

“Like you want me.” It leaves his mouth. Another confession, syrupy and coated in a deep desire, pulsing in the very core of you. He relieves a shaky breath, a ticked jaw struggling to relax.  

“I do.”  

Nanami’s restless demeanor shifts fast, and the air he’d been saving escapes him entirely. He smoothly tucks his grip under your knees and pulls you close. You settle on his lap, chest to chest, hovering over him. Noses ghosting, threatening to concede. Boiling heat coils in waves in your gut, and your heart skips across your ribcage. He’s equally flustered, if not more. You feel the heavy bulge prodding your tights, enough to earn a muffled sigh. 

“You’re giving me false hope.” 

“I want you.” He places a hand behind your neck, another trailing up your curves. 

“Say it again” he mouths into you. They’re soft, languid with your own. You caress his face, enduring the way he tests your lips, nudging just to pull back. 

“I want-”  

Before you can finish your sentence, he crashes onto you. The well-mannered Nanami you knew stalks your tender lips with unbridled yearning. Chasing your mouth as if you’d vanish if he released. His lips turn slick from a succession of sloppy, uncoordinated kisses and you’re nearly suffocating. He doesn’t falter, though, choosing to devour your moans, your body, anything relating to the idea of you. He attempts to be gentle with the pace of a lover—but judging by the way he hurriedly hunts your mouth when you part for air, he’s missing the mark.  

His hands snake over your waist to the fat of your ass. Fondling through your clothes, you feel the true nature of his grip as pillowy indents fill the space between his fingers. You’ve found purchase in his golden locks, carding through his hair to pull him impossibly close. You’re light-headed, drunk off the pressure of his kiss, his touch refusing to leave your body. The only thing separating your embrace are the tiny moans and whimpers that follow them. Your body betrays you, clenching around nothing like a virgin having her first kiss.  

You’re both huffing once you break. Nanami licks his lips, savoring the taste, a crude groan beneath it.  

“You give me mixed signals” you pant.  

“Then allow me to make it clearer.” He throws his glasses to the side, skittering somewhere on the floor.  

Nanami dives back into your mouth, gliding his whiskey-singed tongue against yours. Unrefined, messily exploring your mouth in a manner of wet smacks. The sound goes straight to your sticky underwear, and you’re shifting uncomfortably in his grasp, to which he holds you sturdy on his lap.  

“Don’t go” he whimpers, drawing a fleeting breath. Blown-wide pupils bore into you, “I need you.” He licks a stripe up your tongue, allowing a trace of drool to slip amid you as he smothers you in French kisses. His mouth is hot, laden with a dizzying mix of alcohol and zeal, yet he cups your cheek lovingly. You’re slinking under his shirt, fumbling with the fasteners until they pop. Your one-minded focus ignores the buttons scurrying across the rug to enamor his ample pecs, flushed and plump in tandem with his husky build. 

You’re alternating against each other’s tongues, neither one of you willing to depart. Gorged on the whimpers you evoke as you cradle his plump chest. 

“Darling, please” he whines. 

He guides your ass along his aching bulge, stealing a satisfied moan from the depths of your mouths. You’d mistake it for a thermal water bottle if it didn’t twitch. Back and forth on his slacks, the seam bumps your clit each time you roll your hips, smearing the dribbling mess from your pantyhose. He leaves you to oscillate on the tensing fabric, pursuing a semblance of relief, jolts of frisson enveloping you.  

You withdraw from him to occupy the space on his neck. Splotching rough, spit-soaked kisses in blurs of red to match his tumid lips. He has a pretty, desperate voice, cracking when you suck on his pulse point. “Uhn, just like that—god.” He lets his head fall a little further, steering you in cycles. “Want more of you.” 

When he pulls you up, an evident gloopy trail follows the score of your tights, and you shy away from the scene. He kneads your plush thighs as he spreads them apart, pecks dotted on your cheeks. “Don’t be shy. You’re gorgeous.” 

Nanami supports your lower back while picking the buttons from your blouse. Or at least he’s trying to—his desperate limbs can’t latch on properly, and he inevitably snaps it down the middle. You discard it and he’s instantly on your breasts, licking and biting as he reaches for the bra clasp. You take it off yourself in fear of him breaking that too. 

His kisses linger on the swell, even when he talks through it. “You don’t know how long”, he gradually raises your skirt to your waist, “I’ve been waiting to touch you like this.” 

Nanami takes a nipple in his mouth, circling it recklessly. He indulges in the parts he’s desired for months, indecent with the tug of his teeth on your bud. A lewd stare, misted and still greedy for seconds. And it’s overwhelming; the constant pounding in your cunt, slobber coating your mound with him groping the other. It’s like he has multiple ravenous hands surrounding you, dancing over every crevice he can manage. Consuming you.  

And when the soft moans begin to leave you again, it’s driving him crazy. He picks you up and flips you to lay on the couch. He doesn’t back off for long, only to shimmy his shirt off and rend the belt from its loops. You forget to remove your own clothes, too busy gawking at the remaining attire—a loose tie, sock suspenders, and black briefs drenched in milky precome. He drops to his knees in a heartbeat, sharing a warm smile. Nanami really is adorable, and you’re facing a whirlwind of emotions from the contrast of his brimming underwear, and the hold that manhandles your legs on either side of his shoulders. 

His brows furrow, agitated with the nylon clinging to what he's lusting after. He grabs the front of them and easily tears it into elastic shreds. He doesn’t apologize this time. You aren’t bothered by it—if anything, it removes some of the pressure from your throbbing muscles. He promptly soothes it, wrapping around your inner thighs to feed his hands into the rips. 

“You’re so soft” he moans against the surface just as he paws it. A sigh and he’s immersing his face in the groove of your pussy, smudging open-mouthed kisses over your sensitive clit. The unfiltered contact sends a thrum through your body, though clamping your legs proves futile. 

“Ah, be patient” you joke, playing with his hair. He doesn’t spare a glance, webbed mess coating his lips, a thread from him to you.  

“Can I eat you? Please?” It comes off more like a formality than an actual question as he nuzzles into you, breathing in with a guttural groan. He slides the soaked cotton halfway, full range to admire your dribbling slit. You can tell he strives to pamper it slow, but Nanami doesn't possess the strength to tease or be composed. 

He treats your pussy as if it’s a separate entity from you, indulging and dragging his tongue in long, flat stripes. Nanami eats you for his own enjoyment, eager like a man starved. Slurping and swilling in loud, gratifying squelches. Low mmf’s vibrate against your arousal, but it’s hard to hear when you’re anchored to his face and he refuses to let go. A desperate tongue drinking your heady scent, oblivious to the honeyed fluids sluicing down his chin. He repeats small, calculated licks and continues to treat your squishy flesh like a pliable stress ball.  

“Fuck, it’s s'good—so, so good.” You learned something new about Nanami today: he can curse. 

Nanami embeds his fingerprints in your skin. Toying with the taste of you, stopping to swirl the relentless appendage around your swollen clit. The tip of his nose does part of the job for him. Your utmost efforts rely on the yank of his scalp, knot after knot collecting in a burning surge through your quivering abdomen. Cries croak in your throat, unable to emerge while he’s having a personal, filthy make-out session with your pussy. He fits perfect sandwiched between your juicy folds and he’ll make sure you know it. 

“’M so close” you moan. That’s something he does hear, because he instantly holds tighter, all attention directed to the trembling bundle of nerves. Pleasure builds quick, and when your legs start to shake, he takes that as a sign to delve deeper, sucking aggressively through the shudder. Your body caves and you’re reduced to ecstasy, rutting against his mouth with no control. He gladly accepts in kind. “Nanami.” You’re calling for him, and he hums inside, satisfied as he laps at the spasms. 

He comes up for well-deserved air, sweat sheen from his matted hair to the blonde tufts sitting below his bellybutton. Dopey, glossy grin on his face, he shirks out of the tights and places a kiss on the lips he missed so much. You taste yourself on his tongue. Then you feel a finger glide against your syrupy entrance. 

“Nanami, wait.” He peppers kisses down your torso where he returns to his knees.  

“I have to make sure you can take me, baby.” Another grazes, soaking in your essence with a few languid drags. One dips inside, quickly finding a home in your gooey walls. Tiny aftershocks mimic the slow drawl of a curling finger and you’re keening.  

“Mm, too much.” 

“I’m sorry.” He pumps a tolerable, sopping stretch. Adding a finger, “Be a good girl, okay?” 

You’re clinging to him, sucking him in hopes for more. Your pussy greedily eats it up despite the overstimulated smolder, a melting thump thump that contracts around him. He’s twisting his fingers in a c-shape, looking for little hints that he’s in the right direction, and you’re giving him everything he needs.  

His tender, loving stare settles on you. Lapping at your clit and pumping your g-spot while you succumb to the hazy pressure thawing your head. You’re melting in a frenzy of cries, simultaneously reeling and pleading for him. Nanami’s determined; imbibing the juices gushing from your vulva and tailing the frenetic buck of your hips. 

“Uh, oh shit, right there” you moan, and he speeds up.  

“Yeah? Right here?” You’re nodding nonsensically, whine peaking. Your back arches and he moves to your breast. “Let it out, darling. I got you. Come on my fingers baby.”  

The second he latches onto the nub you’re rendered silent, mouth shaped in an ‘O’ as you come hard around his fingers. He slows, milking your orgasm for all it has, careless of your shaking legs and tears gathering on your lashes. He pecks the corner of your eye, and you’re too caught up in your own sobs to see him lick his lips. 

“Such a good girl for me.” You’re showered in kisses and he rubs circles on your waist. You blink back the tears, meeting tongue and teeth in a carnal exchange. But you’re craving more, him and nothing else. You palm his erection and he groans. You can see the painful print of his entire cock through his briefs, angry tip peeking out ever-so-slightly. 

“Take it off” you whisper. You watch his eyes flicker, a moment of hesitation—you won’t let him. “Stand up.” 

Nanami obeys your command and quickly stands. You hook under his waistband and yank them off. His thick cock stands at attention, nearly smacking you across the face. It’s a bashful red to base, glazed fat head dribbling precome down his heavy balls. He looks like he’ll unravel at any second. You bring a digit to his balls and it twitches. Dragging it up the veiny shaft, gathering his salty mess to spread it over your held out tongue. He stifles a faint shudder. 

“Baby, let me put the condom on.” At least you didn’t have to worry about bringing your own. You wrap your hand around his head, enough tension to be sure he doesn’t find comfort. You rub a thumb over it and his breaths yield shallow. 

“Hm? Why?” you ask, batting your eyelashes as you deliver a small lick. He hitches. 

“D-don’t.”  

“You don’t wanna feel my mouth?” He bites his lip, probably thinking about your pretty face gagging with a mouthful of him. You know the real reason why he won’t, and it’s rather cute that he’d save his release. 

“I-I do. God, I really do. But I-” 

“But what...?” You swirl it once, and he can’t even handle that.  

“C-condom” he whimpers, almost pleading. “Condom...what?” 

“Condom please. Please.” 

“Go get it.” He makes sheepish haste to his coat, returning with a gold wrapper. He’s about to rip it but you stop him. 

“Give it to me.” You tear it open with your teeth and position it over the head. Rolling it over, pursuing it with tantalizing, soft kisses. You feel him pulsing against your lips until you’ve secured the condom at the base. He swallows dry and his stomach recoils on nothing. You enjoy his needier display. 

“C’mere sweetheart” you tempt, luring his body to loom over you. He pushes your legs back and spreads you wide. “I’ll take it slow.” 

His brows crumble, jaw wedged, angled at your pussy. It’s already soaking him and he hasn’t put it in yet. You do your best to make him ease up, a hand placed over his. But as it dips into you, Nanami’s chewing his lip, going haggard before it ever started. He stops completely, an effort to compose himself even when he’s growing stiff and melty at merely the tip.  

“Just g-give me a second” he stammers, and you stay still while he slides the first inch into your creamy, chubby cunt. Stretching and clenching around him in a sappy sluice, he has to pause again, quivering in place. “Fuck-“  

Nanami moves a few inches and his hearts beating out of his chest. Foggy, sensual weight sticks to the edges of his brain and coils in his leaden sack.  

“I-I don’t know if…” A mouthwatering, snug fit, pulling him deeper. He’s grinding the rest in, but every time he gets a little further his throat bobs and he tenses. You’re molding to his length, encapsulating him in squelching fire, and he’s never felt anything like it in his life. Once he’s flush with you, he sighs, beating a fraction of the battle. 

He starts at an agonizing pace. It’s not doing him any favors—now he has to suffer through every sloppy drag, walls committing his veins to memory in a tight, addictive grip. He caresses your face.  

“I’m sorry. Bear w-with me” he whines, and you hold your hand over his. You’re not doing it intentionally, but watching him fall apart is truly a sight to behold—strands glued to his forehead, pussy-whipped fawn eyes lost in your warmth. You guide his fingers to your mouth and deliberately suck on them. Cruel of you, but it’s worth it for his wobbly whimpers, his delirious, thrumming cock. You know he won’t last.  

“No- Haaah, I can’t yet.” His hips lurch, and he holds back yet again. You lock your ankles around his back, giving him no room to fight it. He’s buried deep. “It’s okay, Ken. You can come.”  

Ken. Nanami loses it on the spot, coming instantly in a string of curses and delicate moans.  

“Shit- oh my god. Baby- oh, haa-ah-“ he cries, but his other thoughts spill out of him in soupy babbles. His movements stutter and you still milk him dry. He’s throwing his head back shaking and you gently massage his waist until he comes down. It takes some time.  

“You okay?” You feel him half-flaccid inside, and he’s panting on the shell of your ear.  

“I’m sorry” You brush the hair from his face.  

“Don’t be sorry about anything.” You kiss his forehead when suddenly your legs are being forced back.  

“Wanna keep going” he says, a hint of drool at the corner of his mouth.  

“Take a breather first.” He’s stuck in the irrational corners of his thoughts—every waking idea engulfed in the thought of you. He’s mumbling to himself, beginning to swing his discordant hips again. His voice cracks, body pushed past overexertion.  

“Call me Ken” he whimpers, sticky squelches meeting your bodies in a tangled, milky net.  

“Ken” you whisper, a flirtatious tint in your tone. He’s entranced by you. You’re touching foreheads, and he shamelessly mewls like a slut in your ear through every gooey plap.  

“How long have you liked me?”  

“Since we’ve m-met” he drones, finding a sopping rhythm. “I was scared. I thought- ah- you might not like me.”  

“So, you’ve been waiting for this?”  

“F-fuck, yeah. Ah- feels so good. Even better than my dreams” he prattles.  

You cup his face. “You dream of me?”  

“Uh-huh. Makin’ a mess of this pretty pussy. It’s so much better. So, so fucking good.”  

“Hold on.” He leans on the couch, legs bent on either side of you as he positions you like a pretzel.  

“Need it” he moans, slathered in your cuddly embrace. He’s hardening again, quick, and already skirting an addictive torture.  

He pulls out and drives his sack flush. It knocks the wind out of you, and you claw his back as he fucks with reckless abandon.  

Slurring a plethora of unhinged ‘more’s, he pistons inside, base to head, ass rippling against his savage thrusts. Every vast, violent stroke sends an intoxicating burn to your sweltering cervix. A while film bubbles at his sack where he’s pummeling, jaw slack and doe-eyed.  

Your toes curl, hypersensitive nerves teased and flipped, ruined by his adamant cockhead kissing your g-spot. You’re stretched past your limits, fluttering helplessly around him. His corrupted smile curves against your neck bursting with need.  

“Taking me so well, darling. I might come. C-can-hah-can I baby? Can I come for you?” He’s impossibly fast, funneling whines and nasty slaps. The rabid force bangs the couch against the wall and you’re at his mercy.  

“Mhm, g-go ahead Ken.” Waves of white-hot pleasure fizzle and spark on your skin, and you’re putty with the weight of him bouncing you.  

“Thank you, t-thank you-you’re so good t-to me.” He’s ragged, plummeting to the hilt. Your spasms sap him as he trembles, succumbing to your own orgasm. He grapples heavy, mean strokes, sticky laces bonding his tightening balls. Then he sobs, quaking until he comes.  

He doesn’t pull out. You’re both quiet for a while. On a descent, simply delighting in the comfortable silence. You join in another smooch.  

“(Y/N).”  

“Hm?”  

“Merry Christmas.” You glance at the time; way past midnight. He meets your gaze. After everything you did, you’re worried over one question.  

“Can we get to know each other?”  

He smiles, a kiss to your neck.  

“I would love to.” 

© mooishbeam - please don't steal, copy, or post my work to other platforms :)

[daeyumi]

painting in the depths

more self insert x canon 🩵

[leenfiend]

what's ur type first < prev next >

[clowningcrows]

takes agathario in my mouth and shakes them like a dog

[thegreatyin]

On heartbreak, homunculi, and the small yet very awkward matter of shooting one's girlfriend in the neck over your ex

OR: How The Doomed Scientist has been coping in the aftermath of his ambition (Badly. The answer is very very badly indeed.)

OR: A loosely abridged summary of an RP between myself and @superoffbatter, posted on Tumblr for OC lore purposes.

OR: Major spoilers for the entirety of the Nemesis ambition, as well as minor spoilers for Bag a Legend and a brief spot of blog-typical spoilers for a certain "powerful" ending of Heart's Desire.

OR: What The Plutonian Shadow's deal actually is.

So.

In order to explain this long and complicated tale, we're going to need to set a good bit of groundwork first. For some, this will effectively be a recap. For others, it will be important new lore that will harm us later.

Let's dive right in, shall we?

The Doomed Scientist- also known by his real name, Caeru- has a long and storied history of obsessing over serving others. He's always had this concept in his head that he needs to help, he needs to give himself up for the good of everyone around him, and if he's not doing that then he barely deserves to live at all.

This is the mindset that drove his quest to kill Mr Cups. He wasn't doing it for himself. He was doing it for everyone Cups has hurt, everyone Cups has murdered, every other victim that died so it could fulfill its need for stories of vengeance and misery. During his ambition, he very much saw himself as nothing more than a tool and a weapon to be pointed and used as the dead saw fit.

His own emotions didn't matter. His own grief, all-consuming as it was, didn't matter. Cups needed to die.

Cups- Cups needed to-

Oh, fuck.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't take it. He had an obligation towards those that died, towards his lover, towards everyone who ever wanted the beast dead. He couldn't take it. He just couldn't.

No matter how much he desperately, desperately wanted to.

For the first few weeks after his ambition concluded, Caeru was inconsolable. He was wracked with guilt over ""failing"" to save his former paramour, even more than he was already- for god's sake, the man could've been revived! He could've lived again! He deserved to live again!

And Caeru failed him. He failed to serve him. To be useful. To be good. To be worthy of living.

He... lost it, just a little bit. He became obsessed with fixing this perceived flaw in himself. This perceived flaw in everything. He couldn't sleep yet, he couldn't die yet, not when his love deserved to live.

Deserved to come back.

And. I mean. Well.

How hard could it be, really?

Cups was a Master, yes, and the Masters are lying conniving tyrants- but this was a promise it staked its life upon. A promise it gave on its deathbed. It clearly knew that Caeru could kill it, will kill it, and thus it had no reason to lie-

Cups could have brought his lover back. The Scientist knew that, intimately.

What he didn't know was how. But... well, that's alright, isn't it? He's created life before.

Lenses are arranged, corpses are arranged in a circle, their skin parted carefully with a knife. When the lenses are aligned correctly, the flesh will coalesce into the correct shape.

There are some venge-rats that dedicate themselves to a vengeance so thoroughly that there is nothing left of them but this one desire. When they die, their corpses are saturated with this emotion- but nothing else. When the Academic's machinery leaps to life (more slowly then the one at Station VIII, of course) it drains this, and leaves only withered shells in its wake. Perfect vessels.

Soon, the Knot of Tails reappears in the mirror. In its little coils of many paws, shimmering lights rest- memories. Reflections of rays of light long forgotten by the waking world.

And the false-Noman twists.

It turns.

Second by second, it looks more and more like a person.

When it looks up and smiles a shaky smile, its face is human- and two delicate flowers adorn its hair. The snow lacing its body curls like silk, the nails on its hands delicate and precise and perfect

It doesn't move, for a second. Two. Three.

And then the Rosette Yearner opens her eyes.

All he has to do is perfect the process.

The Yearner reaches a trembling hand up to her head, pursuing her lips in thoughtful silence. She blinks, slowly- once, twice. The silence is finally broken when she speaks, a trembling lilt, her words falling like petals from their stem.

"I'm alive.”

It's cold, unfeeling, distant. Like she's only talking about the weather.

Caeru's first attempt at artificial life, The False Yearner- she who would later be dubbed The Vake Yearner- is a complicated figure. Born out of an insanely long RP exchange with @superoffbatter, she is a ghost in all but name. A failed attempt to replicate a certain Scoundrel's past self, all while her makers were unaware that her and the Scoundrel were one in the same.

Except while the Scoundrel pursued ambitions of power, glory, and transformation, the Yearner ultimately took a different path. A darker path.

The Yearner stumbles over the mirror as they both exit through the window of the Royal Bethlehem. She sighs. "Where to go, now?" she whispers. "I can't stay here. I don't want to stay like this. I want to... do something."

The Silverer shrugs. "It's up to you. I suppose you could hunt the Vake if all else fails?" It's an offhandedly thrown joke, but the Yearner stops moving.

She considers it in her head. She takes a deep breath.

The Vake, huh. The Vake.

She became an avid hunter of the Neath's most infamous monster.

Her relationship with her creator is strained at best. For the most part, they've refused to acknowledge each other- they've hardly even spoken since the incident of her creation, save for a brief yet notable encounter at the Captivating Princess' last masquerade ball.

Someone steps closer to the Scientist, staring him in the eyes. The atmosphere grows colder.

It's a woman in a large fur-trimmed overcoat, with thick gloves and a staggeringly realistically furred marsh-wolf mask. The cosmogone shade of her eyes reveals her identity- the False Yearner- or, as some have taken to call her, the Vake-Yearner. The mask, now that the Scientist gives it a better look, is very obviously made from a real marsh-wolf, but the expert skill behind it... it's Snuffer-made.

The Yearner got a Snuffer to pull off a wolf's face for her. How curious.

"My other self's fiancé." she says, in a monotone. "And their pet Drownie. How curious. How droll."

The Scientist's face may be hidden behind a mask, but nothing could ever hope to conceal his alarmed blanch, the widening of his eyes, the shift of his stance- distinctly defensive, like a prey animal ready to flee at any moment.

"Yearner." his tone is one of forced detachment. "I never took you as someone who'd.. enjoy this sort of thing."

A glance to the side, where violant eyes (albeit from a distance) still gleam amidst the other invitees. Their mask is smiling, even if their lips are pulled into a wickedly fanged frown.

His mask tips downward. He doesn't retract this statement.

It ended... well. Shall we say. Poorly.

He is allowed in the scene- and witnesses the frozen corpses.

Dead, for sure, though how permanent it will be is yet to be tested. A thin layer of frost clings to their skin, and the scene is obviously filled with signs of struggle. Eight bodies, all trying to leave the room as they were cut down- all trying to escape.

Signs of a blunt instrument. Some of them were smashed against the walls, against the ground- one had both arms torn off. Frozen splatters of blood cover the walls.

The Yearner is nowhere to be seen.

The Yearner, after all, is what can best be described as an immortal and unmelting Noman, sustaining herself off of nothing but sorrow and human hearts. Her very existence is built upon blood and misery. She thrives off it. Needs it to survive, to live, to flourish.

Nobody deserves that kind of existence. Not even the Scoundrel's very own doppelganger.

But she's alive. And she did come back from some sort of death, hellish and ironic and false as it may be. It can be done.

The Scientist has done it before.

He can do it again.

He will do it again.

And so Caeru works. And works. And works.

To serve. To fix. To help. Finally, he's going to rectify his mistake, going to make everything better, going to give his lover the life he knows they deserve. This is a noble service. A noble obligation. The last attempt may have failed, but this- this cannot fail- he will not let himself fail, not again, not ever.

And nothing can stand in his way. Nothing except-

"Caeru?" a voice can be heard, knocking on the door to the Scientist's laboratory. "Are you there?"

Were one to look through the one-way glass window, they would see the Silverer, looking worried. "Where were you?" she says. "I haven't seen you all week. What has got you locked in there?" she taps again, more hurried-

-His current paramour, The Snowswept Silverer.

A loud crash echoes at the Silverer's sixth knock. Someone curses. The door slams open harsh enough to send her flinching back, the Scientist standing in the doorway with a look of pure vitriol- then, far slower than his typical reaction speed, his fury ebbs.

"Louise." his voice is gratingly hoarse, his hair tied in a half-hazard bun via a thoroughly exhausted ribbon struggling to keep the strands together (it would be a cute look, if not for the blue hue in his cheeks and the blood and dirt caking his arms). His laboratory is- cold. Blisteringly cold. He's barely even shivering, but- surely it can't be healthy, staying in there for so long-?

"I'm... working." he stresses the word as though it's an obvious and irrefutable explanation. "Can we talk in-" he looks back, "A month?" he has the audacity to pause thoughtfully. "Two?"

And thus the preamble concludes, and the pieces and players of our play all finally fall into place.

"...Caeru, I’m not stupid." Louise replies, giving him a throughly unimpressed look. "Is this yet another Yearner situation?"

The accompanying dumbfounded expression that her paramour produces would cause her some amount of delight, were this any other situation. As it is, she is simply more worried- and a fair bit annoyed, as well. "Yes, I know you were involved with her creation, somehow. You and the Academic were rather obvious about it. Whatever you've been doing inside this laboratory, Caeru, it's not nearly as discreet as you think it is. You have a budget, and whenever you ask for it to be extended or spend carelessly on a new batch of supplies, people see it happen-”

Her paramour squirms uncomfortably. She continues her rant unabated.

“-The GHR is in fact a major supplier of experimental materials for the University. As long as it's an import from the Hinterlands, I know what comes in here and what comes out. And I know for sure a certain Yearner has also been looking around your laboratory. I would have left you to your devices, but this will lead to a disaster if I don't interfere."

Her hand- which he notices is clawed- is putting quite a lot of pressure on his shoulder. "Tell me, Caeru. What have you been doing?"

He gulps. The look in her eyes is... serpentine in its wrath, even. Like a Knot who's just caught a scout from the Court of Cats intruding into its home. It's a look that demands an account.

His expression twists- regret, guilt, frustration, desperation. "Louise," he says softly, "Please, just- just give me more time. A week or two more, and- and this will all be done and over with. You'll never have to hear about it again. Please."

He tries to shy away from her hand and take a step back- it's not exactly successful, given his strength relative to hers. His hands tremble. His arms are slick and ruby red- weeping scars, never bandaged-

"I don't want to fight you." a rustle, as one hand drifts down to his pocket, so quiet as to be barely noticeable. "Please." he begs again. "Please don't make me fight you. It's not like the Yearner, it's- it's important, I can't just- please don't make me. Please."

Needless to say, things quickly go from bad to worse.

"Go ahead. Fight her." another voice, intensely recognizable, echoes through the corridor. The Scoundrel's voice- but colder. Less shrill. Less amused. "She won't leave you alone, and neither will I."

The Yearner stands there. Her feathery black dress is covered in blood- fresh. Going by the faint gurgling sounds, someone tried to block her way- and she reacted as she often does.

"I could feel something happening down here. I didn't know what it was, but it felt... important. Thank you for the confirmation that it was very important indeed." she steps forward. In her hand is a large spike of ice, the size of a sword. "Will you let me see it, Caeru? Or shall I tell your husband of what you’ve done? Of how I came to be? I still have that to hold over you, at least. I wonder if they would like to know what happened to that cufflink." the word is hissed, and she smiles in delight at the way he flinches.

(It's... so recognizable, Caeru realizes, and yet so twisted. They sound completely identical. If one were to ignore the face made of ice, they would even be able to identify the similarities- and the sharp differences. It's a little bit disquieting, to see her face. The Scoundrel does... does not make this kind of expression, even at their worst. The only kind of person who does is a certain Mr Veils. It's the sort of look only someone who delights in misery shows.)

He has no other options. No other way out.

He will not fail again. He will never let himself fail again.

A thousand possibilities run through his mind, all at once, before he can even so much as blink. The window- no. The door- terrifyingly fragile. The mirrors- if they weren't already swarming with serpents, he'd be shocked. No solution comes without violence, without- he can't lose again, he can't leave again, he-

The Scientist draws fast as a lightning bolt and shoots his paramour square in the chest, flipping the pistol and shooting a second time for good measure. The desperate scream of his apology can barely be heard over the slam of the door, the clicking of several dozen locks, the mad dash to retrieve something before what little safety he has inevitably gives way.

His prize is bundled in rags, apocyan soaking through the white cloth, pieces of shattered diamond and wood clippings scattered half-hazardly all over the floor-

Run. Run.

Thus the infamous girlfriend shooting incident. Don't worry, she gets better. For the most part.

Everyone else, well... they get substantially worse.

The Scientist acts on instinct, cradling his experiment against his chest. Not again. Never again. He turns when the door inevitably gives way and fires again, futile as it may be.

The bullet does not do much- not when the door is promptly kicked off its hinges, the locks snapping and shattering as the sheer force of the Yearner's kick propels it forward. In that moment, Caeru realizes that while the door was very secure, the frame is nothing but a few planks of wood. It wouldn't hold.

On the floor, bleeding profusely through the wound in her neck (though the ambery growths around it show it will be closing soon, whether it wants to or not), is the Silverer- who stares at the Yearner in horror. "This was not our deal." she hisses.

The Yearner shrugs. "I don't care."

And then she lunges for her prize like a woman possessed. Her eyes gleam, staring fixedly at the bundle in the Scientist's arms. "Either you tell me what that bundle is and why I feel so intensely that I need to see it, or I'll make you tell me." she purrs. "Make the choice, my dear creator.”

He desperately curls around the bundle, hugging it close enough for it to nearly bend under his grip- nearly. Whatever it is, it's sturdier than it looks.

"You can't take him." he gasps without thinking. "You can't- you can't take him, you can't hurt him, you can't-" he backs up against the wall and trembles. The weight makes him stagger with every step. When the Yearner approaches, he flinches. "You can't hurt him."

A delirious sob. The room is freezing. His skin is tinted such a vibrant shade of blue. It's a miracle he isn't already dead from hypothermia. Slowly, carefully, still keeping his gun aimed at the Yearner, his other hand pulls back part of the cloth- and the hand that dangles free is clawed and formed almost entirely from lacre.

Just like her.

"He's mine." Caeru whispers, pressing his head to the apocyan stains with equal parts guilt and adoration. "He's mine. And nobody will ever take him again."

The Silverer stumbles into the room, a gun in hand. The Yearner waves dismissively- and fractal spikes of ice erupt from the ground to block her advance. From the mirrors in the room, Fingerkings hiss and spit in fury- the Yearner should probably stay away from Parabola for a few weeks. She turns to look at the Scientist in disdain.

"Bringing back the dead." she spits. "Once again. You should know it gets you nowhere. Look at what you did before. You tried to return me to the world, when I wasn't ever real at all!" she yells. "An illusion. A dream! Delusions of high society and bohemian dreams of a waif that was never anything but a facade!" she roars, coming closer. "Who was it this time?! Tell me! Who was-”

She pauses, before smiling. It is not a nice smile. "Your lover, wasn't it? The seventh victim. Did you realize that killing Mr Cups would never return what you lost!?"

The words sting. They sting, because she doesn't know, how could she know. Her eyes are wild and mad. "Drop it. Let it go. You don't deserve to have them back.”

The Scientist chokes on a sob. He doesn't deny a word. His knees buckle- he slides down to the floor, holding the bundle like a lifeline and a precious piece of treasure, all rolled into one. "I know." his voice is calm, even with the tears sliding down his cheeks. "I don't deserve him."

He's- the Silverer recognizes the look in his eyes. He's never been more confident about anything else in the world.

"I'm not doing this for myself," the words ring slightly hollow when he's clinging to his creation on the floor, "I'm doing it for him. When Cups died, it-" his tone wavers. Caeru swallows. The despair and guilt in his voice is intoxicating, especially to a Noman standing so very close indeed.

"It begged for its life. It gave me an offer. It could bring him back, if I spared it." he looks beyond the Yearner- staring intently at a shadow on the wall, as though somehow it could stare back. "I couldn't- I couldn't, for everyone else it murdered, I couldn't-" he chokes. "I failed him. I failed him. He deserved to live, he deserved to come back- and I failed, and-"

He kicks at a spare diamond on the floor, watching it twist and freeze into place within moments of making contact with the Yearner. "I'm fixing it. I'm fixing him."

A kiss to his prize. To his magnum opus. His eyes stay fixed on it- nothing matters so long as it is in his arms. "I'm serving him. I'm fixing him."

🐈💙🐺

"No." the Yearner snarls. "No, you're not fixing him. I'll be the one doing that. Give him to me!"

She moves before he can say a word. Only a Licenciate's instincts save his head from being separated from its shoulders by a sharpened spike of ice. He dives out of the way of a furious flurry of stabs, and stumbles to keep hold of his prize- only to see the Yearner tear off her dress in front of him.

He blinks in disbelief before seeing it- connected to her body are numerous pulsating hearts. The blood vessels tear holes in the thin shirt she wore underneath, and wet the fabric in frozen blood. Nourishing her as they draw ever closer to death. How many people have been killed- perhaps permanently- to sustain her existence?

She grins wickedly, cosmogone eyes shining with Parabolan light. "You won't bring him back. Cups wouldn't have done it either, I'm sure. The Masters have experience with bringing the dead back- done it five times now. But it never works, not really, does it?" she spits out the words. "You don't know what it's like. To live knowing you are a failure. A failed attempt to bring someone ELSE back!? Do you want him to live like this, you bastard?! Give him to me. I'll give him life- his own life! He doesn't deserve to be the monument to your vanity!”

🐈💙🐺 🔫⛄

“You barely know how-" the Scientist curses and ducks around another flurry, flailing in a desperate attempt to keep his 'lover' close. He ducks and weaves around the room with expert precision- but his movements are more than slightly hindered by the weight of a corpse larger than he is tall. That... no, that can't be right-

"He won't be a failure." Caeru spits back, pressed against the spikes still binding the Silverer- can't she hear, some part of his mind wonders? What does she think of him? Of what he's done?

He gasps for air that comes stiff and frozen solid. His pistol is long-since discarded- useless, now, but he can't help looking at it and swallowing down his guilt. All the more reason to throw himself down the nearest well, really. At least it's worth it. At least he's worth it. At least it'll all be over soon.

"He's not finished, he's not fixed yet-" he dives away from yet another attempt to spear him in the head. "Do you really think I'd attempt the same experiment twice without learning from my mistakes?! He'll be better. He'll be- he'll be different. He'll be everything." he sounds utterly delirious. "He'll be everything you were meant to be."

The Yearner hisses- and her blade moves for the Scientist's neck with unbelievable speed. There will be no dodging this one. Encumbered as he is, he has to drop the bundle if he wants to dodge- and that he will never do. He closes his eyes-

And only opens them a second later, after the sound of flesh being cleaved resounds. He is- he is not on the slow boat. He sees the Silverer before him, blocking the Yearner's blade with her own arm. A steady trickle of blood is falling from the grievous-looking wound- the cut was such that it exposed the bone.

"Oh, hello. Does it hurt?" the Yearner remarks.

"Not... at all." the Silverer scoffs.

"What if I do this?"

The Noman wriggles her arm and the blade twitches on the spot it's stuck on. The Silverer yelps and wrenches herself free, before falling. There are holes torn all over her legs- even the Shapeling Arts couldn't hold back the blood loss indefinitely. She collapses, overwhelmed by pain. The sound that emerges from the Scientist's throat is one of near-inhuman agony.

For no reason in particular: Did you know Caeru's biggest fear is watching his loved ones die in front of him (especially while he's unable to save them?)

The Yearner laughs. "Guess it's just the two of us again. Now, hand it over. Or I'll tear your arms off.”

Caeru drops the bundle without thinking, kneeling over the Silverer and cradling her in his arms, barely acknowledging the Yearner's presence. Louise's name is all but chanted under his breath- he struggles to breathe. Blood soaks through his coat. Her head is held close against his heart. His hands scramble to stop the bleeding, to fix her, to save her, to- to-

His head darts up as the Yearner takes a step towards the bundle. His eyes are wide. An utterly distraught sob. He doesn't stop her. He only turns back to his (still living) paramour and desperately tries to keep her that way.

"Idiot." he mumbles into the Silverer's hair, still on the verge of delirium. "You didn't need to- you didn't-"

And thus, the Yearner wins this round. But the story isn't over quite yet.

He looks back just long enough to glare up at the Yearner. He spits. "I should've fed you to the Knot of Tails when I had the chance."

"You should have." the Yearner nods. "I agree on that, now."

She kicks the Scientist square in the jaw. Her delicate shoe goes flying off into the distance, and she leaps for the bundle. Before the Scientist can recover from his daze, she rips the cloth around it, and then her arm moves for one of the hearts in her chest- tearing it off in one clean motion. Blood- deathly cold- sprays everywhere. She shoves the heart into the chest of the Scientist's project, and it- horror of horrors- twitches. It opens its eyes, and gasps- before once again falling into utter silence.

"It worked." she grins. "That's what it needs, right? Life. You've been working with mountain-sherds, trying to breathe life into it- but you don't know anything. You don't know what you are doing, you've been getting nowhere. Your love needs life to come back. Life has to come from somewhere."

The many hearts on her body twitch and wriggle as she turns to leave, the body still in her hands, bathing her in apocyan light. "Don't worry. I have a lot of life to give."

She runs off, and Caeru can see-

The body is half-lacre, half-skeletal, and all mannequin. A horror of sable wood casings enveloping the lacre beneath like a shield, virtually impossible to separate without ripping it all apart. His chest is exposed just enough to betray the underlying array of cracked ribs, and inside lays a diamond shining brilliant apocyan. The light floods his body and leaks freely out of an exposed, half-finished eyesocket.

He's sturdier than the Yearner, clearly. Built to last. Built to survive. Not an accident, like she was, but something else entirely. He shudders, white hair flowing in waves down to her feet- his hands dig into her shoulders on instinct.

He meets Caeru’s eyes. He doesn't say a word.

Caeru watches them go, and tries not to scream. He fails spectacularly.

He stumbles to his feet, still cradling his paramour- he takes one step after them, then sobs. The Silverer twitches in his arms. His mind races.

If he leaves her, if he fails again, if he-

He turns tail and shoves coils of hissing Fingerkings aside, ducking into Parabola as the Yearner escapes. He'll regroup, he swears, he'll come back, he'll fix this, he'll fix everything, he'll-

He sets his paramour down and frantically sets about bandaging her wounds. The past can wait. He only has one Louise.

"I love you." he whispers uselessly. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm so sorry-"

The Scientist's involvement in this tale ends here- left with many regrets, many things to answer for, and many wounds to try and heal.

Some, he succeeds at. Others, he does not.

But this was never about him in particular.

Far away is the Yearner, retreating to a lair in the swamps. A knock on the door, two knocks- and the Scarred Naturalist looks at her in disbelief. "What on earth is that?"

She enters, and places the body on the dining table without a word, knocking wooden plates and silverware (a strange contrast, indeed) aside. The body twitches, the sole heart connected to its chest pulsating madly as it slowly but surely withers into nothing. Her hand hovers over a cracked rib.

"We'll have to find replacements." she whispers.

The Naturalist shrugs. He doesn't know what this is all about, but he supports her interests, as always. He finds the Yearner is a surprisingly good influence on his master. Why, the master of silks has been startingly cheery since they've started their rivalry. "The swamp will provide," he notes. "Plenty of bodies around.

The Yearner nods. "Tell Veils I'm calling in that favour, too. It can provide far better materials than that fool of a scientist could. Ask it for wood- sturdy. Elder Continent- something that soaks in the light of the Mountain." she pauses. "Keep him safe. The box of hearts is under my bed- feed one to him every hour. I'll be leaving. I believe Fires had a shipment of apocyan lanterns sent over to Varchas? Surely nobody will notice if I take one..”

She takes a heavy coat, and steps out of the shack. She has a mission.

-

The body does not move for... quite some time. It merely stares up at the ceiling in idle bafflement, digging its claws into the table. It opens its mouth. All that emerges is a sickening click-

He closes his mouth. The heart shudders, and he goes with it. He rolls to his left and spends minutes on end staring at his hands in open fascination- another click.

He twists the joints on his fingers. He lifts his head, and while he may not have proper eyes- the empty stare of his eyesocket and the sickening glow of the apocyan leaking from his face is nothing short of disturbing.

He watches at the Naturalist for a long moment. Another click, as he opens his mouth, and then closes it. A claw unwisely pokes around the heart on his chest, another hand gesturing vaguely to the house around it. Finally, it manages to croak in a low rumble, like an oncoming storm- "Where?"

The Naturalist raises an eyebrow. "Bugsby's Marshes." at the confused look he gets back, he raises it further. "Watchmaker's Hill?" a pause. "The Fifth City, Fallen London? The Neath?" he chuckles. "My my. You're quite uninformed. I suppose it's just fair..."

He walks over to a cabinet, and takes out- is that skin? Human skin. A face. "You've just been born, haven't you?" He offers the face. It's fair-skinned and pudgy. He grins devilishly. "Perhaps a trip to the city would alert your senses."

(The Yearner didn't say he had to stay in the cabin. Just that he had to be kept safe- and that he needed the hearts.)

The Naturalist looks at the homunculus in front of him expectantly, and smiles again. It's not a nice smile.

The body's own face is carved from wood, and thus, cannot blanch- but its face certainly does scrunch up in noticeable revulsion. "No thank you." he says quickly, practically shoving it away. "I'm," he pauses, "Not, hungry?"

He reaches up- the heart beats faster. His finger dips into his eye. He could swallow, if he knew how. He sits up and stares down at his own body in obvious bafflement.

London. He's in London. In... what was it? Bugsby's Hill? This must be a dream.

He slides off the table, trips over his own hair, and falls facefirst onto the ground with a loud thud. A very strange dream indeed.

"...a trip would be appreciated, thank you..." oddly polite, for a newborn homunculus. If a bit laughable.

"My, you're clearly not fine." the Naturalist says. "And you can't go out like this, either way. I'll find you a suit. I have... one." the fact it belonged to someone the Yearner had hunted and killed probably doesn't matter. "Hm. But it's not your size. Maybe..."

He leaves the room to fetch something while the homunculus twitches on the ground. The body practically claws his way up to the wall as he tries once more to get his footing. 'Practically', of course, meaning 'leaves stark grooves in the wallpaper as though he was a particularly rambunctious kitten'.

Finally, the Naturalist returns with a cloak- torn in several places and repaired with careful carelessness. A trophy of war, a legendarily expensive article of clothing torn from the body of a Master and carefully, extensively defaced. Reworked and remade. He offers it.

"Thank you." a stiff sigh as he wraps the cloak around himself, tugging the hood over his head without a second thought. The illusion of anonymity is only slightly marred by the apocyan glow and uncomfortable resemblance to a Master of the Bazaar.

One hesitant step, then another. One more, for good measure. The homunculus looms above the Naturalist, voice rattling like gravel. "Who did you say you were..?" he looks at the door. "You and that- ah. Ice...? Ice. Woman. With the. Eyes." his tone reeks of disbelief.

"Quite tall..." the Scarred Naturalist mutters. "Ah, well. I am a Scarred Naturalist, just a humble scholar living here after my... let us call it an involuntary exile from academia. Unfortunately, prejudice tends to get in the way of scientific advancement... no matter." he coughs. "My associate is the Yearner, a hunter living on the marshes in search of a particularly elusive beast. She brought you here. Given by your state you must have been in quite a situation! Do you remember anything in particular? Have you an address to return to, perhaps?"

The body tilts his head roughly 45 degrees and ponders for a moment. "I run an inn," he looks up, vain as it may be, "Quite far from here. My, ahem, business partner- last I recall, I was bidding him farewell for the morning..."

He trails off and stares into space, not lost in any specific memory, but simply caught in a wave of utter bafflement at the holes in his own mind. "Next I remember, I was carried here by the Yearner. And now I look like-"

He stops, and raises a hand once again. The lacre coats his palms- fresh, vulnerable spots where his mannequin-like casing has not yet been applied. The apocyan dims. "-Like, this." he stands in silence for a long minute. His gaze, though unreadable, is inevitably drawn back to the face- the. Face.

He takes a step back. "Well! Now that I think about it! I really must be going!" he spins on his feet and twists the doorknob with forced cheer, barely able to keep the tremors out of his voice. "It was lovely meeting you, I'm quite grateful for your assistance, tell your associate she's a delight, but if you can just direct me to the nearest path back upwards-?"

He smiles. His mouth is full of uneven, half-formed teeth. "I'd hate to take up too much of your time. I'm sure you're busy doing... busy marsh things."

"Upwards...?" the Naturalist mutters. There's a grudge here. "Never been upwards." he says, too low for the homunculus to hear at all. "Not like they'd take us. The sun hates us more then Stone does. No, no path upwards for me…”

He composes himself, and gives his conversation partner an amused look. "I am loath to inform you, but there is no path upwards. Have you seen yourself, young man? The sun would scour you utterly. To ashes. It does not take kindly to Neathy things- and perhaps you should take a look at yourself? Thoroughly Neathy, that body of yours."

He reveals a mirror, and on it, the cloaked shadow can finally see his face. He tugs down his hood and stares. He's quiet for a time. A trembling hand caresses his cheek (hollow and wooden and false), then scratches at his beard (snow-white and soft as silk), then traces along his scars (carved deliberately and carefully into his face, as though replicating something that was already there).

The Naturalist continues, regardless of his guest's confusion. He sounds quite amused by the whole affair. "Do not worry. I am sure my roommate could not let you go without a shelter for the night- and when you wake up, Penstock's Land Agency will be ready and waiting. We could find you a home here- and perhaps arrange for mail to the Cumaean Canal? I'm sure that ‘business partner’ of yours might have explanations for what happened- and for these apparent gaps in your memory."

A soft sound escapes the body's mouth, indecipherable. He brings a hand up to the apocyan-lit hole in his left eye- and flinches on instinct when his claws dip into it with ease. "Thoroughly..."

There's awe, yes. Horror, most certainly. A hint of amazement. Most of all, complete and utter bafflement.

"But- I have people to get back to, I can't just-" he blinks. "Mail... that. Would be appreciated, yes. Thank you kindly." he looks back at the door. Without speaking, he steps outside- and stops, staring up at the false stars in open awe.

One tentative step, then another. He marvels at the world like a newborn babe.

"What is this?" he doesn't particularly expect an answer. "What... am I?"

The city is alive. Even at this hour, Watchmaker's Hill bustles with activity.

The Starved Embassy's ambered glow and the visitors from the Roof who walk the streets, the Clay Men who pass in stoic silence- the hawkers, the conmen offering rostygold for whoever beats them at arm-wrestling (hiding brass tacks between their fingers as they brag about their prowess), the marksmanship competitions for prizes of jade! The scholars debating the nature of the stars, taking blind steps towards the observatories. The criers announce Feducci's fighting rings, the chittering of surprisingly articulate insects and the growling of the marsh-beasts.

Fallen London stands before the Shadow in all its glory, this strange and wild city of a thousand stories. It gazes at him with mirth.

The Shadow gazes back.

He tugs up his hood and strolls along in absolute wonder- his hand dwarfs a wrestler's own as he pins their arm with ease, barely noticing tacks against wooden 'skin'. His voice is eager and enthralled as astronomers entertain each and every one of his questions about the 'stars' in the 'sky'. A sorrow spider creeps up his elbow- he plucks it by the leg and dangles it in front of his eyes. A half-hearted smile. It disappears into his cloak, and does not return.

Everyone gives him a wide berth, but if this bothers him, he doesn't voice it. This must be a dream- it is a dream, surely, but even so, there's no harm in enjoying it while it lasts.

He'll wake up eventually. He'll see his partner eventually.

Anxiety dies as he stops on the edge of a hill and gazes up at the firmament. London's invitation is easy to accept- after all, in a city of a thousand stories, surely an explanation lies within one.

Barely glancing at the Naturalist behind him, he wanders off into London's heart. Lacre trails in his wake.

It's a beautiful day to be alive.

[taintedcigs]

feel like i have a trauma bond with this fandom + tumblr. LIKE i try to leave but i can never quit fully. I JUST CANT.

[platossoulmates]

finally got my shit together yall get ready

[witchspeka]

It's always "Shou and Ritsu need to blow stuff up with their minds for mental health reasons" or Ritsu and Teru or even Shou and Teru!

But what about Mob? When does he get to blow stuff up with his mind for funsies? For shits and giggles? He didn't go through all of those meltdowns and character development for nothing, let him go ham on a junkyard car or something smh

I believe in Mob's narrative given right to fuck shit up sometimes

[myokk]

my angel😇

[welcometogrouchland]

I feel like for the first few years of guardianship Darius and Hunter really struggle to figure out how to refer to each other.

Like it's easier for Hunter, he pretty quickly settles on "guardian" for explaining their relationship to other people and just referring to Darius by name when talking to the man himself. Overtime the phrasing gradually warms, becoming "foster parent" and eventually, once Hunter's already an adult old enough to move out, "Dad".

(Sidenote: he doesn't move out til he's in his mid to late twenties, bc he's under no obligation too, Darius low-key doesn't want him too, and the two of them want to make up for lost time in a sense, since Hunter only had 2 years of legal dependency on Darius before aging out of the system. Darius adopts Hunter retroactively as an adult)

Darius on the other hand has a real conundrum on his hands for those first few years. He has a lot of options! But "ward" is too formal and makes it sound like Darius picked him up off the street like after his parents were murdered, "apprentice/student" isn't really accurate considering the focus of Darius and Hunter's relationship has less to do with Hunter learning magic and more to do with Hunter being housed and fed. "Kid" and "foster son" are there...but...

Look, Darius isn't going to refer to Hunter more familiarly than Hunter refers to him! He's not gonna make it WEIRD. He's not a dad, because Hunter doesn't want/need him to be (and also parenthood is scary <3). Darius doesn't know the first thing about being a dad, despite how his friend group teases him.

Eda and Eberwolf are the two who are worst about it. They torture him with how 'fatherly' he's allegedly being (allegations Darius will DENY til his GRAVE!!!) And Eda specifically compares his journey to hers, saying it always starts off with you referring to them as your apprentice (again, Darius doesn't plan on doing that), as your roommate (...kinda weird in Darius' opinion? But okay Eda), or even your pet (????HELLO???). But eventually, they always become your dumb kid when you least expect it.

She's had a couple cups of appleblood by this point, but Darius knows on some level she's right and he's steadfastly ignoring that fact, even as Eber continues to refer to Hunter as his "cub" (kinda cute but Darius doesn't know how Hunter would feel being compared to an animal). The only people who are even remotely reasonable about all this (besides Lilith who's a bit disinterested in kid talk) is Raine and Alador, who both sort of neutrally, a bit awkwardly refer to Hunter as Darius' Boy.

Darius referring to Hunter as "my boy" is funnily enough what sticks the longest before it evolves to son boy. Hunter's crushing it at a derby match? Darius is whooping and cheering, yelling "THAT'S MY BOY!!!" At the other parents in the stands. Hunter is doing something dangerous or inadvisable where others can see him? "Darius, your boy-" "AHH! MY BOY". Hunter, a year into his stay with Darius finally comes clean about everything to do with him being a grimwalker, and is afraid that he's going to go back to seeing him as just an inferior replacement for Darius' beloved mentor? Darius (who has just had to process some of the most bonkers, emotionally heavy information in his life) gently, hesitantly puts a hand on his shoulder (the 'good' one Hunter doesn't mind people touching), and says that Hunter's much more than that. He's Darius' Boy and he's not going to kick him out or get angry or love him any less for things out of his control. It's good. They're good.

Like I said, it evolves over time and 'boy' becomes somewhat obsolete as the two get caught up in the joy of finally feeling able to explicitly refer to each other as family. But unlike "guardian" or "ward" the word never gets fully retired. Even when Hunter is 30 and is arguing that he's more of a man than a boy now, he is still getting referred to by Darius as "his boy", the way some parents never really stop calling their adult kids baby or kiddo (Camila and Eda respectively btw).

Hunter makes one of those corny matching shirt sets at some point for a father's Day gift when he's 17/18, where the two shirts say "if lost, return Boy to me" (Darius) and "I'm Boy" (Hunter). Hunter mostly did it so he could own a funny shirt that says "I'm boy". Darius openly weeps upon seeing them. Like Oh my Titan he's boy. He's my boy. Oh wow

[ghostwise]

I do feel like the game is setting up Harding to be the obvious choice for the final sacrifice, with multiple dialogues implying she's functionally if not fully immortal now. She even promised Emmrich she'll take care of Manfred if that's the case. Like that girl is not dying in a way we can comprehend. So she gets impaled. So what. Hawke got impaled, they're fine.

[oh-no-its-bird]

Getting deep in the self indulgence w this one chat

[suokumi]

After three days of work, I was finally able to finish this reference

This is my interpretation of Narinder's scythe from "The Rehabilitation of Death" by @bamsara

the process is under the cut

the description is taken from the fifth chapter of trod, the art used as a reference is by BamSara

the art used as a reference is by BamSara

the art used as a reference is by BamSara

the symbol work still needs more research that I will do later, as I couldn't find enough references online, I will take my sweet time gathering all symbols from the game myself another time

[24-05txt]

He spits in the vicinity of the guy's face and immediately braces when he sees a gloved hand raise. It's not a flinch—its not—but he needs to be ready when they hit him.

"Hey, Soap," says the man looking over him, quiet and even and casual, and Soap's mind is sent reeling, suddenly, because the last time he heard this voice in that tone was in a shitty kitchenette at three in the morning. Must've been days ago now (at least).

"Ghost?" He tilts his chin up, trying to look down his nose and under the blindfold. If he's hallucinating, he at least wants to see it.

"Yeah. I've got you." A rough, leather-clad hand comes to rest on the side of his head and the blindfold lifts and it's Ghost on the other side. Ghost is crouched over him. Ghost tosses the blindfold away and makes eye-contact with Soap for a long few seconds.

"...Ghost?" He asks again, and hates how plaintive it sounds. He desperately wants to say something funny, even curse a little bit, have a witty quip to kickstart some banter; something to say 'I'm alright, Lt.' But he can't think of a single thing.

Thankfully, Ghost covers for him (as usual) when he says, “that's my name, don't wear it out,” and shifts the hand on Soap’s cheek, taking a more firm hold. “Give us a sit-rep, Johnny, are you injured?”

His thoughts stutter a little, like a car struggling to shift into gear.

"Dunno what time it is," he rasps. His voice is hoarse from alternating between stubborn silence and full-volume yelling with very little between. "Estimate about two days here. Taken a few blows to the head, spotty circulation to my left hand, got me drunk off something a while back—"

"I can smell that much," Ghost grumbles, and Soap can't help but laugh—dry and brittle—at the offense in his tone.

"That bad, is it?"

"Certainly didn't waste the good stuff on you, Sergeant."

Ghost knows what it's like; laying flat on your back, helpless, unable to think anything other than 'it hurts, I'm in pain, I want someone with me. Anyone. Please, God, someone. I dont want to be alone.'

Nobody had come for him—the eldest son of an eldest son—not since his mother was killed. Even then, sparingly (though it pained him to admit any fault on her part. Heavy weight in his chest. Tight throat.) Even after Price came along to play at a guardian, Simon had already been convinced of his place with others. He knew he'd never be able to depend on anyone ever again, not really. Couldn't expect them to come looking for him. Couldn't expect his little brother or his mom to step up when his father put hands on him.

He doesn't know what Johnny's home situation is like; doesn't know if he has siblings, how many, what his place in the pecking order is, if he likes his mum. It's easy to imagine Johnny as someone constantly surrounded by family, but Ghost is all too aware of the things he hasn't heard his Sergeant talk about.

He doesn’t know who comes to bat for John MacTavish, but he isn't shy to count himself among their numbers (however many or few it may be). Simon's had a long time to wish for someone to depend on—has had even longer to give up on it—and he knows what he'd want, in this situation. What he'd want in a Lieutenant. A brother. A friend.

So he gives Johnny a gentle voice, firm hands. Moves quick and efficient and withholds every apology he tries to give for the obvious overwhelm. He treats Johnny himself, lets him shy away from the medics, and is quietly relieved at the lack of serious injury.

The line gets a little blurrier when he wants to tuck Johnny up under his chin, hold him tight against his chest and listen to him breathe. Is that something he wanted, at some point? Does he want that for Johnny or himself?

The fact that he lets Simon do that—curls up against him and sheds quiet, exhausted tears—is... fucking hell it's something all of its own.

[corviiids]

planning to post ch 7 of my akechi palace au, "as you like it", on his birthday 2 june so in the leadup (while i reread it and make sure im not contradicting myself) here are some of my favourite and silliest bits and pieces out of the chapters that are up so far

AND a sneak peek of my favourite part of chapter 7. for kicks

[mechazushi]

Kaiju Number 8 Incorrect Quotes <take 10>

Mina: *In a helecarrier* Alright, before we take off, we need to make sure all small items are secure and accounted for. Kafka: *Places hand on Kikoru while holding back laughter* Do you feel secure? Kikoru: I will kill you.