#those trees are tall folks

[lowquality-buffet]

This ain't no picnic

Somewhere in Western Washington 1/24

[unintentionalseductress]

When The Snow Melts

Warnings: MDNI, soft sex, virginity loss, angst, and some spoilers for those who aren't familiar with Zayne's lore. A/n: Curiosity got the best of me. I wasn't playing LaDS when the Master of Fate card came out so I went to YouTube and immediately regretted it. Like can this man not catch a break? He sacrifices himself again? I couldn't leave it, so this me, correcting the wrong. A fix-it fic if you will. Because I need Zayne to win, at least once. Also, since Zayne appears according to how MC perceives him, I do believe he will have aged exactly as she has.

The night is bright, and the small cobbled lane you walk on is lit with lamps. The streets are bustling with life. The feeling of excitement, togetherness, and aromatic food graces the air as you wander closer to the town square. Another festival, similar, yet not similar, to the countless ones you’ve seen with your keen eyes. 

You’d wanted to be in company, maybe see the world when you were young, and the curse that was also a blessing was granted. Your body, now wispy and weathered from the years spent wandering cannot move as quickly as you used to, the ever-reminding aches in your joints, the beginning of arthritis weighing down in your bones. Yet you still had a zest for life. Because what else could you do but seek, and take in everything that life had to offer? How could you not? Because it was the grace of the god that allowed it and the terrible price that was paid for you to experience it.

It had been decades since you had last seen the god. You had traversed as far as you could, carrying your umbrella with the everlasting snow coating it like wool on a freshly birthed lamb. The things you had witnessed! Ships with sails as tall as oak trees, strangely flavored meats and delectable sweets, festivals where people had danced, music from instruments brought in from faraway strange lands. You had eaten, traveled, danced, and sung, picking up small jobs to afford simple pleasures. You were a quick learner. Once you were a seamstress helping a small garment shop, another time a jewel polisher. You had even worked as an errand maid for an elderly couple who were profuse with their thanks and offered you a roof over your head for a short while. But staying in one place wasn’t an option. You had to keep looking after all. How else would you find him again?

As your feet carried you into the square, a burst of light and color filled your vision. It’s so lively, as the people flock to the different food carts, admiring the small handicraft booths, and singing folk songs well known to all those who grew up in this region. Children joyfully chased each other, dressed warmly in bright clothes. A hint of winter was already in the air. Based on what you had observed, this festival was celebrating the end of the harvest season, probably one of the last for this year until the harsh snowfall of winter faded. The breeze, not quite chilly enough to make you shiver, felt comforting on your face. 

You supposed you could work as a midwife again. Midwifery was good work, reliable since winter did not stop the delivery of children into the world. It could also guarantee a place to stay if you played your cards right, though you hated staying in one place. The nomadic lifestyle you had adopted suited you. And the winters made you nostalgic. 

It made you long for those days before you had picked up this umbrella and set off to see the world. Of amber eyes flecked with green, like the jars of whiskey at the inns when the early morning sunlight brushes against them, bringing forth colors hidden in the dark glass. Or of soft hands, covered in scars, and whispers in your ear of sleep, of priestesses calling gods down to earth to make love to them. Sometimes the memories consume you to the point of anger.  How dare he leave you? With no explanation as to what his blessing was. 

You vaguely recall those days, back when your fingers weren’t gnarled and wrinkled, your face unblemished by the years in the sun. All spells have limitations, he had said. But he also said he had taken care to make the spell extra strong since you were particularly clumsy. The snow had to melt sometime…didn’t it?

A drum begins to pound in the distance, and the crowd gathers around the stage that had been set up at the far end of the square. You halt at one of the carts to buy some fried chicken skewers. The vendor looks curiously at your umbrella, something you have grown accustomed to over the years. After all, snow that doesn’t melt was bound to bring questions. You had woven a different story for each city you had passed through, sometimes recycling them when you didn’t have the creativity to spin a new one. Initially hesitant to reveal how the umbrella with the everlasting snow had come into your possession, you had tried to pass it off as a novelty accessory, crafting tales of snowy mountains and how it was all the rage in those areas.

As the years passed by, your tongue had loosened. Or perhaps the indignation of him disappearing had made you reckless. Although you still hadn’t said the full story, you’d managed to finally say it was a blessing from a god, shocking the non-believers by letting them touch the snow, their gasps of awe as the cold, wet, powder clung to their fingers falling satisfyingly on your ears. Tonight, however, you were in no mood to entertain strangers. You smile politely as you hand over your coins to the vendor, take the food, and walk away towards the stage. 

The sounds of a flute and an erhu accompany the drum. Elaborately dressed dancers are swirling in coordinated grace on the stage, enacting a scene from an old tale; the common man sending off the goddess of harvest, thanking her for her blessings that year, and praying to the god of winter, that he be merciful to them and allow them to live to see another spring.

You were skeptical if these rituals really worked. The first autumn after you had been gifted the umbrella when the air started to show signs of change, you had danced, danced amongst the trees that were close to shedding their vividly colored leaves of red, mustard, and yellow. You had prayed your heart out, prayed so hard, danced so long that the soles of your shoes had almost worn out. You had danced till you had collapsed with exhaustion, falling asleep on the leafy floor. You had been so sure that it would work, that he would show himself, and when you awoke, it was with a heartrending pang that you realized you were alone. It hadn’t worked. Wherever he was, the god of the snow wasn’t visible to your eyes. It was the first time you had allowed yourself to cry in all those months. Had he really believed this was the better choice? That to leave you behind without telling you what was going to happen to him would make you happier? That was the worst part; not knowing if he was alive, existing somewhere you couldn’t journey to, or if he had given all his power into making the snow that had fueled your existence, and lost himself with it. 

The music becomes faster and the dancers move until the stage is a blur of color. The audience claps as their movements become sharp, with an artistic precision that only years of practice could hone. The last note quavers from the flute and rises into the night air. Cheers and whistles erupt all around you. It was a beautiful performance no doubt, but despite finding it captivating, it also left you feeling hollow. Finishing the last of your fried chicken, you begin to wander amongst the townspeople, enquiring about work that could be had for the winter.

By the time the square had cleared up, and the last of the festival-goers had returned home, you had secured a job; a bakery was in desperate need of an extra set of hands. The pay wasn’t much but the woman had offered food and board and you had accepted graciously. As you sit on the stone steps of your latest lodgings, you gaze at the moon. 

You want to not blame him, to not feel this heavy weight that you’ve carried inside your chest. You know you should be grateful for his sacrifice which enabled you to see so much of the world, and at the least, you weren’t alone. The incident with the people in your village was a distant memory, replaced with so many more pleasant rememberings. Plucking apples from an orchard with trees growing as far as the eyes could see. The feeling of a newborn baby, screaming with the rage of life and the mother wiping tears of joy while offering you her thanks. The herbalist with his toothless smile as he showed you which plants were medicinal and which were poison as you plucked various flowers and leaves and dug the earth for rhizomes of turmeric and ginger. 

You were a well-traveled woman, knowledgeable in all aspects, a rare luxury during this time, you knew. Yet for each memory that stayed clearly in your mind, there was a sense of loss. Everything tied back to him, and you couldn’t bring yourself to forget him, even in your old age, and even with the passage of time. 

The spicy bun the baker had offered you was good. You savored its flavor on your tongue, naming the constellations visible in the sky as you did so, the short astronomy lesson from a young scholar in some past time proving useful. It must be close to midnight based on how still the night is, the whispering rustle of dead leaves as they skitter across the ground audible in the background. With a sigh, you carefully get to your feet, your joints creaking as you rise. As you reach for your umbrella, you pause, fingertips hovering over the handle.

Surely you were imagining it? It must be a trick of the moonlight. The last of the lamps were dying, the faint light casting shadows across the walls of the dwellings. Yet your aged eyes couldn’t shake off the feeling. You stare intently at the umbrella, more so, at the snow perched on its upper slope. A fine sheen of condensation coated the umbrella, surrounding the powdery snow. Had you somehow gotten the umbrella wet? You kneel, observing with fascination as some of the condensation gathers, becoming fat droplets of precipitation, and rolling off the sides.

You’re awestruck. In all your years, the snow had never melted. It had never lessened nor increased but always stayed the same. But now you can see how the powder was turning watery, steadily dripping down into the cold ground. You trace a fingertip on the trails of moisture along the sides of the umbrella, and that’s when you hear it; the unmistakable twang of a guqin. 

You had never encountered a guqin again, not since the night he had played one while you danced for him. The unmistakable notes now begin to form a melody. You look out into the empty street and see nothing. But the song was filling your body like the warmth of a fireplace. Your limbs involuntarily stretch out as your eyes close, remembering the movements you had learned so long ago and sworn to never repeat after the failed attempt to call down the god. Your legs feel unsteady, your hands clumsy, a far cry from the controlled accuracy of the stage dancers. Your joints begin to sear as you move, unable to stop the actions. Oh how sweetly the instrument sang to you!

There’s a sharp pain in your heart, not from the ache of moving your tired extremities, but from the grief bottled up, adding on year after year. There’s resentment, but underneath it all, there’s a strong yearning you’re unable to put into words. How do you describe it? The loss of the only person who seemed to understand you, who helped you control your power?

You knew he did something when he placed his spell because, since that day, you hadn’t been able to harness your powers ever again. He had ensured you could live your life as a normal human being. Before knowing him you would have done anything to not have the power. But the cost that came with it was too much to bear. You weren’t alone, yet you were alone. So of all the days, why was the guqin playing now?

Tears roll down your cheeks as you dance, letting loose your sorrow to the crisp night breeze. You feel like each nerve in your body is frayed, all consumed with the bits of memories you had of him. It takes you a moment to realize you’re not dancing anymore. The guqin has stopped playing. You’re standing in a pose, your head lowered, facing the steps you had been sitting on, and the umbrella leaning against them. Shock passes through you. 

The umbrella was completely devoid of snow. The only evidence it was there was the puddle of water that had gathered beneath it, muddying the grass. 

“Why are you so surprised?”

Your heart skips a beat, then begins to hammer in your chest like a frantic bird trapped in a cage. The deep baritone voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm calls out to you gently. You can’t seem to be able to move. 

“It can’t be.” You murmur, gripping your elbows, trying to calm yourself. “It can’t be. I’m dreaming.”

“What are dreams if not another reality?”

It takes all the effort in your body to not collapse to the ground as a sobbing mess. You turn slowly, as though giving the voice a chance to admit it was a figment of your imagination but it doesn’t happen. Your breath catches in your throat as you see him, at last.

His dark hair has tinges of gray in it, and crow’s feet are visible near the corners of his eyes, but the gentle upwards curve of his lips, the broad shoulders, and his pointed chin are all recognizably familiar. 

“Zayne?” You let his name fall from your lips, sounding like a strange word, lost to your vocabulary from the years of disuse. 

He nods, then stretches out a hand to you. At first, you’re at a loss about what you should do, then, with as much speed as your wizened knees allow, you run to him. He’s solid and grounding, his arms wrapping around you tightly. A brief lick of rage crosses through you, but when you open your mouth to let loose your diatribe, all that comes out is a sob. Your tears flow freely, staining his robes, and you feel his gloved hands gently combing through your hair.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, his chin resting on top of your head.

“Why not tell me?” Your words are choked, your body shivering as you cry. 

Zayne leads you to the steps and helps you sit before occupying the space next to you. He leans you against him, your head resting comfortably on his shoulder as he takes one of your hands between both of his. He sighs deeply and his voice, though calm, is filled with regret as he speaks. 

“How could I tell you? What would I have said? How do you tell someone special to you that their life was in danger?”

You blink back tears. “Danger?”

“There was a powerful entity after you. I did what I needed to do to protect you.”

“Why was it after me?”

Zayne pauses, as though considering how to word his response. “It was convinced you would bring about a cataclysm, and the only way to prevent it was to take your life.”

“But… I don’t understand. How did your spell prevent this? Now that it’s worn off, won’t it come after me again?”

“No.” Zayne wraps his arms around you, his body bringing warmth into yours. “Even cataclysms go away if given enough time. But the harder part was figuring out how to suppress your abilities until that time passed.” He sighs deeply, gathering you close. “The spell on the umbrella was the only solution I could think of, without restricting your freedom. Regrettably, sealing your power meant taking away your ability to perceive me. I never intended to make it permanent.”

“Why not tell me?” You repeat the question. Zayne raises an eyebrow.

“If I had told you the spell would wear off, would you have left the mountain?” He brushes your cheek with his thumb as he takes in your face, his eyes softening as he looks at you. “I know you. You would have spent all these years in isolation, waiting for me. I didn’t want you to miss the opportunity to live. A normal life seemed like the best option I could give you until enough time had passed.”

You’re silent as you let his words sink into you. After a gap, you whisper, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” His thumb caresses each of your fingertips in turn. “But know that I watched over you every day. I saw the world through your eyes and felt your sense of wonderment in my heart. The day you danced so hard for me that you almost fainted from exhaustion-” Zayne draws in a breath and his voice quivers as he continues. “I was in tears. I wanted nothing more than to reach out and comfort you. I was there, separated by a veil, but I felt your pain.”

“That was the year the frost came early.” You recall the memory. 

“Indeed. I couldn’t control my grief. I didn’t know how else to let you know I was there, except to cover the world with snow.”

You glance over at the umbrella. “Will you disappear again?”

“Not unless you want me to.” One of his large hands rests on your knee. “I understand I’ve angered you by acting without telling you everything. Is it enough that you don’t want me around?”

You shake your head no. Your momentary anger with him had faded, like the night giving way to the sunrise. “There’s nothing that could keep me from wanting you. I made many acquaintances throughout my life, but the one person’s companionship I yearned for was yours.”

“My beloved snowflake.” Zayne embraces you tenderly. “It was fate that led you to me on the mountain that day. And It was fate that finally broke the spell. We’re all bound by it, even me.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. Otherwise, do you think I would have kept you sealed for so long? Even gods must play by fate’s rules.”

Silence falls between you both,  the breeze ruffling your clothes. You become acutely aware that he’s gazing at you, and when you turn to look at him, there’s such tenderness in his eyes that it makes you blush, even at this age. 

“You’re beautiful,” he utters, tucking strands of stray hair behind your ears. The amber in his eyes glows as you stare back, captivated by how handsome he is. Your memory didn’t do him justice. You cup his cheek. 

“Is this our happily ever after?”

“It can be if we choose it to be.”

“I do. Wholeheartedly.”

Sparks fly between you and almost as if the both of you are following a rhythm, your lips find each other in the darkness. It’s odd because, in the passing years, you hadn’t imagined what his lips would feel like against yours. You had fantasized about lying next to him, listening to his heartbeat, about taking long, leisurely strolls while holding hands, and about the possibility of letting him rest on your lap while you played with his thick locks of hair.

Now you’re glad you hadn’t tried to imagine it because the reality was sweeter than any dream you could have conjured, the warmth and softness of his mouth, the taste of his tongue as it slips past your lips, the possessiveness in his grip as he molds your body against his, as though silently claiming you. There wasn’t an inch of you that didn’t ache for him. When he pulls away, there’s desire flickering in the depths of his eyes.

Wordlessly, you take his hands and get to your feet, quietly pulling him inside your new quarters. You’re careful to not wake the baker; it was quite improper to invite a man into your room, but you didn’t care. You lock the door and allow Zayne to sweep you away.

Clothes slide to the floor, a whisper lost to the dark. There’s no shame as you reach for each other, hands relishing the feeling of skin, enjoying the contact between your bodies as he gently pulls you onto the bed. His lips leave trailing kisses on your skin, no longer supple like the young woman you once were, but worthy of being worshipped irrespective. You wonder if this moment would have felt different if you had consummated this relationship when you were younger but realized you had little choice in it. If the Master of Fate couldn’t control when things happened, then what good was it to think about what could have been?

Instead, you focus on him, on his skin flushed with vitality as you nibble his ear, shyly running your tongue down his neck. He suckles at your nipple, and pleasure, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced radiates into every part of your being. You feel his erection graze your belly as he patiently kisses you, moaning into his mouth as his fingers stroke your sex, finding the little knot of nerves that makes you close your eyes in ecstasy.

It’s all slow and unhurried, and when you finally gasp out your climax, he eases his body into yours. There’s pain, but only for the briefest moment, then as your body stretches around him, you feel a powerful sense of intimacy as he thrusts, his movements passionate and loving. He gathers you tightly against him whispering the same thing over and over as he empties himself. 

“I love you. I love you I love you I love you.”

A weak ray of sunlight peeks through the window when you wake up, and you panic for a moment when you see the bed is empty. 

“I’m here my love.” Zayne’s voice immediately reassures you and you see him stoking the fireplace. The small flames crackle merrily as he makes his way back to bed, pulling you against him and stroking your skin. It had snowed overnight, and the landscape was now unrecognizable, covered in a fresh coat of it. 

“It appears grief isn’t the only thing that can cause the god of winter to make it snow,” you tease and Zayne good-naturedly smirks at you. 

“Indeed. All thanks to you.” 

You giggle, a soft sound that fills him with joy. 

“I suppose we’re stuck in this village until winter ends. Makes no sense to wander for now.”

“Agreed. I suppose I can set up shop as a fortune-teller, or maybe as a herbalist.”

“We’ll decide what to do when spring comes.” You settle against his chest, finding comfort in the scent of his skin. 

“The snow has to melt sometime. But we’ll survive. Together.”

“Together.” You agree, and lay your lips over his. 

© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating support banner by @/ cafekitsune

@theimmortalbuns @otomegamesforlife @sweets-kozume @supernaturalbaesduh @ladyparamount

[yikes-aemond]

I love you. It's ruining my life. (Part III)

pairing: Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!fem!reader (no descriptions of reader except that she wears dresses and has long hair)

warnings: 18+, smut, canon typical violence, cursing, drinking  

summary: You and Benjicot Blackwood face the consequences of Benjicot’s decision. 

word count: 4.7k 

author note: I’m having so much fun writing this little series. I’ve decided that there will be four or five parts in total, so look out for the next part soon. Happy reading!

part I can be found here. part II can be found here. part iv can be found here.

You were going to kill Benjicot Blackwood. 

That was the first thought you had after waking in an unfamiliar room with a splitting headache. You could forgive him for knocking you unconscious the first time. But for a second? Absolutely not.

The room you had been left in was uncomfortably warm. The dying fire in the hearth indicated that you had likely been here for hours. Groaning, you pushed yourself up from the bed you had been tucked into. Your dress clung to you like a second skin, and a quick brush of your fingers through your hair revealed knots and tangles. 

Oh yes, you were going to kill that Blackwood heir as soon as you got your hands on him. 

Making your way to the wall of windows on the right side of the room, your stomach sank. Dusk was settling in. You had been gone from Stone Hedge all day, and there no chance your absence had gone unnoticed. Your father would be furious.  

Glancing around the courtyard beneath the windows, you were not entirely shocked to find yourself at Raventree Hall. You had never visited the keep in person, but you had heard tales of the ancient stone walls adorned with climbing moss. From your vantage point, you could just make out the top of the colossal, dead weirwood tree in the godswood. Already ravens were gathering to roost for the night. 

You had to find Benjicot. Had to find him and ask him what in the Seven Hells possessed him to bring you here of all places. A Bracken behind enemy lines. 

You heard the lock at the door unlatch. Unsure if friend or foe approached, you glanced to your left and right but found no weapon. The best you could find was a candleholder. Grabbing it, you pressed yourself against the wall furthest from the door. Raising the makeshift weapon, you readied yourself to throw. 

A tall woman with long, dark hair and an archer’s bow attached to her back entered. When she spotted you, candleholder raised to strike, she lifted her eyebrows and huffed out a laugh.

“Put that thing down before you hurt yourself.” 

There was no doubt in who she could be. 

Alysanne Blackwood. Sister to Lord Samwell Blackwood. Aunt to Benjicot Blackwood. And Black Aly to all those who would dare cross her bow. 

With shaking hands, you returned the candleholder to its proper place. Dipping into a small curtsy, you said, “Lady Blackwood, I am—”

“I know who you are.” Alysanne said, cutting you off. She paused to look at you, eyes glancing up and down, taking in your soiled dress and tangled hair. You tried desperately not to fidget under her scrutiny. 

But then her face broke into a smile. You could see the family resemblance easily enough. Although not nearly as feral, Alysanne’s smile had the same vicious edge as Benjicot’s. “So, you are the Bracken who has stolen my dear nephew’s heart.”

You did not know how to respond. Any thought you might have had left your head under Alysanne’s gaze and her accusation. Seeing the panicked look on your face, she laughed again and gestured to the seats before the fire. “Come now, little Bracken. Sit with me. We women folk have much to discuss.”

You left the comfort of the wall and did as she bid. You had no idea what Alysanne wanted to discuss. Her mood seemed relatively pleasant, all things considered. But the Blackwoods were notorious for their quick tempers and could switch at a moment’s notice. 

Alysanne took the bow off her back, leaning it against the hearth but still within her reach. You tried to calm your racing heart, but your palms were starting to sweat. You did not believe that Alysanne would harm you, at least not physically. But Benjicot’s absence, even if only temporary, set you on high alert. 

You could not help but ask,“Where is Benji—I mean, where is Lord Blackwood?”

Alysanne seemed amused by your question. Leaning back in her chair, she regarded you before answering, “My nephew has been otherwise detained.”

Her tone and mocking smile struck a nerve. You could feel your own temper begin to flare. And you could tell that Alysanne was taking pleasure in your apparent discomfort, watching you try to get a grip on your emotions. You should not have been surprised. Nothing brought a Blackwood more joy than torturing a Bracken. 

You tried for diplomacy. “Lady Blackwood, please—”

“Call me Aly, little Bracken.” She said, waving her hand at your formalities. “I think we need wine for this conversation.” 

What conversation? You were not sure your stomach could handle alcohol, but you were not stupid enough to refuse. 

With a full glass in hand, you watched Alysanne—Aly—take a deep drink. Setting the goblet down, she turned to you, a serious look in her eyes, and asked, “So, tell me, has my nephew fucked you yet?”

You choked on your wine.

Laughing, Aly gave you a thump on the back to help clear your airway. “You know, I’ve never met a Bracken with such delightful expressions.”

Finding your voice, you managed, “I’m happy I could be such a source of entertainment for you.” 

Aly picked up her wine again and smiled. Her gaze softening as she said, “I can see why he likes you.”

You felt your cheeks warm at the praise. You were desperate to know what Benjicot said about you to his family, but you had a feeling that Aly would not betray his confidence. The two might be aunt and nephew, but they were only a handful of years apart in age. Closer to a sister and brother. 

Taking another sip of wine, Aly’s face grew serious once again.“My question may have been crude, but I did not ask it to embarrass you. I need to know before I can advise my brother on how to proceed.” 

You swallowed down the wine that threatened to return back up. “How to proceed?”

Running a hand through her dark curls, Aly took a beat before responding. “Earlier today, a host of Bracken men showed up to Raventree Hall under a white flag and claimed that the Blackwoods had taken Lord Amos Bracken’s only daughter. My brother laughed in their faces and sent them away.” 

Aly took another deep drink of wine before continuing. “Not two hours later, Benjicot turns up with you in his arms, spinning a tale about finding you in the woods out cold, and seeing as how Raventree Hall was closer, decided to bring you here to see our maester.”

Wine forgotten, Aly leveled a hard look at you. “Of course, the maester did not find anything to explain your condition, except for a peculiar bump on the back of your head. If I didn’t know better, the bump looked like it came from the hilt of a sword or dagger. Most curious.”

You could not look at Aly, for you knew that your face would reveal too much. Would reveal that Benjicot lied. 

“And then there are, of course, the injuries on your neck.”

Your hand lifted to touch your neck, almost as if it was detached from the rest of your body. Your throat felt parched as you asked, “Other injuries?”

Aly smirked and leaned closer to you. “Oh yes. You seem to have some bruising on the sides of your neck. Almost looks like bite marks.” 

You felt yourself pale, the wine definitely threatening to make a reappearance. You wanted to sink into your chair, make yourself as small as possible. 

Aly knew that she had you. “So, I ask again, did my nephew fuck you? Did he take advantage—”

“No!” The denial was out of your mouth before you could think. No matter how angry you were with him, you refused to let anyone believe the worst about Benjicot. You would suffer any consequences, go to any lengths, to protect him and his honor. 

Stealing yourself as best you could to hold Aly’s eyes, you vowed, “I remain a maiden.” 

Aly held your gaze for a long moment, searching your eyes for any hint of deception. Waiting to see if you would crack under pressure. Finally, she nodded and let loose a deep sigh. “I did not think Benjicot capable of forcing a woman, but I had to ask. As to whether your maidenhead remains intact, I shall believe you, little Bracken. For now.”

You slumped back into the chair, suddenly exhausted. You felt as if you had just survived a great battle. And maybe you had. Black Aly was almost as notorious as her nephew. To do battle against them, whether by wit or sword, was to take your fate into your own hands.

But the war was not yet won. 

You hesitated to ask but you had to know, “How will you advise Lord Samwell?” 

Aly’s attention had turned to the dying fire, sipping her wine in thought. “Because you remain a maiden, the easy solution is to return you to Stone Hedge at first light before wind gets back to Bracken that you’re here.”

Your heart sank at her words. The moment you returned to Stone Hedge would be the moment you lost what little freedom your father had granted you. No longer would you be allowed to wander the grounds unaccompanied. No longer would you be able to steal away onto Blackwood lands in the hopes of seeing Benjicot. 

Worse still, you were of marriageable age and had been for some time. You were fortunate that your father had not betrothed you as soon as your courses started. But with war on the horizon, you knew your father would not hesitate to betroth you now should the right opportunity present itself.

Sighing again, Aly leaned back in her chair to match your relaxed posture. “But I have a strong feeling that my nephew, in all of his infinite wisdom, will oppose such a plan.” Glancing at you, she said, “He can be quite stubborn when he wants to be.”

You smiled to yourself, picturing the look on Benjicot’s face when he did not immediately get his way. “Yes, he is.”

Without warning, Aly stood up from her chair, causing you to scramble to your feet in response. “I’ll have dinner brought to you soon.” 

Straightening to your full height, spine locked, you asked, “Am I to be a prisoner, Aly?”

You watched Aly quickly mask the look of surprise on her face at your boldness. If you did not know any better, you would say she almost looked impressed. 

Turning her back to you and walking toward the door, she called out, “Not a prisoner yet, little Bracken. But best stay here for your own protection. Not all Blackwoods will treat you as kindly as my nephew.” 

With that, Black Aly opened the door and left. You sank back into your chair when you heard the lock latch close. 

Despite Aly’s assurances, you had never felt more trapped in your life. Dinner had come and gone, and there was still no word from Benjicot. You could feel your frustration and fear rise with each passing hour. 

You wanted to know what was happening. Were the Blackwoods sending word to your father? Were you going to be returned home? Were the Blackwoods going to forbid Benjicot from ever seeing you again? Would a war be fought over this? The Blackwoods and Brackens had fought each other over much less. 

All you could do was sit and think and dwell on the unknowns. You had explored every inch of the chambers, finding no books or papers to keep your mind occupied. Every second you spent in this godsdamn room drove you closer to a breaking point. 

When you heard the lock at the door begin to unlatch again, you sprung into action. You could not be alone in this room for a moment longer. Hiding on the other side of the door, you waited until the person entered your chambers, determined to fight your way out if necessary. 

You did not pause to consider whether this was a wise choice. You had no weapons nor training, but you did not care. You were a Bracken with your back against the wall. And your instinct was telling you to fight. 

So, when the door finally opened and a man entered your chambers, you acted. Leaping onto his back, you let out a scream, punching and kicking and clawing at anything you could get your hands on. The man cursed and tried to get a grip on you, but you squirmed out of his reach. 

Only when you broke skin and felt blood beneath your fingernails did you pause long enough to notice whom you had attacked. Dark, messy hair. A strong, powerful build. A familiar scent. 

Grasping your arms and removing them from his neck, Benjicot Blackwood turned to face you. And even though his face and hands were decorated with blood from your scratches, he looked at you like you were the most wonderful creature in all of Westeros. 

“Have you had your fill yet, my lady?” 

You did not know whether to kiss him or kill him. Perhaps both. And maybe in that order. 

Launching yourself into his arms, you kissed Benjicot with everything you had. His lips were full and warm, molding against yours instantly. With one hand splayed on your back and the other gripping your waist, he pulled you against him, flushing your bodies together until you could not tell where one of you began and the other ended. 

And when you tugged at his hair, he moaned into your mouth, biting your lip in retaliation. His bite was not hard enough to draw blood, but you felt your core tighten in response. You whimpered, deepening the kiss as you slid your tongue against his. But when he moved his hand to your breast, gliding his touch over your pebbled nipple, you pulled back. 

Panting heavily, you detached yourself from his arms and put space in between you. Benjicot’s cheeks were flushed and his breathing was as uneven as yours. You could see a question begin to form in his gaze, but he does not ask it, waiting instead for you to proceed. 

As soon as you got your breathing under control, you said, “We need to talk."

Benjicot nodded in agreement, moving to the chairs that you and Aly had occupied earlier. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.” 

When you settled across from him, you could feel the tension returning to your body. You did not know where the two of you stood, not really. You had shared kisses and pleasure, spoken words of love and devotion, but Benjicot had left you alone and in the dark—literally and metaphorically. You did not know what conversations had taken place or decisions made while you were confined to these chambers. And that thought—that he had not cared enough to even leave note—was enough to have your anger returning in full force. 

“What in the Seven Hells were you thinking bringing me here?” You snapped. 

Benjicot raised a brow at your harsh words, but responded evenly, “I recognized the voices we heard in the woods as Blackwood men. There was no explanation we could provide to them that would make sense and preserve your honor. Better for them to believe that I happened upon an unconscious, injured Bracken.” 

“Did you have to knock me unconscious? I could have pretended to have sprained my ankle!”

Shooting you a look of disbelief, Benjicot said, not unkindly, “My lady, you are many things. But a good liar is not one of them.”

You were going to strangle him. 

Benjicot smirked at your expression. “I love when you get that violent look on your face.” 

Rolling your eyes, you scoffed at his declaration. And when you did not otherwise respond, Benjicot relented, expression growing serious. “I did not mean to leave you alone all day. When we returned, and I found out that your father was looking for you, I had to explain everything to my father and aunt.”

You shot him a look of horror. “Everything?”

Now it was Benjicot’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yes, my lady, I told them everything. Told them how warm and wet your cunt felt against my—”

“Benjicot Blackwood!” You shrieked, shoving into his chest. “Have you lost your mind?”

He could not help but laugh. “If I have lost my mind, it is only because you occupy all my thoughts.” 

You felt a sliver of your anger melt away at his sweet words. “Fine, I am a terrible liar. That still does not explain why you decided to bring me here. You could have returned me to Stone Hedge.”

Benjicot’s expression, which had been light and open, shuddered closed. You watched him get a far off look on his face. You tried to catch his eyes, but he avoided your gaze. “Do you wish for that? To return to Stone Hedge?”

Your heart squeezed at his questions. For you knew that if you said yes, he would return you to your home. He may be Bloody Ben to the world, ruthless fighter who took no prisoners, but to you, he was kind and loving and protective. He would respect your wishes, even if that meant being away from him. 

Grabbing his hand, you traced his fingers, lingering your touch over the marks you had left behind. “I wish to be wherever you are.”

Benjicot took your hand in his, pulled you up from your chair, and settled you on his lap. Your face warmed at the intimacy, but you relaxed in his arms. Leaning your head against his chest, you let a feeling of peace wash over you, even if only for the moment.

You did not know how long the two of you sat in silence, content to just hold one another. But you knew that you could not stay like this forever. There were too many words left unspoken. Too many decisions to be made. 

Benjicot broke the silence first. “I brought you to Stone Hedge because I never wish to part from you. The thought of leaving you on Bracken land again gutted me.” He paused, throat working as he tried to gather his thoughts. Closing his eyes, Benjicot looked like he was bracing himself. “I knew that if I brought you here, brought you to my father and Aly, we could force the issue of us being together.”

Pulling away from his chest, you adjusted your legs to straddle his thighs. Benjicot’s hands gripped your waist to steady you. You clasped his face in your hands, demanding his gaze on yours. “We should have made that decision together. This is my life too, my future. I refuse to be under your thumb, Blackwood.” 

Lowering your face to his, you whispered against his mouth, “If you ever do something like that again, I will end you.” 

You did not know who kissed whom. But it did not matter. Benjicot’s mouth was on yours, devouring and claiming. Lifting you into his arms, and without breaking the kiss, he moved the two of you from the chairs to the bed. 

Your back hit the pillows. When you did not feel Benjicot’s weight on you, you opened your eyes to see him at the foot of the bed. Watching you. The look in eyes was pure hunger. His entire being seemed focused on you. On your body. The rise and fall of your breasts. The clenching of your thighs. 

“Benjicot.” There was a note of pleading in your voice.

His name on your lips broke whatever spell he was under. His lips returned to yours as if he were starving for your kiss. 

You spread your legs for him, letting his body fall into the cradle of your thighs. You flushed at the hardness you felt against your core. And when he drove his hips into yours, pressing that hardness against you, you moaned, legs trembling as you felt yourself grow wetter and wetter. 

Benjicot moved his kiss from your mouth down to your neck, biting and licking and marking for all the world to see. He wanted to brand you. Wanted everyone to know that you belonged to him. That you were his and he was yours.

He slid one hand up your leg, bringing your dress with him until it pooled at your waist, revealing your lower half to him, with only your small clothes in between.

You could not stop your hips from bucking when he dragged his hand over your covered cunt. You had never felt anything like this before. Your attempts at pleasuring yourself were nothing compared to what Benjicot did to you. You felt warm and achy and empty and completely out of control.  

“Will you let me see more of you, my lady?” Benjicot asked, not taking his eyes away from where his hand touched your heat. 

You were on a precipice. There was no turning back from this. No turning back from whatever ruin lay ahead of you. 

Letting out a breath, you whispered, “Yes.” 

No sooner had the word left your mouth were your small clothes ripped from your body. You did not have even a moment to protest, for the second your cunt was exposed to the air, Benjicot was bringing his hand between your folds. 

“Fuck.” Benjicot groaned. Slipping one finger into you, he pressed the heel of his hand against your clit. “You’re so wet, my lady.”

You whined at his words and the feeling of his hand working you. With every touch and circle of his fingers, you felt yourself growing closer and closer to that release you craved. 

But release evaded you. You rocked yourself against Benjicot’s hand, trying to force his movements to switch from slow and careful to forceful and demanding. 

“Benjicot, please—” 

“Please what, my lady?” His voice teasing, as he began to slow his movements. 

You groaned in frustration. You did not have the words. Did not know what to ask for. “I need something.” 

Benjicot stopped moving his hand entirely, and you could have cried. And when he removed his hand completely, you considered killing him all over again. 

“I swear on the old gods and the new—”

The look Benjicot shot you silenced the curse on your tongue. “No gods will hear you here, my lady.”

Glaring at him, you asked, “Do you wish for me to beg, Blackwood?” 

Benjicot hummed at the question. “A Bracken begging for a Blackwood to bring her pleasure? That does hold some appeal.” 

Before you could respond, Benjicot slid down your body, bracing both hands on your thighs to keep you open and spread wide. Your stomach clenched, as he brought his face to hover over your slick cunt. 

Benjicot glanced back up at you, waiting for a signal that you understood what he intended. Your breaths were uneven and rapid. The thought of his mouth on the most intimate part of you was beyond your comprehension. 

And when you nodded, Benjicot gave you that feral, wicked smile. The one that never failed to make your heart thud against your chest. He lowered his head, until all you could see was his dark, messy hair between your thighs. 

The first drag of his tongue against your center fractured your world. You felt undone and made whole again. You thought your heard Benjicot curse against your wetness, but you were too far lost in pleasure to be sure. 

He licked and licked and licked. Each swipe of his tongue brought a moan to your lips. He lingered on your clit, sucking and nipping until it was almost too much. You arched against him, unable to stop yourself from moving your hips against his face.  

Benjicot pressed a hand to your stomach, stilling you, as he slid his tongue straight into your cunt. You could not think, could not do anything except submit to the feelings he brought out in you. 

“You taste,” Benjicot moaned against you, “even better than I imagined, my lady.” 

You were sure you were crying. At the sight of your tears, Benjicot laughed and sunk two fingers into you, dragging another moan from the depths of your throat. 

Release was almost in your reach, just beyond your grasp. “Please, please, please.” You chanted, shaking your head back and forth against the pillow. 

Benjicot drove his fingers deeper and deeper, working his teeth and tongue against you, and with one final flick of his tongue to your clit, your back bowed off the bed, your release crashing into you. 

Even when you clenched down on his fingers and pulled at his hair, Benjicot did not stop moving against you. Fingers pumping. Tongue and lips feasting. He devoured whatever pleasure you gifted him. Only when you collapsed back onto the bed, gasping for air and reeling at the aftershocks, did he finally stop.

Your mind and body existed on different planes. You were not even sure you remembered your own name, so thoroughly had Benjicot upended your world. 

As you tried to put yourself back together, you noticed Benjicot adjusting himself in his breaches. You had never seen a cock before. But suddenly you found yourself desperate to see his. 

Sitting up, you placed your hand atop his, staying his movements. Benjicot glanced at you sharply, his breath catching in his throat. 

You met his stare. You did not know what you were doing. All you knew was that you wanted to give him even a fracture of the pleasure he had given you. 

Swallowing your insecurities, you asked, “Will you show me what to do?”

For once, Benjicot seemed to be at a loss for words. But he helped you undo the laces and unfasten his breaches. The muscles in his thighs shifted as he pulled himself free. 

Benjicot’s cock was enormous. Although you had nothing to compare it to, you were sure he had to be on the larger side. Enormous and hard and leaking from the slit at the top. Your mouth felt parched at the sight. 

You looked up at Benjicot, only to find his eyes focused wholly on you and your reaction. You did not want to disappoint him. 

“How do I please you, my lord?” Benjicot groaned at your words, taking himself in hand. Up and down, he stroked his length with a force that surprised you. 

Benjicot watched as your eyes widened at his actions. Watched the way you licked your lips. Watched the way you rubbed your thighs together. You enjoyed seeing him this way. 

“Have you ever touched a cock, my lady?” He knew the answer but wanted your confirmation. 

Shaking your head, you reached out to run your finger over the leaking slit. Benjicot grabbed your and placed it on his cock, trembling when you wrapped your hand around his length. 

And what a feeling that was. The ruthless, cruel Bloody Ben trembling from the pleasure you gave him. The idea of him being wholly at your mercy was intoxicating. 

Your own hand shook a little as you stroked him. The skin was softer than you had imagined, but he felt hard as steel beneath. You felt him shudder against you as you worked your hand up and down. 

“That’s it, my lady.” Benjicot murmured, lost in the feeling of your hand against him. “Just a little harder. You won’t break me.” You followed Benjicot’s direction, squeezing his cock and pumping as fast as you had seen him do before. 

And when he felt your nails graze the sensitive underside of his cock, he arched off the bed, chest heaving.

“You handle my cock so well.” You flushed at the praise, your own breaths coming out quicker and quicker the more you touched and explored. 

With one final hard twist, Benjicot exploded in your hand, moaning your name as he came. 

How many times had he imagined this? How many times had he thought of you while touching himself? And now you were here, in his home, and he never wanted you to leave. 

Benjicot surged forward, kissing you with all of his pent up feelings. He refused to live without you. Refused to give you up because of an ancient feud and a looming war. 

So, even though you were both half dressed, slick with sweat and spit and gods know what else, Benjicot asked, “My lady, would you do me the honor of marrying me? Tonight?” 

final author note: I hope you liked it! I think I updated my taglist to reflect everyone who asked to be added, but please let me know if I missed you or if you would like to be added for future updates.

taglist:

@painted-flag @majoso12

@strollthroughstars29 @a-whiterose

@rebeccawinters @alifeinspiredd

@klutzylaena @poppyflower-22

@iliterallyhavenoideawhattowrite @justannadahfanfictor

@aaaaslaaaan @hobis-hope95

@username199945 @daddyslittlevillain

@flusteredmoonn @nixtape-foryou @prettykinkysoul

[itacats]

Butcher Shop Connection - FINALE

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: DV, abuse, ex breaking into house, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: Years after overcoming loss, you find peace with Simon, your steady support. When Tom, a figure from your past, returns, Simon defends you, subduing Tom and reaffirming his commitment. You, now free from fear, embrace a future with Simon, built on trust and love.

A/N: And there you have it, folks—our heartfelt drama meets its fist-throwing, police-siren-climax conclusion! 😌💥 Who knew Simon had such a flair for multitasking—protecting, loving, AND taking out the trash (literally)? To everyone who's been here since the beginning: you're the real MVPs. And if you're just here for Simon's jawline and knuckle-dusting heroics…same. Same. 💖✨

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

Part 10 - Promises Kept

Years Later…

The sun lingers low in the sky, casting its warm, golden light across the familiar street that has witnessed so many of your life’s milestones. A soft breeze rustles the leaves of the trees that line the pavement, the world quietly turning. You stand at the window, the worn ceramic of your coffee mug nestled in your hands, its warmth a comforting companion to the chill of the evening air. It's been years since Tom was taken from your life, yet the shadows of those days still hover just beneath the surface of your thoughts, unwelcome but persistent. You’ve found peace in the time that has passed, but it hasn’t come without its cost—time, after all, is the only healer that requires you to face the wounds it leaves behind.

The sound of the doorbell interrupts your reverie, and with it comes a rush of anxious energy, the sharp reminder that some echoes of the past never quite fade. You take a steadying breath, knowing it’s just Simon, and yet the instinctive surge of anxiety still clutches at your chest. You open the door, and there he is—Simon, standing tall in the late afternoon light, with that grin of his that has always made you feel like everything might just be alright. His dark hair is slightly tousled, his broad shoulders relaxed but still carrying the weight of every promise he’s made to you.

"Ready for our road trip?" he asks, his voice low and teasing, a familiar spark of mischief in his eyes. He brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, the touch gentle, like he’s always known exactly how to calm the storm within you.

You can’t help but smile back, feeling the flicker of joy beneath your ribs. "Let’s do it," you reply, the weight of years of struggle, loss, and fear dissolving just for a moment, leaving behind only the warmth of his presence.

Simon has been a quiet anchor in your life, a steady presence that has filled the emptiness Tom left behind. His laughter has become a balm for the deep scars, and his quiet moments—those fleeting seconds where nothing is said, only felt—have slowly woven themselves into the fabric of your heart.

The following morning from your much needed roadtrip brings with it a chill that brushes against your skin like an unwelcome reminder of colder days. The familiar routine of your day is like any other—until you walk toward your car and find it refusing to start. Your hand turns the key in frustration, but the engine just sputters, its refusal an unwelcome reminder of how even the smallest of setbacks can stir the seeds of anxiety.

You lean against the hood, a heavy sigh slipping from your lips, when you hear Simon’s voice. “Stubborn old thing, isn’t she?” he calls out, his truck rumbling behind him, the engine running smoothly as always.

“Ugh, tell me about it,” you mutter, kicking the tire in mock frustration, the playful energy returning with his presence.

Simon chuckles, a sound that fills the space between you both with warmth. "I’ll let you borrow my trusty steed. It’s just begging to be taken for a spin." His grin is wide and easy, his eyes shining with that same lighthearted mischief that always manages to break through the tension.

You laugh and nod, grateful for his offer. As he bends down to hand you the keys, his lips brush against your cheek in a soft, lingering kiss, a gesture that still sends warmth blossoming across your skin. He waves as he heads back toward the house, and you stand there for a moment, the weight of his affection settling into the marrow of your bones. For a fleeting second, you feel a strange contentment—a quiet peace that, for now, erases the anxieties that have clung to you for years.

The day trudges on, as days often do, and by the time the evening wraps its cool fingers around the sky, you find yourself weary, your bones heavy with the fatigue of living. You expect Simon to be there when you get home—waiting with dinner, or a book, or maybe just curled up on the couch ready to watch one of your favorite movies. But tonight, something feels off. The lights are dim, the atmosphere heavy with an unspoken tension that coils in the corners of the room.

And then you see it—the unmistakable shape of Tom’s car parked outside. The sight of it sends a jolt through your chest, a cold wave of panic crashing into the calm you’d fought so hard to build. Tom is back.

For a moment, your world tilts on its axis, a dizzying blend of fear and dread. What if he’s here for you-or worse-Simon? What if he wants to finish what he started all those years ago?

Inside the House

The door slams open, the sound sharp and final in the stillness of the house.

Tom steps into view like a shadow from the past, his presence heavy with menace. His eyes glint with the same malicious energy that you remember so well, the anger in them simmering like a pot about to boil over. Your heart races as you backpedal, moving swiftly toward the back of the house, your mind whirling with options.

You find Simon in the kitchen, every muscle in his body tense, his eyes locked on the doorway as if waiting for the storm to break. The silence is broken by Tom’s voice—grating, laced with venom. "I always knew you were a coward," he sneers at Simon. "You can’t protect them forever."

Simon’s posture stiffens, his hands curling into fists. He’s not the same person he was when he first entered your life. The boy who once faltered under the weight of his own fears has been replaced by a man who will do anything to protect what’s his.

“I promised…” Simon growls, his voice low and dangerous, a quiet fury pulsing through each word. He’s not scared anymore. He’s not the boy who had no choice but to endure. Now, he’s a man who stands tall in the face of any threat.

Tom lunges, but Simon is faster, his movements fluid and precise. With a single, sharp pivot, Simon blocks Tom’s advance, his fist connecting with Tom’s jaw in a sickening crack that reverberates through the room.

Your head swirls with memories of the past, faded scars feel fresh, but after you come back to reality you rush into the kitchen, your breath catching in your throat as you see the scene before you. Tom, unconscious, slumped in a chair, his hands bound tightly with a cord from a nearby table lamp. Simon stands over him, his fists bloodied but his stance unwavering, his eyes fierce with the same protective resolve that has kept you safe all these years.

“Simon!” you gasp, your voice barely a whisper.

For a heartbeat, time seems to stand still. Simon looks at you, his expression a mixture of rage and regret, his breath coming in short bursts as he wipes the blood from his knuckles. “I promised,” he says softly, his voice carrying the weight of every sacrifice he’s ever made. “That I would protect you. And I intend to keep that damn promise.”

Before you can process the words, the wail of sirens pierces the air, growing louder until the officers burst into the house. The sight of them seems almost surreal—too much, too fast. You stand there, frozen, as they quickly take in the scene, their eyes flicking from Simon to Tom and back again.

Soon, Tom is being led away in handcuffs, his face contorted with fury, his pride shattered but his anger never once dimming. The reality of what just transpired begins to settle in, and you feel a wave of disbelief wash over you.

The house falls quiet once the police have gone, the weight of the night’s events pressing down on your chest. You find Simon sitting beside the kitchen table, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, his breath still ragged from the confrontation. You move toward him, your heart aching for him in a way that words could never fully capture.

“I’m sorry…” he whispers, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place—regret, perhaps, or maybe just the remnants of fear. He doesn’t need to say more.

You take his hand, the calluses on his palm familiar and comforting, and shake your head. “You protected me,” you murmur, the truth of those words resonating in every fiber of your being.

His eyes meet yours, and in them, you see the depth of his devotion. “You are my world,” he admits softly, pulling you close, and for the first time in years, you allow yourself to believe it.

In the days that follow, the world begins to feel lighter, the weight of the past easing with each passing moment. Together, you and Simon rebuild what was broken, finding strength in one another. You are no longer defined by the shadows that once haunted you; instead, you are shaped by the love and protection that Simon has given you, and the life that you both will now create, free from fear, free from the wreckage of the past.

And for the first time in years, you look toward the future with hope—a future built on trust, on promises kept, and on the quiet understanding that, no matter what, you’ll always have each other.

Tag List:

@jessicab1991

@hotaruteba

@daydreamerwoah

@angelic-thingys

@alessias-art

@lilynotdilly

@secretsideofbree

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!

[ladythornofrivia]

Lady with Teal Eyes || Aemond x Aunt!Hightower Reader (Part One)

word count: 2,733

author’s note: i’m sorry that i didn’t post much stories, as I’ve been reblogging and changing themes in my profile. i’m trying my best, but I’ll make up for it.

warnings: incest, cockwarming, teasing, sucking, p in v, rough play, flirting, wholesome moment, jealous aemond, possessive, roughness, mild manhandling, mild degradation, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex, second hand embarrassment, dark content, mentions of su*cide, Aemond being too touchy with his aunt, degradation, humiliation.

summary: Aemond meets his aunt for the first time, and there’s more than meets the eye. (there will be three parts).

There hasn’t been a day that you never left your homeland. All in prosperity. All in solitude, all in mindful thoughts that even the castle walls were unable to perceive. Oldtown is known for the oldest kingdom within Westeros.

We light the way, those are the words from House Hightower, a tall, silver tower with a green light of flames atop. Members of the Hightower court are known to be proud and resilience. Perhaps too greedy to your taste. Less fickle to their needs, their desires, their secrets, their ambition.

All minds think alike, as they said. But your mind is unalike from theirs.

There hasn’t been a single day where your life change—steady as it goes. But when your older sister, Alicent, sent a letter to you from a raven fled from miles, you instantly ripped the seal and unveiled her letters, written in neat cursive. In the days where you can recall that Alicent taught you to read and write, before accompanying your father, Otto Hightower, to aid the ailing king and his throne.

In King’s Landing, where Aegon has set and had trees felled after his conquest in Westeros. The stories of dragonlords and ladies has caught you into a slighted dot of peculiarity. But with your father, you knew that your father wanted more than being as the Hand of the King. Like any folk in Oldtown, he’s all in the same cloak of mind and heart as the rest. The only difference is he has resided in King’s Landing with the Targaryens, warming the throne with Alicent’s political stead.

With you, as Alicent’s half-sister, one thing you adored about her is her resilience, no matter how the power struggle may have been, Alicent held her head high, it inspired you to do the same cause, not for the greater good, but for you to steady your heart. With Alicent’s brown eyes, anyone would be easily swayed at her beauty. With your eyes like glowing water, the subjects were to assume that you’re either a sea creature in the ocean, or have been reincarnated as a woman. Common folks assumed that you’re a goddess sent by Maiden herself. But others theorized you’re born in the sacred pond within the forest.

Despite the nonsensical rumors, you carried out your duties dulled within life, but with your brother, Gwayne Hightower, entered in your chambers without a warning.

“Sister!”

“Good heavens, you gave me a fright,” you screeched, hand clutching over your chest.

“A word from the raven,” he resumed, pulling out the letter. “It’s from our dear sister.”

She hasn’t written you a letter for months. Understanding of her high authoritative position, thankfully enough you aren’t the queen. You couldn’t bear to think about gifting children into the world from your maidenhood.

“Alicent!” Departing from the chair, you snatched the letter from Gwayne’s hand and ripped the letter open, straightening the scrolled paper.

My dearest sister,

I regret to inform you that I cannot visit in the Oldtown due to personal circumstances that our father has been trifled with the matters in King’s Landing. As queen, I must fully prioritize my duties and smite the inconsiderate undutiful thought of others. My dear husband, King Viserys, has been unwell as of late, growing slower day by day, but still the same man who loves his histories and shed upon endless favoritism on his daughter and her plain-featured sons, as well his miniatures he rarely finished. As of this moment, we are preparing the feast for the upcoming celebration. Misery and dread and politics has been my company, and I’d be happy if you come to King’s Landing and stay here for more than a month. I also send Gwayne and his men to escort you back. I hope you still have the new dresses and jewels the seamstress sorted to your taste; I always know that you hated attire that itched your flesh or suffocating. Words cannot expressed about how I miss the sweetness of your smile and laughter. We shall meet soon.

Signed,

Alicent Hightower

Jumping with joy, your body lunged at Gwayne, locking him into a tight hug, slightly hopping in place with a big grin stretched onto your lips.

“Have my things ready, brother,” you said, hasting, forgetting about the silks and fabrics in your hands.

“But you need more time. You’ll stay in King’s Landing as our queenly sister instructed.”

“Send the maids, then. I can’t do this alone.”

“You mustn’t make haste!” Gwayne shouted as you ran off, never minding the silks on the ground only for him to pick up.

“The sooner the better,” you shouted back.

~~~

The trailed ship took no more than three days to reach King’s Landing. Alicent hasn’t mentioned anything particular to the celebration. But you have come to acknowledge that Alicent lessened the details.

By the time the ships rested at the shore, you rushed down to the clear path and greeted your father, who was rather cold and emotionless. Nevertheless, you gave the courtesy of shallow inclination of your neck bent down. Though your heart shattered at the motionless greeting; a chilled wind spiraled on your thickened sleeves.

“Father,” you said, grinning ear to ear.

“Queen Alicent awaits,” is all he said, then left without abiding on you.

“But—”

“Ser Gwayne, escort this lady in the Red Keep,” he wasn’t saying it with care.

This lady.

Months without communication and souvenirs, you’d ought it’ll soften your father’s resolve regarding onto the estrangement.

Another clash of heartbreak has struck again. But it comes as no surprise.

Both of you hadn’t spoke since of his second wife—your mother’s—passing.

As numb as it may be, the small pang in your heart resolved again as Gwayne Hightower escorted you to the high steeps close, reaching the royal grounds of Red Keep.

~~~

Infiltrating from climbing the steps until reaching the indoors, the green queen appeared.

Your sister.

“Alicent,” you rushed and clung her to embrace.

“Sister, how good of you to come,” Alicent replied.

The halls greeted you in cold and dreaded air clinging onto your sleeves, goosebumps flooded over your skin, the thick air of candles and torches has impaled your stomach. You didn’t like this feeling. These halls, darkened in heralds of statues and stars that your pupils recognizant.

Faith of the Seven.

Hightowers held their religion in the highest regard, while you, don’t cherish the ideologies of the religion, filled with fanaticism and hypocrisy. Even Targaryens have the queerest customs, of marrying brother to sister, relative to relative since Aegon I. It dire consequences of genetics and birth, and the fruition of a child birth into an unshakable world of politics and desires. According to the Citadel, in secret debate, those who are born of incest are nothing but sort of monsters lurking, a defect to a bloodline.

The Targaryens disagree—couldn’t care less, of course. As you often heard of keeping the bloodline pure.

Bloodline pure. People speculated that the Targaryens are closer to gods than men. Thus their words ‘Fire and Blood’ is in order. In Valyria, their source is magic and dragons, long before volcanic eruptions swept the lands and dragons into ashes. The last Targaryens resided in Westeros, and thus, their last kind is dwindling, hence creating pure bloodline. As theatrically hysterical as it is, you trudged along the halls.

“It has been so long since I saw you last,” Alicent began.

“It has, but we rarely sent letters as of late.”

“Being a queen is no simple task. Our father’s ambition has gotten stronger.”

“Your father,” you said bitterly.

“My dear sister,” Alicent resumed, her voice soothed. “Father is doing his best to stabilize the realm.”

“Cold, cruel and calculated,” you answered. “Your strength and dutiful as queen is one of the things I admire about you. But, sister, it feels as if my existence is no longer needed. I feel as if I’m useless. My mother received no love from your father.”

The doe-eyed look in Alicent’s eyes protruding. “Sister, I—“”

“Half-sisters,” you reminded. “Everyone thought I was some sort of creature that shouldn’t belong in the realm. I’m no fool; I could hear everyone whisper, even closed doors.”

“Creature or not, you’re still a Hightower. We share the same blood. Nothing will ever change between you and I.”

“But your father will never accept me,” you replied.

Alicent clasped her hands onto yours. “The next time we see each other, I’ll be visiting the Oldtown.”

“You said that the last time on our previous letters,” you chimed. “Let him stabilize the realm alone.”

“That is why you’re here. I needed time apart from the council and subjects,” Alicent reasoned. “Men are often ambitious with their politics and trifling over gold than their wives.”

“It appears so,” you agreed, huffing.

Ironically, Alicent served men, and still is. First Jahaerys, then Otto, then Viserys. Though you wouldn’t so recklessly give your personal opinion away to Alicent.

“We have yet to explore the grounds. We must rest at the gardens. I know how much you love staying in the gardens.”

Your cheeky smile was showing. “I do.”

Alicent squeezed your hand. “Let us be off. It’s considered bad luck if we let our food grow cold.”

“Never knew that it involves bad luck.”

“I’ve been told.”

“By who?”

Not once, Alicent answered.

~~~

“Make yourself comfortable,” Alicent said, indicating the spare chair, and watched you sat with ease, eyeing the lavish outdoors where the Weirwood stood as main view.

“Quite nice out,” you complimented.

This was Alicent meant when she said gardens.

“I chose this spot for a reason,” Alicent said as the servants settled the meal over the table—bowed and left. And the last servant entered, placing a stacked candied almonds and candied plums on a gold platter, alongside of Dornish wine.

Alicent watched your eyes lit up.

“I took the liberty of having the kitchen staff ready for your sweet-tooth,” she clarified.

“You know me well, sister.” You grinned.

“My lady,” a soothing masculine voice said behind you.

“Ser Criston,” Alicent addressed, glancing. “I’m occupied as of this moment.”

“There has been urgent matters regarding to your son.”

Puzzled, Alicent spoke with, “Which son?”

Appalled, your eyes darted at her. On the other hand, you never retain information from Alicent.

“Aegon,” Criston answered, eyes turning away. “I’m afraid his excursions have rather been…” Then his dark brown eyes flicked to yours, his mouth opened, choosing his words carefully.

“We’ll speak no more of it,” Alicent pleaded. “I’m under the liberty of entertaining my sister at the moment. Do ignore Aegon’s excursions for now.”

Somewhere in between the lines, you knew Alicent’s calm demeanor struck hard when the excursions take place, wrath kept within, as you read between Alicent’s lines furrowed on her forehead. Ser Criston glimpsed at you and bowed before withdrawing from the outdoors.

“My apologies,” Alicent said to you in a dreaded voice. “The excursions in the daylight hour upon King’s Landing hasn’t ended.”

“I never knew you had a son,” you said, munching on the candied almonds.

Alicent swallowed the contents of the food. “I mentioned it once before in the letter. That I was having a babe in my belly.”

You pondered for a moment. It was back when Alicent married Viserys and carried a child in her.

“But you never mentioned that it’s a son,” you commented.

“But I’m sure you heard Aegon’s name the moment he arrived into the world.”

Your teeth clenched. “I can assure you I did.” The Oldtown spoke of Aegon in high regards, but as you grew older, you never hear much of Aegon’s doings, hoping to meet your nephew, you waited, but as usual, you sister never once sent letters to offer you an invite.

“Things have been hectic for the past years, and I doubt that’ll cease. With the Iron Throne empty and with all that it stands, we’re keeping the place intact with politics and debate,” Alicent reasoned.

You stayed in silence.

“If you would like,” Alicent continued, “I would be happy to take you to the gallery. The Red Keep has been nothing but a dread. I shall escort you and give you a tour to the Red Keep unless you want someone else to—”

“No, I’d be thrilled if you were to accompany me,” you paused, then said, “sister.”

Alicent gently beamed at that.

~~~

When you and Alicent both went inside the Red Keep, the royal subjects and guards bowed before the green queen as their eyes lingered onto yours, and an incoherent of whispers were passed to your ears.

The sister of the green queen.

And as you ascended the staircases, from there, you saw the shaded eyes of violet and curled hair—a young girl, a few years younger than you.

“Mother, have you seen my—” The girl’s youthful stare darted to yours, backing away gradually.

“This is my sister, (y/n), your aunt,” Alicent introduced. “This is Princess Helaena, my daughter,” Alicent said to you.

“A pleasure.” As you made an inclination to your neck, smiling to the princess as you hadn’t realized that the others accompanied none other by two young men behind Helaena, both with Targaryen features.

Your heart stopped—leapt with warmth—when you first glanced at the tall prince with gold, lithe hair as his other eye covered with eyepatch.

“These are my other sons…” Alicent said, searching for the third son with a slight frown on her features. “Where is Aegon?”

“Drunk as usual,” Daeron rolled his eyes, crossing his arms.

“That blasted fool…” Alicent hissed, then smiled merrily in a way to appease herself. “I hope you and Lady (y/n) would get along.”

“Yes, I remember now! You’re that boy—that cupbearer in the council!” you said to Daeron.

Daeron beamed. “I am proud to serve my mother’s family in Oldtown. Ashamed we never met circumstances in the Reach, yet here we are!” he chuckled. “For my dear father’s name day contained in private ceremony, I’m glad you came.”

You sensed the sarcasm in the word “father”, but shrugged it off.

The dread of unwanted unwelcome washed away with glee. “Indeed. I shall look forward to the festivities.”

Aemond lifted and placed his kiss upon the back of your hand. A kiss placed with gentle fire ignited your dulled soul, envision with flames of blush blaring your dewy cheeks. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

Breath caught in your throat, eyeing on his hand still lingering his intertwine fingers to your skin. “Likewise, my prince…”

For the first time in your life, the gentleness of a dragon has captured your heart and soul.

As for Aemond, with the slighted news of your presence, there’s nothing more than mere maiden who needs to be soiled with his perversions trapped and coiled and enflamed in between his legs. When he first laid his gaze on you, he pictured your flushed skin wrapped with his own, his lips captured yours as his presence trapped into your mind for eternity. But alas, with a wandering thought just now, it wasn’t like him. He mustn’t be capricious and avarice on the spot.

With your grand arrival, Aemond had already decided you’ll become his.

One day at the time, he reminded himself.

“It’s unusual for you to be courteous to someone,” Alicent commented.

“I never wish to scare anyone with my presence, mother,” Aemond said. “It is my duty as a prince to make our special guest comfortable.”

A hot tingle between your legs stirred as you eyed on him—on his lips—how rolled off words with his tongue, finding yourself imagining at the thought of your nephew tasting your folds as you ride him, warming the bed—riding him whilst lace and corset of your precious dress torn apart by his own rugged and young hands.

“He’s only being courteous like Prince Daeron,” you noted, clearing your throat. “Everyone must fulfill their role to the realm. We mustn’t decay our customs to rudeness.”

Aemond’s eye gleamed at your flushing features whilst you looked at Alicent in the eye, you speak with assurance yet your body wavered, dying for your hungered coil in you—the scorch caged within your dress to be set free.

You cannot fool me, my princess, he thought.

In the end, nobody can fool a dragon like him.

Taglist: @daonenonlysandman @halsteadstyles @kittendoll05 @omgsuperstarg @xcharlottemikaelsonx @paninisstuff @danika1994 @angeljcca @marvelescvpe @kukulyarva @namelesslosers @heavenly1927 @snh96 @herathedreamer @fandom-maniac-anime @httpsmenace @velunis @nananeptune @domithebomi @moonseye @faesspace @rxixo31 @tm-starr @xinthia19 @popsycles @naiaaramena @aleemendoza2425-blog @letmehavemyfictionalmen @ammo23 @blackswxnn @buccini555 @watercolorskyy @taangie @qardasngan @justyelena @jolixtreesunn @runekisses @thought--bubble @remuslupinwife1 @evergreen9083 @foggypeacestarlight @dixie-elocin @galactict3a @momowhoo @saturnssrings @dani5216 @kimsubin05 @mylosz0 @blackgaladriel @valeskafics

[lazysoulwriter]

Fences & Flowers. - Joel Miller.

Summary: (Y/N) moves to her late grandparents' farmhouse, seeking solace from the overwhelming pace of city life. Determined to transform the land into a flourishing farm, she is met with unexpected curiosity from her neighbor, Joel Miller. Their first encounter is anything but smooth, filled with teasing remarks and a palpable tension. But when Joel returns to make amends, their dynamic takes an unexpected turn—one that leaves them both questioning the sparks between them.

no outbreak.

The house stood at the heart of the land, a quiet, sprawling estate that had been in her family for generations. (Y/N) ran her fingers over the worn wooden railing of the porch, feeling the age of the place, the weight of its history. It was hers now. All of it—the fields stretching beyond the horizon, the small grove of trees lining the dirt path, the barn standing stubbornly against time.

She inhaled deeply, letting the scent of earth and open air settle into her lungs. This was why she came here. To escape. To breathe. To build something that was hers.

The transition hadn’t been easy. Life in the city had been suffocating, the constant noise, the endless pressure of expectations she no longer cared to meet. Here, she would set her own pace. Here, she would make her own rules.

Her first order of business had been tending to the few animals left under the care of an old farmhand who had loyally remained despite the years of vacancy. But today, she had something different in mind. The truck she’d driven up in still held boxes of belongings, but nestled among them were the delicate seedlings and flowers she’d brought with her. She wanted color. She wanted life.

Digging her hands into the rich soil, she let the earth crumble between her fingers before carefully pressing down around the base of a small cluster of lavender. It felt good to work with her hands.

She was so focused on the task that she didn’t notice the figure approaching until a shadow loomed over her.

“You know, that’s not how we do things around here.”

Her head snapped up, startled. The man standing in front of her was tall, broad, with streaks of gray running through his dark hair. His arms were crossed over his chest, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Excuse me?” she asked, wiping the dirt from her hands onto her jeans before standing up.

Joel Miller had seen plenty of newcomers in his time, but none quite like her. She was young—too young, maybe, to be taking on a farm this size alone. And she was beautiful. Not in the delicate, untouchable way, but in a way that made him pause, made something unfamiliar settle in his chest.

“I mean, fancy little plants like those don’t stand much of a chance out here,” he continued, nodding towards the flowers she was planting. “Might as well be settin’ up a tea party for the deer.”

(Y/N) narrowed her eyes. “Well, lucky for me, I’m not taking farming advice from the first cowboy who wanders onto my land.”

Joel let out a short laugh. “Cowboy? Darlin’, I’m your neighbor.”

Her gaze flicked toward the fence line separating their properties. Of course. She’d seen his place in the distance, had noticed the way it was well-kept, the livestock thriving.

“Great. And my neighbor thinks I’m incompetent.”

“I didn’t say that,” Joel replied, the amusement in his voice not quite masking the interest beneath. “I just don’t see many city folks stickin’ around once they realize this ain’t all sunsets and slow mornings.”

She bristled. “I’m not from the city.”

“Really?” His tone was skeptical. “You just scream ‘never fixed a fence in your life.’”

She crossed her arms. “And you scream ‘grumpy old man with too many opinions.’”

That made him grin, a real one this time. “Fair enough.” He took a step back, nodding toward her work. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn ya when all them flowers disappear overnight.”

He turned, heading back toward his truck parked by the fence. (Y/N) exhaled sharply, watching him go. Asshole. A ridiculously handsome asshole, but still.

The next morning, she was back in the dirt, determined to finish planting, when she heard the familiar sound of boots approaching.

“Brought somethin’,” Joel announced.

She looked up, eyes narrowing as she spotted him holding out a small roll of wire.

“What’s this?”

“Fencing. For your flowers,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Figured I’d save you the heartbreak.”

(Y/N) stared at him, caught somewhere between annoyance and… something else. He had that same easy smirk, but there was an almost shy quality to the way he scratched the back of his neck, as if uncomfortable with the act of offering help.

She took the roll from his hands, her fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment. A warmth spread through her, unexpected and uninvited.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

Joel didn’t move. He glanced down at her, at the dirt smudges on her cheeks, the way her hair was falling from the loose ponytail she’d tied up in a hurry.

“Why flowers?” he asked suddenly.

(Y/N) blinked at him. “What?”

“You’re startin’ a farm, right?” He motioned toward the land behind her. “Why go through all this trouble for somethin’ that ain’t gonna feed you?”

She looked at the lavender, the small pops of color in the rich soil. “Because it makes me happy.”

Joel didn’t have a response to that. Instead, he let his gaze linger on her face a second too long, his weight shifting slightly forward.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like something was pulling them closer, like the distance between them wasn’t distance at all.

His eyes flickered to her lips.

(Y/N) sucked in a breath, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, of the way the air between them had thickened. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

And then—

He cleared his throat, stepping back like he’d just caught himself doing something stupid.

“Well,” he said, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Don’t let me keep you from your… flowers.”

(Y/N) exhaled, forcing a nod, as if that moment hadn’t just changed something between them.

“See you around, cowboy.”

Joel scoffed but didn’t correct her this time. Instead, he shot her one last glance before turning away, his hands shoved into his pockets.

She watched him go, fingers tightening around the fencing wire in her hands, pulse still unsteady.

Oh, she was in trouble.

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Tagged by @doeeyeseddie and @eddiebabygirldiaz for seven sentence Sunday! Since I haven’t been posting much for tag games lately, here’s significantly more sentences than that from bucktommy acquire a child au. Warning for mentions of past child abuse in Tommy’s family.

Tommy stares down at the dotted line, pen hovering, running the name through his head over and over again and feeling kind of stupid for it. There’s no meaningful difference, at this point, between this last signature and any other of the seemingly dozens of pieces of paper they’ve signed tonight. Nothing really counts until Buck hands it over to the lawyer on his way to work tomorrow. He could sign and then tear the thing up, toss it in the trash. Find someone better to take this on. Take his name out of it, at the very least, hand the kid over to Evan entirely.

Evan, sitting next to him close enough that their knees are pressed tougher, bony, under the table. “What are you thinking?”

Tommy sighs and sets the pen down, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling. “Can’t we just use… I don’t know, Diaz? I don’t want to give the poor kid my name.”

Buck laughs, just a little, still mostly serious. “I mean, I’m sure Eddie’d say yes if we asked, but- You gave me your name, why’s it a problem now?”

Tommy slides his fingers between Buck’s, surprised as he always is at how well they fit together. “You’re an adult, you can- handle it, carry it. Kinard children have historically been miserable things.”

Evan tilts his head, probably thinking about what Tommy is thinking about: Tommy, beat by his dad who was beat by his dad who was beat by- etc, etc, going back the entire horrible line of them. He’s imagined it before, some medieval peasant kid somewhere, crying into a hay bale or whatever the fuck it is poor folk slept on back then. Evan’d probably know. Maybe farther back than that. A caveman all the other cavemen side-eyed ‘cause he threw his kid in the path of a sabertooth or something.

“Okay,” is what Evan says. “I could get all pop psychology about, like, breaking cycles or whatever, but actually-” he points down the hall. “When I put him to bed tonight he talked literally right up until he was unconscious about all the stuff we saw at the zoo today, that I was in fact there for. Passed out mid word about how we got ice cream and saw a bird. Just a regular bird, that pigeon that landed on the table next to us. I think he was as excited about that as he was about, like, actual lions.”

Tommy laughs, despite his mood. “He was excited about the pigeon.” Milo had been so fascinated by it his ice cream had mostly melted by the time they could successfully prompt him to eat it.

Buck grins. “That kid- our kid- is happy, Tommy. Another talking point? How you carried him everywhere. He got to be so tall, he said you showed him everything.”

“I always hated being too short to see past crowds of people,” Tommy says quietly. “All those legs, everybody strangers.”

“I think most kids hate that,” Buck nods. He leans in to kiss Tommy’s cheek. “You’re not having second thoughts about this?”

“No,” Tommy says, immediate, breathy like it got punched out of him. “No. More than sure.”

Evan nods again. “He’s happy, and safe, and loved because of you. Sign the paper. It’s just a name, and one that I like very much actually.”

“Just a name,” Tommy raises an eyebrow. “So you would’ve been fine with him becoming a Buckley if we had done this the other way?”

“Oh, fuck no,” Buck says, face twisting up lemon-sour as Tommy laughs.

“You hypocrite.”

“Hey, you should have come up with a new name when you married me,” Buck sticks his tongue out, leaning back in his chair like a pleased cat. “Combined them maybe? We could have been… the Binards?”

Tommy squints at him. “No.”

“The Kuckleys?”

“Evan,” Tommy snorts. “No- that’s terrible.”

Buck grins. “Yeah. We really should have just asked Eddie. All be Diazes, it’d fix everything.”

“Imagine the kid’s family tree project at school,” Tommy says, picking up the pen, signing his name as fast as he can before doubt creeps back in. “We’re gonna have to teach him the words ‘non-conventional family structure’.”

Buck laughs and laughs, leaning into Tommy’s side until he kisses up the sound.

Tagging @shitouttabuck @bigfootsmom @iinryer @chronicowboy @butchdiaz @homerforsure if ya got anything to share!

[ch3rrybbie]

Need.

Randall Kirkland x fem!reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

———

Summary: You can’t seem to stay away from Randall, you’re yet to speak and he can’t stop staring. Why do you feel like you know him? What does he want? What do you need?

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, unprotected sex, oral (fem and male receiving), fingering, masturbation, smutty daydreams, y/n is stubborn asf.

Note from author: Hi there! Tysm to the love on the snippet I put out, I just randomly write it and decided to share it and I’m so glad I did lol. I hope this lives up to what yall were expecting and I hope you enjoy. I will deffo probs write more for Randall and other fandoms so drop requests( hopefully Ik them). Also this is basically my first ever fic and time writing smut so pls be nice and I hope it’s not too bad lmao😭😭😭

———

You’d been in town for four months now. And as much as a hell hole as it could and would prove itself to be you were thankful for the reprieve from the outside world. You’d come alone on a post college road trip looking for something anything as to what your life should be as to who you would be. Then came the crows the tree and the bogeymen in the woods.

———

Life soon became mundane, wake, work eat sleep repeat. You’d decided to live in town and not colony house,your double bed becoming a lifesaver through those long cold nights. Whilst your house didn’t have the charm of your dorm or home bedroom you tried your best. Forgoing fairy lights and band posters you supplemented with writing down song lyrics and crudely drawn flowers on the walls you were no artist but it was something to look at before the whispering and tapping got too loud and you reverted back to tucking your head under the covers, knowing all that kept you from them was a rock loosely strung on the door.But you spent your fair share of time at colony house helping rule the roost with Donna and she’d grown to love you fiercely like a daughter and it kept you going.

The day the bus arrived,the day he came,was almost alike any other. You woke at sunrise to help Tian Chen with opening the diner after Sara’s…retirement. You were wiping down the tables when you saw it through the windows. The bus had lazily rolled in and heaved to a stop right outside the diner and you saw him swing off its disgruntled steps. Tall, toned with a buzzed head and a face like thunder you mused to yourself. But there was something maybe lust or the delirious state the town caused, something tugged you to him. A feeling that you should go let him know you were there, an obligation.

You heaved the thought down, as unpleasant as swallowing bile.

———

Upon Kenny’s command you resigned yourself to ushering in the bus folk. Your eyes caught Donna’s and with it you passed a sympathetic glare you hoped she understood its messaging-“I’m sorry you have to go this again but don’t be too much of a bitch with them”.

Most of them were heartwarmingly lovely to a point your heart broke, they didn’t know the fate that had befallen them.The pain and suffering they were yet to face. You remembered exactly how each and every second felt and resorted to flittering around helping how you could, making sure their steaming cups of herbal tea were always brimming. As you were filling an old lady’s second cup you heard a gunshot go off.

Your world span. Ears ringing you dropped the cup it’s shatter giving music to your pounding steps as you burst out the diner.

“Donna?!” you yelled praying she’d be able to answer.

“I’m fine sweetie but hold the door” she casually threw back her eyes trained on someone, gun pushed into their chest.

Burning heat arose as he turned his head, his furrowed brows lifting as soon as he saw you a confused look replacing his disgruntled one. He cocked an eyebrow, as if to say you know this crazy bitch??? You ignored him and felt envy flush over you as you watched Ellis and Fatima run off hand in hand after escaping bus passengers.

You wondered if you’d ever have someone that would run with you into danger without a second thought.

You begrudgingly followed Donna’s request ushering the last of the bus strangers into the diner hoping the simulated warmth would numb the fear of the tapping and whispering yet to come.

Donna kept him for last seemingly keeping a close eye on him gun nudging him periodically. Time seemed to slow the closer he got, his stature seemed to exaggerate with his hands strung loosely in the air, a sarcastic surrender. He was surprisingly stocky, muscles taught as his agitation grew stronger.

Your eyes once again locked and your breath caught in your throat. A spark lit within your stomach and spread all throughout you. He had a similar lust struck gaze yet his eyes never left yours,never once walked across your body.

You snapped your head away.

Donna incredulously looked between the two of you and shoved him into the diner. You dared not to turn and look for him in the sea of strangers. And yet that did nothing to quell you swelling desire, you felt it cresting, waiting to come crashing down.

It was going to be a long night.

———

As soon as the sun streaked through the windows you legged it out of there citing a lack of sleep. Which was true you felt his gaze on you the whole night and you hadn’t looked once.

———

It’d been a few days since you’d had your weird eye fuck with the stranger from the bus. Randall, as you’d come to find out and you’d vowed to push aside all thoughts of him and refusing to even use his name although your only danger of using it was at night when your convictions stuttered and were only quelled by toe curling thoughts of him.

Issue was he did anything but ignore you. He was everywhere.

He was at colony house arguing with Donna. He was atop the bus staring down all who dare walk past. Hell he was even occasionally scoffing his face in the diner. And yet you avoided him, not a single word uttered yet he had your heart hitching.

His staring persisted despite your avoidance. It seemed to only make him hungrier to see you.

You found yourself slipping into thoughts of what he smelt, tasted and fucked like.

Thoughts. That was all you could have.

No more.

———

You were trudging up to colony house after a late night drinking with Jade, in summary you lost your bet of out drinking him and he soon was let in on your little secret. But you trusted him. The only person you could never tell was looking at you a face like thunder. Your confusion clouded your perception and failed to see Randall him marching away from Donna.

Your breath caught in your throat as he got closer, you felt exposed. It was a balmy spring day so you’d sported jeans and a tank top thinking nothing of it. He finally let his eyes slip down your body, staring greedily, seemingly committing it to memory.

You’d reprimand him if you weren’t doing the same.

He wore a white tank with an open t shirt strung on top, his jeans tight in all the right places. You were about to look at his arms again before the muscle in his jaw clenched harder and he barrelled on.

Donna loomed at the top of the porch steps a face like thunder. And yet she didn’t care to rant about the backend of the altercation you saw.

Shit.

“You greenhouse now” she spat.

Fuck.

She shut the door behind the two of you with a slam so you opted to give your now peace offering, “Look here’s the bulb I told you about I think it’s gonna look great with the-“.

“Honey, we all have needs and wants I understand that but HIM?!” she flung out incredulously hands on hips. With your face a mixture of horror and confusion she continued “I saw the way you two looked at each other that first day at the diner and I’m sure you’ve done more than look since, hell what was that just now?!”

God you wished.

You couldn’t help but laugh, “Donna nothings happened, and as far as I’m concerned nothing will”

Her shoulders sagged and she sighed, “Good , you deserve someone better than him”

You cringed at that. Was he that bad?

“Now show me my beautiful new tulip bulb” she proclaimed.

———

Donna’s comment had been bouncing around your head for days alongside seeing less of Randall him, tension was building.

Yesterday you spied him working on a truck and couldn’t help but walk closer. He Sported the same white tank that exposed this thick corded arms. He’d grunted as he’d rolled himself under the truck. Jeans straining to contain him, legs spread. Arms straining with force. You imagined what it’d be like to even sit on his lap clothed, how good you’d feel.

How good you could make him feel.

You’d pictured him taking you pressed against the hood of the truck. Skirt flipped up, exposed for all to see. Tits bare and pebbling against the cold harsh metal. He’d stroke you first you were sure, then he’d fuck his thick cock into you. Uniting pain and pleasure,he’d make you taste yourself on his thick calloused fingers as he took you for all to see.

The day dream vanished as you watched a girl from colony house , Lola? Lila?, walk up to him and hand him water as he rolled out from under the truck.

Your heart dropped and an amassing wave of disappointment came over you. Albeit foolishly , you’d thought his attention had been solely concentrated on you and not whoever would reciprocate it.

You turned walked home before he could see you.

That night you couldn’t help but call his name as you came to the thought of him working on his truck.

———

The last place you could think of being alone was the woods, I mean your bedroom was the other but your thoughts couldn’t be controlled there as you’d realised last night.

After seeing him with the girl from colony house your conviction became stronger. And you decided to strengthen it alone in the woods the last thing you needed was to see him.

You started your descent into the peace, the trees were lush with greenery and swayed welcomingly. It was a thick, sweaty day. Your sundress swung as you walked providing the cool breeze you needed.How funny, you were trapped in a hellish town full of monsters human and other and yet it was so beautiful. Flowers were starting to sprout up through the dense leaves of the forest floor and you couldn’t help but be entranced. The less funny part was who your brain was obsessed with happened to be who you had decided was the resident fuck boy.

“Hey”

Speak of the devil.

Your heart pounded in your chest knowing the monsters wouldn’t be so polite. Your eyes were snatched up from the forest floor to all six foot of him lazily leaning across a tree. Same tank top and jeans as your daydream. He must be on break from working on his truck.

FUCKKKKKKKKKKKK. He looks good.

“What’re you thinking so hard about?” He inquired.

You awkwardly shuffled and looked around.

“Sorry forgot everything is secret here, you smoke?” He asked coolly

Taken by surprise you chuckled, “uhhhh yeah before, well you know” you gestured around you.

He hummed cigarette already between his teeth.in one slick motion he’d lit it and started steadily approaching you taking a drag. He lazily held it to you.

You leant forward not breaking eye contact as hou took a drag, cigarette still between his fingers. You could’ve sworn he swallowed harshly, but the moment was cut short as you spluttered and coughed.

It’d been awhile since you’d last smoked.

He laughed heartily and his hand slipped to your back stroking and patting till your coughing seized. His hand awkwardly retracted and you longed for its warmth to grace you again. He attempted to strike up a conversation again before seeming to change his mind, lips pressing back together.

They looked soft.

He had always seemed so sure of himself how strange you mused to yourself.

“I’ve seen you staring at me” you burst out, regretting it as soon as it fled you lips. So much for secrecy.

He chuckled caught aback then grew somewhat serious taking another drag, “You like it?”

“No” you lied through your teeth

“Really?” He smirked.

He paused, “It’s not like I haven’t seen you looking back sweetheart”

He looked satisfied with his own reply slowly walking back shrugging and once again leaning against the tree.

He smiled a boyishly handsome grin,took a longer drag taking in your shocked face.

SWEETHEART?! Really, he truly was a fuck boy then huh.

You once again lost control of you mouth, “I don’t think your colony house girlfriend would be too happy about you calling me sweetheart” you spat.

He coughs out smoke unable to stop himself from laughing,“ Who?” he laughs.

You refuse to let his facade get to you, not helping him with the answer.

His confusion blends back into another stupid smirk, “Oh, Laine?” He chuckles, eyes narrowing to gauge your reaction.

Laine? You think to yourself, what a stupid name. Lame Laine. EW! no you refuse to fight some random girl over him. He didn’t belong to you.

As much as you wanted him to.

Your eyes flicked back to his and something seemed to cross his face. His eyes darkened.

He knew. He knew you wanted him.

He slowly approached.

“You still want some?”, he asked. Gesturing to the cigarette.

He read your apprehension and said something that was dizzying to you.

“I could shotgun you” he she shrugged eyes not leaving yours. Unable to speak you nodded… a little too enthusiastically and he smirked. You could’ve sworn his eyes darkened.

He tilts your head up softly but as firm as needed to align your lips to his, all that separated you was air. With bated breath loosening unwillingly out your mouth in a sigh, your were lips parted in anticipation. Something he seemed to be unable to mock his face sporting the same intense stare as if he could unfurl your lips and drive you over the edge of what you weren’t sure madness pleasure?. Slowly, softly he blew the smoke into your mouth and you felt so intensely in need of him that it didn’t feel like breathing him in, it simply felt like breathing whole for the first time. It felt as natural as anything being this close needing him there needing him anywhere on you or near you. His fingers felt nice but the searing want shared silently was a feeling like no other. It radiated beyond magnetism. Staring at each other no longer held challenge but you were looking, truly seeing each other for the first time beyond the facade beyond this bodies you didn’t need to scratch the itch of knowing the conclude something. You’d know him before.

You breathed in the smoke he blew, eyes not breaking from his. His pupils were blown and it was your time to smirk. If you didn’t know before you knew now.

He wanted you too.

You blew out the smoke as slowly as you could. His eyes fixated on your lips.

He looked entranced.

His hand still cupped your jaw, his thumb coming up to glide across your lower lip. Smoke gone, you pulled his thumb into your mouth and sucked. His eyes once again met yours. “Fuck” he breathed out.

It was your turn to tease him. You spied the cigarette. It’s sweet red cherry still burning, you decided whatever was about to happen was going to burn like that.

Fast and hot.

Fuck it you thought.

You took it from his fingers, he was still entranced.

You breathed it in slowly and pushed on your toes to meet his face. Your tits brushed his chest. Your noses skimmed. His hands dropped to grip your hips and they bunched up the material of your dress. Surprisingly slowly but surely your lips softly bumped and grazed each other and you blew out the smoke. He didn’t breathed it in, so puzzled you stayed like that eyes locked till neither of you could bear it any longer.

He snapped out of the trance.

Your lips crashed together desire encompassing you heat moving lower. He smelt like pine and sea air and sweat and smoke and oil.

He tasted salty. His lips were soft.

It was almost all too delicious.

Almost.

You couldn’t stop yourself from moaning as his hand smoothed up your back to hold your head and pull you in further. He grabbed your thighs and pulled you up easily. He grinned into you as the kisses grew hot and sloppy.

Your back hit a tree and the friction between you started to give you much needed release. He started pushing his hardening crotch into yours. He broke the kiss, “I knew you wanted me” he leered. “Shut up” you groaned and seized his lips back to yours.

His lips start to wander sucking your neck and finding the spot that made you push out a lengthened moan, legs attempting to pull him in further.

“Fuck you needed this almost as much as me huh baby” he croons as his hand slithers from your waist. It skims up your stomach leaving goosebumps in its wake. It reaches your tit feeling its weight even inside your bra. His hand snakes in and is surprisingly cold, you hiss. “Awe is it cold baby” he mocks as he smooths his thumb over your pebbling nipple, his eyes flick to yours. “Huh baby?”, he pinches and rolls your nipple to elicit an answer. “Fuck yes” you hiss, your hips jerking even further into his.

You pull his face back to yours with both hands, teeth clashing wantonly as you kiss him viciously. He moans breathlessly , gasping and moaning as your hand slips to press against the outline of his hard cock. It’s as big as you thought.

“Tell me what you need baby” he begs, his grip on your hip tightening. You refuse to answer, smirking. He grabs your hand from his crotch and pushes his bulge into your underwear covered crotch. You throw your head back against the trunk and your moans come out as hums through your clamped lips. “Come on baby tell me what you need”.

A vision of you knelt before him flashed into you mind. And you grew wet. Going down on someone sometimes felt submissive, degrading even. But with him the idea of teasing and controlling him whilst knelt before him. You needed it.

You pushed him away and he lowered you to your feet looking sheepish.

“I’m sorry did I do something that-”

You cut him off by sinking to your knees and open palm sliding down his front and down his clothed thighs. You applied more pressure the closer to his crotch you got.

You looked up at him through your eyelashes, “Is this okay baby?” You crooned.

“Yes” he breathed out.

You took your time.

Unbuckling his belt and sliding it out, you kissed the outline of his cock in his jeans before unzipping and sliding them down. You made quick work of his boxers and there he was.

As big as you thought, bigger even. The head of his cock was burning red and seeping with precum.

Oh he was aching for you.

How many nights had he fisted his cock to images of you?

You trace a finger over the seeping head and he hisses. You smirk, “is that sensitive baby?”. You do it again and he moans long and deep. You trace a finger down the thick veins and caress his balls and he rewards you with a needy “please baby”.

You lean forward on your knees and kiss the tip. Kiss the shaft and lick your way down to his aching balls. You return you attention to the seeping head continuing to kiss is gently allowing the kisses to get sloppier. His hips jerk towards you and you indulge him. His burning tip slips into your mouth and you lower it till your nose brushes against his lower stomach. You keep your rhythm soft and slow and he melts into you. His moans must be reaching the town by now and you hoped that colony house girl heard. You started to increase your suction and go faster and he pulls you off him. You release him with a lavicious pop.

He tucks himself back into his jeans and you stand there unsure until he surges down tasting himself on you. He backs you up against a tree and drops onto a knee. Both of his hands snake up your legs lifting your dress and stroking your wet heat over your panties. He kisses your thighs and licks a thick wet stripe over your clothed clit. He tugs your pants down maintaining eye contact as he spits onto your bare gleaming pussy. He kisses you clit achingly soft and begins to lick and kiss building your already approaching orgasm. You begin to gyrate against his now gleaming face. His now hot calloused hand rubs your clit and he pulls away and just stares at you. His confidence vanquished, his face desperate to watch you come. He dives back and guides two finger into your heat and curls them perfectly. Your loud breathing transforms into moans uncaring of who might hear. He hums into your aching pussy seemingly encouraging you. White hot heat encases you everything goes numb as you come around his knuckle deep fingers, pussy spasming. He watches your face contort in pleasure and continues his ministrations carrying you through.

Your breathing stills and he rises lifting his fingers to your lips, letting them sink into your awaiting mouth. You plead to be able the touch him and he smiles and kisses you full of need. “Please touch me again baby” he moans wantonly. You needed to see him come. Your hands slid down his front and once again released him. You stroked him firmly, the head of his cock an even brighter red and was pouring pre come. He was close. Your lips lunged for his and you tugged his cock harder. His moans became louder, breathing harsher as he spurted hot and harsh against your bare stomach and pussy. Your hand was covered and his face was serene. This was way more delicious than a daydream.

———

You were both bashful as you helped each other dress. Cheeks flushing as he pulled up your panties and gently tugged your dress down, you’d stopped him from wiping his come away and his confidence sprouted back. “You want something to remember this by?” He jested. “You wish” you spat back, you both knew what he said held truth.

The bell sounded in the distance.

“Come on I’ll walk you back”, he tugged your hand putting you in front of him and nudged you towards the edge of the forest. Was it to put a barrier between you and those things? No, you wouldn’t delude yourself into thinking he cared. If he cared he’d of asked you out or something along those lines. Right?

You made it back in time. “This is me” you awkwardly shrugged. You both waited for the other to speak.

You broke the silence.

“Randall, look you don’t owe me anything I get it this was nothing. I won’t tell Laine and you can go back to persuing her”.

“Y/N, me and Laine are-“ he started

You cut him off. You couldn’t bare to hear it.

“I just needed a release from whatever weird tension we had, I get it seriously no need to explain”

He looked stunned and started to frown. But he quickly masked it with a careless gaze.

Your eyes narrowed, “thanks for walking me back I guess”

“Yeah yeah , anytime”

He turned to abruptly leave.

You wanted him to stay, your bed would bed would be so warm with him. The thought made your heart skip.

“Randall wait!”

He turned

“Get home safe”, you deflated as you were unable to ask him to stay. As if he’d want to.

His swagger returned, “Don’t worry about me too much sweetheart” he smirked.

He laughed at you rolling your eyes as he strolled away.

———

Why did him walking away hurt so much? Why did you feel like you knew him?

“Fuckkkkk”, you hissed as you slid down your door. Had you fucked him in college? No,no surely not you’d shamefully remembered every drunken fight and embarrassingly bad one night stand. Then how could you possibly know him? You didn’t know but it was almost certain he remembered and the one whiteclaw too many was the culprit as to your forgetting. How could you forget a connection like that it almost felt cosmic. God now you really sounded like a colony house hippy dippy idiot.

[torchship-rpg]

Dev Diary 18 - Zinovians

Right, let’s talk another major species! The Zinovians are the other really ‘big’ species in Torchship on the level of the Aquillians, the folks you’ll be dealing with often. They’re not as widespread or numerous as the Aquillians, but they’re a powerful and highly present political force in multiple astrostates, and the shared history they have with humanity have set us on a collision course.

The most important thing to know about the Zinovians is that they got exiled from their own homeworld by the Aquillian Empire about four hundred years prior to the events of the game and scattered across the stars. This has created several very distinct groups of Zinovians to encounter or play as, with sizable cultural, political, and even genetic differences between them. The majority settled in a single state which humanity allied with during their war against the Aquillians; the Zinovians are the reason we caught up to Local Space’s tech level so quickly. 

We promptly paid them back by making peace with the Empire instead of helping them take their homeworld back. They’re still not over it.

Oh, also; all the alien species names in Torchship are exonyms. The Zinovians weren’t originally called that by humans; it’s a (derogatory) descriptive name that emerged after the war to describe the structure of their government by unflatteringly comparing it to the guy whose bureaucratic decisions laid the groundwork for Stalin’s rise to power, and it stuck where the competing approximations of their endonyms failed. As is a general theme with the Zinovians, this is a mutual kind of awful; their name for us is, literally, “The Little Traitors”.

Biology

The Zinovians are another of the local humanoid species, though they’re a little more alien looking than the Aquillians, who could pass for human with a hat on. They’re one of the most diverse species in Local Space; like Humans, they have no taboo on genetic engineering and have used it to adapt themselves to a variety of physical and social environments. But there’s still some commonalities across groups.

Zinovians are cat-people, though this is less ‘cute kittycat girl’ and more ‘oh god, there’s a panther on the loose!’. Think the Puma Sisters from Dominion Tank Police. They have tall tufted ears, retractable claws on their hands and feet for both climbing and hunting, and a lot of subgroups have vestigial tails. They’re descended from apex ambush predators with a similar hunting strategy to leopards, complete with hauling kills up trees, which gradually developed complex social structures in response to changing environmental pressures. 

As the only major sapient species of obligate carnivores in Local Space, their transition to sapience was largely driven by the complex competitive politics of reproductive suppression to avoid overhunting, which gradually shifted toward tool use for reshaping the environment to increase hunting yields. Their version of the agricultural revolution was the invention of the fishing net and nomadic groups settling along coastlines.

That gives us our first trait, the aptly named Ambush Predator Evolutionary Outlier trait. This gives some pretty meaty bonuses to short bursts of physical activity, but means you take Fatigue more quickly in return.

Zinovians have distinct structures of long hair and short fur; their fur and skin share pigmentation, which can make it hard to tell which is which at a glance. The amount, lengths, and colouration of fur has a dizzying degree of variance (with colours mostly clustered in the red/yellow/green range) thanks to their ancestors having some pretty cool camo fur patterns; those largely became solid colours in the transition to sapience, but you get deliberate or accidental genetic throwbacks. 

The claws give you the Built-In Weapons Trait; these are serious business, about as dangerous as walking around with iron daggers on hand at all times. This is connected to the somewhat-muted Zinovian pain response; with sociability being a relatively recent evolutionary development, pain’s signalling function of ‘stop and get help’ is less neurologically developed, meaning that Stiff Upper Lip here represents quite literally feeling less pain.

Finally, Zinovian sexual dimorphism and gender politics are a fascinatingly complex subject. Their crash evolutionary development of sociability has left rather significant holdovers from when their ancestors were highly hierarchical matrilineal fission-fusion societies resembling something between spotted hyena clans and lion prides. The psychological developments are no more present than in humans, of course (though, like in humans, pop science evolutionary psychology does crop up socially), but some of the physiological aspects have stuck around.

So, first off, baseline Zinovian sexual dimorphism is a bit exaggerated compared to humans, with females being larger. This is a bit more than the relatively small differences between human sexes; their evolutionary adaptation trait suggests you can take Efficient Metabolism over Ambush Predator if you want to play the far end of baseliner male dimorphism, more optimised for wandering off to find groups with gaps in the hierarchy than challenging it. This dimorphism has been genetically reduced in some Zinovian groups and exaggerated in others.

The other big thing is that Zinovians have two sets of sex expression, termed ‘major’ and ‘minor’ sexes, which is a holdover from alternative reproductive strategies that developed around the strict hierarchies of their presapient ancestors. Essentially, about 3-5% of Zinovians naturally develop what we might term inverted secondary sexual characteristics, with no way to tell before they hit puberty. Like, naturally occurring transgender hormone balances, sorta kinda. And then you layer socially constructed gender on top of that, and it gets complicated, with different cultures having vastly different answers to the social status of sex expressions, transgender people, etc…

Yeah, it’s an excuse to roll up your sleeves and get on some next-level gender stuff with these cat people. Don’t let it be said we don’t know our audience.

In the Zinovian Sphere

Okay, first off, they don’t call it that. We call it that, because it makes them sound like an evil hegemony. They call themselves the Universal Republic, and call us the Human Star Empire. See? This is a whole thing.

The Zinovian Universal Sphere Republic is the largest political body the Zinovians have and are in many ways the ‘second power’ of Local Space, being the largest unified group after the Star Union in the aftermath of the Aquillian Empire shattering like a pane of glass. Unified is being kind of generous, though; the Zinovian Sphere is more like a loose federation of eight semi-independent ministries which once had specific duties in the unified government, but who have gradually developed into messy mini-states within the larger whole. 

The logos of the Ministries. Resources, Loyalty, Labour, Peace, Space, Life, Sanitation, and Security. Once specialized, all now form mini-governments in their own right, complete with their own militaries.

They symbolize a borehole mine, a watchful eye, a churning vat, an interstellar transmission, a rocket launch, cell division, water purification, and a watchtower.

The Universal Republic began with the ragged survivors of their homeworld’s uprising against the Aquillians being directed to a group of marginally-habitable high-gravity worlds in a star cluster near the Aquillian border with one of their distant rivals, to be used as a buffer state and early warning system. Their founding ideology of hopeful liberation was one of the many victims of starvation, decompression, dehydration, and radiation poisoning that characterised this exodus and the crash terraforming projects that followed.

As a direct result, the Universal Republic adheres to an apocalyptic socialism the Union calls Social Triage; resources must be held in common to be distributed to maximise return. In accordance with ability, disregarding need.  It’s the cold logic of a mass casualty event, applied to entire societies and lingering long after the emergency is over. It’s a relic of the days when a community leader had to stand up in the shelter and tell a thousand people they will only have calories for eight hundred, when neighbouring communities would exchange rosters of their population so unbiased choices could be made as to who gets to live. 

They’re past the days of anyone actually starving, but that, uh, is going to leave a bit of a psychological mark. It’s the reason why their government can be eight Ministries in a trenchcoat and yet survive; for all their squabbling, the Ministries are dedicated with absolute zeal to not rocking the boat too much, in case it means somebody somewhere doesn’t get fed, and are equally dedicated to the dream of one day getting Lost Homeworld back and making the fucking elves pay for it.

Republican Zinovians are divided into three Identities for gameplay purposes. The first two represent the civilian population of the Republic, and share a bunch of interesting Traits. You get Heavyworlder, because the 12 worlds the Zinovians were forced to settle on were largely hovering around 1g. You get Radiation Hardened (Lesser type, with Radiation Absorbing Structures) and/or Built-In Armour, which represents the subdermal steel plates which are affected by most of the population; these plates are largely cultural now, but at one time these were there to keep major bones from absorbing too much radiation on worlds with marginal magnetic fields. You’re encouraged to take Psychrophile/Thermophile, or any other trait which reflects the harsh nature of whichever world you ended up on.

You also lose some traits. In the Republic, genetic engineering efforts have at times been directed to reducing sexual dimorphism as part of various (largely unsuccessful) efforts to combat matriarchal social structures. Republican citizens also get their claws removed as a public health and safety measure at a young age; this is largely seen as a kind of sad-but-necessary reality of modernity, and a lot of defectors to the Star Union go get them regrown or have mechanical replacements installed.

The first of the identities is the Citizens; these are the regular people of the Republic, the politically disenfranchised common folk with no overt loyalties to any one Ministry. As with all the major powers in Local Space, the Republic is dealing with an overabundance of labour; in the Republic this manifests as waiting. You don’t want for anything vital, the local Ministries work together to ensure you have food, shelter, education, and distraction, but what you’re issued is what you get, and what you’re issued is decided by a bureaucrat somewhere. If you want more, you sign up for a waiting list for job openings in the Ministries, and you wait.

Which is why there’s a wild black market among the common citizens, hence a recommendation for the Entrepreneur trait. Polyglot represents how these colonies were haphazard multicultural endeavours which maintain enclaves carrying on the traditions of Lost Homeworld, and War Veteran represents how the only widespread employment available to common citizens was the recruitment drive during the war.

The second group are the Ministry Families. The Ministries operate as densely entangled networks of nepotistic family groups, with entire departments run by extended clans. The definition of ‘family’ is pretty loose; Zinovian norms about adoption are extremely flexible. Ministry families live marginally better lives than the regular Citizens in material terms, but do so under constant scrutiny and the intense expectations of their families, creating an intense political thunderdome of inter- and intra-family competition.

This gets so serious that it's reflected in the main Ministry trait, Augment. If you’re a ministry couple expecting a kid, it’s not uncommon for the clan matriarch to drop by and talk about the job they have lined up for them when they grow up, so wouldn’t it be a good idea to make sure they’re well-suited for the role? This dovetails well with just about any other trait; you’re encouraged to think about what you were destined for and how your family tried to achieve that.

The final recommended trait is Foreign Connections, a Trait which gives you both friends and enemies in another state. Maybe those friends are family who still have your back… or maybe they’re the department you betrayed your family to in order to smuggle yourself out of the Sphere.

A fun detail about the Republic is that they’re intensely maltheistic; organised religion was one of the main tools of the Aquillian occupation, and a lot of them were very devout people. Given the subsequent traumatic Everything, the natural cultural conclusion was that their gods had sold them out to the occupiers, and when Lost Homeworld is taken back they’re going to make a point to lock their deities inside the temples and light a match. In the meantime, they practise with effigies. Their kids make them out of paper mache. It’s great fun for the whole family.

There’s one last Identity within the Republic, and they’re very different from the other two. The Republican Marines are a cultural group inside the state descended from a seafaring culture who had been given a position as warrior nobility under the Aquillian hierarchy; the uprising largely kicked off because they got sick of getting increasingly sidelined for foreign mercenaries and defected to the rebels. The Marines are essentially a separate nation bound by treaty to the Republic to serve as an apolitical military arm; though in theory they’re all soldiers, in practice the majority of them work the logistics that allow a small handful of them to be the scariest power-armoured infantrymen in the history of the galaxy.

Seriously. The main narrative purpose of Zinovian Marines is to act as a thing the GM can put in a scene to say to the players “nope, you need to talk your way out of this one, because you aren’t winning this fight”. They have rotary chainguns with sufficient armour penetration to shoot up your reactor from the top deck of your spacecraft, and their armour has articulating ERA shields that double as deck-clearing fragmentation mines. Your redshirts going up against them is going to look like that sick Astartes animation on youtube. Just don’t.

Marines get to keep their claws, and obviously get recommended the War Veteran trait. It’s also noted that you are extremely visually distinct and it's impossible to hide it; Marines get elaborate facial tattoos and piercings specifically so they cannot shirk their duties to the Republic and try to become a civilian. 

In the CNFT

The Zinovian Marines are one offshoot of the seafaring warrior culture, one that ended up in the Republic. But a lot of them ended up elsewhere, either through surrendering to Aquillian forces during the war and being repurposed, or fleeing reprisals. Like most refugees in Local Space before the Star Union became a thing, those people ended up in the CNFT, alongside some other Zinovians who quickly became culturally integrated.

So what do a bunch of soldiers do when they arrive somewhere with combat experience but no money? They offered their services as mercenaries within the cutthroat anarcho-capitalist nightmare of the Territories, and they were good at it.

The modern SEA-WARRIORS OF ZINOVIA! are what happens when an entire culture’s financial security depends on being able to sell themselves as the best mercenaries in the entire galaxy, playing up their foreign heritage and biological quirks as an intergenerational advertising scheme. According to the marketing, the Sea-Warriors are a barely-civilised society of bloodthirsty warrior women whose rigid codes of honour demand they seek out war and conquest, and they can be yours for the low low price of $29.99! They wear the furs of exotic animals and get cool tattoos and carry four-foot long cultasses around in public and pick fights in bars with the hope of getting cool scars. Where the Republicans downplayed their sexual dimorphism with genetic engineering, the Sea-Warriors exaggerated it (mostly in that the ladies got even taller). They even gene-modded their tails back in and made them fuzzier to look more animalistic.

And it worked. Every politician has a Zinovian bodyguard, every criminal kingpin has Zinovian enforcers, and when you turn on the TV you’ll see Zinovian athletes playing full-contact sports, chasing perps in cop shows, and selling gene-therapy treatments at the commercial break. The CNFT’s image of physical prowess is a six-foot-five cat woman with tattooed abs and a massive machete leading a platoon in the conflict zone of the week.

The thing is… it’s not entirely an act. It started as one, sure, and the ones pushing the envelope will wink and nod and admit to exaggerating, but a culture can’t perform a persona this long without becoming true believers. Yes, they put the furs and swords away and fight in power armour under a swarm of autonomous drones like everyone else when it comes down to it, their mercenary corporations have slick PR operations and genetic modification programs and R&D departments, there’s Zinovians in suits negotiating with the government over protection contracts, but at the end of the day this still is a culture growing up with a self-image that the coolest thing they can possibly be is a barbarian warlord with a laser pistol in one hand and a sword in the other.

The first recommended Trait from all this is Augment, because you don’t keep your edge in a market like this without a bit of help. Imposing reflects the brand, obviously, and you still have your Built-In Weapons (getting declawed is seen as a fate worse than death). You have the fun Cultural Tool trait to represent the exaggerated cutlasses that your honour demands you carry in public, and War Veteran is an obvious pick for a culture where the Territorial Army and then subsequent mercenary work is the only real career path for most. 

Finally, you’re encouraged to take Redundant Vitals, because a lot of Sea Warriors opt into a series of genetic and surgical procedures to duplicate a few of their vital organs, just in case. It makes getting life insurance so much cheaper that it’s always worth it. 

The Greater Diaspora

The final set of identities is a bit of a catch-all for everyone else, and is more a high-level summary than the detailed Trait lists for other identities by its nature. There’s a ton of Zinovians living spread out in Local Space; descendents of refugees, migrant workers, and ancient settler projects. Like with the Aquillians (or the human wildcat colonies), it's an excuse to take the basic archetype and make it your own. One part of this characterisation is the fact that the Universal Republic wants very badly to use this diaspora as an arm of state power, and its various Ministries attempt to do so, with various levels of influence and success. There’s also a fair number integrated into the Star Union, many of them advisors who came over during the war and decided they liked it better.

Finally, there’s a note that the Zinovian Sphere is, well, not just a Universal Republic in name; they actually do have a number of alien species among their ranks as well, who will be culturally integrated at various levels using the above Identities. There’s a fair number of humans who have jumped ship to the Universal Republic in the same way, mostly people who think the Star Union is too pacifist or forgiving for its own good, or advisors horrified by the voters back home leaving their allies in the lurch. Said humans are largely integrating into Ministry families at this point.

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood: Longest Night

I imagine it's tricky for a family that's 3/4 vampires to celebrate the regular batch of holidays. But a kid deserves to be festive now and then and there is a handy time of year for nocturnal sorts to celebrate.

December 21st, the winter solstice, the Longest Night.

You can read under the cut or on Ao3 here.

There were three holidays in the castle.

One was St. George’s Day Eve, which neatly held hands with the boy’s birthnight. Father was always called away for the hunting of blue flames, but after the celebration of the night with Papa and Mum, Father would be waiting for him by his coffin at sunrise. He would have a coin harvested early from the earth and some gift of his own to give. It was good.

Another was New Year’s Eve. To the boy’s knowledge, this was considered the birthnight of Time itself. He would get to unwrap a fresh calendar to hang and do something called a ‘toast,’ though there was no hot crisp bread involved. Papa would down a glass of something that burned the boy’s nose to smell, then Father, Mum and the boy would take a single quick sip and welcome the New Year. Papa’s blood always tasted different after those drinks, a little singed, but somehow nice and swimmy on the tongue. It was good.  

But the best was Longest Night.

Longest Night was preceded by the crucial private magic of Shortest Day. No one was allowed to be up and awake during the Shortest Day, or else the joys of Longest Night would not happen. The Visitors that came by daylight were swift and skittish and would not stop to deliver their bounty if anyone was up to spy on their work. They might skip by regardless if they were not left the token of food before all were in bed by sunrise.

“What do they eat?”

“Whatever a home has to spare for a plate,” Papa told him. “Sweet things, usually.”

“Like the pep mints?”

“Peppermint, yes. Biscuits, cake, chocolate.”

This had worried the boy at first. Papa tasted sweeter in December from all the Longest Night things he and Mum put together in the kitchen. Once, Papa had been doing something with pieces of fruit, cloves, and spices, the result pouring perfume out of the bowl and through the air. And, perhaps not quite by accident, Papa allowed one of the hard little cloves to cut his thumb.

“Oh dear. Could you help me, Sweetheart?” Under his breath, smiling, “Quick!”

The boy rushed to put his mouth to the cut. Papa’s blood hit his tongue in a new way. He thought of the red-white candy that had shown up after Papa’s last errand—

“You had pep mint!”

“Peppermint. Yes, I did. Is it any good?”

“Have to check.” Another sip. Another. “Checked. Very good.”

“Good.”

Good, but sweet. What if..?

The Visitors will not come for Papa, Dearest.

Mum’s hand on his shoulder, her smile on her face and in her son’s mind.

He is for us alone. Besides, he would not fit on a plate. On that note…

The boy watched his mother’s gaze float to Papa, something of either mercy or conspiracy in her look.

…it need not be desserts alone. It is cold out for those who are not like us, and the Visitors would surely appreciate something with more heat in it. Supposing Papa is willing to part with some of his paprika.

“Absolutely.”

Something to keep in mind for the Eve before Shortest Day. But for now, we need to hunt for the tree.

The tree was very important for the Visitors. They were wild folk who were used to taking and receiving bounty in wilderness. Unless the boy wanted the gifts from them all left piled against some random trunk in the forest, the castle needed a tree of its own. One they could shelter and dress so that there was no mistaking it as the tree to stop for. The boy was scrupulous in seeking this particular quarry. It could not be too tall or too short, too spindly or too thick. There must be no animals living in it, not even the bats; though he knew already from Father that they had all taken off to their caves for the winter. It must be just right.

Eventually they came upon it, powdered in snow and sweet-stinging with its aroma.

This one?

“This one!”

Mum cleaved the trunk from its roots, hoisting it as airily as she might have carried the boy. They returned to the castle and set it within the stand that Papa had built for it. Then came the decoration. Threads of nutshells and dry berries hardened to beads were wound around the boughs, ready to turn to kindling once it came time to break the tree up into firewood. Give or take a few wooden ornaments the boy painted himself. He was still hanging them when Father appeared. Standing and staring and silent as the boy worked.

Father had allowed Longest Night to happen because of Papa. The boy knew so. Young as he was, there were some realities that one accepted without needing the Lesson laid out in words.

It was especially easy to accept as the boy had spoiled his own attempt at wheedling Father about holidays not so long ago. He had found one in a book on a high shelf in the library. The boy had clambered up to it for the sake of its pretty leather spine and flipped through it in awe of its illustrations. One in particular had arrested him. Even what little bits of the poem-story that went with it seemed somehow simpler to ingest than the rest of the dense writing about a king named Arthur and his many legendary knights. The image that held him was all holly greens and reds, with a wide-eyed young man gawking up at an emerald giant in knight’s armor, holding his own severed head as it rained blood. Beyond them, rows of knights and King Arthur himself stared over their banquet tables.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight had much the same bones as other fairy tales he was privy to, but the boy had caught on a word that had yet to show up anyplace else in his storybooks. A word that carried with it implications of revelry that was meant for adults as much as children, a thing of games and gifts and feasting and joy that nobody grew out of. A miserable fate that seemed to be the case with birthnights. The boy was alone in celebrating his, despite Father, Mum and Papa surely having birthnights of their own. It suggested to him that birthnights would go without celebration on some distant grownup year. But a holiday! Those stuck. And they were for everyone.

All this in mind, he had come to Father with the book under his arm and asked, “What’s Christmas?”

 Father declared that Christmas was two things. First, a dreamed-up fiction for the imaginary knights in the book to celebrate. Second, a topic the boy was not to mention again. Now give him the book, diavol. 

Foolishly, the boy had hugged the book to himself, citing the fact that it was in the library, and Father had said he could read whatever he liked in it, and—

“Boy,” Father had said, soft as a knife cutting snow, “you have a moment to consider whether you wish to disobey me.” Father’s eyes had flared. “There, it has passed. Now give me the book.”

The boy had given it. Father had given it to the fireplace.

Knowing he wasn’t to cry and waste blood, the boy had held his tears in. At least until he was outside, far from the courtyard and tucked up in a tree, weeping until he was the color of Papa’s hair. Mum had found him. They’d returned home only when they felt sunrise plodding toward them. The next nights had been odd. Different in the way they had been after Father had torn Hoppy to shreds.

That time before had ended with Father taking him aside for a lecture on the folly of pining for weak animals that would only break one’s heart with their frailty, capped with the gifting of a wolf crafted from downy fur and glass eyes. The boy had managed to tamp back joyous tears then, embracing his Father through an armful of plush.

The atmosphere of those preceding nights had settled thickly again. And it came, as it had before, from Papa. It was not so fiery as Father’s presence or as icy as Mum’s, but it was there. No one was more aware of it than Father. It might have been funny in a book: Father growing more and more agitated the more sedate Papa turned, until Father was left pacing and fuming while Papa went silent and almost frigid with patience. Until, finally, a week’s worth of nights passed and Papa and Mum came to the boy with talk of Longest Night. A thing left uncelebrated thus far because Father was not one for frivolity and Papa and Mum had left off holidays when they came to live in the castle.

Why?

“Your parents want for so little here, diavol,” Father had broken in, lupine smile back in its place. “It seemed unnecessary for us to bother with such rites. But you are here and young and new enough to want such things.” A clawed hand had flapped as Father dismissed them and himself. “Revel with it as you like.”

 And that had been that.

Now here was Father, scrutinizing the tree, curling his lip at the decoration.

“Is something wrong, Father?”

“Not for me. I am not the one expecting a tree wearing nothing but nuts and berries to stand out from every other in the forest. Even painted, it will hardly catch any Visitor’s eye.”

The boy sat up with a shiver, “It won’t?”

“I am afraid not. Your Papa and your mother, they hail from a choked and choking city with little in the way of nature. It is no wonder any meager flash of green caught attention there. But here, in our verdant mountains, there would need to be more applied. This?” He flicked one of the nutshell cords Mum had helped him with. “Will be as good as invisible.” He held up his hand before the boy could speak. “I have something that may be of use. Supposing you wish to bother with it.”

The boy was already adhered to his side. Off they went, up, up, up to Father’s own bedroom. There, piled in the corner…

“The coins will not hang, of course. But these?” Father hooked a dust-caked golden necklace. A ruby huge as a hen’s egg and bright as his own brooch dangled on it. The boy was already enamored with a chain of twinkling emeralds and a bracelet dewed with diamonds. “If these do not snare attention, the Visitors must be blind.” They were perfect and the boy told him so, pausing in his elation to embrace his Father’s leg tight enough to break an ordinary man’s bones. “Yes, yes. Take your bounty, magpie, and be off.” But Father lingered to watch as the boy loaded himself up with chains and cuffs enough to make him jingle all the way downstairs.

“Mum! Papa! Father had more decorations!”

They saw. Mum kept her expression even while Papa straightened with something like recognition. Yet this moment passed as the work of stringing the gold along the boughs began. The tree glittered and blazed as though it had been crafted by a giant’s jeweler. Given the chance, the boy might have sat up with the tree all day just to stare at it.

“You need to rest, Sweetheart. There’s more to do tomorrow.” Papa held out a sheet of paper and a sharpened crayon. “Remember?”

The boy squirreled himself away with the stationery, scribbling carefully in his coffin. Another important thing to remember about Longest Night was that the Visitors were not like himself or Mum or Father. They couldn’t just dip into someone’s mind and know what they wanted. If the boy did not write out what he wished for and have it sent out, the Visitors would be left to guess. Papa was entrusted with delivering his list in the post on his next errand in town. Father even let him seal the envelope with his own stamp, the wax writhing with a scarlet dragon.

With that done, now he had to consider what gifts he would bring to the tree. For the Visitors were not responsible for every present brought. Families wrapped and traded gifts among themselves too. But oh! What could he give that his parents, who wanted for nothing in the castle? Worse, how could he do what even the Visitors couldn’t, and guess the answers? He was not as smooth as Mum or Father when he peeked into a mind; even Papa caught him at it. There was simply no knowing without being found out. So…

“Mum?”

Yes?

“If…someone wanted to get you something for Longest Night, what would it be?”

 I need nothing and want little, Mum assured, her hand soft in his hair. But I suppose if I had to want something, it would be my loves, safe and happy.

That hardly narrowed it down, but the boy didn’t say so. He went to Papa.

“Papa, is there anything you want that you didn’t ask the Visitors for?”

“My family safe and happy.”

“No, I mean something that can go in a box.”

“Do you not still fit in the coffin?”

The boy huffed away, still puzzling. Surely Father would have something he wanted. Father was never satisfied. There had to be something he—

“The things I want are not delivered to me, diavol. If I want a thing, I take it. Besides,” Father’s teeth shined bright and sharp as icicles, “I have you and your mother and dear Papa. You are gifts that give every night in new and wonderful ways. As to anything I want beyond that?” A shrug. “Those will come to me in time. …Oh dear, such a look. Whatever is the matter, child?”

“I can’t wrap any of that! Mum and Papa didn’t say anything I could wrap either! Longest Night is only a few weeks away and I don’t know what to make or to find or—or anything!” He stared glumly out the frosted window as the moon stared glumly back. “I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t give anything.”

“Mm. So you shouldn’t. Folk such as the Visitors do take such a sour turn if they think they spy someone being selfish. Yes,” Father nodded with solemn weight, “you must have something to offer. I dread to think what would happen if the Visitors discovered you left your poor parents with nothing. Come.” Father rose and turned on his heel. The boy scrambled after him. “We shall find them something fitting.”

Again, the trip to Father’s chambers. The boy left it beaming, his new treasure hidden inside a blanket.

“But Father, this is all for Mum and Papa. What about yours?”

Father only grinned, insisting, “The Visitors know I am lord of this castle and Count of these lands. I would draw ire myself if I went bothering anyone for excess. No, diavol, that you would give these gifts from my hand and yours is fine enough.”

Time passed. Games were played. No titanic knights came around asking to have his head lopped off, thankfully. Although the boy did treat himself to one snowman he dappled all over with coniferous green before knocking its head off with a twig.

Other than that, he built up a whole snow family with Papa. Father took him flying to see the entire valley from above, mute and lovely in its winter white. Mum started a snowball battle with him that stretched for some nights off and on. It might have been shorter had Father not joined his side and made a war of things. And that too might have ended in a short victory if Father were not distracted by the boulder of a snowball that struck him from behind. Papa dashed away from his vantage point and into the trees. Father, being himself, gave snarling grinning chase. While they were off playing hunt, the boy pleaded a tired and happy truce to Mum. Towards dawn, Father tromped home with ice on his boots and Papa in his arms, drowsy and swaddled in Father’s cloak.

After that was the Eve before Shortest Day.

The boy could scarcely sit still all night. He would swear the clocks were going slower and that Father was somehow stretching the night out even further by covering up both moonrise and sunrise with extra helpings of cloud. It wasn’t until Mum and Papa sat by the fire for stories that he ceased fretting. This was Longest Night tradition as well.

“I thought grownups always did story time all quiet, reading to themselves.”

“Usually we do. But on this evening, and on through the last nights of the year, we like to tell stories to each other.”

Often frightening ones. We understand if you do not wish to listen.

But the boy was already in Mum’s lap, sharp ears up and mind alert. Mum told her stories. The boy shuddered through some and gasped over others.

Would you like to stop?

“No…” came from under the boy’s blanket.

…Would you like Papa to tell one?

“I’d be happy t—,” The boy popped his head out the blanket and twisted in his mother’s lap. Papa told his stories. They were not half so scary as Mum’s. A few even made him laugh. It was at the end of one of these that he heard the rooster outside begin to crow. The boy sat up as if pinched and went running to the nearest window. Too many clouds and a new swirling of snow and no hint of daylight yet, but the rooster always knew when the sun was coming. It was time.

“The plate! Mum, Papa, we need to set out the plate!” They set it out. A thing with biscuits and hendl and a helping of hot chocolate in a little cup. The boy pinned a note of thanks under fork for good measure. “I’m ready to sleep now.”

Dearest, the sun isn’t even up. Are you sure?

“Very sure. It’s time for everyone to sleep. Please.”

“Mm,” Papa nodded. “And you won’t be up running circles around the vault past sunrise?”

“No. I’m going right to sleep.”

Some hours and a sunrise later, the boy was up and pacing. Just to tire himself. That was all.

That doesn’t feel like sleeping.

The boy returned to his coffin. It was tricky to lay there with all the secret flotsam hidden inside with him. He managed to keep his eyes shut until roughly noon. Then he went slinking toward the stairs. Just to see if the Visitors had come. Nothing more. Nothing—

“Were you going somewhere, diavol?” This time the boy almost yelped aloud. Father almost never bothered to be awake during the day. But for Shortest Day, he had sat and lurked upon the stair. Waiting. “Were you?”

“No, Father.”

“You were just stretching your legs, perhaps?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. I was stretching mine too. Now sleep.”

The boy dragged himself back to his coffin and flopped despondently into his covers. Shortest Day was a lie, he decided. It was actually the Longest Day. Perhaps even an eternal one. It would never ever end and he would be doomed to toss and turn in the coffin forever and ever and…

He woke to the tell-tale shift of day falling to dusk. It bristled in his bones. Carefully, carefully, the boy peeked from his coffin. Mum and Father were still in asleep. He gathered up his hoard of gifts and crept on half-mist feet up the stairs and away to the tree. Elation almost made him fumble the crookedly wrapped packages.

The Visitors had come and gone. Presents stood waiting under the twinkling branches. The plate and cup were empty. Scrawled on his own note in tiny block letters was a message of thanks in return from the Visitors; they looked forward to next year’s trip. The boy snatched the note up for his pocket, tucked his gifts behind the tree, and ran.

Up to the tower, dashing to Papa’s bed. How could he still be asleep!?

“Papa! Papa, Papa, Papa—,”

“Yes, yes, yes?” Papa asked into his pillow.

“They came! The Visitors came and it’s Longest Night! You have to get up, come look!”

Papa lurched upright, bloodshot but smiling.

“I’ll be down soon. I have to put my coffee on. Are we the only ones up?”

“I’ll get Mum and Father!”

And he raced away before Papa had gotten both feet on the floor. He paused only for another giddy glance at the tree, then onward again. Mum was already sitting up in her coffin, taking a moment to stretch and stand.

“Mum!”

Yes?

“It’s Longest Night!”

So it is. Did the Visitors come by?

“Yes! There’s so much and it’s so pretty and Papa is getting up but he has to do his coffee first and Mum you have to go look at the tree and is Father up yet?” He wasn’t. Mum watched the boy lunge toward the great black coffin. The boy pressed himself right up to the lid, whisper-shouting, “Father. Father, it’s Longest Night. Are you up, Father? Father, you have to get up, come see! Father, Father, Father, Father—,”

The lid opened a crack. A red eye gleamed.

“I will rise when it is time I rise. Go with your mother.”

The lid closed.

Mother and son went up. Papa was there, a steaming cup in hand.

Counting a missing head, Papa asked, “Did he want us to wait?”

“Wait for what?”

Papa and the boy jumped. Mum narrowed her eyes. Father was in the room and wearing a robe the boy had never seen before. A thing of deep arterial scarlet lined in ermine. He dragged the largest armchair up to sit and watch as the boy assailed the bounty around the tree. Toys and books and a new little fishing pole and a music box and a dozen other fun little oddments were waiting, some from the Visitors, others from his parents. The boy was so dazed by it all that he nearly forgot his own part. Nearly.

“Your turn!” the boy announced to Mum and Papa who had just taken their own seats after clearing the mess away as paper flew. The boy took his own offerings from behind the tree and placed them proudly in their laps. Father’s grin sharpened as Mum and Papa unwrapped two leatherbound journals with fine fountain pens to match. “Father helped me find them. He said you were both such good writers when you all first met, but lost your diaries when you came to live in the castle. And see!” He shuffled some of the gifts aside to dredge up his own new sketchpad. “We can all do writing and drawing together! I want to make a book, maybe.”

Mum and Papa continued to smile, but a flint of hardness passed in her eyes and a melting fatigue polished his.

You would make a wonderful author, Dearest. You could illustrate your own adventures.

The boy pretended not to notice how her claws pricked the cover as she set the journal aside. Papa put his own down gently. His hand now free, he laid it on the boy’s shoulder.

“Are you forgetting one, Sweetheart?”

“Oh!” He was. The boy ducked back around the tree and came up with the third gift; one Father did not know of. Father’s grin actually faltered as the boy rushed up with the little package in hand. A tiny box smothered in butcher paper. The boy bounced on his heels as Father opened it with agonizing slowness. The paper revealed box of weathered secondhand shop velvet. This had not come from the boy, but his Papa. The gift inside had his touch too. “Papa waded out to get them before the river iced up. They came out all clean from the water.” Father said nothing, casting a steady glance at the back of Papa’s head. Papa nursed his coffee from one hand and twined his other with Mum’s. Father switched the box from his right to his left hand and gingerly wedged it open with his thumb.

Inside, gold shined in the shape of two coins. Their already-rough images were smoothed from the river and the metal was brighter than any token Father had dug up from under his blue flames. He stared at one and the other, turning them in his fingers.

“…These are quite old,” he said at last. “My own father would know them only from memory.”

“Papa said they were special since the blue flames wouldn’t show up over anything but dry ground to tell where treasure was, so those,” the boy pointed to the coins, “would’ve been hidden forever if they stayed stuck in the riverbed. And he taught me how to do buying with them.”

“It was a bargain,” Papa hummed. “I bought such a fine piece of quartz off you with my two little coins. Practically a steal.” So saying, Papa cast a smiling glance at Mum. Mum cast her own back, turning her gift from Papa over and over in her free hand, the firelight filling its pale crystal like magic. It turned out that Papa had taken the lump of quartz into town to have a man chip it into the shape of an owl for Mum. Mum had written Papa a slim storybook all her own and it now sat tucked within Papa’s robe, flat against his heart.

“A steal you say,” Father huffed. “It might be, if my eyes do not deceive me. Or have I gone without a gift from my friend and the mother of our son?”

Your eyes deceive you, Mum intoned, her gaze still firmly nailed to the clear stone owl. The gift is from us both. In the tree.

Father and the boy looked up. A large envelope the color of ivory balanced in the branches, wrapped in a red ribbon.

“I can get it!” The boy misted his way up for it, pondering the crinkling weight inside. He turned it over to find Mum’s own elegant swirling script penned along the flap.

For Future Consideration

—J, M

Father took the envelope from him with even gentler, almost tentative care. He even sniffed it. Mum and Papa gave him only an idle glance. The boy fidgeted again.

“I can open it if you want.” He reached for the ribbon. Father swatted at his knuckles.

“Shoo, thief. Go play with your own spoils.” The boy retracted his hand and even went to sit among his presents, but his eyes stayed with Father and his gift. After some endless seconds, the red ribbon fell away, the envelope was opened, and out came…paper. A thick sheet so large that it had to be folded twice to fit within its broad container. Father frowned at this until he opened the entire thing. For once, the smile on his face seemed actually to reach his eyes.

“Father, what is it?”

“Art,” Father beamed. “Of a very particular kind. Perhaps intended to lure me away to France.”

“What?”

Father turned the paper around. It was a poster done in reds and blacks, showing a smiling woman with a narrow sword on a stage. A man had dropped flat past her feet while beyond them an audience sat and watched. There was another man dangling by a rope around his neck, looking annoyed. Above it all were the words Le Grand Guignol on a banner. It looked scary, but the style of it made the boy think of the funny comics Papa let him clip out of his newspapers. Light, almost silly, like the fearful things were there for the crowd to enjoy. The lady with the blade certainly seemed happy.

“It is for a certain theatre recently founded in Paris,” Father went on, raising an eyebrow again at Mum’s writing on the envelope. “They put on the most amusing plays, I’ve heard.” His gaze leveled first at Mum, then at Papa. “This is a fine thing to consider. Perhaps as a family outing some night.”

The boy sprang up.

“When?”

“When you are old enough, diavol.”

“But how long until that?”

“Long enough that you need not fret about it for some time, Sweetheart. Now, would you be kind enough to hand me one of the ribbons from your pile?” The boy wondered at Papa, though not deep enough to spy in his head. There was a surprise pacing somewhere behind the clear eyes. Another red ribbon was fetched. Papa took it and bound it around his wrist in a bow. It covered half of the boy’s past kisses. “Longest Night comes with feasting. I must fill myself up before I can be decanted.”

Mum and Papa took themselves to the kitchen and the boy followed at their heels. In time, Papa found himself seated at the dining table, trying to both stuff and pace himself between different portions, some heady, some sweet, some rich. He sipped a creamy drink with a funny name—the boy would whisper nog nog nog to himself off and one for the next few days in his coffin, giggling over the sound—and a little of cider and of chocolate and, when Father set down a gleaming bottle of it, something called Tokay.

Eventually Papa pulled away from the table, sighing.

“No more. I will burst.” He unwrapped the ribbon from himself and tucked down the heavy robe’s collar. “I fear I might sleep until the New Year after this.”

“You will do no such thing, my friend,” Father murmured into his neck. “We shall roll you down the stairs if need be.” He slipped his teeth into the bend between Papa’s throat and shoulder. The boy thought he did so with a lighter kiss than usual, almost nipping in the way of a wolf nibbling at his kin in play. Blood welled just the same and Father lapped it clean. Mum went next, just as gentle, nursing in a steady stream. When she pulled away it was with a bloodless kiss to Papa’s jaw.

Thank you, Darling.

Last came the boy, fitting himself carefully on Papa’s wrist. He couldn’t say whether it was the bliss of the holiday or the seasoning of Papa’s meal or some dizzying blend of both, but the kiss tasted better even than his birthnight sip after Papa had sampled the cake. The boy sucked every droplet from his teeth and gums, savoring as best he could.

“That was a really really good kiss, Papa. Is that part of Longest Night too?”

“Perhaps,” Papa said sleepily. “Or else it was the nog.” The word set the boy snickering into his hands again. The Longest Night unspooled and the boy swore again the names must be tricks. How else to explain how infinite the Shortest Day felt and how brief the Longest Night was? Too soon he felt the sunrise coming to herd everyone away to bed. Mum walked with Papa up to the tower. Before the boy could follow up and give his good days, Father halted him with a long white hand at his shoulder.

“Leave them for now, child. There is something waiting for you below.” The boy fought against the urge to race down and ahead. He stayed dutifully parallel to his Father’s long strides, hustling in his own short steps to keep pace. Down in the vault they strolled up to Father’s coffin. “I had my own trouble sleeping during the day. Such was why I was up on the stairs. I believe there is some lump in there that bothered me. Can you see it?”

Father lifted the lid. The boy saw.

Here was the last gift, another tell-tale rectangle whose solid weight spoke to a book hidden in its skin of crimson paper. The boy unwrapped it delicately at first, then in an unstoppable gleeful rush.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was in his hands again, this time only a solitary volume in its immaculate cover of gold and green foil lettering. He saw it was still made thick with artwork in a spread of fantastical painted visions.

“I shall be glad to bring you all of King Arthur’s legends should you still wish them some night in the future. Such are an old and favorite collection of myths penned in your Papa’s distant England, but many tales are not quite suited for a child. I had thought I’d made the library safe for your eyes and burned my mistake to spare you. But this?” Father tapped the cover with his claw. “This I shall be happy to read and explain, should you desire its deeper meanings. But the lesson at its very top is something clear even to one so young.” Fangs flashed and eyes burned. “The weak live by the mercy of Powers greater than themselves.” The smile softened then, almost musing. “And I suppose the illustrations are to be commended if nothing else.”

The boy nodded at all of this but found his throat too tight to form words. He peered up at his Father’s face, high as the moon above him. His eyes asked. Father nodded and opened his arms. The boy leapt up and locked his small arms as far around Father’s shoulders as they could reach. Father held him close in turn. His throat stayed strangled with heat and his eyes threatened to betray him with the ruby twinkle of tears. He fought them back.

“Thank you, Father. I love it.” His face buried in the black fall of hair, his brow rasped against the trimmed wilderness of winter’s growing beard. “I love you.”

Father was quiet for a moment. His down-spotted hand stroked the small curve of the boy’s head.

“I love you too, diavol. Happy Longest Night.”

The boy wished him the same. He gave his love and his happy wishes to Mum on the way back up, racing against dawn.

Hurry, Dearest. He was half-asleep when I left him.

The boy all but flew. Papa was in bed, eyes still open for him. If only just.

“Did you enjoy your first Longest Night?”

“It was better than anything I thought it’d be, Papa. Why haven’t we done this before?”

“You were a babe,” Papa smiled, eyelids drooping, “and your parents had forgotten celebrations for quite some time. I cannot speak for Father, but your Mum and I did not have much celebration even when we were small. Our lives were very thin as children and stayed much the same as we grew up.”

“But then you met Father,” the boy beamed. “You came to the castle where everything is and he loved you like the princes in the books do.”

“…Yes. He did. And I loved your Mum. And now we live in the castle, where everything is, love and all. And where we forgot much of holidays, for there was no point to them. Not here.” Papa’s hand settled on him, light and cool as snow. His eyes shined like wet ice. Perhaps quartz. “Not until you. We might never have remembered the 21st of December without you, son. Thank you. Come here.” The boy came, folding himself into his Papa’s arms under the covers. His ear pressed to the faint drumming of the man’s heart. “I love you, Sweetheart. So much.”

“I love you too, Papa.”

“Mm.”

“Happy Longest Night.”

“Happy Longest Night…”

Soon Papa was asleep. His chest lifted and dropped with his breath, the boy clinging to him and the sound. He left a bloodless kiss on his Papa’s cheek as the first rays of sun arrived, lining the mountains in gold.

Down the steps.

Into the coffin.

The boy laid his head down and began to dream of the next Longest Night.

(This goes out to @ibrithir-was-here in particular. Happy Nearly Birthday, Merry Christmas, and a gothically grim-sweet Longest Night to you, friend.)

[lifedeathtimespace]

A list of the Entities in TAD songs and their aesthetics:

(Except not the ones Madeleine or Joey say they are because there are way too many of those)

The King - crumbling walls, secrets lurking in cobwebbed corners, crashing waves in a storm. Being protected, forgotten, isolated, smothered.

The Creature - scratching, clawing, screaming. Torn curtains and bloodied nails, you have to get out, you have to get out, YOU HAVE TO GET OUT, YOU HAVE TO GE-

The Old Man - broken promises, hair so tangled it brings tears to your eyes when you brush it. A too-tight corset. Being sent to bed without supper. Wondering what you did wrong, why won't they love you?

The Fox - screaming at your own reflection in a cracked mirror, branches whipping at your face as you run through the forest. It doesn't matter how fast you run, the truth will always find you, always be waiting for you.

The Trees - tall branches and taller tales. Climbing through branches that could crack under your weight, but knowing they won't, that their support will lift you higher, ever higher. Watching the earth fall away beneath you. Wondering if you'll ever feel the ground beneath your feet again, and if you even want to.

The Hollow Folk - watching, whispering, waiting. Shadows flicking through the corners of your vision, devils and guardian angels and everything in between. They hold no secrets in their hearts because there is nothing there to hide, nothing even to see. Empty shells of former people, observing and oh-so-patient. They will get what they want, in the end.

The Saint - staring your mistakes in the face and knowing you'll never change. Burning your past and dancing in the ashes as you suffocate in the smoke that coils itself around you. You can never escape the flaws that reside deep in the furthest recesses of your soul. You will never get it right because you dont even know what right looks like anymore.

Good Man Grace - tough love that won't take no for an answer. Empty promises to be there for you that crumble to dust as soon as you ask for help. You could be better than you are if only someone would tell you how, but nobody will. You'll never be on your own, but you're always alone.

Old Witch Sleep - comforting, cajoling, calamitous decisions masked behind gentle persuasions. Burying your head in the sand, only to choke on the grains that fill your eyes and cling to your tongue. You can rest now. You don't need to worry about anything. You never will again.

[angelicstarsight]

To Hell And Back: My Experience with Hekate

I was a Hekate devotee for 6 months. Those 6 months changed my life.

The Dark Mother was in my life from June 1st, 2023 to December 31st, 2023. She led me through enormous transitions, major life decisions, and the darkest night of the soul I've experienced yet. She was my guiding light through it all.

When She Calls

She came to me very directly. I had 3 dreams 3 nights in a row along with many signs in my waking life. In the first dream, I was looking at a drawing of a black cloaked figure with someone else. They were talking about Hekate, and I could feel immense power coming from the drawing.

I found a stick shaped like a key in the second dream. Later that day in waking life, I went to the mall and saw a store surrounded by torches with black dog statues. She had my attention.

That night before I fell asleep, I asked Hecate what type of relationship She wanted to have with me. She answered. In the third dream, I was given a magical wishing well. I was tasked with the mission to go into the wishing well. I jumped down and was overwhelmed. There was an entire other world! I saw tall, huge trees lit by the full moon. I was afraid, but I overcame my fear and found courage to continue. I heard “You are here to spread love and light. Just by being you. That is why you’re here. That is your purpose.”

When I woke up, I knew there was work to be done with this goddess.

Devotion Through Transitions

Our work began quickly. Hekate Lampadios lighted my way from being a travel nurse to moving to Colorado and finding stability. I took a staff nurse position at a great hospital that I was already working as a travel nurse at. My husband and I packed our things and moved across the country.

One day when I was doing a mundane task, the idea fell into my mind to go back to school to become a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner. I was shocked at the idea and felt fear. What if I'm not good enough? Don't I have enough problems of my own that I need to work through? She answered those questions in due time.

She reignited my love for my practice. I explored all kinds of folk magic -- English, Welsh, Celtic, Appalachian. I also investigated my ancestry searching for any fulfilling connections. I worked with herbs, picked up scrying, and overall honed my craft.

The Dark Mother's Initiation

After I moved to Colorado and began adjusting to my staff job, She asked me to dig deeper. The deeper I researched into witchcraft, the deeper I committed to my practice and to Her. I was all in. She led me to a witchcraft initiation from the deep South where my roots are. For 10 days, I arose at sunrise and recommitted myself to my practice and Her at a local park. I completed the initiation. I was about to be taught extremely important lessons that will affect me for the rest of my life.

Journey Through The Underworld

Hekate challenged my deeply embedded subconscious fear-based Christian worldview in a way that had never been done before. She led me to demonolatry. I came face to face with remnants of the brainwashing I faced from being raised a fundamentalist Christian. The tendrils of these beliefs dug into my psyche and told me all kinds of nasty lies. I faced my fear, trusted Hekate, and ventured forth into uncharted territory.

After a month of dancing with "devils," all communication dwindled until it eventually ceased. Even from Hekate.

I was distraught. The logical part of my mind reasoned that if the presences I was feeling and the voices I were hearing were real, they wouldn't just vanish. So, I came to the conclusion that it must be spiritual psychosis. I made it all up. All of it. My entire spirituality was a stress response. As if that wasn't hard enough, I was hit with a mysterious illness two weeks later. I had COVID-like symptoms but never tested positive for it. I had difficulty breathing, was bed ridden, and spent a lot of time in doctor's offices trying to figure out what was wrong. I took 3 months of medical leave from work.

This led me to have a nervous breakdown and seek out a psychiatric evaluation.

Hekate Deichteira (Teacher)

As my body began to recover from the mysterious illness that no test detected, I found answers for a different piece of my life. The psychiatric eval showed no signs of schizophrenia. The conclusion was psychosis induced by extreme stress and PTSD. I was referred to a psychiatrist for medication management.

After finding a combination of medications to control my anxiety, I began to realize just how much anxiety I was living with on a daily basis. I stabilized and put my spiritual practice out of my mind for the time being. I regained function that I hadn't experienced ever in my life. I can now be social, have energy for daily chores, and feel positive and confident. Getting this medication has changed my life completely for the better, and I feel like I can be the best version of myself.

As I was going to my psych appointments, I got to know my provider -- a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner. We've had several conversations about spirituality and how she believes that everything I experienced was real. She helped me restore faith in my spiritual practice and pick up the pieces to build something new. I told her about how I was interested in being a Psych NP, and she's helping me find clinical placements while I'm in school. I'm also on the waiting list for EMDR therapy.

Final Thoughts

If Hekate comes into your life, be prepared for your life to change.

I still have no idea what I got sick with after my initiation, but I've read about other people getting unknown illnesses after initiations, awakenings, or other spiritually significant events.

After all of this, I am a new person. I have more gratitude for each day and rebuilding my strength. I have new definitions for what a "bad" day is. The spirits I worked with in the past are slowly making a new, stronger connection with me. It's as if I'm being taken more seriously after this time period.

I love Hekate and all She has taught me during my time with Her. My spiritual practice is now wholly mine, and I fear no demon, hell, or spirit. I am more stable than I have ever been. She will always be here to guide me to a better future no matter the cost. What she has given me is priceless. I am reborn. She has returned me to Aphrodite who has watched over me since birth. I am home now.

Always respect the Dark Mother.

Hail Hekate.

[rosiesdisneydrama]

Witch Way Next? CH1: Stanley's No Good, Very Bad Night

Ao3 Link

Stanley and Stanford haven’t seen each other in over a decade. No letters, no postcards, no (direct) phone calls, nothing had connected them over those ten years. Stanford had become a scientist studying the strange and unusual in a tiny town in Oregon with the aid of his assistant and college roommate, Fiddleford. He was dedicated to making a scientific discovery that would change the world and often forgot to pull himself out long enough to talk to his own family. (He didn’t even know where his twin was, never mind how to contact him.) Stanley… Stanley became a witch. A “Handyman for Hire” who traveled all over the country for his work. It wasn’t a glamorous lifestyle, but it was a comfortable one. Neither of them expected to run into each other again. And certainly not because of Stan having the worst stroke of luck possible.

AN : Hey all! I've been playing with an au where Stan became a witch during his vagabond days and everything went off the rails because of it. And, at first, it's not even intentional on Stan's part. XD

Originally, the twins were supposed to run into each other by chance due to Stan being hired to do something in Gravity Falls but when I decided to start writing the story, it decided that wasn't the way things were going to play out. So now this AU is starting with Stanley having the worst night ever and ending up in a hospital! (Sorry Stan.)

Enjoy! Also, heads up, there's some swearing in here.

.

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Stanley clutched his lighter like it was a lifeline. And, right then, it was.

The flames he was conjuring from it were the only thing between him and the two Rippers who were itching to live up to their names by ripping him apart. His chest was heaving from the amount of magic and running he'd been using to get away from them.

But they were fucking Rippers. Creatures of dust and darkness! They didn't get tired, so the only thing the chase had done was wear him out. This was not what he signed up for when he was asked to come to New Mexico to take a look at something weird going on. Some “strange animal attacks” by the woods that didn't look right.

The magic folks thought it might have been some loose beast or a mystic guard animal that wasn't leashed right. At least, that was what his client had thought it was.

“Nothing too worrying,” the guy insisted when he’d hired Stan over the phone the previous week to come take a look around. “The humans think it's a couple of coyotes. I’m pretty sure they’re wrong, though. I just want a clearer picture so I can call in a professional to handle it.”

“Animal Attacks” his ass.

Ripper attacks were nothing to make jokes about. He’d never seen one firsthand, but Pops had made sure to cover them so Stanley would know when it would be smarter to get the hell out of dodge instead of sticking around.

Honestly, Pop's descriptions hadn't held a candle to the real things, now that he’d finally had the chance to see them himself.

They were tall and human-shaped, but there was something wrong with them. And the pitch-dark forest and light from the half-moon above certainly wasn’t making them look any better.

Their limbs were too long and thin, their skin stretched taut over their bones with hands and feet a sickening black and tipped in claws like wild animals. Their snarling mouths were rimmed in the same black as their hands and feet and opened just enough to show jagged-looking fangs. Fangs that looked like someone tried to make teeth out of a bunch of obsidian daggers and stuffed them into a human-sized mouth that couldn’t quite fit them. He could barely see their sunken, hollow eyes glowing a faint sickly yellow in the dark from between the trees. Tattered clothing hung off of their too-thin frames and matted hair draped around their faces, they looked like corpses that were somewhere between the stages of “newly dead” and “risen zombie”.

And they were up and moving in the dark forest, where it would have been near impossible to see them until it was too late. Or if, like Stanley, they had gone there specifically looking for something strange and unusual in the forest.

He’d gone out to gather some evidence during the night since some beasts would only come out at night and he’d been trying to figure out what it may have been.

The client had said it wasn’t a big deal and he’d believed them and hadn’t been ready for anything big. He’d expected something small, something relatively easy for him to handle. Or at least identify for someone else to take care of.

But no it had to be fucking Rippers!

A lone handyman like him wasn’t enough for a single Ripper, never mind two of the damn things! That was a six-man job at the very least! But he’d made the mistake of going off on his own. Admittedly because he hadn’t had enough information at the start but still. (Of all the nights to forget his knife in his duffle instead of strapping it to his belt.)

Clearing them out was beyond his skill range. It just wasn’t possible for him to pull it off alone.

Stan gritted his teeth through his exhaustion, the flames at his fingertips flickering weaker for just a moment. He was running out of steam and he knew it. The damn things had been running him ragged, and the pitch-dark forest wasn’t helping either. He had no idea how close or far he was from town, or if he could find some miraculous way to lose them while he tried to figure it out.

(Damn it, he was already running on fumes thanks to Rico’s bullshit about Stan “owing” him. He’d barely managed to ditch the bastard’s lackeys before he’d gotten this call. Stan didn’t owe him shit, he just wanted a witch under his thumb.)

He didn't know how long it was until sunrise would show up and save his sorry ass. It was probably the only way he’d be getting out of this alive. He just had to hold on until then. Just until the sun came up.

A bitter part of him whispered that he probably wasn't going to make it out of this one.

But, if by some miracle he did survive, he was demanding double- no triple pay from the guy. And extra for the medicine he’d be using to patch himself up. Most of the shots he’d taken so far were minor (or he hoped they were minor) but he doubted his luck would hold for much longer.

If he didn't make it then, at the very least, he was going to take one of these bastards down with him. He wasn’t planning on going down without putting up one hell of a fight.

There was a rattling hiss and one of the Rippers vanished.

Shit.

Stanley wasn't able to get the makeshift barrier of flames up fast enough to stop the attack from hitting home.

In the span of a blink, the creature was in his face, snarling and hissing.

He screamed as a warped hand of blackened claws raked down the side of his face and neck, blood splattering on the ground. He stumbled back from the sudden, blinding pain radiating from the wounds.

(Was it deep? He didn't know and there was no time to figure it out.)

The second Ripper surged after the first, successfully sinking its teeth and claws into his arm, ripping a hole through his clothes and ripping out a chunk of skin and muscle when he wrenched free on reflex. 

Fire roared from the lighter clutched in his hand, roiling around him in a wicked tornado of light and heat. Scorching the two horrid things and driving them back enough for Stanley to gasp out a spell to strengthen the blaze and push them further away. But with the dangerous side effect of near-blinding him after his mad dash through the black forest around him.

His heart hammered in his ears and he squinted desperately through the flames to keep watch on the rippers. The two vile things screeched and charged again and Stanley threw himself blindly from their path, once again desperately trying to lose them.

(Distance. Distance. He needed to get some distance between them and him. And find someplace where he could properly see to fight back.)

He’d nearly slammed into a tree in the effort, stumbling over a tree root. By some miracle, trying to keep from breaking his nose on the trunk also managed to let him evade the claws of one of the rippers.

His hair still stood on end at how close they came.

Adrenaline turned the fight into a blurry haze, after that.

A whirlwind of claws and fire and increasingly desperate blasts of magic. Stanley threw everything he had in his (too small) inventory at them, but it was far from enough to keep himself safe from harm.

Even if, by some stroke of good fortune, he’d found his way to the far, abandoned edges of town. But now he was being backed against empty buildings where no one would hear him if he screamed for help.

No, he was still on his own. With the promise of help being dangled in front of him, just out of his reach.

Claws and fangs ripped at his arms, his legs, and his back. He could barely stand from the damage he was taking. There was a serious new slice over his stomach that was agony but he forced himself to ignore it. The only things keeping him upright and moving were the potent mixture of stubbornness, spite, and adrenaline. (And some terror.) All he could do was power through the pain he was in to survive.

(But he was still losing. He wouldn't make it to sunrise. He would never see the people who'd changed his life again. He’d never see his family, his brothers, his Ma, ever again.)

Sunken, glowing eyes glared into Stanley's as one of the Rippers got past his guard again, seizing his face in a painfully tight grip. He didn’t have a chance to do more than gasp in pain from the sudden pressure on the gashes that had been carved in his face before the thing smashed his head against the brick wall behind him.

His world went dark and he never felt himself hit the ground.

(He didn't know that, at that moment, a group of Hunters arrived on the scene after hearing his initial scream, following the blind flames like they were flares. They saved him from the Rippers that had been terrorizing the area and the reason he’d been hired in the first place, though he hadn’t known it when he’d first come.)

(He didn't know that one of them had called an ambulance for him. Claiming that they'd found another “Animal Attack” victim and saved his life in the process. Thanks to them, he survived the attack. And that had been more than he’d thought he’d manage that night.)

(He was on the fence about everything that unfolded afterward.)

[jujutsukgojo]

From The Tree

satoru gojo x reader

summary:

“Satoru?”    

He's taller and broader now. His eyes are covered, and his voice is deeper. He wears a crown on his head and wears luxurious clothes. The fae king's ears are still pointed as ever and his face is still, and probably always will be, perfection. 

He lowers the cover over his eyes. If you were crazy, you’d swear you see longing in those bright eyes of his. 

a/n: quick write and loosely based on the folk of the air series by holly black!

tw: bullying, toxic, prejudice because reader is human, violence, idk what else

Sew the heart onto that, tie it off, and let it be. If it falls, then-    

Your thoughts are interrupted by the ever-so-wonderful trio of idiots. One pulls your hair, making you look up. Shoko looks down at you with a curious gleam in her eye as she inspects your mortal hair with disgust. Her piercing gaze then goes to the blanket you decided to make.  

“Is this work worth anything?” she drops her interest in your hair and picks up your project with two of her fingers. It is a blanket with a heart sewn on it. Admittedly, it isn’t much to look at. However, you worked hard on it, so you are of course proud.   

“It’s worth something to me.”  You snatch it back and frown when you see the stain from her rolled cigarette, she left on it. She may be popular and influential in this mystical hell, but damn her hands are dirty. No one would expect people that are so beautiful to be that way.     

On your right, is Geto. A tall, handsome, intelligent faerie with a slick silver tongue. Although he comes off to you at times kind, you never forget to look deeper and see the slight smile on his face whenever he sees something entertaining; it usually is a wicked thing too. The longer you are here for, the more you understand that he has a face of a liar, even if he can't lie.

  Like now, he looks so concerned and soft. But you see how he likes how this is unfolding. As you both look into each other’s eyes, you know what is about to happen next. The third idiot to complete the trio. 

The strongest faerie of them all and future king, and a total pain in your ass, Satoru Gojo, appears. He crouches down to your sitting level. With a scowl, he picks up your blanket again and tears it. “I knew mortals were sloppy but God, that was extreme.”    

“Why did you do that?” You yell as you pick up the shredded fabric. He tore it to pieces that you don’t think can be salvaged. You’ve worked hard on this. Just for an asshole to ruin it for no reason.    

“You should be glad I helped you. It is much more lavish now compared to whatever you were doing.”    

  Those around you laughed. He squatted to your level again. Before you could say anything, he cups your cheeks with one large hand. “Thank me, human.”   

  Human. Mortal. Things they never fail to rub in your face. Well, you know what? You are proud of being human. Living a long time that will inevitably turn boring is worse than a short life of fun. Having new adventures, love no matter how or why, living fast, or maybe just taking it slow. Either way, a thousand or so years of seeing the same old things time and time again must suck.   

  And dealing with him and his minions sucks, too. No matter how beautiful they are.    

Satoru Gojo, and his magical eyes that see all. Topped with white, fluffy hair, a perfect nose, and the longest lashes you’ve ever seen. Full, pink, perfectly smooth lips and a chiseled chin to match. Not to forget the pointed ears that declare him a faerie.     

  They are all so beautiful. And they always make sure that you know that you pale in comparison. You're tired of their perfection. Of his. It is only right for you to dirty it.    

You spit in his face, much to his surprise. Everyone around you is shocked and waits for their future king to kill you. Although you don’t fully regret it right now, you’re starting to wonder if that was the best call.   

Instead of lashing out, he wipes his face and caresses your cheek gently. No one is breathing. No one moves, either.    

He says nothing as he holds your chin and smiles with closed eyes. Satoru walks away. That's it. He just walks away.    

Utahime, someone who doesn’t hang out with Satoru and Geto a lot, and never treated you unnecessarily unkind, whispers, “What the hell did you just do?”    

 You try to hide your shaking with a nonchalant look. You tuck your hands underneath some of the tattered fabric to cover how sweaty they are. His friends walk away in his direction. Whatever happens next, is probably going to be extremely painful.   

--

Since then, you’ve been on high alert. You’re probably the only one that would ever spit in his face. You are the only idiot in the entire kingdom. Finally, after a week of hiding, you go out of your house which is in a large tree trunk surrounded by flowers and a garden of mortal fruit and vegetables.

 It has been days since the incident, you think. Surely, he has calmed down some. Yes, you spit in his face in front of everyone. Yep, you’re going to die.    

  “Okay, I'll just go and get a few things then I’ll go back home.” Right, right. Although he is a vicious and cruel bastard, he still has an image to keep. He can’t get away with killing or maiming. At least not yet.   

   Right as your foot touches the ground, you hear a disturbing laugh. Gasping, you spot Satoru right in front of you. “I have been meaning to talk to you.”    

  You don’t have a weapon. Not a single scrap of silver on you. “Satoru-”   

“You dare call me so informally?” He cocks his head to the side.    

“It’s hard not to. I have known you my whole life.” Ever since you accidentally wandered off in the seemingly small forest when you were young.     

There was a tree that had red lines on the trunk and strange roots above the ground. They were such a pretty color that you had to touch them. When you did, you must have unlocked it because the tree opened up and swallowed you in.   

   How were you supposed to know that it was a gate to a world that hides in plain sight? Like a door, it opened and shut. It reminds you so much of that book about a wardrobe you used to read as a child.

  That’s when you met him. You landed right in front of Satoru. He was wide-eyed and curious about the girl with round ears and clothes that couldn’t be made by someone like him. They were much too drab. Ever since then, he has been relentless towards you.     

   And you do not know why. The saving grace is that he hasn’t really done anything major.    

“I am a prince. The sole heir to the throne of this kingdom. You may not be anything but dirt, however, you are on my land. You will abide by my rules and glory.”   

“You’re just a prince. This land isn’t yours.” You snap. Satoru looks appalled. 

  He growls and clenches his fists. He then raises his hand and points his finger. A swirl of red gathers around the tip of it. Unfortunately, as a royal, he is given extremely special abilities. He is the strongest fae. Maybe, the strongest that there has ever been.    

Never has he attacked you with it. “Gojo!”    

You try to snap him out of it. If he launches that, you won’t be able to dodge. “Satoru, stop!”   

Brilliant, and angry red runs toward you with devastating speed. The prince of the fae stands tall. His blue eyes that see all are terrifying now. No longer are they annoying and full of arrogance. Now, they are monstrous and evil. Beads that have given a creature too much power.   

   Somehow, it misses you. Not all of it, but enough that it grazes you. Still, your side is hit, and the force pushes you back. You feel your body bounce from the ground and every stick that is in your way. Once you’ve stopped rolling from the impact, you shake from pain.   

  “Ha! You actually dodged! Maybe humans are-” You hear him stop talking. He stands next to your battered form. Tears prick your eyes as you try to push yourself up. It hurts too bad! There is a brutal fight between your pride to stand and the agonizing pain you're experiencing that makes it too hard to even lift yourself up like that.    

  All this, and it didn’t even hit you fully. Can anyone imagine what would happen if you did touch the void?   

   You sob as you try to move some more.     

“Ant? I-I knew you’d dodge but you're hurt-” He sounds confused and shocked. His hand is gentle on your back. Upon contact you try to swipe him away, crying. “Get away from me, you monster!”    

  Possibly minutes later, you are slowly, and carefully, lifted into his arms. Compared to you, he is okay. Gojo does not a scratch on him. Not a white hair out of place or a hint of exhaustion. As he carries you with ease, you finally begin to notice the difference between you and him. For years he has rubbed your mortality in your face. How powerless you are, how weak and weird you look. While the fae are exceptionally beautiful, you are just you.   

   You remember how it was when you first arrived. How they looked at you, how he teased you and tugged on your hair and ears. Back then, you just wanted to go home. His father ‘invited’ you to the castle to figure out how to get you home so something like you wouldn’t have to remain in the realm. In the meantime, you were with the prince and subjected to his ridicule and curiosity.   

  And now, you’re here in the arms of someone who you reluctantly grew up with. He almost killed you. Never had he even threatened this. It was always pulling, tugging, and teasing you for being human.   

You really are an ant compared to him. He was right about that.    

 You finally open your eyes and see that the two of you are deeper in the woods. It is a blurry sight from watery eyes, but it is undeniable. The sweet smell that is unique to this realm gives it away anyway.    

  The fae says something in a low tone. Still, you can’t look at him. You can’t bear to. With one hard blink, you see a familiar tree with red and weird roots. You gasp at the sight. When you arrived here, that was the last you saw of the tree. No one could find it. Has he known where it was this whole time? Ah, right. The Six Eyes. The power to see all. Of course, he could find it. How long has he known where it was?

 Wait, what is he doing?    

 “I am so sorry for hurting you. I knew you could dodge it. I just didn’t expect you to get hurt...or to be so scared. I thought you’d be humbled, not broken. You’re just so strong, I wanted to prove I was stronger. But not like this.” He apologizes again.   

  “What are you doing?” He touches the root. “W-wait! I can’t go back! I don’t know anything about it anymore!”   

“You’re safer there.”   

 “This is my home!”   

 He lays you down in time for the tree to open. You cling onto his arm.  Before you are pulled away, he leans down and tells you his true name. The prince, the future king, told you his most sacred secret. “My only. It remains with you.”   

  You scream as you are taken away. You get to look at him for what may be the last time. He's on his knees, with a bright and shiny tear in his legendary eye. He watches you as you leave.    

--

  Ten years have passed since you arrived at the place you should call home, and not give that title to the land of magic, power, and mystery. Ten years of you being with your own kind and unhappy. There are beautiful people here, inside and out, but it’s not home. You have been with the fae since you were a little kid and have gotten used to the wonders of them and their land. The tricks and riddles, enchanted trees, parties, abundant stars, two moons that on certain days would form into one big moon that is said to be a blessed day.   

 Everything here is bland compared to that.   

 Sighing, you try to push the land of wonder and its inhabitants out of your mind. It has been a decade since you healed. Years have passed for you to try to understand. Yes, you spit on him. But for so long you and the prince had argued, yet he never used his infamous power. And as you were sucked away, he cried. The future king told you his true name. Something that the fae never reveal. You don't know what is going on in Satoru Gojo's head, no one does, and probably never will.

   Even though you are separated from your old home, some of your habits have not been lost. You find yourself in a forest that is just off of your house, foraging. The smell is different here. Back there, back at home, it has a distinct sweet scent. 

  You feel the leaves on the ground. The bright green leaf feels silky against your fingertips. Too silky and smooth. You turn it over and see that there are no ridges or stems. The leaf has an iridescent quality to it when you move it around. Curious of the pretty leaf, you smell it.     

“Sweet...?” As you do, the air turns dense. You feel something tug on you. Finally, you land on your back. Almost as if you had just innocently tripped and nothing pulled you.   

Sweet.    

You get up and see the beautiful tree with red lines and weird roots in front of you. “Wait,”    

You look around and notice the difference. The sky is bluer, and the weather is perfect, the small forest animals' coats are different and look a lot more groomed. They look perfect.

“I’m h-”   

“What are you doing here?” A voice asks from behind you. You scramble to stand and face the owner. “I fell-”    

You stop and stare at the tall man. “Satoru?”    

He's taller and broader now. His eyes are covered, and his voice is deeper. He wears a crown on his head and wears luxurious clothes. The fae king's ears are still pointed as ever and his face is still, and probably always will be, the epitome of perfection. 

He lowers the cover over his eyes. If you were crazy, you’d swear you see longing in those bright eyes of his. 

[lordgrimwing]

How Elrond Saw Celebrian

(and fell madly in love)

Elrond sat securely on the bough of a great tree, nestled comfortably in its leaves. He held a fresh raspberry in his hands, juice spread across his sticky face. Yes, he held a single raspberry and it took both his hands to do it, for he was very small. So small, in fact, that on particularly unfortunate days, a strong gust of wind could pick him up and carry him away, leaving him stranded far from the lovely trees and mushrooms he and the other tiny fae critters called home. Blown far away, he spent hours—days even!—bumbling his way through the forest, up and down all the little swells and falls in the rich loam, stopping to bounce on the new mushrooms, until he eventually found his way home. It was a lot of work, being tiny.

Elrond, of course, did not see himself as small. The fae were perfectly sized; the rest of the world, particularly the speaking races that made such hubbub and noise, was just very large. Those big folk weren’t considerate when they came traipsing through the forest with their horses and wagons and pounding feet, so the fae kept their distance and hid at the first sound of them, ducking under mushrooms or inside trees, and muttering and grumbling about how ‘didn’t that just ruin a perfectly wonderful afternoon’ and ‘now all the berries will be gone’.

Most of them did, anyway. He wasn’t quite sure why everyone insisted on griping. He only hid because that’s what everyone else did—and wouldn’t it be so strange if he was the only one out and about? He’d never met one of the big folk himself, but he figured they couldn’t be much worse than that one mouse who climbed into his freshly made mushroom home and insisted on raising a whole litter of babies there with him. The baby mice were quite cute and he’d hold one on his lap until they got too big and ate the mushroom. Even if they were just like those mice, he fancied he’d like to meet one someday, maybe talk to them if he felt very brave.

But there was always time later for ‘someday’, so when the cry came up that big folk were approaching, he joined the mad dash for the closest shelter. Stuffing the raspberry into his mouth, he tumbled from the bough. He bounced off two of the orange mushrooms growing in a spiral around the tree before landing on the ground. 

He landed a little harder than he expected. He still hadn’t quite figured out how to estimate things like that and everyone else made it look so easy. Juice dribbled from between his lips, his mouth too full to close and the impact causing most of the fruit’s drupelets to burst. Shaking off the fall, he ran for the nearest unoccupied bell-shaped mushroom cap. His arms pumped furiously as he crossed the distance and he giggled a little with excitement.

He dove under cover. He had just enough time to twist around and peek under the frilly cap, the spore gills tickling his hair, before the big folk came into view. He caught his breath, choking down the berry so he wouldn’t be distracted by the sweet juice as he watched.

Huge horses came first, their hooves thudding into the ground so hard it made his teeth chatter and his head shake as they cleared hundreds of his own steps in just a single, elegant stride. Elves accompanied the horses, some riding and most walking by them, easily keeping pace. 

He gasped quietly in excitement, gripping the mushroom with his sticky hands. They stood so unbelievably tall, always graceful despite their height, with long hair pale like artemisia or dark as the inside of a rabbit’s den or bright as solidago in summer. Their voices rang clear and deep, though not nearly so deep as the men or dwarves he’d seen. He thought, if he were brave enough, he might like to sit out on a log or a sun-warmed stone and listen to such voices for hours on end. Of all the big folk, he loved seeing elves the most.

He watched them draw near, the ground vibrating as they came nearer and nearer, closer than they’d ever come before. This was too exciting, and he gave a little dance where he hid. 

Two horses passed and on them rode two elf-ladies. One had light hair held back from her face by a band of woven metal. Her eyes twinkled with light, like sunlight in the thousand droplets of dew on the spider’s web in the morning. She rode with a straight back, her head high, and she had an air of awe and might to her, unlike any creature he’d ever seen. A green stone glittered on her chest. When her gaze moved slightly in his direction, he trembled with fear, clutching the mushroom cap tighter and wishing he’d tucked himself away somewhere stronger, like the old woodpecker nest he’d found the other day.

Elrond might have looked away then, thinking tiny and invisible thoughts in hopes that she would not notice him, had he not seen her companion.

She did not ride so tall upon her horse, her back and shoulders loose and relaxed as though sitting atop the massive animal was as natural to her as breathing. Her hair tumbled down her back like running water, yet pale as ice crystals on the sides of the streams in winter. Her face reflected the soft light filtering down through the green leaves of the trees, and her smile glowed brightest of all. The sight of her made him forget his terror of the first.

“My mind is made up, mother. You shall not change it,” she said, and oh how her voice made the birds’ calls and the insects’ songs hollow and tuneless in comparison. Her voice alone might command his heart to beat and his lungs to fill with air. He flopped to the ground, falling out from under the mushroom’s cover, careless of if any elves took note of him, wishing only to see her more clearly, to be slightly closer to her as she passed.

“Your father is awaiting our arrival in Lórien. He will be deeply grieved at your absence after so many years apart,” the Great Lady murmured, her voice deep and rich like heavy loam at the start of a thunderstorm. “He misses you greatly.”

His Lady’s face fell, her mouth curving down and her eyes hooding. It made him ache, filled him with such grief that he desired to cry out for her but still dared not bring open attention upon himself. She breathed deeply and looked up again. “I know, and he will be welcomed in Imladris whenever he wishes to see me—all will be welcomed in Imladris,” she said with conviction that could make the very earth bow to her will and reshape itself to her need.

Her mother’s lips thinned and she said more to her, but he could not hear for they passed on and other elves took their place, murmuring in conversation loud enough to block the only voice he wanted to hear again. His Lady had gone away from his sight and the twisting of life was such that he might never hear her again.

Elrond collapsed against the ground, his face falling into the moist soil. He cared not now what the others might think of him revealing himself when he ought to have stayed safely hidden. He cared not if the elves took note of him and carried him away as a treasure like the storytellers said they might, nor even if some other of the big folk came along and spied him and trod on him or poked at him with pointy sticks. His entire life felt now shaded as by a malicious tree. Whither he went and whence he came, all he did now would be dampened and dulled by Her absence. Even the residue of the berry on his tongue tasted of decay and felt of stream silt. He lay there for some unknown time—what meant time now but the eternity stretching on without Her? 

“Elrond,” someone said as they poked at his side, exasperated. “They’re gone. You can stop playing dead.”

He lifted his tear-streaked face to look at the speaker, soil sticking to his wet skin. “Are you sure?” He asked, lower lip trembling and brows wrinkled together. Perhaps the elves would turn and come back. Perhaps the Great Lady forgot something she needed and she would turn the whole company around to retrieve it and he would see his Lady again.

The other crouched, reaching forward to wipe the dirt off his face. “Yes, Elrond,” she sighed. “It’s safe.”

He sat up slowly, sniffling and wiping his nose across his forearm, succeeding only in adding more soil to his face and smearing the snot from his weeping. “Okay.”

She shook her head, her poofy hair possessing the gall to bounce happily. She looked at him, eye-to-eye—how he desired now only to gaze up, up, up at the eyes of his Lady—then looked down at her hands and said, “If you get this scared about the big folk, you can always hide with me.”

He sniffled again and murmured a listless ‘okay’ before crawling back under the mushroom to hide from the static meaninglessness of the muted world around him.   

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

<<happy birthday to my beautiful beautiful man <3 / 1.3k words>>

just because it was kaeya's birthday didn't mean he got out of his duties. if it hadn't been for the hip tall force that was klee running into his legs when he walked into the knights headquarters, he wouldn't even have remembered.

kaeya hardly ever remembered his birthday on a good year, and this year was no different. waking up to go to work, deciding on skipping paperwork or taking a patrol, or playing a game of hooky to lounge on the walls of mondstadt for the familiar, cool breeze of the lake- that was kaeya's norm. days would blur together in his off and on game of life- so, only when the air turns cooler and breeze pricks his exposed chest does he realize the year is about to restart.

still, among those small earthly reminders, his birthday never springs to mind. it was only from those around him that bring the memory of the day of his birth to mind- although it's always a bittersweet moment of realization for him.

one good thing that came about his birthday is that even if he can't get out of work, it always seems to be easier. the paperwork lessens a bit. his patrols are longer and more peaceful routes than the usual hilicurl infested paths. his getaway path to the nearest wall where he always climbs up to the top was less guarded (suspicious since he swore he was always careful when he snuck out of his office). in fact- unless it was to come back and give him a quick congratulations for aging yet another year- folks would mostly leave him alone while he sat at his desk.

sure when he went out, the folks would flock him occasionally- since it seemed all of mondstadt kept better track of his birthday than him.

now, he sits behind his desk scribbling away with a pen that feels like its about to run out of ink. checking away on documents and making appropriate marks when needed and signing off in kind. the color of the sun was deep in a hue of orange kaeya loves- taking a moment to gaze out his window to the sinking sun below the walls of the city.

his pen drops gently to his desk while one of his elbows comes up to rest on the wooden top of it as his curled fingers rest under his chin to prop it up. he's tempted to open the window seeing the trees sway in the breeze he basks in.

his mind wandering was interruped by soft knocking on his office door. lifting his chin from his curled fist, he drops his arm so it joins the other to rest on any documentation yet to be finished. the knob twists down before he can even say 'come in' and a smile stretches his face since only a few people could do that without earning themselves a slight scolding.

"my, my," he chuckles when you pop your head in the small crack you make in his door. seeing your cheeky expression makes his own mimic it.

"you busy?" you ask and the tone of your voice seems excited. kaeya fully sets his pen away from his papers so no ink would smear out of it's tip before leaning comfortably back in his chair.

"never too much for you." your eye roll does nothing to diminish the smile on your face. sauntering into the room through the crack you made in the doorway, you push the door shut with your heel behind you with your hands hidden at your back. "hiding something i see."

"i might have a little something." shuffling up to his desk, you start to move your arms, but stop. "shut your eyes," you said.

"you're not going to put a handful of bugs on my desk i hope."

"of course i'm not. just do it."

rolling his eyes playfully with an over dramatic huff, kaeya folds his hands over his stomach, leans his head back, and shuts his eyes. silently humming to himself, he hears rustling in front of him before the smell of floral hits his nostrils. his face relaxing at one of his favorite scents.

"no peeking until i say so."

"i would never."

"yes you would," you tease back. you were right of course, but he'd never nod along with it if it would keep you cheeky. a soft clank of something hard sets itself on his desk and he almost feels impatient. "okay," you speak gently, "you can look now."

lifting his eyelids, the first thing kaeya sees in the ever-familiar ceiling he mourns to in boredom almost daily. then, he slowly tilts his head back down and his face softens at the delicate bouquet sitting among his documents and stationery. you had moved his papers around to set an elegant vase of cala lilies in front of him. unconsciously one of his hands comes up to caress one of the pale buds.

"i would've gotten you something else, but im really bad at gifts," you tell him embarrassingly. "but at least i know your favorite flower."

you would've been nervous from his silence, but from the look in his eyes you knew better. he was finding his words, figuring out how to say the words he knows individually but not sure how to string them together to show how appreciative he is.

instead of the words he still can't articulate just yet, the arm that still rested on his lap lifts in a silent invitation for you to round his desk and come to his side. so, you do.

you slip your hand into his and his grip is firm as he tugs you closer to the arm of his chair so he can feel your body heat. with one hand gently lifting one flower before lowering it and going to another bud, the other begins tinkering with your fingers. his head leans on your arm as you stand next to him.

"thank you," are the words he can bring himself to say right at this moment.

"you're very welcome," you humor him. leaving him hanging would feel too cruel for such a tender moment. the golden light of the sun bouncing off the deep wood of his office only made the pale blue flowers in the crystal-clear vase shine brighter. "happy birthday, kaeya."

kaeya nods against your arm and you feel the heat on his face as he leans against it. you hold back a light felt giggle at him- it would also feel too cruel to tease him.

you stand next to him- at some point leaning to lounge on his desk chair instead- and gaze at the flowers and bask in the comfortable silence until the golden rays of sun had dipped below the walls. soon, the night would fully cover the sky.

the deep sigh kaeya lets out lets you know he's ready to finally move. ready to speak. ready to spend the rest of this day- or rather night- with you.

standing from his chair, and pulling you up in tow from where you lounged on the arm, he brushed his fingernails across the side of your neck until they skimmed over your shoulder and down your arms. basking in the way the light ticklish touch made you shift in small chuckles and had goosebumping following in his wake.

"i think they'd look even lovelier on my table at home, don't you?"

"then we better get them there safely."

by the time you both leave the headquarters and take to the stone streets of the city to find your way back to kaeya's home, the moon had begun its ascension to the sky in lieu of the sun. soon, that very moon would bring a very bittersweet end to another one of kaeya's birthdays.

the scent of flowers keeping all the bitterness at bay.