#tree worl

[chrisstumps05]

"You Won't Believe How Lucky I Got on This Tree & Stump Grinding Job!"

[kurtcore]

idek how to word this but recently it’s been very hard to find hope or motivation to live when i consider the world we live in

[celestemona]

⋆˙⟡ — CONSTANT AS A RIVER, PERPETUAL AS MOUNTAINS

cw: no pronouns mentioned. just pure cuteness.

High above the forest floor, Kinich perched silently in the upper branches of a towering tree, his body still and balanced like a natural extension of the canopy. Below him, the landscape unfolded into a maze of thick trees, jagged rock faces, and the distant, thunderous roar of the waterfall cascading down the mountain. The air was thick with the scent of damp leaves and fresh water, the humidity clinging onto everything.

From this height, Kinich had a clear view of the world below—a vantage point that made him feel at home, with the winds sweeping through the treetops and the sway of the branches beneath him. His tribe had long since adapted to this unforgiving landscape, where cliffs loomed, trees stretched endlessly into the sky, and the terrain was as treacherous as it was beautiful. To outsiders, this place was inhospitable. To Kinich, it was perfect.

His sharp eyes followed you, who was on the floor far below, walking with a carefree grace that stood in stark contrast to the harshness of the environment around you. You moved with ease, your steps light as if you danced along the path, humming softly to yourself. Your hair fluttered in the breeze, and every so often, you’d pause to marvel at the way the light filtered through the trees' forms above, casting intricate patterns of shadow and light across your skin.

A small smile tugged at Kinich’s lips as he watched you, hidden from view. There was something magnetic about your presence—how you could bring warmth and life to even the most untamed of places. He admired your resilience and fearlessness, your ability to thrive in a land most would shy away from. Even now, you didn’t seem at all fazed by the singular nature that surrounded you.

From above, he could see how your eyes lit up every time you discovered something new—a strange flower, the movement of a saurian group nearby, or the iridescent glitter of sunlight against the waterfall in the distance. There was a joy to the way you moved, an uninhibited energy that drew him in and made him want to stay and watch you forever.

You suddenly stopped and tilted your head upward, squinting at the towering branches as if you could feel his gaze. “Kinich?” you called out, your voice slightly playful. “I know you’re up there somewhere.”

Kinich smirked, though he didn’t move or answer right away. He stayed hidden, knowing you’d keep searching, your instincts sharp enough to sense when he was near.

Your eyes scanned the treetops, and then your smile grew wider. “Come on. Don’t make me climb all the way up there just to find you,” you complained, putting a hand on your hip. “You know I will.”

That was enough to stir Kinich into action. With the quiet grace of a true Scion of the Canopy, he leaped from the branch he was perched on, landing silently on a lower one before dropping to the ground with barely a sound. Your face lit up when you saw him, eyes sparkling with delight.

“Took you long enough,” you said, closing the distance. Your hands immediately reached for him, fingers curling around his arm as you pulled him close. “Were you watching me the whole time?”

Kinich nodded, his expression calm but the warmth in his eyes gave him away. “You’re hard to miss,” he replied, his voice low. “Especially when you’re singing all the way.”

You giggled, your hand slipping down to entwine with his. “Well, I had a feeling you’d be up there, hiding away like some elusive yumkasaurus. But you know I’ll always find you.”

Kinich tilted his head slightly, his thumb brushing across the back of your hand. “I wasn’t hiding,” he said, though there was a subtle playfulness in his tone. “I was... observing.”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping closer until you were right in front of him, bodies almost touching. “Observing, huh?” you murmured, your voice dropping to a whisper. “And did you like what you saw?”

Kinich’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world around him seemed to fade away—the trees, the running river, the steep cliffs. All that mattered was the warmth of your hand in his and how you looked at him, so full of life and love.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against yours in a slow and steady kiss, much like him. You responded immediately, your arms wrapping around his neck as you deepened it, your fingers gently tangling in his hair.

When you finally pulled apart, you rested your forehead against his, your breath coming in soft, warm puffs against his skin. “You don’t always have to watch from afar, you know,” you whispered, your voice laced with affection. “You can come closer.”

Kinich smiled, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face. “I’m here now,” he said softly, his voice steady as always, but with a tenderness that only you ever got to see. “I’ll always come closer when it’s you.”

.

.

a/n: oh well. i didn't intend to write to him soon but i wanted to gift myself since my birthday is coming and i've been checking his tag for updates more times i should to. come on, my fella writers, where are you?

[ofc-vi-writes-too]

so all ive been able to think about is gotham for the past several days, and more specifically how gothamite culture has to be SO drastically different and jarring to literally anywhere else in the world. Like even other super cities like metropolis, or central city, or wherever else are at least KINDA normal. Like yea u have superman or wonderwoman or the flash but they dont really have to deal with the same level of bs as Gotham.

That being said here are a list of things that I think are extremely normal to Gotham, and other things that happen in thay horrible little city:

• the episode of Hot Ones with Brucie Wayne where no one thinks he’ll even be able to stand the 2nd or 3rd wing but he eats all of them with no reaction, and Sean Evans (or the in universe equivalent) just sits there like “wow no one has ever had literally no reaction before this is really crazy, and Bruce Wayne of all people?” Afterwards Bruce has second thoughts and realizes that maybe he should have played up his reaction to the spice a bit more. People Inside of Gotham are a little shocked because everytime he eats in public it is the most boring, bland, flavorless food imaginable. (he handled the spice so well because Batman is ready for all potential threats and forms of torture. Ridiculous levels of spice included)

• Gotham schools offer courses in self defense. In some school districts its actually mandatory, thats usually in old gotham or downtown gotham. In more affluent areas, self defense is still taught in schools, but most kids are sent to some ritzy trainer to make sure they can defend themselves.

• No one even blinks when theres a new vigilante by the time Damian comes around. Theres still a little buzz but by the time Duke shows up, people are like “Oh cool another one. HEY BRO WHATS YOUR NAME.” I saw someone post here about how when the Wayne kids get mad at Bruce, they go to Selina and make public appearances as Stray, Catwomans sidekick. I personally believe that Tim was the first one to do it but Dick does it the most, and gothamites didnt even need to get used to Stray showing up sometimes, nor did people really care that Stray was always wildly different heights, shapes, colors, etc. the additude is kinda like “I have taxes and job security to worry about. If a new vigilante is what were doing then so be it.”

• People tend to think that Gothamites aren’t smart, but that city is home to the Richest, smartest, most creative people alive. They mostly just lack morals. Like Dr. Freeze, Harley Quinn, hell even The Riddler are all insanely intelligent. Half of Gothams Villains have at minimum 2 Doctorates in something or other. Gotham generates a lot of cash as a whole, and small businesses thrive there. They have high employment rates, and most citizens have their associates despite everything happening around them. People who have never been to Gotham before expect to have to talk down to the citizens but Gothamites just kinda roll their eyes at them and carry on about their merriment.

• Gothamites CONSTANTLY says “because I’m Batman” when they don’t want to explain themselves. Kids hear it a lot from parents and they also get “If you don’t go to sleep, Condiment Man i gonna come and cover you in stinky relish.” Because truly what else is condiment man good for.

• Gothamites who work at BatBurger and typically work the night shift are used to visits from Batman, Robin, Red Hood, Cat Woman, Harley Quinn, etc. Sometimes they remember the workers and ask about their family, and how life is, and other things like that. Theres some barely 18 y/o who just graduated high school who worls at Bat Burger, and asked Red Hood to help him impress his gf by saying theyre friends. He like fuck it why not and tells the gf that the kid helped him save an old lady’s cat in a tree and now theyre bffs. She totally believes it. Score.

• I see the Gotham thinks Batman is Bruce Wayne’s boyfriend theories and raise you: Its pretty common knowledge that Bruce Wayne is Batman, just no one has the heart to tell him. Also theyre scared he will quit if anyone brings it up. So from this Gothamites created the joke that BW and batman are dating and when asked about it in an interview, dick grayson is like “……yes! My adoptive father is dating the guy who dressed up like a bat every night…!”

• this cuased and arguement between Bruce and Dick because no! Bruce isnt dating Batman! (stray was seen again that week) HE IS BATMAN! But fuck now the public thinks theyre a couple so now bruce gets asked about it and hes like “haha yes my spooky bat bf is who i love very dearly!” As punishment He makes Dick bring him flowers in the batsuit because “as far as he is concerned, this is his shithead son’s fault.” Thats a direct quote btw. Little does he know this somehow ties back to Tim Drake before they met.

[cognitivejustice]

When we think of sustainable materials, bamboo, cork, recycled stone and reclaimed teak often come to mind. These building and surface materials are used extensively in both residential and commercial projects, enough to solidify them as the eco-friendly future of established architectural practices.

But what if we went even further? Creative and experimental designers worldwide are embracing much more unusual sustainable materials in a wide range of projects, be these sturdy floorboards and insulating panels, or small-scale decorative elements such as lamps, trays, vases and other furnishings. With designs hailing from Singapore and Indonesia, as well as distant studios in Italy and Palestine, here are the materials of tomorrow.

Mogu’s mycelium floor tiles

Mushroom filaments may not seem like the sturdiest base for hardwearing floors, but the Italian designers behind Mogu would argue otherwise. Transformed into resilient tiles appropriate for luxury residences and even commercial spaces, the mycelium structure is topped with a layer of bio-based resin, granting it resistance to scratches and abrasions rivalling traditional flooring materials.

Orange peel and pine needles make up the sustainable lampshades by Caracara Collective

Turning orange peel into useable furnishings and décor pieces is no small feat, yet the people behind the circularity-focused Caracara Collective in Finland have mastered this singular art. Inspired by the abundance of the natural, inherently sustainable materials around them, the designers created a series of lampshades made of orange peel, as well as pine needles from discarded Christmas trees.

As the collective puts it: “It takes around 20 squeezed oranges to create one lampshade. In other words, each lampshade is the by-product of someone drinking two litres of orange juice.”

Markos Design’s Ostra lamp, made of discarded oyster shells

Discarded oyster shells are similarly repurposed on the island of Cyprus, transformed by Markos Design into Ostra, a ceramic-like biomaterial. Ostra is worked into statement lamp designs, naturally hardwearing thanks to the oysters’ high concentration of calcium carbonate, which also lends cement and concrete considerable strength.

[namicakes]

Hiii Can I ask Levi Ackerman or Megumi Fushiguro who's s/o is their polar opposites?

y'know? their s/o's like extrovert and sunshines and cupcakes while he was like all grays and dullness

Of Shadows & Sunshines.

Fushiguro Megumi x F!Reader

Levi Ackerman x F!Reader

Note:( Fluff fic, Levi's in modern au. I kinda indulge myself in this fics because I am someone who loves the odd things in life, a very random person, and a very extrovert fella.)

Fushiguro Megumi

The first time Megumi Fushiguro met Y/N, he was baffled. She was like a burst of sunlight piercing through the gray clouds he’d grown accustomed to—bright, playful, unreserved. And he, well, he was used to shadows, to quiet places and serious thoughts. Y/N was the polar opposite of him, and yet, for reasons he couldn’t fully grasp, her presence felt… comforting.

It was a sunny afternoon, and Megumi, in his typical fashion, was brooding under a tree, book in hand. He wasn’t one to draw attention; in fact, he thrived in the art of going unnoticed. But that day, Y/N happened upon him, her arms full of a dozen shopping bags, her hair wild from the wind, and her smile brighter than the sun itself.

“Oh, hey there!” she said, plopping down beside him without a second thought. She dropped her bags unceremoniously, tilting her head with a curious grin. “What’s with the gloomy vibe? You look like you’re studying the meaning of life.”

Megumi blinked at her, unsure of how to respond. “I’m… just reading.”

She peered over his shoulder, her face lighting up with fascination. “A mystery novel? Oh, I love mysteries! The thrill, the suspense…” she paused, looking him up and down with a teasing glint in her eye. “But you don’t seem like the thrill-seeker type.”

“No,” he said plainly, slightly bewildered by her energy. She seemed to have an endless supply of it, her aura buzzing with liveliness.

For a few minutes, they sat in silence—Megumi reading his book, and Y/N rummaging through her bags. She pulled out a tiny stuffed cat with bright blue eyes and handed it to him with a grin. “Here, I found this in one of those claw machines. I thought you might like it. You know, to balance out all that seriousness.”

Megumi took the stuffed cat reluctantly, feeling the softness of the fabric against his palm. It was strange, yet… oddly charming. “Thanks,” he said, his voice a bit softer.

Y/N beamed at him, and that was how it all started. One little stuffed cat and a sunny afternoon that changed everything.

Y/N was like a whirlwind, sweeping into his life with her boundless energy and unapologetic enthusiasm for the oddest things. She adored colors—her clothes, her notebooks, her accessories, all a riot of hues that seemed to light up any space she entered. Megumi, who preferred a palette of dark blues and blacks, couldn’t understand how someone could wear so much color without feeling overwhelmed. But Y/N carried it effortlessly, as if the vibrancy matched her very soul.

One day, she convinced him to go to an art exhibit with her, an exhibit famous for its interactive, color-splashed displays. At first, Megumi felt out of place, hands in his pockets, trying to look inconspicuous amidst the vivid chaos. But Y/N was in her element, her eyes bright as she pointed out every little detail with such joy, he couldn’t help but be drawn in.

“Look at this one!” she said, tugging his hand toward a wall filled with a hundred tiny mirrors reflecting all the colors of the rainbow. She laughed, taking a photo of their reflections, the playful colors bouncing off their faces.

He found himself smiling despite himself. “You know, I don’t usually do this sort of thing,” he murmured, glancing at her. “But… it’s not terrible.”

Y/N nudged him playfully. “Well, I’ll make a rebel out of you yet, Fushiguro.”

And he couldn’t help but laugh, a soft sound he rarely allowed himself. Y/N had a way of disarming him, of peeling back the layers he’d carefully wrapped around himself, making him forget, just for a moment, that the world was anything but bright.

It wasn’t just her color or her brightness that made Megumi fall in love with her. It was the way she saw beauty in the smallest things, the way she embraced life with such vigor and joy that he couldn’t look away.

She loved taking pictures of odd things—a lone dandelion on the sidewalk, raindrops on a spiderweb, or even his frowning face whenever he realized she was snapping a candid shot of him. “You always look so serious!” she’d tease, giggling at his usual scowl.

But it was in those small moments that Megumi began to understand just how much she meant to him. He realized that he loved the way she noticed the beauty in what others overlooked. She’d sit for ages, watching a butterfly in flight or admiring a colorful storefront display, talking excitedly about things he never would have given a second thought to.

He loved the way she’d burst into laughter over silly jokes, or how she’d pull him along on spontaneous adventures—like the time she convinced him to go stargazing. They’d ended up lying in the grass, looking up at the night sky as she pointed out constellations, her voice full of wonder.

“You see that one?” she whispered, pointing. “The one that looks like a heart?”

He followed her gaze, though all he could see were scattered stars. “I think that’s just wishful thinking, Y/N.”

She laughed softly, rolling onto her side to face him. “You’re probably right. But sometimes, wishful thinking is enough.”

Megumi met her gaze, his heart beating a little faster. Maybe, he thought, wishful thinking was enough for him too.

As their relationship grew, they found a unique balance—a harmony between his steady calm and her effervescent joy. Megumi grounded her, gave her a safe space to rest, a place where she didn’t have to be endlessly cheerful or “on.” And she, in turn, brought him to life, her vibrant energy weaving color into the otherwise gray world he lived in.

She’d bring him gifts—little trinkets and silly souvenirs from her adventures. One day, she handed him a small snow globe with a tiny fox inside. “To keep you company,” she said with a grin. “Since you seem to like foxes.”

He didn’t tell her that it was the most thoughtful gift anyone had ever given him, nor that he kept it by his bedside, where he could see it each morning.

Their dates were simple but memorable—picnics in the park, late-night walks through the city, or quiet afternoons where she’d curl up beside him with a book of her own, her head resting on his shoulder. They didn’t need words; just being together, feeling each other’s presence, was enough.

But there were also days when he’d let her into his world—the quieter, shadowed corners he often kept hidden. When he had nightmares, she was there, stroking his hair, whispering reassurances, her gentle presence a balm for his troubled mind.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, you know,” she’d say, her voice soft but unwavering. “I’m here for you.”

And he knew she meant it. For the first time in his life, he had someone he could rely on, someone who loved him without conditions, without fear.

Their life together became a beautiful mix of contrasts—a blending of shadows and light, of quiet strength and boundless joy. Their apartment was a reflection of them, filled with small reminders of their adventures together. Y/N’s colorful plants filled the corners, while Megumi’s books lined the shelves, an odd yet perfect combination of their worlds.

She still teased him endlessly, sneaking little notes into his pockets, drawing funny doodles on his calendar, and taking candid photos of him whenever he wasn’t paying attention. But he didn’t mind. In fact, he loved it—every bit of it. Her presence softened his edges, brightened the darker parts of his life, and filled his heart with a warmth he hadn’t thought he could feel.

One evening, as they lay together on the couch, Y/N’s head resting on his chest, Megumi felt a rare surge of contentment, a peace he’d only ever found in her presence. He looked down at her, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“What?” she asked, glancing up at him, her eyes sparkling.

“Nothing,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her a little tighter. “Just… I love you.”

Her smile grew, lighting up her entire face. “I love you too, Mr. Gloomy.”

And as they lay together, surrounded by the life they had built, Megumi knew he’d found something precious, something he would hold onto forever—a light that would guide him through any shadow, a love that was both his strength and his joy.

Levi Ackerman

In a world where cold grays and muted tones painted the backdrop of Levi Ackerman's life, she was an unexpected burst of color. Y/N was a bouquet of pastels in a sea of monochrome, a song hummed under her breath in a silent room, a gentle chaos he could never have imagined wanting to keep close. But that was the irony of it, wasn’t it? Levi Ackerman, the man who could navigate the darkest corners without a stumble, fell in love with the bright, unabashed spirit of Y/N.

Levi met her on a rainy day, a day where the world felt as if it were washed out, color leached by the storm. He was finishing a particularly long shift, rain dripping from his dark coat as he ducked into a quiet cafe, hoping for a moment’s reprieve. But as he stepped in, he was met with the sight of her—a girl leaning against the counter, umbrella in hand, with a pink raincoat and matching rubber boots, every bit as bright and out of place as he was dark and muted.

She was taking a picture of her coffee cup, her phone angled just so, a soft smile on her face as she seemed to capture something only she could see. Levi found himself oddly captivated by the sight. There was a warmth in her gaze, a gentle energy, and before he even realized it, he’d spent the next fifteen minutes watching her in silence.

When she finally looked up, her eyes locked with his, and she gave him a small, inviting smile. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Levi felt his heart skip, just once.

It was enough.

The days that followed found him gravitating toward the places she loved—quiet cafes, local markets, small parks where she would sit on a pastel pink blanket, taking pictures of the flowers. Levi, ever the silent observer, watched from the edges, trying to puzzle her out, trying to understand what it was about her that fascinated him so.

They were opposites in every sense. Levi’s life was built on efficiency, on order. His apartment was a fortress of monochrome, clean and spartan, with barely a trace of warmth. And yet, somehow, he found himself drawn to Y/N’s world, one brimming with pastel colors and playful chaos.

She collected toys—small trinkets and dolls that Levi, at first, thought were the very definition of clutter. But when he saw her arranging them with care, dusting them off one by one, he realized there was something almost reverent about the way she held them. Each toy had a story, a place in her world, and he began to see them through her eyes—not as clutter, but as pieces of her heart, each one filled with a unique charm.

It was the first time Levi had seen beauty in something so seemingly pointless.

One day, after much consideration, he found himself at her doorstep, a small teddy bear in his hand. It was simple and gray, a gentle compromise between their worlds, but when he handed it to her, her eyes lit up with a joy that left him breathless. She hugged it to her chest, then hugged him, and Levi knew he was lost.

Their relationship became a blend of contradictions—a careful balance of shadows and pastels, of Levi’s quiet intensity and Y/N’s playful energy. Her apartment, with its walls adorned in light pink and delicate fairy lights, became a sanctuary he never expected to find himself in. Every time he stepped inside, he felt a strange sense of calm, a warmth that wrapped around him like a soft blanket.

She loved taking pictures, capturing the odd moments in life that most people overlooked. Levi, who could barely stand being in a photo, found himself becoming her favorite subject. She’d catch him in quiet moments—pouring tea, gazing out the window, his hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of her hair. At first, he’d grumble, scowl even, but she’d only laugh, assuring him that one day he’d see the beauty she saw.

And, over time, he did.

He began to cherish the photos she took, even the silly ones. They were moments of joy captured in small frames—snapshots of a life he hadn’t known he wanted. His heart softened with each one, the edges of his world brightened by her light.

Their relationship grew like a secret garden, each moment a petal, each memory a vine that intertwined their lives. Levi loved the mornings spent in her little haven, the scent of her flowery perfume lingering in the air as she prepared coffee for them both. They would sit together, he with his stoic silence and she with her gentle chatter, filling the spaces he couldn’t.

There was no singular moment when he realized he loved her. It happened gradually, like ink seeping into fabric, coloring everything from the inside out. He fell in love with her laughter, with the way she looked at the world with such unyielding optimism. He fell in love with the way she respected his need for silence, but filled it with a warmth he never knew he’d craved.

Her kindness was like a balm, softening the edges of his heart, filling the cracks with a love he hadn’t thought he deserved. She’d bring him tiny gifts, odd trinkets that she thought he’d find amusing—a small cactus for his windowsill, a bookmark with a quote she thought he’d like, a little keychain of a cleaning bottle she’d said “looked like him.” He never thought he’d enjoy receiving such things, yet they became treasures he kept close.

Every time he felt himself falling deeper, Y/N’s world caught him. And he let himself fall.

Living with her was both chaotic and beautifully simple. Her room was a symphony of pink and white, organized yet vibrant, decorated with soft pillows and delicate trinkets, each one meticulously placed. Levi, always the neat freak, never thought he’d be comfortable surrounded by so much color, yet he found himself helping her dust her toy collection, or adjust the fairy lights she adored. He was meticulous, she was creative, and together, they created a harmony that made him feel alive.

He loved watching her take pictures, capturing the fleeting beauty of life’s smallest moments—a flower, a butterfly, his own hand reaching for her. Sometimes, she’d hand him her phone and ask him to take a picture of her with a new toy, her eyes shining with delight. He’d grumble about it, but she knew he’d do anything for her.

Their worlds merged seamlessly, like two puzzle pieces finding their perfect fit. She brought light into his life, softening the harsh edges, while he grounded her, his quiet strength a constant she could always rely on. She showed him that love didn’t have to be loud, didn’t have to shout to be real—it could be found in quiet moments, in shared silences, in the warmth of a pink-hued room filled with laughter and warmth.

One evening, as they sat together in her room, her head resting on his shoulder, Levi looked around at the pink walls, the fairy lights casting a soft glow, her toy collection carefully arranged on the shelves. And he realized that this was his home now, not the empty apartment he used to live in. Y/N was his home.

With a gentle squeeze of her hand, he whispered the words he’d held inside for too long. “I love you, Y/N.”

She turned to him, her eyes wide, a smile blossoming on her lips. “I love you too, Levi. Even if you are a bit of a neat freak.”

And as she laughed, her voice filling the room, Levi felt something he hadn’t felt in years: a sense of peace, a certainty that this was where he was meant to be. In a world softened by pastels, his shadows finally felt at rest.

Levi Ackerman, the man who had spent his life in shades of gray, had found his heart painted in hues of pink. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[delicrieux]

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 & 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐞 | endless oneshots (winter edition)

pairing—regulus black x reader genre—angstyyy summary—a moment shared in the living room word count—3.4k

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open!

the wall distracts you. the great family tree of the noble house of black. on their velvet sofa you find yourself quite small faced with the vastness of the room – in front, the magnificent tapestry of a lineage woven into time and into objects, like a permanent impact; in back, the frost covered windows, and further still, the late afternoon glow of the sun burning the whole of london. you imagine, briefly, yourself painted in. your small portrait and your name. you long for it in moments; you know no other wish. the shape of you has been made for this only.

how tedious. how meticulously exact the needlework must be to look appealing. how with your wand you can only return the inner lapel of regulus’ coat to its pristine condition and begin again. each time, the frustration threatens to spill through bitten lips. an uncaring loop thrusts through skin and hits bone. you give up, almost, with the silver thread coiled around your fingers like a hair. r. a. b. shouldn’t be too hard, should it? three letters only, sown by hand, a small, meaningless claim to a coat he already owns. as if he can’t recognize his things, how silly. by the seventh poke you wonder if this odyssey has any significance to it. why grapple to capture a tempest in a teapot? you could easily weave it into existence with magic.

it would still be a kind gesture, a thoughtful one. an affectionate one, even, if regulus cared to look – see the tired hands, the waxen expression, the lapel grasped so tightly. the look you’d give for a second because you couldn’t bear to be more honest than that. i did it for you, please wear it and think of me.

but no, it must be done by hand, else the magic won’t work. something about labor, the repetitive loop and pull that sows in more than letters. fixes more than thread. such a potent protection, only from what you can’t say. in a blood-warm waters of a dream, you puzzled over a crystalline cave in search of something precious, only you couldn’t recall what. in april of next year, regulus will die there, and you’ll never know. but he’ll wear the coat with his initials woven by your hand, and that will be enough.

you don’t look up when he enters, but you recognize the footsteps. regulus is never direct, at least, not with you. he’ll circle the tapestry and then circle the windows and circle the coffee table and then he’ll have nothing left to admire so he’ll admire you. sit beside, throw a glance at your pious work and draw, with his eyes, the shape of your profile. think, perhaps, of a branch of the family tree from his portrait to something that doesn’t yet exist, or the rose-bush pattern of the couch and how one branch connects his shoulder with yours.

“what are you doing?”

“making sure you don’t lose your things,” what a non-response, as if he’s known to misplace objects or articles of clothing. regulus can be careless, but never to warrant worry over useless matters such as this. he has many coats, and can purchase just as many if not more, and if petty, he can pilfer from sirius and row because the silence had grown too loud, “don’t make fun of me, it has to be hand-stitched or the enchantments will fade."

"i was never going to," he says, a faint twitch of amusement about the mouth. regulus always likes that you take his jokes seriously or his comments too light. that, from anyone else, you'd hardly even register. it makes him special, perhaps. as though only he is worth the recognition, or you desire him to have it, "...is this my birthday gift?"

"birthday, don't make me laugh," you mumble, biting the inside of your cheek, "would hardly be appropriate. it's a christmas gift."

"christmas." is the offhanded response. a statement, an assessment, but without judgement. only regulus can wield that so cooly. can live in between worlds that should not overlap. androgyne in tone and disposition, and the sound of it, your name, sweet as any chocolate. you glance up and smile wryly, "oh."

"oh indeed," you utter, and the final, hesitant thread is plunged to the fabric. his initials gleam as freshly cut silver. you offer him the needlework, "there." pride fits in your mouth like a candy well liked, sweetens the tone into something likely mocking, "not bad, is it, regulus? or perhaps you think hand-stitching is out of fashion and outdated, a lost art of our aristocratic roots."

regulus doesn't respond. his touch is a cautious one. fingers slide gently across the intricate curve of his initials and trail it upward to the collar and you pretend not to notice. regulus must always inspect things like an artist inspects his pieces. with a certain amount of scorn and longing.

"if it's for christmas," regulus says quietly, still running his fingers along the letters, "do i need to return a gift to you?"

you stop yourself short of giving the response that is right at the tip of your tongue. the verbiage is odd. instead, "return?"

"yes. to match, or rather, one that compliments. does such a custom matter much?"

"ah, well," it does, of course it does. such gifts are not for two sides. they're something sacred for one side only. he's not nimble with his fingers nor patient enough to wield a needle. he'd quit before the first draw of blood on cloth from his useless hands. he could magic it, but that would feel like a lie. what is this offer, or is it a suggestion? an implication? more daring than the look he gives you, certainly. no, he couldn't possibly imply something so domestic. regulus is not the type. so it can only be you reading too much. a stanza where there should be none, "you'd ruin my coat."

"naturally," regulus doesn't smile, not even to go along with his deadpanned tone, as though he could think of no better possibility, but you know better, or at least you tell yourself this. you do; how his head tips slightly towards you, the steady gaze, and the quirk of his brow, it's a rare breed of expression he dons only to you, when he can't bring himself to a more chaste form. you could spend hours sorting every fraction of difference, so keen they are to the point that you swear they must exist. you wouldn't be surprised if someone else says they see nothing,"... a handmade gift for a handmade gift. just for you."

"for me," is all you can muster in response, perhaps hoping you'd hear it clearer, and less vague and silly, in your mouth than his. he has given you presents. lovely, but impersonal. his brother shows more interest even if he has none for you. sirius hears but regulus listens and then willfully picks things everyone would like to receive. the ideal gifts, never with heart or consideration, yet you wear them proudly to hide your bitterness, because such attention is not unwanted, and neither is this. regulus is not incapable of more but his more is reduced to a subtle nothing, like a glance at the tapestry and a thought.

"...the needle's sharp." is the offhand observation, "you're bleeding."

regulus's concern is odd and undefined; you're not the most affectionate of friends. the fondness shared, the gentle jibes, are for you, really, because how else can you convince yourself you're happy. or to soothe the aching of that pesky hope, the wish and want of the moon reflected upon water. your gaze is steady. your hand is steady, "see how much i care?" and you hold up your middle finger with a smile, "i bleed for you."

he does look at it. his lips quirk into a ghost of a smile. "do you." he says, and returns to you, the trace of a frown on his face as though he's grown distressed with such a gesture, and like an adult will scold their pet for bad behavior, says, "really, that's quite silly. no, worse. don't do such unnecessary things to your pretty hands."

pretty, he says, and how easy would it be to mock him or put him in his place with a joke and a teasing word or two. is he making fun of you again? it's only an insult when delivered to the point. and it would feel worse when he isn't, when he's just offering a compliment in a strange sort of way.

"doesn't hurt that much." you say with a confidence unshaken, and the wounds are so meager they're not even worth healing. they'll dry and close before he can lift his wand for episkey or conjure a bandage. but they'll remain, for a day or two, as proof of your diligence. the methodical elegance that comes from creating a handmade gift. you'll look at your hands and know they have worked to protect him.

it hurts a bit more when he reaches for them. if you really did want to press, he'd insist or, with a haughty glare, defy you and prove the strength of his own silly pride, but he only asks, and then, does so with such tenderness you would think he held glass and not your injured hands, the result of a restless task meant for his comfort. your fingers stings the slightest against the brush of his fingertips, calloused and slightly cold, "...you've always been a fool."

"only when it matters," you say softly.

when he says your name, he lingers on the last syllable, with the tilt of his head and the curious narrow of his eyes. to pick apart and discern. to wonder. only briefly, like all his attentions, does the hand linger. the expression you want is not one he'd be willing to show so clearly, not even in the warmth of the dying light.

"stop saying ridiculous things." regulus says after a pause. he won't, however, release your hands. they remain there in his grip, unmoving and together.

"learn to take a joke," you answer.

he leans forward. "make it funny and perhaps i will."

"funny," you can't say a thing to that, yet you've thought up many. later, when he is asleep and his pale face is illuminated by the moonlit night, you'll recite all the things you could not.

"got nothing else to say?" a quirk of the lip. joined hands, fingers intertwined, though not so securely. loose enough that if the mood strikes or a strange sentiment overcomes him, he'd break them apart and away.

"oh, plenty," you can't keep your face straight, and so your smile is quick to return, "i’ve only taken pity on you. did you miss the sound of my voice already?"

"very presumptuous, aren't we," he glances aside, "and really, so outlandish. the nerve. you have the nerve."

"i suppose i do." you squeeze his hand lightly, "nerve. candor. the quality that earns a great admirer."

"or the ire of all who know you best," he tilts his head to the side, glances quickly at you, and with a surprising amount of assertiveness, curls his fingers tighter around yours, "i appreciate that you'd like to share your charisma but some people don't consider charm to be a particularly laudable virtue."

"that's such a bad lie that i might as well be told you don't think i'm charming at all, not in the slightest. and oh, there we are, what a pout. you're entirely predictable."

"and you entertain me, still."

"you're the one that holds my hands hostage," you note wryly, wiggling your fingers slightly.

regulus doesn't have a quick response for that. at most he offers the roll of his eyes. doesn't let go, simply presses. let's a drop of your blood stain his skin. when he speaks again, he's grown thoughtful, "...hostage, yes?"

"...oh, do stop that," a pause. the silence lingers, "no, that's quite unfair."

"do you think so or not?"

your pulse throbs loud enough to deafen you. it is a foolish question and the answer is a clear enough indication of what you think. what motive could he have? to delight at the humiliation of your confession or to watch you tangled in a lie you clearly don't believe? the truth is so obvious it's untactful to inquire about its validity.

he sounds so serious as his thumb brushes along the dips and hills of your knuckles, "well? your answer? or is a minute not enough to think of something witty?"

at this, you frown, "regulus." and it comes quiet, like a warning.

"thought it came naturally to you. such creativity."

he has grown to be cruel sometimes. most times, rather, when it suits him to be. a petty, petulant thing not yet ready to leave its comfortable shell and grow beyond, "you must be eager for me to release you," he adds. a bitter afterthought.

"are you done?" you ask.

"what shall you do with your hands once they’re free?" he wonders, "sow something for sirius? he’d be wrecked if he didn’t receive a gift like mine."

"regulus." you repeat with a frown, "don't."

"why not?" he blinks.

"a gift doesn't mean anything if it's a gift for the masses."

"well, it'll be custom, i imagine," he says, "with his initials this time."

"regulus," a third time you've said it, a sharp tongue to cut, "stop it. you're being mean."

his eyes are cast downward, expression impassive. "if this is what it takes to get you to respond, then perhaps i am."

this isn't the game. the one where he'll pretend not to care so as to observe how you'll react. it is the type where you'll act cold enough he'll hesitate. then he'll carelessly expose himself so the hurt can be delivered with ease. an offense so great you'll seek the sweet relief of exile.

"i made it for you," you utter, barely a whisper, "no one else."

"is that so."

"if you don't want it, i won't force you to keep it."

"no, i like it," his expression has remained the same, if not with a certain lack of conviction, a flat tone you want to interpret as some half lie, but you don't. instead you nod. a half-hearted turn of your head before meeting his eyes.

"a bit possessive, don't you think? getting so cross over a made up problem?" you inquire.

"made up, huh?" you like the inflections of his voice, and even in his reluctance he maintains them, the gentle flow, the steadfast determination to the subject.

"mhm."

"thought it was logical to assume. you're friends."

"i have a different gift planned for him."

"different?" he clarifies.

"quite," you say, all sorts of bitter, "a broom cleaning kit."

that, at least, seems to somewhat appease him. and regulus settles, ever so slightly, his brow a faint twitch. the motion you always want to trace with your fingers, and map along until you memorize every curve and line and plane of his face.

he adjusts your hands again, idly thumbing over the slope and curve. he is thoughtful again, contemplative and somber and nothing more. a lingering fear clings to the curve of his mouth, "do you ever wish you could disappear?"

the question has no context, and it strikes you as the type that never did, with a subtle heaviness he is familiar with the implications of. it is only in a selfish way that the fear occurs. his isolation, perhaps. or he must assume that all others can share a similar loneliness, though only in different quantities.

"do you?" you ask instead.

"perhaps. sometimes. maybe not." he does, you think, look as though he often considers running away to somewhere no one else is aware of him. or if he's not wanted there, then elsewhere. somewhere remote and a touch fantastical. a desperate escape from family tradition, from being the second born son. a desire, or rather, absconding from responsibility. to be far and forgotten; to live a life you believe would bring you some semblance of peace and happiness, though not enough for the longing to subside and never enough for him to admit to it. no, regulus would first die than admit it out loud.

admit the envy he has for his brother. admit to wonder if anyone would look for him if he was to disappear.

you would. even if the rest wouldn't, you would. and if they did, how angry it'd make them if you refused to quit searching. it strikes you suddenly and without remorse, as if you've been pushed into a pile of snow. it's him you were searching for in your dream.

"no, then?" his voice shakes you away. your expression had frozen over, had it? how rare it is, to see worry worn so openly in the shape of those brows.

"sometimes," you answer honestly, though you're never quite sure where that might be. a growing, restless worry expands in the pit of your stomach. as though your nightmare is not so far from becoming reality. that one day, you'll search for him to the edge of the earth only to never find him again, "you aren't thinking of leaving, are you?"

he's taken aback by your expression. "of course not," he reassures, and he seems as though he means it, "i'm only indulging hypotheticals."

"alright."

"are you okay?"

"sure. yes. yes, absolutely."

regulus peers at you closely, scrutinizing, the gesture intense and pointed in its nature. and he returns to tracing the veins on your skin, a practiced art. a light tickle that has you shivering, not that you'd want to move away. never from him.

you hear him, soft and hushed. perhaps it is more suited to the intimacy of the moment and not that he's become ashamed. a faint, lovely mumbling that you would like to indulge forever if possible, "i'm really not going anywhere." he brings your hand to his lips after a moment of hesitation, like he needs the courage, the comfort. an earnest reassurance in a form of a small kiss as if it were his own insecurities at play, "here's okay. here's more than enough."

you nod. whisper, when you realize how close the two of you have become, "yes, stay here."

"...you as well."

"i will."

"wouldn't want to run around looking for someone who's meant to stay within my sights, anyways."

and it is you that laughs a little too hard to seem genuine, "as though you'd do such a thing."

he answers with a confidence unshaken yet poorly disguised by the restraint shown, "i don't plan on ever losing sight of you."

your eyes meet and hold, but neither will ever confess to be the one who glanced away first. for different reasons, perhaps, and no less of a humiliation. no less difficult to accept. the sight of him is too difficult to bear; the hair framing his face and the gentle hue of pink that grows steadily redder the longer he holds your gaze. he drops your hand first, and you resist the urge to run your fingertips down the sharp of his jaw and feel the softness of his skin or tug his bottom lip and hear the shuddering intake of air. to feel what can't be expressed, at least, not so simply.

you can't blame regulus for not wanting to admit it. he's shaped by his surroundings, has grown up in a family that doesn't permit affections. he doesn't know the structure of i'm sorry or thank you or i love you. but if only for a second, surely, he can try to imitate. you treasure each of his clumsy syllables and failed tries because he has never attempted anything of this sort for anyone else. the success doesn't matter, because he is earnest, at least to the degree of his own understanding and limit, and it's easier to say what's painful in silence.

or, maybe, nothing's difficult when the sun's nearly gone. when the window pane burns pink and white, and when the stars appear through the haze of fog and snow, and you think of the future, with him, but as the heirs of two prominent houses together, and it feels like a fairy tale that way, not quite real. so long as you imagine it with a dreamy detachment, you can convince yourself it doesn't matter further than a wish that will never come true.

because you've never learned to say i'm sorry or thank you or i love you, either.

thank u for reading <3

[secret-smut-sideblog]

we all know how vicious gale can get when he's spurned in game, so I thought about how nasty he could get during a fight. and the nuclear amount of fallout after the dust settled. sooo I bring you this~

Hard Times

18+ fighting (verbal), hurt feelings, night terrors, insomnia, allusions to drowning, terminal illness (sort of), grief release, intense feelings of guilt/inadequacy, tender care, thigh riding, oral (m!), reconciliation

After a venomous spat with Gale, Aurum finds herself in the prison of her dreams again. But with several pairs of hands cradling her, she doesn't have to weather it alone. And, perhaps, find her own vindication in the aftermath...

Masterlist

-

"Gods, Aurum, just speak to me!" Gale urged, voice swollen with anger.

She wasn't sure how the fight started, but tensions had been pulled tight as a violin string. A day with too much strife and even less success. Ground soaked in wasted sweat and blood born of friendly fire.

Aurum didn't want to fight, keeping her face cool and controlled. But it seemed that Gale did, and her veil of calm burned him ever hotter. Desperate to break her mask.

"I don't want to fight with you." Her voice came out soft, encouraging a cease fire. Face held in its pantomime, overriding the pinch sitting in her chest.

"No, of course you dont." His voice a cold bite. "Why would you? I can't expect you to be as open as I am. Not with that wall of stone you've trained around your heart."

A jolt of pain hit her chest, and, as if hearing him, a shock of burn accompanied along. Gritting her teeth against the pain, smothering a flare no easy feat.

"That's not fair." She breathed. Fighting the rage tremoring near her words.

But he had seen that he shook her. Not done prodding, fingers digging into the fracture he made.

"Fair? Nothing about loving you is fair. Between losing you to time and your staunch desire to keep me on the outskirts of your inner world... Hardly fair, that."

That stung, but she had expected it. Her demise was a circling vulture over them always. The venom he injected into it was less needed, but his anger was warranted.

"Are you near done? You've wounded me, you got what you wanted." She seated her voice back into its hilt of calm.

But that lit him into a blaze. Back bristling.

"I've wounded you? Have I? Color me shocked, as I couldn't even begin to see it on you."

"No, I'd have to try much harder, wouldn't I? I'd have to give much more strenuous effort to get you to give me the courtesy of your anger."

He stepped forward, a burning shadow.

"But anger seems to be beneath you. Funny. The apple falls far from the tree but won't gouge the rot from its core."

A physical shot of shock struck through her, face hitching in a wince. Her eyes clenched closed, a sharp intake of breath hissing through teeth.

And, just like that, he stopped. She lifted her eyes to a horrified silence settling over his face.

"Too far." She whispered, a grief laced laugh at the edges.

"Aurum, I'm s-"

"We're leaving." Astarion's hand came to her back, propelling forward between shoulder blades.

Gale stepped forward, tears filling the corners of his eyes. Reaching out for her hand.

"Don't touch her." Astarion threatened, voice deadly sharp. Holding Gale's stare.

"You're lucky she loves you, I would so enjoy taking you apart."

His voice fell into a low laugh.

"Though, let's hope she won't for much longer. After the blood you've spilt."

"Come, darling." He encouraged again, voice laced in posh reassurance.

Aurum nodded, cold in the aftermath of shock. Grateful to have someone to take her from him. She paused at the door, bolstered in Astarion's presence. Turning to level her hurt at him.

"I chose you. After everything... I chose you. Remember that."

Gale's face split in a desperate take of breath. Propelled torward to her again, a pleading apology forming on his lips.

But she was already turning, nodding at Astarion. The door leading out of the Elfsong a punctuation falling closed behind them.

-

The world tilted sideways, cool river stones against her temple. Circling call of insects from somewhere high in the grass. Moving water tickling her knuckles.

As water danced around her fingers, salt water flowed down the arch of her nose. Silent tears dripping down onto smooth stone. Laying on her side, hidden in the reeds.

It had been a long time since she had held the full weight of her grief. And Gods was it exhausting to carry.

A blistering warm hand spread wide across her back.

Karlach didn't speak, settling on folded legs behind her. Lifting her head onto her lap, fingers carding gently through her hair.

Aurum squeezed her shin, blinking hot tears onto her leather thighs.

They didn't speak for a long time, just holding in her silence. Her thigh getting wet with tears.

"I'm so tired."

"I know." Karlach smiled gently above her.

"I'm so tired of him tied to me." Her voice hollow in its pain. "I just want to sleep. I want to sleep at night."

"I know, baby. I've heard your night terrors."

Aurum swallowed, turning her face into Karlach's solid thigh. "Please, can I just sleep?"

Karlach cupped under her cheek, leaning down to tilt her temple into hers. Folding over her in silent protection.

Murmuring against her hair.

"I'll hold you, okay? Sleep a little."

Aurum's fingers tightened on her shin, then loosened in exhaustion. Body giving to the fall gratefully.

"Thank you." A soft sigh. Her eyes lead weighted. Pulled deep into the earth.

Falling for only a moment, then quick pulled away by the tide.

Gurgling. Thrashing.

No. Not here again.

Thrashing. Fingernails clawing at her wrist.

Come on. Wake up.

Black hair in her fist. Water sloshing into her forearm. Adrenaline cold in her veins.

Wake up!

"Aurum! Wake up!"

Karlach caught her as she fell backward, the memory disintegrating around her. Distantly aware of a scream, realizing it to be her own.

"You're here! You're back!" Karlach called over her hitching screams, holding her tight to her warm chest.

Aurum panted, wide-eyed in panic. Gripping at her back.

"Shhh... breathe, soldier."

"How long was that?" Aurum finally gasped out.

"About three hours."

Karlach pointed at the horizon.

"Look, the sun is coming up."

Tears pooled disappointed in her eyes, blinking them away with a steadying huff of breath. Cold acceptance bolstering her.

"That's better than nothing." Wiping away with sure fingers. "We have too much to do today."

"Do you want me to, well, let's say encourage Gale to stay back today?"

"No. We need him. We'll need all the firepower we can get."

"You're sure your up to it?" Her voice tender in concern

What choice did she have?

Aurum nodded, rolling her shoulders. Psyching herself up.

"Oh, Gortash is going to feel so good under my boot." Karlach growled.

-

"I need to see him." Karlach shuddered, nearly avoiding her gaze. "I need to be sure."

They drew forward, Gortash's still body laid face down in a pool of blood.

Karlach flipped him onto his back with a kick of her boot.

"That's... it?"

She stared down at his slack face. Eyes clouding and rolled into sockets.

"He's just... dead? Am I getting that right?"

Her voice rose in anger as she began to tirade.

"He's dead, and he isn't sorry. And I'm still dying."

Turning to Aurum with desperate rage.

"You're dying and I'm dying, and we get to join this fucker in the City of Judgement soon! And you-"

Turning on Gale and Astarion.

"You'll just keep going won't you. Watching the stars, warming yourself by the campfire, dancing, drinking, feeling the blood in your veins. All of it!"

Fire ripped from her with the same grief burned fury as her words. Locking eyes with Aurum.

"That's our reward, for all we've suffered! To burn away into fucking ash!"

She fell to knees, pushing her temples into her fingers. Voice shaking with drained rage.

"It isn't fair. I don't want it like this."

Aurum kneeled to her and slid under her arms, holding their bright chests to each other. The seat of their dual demise pressed in embrace. Blood slow soaking up their knees.

"I don't want to die. I want to stay." She wailed, gripping into the armor on Aurum's back. "I want you to stay."

"We can stay for a little longer." Aurum hushed into her ear.

"But what then? What the fuck are we supposed to do?"

"Hold on. We're supposed to hold on to each other."

Karlach sobbed into her shoulder, burying her face into her hair. Wide hands pulling tight. Two figures standing tearful watch of two entwined, bracing in the face of the inevitable.

"She's in good hands." Wyll's clapped down on her shoulder. "Get some rest, my friend."

She knew there was very little of that on her horizon, but appreciated the gesture anyway. Giving him a grateful smile.

He gave her two pats in depart, heading down the hall.

Aurum padded quietly, then finally stood at the barrier. Their small shared world beyond. A portal separated by oak.

She could feel him inside. The quiet of the room ahead held in anticipation. A silent statement:

You will have to face him, eventually.

She put her hand on the knob and moved through the veil.

Gale stood on the balcony, facing away from her. Back tense.

Closing the door softly, she came to the bed. Sitting down, letting down her hair. Taking a few deep breaths before announcing her presence.

"Gale?" Her voice low, not bothering to hide her exhaustion.

He whirled around. Eyes landing on her stained and raw with tears.

Rushing forward, he fell at her lap. Kneeling at her altar, seeking to beg for forgiveness.

"I'm so so sorry." He gasped, head bowed at her knees. Hands grasping blind at her thighs. "I love you so much. So completely. How could I speak to you like that?"

"I'm so disgusted with myself!" He buried his eyes into his forearm. "I've never deserved your love, and now I don't even deserve to be in your presence."

He looked in wild desperation no higher than her clavicle. Making eye contact with her light smothered chest, crumbling further into himself. Face tight with grief.

"Please, leave me. Stop loving me."

She ran her hands through his hair, staring down at him. Only patient love pouring from her touch.

Despite his pleas, when she cupped his face, he leaned into her. Eyes closing tight, pressing his hand over hers.

"Gale, look at me." She whispered.

His teeth gritting, he slowly opened his dark circled eyes. Black and shining with prisms of tears.

"Did you eat today? When we got back?"

His lower lip trembled, face turning from hers in a sudden ragged sob.

"Here," She hushed, pulling under his shoulders. "Let's get you taken care of."

Aurum's lap damp, she gently washed his hair. Bath water steaming around his slumped shoulders.

Random boughts of quiet tears would hitch his chest. His hand kept reaching back to weakly pull her away from him. Her hands returning to their work in the same motion, undeterred.

"Lean back." She encouraged, tipping his head gently with her fingertips.

He slowly revealed his face to her, eyes tightly closed.

"Water." She warned softly. Pouring it through his hair in two steaming bucket fulls. Pulling the soaps through with a massage on his scalp with her free hand. Her front thoroughly wet now.

She slid the bucket away with her foot and cupped the back of his head in both hands. Leaning down to whisper the softest kisses on his swollen eyes. The skin tight and warm under her lips.

"Do you think you could eat?" She murmured.

He shook his head, gripping white knuckle on her forearm. Eyes still willed shut.

"Could you try? For me?"

"I... my stomach. It hurts."

"Nauseous?"

He nodded.

"Okay, I'll get you some tea."

His eyes finally opened.

"Why are you doing this?" Voice shaken in desperate guilt. Ripping through his chest.

She kissed his forehead. "Come on, let's get you dry."

She wrapped him in a bath robe, wringing out his hair in a towel. Sitting on the bed behind him.

The cup of tea sat still in his hands, near limp in his lap. Head still bowed, refusing to actively participate in her care.

"It's getting cold." She encouraged, bending her leg around his folded knee. Nudging gently with the heel of her foot on his shin.

He shook his head in a small tremor.

She sighed, reaching around to take the mug from his loose grip.

"You're not going to make this easy on me, are you?" Her voice soft with reproach.

Lifting the mug above her shoulder, she swung her thigh around his hip. Standing on knees, she took a pull of ginger tea into her mouth. Holding him by the crest of his chin.

Pulling with a gentle resolve on his jaw, she pressed her lips to his. Pushing the mouthful into him in an open kiss.

He gripped at her wrist, shock opening his mouth to her.

Taking her advantage, she took another swig. Leaning his head back, pouring from her into him. Thumb caressing his throat in an encourage to swallow.

He finally relented, his throat pulsing under her hand. Allowing her to sustain him. The whole cup drunk between them as tears streamed down his temples.

"Thought you were going to let me drown you for a second." She laughed, thumbing away his tears.

"Would you?" His request a little too sincere.

"No." She chirped easily. "And I would feed you from my mouth if you'd let me."

She kissed both of his cheeks, pushing her body forward. Encouraging him to lay back. He fell, hand hovering over her lower back for a moment before resting in its usual home.

She was still sweaty, damp, and honestly, hungry. But she would be damned if she didn't ensure his sleep before attending to herself.

Laying her full weight on his body, she hitched one leg over his hip. Turning her head into his chest. Softly trailing little caresses into the skin along the base of his hairline.

He shivered, leaning his head to the side. Angling open to her touch.

She smiled, other hand rising to run parallel. Just the slightest skating of her nails added.

His cock stirred beneath her, and she slow rocked her hips into him. Feeling it get more rigid at her encouraging.

His hands fell to her hips, starting to push her away.

"Are you still upset with me?" She whispered into his chest. Allowing him to pause her.

"What? No!" He breathed.

She leaned up on forearms, staring tender down into his tear exhausted eyes.

"Do you want me to go?"

"I..." His eyes darted uncertain, but his hands pulled her down into him.

She waited, patiently running figure eights on the hair along his chest.

"No." He finally stated, eyes boring sincerity into her. "Never."

His hands took up in her same slow wave on her hips, asking.

She smiled at him, leaning on her propped palm. Grinding in time, eyes starting to glaze over. Breath coming out a little more strained. Pleasure blooming from her pelvis.

Sliding her other knee up, she leaned up to sit between his thigh and hip. Friction from her underclothes sending hitching jolts with each rock forward. Propping his knee up to anchor her hands on his outer thigh. Her hips suddenly insistent.

He gasped out, rising up to pull on her ass in assistance. Staring at her rutting with awed lust. Positioning her into the hard ridge of his hip bone.

She whimpered into the back of her throat. It had been so long since she had pleasured herself this way. The simplicity of it struck a flint of something primal in her. Chasing her heat in fast thrusts against his hip. Her exhaustion left her unabashed in her seeking. Face tensed, small cries leaving her as she quickly climbed.

"Yes, yes," He hushed, seeing the feral lust she ground into him. "Yes, please- oh Gods that's so sexy-"

Her peak fast barreling, she gripped fingers into his thigh. His hard cock weeping next to the grazing of her thrusting.

Her moans muffled into needy squeaks in her throat, building and quickly connecting into a soft chorus. The desperate ache in her pelvis about to collapse.

"Please cum, just like that." He gasped out, rising onto a propped hand. "Yes, use me. Use me for your pleasure. Gods, don't stop-"

Her orgasm hit her in writhes, pushing hard down into his pelvis. Riding it out in flattening fast drives. His hip soaked with her cum.

She fell into his propped thigh, turning her head into the top of his knee. Gasping and basking in the afterglow for a moment.

But she still had a goal in mind.

He had leaned up to twine his arms around her front, but she slipped down first. Settling on her belly between his legs. Dragging a flat tongue up from the base of his cock.

He shuddered, twitching up towards her mouth. Giving a silent plea.

"Aurum, wait-" He huffed, winding a hand into her hair. Unconsciously pulling toward his center. Body uninterested in his guilt.

She gave one hard suck, seating him to the back of her throat. His body arched under her, hand leaving her hair to grip into sheets. Panting out a hitching whine.

If he thought she had stopped taking care of him, he was dead wrong.

She bobbed her head, slurping loudly as her tongue pulled flat and twisted. Hand taking up at his base, her dripping saliva easily coated under her fist. Pumping tight pulls, mouth suctioning and sloppy.

His head turned into the bed above her, pushing loud uncontrolled moans into a pillow. Thighs twitching in jolts, belly getting more and more tense. She laid her palm on his lower belly, feeling the muscles bucking under her.

She could tell he was going to cum hard, the lower half of his body moving independent of his control. Ribs curling up, one palm pushing on the headboard. Still muffling his loud cries into cotton.

She seated him all the way in her throat, holding her breath. Hand tightening even more, blurring in fast thrusts.

His head shot down, rising on elbows. Shock ripping through his blinding pleasure.

She looked up through lashes at him, and starting swallowing. Humming in the back of her throat.

"Ah! AH!!!"

His head craned back, body tremoring in a deep tense. Hips fucking up into her throat.

She opened her throat for him, holding still as he thrust deep into her. Cum shooting warm waves down her esophagus. Her cunt fluttering, gripping his ass in her hands. Encouraging the drive of his hips. Starting to get lightheaded but with no drive to stop.

His hand cupped hard over his mouth, stifling final loud whimpers and half formed pleading words.

He fell boneless into the mattress, eyes rolling loose in sockets. Hips still twitching with aftershock.

Rising back into a kneel, she wiped her mouth. Finally allowing her anger to take root.

"To answer your question." She patted genially on his hip. His body jolted at the touch.

"I did this one: because I love you." She held up a single finger.

"And two..." Lifting another. "Because giving you love you don't believe you deserve must hurt you as much as you've hurt me."

He went still below her.

"I'm going to find some idea of sleep in the common area."

She leaned down to kiss softly along his jaw.

"Have sweet dreams." She sighed, rising back. Leg swinging off the bed.

"No!" He huffed, hand grasping her thigh. "Please, don't go. Don't leave me."

His voice shook with fear. As if her walking out now meant forever.

She paused, finally settling to sit at the edge of the bed.

He sighed in great relief.

"Why were you so cruel earlier?" She wound her fingers into his.

"I... I think..." He leaned up the headboard, head low in thought.

"I thought that if you got angry with me, really angry... you would be more honest with me. That it would push you to speak your mind."

She nodded. She thought that was his goal.

"But I just... Gods, I don't know where that venom came from. I said some things that I wouldn't say to anyone."

"Yeah, calling me rotten like my father was pretty awful."

His eyes flinched, out of tears but still trying.

"Unforgivable. I can't explain enough how remorseful I am. I am going to regret that well after my death."

"I appreciate the apology. But honestly, given everything you know about me, it's going to take a while to forgive you."

He nodded, face drawn in deserved sorrow.

"But, for now, I would like to hold you. I really do want you to sleep well. One of us has to."

Another shot of guilt struck him. Pulling her by fingers up to his chest.

"Night terrors again?"

"Yep. The screaming one."

He didn't know the context of that nightmare but had held her in the aftermath of it.

"What... can you tell me...?"

She encouraged him to lay down, wrapping around his back. Nuzzling into his shoulder.

"When I've had that one," She kissed his shoulder. "Do I ever go for your hair?"

He paused in thought.

"Once. It was over quickly, but you..." He pantomimed a hand gripping into the back of his head.

Her own guilt ate her. Shuddering out a sigh.

"I'm sorry, baby."

He tried to turn to face her, but she held strong. Laying her temple into the curve of his neck.

"Just let me hold you."

"What I said... by all that is good in this world. I am-"

"Shhh, I know. You've groveled enough."

He huffed, unamused.

"I love you." She smiled.

"I love you. A thousand times over."

~

[eri-pl]

Silm reread interlude 4: Lay of Leithian canto 8-10

…because the War of Wrath reread is waiting for the event.

We start with Huan's backstory, and a mention that in Orome's house there is strong wine and hunting songs. Oh, an Orome is called Tavros. And he "alone of Gods had loved the world before the banners were unfurled of Moon and Sun". Huh.

His hounds are immortal, unless they get themselves in the Doom of the Noldor. And Huan is "A wolf-hound, tireless, grey and fierce". Also, can see through all shadows and mist, can track months-old scents, and "No wizardry, nor spell, not dart, no fang, nor venom devil's art could brew had harmed him; for his weird was woven."

I love the worl "weird"! (It is basically fate, but it's like a textile — the verb for making it is "to weave"). So, in simple words, his fate was predefined. As we well know.

(Also, not all of Orome's dogs are grey and I think not all are wolfhounds.)

C&C. "Curufin spake: 'Good brother mine[…]" First, arbitrary past tense forms are back! Second: this is a rather …unique usage of the word "good", but ok. Well, maybe compared to Curufin Celegorm deserves it. But also, ha says this partially for show, as later he whispers some other stuff, so I guess he tries to sound like a good guy. Anyway, this opening feels very ironic to me.

They conspire, consider Orodreth to be stupid and want to know how's Finrod. Not out of care for him. Also, a fragment I liked: "and if he bear a Silmaril — I need declare no more in words; but one by right is thine (and ours), the jewel of light; another may be won — a throne. The eldest blood our house doth own."

I love how ominous he is. I will use "I need declare no more in words" as a threat in my posts. XD

Also, a good explanation of their motivations.

Huan's immunity to magic is a trait of all Orome's hounds: "[Huan's] old immortal race and kind no spells could ever turn or bind." And it's in various different places, but Huan's voice (and of all those hounds in general, I think) is deep, low and like a bell. I love this.

The people of Nargothrond seem to know that Luthien is held against her will and not care? Or maybe this line is about the fact that she realizes that she's kidnapped: "Too late she knew their treachery. It was not hid in Nargothrond that Feanor's sons her held in bond, [….] who had little cause to wrest from Thû the king they loved not and whose quest old vows of hatered in their breast had roused from sleep."

Also: 1. They did not love Finrod. Obviously. 2. Again the Oath is presented as something that sleeps and wakes.

Canto 9

We are back at Thû's island. Beren frees Finrod from his oath to Barahir, because he did a lot already, and more than needed. Peak Finrod moment (no, not that kind. The slightly other kind): Finrd says that even if he tells Thû that they are Finrod and Beren, Thû will break his word and kill them, because bad guys are Like That.

Oh, and Beren "thou"-s Finrod (we don't see what Finrod does but he would do the same), which is vely lovely, because this means that Finrod shown Beren that he can treat him like a friend, not like a might Elven king who had seen the Trees etc etc.and so on. :)

And then Thû replies to him, because he was, of course, eavesdropping. And now he knows who they are. Finrod, my dear, I really like you, but this wasn't very wise. ;)

Thû is planning to keep Finrod for ransom (and fun torture) and kill Beren. The rest of the situation goes as usual. Plus we get another title refernce when Finrod frees himself.

Their farewell is not as good as in some other versions. and then we get another stanza in present tense, for… reasons?

Beren dreams of singing, sings when dreaming (?), we get a mention of a constallation called the Burning Briar (which is the Big Dipper, iirc. Rather this than Orion. Those two are Varda's "Morgoth, we'll get you" signs.) "the Seven Stars that Varda set about the North, were burning yet, a light in darkness, hope in woe, the emblem vast of Morgoth's foe."

Lúthien replies. Song-rescue order inverted! That is unusual.

Thû has a black hood! Also, Tolkien repeatedly uses "sable" to mean "black', luckily I read some basics of heraldry and I know the word. He recognizes Lúthien by her song and plans to capture her as in the usual story. And yes, he does stand on his high tower and smile before getting wrecked.

Description of werewolf!Sauron includes gems like: "its fangs more gleaming-sharp and dyed with venom, tornment, and with death." Mmmmm… lovely isn't the best word for it, but the poetry is so good…

And now we learn that Thû has been made by Morgoth.: "the foul spirit Morgoth made and bred of evil". Very non-later-Legendarium.

More lovely poetry: "O demon dark, O phantom vile of foulness wrought, of lies and guile, here shalt thou die" and so on and so forth, unless you give me your island. Also: "thou"! Not "you"! Adding insult to injury. :)

[In case it needs a clarification: "thou" is informal, so it's used between close friends and family and to someone of a lower status, or as an insult. It's a bit like calling someone "bro" instead of "sir". When Beren and Finrod do it it's because they're close friends. When Luthien does it to Sauron is to disrespect him.]

In addition to giving her the island, Lúthien demands Sauron Thû to release his spell on it. In the Silm she removes the spell herself. So we are told that he "betrayed his master's trust". So Morgoth trusts his minions. Funny. Not impossible, but ironic.

Prison crumbled, people freed, surprisingly no single very direct title reference.

Canto 10

We start with nice things: "Felagund laughs beneath the trees in Valinor". This is lovly, this is much better and more evocative than in the Silm, where he just walks beneath them.

C&C get cancelled in Nargothrond and people speak about them in a Mallory-like style: "'Let us slay these faithless lords untrue!' the fickle folk now loudly cried".

They aren't amused, and the description is again great: "Scornful, unbowed, and unashamed stood Celegorm. In his eye there flamed a light of menace. Curufin smiled with his crafty mouth and thin."

The usual misadventure of C&C vs B&L, Curufin is mentioned to have mighty arms, also gets very nearly strangled. Celegorm curses Huan: "Curse thee, thou baseborn dog, to dare against thy master teeth ro bare!"

Baseborn? Orome would like to have a talk with you. At this point, probably the kind of talk that involves a bow, and doesn't involve talking.

We get another (3rd at least) nor/nor about how fearless or invulnerable Huan was. :)

Lúthien adresses Beren as "my lord" (HUH :/ ) and tells him to not kill Curufin, because it would help Morgoth if they killed an ally in war.

Curufin's knife is made by the Dwarves (singing slow enchantments. I imagone Disa from the series.), not by Curufin. Also, it deals magically unhealable wounds.

Beren yeets Curufin! "uplifting him, far him flung, and cried 'Begone!', with stinging tongue; 'Begone! thou renegade and fool" Also, this is another great burn in this lay. Also tells him to go and rethink his life. Which Curufin really should have done.

Aaaand Celegorm curses Beren. …my guys, seriously… "We curse thee under cloud and sky, we curse thee from rising into sleep!" I wonder when did Curufin sign the papers to let Celegorm curse people for him, but I suppose he gladly would.

Also, even Celegorm's arrows show us that he's evil: "a dwarvish dart and cruelly hooked".

There is a part which I don't understand, I have no idea what is said. [after they shot Beren] "though Curufin with bruised mouth laughed, yet later of that dastard shaft was tale and rumour on the North, and Men remembered Marching Forth, and Morgoth's will its hatered helped."

Morgoth is actively hunting for Lúthien. Well, his minions are.

[etinceelle]

Another worl building sheet for Gris and Fauve's story, this time focused on Fauve's origins !

So Fauve is as it was shown previously not human, or at least no totally. She's actually mixed with humans and spirits.

When the disasters happened, the spirits (who were only believed to be from legends and stories) appareared physically to protect the world and the environment.

Fauve's tribe, her ancestors who survived this catastrophy, developped a strong bond with the spirits. Together they became guardians to protect nature.

The spirits gave to Fauve's ancestors the ability to turn into spirit forms too, which gave them some visible changes on their human bodies as well. They were no longer humans anymore but a new kind.

Every spirit is different. The spirit forms doesn't appear from the start, Fauve never turned into her spirit form for example. (the one I drew isn't hers, it's just a beast I liked to draw as an example-)

They all live in a huuge tree (no they don't drink tea there :]]] )

[angel-of-the-moons]

Nothing Is Lost

Khonshu x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Nothing yet! Well... Maybe the angst. Hehehe

A/N: Please save my from my hyperfixation of the angry old bird man. Also, new characters, who dis? owo

Taglist: @drinkingwithkhonshu @astrosphereblog @themostegotisticalgirl124 @patchesofwork

Chapter: 11

Styx And Stones

The air was still, dead. There were no sounds here, not even insects to chirp incessantly at him as his feet silently crept on the stone floors.

The walls were preserved thanks only in part to his magic; the paint still looking as fresh as the day it had dried. His hand ran along the wall, his eyes tracing every motif, marking, word and face.

The most prominent, a woman. A woman whose painting did no justice even close to how she would have looked had you stared at her in the flesh; her twinkling green eyes, her soft giddy smile...

His beloved. His beauty.

And here he was, walking around her gravesite like a ghost; as he had for literal lifetimes, still feeling the throb of his grief as though it had happened yesterday.

A fine layer of dust covered many of the items scattered in the tomb, some thin sheets worn delicate with age; dresses--one of her favorites included; a dress made entirely of various beads--laid out as though they were waiting for her to wake up and select her clothing for the day.

But that day was not to come. Nostalgia plagued him as his gloved fingers brushed through the layer of dust as his hand cupped the cheek of her bust, sat perfectly in place among her things, the gold collar she adored so much glittering even among the dust and the dark.

His fingers trailed over the stone lips before bringing them to his own and returning them to the bust; his best approximation of a kiss. It was nowhere near as fulfilling as when her soft skin would press against his, but... It was all he had left. Just her portraits, her image, and the ghosts of her lingering still hanging in the air like a steel curtain.

His shoes were still silent with every step as he made his way into the main burial chamber, his eyes drawn to the stone sarcophagus in the middle of the chamber. A hole in the ceiling--a false skylight--let in bright rays of his magical moonlight, hitting various gold and silver mirrors, providing soft light to illuminate the room, highlighting the clouds of dust that wafted about as the air was disturbed by his presence.

At the foot of the sarcophagus was a small miniature. Painted to look like the home she inhabited while she was alive, the small basin of water meant to signify her favorite pond long dried; the small budding papyrus plants and lotuses long withered and dead. Small wood and clay statues signifying the date palm, fruit, and sycamore trees around the pond laden with dust; like everything else in the tomb.

His palms spread out over the stone of the sarcophagus, lovingly painted with blessings and spells; stories from friends and loved ones of who she was, what she did, and how her very existence brightened so very many lives.

His included; in ways he didn't expect a mortal to ever inspire him.

He hung his head low, the inscription of her name painted vibrantly and with much love and detail by one of his very own priests. Hell, his priest, his Fist at the time, was the very one to help him prepare her tomb.

She was as much a family to him as though she were his own sister; her death pained him as much as it did everyone else's own hearts. He remembered seeing the tears fall down his face, smudging his eyeliner and causing it to run in black rivers down his cheeks as he administered the final prayers as her coffin was lowered into the sarcophagus.

Khonshu's only and greatest guilt was that he never sounds the identity of her killer, that he never got to see that justice was delivered and the life leave the perpetrator's eyes with his own.

The light dimmed, leaving the chamber in pitch black nothingness; a void he himself has felt like he was swimming through since her life left this world and departed into the next.

"I am sorry, Merit." He whispered softly, his palms curling into fists as his head hung low.

"Okay, miss, the doctor is ready for you, now." The receptionist told you as she slid the glass divider closed once again.

Your fingers tapped your knees anxiously, bouncing as you swallowed the lump of anxiety that had lodged itself in your esophagus before standing, your fingers tapping your thighs as the door to the back of the office opened up for you.

A woman whose skin was spotted and slightly wrinkled; almost stretched too tight over her hooked nose and sharp cheekbones, thick curly auburn hair going silver at her temples. A mole beneath her left eye, her irises a deep green behind her thickly-rimmed glasses. Honestly... she looked more like some sort of librarian than a doctor, but... you had to take what you could get, given your lack of funds and what your insurance would and wouldn't cover.

You step past her and she smiles her thin lips at you, "Well hello, dear. It's nice to meet you, my name is Doctor Pritchard, but you can call me Gale."

"Ah... right. It's... nice to meet you. Um. Gale." You say, trying out the overly sweet woman's name on your tongue. It felt weird, syrupy, almost, but not in a comforting way.

"This way, sweetie." She says, stepping into a door to your right, holding the door open for you to walk in.

The office was rustically decorated. It felt like you were in some sort of log cabin than a psychiatrist's office. She had large flat screens placed strategically on the walls to resemble windows; the real windows covered with thick rugs (or were they tapestries?) to block out the "unsightly" scenery of the city outside.

One the screens was different views of some sort of valley nestled between some mountains. Birds flew by, the trees and tall grass and flowers swayed softly in the breeze; a herd of deer stop to sip at the lake before prancing away. It really did feel soothing to look at, honestly. Cosy, and warm. A far cry from the sterile waiting room you were forced to anxiously chew your nails in before your appointment.

"Okay!" Gale said, gesturing for you to sit on the rather vintage-looking sofa across from her rocking chair, pulling out her tablet and opening a file to begin constructing on you.

"Now, what made you want to schedule an appointment with me, sweetheart?" She hummed at you, tapping away on her tablet.

Your legs begin bouncing again as you awkwardly sink into the too-soft cushions of the couch, chewing the inside of your cheek.

"Well, I--" You sigh, running a hand trough your hair as you try to find a way to explain without sounding like a crazy person.

You swallow deeply, your jaw set tight as you glance away from her and to the soft shaggy carpet.

"It's okay, sweetheart. This is a safe place." She assures you gently, her voice exuding a gentle, motherly tone to encourage you to spill your guts. You tried to ignore the angry pit of snakes that were roiling about in your gut.

"I've been... I've been having night terrors for as long as I can remember. They've gotten... worse. I'm not sleeping, and I--I've been dreaming even when I'm awake, and..."

You start babbling, all the stress and strain of the past several weeks finally slamming down hard on your shoulders, destroying that dam you'd constructed to try and keep the building waters of stress and confusion at bay.

You drop your head in your hands when your throat finally goes dry from your constant speaking, your hands shaky as you try to gather your scattered thoughts; "I just... I... I don't know what to do, or... or how to... to explain what the dreams are."

Gale picks up her phone and unlocks it, tapping something away hastily, "Describe the most vivid scenery you can for me, dear. One that evokes calm and peace."

"Ah, uh..." You balk, trying to think. There were so many, but...

"A.... a pond. It opens up into... into the Nile. There are stone pillars, trees, bushes, flowers... fish. The sky is clear and... the wind isn't too rough." You moisten your dry lips with your tongue and continue: "I could walk out onto the banks of the river. There were plants growing on the banks. I could..."

Your eyes seem to stare off, your mind disconnecting momentarily as you paint the scene as best you could with your words.

"I could see some kind of--of building or something. Boats on the water. Fisherman, maybe... I... I'm sorry but that's all I can..."

"No, no that's very good." Gale assured you brightly. "It helps me with this."

You look up at the "window" screens, and it goes from the peaceful mountain lake scenery to... to an image of an environment you'd dreamt about and imagined and haunted your dreams.

The banks of the Nile, calm and glassy in the early morning--or was it evening?--as birds stayed motionless in the sky, the date trees standing tall and proud around the banks. Scrubby brush, bushes and papyrus plants are visible as well; the most prominent being the buildings in the distance.

It takes her a minute, but she puts the image through some kind of program that animated the water, makes the trees sway and moves the birds in the sky in the background, the fronds of the trees swaying ever so slightly.

"Give me... just a moment." She murmurs, tapping away some more.

After a few seconds, the sounds of water, plants, insects, animals and faint music began to play, and you feel your heartbeat quicken slightly. Neither were exactly as your mind remembered them but... they were close.

You felt a pang of longing in your heart, your stomach twisting as the nest of snakes calm for the moment; no longer striking out within you, instead settling for coiling and slithering over one another. Not as violent as before, but still unsettling.

"I... h-how did you..."

"It's all a part of how I conduct sessions. It puts your mind a bit into the scenery of what you dream about." She said, smiling sweetly at you once again. "My way of conducting sessions is a bit of auditorial and visual relaxation. It's also why my office is so... Comfortable. It's styled off of my daddy's old office he had when I was a little girl! Certainly helps me conduct my work."

You saw in reviews online that her methods were... unconventional. Unconventional, but cheap. Which is ideally what you wanted. You simply couldn't afford a therapy bill that'd wound your wallet (and credit) for years to come.

"Now... there is... another thing I can do to help you get in to the mindset is... well." She chuckled softly, almost sounding like the soft hooting of an owl. "I can put you under a state of hypnosis. Or, well... almost-hypnosis. A trance. Would you like that?"

You chewed your lip. The logical part of your brain knew that realistically... hypnosis was a very controversial subject in the field of psychology. It can be used to manipulate people's thoughts or memories, plant false ones, even. It just wasn't... right.

But then again, your life was anything but "right" lately, wasn't it?

"Okay."

"Wonderful." Gale sighed softly, looking up at you. "Now... lie back on the couch and close your eyes."

You do as she says, your lashes kissing your cheeks as you try and will your body to replace; your pulse still fluttering wildly in your veins, your stomach still rioting with anxiety.

"I want you to loosen every muscle in your body and focus on the sounds I have playing on the speakers. Remember the scenery you explained to me. Imagine yourself standing in the waters of that little pond..."

You hum a peaceful tune as the cool water kisses your ankles, soaking the thin linen of your dress, causing it to stick to your skin as you move deeper into the calm, gentle waves. Birds chirp and the breeze graces your skin gently, the sun occasionally disappearing behind some puffy clouds, granting a moment's respite from the harsh heat.

The baby in your arms coos softly, her big golden-brown eyes glimmer up at you as she babbles; the dark mess of hair on her little head a stark contrast to her skin; the color reminding you of fresh clay before it was shaped. She got her skin tone from her father, definitely.

"Now, Heba..." You giggle as she grasps a lock of your wig, her chubby little fingers trying to grab the shiny beads braided in. You urge your finger into her fat little fist, distracting her enough that she looks at you once again, blinking her curious young eyes up at you in wonder; her round cheeks almost obscuring her eyes as she smiles, the hints of bottom teeth peeking through her gums.

Heba squirms as the water reaches above your waist, tickling her little toes as they poke through the cloth you have her partially swaddled in.

You reach down and pluck a lotus from the water and inhale the sweet perfume that comes from its not-quite-blue center, before holding it beneath Heba's nose, letting her sniff it. Apparently, her little nose did not like it, given how violently she sneezed, a short squeak coming from her and making you laugh.

Her little lip began to wobble as she sniffled, her beautiful eyes welling up with tears--as if you played some sort of mean joke on her. You tuck the lotus behind your own ear and lift her up, peppering chubby cheeks with kisses; kissing away her tears until she cooed and giggled, shoving your face away from her.

Strong arms circle your waist, warm breath tickles your neck as lips leave a soft trail to the skin behind your ear. Heba babbles at him and you can't help but giggle as she tucks herself against your breast, grasping at your gown as she attempts to converse.

"You are a natural with her." His warm voice murmurs against your skin.

"Yes, I do have experience with babies, after all. I remember helping take care of my little brother." You sigh wistfully, remembering how it felt to hold him for that very first time... how fragile and delicate he was before he grew into the boy he would forever be remembered as, even in death.

"I know." He whispers leaning his head over your shoulder so the both of you could peer down at Heba, her innocent eyes blinking up at the both of you with unfiltered, raw trust in her gaze.

Your lover's hand reaches around you and brushes her cheek affectionately. "I am glad I had a hand in her birth. She is a charming girl."

"Oh, and I have a feeling many will be throwing their bundles at her in desperation when she's older. She will be a beauty, that's for certain." You giggle as he nuzzles your shoulder, planting another kiss there.

"A beauty, like you. Let's hope your influence rubs off on her, hm?"

You sigh as Heba snuggles against you again, a small yawn cutely coming from her pouty lips. She would need to be put down for her mid-day rest, soon.

"Merit." His honey-rich voice says as his breath ghosts over your skin.

"Hm?"

"You--"

--sit up with a jolt as a cold cloth is placed on your forehead, your hands scrambling to grip the edges of the couch as your eyes blearily focus on the older woman in front of you.

"Oh, goodness! I was getting worried!" Gale sighs at you, fanning herself in relief. "You started talking in another language in the end, there, dear!"

The sounds of the water, the music, and even the bellow of a hippopotamus in the background is no longer soothing--it is overstimulating you, your heart fluttering wildly like a bird trying to flee a too-small cage.

"Turn it off." You whisper, feeling how damp with sweat your clothing had become.

Gale furrowed her brows at you, but relented, getting up to hit the mute button on the audio track she had pulled up, once more switching the Nile scenery back to the same lakeside view that had been there before you sat down.

"Is that better, sweetie?" Gale asked gently.

Your hands trembled and you wiped your sweaty palms on your thighs, your jeans soaking up your dampness quickly. "Yes. Please. Are we done?" You babble nervously.

"Well... almost, actually. You have five minutes left." Gale said, lifting her eyes to check the cuckoo clock above the doorway.

You shudder, cradling your head in your hands as you made a frustrated sob. Why was this happening to you? You should have known agreeing to that hypnosis shit would be a bad idea!

"Did any... anything I said make sense?" You croak.

"Well, you certainly described much of it in vivid detail. You couldn't describe the man you were imagining," Gale murmured aloud as she wrote something down on her tablet. "Which actually makes sense."

"Makes sense?" You echo, lifting your eyes in shock to look at her as she nods firmly, smiling at you.

"Yes. You are under entirely too much stress, sweetie." She says sadly, fixing you with a sympathetic look. "It isn't uncommon in extreme cases of exhaustion, sleep-depravation, stress and anxiety for our minds to create these... these vivid scenarios for us to escape to--to "run away" from the stress, basically."

Your mouth twists in revulsion at the idea. That wasn't at all what this was! You knew in your heart that it wasn't. Hell, you have an ancient god that occasionally shows up to annoy the piss out of you!

"I don't think--" You start, but Gale cuts you off again, continuously tapping on her tablet the entire time.

"You created this elaborate fantasy, it sounds like, from various forms of input from media you've consumed over the years. I'm guessing you've seen The Mummy a multitude of times as a child?"

"Well, yes, but--"

"And provided that with some school projects, trips to the museums, late-night documentaries... Your mind went to a place in time where the problems you suffer with simply didn't exist. You seem to have a family, a lover, a child! It's a common "apple pie" fantasy as I call it." Gale clicks with her tongue, looking up at you.

"It gives your mind a respite--an escape to a life you think is unattainable given your current circumstances."

You grind your teeth, biting your tongue as she continues to seemingly dismiss your situation entirely as some sort of fantasy you created; nevermind the fact that you've been suffering with dreams and these vivid scenarios since childhood, apparently!

You cut her off as she continues to ramble, "You said I was talking in another language." You grunt, your jaw grinding.

"Why, yes! You were, dear." Gale nods, not bothered by your otherwise rude interruption.

"Okay, if I made up that scenario," You say, leaning with your palms on your knees while your eyes narrowed at her. "How do you explain that?"

"Oh, it can be much of the same as to how you made up that little fantasy," She said casually. "You live in New York, dear. You probably heard the language spoken enough times your brain decided to pick up on it. I'm quite certain you were talking gibberish. Almost like sleep-talk."

You remind yourself to unclench your jaw and suppress the urge to shout at this silly old lady for dismissing almost everything you've pointed out or said as she rattled off her diagnosis and prescriptions she decided to give you...

This was getting ridiculous!

You angrily balled up the prescription notes and tossed them in the trash can outside, making a mental note to write a review about how dismissive this woman was, when you got home. If she induced her "hypnosis" often in her clients, who knows what she was else doing?!

You didn't notice however, a face in the crowd. A tall man, dark hair, hazel eyes, unmoving despite the bustle of the people around him, his suit a crisp stark white.

You didn't notice how he tilted his head at you, a curious and suspicious glimmer within his steady gaze.

Chapter 12: Link

[slashingdisneypasta]

Evil Queen x Fem!AFAB!Reader ll Drabble

Plot: Your gentleman caller thinks you're being attacked by a goblin 🧝‍♂️ before his eyes. He doesn't know about you and your queen's escapades... not even the rumours.

*Inspired by Grumpy suggesting that she can turn herself invisible.

Warnings: This is VULGAR, guys. 'Ghost' sex, eating out, public sex, exhibitionism!!!, dubcon on your end (this is a whole surprise from her) and non con for your poor date. Horny lesbians this is for you.

You're out in the grounds on a walk with a possible suitor (one who obviously doesn't know about your dealings with the Queen. Not even the rumours. A foreign nobel), having stopped under a particularly pretty tree to talk - at a respectable distance from one another, -, when you feel it.

Soft lips on your neck. You're startled, eyes widening for a moment. What in the worl-

The lips, belonging to someone apparently invisible standing between you and the nobel talking on about grain to you, press another cool, lingering kiss on your neck before trailing more of them all the way up your neck- leaving heat all over your skin in their wake. Then theirs a hot breath on your ear and you're truy wondering whether possiblh a malevolent castle ghost, or a goblin or something equally devious and scary has taken interest in you- when Hilda's voice whispers ever so softly in your ear. So soft you almost mistake it for the wind.

"Don't react just yet, pet. Let him think everything is fine... "

The words make you nervous but excitement licks at your insides, too, like a flame; A very bad flame that you should put out. You should, you should, you will...

You can't. You've always been weak when it came to the wills of Grimhilde, your Queen. She could make you do anything far too easily, like some sort of siren. You let her teach you things, familiarise you with things... no Lady should know about.

Like how to kiss, and how to use ones lips and tongue on another lady under her skirts when its just the two of you, and the feeling of two wet 'pussies' gliding against eachother... not to mention that vulgar word... You can't help eagerly anticipating whatever she has in store for you right now. Even if it is a wholly innapropriate moment, and you feel terrified that this man will notice, or see something, and call you horrible names. Ruin your reputation. Ruin you.

As if the Queen hasn't already done that.

Except for your reputation, which is still intact by a loose string in this palace- if only because she handles the rumours. 'Gets rid of them'. How? You're not sure. And you're afraid to ask.

While Hilda continues to leave tantelising ghost kisses all over you, your jaw line and the little sensitive spot where your jaw ends just under your earlobe (There she sees it fit to glide her tongue gently, making you shiver when the breeze blows against the area), you try your best to listen to your date. He's talking about- what was he talking about again?? Oh god oh god!-

"Anyway- my apologies, I must be boring you. No one wants to talk about grain for an entire walk." Grain! Yes, it was grain! That was the topic! As Hilda moves over your chin and to the other side of your face and places a hand on your waist and you wonder shortly if her invisibility spell works on her clothes (or if she's naked right now), the nobel gives a lovely smile and nods. "What are you interested in? Do you read?"

Oh, he's kind. You feel bad for what's happening right now- but Hilda doesn't. Her hand starts to rub slowly up and down your side as she lathers you with kisses. "I do! U-um, recently I've been reading some old fables... a l-little childish, I realise, but they're in Portugese so I'm using them to, ah, learn."

"I think that's very admirable. What made you inclined to learn a foreign language?"

"I wish to travel. And, I figure, if I'm going to be there I should know how to communicate there." Hilda allows you to reply, before leaving a particularly sweet kiss to the corner of your lips. More then the corner. Almost half your mouth. You can't kiss back, though, even if you want to- that would surely be an odd sight.

"Very good." Your nobel date laughs, before going into another tangent- this time about Portugal. He's been there, apparently, and if you were listening you would be revited- but Hilda's kisses are straying down onto your throat. She sucks a little on her way down there before she gets to the neck of your dress, and you feel her smirk against your skin. If you didn't feel unbearably hot before, from the affections and the embarrassment, your skin would definitely boil now from the fluster. She's definitely doing this at least partly to torture you.

It's one of her favourite games.

When she starts kissing down your body, over the swell of your chest and down your corset area, your heart truly starts to beat hard in your chest. Like the wings of a bird fighting to stay in the air.

What is she doing!??

Your skirt is long, brushing against the beautiful green grass of the Queen's gardens (matching the gorgeous, magnificent trees you're under), so she can't possibly go any further!! The man with you would definitely notice!

Absolutely not. She wouldn't. That's too-

You feel breeze on your ankles that wasn't there before and the presence of a hand slpping up between your legs. Fingers rubbing one of your thighs.

The nobelman notices the slight lifting of your skirt, despite the lack of wind and the fact that your hands are far from your skirts, and raises a curious brow. "- I'm sorry, my lady, but there seems to be uh- some malfunction occuring with your dress... "

"Oh, um, I'm not sure- " How to lie about this.

The feeling of Hildas hand rubbing your thigh, along with all the kisses before (and, you'd hate to ever be made to admit it- but the danger of the situation as well) are making you feel familiar tingles in your lower area. A greasy slick is beginning to drench your thighs, and you can't take it!! A dark part of you wants her to continue whatever she's doing.

Make you come, right there.

In front of this man. Out in the open. You know it would be the biggest orgasm you'd ever experienced so far, the most pleasure she had shown you so far, even though you know you would be

Mortified.

And the damage to your reputation, by way of this nobleman, would be irreparable.

- Yet, you feel it in your soul, and between your thighs, that you want it.

... that doesn't mean you have to be slave to those feelings, though. You can stop this, you know it. You should.

Hilda can't possibly make you go through with this, can she?

Even though her fingers are now starting to stroke your dripping wet folds, your skirts raising up higher as they probably glide up her shoulder. You just know that she must look devious. Evil, as they call her in the villages.

... you're about to speak up again, suggest you both (you and your date) go back to the castle- but then something happens that makes your stomach completely flip. The nobleman's eyes blow open wide and he looks horrified.

"G- goblin! A goblin has you!!"

The nobleman grabs for his sword after Hilda pushes your skirts all the way up to reveal you to the outside world, but he's quickly shot with a spark of some kind of magic; sparks of fire erupting from the handle of his blade and causing him to drop it instead kf valiantly 'rescue' you. He goes to grab it again, hurried and clumsy, but another shot of magic makes him still.

"H- " You try to say Hilda, and the nobleman (fully conscious with his wide eyes stuck on you- or more specifically your glistening folds) probably thinks you were going to say help. But it doesn't matter either way, as that is the moment Hilda starts to play with your clit. A choked moan forces its way up through your throat, the sensation of her soft, dexterous fingers rubbing prompt circles in the middle of your folds- spreading your wetness all over your lips. Oh god!- oh fuck!

Your thighs beg to part more widely, give your Queen more room to rub you and finger you, make you cum, but you refuse them. No, no. This can't be happening. Fine, you will allow the man watching to think you're being attacked by an evil forest creature- but you won't spread yourself out before him and give yourself over. Even if it feels magical. No. You can't. You have to at least look like you're in distress! You must!

Hilda starts rubbing her finger in a line through your lips, stroking skilfully against your clit as if it were her own she were pleasuring. It's not, though. It's not her. Its you. She's using yours.

Before you can even think anymore, you feel her juicy wet tongue slide against your pussy, a hot flat stroke all over. A sigh slips out of you, your hips twitching.

Oh fuck- your eyes snap up to the noblemans as Hilda continues to lick you, taste you, take away your fucking sanity.

He's still watching, he saw your face change from horror to pleasure. His brows are furrowed in horror, concern and... confusion. Are you liking this!?? Being taken by a damn fae creature!?

You're so close to just giving in now, because how much worse can it really get with this guy, when Hilda's tongue dips between your delicious folds and her lips touch your delicate private skin. Her tongue is just as adept as her fingers, scooping into you and playing with your clit like a filthy whore would in a brothel (you would never tell her such a thing, but she's aware), and you completely give in.

Your feet step apart in order to make more room for your majesty between your wet thighs so she can kiss and fondle your hole even more with her tongue. She smirks once again into your skin and you hear a devious giggle; her fingers coming up between your thighs again and holding open your folds for her to abhse your hole more directly with her dirty, hungry tongue.

For the gentleman to see better, of course. You know thats what she meant, that's what she would say. At this point you're completely hers. She could make you do anything with her tongue deep in your hole like this, your pussy absolutely loving the feel of her fucking you with it in the open air, clear for this man to watch and see. You notice he has a bulge in his nice pants as well a damp spot, and you look away; closing your eyes.

He deserves a bit of respect. What you can give him, at least. Even if that's just pretending to not notice his arousal at your situation.

Before too long a finger slips into your hole instead of her tongue, digging in deep and stretching your walls so much better then her tongue could. You start moaning more frequently, rocking your hips onto her hand. She adds another finger, ripping you open so good, and then one more, and all 3 begin to thrust firmly in and out of your tiny squishy hole. Your moaning is unabashed now and you know the nobleman is seeing you stretched open in front of him but you can't bring yourself to care at all anymore. In fact- it might be making it feel better, that you're being watched- and wanted.

Your hips roll in the air and one of your hands dissapears into your hair; tugging at the strands and begging Hilda. Pleasepleaseplease. Makememakememakeme. Ijusywannacomeijustwannacome!

When her tongue comes back to you as well as her fingers, licking at your hard clit, you open your eyes a crack and see the man once more before you're sure Hilda will 'get rid of him' like she does all the rumours about you. He looks a terrible mess, caught between horror and lust, and it sends you over the edge.

One more hard thrust from Hilda, her curling her fingers inside you to rub viciously at your tight meaty walls squeezing her, hitting your sweet spot so beyond perfectly, and you come harsher than you ever have before.

[burning-academia-if]

1k Follower Celebration: ???'s short story

Word count: 4k

Summary: Snapshots from the life of a child who was never supposed to survive.

CW: lots of discussion around death, brief mention of animal death, violence, blood

A/N: Once more, sorry this is late! I hope you enjoy the final story!

Once, an infant died. In an old manor, secluded from the rest of the world, a mother couldn’t weep for a child lost. It was a miracle, really, it had lasted through the week. Torn and sickly from birth, the mother cradled its small body. Maybe a hospital might have saved them, had they been allowed such a grace.

            There was nothing in her eyes. She stared, vacant, out towards the window. Her lips mouthed the words of a lullaby and her husband guarded the door. Knuckles white against the frame, he kept his head bowed and did his best not to weep. If he fell apart, then so would she.

            Outside, shadows curled around the windows. It wasn’t like them, to be so curious. The sensation made memories come back in spades, a collection of what they once were. A death of a newborn, unnatural in more ways then they could grasp, attracted them under the moonlight.

            ‘Ask us,’ they sang, ‘And we’ll bring back the child.’

            ‘Save us and we’ll save them.’

            Their voices crept forward, and the woman paused. Her grip tightened around the infant, fingers digging into the cloth. Her husband stepped forward, a warning on his lips. She ignored him and rose, stumbling towards the window. An invitation. They became a swarm.

            “Don’t—!” Her husband’s voice was lost as the darkness in cased her. There were so many, but one took a step forward. A body with a vague human form, hands reaching out. She clutched tighter at the child still.

            ‘Return to us what we desire, and thus we will return back what you desire.’

            “What…what do you want?”

            ‘Our memory. Our humanity. Our souls.’

            It was taboo, for one to return a wraith to their original selves. But truly, playing by the rules had done nothing in their favor. They were both casted out and cursed, and their newborn child had paid the price. Even if the wraiths lied, it did not matter. She couldn’t imagine living, not any longer.

            She held the child out. An offering for the first sin.

            The shadows rushed forward, all at once. The woman cried out, ice running down her spine and spreading through her body. As weak as she was, she sank to her knees, vaguely aware of her husband’s arms wrapping around her. The windows rattled, the darkness became one, and her child cried once again.

//

            They grew fast, both in size and understanding. Their father taught them reading, history, arithmetic. Their mother the sciences and magic theory. Neither her nor their father had magic in their veins, but their mother had said there were other ways to be able to use it.

            It was the wraiths who taught them about life and death.

            Although they were never supposed to go out at night, they snuck out often. They’d go past their parents’ garden and out towards the trees that laid beyond and call for them.

            Every time, the wraiths would chastise them, ‘Never call for wraiths.’

            ‘What if they answer next time?’

            ‘They’ll hurt you, they’ll hurt you.’

            And they would tilt their head and glance between their various forms, “But you’re all wraiths and you’d never hurt me.”

            ‘Not wraiths, ghosts! Ghosts.’

            ‘We are wraiths but we are special.’

            ‘Ghosts!’

            The little ones, as small as them, would argue with the bigger ones. Then they’d grow bored and ask them to play and so they’d run through the woods until they were tired. Arms would wrap around them and when they opened their eyes next, they were in bed and sunlight poured through the window.

            Those were peaceful days. Yes, they were trapped in a world very small, but there was comfort and friends and family. Days the same as a favorite blanket, the only place they would ever want to exist if they could make the choice again.

            Time, however, can only ever press forward.

//

            The first time they found a dead thing, they wept. It was a small bird, likely attacked by another, resting at the edge of the garden and the forest. They sank to their knees, hands shaking as it hovered over its small little body. It was hard to see anything, so blinded by their tears.

            “Oh, little one, what’s wrong?” Their mother wiped her hands on her apron, coated heavily in dirt and grime.

            “I found a bird. A dead bird.”

            Their mother’s arms wrapped around them and they turned and buried themselves against her. She cuddled them close, tucking them under her chin, “It’s alright, dear. All living things will eventually die.”

            “The wraiths say it’s the end for most things. And when it’s not, it’s…it’s…they’re wrong.” They tried to think of what they were told but the words were lost on them and they didn’t want to think, they wanted to cry. They thought they might cry forever, as they hiccupped over their words.

            Their mother stroked her hands through their hair, long and past their shoulders now, “Yes, death is an ending. It does not mean we can’t honor them. Come, let’s bury it and wish it well onto the next life.”

            As their mother gave them gloves and a place to bury the bird, they found themselves asking, “Why do some dead things stay and others vanish forever?”

            “They’re not gone forever.” She placed the body in the ground, hands moving the dirt over to cover it. “They’re merely gone in a place we ourselves can’t reach.”

            “But they’re gone forever from us…” Their voice wobbled, seconds away from tears again and their mother reached an arm out. They let themselves collapse into it, eyes squeezing shut as they took comfort in her.

            She carefully took off her gloves, and ran a hand through their hair, “Not forever. Never forever.”

            She let them stay there, in the midst of a garden. A child learning grief, and a mother only ever steeped in it.

//

            The father paced in his room, the never-ending confinement and the stubborn march of time sinking into his arteries. The mother watched, perched on the edge of bed as though ready to flee at a moment’s notice. How long has it been since this place became the only thing they knew?

            “We can’t let them know about the child.” He started, coming to a halt. “We’ll have to hide them.”

            “But…” she hesitated, eyes downcast as she folded her hands in her lap. “This place bears the marks of my actions. Even if we hide the child, we can’t hide what we’ve done or what we’ve become.”

            He turned his eyes towards her, a thickness in his throat, “How do you suppose this will end?”

            “It was never going to end well.” She met his gaze. “It’s why I don’t regret the choice I’ve made.”

            “I don’t either. Watching our child grow is the only thing that’s managed to keep me going. If they lay a on hand on—”

            “I’ll kill them.” The mother raised to her feet. The light of the full moon spilled over her form, casting a glow to her hair. She looked more specter than woman. He knew she was serious, because he’d do the same. It’d been a promise from the beginning. Whatever life they had, had ceased to be theirs. It did not mean their child needed to live out the same fate.

            He took a deep breath, “We have much to do in the coming days. For now, we’ll rest.”

            They guided each other to bed, body folding over body. One racing heart wrapped around the other, easing it into tranquility. Sleep came, and washed away the unease for one more night.

//

            “Wait Mira, where are we going?” It was strange, for any of the wraiths to be out during the day. Mira was the smallest one, something once a child and now forever doomed to be one. They were older than her now, a skip away from their tenth birthday tomorrow.

            They’d been in the garden, though the winter laid many plants to rest. The sight of the wraith crouched by the tree had drawn their attention, and they’d got the feeling she’d wanted them to follow.

            Now, they were farther into the woods then they had ever been. Their eyes skipped over the trees, breath puffing the air. In their ill-fitting clothes, the cold was biting into every part of their skin. The exertion was the only thing keeping it at bay.

            “Mira—” They started again, and felt the whole fabric of the earth shift. A gasp fell through their throat, hand bracing hard against the trunk of a tree. Bark dug into calloused palms, the pain hardly registering. Something was wrong. It made their stomach turn to the point of nearly being sick.

            With all their strength, they shoved themselves back to their feet. They spun, facing back to the place they called home. They needed to get back. Felt the desperation in their bones.

            ‘Sorry.’

            ‘We’re sorry.’

            ‘So so sorry.’

            Wraiths rushed around their feet, emerging from the shadows casted by the branches. They clung to their legs and held onto their arms. Everything felt even colder, the world bleeding color into something gray.

            “What…what are you doing?” Their limbs felt week. They weren’t sure when they came to be on the ground, but they felt the dirt and the twigs and frost press into their clothes, turning it damp.

            A figure came to loom over them. One they’d come to know well, ‘You cannot go, little one.’

            The world was gone, all at once.

//

            When they woke up it was night and there were graves. The moon stared down at them, and shivers clawed into their body. It took all their strength to push themselves up, and when they did all the shadows scattered. Their breathe created a fine mist in the air in front of them, a constant thrum as they struggled to keep their breath even.

            Despite the shakes, they called, “W-why? Why am I here, what did you do…?”

            ‘It was by your parents’ request.’ The largest shadow rose in front of them, and in the full moon light, they could almost see its face. Middle aged, dark eyes, a gaping wound of darkness in their side. The sight stilled even the chatter of their teeth. ‘There are things you don’t know about them, which they will never tell.’

            They wrapped their arms around their body, as though such thins limbs cold protect them against the night’s chill, “Like how they never answer when I ask why we can’t leave the confines of these woods?”

            ‘Yes. It’s for your own protection.’ It motioned towards the place around them. ‘This is outside their confines. When you’re older and steadier, we could finally set you free. For now, this place is the only place you’d survive.’

            “I…I could. Survive out there.” They had never met another living soul besides their parents. Now, their eyes searched past the graves and old wrought iron gates as though they could find a hint of life waiting for them somewhere. It was as dark and empty as ever.

            ‘Child, you weep for all things. There’s only a cruel world waiting beyond this cage. When I return you, you’ll understand everything I’ve told you about violence.’ A chill zipped down their spine, and this time not from the temperature.

            “…What do you mean?”

            ‘You’ll see. Take hold, and I’ll lead you back home.’ And so they let it take their hand and lead them back through the trees.

//

            They didn’t want to go through the doors, left open and creaking back and forth in the wind. There were no lights on inside, nor was there a sound. When they peered through the door, the house peered back. Wounded, cracked. The entrance they knew well was contaminated with the markings of intruders.

            It was in the air. They could feel it on their skin, skittering across their veins. It wasn’t the same kind of feeling they felt from the wraiths, it was something different. New. Bitter. The shadow beside them waited, sensing their brief hesitation.

            They took a deep breath and walked through the door. The feeling was stronger inside, choking their lungs. It made it impossible to call out, and so they stumbled forward. As long as they followed the trail, they’d be able to find their parents. Wherever the cursed path led.

            While all the wraiths crowded at the door, the one remained by their side. With it, even with their sudden clumsiness, their movements didn’t make a sound. It felt like years of walking, longer than the trek through the woods, before they came upon the old study. Cracks shot through the wall around the door like lightening. It seeped color, a bright bright red. Bright enough to hurt their eyes.

            Their companion shielded away, ‘This is as far as I can go.’

            Despite their desire to ask, they couldn’t. So they swallowed the sick in their throat and stopped in front of the door. It hung, kept on by a single bolt. Even with the awkward angle they could see inside. The room was a mess, books scattered and torn and pages in various directions. They could just make out their parents’ form. They were covered in red.

            Without a second thought, they ducked through the door, feet almost tripping over themselves as it landed on the pages. The light of the room was still on, flickering in it’s attempt to hold on. The red on their parents was not just blood but whatever the strange essence at the entrance was. It wrapped around them like webs, and they collapsed on their knees.

            “M…mom? Dad…?” It hurt to talk, their hands hovered the two’s bodies, unsure what to do or where to touch.

            Their mother groaned, her eyes fluttering open, “Oh…you’re not…supposed to be here.”

            “What happened? Why is there…all this?” The word came a second later. Magic. “What can I do?”

            Before they could do anything, their mother jerked away from them. Her hands dug into it and tore it away. It burned bright, searing at her hands as she did so. More blood spilled, running as free as a river as it cascaded from her body.

            Her voice was stern, “Don’t touch me. This will only hurt you.”

            “There must be something I can do—The first aid kit. I’ll bring it to you. I’ll be back, I promise.” They scrambled to their feet, still off kilter and ran out. They heard their mother call their name but it was so far from them. They just needed the first aid kit, they needed to help. They needed to not think about their father not waking up.

            It took too long to get everything and to make it back. When they returned their mother was tearing the magic netting off their father. Tears wet her face, the pain obvious in each of her movements, but it didn’t stop her. Each red thread dissolved to nothing as it was taken off his skin.

            They placed everything on the floor, desperate to help but deterred by the harsh look their mother sent their way, “Thank you, dear. Now there is one more thing I need you to do for me. In our room, tucked away in one of the floorboards, is a box. The wraiths will show you were. Inside there, is your gift.”

            “My gift, but—”

            “It’s after midnight, is it not? This is both for your birthday and your protection. Now go.” Protection from what? They wanted to know what had happened and if it was for the same reason they were trapped here. They wanted to know if their father was still alive. They wanted to know why they could cry whenever they stumbled upon a dead animal, but didn’t feel even moisture in their eyes at the sight of their parents.

            Their eyebrows pinched together and they stared at her, “Mom…”

            “I’ll tell you everything, I promise. For now, will you do this for me?” They nodded, numb, and her lips twitched into a smile. “Thank you. I’m sorry for all of this. I thought we’d have more time.”

            They rose, head still spinning. Worse than before. Every moment that passed made them worse. They were sure their mother, so steeped in it all for so much longer, must be suffering. But if there was nothing they could do, then they could only do what she asked.

            The wraith was waiting for them this time, as though sensing their mother’s words. It pulled them forward, the only thing keeping them upright now. The two ascended the flight of stairs and here they could see endless damage. Doors open, furniture tossed. Whoever had been here had been looking for something. What if they’d found whatever their mother had told them about?

            ‘Focus.’ The wraith instructed and they did. They made their way down the hall and into their parents’ room. It was the worst place of all. The indoor plants, the paintings on the walls, the mattress on the bed. Everything in pieces.

            There were marks here too, although they didn’t glow with red light as the ones from downstairs. They stepped over shattered glass and broken bits, following the wraith as it indicated a spot on the ground.

            ‘Careful.’ It whispered, as they dug their hands between the cracks. Even with all the strength slipping away from them, they used their whole weight to pry it up. It stuck and they pulled, and the wooden splinters bit into their skin. The pain rushed to their brain and cleared the dam.

            Tears fell. It burned out and blurred the world around them. Still, they kept going, until the floorboard finally heaved. Until their raw hands were pulling out a box. It was a deep blue, trimmed with silver. The latch glittered at them in low light, scattered further by how they cried.

            It took a moment to fumble at the latch to get it open. When they did, it was a sudden light. So bright it hurt their eyes. Despite its blinding radiance, the wraith did not shield away. It stayed by them as it poured out. Burrowed into their skin and wrapped around their heart.

            It stopped. All of it stopped.

//

            Their father had always called them a bleeding heart. They weren’t sure if it was true. Sometimes, they were drowning in emotions, unable to claw their way out. Other times, they felt like it all burned away.

            In every memory they held, was warmth. But the older they got, the more the questions spilled forth. They asked about everything, and when their parents refused to answer they went to the wraiths. Sometimes even they held their tongue. It made the reflection warp. What had they missed, in the cage of their childhood? And would knowing have changed anything at all?

            The years after the attack shifted everything. The wraiths vanished without a trace. Their mother had dropped all kindness.

            “You need to survive.” She’d said. “Even if it’s without us.”

            Once, they’d snuck out on a summer night. There was only one thing they wanted, and it was to find the graveyard the wraiths had taken them to the night everything changed. Despite their best efforts, they never found it. All they succeeded in was knowing the woods better than even the animals.

            The bigger they got, the smaller the world felt. In instances they’d usually accept their mother’s answers, they’d push back. They needed to know everything in the world. If they did, then maybe they could find a way to free all of them.

            “Why can’t you leave?” They asked once, letting their mother braid their long hair. It was one of the few displays of love left in her.

            Her fingers carefully threaded the braid together, “It’s because of the same magic that nearly killed us. It binds us here, and they hoped it would cause us to die. From starvation or dehydration or illness.”

            “It doesn’t bind me though, does it?” Their eyes traced the scars on the walls. The damage from the house could never fully be repaired. “I could leave, and find a way to free you both—”

            They felt her tension, the involuntary clenching of her hands. It did not hurt but it made them flinch, “They would kill you. When you finally leave, you are never to come back.”

            It was an impossible idea. To let their parents go. They were the start and ending of their world. A fear wormed its way into their brain and made residence there. They would lay awake in bed, listening for anything wrong, wondering if tonight was the night the intruders would come back and finish the job.

            If they did, they would have to be ready.

            But there was no magic in them, they were just a child. They’d take a spare knife and practice throwing. Once, when their aim was nonexistent, it caught the wing of a stray bird. It squawked and fell and they rushed forward as a ringing echoed in their ear.

            They collapsed over it, cradling it in their hands, forgetting their mother’s warning of disease.

            “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” they sobbed, cradling it to their chest. When they saw blood, they saw their parents. When they thought of violence, it made them sick. How would they ever protect anything, when all it did was make them ill?

            Their mother had found them, later. The bird was content in their hands, despite its own blood marring them. She brushed a hand through their hair, and they stirred from an endless half sleep.

            “You are too kind for such violence.” She whispered, and it was the first time they had ever seen her close to tears.

            As they shifted, the bird hopped away and they looked at their hands, stained with its blood. They thought they might be sick. They thought they’d cry again.

            Instead, they swallowed it all back, “This violence is born from my kindness.”

            Their mother threw her hands around them, and squeezed them in a tight hug. For a moment, they were suspended. She did not cry, and neither did they. Instead, they sat there in the fading light. A mother forced to be cursed with her doom, and a child whose path only led to such an ending.

//

            It was always going to be a futile fight. Even still, they fought it. Even as their parents’ bodies hit the ground. Even as hands grabbed them, hard enough to bruise. They fought and screamed, and the wraiths answered.

            The intruders yelled, and they wrenched themselves away. They weren’t sure where they were going as they ran. Into the woods, as they always did. To a place where they would never be found. Their feet hit the ground hard, lungs burning, and an endless panic coursing through them.

            If they finally made it past the woods then—

            A pain chocked them. They felt themselves collapse, staring down at their body. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red—

            “Got ‘em.” A voice called.

            “Jesus, did you really have to do that to a kid?”

            “It’s fine. It’s not like anyone knew the bastards had a kid anyway, right? What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

            The intruders’ footsteps crunched in the snow. They'd been left to die. As their eyes squeezed shut, trying to drown out the pain, they wondered. Would they become a wraith? Would their parents? Or would they simply move on to whatever was waiting for them in the unknown? Their thoughts echoed.

            The snow wasn’t cold. Their body wasn’t warm. It hung, suspended, outside of time itself. Their mind was a blur of white and shadows. A voice sung a lullaby somewhere, far away from their reach. They were alone. Suddenly and violently alone. A fragment of a forgotten memory now, instead of a real person. Arms sank under their body and lifted them up.

            “It’s time to rest, now.”

            They felt their consciousness slip away to nothing.

[cookeybg]

Unexpected Cohabitation a JonDami fic

So....my chapters seem to be getting longer. I apologize, but I can't stop myself. Here's chapter 3!

Title: Unexpected Cohabitation

Main Characters: Jonathan Kent and Damian Wayne (some of the others show up too, the list is too long)

Eventual relationship: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne (my fave)

Stuff to know: No capes, reverse robins, high school AU, no smut, no Brucie Wayne, I know nothing about sports but it will show up, (aaand I think that's it, will add more if it comes up)

[In case you missed it Chapter 1 , Chapter 2]

Part 1 - Chapter 3

Jon had been distracted. The morning had started out hectic. First, Conner had taken forever to get ready and they had to run to the subway in order to get to school on time. Then, it had turned out that he had been placed in the wrong math class so he had to go into the school office and have it changed to proper math class, lucky his schedule stayed the same. Even luckier he now got to see Jay twice everyday, not including club activities every Monday. What had really been the cherry on top was when Jay stopped him after class to give his phone number. Lunch had been full of memes and texts and exasperated glances from Kathy. So, Jon was distracted when he stumbled on what felt like a tree root, his phone flying into the air and him landing on his hands and knees on the dirt floor. Miraculously his glasses stayed on his face if not a bit askew.

“Ow.” Someone groaned behind him. “Sorry!” Jon scrambled up and turned around. His wide blue eyes met glaring green ones. “Tt.” Damian tsked removing Jon’s phone from atop his head. “Do you make it a habit to throw your things at others?” “What? No!” Jon reached out snatching his phone back. “It was an accident!” Damian stared at him unimpressed passing him by without further comment. Jon could feel the heat of embarrassment heating his neck and face. He gripped his phone and cursed his decision on taking the short cut to his art class. He took a deep breath and continued on his way, Damian Wayne was long gone.

Walking into his art class Jon sat across the table from Jay, who waved and smiled at Jon when he entered but was now talking to the girl sitting next him. Jon kept his hands busy by pulling out his art pencils and sketch book he had bought the day before on his way home from school. Jon took discreet glances towards Jay wore a light blue hoodie, it made his pink hair standout and it made him look warm and fluffy. Jon wanted to hug him. “Hello everyone!” Ms. Worle clapped her hands, getting the whole class’s attention. “I have great news today! After many attempts, I was finally able to convince my favorite prodigy to become my T.A.” She clapped her hands again, looking at the door, her white curly hair bouncing in excitement. A loud chatter filled the classroom when Damian Wayne stepped through the door. He glanced around the room, his green gaze locked onto Jon’s blue. The embarrassment from early crawled up Jon’s neck and he quickly looked away. Damian, clearly deciding to pay him no further attention looked back at Ms. Worle, his expression softening. “Ms. Worle, I wouldn’t call myself a prodigy.” Damian said. “Nonsense, please humor this old lady.” Ms. Worle waved away Damian’s words. “You are certainly not old.” Jon wanted to gag, all Damian had to do was kiss the back of the teacher’s hand and the whole charade would be complete. Jon noticed that Jay sat up in interest a small “No way,” escaping his mouth. Jon bit his lip not liking the attention Jay was giving the Wayne. Jay’s sparkling eyes locked unto Jon a wide excited smile graced his face. Jon could feel heat burning his ears, Jay had such a cute smile.

“Jon!” Jay whispered excitedly, leaning forward as far as he could and covering the side of his mouth in an attempt at secrecy. “This is huge! Damian is going to our T.A.!” “I don’t see the big deal…” Jon frowned. Jay looked at him in surprised, he opened his mouth to say something else but Ms. Worle cut him off. “Now, Now, let’s all settle.” Ms. Worle’s face was slightly flushed. “You will be sketching the person sitting across from you and Damian will be assisting all those who need help.” “Try not to make my forehead too big.” Jay teased. “Try not to make my ears too big and we have a deal.” Laughed Jon. It was hard drawing Jay. Every time he looked up at him his heart would race and sometimes their eyes would meet and the butterflies in Jon’s stomach would take flight. It was distracting and difficult to not let his day dreams wander. It didn’t help that Jon wasn’t a very good artist to begin with and kept erasing the same eye he had been trying to draw for the last eight minutes. “Tt.” Jon’s shoulders tensed. When he turned, his nose nearly collided with a brown jaw. He took in a breath of surprise and caught a whiff of something sweet and earthy. Damian’s eyes locked onto his and Jon pulled away slightly, heart pounding in his chest. “May I?” Damian glanced at Jon’s hand. Jon nodded stiffly and watched as Damian’s elegant fingers plucked the pencil out of Jon’s grip, his fingers lightly grazing his. “You need guide lines on the face if you want to make everything symmetrical.” Damian spoke lowly. Jon had to lean in a bit to hear him clearly due to his loud classmates. Jon watched as Damian lightly drew a couple of horizontal lines and a vertical line down the middle. He then started drawing the outline for the second eye. “Drawing is just a series of shapes. Look at Jay’s eyes,” Damian gestured towards Jay and Jon could see that Jay was keenly paying attention to the both of them, “draw a circle for the iris and then fill in the detail like the curve of his eyelid and notice the delicate sweep of his brow.” Damian’s eyes were intense as he pointed out aspects of Jay’s face. Jay fidgeted but did not look away a blush darkened his cheeks and his lips were parted in awe. Jon gripped the table trying not to show any jealousy. “Nothing is a straight line; his soft wavy hair, his lips and the curve of his chin.” Damian paused waiting for Jon’s understanding. “Thanks.” Jon said sulkily. Damian placed the pencil on the sketchbook and moved on. Jon’s back and side prickled uncomfortably in Damian’s absence. Damian helped a couple of girls, they turned red and chattered amongst themselves after he left them. But Jon was paying attention to them, he watched Jay stare after Damian his face slightly red and his gaze determined. Did Jay like that jerk? Was Jon going to lose Jay to Damian? Jon grimaced and looked down at his sketch. Damian’s pencil marks looked light and easily erased. The parts he had drawn as guides looked better than the dark lines Jon had drawn and markedly improved the sketch itself. He sighed and did his best to follow what he had been taught.

After class Jay sidled next to Jon looking behind them at Damian who was speaking with Ms. Worle. He nudged Jon’s shoulder with his own as they left the classroom and Jon got butterflies in his tummy from Jay’s proximity. “You are so lucky that Damian helped you!” Jay tried to whisper but failed. “Yeah, I guess.” Jon tried not to roll his eyes. “He must be pretty good at drawing.” “Pretty good at-“ Jay laughed. “Jon. Damian has won awards for his art.” “So, he’s like actually talented?” Jon asked. Jay stared at him and stopped to type something on his phone. Once he found what he was looking for he showed Jon an article from the Gotham Gazette complete with a picture of a painting. Jay clicked on the picture so that Jon could see it zoomed in. “He won this prestigious art award last year and donated the winnings to charity, since you know, he doesn’t need the money.” Jon took the phone and looked at the painting. It displayed a desert oasis, the palm trees swaying in the breeze seemed to come to life. The sand colored buildings contrasted beautifully with a bright blue sky and green vegetation. In the distance a storm brewed making the birds take flight. The ground closer to the buildings was slightly tinted in a rust colored red. It was beautiful but it somehow made Jon feel as if danger was just around the corner despite the tranquility of the scene. The plaque next to the painting said it was an oil on canvas, titled “Home.” “But, he’s the baseball captain.” Jon said dumfounded. “He’s also been winning art awards since he was a kid. He’s won so many he’s probably lost count.” “How can he be good at so many things? Isn’t he the top of his grade?” “It’s awful, isn’t it?” Jay said smirking. “I can’t wait to interview him!” Jon watched as Jay waved and left him behind. What if his fears were true? If Jay didn’t like Damian now he certainly would after he interviewed him. Kathy was right, Jon needed to confess, ASAP!

I hope you enjoyed! The next chapter is going to be my favorite so I hope you're as excited as I am. XD

[spitinsideme]

Are transbiens sexy smexy ladies or just their own thinh.

Sincerley, definitely not the new(to being a) girl anon this time totaly

i love and adorw all women eve4y single woman is sexy and beautlsil and stunning to me i would LITERALLY get on my knees for every single woman in the world i think all ladies are sexy sexy ladies literally every single lady in thr world i would love and adore if i was rixh id ask all the woman in tbe worls om a date but unfortunately im poor so i will instead do gay art for woman to enjoy i fucking love womaj somuxh ohmygod i ADORE women all women eve4y singlw qomen in tje world literally i do not CARE if theyre trans or whateve4 i love woemn and if rhwy ar a women i will llve women my goal in life is to just adore the ladies and treat th3m like fucking royalty if a girl was cold i wpuld take out my veins and crochet them into a jumoer so that she could be warm donyou understand . i love women . if i was on a desrted island wirh a girl and she said "ugh i wish i was home righr now" i wpulr cut down the trees usong my teeth to gnaw them off and then i would take out my own bones and sharpen them to create a knife and i would cut the trees and make a working plane. how wpuld it fly ? my besting heart would lift it off, and my hesrt would beat even outside my body because i am in the presence of a giel and not even death can stop the thumping heart of someone in love .. i llve women

[fairy-writes]

Please could I request song 18 for Kyojuro Rengoku for your event as it looks so fun 💙💙💙

LOVE STORY

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

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Fandom(s): Demon Slayer/Kimetsu no Yaiba

Pairing(s): Rengoku Kyojuro x Gender Neutral!Reader

Song: Love Story by Taylor Swift

Notes: This song is so freaking long, so this isn’t necessarily a song-fic, and instead is more of a regular one-shot BASED on the song.

There is a minor reference to the one-shot I wrote titled “Meet Me By The Cherry Tree”

I use the term Y/N three times in this fic (even though I personally dislike it)

__________________________________________________________________________

It was safe to say that your father disliked Kyojuro. 

Perhaps dislike was too simple of a word. 

He hated Kyojuro.

The number of times that he had forbidden you from seeing the Flame Hashira, but you simply hadn’t listened was more than the fingers and toes that Kyojuro had on his body. 

All the time, Kyojuro had no idea why. 

But that never stopped you. You still snuck out, still visited Kyojuro at the Rengoku estate, still went on dates with your lover. You still did everything a couple would. And Kyojuro loved you for it. He loved you dearly. 

Which is why it hurts so much to see you cast out by your own family. 

“You can come back when you’ve come to your senses.” Your father snarled as he shoved you off the engawa and into Kyojuro’s arms. You whipped around with fire on your tongue and the fury of lions in your eyes,

“Piss off!” You snapped back, and your father retorted by slamming the sliding door shut. 

You didn’t speak until you were back in the comfort of the Rengoku estate and knelt at the kotatsu table with Senjuro and Kyojuro. 

“I’m sorry he reacted like that,” Senjuro said, and you shrugged, using your chopsticks to push a piece of cooked sweet potato past your lips and into your mouth. 

“He can bugger off for all I care.” You said, and Kyojuro frowned. He didn’t want you to say that. He knew you had a good relationship with your father until he came into the picture. Then it had soured like curdled milk, and neither of you knew why. But Kyojuro knew what it was like to have no parents. And he didn’t want you to suffer like that. 

But you had refused to see reason. It was a stubborn streak that you had inherited from your father.

“I love you, Kyojuro. That’s what matters now.” You had told him when he tried to talk to you about it. 

“But you are going to regret not having him in your life later on. I regret the same thing. You only have one father, my love.” He tried one last time, and this time, it looked like you were actually considering what he was saying. But that didn’t stop your initial comeback.

“Your father is an alcoholic. Mine just doesn’t like you for whatever reason.” You say, and he admits you have a point. 

“I just… I don’t want to lose you, Kyo.” You mumble later on, looking down where you were fiddling with your fingers. He offers a reassuring smile, placing his hand over yours, and you look up at him.

“And you won’t. I’m just saying you might regret not talking to him later. At least think about it, alright?” He says, and you nod. He leans over and kisses you on the cheek, delighting in the way you smile.

Kyojuro finds out why your father hates him so much a year later when he decides to ask you to marry him. 

Your family estate is as beautiful as ever, and he spies the cherry tree under which the two of you met. He knocks on the door and stands back, waiting for someone to open it. 

Your mother opens the door, realizes who is on her doorstep, and tries to close it immediately. It only stops when Kyojuro wedges his hand between the door and the doorframe. 

“Please hear me out.” He says quickly. He knows his time is limited. He only has so much time before any of your family refuses to talk to him. 

“Why should I?” Your mother snapped. She looked tired, and he could see the world weighing on her shoulders. 

“It’s about your child.” He says. He knew it wouldn’t be that hard for her to know who he was talking about. There was only one of her children who associated with him. 

“I don’t have children who associate with you.” 

“It’s about Y/N.” He said bluntly and didn’t miss how she stiffened. 

Kyojuro heard your father call your mother’s name; a moment later, he was at his wife’s side. His smile turned to a scowl as soon as he saw the Flame Hashira. 

“What do you want.” 

It isn’t a question. 

It’s a statement. 

Kyojuro’s time is running out. 

“I came to ask for Y/N’s hand in marriage.” He said, and your father actually laughed.

“Go ask them then. I have no business with them anymore.” He snapped and went to shut the door. But, again, Kyojuro wedges his hand between the sliding door and the doorframe. 

“Why do you hate us so much? Have they disappointed you that much by associating with me?” He asks, genuinely curious. He wants—no, he has to know. 

Your father pinches the bridge of his nose and looks like he might slam the door despite Kyojuro’s hand being in the way. 

“It’s because of you.” He eventually says, and your mother places a hand on his arm. 

“Darling, you don’t have—”

“I want to.” He says sternly and looks up at Kyojuro. 

“It’s because you are a Hashira. So you’re bound to die and leave my child alone. You may be happy now, but you are going to die on a mission. I just know it. I don’t want that kind of sorrow for my Y/N. I don’t want them to marry you only to be alone.” He explains, sounding uncomfortable and oh so sad. Kyojuro’s heart clenches, and he holds his hands in fists. 

“I love them.” He begins, trying to choose his words carefully. He needs your father to see how much he loves you. 

“I love them with all my heart. I won’t leave them alone, I swear it! I promise to come home to them after every mission. I write them letters when I’m away. I have my fellow Demon Slayers to keep them company.” He tries to push all his emotions into his words. His heart is bursting at the seams with his affection for you.

Your father looks like he’s considering the simple words and glances at your mother. She nods. He turns back to look at Kyojuro and holds out a hand.

“Promise me you’ll take care of them.” He says, and Kyojuro grins, clasping the outstretched hand in both of his and bowing, pressing his forehead to the fingers. 

“I promise!”

Kyojuro leaves the estate feeling as if he could defeat a thousand demons. 

He gets to marry you.

He just needs to defeat the Mugen Train demon, and then he can come home and marry you.