#undisturbed and flourishing

[inseparabiles]

Greetings from my present location, which is NOT a means to avoid my mother's merciless judgement when I go watch Gladiator II again in two hours

[serpentsurgency]

M!A colder bath water. Maybe a little too cold to be healthy

Ok.

[talesofadragon]

𝐁𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐥𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

Summary: Despite witnessing the death of his mother and being forced to grow under the watch of his Death Eater father, Theodore Nott is living proof that love and care bloom even in the most barren conditions. Maybe, they flourish even more.

Warnings: Allusions to sex

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Pregnant!Reader

Genre: Tooth-rotting fluff 

Word count: 4.2K

All Masterlists | Theodore Nott Masterlist

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 he had over his twenty-four years of existence.

His first dream was at the tender age of three after his mother surprised him with a trip to Diagon Alley. When nightfall came, the Sandman put him to sleep, drawing images of the alley's bustling stores and magical people behind his eyelids.

His second dream was at seven years of age. It had been a few years since the loss of his mother, and he had come to terms with the painful reality that her ghost did not linger within the desolate corridors of Nott Manor. But her soul and her memories seemed to still echo in his head.

The third dream was the catalyst that set off a chain reaction, unleashing a plethora of heavenly promises and alternate realities. It marked the beginning of one of the best stories he had ever read and one in which he had serendipitously played a role in curating. It happened when he was fourteen.

Hogwarts was abuzz with excitement as it hosted the renowned Triwizard Tournament. Though he wasn't particularly enthralled by his school and its whimsical attractions, let alone the two other visiting schools participating in the tournament, he had no idea how profoundly this event would impact his life. Everything changed when the girls from Beauxbatons Academy gracefully entered the scene, and amidst them was a certain witch with the most mesmerizing, iridescent eyes that instantly captured his attention.

Y/N Y/L/N—that had been the name of the witch who occupied his dreams for years on end. Though today she was known as Y/N Nott, his remarkably beautiful and majestic wife.

Tonight, just like every other night, Theodore sat on his bed. He would lovingly observe the gentle rise and fall of Y/N's chest as she peacefully slept beside him. In recent times, she often kept one hand tenderly clasping his while the other lovingly cradled her pregnant belly, an undeniable symbol of the beautiful life they were bringing into the world.

And like a magnet calling for the metal, Theodore’s hands would always wander to the life they had created, astounded by the little flutters he felt both against his palms and in his heart.

Y/N truly was his dream. And she was entirely his.

“Why are you not sleeping?” she murmured without prior notice, prompting Theodore to look at her. Her eyes were barely open, tiredness dominating her every feature.

Theodore was cautious not to engage in conversation with her, not wanting to risk waking her from her peaceful slumber. Instead, he propped himself up on one elbow, using his free hand to gently play with her hair. He lovingly brushed away the stray locks that caressed her face and used his index finger to twirl some of the strands. A playful smirk adorned his lips, knowing that the action almost always lulled Y/N into an undisturbed sleep—and he could already see her eyes fluttering shut.

But then, she abruptly shook her head, forcing her eyes to open.

“Y/N,” Theodore chastised, giving her a pointed look.

“Theo,” she replied, drawing out the last vowel.

Theodore snorted at her antics, and for some reason, he recalled the lazy days he spent with her in his bed at Hogwarts in the years following her transfer to the school.

She shifted closer to Theodore’s side—maybe she thought that moving around might sober her up. She cupped his face, angling it closer to hers. “Why are you awake?”

“I’m just thinking, butterfly.” He shook his head with a subtle laugh, his hands caressing her lips and pulling her bottom lip down. He only released it when he was sure her pout would mold into a relaxed smile.

“About?”

“Us three.”

Theodore observed the puzzled expression taking over his wife's features. She blinked owlishly while languidly processing his words. As his thumb gently brushed against her pregnant belly, her gaze shifted downward, and a melodious giggle escaped her lips.

“What about us three?”

“Nothing in specific,” he replied, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He already swooned whenever Y/N used the word “us.” But to hear it accompanied by a number that reflected a product of their ardent devotion? It filled his heart with love.

“I’m sleepy, Theo. Be specific, please.”

Merlin, Theo smiled. If this is a dream, I hope it lasts forever.

“I’m just really happy, Y/N,” Theodore elaborated.

Y/N mirrored the winsome smile that he radiated. She leaned in closer, positioning herself between his legs with her knees firmly planted on the mattress. Tilting her head to the right, Theodore's attention wandered between the still-visible hickeys on her neck, which had yet to fade away since two nights prior, and her lovely little belly.

“I want to straddle you,” she said after putting both her hands on his broad shoulders. “But I’m too big, and I can’t figure out a comfortable position that doesn’t involve me squishing you.”

Theodore’s uproarious laughter flooded the entire room. He found it both amusing and ludicrous that Y/N would think that. Wordlessly, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her toward him until his chest cushioned her back, and his hands wrapped nicely and securely around her middle.

“This is my favorite position.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow at her husband’s remark. “Huh. Since when did Cowgirl stop being your favorite?”

“Y/N.” Theodore rolled his eyes. He buried his head in her neck, teasingly biting her. She giggled, trying to push him away. “No straddling, riding, or exerting yourself while pregnant.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Theodore deadpanned. “Go back to sleep, butterfly. Not getting enough sleep is bad for the baby.”

“But how can I sleep when my baby is awake?”

“Is he now?” One of Theodore’s hands combed through Y/N’s hair while the other rubbed soothing circles on her belly.

The placid movements made her eyes flutter, but she blinked away the exhaustion at once. “Not my little prince,” she whispered. Her eyes landed on Theodore. “My little king.”

Pink dusted Theodore's cheeks in response to the comment. He had never realized how much he yearned for even the tiniest and most tender displays of affection until Y/N entered his life.

He basked in her warm words, bumping his nose gently with hers. “I love you. But I will love you even more if you get some rest.”

Y/N pouted. And Merlin, it was physically impossible for Theodore to do anything but smile at her reaction. “Not before you do.” She glared at him, and he held her gaze. A moment passed, then two, and then three. An errant yawn escaped Y/N's mouth, and she unintentionally blinked. She inwardly reprimanded herself at the realization. “Let me read you a story then.”

“A story?” Theodore asked amusedly.

“Hmm. It’s good practice for when the baby comes.”

“No, Y/N.” Theodore shook his head. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“I’m not trying to do anything,” Y/N shrugged innocently.

“Lying little witch.”

“Overprotective big oaf.”

“Oaf, you say?” Theodore raised an eyebrow while Y/N laughed. “Alright, you’ve done it.”

Instantly, Theodore flipped her over, making her back softly land on the mattress. He tickled her ever so gently, planting kisses all over her neck, cheeks, and body, eliciting delightful giggles from her until she let out that long, familiar sigh of contentment. Within minutes, she had drifted into a peaceful slumber, leaving him to gaze affectionately at her and the beautiful life they had created together.

As soon as Y/N’s eyes opened, Theodore's absence from the bed struck her, followed by the unnaturally quiet atmosphere around her room. She planted her elbow on the mattress, and with great effort, though she would never admit it, propped herself up and gazed at her surroundings.

The magical clock on the wall marked eight-thirty in the morning, and Y/N found it odd that Theodore was nowhere in sight. He rarely left her alone, especially since she became pregnant, hardly giving her a minute by herself.

Deciding not to think much of it, she slipped her slippers on and, unceremoniously, made her way out of bed. She was about to call for her husband when the smell of eggs and grilled cheese permeated the air. Her hurried steps echoed through the house as she dashed toward the kitchen.

“You’re making breakfast?”

“Y/N!” Theodore whipped his head in surprise, flying pans and floating juice surrounding him. “I told you to call me if you need anything. Especially if you want to walk down the stairs!”

Y/N completely brushed off his comment, eyes lighting up as one of the spatulas scrambled the eggs. “I’ll set the table.”

“Woah, woah, woah. You’re not doing that.”

“It’s no trouble, really,” she replied, looking down at the arm that blocked her way.

“Y/N—”

"Setting up the table will not break my back, Theo! I can do things even though I’m pregnant."

"I know, Y/N. I know." At this point, it was evident that Y/N's mounting frustration was reaching a tipping point. Theodore had to tread carefully with his words to avoid making her cry or, worse, giving her a reason to ignore him. "It's just that I wanted to surprise you with breakfast in bed. And, you kind of ruined it."

Y/N's big doe eyes locked onto her husband, a hint of calculation shimmering in her irises, revealed by the tilt of her head. As she placed both hands on her belly, Theodore's composed demeanor couldn't hide his concern and attentiveness.

He never enjoyed seeing Y/N upset, especially when she was pregnant. The mere thought of an upset Y/N during her pregnancy made him uncomfortable.

However, her giggle dispelled all his doubts, and a wave of relief washed over him. Still, his heart felt like it was dunked in the frozen waters of the Black Lake when he saw her skipping ahead, confidently navigating the stairs.

"I can fix it!"

"Y/N! What did I say about the stairs?"

"That I can't walk down the stairs by myself," she cheekily replied, holding onto the railing tightly. His heart clenched just as tightly as he watched her.

"Stay where you are, I'm coming,” Theodore announced.

“Uh-uh-uh. I’m climbing those steps myself, and if you even think about helping me, you won’t be coming until a year after this baby’s born.”

Theodore scoffed, “Don’t threaten me with sex, Y/N. It’s not going to work.”

“I said you won’t be coming, Theo darling," she pointed out matter-of-factly with a wicked grin. Sometimes, it didn't take much to remember that she was sorted into the House of Snakes. "I never mentioned sex.”

Theodore glared at his wife, his tongue poking his cheek. She won. And she knew it.

“One step at a time.”

With a quick wink, she resumed her way up the staircase, calling over her shoulders, “The baby wants strawberries, and I want grapes. Can you fix something, my love?”

“Get in bed safely first, and then I’ll see if you can get your fruits.”

Y/N waved at him from the threshold of their open bedroom door. Once he was sure she was inside, he cursed under his breath. Though, his smile never wavered and only turned into the biggest grin when he started chopping grapes and strawberries.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

Theodore stood proudly, attempting to hide his uncertainty behind a facade of confidence. He wore an expression that asserted, “I am perfectly capable of baking a cake for my wife.”

The chaotic ambiance in the kitchen begged to differ.

The room seemed to be the battlefield from the Third Wizarding War with flour scattered everywhere, eggshells haphazardly discarded on a plate, and cake batter splattered on once-pristine beige walls.

Perched on the bar stool, Y/N attempted to mask her chortle behind the book in her hands. It was a good thing that Theodore was too busy opening and closing cabinets to notice her amusement.

“Theo, my love. I know pureblood Slytherins struggle to admit defeat, but maybe it’s time you retire that apron you’re wearing and let me take care of this cake.”

“Absolutely not,” Theodore refuted with a little too much vigor. The spatula in his hand swayed to the right, causing a generous amount of batter to land on the side of Y/N’s face. “Oh, Merlin! Y/N, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Did I hurt you? I swear I didn’t mean it!”

Y/N’s nose scrunched in disgust when Theodore approached her side. He cupped her cheeks, but she briskly swatted his hands away. His heart broke, and he stepped back with dimmed hazel eyes.

“You utter nincompoop, Theodore Nott!” With a horrified expression, Theodore watched Y/N rush to the sink and splash her face with water. A goblet of cold water came flying to her hands after she snapped her fingers, and she gulped it down at once. “That smelled foul! I don’t want to imagine how it tastes. Throw that bowl away. Right now.”

He did so immediately. He looked down at the gooey mixture, stifling a scowl. “Maybe it’s better if I buy a cake.”

“Or, hear me out. I should make one.”

“You’re not exerting yourself.”

“Theodore, darling. Baking a cake is a breeze. It’s you who struggles to even boil water.”

“I don’t struggle to boil water,” Theodore grimaced. One look from Y/N, and he was left evaluating his response. His eyes wandered to the slight mess he had created in the kitchen and then to his pouting wife, who looked absolutely ethereal with her round belly. He was starting to cave. Damn, that witch. “No! Don’t look at me like that. I’m getting you a cake. One you’re not making.”

“But—”

“No buts. In fact, I’m going right now,” Theodore said in a rushed tone. He knew that if he even looked at her for one second longer, he couldn’t remember what letters formed the word “no.” He immediately summoned his keys, placing them in his pockets. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t touch anything, don’t worry about anything. Just… breathe. Yeah, butterfly?”

Y/N blinked, gazing at her husband. “You too?” she replied unsurely.

Theodore gave her a quick, though impassioned, kiss that almost made her forget where she was and what they were talking about. His hand went to rub the curve of her belly, and she cursed those stupid hormones that made her whimper.

Dazed, she watched as Theodore fetched his coat. He sent her a languid smile, and then, he dashed out of the house and apparated promptly. As soon as she heard the apparition crack, it was like the “Nott Enchantment” was lifted off her, and she could see everything around her much more clearly.

She turned on her heels, carefully studying her kitchen. With a devious grin, she rushed to grab her wand and immediately pointed it at the counter. “Wingardium Leviosa.” The utensils simultaneously launched into the air, followed by the eggshells and the other ingredients on the counter.

Y/N cleared the surface quite easily, directing whatever needed washing to the sink, which was already filling with soap and water, and disposing of the trash. Scourgify was at the tip of her tongue, but deciding that she wanted to revel in her rebellion a little more, she tucked away her wand and pulled the cleaning supplies from the storage.

Immediately, she put on the pink rubber gloves, which Theodore never quite fancied, flexing her fingers in the air and picturing the look of sheer terror on her husband’s face. She poured the surface cleaner on a cloth and began disinfecting the kitchen.

Slowly, but surely, the abysmal smell—courtesy of Theodore’s extraterrestrial baking skills—was replaced with the fresh scent of pine and vanilla. Y/N inhaled these scents, labeling them as one of freedom. Even her baby seemed happier, vehemently kicking her belly and bouncing around.

It didn’t take long before everything was clean. Satisfied, Y/N placed the cleaning supplies under the sink and started putting back the clean utensils. Though, her peace was disturbed by a loud pop.

She shrieked, placing one hand atop her mouth and the other on her belly when it dawned on her that there was now a little less light inside her home than there was a second before.

Looking up, she exhaled a sharp breath when she realized that one of the ceiling’s light bulbs was out.

“It’s a good thing your father isn’t here, my little prince,” Y/N whispered, gently caressing her belly. “He probably would’ve apparated us to the moon, thinking it was a Death Eater or something.”

Once more, she felt her stomach fluttering as her baby’s little kick brought a smile to her face. She couldn’t help but feel grateful that her little boy seemed to be inheriting her sense of humor, and she silently thanked the stars that he might just be a lot less uptight than Theodore.

Merlin seemed to be on her side too, egging her on and encouraging her little streak of rebellion. Without giving it much thought, Y/N rushed to the electrical panel by the kitchen’s wall and spotted the room’s switch.

When they had first moved, Theodore was particularly concerned about muggle electricity, swearing that it was an anti-wizard mechanism that would electrocute them if they came near it. Y/N didn’t believe him. But because she loved him too much to see him losing his precious hair over this trivial matter, she did indulge in his absurdity and kept herself away from the panel.

After her curiosity got the best of her, she decided to ask Fleur, a friend from Beauxbatons and Bill Weasley's wife, about electricity. Knowing that Mr. Weasley, Fleur's father-in-law, had a fascination with muggle devices and technologies, she figured Fleur might have some insights. Additionally, Hermione, Fleur's sister-in-law, being a muggleborn, likely knew a thing or two about it as well.

To her relief, Fleur reassured her that electricity wasn't half as bad as Theodore had made it out to be. With the kitchen switch turned off, Y/N could easily change the light bulb without any risks.

She grabbed her wand, pointed it up, and carefully removed the old bulb. Just as she was almost done placing the new one, she felt a hand snatch away her wand and another grab her waist.

Y/N gasped, feeling herself being pushed against the wall. Her breath was knocked out of her lungs, her eyes peering up in horror until they landed on familiar hazel irises that looked anything but warm.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Her annoyed voice mixed with Theodore’s sharp one. She pushed him away from her just as he threw her wand across the room. It clattered on the floor, the noise accompanying Theodore’s labored breath.

“I told you not to do anything!”

“Well, I wasn’t doing anything!”

“You were playing with that muggle death trap, Y/N! All while being pregnant!”

“Oh, get off your rocker, Nott! I turned the electrical switch off before changing the lightbulb,” Y/N argued, gesturing toward the electrical panel.

It was obviously a mistake given how Theodore's face turned as white as snow, and the trembling in his fingers signaled the storm of emotions building within him, about to erupt. “You touched Frank Benjamin’s apparatus of doom?!”

“What?” Y/N made a face after a moment of silence and confusion.

“Did you touch that thing?” Theodore asked, pointing at the panel.

“Yes.”

“Are you mental?”

“I’m starting to think I am after two years of being married to you!”

“Don’t change the subject!”

“Who the bloody hell is Frank Benjamin even?”

“I told you not to change the subject!” Theodore warned.

Y/N was this close to slapping her husband’s obnoxiously handsome face. “You are being awfully dramatic, Theo. Just because Draco told you and Blaise that electricity is a torture device developed by muggles doesn’t mean it’s true!”

“Oh, yeah.” Theodore crossed his arms. Surprisingly, now that Y/N could see the pink and purple paper bag from her favorite bakery in his arms, her husband looked a lot more cute than intimidating. “How’d you know that?”

“I asked Fleur,” she deadpanned. “Oh, and would you look at that? I’m still alive! Looks like Frank Benjamin did a lousy job.”

“We do not say his name in this household, Y/N!” Theodore insisted while stepping closer. He seemingly noticed the bag he was yet to discard in his hands. He placed it on the counter and turned to his wife before he froze in his place. “You cleaned the house?!”

Y/N flung her arms in the air at her husband’s callousness. “Yes! And with those pink gloves you hate so much!”

“I told you not to do anything. I left you for ten minutes!”

“I wish you left me for more. Maybe then I would’ve been able to do the one thing I need more than anything.”

“Which is?” Theodore scoffed.

“Breathe!”

Following her outburst, Y/N’s hand came to rest on her hip while the other landed on her heart. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let the oxygen flow inside her lungs.

When her eyes fluttered open, the tension that inundated the air slipped. And meeting her on the other side was her Theodore with warm hazel irises and outstretched hands.

“Come here.” He gestured with arms wide open. Y/N dove into his embrace. She had gotten quite better at accommodating her large belly in Theodore’s bear hugs. “I’m sorry if I've been frustrating lately. I just… I just want you to be safe and happy, Y/N. Both of you.”

“We are, Theo. With you, we always are,” Y/N assured him. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she buried her face deeper into her husband’s clothes. His scent invaded her senses, and she had to admit defeat against her hormones.

“Hey. Look at me, butterfly.”

Y/N lifted her tear-stained face. She wanted to let Theodore know it was just her hormones and that there was nothing to worry about, but any modicum of common sense evaporated as soon as Theodore started kissing away the tears.

She exhaled in delight, relishing in the feel of her husband’s lips against her skin. His touch was delicate and ephemeral, yet it left a trail of anticipation and ardor in its way.

“Theo,” Y/N murmured. She cupped his face, her thumb gliding gently over his stubbled jaw. “I love you.”

“You can never love me more than I love you, Y/N Nott," he admitted, caressing her neck, specifically her pulse point. "And maybe, it’s because my affection knows no bounds that I’ve crossed the line from being protective to becoming overbearing. And for that, I truly am sorry.”

Y/N’s heart swelled with affection at his heartfelt words, leaving her momentarily speechless. “I forgive you,” she replied, planting a soft kiss on his neck. Theodore's lashes fluttered in response to her touch. “And thank you for admitting this out loud. I know it must’ve been hard.”

“Oh, it’s not the only thing that’s hard right now.”

“Theo!” Y/N guffawed loudly. She playfully slapped his chest, but he quickly caught her wrists and nuzzled his face in her neck, nipping her sensitive skin. “Stop being promiscuous. I’d like to peacefully eat my cake, please!”

“Why have a cake, Y/N? When I can make you the most fantastic cream pie. It’s going to leave you craving for more,” Theodore whispered huskily in her ear, going as far as licking her earlobe and sucking it gently.

Y/N gnawed at her lower lip, already feeling herself surrendering to Theodore. Curse those stupid hormones and all the times she teased him with sex. Must he retaliate, too? How did they even get to this point?

“After the cake, Theo. Our baby is hungry.”

Theodore stopped then, pressing a soft kiss to Y/N’s temple. He grasped her hand, beaming when she interlaced their fingers together. He watched her as she giddily reached for the strawberry cheesecake he had gotten her, plating two slices, and taking the biggest one for herself.

“This is really good.”

“Better than my cream pie?” Theodore wiggled his eyebrows. He laughed and ducked out of the way of a flying strawberry, effortlessly catching it before it hit the ground. “You missed, my love.”

“Don’t you ‘love’ me, Theodore Nott!” Y/N pointedly addressed him. It was hard to take her seriously with the crumbs on the side of her mouth. "One more sexual innuendo and I'm naming our child Frank Benjamin."

"Absolutely not!" Theodore scowled. He took a bite from his own cake, looking back thoughtfully at his wife. "Though if you do indulge in my cream pie, I'll let you tell Draco and Blaise that we are considering naming our child Frank Benjamin."

Y/N's eyes lit up like a thousand stars twinkling in the night sky, and Theodore couldn't help but feel a euphoric swarm of butterflies dancing in his soul, bringing an overwhelming sense of happiness and warmth to his heart. Her radiant joy illuminated the room, and at that moment, he knew that her happiness was all he ever needed in this world.

Thank you to the lovely nonny who suggested this prompt💚 I hope I did it justice. I always knew that I will be writing for Theo Nott sooner or later, and I'm glad to have started with this piece.

Thank you to everyone who sent me requests; there are loads of Theo fics I'm working on, and I hope to release them as this year progresses.

[thetravelingtyper]

Beasts of the Deep...Pt 1 (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Researcher! Reader ? Au)

In ruins beside the sea, you discover something from another time...

WC: 4.8k

Part 2, Masterlist

Warnings: None

From the Destruction of Leviathan by Gustave Doré (1865)

Sapphire waves crashed listlessly along the jagged cliff. As their consistent roar turned to a sweet hum in your mind you devoted yourself further to your work. Before you laid a dazzling sight. Flecks of mother of pearl, abalone and silver sprinkled the ground of the royal chamber you were in, the flickering of lamplight sending dazzling shimmers all around. The site was remarkably preserved, surprisingly kept even. In dry walls, despite the proximity to the sea, silver cording inlaid flourishing designs. Seals, whales and other sea life swam in the brick, their forms colored in with fresco and mosaic.

You look up from the rubble before you to trace the shine of pottery. Different fish shaped vessels line the room, undisturbed by the many earthquakes that ravaged other sites in the area. You didn't need to open them to tell what was inside. Dried wine, honey, ichors of the gods that once ruled this distant land. You remember your supervisor rumbling about the rich lives of the elites that lived on this island, how cruel they were and the enormous wealth you knew he was hoping to find (that you kept to yourself though, better not to risk his ire). 

But while all the others sought the grand prizes of burial mounds and lavish riches, you sought the ecological knowledge of the far past.You pulled your journal out and with a miniature camera took photos of the mosaics, jotting down notes for later. Just as you heard voices approaching from the stairs to the outside you stood up, pulling yourself into a stretch as Matthew entered the chamber.

You turned to meet him as the cover of the tarp opened as sunlight finally streamed into the chamber. You pull a smile to your face as the man finally makes it down the stairs, a smirk on his face that has your mood souring.

“You and the others already took everything of value.” You spit out, riling up at the look in his eyes when he sees the silver in the walls again in the new light.

“Find anything of value left in this stupid hovel?”

“You and Saph are too protective of this site, too bad we can’t strip the walls,” He kicks a boot in the dirt kicking up a fine cloud of debris and dust, “would make up for the losses.”

You cough, your eyes wanting to water, but you wipe them with your bandanna. 

“Maybe if you and your goons stopped breaking things we wouldn't be set back so much. Besides it's illegal to deface anything, that includes the walls.”

He just hums, looking you up and down with a strange look in his eyes before turning to head back up the stairs. 

“Whatever you say Mole.”

You ruffle up at the nickname, but before you can reply Matthew is marching out, closing the tarp and leaving you in the dim lamplight.

You stand a moment before sighing. Reaching down to the crate at your side you adjust the oil feed and the light bristles with life, a warmth radiation from it that seeps into your downturned spirit. Matthew, while rough, did have a point. The dig needed something to be able to keep going. The small island you were working for was looking for a prize to boost the floundering tourist industry so time was running out. 

You stand for a moment in thought, eyes tracing the menagerie of creatures swimming though time around you. You always found yourself drawn to the room, some deep set curiosity swirling in your mind. While your eyes wander there is a different sort of gleam, off set from the pearly white and abalone. Your head tilts as your eyes find rest on an ancient beast. 

Stepping closer to examine it you are met with what could only be defined as a monster, swirling around itself in rage, its coils lined not with silver but gold, set apart from the rest of the art in the room. Spellbound you reach a hand to it and upon touching the old brick a jolt of electricity runs through you and you shoot back in surprise.

“What?” Your voice seems muffled but the wide room, the dust itself concealing anything from the outside, to your shock then there is another gleam, one you hadn’t noticed before at the heart of the beast, guarded by raised claws and fins. Your hand reaches for it and the shape comes loose from its crevice. 

As your fingers curl around the shape there is a noise like thunder in your mind and warmth in your heart. You feel then like you are being watched, and all at once the world seems to seep out and an old magic flood in. The creatures in the walls become drenched in color as the feeling of water rises until you are floating in a wide sea. 

Around you the cries of gulls echo into the wide world and the stars about this dark sea drip their sterling light. Your mind's eye widens as there is then a leviathan, a great dragon emerging from the waves, golden eyes staring into yours. It speaks in an ancient rumble than a mighty clawed hand reaches around you.

Voices again from the outside of the tent and all at once you are human again. You blink, the mist in your mind washing away with lucid waves. You find your palms curled together in front of you, as if reaching to offer something before a great deity. You break from the position, opening your palms and gasping. In your palm is a pendant you have never seen before, insent in a golden scallop shell, with a crackled glaze is a sapphire the size of a half dollar. It is wired in with sturdy gold wire with four, two on each side, pearl beads. The pendant rests heavily in your hand and without thinking you find yourself reaching up and pulling it on in a daze.   

Once the pendant is hanging at your sternum you wake in a stupor. You blink luridly, unaware for a moment before your hand darts to the pendant in shock.

“What?’

You question yourself before quickly reaching to take the jewel off but find that once you reach for the clasp they seem to alway slip out of reach. Anytime you try to lift the pendant off a shock jolts your mind painlessly and you drop it back to your chest. You begin to worry but the sound of a voice at the top of the stairs and daylight once again flooding the room has you moving the pendant under your shirt to hide it as Saph comes down the stairs. You kneel down to the wall after one final glance towards the beast only to find it gone.

“Thought I might find you down here, did Matthew bother you too much?”  

You look up to the woman and smile, hoping your apprehension doesn’t come through.

“He’s just being himself, a right old dick.”

She snorts at that and approaches you.

“Come on, we're heading back into town for the day, there’s a storm coming in and the museum wants us back early.”

You look up to her at that, working to gather your journal and camera and stuff them into the satchel at your side.

“But it was clear outside only a while ago.”

She nods at that but gestures to the stairs,

“You might want to take a look now.” 

You pull yourself up and move to follow her, pulling a tarp over the debris at your feet and putting on your satchel. You give one final look around you and the animals in the wall seem to shine a little brighter as you nod to Saph to head up. She starts up the stairs and you follow, but as you leave the room you swear you feel a set of eyes on you. 

-

In some dark forgotten place, an old force breathes. The sound of chains breaking and a low rumble fills the room. Statues crumble in the movement as a large tail slides into the shadow, but what emerges is not a beast but a man. An exposed chest heaves as he steps from the labyrinth of shadow, a beast of the dark coils around his body and he grunts in pain when the pattern of it inks itself onto him. The gold braces that bound his hands and ankles dissolve then, running down, droplets of gold then dissolving into the cobbled floor. 

-

You make it out of the ruin and find the cleared sky now gathered in stormy clouds. Saph helps you past a tumbled over table and you both watch as Matthew gives orders to a few college students who in turn fumble with equipment, flustered. You shake your head in exasperation before going to help. 

They greet you with relieved smiles and you, upon taking a hammer, help to pin the tarps to cover the exposed works. You feel Matthew approach and stiffen before a firm arm is reaching out to grab a board before it knocks into you. He steps around you and lifts the wood before setting it aside. You mutter out a thanks as you finish your task. He just winks at you before turning to the others. 

As you and the students stand there is a flash of lightning and a loud crash of thunder that makes one of the students yelp in surprise.  

“That’s enough for today go ahead and head home guys!” Your voice rings out over the picking up wind and the students scamper off towards the jeeps in the distance. Matthew looks to you, some shine of concern in his eyes but you mention to Saph.

“I'll ride back with Saph you go ahead we’ll lock down.”

His voice is cut off by a rumble of angry thunder and the clouds threatening to drench you three. He nods curtly and heads off to the jeeps. You see the college students pull out soon followed by him. Saph heads off towards the jeeps but something pulls you to the edge of the cliff, past toppled walls and torsoless statues. A row of them line a path to the cliff face. You step the ancient treaded stone, the click of your own work boots muffled by the winds swelling around you. The world seems to shift then.

As you take the final steps up to the dias, the stones smooth out as if kissed by the rough sea. You feel the sudden urge to take your shoes off to feel the coolness of the stone but ignore it to instead look over the vast ocean. You almost feel like at the summit of history here, the ruins around you lending to the fact this ocean was once owned. But like most beasts, very few could tame the sea.  

You rear an arm out to the horizon then, the massive clouds in the distance swirling in the wind, dark and foreboding. There is a rumble then, and a flash of lightning strikes the sea between the scope your parted fingers. The water churns and you swear you see movement under the waves before Saph is calling for you. As your head turns away a form slips beneath the waves.

-

The ride back into town is calm despite the torrential downpour that falls upon you two just as you close the door. The wipers work overtime as you stare out the window in thought, the sea slowly sinking away to the forest that separates the dig site from the town.  She leaves you to your thoughts for a while, at least before the ringing of her phone makes her groan.

“He won’t let up will he.” You smirk at her, a fond smile lighting up on your face as Saph ignores the phone.

“He should know I am busy!”

“He is just a love sick puppy for you. For an engineer he’s quite soft.”

Despite her mock frustration her smile is sweet when you discuss her fiance. The two were together for a long time but he only recently proposed and when she got stationed off of the mainland on the island he had been insistent in calling every day when she got off. 

“He probably just saw the weather-” she fishes out her phone and passes it to you, “can you let him know we’re heading back into town before it hits?”

You slide her phone open, past the image of her cat Shadow and type in a quick message, signing off with a smiley face. He pings back only a second later with a hello to you and a best wishes. 

You set the phone into the cup holder and his calling ceases as you both laugh. 

The rest of the trip into town is quiet, the forest breaking up to the edge of softened civilization. Cattle graze in fields and you catch the occasional deer and seagull mingling in the temperate climate. It was thankfully the ending of summer so the weather was usually even, but sudden storms would still kick up and apparently a large front had decided now it was time to strike. 

The leaves in the trees were starting to turn as you both pulled into the research center of the local university, your main base away from the ruins scattered around the island. Saph pulls into the free spot and stops the engine as the rain pours outside. 

“Ugh I wish this rain would let up, we're gonna get drenched! It was supposed to be clear this afternoon.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt and prepare for the water but as you crack open your door the rain lets up, slowing to a drizzle, then a sprinkle then nothing at all. Saph raises a brow, and you chuckle.

“Maybe it likes me.”

Saph rolls her eyes as you get under cover of the awning and she follows, the rain then deciding you had passed safely comes down again, at this Saph smiles.

“Maybe.”

The doors slide open and you pass through the students leaving for the day, their waves and smiles warming your heart at the dedication. The weekend had finally arrived and you all could now get a long break before the fall classes began and you lost a few of the students to their courses.

As you make it to the archeology department there is a group of other work study students standing at the entrance to your office. Saph looks to you and you catch Matthew's blond hair over the crowd. He seems to be arguing as there are semi raised voices and you and Saph make it to the outer ring of the crowd. There is another voice that washes over you, and their blue eyes find you over the crowd and yours widen when the pendant feels heavier under your shirt.

Matthew's eyes trace the other man’s eyes towards you and you can see the frown set on his face as he shifts blocking the other man from view with his height.  Saph looks to you as the students realize you’ve returned and part to let you both through. 

“What's going on Matthew, why are you here?”

The blond turns to look down at, running a hand through his hair, eyes looking too you and Saph.

“I was going to ask you to dinner to discuss team development-” A hand on his shoulder makes him startle as an older man joins the two men, you nod your head in greeting towards the dig supervisor, a man you didn’t quite like.

“There will be no need for that Matthew.” Mr. Wright winks at you and you feel Saph step closer to you.

“Mr. Wright it’s a pleasure!” Matthew is quick to correct himself, an easy smile lighting his face as he shakes his hand. You roll your eyes in your mind and let your eyes wander to the third man as the two make pleasantries. In a smart brown suit is a tall man, hair nicely swept back and a well groomed beard, flecks of grey in the brown. As you meet his face you find his eyes on you, when your eyes meet his eyes he smiles and you swoon. He steps past Matthew, disregarding their conversation to address you.

“Dr. Jonathan Price, professor of history and archeology.”

You nod and smile at his manners and as your hand meets his his other takes it and he squeezes your hand.

You reply with your name and your position. You were the student coordinator for the department, on loan from the mainland after the recent discoveries. 

“It’s good to meet you Dr. Price,” His lips quirk up and there is a shine in his eyes. You hear Matthew clear his throat, seemingly irritated. Dr. Price just chuckles, releasing your hand with a final squeeze in his,

“John is fine Love.”

You just nod, taken aback before Mr. Wright draws his hands together with a hum. 

“I’m glad you two are already so chummy, from now on you will be working with Dr. Price in the cliff sights around the island. Matthew you will be transferred to the salvage department.”

Matthew turns to him in shock, 

“But I thought you needed a new lead for the cliff sites?”

Mr. Wright nods, hand coming to his beard in though, he then claps you on the back, 

“Congratulations dear you've been promoted. Dr. Price, I leave her to your care. And now Matthew we need to discuss the findings for this sudden squall that's appeared.”

With that Mr. Wright turns and Matthew gapes after him before realizing himself and after glancing at you he follows the older man. The students chatter with congratulations before there is a ding of the intercom for the school.

As a warning of the oncoming storm we recommend all students, staff, and faculty leave soon before the worst of the weather hits. 

“Alright you guys you've heard the intercom, now shoo and have a good break!” You smile at the cheers from the students as most disperse, while a few linger chatting with Dr. Price he discusses details of an essay for his class calmly as you work to unlock your office and opening the door you hear Saph’s phone ring.

“Saph you need to get home, go on and talk to Chris I’ll text you when I get home!” You call out to her over your shoulder as you set your stuff on your desk. She  leans into your office, minding the sun catchers that hang from your door frame. Your office is filled with plants and trinkets you’d found that the school let you have.

“Are you sure? You didn't bring your car today, how will you get home?” She moves to step into your office but her phone rings again, no doubt a worried Chris. She silences it another time but you wave her off. You hear the students part ways as thunder rumbles outside, and she frowns. 

Dr. Price’s voice resounds from the now empty hall and he steps into view of the doorway. You both turn to him and he approaches and with a nod form you enters your office. Saph looks at him a little caught off guard and unsure but you wave her concern off.

“I can see her home.”

“If you don’t mind of course, I was hoping to discuss some things with you anyway before the weekend hits with work next week.”

“That's fine with me, I stay close to campus anyway. Head home Saph.” Outside the window lightning flashes and the lights flicker a moment.

Saph still seems apprehensive so you smile and round your desk to pat her arm. 

“Go on ahead and call Chris.”

She finally gives up at Price’s nod and you sigh in relief as she hugs you and moves to head out.

“Text me when you get home.”

And with that she finally leaves, leaving you and Price in the warm lights of your office. Warm eyes regard you as he watches you gather your things. In his presence the amulet warms and you reach for it subconsciously. You look up to him and meet his eyes and there is electricity in your blood then.

You feel a sense of sincerity from him in a strange way, comfort in some shared secret. You know then he is aware of you. He rounds your desk, approaching you. Your eyes widen at this, uncertainty nibbling at your mind but all he does is open his arms in question. 

“You found something today didn’t you dear, something that is more than it seems.”

The utterance of the amulet takes a weight off your shoulder. You reach under your shirt and pull the gem out, it shines with a bright luster. He looks at you inquisitively and you step forward into his reach as he hums. Admiring the amulet. However when he goes to reach for it there is a sudden crash of thunder and lightning that sends the room into darkness. You jump in surprise but Price only chuckles, mumbling something that sounds like “typical” under his breath. His arms return to his sides and the power flutters back to life.

You blink at his expression and finally question him.

“How did you know I found it?”

He answers your question with one of his own,

“How exactly did you find it?”

You look at him apprehensively, 

“I don’t exactly know how, one moment there was a great beast lined in gold in the murals on the wall and next it was gone.”

Price nods and then looks at you with new eyes. They soften considerably and you find yourself wanting to turn away from the look but you are captured by the ocean in them. He looks ready to speak but the power flickers again and he sighs.

“That is enough for today, it is already ticking into the evening so I should get you home. Do you mind riding with me?”

He seems older at that moment, and you feel for him. In return you smile and gather your backpack from your chair and nod.

“I would like that thank you.”

“Of course dear.”

He allows you to grab your things, and follows you out of your office, holding then closing your door for you. You pass down the hall in relative silence, the sounds of the rain on the ceiling a soothing rhythm. But when you make it to the front doors of the building the rain ceases for a minute and you look up at the sky in wonder. For your curiosity a single drop falls and hits you square in the nose but nothing else falls. As you blink and then wipe your nose, Price just watches you with a look.

Passing the work jeeps you make it to a sleek car, and while shuffling your things Price steps around and opens the back door for you to set your things in. Doing so he then opens the passenger door and helps you to slide into the car before closing the door and heading to the driver's side. And in a final moment, as the rain begins once again, Price backs out of the spot and pulls away from the college.  

-

As you make it through town you finally reach your apartments, a charming little brick building converted from an old factory into newer apartments. The rain lets up as Price slows then pulls alongside the curb. 

“Do you need help with your things?”

“I think I am fine, I appreciate it John.”

“Anytime Dear, here.” He motions for you to stop before he digs in the glove box pulling out a little notebook and pen. He writes something down and tears out the paper before passing it to you. On the paper you find his number scrawled in fine writing. 

“Contact me sometime over the weekend and I would like to get coffee to discuss some things about the site, if that is fine with you?”

You flush a little but nod, a smile tugging onto your lips.

With that he watches to make sure you make it into your apartments, only pulling away when you get inside.The cold front sets in as you walk up the stairs to your floor, the sound of rain battering the windows and thunder rumbling over the building as the storm moves overhead. You make it to the third floor with ease. When you get to the top of the stairs you hear some movement up ahead and see quite the sight. 

“I will thank you John.”

In the apartment next to you, one that had been empty since you’d moved in, there were two men lifting a sofa in the hall, blocking your passage. The door to the apartment was closing and the taller man cursed, a thick Scottish accent and you, without much thinking, hurry forward to get the door for them. When he realizes what you are doing he smiles and nods to the other man who steps backwards into the apartment.  

“You’re a blessing, Love.” The other man finally sees you and his face lights up with a charming smile, English accent thickening his annunciation. You shift aside and they bring the sofa into the apartment. 

Looking around there are boxes scattered and some assorted pieces of furniture already in place. There is a blur of black that darts from the kitchen and struts into the living room to investigate the arrival of someone new.

Your heart warms as the men set the sofa down and the Scot drops himself onto it with a huff. You naturally slide your satchel down and kneel down to greet the fluffy black cat that greets you with a loud purr. You scratch under her head and she wiggles. You fall back onto your behind when the cat jumps into your arms. 

“Nyx! That’s rude sweetheart.” The other man shakes his head and approaches you to help you up. An arm drops and while cradling Nyx, who stretches her front legs over your shoulder, you take his offered hand and he pulls you up while the Scots head turns, tilting in interest.

The man who helped you up lingers a little close, he offers to take the cat from you and you both try but she just meows in protest. She doesn’t dig her claws in so the man is able to lift her like a sack of potatoes. 

“Kyle, we need to introduce ourselves now.” 

“Go ahead Johnny, I need to take care of the child. Sorry Love it's her dinnertime, I am Kyle by the way.

The other man, who introduces himself as Johnny, pulls himself up and approaches you with an easy smile on his handsome face. His eyes are electric while he meets Kyle's honey eyes in a shared look. Their eyes turn to the pendant and the same warmth fills your chest. Johnny approaches and you hear the thunder rumble louder in warning but Johnny just smirks.

He takes your hand and brings it to his lips pressing a light kiss that angers the storm. 

“Johnny”

Kyle reappears from the kitchen followed by Nyx who ignores her food to come between you and Johnny, nudging her head against your pants as the power flickers.

“What, I gotta greet the lass don’t I?”

“You know how he is.” Kyle mutters it quietly, while Johnny just gives a cheeky grin. Johnny then gestures to the amulet.

“It's pretty on you lass.” 

He releases your hand but lingers close to you, enough so you can feel his watch from the shirt he wears. He looks down at you warmly and you feel a tug at your heart when Kyle moves to join you. Nyx looks at him and meows to which he chuckles and looks down to you as well. You warm a little in the cheeks under their scrutiny but your phone ringing breaks the silence.

“That would be my coworker. I need to let her know I am home.”

“Aye lass don’t be a stranger now thanks for the help, we’ll see you home.”

He collects your satchel and you head out the open door followed by them and Nyx who lingers at your feet for attention. When you reach your apartment Johnny laughs.

“We’re lucky then to have you so close.” 

You give him a small smile and unlocking your door you bid them both a good night. They wait for you to close your door before Johnny scoops up Nyx turns to kyle,

“So it begins.” 

“Indeed.”

End Part One

[torusdove]

— How shall we spend our time together, love?

Pairings: Xavier × reader + Rafayel × reader .

Sprinkle of info: type of dates I think they fit!

— Tranquility & privacy ˚｡ Xavier.

An all-time lover of quiet moments and private connections. He finds solace in dates that are away from the big city, away from the hustle and bustle of the world around him. Whether it's him laying his head in your lap, listening attentively to the story you're reading out loud, or taking you out to watch the laterns get blown into the air, he cherishes the opportunity to connect deeply with you in a serene setting. One of his favourite dates is a simple, night walk. Nobody is within sight, it's just the two of you listening to the wind that's blowing through the leaves. He cherishes the way your bond can flourish undisturbed by the outside world.

— Artistic & luxurious ˚｡ Rafayel.

Dear lil' Rafayel, a connoisseur of elegance and creativity when it comes to not only creating art, but also dating. Though he might play it off with his sassy behaviour, he has a penchant for the finer things in life. Delightful are dates that are both artistic and luxurious, combining the two best things into a single activity. From gallery openings (of his own) to exclusive wine tastings over a plate of creamy pasta, every outing is meticulously planned to indulge in cultural richness and opulence. Whether it's admiring fine art or admiring different species of fish behind thick glass (or perhaps even up-close in the water, if you're up to it), his dates are a symphony of sophistication and style, creating unforgettable memories in the lap of luxury.

[maracujatangerine]

93. Firelight

CW: institutional slavery, pet whump, dehumanisation, box boy universe

The snow glittered in the moonlight. It lay undisturbed and soft like a feather down duvet all over the lawn, the trees, and the roofs of the other houses. Brutus looked despondently out the window, then paced across the room and looked out at the same view from a slightly different angle.

Master and Mistress had just left the house in a haze of sparkly red dress, fine, dark grey suit, fragrant perfume and red-bottomed heels clattering against the wooden floors.

”Down, boy! I won’t need you tonight.” Master had told him. ”This is the sort of party that will have their own security.” He’d added, with a smiling glance at Mistress Cecilia, who was adjusting an errant strand of her up-do in the floor-length hall mirror.

And then they were gone…

And Brutus worried. As usual.

The guard dog tried to convince himself that his Master knew what he was doing, but he couldn’t stop himself from restlessly wandering from room to room in the huge apartment.

As he was staring out yet another window, multicoloured lights from the Christmas tree falling over his face, Absalom silent-footedly appeared next to his elbow.

Today, the romantic wore a white shirt, marine trousers and a bow-tie in midnight-blue silk. A sapphire mounted in silver spilled down from his collar, catching the light in undersea reflections.

“Make a fire.” He said.

Brutus started at the unexpected request.

”But… But Master and Mistress just left. Did they really ask for a fire?”

Absalom stared out the window, then slowly turned his head to look at Brutus. Blue eyes meeting dark brown. Smooth, glossy brown hair like a waterfall framing his pale face.

”Make a fire for me.” Absalom clarified. His facial expression neutral, his voice toneless, but there was something in his eyes that hinted of this being a very heartfelt desire indeed.

Brutus was going to refuse. To tell the pet that he could do it himself, if he wanted to risk their owners’ anger. True, they had not forbidden the pets from making a fire, but they had never told them to do so either. It was hardly worth the risk, the room was warm enough already. But that hint of something stopped him.

Instead, Brutus gave a curt nod and turned to kneel in front of the fireplace. It was the guard dog’s task to make sure the firewood rack was filled, and he did it diligently.

The wood was dry, Brutus had already prepared smaller pieces of wood and strips of bitch bark in a basket next to the rack. It was quick work to build a neat staple of pieces of wood, with the kindling and bark in the centre. He could not deny a small sense of satisfaction as he lit the match and watched the yellow and orange flames eagerly catch in the firewood. Brutus carefully fed some smaller pieces of wood to the fire, guarding its progress. When he was satisfied the fire was well established, he tidied up the leftover kindling and put the matches back on their designated place.

Just as the guard dog got to his feet, Absalom came in through the door. He carried a silver tray, his back as straight and his movements as elegant as if he was serving their owners. On the tray was two thick glass cups filled with steaming wine that gleamed a deep ruby red in the firelight. There was also a plate with gingerbread cookies decorated with white icing in shapes of hearts and snowflakes.

With a flourish, Absalom held out the tray to Brutus. The large man just stared at him quizzically.

”Don’t worry, darling.” Absalom said. ”There are lots of leftovers from their get-together on Wednesday. They will never know.”

Brutus still hesitated. Their eyes met. Absalom smiled, just a little. Brutus nervously pulled a hand through his black hair, but finally took the proffered cup.

The romantic gracefully sank down in front of the fireplace, placing the silver tray with the cookies on the floor. He took a drink and cradled the warm glass cup in both hands. Brutus sat down next to him and sipped his drink cautiously.

The mulled wine was warm, and sweet, and strong. The taste and scent of it filling his senses. It was rare that Brutus tasted anything like it, and for a moment, he was completely absorbed.

When he glanced over at Absalom, the other pet was looking into the flames. The orange firelight reflecting in his eyes. His face was impassive, his breathing calm, but silent tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Brutus watched him with astonishment. He’d never seen Absalom show emotion in any way like this before. The guard dog wanted to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. Absalom’s quick wit could scratch like cat’s claws, if he was displeased.

He couldn’t just ignore it, either.

Slowly, Brutus reached out and laid his muscular hand on the pet’s thin shoulder. Absalom stiffened. For a second, Brutus thought the romantic might whip around to hit him.

Then, Absalom raised his own hand, thin and pale in comparison, and put it on top of Brutus’ hand on his shoulder. For a moment, they sat together and just watched the fire.

*

Fun Facts:

To drink warm, spiced wine has a long history, even the ancient Romans and Greeks did it. There are different versions of mulled wine across the world. In the Nordic countries, we drink glögg. It is a quite sweet version of mulled wine that most often is served with almonds and raisins.

Tag List Part 1:

@cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

[illusivesoul]

Dragon Age Inquisition Scenery - Valammar

In ancient times the dwarves used the region as a trading post until it fell to the darkspawn. The uppermost layer of the soil has since collapsed, leaving the surface exposed, allowing for a massive waterfall to form. The built up humidity from the water has allowed trees and other flora to flourish about the region.

Architecturally, Valammar is very similar to Orzammar in the sense that the settlement is designed in a series of tiers. The thaig lay docile beneath the Hinterlands unbeknownst to those above. Darkspawn roam freely undisturbed—until the Carta's sudden interest in the abandoned fissure.

[maryhale1]

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️How to create a Love altar to attract true love:

1. ✨Select a Dedicated Space���Choose a quiet and undisturbed area where you can set up your altar.

2.✨Symbolic Items✨ Place items that symbolize love and romance, such as rose quartz crystals, heart-shaped objects, and items that hold personal significance.

3.✨Candles✨Use candles in colors associated with love, like pink or red. Light them during your altar sessions to enhance the energy.

4.✨Fresh Flowers✨ Include fresh flowers, preferably in pairs, to symbolize a blossoming and flourishing love.

5.✨Personal Touch✨Add personal items, like a photo of yourself or an item that reminds you of a happy and loving moment.

6.✨Intention Setting✨Focus on your true love intentions while arranging and interacting with the altar. Envision the kind of love you desire.

7.✨Regular Maintenance✨ Keep the altar clean and refreshed regularly. Replace flowers, cleanse crystals, and maintain the positive energy.

8.✨Meditation and Visualization✨ Spend time in meditation, visualizing the love you wish to attract. Feel the emotions associated with being in a loving relationship.

Remember, the key is sincerity and positive energy. Use this altar as a tool to align your intentions with the energy of love.

[qlala]

Whump prompt requests?? :o Pretty please can I request Barry gets kidnapped and Len finds him tied up? (Do want: muzzle/gag, handcuffs. Don't want: pet p!ay, established relationship)

i think this is the only prompt i've ever gotten with a detailed list of wants and don't wants, and you know what? i love clear instructions

the devil you know (coldflash, 5.6k, rated M)*

(*note: this fic makes implied reference to threats of SA/noncon, but none occur)

When Iris West tracked Len down three days into the Flash’s latest disappearance, Len sent her on her way with a shrug. He didn’t know or particularly care where Barry was, and he privately doubted Iris’s insistence that Barry wouldn’t have gone off anywhere without telling his team first. 

Still, he made an idle mental note to follow up if another week passed without any sign of him. Making that promise out loud might’ve gone a long way in wiping away some of the bitter disappointment out of Iris’s eyes as she left, but Len had a reputation to protect. 

Besides, Barry had a bad habit of popping up in Len’s life at the most inconvenient time possible. Ten days without the Flash interfering in any heists or Len’s attempts to follow the hockey playoffs undisturbed? He wasn’t that lucky. 

Four days later, a meta-snatcher tossed someone down onto the ground in front of Len's chair in handcuffs, a black hood, and very little else, and Len's first thought was that being right all the time was exhausting.

Narrow hips and shoulders, a lean and powerful body (although, underfed as he looked at the moment, that balance tipped closer to just lean), long legs folding under him as he settled uncomfortably—if prettily—onto his knees before sitting back on his heels. 

The concrete floor couldn’t have been comfortable. Len had put together the de facto throne room they were in precisely for meetings like this. It sat at the heart of a creaking warehouse abandoned at the edge of the docks, largely off the CCPD’s radar given the overwhelming impression that it was going to slide into the river with the slightest gust of wind. (Len encouraged that impression at every opportunity; he liked to post Mardon up on the roof to howl a few well-timed gusts of wind through the corroded metal walls during particularly lucrative negotiations. It made people antsy, and antsy people made worse deals.) 

He’d emptied the place of everyone except for himself and Mick for the evening’s entertainment, though. Call it a hunch; meta-snatching had largely dried up in the past couple of years. Most of the meta-humans with both valuable powers and common sense had already aligned themselves with one big player in Central City or the other—never mind that the distinction felt increasingly like choosing sides for a scrimmage. What mattered was that neither the Rogues nor Team Flash took kindly to their allies getting grabbed off the street, and meta-snatchers had learned quickly and painfully that they were better off finding safer professions. 

Of course, it helped that most meta-humans had also developed a healthy fear of the few meta-snatchers still bold enough or desperate enough to stay in the game. Len had taken that night’s meeting for the same reason that trophy hunters set traps on the edge of their own camps; the bolder the animal, the bigger the teeth. 

When the meta-snatcher pulled the black hood off with a flourish, Barry didn’t even have the good grace to look chagrined. 

“My, my,” Len drawled, settling back into his chair with a slow smirk. “What big teeth you have.”

It was too perfect to resist; he’d had the line ready even before he’d seen the muzzle, and he hadn’t landed on the top of Central’s food chain by ignoring chances landing in his lap like that. 

It was stark black leather, something Len would’ve expected to find in a very particular kind of club and not a meta-snatchers toolkit. He wondered idly if they’d had to improvise; a week of Barry Allen bitching his ear off, he sure as hell would’ve reached for the nearest gag, too. 

And it did seem to be functioning as a gag. It was well made from a single piece of leather, the breathing vents cut into the sides clearly designed not to allow enough give for the wearer to actually open their jaw. It fit snugly over Barry’s mouth and nose, looped securely over his ears, and came together in a heavy buckle on the back of his head. With the way it just skimmed the line of Barry’s high cheekbones, it was nearly a perfect inverse of the Flash’s usual mask.  

It was a better look than the cowl. Shame Barry would probably drop him in Iron Heights for suggesting that he take inspiration from the meta-snatcher’s fashion choice. 

Based on the flatly unimpressed look Barry was leveling him over the mask, Len was going to have to put that one on the back burner for a while. 

A quiet snort from Len’s right pulled his attention momentarily to Mick. Barry was lucky Mick hadn’t boomed a laugh the second the hood had come off; the plausible deniability that he and Len didn’t know who the Flash was under the mask was wearing thin enough as it was. 

Mick leaned against the side of Len’s chair and rumbled, too quiet to carry, “And it ain’t even your birthday.” 

The meta-snatcher cleared his throat self-importantly and Len flicked him a glare as he pulled his smirk under control. He was some distant relative of the Santinis, which made it all the more idiotic that he’d been poaching metas on turf that Len had chased the rest of his family off of years ago. Len had disregarded his first name as soon as he’d heard it; he didn’t plan on needing it. 

“He bite?” Len asked, pushing himself lazily out of the chair. 

Santini tucked the hood into his back pocket, clearly sensing a sale, and backed up a few steps in the universal invitation to inspect the wares. 

“Nah,” he said, conversational now that Len was showing interest. "I muzzle anything with a meta gene. That’s from experience. I caught one once, she could literally talk someone's ear off. And I mean literally. It would shrivel up and just..." He mimed a splat. 

Barry’s dark shock of hair was sticking up wildly around the straps of the muzzle, and Len could see a purple bruise blooming just over the edge of the leather at one temple. However they’d gotten the thing on him, he’d put up a fight. 

A hell of a fight, Len corrected himself, as he got close enough to get a proper look at Barry in the dim light. There were more bruises mottling his skin further down, and they weren’t showing any signs of healing. Len couldn’t see what kind of cuffs were holding Barry’s arms behind his back, but he would’ve put money on power dampeners.

"Meta gene, hm?” Len reached out and trailed his fingers through the air a scant inch above Barry’s mussed hair, just to feel the novel lack of static humming around him. "What can it do?"

The glare Barry shot him at the word "it" looked awfully annoyed for someone who was supposed to be in fear for his life, and Len raised an imperious eyebrow back. 

“Tests can’t really tell you that,” Santini said, patronizing enough that Len cut him a warning look. He put his hands up, an easy surrender. “...as you know,” he tacked on, mollifying. “I’ll tell you, though. He burnt through the first two pairs of cuffs we put on him. Whatever it is, he’s packing heat.” 

Len snorted. There were understatements, and there were understatements. The man had hooked a great white shark and thought he was selling an unusually bitey tuna. 

It gave Len exactly the information he’d needed to know, though. He hadn’t really thought Barry’s identity had been compromised, not with the way Santini had shown up alone, unarmed, and without several other bidders in tow.

He expected some kind of cheek from Barry, a tilted head that said “I told you so,” muzzle or not. Maybe even Barry pushing to his feet once Len got close enough, overly confident that Len would uncuff him and the game would be up. 

But Barry only tipped his head back to hold Len’s gaze as he sauntered toward him, and he didn’t stir from where he was kneeling. 

Len ignored the clear attempt at eye contact and began pacing a wide circle around him, appraising. It left Barry with the option to either twist to follow him or give up, and Len had to tamp down a smirk at the churlish way Barry snorted under the muzzle as he swung his head around to face forward again.

Up close, though, Len’s amusement began to evaporate. Barry didn’t look like he could stand. 

Power dampener cuffs were clamped tight around his narrow wrists, as expected. Homemade, but not shoddily so—Santini was an ambitious amateur. Bruises spanned the range from purple-black to fading yellow-green, the Flash’s missing week accounted for. 

Even with their more recent, less murder-y history, he expected Barry to have enough of a survival instinct to tense when Len passed behind him, some kind of instinctual response to having his back to someone who had once made it his life’s mission to kill him. 

Instead, as soon as Len’s path put him between Barry and Santini, Barry relaxed.  

Len’s feet stilled without permission from his brain. He waited for the trick, but none came. The longer he watched, the slower Barry’s too-sharp shoulder blades rose and fell, breath evening out, chin sinking by degrees towards his chest, like he’d finally allowed a week’s worth of exhaustion to catch up to him at once. 

Like he finally thought he was safe. 

Something dangerously close to alarm spiked through Len’s chest at the thought, and it took everything in him to repress the instinct to rear back a step. 

He shoved the panic down instead, held it under until it drowned, and got ahold of himself. The annoyance that bloomed in the aftermath, on the other hand, was welcome. 

Barry and his stupid, endless, goddamn faith that Len was a good man. He’d always trusted him too much. But up until now, Len had had the plausible deniability that it was only because Barry was counting on his powers in the event that Len did betray him.

Now, he was faced with the unfortunate reality that things were far worse than he’d let himself believe. It was his fault, really. Barry trusted too easily; it was an immutable part of who he was. Len had watched people wriggle close enough to Barry to sink their knives in his back too many times to count. None of it made a difference, not in the long term. 

But usually, Barry seemed to limit himself to second chances, even if he did give them out too freely. There were plenty of people in Iron Heights—hell, in the ground—who had used that second chance to take another stab at him, only to find that Barry’s patience had hard limits. 

Len, on the other hand, had let himself become something unacceptable. An exception. From the moment he’d failed to shoot Barry with his father’s thumb on the trigger that could’ve killed Lisa, he’d become a permanent lesser of two evils. Len didn’t even know what chance he was on, but he had passed second long ago.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, people said. That was Len: Barry’s devil of choice, every time. Len had enjoyed it for a while, no sense in lying to himself about that. He liked the snarls of annoyance when he turned the cold gun on Barry’s other problems, let it stroke his ego that Barry had chosen him over them. 

But he’d let it go too far. Because Barry, it seemed, had forgotten a crucial part of what that saying meant. He’d forgotten Len didn’t play on the side of the angels. 

Lucky for him, Len was going to enjoy reminding him. 

Len forced himself to move again. His gaze lingered on the bruises as he finished circling Barry, despite his best efforts. The worst of it was centered on Barry’s left shoulder, where a hazy ring of deep purple suggested a dislocated—and subsequently relocated—shoulder. He also had a nasty bruise ricocheting over several ribs, and Len watched him breathe for a careful moment. A slow, measured inhale, then a slight hitch and quick, almost involuntary exhale; at least one of them was broken. 

Len’s carefully curated annoyance was already simmering rapidly and unacceptably toward anger when he caught sight of the marks wrapped around Barry’s upper arm. He’d missed them at first glance, easily lost next to the darker mottling from the dislocated shoulder. But the shape of it was unmistakable: four parallel lines around the strong curve of his bicep—a handprint. 

Someone else’s handprint. 

Len caught the thought by the throat before it made him round on Santini. He shoved the thought, snapping and hissing, back into the possessive corner of his mind it had escaped from, and barred the door after it. 

Barry’s surrender had knocked something off-kilter in Len’s brain, sent boxes he’d kept carefully bolted shut spilling open with the impact. Barry may have been his problem, but that was the only “his” that he was. 

And Barry was only his problem because he’d got himself caught by a two-bit amateur with some jerry-rigged tech. A few bruises were the least he deserved; the only reason he was alive was because that two-bit amateur had dumped him at Len’s feet and not someone else’s.

Still, a nasty thought was churning in the back of Len’s mind, and he had to put both hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for the cold gun. He wanted an honest answer out of Santini, not whatever he thought Len wanted to hear. The truth mattered; he needed to know how many pieces the man would be leaving the warehouse in.

“Looks a little worse for wear,” Len drawled, forcing his tone light and sardonic. “Got a discount for damaged goods?”

“Aw, fuck off,” Santini lobbed back, oblivious and good natured. “So he got a little banged up in transit. I told you, he didn’t like the cuffs. He dislocated his own shoulder trying to get out of ‘em. Not my fault. Hell, I put it back in for you.” 

“Not what I was talking about.” Len slid a pointed glance down Barry’s body—miles of freckled skin, very little else—then looked back at Santini. He didn’t lift an eyebrow; he didn’t have to. 

“Oh, the underwear?” Santini scoffed. “I deal in weapons, Cold, not skin. Too messy. Kid’s got every stitch of clothing and virtue he had when I found him, swear on my mother. Besides, he’s not my type.”

The generous two-handed gesture Santini made in front of his own chest didn’t impress Len, but it was crude enough that he took him at his word. He’d suspected as much, regarding the clothes. Barry may have been stupid enough to get himself caught by a meta-snatcher, but he wasn’t stupid enough to get caught and stay in the Flash suit. Whatever trap he’d stumbled into, he’d must’ve had time to throw the suit into some dark corner. No wonder his team hadn’t been able to track him down. 

That unpleasant matter behind them, Len rolled his shoulders back, settling in for another slow circle around Barry. The business portion of the evening was wrapping up, at least as far as he was concerned. He had the information he needed from Santini, and all that was left was to remind Barry that if the meta-snatcher was the frying pan, he was the fire.

If his first perusal had been business, the second was… well. Call it an advance on the clean-up fee he was going to charge Barry for handling Mr. Virtue over there. 

Barry lifted his head as Len started to circle again, tilted it slightly in unspoken question. The muzzle was inspired, Len would give Santini that. Barry had sure as hell never held his tongue for so long in Len’s presence of his own volition. 

Len could hear the list of complaints he’d be in for once he took it off: thanks for leaving the cuffs on for so long, those were comfortable—you know, they sell this new technology nowadays, it’s called an area rug—probably with a dig about his age, while he was at it. 

Len banished the thoughts and the grin that was threatening. Christ, maybe Barry was right. He was getting soft if he was laughing at just the idea of Barry crabbing at him. 

He reached for his earlier determination, instead. He tilted his head with a collector’s eye as he tightened the circle, close enough to touch. 

Barry really did have freckles everywhere, more than Leonard had imagined in the occasional privacy of his own thoughts. Constellations of them between the colorful galaxies of bruises painted over his leanly-muscled shoulders, his chest, stomach, carelessly parted thighs. There was even a pair of them right on the dimples of his lower back, where Len’s thumbs would’ve fit like the space had been made for them. 

It was a tempting thought. Pressing his own claim into Barry’s body, maybe covering up that hand-shaped bruise with one of his own. He was the one playing big bad wolf now, after all. And with both of them dressed for the part: Len, with the fur collar of the parka brushing his jaw, and Barry in those little red shorts. They left absolutely nothing to Len’s imagination, a delicious payoff to years of idle wonderings about what the Flash wore under that suit.

Something of the thought must’ve shown on Len’s face, because Barry looked decidedly less patient when Len caught his eye again. He glanced pointedly back behind himself, then back up again, as if Len weren’t perfectly aware that he wanted the power dampener off.  

Barry wasn’t the only impatient one. Santini clapped once, businesslike, and began walking closer. “You just window shopping today, or—?”

Len cut him off with a look, winning him back silence and space as Santini course-corrected with a gracious “after you” gesture and ceded ground again. 

A week in a cage clearly hadn’t been enough to break Barry’s pride, let alone his spirit. The muzzle was probably the only thing that had kept the meta-snatchers from realizing who he was. Barry would’ve snarked their ears off no matter what they did to him; he’d taken too many hits to be afraid of a little pain. And even with how stupid Santini was, the bared teeth and complete contempt would’ve added up to Central’s apex predator eventually.

The thought was a butane lighter to the sparks of arousal in Len’s veins. It was unfortunate that he wouldn’t be able to take the muzzle off while Santini was still breathing down their necks. He would’ve liked to see the fear in his eyes when he realized the enormity of the mistake he’d made. Delivering the Flash bound and gagged to the one man in the city who had something of a gentleman’s agreement with him…

Len hummed, a little wistful, as he reminded himself that said gentleman’s agreement precluded him from hauling Barry up to sit in his chair and slitting Santini’s throat at his feet. 

But he let the idea of it linger, knew that it would darken his eyes as he skimmed another lingering look down Barry’s body. 

And there, finally—a hint of wariness in Barry’s eyes when Len bothered dragging his gaze up from the dark hair that trailed temptingly down Barry’s lower stomach and disappeared under his waistband. Beginning to remember, maybe, that Len didn’t work for free. 

Len pushed his advantage while he had Barry off-balance. He drew his hands from his pockets, slowly, casually, and held them up at Barry’s eye level. He was wearing gloves, as he always did when conducting business. No point in keeping the cold gun strapped to his thigh if he wasn’t going to be ready to use it. The gloves were a helpful and very visible reminder of that.  

When he was sure he still had Barry’s attention—and he did, something unreadable passing across Barry’s eyes as they darted between Len’s hands—Len turned one hand toward himself, brought the other to its fingertips, and then slowly, one finger at a time, began teasing the glove off. 

Barry tracked the movement with his eyes without prompting, giving Len a quickly-dismissed impulse to reward him. A quizzical furrow formed between his brows, and he stole a single glance up and risked a quick, faint tilt of his head to one side. Confused, yes, but not combative. The difference between “What are you doing?” and “What the hell are you doing?”  

It was Len’s turn to feel an annoyed burn of impatience. Barry was on his knees in front of a convicted killer, bound and gagged and stripped to his skin, and Barry still thought this was all part of a plan. Len had killed three men in front of Barry—and counting. The only plan he had now was finding out how far that stupid, blind trust could bend until it broke.

Len finished drawing the glove off slowly, and in the quiet of the room, nothing but the distant sounds of the river rolling past outside, he was certain Barry heard the rasp of leather over skin. 

Barry’s attention fractured as Len watched. His gaze flicked up from the glove for a single, distracted glance at Len’s eyes. Just below the line where the muzzle dug into the underside of Barry’s jaw, his throat bobbed on a swallow. 

Good, Len thought. Nervous was the first step toward suspicious, and suspicious might just keep Barry alive. 

Len looked away with easy disinterest, settling his attention to Barry’s unbruised shoulder. Barry sat up straighter as Len reached out with the glove in his hand, a hitch in his breath visible in the stuttering rise of his bare chest. 

When Len laid the glove out on the bare, unmarked skin there, Barry twitched like Len had stuck him with a knife.

Almost getting it, Len mused. Ignoring the urgent, searching flicker of green eyes in his direction, Len reached out with his newly bare hand and rested the tip of one finger just under the corner of Barry’s jaw. 

The black leather there was butter soft and warm from Barry’s skin. Just as slowly as he’d pulled off the glove, Len stroked the finger up the line of Barry’s jaw, following the sharp edge of it through the muzzle. Only then did he slide his gaze back to Barry’s to watch the emotions dart through those pale eyes. Confusion, yes, then surprise, with another sharp inhale. And then, with the first flush of healthy color to Barry’s face since he’d been dragged in, understanding. 

Yahtzee, Len thought with a smirk. 

He didn’t give Barry a chance to pull away. He caught him with two fingers under the edge of the muzzle, hard, knuckles snug against his windpipe, and jerked his chin up.

Barry jolted with the movement, full-body, back arching to accommodate the sudden, demanding angle of his neck, the glove tumbling to the ground. Eyes wide, he made a sound behind the muzzle that might’ve been Len’s name if he’d been able to open his mouth enough to say it. 

Somewhere behind Barry, Santini started to object, but he shut himself up before Len had to look his way again. Likely Mick had warned him off, a pointed hand on the heat gun’s handle, or the man had just remembered who he was dealing with. 

Len held Barry there at attention, letting him hang off the hook of his fingers. Heady wasn’t a strong enough word for it. It was a level of control he hadn’t imagined even back before Barry became Barry, when the Flash was a problem to be solved and not a single facet of a more fascinating, infuriating whole. The hero of Central City helpless at his feet, stripped of that golden cloak of lightning he wore everywhere like armor… 

And still not fighting Len an inch. 

Barry’s chest heaved, breath coming quick and shallow, that broken rib apparently the furthest thing from his mind. When Len met Barry’s gaze, his own eyes narrowing in frustration, Barry’s were stunned and breathless. But still, no fear there. 

Agitated, Len crooked his fingers tighter, forcing Barry’s chin up another inch. Barry’s lashes fluttered—maybe feeling that rib now, after all—and Len watched the muscles in his thighs flex as he nearly forced him up onto his knees.

Fight back. 

Barry didn’t so much as twist in his grip, eyes half shut. With Len’s fingers hooked under the edge of the mask, he could feel the heat of Barry’s breaths, nearly panting now. His face and throat were stained pink, exertion clearly catching up to him, and Len wondered if the mask was starting to cut off air after all. 

He loosened his grip and allowed Barry to relax back onto his heels. Barry’s breathing stayed ragged anyway, blush touching the top of his chest as Len frowned at the unreadable expression in his eyes, gone round and almost glassy. 

When Len slipped his fingers free of the mask, Barry didn’t move an inch, head tipped back where Len had left it. 

Len’s patience snapped, curling his gloved hand into a fist at his side. He could’ve snapped Barry’s neck in less than a second, bared to him like that, all fragile skin and sharp tendons. It would’ve been easy as breathing, and there would’ve been nothing that Barry’s powers or his little team could’ve done about it. 

Len took a sharp step forward, closing the rest of the distance between them. It brought the front of his hips nearly flush with the muzzle, his boots between Barry’s knees, which were falling open a little further with every uneven breath. 

It was—too much, frustration at the completely unearned trust, frustration that Barry had been reckless enough to get himself caught, both tangling confused with frustration at Barry. That even stripped and submissive on his knees in front of Len, offering him his throat, he was still the one goddamn thing Len wanted and couldn’t have. 

Len should have conceded that his self-restraint was clinging on by a thread. He should have taken a step back, drawled something droll and amusing, and ended the night with his sanity intact. 

Instead, Len curved a hand around either side of Barry’s neck and stroked them upwards slowly, deliberately.

How many ways could someone kill you just like this, Barry? 

Barry’s throat worked under his hands and he shivered, hard, even as he tipped his head back further, giving Len more room to take advantage of. Barry made another, fainter noise behind the muzzle, half-swallowed as his throat bobbed. 

One point to Len. Even Barry couldn’t miss the threat of Len’s fingertips pressed against the fragile bones of his neck. 

Len lifted them to the edge of Barry’s jaw, followed the line of the straps around his ears, and then reached forward to trace the leather up until his fingers met at the buckle on the back of his head.

The movement brought the parka up on either side of Barry’s head, caging him in, hopefully adding to the claustrophobia of having Len so completely in his space. Len hooked a finger under the loop of leather where it passed through the buckle. He paused there, poised to pull it tighter, and was about to close his hand around the strap and tug when Barry did the one thing he wasn’t counting on. 

He gave in. 

All of the last remaining fight went out of those narrow shoulders at once, nearly unbalancing Len where he’d been bracing his wrists on the steady line of them. 

Instead of using the opportunity to duck away—point made, Snart, let me out of this thing—Barry only swayed deeper into the circle of Len’s arms. Before Len could jerk backwards, half-certain that Barry was finally passing out—Barry brushed closer and rested his forehead against Len’s lower stomach. 

For the space of two heartbeats, Len’s mind went perfectly blank. And then he realized, with a level of disbelief so incredulous that he could feel it bleeding against his will into respect, what Barry had just done. 

He’d called Len’s bluff. 

No suit, no speed, no backup, bound and gagged and as powerless as Len ever could have hoped to have him, and Barry had called his goddamn bluff. 

Chips down, cards on the table, there was nothing else to do—Len took a step back. 

Cold air rushed back between their bodies. Even with that dampener keeping his powers in check, Barry must’ve been a hundred degrees, and Len’s jaw ached against the loss of his heat instantly. 

Barry fell back onto his heels, and Len didn’t wait for him to get his bearings. He hooked a finger through one of the ear loops, forcing the last shreds of anger into the movement, and jerked his head back up.

For the first time all night, Barry didn’t jolt to meet his gaze. Instead, he let three full seconds tick past before he lifted his eyes, as if looking up had been his idea all along. Hair disheveled, pupils nearly swallowing the thin green ring of his irises—

Barry smirked at him. 

It was unmistakable, muzzle be damned, eyes narrowing in such viciously smug satisfaction that Len was torn between shoving him away or dragging him into a dark corner.

Len tightened his grip in the edge of the muzzle, on the brink of deciding, when a low whistle cut through the room. 

“Well, shit. You really have got a way with ‘em, huh?” 

Santini’s voice was an unwelcome reminder of the unfinished business Len had to attend to, and he dragged his gaze away from Barry only after a dark look, promising him that he’d deal with him next.  

“Or maybe just with this one in particular,” Santini continued, grinning like he and Len had agreed on something. “Funny thing—he finally stopped burning through those cuffs when he overheard me tell my crew I was considering Cold as a buyer.”

Len slid his gaze back to Barry. Barry, who was looking anywhere but Len, apparently deeply interested in hearing anything Santini had to say for the first time since he’d dragged him through Len’s doors. Barry, who was still breathing hard and blushing to his roots. Barry, who was trying to draw his knees together even with Len still standing in between them. 

“Did he, now?” Len asked. 

The question wasn’t aimed at Santini, but he answered anyway. 

“Mmm-hmm.” He rocked back on his heels, inclined his head to Len in a pantomime of tipping a hat. “You got a reputation for looking after yours, after all. He must’ve thought you’d have some use for him or another.” He flashed a salacious grin; his objections to the ‘skin game’ clearly ended where his sales instincts began. “I figured maybe the feeling was mutual, and you’d appreciate first dibs on the sale.”

Lips pulling into a sharp, predatory smirk, Len lifted the toe of one boot and planted it on the inside of Barry’s thigh. “I’m considering it.” 

Len pushed Barry’s legs apart with ease. Barry’s color deepened, and he jerked his head like he had any chance in hell of jarring Len’s hand loose from the strap of the muzzle now. Len clicked his tongue in a light, mocking reprimand, and Barry flashed him a glare for it, even as he stopped twisting under his grip. 

He didn’t fight it when Len drew his head to one side, far enough to give him an unimpeded view down the front of his body. The blush stretched halfway down his chest, past nipples that were hard and peaked like Len had just spent an hour teasing them with his tongue. He didn’t need to nudge Barry’s thighs wider to see the thick, heavy outline of his cock straining at the front of the red shorts, but he did it anyway, and was rewarded when it twitched at the demanding press of his boot.  

“I’ll take him,” Len drawled, and Barry’s hips hitched forward as Len guided his legs apart another inch, pulling the thin material taut over his groin.

Across the room, Santini laughed. “I haven’t even told you how much.”

“Not paying.” Len didn’t bother looking up; Barry had lifted his gaze to him again, and Len was going to need a more compelling reason than a low level Santini to look away from the impatient heat in his eyes. “Mick?” 

Mick strode past them without a glance. Santini took one stumbling step backwards, then did the first smart thing he’d done all day: turned heel and ran.

Something in Len’s smirk made Barry blink, brow furrowing. He said something behind the muzzle, chin lifting in a way he probably thought was authoritative, and came across entirely the opposite on his knees. 

Len had heard the words “No killing” come out of that mouth enough times to recognize it from cadence alone, but he tugged Barry up by the muzzle instead, until he got the message and stumbled to his feet. 

“Didn’t catch that,” Len drawled. 

Barry looked ready to argue, as if he weren’t half-wrecked already, skin flushed, hair wild. But he did a distracted double-take when Len shrugged out of his coat, and his gaze went dark and intent as it slid down the dark clothes he was wearing underneath, shouts behind him forgotten.

“You can fill me in later,” Len said, turning away. He shucked his belt as he sauntered toward his chair, let the buckle ring when he dropped it to the concrete. 

Barry was still standing indecisively in the middle of the room when Len settled into the chair with a comfortable sprawl, legs spread, boots wide. His gaze caught on the thick press of Len’s cock, hard against his jeans, and Len flashed his teeth at him in something too sharp to be a smile.

“Got somewhere to be, bolt cutters are in the workshop.” Len indicated a door to the side with a tip of his head, even as he moved his hand to the front of his jeans. “If not...” 

He rubbed his thumb over the button of his jeans, enjoying the pressure against his cock—one slow circle, another. The third time, he slid the button free. 

And Barry came willingly. 

[blueikeproductions]

Alright I’ve been thinking of it long enough: rough AU timeline for the evolution of the Terrans as a species and faction.

Eons ago, the ancient Prime, Quintus Prime, left Cybertron with the goal to seed life on barren planets with the hopes these new Transformer descendants would eventually forge peaceful relations with Cybertron. His first born, the Quintessons, put a wrinkle in this lofty goal, instead conquering or outright obliterating their cousins after developing daddy issues with Quintus Prime. Hunting down their creator, desiring the life giving Emberstone, the Quintessons would corner the Prime on Earth in its prehistory.

It was this conflict, which saw the rise of Terratronus and her crew, that also saw the extinction of the dinosaurs. While the Quintessons were driven off, Quintus’ last act on Earth was to use the Emberstone to restore life on the planet, and leaving Terratronus and Apelinq’s remaining early Terrans to safeguard the Stone and help life on Earth flourish.

The first to reclaim Earth were the reptilian humanoids of the Cobra-La race, but the Cobra-Laians were disgusted by their mechanical progenitors, preferring their “organic” technology, and attempted to exterminate the Terrans by abusing the Emberstone. An uneasy ceasefire was later agreed on with both factions sticking to their own territories, though the Terrans would take back control of the Emberstone, hiding it underground in Terratronus’ city mode. An ice age largely wiped out the majority of Cobra-Laians, with their descendants living in an arctic region undisturbed until 4 million years later when Megatron’s body was uncovered.

Sub-Atlantica was another faction of organic fish like humanoids that evolved by the power of the Emberstone, but they mostly kept to themselves, sticking to their underwater civilization and barely interacting with Cobra-La or Terratronus. In the modern era, they were besieged by the Decepticons, and were assisted by Autobot Seaspray, GHOST Agent Alanna, the Maltobot Terrans and Witwiccan Terrans.

Humans evolved, becoming the dominate species of Earth, with the early Terrans helping guide their development, though withholding using the Emberstone, for fear of repeating Cobra-La. Quintus’ spirit felt confident a group of chosen humans would one day inherit his power, though it came in a form he didn’t quite anticipate. After choosing the Malto children, and creating the first two modern Terrans in a millennia, Quintus was surprised to see a small group of dimensionally displaced children, Grahm and his friends from one of the Cyberverse universes. Cross referencing with his brother Vector Prime, Quintus felt confident Grahm’s group was also worthy, bestowing them with Cyber Sleeves and Terrans also.

Ethan Meridian was the final child of Earth to be blessed with Terrans and a Cyber Sleeve, and when questioned by Vector Prime, Mo and Thompson, Quintus felt confident in Ethan to not become like his father, Dr. Mandroid. Quintus was correct of course.

Sometime later, sympathetic to the disenfranchised GHOST Autobots, Hashtag sent a pulse wave into space using her internet powers to see if there truly are other Transformers out in space. First, Hashtag got a reply from Cathy the Catharsian, who later came to Earth aboard a Velgrox ship to visit her, but soon more Colony Transformers began responding to the pulse wave, followed up by Regulus Magnus’ Autobots and Megaplex’s Decepticons from Cybertron. The Quintessons also became aware of this pulse wave, recognizing it as Emberstone energy, and infuriated they were tricked off Earth, went back to claim what was rightfully theirs.

Grahm, Phoenix, Robbie and Nightshade would later discover Apelinq, looking into local legends of the Witwicky Bigfoot, where the Ancient Terran would reveal the secret of the origins of the Earthbound Terrans and how their new colony friends are their relatives. To make it easier, Nightshade offers to collectively call all their Emberstone descendants Terrans as a faction. It is Quintus’ hope the chosen Maltobots and Witwiccans can unite the “family” and put a stop to Megaplex and the Quintessons’ machinations. Lingering in the background however is a further corruption that wants to obliterate what Quintus Prime desires, the mysterious Transformer Dark Nova…

The Autobots, Maltobots and Witwiccans would find themselves clashing with Dr. Mandroid’s Arachnamechs, the rouge GHOST AI TORQ, Starscream’s Chaos Terrans, Turmoil’s ramshackle Earth Decepticons, and Megaplex’s Decepticons. It was the invasion of Dark Nova, a fallen Prime using the power of the Dead Universe to counter the power of Quintus’ Emberstone that saw true unification begin among the Terrans, Autobots and Decepticons.

At series end, with Dark Nova, the Quintessons and Decepticons defeated, Quintus’ dream is accomplished with Terratronus serving as the capital city of a thriving Unified Cybertron Alliance on Earth.

Ancient Earth Terrans:

Terratronus (MetroTitan, later a Quintesson like space cruiser Vehicle Mode)

Apelinq (Bigfoot Beast Mode)

Catilla (Saber Tooth Tiger Beast Mode)

Terrashock (Prehistoric bull Beast Mode)

Divebomb (Prehistoric bird Beast Mode, based on the TFP version)

Retrax (Prehistoric Insecticon Beast Mode)

Maltobots:

Twitch (Drone Vehicle Mode)

Thrash (Motorbike Vehicle Mode)

Jawbreaker (Dinosaur Beast Mode)

Hashtag (Surveillance Van Vehicle Mode)

Nightshade (Owl Beast Mode)

Cathy (Catharsian, Custom Space Car Vehicle Mode)

Browser (Cassette, Reptar like Robot Mode)

Bit & Byte (Cassette, CatDog like Robot Mode)

Shelldon (Cassette, Rise of the TMNT Donnie like Robot Mode)

Galvatron (Megatron evolved by inheriting the power of Quintus Prime)

Witwiccans:

Phoenix (Partnered to Grahm Witwicky, Humanoid bird Robot Mode, Firebird Vehicle Mode)

Landhammer (Partnered to Thompson Cabezon, Gorilla Robot Mode, Off-road SUV Vehicle Mode)

Nightscream (Partnered to Milo Meister, Giant Bat Beast Mode)

Abhorrous (Partnered to Maddie Witwicky, Monsterbot Scorpion Beast Mode)

Rebarbarous (Partnered to Ethan Meridian, Name from Rebarbative. Monsterbot Dinosaur Beast Mode)

Camshaft (Partnered to Ethan Meridian, Griffin Motors 1995 Windblazer Vehicle Mode, nicknamed Cam, after Ethan’s deceased brother Cameron. Seems to be something of a clone from Ethan’s memories, but with a Bravern slant)

Oppugnuos (Partnered to Ethan Meridian, Name from Oppugnant, Monsterbot Arachnamech Beast Mode)

Triplex (Partnered to Ethan Meridian, Combiner, made up of Camshaft, Rebarbarous and Oppugnuos)

Chaos Terrans:

Aftermath (tow truck Vehicle Mode)

Spitfire (drone Vehicle Mode, recolor of Twitch)

Clickbait (surveillance van Vehicle Mode, recolor of Hashtag)

Horri-Bull (bull Beast Mode, retool of Jawbreaker)

Super Starscream (evolved by stealing the power of Quintus Prime when the Emberstone was up for grabs)

Named Refugee Terrans:

Rubble (Lithone)

Arbulus (Lithone)

Lickity-Split (Gorlam Prime)

Hi Score (Martian)

Swift (Paradron)

Sideswipe (Martian)

Gauge (Gorlam Prime)

Geomotus (Lithone)

Sandstorm (Paradron)

Lightbright (Arduria)

Skar (Dinosaur)

Slash (Dinosaur)

Regulus Magnus’ crew:

Regulon (Evolved Autobot-Ammonite, Headmaster, combines with the headless Amazonus Prime to become Regulus Magnus. Space Amazon delivery van Vehicle Mode)

Springlock (Unidentified colony, space amphibian Beast Mode)

Oilpan: (Unidentified colony, space slug Beast Mode)

Quackshot (Ardurian Roc, humanoid duck like Robot Mode, space jet Vehicle Mode)

Gnaw (Sharkticon Robot Mode, truck Vehicle Mode)

Wheelie (Evolved Autobot-Ammonite. Child soldier as Bumblebee once was. Best friends with Gnaw. Space car Vehicle Mode. The son of Endo, a prominent Autobot scientist on Cybertron Termagax worked with before the Great War.)

Mentlar (Evolved Autobot-Ammonite, space radar truck Vehicle Mode)

Chemico (Evolved Autobot-Ammonite, Energon chemical truck Vehicle Mode)

Tanker (Evolved Autobot-Ammonite, space tank Vehicle Mode)

Emberstone created Colony Planets:

Catharsia (Cathy’s home planet)

Quintessa (Quintesson home planet)

Arduria (status unclear, though last record indicates severe climate change affecting the planet)

Gorlam Prime (destroyed by Quintessons, survivors aboard MetroTitan Gorlamus)

Dinosaur (destroyed by Quintessons, survivors aboard MetroTitan Cretaceous)

Mars (Surface rendered uninhabitable to Transformer life during a Quintesson attack, but survivors built a civilization underground, and does not require moms. It’s implied organic lifeforms exist alongside the Martian Transformers, and that the humanoid Martians also have Cyber Sleeves.)

Stentaria (The Autobots on Cybertron had to make a bargain with the built for war Ammonites in order to get a leg up with the out of control Decepticons on Cybertron. The Terradores are a bit annoyed the Autobots didn’t come to them for help, but understand why their Ammonite cousins were chosen instead…)

Lithone (destroyed by Quintessons, survivors aboard MetroTitan Acasta Gneiss)

Antilla (destroyed by Quintessons using invasive Rust Worm species)

Paradron (destroyed by Quintessons detonating Energon Core)

Aquatron (status unclear, conflicting information)

Neutronia

The Tenth Planet of the Sol System

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER FIVE: OATS

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink

This is chronologically the fifth chapter in the series

---

The day after the failed feast Dr Lecter enters your unhappy chamber to find you already awake, greasily feverish in the maelstrom of narcotic hangover. Moaning under the dripping cloth of your bedsheet, you wince from the light that punctures the room as Hannibal draws back the curtains with a determined flourish.

"This is what happens when you do not eat and drink enough, I'm afraid," he says, putting a lusciously cool hand to your brow. "The excitement around the table certainly didn't help matters. Had you been receptive, then you would have been hydrated, full-bellied, and ready for the day ahead. Alas, your mulish nature is the portcullis that refuses you entry into better health. I cannot raise it for you."

You haven't the life in you to retaliate to such sanctimonious jibes, and he well knows it.

Humming a strand of Vide Cor Meum, Hannibal glides about you, first plumping your pillow, then holding a glass of water to your lips until you must either drink, or drown. In fractured gulps you salve your chapped throat with it, then part your lips again for a spoon of porridge; to your surprise, the portion spilled from cutlery to tongue is slim, a suggestion of treaty, of a temporary kind.

"I will never make you eat more than is reasonable, little one," says Hannibal, meeting your narrowed stare so frankly that you are almost abashed by the look. "It would do you no good to upset your stomach any further. I will minimise your intake for a few days, at least."

The suggestion is so unbelievable that you search his plain expression for the merest taint of trickery.

"You're not... angry with me," you observe, at last.

Dr Lecter's head inclines.

"Any ill feelings between us were settled at dinner, were they not?"

He helps you to the bathroom, stepping politely outside the door as you list at a sloppy port-wise angle, gripping either side of the bowl with preventative force; you may fall should you let go, humiliate yourself in the necessity of further care.

That Hannibal reverts to a veneer of nurturing aid after an episode of violence with such undisturbed ease frightens you, as does your instinct to accept that profferred assistance. Too many years span from here to the last time you allowed yourself to do so, and though you know well Dr Lecter's malign in having manufactured such frailty, you may never regain the position to resist it without him.

As with Will, your way out of this house is to drive yourself further in.

"I'll return home early today," says Hannibal, as he eases you back into bed in stops and starts to accomodate each shimmer of nausea. "I can reschedule my afternoon appointments for another time."

"Don't bother," you mutter, against your pillow. "I want to be on my own."

"I'm aware of that. Nevertheless, I will be here to monitor you. If you're feeling better tonight, then I will conduct your next therapy session."

Fear flowers at your core, all thorn tipped leaves.

"I won't be better," you say, your lips still crushed to starched cotton. "That promise I made to you about trying— I can't stick to that. I can't be the person you need. And I can't eat. It's too hard for me."

Hannibal lays a hand on your back, soothing you as he might an infant with colic.

"I know," he says, simply. "Relapses are to be expected. Neither Will or I will admonish you for that. What I will not tolerate is rudeness. I have demonstrated what will occur if you do not keep your tongue in check."

At this your head snaps upright against the pull of sickness.

"Aren't you rude?" you ask, sharply. "And Will?"

Hannibal pats down your coverlet, quite unoffended.

"One might argue that is down to interpretation. I pride myself on cultivating elegance, which includes manners, as a matter of course. Will, however, is— unique. I overlook his cruder moments for the complexity layered beneath them. As for what we have done to you, it is unfortunate that you cannot observe the act through our eyes, and perceive its beauty, as well as your own."

To this, you have no answer. You can think only of snaring hands, of Will's stubble scarring your cheek, and the blood broken like bottled wine across your inner thighs, so much ugliness paraded as glory.

"Please drink the water I've left out for you," says Hannibal.

You do, for he will know, if you do not.

*

There was something in that glass, or the oats, you comprehend, for when you are next conscious you are propped upright in a leather chair, only part returned from witless repose.

A metronome clicks at your ear, back and forth.

Lights flash and cease, white and black their blinking through the timeless night in which Dr Lecter has you drown. You sit, or swim in it; you cannot tell. The fungal spell of Hannibal's cooking robs you of both voice and tether to the earth. You could be foam in a Homerean ocean, where men become pigs on its alien isles.

You too might be such a beast, or a child, or some sylph of amorphous matter trapped in such hampering skin.

The sound of your breath comes, shuttered and sharp.

A warm hand cups your chest, and your lungs seem to open to its gesture as though by unknown magic.

Then a voice murmurs from a face before you, its shape without edge, an orb.

"You are safe. You are cared for. You belong."

Like a switchblade across your eye the light comes again, and you are part of it, an impulse that is all life, all one.

Hannibal speaks your name, grounding you to him, as to a stack in some wild sea.

"I'm going to ask you some questions now," he tells you. "They may be difficult. Try to answer them honestly."

There is only a man here, there is only light; you cannot refuse them.

"Okay," you mumble.

Hannibal's pleasure in your answer is a current timed to the swishing metronome.

"How did your eating disorder begin?" he asks. "What did it look like, then?"

"Just a diet, at first," you say. "The meals got smaller and smaller. Then a lot of food scared me. I started counting calories. Throwing food out. Being around anyone eating was like I was being tortured. That's when I knew that something was really wrong with me."

You hear the scratch of a pen on an unseen pad.

"I see. And how did that realisation make you feel?"

"Nothing. I didn't care. Then I started to like it. Challenging myself. The compliments— feeling like I had something nobody else did, that I was so good at— It became everything I was. My identity, kind of."

How easy it is to speak, when you cannot see the expression of the listener before you.

"Trauma frequently shapes us in our formative years," Hannibal comments. "It is a natural response to build oneself in its image. So, let us retreat to older memories. Tell me of a time that you recall being afraid."

The flashing light numbs to an ebbing glow.

"There was this guy," you say. "A guy that my dad was friends with. Still is. His name is Leland Frost. He used to come over to our house all the time. He was always so friendly, but I knew that there was something wrong with him. There was something in his eyes, the way he laughed too much, or stood too close to me. Like he was putting on a rubber Hallowe'en mask of a regular guy, and everyone was just pretending it was fine, but they really weren't pretending."

"Elaborate."

You gnaw at your lower lip until you taste warm iron, and consider spitting out the calories.

"I tried to tell people about it," you say. "But Dad could never see it. He'd just say, 'oh, that's just Lee. Silly old Uncle Lee. That's just how he is.' But I knew. I saw him. I smelled the cheap rubber mask."

"Did this Uncle Lee ever hurt you?" asks Hannibal, softly. "Touch you in an inappropriate manner?"

This memory is dusky, a cobwebbed photograph.

"I don't know," you admit, at last. "I always thought he wanted to, though. I always thought the minute my parents left me alone with him something bad would happen. The waiting was always the worst part."

A pause, in which you sense rather than see Dr Lecter watching you through the dark-light-darkness.

"But maybe it wasn't Uncle Lee that I was waiting for," you say, at last. "Maybe it was you and Will."

The gloom becomes further marred by tears, and you feel a box of tissues being pressed into your loose hand.

"That's enough for today," says Hannibal, rising from his seat. "You've done well for me. This calls for a reward."

He crosses the room to pick up a telephone, glancing at you with an unintelligible heat in his eyes.

"Good evening," he says, into the receiver. "I hope this is a convenient time for you. Yes, that is correct; I'm calling about your daughter's progress. I am very satisfied with her cooperation today. We are approaching some early milestones."

Hearing the tinny, distant voices of your parents, you struggle towards a lucidity that feels so desperately out of touch.

Hannibal crosses the room towards you again and turns the phone away from his mouth to murmur, "I will allow you a few words to them, if you will be sensible."

By this he means: if you do not give the game away.

You nod your head jerkily and extend a fist as Dr Lecter introduces you into the conversation.

"She is here, now. Somewhat tired, but all is well."

You clenched the receiver to your ear, tears coming in such a quick patter that, at first, you can only sit in hyperventilating silence as your parents babble at you, their voices sharp with an underlying guilt.

"How are you, honey? It's so good to hear from you! We love you! Is everything okay?"

Each day you've been parted from them you've missed them as you would your most vital structures, with a sore and deathly strength, yet your love is not so stark as your disappointment in being so abandoned by them.

"No," you say, at last. "I'm not okay, Mom. Dad. How could you send me away and not even warn me?"

The babbling rises, panic in male and female iteration.

"We had no other choice. It was all we could think to do! We tried everything. But Dr Lecter's helping you, isn't he?"

Hannibal's stare is, itself, a warning.

Pressing your knuckles to your anguished mouth, you pass the telephone back to him, not trusting yourself not to scream for help and damn yourself to the harshest punishment that such an executioner of free will might hand to you.

"She is overwrought," says Dr Lecter, apologetically. "I'll call again next week."

He hangs up, and leans across to clean the tears from your face himself, ensuring the tissue is discarded in a wastpaper basket; even in this he must be perfect, organised and pristine. You hate him for it, this performance he makes of his life, preserving such details as no one would be likely to notice but him.

"I wish you hadn't let me talk to them," you whisper. "Now I feel even worse."

"Of course you do," says Hannibal. "Your family betrayed you. It would be much more unusual if you held no resentment towards them at all."

You squint up at him in accusation.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Leaving a wound open may sometimes allow it to dry, and subsequently heal. You will not advance without acknowledging the harm your parents have done to you, whether through dispatching you to me without consent, or by ignoring your justifiable fear of Leland Frost. The map to your mental injury is unfurling before us: the continents take shape, as do the names that mark each turn in your unhappy life. In time, I will know them all."

Weeping, you slip down in your chair, not wanting to see the truth that thrusts itself up from the outcrop of evil.

"I will help you to your room," says Dr Lecter. "More sleep is in order, I think."

*

Will Graham enters the house some time in the night; you hear his low voice through the floorboards as you lie in swaying wakefulness, wondering what brings the professor here at so late an hour. He stays for so long that he accepts an invite into one of Hannibal's spare rooms, a fact that you discern from the voices passing your door in the hallway.

Again you sleep, though not pleasantly, your psyche disturbed by the third presence in the building, and by the lasting bruise of Dr Lecter's relentless torments.

In this sleep you dream of an antlered thing burying you in a terracotta wood, its face so darkly passive as soil smothers your airways that you might well be a bone, stored there to be gnawed at some late and starving hour.

When you emerge from this haunted slumber you still feel the threads of it still noosed around you; dream-sick, drug-thick, you stagger across your bedroom and, finding the door unlocked, tumble on into the hallway beyond.

By chance you find Will's room, letting yourself into quarters that smell of night-sweat, and pine, and male musk. You scarcely know what you do as you climb into bed with him against his salty heat, nor why it is he, of your abusers, that you seek.

Will starts awake, wild-haired and horrified as he senses your body beside him. Your name bolts from his lips, scarcely recognisable, the utterance of an animal groomed to speak a human tongue.

"What are you doing here? You should be in your own room."

Keeping your back to him, you drowsily reply.

"Had a bad dream."

Will breathes an ironic laugh.

"And you think you'll sleep any better in my bed? I destroyed you, remember?"

Self-blame, self-loathing, all jagged and tail-swallowing teeth.

"No," you mumble. "He did. Not you, Daddy."

You feel Will sit up behind you, scratching a hand through his unruly curls.

"You're not in your right mind," he announces, gruffly. "I'd better tell Dr Lecter to stop giving you whatever medication you're on. It's not good for you. No wonder you're having nightmares."

Still, he doesn't attempt to turn you out of bed, or to call Hannibal to eject you on his behalf. He only slouches, gazing at you, until you turn on your side to look back at his pretty, troubled face in its nest of brindled shadow.

Will's shoulders still droop in a mode of shame, yet the black of the room deepens the blue of his eyes into a yearning colour through which many a woman would gladly fall. He wants you here, you realise, perhaps likes the power he holds in having you soft and needful beside him, in his lair, after all he's done.

You should detest him for feeling it, and you do.

But recognising that craving within him reawakens the understanding of that power you may yet hold over him, in return, the mistress of a cur that bites all but those that direct the leash.

It is a long way off, this control, but the taste of it will do, for now.

"Let me stay," you implore, fluttering sodden eyelashes in a coquettish attempt to convince him. "Please? Just for tonight? I don't want that dream to come back."

You'll loathe yourself for this, in the morning, but now all you care for is the night. Will seems to be having the same thought, for he lies back down on the mattress again, taking care to leave ample space between you.

How does he compartmentalise his violence—his taste for it—from his revulsion towards you, and further still from the empathy that stirs in him like a stamped out fire?

"Just one night," says Will, sternly. "I don't know what Hannibal is going to say about this."

You pull the quilt up under your chin, almost giddy with your achievement, and with it the comfort that pours over you like a September afternoon. This strange happiness you will remember, and wonder at, when all you should have known were the tatters of despair.

"Dr Lecter left my door unlocked," you say, as Will moves in restless, settling motions at your back, still refusing to make contact with your skin. "So it's really his fault I'm here, you know."

At this Will half-rises again, but whatever question or comment he murmurs is lost to your abrupt slumber.

By morning he is gone, and you are alone again, only the scent of the monster remaining about you to mark out your miserable self-treachery.

He is not there to see you thrust the sheets against your face and inhale their bitter stink, if only to claw back the triumph of having made vulnerable a man so very closed to contact of the most human kind.

He is not there, and he is everywhere.

Will is as part of this house as Dr Lecter, now.

[p0pp3t]

Gavin x Reader | Special Clientele

sfw

gender-neutral reader (freelancer)

2nd person

fluff

slightly suggestive near the end

word count: 665

 “If you can change your appearance, can’t you just ‘paint’ your own nails?”

You sit at the kitchen table across your lover. The little pouch you’ve set down clinks with nail polish bottles, cuticle pushers, and everything else you’d need for an at-home manicure.

“Sure I could, but where’s the fun in that?” Gavin asks. “Anything to have my hands in yours, My Love.”

You roll your eyes, but bring his hand to your lips and press a kiss to his knuckles anyway. Gavin smiles contentedly as you give his nails a closer look.

“Good and strong,” you comment, applying gentle pressure with your thumb. You release his hand and unzip your bag, neatly lining up bottles of nail polish in front of the both of you. “Why don’t you pick your color and,” you open your phone as well; the screen displays a graphic of different nail shapes - “Your shape.”

“With pleasure.”

Taking his time, Gavin’s eyes narrow and brow furrows as he goes through his color options, holding each bottle to the back of his hand and seeing how they complement him. Maybe he’d be a little more decisive choosing his shape.

“Tough choice, isn’t it?” Playful affection tinges your tone. “You can always pick more than one; it’s no trouble.”

“Well, I wanna get this right,” he says in earnest. “You’re the expert. What would you recommend?”

“I’ve always thought that pink suits you; what do you think about this one?” You take a warm shade of magenta and slide it toward Gavin, to which he takes the bottle and holds it against his skin a second time.

“This’ll do perfectly,” he says, satisfied. “And stilettos, if you please.”

Your work is gentle and precise, with soft nudges to Gavin’s cuticles and meticulously laid brushstrokes on his nails. He eyes you the whole time, observing how your brow lowers over your squinted eyes and how constant your hold on each of his fingers is. Looks like you want to get this right, too.

“You have excellent handiwork, but I guess I already knew that,” Gavin offers. You only smile wryly in response, never taking your gaze off the steady lines of paint you’ve left. “You’ve done this before?” he asks, a playful suspicion about his voice.

“Yeah, for a few years by now,” you tell him. “Just my own for a while, but I’ve done other people’s nails a few times before.”

“Well, I feel even better knowing I’m in good hands. And they are very good hands.” Someone’s on his game. You finally take your eyes off Gavin’s nails, if only for a moment to roll them again.

“Enough of that. This is a professional setting,” you tell your client, something barely noticeable tugging the corners of your lips upward.

“My apologies, then. I spoke out of turn.” 

You’re given the peace to carry out the rest of your task undisturbed, with Gavin carefully resting his chin on his free hand and continuing to watch you in quiet fondness. You disrupt his concentration at times to ask that he lays both hands flat on the tabletop, letting you wave a folding fan over the still-drying polish in cool gusts.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to cast a breeze?”

“‘Sure I could, but where’s the fun in that?’” you parrot. 

Eventually, your hard work pays off with a final swipe of top coat and the last few flourishes of your fan. You tap lightly at the corners of the polish, assuring yourself that it’s dry enough to avoid smudging.

“All done. What do you think?”

Gavin holds a hand up to the kitchen light, inspecting the glossy pink at each pointed nail.

“Beautifully done, as expected. Thank you, My Love.” He stands - for the first time in hours (“This takes longer than I thought,”) - and ambles to your side of the table, pressing warm lips to your own.

“Hm, is that my payment?”

“If you’ll accept it. Unless you were looking for more?”

[queenofdragons12]

𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝘼𝙍𝙀 𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙀! | obi-wan x reader

You truly cannot fathom the intricacies of how he managed to track you down, but one thing is crystal clear in your mind – he is irrevocably yours, and you are his.

The profound connection you share is unshakeable, a bond that you are fiercely determined never to relinquish, especially not to the clutches of that detested Jedi Order.

At this very moment, you are enveloping him within you, descending onto him as if gravity itself were pulling you closer. The walls of your vagina are tightly clutching the tip of his bare, leaking phallus, a testament to the passionate desire that flows through both of your beings.

He is nestled in the warm embrace of your abode, a cozy sanctuary that you've chosen for its exclusivity. Mustafar, a fiery planet of scorching temperatures and volcanic landscapes, is the ideal retreat for your unique species, a place where the blazing heat is the only environment that can sustain your existence.

It's a world that others dare not tread frequently, leaving you both with a sense of undisturbed privacy and intimacy. The luxurious plushness of the sofa beneath you enhances the sensation of his body against yours, his hardened member poised to penetrate deeper as he reclines, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

The intensity of your union is palpable, a dance of passion that resonates through the very air around you. His eyes are closed, savoring the sensation of your intimate embrace, as the anticipation builds to an exquisite crescendo. The force of your species' survival instincts and the undeniable heat between you two has led you to this secret haven, ensuring that your love can flourish uninhibited by the prying eyes of the galaxy.

With a gentle yet firm demeanor, he whispers, "Just like that, darling," as his eyes flutter closed, lost in the intensity of the moment. A soft chuckle escapes your lips at his unabashed display of vulnerability, and you feel a surge of power as you decide to push him further. Leaning down, you align your body with his, your lithe frame poised to deliver a series of exquisite thrusts. Your long, auburn tongue, a fiery snake of passion, slithers past the plush purple curve of his lips, taunting him as it glides along the contours of his mouth. He eagerly attempts to kiss you, but your masterful maneuvering leaves him only able to part his lips slightly, desperately seeking the warmth of your own.

You can feel the desperation in his breath as it hitches, and his pleas for relief become more fervent. "Please," he whispers, his voice thick with longing and the sweet agony of being so close to climax, "please, I beg of you." The sound of his need fills the room, a symphony of desire that you revel in, knowing you hold the key to his release.

With a smirk, you lean closer, your voice a low, amused purr as you ask, "And do Jedi truly beg?" His body tenses beneath you, the question a delightful tease that sends a shiver down his spine. You continue to move against him, the rhythm of your hips driving him closer to the edge with every passing second. The warm, velvety walls of your sex clench tightly around his shaft, as if echoing the question you've posed, challenging him to prove his worthiness of such a divine gift.

His breath comes in ragged gasps now, his chest heaving with the effort to maintain control. "It seems," you murmur, your voice a seductive purr in his ear, "that you have forgotten your place, my dear." You increase the pressure, the friction between your bodies building like the crescendo of a symphony, pushing him to the brink of ecstasy. "But," you continue, "perhaps you are not as noble as you claim."

You feel his body tighten, his cock pulsing within you as he fights the urge to spill his seed, to give in to the pleasure that threatens to overwhelm him. "Beg," you command, your voice a siren's song, low and seductive. "Beg a queen for the allowance to cum, my little boy."

The words hang in the air, a heady challenge that he cannot resist. With a groan, he surrenders, his voice a broken whisper. "I beg of you, my queen," he gasps, his eyes squeezed shut in submission. "Allow me to cum, please."

A smug smile graces your lips as you consider his plea, the power dynamic between you two a thrilling dance of dominance and submission. For a moment, you hold him there, suspended in the exquisite agony of anticipation, before finally granting his request with a single, sultry word. "You may."

And with that, his body arches, a silent scream of release echoing through the room as he succumbs to the pleasure that you have so graciously allowed him. His eyes fly open, meeting yours, and in that instant, you see the pure, unbridled ecstasy that only true power can bestow. The connection between you is electric, a current of desire that flows unimpeded as he empties himself into you, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his climax.

As the tension slowly ebbs away, you lean down to kiss him, your lips brushing against his in a gesture that is both tender and possessive. "Good boy," you murmur, the words a gentle praise that fills his soul with warmth. You pull back slightly, a satisfied smile playing on your lips as you watch the euphoria wash over his features, knowing that you are the one who has brought him to such heights of pleasure. And in that moment, you both revel in the delicious dance of power and passion that you have woven together.

[nichenarratives]

CHARACTER DISSECTION

MORDECAI HELLER of LACKADAISY

For those unfamiliar with the Lackadaisy comic created and illustrated by Tracy J Butler, the pilot animation developed by Tracy and her team, or the upcoming five-episode series crowdfunded by fans, I highly recommend heading over to check those out before consuming this Niche Narrative. 

St Louis, Missouri

America is deep in the throes of prohibition. Missouri proudly presents its alcohol-drained bars to the rest of America as a shining example of true patriotism in the dark shadows of the First World War. All across America, this same constitutional change forces citizens to surrender their right to free will, inciting dissent even as governments touted the benefits; working harder, earning more, stable family dynamics. The American Dream.

Many loyal Americans were not so convinced and so, they took their needs underground. An entrepreneur in possession of the Daisy Cafe, which was conveniently situated above a vast network of natural caves, Atlas May utilised both his wit and charisma - as well as the charms of his attractive wife, Mitzi - transformed the damp corridors into a vivacious playground even a most pedantic officer would overlook for a measure of fine whiskey.

The Lackadaisy Speakeasy was born, and she flourished for half a decade.

Though Atlas was not naive; he knew market exclusivity was limited and as such, the businessman quite wisely surrounded himself with the formidable associates one would expect from a smuggling operation; Viktor, a former Slovakian soldier built like a bearcat and Mordecai, a sharpshooting jack of all trades known for cooking books and cracking safes on the side. With those sour faces punctuated by a smattering of colourful characters to form the band and run errands, the Lackadaisy Speakeasy flourished in the bowels of St Louis, mostly undisturbed, through much of the twenties.

Mordecai (left) with Mitzi and Atlas May (centre), celebrating the New year in 1926 with Lackadaisy staff months before Atlas’ death

Until tragedy struck; Atlas met a gruesome end at the hands of an unknown assassin. Yet what was already a crippling blow to the Lackadaisy crew would only fester and rot in the months to come. Rumours would flow of Mitzi May’s involvement in Atlas’ death, tarnishing her reputation and seeing clients peel away from the establishment with concerning velocity. In the wake of financial struggle, bills mount up and hopes turn sour, until even an employee abandons the establishment for their main competitor, leaving the Lackadaisy corpse little more than brittle bones and dust.

This deserter, who abandoned his mistress in her time of need, going so far as to disable a former friend and comrade in the process? He is Mordecai Heller, a stray Atlas saved from past repercussions and trusted.

What remains to be explained is simple. Why? A secretive, astute man with impeccable posture, little patience for anything superfluous and a sour expression permanently affixed to his features, Mordecai is not someone most would approach for a conversation, but an unwillingness - or perhaps an inability - to conform to societal norms and blatant treachery are not mutually exclusive. 

In this Niche Narrative, we’re going down the Mordecai Heller rabbit hole. Using every official Lackadaisy edition, mini strip, the Lackawiki plus my own research, we’re going to unravel the motives to explain how he became the Mordecai Heller portrayed in the comic series, why he decided to commit atrocities for both Atlas and the Mirabel Hotel and finally, if he could ever redeem himself in the eyes of former comrades, based on the information currently available.

Make some tea, grab a snack and get comfortable. We’re about to dissect Mordecai Heller, the principal antagonist of Lackadaisy.

Humble Beginnings

According to the Lackadaisy Wiki, Mordecai Heller was born on the 28th of March in 1899 in New York City. Not much is known about his parents beyond their first names - Issaac and Tzipporah - and that they are first generation German-Jewish immigrants. The eldest of four children and their only son, Mordecai would become the man of the house at the tender age of eleven after his father suffered a stroke and never recovered. His youngest sibling would also die in infancy, leaving three children and their mother living in abject poverty.

We don’t know if Mordecai was close with his father, but by how seriously he took his role as provider, we can extrapolate that he cared far more for his family than his adult persona leads most to believe him capable of. Utilising an inborn penchant for order and an efficacy with numbers, Mordecai became a bookie soon after his father’s passing, scraping together enough money to keep his family afloat while his mother assumedly raised him and his sisters.

Left to right; Esther (9), Rose (5), and a severe-faced Mordecai (11) pose with their Mother, holding his infant sibling, on the steps to their home.

Years later, Mordecai would realise there's more money to be made in the city. The exact trigger for this escalation is unclear, but we can guarantee it wasn't greed after many years of remaining loyal to his mother and sisters. Most likely, increasing demands on his meagre earnings caused shortages, and with the conviction he's already proven to possess, the young cat made a questionable decision; to murder an employer's underling and take his place in the hierarchy in 1916.

While tenuous and arguably shortsighted, this new position gave Mordecai intimate access to his boss' accounts, and the tuxedo cat didn't hesitate to embezzle funds into savings for his family. It reeks of naive desperation an adult Mordecai would likely scoff at, but for a kitten trying to support his family, it was a lifeline. 

As expected, Mordecai's deception is swiftly uncovered. He's next seen riding the train south sometime between 1917 and 1920 with just the clothes on his back and a bloody nose, desperately attempting to scribble a letter to his mother. Detailing the location of the money he's stashed, as well as urging her and his sisters to move to better housing, it's hastily stamped and postage requested by a stranger, though Tracy has confirmed this edition of his final letter didn't make it to the mail; he drafted a cleaner one at a later date.

Watching the young man scramble to send this final goodbye is heart wrenching, showing just how much affection he carried for his family. He practically condemned himself to death to procure those funds and at just seventeen, he leaves behind not only his family, but the only city he's ever known. It seems Mordecai might perish on the train that night too, given the unsavoury characters in the carriage.

That is until divine intervention - or perhaps a spirit of old - swoops in at the last moment, changing the course of Mordecai's life forever. Taking the proffered olive branch, the young feline would enter an underworld even darker than the one chasing his coat tails, and that is where his story truly begins.

Appearance

Mordecai Heller cuts a fine figure in a tailored, black three piece suit with a blood red tie slicing his otherwise monochromatic profile from neck to chest, an iconic pair of pince-nez adding to his glare. He often wears a broad brim hat and a black trench coat, often concealing a shoulder holster equipped with his weapon of choice; the cold efficiency of a handgun.

Standard attire, including a Marigold pin.

Despite his status as a sharpshooter, Mordecai has congenital myopia and has worn glasses since entering education. Given myopia causes long-sightedness, it's assumed he is somewhat effective in his profession without them, but they are a fixture in his everyday attire likely due to his fondness for reading, accountancy and of course, simple habit. 

While not physically gifted, Mordecai's intellect is well above average, a childhood of reading in solitude affording him a diverse vocabulary that leads to verbose, complicated responses to simple inquiries.

Having grown up impoverished, Mordecai takes great pride in his appearance as an adult and, regardless of circumstance, is usually seen in a three piece suit. He has few occasions to dress informally due to his lifestyle, though there are a few interactions that suggest he would not be caught dead in casual attire regardless:

Tracy once discovered Mordecai dressed up to use an electric iron, because he felt such an occasion deserved respect.

Serafine recently carved a Voodou glyph into Mordecai's chest against his will. It can be seen to stain his collared shirt for some time after, even while conducting private investigations into Atlas' death.

Having used them in the past, 'Mordecai Heller' is assumed to be an alias, though no real name has been shared. This was likely a calculated move to protect his family from the backlash his questionable practices may incur. His only other known alias was Elijah Metzger - 'Butcher' - a fitting name given his hatchet-wielding future.

Relationships of Note

For a man who actively chose not to interact with most people, Mordecai developed quite a list of close relationships during his time at the Lackadaisy Speakeasy. Not yet the dignified feline of the web comic, these relationships - particularly early ones - helped shape Mordecai into the man he was when Atlas May was murdered. 

Let's break down the most influential, starting with the obvious.

Atlas May

It would be impossible to reflect on the man we know as Mordecai Heller without exploring his relationship with the man that saved his life on that train ride. A quiet man with an expressive brow, Atlas possesses the life experience to recognise a young man in need of assistance and the skill to offer it without a word. With just a glance, a heartbeat, and a firearm left within a discarded newspaper, Atlas May provided Mordecai with the tool needed to break free of fate and seize control of his destiny.

Atlas May (right) with Mordecai Heller soon after his recruitment

There's little information regarding the four years between their first interaction on a train in the late 1910s and the Lackadaisy Speakeasy opening in 1920. Before becoming an entrepreneur of illicit substances, Atlas is known as a restauranteur, already owning the Little Daisy Cafe above the caves that would eventually disguise the true nature of his business when prohibition law came into full force in 1920. 

With his affinity for bookkeeping, it's feasible Mordecai was kept on to manage the accounts at the Little Daisy Cafe, though his history with embezzlement and bookkeepers lends itself to illicit trading. Mordecai is hardly recruited in the traditional way either, which only convinces me further that there was something going on beforehand. Sadly, we have no definitive evidence of either his or Atlas' dealings beyond together until 1920.

Regardless of the goods involved or seemingly the job required, Mordecai was devoted to his service until his untimely death in 1926. 

A young man in a new city and emancipated from his family for their protection, Atlas May becomes a veritable anchor. Under his service and guided deeper into the roaring underbelly of the city, Mordecai can be seen to fully take shape into the character we know, actively adopting a disinterested, flat tone and permanent scowl likely modelled off Atlas' own business appearance.

It's possible Atlas became a surrogate father figure to Mordecai, whose own father passed away when he was just a kitten. Additionally, little contact with his family since he fled New York places those at the Lackadaisy not only as the young man's found family, but Atlas as his role model, especially as he's newly introduced to the St Louis underworld.

There's limited resources in regard to both his personal and professional relationship with Atlas May, but what can be heavily inferred is a deep respect extending beyond simple loyalty. It's suggested Atlas helped Mordecai deal with some of his past pursuers, potentially indebting his life to the entrepreneur once more. 

Even after abandoning Lackadaisy for greener pastures, Mordecai actively conducts private enquiries while working for Mirabel Hotel, going so far as to conceal an intended target of Asa Sweet to question him further.

Whilst conducting these enquiries, Mordecai is seen in his least composed state; he lacks his waistcoat and suit jacket, his shirt is stained with blood where his chest still bleeds and he looks generally dishevelled. He agrees with the notion his new position may consist of tying up the loose ends of Atlas' death, and it troubles Mordecai greatly this could be true.

Taking this obsession into account, he seems to carry some level of guilt alluding to the snippet of information yet to be revealed he and Mitzi discussed. Atlas May was, and remains, one of the prominent influences in Mordecai Heller's actualisation as a career criminal, even after his death.

Mitzi May

From references, Mordecai's entire relationship with Mitzi is deeply intertwined in his association with Atlas. As the man's wife and confidante, Mitzi was a fixture at the Daisy Cafe and now owns the Lackadaisy Speakeasy, making her Mordecai's boss when he defected to the Marigolds for unknown reasons. Besides this affiliation though, their interactions are often a joke at Mordecai’s expense.

Mitzi and Mordecai were never friends - nor did he ever view her as family - as from the outset, she did not respect his boundaries. An early interaction showcases this as Mitzi takes photos of him as he tries to work, for no other reason than she wanted Mordecai to do something other than scowl. She achieves this by teasing him, stating how his oversized shirt makes his arms look disproportionately short.

She can also be seen teasing him for a lack of social skills, inviting young ladies to persevere in engaging him to dance, despite his lack of interest. Needless to say, it did not go well, and such arguably petulant behaviour likely bred resentment against Mitzi that soured after her husband's death.

Any remnants of a personal relationship were shattered when Mordecai betrayed Mitzi's trust in spectacular fashion. Not only did he empty the armoury on his way out, but shot out the knee of former friend and remaining sharp shooter, Viktor Vasco. She has no reservations bringing it up when forced to face Mordecai at a luncheon with Asa Sweet and as a testament to their sour relationship, refers to Mordecai's presence as 'salt in the wound.' Mordecai ultimately excuses himself early.

A rare candid photograph of Mordecai, checking the length of his arms. (credit: Mitzi May)

Perhaps their only shared interest was Atlas. Though for entirely different reasons, the pair both idolised him in life and remain fixated on his untimely demise. 

We learn a lot about Atlas' death during a terse, private exchange in Mitzi's car after the forced luncheon. It's revealed they possess information regarding Atlas' death neither has shared with their respective associates. Additionally, Mordecai can't quite explain why Marigold is acting so aggressively when there is almost no competition in St Louis and most interestingly, and a flashback frame shows them exchanging a firearm in the rain, though the circumstances are unclear.

Mordecai gets nothing useful from Mitzi, and the conversation culminates in two important things to note; reminders that Mordecai considers her complicit in Atlas' death and to stay under the Marigold's radar, as he won't hesitate to truly ruin all that remains of Lackadaisy if tasked. It's safe to say their only connection has always been Atlas May. Even after his murder is solved, there's almost no space for reconciliation, nor is Mordecai likely to return to Lackadaisy if the establishment survives. 

Viktor Vasko

If Mordecai were to call anyone a friend, Viktor Vasko would be the most likely name on his lips. While the word has likely never been spoken, there's an arsenal of evidence to support the hypothesis, both while working and at rest, but let's explore their history before we get into the intricacies of their current tumultuous state.

After receiving help from Atlas May for his court case and freshly missing an eye, Viktor Vasko joined the Lackadaisy crew in 1920. Mordecai had been associated with Atlas for four years before this date and was an established part of the company at the Little Daisy Cafe above. It's during this time, guided by Atlas' smuggling ventures, their partnership took shape.

From left to right; Mordecai, Atlas May and Viktor Vasko

One of their earliest misadventures can be seen here, at the climax of what is aptly titled the Massacre. We might assume soon after Viktor's recruitment, as it's a rare glimpse of Mordecai seemingly trying to understand how someone else thinks and functions, all while Viktor pulls a litany of confused expressions, the pair covered in their victims' blood.

It suggests he somewhat admired or felt kinship with the older feline and was attempting to be funny, though Mordecai's sense of humour is… lacking, at the best of times. Viktor just doesn't seem sure what to make of it, but evidently isn't opposed to the idea, as there's evidence of a more personal relationships later.

A flashback within the comic itself shows their choreographed teamwork on assignment, early in their partnership. Although Atlas is pictured alongside Viktor and Mordecai in the aftermath, it's obvious the devilish duo deal with the dirty work themselves, assassinating operatives and burning their rival operation to the ground.

Mordecai also makes missteps, falling from the second storey during a shootout and losing his pince nez, then asserting that had been his intention the entire time to a brawling Viktor. In an early show of comoradare, after setting the place alight, Viktor retrieves the lost spectacles and returns them to their owner.

While it's rumoured a piece of shrapnel could be responsible for Mordecai's social shortcomings, he's been remarkably oblivious to social cues since childhood, which reflects in his own lack of expressions. While Mitzi has given offered him guidance (and set him up for failure) in the past, it's Viktor giving constructive criticism of his interpretations that shows how close they were, even if it results in a minor argument and a terrifying display for the poor recipient.

As they become more comfortable, they express their personalities more openly, leading to this gem while driving an ill-fated third feline to their doom. Mordecai doesn't beat around the bush this time with expectations, both for Viktor and their passenger. It causes quite a scene and the car barrels down into a cornfield, but this also provides a quick-fix opportunity to dump their cargo there and peace is restored.

Frequently tasked with the less glamorous jobs smuggling entailed, Mordecai and Viktor spent a lot of time in each other's company cleaning up for Atlas. This culminates in a number of almost farcical anecdotes much like this or the snippet below, where their shared disdain for a yapping chihuahua results in the dog digging itself an early grave.

A dog, having offended both Mordecai and Viktor, being forced to dig its own grave

With Atlas' death, everything changed. There's not much information beforehand, but we know how Mordecal left the Lackadaisy Speakeasy; by emptying the armoury and kneecapping Viktor. He claimed this to convince the veteran to retire when Mitzi brought it up bitterly at luncheon, stating: "that's how one reasons with Viktor."

At first glance the move seems calculated and cold, especially considering the state Lackadaisy fell into with accusations of Mitzi's involvement in her husband's death. If there's any truth in his assertions however - and Mordecai isn't one to lie or mislead - he likely believed it the only way to keep Viktor from being a future target while he worked with the Mirabel Hotel.

It's confirmed that emptying the armoury was ordered by Asa Sweet during Luncheon, which crippled the Lackadaisy's ability to retaliate. Along with attempting to retire Viktor and warning Mitzi to lay low for the foreseeable future, this undermines his often cold exterior and belies affections he used to afford to family… and perhaps, that is what they are, even if he despises having those loyalties.

Regardless of his motives, Mordecai has backed himself into a corner with Viktor. The veteran is a formidable foe even with one working knee. Should their paths cross again, I doubt it will be resolved as amicably as previous altercations, and likely hinges on the contents of their last interaction as tentative friends.

Asa Sweet

A pompous, self centred man in charge of the Mirabel Hotel, Asa Sweet isn't the usual kind Mordecai is used to keeping company with. In fact, they seem to despise each other in every scene they're forced to interact, with Ada's clear mockery of his character breeding irritation in Mordecai on a daily basis. Unfortunately, as the tuxedo cat's direct boss, they converse often and almost exclusively to Mordecai's detriment.

Asa Sweet mocking Modecai’s capacity for emotional breadth

The Marigold Room was already well established by the time Atlas began his own ventures, the entrepreneur visiting its halls and even pilfering Mitzi and her band from their lineup. Practices that could breed a bloody resentment when in the smuggling and bootleg trades. 

Mordecai is previously pictured in the Marigold Room with Atlas and Mitzi, assumedly not at his request given his disdain for idle socialisation. He could have been there to accompany Atlas to deal with Asa if we employ conjecture. There's another photo of Asa Sweet and Atlas May sat at the bar, seeming to smoke cigars and talk amicably, so they were likely friends.

This friendship extends to business, established at the luncheon with mention of suppliers the other would not touch. It should be noted it's also stated these agreements were with Atlas, not Mitzi, and Asa shows no remorse for trading with previously protected Lackadaisy sources after her husband's death. 

Incidentally, Asa claims he warned Atlas about bad blood beforehand. Mordecai tries to draw more information about this from his new employer but ultimately fails, leading him to begin private investigations that utilise one of Asa Sweet's intended targets, Gracie Grombach, to get the name of a potentially involved parole officer he's yet to meet.

Despite Asa Sweet's stature, Mordecai makes no attempt to pander to his new boss when they converse. Most likely because they usually end in a joke at Mordecai's expense; constant jabs at facial expression, apparent lack of empathy, social inadequacies and even the hatchet joke are but the tip of the iceberg, amounting almost to a vendetta against the pilfered sharpshooter.

There's no respect or loyalty to Asa. Known for not suffering fools lightly and being ruthless in his management of others, Mordecai probably has few motives for accepting employment with the Marigold Room, only one of which makes sense with the information at hand: he's certain that Asa or an associate of the Mirabel Hotel has more information regarding Atlas' death, which he intends to bleed out of whoever necessary.

I feel it can be said with confidence that, even with an inadequate motive, Mordecai wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet between Ada's eyes. 

Allegedly.

Nicodeme and Serafine Savoy

Being relatively new to the comic, there’s little information to analyse between the tuxedo cat and the Nicodeme or Serafine. Regardless, these interactions showcase Mordecai’s apparent contempt for the pair and how they operate, especially the loud manner in which they manage dealing with the Lackadaisy crew in the show’s pilot. His serious, logical nature clashes with their spirit beliefs and even their characters frequently.

An example of Mordecai’s general reaction to either of the Savoy siblings, Nicodeme pictured

While Mordecai expresses a desire to know more about Nico and Serafine, it is for his own knowledge and not an attempt to make friends. He does not seem to fear them, nor does he respect them, a sentiment that extends both ways. The siblings often make jokes at his expense, or criticise his inability to have fun on the job, which only ever causes Mordecai to scowl. 

Nicodeme is a few years older than his sister Serafine, though they both speak with a lazy drawl with a heavy Cajun accent that is almost identical. It’s established that the siblings were orphaned young and ended up at a segregated home, whereupon they decided to run away rather than be separated. It’s here they claim to have been led by Maitre Carrefour - a swamp spirit the siblings believe to be ever-present in their lives - to safety with Voodoo practitioners in the swamps.

It’s noted in the Lackawiki that Serfaine has become somewhat of a Voodoo priestess in her own right, skewing or rewriting established superstitions to form her own sect of Voodoo beliefs and practices. Of the two, Nicodeme is relaxed and laid back, while Serafine has arguably the strongest character and possesses some ambition, though what those ambitions will ultimately lead to have yet to be established.

Headhunted from a rival bootlegging operation by Asa Sweet, the Cajun siblings are assigned to Mordecai to assist with his current work, which has yet to be confirmed. Mordecai suspects he may be cleaning up loose ends in regard to Atlas’ murder or perhaps a wider conspiracy, but has not shared this with Serafine and Nicodeme. He does not trust them, nor does he like them, and willingly conducts work alone when he’s able to shake the pair for a while.

On one of their earliest engagements together, Serafine and Nicodeme convince the stoic feline to strip down to his underwear and create a veritable mess with a hatchet to murder Asa’s newest targets. It’s later disclosed that this was a joke, but once he complied neither of them wanted to stop him. Asa Sweet can be heard in the Lackadaisy pilot episode referring to Mordecai as the ‘infamous hatchet man’, proving the siblings did not keep this joke to themselves.

Imagery of Maitre Carrefour over Mordecai as he nurses his ‘gift’, while Nico and Serafine watch on

Despite his lack of interest in their beliefs and lifestyle, Serafine and Nicodeme were not so disenchanted. They see within Mordecai something akin to themselves, a lost soul led to salvation, truly believing Maitre Carrefour altered the tuxedo cat’s course through life so he would interact with theirs. Either for Mordecai’s future success or a loyalty to the spirit, they trick Mordecai into joining a celebration in His name and share their history with Maitre Carrefour, implying the dozen others in attendance have all been saved at some point in their lives, then invite Mordecai to join them.

Mordecai refuses, sceptical of their claims and not inclined to befriend the siblings. He actively objects multiple times and even attempts to leave, however finds himself outnumbered and ultimately forced to comply, receiving a painful souvenir of the party; Maitre Carrefour’s protection glyph, carved into the flesh over his heart. 

Core Personality

At his core, Mordecai is intelligent and clinical, able to evaluate large volumes of data within a short space of time and react swiftly to protect both himself and those who possess his respect, though it is not easily earned. Should you be privileged enough to possess his respect, you'll find the frosty feline loyal almost to a fault.

Friendliness doesn't come naturally to Mordecai, but with his respect comes an undying loyalty. This can be seen in his continued investigations into Atlas' death, focused entirely on the man he respected and not the widow he disliked. He has no loyalty to Lackadaisy as a whole, only to the man he respected while alive.

Affection is difficult for Mordecai. His expression of it is usually through thoughtful gifts or action, such as a gifted tie or unquestioningly following orders. He has little sentimentality for things or gifts himself, keeping very few belongings other than clothing, nor bothers to invoke sentiments in others. They simply make him uncomfortable.

Mordecai prides himself in clean effectiveness in all aspects of his life. He does not like to be idle, choosing to trade stocks to boost his earnings and keep his mind busy. Gossip and needless socialisation bore him, as do parties, meetings and luncheons that don't achieve a purpose.

A focused individual, Mordecai despises mess or idleness, preferring to keep busy between jobs by trading stocks and keeping meticulous books for his own benefit. He possesses little patience for wasting resources and has a very dry sense of humour, often misunderstanding social cues and remaining oblivious of the true meaning.

Despite all of this, he can be distracted by his own unique preferences for order or symmetry, becomes so obsessive over Atlas May's death he actively undermines what Lackadaisy has left to get a shoe in with a competitor, and is often construed as rude or insulting in conversation.

Motives: Lackadaisy to Marigold Employee

While it's not exactly mentioned, it's possible he left Lackadaisy for financial reasons as well as to pursue his own investigation of Atlas' death. With swirling rumours of Mitzi being involved and their smuggling routes being muscled into by competitors, the Lackadaisy Speakeasy was on the verge of bankruptcy, leaving Mitzi unable to pay any wages when Mordecai left.

Emptying the armoury wasn't his own decision, but an order by his new boss, one he would need to complete to earn trust and wages at his new job. While it would further condemn his old establishment to closure, Mordecai's loyalty died with Atlas, leaving few conflicts of interest for the feline sharpshooter to consider.

It's possible he left solely to investigate Atlas' death more thoroughly and suspecting Sweet of involvement, agreed to a deal when offered the job transfer. In this possibility, he's using both his former and current employers to further his own ends, regardless of the consequences, but we have yet to have this clarified.

Mordecai Heller: Man or Monster?

Mordecai Heller is a product of past decisions, opportunities and active influences. He did what he had to to survive, afforded any who assisted him lifelong friendship and offered no apologies for atrocities committed, even against those he used to call accomplices, or even friends.

While he appears uncaring and detached, those who know Mordecai can tease the sentiments from his carefully devised actions. He does not enjoy killing or causing pain, doing so only in his own self interests - or the employer with the most generous wages.

He's lost his best friend, the family he found, all for his obsessive need to uncover the truth of Atlas' early demise. Deciphering the truth of the mystery that plagues his every waking moment and enacting revenge on the responsible parties might afford Mordecai peace, but it won't repair the bonds severed by leaving at such a crucial time in Lackadaisy's uncertain future.

I believe Mordecai has condemned himself to an emotional solitude he thinks will be tolerable if it means he solves his former employer's death. In reality it will likely drive him mad, but he and Rocky will have more to talk about at the next reunion.

Appendixes:

Lesser Influences:

While Rocky Rickaby has some documented history with Mordecai while he worked at Lackadaisy, the pair don't have much of a rapport otherwise. Rocky is eccentric, loud and a little unhinged, all things Mordecai tends to distance himself from. Rocky even has a nickname for him - ‘Old Serious Face’ - that is not affectionately reciprocated. It should be noted he’s willing to shoot Rocky in the pilot, but misses his chance.

Knowing that Ivy Pepper is Atlas’ goddaughter, it makes sense he has some affection for the girl, even if it’s not overtly expressed. They’re not seen to converse directly in the comic or the pilot, though Mordecai consciously decides not to shoot her as she, Rocky and Freckle are fleeing with bootleg liquor. He doesn’t disclose this to anyone after the fact, instead stating the mission simply went awry.

Author's Note

Some of this information was a real struggle to dig up and took about a week to compile, but writing this has been mostly fun. Mordecai has been an obsession since a good friend got me to watch the pilot about a month ago, but I felt his character needed more deciphering than the Wikipedia pages could give me, so this exists now. I hope this was an interesting read for someone, other than myself.

[mikkeneko]

okay but this is exactly the sort of thing I mean when I think about "the Eden fallacy" in environmentalism and how destructive it is as a line of thinking

I don't want to deny the importance of being able to grieve for things lost or subscribe to "but the environment has changed before!" crap, but. this business of assigning a moral weight to the environment being a certain way is... it doesn't lead good places, ok? why does it matter what the biome looked like "when Rome was doing that whole conquer the med thing?" why is that, in particular, something we feel like we have to aspire to?

ten thousand years ago the northern hemisphere was covered in glaciers, and megafauna the world has never seen since abounded. now it's not. ten million years ago the globe was ten degrees hotter and the oxygen content was higher and life forms flourished then that are now found nowhere but fossils. those worlds are gone now. should someone be punished for that? were those environments morally better than the one we had five hundred years ago? fifty years ago? now? are great forests superior to deserts? are charismatic megafauna more valuable than pigeons or crayfish? why?

we need to be able to find beauty and value in the world we have around us right now, or what's the point in trying to preserve it? if everything is Corrupt and Lesser and good things are Lost Forever then why try to save them?

there's a species of butterfly that lives exclusively in the sand dunes at the end of the runway off the LAX airport. It is because the airport and flyover zone is there that the dunes can stand undisturbed, that the buckwheat can grow, and the butterflies can flourish. biodiversity grows, uncelebrated, in every abandoned lot. we have to be able to love a world where this is true.

[wordholic]

longing is the place of exile

pairing: aerin valleros x f!mc

summary: Aerin and Aria return to the Deadwood and confront their feelings.

note: rated G but there's some mentions of mc's experience while being held captive in the shadow's realm (such as valax taking mc's blood). wc: 3.9k. takes place around ch5. i wrote this solely because i wanna smooch his little face. and also i wanna study him under a microscope

comments and reblogs are always welcomed <: (tagging @choicesficwriterscreations ) ao3 link

Aerin had always had, in his mind, a plan for jailbreak. 

Sure, yes, siding with the Shadow Court, threatening a priestess' life, and committing fratricide made life imprisonment a somewhat sound punishment, but he wouldn't be caught dead resigning his years to a dingy, run-down prison tower. He'd much rather spend the rest of his life hiding from guards and living in shadows. 

Over the year, the plan had grown from a mere idea to an intricate web of schemes and back-up plans, as well as back-up plans for those back-up plans. In fact, if he hadn't been dragged out of the depressing cell to go on an 'adventure' with Morella's heroic saviors, he probably would've broken out in a month or two. 

Well, that was in the past anyway. Right now he found himself craving (for the first time) the cell’s creaky cot and undisturbed silence– gods, the silence–

Imtura's thunderous snores seized the moment. With a stifled groan, he rolled over, facing the crackling campfire.

The group had been forced to spend the night here in the Deadwood after a long day of trekking and fighting off monsters. While the notion of resting was pleasant at first, it soon proved to be difficult. It's a miracle any of these people managed to fall asleep, Aerin thought as he got on his feet and planted a step on the dry forest floor–

ZAP. A savage pain jolted up his leg. He cursed under his breath and stumbled back onto the ground, temporarily paralyzed by the sting assaulting his muscles. He'd forgotten all about the barrier Tyril had set up around his tent. He might not be behind bars, but he was still a prisoner.

"Aerin?"

His head snapped up. Immediately he caught Aria staring at him from the other side of the fire, partly startled, partly suspicious. "What are you doing?"

Something compelled him to put on an act, so he did, spreading his numb leg out and positioning himself in a way that wouldn't show how much discomfort he was in. "I find it impossible to fall asleep in a place like this."

Aria shot a knowing glance in Imtura's direction. A lopsided grin crept up to her lips. "It does take time to get used to that."

"Glad you agree. My solution was to go for a walk, but…" he gestured vaguely at the space around him. "That is also impossible."

She nodded. Then he realized that it was much stranger that she was awake as well. "And you? Don’t tell me you’re still not used to that."

"Please, that snore is nothing to me." She cast a meaningful look into the dark woods beyond the camp. "There's just… a lot on my mind, I suppose. I was going to take a walk myself."

Their eyes met once again. A silent understanding was passed, and after some contemplation, she added, "You should come with me."

He made a doubtful hum. "Should I? I mean, it's the middle of the night, and your friends here think that I'm a ticking time bomb. You're not scared some harm may come to you out there?"

To his surprise, she smirked at the mere idea. "We'll be safe from monsters as long as we don't make much noise, plus we both know you're no match for me. And to answer your question, I'm not scared of you, even if it's against my better judgment."

She came to a full height before him, limned by the dancing fire behind her, and he held his breath.

"After you," she said with a flourish, motioning outward. "My advice is to stick to the right side."

Still skeptical, Aerin stood up once again and took a cautious step, this time leaning toward said side of the opening. Amusement took over his expression as he made it out without being electrocuted.

"I don't suppose your mage friend made a slip while casting my shield?"

"...Let's just say I have more trust in you than all of them combined."

With that, the two set off at a leisurely pace, Aria illuminating the path in front of them with a wooden torch and Aerin waiting for the right time to break the silence. All around them, crickets chirped in harmony. The air was dry and still. Lifeless trees were shrouded in pitch black where the flame couldn't reach, concealing whatever dangers lurked within them. 

It suddenly seemed less of a good idea to be wandering around in the dead of night, but at least… Aerin debated with himself. At least they get to spend some time without everyone else keeping their watchful eyes on him.

"So," he started, stealing a glance at the back of her head. "A penny for your thoughts? Specifically those that managed to keep you up after a whole day of toil."

Out of the corner of his gaze, he could see her trying to tether her emotions to the ground, but the flash of trouble was unmistakable. It seemed that he wasn't the only one putting up a front. 

Just as he thought she was going to ignore him completely, she shook her head. "I'm worried about the others." 

"Is this about the extremely depressing moment you guys had earlier?" The question escaped him.

Aria shot him a withering look before returning her attention to the road, but it was enough to confirm his suspicion.

A year ago, the five of them had been formidable, no doubt drowning in glory and praise, victory and pride. They'd been Morella's newest legends, the ones who managed to pry off the Shadow Court's icy, greedy grasp. They still were, at least that's what Aerin believed, but time had passed. It was as Aria had pointed out: they were tired and still hurting from grief. They'd gone different paths, too. They might've managed to find their rhythm with each other before, but things had changed, and it's not easy to recreate the same picture with new puzzle pieces. 

It wasn't anyone's fault but time's, but he could still see on her shoulder the impossible weight of responsibility. The world was hers to save again, and this time she also had her companions to stress over. If there was one thing that hadn't changed, it would be the worry etched between her brows.

Though he supposed that she couldn't have changed much, given that she'd been captive the whole time. 

He chewed on his lip, this time threading his words delicately. "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly happened when you were in the Shadow Realm? I mean, I know the gist, but Mal said that you'd mostly slept through it, and I seriously doubt that."

Aria swallowed hard. He wondered if they were thinking about the same thing– the barren, devastated land, the despair and hopelessness permeating the air. 

Somewhere off in the distance sat a lonely log. They took their time heading towards it and sat side by side, shoulders brushing against each other in the newfound proximity. This close, Aerin could properly observe the wavering flame burning in her eyes and the way it painted shadows across her countenance.

She was every bit as beautiful as the day they'd met, and he could never tell her that.

"Mal was right, I was out cold for the most part… but I still remember what happened," she started. "I remember the room they kept me in, the leather straps bound around my limbs. I remember regaining consciousness every once in a while and feeling devastated when I saw that I was still stuck in the same place… that no one had come to save me.

"Usually I would wake, and then Valax would come and take my blood until I passed out again. The cycle went on and on. I was no more than a helpless prey waiting to be slaughtered. There were times when I thought that I was going to die there, that one of those days I would slip into unconsciousness and that would be it. I was going to die in another realm, away from my friends and Kade."

Her posture slouched as she recounted the past, head bowed as if trying to fold into herself. There was a noticeable tremble in her hands, and Aerin would give anything to be the one to hold her close and tell her she was still alive and safe, except he didn't have the right. He hadn’t even known about her abduction until just a few days ago.

"Even worse was the nightmares. There were horrors when I was awake and horrors when I was asleep, and I was always alone in my dreams. Sometimes I would see Tyril and the others, but they'd be wrong. They were cruel and vicious, and it was either that they did terrible things to me, or that I'd have to do terrible things to them. Those dreams terrified me, and I was always drenched in sweat when I woke up.”

Nightmares were not new to Aerin, and if he had to be honest, the 'creaky cot' and 'undisturbed silence' never did help much. He hadn't had one good night's sleep since he'd been defeated, not when he knew that he was doomed to be a prisoner, a traitor, a monster for as long as he breathed, and probably long after he was dead too. 

And if he did manage to escape confinement, who's to say that he'd be safe from those affiliated with the Shadow Court and wanted his head on a spike? And now he was also against the Ash Empire, no less. The stakes had only gotten higher.

The point was, he knew how the mind could turn into your worst enemy. That was probably why sitting next to Aria and adventuring with her after all this time felt surreal to him– because she was always different in his dreams. Sometimes cold and unforgiving. Other times hurt and broken. But never as… genuine and honest as she was now, heart on her sleeves and all.

She suddenly laughed, trying futilely to dispel the gloom with a shake of her head. "I'm lucky I forgot everything that day; otherwise I wouldn't have been able to make my escape. But these memories have a way of returning. They’ve been surfacing from time to time, haunting my mind." 

Her shaky fingers were clenched around the cloth on her lap, and Aerin knew that any one of her companions could take her hand and have it mean more than a thousand words from him, but they were alone and he couldn’t bear seeing even more hurt color her features.

So he reached out and wrapped his arm around her, and when she rested her head on his shoulder, his heart shuddered.

“It’s like the whole world’s moved on but I’m still stuck here.” 

“I know what you mean.” He whispered, recalling all the times he’d sat by the barred window and strained his ears for the sounds of the outside world. “…I wish I’d known earlier what happened to you.”

She scoffed good-naturedly. “So what, you could escape from the luxurious prison and come save me?” 

"Sure, maybe I would've figured something out."

Aria said nothing to that, lost in thoughts. Then, with a start, she tore herself away and restored the distance between them, brows tight with a thousand unspoken thoughts. "Whatever. It's all in the past now." 

Aerin had a feeling she wasn't just referring to the kidnapping.

As silence draped around them, she let the strong, determined mask slip over her face again. The whole day both of them had been hiding behind false pretense.

"Wait," she craned her head, frowning. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

She raised a finger, prompting him to keep quiet, and he rolled his eyes.

A beat later, she stood up and grabbed the torch. "There's water nearby." She illuminated the foliage around them and began following the general direction in which the branches and scarce leaves were bent. Aerin scrambled to his feet and followed suit.

"Should we be wandering even further out?" he asked.

She merely shrugged. After a few minutes, it became apparent to him that she was no longer a stranger to the road she was taking. The twists and turns she took were concise. Something had clicked in her head. 

She'd been here before.

And so had he, as he soon discovered.

They'd managed to find their way back to that fateful lake. It was precisely as he remembered– glimmering with an abundance of magic, casting whimsical hues on its surroundings. The moon managed to reach down through the grotesquely crooked branches to shine down on the water, specking it with starry sparks. For once, the air smelled like something other than depression and death. There was sweetness in every breath he took, courtesy of the dreamlike flowers that bloomed along the shore.

"Just how I remember it." He bent down to rub a smooth, roundly shaped leaf between his fingers. "We did have some good time here, didn't we?"

Aria rolled her eyes so far back that she probably strained something, but he didn't miss how she crossed her arms stiffly, eyes darting around as if desperately looking for a distraction. "If by 'good time' you mean playing me like a fiddle, then yea. We sure did."

Hurt bled back into her face, and he angled his own away before it could crack his facade. He knew hiding behind snarks was never going to grant him the olive branch that he wordlessly longed for, but it was still tenfold easier than asking for the impossible– her forgiveness.

Yet still, what she said wasn't true, and he couldn't let that become her impression of how that night went down.

"I know how this sounds after everything I've done, but I wasn't trying to trick you that night." 

Her expression was evasive. Unreadable. "What were you trying to do then, if not to bribe my trust?" 

"Nothing," the response was immediate. "There was no ulterior motive, Aria. Everything I said was true, and everything I did, I did it out of my heart."

He wished that he'd been a better man. Maybe then he wouldn't be standing where they'd laid their souls bare, trying desperately to make her understand. What good would it do if she believed him anyway? A criminal and a villain, he was never destined to be anything more than a footnote in her story. He could never force his way back into her life, let alone attempt to heal her wounds when he'd been the one to wield the knife. 

But she was the only soul who ever truly saw him as he was, and she'd been the person he'd wanted to hurt least in his grand schemes, despite how little that meant now. He just couldn’t let his feelings go unspoken.

Finally, she lifted a tentative gaze to him. He could see the exact moment her armor shattered. The slightest bit of hope crept into her expression, and it quickly seeped beneath his ribs as well.

"I can't trust you when there's still so much I don't know, Aerin," she says quietly. "I've been trying to understand why you joined the Shadow Court. I had a hunch that your family played a part in your decision, but the picture's still hazy."

The memory of his family was an ache that he actively avoided. He still felt rage gnaw at him when he thought of all the ways they disregarded him, and he’d be lying to say that he regretted the way the Blade of Shadow protruded from his brother’s chest. He did what he had to do.

He drew in a deep breath. It'd never been easy to broach this topic, but if he'd managed to open up at this same lake with the same person a year ago, maybe he could do it again. 

"Fine. I'll tell you everything." He took a seat on the soft grass and patted the spot next to him. Shortly after, Aria followed suit, quietly encouraging him to go on.

So he did. More than two decades of neglect and belittlement came tumbling out, as well as the shadows that lurked in the corners of his dreams, beckoning him to the other realm, promising him all the power he needed to change the world.

"Most people were so preoccupied with getting on my brother's good side that they didn't realize what a bleak future awaited Morella if it was to fall into his hands, and for the few that weren't busy singing praises, they cared too much about their status to speak up. Anytime I appealed to the court, they shot me down like I was some babbling kid. Eventually, I reckoned that no one was going to take me seriously."

"I'm guessing that's where the Shadow Court came in?"

He nodded. "They promised me power, and my brother would've plunged Morella into a living hell. I thought…" He balled his hands into fists, staring narrowly out at the tranquil water. "I thought I could finally get everyone to see things my way."

"Even if it meant sacrificing the lives of innocents? Even at the cost of my friend?" Aria speared him with a look, and he averted his eyes. 

"...It was my only option, and I was willing to take it."

She turned away, seemingly mulling over his words. Now that the truth was out in the open, a weight had been undoubtedly lifted from his mind… but the bitter taste of guilt lingered. The sins had been committed. There was no undoing the harm he'd done, regardless of how noble the cause might've been.

When she spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. "Have you ever had second thoughts?"

"I suppose I have," his mouth curled into a bittersweet smile. "The whole time we were walking along this lake, I was lamenting our ill-timed meeting, even more so when I welcomed you at the palace. I couldn't stop wondering how things could've changed if we'd met sooner…" He trailed off, realizing himself. With every thread of memory unspooled, the defense around his heart was crumbling piece by piece. "Though I suppose there's no use dwelling in the past, is there?"

"I supposed not, but we still have the future ahead of us. You can still do better. Make up for what you've done."

That stupid, innocent hope crawled back again, yawning in his chest, pushing away all the doubts that'd been plaguing his mind. "You really think so?"

He held his breath as she reached out and placed her hand atop his. Her skin was calloused from all the tireless fighting, but it was warm and familiar. It was only when his hand instinctively turned over to grab her fingers that he realized he'd underestimated just how much he missed her.

In return, she gave him a brief squeeze. It lasted only for a split second, but he felt as though it could ground him. "I know so." 

Tranquil as the night was, the space around them felt tight all of a sudden. There was a tingle in his hand that longed to graze her skin, a tightness in his throat that threatened to spill whatever softness he'd been burying inside him, and he knew that he should look away before his face said something he couldn't take back, but it was impossible to do so when violet and turquoise waves were rippling across her features, highlighting the longing the mirrored his own.

His heartbeat was going so fast, he was surprised it was still safely contained within him. My heart still beats for you, the confession died on his tongue. Did he even have the right to say something like that, after all this time?

At first he thought that he'd imagined her lilac eyes darting down to his lips, but then she leaned forward imperceptibly, boldly. Her other hand, trembling, came up to hold his cheek.

"Are you sure?" Was all that he could muster in that closeness.

"I'm sure." 

Her eyes drifted close, and she slanted her lips against his. 

It was sweet and cautious, but enough to light up every nerve in his body. Whatever resolve that'd been holding him back dispersed as her tongue swept across his lower lip, and he readily parted his mouth, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. He untangled their hands and moved to cup her neck, relishing the way her pulse quickened under his thumbs. 

The tension lining her torso melted away as he tipped her head back, letting whatever that was unutterable to him spill into her open mouth, desperately and eagerly, with the likeness of a man starved of oxygen. He'd spent the better part of the past year dreaming (and resisting to dream) of having her this near again, and it was even better than anything he could've imagined. She was here and real and smelled like home, even though he had never understood what the word meant. Her fingers were tangled in his curly hair, drawing from him noises of contentment with each tug, and he couldn't help but trace his hands over the contours of her body before coming to a rest on her lower back, praying silently that this moment would stretch out forever and ever.

The moment ended eventually, as all things did. Face flushed and out of breath, he pulled away and dared to glance at her.

There was the slightest hint of hesitation behind her glossy eyes, like she was replaying in her head what'd just happened. Suddenly, with her face a breath away from his, he had a feeling he was back in the Shadow Court's macabre throne room again, holding her at knifepoint, feigning indifference at her bruised and crestfallen look. 

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he was right in believing that there was no way she– or anyone, for that matter, would give him a chance again, let alone forgiveness. 

A defeated sigh interrupted his racing train of thoughts. There was a wistful smile that Aria couldn't quite fight back as she knocked her forehead softly against his, letting their breaths swirl together. 

"I just can't seem to listen to reason when I'm around you," she murmured, gaze downcast. "But I do trust that you can walk a different path, Aerin. Not to mention…" her next words came out in a hurry. "I can't do all this… saving the world business without you."

He couldn't help but chuckle, his heart thumping like a gavel inside his chest. "Feels like the world’s always depending on you."

This time her smile went all the way, reaching every corner of her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "What can I say? I am a hero." She shrugged. "I guess what I'm trying to say is… I need you to stay with me. No matter what comes, we'll figure it out, I promise."

His heart squeezed at the confirmation; he wasn't as damned as he thought he was. She'd still have him, even as he was. The yearning in her eyes was a living thing, and after all this time, what was he to say except yes, yes, I will stay with you?

So he brought her knuckles up and pressed his lips to them, like hot wax making its mark, like a prayer, a promise. "I'm not going anywhere."