#welcome overgrown tries to figure out feelings

[0vergrowngraveyard]

hi welcome to me spiraling for a hot second

daily internal debate of “am i aromatic or just terrified of relationships”

[tteokdoroki]

✎ᝰ. OCT 1ST ★ BONDAGE - satoru gojo .ᐟ

[CHAPTER ONE RAPUNZEL] satoru gojo as flynn rider + bondage. once upon a time, a girl trapped in a tower with nothing but her extremely lavish, long hair as company decides…fuck it and sleeps with a handsome stranger to get what she wants ( 9.1K ).

✧ chapter contents - minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! nsfw, heavy smut, rapunzel!au, strangers to lovers, role reversal & switching, orgasm control, sensory deprivation, edging, thigh riding, spit kink, outer-course, begging, handjobs (m!recieving), reader's hair has blonde streaks but colour remains ambigous, rapunzel + fem!reader, flynn rider!satoru gojo.

✧ fairy godmother's note - yippieee!! kickstarting spooky season with this hefty boy. we have our glorious blue eyed king welcoming you all to our fourth annual tteokdoroki kinktober - i hope you all like what's planned this year and enjoy this piece to start with !! kissies hehe <3 - m.list ⋆ kinktober m.list ⋆ taglist ☆

“you’re going to take me to see the floating lights. or else.” 

“or else, what, honey?” 

ever since satoru gojo climbed the wooden lattice sewn to your tower by blooming, overgrown weeds and winding vines effectively invading the safest space in the world ( according to mother ), he’s been a pain in your fucking ass. when he’d first arrived, a towering and unfamiliar figure creeping about the main floor — your heart had dropped to the base of your stomach, pulsing rapidly with fear while he scoped the scene. you’d never come across a man before, mother had made sure of that, warning you of their cruelty and ugliness both inside and out. except satoru looked nothing like the descriptions your mother had left you with, you’d say that the man was stunning. not that you had much to compare him to.

his hair was a crisp white, appearing soft to the touch much like the snowfall that came in the winter months (something about playing in it. contrastingly, his eyes were a beautiful shade of baby blue — eerily similar to that of a summer sky free of cloudiness. he was too good looking to be human, for it to be natural, almost as if satoru had strolled straight out of one of the many fairytale books mother purchased for you from the markets. although, over the years you’ve probably read each book cover to cover a million times and not one fictional prince could even match this stranger’s sheer beauty.

though for now, this handsome stranger’s looks would get him nowhere with you. strangers always came with dangers, and since all you’d known throughout your years of living were these four walls, you weren’t going to take any chances with satoru and whatever problems he’d have brought with him.  initially and out of an unfamiliar fear, you’d  taken the nearest weapon to you (a frying pan) and cracked it right over his skull — watching the hunk of a human collapse to his knees and eventually black right out. if mother were around, she would have been proud. you’d tried not to feel any guilt trying to stuff his limp, lengthy limbs in your closet or under your bed because… well, what business does this stranger have with you? what the fuck is a man doing here? how did he get here? why is he here? 

your whole life you’ve been convinced that the outside word was treacherous and that you had to stay inside, where it was safe, because people were horrible and selfish — intent on hunting you down for the powers that lay intertwined in the coils of your hair. those specific streaks that glow a valuable gold between the usual  colour of your locks whenever you sang. mother would style them the way you liked every night — so long as you sung for her. you weren’t about to let mother down, nor risk the little life you built here together.

but, as it turns out, satoru wasn’t looking for the magic sprouting from your crown and entangled in your hair. it almost seemed like he had no idea about them either. rather, the moonlit haired man was looking for a place to lay low and hide after being chased through the forest for his satchel that seemingly carries something valuable. a crown… jewels that have a weight familiar to your head and sparkle like something you’ve seen before in a distant memory. 

“come to think of it, honey, where is my satchel?” cocking his head to the side, sky blue eyes peer up at you with a charm that sends a foreign swarm of butterflies ripping through your stomach.

you frown, accusingly pointing your weapon of choice at gojo’s head and puffing out your chest to appear as intimidating as possible while giving him your name. “i’ve hidden it in a secure location—“ 

“it’s in that pot…isn’t it?” 

as best as he can in the handcuffs he can call locks of your hair, the tower’s newfound infiltrator gestures towards a colourful pot in the corner of tne room. what? all you could think of in the moment is restraining him against the chair and why waste perfectly good rope when you’ve got such length to your own hair? the pot was the closest spot too.you knock him out swiftly after his guess, not giving gojo the satisfaction of finding his precious purse.

now, with the satchel hidden once more, satoru gojo semi-concussed and conscious once again — you realise that for the first time in your life, you have some kind of leverage to bargain with. you need someone to take you to see the floating lights that illuminate the sky on your birthday, every year. satoru needs his… crown? that so obviously doesn’t belong to him. of course, he would have stolen it, mother always said men were no good and always take what isn’t theirs (oh the irony). nonetheless, it  was the perfect match of desires.

this way, you could prove to mother that you weren’t weak like she said you were. that you could cope by yourself and go explore the outside world. it wouldn’t be how it usually is with mother — where you ask for something and instantly get denied because she believes you to be too naive to function in a world outside of her. not this time. this time you have a bargaining chip. a satchel containing a valuable so rare that satoru was willing to risk his life for.

your captive wriggles against the restraints of your hair, woven around the chair like tough knots of a rope to keep him at bay. while the silver haired fox may not have canines like your mother suggested, you have no idea how powerful he could be. contrastingly, gojo finds your hair to be soft against his skin, ticklish along the veins of his arms despite how secure it has him strapped down. he’s forced to listen and to follow your every move across the floor plan, guided by the strength of your hair tugging him about.

“i have a proposition for you. come, look.” drawing back a curtain to reveal a painting from earlier — you recite your plan to your intruder. tomorrow evening, he will take you to see the floating lights … ahem…lanterns that drift across the sky on your birthday every year and then, return you safely to the tower before mother returns. it’s an easy deal.  “i won’t give your satchel back until then,” you stutter out fiercely, adjusting your height and the grip you have on the cool metal frying pan. “you won’t get it back until you’ve taken me to see the lights.” 

“oh whatever, i can just take it back, honey,” satoru goads, cockily ripping his head back in patronising laughter. even though the melodious sound makes irritation bubble hot underneath your skin, you can’t help the way your eyes are immediately drawn to the man’s Adam’s apple as it bobs delectably along with his chuckles. “as soon as i get out of this…hair? hair.” pale blue eyes flicker up to your face when gojo fixes himself in the seat he’s fixed to. they bore deeply into your soul, reading you with as much ease as you have flicking through the same three books that you own. you feel the weight of your hair shift around satoru’s shoulders as he gestures down to it nearly wrapped around his bulging forearms (not that you’d been paying attention). “this is kinda freaky, hon. don’cha think?” a slow sexy smirk tugs at the corners of gojo’s plush, glossy lips, or rather, he smoulders attempting to woo you into giving him what he wants. “you don’t seem like the freaky type, sweetheart.”

once more, a frustrated flame flares up in the middle of your chest — you’d feel offended for sure if you know what gojo meant. “freaky?” 

“as in like… dubious?” he grins in response, running the pink tip of his tongue over his straight, perfectly white teeth. “this is basically bondage, yanno?”

you blink once. confused.

“improper?” 

nothing, not one of these synonyms or explanations from the smiling idiot makes any more sense to you — bringing you to tilt your head to the side, innocently like a puppy that makes satoru laugh once more. this time it actually does something to you. sends weird butterflies fluttering in your tummy.

with a shake of snow white locks and an inhale that sounds amused as it goes, your hostage clicks his tongue — letting those cooling blue eyes slink up and down your virtuous frame . the swell of his lower lip trapped between pretty perfect teeth. “as in sexy, sweet thing.” satoru’s sickly sweet and powdered sugar coo slips through one ear and out of the other like hot, viscous molasses, you immediately shudder — flustered down to the meat on your bones, curling in on yourself as your faux intimidation tactics melt from your body and slip between the floorboards beneath your bare feet. “gosh! you’re so innocent,” his gaze rips away from you, and you fight back an unexpected whimper, missing the intruder’s gaze on you. “guess that’s what being trapped in a place like this does to a darlin’ thing like you. you wouldn’t last a day out there.” 

he’s patronising you. speaking to you as though you’re no more than a child. however, being talked over and down on is all you’ve ever known, especially from your mother… but the way he acts reminds you of all of the advice she’s bestowed upon you over the years. mother tells you all the time, how naive and silly you are. how people will try and take advantage of your looks and your kindness. and so you decide to use your mother’s advice — if all humans, act like dogs, you’ll throw one a bone and wait for them to come back for more. 

steeling yourself, you use a loop of your hair to drag gojo’s chair toward you — positioning him like a puppet beneath your cold, hard stare. he man spreads on the chair as best as he can in his restraints, leaning back while his seat tilts backwards on a forty-five degree angle — drawing your eyes from his face to his thick thighs momentarily. “you are going to take me to see the lights. it’s a promise, not a threat,” you whisper into the air that buzzes with tension between you both, leaning down and pinning gojo in place. you’re so close, so little proximity between your faces, that you can practically feel his warm breath lingering on the damp skin of your lips. “and i promise, i’ll make this worth your while.” 

your voice lowers an octave, smooth and buttery and just right. like a snare for a wild white rabbit or bait on a hook — it peaks satoru’s interest, illicit thoughts and desires flashing behind his pupils like lightbulb ideas. “oh, honey. i can make you see stars alright,” he looks up at you then, with an expression of heat and thirst, dragging you into a pool of shining blue eyes that you barely manage to free yourself from. drowning in his attention once more. you stand over him proudly, between his legs smugly and all he wants to do is wipe the winning smile from your face and show you a real good time. 

if he could, gojo would reach up and grab at your hips possessively, if he could he’d cup your neck and let his fingers toy with your baby hairs to pull you into a sloppy kiss. he can’t help the way white hot desire spreads through his system like throwing gasoline on an open fire and pile of wood. he grins mischievously, and in response, a brand new sensation stirs within your lower tummy — blistering hot as it zips between your chest and your core.

you sense the change in the atmosphere and gojo does too. both of you dying to scratch the itch on the part of your brain that is the control centre for lust. but you remind yourself what this is truly about, tell yourself not to get lost in the haze of it all, and will yourself to throw a loop of your hair over daring blue eyes like a blindfold — acting fast to secure a seat in an unsuspecting satoru gojo’s vacant lap.

he grunts in surprise, flinches when he realises one out of five of his senses are down. “what the fuck—?” gojo spits, cocky smirk melting away. 

“shhh,” you taunt the man under your breath, leaning forward so that your voice coasts over the shell of his ear like a summery breeze. it invokes a sense of pride within your chest when your hostage tilts his head to follow your voice — his own breathing erratic and increasingly shallow with how he begins to struggle against your restraint on him. “you won’t get a chance to make me see those lights. not if i get you to see them first.” 

in truth, you've got nothing planned. you’ve never been in the same room as a man, let alone pleasure them the way that you’ve read in books you’d borrowed from your mother. 

the reality of the scene before you is daunting, giving up part of your virtue just to prove a point and get to see the floating lights like you’ve always wanted…but at the same time — it’s your one chance at freedom that’s at stake here. “you don’t sound so sure about that, sweetheart,” satoru taunts you with the peaks in his voice coltishly high. he continues to wrestle against the restraints of your hair — he’s strong and with a little more force he could escape but it’s like he senses your hesitancy. 

like he knows for certain you won’t make good on your promise. just like mother. 

that much is evident in the way his smooth, glossy lips tick upwards into an arrogant smirk. 

your determination to prove him wrong grows more and more by the second, so before you succumb to your nerves again, you let your free hand claw with way over gojo’s right shoulder — steadying him, forcing him to sit still as you make a comfortable seat out of his widespread lap. he tenses at first, unable to see you move, but his grin remains, you have no idea if it’s because he’s proud of you or doubting you — but the expression only serves to piss you off even more.

“what’s next, sweetheart?” 

a strangled growl is your only reply, the most menacing sound you can muster as you lift head upwards and his pool of loose silver-moon locks fall out of place. with a shuddering breath and a hold of gojo’s restraints, you press your lips to his in a shaky kiss — still unsure of where your lips go and what to do with your teeth and how to move your tongue. the captive beneath you knows it and takes advantage of your weakness, nipping at the swell of your lower lip gently — hardly enough to draw blood. satoru is testing you, telling you to be brave and take from him. prove to him that you’re willing to do whatever you want for him to make your silly childhood dream come true.

he allows you to fight back, despite this being your idea, lets you forcefully grab his angular jaw and capture him in a proper spit-swapping kiss. if he really wanted to, he’d find a way to escape from the tight bounds of your lengthy hair. but he doesn’t. gojo lets you swallow him down; push your tongue exploratively into his mouth and lap at his foreign flavour. he wants your tongue to take dominance from his, pink appendages sloppily rolling over one another, slipping and sliding as you take and take from satoru.

the kiss, already uncoordinated from your lack of experience, becomes hurried and hungry and wet the more you steal from satoru. you take and take and take until his glass his half full and his brain slowly becomes devoid of all logical thought. he comes the prey to your predatory mouth, missing the way your hand frees his pale cheek and fingers fluidly traverse down his broad shoulders, over his marble sculpted body to find purchase in the belt loops of his bothersome pants. now curious, you feel your way down the front of the fabric and grin into the hot and heavy kiss when satoru’s lets out a breathy, staggered moan into your open mouth. 

his swelling erection twitches in response to your inquisitive hand, slender hips involuntarily jumping upwards.

“fuuuck,” satoru chuckles airily, words featherlight as they breeze along your lips. his head keens upwards too, chasing the weight of your hot sticky tongue in his mouth — desperate to be closer, craving the feeling of your nose knocking against his and your breath on his cheek from just how pressed up against each other you are. “fuck baby that’s it. kiss me more, touch me harder…” he’s addicted before he even knows what you have to offer, what he’s getting himself into. if you could see his eyes from under his binding, you’d bare witness to pleading blue pools swirling with a painful desire as he twitches beneath you, wriggling his wrists to get free. “c’mon, touch me.” he adds between sloppy pecks.

backing your face out of satoru’s reach, you break the drooly lip lock — letting your lungs fill with oxygen it had once missed, while your heaving chest syncs up with the intruder you have strapped  to a chair. you pull away, connected to the man by not just your hair, but a string of saliva glazed across your lips — cautiously, your tongue dart out to break the the between your eager mouths, two sets of uneven panting filling the quiet air. 

the two of you remain unmoving and unwilling to back down while you catch your breath; but your hand remains in the centre of gojo’s lap — rocking it back and forth, back and forth over his growing bulge. you stare at him, observing the reactions that he tries so hard to control. little twitches to his pink swollen lips and the flare of his nostrils whenever your palm makes contact with a sensitive spot. all this waiting is agony, the white haired captive might die if he doesn’t get more from you soon. 

satoru whines impatiently as a result, knowing full well what you want and you won’t ask him again — not when you’re tauntingly squeezing his cock for a second, third, fourth, fifth time. he doesn’t fucking know — overwhelmed by waves of lust-infested blood rushes to its blistering hot tip. “fuck! okay, okay fine. i’ll take you! just—“ the chair rattles from the force of gojo’s struggle against your restraints, which hardly covers the low moan that escapes from between his plush glossy lips while his length pulses against the inside of his pants. “just fuck me. touch me. anything.”

something about his tone being all desperate and high activates a part of you that you never even knew existed. a part of you that knows what to do next… even if you haven’t acted it out, you’ve enough books to remember what the erotic ones say.

only then, after he pleads, do you use your shaky hands to tug down the garment — pulling them towards his knees as best as you can against your hair until the button pops free. the zipper follows easily and the waistband falls away from starlight skin and slender hips. everything gets hotter; any fresh air between your bodies becoming tinged with the need for sex as the scorching ghost of your fingertips leaves burn marks against satoru’s pelvis, and sends heatwaves of ardour from the base of his spine to the top of his skull.

satoru’s squirming pauses while he waits with uneven breathing for your next move — tongue pressing up against the barricade of his white teeth to prevent himself from taunting you further or perhaps to stop himself from belting out another pathetic set of whimpers. he wishes he could see you, those sweet innocent eyes looking down at him as you peel back the last layer of fabric stopping you from accessing his painfully hard erection. his underwear. 

when you gasp in shock, pride weaves itself between the bones that protect his heart and lungs like an uninvited weed, he knows that he’s decent. longer than he is thick, bright red at his mushroomed tip and leaky from just how turned on he is. there’s a trail of silver moon hair that leads you down a path from his belly button to the thickest part of his dick too. but oh, how satoru gojo wishes he could see.. the way you lick your lips as drool drowns your tongue, mouth watering at the sight of his length slapping against his clothed stomach while he manspreads for you. the way your pupils dilate, the colour in your eyes swallowed by a dark veil of carnality. 

this is a hunger you’ve never experienced before, a type of starvation that makes your hand lurch forward before your brain can control it, gripping satoru at the base of his milky, slender shaft. it’s the first time you’ve ever seen a cock; let alone held one between your tiny fingers — it’s much warmer than you anticipated, tacky to the touch from dribbles of precum running down from his untouched tip, but you like it. the weight, the wet sound it makes when you slightly flick your wrist around satoru. not to mention the stuttered groan he lets out, his head falling against the support of the chair and yanking slightly on the blindfold made of hair that covers his eyes.

if you weren’t sitting in his lap, you’d want him in your drooling mouth. you’d sink down to your knees like the girls in your naughty books and take him down your virgin throat, just so you could look up at satoru and watch the sweat bead down his jawline and run a track over his bobbing adam’s apple. but you’re not and you’ve got a point to prove, so you loop your hair around your other wrist to tighten his restraints and extend a thumb upward from his base to his seedy tip, jamming the pad of it through the slit where he pre forms in thick, creamy pearls. as white as those that come from an oyster.

“that’s it gorgeous, just like that…” satoru leers up at you huskily, voice tinged with neediness that he fails to mask. he seems to like the way you touch him and you’re sure to use a delicate hand when you smooth the supple pad of your thumb over the pad of his sensitive tip, rubbing his opaque precum into it sweetly. “touch me s’more? you can do it… i know you’re shy, can hear your breathing ‘n how heavy it is. shit, you’re new at this.” saliva slows down satoru’s salacious words as he rambles to you with swollen lips and rosy cheeks, angling his head in whatever direction your breath seems to be coming from. 

he’s in tatters, destroyed by a few simple touches with his hard on smearing white across the front of his clothes. you roll your palm over his mushroomed cockhead next to test the waters and take pleasure in admiring the way he trembles, grasping at the arms of the chair you have him strapped to in order to ground himself. it’s torture for satoru to be this patient, killing him slowly from the inside out like a virus spreading across his brain and other vital organs — but it doesn’t mean you’re in any better state. practically dripping in his lap with your panties dampening more and more every time satoru so much as whimpers. past the point of being turned on by the sight of a strong, powerful man weak and blindfolded underneath you.

satoru bucks upward at your command, sucking in a breath as his sensitive, seedy slit bumps your palm once more. “s-shit… please.”

the improper ness of the entire situation sends a zap of electricity to your swelling clit. you’ve only ever imagined being with someone like this as you have seeing the floating lights — touching yourself beneath your skirts and under your painted ceilings whenever you were brave enough. now you’re here, spread over the thick thighs of a possible thief who begs you to jerk him off. “s-shut up,” you hiss as embarrassment and  inexperience begins to shine through the deal you’ve struck with gojo, the fact that he can tell as much and still wants this has you soaked all the way through and aching for friction as well. 

you’ve never been in possession of so much power in your life. mother never let you have it. but right now, you can taste it sparking between you and gojo, smell it in the air teeming mixed with a cocktail of your arousals. in the moment you realise that the silver haired man would cling onto every one of your sugar-coated words (no matter how nervous) if it meant he got the fuck he wanted in the end. and you would get to see your lights too.

“just… tell me what to do,” you say without realising how husky your own voice has gotten. “i promised you your crown, to make you feel good if you took me to see the lights. and i never go back on a promise. s-so tell me.” talking yourself into it and building up some more confidence, you circle over satoru’s bulbous cockhead again — gaze laser focused on the burning bright red colour as it oozes. you know that he likes it and it makes his head spin so much that he starts to fight against the restraint of your hair again. “i won’t let you go, not until this is over. so tell me what i can do to make you cum.” 

despite not being able to see his entire face, gojo’s smug smile says it all — his perfect teeth cheerily on display, contrasting with the flustered pink tint to his cheeks. “cup it, make a fist around my cock so you can jerk me off’a little bit,” a haughty moan scratches at the walls of your captive’s throat when you follow his guidance and finally grip him fully, soft and supple hands easily dwarfed by the size of him. satoru’s shaft may be a little thinner, but he’s thick enough to fill your own throat and cause a stretch to your quivering hole with his balls being round, plump and full of white hot seed saved up just for you. “christ, squeeze my base a lil’ before you get movin’,” at first contact, satoru’s thighs tremble deliciously against your mound, blood rushing to your clit and through the forked veins that spiral down his length. 

your senses are overwhelmed, he smells so good — of peppermint and a musky twang of sex act like dangerous smelling salts or fumes. you could get addicted if you weren’t careful. you’re super aware of each ridge and firm vein that decorates him and as you start to palm satoru steadily, you notice just how sticky your hand is — movements guided by the wet cream of his cock. slipping and sliding as your closed fist moves up and down, up and down, occasionally squeezing the base of him just like he asked. your knuckles brushing the soft bush of pubic hair at his pelvis. you can only imagine how everything feels for him, not being able to see at all.

the thought just barely crosses your mind — too focused on speeding up your soiled hand around gojo just to hear more of his angelic gripes and groans that rise and fall from his heaving chest. how good all of this must feel for the man without being able to see. every touch must make him tick and drip and throb achingly. he must feel weak too, completely vulnerable to anything you might do to him while blindfolded and unable to touch you because of bonds formed by your hair. 

once you set a steady rhythm to your closed fist to jerk him off with, gojo takes a breather to announce his next command — head shaking side to side with moonlight locks sticking to his forehead in an attempt to alleviate the inferno of desire spreading through of his limbs. “now spit on it,” he states bluntly, an obvious dip to the octave in his voice. you can’t possibly imagine why he’d need spit; your hand is already glossed with a shiny layer of precum, tainting your knuckles from the viscosity. 

you swallow thickly, but don’t dare stop pleasuring your captive stranger. “w-what?” 

“are you kidding me just—“ leaning forward as best as he can while held back by the strong locks of your hair, like rope around his wrists. dopamine crackles over your brain like fireworks in an enclosed space at the scene that unfolds next, satoru pursing his lips to spit onto his own milky dick — letting the frothy mix from mouth join the mess that lubes the both of you up where connected. “just spit on it, honey. thought you wanted me to feel it.”  

licking your lips, you rub down satoru’s girth far enough to drag the glob of spit down to his tender weighty balls, that pulse at your gentle touch. the feeling makes satoru’s entire body jolt like an electric shock — a gargled groan clambering out from the depths of his panting chest as his jaw goes slack and mouth falls open. “please. please spit on it, honey. god please.. need you to wet my cock. i need it so bad, promise i’ll be fucking good.” blind but with his remaining senses in tact, gojo remains largely vulnerable to your touch, his entire world tilting on one axis when you grip his dick a little harder at his request. causing a ring of white to gather where the circle of your wrist envelopes him.

at his begging. which you swear makes you gush like a small, erotic stream — your juices sloshing about in the gusset of your panties while your sex goes unattended.

so you nod obediently, tilting your head forward and parting your swollen lips to let a thick, syrupy string of your own spit ooze onto his plump and sore balls, stroking him rapidly to spread it over his creamy tip as well. your spit is contrastingly cool in comparison to the natural lubricant smeared all over your captive’s palpitating dick — causing it to grow impossibly harder. it slickens up your hand, evidence of the silver haired man’s arousal seeping through the fabric of his crumpled shirt and coils of your restrictive hair. neither of you can bring yourselves to care in the moment — all you can think to do is relish in gojo’s size.

he’s so big, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t wondered how satoru fit entirely inside your tight hole, stretching you out in the new future — earning yourself a fresh wave of liquid lava hot essence to your ruined panties. you dare to dream onwards, picturing the azure eyed stranger fucking you against the walls of the tower in every way the man knew possible… you have no idea what he’s capable of when untied. but the sight of him lazily thrusting into your filthied fist like it’s instinct, following it like a moth to a candle flame, is enough dream fuel to last you a lifetime. even after the deal is complete and the lights are just a distant memory. 

eventually, you decide to pull off of satoru to give your wrist a break — walking your fingers up the broad expanse of his built chest to tweak his nipples between your tingling bodies. his entire frame is wracked with a case of shivers, mouth parting in a high-pitched, whiny whimper with strings of saliva connecting its roof to his tongue. you’re so pathetically turned on, drool pooling on your tongue like a hot flash flood. 

it’s why you tighten your grip on your hair and thus his restraints, resulting in satoru staggering forward. closer, panting like a damn dog in rut. drawing your free hand up towards your lips and away from his pecs, the proximity between you becomes so little that satoru can practically smell the musky evidence of sex that you lick from your hand. “oh… you taste so good,” you lament in a dulcet tone, failing to miss the way gojo’s dangerous azure eyes dart about beneath his makeshift blindfold, probably dying to see you get a taste of him.

“d-don’t say that, you’ll make me fuckin’ cum, honey.” he gulps, involuntarily pumping his hips into the air, chasing your hand which he needs so desperately to feel good. “please don’t stop.” while begging you — satoru is the perfect picture of a ruined man, though you’re sure he would say the same about you if you hadn’t strapped your hair over his line of vision. his milky skin glistens as though it’s the very source of light for the silvery moon — illuminated by droplets of sweat from the exertion off fucking your fist like a squelching, welcoming pussy. his cheeks glow warmly with a dusty shade of pink and there’s a red ring forming around his lips from where he’s bitten them to control his wails of ecstasy.

succumbing to the obscenity of it all,  you reach forward and lick a stripe into his hellfire hot mouth. effectively sharing the saltine flavour of gojo’s own precum with him while he languidly sucks all the tang from your pink appendage. his angel white lashes flutter shut at the heaviness of your tongue against his own. the kiss is messy and mismatched, saliva seeps from the corners of your mouth and drags a sticky train down your chin. parting briefly, you spit it into the middle of your palm — happily taking satoru’s cock back into your talented hold and providing a solace to soothe its passionate ache. 

“ngh… i can feel you. f-fuck. feel you tryin’ not to grind against me, sweetheart.” somehow, gojo finds pockets of air to taunt you in — his voice an arousing mix of a raspy whine and cocky tone. “so wet, i can smell you too. so sweet. dripping all over your panties while you jerk me off. do you need that needy pussy taken care of?”

everything he’s said is true, while the man with the sweaty silver locks fought to escape the prison of your hair — desperate to see how you pleased him, you fought the growing pit in your stomach. the urge to use satoru for release. you’d never hit your peak with another person before, only your smaller-than-his fingers whenever mother left for more than a day or two. 

you admit to nothing, continuing to stroke satoru to his own high — his panted moans accompanied by the sound of skin slapping skin from your hand fisting him to the high heavens.  “please baby, i wanna help get you off. feel that wet little cunt. let me go, i’ll be so good to you if you let me touch your sweet c—“ 

“n-no! we had a deal. my rules.” you stutter, denying yourself. denying him.

“c’mon sweetheart,” a strained and petulant whine echoes throughout the tower — satoru thrusting shallowly through your closed hand in order to match his rhythm to the flick of your wrist. “please, god, baby. if you won’t let me touch you, or at least see you, then can you put that pretty pussy on my thigh? ride it real good? wanna know how you sound when you’re being pleasured…when you give into it all. please honey, give me somethin’ to work with. anythin’…”

gojo presses, like a disciple begging their god for mercy. begging you for mercy. there’s never been this much power in your reach, the ability to control a man who could easily over power you with your sex makes your mind feel egotistically weighty. your resolve crumbles just a tad, satoru’s neediness  chipping away at its foundation until your hips instinctively position themselves perfectly over the swell of his right thigh. how bad could it be? giving him an inch when you’ve taken a mile from him. mother says you’ve never been good at lying and right now, you can no longer pretend like your hips aren’t dying to slide back and forth over your capture like a desperate whore. 

like you don’t want to use him for more than just the floating lights, but to soothe the fire lit in your lower stomach — trailblazing down to your throbbing clit.

something clicks in your mind, all of your inhibitions are dashed from the tower as you briefly release satoru’s pathetically wet cock and restraints to pull up the skirts of your silk purple dress, exposing a slither of supple fat at your thighs. hurried movements deliver the same treatment to satoru’s pants. “this… this doesn’t change anything. doesn’t mean i’m letting you go just yet. it won’t affect our deal.” you warn the intruder but all sense of venom and authority is lost, evaporating into the temperate air and ending up as a piteous, meek mewl when your exposed mound makes first contact with man’s naked thigh.

if the sound of ruffling fabric hadn’t caught your hostage’s attention; the heat of your sopping sex against his moonlit skin definitely did. “fuck…that’s it. there we go, honey. put it on me,” a tinge of amusement lays evident in his gravelly voice, sets of slender digits peeking out of their hairy restraints to map out your doughy thighs and crawl their way up to the source of your essence. “i just knew you were wet for me, can feel how turned on you are.” as best as he can, gojo shifts until his knee is able to bump your clit ��� cooing in satisfaction when you ooze against him in response. you almost despise the way he laughs up at you condescendingly, as if he’s the one in control irregardless or the fact that you’re on top. 

maybe it’s the dopamine rush that makes your dynamic unclear — neither of you wanting to give up or take the lead. the lust fizzing in the cracks and crevices of your brain make you cute and pliant for gojo but hair woven over his body keeps him subdued and thirsty for you. 

like a gravitational pull, you buck downwards on the silver haired stranger’s toned thigh and smear the beginnings of your arousal all over him. you’ve barely been touched, oozing in viscous waves as you lose control over your body, rutting harder and faster. “watch your mouth.” you cry out, volume barely above a whisper, bottom lip trembling because it feels so good to use someone this way. 

resuming your hold on his dripping cock again as you rock your hips — you rearrange the loop of hair keeping gojo in place, covering his eyes just as your hair begins  to glow gold in time with your symphony of moans. “right, right, sorry. this doesn’t change things,” he flexes his thigh underneath your syrupy sex, strawberry tongue slipping out to wet his lips while your words fade away into a pretty little sigh. “but you wanna smack that messy clit all over my thigh, don’cha wanna make it creamy… even messier?” satoru all but jeers, the wisps of a smirk rising on the horizon of his lips now that your hips have formed their own rhythm over his leg.

they speed up their passionate dance on him, beads of glistening essence pearling between your two fat pussy lips. the slick smack of your naked cunt against his muscular thigh caused his dick to twitch in your hand — gojo thrusting up when you thrust down. he tilts his head down, catching a whiff of your heavenly scent in the air between you both. you hate that he’s right just as much as he hates not being able to see you and touch you properly — only catching glimpses of the golden light sparkling within your hair like a halo from underneath his makeshift blindfold.

you feel like you might be going insane, trapped underneath a non existent touch. like being pulled under waves of euphoria with aching lungs that don’t get enough air. near angelic screams of delight rip through the base of your throat contrast with the way you sinfully hump satoru and jerk him off to the point of his dick forming a creaminess in your hand. he bounces his thigh faster the higher you moan, rewarding you for all the hard work you put in to make this deal worth it.

“you’re no better… you’re filthy,” 

“that’s right honey, so dirty. all cause of you. messy with you, why won’t you let me see?”  the captive rambles, torn between fighting to break out of the bondage and listening to the lewd sticky noises your mound makes when gliding smoothly over his paled skin. satoru growls at how roughly your body moves above his own, face contorting lecherously, cheeks red and lips puffy — a mess from how long he’s been holding out for you. he’s a mess. it’s true. he won’t even deny it. “now fuckin’ stroke it baby, stroke me to the rhythm of your pussy bouncing up and down for me…please…” 

simpering slightly, gojo’s fingers twitch against the arm of the chair — itching to grab at your ass and slam you down against his shaky thigh. if you palm him more, grip him tighter… he can better imagine the warmth of your cunt if he got the chance to slip inside. for now, you oblige his request, pulling tighter on the bindings of your hair while you them use as leverage — throwing yourself down on satoru as the lewd pap of your drooling pussy fills the musky tower air. “that’s it honey, up ‘n down. uppp ‘n  down. keep goin’ just like that.” 

you don’t have the energy to chide him, jostling about in satoru’s lap with wet whimpers bubbling up on the seams of your lips. pleasure begins to twist nice and tightly in your tummy, scalding you from the inside out and burning any logical thought from your brain. head beginning to roll to the side, you think about fully submitting to your capture. letting go entirely — you’d be satisfied. you’d get to cum. your deal might fall through but at least you’d get to see a different kind of light. 

easily, you could just give up. it wouldn’t be hard to, not  when gojo firmly plants his feet into the tiled floor and the power from his hips has hip rutting upwards to chase your fleshlight-like fist. a beefy cry battles its way out of his broad chest, vibrating through you as his quivering thigh juts your pretty, syrupy cunt every time you lift off of him. 

it’s the perfect cycle; the ideal push and pull. you squeal in ecstasy, the hood of your clit dragged back so that your sensitive bundle of nerves is exposed to the blistering heat of satoru’s cool toned skin — taking you closer and closer to your high. streaks of your hair glow brighter than before, more intensely the louder you moan and just like they would if you were singing to help mother or while she brushed your hair. despite the strength in the light of your hair, everything else about you weakens, your grip on your hair, the pace of your hand as you palm satoru to the high heavens. you can’t think to care about any of it when you’re this close. 

if mother could see you now, you don’t think you’d mind if she was disappointed in you. 

but then you’re ripped away from the edge of cloud nine. satoru stops just short of the dam threatening to break. his thigh completely still with your juices splattering against him once your own hips come to a hault. a petulant howl echoes through the flower, frustrated tears stinging in your waterline as you feel your orgasm slip away from you cruelly. “what the fuck satoru?” 

“sorry honey….” he laughs heartily, a slight rasp coating each syllable from each word that leaves his mouth. “don’t think i like this deal very much. just ‘cause you feel good doesn’t mean you can forget about me,” gesturing to the way you gush on and stain his thigh, the captive with the silver moon hair shrugs. “you don’t get to cum or see the lights unless i get to see you.”

gojo’s been good so far, hardly challenging you this whole time and instead, goading you into a world of pleasure you would have never experienced under mother’s watchful eye. instead, he was content to have his cock touched and his name wailed a hundred different ways — he’d shown no indication of breaking your deal aside from this. so in turn, you halfheartedly let go of the loop of hair that kept his sapphire stained eyes away from the world and held his wrists down to the arms of his chair.  the restraints loosen just enough to please him and do what he needs to do. not enough to give him complete freedom. 

“fuck the deal.” you cast it all to the side, relentlessly resuming grinding all over gojo — pushing your hips back as far as his knee to smother your swollen pleasure against it.

this time, satoru is able witness the way your bambi doe eyes roll back into your emptying skull. 

with newfound motivation, the intruder begins quickly blinking away any darkness that caused a fuzz at the edge of his vision, gojo’s gaze immediately trickles down to your clenching hole, a treasure kept safe between your nectar glossed thighs; watching you ride him. “god, if i had my hands on you i’d rub that clit until you were squirting… i bet you’d like that, if i ruined that pussy. made her mine — you'd like that.” gojo’s stare returns to your eyes, flashing you his pearly whites through a condescending smile. his rushed and rambled teasing words make your creamy cunt wetter; body betraying you to violently shake above him. 

though you find strength to keep up your end of the bargain. you’d sworn to make satoru see stars, encapsulating his rigid, sloppy dick between your nimble fingers once more. you even spit on it, earning a haughty bleat from between the man’s pretty (yet chatty) mouth. his sturdy body seizes underneath your touch as you take a firmer grip on him, palming him faster and faster — seedy, hot precum webbing over your knuckles once more. that’s when you finally get to see it. how murky and dark your captive’s vibrant eyes grow, like a pond, swimming with desire for you and only you.

the rapture that had once melted away from you like butter in a pan begins to blossom within you once again — willing you to beg for a chance at a real orgasm. “yes satoru! oh, yes please!” you squeak, short of breath and not entirely sure or what you’re even begging for. the golden light emitting from strands of your hair flare up again and your pussy throbs with an aching need to hit release. “please…”

a self congratulatory thread of cobalt lust weaves its way between the darkening midnight flecks in this eyes. “now look who’s begging,” clicking his tongue, gojo cocks his head to the side, relishing in his ability to finally look at you. drink in the way your chest bounces beneath the bodice of your lace orchid gown. it’s completely fucked, darkened by a crude mix of your arousals but it’s the most beautiful thing satoru has ever seen — only serving to rial him up even more… his own orgasm coming up over the hill. it burns at his internal organs, the lining of his stomach and the only way to alleviate this almost painful yet delectable twinge to his system is through you. “bet you’re only being nice ‘cause you’re close. well guess what? me too, be a good girl, honey, and cum for me.” he says, voice rising in both pitch and breathiness through his gritted teeth. 

he’s going to cum. 

and you’re too far gone to form a response with words just yet. you stop your own ministrations, payback for edging you earlier. his own cock dribbles pitifully as you rip his high away from him like pulling a rug from beneath his feet. gojo thrashes in his hair in response, azure eyes wild and almost wet with a sheen of tears — just as desperate to cum ad you are. “wh-what the fuck was that for?” he winges as though he’s a child on punishment, slender hips rising up to chase your soiled hand and perfect grip — shaft standing needily at attention. “honey…”

“you don’t get to cum until i get to cum. so either you work with me, satoru, or we’ll go all day.” you snap, slowly working your drenched cunt over the meat of his thigh once again, your puffy folds spread either side of it — squelching with the way you salaciously wind your hips all over him. 

satoru basks in the sight, tongue poking out tauntingly between his teeth as he decides to test the waters. “fine, but at least let me help,” he suggests, watching eagerly as you throw your head back in the purest form of pleasure and grind on him harder. it’s clear as day that you need just as much of a push to cum as he does and he plans on giving it to you in just one condition. “untie me.”

“deal.” chewing on your lower lip, you let more of your hair unwind your glowing hair from all points that keep gojo strapped to the chair. enough for more of his hands to escape. then, he’s on you within a flash, hot tongue swirling its way over your clothed bosom and biting at your peaked nipples while his hands shoot to the globes of your ass so that he can drag you in harsh circles across his lap. he’s ravenous, out of control, as if he’s been waiting for this moment the entire time. 

somewhere along the way, in one final burst of passion, your mouths find each other again — swapping streams of saliva as you lose yourselves to sex crazed minds teaming with lust hormones. with your lips smacking and bodies moving against each other in a delicious bump and grind — satoru forces a large hand between you both, fumbling against your cotton panties. the sound he lets out when he finally, finally gets his hands on your puffy clit is glutoral and animalistic, the simple touch sending a shock wave of electricity across every one of your synapses. dazing you for good. 

you bear witness to the silver haired stranger losing his mind, falling from grace like an angel with blackened wings. and for you, he does the same, commiting the sight of your glowing halo-like strands of hair to memory — the coils that shine brighter the more you sing and sin for him.

he can’t stop gabbling, gargling on the spit you pour into one another — followed by howls and screams of pleasure. “oh you like that, hm? i bet that feels so good… so sweet ‘n wet under my touch.” hot fingers belonging to satoru pick up the pace between your sticky folds, flicking your clit feverishly and writing his claim against your cunt at the same time that you jam a thumb into the tricking slit of his dirty red cockhead. the pair of you jolt in one another’s arms, taking one too many steps towards the edge of cloud nine before you’re even ready for you.  

“oh sweetheart, listen to you, sound so good. wish i could have you on my fat cock instead of my thigh. next time yeah? you’re gonna cum like this, aren’t you? gonna get my thigh nice and wet?” gojo growls, voice hoarse and layering perfectly over your whistle tone whines. his digits slow and start their greedy assault on your sex, edging you further and further as you wriggle and writhe at his words. 

the world escapes you, the knot of lust that had been warping within you finally coming undone. “gods… s-satoru! please!” you shriek as though your voice is a  gust of stormy wind — reverberating off of painted cobblestone walls. your free hand (no longer trapped by loops of your own hair) darts out to grab the intruder’s wrist, thighs locking around the hand that works you through an earth shattering high. the dam finally bursts, forcing open floodgates as your pussy releases streams of clear arousal in small spurts that soaks his entire lap and clothes.

gojo has no idea where to look, the smallest glimpse of your orgasm sending him hurtling over the edge as well — he doesn’t relent, viciously circling your precious pleasure mug and drawing out your release to match his own. his thick length spasms in your tiny hand, plump balls no longer able to contain the viscous, hot seed he has saved up all for you. just for you. he cums with a shout, abdomen contracting under your never-ending supple touch, ropes of white hot endlessly shoot from his overstimulated tip almost as though he’s a faucet that’s never been turned off.

he swears he almost blacks out, a white and sweaty mop of hair collapsing onto your shoulder as you slump in gojo’s lap — exhausted. as the air in the room cools, your hair no longer glowing and your chests syncing up to heave in an even rise and fall — you bring a lazy hand to the back of satoru’s head, toying with coils of his baby hair to help you both calm down.

a moment of quiet passes before you find the energy to whisper. “will you take me to see those floating lights now?” 

your innocent question causes satoru to snort sleepily, pressing a wet chaste kiss to your sweaty cheek as the sound breaks free from his cherry-bitten lips. “a deal’s a deal, honey. as soon as you untie me… we’ll hit the road.” 

neither of you move a muscle, however, still recovering from the sinful act you had just shared. 

you use the time to reflect, a sense of excitement dawning on you. you were going to leave the tower. you were going to see the floating lights on your birthday. and most importantly, you were directly disobeying your mother to prove your capableness. and all you had to do to get your fairytale happy ending was give a handjob to a very handsome, very willing stranger. 

the end.

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[normatural]

Echoes of Souls | A.T

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

Summary: In the old, abandoned castle, she found a love letter addressed to her, written by someone who died a century ago.

Word Count: 2.328

A/N: It's been a while since I wrote something and my writing is a bit rusty so please bear with me :) Feedback is always welcome. I love to know your opinions and questions. English isn't my first language so excuse any mistakes but feel free to point them out to help me improve.

Aemond's masterlist

Chapter Two: Back to the Fire

As the first light of dawn filtered through the broken windows, you roused yourself from sleep. The dream's vivid fragments lingered in your mind, each scene suffused with an inexplicable emotion. A longing that you couldn’t quite understand. Determined to uncover more of these echoes of the past, you decided to explore the mansion's grounds. The repairs could wait another day.

The garden, though now overgrown and wild, still held a certain beauty of its past. Weeds mingled with the remnants of perennials that had once been meticulously tended. Ancient statues stood silhouetted against the rising sun, their stone faces weather-beaten but still graceful. You wandered through the garden, trying to trace the paths from your dream.

Every step seemed to draw you closer to something just out of reach, a secret waiting to be unveiled. You reached a wrought iron gate, barely hanging on its hinges, and carefully pushed it open. Beyond lay what seemed to be the castle's graveyard, shrouded in a somber stillness. Moss-covered statues stood as silent chronicles of lives long past. Like ghosts in a forgotten house. 

Your heart began to pound as your eyes scanned the names at the bottom of the figures. Graves. You moved through the rows, pausing occasionally to read a name or a date. Most of them passed really young. Just as expected when a war is looming. The royal name appearing over and over again. And then you saw it—an elaborately carved white stone, still pristine despite the years. The name etched into the stone made your breath catch in your throat: Aemond Targaryen.

You’ve studied in college that the royal family used to be burnt in pyres by their dragons so it was odd to see those statues in the field as some sort of graveyard. Perhaps it was a way to honor the royal family, just like a museum. A reminder of the past.

Overwhelmed with a mix of sorrow and wonder, you knelt before the grave. The inscription was simple but profound, speaking to a life of duty, passion, and an untimely end. You traced the letters with your fingers, feeling a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion and recognition. The statue was almost a carbon copy of the man you had seen in your dream.

A rustling sound caught your attention. You looked up to see a black bird perched on Aemond’s shoulder, its dark eyes reflecting a startling intelligence as it seemed to stare deeply in your eyes. The bird regarded you for a moment, then took flight, its inky feathers stark against the morning sky. You watched as it flew to a massive tree, the only one still vibrant with life, its leaves a deep, blood-red hue. Unable to ignore the goosebumps in your skin.

Drawn by an invisible force, you rose and walked towards the tree. It seemed similar to the one you had seen earlier. Its red leaves stand proudly against the soft breeze. The tree's bark was rough against your hand as you gently touched it, feeling a strange energy pulsating beneath the surface. Like blood pumping in veins. Such an ancient piece that endured time way better than its surroundings. Suddenly, the world began to spin. Colors blended and swirled, and your vision blurred. You tried to hold onto the tree, but your strength waned, and you succumbed to the overwhelming dizziness, collapsing to the ground.

When you opened your eyes, the first thing you noticed was the sky, clear and blue above you. Pushing yourself up, disoriented, you looked around, touching your throbbing head. The once-overgrown garden was now meticulously manicured, the statues restored to their former glory. The world around you was vibrant and alive, brimming with the sounds of life. It was like being pulled back to that dream again.

Heart hammering, you realized you were no longer in the abandoned castle’s grounds. You were… in the past, in the Targaryen age. If that was even possible. Maybe you were going crazy but the castle loomed majestically behind you, its towers and walls gleaming in the sunlight. 

Voices and the sounds of bustling activity drew you towards the main courtyard. You blended in surprisingly well, your attire somehow fitting in with the period. As you moved through the crowd, your mind buzzed with the realization of where - and when - you were. The Targaryen age.

Everywhere you looked, there were signs of the looming strife. Soldiers in armor, courtiers whispering urgently to one another, and the dark, foreboding presence of the dragons, their cries echoing in the skies above. Something was about to happen and it didn’t leave a good feeling to your guts.

Your thoughts raced as you tried to comprehend your situation. You had somehow traveled back in time, to a world that had existed centuries ago. A world where Aemond was alive. Where dragons flew in the sky… When one of the greatest wars was unfolding.

You made your way back to the garden, the same spot where you had seen the man with white hair. It was exactly as you remembered it from your dream - vibrant, full of life, and breathtakingly beautiful. As you walked, your heart skipped a beat when you saw Aemond in the distance, speaking with a group of knights as they walked in the out the gates. He seemed just as you had seen in her dreams, every bit the imposing and mystery figure you had come to know… somehow.

As you watched from a distance, trying to hear anything that wasn’t your thrumming heartbeat, a voice broke through your racing thoughts.

"Lady Vaela!" Startled, you turned to see a maid hurrying towards you, her expression a mix of concern and urgency. "My lady, you are not yet ready! The ceremony will begin soon."

"What ceremony?" you asked, voice shaky. The maid seemed taken aback by your furrowed brows but recovered quickly.

Fear of being caught and hanged for wandering around the castle was the only thing keeping you from tripping on your feet as you followed the maid through the dark and imposing halls. She had recognized you, or better, who she assumed you were. And that may be something good. They’d hang someone known by staff.

"Your wedding, my lady. To Prince Aemond Targaryen. Come, we must make haste!"

The world around you seemed to spin again, but this time with a dizzying revelation. Her dream, her memories - it was all falling into place. They were your memory. You were Vaela… Or perhaps, you were in another dream. You followed the maid in a daze, questions swirling in your mind. How did you end up here? Why did they recognize you? 

The maid led you through the bustling corridors of the castle, and you took in the splendor of the surroundings - the rich tapestries, the gleaming armor, the hurried preparations of the household. It all felt surreal as if you were walking through someone else's life.

They arrived at your chamber - you supposed-, and the maid quickly set to work, helping you bathe and change into the elaborate wedding gown that awaited. It was a breathtaking creation of silks and lace, embroidered with the sigils of House Targaryen. As the maid adjusted your veil and added the final touches, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the polished metal. The reflection looking back at you was both familiar and strange, a mixture of your past self and the woman you had become. It was you and yet it wasn’t. 

"You look beautiful, my lady," the maid said with a warm smile. "Prince Aemond is a fortunate man."

The words brought a flush to your cheeks, and you took a deep breath to steady yourself. This was happening. Your heart raced with a mix of fear and excitement. When would you wake up?

As the preparations concluded, the maid guided you towards the grand hall where the ceremony was to take place. The hall was filled with guests, a sea of faces you did not recognize but who seemed to know you. High lords and ladies, knights, and nobles, all turned to watch as she made her entrance.

The hall itself was a marvel of Valyrian architecture, adorned with dragon motifs and glittering chandeliers. Some of them you had the luck of seeing in museums, others in your history books but most of them were never seen in your century. At the far end, standing tall and regal, was Aemond Targaryen. His white hair gleamed under the chandeliers, and his one good eye fixed on you with a burning intensity, making your stomach do black flips.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. Every step you took echoed through the hall together with your heartbeat or maybe that was just your nerves. Your mind racing with a multitude of emotions. This was the moment you had dreamt of since childhood - to wed in a palace-, yet it was more real and overwhelming than you could have imagined. You didn’t know that man and still, you haven’t tried to run away since you awoke there.

As you approached, Aemond stepped forward to take your hand. His grip was firm yet gentle, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. For a moment, time seemed to stop as their eyes met, the connection between them sparking and palpable. It was as if their souls were recognizing each other, despite the chasm of time that had separated them. Could he know that you weren’t his beloved Vaela? If so, he didn’t let it show.

The ceremony began, a blend of Valyrian rites and Targaryen traditions. The words of the officiant washed over you as you stood beside Aemond, your hand still clasped in his. Somehow it was the only thing keeping you from fainting right there. 

"Sȳndor bē naejot māzigon hen ñuha prūmia, ao issi ñuha ēngos, ñuha prūmia, se ñuha gevives. Nyke daorūbagon ao va īlva gīmigon, īlva vūjigon, se īlva ānogar. Iā vala mēre, ȳdrā ēdruty. Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor, sepār iksan sȳndroro gūrogon." Aemond purple’s eye was focused on yours, the words leaving his lips seemed to held a deeper power to it. "As we come together from my heart, you are my light, my heart, and my strength. I bind you to our love, our life, and our future. As one man and one woman, always together. A dragon does not bow, yet I am humbled by your love."

The vows were spoken in High Valyrian, their meaning both ancient and profound. 

"Sȳndor bē naejot māzigon hen ñuha prūmia, ao issi ñuha ēngos, ñuha gevives, se ñuha bantis. Nyke daorūbagon ao va īlva gīmigon, īlva prūmia, se īlva rhaenagon. Iā valar mēre, ēdruta va gevie. Zaldrīzes ōños iksā, se nyke ēdrur ao va gevivys.” Your mind only raced further with innumerous thoughts as the supposedly foreign words slipped so easily out of your lips. “As we come together from my heart, you are my light, my strength, and my night. I bind you to our love, our heart, and our dreams. As two souls, bound in strength. You are a dragon of shadows, and I honor you in the darkness."

 With each word, the bond between them seemed to grow stronger, as if the very fabric of time was weaving their destinies together. Again.

When the moment came to seal their union, Aemond leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft yet powerful kiss. Awakening something long torpid in your chest. The hall erupted in applause, but for you, the world had narrowed to just the two of you. Love and passion radiating from him, a promise of what was to come.

As the ceremony concluded, the people were led to the grand banquet hall where the celebrations would continue. The hall was filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. You found yourself surrounded by well-wishers and congratulations, yet your focus remained on Aemond, who surprisingly stayed by your side like an anchor in the storm of emotions.

As the evening progressed, you took the chance to accept every goblet of wine that was offered to you in hopes it’d control your mind. You sat down on the chair, eyes quickly finding your.. husband as he spoke to whom you assumed was his brother, King Aegon. It was as if you had known each other for lifetimes.

When they finally found a moment alone amidst the revelry, Aemond took her hand and led her to a quiet alcove. "Vaela," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. "I know this may feel overwhelming, but trust in our love. We are destined for each other, no matter the challenges we may face."

You looked into his eye as the crease between your brows deepened, seeing the sincerity and passion there. But there was something else there. Knowledge. He knew. "I’m back, Aemond," you replied, your voice surprisingly steady. "And I am ready to face whatever comes our way, as long as we are together."

He smiled a rare and genuine expression that made your heart soar. "Then let us embrace our destiny, my love. Together, we shall conquer all."

His words seemed to strike something on you. Unlock whatever your memory was keeping from you as pages of books and illustrations flashed in your mind. The name Targaryen is in all of them. Your heart sank as you looked at Aemond. You’ve read about his death. What if... That was the reason you were sent there? To avoid it.

As they stood there, hand in hand, the world around them seemed to fade away. They were no longer bound by the constraints of time, but rather united by a love that spanned centuries. At that moment, you knew that no matter what challenges or trials awaited you, your love was eternal, a flame that would never be extinguished. You had a purpose there. You’d save your lover’s life.

+

Taglist: @donut-seam @strangersunghoon @teasweeter @darktrashsoulbear @m00n5t0n3 @rosey1981 @kniselle @rebloggerist-extraordinaire

[carlyraejepsans]

Oh great The Sans Artist Ever, please give me your wisdom. How do you make Sans look so convincingly middle aged? Try as I might I feel my vibes fall short..

my wisdom, huh? hey, give me some credit. this is highly specialized knowledge, it takes YEARS to master...

just kidding. biscia's middle aged sans guide. attempt numero uno. here we go.

step one. draw sans like you normally draw him. hey, good job. that's a nice picture you have there. but... it sounds like it's not quite hitting the mark, huh? welp. let's set it aside and try something different.

here's some of my "hot tips" for ya

shrink the eyelights, but not the whole 'socket. or, uh, make the eyesockets bigger and leave the 'lights? help me out here.

you see this a lot with official merch art, but they make the sockets droop down at the sides. it's not 100% sprite accurate, but hey, the bloodhound look works pretty well at making him look older. it's not for everyone though, so just give it a shot.

speaking of eyesockets... don't forget your 'bags under your seat. it's funny. with all the time they play that message, you'd figure people would remember, but lots of artists out there leave the eyes at two black circles. who knows, maybe they don't think it's important, but eyebag to differ.

another big thing a lotta artists change is the nose. which is weird, cause technically he doesn't have one. anyway, the ^ shaped ones are nice and all, but they can push the result closer to baby-faced than you intended. pick up the canon sprite again... pretty solid triangle, right? it's also, uh, a lot bigger than most people draw it. maybe try doing that. you might have to space the eyes apart more, and shrink the mouth too. try out different proportions, see what looks best.

make the mouth more angular. trust me, i used to love the bean mouth, but it can shave more than a couple years from his face. that being said, don't forget the cheeks squishing at the corners. not a lot of chances out there to put lines on a face with no skin, but this is one of 'em.

shorter legs, wider shoulders. really get in that pocket sized refrigerator mindset.

now we get to the fun stuff. some people might call this a "beer belly", but actually, it's just overgrown muscles spilling over. huh..? what's that face supposed to mean? it takes a HUGE amount of training to sit at your post and do nothing all day. there's a reason they call it job "crunching", kid. unfortunately, your "mad gainz" aren't counted on your monthly report. don't bother asking. i tried it and they laughed me outta town.

1/4 head to body ratio max. you can push it further, i guess, but it starts to look off pretty fast. when in doubt, go wider, not taller.

welp, that's pretty much it. you're welcome, by the way. let me know how that goes for ya

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

A flower for a flower

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 20

Prompt: Magic AU

Rated: T

CW: Sexually explicit language

Tags: Fantasy AU; Knight Steve Harrington; Witch Eddie Munson; Repaying debts; Open ending

"Steve," Robin's hand is clutching his arm so hard he can feel it through his armor. "Steve, I don't like this. There’s magic at work here, I can tell.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve huffs, even though the murky, green light trickling through the trees is giving him the creeps, even though his hand keeps groping for his sword belt. “There’s no magic left in the world, everybody knows that.” 

“Not in the civilized realms,” Robin says. “But this place? It’s freaking me out. We’ve passed that fallen pillar at least three times, I know it.” 

“You’re imagining things. The place is littered with ruins, there’s probably a hundred pillars like that.” 

It is, in fact, the exact same pillar. He remembers the crouching shape of the gargoyle on the top, overgrown with moss and ivy. He’ll be damned before he admits it, though. Robin is inches from a panic attack as it is - telling her that they’ve been spending the better part of the day taking twists and turns, only to inexplicably arrive back in the same spot? Big fucking no.  

“C’mon,” he says instead. “Keep your eyes open. The sooner we find that morphing daisy or whatever it's called we can head home." 

"It's Morpheus Lily," Robin grumbles. For a while, the only sound is that of their feet crunching on dead leaves. 

"The villagers say this forest is home to a witch, did you know that?" Robin whispers finally. "They say they were banished here centuries ago, and that they lead travelers astray out of revenge. They call it the Witch's Forest." 

Steve is already rolling his eyes, snide remark ready on his tongue, when a voice behind them drawls, "Goodness, really? Well, isn't that creative?" 

They whirl around. 

There's a figure perched on the pillar they just passed. Dark eyes, lined heavily in coal, regard them from over stacked hands gleaming with silver jewelry.

"You're the witch," Robin breathes. 

The figure hops off the pillar and saunters over to them, bare feet rustling on the forest floor. Tattered black robes fall open, revealing a pale chest covered in black rune tattoos. 

"I am indeed. Welcome to my realm." 

"But- wait, you're a guy!" Steve blurts. 

The smile on those full lips turns into a scowl. 

"A lot is possible in this world, sir," says the guy … the witch … the witch guy. "Witches can have cocks, and knights can be pretty as flowers." 

Steve snaps his mouth shut, tries to ignore the heat prickling under his collar. 

"Now," guy-witch claps his hands and dances a step back, dark curls flying around him like a frizzy halo. There's feathers and random branches and leaves braided in there. "Speaking of flowers, I couldn't help but overhear you're in search of a Morpheus Lily." 

Robin, who has been hiding behind Steve this entire time, gulps and pushes herself to the front. 

"We're from the kingdom of Hawkins, and- We're looking for a cure for a sleeping sickness that has befallen the princess Christine. Our healers say that the nectar of the lily may be the only hope, so-" 

"Hawkins?" That smile turns sharp. "Now, isn't that a coincidence? For the very people who banished me to this wretched place to come crawling here and ask me a favor." 

"That was ages ago," Robin blurts. "Listen, I'm sorry, I wish there was a way to- I wish there was anything we could do for you-" 

"Oh, maybe there is." 

Robin trails off in confusion. The witch smirks. 

"Let us assume I know where to find that precious flower you seek. I'd be willing to give it to you, let you find your way out of my forest even. If the price is right, that is." 

"Of course," Robin's hands start fumbling for the purse on her belt. "We have gold, we're more than willing-" 

The witch throws his head back and barks a laugh. 

"What use would your gold be to me in this place? Does it keep the loneliness at bay during the long, dull days? Does it offer warmth on endless, cold nights? No, I have something quite different in mind …" 

Dark, gleaming eyes flick over to Steve and he practically feels how the blood drains from his face. 

"A flower for a flower."

All my holiday drabbles

[hannahssimblr]

Evie doesn’t appear phased about what I did in the abandoned church. When we left, scrambling back over that rocky wall, I already hated everything I said to her all evening. I can't even count all of the stupid things.

Yet she is unphased like she hasn't figured it out yet, laughing and chatting on my bicycle as the first glimmer of light from the seaside appears on the horizon. If I had pulled any of that shit with Michelle, with the torch and the spooky stories I was inexplicably compelled to tell afterwards, I would be dead already. Buried.

“Can I confess something?” Her voice is soft and close to my ear. “You don’t seem like a person who is into ghosts and stuff like that.”

“No?”

“No, you seem too cool.”

“I’m not cool.”

She pauses. “I think you are. You remind me of some of Shane’s friends from home a bit.”

“Culchies.”

“No, just very sporty, popular boys who, like, get invited to house parties.”

“You don’t get invited to house parties?”

A derisive laugh, “No, I’m not cool.”

“Well, if I threw a party, I’d invite you.” 

The road thins and slopes towards the sea as I pass the welcome sign to the village, freewheeling over palm fronds, and through the sand piles gathered by the curbs until the last, empty, open street lies ahead. I have no concept of what time it is. It is after midnight at least, but before four, because the sky is still that even, deep blue of astronomical twilight. 

It is disappointing to reach the gates of the caravan park. 

“Do you want me to bring you all the way?” I ask her.

“Yeah, okay.”

And so we gain another two minutes, which I use up telling her about the ganja guy in that caravan by the tennis court. She finds the story amusing. It seems she feels that way about a lot of things I tell her. This is not unfamiliar. At school, I grew accustomed to people who hung around me and acted like every word I uttered was hilarious, not because they honestly thought so, but because they wanted me to give something to them, attention, or popularity, validation of some sort. It just doesn’t seem that way with Evie. 

“What time is it?” she climbs off the pannier rack and rubs the side of her neck. 

I check my phone. “It’s half two.”

“Wow. I should really get to bed. I barely slept last night and I’m so exhausted.”

“You didn’t?”

She wavers. “Um, no, I was just wound up from being in Dublin and all. My mind was racing a bit, like, it tends to do that.”

We say nothing for a beat. I should probably get back on the bike and go home, but instead, I stand there scouring my brain for some way to spark another conversation and keep her where she is. 

It takes too long to think, and within a second she has turned away. “I better go inside.”

“It was nice to hang out with you,” I call after her as she climbs the weatherbeaten planks of the mobile steps. 

She smiles, fiddles with a piece of her hair, then, almost as an afterthought, she tries the door. 

But it is locked. 

Another attempt, jiggling it this time, then she pats her pockets with growing alarm. 

“Everything okay?” 

She shakes her head. “I’m locked out.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah,” with hands at her temples, she stares at the ground in disbelief, “I remember where I left them. They’re in my room.”

I’m stumped. It’s not like I can bring her home to my house. That’d be weird, and I don’t even want to think about the questions it would arouse. What if the guys were to come home to find her, God forbid, brushing her teeth in the bathroom? What would they think I did? Could I even blame them for thinking it?

“Oh! Hang on!” She says, and without explaining herself, she darts around the side of the mobile home, vanishing through clumps of overgrown grass until she’s swallowed completely by darkness. 

“What the fuck?” I follow her. 

I find her at the back, where moss has sprouted between slits in the PVC sliding. 

“My window,” she explains, “I thought I left it open.” Her thumbs find a sliver of space at the base of the frame, and with some effort she shoves it upwards, heaving out a heavy sigh of satisfaction. “There!”

She pauses. “Do you want a glass of water? You must be tired from cycling all that way.”

She means an actual glass of water. It is not an innuendo and I know it. 

“Yeah, that’d actually be really nice.”

Nobody needs to know that I agreed, that I’m doing this, that I am actually crawling in her bedroom window behind her, because God knows, I don’t know what I would tell them if they asked. This is one of those moments where my behaviour is inexplicable even to myself.

As I clamber over her bedside table, narrowly avoiding knocking her lamp to the floor, I catch her kicking a pile of clothes under one of the twin beds. I smile. She’s messy. 

“Okay, stay here,” she orders, and hurries out the door, leaving me alone in her room, surrounded by her things. 

One of the two narrow beds is unmade. I choose that one to sit on while I observe this little box room. An old, painted dresser, a 90s-era television set left unplugged, a bedside table and a lamp. Without question, the rest of the stuff is hers. There is a suitcase, still unpacked, a tennis racquet, and a few plastic bottles of water at various states of fullness. An orange bikini hangs up to dry by the window, and I don’t stare at it. The door handle squeaks and I snatch a book from the bedside table so I can pretend to be interested in it. 

“What are you doing?” Evie stands frowning with my cup of water in her hand, and I feel like she has caught me doing something illegal.

“Just looking at your books. Is that okay?”

“They’re not interesting books, just silly romance novels and stuff.”

It’s like I’ve only just landed in my body. I hadn’t even realised what I was looking at. Turning the book over to its baby blue cover, looping cursive across the front, I shrug. “If you like reading them, then who cares?”

She hands me the cup and sits next to me on the mattress. “I know I should be reading the classics, but I tried to read Catch 22 a couple of months ago and found it bad.”

“Really? I like that book.”

Her cheeks redden. “Oh, well, it’s not really bad, that’s not what I meant, it–”

“It’s okay, it’s not for you. It’s fine not to be into something.”

She frowns at her lap and brings a fingertip to her mouth before catching herself like she’s remembering she doesn’t bite her nails in front of other people. I want to talk to her more about how it’s alright if she has an opinion that is different than mine, that it doesn’t make her wrong, or anything like that, but I decide against drawing attention to her embarrassment at all. I suspect she might prefer it that way. 

Under the window, a black, linen-covered notebook sits flat, loose pages jutting out from the side. Laying the water and the romance novel down, I reach for it.

Quick as a whip, she moves to block my hand. “You can’t see this.” 

“What? Why not? What is it?”

“It’s personal.”

“What, like your secret diary?”

“No! Not like that. It’s none of your business.”

She doesn’t say a word, so I adjust my tone to be gentler. “Come on, let me see it. It’s no big deal.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s messy. My work is messy.”

“Uh, yeah, like all sketchbooks. I’m just curious about it, please.” 

She says in a tiny voice: “I don’t want you to judge me.”

“But why would I do that?”

“Because. You’re a real artist, and I’m just… a hobbyist.”

I scoff. “I’m not a real artist either,” not by any stretch of the imagination. 

“Well, those people at the Berlin art school would disagree.”

I’ll be a real artist after I go to Berlin, not before. I wish she knew that. Right now I’m just a sixth-year student who likes to draw pictures of his own feet. “You’re saying all this based on nothing. I’ll show you my sketchbook sometime and you’ll see. You don’t turn into a prodigy just because you get accepted into art college.”

“Okay, well, you’re not allowed to be mean.”

“I’d never”

“If you think it’s shit, I’ll know,” she warns as finally, she relinquishes it to me, “I’m really good at reading faces.”

“I bet.”

Finally, I open the cover. I do not underestimate the value of this worn-out sketchbook that she was so incredibly protective of, and hope my hands are not dirty, that they don’t smudge the corners of the pages. I am careful to be very thoughtful about each piece that I encounter. 

She has a tight line, surprisingly. I expected to find something more loose and free-form, floaty figures with dozens of wandering, light lines, some voile curtains in the wind, perhaps, but her hand is deliberate, cautious and exact. It says something about her that I didn't expect.

I pause on one page, one close to the end of the sketchbook, with a drawing of a man and a dog. It’s this beach. The land’s shape in the background she roughly drew looks familiar to me, but I sense her anxiety when I realise I haven’t spoken in a while. 

“These are really good,” I assure her. “The way you’ve captured the movement… You can tell that he’s resisting the wind here, there’s a great weight to it.”

She seems to melt with relief. “Thank you. I’m trying to get better at drawing things that are moving. I got too comfortable drawing still things and then got way too focused on the details. Like my cat,” leaning in close she flips back near the beginning, “See, she was sleeping, so I felt like I had time to draw every little thing. Like all the individual hairs and everything. I got way too caught up with it.”

“I like these too, though. I get what you’re saying about there being a lot of detail, but I dunno, it still works for me. I think the line work is really sensitive. I think you’re a really good artist, like, everything in here is honestly great.”

“Really? You don’t have to say it just to be nice.”

“I’m not! I really think that.”

“Okay,” she pulls the sketchbook off my lap before I can change my opinion, and stashes it safely beneath the bed, out of reach. With a quick toss of her hair over one shoulder, she looks at me with a challenge in her eyes. “You’ll have to show me your work now. This is a transaction that works both ways.” 

“Yeah, I will. The next time you’re over at the beach house, I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”

“I bet it’s unreal.”

“Don’t hold your breath. Not as good as yours.”

She rolls her eyes. “As if. I bet I’ll look in your sketchbooks and they’ll look like DaVinci did them.”

“Well, if you think that, I promise you’ll be disappointed.”

I should thank her for showing me her work, but it feels like a kind of weird thing to do, a thing a boy who was insecure and hungry for her approval would do. Someone like Liam. 

Liam. 

Should I feel bad about Liam? Here I am, in Evie Kilbride’s bedroom, getting her to show me one of her most private and precious possessions while he, what? Sleeps under Lion King themed bedsheets at home? I wonder if he’s ever been in her room, or in any poor, suffering girls’ room. 

Why am I so obsessed with being nasty about him? What is wrong with me? Perhaps inherently I am a mean person. 

When I adjust myself on Evie’s bed, I rest my thigh against hers. Her skin is cool. She doesn’t move away. 

“When you go to Berlin,” she says, “Will you know anybody there?”

Oh yeah, Berlin. I exhale. “No, I’m going on my own, which, like, I’m kind of excited about.”

“Scared though?” She prompts, and I admit: “Yeah, a little bit, I suppose. More excited.”

“I think I’d be scared to leave and be away from everybody I know.”

“Yeah, I get that, but I wasn’t really thinking that way when I applied for university there. It was honestly more about the experience I’d have and what I’d learn from doing my degree there. Plus, when I applied, I didn’t actually think I’d be going on my own.” 

“No?”

“My girlfriend at the time and I applied together, actually, but she didn’t get in. It was brutal. We got our letters on the same day.”

“You decided to go alone, anyway?”

“Yeah it felt like the best choice for me, I just didn’t see myself being in Ireland anymore, I don’t want to waste my early twenties in this horrible recession, and I don’t want to graduate into it with no job prospects. I just need to get away from it.”

“And your girlfriend?”

I hesitate. It’s not like I don’t want to talk about Michelle, it’s just… I usually avoid any conversations that might lead to some necessary explanation of the arduousness of our relationship. “We broke up. We called it quits before our exams. I didn’t want to put her through the long-distance thing, like, honestly, I didn’t want to put myself through it, because I knew I couldn’t handle that. I really just… I don’t want any attachments when I go, like, no responsibilities towards anybody else. Having a relationship while trying to navigate the changes that are ahead of me,” I sigh. “It would be too hard.”

“Wow. How long were you together?”

“Almost a year.”

She hums sympathetically. “It must have been a hard decision.”

“It was. She’s a great person.”

“Well, you can always get back together at some point in the future, you know, like maybe someday when you graduate…” Her sentence trails off as I shake my head decisively. 

“I don’t think so. It’s just over. I can’t really see us picking up where we left off, like, nothing to do with her or the relationship, per se. It’s just that I feel like I can’t ever go backwards. Once it’s done, it’s done for me. I just don’t really hang on to other people in that way.”

Her leg shifts away from mine, and the warmth of the atoms between us dissipates. She rests against the wall, her head lolling gently to one side, makeup flaking beneath weighty lids. 

“You look a little sleepy.”

“I am.”

I smile. “Then sleep. I’ll leave.”

“Okay.”

Hugging her sort of seems like the right thing to do, but I overthink it, hesitate too long and then just get up from the bed. “Okay Evie, I’ll see you again soon.” 

It’s her who demands a hug, holding out her arms to me and making a little hmph sound, so I kneel on the bed and let her wrap her arms around me. Her face nestles in my neck. She’s all warm cheeks and the flutter of eyelashes. 

“I’ll text you when I’m free to hang out again.” 

“Mm,” she has already laid down, and I can’t resist one moment where I just look at her. She’s so cute. She has the loveliest face I may have ever seen in real life.

“Goodnight,” I whisper, but I doubt she’s even heard me, and then, as quietly as I can, I climb over the bedside table and leap down onto the dew-sprinkled grass below, leaving behind no trace but ripples in the glass of water on the bedside table, lying untouched next to her sleeping face. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

Corresponding LG Chapter [2]

[astermagne]

Something soft to start off

It was a violet blue night. Adam was found near the gates, alone. Lute thought he was out for a late snack and to be alone with his thoughts. Well..it was close to the truth. Now to fool that dumbass Peter. He stared at the fuckin Jack in the box angel as he was resting behind the podium . It was a quiet night on Earth apparently. No one was dying at the moment.

Tearing off a chunk of beef jerky from his fist, giving the poor angel an annoyed glare, he took a stone he borrowed from one of the gardens and threw it against a gate wall , further away. The sudden noise shook the twink awake , as he popped his blonde head up with a “Welcome! - Erm. Who’s- huh?” And went to the noise, seeing there were no newly arrivals.

Adam slowly pushed the gate open , and a hooded figure crept on through. Adam took the smaller figure’s wrist after shutting the gate and extended his wings, flying briskly back to the city.

Some angels were out. Most were at home, sleeping , taking a bath, reading, etc.

Adam reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out an exorcist’s mask, and almost smacked it onto the other’s face, causing the smaller one to jolt.

There was a small hidden garden Adam and Eve used to frequent to get away from the angels, to just be alone with themselves . Past some willows , overgrown shrubs, and vine covered rocks and boulders, there was a place.

Where fireflies glowed, frogs croaked, and a soft stream of water could be heard if you tried hard to listen. It wasn’t Eden, but. It was still nice.

Adam sat on a rock and slowly took off his mask, his gaze down. But when a dark hand touched his cheek, his eyes glinted as he looked up.

Lucifer had taken off his mask, and was looking at the other softly. Lucifer, one of the very, very , VERY few people who looked at Adam and didn’t see sex/anything sexual, but a man. Plain and simple. The rare angel from Eden that didn’t care about wanting Adam and Eve or Lilith to procreate constantly, who just kept the three company and made them chuckle with the occasional joke. The one angel that made the three genuinely feel safe. At least, for a while.

“What song will you play tonight?” The blonde asked with a smile. That damn, genuine smile.

“Huh? Not even gonna say hi ?” Adam arched his brow. “ Dick move.” He flipped the angel off. But he pulled out his guitar nonetheless with a roll of his eyes . It was an acoustic guitar now- mainly because he didn’t want to alert anyone to their area.

Lucifer decided to play the cute card and went to his knees, placing his elbows on the other’s leg, propping up his face with his hands , looking up at the other with a “Hello :)”

Adam blinked , stared for a moment then shoved the other off with a scoff. Lucifer smirked and giggled, but sat back on the grass and crossed his legs, and Adam began strumming softly, slowly. Slowly picking up the pace after a moment, but still not going fast.

Lucifer nodded along to the music. The guitar had a nice effect, reverberating through the night air as if the notes were floating, speaking in a language that no one else could hear except them.

[microwave-core]

Serenity

Lusamine x Fem! Reader

A long work day is enough to wear down even the most dedicated workaholics. Despite your tired state, the knowledge that your family was eagerly awaiting your return helps keep your fatigue at bay.

Your feet drag across the pristine marble of the courtyard. Shoulders slumped, attire wrinkled, and hair disturbed from the fly back home, you slowly walk towards your abode, knowing that your family were close by. 

Trailing close behind you, with far more energy than you could ever wish to have, is your dear Petilil, who hums happily, knowing dinner time was fast approaching. You envy her energy, even if it was food motivated. Her hobbled steps only increase in speed as yours slow, allowing her to easily beat you to the door, hopping up and down in sheer excitement. Life truly was simple for her, wasn’t it?

You open the door with a clumsy hand, nudging the rest of the way open with your shoulder. Petilli rushes inside as you stop to pull off your shoes, listening to the chatter from a few rooms over. Petilil’s figure in the nearby doorway quickly disappears, only to be replaced by an overjoyed Silvally, bounding up to you before you can free your hands from your heels.

You’re left defenseless as he licks up one side of your face, a gesture that was in equal parts loving and disgusting. With shoes pulled off and thrown to the side, your hands turn to the overgrown man-made dog, gently petting the sides of his head, preventing him from licking again. He barks in response, clearly content with your presence and affection, but your attention is elsewhere.

“Mom!” Lillie comes rushing through the door, as fast as the two pokemon before her, and throws her arms around you. She’s rocking back and forth on her heels, smiling brightly, eyes brimming with excitement. You're about to greet her in return, moving one of your arms around her back and shoulder, but she cuts you off.

“You won’t believe where we went today! We went to Heahea City!” Her words come out quickly, clearly looking forward to unraveling the tale that took place earlier in the day.

“All the way out to Akala, huh? I’m sure you got to see all kinds of pokemon out there, didn’t you?” “Mmhmm! Mom let us go to the nearby beach, and we got to chuck all of the Pyukumuku that washed up on the shore.”

“You didn’t even touch any of them, Lillie.” Gladion appears in the door this time. His tone seems slightly annoyed, which his expression reflects. Still, you knew that he was just as excited to talk about their day as Lillie, he just didn’t like to show it. He’s a teenage boy, after all.

“That’s not my fault. They were all slimy!” Lillie uncoils her arms from you, grimacing at the mere memory of the water type’s feel. “Besides, I had to watch Vulpix so she didn’t swim too far away from the shore.” Gladion scoffs at her reasoning, about to fire back before you step in. You loved them both dearly, but a petty sibling squabble wasn’t something you had the energy to deal with right now.

“So you chucked them back into the water all by yourself then, Gladoin? I’m sure that was real fun, and I’m sure the Pyukumuku appreciated it, too.” 

“Are you kidding? It was the best!” This causes him to smile, patiamiming his throwing stance. “They just let you pick ‘em up and do whatever. Silvally tried to chase after them, even caught one midair before it hit the water. I wish we could have stayed longer.”

“We couldn’t stay, we had to go to-” Lillie is caught off by Lusamine calling after them both, finally appearing from the dining room. She looks at them kindly, but there’s a hint of exasperation behind her gaze.

“There you are. I know you’re both excited to tell mom all about what happened today, but you should let her get further than the front door before jumping on her.” She looks both of them in the eyes before meeting yours, flashing a closed-eye smile. “Welcome home, dear. As you can see, we missed you dearly.” She walks over, maneuvering around your daughter and Silvally to press a kiss to your check, causing Lillie and Gladion to wretch and groan. Parents showing affection was truly the most repulsive sight they’ve ever been subjected to.

“You two go run back to the table and finish dinner, alright? We’ll be there soon.” Gladion mutters something under his breath, walking away in fear of witnessing the creation of more cooties, Lillie (and Silvally) following shortly behind.

You breathe out a sigh, shedding your coat before fully leaning into Lusamine’s touch, head against her chest. She laughs, running a comforting hand up and down the length of your back, coaxing another, more content sigh from your lips.

“Seems like you had a long day, hmm?” “Far too long. What I would have given to join you all on Akala... I would much rather chuck sea cucumbers into the ocean for eight hours straight instead of… well, you know.” You peel away from her loving embrace, fighting your pleaing mind’s desire to stay.

“And you know we would have all loved that, too, even if some of us won’t say it outloud.” You snort at her comment, knowing how she loathes grappling with Gladion’s ‘I’m too cool to be hanging around my parents’ attitude. 

“What brought you out there, anyways? Just decided to take a day trip to get away from work for a bit?” Arceus knows that’s what you would have done if you had the chance.

“Actually, I went to speak to Professor Burnet at her lab. They’ve made quite a few discoveries over there, and I just couldn’t help but talk with her about them in person.” There’s a glimmer in her eyes as she speaks, obviously enthralled with whatever complex discussion they had. From the look alone, you know you wouldn’t understand a lick of it.

“So it was work after all? Well, at least you got to relax on the beach for a bit, or at least watch after Lillie and Gladion clean it up.” A yawn breaches from your lips, stretching as you finally begin to move into the kitchen. It was high time you got some dinner in you, and it was only a matter of time before Petilil came to harass you for hers.

“Who’s to say I didn’t pitch in? Even if they can live on the sand, it’s much better for them if they stay in the shallow water, and it protects them from being tripped over, as well.” Despite her elegant appearance, your wife’s physical strength was nothing to scoff at.

The image of her throwing them alongside Gladion, along with your desire for food, makes you forget all about Lillie being cut off from before. Of course, it wouldn’t remain a secret for long, as Lillie and Gladion will likely blab about their short trip to Konikoni before you even sit down.

But if Lusamine’s lucky, she might be able to present the darling necklace she spent the afternoon picking out for you in complete surprise.

[tracingpatternswrites]

Friends | Married at First sight

(Read the whole thing from the beginning here)

Welcome back to yet another episode of Married at First Sight. In the previous weeks, our couples have led a secluded life where they only have had to focus on each other but now the experiment is nearing an end. It’s high time for our couples to figure out what their lives together after the show might look like, and what better way to do that than with the help of some friends?

Read on AO3.

Snippet below the cut.

They didn’t talk the following morning. Remus had tried to get Sirius to do it; he had tried to bring up what had happened with his brother and mother, but Sirius consistently managed to distract him. Most of the time Remus didn’t even realise he had been distracted until it was too late. He had never met anyone as skilled at avoiding a conversation he didn’t want to have as Sirius Black. 

Remus would be impressed if it wasn’t so frustrating. And as Remus had learnt by now, the show never waited for them to catch up. After Sirius had spent three days successfully avoiding having the conversation that Remus tried to push for, they received a new golden envelope with instructions for the coming week.

Family Week was to be followed by a week dedicated to their friends, and even though a part of Remus just wanted to shut the rest of the world out, the prospect of seeing his friends was tempting. He knew that he and Sirius had things they needed to talk about, but maybe it would be easier if he gave Sirius some space and they both got to see their friends.

Remus missed Mary and Kingsley both, he wasn’t used to going this long without speaking to either of them. Whenever he was feeling confused or stressed, they were the people who set him straight and helped him find his way back. When Sirius made the suggestion that they throw a dinner party together rather than visit their friends separately, it seemed like a good idea.

After all, they would have to introduce their friends to each other eventually and now seemed as good a time as any. If nothing else, seeing Sirius with his friends might give Remus an idea as to how he could bring up the confrontation with his mother. It would also give Remus a chance to talk to Mary and Kingsley about what he had witnessed and perhaps they could give him some advice on how to proceed.

That was why he now found himself making a chilli in Sirius’ fancy kitchen while his husband was setting up the table outside. It was a beautiful summer evening, the heat still heavy in the air even though it was getting close to seven at night. Now that he knew that his friends were on their way, he was anxious to see them again. Truth was that he was even more excited about seeing Mary and Kingsley than nervous about meeting Sirius’ friends again.

“How’s it going?” Sirius asked, his fingers touching lightly at the small of Remus’ back, sending his skin prickling underneath his shirt.

“Almost done,” replied Remus, offering Sirius a spoon to taste, carefully watching his reaction. “Just need to leave it for a while. Okay?”

“Better than okay,” Sirius assured him once he had swallowed, and Remus felt a happy little flutter in his chest.

“Everything ready outside?” he asked as he turned back to the stove to put the lid back on the pot and lower the heat to a simmer.

“Pretty much,” Sirius nodded, his eyes glittering. “Wanna see?”

“Sure,” Remus said, unable not to smile as he felt Sirius’ enthusiasm.

Sirius flashed him a grin as he took Remus’ hand, leading him through the kitchen and TV room, and out through the double doors that led into the back garden. They had spent quite a few evenings out here over the past weeks when the weather had permitted them.

The garden was quite large and overgrown, but in a way that was still somehow stylish. It looked like what they kept calling a ‘mature’ garden on the television shows that Sirius sometimes watched. 

Just outside the glass doors was a large stone deck with a patio cover that was mostly overgrown by wisteria.  Underneath it sat a large table that would easily fit ten people, which Sirius had carefully set for the six of them. In addition to the plates and glasses, there were fairy lights and flowers on the table. Remus had to admit that he was rather impressed by how nice it looked.

“What d’you think?” Sirius asked, and when Remus looked at him he realised that his husband looked a little nervous.

“It’s great,” Remus assured him, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “You’ve gone out of your way.”

There was an embarrassed pull over Sirius’ face, and he did the familiar little tilt of his chin that Remus had learnt meant that he felt called out.

“I usually do it like this,” he said, defensively, and Remus stepped up close enough so that he could slide an arm around Sirius’ waist.

“It’s perfect,” he said, pressing his lips to the corner of Sirius’ mouth, over the sulky little curl of his lips. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” muttered Sirius sullenly, but then he huffed out a breath as he amended. “Maybe a little bit, are you?”

Remus considered it for a moment before he gave a small shrug.

“Not really,” he admitted. “I’m mostly excited to see Mary and Kingsley. James and Lily too, of course, just…”

He trailed off and Sirius hummed in agreement.

“I know what you mean. Don’t remember the last time I went this long without speaking with James,” he said with a small laugh before going serious again. “I’m not nervous about… I know that my friends will love you. I hope your friends will like me and that… they’ll like each other, I suppose.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Remus said, hesitating a moment before he pushed on. “Look, are you alright with… just, are you okay? I just mean, we’ve not really talked about–“

“I’m fine,” Sirius interrupted him, turning around and giving Remus a quick peck on the cheek. “Stop worrying.”

“It’s just that we haven’t–“

Remus didn’t get any further before the doorbell rang, and Sirius shrugged out of Remus’ grip.

“I’ll take the door,” Sirius offered quickly, flashing Remus a quick smile. “You go get the champagne.”

“Saved by the bell,” Remus muttered to himself as he watched Sirius leave, unable to completely quash the feeling that he was being brushed off again.

Continue on AO3.

[stevenbasic]

GITJ Post 313: The Tale of Queen Angie, p7

Her boobs are growing, and all her little friends? she seethed to herself as she marched down the sidewalk, headed to the shop she’d found online. She’s taller, she’s a fucking She-Hulk at the gym, she’s got some sort of weird-ass hypnotic perfume? she continued to rant, silently to herself, Fine. Two can play at that game.

Angie Wade was not accustomed to shopping in this part of town, the swankiest. But despite being a bit out of her element she held her head up high, strode confidently, some would say haughtily. She’d needed to make an appointment, in fact, to be let into this place she was headed to - ‘Merz Parfumerie’ - which was annoying but whatever. She’d be on time; she’d skipped out of the office an hour early to make sure.

She could feel her boobs jiggling in her too-small bra under her thin, faux-cashmere sweater as she walked. All the extra calories, along with the fenugreek, were starting to do some good, and maybe while she was downtown she’d look into a lingerie store. She’d finally gone up a cup size or two, she figured. Those fifteen pounds had to go somewhere besides my thighs. It was chilly, this early November afternoon, and her nipples were sensitive.

It annoyed her that she even had to be doing this. She’d tried to use AJ, her ex- and apparently some construction-monkey crew leader working on the office expansion, to get her what she wanted. She knew that there’d been adjustments made to the air circulation system in the building, that there was some sort of aromatherapy shit going on, something based on Melissa’s perfume. She knew it had something to do with how the other girls were growing, how spellbound the stupid doctor was by Melissa and her fucking jigglebunnies. Why was it not having any effect on her?!? Why couldn’t she tell him what to do and boss him around like everyone else was doing?!? It was fucking frustrating but she wasn’t about to sit back and just watch, let all these other girls become whatever they were becoming, especially after the elections let the whole fucking world know that there’d be new bosses in town pretty soon - all of them in smart skirts and high heels. She should be the one running that place, not that overgrown bimbo. So, she’d asked AJ to get some of the pure stuff, whatever it was that they were infusing the air filters in the office with, some weird super-strong chemical that smelled like Melissa’s perfume (so fucking weird, right?)…but he proved to be useless. He can’t even do that for me. 

Finally at her destination - she’d had to park a few blocks away, where parking was cheaper - she looked in through the dusky storefront windows of this high-end perfume shop. She squinted, trying to see inside, what she’d be dealing with, but couldn’t make much out. She rang the stupid doorbell and waited. 

A moment later a man answered the door - she was hoping for that. Angie tended to have better luck getting her way with guys than women. But by the way this guy wore that scarf around his neck she wasn’t too sure her normal methods of persuasion were going to be of much help here. Fine, money talks too. The company credit card that she’d been using over these past few weeks, and then surreptitiously hiding transactions for, was in her purse. Working in accounting was helpful. 

“You must be our four o’clock customer. Welcome to Merz Parfumerie,” the thin man with the squirrely little moustache said as he stepped aside, ushered Angie into the dark little shop. He looked her up and down, took note of her cheap shoes and heavy behind as she glanced around, perused, browsing the shelves of exotic perfumes collected from around the world. “Is there anything in particular I can interest you in?”

Angie turned towards him; he’d found his way behind the glass sales counter. She stepped up to him and placed her purse on it. “Yes, thanks. I’ve heard that you can make custom perfumes, is that right?”

“Yes, yes we can,” the man smiled, “a personalized fragrance can be tailored just for you. We have a perfumologist from Grasse, perfume capital of France, who can craft whatever scent you’d like, for any occasion. It’s a wonderful idea. Would it be for you, or is this a gift?”

Perfumologist? Angie scoffed, silently, That’s a thing? “It would be for me, for sure,” she answered, “and I have a particular thing I want...”

At that, Angie unsnapped her purse and - pulling out some gum wrappers and her lipstick, putting a tampon on the counter - removed the three N-95 masks she’d squirreled away, snagged from the exam room earlier this morning. Damn, her whole purse was going to smell like Melissa, now. 

The sales guy watched with cocked brow as she presented the masks to him, placed them on the countertop. His trained nose immediately picked up the scent of them. It was strong. 

“These masks have been, like, soaked in some chemical, some perfume,” Angie began, “I want you to try to duplicate it, but make it…more like me. I want it even more intense.”

As Angie talked the man, with delicate, tentative fingers, lifted one mask from the three and passed it in an arc below his nose. It was not like anything he’d ever smelled before. Feminine, organic, beautiful in its own way. But it wasn’t a perfume, that he could tell. 

“I want to wear it,” Angie continued, “I want to smell powerful. I want people to smell my strength, I want them to gag on it.” She watched the man take another breath of the alluring scent from the surgical mask, considering. “Can you do that for me?”

========================================

[not-the-darknight]

🌡️ - A fever dream

Gimme

Diluc found himself standing at the gates of Dawn Winery, but the landscape beyond was all wrong. The lush vineyards, usually so full of life, were overgrown and tangled, as if years had passed without a single hand tending to them. The sky was an eerie shade of twilight, neither day nor night, casting long, unnatural shadows over the grounds.

He stepped forward, the crunch of dry leaves echoing too loudly underfoot. As he reached the courtyard, he noticed a figure standing by the fountain. It was Kaeya, but something was off—his posture was tense, and his usual smirk was gone, replaced by a look of quiet concern.

"Kaeya?" Diluc called out, but his voice felt muffled, as if the air itself resisted his words. Kaeya’s eye flickered towards him, but instead of responding, he merely gestured for Diluc to follow. He turned and began walking down a path that seemed to stretch further than it ever had before, winding through rows of shadowed grapevines. The scent of wine hung thick in the air, sweet but cloying, like it was fermenting too quickly.

The path opened up into Mondstadt's plaza, and suddenly, Diluc was there, in the heart of the city. But it was deserted. The familiar shops and taverns were dark, their windows shattered, and the wind howled through the empty streets. In the center of the square, a solitary figure stood—Jean, her knightly armor gleaming, though the brightness seemed all wrong, too vivid, too sharp. She looked exhausted, her eyes searching for something, someone. “Jean!” he tried to call out, but his voice came out in a whisper. She turned, her expression one of relief, but before she could say anything, the scene shifted again.

He was back at the Winery. This time, Adelinde was there, standing at the entrance with Elzer by her side. They were smiling, as they often did when they welcomed him home, but their smiles seemed strained, stretched. Adelinde’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, and Elzer’s hands trembled as he polished a glass that had already shattered. “Welcome home, Master Diluc,” Adelinde said, her voice echoing unnaturally, like a bell tolling. But the words felt wrong—too heavy, as if they carried a meaning beyond a simple greeting. “You’ve been gone for so long.”

Diluc tried to speak, to ask what she meant, but the world around him began to blur again. He felt himself being pulled deeper, and then there was a sudden burst of light and color. He found himself standing in front of Klee. She was smiling up at him, her bright eyes filled with innocence and mischief. She held a flower in her small hands, and for a moment, everything felt right. But when he reached out to take the flower, it crumbled into ashes. Klee’s smile faltered, and her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at him.

“It’s okay, Master Diluc,” she whispered, her voice small and distant. “It’s just a dream.” Suddenly, flames burst around him, the heat intense and suffocating. He turned, and the Winery was ablaze, the vines and barrels catching fire one by one. The flames danced higher and higher, and through the inferno, he saw Kaeya again, standing in the midst of the chaos, his back to Diluc.

“Kaeya!” he shouted, his voice finally breaking through the haze, but Kaeya didn’t turn. The flames swallowed everything, and in the midst of it all, Diluc could see his father’s silhouette, standing by the door of the burning manor.

As the fire grew, the faces of his friends and family flashed before him—Jean, Klee, Adelinde, Elzer—all smiling, all disappearing into the smoke one by one. The heat became unbearable, the weight of loss pressing against his chest.

And then, as suddenly as it began, the fire faded into darkness, and he was alone. And then, just as quickly as it began, the dream dissolves, leaving Diluc gasping awake in the comfort of his own bed, the fading remnants of laughter echoing in his ears and the lingering scent of wine and blossoms in the air. It was a fever dream, one that distorts reality and bends his memories of Mondstadt into something surreal.

[soullesspen]

Hi everyone, I'm new here and excited to share my first story! (Constructive criticism is very welcome, by the way) !

🕯🕯🕯

The Candle.

I have always felt evenings are weird, it seems like a blend of both worlds. Beautiful, no doubt, but weird. The darkness of the advancing night etching closer and closer to swallow the red aura marking the death of day. The sun passes on its light to the moon, who doesn't really handle the job that well. I mean, it's still dark, isn't it? The only time when you'll see both bats swooshing through the trees and birds flying high up in the sky. Street lights blink open when it's not completely dark. Some people set off to work, while others return home looking so tired as if they just sold their souls. Perhaps they did, how else would they buy stuff? Adults are weird too.

But not as weird as the battered old one-storeyed empty house down our street. Like those few old men in the metro who refuse an empty seat. Standing crookedly on its worn foundations with only the sheer power of will, as if still trying to maintain its reputation in front of its younger neighbors. How can the same house look so different during the day and at night? During the day, you wouldn't bat an eye at this house. It blends in so easily with its neighbors that most people forget it even exists. During night though, it seems like one of those houses you see in those horror TV shows. Like a fusion of the normal and the paranormal. An old dried-up tree, with leaves grazing the foggy broken glass paned windows and a rusty old mailbox on its dark grayish lawn, that had lost its hue due to years of neglect. However, what caught my eye today was none of its usual hideousness.

Behind the broken attic window, just above the front door, I saw a faint yellow glow. Is that a candle? Who would light a candle in an empty house? I hadn't quite followed my thoughts to a conclusion when I found the answer to it. Draped completely in white, a hooded figure, stared intently at the candle, like a moth admiring a flame. I gazed at it for a while, but could not make any sense of it. The more I tried to understand what it was, the more my eyes seemed to blur, not unlike paying attention in math class. Like trying to walk straight through a fog or trying to remember a dream you just had, whatever it was, it seemed to be just outside my reach. I was awake, wasn't I? Then, as if through the fog it turned towards me and I froze. Those intense white eyes seem to glare at my soul. A chill ran down my spine. Panic-stricken, I tried to run, but I couldn't. My body wasn't mine anymore. It seemed to be calling at me. Unknowingly I took a step towards the house. No, I wanted to. I wanted to see the candle, its warm aura seemed to call me. I couldn't look away. I stepped past the broken fence, onto the overgrown lawn.

“Ravi?... Ravi !? ”

An arm tugged me back into reality. I broke out of the trance. It was Jyoti. I had forgotten he was here with me.

“What are you doing?? One minute we were talking and the next you're having a staring contest with someone? Your face is all red.”

I fell on my knees. I was sweating profusely.

Was it fear? fear of death? No, it didn't feel as simple as that.

It took me a while to regain my voice.

“I-”, I stuttered as I pointed at the window I was looking at. And not surprisingly, the figure was gone. But not the candle. I am not dumb, I know a ghost when I see one. Jyoti, on the other hand, laughed at me when I explained everything to him.

“Do you even know why that house is empty?”, he enquired.

Of course not. What ten-year-old would want to know about what happens in his neighborhood? We're more concerned about what happens in the next Power Rangers episode.

“Shall we go in? ”, I suggested.

“What? Didn't you just say you just saw a ghost? ”

“I'm still curious. Who wouldn't want to see a ghost up close? Plus, I want to check out the candle. Why would there be a candle in an empty house? Also, I've always wanted to go into the house but my father wouldn't let me. And I thought you weren't afraid of ghosts. ”

“Of course, I'm not afraid. I don't believe there is anything like a ghost. All those horror shows are fake. Don't you know that? ”

“People like you are the first ones to die in those shows. ”

“Fine. I’ll go! But you owe me a treat. ”

I knew taunting him would work. It's too easy. Also, I don't know why, but I knew it would be reassuring if I had Jyoti by my side. He's not at all skinny, but it would not be right to call him fat. He's somewhere in that sweet gray zone that parents want their kids to be. Overall, if I had to choose someone from a group of ten-year-olds to support me on my Ghostbuster mission, I would pick Jyoti because- well, he seems stronger than me.

“Sure! Who's a goood boy? ”

“Screw you! Not a dog treat. You'll treat me to the special panipuri down the street. ”

There goes my pocket money for this month, I thought.

Standing at the edge of the porch, we mustered our courage. As I stepped through the dark gray grass again, I realized how large they were. These seriously need a trim. Both of us knee-deep, we pushed through who knows how many creepy crawlies brushing against our legs, until we finally reached the balcony. Jyoti tried to peek inside through the windows but was thwarted by the thick layer of dust on it. I knocked at the door, mostly out of reflex. Jyoti looked at me ridiculously. “I panicked”, I gestured silently. “I'm with an idiot”, he gestured back. He made a face that my father makes when I do my homework. Geometry is hard, he doesn't realize that. He never had to do those.

For a while we stood silently, hoping that no response would come from the other side. Surely enough, no one opened the door. Well, at least now the ghost knows that we're polite intruders. We pushed the door open. It took some effort to push through years of dust and rusty hinges. However, a question bugged me, was it always unlocked?

As soon as we stepped in, a horrid stench hit me like a physical force. I retched. Covering my mouth with my hands, I ran to the nearest patch of grass. And, well, let's say I revisited my entire lunch, in reverse. There goes the chicken pakoras I had for lunch. “Chicken pakoras for lunch?” you'd ask. Perks of having a single parent. Of course, in return, I had to promise Dad I would bring an A+ in maths. A deal I am now regretting. Do I still have to keep my end of it? I groaned. Inhaling as much fresh air as possible I covered my nose and went back in. The rancid air still made my eyes water. Imagine smelly rotten cheese mixed with your father’s smelly socks that he has been wearing for a month. Jyoti gagged, a choke escaped from his mouth, but he carried on. I realized we had made another huge mistake. What ghostbuster doesn't bring a flashlight with him? A useless one of course. What will you hit the ghost with if it attacks you? It took a while for our eyes to adjust to the darkness. Faint light dripped through the dusty windows, turning the entire house a pale shade of brown. With tattered curtains and shredded wallpapers, the house added more flair to its decaying aesthetic. Just what you'd expect from a horror house. Thank god for the full moon today. Now I feel guilty for calling it useless earlier.

The first thing we noticed when we went in was a strange graffiti made on the floor. I have played Subway Surfers, of course, I know what graffiti is. Right in front of the door, a white outline of a person dancing. Not exactly dancing, it reminded me of when the Power Ranger villain is defeated and they lie down on the ground, just before exploding in bursts of color. Only it looked much more agonizing. With arms stretched towards the door like the person was crawling towards it. And there seemed to be some dried-up brown paint where the outline's stomach was supposed to be. Some dark moss had gathered over the paint. That's a weird art, I thought. Jyoti seemed to be confused as well. The more I looked at it, I realized the outline was too small to be an adult's. Probably some kid, who wanted his father to draw around him with chalk. My father once made a mark of my height on the door frame, but never on the floor. I'll probably ask him later. What a sweet memory, I thought. Forever engraved into the house.

We were both lost in our thoughts when we heard it. A soft creak, barely enough to be heard aloud. Footsteps! Right above us. The floor above squeaked ever so slightly with every step, and dust fell down as if marking the footprints of the resident above. The footprints stopped just before the door. I felt a familiar chill run down my spine. A wave of goosebumps ran through my arms. I glanced at Jyoti. His terrified face was more than enough to feed my ego. Did I finally make a believer out of him? Oh, what an addictive ecstasy it is to force someone to believe in what you know to be true. Through the fear, a smirk escaped my lips. He caught me looking and quickly handled himself. “Let's go up”, I gestured. He had to follow. It's a matter of his pride now.

A single staircase in front of us led to the attic. I realized the window was just above us, where the footsteps had stopped. With every step, the stairs groaned. I flinched. If only every house had these stairs, there would never be any theft. With Jyoti right on my heels, I went up, with less stealth than an elephant. Each creak echoed through the house, and with each step I took my heart sank. Every shadow I saw through the corner of my eye seemed to move ever so slightly. I kept glancing back, quietly hoping some adult would barge in to stop us from going further, but all I saw was Jyoti's face, now not even trying to hide his fear. Well, that didn't help with my nervousness. I could almost imagine my epitaph reading: “Curiosity killed the Ravi”. Is it just me or did it get slightly cold here? The rotten stench became more intense as we went up. My eyes watered as I tried not to gag again. With each step, I questioned my decision to come in here. Why did I even want to? What called me here? Is the candle that important? I thought of turning back but I knew I would never hear the end of it if I did from Jyoti. It's a matter of my pride now!

A strange light seemed to fill the room above. Is it the light of the candle? I froze in my tracks. Unfortunately Jyoti, not realizing that, kept walking, straight into me. Both of us stumbled forward and fell. Standing in front of the window, with its back towards us, the mysterious resident of this fine establishment and the source of this fragrant smell, that almost made me lose my breakfast too. Seeing it so close for the first time, I realized it was much smaller than the ghosts on TV. Through its pale glowing aura, I could make out the shape of a kid. Someone of my age. Is the kid whose outline is marked on the floor below? Is he looking out the window? No, through his vaguely transparent shape, I could make out a yellowish flicker.

Over at the window sill, stood the lonely candle. Its flames flickered with the evening breeze, dancing to the tunes of an unknown symphony. The rotten smell seemed to disappear, gradually turning into an intoxicating fragrance, truly this time. The tendrils of its smoke seem to strangle my entire being. Bit by bit I sensed I was losing myself. Pulling at my desires, it seems to want to say something to me. What does it want? No, it wants to give something. What can it give? Anything I want? What do I want? Can it show me the cartoon episode I missed yesterday? Even better, can it give me good grades in math? Even more, can I see my mother again? Something clicked inside me. Oh, the sweet joy of promised dreams. The tranquil peace that this flame offers. Are these really my thoughts? Is this what I want? Will it make me happy? I am always happy. How much more joy can it give? A voice whispered inside my soul, “More than you can ever imagine”. My legs gave away. My body is no longer under my control. Floating through clouds of unfulfilled fantasies, I inched closer and closer towards the flame. I stumbled but did not stop. I was exhilarated. I raised my arms, clawing at empty air. Trying to grab the candle. It's mine! Give me it! I want it! I tried to run towards it, but couldn't.

Something yanked me back with a jerk. My eyes flew open. With the annoyance of someone who had just been woken up from the happiest dream of his life, I turned around furiously. “Let go!”, I screamed. But the grip didn't loosen. It was Jyoti. His eyes wide and distorted from fear, stared fixedly in front of us. I followed his gaze and froze in terror. A few feet in front of us, the figure has turned around. Its skeleton hands stretched in front, welcoming its brethren into its arms. Skin dripped from its bones like wet sheets of paper. Is that what I was reaching for? I stepped back in disgust. For the first time, I saw its face up close. Or rather I didn't see it. Where its eyes were supposed to be were two empty pits of abyss. The shriveled mummified remains of its face seem overjoyed to find some company at long last. It took a step towards us.

We took one step back. With each move of this Tom and Jerry chase its expressions seem to darken. The overjoyed face gradually turned into a face of absolute wrath. Its wrinkled skin now resembled a predator snarling at its prey. A low guttural growl erupted from its within. Barely suppressing the urge to run, we kept our eyes on the monstrosity in front of us, as we inched closer and closer towards the stairs. Then in a split second, it all happened. Making a sharp shriek, like a banshee’s wail it leaped at us. Gliding through the air held by invisible strings, it caught up to us. Not wasting a moment's breath we dashed for the stairs. I was the first to reach it. Rushing down the stairs frantically, I had no time to look back. Then, my foot caught on something. The world shifted from beneath my feet. I tumbled down without any control. I lost count of the number of bruises I got or the number of stairs I skipped. I think I broke my ankle somewhere in between, and then thud. The ground put a halt to my motion. The floor where I fell, is now tinted with my blood. My ears are ringing. The world deafened me with the cry of a hundred crickets. A thousand needles drilled at my skull like spikes on an iron maiden.

Panic-stricken, I looked up. Has it caught up to me? What I saw up the stairs will be forever etched into my eyes. Halfway down the stairs, I saw Jyoti. But he was not alone. Suspended in the air, pulling by his leg was the figure in white. Its face is now more frightening than ever. Distorted with joy. It was ecstatic. Jyoti was now upside-down, frantically grasping at the ballisters, his face contorted in a mask of pure agony and terror, tears streaming down his face, his mouth open wide but unable to speak a word. No, he did, deafened by the blow I never heard it. I can only imagine how loud and agonizing the screams that erupted from him must have been as he was dragged away, etching marks of blood and nails on the wood. I can never forget the look in his eyes for as long as I live. As I lay petrified, I knew this was the end. I will be next. I had accepted it. Fatigue had finally caught up to me. Fear is a good thing sometimes, I thought, it makes you forget about the pain. My leg twisted at an unnatural angle, blood dripped down my chin, and I knew I would never escape. The pain steadily snaked its way up my legs, twisting at my nerves. Do I attempt to crawl my way out? Clawing through the wood and then the tall gray grass, passing through the shadows into the light? Will that be enough? The outline lying beside me seemed to disapprove. Gazing outside the door, the gleam of the street lights blurred gradually. Darkness crept up the edge of my eyes. My heart is beating faster than ever. The pain is unbearable now. The world turned black. I think I heard some footsteps. Is it finally back for me?

A sudden jerk. I felt myself being lifted. Then a gentle rumble gradually faded into a rhythmic lullaby. I know this feeling. I have experienced this many times before, falling asleep on the desk and waking up in my bed. I opened my eyes. Tucked in a blanket, cradled in the arms of my rescuer, my heart loosened up. Above my head, stars twinkled innocently, unmoved by the events of us petty mortals. The moon peeked guiltily through a few wisps of clouds scattered here and there. I turned my head to look behind us. A few houses away, I could see the House. Its dark face now radiated with blue and red flashing lights. A crowd had gathered around the ambulance. My father's face looked stern. Was he angry? Was he glad? I couldn't tell. I didn't really care. I snuggled closer into his warm cotton shirt. It's finally over. A single tear slipped down my face. I felt him tightening his grip as I again dove deep into my well-earned sleep.

I never asked him what they found in the house. And my father never spoke a word. But I knew what they'd find. Every now and then, from far away, I could still see the sweet soft yellow glow on the window, calling at me tirelessly, whispering dreams of the unknown. Through the murky shadows, I could see two shapes. Two moths now gathered at the flame. One of whom I know.

Open to suggestions and improvements!!

[neevedafoe]

I'm sorry. I know I'm a tad late. But today is my birthday and I had a lot to prepare and my laptop broke so I had to write this on a small Lenovo tablet. Sorry in advance for all the typos. For @lockwoodandcoff Lockwood and co Flash fiction challenge.

The Aldham case

It was a normal looking house in this area of Aldham. This old Village was surrounded by Mansions big and small. And most of them had been converted into flats. So really, the only odd thing about a Gentleman coming home with the groceries, opening the door and yelling "Honey, I'm home!" and getting a faint but happy answer of "Welcome back darling." - was that it occurred an hour after curfew.

So Lucy shock off the feeling of strangeness and tried to focus on the Job at hand. Lockwood and co had been offered the cleansing of an old and overgrown churchyard on the outskirts of town which would not only later on be used to build new housing but would also stabilize the Agency's financial situation enormously and on top would allow everyone a desperately needed two week vacation in summer.

Information were sparse, so this evening it was all about observation. Lucy and George were the first Group and everything went smoothly. They encountered two whisps and Lucy heard something like scratching far away - but nothing really complicated so far. Second Group of Holly and Lockwood also had nothing really worrying to report at Breakfast the next morning.

As Holly and Lucy went to get some shopping and preparing done in the villages small and only Hardware store they were instantly rolled over with information by the older Mrs. Wilderbee at the register.

So old legend had it that an illegitimate child had been buried alive in the middle ages and that the once holy ground had been cursed by it. Their conversation was abprubtly disturbed by a middle aged man buying some iron chains and demanding information on the iron curtains he had ordered. While his gaze on Holly and Lucy was Condescending at best, Lucy tried to figure out if he was indeed the man she had seen last evening returning home after curfew.

"Dennis, these two remarkable Ladies are helping to clean the old churchyard across your flat. Be good and keep an eye out for them." The old woman said.

Holly flashed him a gorgeous smile and Lucy tried her best smile as well. "Thank you so much for your concern Mrs. Wilderbee." Holly beamed " We are Members of Lockwood and co, please let us know if you have any information or questions regarding our work in your lovely town." She said while handing him a business card. Holly was so smooth at this, Lockwood wouldbe impressed - Lucy thought and with that the man left the shop.

"Poor Dennis" Mrs Wilderbee sighted " His wife Amanda died last month, real tragedy." She shook her head.

"Does anyone live with him at the moment?" Lucy asked

After noticing the questionable looks she got from Holly and Mrs. Wilderbee she quickly added "Because it's such a difficult situation to lose someone you love, so it's best not to be alone is all.."

"poor Lad is all alone since his parents died 10 years ago. Never had it easy"

"Would you mind telling us his last name, only so we can check in with him later and ask about any disturbances from the churchyard?" Holly asked, for which Lucy was really greatful.

"Sure, it's Henriks. Dennis Henriks"

After they had left the shop with their purchases, they went back to their accommodation in silence. As soon as they had entered and closed the door Holly cornered Lucy. "So, what's going on with this guy Lucy? What's bothering you?"

"please, Holly!" Lucy cried"Let me place these heavy bags. I'll tell you, although it might be nothing really."

"What's probably nothing?" Came Lockwood's voice from the entrance to the kitchen Lucy let out a deep sigh took in a lot of breath and begann rapidly

"Last night a guy living in the flats across the old churchyard came home after curfew and greeted his wife. Which I heard answering him. But today we learned that his wife died last month and that supposedly no one is living with him at the moment. I thought it was strange in the moment but what if there is a ghost at his flat and he doesn't know..." Lucy was out of breath looking pleadingly at Lockwood.

"I'll get George and we'll go to his place this afternoon. Ask a few questions and get a look. Don't worry we'll let him know if there is any reason to suspect a ghost at his home." Lockwood sounder reassuringly.

_----------

Afternoon turned into evening and as a restless Lucy finally saw Lockwood and George coming towards them at the old Gates of the Church instead of relief she instantly fell, that something was off.

"Luce, listen " Lockwood begann as he took her by the arm and led her away from Holly and the Gate "He knows about the Ghost, and he wants to keep it near. He kicked us out the moment we figured out that he has sectioned his flat off with iron chains and that he is keeping everything he considers could be a source of his late wife in the living room. His neighbour told us that Mr Henriks is apparently acting out his last night with his wife while she was still alive. She died in Hospital and he did not only loose her but also their -"

"Oh god, that's so horrible" Lucy heard herself interrupt him with a whisper.

"Luce, let's contact Deprac and let them handle this. He doesn't want to let go and we can't make him! " Lockwood tried to tone down his own emotions while still tugging at the sleeve of Lucy's jacket.

"I could go to London first thing in the morning and get Skull. Maybe he could tell us if her ghost is really there?!" Lucy pleaded

"You said you heard her answer, didn't you? So there is something there. Please let Skull and Kipps stay in Portland Row, they both deserve to look after the house this time and - anyhow, please Lucy, don't go there. I know you want to, but please.." Lockwoods tone grew softer and after taking a long look at Lucy who looked at him with big sorrowful eyes, he finished with "Alright, we can go once this job is done. But we go together!" "Yes!" Lucy excitedly exclaimed and made a little jump while grabbing his free hand in both of hers. Lockwoods hand, which was still holding onto her sleeve, lazily Trailer down to her hands clasping his and gently rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. He gave a little chuckle and opened his mouth to speak as they both heard a breathless Holly shouting at them from the Gate.

------------

This evening a total of 6 sources including an old buried barrel could be secured and so all participating members of Lockwood and co were not only proud of a job well done but also tired and therefore allowed to sleep in the next morning. All that was left to do was Paperwork and an evaluation of the place the next night.

It was discussed in the team that while George and Lockwood would tend to official busines while Lucy and Holly would try figure out in which room Mrs. Henrik's Ghost was most likely to be. But just after 2 Minutes of observation they heard the boys coming after them.

"So, change of plans." George stated "Deprac is on it's way to officially evaluate our work and maybe clean out Mr. Henrik's Flat if it's true that his neighbours reported him. Holly and I get everyone out of the building to the save rooms on a ruse so you two get inside and try to locate Mrs Henrik's source before Deprac does it. " While looking at Lucy and Lockwood.

A lot of nodding was exchanged and then Holly and George went off.

The clearing of the building went on smoothly and so Lockwood and Lucy had no difficulties to get into the Henrik's Flat. Just as soon as they had closed the door behind them they saw Amanda Henriks ghost in the living room.

Lockwood drew his rapier while Lucy simply said "I understand. But you can go, it's alright. It's not your fault you know." Hot tears ran down her face. Lockwood looked between the ghost and Lucy and made sure that Lucy and him were still secure in the iron chains Mr. Henriks had laid out. As Lucy began to lift her arm as if to reach out to the Ghost of Amanda Henriks, Lockwood took her Hand with his left and squeezed it once before firmly holding it down and putting both their hands in the pocket of his Trenchcoat. "What is her source?" He gently asked.

Lucy, as if in a silent conversation shook a bit in surprise at Lockwoods voice. She looked at him, still crying and said with a shaky voice : "She wants to leave but he's still so, so sad. He mourns not only her but also the future they never had. She feels so guilty - I feel it all, Lockwood." She now sobbed uncontrollably.

Lockwood pressed her onto him while still holding the Rapier and also squeezing her hand which was still in his pocket "Luce" he murmured into her ear "her source, do you have any idea?" "Yes" Lucy gulped, "probably her wedding ring." She whispered and then buried her face in his shoulder not daring to look again in fear of being overwhelmed once more.

Lockwood scanned the site and decided at the distant flashing of red and blue light he saw that there was no time to solve this on his own. He needed to get Lucy to safety too. "We are out of time we need to go." he decisively remarked and guided them slowly backwards out of the flat onto the street. There he leaned his rapier against the fence and took Lucy's free hand which had clung to him and softly whispered to her "this are not all your feelings. Now's your chance to let them out - I won't judge."

Lucy tried to brave it up. "Or you can cry later with Holly or to George while he takes notes and pictures of your crying face" Lockwood teasingly said and simultaneously drew circles on her hands with his thumbs.

Lucy looked up at him and while her demeanor was seemingly gaining back power and good posture while she slowly let go of him she stubbornly begann "Don't be so s-" her voice broke the moment she had let go of his hands and was trying to get her right hand out of his damn coat pocket - she shook it in frustration. Lockwood let out a small laugh. "Looks like it caught something again" he said with a grin. As he took a look at Lucy his grin faded and his features softened. He released her hand from his coat and held it softly in his while he put his right hand on her shoulder. He looked at her patiently, warmly, with soft appreciation and waited till she had sorted her inner turmoil. Without words he understood. He took her in for a hug and placed his head on hers. She silently sobbed onto his shirt "Don't leave me" Lucy mumbled and didn't know why she was saying that but before she could react she heard a low whisper from Lockwood simply stating "Never."

-----------------

Deprac reported on the supreme performance of Lockwood and co regarding the cleansing of the old churchyard and even praised the handling of the Henrik's Ghost - " because it was turned over to them!", George huffed.

Lucy sometimes though about Amanda Henriks and had to face the reality that she couldn't help every Ghost or Human. But thanks to her she had found another thing to make her happy and get Skull in the weirdest moods when they were about on a case. Whenever a case was over, Lucy would sometimes find a way to sneak one or both hands in a pocket of Lockwoods Trenchcoat, stating that getting cold hands was stupid while grinning brightly. Everyone grinned knowingly, except for skull who demanded "GET YOURSELF SOME GLOVES!!"

[zoyaofthegardvn]

Hey @zoyaofthegardvn just read your recent fanfic and I absolutely love your writing style <3

For a fic request, could you write zoya/alina with the prompt ‘flirting’?

A/N: Awh anon, thank you so much! That compliment really means so much to me. This blog is the first time I've ever really tried creative writing before, so this kindness means more to me than you know! Thank you thank you! I hope this works!

Hidden Solace

---

Wandering the halls of the Little Palace, Alina Starkov relishes a few quiet moments where she is able to escape sainthood. She's just returned from another public appearance in Ravka's streets, smiling and waving, hand clasped around Nikolai Lantsov's arm. Her ears are still ringing with the chants of "Sankta Alina, Sankta Alina, Sankta Alina!"

Pushing open the doors to the training yard, Alina stalks out into the cool October air. The yard is empty, training having ended a little over an hour ago. It's the quickest path to the woods bordering the Palace, to the green and orange and brown sanctuary that Alina often goes to when feeling overwhelmed.

The grass crunches underneath her feet while she walks, a thin layer of frost has begun to accumulate. The air is alive and harsh, whipping Alina's white hair around her face, the branches that form the opening to the woods are swaying fiercely, yet they're welcoming. Still welcoming. Always welcoming to Alina, Alina Starkov, Sankta Alina, Alina of the Fold.

Passing the edge of the forestry, Alina summons a ball of light in her hands, cupping them and concentrating the warmth into her palms. She enjoys the scenery of the walk, no matter how many times she's come here, she feels like she spots something new every time. When the path becomes dark due to the trees overhead, she uses her hands to light the floor in front of her.

After a time, she finds her destination. Alina pulls apart a cluster of vines, hanging from long, thick branches, opening to a small room-like space, created by fallen trees and overgrown bushes. In the center, a small pond. She supposes it is man made, that this space was not her solace first, that this had belonged to someone else, long before she came to claim it.

It's no matter now. Now, it's for her. For Alina only.

Or, so Alina thinks.

When she hears the unmistakable sound of footsteps, Alina gasps and jumps. She whirls back around, facing where she's just come from. How? Who? She's come here countless times, she's always been alone. Who else knows this exists?

Summoning two balls of light, one in each hand, Alina stands braced for whoever, or whatever, has come to infiltrate.

The steps get closer and closer, until they're right outside. Alina can see a shadow through the vines, and then a hand reaching through, grasping the plants, pulling them back.

In walks Zoya Nazyalensky, Alina's... friend? Rival, maybe? Depending on the day. Regardless, Alina's been pining over her since before she even knew she was a Sun Summoner.

When Zoya catches sight of Alina, posed with her hands up, she doubles over in laughter. Mortified, Alina straightens out her posture, lowers her hands, and rolls her eyes.

"Saints, Zoya, you scared me."

Between laughs and wiping at her eyes, Zoya manages to say, "Clearly, you looked so ready yet so scared at the same time! I'm gonna remember that image forever."

Forgetting the embarrassment for a second, Alina lets herself feel warm and fuzzy at the thought of Zoya remembering something of her forever. Zoya Nazyalensky will remember me forever.

"What are you doing here? How'd you even know where I was?"

Coming down from her high, fanning her face, Zoya admits, "I was leaving the school when I saw you walk off into the woods, figured I'd follow." Zoya saunters deeper into the little room, looking around, taking it in. "This is a nice little place, Alina. How do you even know about it?"

Alina looks down at her hands, red faced and ashamed. "Alek-," she trails off, clears her throat, "The Darkling... he showed me one of the first few nights I was here."

Zoya stops her pacing, her face falls. "Oh."

Alina laughs, once and humorless. "Yeah, oh."

The silence is thick and palpable. Awkward and tense. Alina cannot bring herself to look up, to face the force of Zoya Nazyalensky.

Zoya clears her throat before speaking, "Well, little saint, if all it takes to get you alone is having a pretty face, you'd think I would have gotten you to myself a long time ago."

At her words, Alina finally looks up. Did Zoya Nazyalensky just flirt with me?

Alina starts stammering, stumbling and unable to form words.

Zoya puts her out of her misery, smirking and taking a seat on a fallen log. "Sit, Alina. I'll be quiet if that's what you need. But I just got here, and I don't want to leave."

Alina nods, sitting softly next to Zoya, a considerable amount of space left between them.

Zoya shakes her head, "I don't bite, you know."

Alina smiles, and scoots closer. "I truly don't believe you. You're vicious, Zoya."

This time, when Zoya laughs, it's not at her, but with her. It feels good. It makes Alina feel warm and giddy and like there's nothing in the world that could spoil the feeling.

"I suppose so. I've been vicious to you, certainly. I cannot help it, you're too pretty to stand sometimes. It makes me lash out, I think."

Alina is visibly confused. "I... what? I'm pretty, so you're... mean to me?"

Zoya sighs, "Well when you put it like that..."

Alina doesn't respond, clearly waiting for Zoya to continue.

"When I feel overwhelmed, I act out. I shouldn't, but I do. It's not likely to change. But I'm being nice now, aren't I?"

Alina lets this soak in for a moment before slowly nodding. "Yes... I guess you are."

Zoya hums, but she doesn't say anything.

The silence is comfortable, now. The wind whistles distantly, but hardly touches the two girls, where they sit in this small piece of what cannot be reality. Time is passing, yes, but neither of them know how much and how quickly. A war could be raging just beyond the vines, but they would not know. Life is different here, Alina knows this. She supposes Zoya knows now, too.

Eventually, when the chill is too obvious for Alina to ignore, she again summons her sunlight. The warmth washes over her face, the now dark space becoming bright once again. When she glances over, she sees Zoya is eyeing her hands, a look of awe on her face.

Alina offers her a hand, "Here, come get warm."

Zoya moves even closer and softly grasps Alina's wrist, bringing her hand in closer, closer until the warmth is held against her chest, radiating through the blue kefta she wears.

"Better?" Alina asks.

Zoya moves impossibly even closer, she reaches up to Alina's face, pushing a stray lock behind her ear. "You're quite talented..." she glances down at Alina's hands, where her own hand is still wrapped around her wrist, "I mean, it isn't Squaller magic, but..."

Alina giggles, it's girlish and light and Alina hadn't realized how much she's missed laughing like this.

"No, it's not. You're quite talented too, you wouldn't have been made General if not."

Zoya smiles, "No, I wouldn't have. But there's plenty of Squallers, aren't there? One Sun Summoner, one Sun Saint."

Alina shakes her head at this, "You're likely to be a saint too, one day. Sankta Zoya, it has a ring to it."

Zoya shrugs, she grins, "It really does, doesn't it?"

Alina laughs, pulling her hands back, shoving Zoya's shoulder. "You can be nice, but you can never be humble, can you?"

Zoya knows she's not being malicious, she grasps her hands again and brings them back up. "I wasn't warm yet, Sankta. Bring the light back, please."

Alina does, light appearing again in her palms. "Anything, Zoya."

Zoya sucks in a sharp breath, looking Alina in the eye. Again, that smirk paints her face, pulls at the corner of her mouth.

"Anything?"

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

plop

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended—wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.”

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

/

tags: @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey @severinsnape @kirsteng42 @justanothersadperson93 @mrsbentalmadge @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @whataperfectwasteoftime @babydarkstar @punkremus @mandobloggin @alma-rt1 @not-the-droids @pedrostories @kylieann0716 @jk7789

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Protector

Prompt: if prompts are still open: virgil as an adventurer who keeps accidentally befriending the monsters he’s supposed to be fighting (aka the other sides)? have a wonderful day! (and don’t feel any pressure to do this at all, and if your inbox is meant to be closed absolutely delete this ask)

Thanks for the prompt, babe!

Read on Ao3

Warnings: sympathetic remus & deceit, some ptsd flashbacks but nothing super explicit

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic but Virgil’s definitely got some gay panic in there

Word Count: 8153

 Virgil’s got a simple code when he’s not on a hunt. Don’t hurt whatever you don’t absolutely have to, and odds are, it won’t hurt you. Now and then there’s a bit of an, um, incident where that doesn’t quite work out as well as they’d hoped, but by and large they get by.

Or: 5 times Virgil helps a monster he was supposed to kill, and 1 time the monsters help him

He sighs as he walks outside, grabbing the pair of gloves from the rickety tray and tugging them over his weathered hands. The front garden isn’t nearly as overgrown as it was when he found this little cabin in the middle of nowhere, but it’s got a long way to go before he can walk through without tripping over at least one overgrown bramble.

 There’s a very persistent mint plant that’s slowly and surely trying to choke the flowers. Virgil bends down and starts to toil in the dirt.

 “Come on,” he mutters, because he’s allowed to talk to plants when no one else is listening, “let’s stop doing that, you don’t have to be literally everywhere…”

 The mint doesn’t protest verbally, because it’s a plant and plants can’t talk, but Virgil would swear it tries to hold onto the dirt as he pulls it up, holding his hand under the roots to catch the dirt.

 “Alright, come on out, then, let’s just…put you in here.”

 There’s a plot of dirt in a crate resting at his knee. He pats the soil. Fresh enough. The mint plant looks almost contrite as he tucks it into the corner.

 “Next time I go see the townspeople I’m sure you’ll make some tea-shop owner very happy.”

 The rest of the garden goes similarly. By the end, he’s filled the crate almost halfway when his hand catches something sharp.

  The blade gleams as it flashes through the air. The child screams. His eyes widen—

 “No,” he grits out, flattening his hands into the dirt, “no, it’s…it’s okay. We’re okay. It’s…hhhh.”

 As he exhales, his shoulders slump, head bowing almost to his chest. The sounds of blades swinging through the air fade as the breeze rustles the leaves surrounding the cabin. The faint smell of mint cleanses his nose of blood.

 Virgil opens his eyes and carefully moves his hand away from the rose.

 “When’d you get here,” he mutters, carefully lifting the leaves to examine the stem, “don’t remember seeing you.”

 The thorns snag on the little pieces of dirt hanging from his gloves. He glances around. There aren’t any other roses nearby, not that he can see. And it’s probably not very good for it to be growing in the middle of this choked soil patch.

 He stands and makes his way back for the sharper trowel.

 Something hisses.

 His grip on the trowel doesn’t waver but he turns his head casually to glance over his shoulder.

 Something crouches in the garden, just barely visible over the crate. A tuft of hair, not dark enough to be a bear cub, not light enough to be a squirrel. His arm relaxes against his side, trowel snug against his thigh.

 “Hello,” he calls, watching closely, “is someone there?”

 He blinks in surprise when a cat pokes its head over the crate.

 “Uh, hey, there,” he manages, “uh…what’re you doing all the way out here?”

 In response, the cat leaps elegantly over the crate. It’s a slim thing, but not underweight. Its fur is bluish-gray, almost like a stormcloud. As Virgil watches, the cat sneezes and its fur turns a dappled brown.

 Virgil sighs. “So you’re the mischievous sprite I’ve been told to get rid of.”

 The neighboring village has tried several times to make him seek and destroy the sprite’s nest. Apparently, it’s been causing all sorts of problems. Books going missing, glasses breaking in the middle of the night, jars of preserves broken into. Now, that’s not really what Virgil calls a punishable offense, but the villagers were insistent that he find it and fight it. He’s done one of those things.

 Well, technically, the sprite found him.

 “There’s not much here that would interest you,” Virgil says, gesturing at the unkempt garden, “but if you want to tell me what you do want, then—hey!”

 The sprite, of course, doesn’t wait for him to actually finish inviting it inside. Instead, the door creaks as the cat darts between his legs and vanishes.

 “Be careful,” he warns, “there are sharp things.”

 He pushes open the door to see the cat perched on a precariously high shelf, sniffing at the books. He sighs.

 “I can get those down if you want, it might be easier than doing whatever the hell it is you’re doing now.”

 The cat ignores him, pawing at the thick leather cover. He sighs and pulls off his gloves.

 “Alright, just—wait a damn minute.”

 Virgil grunts as he lifts the book of the shelf and carries it over to the table, opening it and waiting. The cat jumps up onto the table and sniffs at the pages. Its tongue laps at a word.

 “You want more about that? Okay, let’s just—“

 Yes, Virgil is talking to this sprite. He’s allowed to do that in his own home.

 He turns the pages until the cat chirps.

 “This? This what you want?”

 The sprite stares at the page. It goes unnaturally still.

 The hairs on the back of Virgil’s neck stand up.

 Then it breaks; the cat shakes itself off and jumps down.

 “That’s it? You done now?”

 The cat’s tail twitches gracefully as it struts back to the door. Virgil rolls his eyes and follows it out.

 “Well, I’m glad I could be of service,” he mutters as he closes the door.

 Something rough touches his hand. He looks down. The sprite looks back up at him and licks his hand again.

 “…you’re welcome.”

 The cat sneezes, its fur changing back into the deep bluish-gray. Without another look, it takes off, leaping effortlessly over the crate and disappearing into the woods.

 Well, stranger things have happened in Virgil’s life.

 Shaking his head, he gets back to his garden. He glances at the rose before deciding that, eh, what the hell, it can stay another day. He finishes filling the mint crate and sets it near the front door, ready for his trip to the village tomorrow.

 “Ah, thank you!” The tea shop owner beams as he hands it over. “I’m sure this’ll be plenty.”

 “I’ve got more than enough, I promise.”

 “Well, since that sprite disappeared, I won’t be running out nearly as often!”

 Virgil blinks. “Huh?”

 “Oh, the sprite you got rid of!” She smiles. “Thank you kindly for that, it was ever so pesky.”

 Virgil just nods.

 ————————————

Virgil opens his eyes and doesn’t quite reach for the dagger he keeps in the nightstand but it’s close.

 “There’s a dog in my bed,” he mutters, “standing on top of me, drooling on my face.”

 The dog just barks. And changes color.

 He sighs. “Are you the same one from last time? Was the book not enough for you?”

 The dog barks again, jumping off the bed and trotting to the kitchen, its nail clicking on the floor. Virgil lets his eyes close for a second before getting up and following it.

 “Alright, the book it—whoa.”

 The dog is, um. Not a sprite.

 A huge mastiff elemental sits in the middle of his kitchen. It looks up from when it was nosing at what remained of a chicken carcass and rumbles. Virgil raises his hands.

 “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says lowly, “even though you did break into my house and wake me up. What do you want?”

 The elemental turns and moves through the house, out toward the woods. Virgil stuffs his feet in his boots and follows, tucking a slingshot and his knife into his pockets as he goes. The elemental moves through the trees with an inhuman grace, the very edges of the leaves it passes smoldering. A thin tendril of smoke wafts past Virgil’s nose.

  “She’s still inside!” The guard shouts as Virgil wrenches his arm away. “I have to go get her!”

  “Sir, you’ll die!”

  “She’s still—“

  The top of the house crashes down as—

 Virgil closes his eyes and brings his kerchief up to his nose. He breathes deeply. Freshly baked bread. Honeysuckle. The slightly tacky smell of leather oil. Breathe in, breathe out.

 When he opens his eyes again, the elemental has paused, glancing back at him.

 “I’m coming,” he says quickly, “I’m coming. Keep going.”

 He shrugs the old ghosts off his shoulders and follows.

 The elemental leads him to a clearing. Underneath a large, dead white tree, there’s a small den of moss. Virgil’s breath catches in his throat.

 The villagers had sent him a warning about a curse in the area. Fires had been going out. It had been impossible to keep warmth in the houses over the long winter nights. They’d been seeing figures in the smoke, sightings of, well, a mastiff. They’d contacted him to try and get it to leave.

 Well, the mastiff elemental is here, under the tree, looking back and forth between Virgil and something he can’t see, buried in the moss.

 “Is there something you wanna show me,” he asks softly, coming a little further into the clearing, “in there?”

 The elemental whines. He walks forward until he catches sight of a stone in the middle of the bed of moss. It’s cracked in two.

 “Is this what you wanted to show me,” he calls, shifting into a crouch, “this stone?”

 The elemental huffs, nudging his hand. It reaches past him and tries to pick up the stone in its mouth, only for it to drop. It puts its nose down and whines.

 “…was this your favorite stone to play with?” The elemental butts its head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry it broke. How’d it happen?”

 The elemental points its nose toward a jagged boulder in the corner of the clearing.

 “Ah, I see.”

 And you know what? Yeah, Virgil gets it. He’s dropped shit where he shouldn’t have dropped it before and it broke. What does it matter that this elemental is so upset over accidentally breaking its favorite toy that its warmth is so low the nearby villagers think it’s a curse?

 “Hey,” Virgil murmurs, reaching out to cup the two halves of the rock in his hands, “it’s okay. This rock—good choice by the way, very good choice—it’s part of the Perse Mountains, right? So it’s susceptible to fire magic.”

 He reaches into his slingshot bag and pulls out two small rocks. Using one on either side, he sandwiches the two halves of the broken rock together and holds it out to the elemental.

 “Now breath on it.”

 The elemental exhales carefully, bathing the rock in a steady stream of fire. Sure enough, in a few moments, thanks to Virgil holding it steady, the rock glows a soft yellow and reforges.

 “That’s good.” He takes it carefully between the stones and rolls it around the moss, trying to cool it. “Okay. Try now.”

 The elemental takes the rock gingerly between its teeth and yips.

 Virgil chuckles. “I’m glad I could help.”

 The elemental spins in a circle before turning back into the dog and licking Virgil’s cheek, barking excitedly.

 “Okay, okay, you’re welcome, jeez.” He half-heartedly shoves the dog’s head away. “You’re getting slobber all over me!”

 The dog pulls away and takes the rock into its mouth again, snuffling happily. Virgil shakes his head and gets up.

 “If that’s all, then I’m gonna go home.” The dog licks his hand one more time. “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

 And if a fire is already burning when he gets back home, well, that’s just a surefire way to know there was never a curse for the villagers to worry about.

 Get it? Surefire?

 Shut up, he’s hilarious.

 ————————————

“Ah, Virgil!”

 Virgil turns. The blacksmith waves at him from the market stalls. Dodging fruit carts and weaving his way through passers-by, he stops in front of the man and gestures to the new wares.

 “Good season, Anbel?”

 “Oh, the best!” Anbel gestures to the coin chest behind him. “You know how it is, goes in and out of season.”

 Absentmindedly, Virgil rubs at the scars on his arms. “I know the feeling.”

 “Anyways, I got that dagger you gave me to repair.”

 Anbel reaches behind him and pulls the dagger out of a leather bag. He holds it up. The deep gouges in the blade are gone, the handle isn’t tarnished anymore, and it looks…good.

 “Thank you, Anbel,” he says, reaching for it, “so how much?”

 “No charge.”

 “Come on.”

 “No charge,” Anbel repeats, “not for you.”

 Unbidden, a flush rises to his cheeks as he tucks the dagger into his belt. “Anbel…”

 “Alright,” the blacksmith says, holding up his hands, “I’ve got a favor to ask.”

 Virgil sighs. “What’d you do?”

 “Why do you assume that I did something?”

 Virgil just gives him a look.

 “…alright but this time it wasn’t me.”

 “Uh-huh.”

 Anbel smacks his chest. “I’m serious, there’s something wrong in the woods outside of town.”

 Virgil sobers, taking a step closer. “What is it?”

 “Dunno. But my horses won’t go past a particular stretch of land and I need to be able to make the trip next moon.”

 Virgil chews on his lip, thinking. “Did they run away or just refuse to go near?”

 “Refused to go near.” Anbel shakes his head. “Don’t know what’s gotten into them. They’re good mares.”

 “Have any others reported anything?”

 “Cindi had trouble getting through too.”

 “Where is it?”

 “Just before the bend in the river. Near the trees.”

 Virgil sighs. “I’ll have a look.”

 That’s how he finds himself wandering down the main road on the next cloudy day. He glances around to make sure there aren’t any other villagers nearby before he starts looking around. There’s a small grove of trees near the riverbank, a mound of rocks next to the bend in the road, and a rapid system rushing just out of sight.

 Maybe the horses were scared of the rapids? They’ve been known to spook before. But no, Anbel makes this trip every season. If the horses were going to spook at the rapids, they’ve done it before.

 Virgil frowns, coming to a stop in the middle of the grass between the road and the river. What could they’ve been startled by? There’s not enough space to hide anything here. The rocks are on the wrong side of the road. The river isn’t close or loud. And the trees aren’t close enough together to hide anything between them.

 …between them.

 Virgil holds very, very still.

 Out of the corner of his eye, one of the trunks shifts.

 He doesn’t move quickly, doesn’t draw his dagger, just lowers his eyes to the grass and turns, facing the trees, and takes a step backward. Then another. Then another. When he’s over ten yards away, he looks up.

 “I mean you no harm,” he calls, “I have no wish to interfere. I was told that there was something that scared a few horses and wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

 The breeze rustles through the leaves.

 “I am happy to leave you here,” he continues, risking a step closer, “but I know that…this is probably not where you’d like to be. This isn’t an especially damp forest.”

 The trunk shifts again.

 “If there’s something I can do to help—“ he risks another step— “I’d be happy to.”

  There.

 The trunk shifts and seems to shrink inside as a jaculi unwinds itself from around its base. It blinks lazily at him with amber eyes, golden scales rippling in the faint light from the cloudy sky.

 “Hello,” Virgil waves, “can I—will you let me come closer?”

 The jaculi hisses and lays its head near the ground.

 “Thank you.” Virgil walks forward carefully, stopping a few feet away and crouching down. “Now, what brings you here? You look like you’re an awful long way from home.”

 The jaculi hisses again, its head swiveling toward the river. Virgil looks. Across the bank, he can see a much denser forest and what looks like a storm brewing.

 “You’ll be hurt,” he realizes, “if you try and stay here…”

 The jaculi coils tighter around the tree trunk.

 “How’d you get over here,” Virgil mutters, “you’d’ve needed to swim across…and that also won’t go well for you.”

 There’s a soft rustling as the jaculi buries its tail in a pile of leaves near the base of the tree. Virgil glances over to see it rubbing its face halfheartedly against the bark.

 His eyes widen.

 About a month ago there had been a terrible storm. His little cabin had barely held together. He’d heard reports from the tavern owner that it’d blown one of the old trees right over.

 “That’s how you got across,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, “you climbed across the tree. And now it’s gone and you’re stuck.”

 The jaculi blinks remorsefully at him.

 “Okay,” Virgil mutters, “okay, we can…we can figure this out.”

 They’ll have to do it at night. There’s no way the jaculi will feel safe enough to move while it’s still light out. There’s an old barn that never finished construction just over the ridge. One of those timber pieces is probably long enough to get over the river. And he can make a bridge wide enough to support the jaculi’s weight.

 He explains his plan to the jaculi, feeling a little ridiculous, but he’s allowed to explain what he’s doing to help someone, it’s fine, and says that he’ll be back. Promise.

 The landowner gives him a weird look when he asks to borrow the timber.

 “It’s too long for you to do anything with it,” he says, still helping Virgil load it onto a sled, “and much too tough for you to cut by yourself.”

 “It’s fine just the way it is,” Virgil says, “and thank you.”

 He waves Virgil off. “Keep it. You’re doing better than I am with it.”

 Virgil’s back at the river bend by sundown. He can’t see the jaculi anymore—it’s probably hidden itself for safety—but he calls out when he arrives.

 “I’m going to use these to make a bridge for you. It shouldn’t take me too long.”

 The pieces of timber are ungainly, to make a colossal understatement, but Virgil grits his teeth and slides them out of the sled. He wades a little into the river and—

  The water is so cold it burns. He has to keep going. It’s gaining on him. He’ll be safe in the water.

  The growls get closer and his foot slips—

 “No,” he mutters, “no, it’s not that. I’m fine. I’m standing, I’m not hurt, I’m not drowning.”

 He blinks down at his boots, the water swirling around his ankles. The timber in his hands shifts as he breathes. He’s fine. He’s fine.

 “Okay…okay.”

 He grits his teeth again and heaves, bringing the piece of timber with him. He wades further until it’s swirling around his waist. The piece of timber is just long enough to reach the other side. Onto the next one.

 He gets the five of them stretched across the river just as the last of the light vanishes. Panting, he struggles back up onto the side of the river bank and splays out onto his back, eyes closed.

 A low hiss sounds in his ear.

 He just manages to avoid a scream.

 “Hey,” he gasps instead, eyes flickering open to see the jaculi coiled up a few feet away, “uh…please don’t do that.”

 The jaculi just blinks at him.

“Uh…why don’t you, uh…” Virgil holds a hand to his chest, trying to get his breathing back under control. “…try out the bridge?”

 The jaculi slithers closer, flicking its tongue out against the timber. It looks back at Virgil.

 “Go on,” he encourages, “you can do it.”

 It slithers on, testing the boards against its weight.

 Virgil holds his breath until the jaculi vanishes into the trees across the river banks, slipping further and further into the darkness.

 Anbel leaves on his trip the next moon.

 ————————————

Honestly, when the kraken explodes out of Virgil’s well, he just sighs and fetches his bath so he can get the poor thing out.

 “Easy,” he grumbles when the kraken squirms so much he almost drops it, “you may be a young one but you’re still heavy.”

 Panting, he drops the tentacled beast into the full tub, his arms flying up to shield his face from the shower of sparkling drops. Judging by the happy trills and clicks, the kraken likes it in there. He shakes his head.

 “So that’s why I’ve been asked to fight a monster in the sewers,” he muses, watching the kraken’s tentacles writhe giddily in the metal tub, “just how did you end up so far inland?”

 The kraken, of course, does not deign to answer. Instead, the tentacles latch onto the side of the bath and threaten to tip the whole thing over.

 “No, you idiot,” Virgil shouts, grabbing onto the other side and weighing it down. He winces when more water spills onto him, drenching him head to toe. “Now look what you’ve done.”

 What the kraken has done, apparently, is get Virgil close enough so that its tentacles can haul Virgil into the tub.

 “Hey!”

 Virgil spits water out of his mouth, much to the kraken’s delight.

 “That was rude.”

 The kraken just chirps happily and wriggles around. Its tentacles stick to Virgil’s clothes and pull him through the water.

 Virgil’s chest tightens.

 One of the first things they teach you about krakens is never get in the water with them. The second thing they teach you about krakens is do not get in the water with them. The third thing they teach you about krakens is not to get too close to their tentacles so they don’t pull you into the water with them.

 And yeah, this is Virgil’s bathtub, not a river, a tide pool, or the open sea, but you can drown in an inch of water.

 Virgil presses his back up against the rim of the tub. The kraken seems to realize something’s wrong and settles, burbling softly.

 “Hey, bud,” Virgil says shakily, “I, uh, what’re you doing here?”

 The kraken twitches a few tentacles and more water slops over the edge.

 “Right…” Virgil shakes his head. “Okay, well, uh, I would rather not sit here and soak through all of my clothes, so I’m just going to—“

 As soon as he tries to move, the kraken wraps a tentacle around his leg and tugs.

 “Okay, okay, not leaving, not leaving, um—“ Virgil reaches down and takes a handful of the grass. Worst comes to worst, he can tip the tub and get the kraken back in the well.

 The kraken lets go as soon as he settles back in the water. Virgil looks at the creature carefully.

 There’s a mark on its head. Discoloration, probably, but still obvious. As he watches, the kraken burbles to itself and starts making little ripples in the surface of the water with its tentacles. After a moment, it starts gently pushing the water towards Virgil.

 The water laps at Virgil’s knees in little waves, not enough to wet him anymore—not that it would matter at this point—but enough to bounce back and make more patterns. The kraken trills softly and keeps doing it.

 Does it…want to play?

 Slowly, Virgil lifts his hands up and starts to push the water back. The kraken, realizing that Virgil is indeed committing to the idea that he is going to play with this kraken, trills louder and uses more of its tentacles to move the waves bigger.

 “Yeah? Is that how it works?” Virgil moves his hands. “Like that?”

 The kraken chirps.

 He’s not really sure how long they stay there, playing with the water, but it’s long enough for the sun to go down in the sky and Virgil to get more than a little chilly in the water.

 When the kraken notices that the water is rippling more around Virgil and he’s not moving his hands any faster, it wraps a tentacle around his ankle and tugs.

 “What? You tired?” The kraken leans its head against the side of the tub. “Okay. Well, I don’t know how long you can stay in here—“

 He cuts himself off when the kraken jabs a tentacle toward the well.

 “You wanna go back in there? It’s so small and cramped, and the sewers in town aren’t much better.”

 The kraken insists.

 Sure. Why not.

 Virgil grunts as he lifts the kraken back into the bucket, carefully lowering the creature down into the well. He hears one more trill before splashing sounds indicate that the creature is gone.

 Funnily enough, reports of the sewer beast vanish overnight.

 When Virgil wakes up panting from a nightmare of ropes around his neck, the glass of water on his bedside table is perfectly cold.

 ————————————

Virgil curses as the sole of his boot slips. He just manages to catch himself against the cliffside before splitting his knee on a harsh spire of rock. Gritting his teeth, he forces himself onward.

 The cliffs frown over him as he makes his way up the pass. The rocks crumble threateningly as his boots crunch, crunch, crunch. The sword on his hip feels too heavy. He curses, tugging his glove the rest of the way onto his hand.

 He never was one for dragon hunts.

 The message came in a week ago. Some poor terrified soul had come screaming into the town, ranting about dragons, missing people, curses, the whole lot. Virgil had taken up the call and set off, promising to get to the bottom of it.

 He never promised to hurt anything.

 Thunder rolls ominously in the distance and he bites back another curse. There’s a cave up ahead, he can see it just over the next ridge, he’ll rest there.

 In all honesty—and he can be honest, now there’s no one else around—he hates these kinds of missions. Finding something is one thing. Going to get something is one thing. Rescuing someone is one thing.

 This feels like something else.

 There’s something in his boot. There’s a wrinkle in the thinnest shirt he’s wearing. The sword belt is digging into his hip. The voices in his head won’t shut the fuck up.

 The cave is right there.

 He all but collapses to his knees as soon as he makes it inside, just as the first drops of rain land on the back of his armor. He breathes a sigh of relief, heading further into the cave, into the safety, out of the storm.

 It’s quiet here.

 He takes the knife out of its loop on his belt and sets about setting up a fire. There’s a reasonable stash of dry wood here, probably enough to keep him going throughout the night. He makes a small bundle and lights it, blowing on it until it catches and burns merrily.

 Shrugging off his pack, he leans it up against the wall and starts to dig out the dried meat. He tears off a long strip with his teeth and chews slowly, staring into the flames.

 There’s something nice about fire. Not all fire—he’s got the burns to prove that—but this fire. Controlled fire. He sits back on his hands, brushing aside the eggshells to lean against the cave wall.

 Controlled fire is…justified chaos. It’s strange, to think of chaos as being justified. But that’s what it is. A controlled burn. Snapping and sparking amidst a small mound of wood, warm. Safe. It’s strange to think of fire as safe, too.

 Virgil sits back, finishing off his meal and closing his eyes. The fire is very, very warm. Much warmer than he would expect for just a small campfire. And a little irregular, too. It comes in waves, pants, almost.

 …wood, eggshells…

 Okay, look.

 Look.

 Virgil’s tired, okay?

 It’s not like this is what normally happens to him on hunts.

 He knows what he’s doing.

 He does!

 It’s fine.

 This is fine.

 This is so utterly fine right now.

 But…okay, yeah, maybe Virgil’s not been paying as much attention as he should be. And maybe he’s fighting down a panic attack right now. And maybe he’s frozen in fear to the floor of this cave and not sure how he’s survived this long.

 Whatever.

 Virgil cracks an eye open.

 “…hey, there, dragon.”

 Surprisingly enough, his head does not get immediately bitten off. Instead, the dragon looks at him, nostrils puffing hot air into his face. The smell of dank cavern air mixes with what Virgil really hopes isn’t decomposing human.

 “Um…fancy seeing you here?”

 The dragon huffs louder, still staring into Virgil’s soul. He risks a glance over its shoulder to make sure that yes, this is the only dragon in this cave, there aren’t suddenly going to be five of them. He spies the scales trailing further into the darkness, muscular legs, long, powerful tail. The dragon growls, snapping his eyes back.

 “Hey, uh—didn’t mean to invade your cave.” Virgil scoots backward. “That was absolutely my fault. I can, uh—well, I can’t really promise to leave you alone, but I, uh…rain check?”

 As if on cue, thunder booms from outside.

�� Shit.

 A lower growl sounds from the dragon as its mouth curls up. Wow, those teeth are long…

 “Can you, uh—so I know that this is a pretty big request, considering I just, you know, invaded your cave, but uh—maybe don’t eat me?”

 Judging by the growl, that’s a no.

 “Okay, I, uh—“ Virgil risks a glance around. His fire is still burning. Maybe he can at least get the dragon to back up before he—

 He pauses.

 Near the fire, the dragon’s leg looks…wet. Its scales are stained with a dark splotch coming from somewhere higher up. As he watches, the dragon shifts its weight and it gets wetter.

 “You’re hurt,” he says softly, “you’re—oh, god, you’re hurt.”

 He looks back up. The dragon’s snarl doesn’t quite soften, but its mouth relaxes a little.

 “I’ve got salve and bandages in my pack,” he says cautiously, “if you let me get them, I can—I can help?”

 Slowly, ever so slowly, he moves his hand to his pack, keeping the other one raised as he opens the flap and takes out the bottle and the bandages.

 “Can I have a look, please? I’m just gonna…”

 The dragon huffs cautiously as Virgil turns, moving around its body to crouch next to its injured leg. Now that he’s closer, he can see what’s happened.

 A shard of metal is lodged in the soft space between two of the scales. Every time the dragon moves, it shifts, spilling more and more blood. Judging by how loud the dragon is breathing, it must really hurt.

 “You poor thing,” he mutters, “how long has this been here?”

 No response.

 “We gotta get it out,” he says instead, looking for something he can use, “if we leave it in you might get infected, or…something else bad will happen.”

 He pulls a pair of pliers from his pack and the dragon snorts.

 “Easy, easy—“ the dragon’s eyes go wide at the glint of the flame off the metal— “hey, it’s okay, I’m gonna use these to get that metal outta you, yeah?”

 It seems an hour before the dragon calms, gingerly stretching out its leg so Virgil can see the shard. Taking a deep breath, he hooks the pliers around the edge of the metal.

 “Ready on three, okay?” He grits his teeth. “One…two…three!”

 He yanks.

 The dragon roars as the metal shard comes out in his hands, the side release almost sending him toppling back into the fire. Quickly, he discards the tools and reaches out to soothe the dragon, petting its scales and hushing it gently.

 “Shh, shh, it’s out now, it’s okay, it can’t hurt you anymore.” He runs a hand over the dragon’s heaving back. “I’m gonna help you, okay? I’m here to help.”

 It seems to calm the dragon, its breathing slowly but surely calming down as Virgil continues to speak softly to it. Honestly, if it were this easy to calm himself down, he would have a lot fewer problems.

 “I’ve got to clean it,” he says after a minute, “just to make sure you don’t get infected. Then I’ll be done, okay?”

 The dragon swivels its massive head around, looking at the wound, then back at Virgil. It heaves a great sigh and its chin comes to rest on the floor, staring at him. Guess that’s as close to permission as he’s gonna get.

 “Thank you. This, uh, this may sting a bit.”

 He barely gets a flinch as he starts cleaning the cut. Dragons. Once he’s wrapped the dragon’s leg as best he can, he turns to peer at the shard of metal he pulled out of the wound. He holds it up, examining it in the firelight.

 It looks…wrong.

 It’s too thick to be just something that happened to get in there, but too jagged to be something natural. It looks like it snapped off of something, but it’s not the right shape to be an arrowhead or a piece of a building. So what…?

 He turns when the dragon starts to move.

 It heaves itself to its feet, testing out its weight on all four legs. When the pain doesn’t shoot through, it lumbers off, further into the cave. Its head dips down, out of sight for a moment, before it turns and starts back toward the fire, dragging something in its mouth.

 Virgil’s eyes widen when another bag is dropped in front of him.

 “Is this…is this someone else’s?” He lays his fingers carefully on its surface. “Did…did you…did someone else come here before me?”

 The dragon huffs.

 With trembling fingers, he flips open the bag. There’s a good store of meat in here, a change of clothes, something for armor, it’s a provisions bag. One side has a little loop attached with nothing inside.

 “…someone tried to stab you,” he realizes in horror, looking back up at the dragon. “Someone tried to fight you but couldn’t. So they stabbed you in the leg.”

 His fists clench.

 “They hurt you.”

 Another huff. Then the dragon nudges the bag toward him again.

 “Is there something else in here?” Virgil starts sorting through the possessions. He lays the clothes to one side, the bottles to another. When he gets to the food, the dragon leans forward and snorts, blowing hot air into his face.

 “This? This is what you want me to get?” He looks at it. It’s just more dried meat. It, uh, it actually looks a little better than his. “Are you hungry?”

 The dragon snorts at Virgil’s pack, then at the food in his hands.

 “…are you…giving this to me because I’m still hungry?”

 Another huff, longer this time, and the dragon’s head comes to rest on the floor, eyes staring up at him.

 Virgil swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Well, that’s—thank you.”

 The dragon rumbles as he starts to eat, eyes blinking lazily. Virgil tries not to mind too much.

 And…honestly? It’s not that bad. He’s had worse audiences when he’s just trying to eat. The dragon switches its tail every now and then, huffing gently to keep the fire going. It’s…nice.

 Virgil finishes eating as much of the food as he wants and tucks the rest away. He takes a moment to just…look.

 “The other person,” he says eventually, “the one that hurt you…they—I think they wanted to kill you.”

 The dragon stares at him like he just said the sky is blue.

 “No, really, I—I don’t think they wanted anything else.” He shakes his head. “We’re not near enough to any villages for that to be the reason, there aren’t any traveling paths through here, there’s…there’s no other reason. I think they just wanted to kill you.”

 The cave falls quiet as the rain pours outside.

 “…I think they wanted me to kill you too.”

 Virgil’s chest aches. Something in his right hand tingles.

“Why do they always want me to kill you?”

 And he’s not just talking about the dragon now.

 It’s always the same.

 Fight this. Kill that. Rescue us from this. Save us from that.

 What if you’re not the ones that need to be saved?

 Virgil lets his chin drop to his chest and sighs. His sword hangs heavy at his hip. His hands tremble in the burning light of the fire.

 “I hate to impose,” he manages through a sluggish tongue, “but…may I stay? Just until the storm passes?”

 A low thud makes him look up. The dragon shifts, its tail curled in a half-circle around Virgil and the fire. It huffs softly.

 “Thank you.”

 ————————————

Sometimes he has sleepless nights. Drifts in blackness and emptiness until it’s time to get up. Or he’ll close his eyes for what feels like an instant before he wakes up the next day.

 Sometimes he has restless nights. Can’t sleep, can’t manage to get more than a few minutes of tense darkness before his eyes shoot open and he has to reassure himself that’s he can sleep.

 Sometimes he has good nights. Dreams of sunshine and warmth and the safety of a hot drink between his palms. Closing his eyes and just hearing the peaceful hum of his cabin.

 Most of the time he has nightmares. The good ones are just mixes of monsters he can’t see coming, kills he wishes he didn’t have to make. Losing someone he should’ve been able to save.

 This one’s a bad one.

  Jaws close down on his arm. The creature whips its head back and forth, shaking him like a rag doll. He grits his teeth and tries to—

  His eyes widen as the burning roof collapses on top of him. A heavy beam falls onto his chest and he can’t move, he’s going to—

  The cliff face collapses under him and he plummets, fingers scrabbling for a hold against the crumbling face. He can’t reach, he can’t reach—

 “….shut up, you’re gonna wake him up!”

 “If you stop shouting, then he won’t.”

 “Shh, the both of you.”

 “This is certainly working, I think we should all keep talking like this.”

 “Oh, don’t you start!”

 “Hey, hey, shh! He’s waking up!”

 Virgil is waking up, as a matter of fact, and he also has no idea where he is or what’s going on. He does know there are at least five people in this room with him though. That’s either a good thing or a really, really bad thing.

 He can feel rocks under his head. Is he still in the cave, then? How other people…here? Where’s the dragon?

 “Hey,” one of the voices says, “are you okay? You kinda, uh, well, you weren’t looking very good for a little bit there.”

 “Back up, you morons, you’re gonna scare him!”

 “We’re not scary, shut up.”

 “You’re scary.”

 “All of you be quiet,” the first voice says, before it softens again. “Hey, can you open your eyes?”

  Well, I’ve definitely made worse decisions.

 He wholeheartedly concurs with that thought when the first thing he sees is genuinely one of the most attractive people he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting face to face.

 “There you are,” the beautiful person says, “good morning. Is your head alright?”

 “Uh—“ not now gay panic— “uh?”

 “Back up, Logan,” another person says, “let me see.”

 Logan—great name, sure, why not—moves out of the way, and oh god there’s two of them.

 “Hi!” The other attractive person leans over Virgil and gods— “are you hurt? You looked a little upset while you were sleeping.”

 “You—“ Virgil does not squeak— “you watched me while I was sleeping?”

 “Well, you fell asleep and Roman got worried, so—“

 “I’m sorry,” Virgil interrupts, “who—who are you?”

 The person in front of him tilts his head. “Don’t you recognize us?”

  I would absolutely fucking remember meeting you, and I do not.

 “Patton,” Logan says, “he’s a mortal. He won’t—we are not as we were when he met us.”

 The butterflies in Virgil’s stomach ice.

 These…these are creatures. Is he—what supernatural force did he piss off?

 Logan smiles at him and winks. First off, rude, but—

 Virgil squints. One of the man’s eyes is a deep bluish-grey. The other one—the one he just winked with—is a dappled brown.

 Oh.

 “…you’re the sprite.”

 “I am,” he says, “my name is Logan.”

 Something nudges his shoulder. Virgil looks over to see Patton offering him a round stone.

 “…the mastiff elemental?”

 “Patton, actually.” Patton smiles and gestures over Virgil’s other shoulder.

  Why are there five of them and why are they all so pretty?

 “Can you guess who they are?”

 One of them rolls his eyes. “Yes, that sounds like a perfect use of time that isn’t at all a waste.”

 “Okay, so you’re the jaculi.”

 He smirks. “Janus.”

 The one near the entrance to the cave just cackles and bounces on the balls of his feet. Almost like…

 “You made me spill the bathtub over my whole yard!”

 He cackles louder. “Yes, I did!”

 Virgil rolls his eyes. He’s not fond. He’s not.

 “Remus,” Logan scolds, “you said you were just going into the well.”

 “He took me out!”

 “Yeah, because that thing is cramped as hell.”

 “Aww,” Patton coos, “how sweet.”

 “Well,” the last one says, smiling softly from one of the darker corners of the cave, “we knew that, didn’t we?”

 Virgil turns, looking hard into the darkness. The last person stands, walking over slowly, leaning most of his weight on one leg. As he moves into the light, he sits down on the log and reaches down. Virgil’s eyes widen as he gets handed the last of the dried meat.

 “You’re still hungry,” the person says softly, “I can tell.”

 Virgil cannot eat right now, thank you very much. Instead, his eyes are fixed on his bandage, still tied sloppily around the person’s leg.

 “You’re the dragon.”

 “I am. But you can call me Roman.”

 “…does it still hurt?”

 “Oh, this?” He smiles and moves his leg. “A little. But it’s almost better,” he finishes, reaching over to gently bump Virgil’s shoulder, “thanks to you.”

 Yes, hello? Virgil would like for someone to explain what’s going on, please.

 “I’m sure you’ve got questions,” Logan says, also sitting down, “and we can do our best to answer them. But first…are you alright?”

 Uh, no. “Why do you think I’m not?”

 “You’re breathing faster than most mortals do at rest, your face is more flushed than it was, and you were troubled while you slept.”

 …shhh…

 “I, um…I was having a nightmare.”

 “Ooh,” Remus says, plopping down on the floor with his chin propped up on his hands, “was it a bad one?”

 “…you could say that.”

 “Remus,” Patton chides, “don’t.”

 Remus pouts but hushes, reaching out to toy with a stick. Patton rolls the stone between his hands.

 “You did seem upset,” Janus says, “can we help?”

 “H-help?”

 Janus raises an eyebrow. “Yes, help. Or is that not a thing most mortals do?”

 Um. Well. Uh, hang on.

 “Are you just going to be mean to him,” Logan sighs, “or are we actually going to make an effort to be friendly with the person we have decided to befriend?”

 “Can one of you explain what’s going on?” Patton nods to Virgil. “Before he decides we’re all mad?”

 Roman sighs. “Virgil? Are you still hungry?”

 “Huh? No, no, I’m…I’m okay.”

 He smiles. “Good. This…this might sound a bit strange, but…try and keep up?”

 “As weird as it might sound, this isn’t the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

 Roman blinks in surprise, a small smile coming over his face. “Isn’t it?”

 “Well, you must have some idea of what I do for a living.”

 Roman’s smile only grows. “Yes, as a matter of fact, we do.”

 Logan clears his throat. Virgil turns, seeing the book from his cabin appear in Logan’s hands.

 “Did you—is that my—“

 “I can assure you,” Logan says softly, “that I did not steal your book from you. Rather, this is a copy, generated from the information I was able to learn.”

 “What did you want?”

 “We were cursed.” Logan closes the book with a snap. “Cursed to take on forms that were hated or feared or simply a nuisance.”

 Virgil’s stomach drops. Cursed?

 “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “that sounds…awful.”

 “It was,” Janus mutters, “completely inconvenient and an utter waste of time.”

 “You say like it wasn’t your fault.”

 “Oh, right, it was absolutely only my fault.”

 “You two,” Patton huffs, “enough.”

 Virgil’s still trying to wrap his head around everything. “Wait, hang on, so—you were cursed? Were? Past tense?”

 “Well,” Janus gestures to himself, “I don’t exactly look like a snake anymore, do I?”

 He raises a finger when Virgil opens his mouth.

 “Careful, dear.”

 Virgil snaps his mouth shut.

 Roman rolls his eyes and places a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “You broke the curse, my friend. Or at least…you helped us break it.”

 “But how? I didn’t—I didn’t do anything.”

 He raises an eyebrow and gestures to the bandage. “You don’t consider this doing anything?”

 “Or this?” Patton holds up the stone.

 Logan taps the cover of the book. “You helped us. When you had no reason to, past the goodness of your heart.”

 “We would’ve been hurt,” Janus says quietly, “or hunted without you. They certainly would’ve killed me.”

 “And me,” Remus says.

 Patton nods. “And me.”

 Roman simply taps his leg. Right. They already tried to kill him.

 Virgil blinks. “So…me helping broke the curse?”

 “You caring broke the curse,” Logan corrects gently, “and, well, when you...when you seemed to be in need, we wanted to care for you too.”

 Oh.

  Oh.

  Oh, fuck.

 “So,” Roman says, smiling up at Virgil, “how can we help?”

 “Help? With—with what?”

 “The nightmares.”

 “Oh,” Virgil mumbles, averting his eyes, “you, uh, can’t. Not really. They’re not a curse or magical or anything. They’re just nightmares.”

 “But there must be something we can do.”

 He shakes his head sadly. Believe him, if there were anything five unfairly attractive people could do, he’d tell them. But there isn’t. “They come with the job. There’s not—no one can do anything.”

 He can practically hear Patton frowning. “That’s not very fair. You do so much for others, don’t they—don’t they care?”

 Virgil shrugs. “Life isn’t fair.”

 “So take what it won’t give you.” Janus folds his arms. “They don’t care for you. Even though you care for them.”

 “They do care for me,” Virgil argues, “they’re kind. They help me.”

 “Not with this,” he shoots back, “not with what you really need.”

 “You protect everyone,” Roman says softly when Virgil opens his mouth to argue again, “who protects you?”

 Who protects the protector?

 “…no one.” Virgil shakes his head. “No one but me.”

 “Well, you’re right. That doesn’t seem fair at all.” Logan sets the book aside and it vanishes into the darkness of the cave. “Perhaps we should endeavor to fix that.”

 “F-fix it?” Virgil’s head jerks up. “How?”

 “Let us protect you.”

 “Protect me?”

 “Do keep up,” Janus sighs, but he’s pretty sure he can see him smiling over there, “at the very least, we have magic. That should offer you something.”

 “You don’t have to decide right now,” Roman says quickly, “but…thought we’d offer. Think it over.”

 …well, if ‘protection’ involves seeing them more often, Virgil can definitely work with that.

 “While I think it over, will you tell me how you got cursed?”

 “So it was entirely Janus’s fault—“

 “It was not!”

 “Yes, it was!”

 As Remus and Janus start arguing, Virgil smiles and leans back against the wall of the cave. Roman waves his hand and the cave wall warms, almost cradling Virgil. Logan settles on his other side, weight solid against his arm.

 Yeah, he could get used to this.

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