#well the chamber fucked him up a lot on that and i read somewhere that the voiceline in scary human heads

[celestemona]

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘’𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒

and their wives were asked the mostly random places where they did it.

pairing: husband! alhaitham, cyno, kaedehara kazuha, kaveh, lyney, neuvillette, wriothesley x fem! reader(s)

cw: they're just talking about places they had/have sex. mdi. not beta-read.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐄𝐍'𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 (𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐌𝐘 𝐀𝐔) 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆.

𝐍𝐕!𝐖: His main seat in the court at the Opera Epiclese. We also do it in his office but Neuvi prefers to do it at home... Although I must say that in our dating days, there wasn't a single room in our house that hadn't remained... untouchable.

𝐖𝐑!𝐖: Our office. Whenever we can, of course. We've fucked several times at some expeditions to the abandoned zone of ​​the fortress as well. We were never caught. But if we're going to talk about our most unusual experiences, I can only think of the memorable time Wrio pressed me against the wall behind Wolsey's cafeteria during dinner time. We had to silence one of the guards that night.

𝐍𝐕!𝐖: My my. That's so scandalous. I like that.

𝐊𝐙!𝐖: During my husband's pirate days, we used to escape to the crow's nest a lot. If there were some goods to be transported, he’d pull me behind its boxes. I have to say that living a nomadic life taught me to overcome the fear and shyness of having sex outdoors and enjoy the excitement the environment provides. Liyue has some perfect hiding spots for this. 

𝐊𝐕!𝐖: I agree. Although I haven't had any crazy adventures like you, I must say that it was quite thrilling to seduce Kaveh while we stayed at my sister's Jade Chamber. She had given us the suite with the biggest balcony and… well… You can imagine what happened after that. The height and high exposure help to increase the adrenaline. 

𝐂𝐘!𝐖: Now I understand why you guys have such exhibitionist nighttime adventures. Thank you for enlightening us, my dear. But anyway. Just like our dear friend Lady Kaedehara, it isn’t uncommon for Cyno and I to have our intimate moments outdoors since we travel to the desert quite often. You can say that we already know the right caves and ruins where we can make it without getting caught in any inconvenience. However, my favorite adventure of ours would be that one where I rode him in the Grand Sage’s office. 

𝐊𝐕!𝐖: Damn girl, you are just as shameless if not more than me. 

𝐀𝐇!𝐖: I'd say the two of you are more similar with each other than you let on. Well, you see, Alhaitham prefers to have sex in environments where we won't be caught much less interrupted. That doesn't mean we haven't had our intimate moments outside of our bedroom, of course. I think the most frequented ones in this regard would be his office, my classroom, and the restricted book aisle in the House of Daena. Oh, and there was also that time we escaped out of the tavern to somewhere outdoors when we had that group dinner. 

𝐊𝐕!𝐖: I told you she wasn't feeling sick. 

𝐂𝐘!𝐖: It surprises me how you can say such filthy things with that innocent face of yours. 

𝐖𝐑!𝐖: And you, my dear? I believe that Lyney is a very romantic partner just because of the way he looks at you. 

𝐋𝐍!𝐖: He is. Although he is also a little… unpredictable. I believe it won't even surprise you if I say that we've fucked several times behind the stage or in our dressing room. Plus, Lyney likes to eat me out in places we visit for the first time so not even the office at his Father's orphanage escaped that. 

𝐍𝐕!𝐖: My goodness. Appearances really can be deceiving. 

𝐋𝐍!𝐖: Tell me about it. I couldn't have a proper conversation with his Father for an entire month without remembering her showing up at her own office and finding her son with his head between her daughter-in-law's thighs. 

𝐊𝐙!𝐖: Her? 

𝐋𝐍!𝐖: Long story short his father is a woman. 

𝐀𝐇!𝐖: Interesting.

𝐖𝐑!𝐖: Well. Needless to say we're having a pleasant talk here. I must say though that we had some very unusual experiences and others full of twists. I think we should make a toast. To our passionate adventures and for those yet to come!

𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐒

𝐖𝐑: The girls are quite noisy today, huh.

𝐂𝐘: Definitely they are. What do you think they're giggling about? 

𝐊𝐕 & 𝐊𝐙: You'd rather not know.

[xylaes]

Read Part 1 Here! Read Part 2 Here! Read Part 3 Here!

give in

Xylaes beat the sides of both fists in frustration against the door that had promptly slammed shut behind the small rescue team, trapping them within some kind of large chamber in the Spiral Weave. He should have known, he should have seen that coming, but his judgment was so clouded by finally getting another chance to kill this bastard that he didn’t notice the trap that they were all now in.

After reuniting with Rynga, they decided to form their own little mercenary crew of sorts to assist those being held captive within the City of Threads, just as they both had been. It was too dangerous to leave the safety of The Burrows and run around Azj-Kahet trying to find their way back to the surface, and they certainly weren’t going to sit still and wait for help to come to them. Eventually the military would be here, and the mercenaries would follow shortly after. For now, there was no better way to bide their time. Even after the military arrived, it still felt right to stay and keep doing what he had been doing. They knew the city well at this point, and had plenty of connections to move about nearly unseen.

Thus far, their small team of six had already rescued quite a few captives scattered about the city, including more victims of the Puppetmaster. Xylaes had a personal vendetta against the bastard at this point, especially after discovering Pyraelia there. Thankfully he had reached her just in time; she was so close to being lost and becoming one of…them. This only cemented his desire to find the sick fuck behind all this and to kill him once and for all. So while others left and rejoined their own crews, or were finally able to go home when the time came, Xylaes and some others stayed. They all wanted to see justice served.

let go

Rynga tugged on his sleeve, urging him to stop. It was no use, that door wasn’t going to open until whoever shut it wanted it to open. He glanced around towards the others as they all readied their weapons, waiting for whatever was about to happen.

“Looks like I’ve finally caught you all in my web.” The voice echoed from somewhere within the chamber, but the blinding spotlights from above made it impossible to locate their target. “You have been a nuisance from the start; setting my puppets free, destroying my workshop and then my theater. I think it is about time we get to your final act.”

“Come fight us yourself, coward!” Xylaes yelled out, eyes darting around and trying to locate the source of the voice.

His taunt was met with a maniacal laugh, “This will be my grandest play yet!”

Give In

More spotlights flickered on, illuminating the massive collection of ‘puppets’ waiting in the wings that had finally come to life. Most were nerubians, but there were a few members of the various Horde, Alliance, and neutral militaries scattered throughout. They were outnumbered, by a lot, and these puppets weren’t as easy to kill as their mortal bodies would have been.

There was nothing to be done but fight, they just had to watch each other’s backs and just maybe they could make it through this. One of the massive beetle-like nerubians stepped out of the shadows and Xylaes could feel a chill run up his spine. He would never admit to himself that a situation was hopeless even when it obviously was, and perhaps that was the secret to his longevity at this point. He had found himself in plenty of deadly situations, yet death had always eluded him.

Let Go

At times he thought he had maybe been blessed with the gift of luck, but if that were the case his past would have been very different. It always seemed like everyone around him got hurt, or worse, and yet he persisted. The adrenaline raced through his veins as he broke out into a cold sweat. All of his senses seemed to sharpen in that moment as he locked in, readying himself for the fight to come.

GIVE IN

“SHUT UP!” His abrupt exclamation caused the rest of the crew to give him a bewildered look. The feminine voice inside his head was growing more and more persistent. It wasn’t Callia like he had originally thought, he would have listened to her by now. He waved it off, shaking his head as he stepped closer to the center of the room, the group forming a circle with their backs to each other while the puppets began to close in on them.

With the first couple waves, their team moved fluidly through the battle. They were all highly skilled fighters and had plenty of experience under their collective belts, but the fact was that there were just too many puppets and soon enough they started to get overwhelmed. Maya, the human female he had first saved from the Puppetmaster’s workshop, was the first to take a hit. She dropped to one knee, screaming in pain as a spindly lance pierced her thigh. She kept fighting through it as best as she could, but she would sooner bleed out before getting through all of the enemies.

Rynga did her best to stop the bleeding with a bit of Light, but soon after Aras, a male Kaldorei that had joined them most recently, fell with a large gash across his chest. It was getting so crowded and harder to move, and soon enough the massive beetle-like nerubian hovered over them. 

It was happening again, everyone around him was dying.  At least he would die too this time.

LET GO

Maybe it was time to listen to the voice. What else did they have to lose at this point? He did what was asked of him, to give in and to let go. The fingertips of his replanted arm began to tingle and burn before suddenly the sensation shot up the foreign limb and throughout the rest of his body as everything suddenly went dark. The last thing he heard was Rynga screaming before completely blacking out. At least it was quick and relatively painless. He’d be with Callia soon.

“Xylaes, lad, wake up.” The voice was very faint, as if someone was calling to him from across a large room. His body felt sore and heavy, was this what it was like to die? That didn’t seem fair. The smelling salts immediately caused him to jolt up, nearly knocking Rynga over in the process. “There ya are, lad! Thought we lost ya fer a moment. Thought we lost…everyone fer a moment.”

It took him a few moments to get his bearings about him, rubbing his eyes and clearing his throat before speaking. “Am I…are we dead?”

“No, lad. We’re all alive, thanks to ye.”

Xylaes looked around towards the others. Maya and Aras were looking at him in confusion, both were bandaged up, but alive. When his gaze met Rynga’s, she looked taken aback for a moment, eyes furrowing as she leaned away from him. 

“What do you mean?” As far as he was aware, he passed out and didn’t do a damn thing.

“Ya don’ remember? …Obviously ya don’ remember.” She attempted to wipe the shocked expression from her features, reaching out to cup his cheek. Her touch was always comforting. “Ya…” It was clear she was attempting to figure out how to word something and couldn’t quite find the best explanation. 

“You made a smaller version of the void explosion like the one that blew apart Dalaran and it fucking killed everything but us. Didn’t know you had that in you, but fucking glad you did.” Maya was blunt like that, and Rynga seemed thankful she didn’t have to pick more delicate words.

“Didn’t know I had that in me either. Wish I could remem…” He trailed off as his eyes caught sight of the small amount of showing and -glowing- skin between his glove and sleeve on his left arm. He pushed up the sleeve, staring at the once hidden runes of this replanted arm that were now glowing a dark purple. “The fu-”

“That’s not the only thing, lad.” Rynga picked up her sword, wiping part of the blade off on her leg before holding it up to his face so he could see a faint reflection.

If he didn’t know he was looking at his own reflection, he would assume these eyes belonged to a stranger. Glowing a deep purple, surrounded by an inky blackness; this looked too familiar, and not in a good way. He quickly pulled his sleeve back down and cleared his throat, “Right, well, let’s get the fuck out of here, shall we?” The priority was to get somewhere safe. They could discuss this later. Or not. Maybe it was only temporary.

Who did this arm belong to before him? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know anymore.

@themercenaries @pyraelia

[metaldeputy]

Layover in North Dakota by littlebitofkeery

Rating: Explicit Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson/Gator Tillman Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Timelines, Post-Stranger Things 4 Vol. 2, Stranger things meets Fargo, No Fargo spoilers, Gator Tillman - Freeform, steddie, Lots of Sex, all the sex, did I mention there’s sex?, Gator Tillman is a little unhinged, Post-Vecna (Stranger Things), Not Beta Read, Lust at First Sight, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Love Confessions, Threesome - M/M/M

Summary:

The crossover that a very select group of people will look for, I’m here to serve 😉 This fic ignores the timelines of both shows involved, meets somewhere in the middle of the two. Eddie Munson needs to get the fuck away from Hawkins. He has survived a near death experience, has been acquitted of the murder charges brought against him, has had maybe the toughest six months of his life. But the cherry on top of the mountain of shit, the straw that finally broke the camels back, was Steve Harrington getting a girlfriend. Pathetic as it is, Eddie could handle the monsters, the lynch mob, the nearly being eaten alive. But he could not handle seeing Steve with someone else. With $500 of government hush money in his glove compartment, he bids the party and uncle Wayne goodbye. Tells them he needs a break from Hawkins for a while. Tells them he will be back but he doesn’t know when exactly. Steve hugs him, holds him, tells him he gets it, tells him he wishes he didn’t have to go.

Short little blurb under the cut!

He leans in close to Gator, whispers in his ear “you wanna escort me to my chambers, Deputy?” The flirting has been cranked up to 100 because Eddie wants this guy. This fucking, pretty-eyed-Steve Harrington lookin’-bad boy- potential-psychopath with the Metallica shirt.. who’s also a.. basically, a Cop? What a heady mixture, Eddie’s dick is already half chubbed beneath his ripped jeans. Truth is, he hasn’t fucked anyone in seven long months. Too busy pining like a pathetic prick for the straight guy back home to even attempt to get his dick wet. Well, that ends tonight. He’s gonna dick this guy down so fucking good he’ll be walking with a limp for a good while after.  Gator tilts his head, their faces now mere inches apart. His eyes are even more incredible this close up. “Well now, what kinda Deputy would I be if I let ya wander these strange streets all by yourself huh?” He murmurs, wetting his bottom lip before biting it into his mouth.

[puppyxaegon]

Omg I just read your sub!Aegon alphabet and I totally agree with you that that boy does not wash regularly. So I was thinking imagine he’s forcibly brought back from a drunken night out on the streets and I feel like because this happens so often that the servants and alicent and Otto are not gentle when trying to clean him up. So his wife!reader dismisses everyone and washes him herself but she’s so soft and gentle with him. Just lots of fluffy intimacy ❤️❤️

A/n: Hi and thanks for the ask!! We are extremely pro healing Aegon in this household and I just so happen to lovee a bath scene (spot the thramsay enjoyer) so here we go. Also writing dialogue is so hard and I'm not that experienced with it so I hope it is decent and not too clunky. Please let me know your thoughts <3

Holding the Man

Soft!Aegon ii Targaryen x wife!reader

Rating: general/not explicit

Tags: mentions of alcoholism, mention of vomiting, fluff, bathing

Another a/n: even though it's not reflected in the pic, my x reader fics are always written to be as inclusive as possible for any reader unless otherwise specified. Obviously it's not as easy to find poc in this kind of aesthetic but please know this is just as much for non white readers as it is for anyone else. And if anyone wants something like specifically x black reader stuff I am open to writing that too. I fully understand what it is to feel like you aren't represented or thought about in the community and I don't want anyone to have to feel that way. Just request pls!)

It's been two days since you last saw your husband. He had been out as he often is. Gods know where. You worry of course, but you've always known who your husband is, even before you met him, rumors do travel in the realm. And you love him all the same.

You know he often spends time in places he rightly should not be, drowning in drink and turning up somewhere days later in a stupor. So when you hear the commotion echoing through the corridors with that all too familiar whine at it's center you can guess the scene that you're about to walk into. You slip on your dressing gown down and tie your hair back hastily, moving down the hall towards Aegon's personal chambers.

When you stop just within the threshold, he sits shivering in a tub in the middle of the room. A young looking serving girl stands near the tub as well, attending a tray of soaps and oils. His mother and The Hand flank him on either side. They both stoop over him, scrutinizing as his mother holds one arm above his head by the wrist, absently, as if handling a soiled rag. They squabble amongst each other, above his head while Aegon looks between them, visibly miserable, confused, and maybe a bit nauseous. He looks so small like that, being fussed over like a child, shaking and practically nude while they stand over him. 'It isn't right. He's the next fucking king,' you think. 'He should be treated with greater decency even when he isn't at his best.' You can't imagine how this must feel.

His mother is scolding him now, voice low and close to his ear but from her clenched teeth and bruising grip you know her words are harsh. Aegon flinches periodically and stares hard ahead, clearly holding back tears and willing his mind to be anywhere else. Otto stands on his other side, standing perfectly still with that leveling gaze and crossed arms. Watching so closely but saying nothing. Always watching. As soon as you step foot into the room all eyes turn to you, though Aegon sees you and quickly turns his gaze, training it on the water and letting his mop of greasy hair cover his face. The eyes of the Queen and her father are so intense that you have to take a deep breath to push down the nerves that threaten to crawl up your throat and out from your mouth. You still hadn't gotten quite used to these people, and you often find them strangely severe. An undercurrent of tension and unsaid words move alongside every interaction, and you can't say that you've been here long enough to understand why. No one says anything for the moment, as you take in the scene, mouth set in a hard line and forehead creased with concern.

The Queen mistakes your distaste of his treatment for disgust with the man himself, and you try not to let that assumption anger you. "And look now," she says, gesturing to you and stooping down to try and meet his gaze. "You bring shame and discomfiture to your lady wife." He twists again, finally breaking himself from her grip, causing some water to slosh out from the tub and onto the floor. He wraps his arms around himself, slumping to the side of the tub and sliding further in until the water touches his chin. She rolls her eyes and wipes the hand against her gown. She folds her hands together and turns to you, beginning to speak. When you hazard another glance at Aegon, he is looking right back at you, eyes pleading with you, 'Don't let them', and so you wont. "My lady," she begins through a tight smile. "I hope you do not-"

"My Queen", you cut in, internally cringing at your own inappropriate interruption. All the eyes in the room snap to you once again, Otto's curious, the serving girl's uneasy, Aegon's hopeful, and the Queen's simply unreadable.

Her face is calm but she stares straight into you with that look which always seemed to wait for a challenge wherever her children were concerned. "If you'll forgive the intrusion your grace," you say gently, bowing slightly "I would ask that I could care for my husband tonight?" Otto observes you looking almost amused. You swallow, eyes flitting over to Aegon who hasn't moved from his position but now grips the edges of the tub and looks as if he thinks he may float away if he lets go. He shudders slightly. The Queen's gaze remains trained on you and she takes in a deep breath, shifts her jaw as if she's considering much more than whether you should be allowed to bathe your husband. She glances back over to Aegon then to you again. "Well, I suppose I don't see why not."

Just then Aegon inhales sharply and lurches forward, vomiting on the floor and onto the feet of the serving girl. She looks to nearly jump out of her skin, nearly dropping her tray before scrambling back and clamping a hand over her mouth, suppressing a yelp. The Queen stiffens, hands clenching into fists but her expression unchanging. You well know that she has seen him like this more times than anyone could count. The girl however looks pale, and like she may be sick herself if she isn't careful. She must be new, a pity.

The Queen turns to her soberly. "Clean that up." She speaks without betraying a single thought. "Finish your duties, then be gone for the night." The girl nods, turns to place the tray on a nearby table and moves to get knees, suppressing a retch as she begins to clean. The Queen looks to her father again, then back to you, nodding and clasping her hands behind her. She and Otto move towards the door, where you still stand near the threshold. As she steps past you, she stops briefly and grasps your hand, seeking out your gaze and forcing the eye contact. "Good night my lady" she says with that inexplicable intensity, and then they're gone.

The serving girl remains, wiping up the last of the mess on the floor and quickly returning to her feet. She looks to you timidly, clearly unsure of where she should be. "Wait outside" you tell her with a small smile. She tries to return the gesture and her lips are tight, disingenuous cordiality betraying her judgement; but still nods curtly, turning on her heel and leaving the room. You're aware of how everyone in the castle thinks of your prince, but it matters not. Let their thoughts go with the wind.

Finally alone, you approach and kneel at the side of the tub, to your husband who sits reclined with his head resting against the back edge of the tub. His eyes are closed, but when you raise your hand to brush the hair from his face and press it against his forehead he opens them bad they meet with yours. He has the most expressive eyes, you've thought that for as long as you've known him. After a lifetime of being taught to conceal his true thoughts and feelings, they speak million unsaid words directly into your mind. Tonight you saw, as you often did, shame. And an apology.

You use a rag to wipe of remnants of vomit from the side of his mouth, scoffing. They had cleaned the floor spotless, but hadn't even bothered to wipe the prince's face. He looked so pretty, blushing red but your heart aches with the distant awareness that it's a product of embarrassment, not just the steam and the drink. You find one of his hands beneath the water and lift it, watching the way his pale fingers entangle with your own."My poor sweet Egg" you sigh, pressing a kiss into his bruised knuckles. "What will I do with you?"

He chuckles, ignoring the comment and looking away. "I don't think my mother much likes you"

You know the queen does not particularly like you, but so far as you've seen she does not seem to truly like anyone. Except maybe her white knight, but he seems to detest everyone else just the same. She is a woman under immense pressure and you recognize that. She is also a woman who protects her children above all else, so as long as you remain close to the prince she would always look to you with trepidation. She doesn't hate you, but you know she may never trust you fully. You wonder if Aegon ever things of these things. Either way, he does not need to think of them now, so you just smile, and poke him in the ribs playfully, making him jump and bat your hand away.

"And why ever would you think that, my lord" you ask sarcastically, drawing out the last syllable.

"Because," he breathes out, stretching, his tense body now visibly more relaxed. "You love me so easily. She tries so hard but...I still can't tell if she's succeeded. She loves her son but she doesn't love me. Who I truly am, the way you do. I think she's jealous." He giggles at the last sentiment, a hand coming up to rub at his face.

This gives you pause. He can be so lovely at times that is makes you want to cry, but never when he means to. It makes your heart soften. You don't know how to respond, so you push your fingers through his hair, along the back of his neck and down to his shoulders.

"Sit up darling, let's get you clean."

A tray sits on the table nearest to the tub, and from it you pick up the woolen rag and lump of soap, dunking them both beneath the water. You spend the next twenty minutes or so bathing him, mostly in silence save for the occasional sigh or hum from your husband. With a focused but gentle hand, you scrub the outside world from every part of his body, filling the room with a light aroma of oranges from the soap. Once he is mostly clean, you massage his back and shoulders, adoring the way he relaxes beneath your fingers. You lightly run your nails across his chest, not missing the way he shudders at this, shifting slightly when your hand brushes past his nipple. He swallows thickly and suddenly seizes your wrist. The in his eyes is suddenly sharp and reminds you endlessly of his mother.

"You do love me, right?" He never seems to know for sure, the poor thing. You place a hand on the crook of his neck, your thumb coming up to stroke his cheek. You study the worry on his face, the curve of his nose and those eyes that you gaze into and can’t help but love. "Of course I do, you fool." You lean forward, placing a chaste kiss upon his lips. He returns it, softly and without pushing for more. You place another soft kiss onto one cheek, then then other, then his temple and the tip of his nose until you find yourself leaving invisible marks of your love on every bit of his face until he begins to giggle and squirm away from the attention. You revel in the sweetness of it, the privilege of indulging in this part of the man who most people know as all sharp edges.

You move behind him, cupping some water in your hands and smooth it back through his hair. From the tray you take a few drops of rose oil into your hands and work a few drops of rose oil through his hair, massing and scratching his scalp as you go. He closes his eyes and hums, leaning back into your touch.

Once you finish you move to his wardrobe to find clean dry smallclothes for him to change into. Returning to the tub, you place the. Small pile of clothing on the table and squat down next to him, back at his level.

"Now," you say, sitting back up on your heels and resting your hands upon your thighs. "Shall we retire to my chambers while this is cleaned up?"

He looks up at you, a twinkle of mischief back in his eye and a smirk lifting one side of his mouth. "Well yes wife, I would think so."

[spiderh0rse]

felix's mind notes part 3, e11-15

e11

can feel his sanity slippage. he's played the impossible quiz and survived so this is a bad sign

thinks escalators are fun

puts on a bad German accent for a minute

blames the galaxy and then the universe and then karma for his bad luck

not a Buddhist

cheated off his good friend Gregory for his final exam. That led to his doctorate somehow

metal music engage, Felix your voice is so quiet by comparison

processing the undead into regular dead

breaks out of felixland in the elevator and calls the past couple minutes a wonderful dream

does not like the nighttime here

got a good set of lungs on him!

sees a phone and immediately tries to call Superman

cannot ram a door open

"wheel things" You Mean A Valve?

"FREEDOM! IT BURNSSSSSS!"

impressed at how much skill it takes to make city 17 uglier

kleiner reminds Felix of captain picard

e12

wants to escape the ex city faster

wishes he had a jetpack

mocks the camera drones by calling them decepticons

NINJA AMBUSH

wishes he could've been a ninja

echelon,,,

has come to the realization that he's better than anyone around him

he's such a fucking gamer

knows nothing about bomb disposal

fire controls... Fifi,,,

placed third in high jump! I don't know when!

loves stealth loves not being seen. This is why he'd rather be the Spy than the Scout

overtaken by blorbo thoughts constantly

wants to go home :(

e13

COMIC FORMAT IT'S BAD

on the edge of death he claims. Hit by Sniper

wishes Joni well without him

admits he'd try to end it all himself to speed up the process of dying

greyscale? Wait no, flashback, black mesa east.

hates hydroelectric power

the mist in the fumigation chamber makes him cough horribly

annoyed at Mossman for gassing him

he has no lung capacity whatsoever

glad to hear they're a step ahead of the Combine somewhere

doesn't. Doesn't know what a postdoc is

excited to be able to teleport without going to Xen

tries to correct Eli about his identity by reminding him of that time he spilled acid all over Eli's report

calls that accident(?) "good times"

never actually did any scientific work

not looking forward to working with Mossman

seems surprised Breen is leading this whole business

Breen blocked Facebook at work

Felix uses Facebook

Felix would NOT want to take another teleporter ride

considers alyx in some fashion of attraction

has been meaning to work out again

recognizes the xenium crystal

familiar with Alien

casually correcting people getting his name wrong with no real push

has fixed tons of red rings in his time

pretty sure alyx wants to get in his pants. Vaguely and for once hopes she isn't

Gordon getting selected for the AMS experiment was literally a name picked out of a hat

didn't work in AnMat

finds the vague ravenholm story creepy

doesn't want to get fumigated again. Coughs his lungs out :(

e14

he's not sure where he is, but he sees train tracks

seems to be experiencing the citadel explosion

CHELL

Felix is in the dark and in. Nightmare sequence. Dies in there

his HEV suit shocks him back to consciousness! It reads off a litany of things done

Felix credits Joni but the resuscitation was a planned feature for hl2. And I love the HEV suit. I'm crediting it.

he's never taking this suit off again he says

familiar with Fear 2

likes having minions i think. Keeps calling the roller mines his minions

he. He can enter bullet time? At will?

his stomach still hurts :( got shot in the intestines after all

disgusted by sitting in blood for a second

Felix is in a lot of pain. "I'm only severely wounded, but okay," to having to run point

cannot make relatively short drops without injuring himself rn

admires Joni's sniper work

sad about forgetting her name. Blames selective retrograde amnesia and also "that stasis suit guy keeps putting me in"

hates poison headcrabs more than dying

if he were in Canada surgery to get the bullet out would be free

stole some of Gordon's gold

pretty sure Gordon wouldn't give him money for medical emergencies

wet cats his way down some stairs. Elects to perform self surgery

knows how to open his suit up

screaming the entire time he's taking the bullet out but DOES manage it

immediately gets back to work. No rest for Felix

e15

hopes the morphine takes effect soon

slightly resembles sliced swiss cheese

doesn't know why he's talking about becoming food products

assumes Gordon's password (???) will work on a combine door

captain Felix Freeman of the intergalactic house of pancakes

wait that's the password. It works.

Felix has been to Canada

HATES Canadian winters

oh I guess he lived there? Got a pool once to deal with the heat.

annoyed that his work in the citadel turns out to be undone

yeah he's just getting weapons that were not in half life

lightheadedness is just a side effect from the shield recharger. Felix desperately claims he needs it. Unfortunately he's built an immunity

hallucinates mario. Blames the morphine. Morphine does not do this.

ignores Mario

hates the antlion guardian

"your parent or legal guardian"

does not respect the term "oh snap"

has said "yes indeedio"

return to sender cash on delivery

considers city 17 hellish

doesn't trust anything sinister

thinks living in the vents would be safer than the actual city living spaces

thinks Joni might euthanize him if it became necessary. Doesn't want to think about that

deeply afraid of Explosives Room

[ars-matron]

The Last Sun: Prologue/Chapter 1

The Last Sun! Here we go!!

I started this series (like a week ago) after finding a rec for it on Instagram. The only thing they said about it was "It's about a prince whose throne is brutally taken from him," and then a bit about him having a body guard and it being a queer found family book. I'll give you a little more info that won't spoil anything. It takes place on an island city called New Atlantis, and yes that's because there was an Old Atlantis. It's ruled by a series of courts that are named after the major arcana in tarot (or vise versa in this scenario)

Prologue

The prologue is very short, just a small intro for Rune Saint John, our protag. He talks about how he survived the fall of his House and this is where my first gut punch of the series happened, because I did not equate "having a throne brutally taken" to mean "brutal assault" which is the wording he uses.

"I am, before anything else, a survivor: of a fallen House, of a brutal assault, of violent allies and complacent enemies, of life among a people who turned their back on me decades ago."

Then he lists some of the not so great names people call him. the Catamite Prince, the Day Prince, the Prince of Ruin.

"I am the last scion of my dead father's dead court, once called the Sun Throne, brightest of all Arcana, now just so much ash and rubble"

It's really so short, I'm trying to not copy the whole thing, but it does set the mood very well. Things aren't great, there aren't a lot of people Rune can trust. All his family is gone and he's left with the ashes of a broken court.

Chapter 1: The Heart Throne

We open with an insufferable rich man regaling people with a tale of kicking a woman to the curve. He calls this woman, "a wrecked parasite," and Rune notes he has an Old Atlantean accent, pronouncing the word 'wrecked' as reck ked. "Cleaving it into two waspish syllables."

After flicking a shrimp tail into a potted plant and completely forgetting any manners he ever learned and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, we find out that he is at a very fancy party. We also quickly become aware that Rune hates, hates, hates where he is. The room is the size of a football field, it's two stories tall and nearly all windows that over look the ocean and giant gilded mirrors. There are tables of drinks, things that look like drinks but are mostly illusions, tables of pills in every color imaginable. And a bunch of servants who are described as, "young, drugged, and blankly beautiful."

"There was a forty man chamber orchestra; a woman with flames dancing across the enamel of her teeth; a young page who chilled people's drinks with a spell that left frostbite on his palms"

Frostbite on his palms! For a drink! Rune is very upset by all of this, and yeah, so I am. But he puts this aside because he is part of raid on this house. As he waits he gives the earpiece he's wearing a little flick, because he, 'misses Brand'.

"It's working," he snapped, his voice a tinny echo inside my head. "Calm the fuck down."

I really do love them. When I first read this I assumed Brand must be stationed somewhere where he could see what was going on. How else would he know that Rune was flicking the equipment, or is agitated by the things around him? You learn in a few more paragraphs what exactly a companion bond is. Brand was born human and as a baby was put in the crib with baby Rune, some words were spoken over them (they weren't separated for like five years after that*) and a mental bond was formed between them where they can feel each other's emotions and know when the other is nearby.

As Rune is pushed through the current of party goers he ends up in front of a set of windows facing the ocean. He has a moment of remembering a time on the beach when the sun was out, of warm weather and soft white sand. Then he hears a woman talking about the night that his House was attacked. She's wearing at least 12 sigils (items that are able to contain magic) we learn they are very valuable, rare, and that most scions of courts keep them filled with frivolous spells that enhance beauty.

This woman is talking to a group of younger scions telling them about the night when the Sun Throne fell. About how she was there, at the current residence, when it happened. How they didn't hear anything. That the attackers had stealth wards. No one found out until it was too late. But quickly she turns to the topic of the Heir scion, which is probably how most accounts of that night go. She says that he was the only survivor, that seven men in masks took him a shed while the attack was going on.

"and by gods, the things they did to that poor boy. They had him for hours before he escaped."

I have wondered and wondered throughout the books just how much of it was reported to the public. We never learned what details were released. Only that they get some of it wrong.

She goes on to say that one can still find him, Rune, wandering around now and then,

"A very, very pretty man, but rank with darkness. It precedes him like a fog."

She claims to be able to see this miasma, because she has seers blood. She then calls Rune the Catamite Prince, and implies it's because Rune has had 'relations' with someone called the Tower. Rune, hearing all of this, livid, approaches the woman, and has a little fun, saying that he is also a seer. The woman is intrigued and we learn two things, one, Rune is wearing a disguise that makes him look like a blond man. And two, most important, Rune is short. the eyes of the nondescript blond man illusion are somewhere in the vicinity of his forehead. Rune says that he sees this woman "crawling in a field of blood and char with bone shards in her hair".

He's furious as he walks away and, somewhere else, Brand is worrying about him

"To hell with her. To hell with her sigils, her fat fingers, her crowd of stupid boot-lickers. To hell with the Lovers and their Heart Throne and their drugged slaves. To hell with nine men in animal masks in a carriage house, and all the other stupid details people got wrong."

Brand is very worried and threatens to come down there to him. And it is a threat, because that's the only love language Brand knows. Rune takes a moment to cool down because his love language is trying to make people feel better.

"my Companion, born human and bonded with me in the crib, raised and trained to protect me. And he had. He'd saved me-saved us both-that night."

Rune gets his calm back, says he was upset because he hates seers, especially fake seers, which are both things Brand knows. Then Brand brings up a hitch in the plans, and enter Julia, whose name Brand cannot remember.

During the raid Rune is supposed to go to a lab in the building, only they just learned that the labs have different security. Now Rune has to find a keycard to get through the security. But it's okay!!! Julia looked into who is on the floor that night with access, and all Rune has to do is find the red haired man by the doors who is about 6ft tall. Only to find the door and there are three tall red haired guys.

One is obvious high, staring at his hands as he sways, the rainbow residue of the pill buffet on his lips. So Rune turns his attention to the other two men, employing all his stealth training to do so.

By finding the drunkest man in the vicinity, telling him that a red haired man by the door said he was out back giving a horse a blow job a while go, and standing back to watching the fight ensue. The man the drunk guy picks is not a fighter. He does little more than try and keep the drunk man off of him, the other red haired guy though watches the fight in a calm and assessing manner, his body turned and poised in case the fight moved to him.

Rune gets a warning from Brand just before a spell rocks through the ballroom and everyone but the four people on the floor that are part of the raid go down. Rune walks over and plucks the keycard from the guard and moves through the residence towards the lab. As he moves through the mansion the halls go from opulent to grey and sterile.

We learn a bit about Atlantean culture in this part. That the Heart Throne, ruled by Lady and (now dead) Lord Lovers, used to be an archetype of love and sex and all that good stuff. They had been important to their society as Atlanteans are very big on group marriages and love no matter someones gender. That strictly homosexuality or heterosexuality were both seen as odd. After the fall of the Atlantis homeland some courts (like the Heart Throne) turned to twisted ventures that put the whole of their society at risk of compromising their treaties with the humans. And so, twelve of the Arcana had agreed to this raid. Every Arcana that participated in the raid would get a share of the spoils.

Which is why Rune is there.

Rune has a pretty kickass weapon that is able to take the shape of anything he wants. And, it shoots fire. It was one of the few things that survived the attack on the Sun Throne.

"I shook my wrist. My sabre, now in the form of a scuffed gold wrist guard, stretched and slid over my knuckles. By the time it was in my palm, it had transmuted into a swordless hilt."

Brand and Julia chatter a bit, they tell Rune that Lady Lovers is not accounted for down in the ballroom, they can't confirm she's even on site.

There are seven mercenaries by a locked door contemplating blowing the door down until Rune shows up with the keycard and lets them all into the area where the labs are kept. Rune makes for a chemical lab, thinking it will be less fortified, he just needs to get a terminal to download something for current employer, Lord Tower.

"The operating system was reportedly the closet thing in development to an actual artificial intelligence; the Tower had cashed in a lot of favors to stake it during the raid."

This is a little tidbit I didn't hang onto in my first read. The Tower has this almost AI, I wonder what he's planning to do with it?

There are two men in the lab he enters, they were not effected by the spell. They are pale and shaking and holding a lamp and stapler as weapons. When Rune brings up how ridiculous this is, since they are in a lab full of caustic things, the oldest of the scientist grabs a silver letter opener and holds it against the neck of the younger scientist. He then tries to barter for his life by threatening to kill the intern.

There is some back and forth where the scientist tries to claim that they are innocent and totally not slavers, but that Run should still let them go or he's going to kill the intern. Which Rune responds to by, shooting the intern in the leg.

Rune pops in his USB drive and downloads the files he needs. Claiming that his knowledge of technology and computers is just being able to avoid spyware on porn sites

As it's downloading the scientist tries to guilt Rune about what's going on, that they were just trying to find someone to pin this on to make the humans happy. Phrased in way that heavily implies that because they are Atlantean, they should be above such things as human laws. Rune asks if he were involved in Project Laius, when the scientist quickly shuts up Rune takes that for a yes and shoots him in the head.

"The stuff that began with projects like Laius had ended with the mind-fucking of underage kids, who spent the rest of their miserable lives in dog collars as someone else's property. So I did what I did, and my conscience whistled."

When he leaves the room Brand is throwing a fit. It turns out that they didn't just lose signal for the earpiece, but that Brand couldn't even feel their bond when Rune was in that room. Reports come that people are starting to wake up in the ballroom and that he needs to get out quick. There's a little fight with Julia, who, much respect for her, but she needed to take a step back here, tries to direct Rune as though he were one of the mercenaries she's used to directing, and tells him to abandon their plan to evac on the roof.

"Mind your fucking manners," Brand said, all humor evaporating. "He's not one of your mercenaries; he's a scion of Atlantis. If it was a question about needing safe routes, I'd have him turn the entire side of the mansion to slag and gingerly fucking tiptoe through the puddles of plasma."

Have I mentioned that I love Brand?

On the roof there is a man who pops out right in front of Rune with an assault riffle, whose head Brand immediately blows off from his perch in a water tower close by.

"When I could breathe again, I said, "I especially liked it when you didn't warn me. That part was fun.""

Followed quickly an actual dragon swooping by. But the dragon is part of Lord Chariots raid team, and does nothing to hinder Rune. Brand is yelling at Rune to get the fuck off the root NOW. Because assault riffles and dragons weren't bad enough, Lady Lovers rushes by and opens a secret door right next to Rune's secret hidey spot. Ignoring Brand, Rune decides to follow her. I mean, her House is getting raided and she takes time to rush up there, I too would assume there was treasure of some sort in there.

So Rune walks through the door, and is instantly knocked out.

He wakes up chained to a wall, unable to activate his sigils and his disguise temporarily disengaged. Elena, Lady Lovers, recognizes him, of course.

""Faith, but you are a very pretty thing, Lord Sun. Hasn't it even been said that you are the most beautiful man of your gener-" "That'll be enough of that, thank you," I said testily."

First instance of the beautiful prophecy!

They have a bit of back and forth in which Rune tries to remember to be polite to an Arcana while still pointing out that she deserves this. Arcana are very very old and powerful. In a city of magic users, they are demi gods pretty much. And now I'm wondering if Lord Lovers was an Arcana too...What house was he from? Was he a principality? (That'll be explained later) Something to think about.

When she finds out that it is 12 Arcana against her, a surprisingly high number for a sanctioned raid, evidently. Her demeanor changes. She releases Rune from the wall, his sigils flood back to his awareness once released. She tries to makes a connection between this raid and the one that happened to Rune's House, he is, of course, very angry. But, demi god, so he keeps it to himself.

Elena goes to her magic mirror and is able to use it to look onto the battle raging below

"To each age, a magic ascends. Death magic ruled the final days of the homeland. Hearth magic ruled the rise of New Atlantis. I had thought, perhaps, the lovers' time had come, that the age of heart magic was upon us."

Yeeaaahhh, from what we've seen "heart magic" is just fucking with people's minds and enslaving them. So, kinda glad that isn't the case.

At least she admits that things were wrong in the end, and that she should have released the Throne to someone else once her husband died. He was her Talla, soulmate, and she had only had the one consort ever. Which is very, very odd for their culture.

"In Atlantean terms, soul mates weren't always a cozy and romantic concept. Hatred was just as strong as love, in terms of metaphysical catalyst."

I need to go back to add Tallas to my list of things I'm going to be keeping an eye on. I have a THEORY!!! I'll add that after I'm finished here, I want to keep these relatively spoiler free for the whole series.

Almost immediately after reminiscing about her talla, Lady Lovers taps into her aspect. Sort of like the primal soul of an Arcana's powers. The demi gods within them, if you will. Hers is fea-ish. It's terrifying. Her fingers add another joint, her skin beings to mottle in jewel tones that moved as she moves. She has hornets wings and her dress is made of rose petal. Suddenly her scent (musk, honey, semen) is very powerful and her magic causes Rune to fall to the floor with an erection. It would be kinda funny, but the scene is suitably horrific.

""I would beg a favor, pretty Rune. I swear by the river the answer will be your own.---I ask that you deliver, and protect, a package of mine to a safe destination.""

In return for this favor, which she swears is nothing illegal, she will give him a sigil. A silver ring with three chips of emerald in it. Sigils are so rare and Rune has so few of his own, that after getting her promise that it isn't going to get him in trouble, he agrees. She releases the sigil to him and then she tells him the package will be delivered to his house and that he should hurry on so he isn't, "caught in the fire".

Rune gets out of there as quickly as he can, Brand is yelling again once he gets out, having lost all contact with Rune while he was in the warded secret room. Rune finally imparts that there is a bomb and using a gold chain sigil around his ankle, released a flying spell. He wobble-flies to the water tower to pick up Brand, depositing him by Brand's motorcycle to tell him about the deal, and his new sigil. Brand is upset, and they wait for a little bit to see if they mansion explodes....

it does not.

They drive home separately. Brand speeding off on his bike, Rune in his beat up old Saturn. He's nearly home when there is a large CRACK back near the Lover's compound and the sky behind him fills with fire and smoke. I would like to take the time to point out that Rune had "Foreseen" that the fake seer at the party would find herself struggling in a field of blood and char with bone shards in her hair. I wonder if that did in fact come to be?

At the door to their house Brand calls Rune a fucking dumb-ass and takes up the argument on having made a deal with an Arcana as though there was no time between. But he does calm down and ask if Run is okay after the fake seer incident.

They go in and Rune stops, because their house keeper, Queenie, always leaves cookies and juice out for them after their missions, and there is no cookies or juice on the coffee table when they come in. So Brand goes to check on her.

"He went in search of our housekeeper, Queenie, who lived in a tiny cottage in the backyard. Normally she laid out fruit drinks and snacks after a successful job, her small way of celebrating the fact that she was still employed."

I know I just said I wanted to keep this spoiler free, and it is, pretty much. BUT! what are they paying her with? How much? How can they afford a housekeeper?

Rune sits down and takes off his boots, telling us that they are warded and perfected fitted to his feet, and that he mostly doesn't wear socks with them. Gross. Brand enters and is followed closely by Queenie

"Her plain face swung side to side in a nonstop headshake. She said, "You took in a seventeen year-old boy?"

That's all we learn about her appearance. That she looks plain.

Rune is dumbfounded, because he does NOT remember taking in a child. But Brand, livid, and probably a little amused, let's be honest. Informs Rune that the "package" Rune agreed to take and "deliver" is in fact, a seventeen year-old boy. And the destination is his age of adulthood, twenty one.

And that is the end of the first chapter.

*this little bit of knowledge comes from a supplemental story you can download on the author's website. It's a four page PDF file and it's just a snippet of Rune and Brand as babies. And now that I'm thinking about it the tidbit that they weren't separated until the age of five might be something from another supplemental story. This is about what would have been their first instructor trying to separate them as toddlers. Neither of them can really speak, so it's told by their governess, Lady Patience (Look, if K D Edwards isn't a fan of Realm of the Elderlings I will eat everyone's hat! Lady Patience, Lady Amber, the Fool! If Francis isn't a Fitz stand in I will riot!)

It opens with baby Rune standing up in the crib, yelling about how Brand (he sits in the corner, well he sits where he wants but he always gives me the blanket and he's gone. And he took the orange rattle!) is missing. He's always been there for their whole lives and suddenly his Brand is missing. Lady Patience, not knowing how to calm him, goes in search of the instructor and Brand, to find baby Brand standing in a chair, brandishing the rattle, which is made of some pretty expensive material, at the instructor. He is also grumbling in a baby way because he too, can't really speak.

The instructor is displeased with the behavior going on here. He wants Brand out of the house, pretty much. Right around that time the door starts rattling, amber light filters in from under the door and it, kinda implodes inwards. Baby Rune is standing on the other side of the door, eyes glowing, and demands, "Band-aid!" Which is his word for Brand. Brand happily tottles over, hugs Rune and then proceeds to poke his nose to see if he can make it glow too.

The instructor is raging about how they need to be separated immediately, but is cut off by a tower of sunlight that stands in the doorway. Rune's father, Lord Sun. Even after he stops being on fire, no one can actually see what he looks like, only sunspots. He leans down and scoops both Rune and Brand up at once. Saying that he had to learn to pick them up at the same time, because they cried when they were picked up separately. He fires the instructor and walks off with "his boys".

It's really such a sweet story.

[watatsumiis]

I must request a rant about Pierro or Capitano, I love your headcanons with them!

Ohh man you've got no idea what you've just done aha, I'm very much fixated on these two specifically right now so prepare for not just a rant but a full blown ramble below the cut for both of them

Some minor angst for Pierro's section, be warned

Ok, so in a general kind of sense, I can see Pierro being a very volatile and unpredictable individual, especially when he's in a space where it's safe for him to do so. He can be extremely strict and bossy (especially towards the other harbingers) and kind of detaches himself emotionally from those around him and staunchly refuses to allow himself to get attached because he's just so tired of losing everyone and everything he loves time after time.

I could definitely see him having some form of PTSD, but his outbursts get brushed off as being because of him being in a very highly stressful position as opposed to the fact that he's mentally fucked from so many times of him losing everything he cares about. He really just needs a friend (and maybe some therapy).

I also headcanon him as having arthritis, which gets aggravated a lot by the cold, so he tends to rug up a lot, but he's still very much more on edge than usual - he hates the cold, which makes it kind of suck that he lives in Snezhnaya, in the palace of the Cryo Archon. I could also see him having some back issues (maybe scoliosis or something like that?) so he spends a lot of time cooped up in his chambers, huddled by the fireplace as he curses the cold and dreams of somewhere more temperate.

He's very much the 'grumpy old grandpa' trope, he reads his morning newspaper and drinks his black coffee at the dining table (and in modern AUs scolds people for touching the thermostat). For someone who loathes the cold so much, he sure does have quite the cold personality.

That's not to say his stony facade never falls, however, he does have his moments where he can be something that borders on sweet, especially to the younger members of the Fatui - he exercises an extra bout of patience and will try to the best of his ability to make sure those in his squadrons all come home safe. Despite his anger at the Archons, and the world in general, he doesn't want others to have to go through the same pain that he has.

Capitano... I feel like my interpretation of him differs depending on whether or not it's a modern/real world au. I really like the idea of him being an empty/haunted husk of armour, but now that I've found an appearance headcanon I like for him I've really warmed up to the idea of him being a human.

I headcanon him to look a bit like the rugby player Ma'a Nonu, who has Samoan descent (and is very nice looking imo). I know MHY is gonna disappoint if Cap ever gets a face reveal so I'm just going ham on my headcanons here.

Capitano is very big and broad, his head almost looks a little too small for his body (though his helmet covers it just fine). He has a decent amount of scarring that he's kind of insecure about (and perhaps a touch of vilitigo?), which is a large part of why he wears the clothing he does (in modern AUs, the knight's helmet is replaced with a baseball cap, sunglasses and face mask). He also has dreads, sorry not sorry.

On the surface (and to all of those around him) he's a quiet and intimidating individual, he doesn't speak much (if at all), and when he does it's straight to the point, he doesn't mince his words. His canon voice is... fine, but I feel like I have a different one floating around in my head when I write about him. He also knows a good amount of sign language too, but it doesn't really come in handy unless the people around him know it as well.

He comes off as cold and detached at first, but once he finds someone that he feels needs his protection (whether that be a self insert, canon character, or OC, depends on the day <3 (spoiler: in my case its usually a self insert akjfhkdjsf)), he turns into a big mama bear and takes them under his wing.

He's very protective over his chosen charge, despite how much the others may tease him for it. Capitano has a very strong sense of loyalty and ideals and once he's put his mind to protecting someone, he'd sooner die than let something happen to them. He firmly believes that actions speak louder than words, so instead of reassuring the ones he cares about, he just lets his actions do the talking, wordlessly looking after them in his own signature way (which could entail him physically protecting them from harm, or doing small things to keep them safe such as lending his coat, cooking food, or making sure there's always somewhere safe for them to hide away if things get too much).

Despite all of this, he struggles a bit to empathise consistently with those around him if he hasn't connected to them in his signature way, especially if he sees them as a lower rank than himself. In some AUs at least, he sees the other Harbingers as a kind of family, and subtly does things to help them out (though he's careful not to get caught), but if it's someone he doesn't spend much time around on a daily basis, he just sort of... disregards them.

Sorry this turned into a bit of an incoherent rant, I just got VERY excited seeing these two names in my inbox, I love these two so so much. Thanks so so much for the ask, I really do appreciate it :D!!

Please don't steal/copy/repost my work!

[electrospherevaults]

Defiler - Chapter 20

[Click here to read the rest of the Defiler story]

A Maiden Cannot Choose

Lionelli held onto her blaster tight; she wasn’t about to let her guard down just because the ground had started shaking, not with those chrome morphing creatures still out there somewhere beyond the walls that surrounded them. The fall was as inevitable as it was disgraceful. To add further insult to her wounded ego, the gun also fell out of her grasp. It tumbled down into a hole in the wall, clanging on top of the metal entrails of the starchild. Now, it too would become part of this great machine, and in the future a defiler would find it, evaluate it, and then barter it in the market for rations.

She shook her head. Her Most Esteemed Lady Serenessi had called upon her to evaluate this ship. She had succeeded, of course; there really was never any doubt between her and Amateracci about the mission. A simple reconnaissance mission’s success is always guaranteed when these two are involved, really. No, the tricky part in such operations always comes in the extraction phase – and right now, they both found themselves lodged like a bullet deep within the cartilage of a planet killing machine.

Nevertheless, the objective was clear: find the way back home.

Home. Back to Wrethella’s embrace. To report your findings, to assess your threats. Threats to the King? His grip tightened around your collar with each sword you drew from your sheath. Each life took was in his name. And Wrethella? She was long dead, Her crushed rebellion still inspiring you to die the same way.

But home… Home was more than Her, or even him. Home was also Analussa and her care. Home was more than the wars, it was the embrace of the living as well.

She shook her head again. There would be time for sentimentalities later, deep within her chambers, alone and collected. A Maiden cannot choose how her service is spent, and she was not about to break her vows by dying inside this abomination.

“I lost my gun!” Lionelli grumbled as she used Amateracci’s hand to get back up.

“We’ll find you another!” Amateracci chuckled and she handed her spare pistol, one she had cleverly hidden in plain sight. It was more ceremonial in nature, but a bullet is a bullet; should the time ever come, a Maiden knew how to kill. Lionelli smiled in acknowledgement.

She then turned back. “Where’s the rest of them?”

“Guardian Van’kos!” Amateracci called. A pained valleakan sounded off from behind them. Next to him, the other valleakan armed guard, his helmet still somehow on. She smirked gleefully. “Good, you’re both still alive.” She stepped ahead, howling next for the defilers’ names in the darkness. Friga, the ratlung with her head in the clouds. Jaksy, the jaldari brute force of nature. Mallik, the ratlung who led them through this maze, even if she was no real defiler. Slowly, two responses came back. Distant, and further apart, but alive for certain.

“How the fuck did they get so far away from us,” Lionelli grunted.

“I do not like this, Lionelli. We should head back.”

“Did you hear Mallik respond?”

Amateracci shook her head. Lionelli turned to the distant voices. “Is Mallik there with you?”

“We thought she was with you lot!” the voice of Friga echoed back.

“Fuck,” Lionelli muttered under her breath and checked on her new pistol. Full charge, it would be good for seven shots at full power. She waved towards the guardians to follow her as she started walking towards the defilers.

“Why do you insist upon this ratlung?” Amateracci asked her, her position unmoved.

“Because she’s one of us.”

Amateracci threw her head back. “No, she is not, Lionelli! She is butanother ratlung, exploited by the savages of her home planet like we were. She is like us, but she is not one of us.”

“I think that’s where you are wrong, my old friend,” Lionelli retorted. Amateracci growled, and was about to speak her mind before the ship growled back.

Another tremor. Felt like a pulse. The ship was behaving erratically; ships are meant to hum gently in the background, the artifice of their construction never brought to the forefront, whether this construct took place aeons ago, ornately crafted to serve purposes grand and mystical and despicable, or mere months in haste to replace the unceremoniously departed. But this ship was different. It breathed. These circuits housed life within them, Amateracci knew it. She felt the wind across her chest, brushing against the armor with an intensity she felt when she drew her own breaths from her own lungs after a spirited jog. It would seem that the starchild now also drew and blew its gasps of Tabora’s stale, sand-filled air. The first it had in centuries.

But what was more was that neither maiden had ever seen a starchild prior to today, let alone been inside one. Though the Lady’s Recollections, the book every Maiden must memorize, were meant to be allegorical, there would always be instances where the details felt too specific, too pointed, too real for lack of a better word. How could one recall them and not consider what was said but a kernel of something greater, a truth dressed up in fairy tale garments so as not to scare the child away from its visage. Both she and Lionelli were highly trained elite warriors, a class above every other warrior the galaxy had to offer, whether on the King’s court or in the General’s yard. But ultimately, they too were children, and now, Amateracci was feeling unnerved.

So, instead of an argument, Amateracci opted to hold the grasp onto Lionelli’s shoulder pad. She grasped it tight, the sound reverberating within these tight white hallways.

“Do you really believe she can save our asses?”

Lionelli held onto her comrade’s hand softly.

“Yes.”

Amateracci stared into those eyes, considering the answer. Lionelli’s resolve burned stronger than the fire of the lit torches and busted handmade lamps around her. It was true though, that ratlung was smart. So were her friends, the other defilers. Maybe not Friga, but it would not be wise to underestimate a defiler at this hour. At the same time, those were literal children, all three of them. What little they could have known was pass-me-down legends and folklore from the previous generations.

Much like herself and Lionelli, really. Even Wrethella, she humoured, would smile at this coincidence of fates. Maybe Lionelli was right. She let go of her hand with a smirk. “Alright,” she said as she turned back to the defilers. “Friga, Jaksy! Get your asses here already! We got to find Mallik!”

“We can’t!” a pained howl rung back across the hallway.

“What do you mean by that?” Amateracci yelled back.

“The floor!” Jaksy responded. “It… It’s never done this before! It just shifted! It’s gone!”

“What?!”

And just then, both Amateracci and Lionelli were blinded. The lights came on. Not the ones prior pilgrimages had meticulously and carefully installed along those derelict hallways; no, those would not have been enough to shine all the way down to the floor through the thick layers of sand. The hallway, a standard, rusted and dusted path, suddenly blinked brightly. The dust that clung to its surfaces for centuries shot into mid-air, evaporating in an instant, as if none of it had ever sat upon its surfaces. Lightbulbs came on one by one, whilst wires and panels shifted before their very eyes. Those panels. Shiny and chrome, like the pale mirror surface of a lake under moonlight, shifting and shaping and forming until they solidified into a shape that resembled what came before. Except now it was new and spotless and clean, the walls having settled upon a gentle dull white colour that would not have looked out of place in one of those corporate offices back in the Twilight Strip.

Smelled about the same as well.

“What the fuck,” the masked valleakan guardian uttered in disbelief.

“FRIGA!” Amateracci shouted at the top of her lungs. “JAKSY!” But no answer came back. Amateracci armed her gun.

“Hold on tight, men,” Lionelli barked, “this is far from over!”

A gun clang to the floor, followed by the rush of a sprint in the opposite direction. “Van’kos! Get your ass back here!” Amateracci screamed in vain as guardian Van’kos abandoned them. His heart in his throat, tears streaking across his cheeks, the guardian run away, trying to follow the path they had carved into the structure prior, so meticulously and methodically. The last sight of him was reported by Maiden Amateracci, seeing him take a left turn where he should have taken a right.

Amateracci bellowed at him again, tossing her gun on the floor. The floor bent, and then promptly liquefied. The liquid chrome embraced her gun, starting to suck it into its structure. Amateracci, in her rage, screamed once more and kicked the gun away from the chrome, only for a tendril to reach out and grab her leg from below.

Only one shot rang out. No more were needed; a blaster, the standard gun type found across the galaxy, packs enough punch to sever tissue and metal alike. Whether in a small and ceremonial pistol such as the one Lionelli had just drawn, or in a regular rifle the other valleakan guardian he had fired with pinpoint accuracy just now. Tissue and metal alike, the blaster does not discriminate in its path of destruction. The tendril fell back into the panel, reforming again into a perfectly average, dull white tile in mere seconds, as if it had never moved.

Lionelli moved to her fallen comrade, gasping for air on the floor next to her gun. “You okay?” she asked softly, to no answer. She held Amateracci’s chin, forcing her to look at her in the eyes, and asked again, sternly like a commander. Amateracci gulped.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lionelli let go. Her hand reached for Amateracci’s gun instead, handing it over back to her once she was up on her feet. “Be careful with this. I don’t want to file a report on your death, Amateracci.”

“Oh, you won’t be rid of me that easily, Lionelli.” Amateracci chuckled, but Lionelli remained stoically stern. Amateracci lost her smile, and knelt. “It won’t happen again, my Lady,” she complied.

Lionelli nodded, and turned her attention to the last remnant of Lof’ra attaché to their mission. “Thank you, Guardian Zenkins,” she spoke to him softly. “How are you holding up?”

The guardian lowered his head, undoing the buckles of his helmet. “May I be candid, ma’am?”

“Of course,” Lionelli encouraged. The guardian took off his helmet, breathing in longingly. The maidens’ hearts sunk, and the barely contained emotions Lionelli had kept under control throughout this entire expedition formed into a singular rage. “What the FUCK are you doing here!” Lionelli exploded.

“I-I-I just wanted to ensure Mallik’s safety…” Zysso, son of Lof’ra, the man who hired their services to protect himself and his family, responded. His gun hung by his belt, barrel still smoking.

“HOW?!” Lionelli lambasted him. “By getting yourself killed too?!”

“Heh, Lof’ra’s kid’s got a crush on Mallik,” Amateracci chuckled.

“It’s nothing like that, I just…” Zysso swallowed his tongue. “I want my friend to be safe. And right now, I think we need to save her.”

“No, what we need to do right now is to take your idiotic, pompous rich ass back to your father, before I kill you myself,” Lionelli cut him off.

“No, Lionelli wait,” Amateracci chimed in. “Kid wants to help, and Mallik’s our only chance to save ourselves, right?” Lionelli narrowed her eyes. “Who knows, maybe the feeling’s mutual, and the kid being here will make her seek him out.”

“You insinuate that…” Amateracci nodded. Lionelli, still breathing sharply, continued. “You want to use the kid we were sworn to protect as bait then, Lady Amateracci?” The question came out more as an indignant bark of resignation. Amateracci stared at Lionelli, then glanced at Zysso. She nodded, adding a simple nonchalant “Yep” that startled the boy. Lionelli threw her hands on her face, contending the firing squads that would await them back home. If they ever made it back home. She drew in a long breath, filling those lungs with the gravity of the situation. Then she blew it all in resignation. “Yeah, fuck it,” she concluded, passing by Zysso, patting him on the back, welcoming him on board properly. “Keep that rifle sharp, kid.”

Zysso gulped; he had gotten his wish, and now fell in step after the two Maidens of Wrethella, in a quest that looked as futile to them as it seemed achievable to his young naïve heart. “So where do we start, boss?” Amateracci chimed as she walked next to Lionelli.

“For now?” Lionelli answered, her gaze not averting from looking forward. “Just get where Jaksy and Friga were. We find those bitches…”

“We find Mallik,” Amateracci concluded for her. Lionelli nodded with a smirk so forced you could tell she was not trying at all to upkeep her collected façade. A detail Amateracci found amusing, even cute to an extent. Zysso followed after them in silence.

The three of them marched down the corridor, their boots the only sound that kept them company. Those echoes dampened with each step, becoming quieter, reverberating in the air less and less. It was as if the room itself was getting accustomed to the presence of organic bipedal beings walking its corridors again and was taking measures to optimise its acoustics so as to make the noise less distracting. To create order out of a chaos that nobody but the room itself really noticed. It happened gradually, as the room stretched beyond the wall that once had separated the two defilers from the rest of them. That wall in fact was now gone, a corridor standing in its place that led down a longer corridor. Lionelli noticed how a smudged panel on the side of a doorway repeated every five or so doorways, the pattern of the smudge emerging fully formed.

And this form started taking shape. On the twentieth pass, whilst Amateracci and Zysso sat down to take a small rest, Lionelli examined it closer. Pareidolia. There was no other explanation for what she saw. She recoiled back, almost tripping on Amateracci’s leg. Lucky in that regard, for if it was Zysso’s leg she had stepped over, the poor kid she had given her vow to protect would now have no leg.

“What did you see, Lionelli?”

“Nobody.” She had lied. But the face of a person she dearly missed had clearly stared back at her, with eyes as big as the day she last met them. Eyes she did not want to entertain the thought of not seeing again. She locked that thought away with a shake of her head, and with a hand on her forehead she nursed a headache that she feared would soon become too great to ignore.

“This place does numbers to us all,” Amateracci confided. Zysso, timid and silent, simply nodded.

Lionelli turned to him. “You holding up alright, kid?”

Zysso nodded again. “I just… I don’t know, we should have reached Jaksy and Friga by now. I don’t get it, it’s like we’re stuck in a loop.”

“Want me to shout for them?” Amateracci asked, and did not wait before she bellowed their names again, to no avail.

Lionelli, clearly displeased, frowned at her comrade. “You have an awful shout.”

“Oh please,” Amateracci chuckled, “you just wish I was shouting your name instead, dear.”

“Yeah, I’ve no greatest pleasure in my life than to hear my friend let out a blood curdling screech of my very name.”

Amateracci, pleased with herself, got up again. “That can be arranged,” she added, lending out her hand to Zysso. He graciously took it and got up again. They then got on the move again, walking down the same corridor, turning right at the same turn, then a left before they walked down again the same corridor, turning left at the same turn, then a right before they walked down again the same corridor, turning a left and a right a left and a right and then straight ahead. Eventually, the sound of Amateracci’s steel-reinforced bootheels came back as softly as a slipper tiptoeing across the room at midnight to grab a refreshment from the kitchen.

And the journey to this kitchen was long. The room stretched on, distant sounds of mechanical whirs intercut with sounds of… singing. Amateracci stopped in her tracks when she recognized the tune that only faintly was carried through the air. A song from her homeworld of Isoropa. A simple world, an agrarian world, fields of corn and cotton. Days of gold and white, all under a blue sky filled with silver linings, linings emerging from the grid of a dome installed to ascertain the crops never befell harm. This childish hymn sang of living harmoniously with nature. It was a sound she thought she had forgotten. A sound that she had to forget.

Amateracci raised her hand towards the wall. It collapsed into a cornfield. Before she could blink her eyes, a murder of crows flapped their wings, cawing overhead as they swung by. And just as soon as she retracted her hand, she stretched it out again.

Then she was grabbed.

“Fancy seeing you here, buff pretty lady! But what are you doing in my desert?”

Amateracci blinked her eyes several times. The ratlung defiler, Friga, was grasping her arm. The air was no longer moist, but it had the same taste of stale and dry wind Eonov possessed. The golden crops, the silver linings, all a distant memory.

“Friga?” Amateracci asked hesitantly as she pulled her hand away from her grasp. “We were looking for you. Where the hell did you end up?”

“I think I’m home? But it’s tricky, ‘cause we’re not.”

“Yeah, no shit we aren’t.”

“So, I wonder what the Maker is doing with us, and why He is doing what He’s doing.” She frowned as she turned to look around the endless desert stretching across the horizon. “He’s never treated me like this before. It is kinda scary.” Friga had never looked smaller.

Amateracci did what she never thought she would ever choose to do. She laid her hand on Friga’s shoulder. “Friga,” she eventually asked. “Where is Jaksy? Did you see Lionelli and Zysso?”

“Zysso is here?!” Friga asked, her excitement overpowering her other emotions. Amateracci squeezed her shoulder a bit. Friga yelped and came back to her senses. “I… I am not sure,” she responded. “Jaksy was right here with me as the floor collapsed. Then I found myself here. I stretched out to grab onto the glorious sand, to thank the Maker I was out of here – and then you… showed… up…” Right as Friga finished talking, both were struck by the realization of what was being iterated.

Amateracci grabbed onto Friga’s small arm and held onto it for dear life. She then unholstered her blaster. “Pray that it works, small one,” she commanded as Friga covered her ears as best as she could. Amateracci took her gun and aimed at the sun. She unleashed a single volley.

It deafened the skies.

The lights went out.

Amateracci could feel Friga’s fear on her shaking hand.

A small chromatic lake formed right above the two of them as the shot panel melted from the heat of the volley. The chromatic tendrils, hard at work, rushed to replace what was lost. Friga hyperventilated as she looked around. Zysso and Jaksy were standing by the edge of the room, the confines now normal, finite, small, their guns raised as they tried to understand if their friends were still lost in the oblivion of the space within or not.

Friga, beaming with a huge smile, waved at Jaksy and Zysso. She tried to run, but Amateracci was still holding her. She looked at her with big pathetic eyes, trying to dislodge her arm from her grasp, but Amateracci would not let go. “Not until we make sure it’s safe to do so, small one.”

“Well,” Friga sighed, “at least I’m held by the hot one.”

Amateracci turned to look at her. “You have never heard of Wrethella and her Maidens, have you?”

“Nope!”

“Figured, small one.” She then walked towards Lionelli. She put her blaster away, and with her free arm, she reached out to grab Lionelli’s arm. She pulled it away from the panel with the smudge. Lionelli let out a yelp, a small pathetic sound like the ones children make when their toy is taken away from them in front of their very eyes. Tears streaked across her face as she began to realize where she was located.

“Amateracci? Are we still in the same room?”

“Yep.”

Lionelli shook her head, bringing both her hands to clasp and cover it completely. She let out a frustrated yell, muffled as much as possible. She then turned to look at the smudge on the panel on the wall, and, without a moment’s hesitation, punched it. Bent it.

“What did that poor panel do to you?”

“Zip it, Friga,” both Lionelli and Amateracci ordered.

Just then, a door on the wall opened. Nobody had realized this wall had doors. And it was only after it had formed that the doorframes around the door showed up. Or maybe they were always there, but nobody had come to noticed them in this room.

Out of this door walked a man. He wore a light grey polo shirt, and light grey overalls, and sported a light grey cap. He walked next to Lionelli, Amateracci and Friga, and asked them to scoot over. “This panel is faulty”, the man said. “I am here to fix it.” He then produced a screwdriver on his hand, it forming in between his fingers from the same material the chromatic tendrils were fixing the ship this entire time. He then proceeded to put down the panel with the smudge. He dropped it on the floor. It shattered into a million pieces, each piece making no sound at all, each piece absorbed directly into the floor. The smudge had never existed.

The man then produced a torch. He looked into the exposed wires, rusty and brown and coated in dust. “Yes, this will be a problem. But,” he turned to talk to the rest of the crew of misfits that had gathered around him, “I will fix it so we can keep on keeping on.”

“Keeping on with what, though?” Friga asked. Amateracci, still holding her arm, squeezed it out of self-afflicted embarrassment on behalf of this dumb kid.

“The protocol, of course,” the man replied and turned back towards his work. “We are ascending.”

“Ascending?” Lionelli asked. “To where?”

“The stars, of course.” The man bent slightly to the right opened a port window. There was no window, of course, Lionelli and her team were stranded so deep within the structure it would take hours to walk back to the external shell. And yet, here it was, in all its glory. Outer space. For the first time in so many days, this pure blackness enveloped Lionelli’s senses. Twinkling stars popped across the horizon as Eonov – Tabora – sunk underneath her eyes. The crater from which the starchild had dislodged itself cracked the earth, leaving ravines and canyons that spread rapidly in its wake, wrinkles of a world uprooted of its true age.

A deafening silence followed, as the realization hit them all.

Lionelli looked at her comrade. There was nothing that she or Amateracci could say. Their mission was a success. All that was left was prayers to wish that it was not. But, a Maiden cannot choose her fate. The moment Wrethella embraces you, your fate is sealed in Her name.

Only Zysso, much too later, stepped forth. “E-excuse me,” he asked the man, still blipping and blooping along to the circuit board he was tending. “Are communications allowed? Can… Can I make a phonecall?”

“Of course, dear Valleakan,” and the man presented Zysso with a brick that was phone shaped. On it there were five rows of digits, arranged in columns of six, accounting for every possible numeric system observable in the known galaxy. Zysso grabbed it. He started dialling the numbers he recognized.

“Who are you calling?” Lionelli asked him.

“Someone that can help us.”

[ominis-g]

So, I got my feedback from that international novel competition I entered that my book made the top ten of.

Some things (I am paraphrasing here):

They kept my book up on the showcase? It's only the first three chapters, but still pretty cool I guess?

Apparently the readers loved it so much (a lot) and those first three chapters got me to beat out nearly 2 000 other entries. Ha.

They were not sure what the inciting incident was (it is very clearly Specter, but okay) and thought that Eko (social media) was super mysterious. It was mentioned once. In passing. By a biker. (Note: Eko is my way of poking fun at social media-- "Echo Chamber") Edit: THE BOOK IS NAMED DREAMSCAPE and Specter is talking about DreamScape. They're talking about it. All those documents they give Jet? ABOUT DREAMSCAPE. How was that not clear??????????????????

They really loved Jet. Of course they loved him. He is awesome. He grew up dirt(sand)poor and scrambled and scraped for everything that he knows and has. He didn't even go to school, but he is well educated in the things that he needs to know, and likes to read. A lot. But I can not overstate how much they were gushing over Jet. Yeah. He's hot. Why do you think I had him naked and scantily clothed in the final chapter? You're welcome.

"Show rather than tell" -- I do. Sorry, but there is definitely a need for some old-school exposition. This could be a knock at the second and third chapters being shit that Jet is reading, but I'm not entirely sure. After those chapters, unless Jet goes somewhere new or experiences something that requires explaining, there is absolutely zero exposition. The only incident I can think of is when he's offering the reader some backstory on what the Sickness is. It comes up later on in the book, so it's required, but like... yeah. When I edit, I'll definitely go back and look at this more critically, but... y'know, I'm drinking coffee and went off on a tangent. Yes. I do my best to show rather than tell. You think I'm offering explanation as to WHY Henry tenses up when your fingers are playing with his shirt and glide down? Fuck no. You know why. I do the same in my novels. Jet never goes "Wow, Cipher is such a little teenager, look at her, being all defiant of the machine and authority." Gods, could you imagine.

I think the weirdest note was that... they want to feel like they are the main character... and not being told a story???? I am trying to wrap my head around this. Sorry, but I don't want to be Bilbo, and I don't want to pretend like I am. I want to watch his adventures and cheer him on. If I wanted you to feel like you were the character, I would take pains to do that. But you're not Jet. You're just not. No one else can be him, and that's why he's the protagonist. I think that's how most books are written (especially in this genre).

They didn't seem to like my flowery language (lol). Perhaps flowery isn't the right term for how Jet narrates... more like cacti-language. Yeah.... so... I write a bit old-school, and I am not going to change my entire writing style to dumb it down. All those descriptions that they loved so much? They need that cacti-language to work. Don't be babies.

I will edit it to make sure that it's not over-done, but that was already going to come. I sent them LITERALLY the first draft. The first draft. THE FIRST DRAFT. Okay, I'm fine, just wanted to really state that. When I sent it to them, those three chapters was all I had done of the book. I don't even remember what the query and synopsis I sent them said. It was just a way to motivate myself into finishing the book. I never thought I would PLACE.

[viovio]

thinkin about cooking. specifically human meat

[cdroloisms]

Dream tried to stop Wil from creating L'Manburg, Phil tried to stop him from blowing it up, BOTH value people over items and builds, Phil has said that they're replaceable but people aren't, Dream traded spirit for his best friends fishes (we kno he's not someone to talk abt feelings:[) BOTH were kind and selfless but used by almost if not everyone, BOTH were ready to be THE VILLAINS if it meant everyone else could live better after. ONE of them always had someone there, ONE didn't. Intentional?

aaaa sorry for the really inconsistent posts ,, im gonna try to post a little more in the next few days. i have a few things written up, so look out for them? maybe? for now, have this *gestures vaguely* thing ,, it’s kinda a mess but *shrug*

phil is such a fun character, anon, especially for all the reasons that you mentioned in the ask!! he’s a really fun character with a lot of complexities that go (sadly) overlooked by a large portion of the fandom, but he’s super cool even tho i havent analyzed him too much. hope you enjoy (and i hope my interpretation of c!phil isnt too ooc lmao) 

tw: mentioned blood, injury, implied torture/abuse, starvation, trauma, mentioned death, prison arc/pandora’s vault

When Techno first brings Dream back from the prison, Phil doesn’t quite know what to think.

“I don’t trust him either,” Techno assures him, but there’s a flickering anger in the backs of his eyes, one that had emerged ever since he came back from the prison with the other man in his arms, and Phil knows his friend well enough to know that the words are empty in the face of the piglin hybrid’s particular brand of to-the-death loyalty. He shakes his head in reply, refusing to voice his thoughts for Techno’s sake, at least, but the look that the other slants at him suggests that he’s caught onto them all the same.

At first, the work is thankfully mindless; even if Phil has reservations on the man that Techno has more or less dumped into his house, he would hardly wish the clear suffering he’s been through on anyone. The first few days pass in a flurry of brewing potions, wrapping and rewrapping dressings, stitching up cuts and setting broken bones straight. The damage is extensive; Phil has to take more than a few breaks to just leave the house and breathe - he’s far from a stranger to blood and carnage, had received the title of ‘Angel of Death’ for a reason, but even he had never been particularly familiar with this form of cruelty. Torture was a level of violence that extended beyond what even he was willing to bestow - his hands may have caused many deaths, and the weight of each one would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life, but even those had the mercy of being a quick end. The wounds and scars that ripple over Dream’s skin, thin and stretched tightly over his bones with little muscle and fat left to cushion them, speak of horrors that were anything but merciful.

“I didn’t know they were capable of all of this,” Techno says, once, as they huddle of Dream, wringing towels in cold water to wipe his feverish skin. Techno’s hand reaches for the ribboning gold-filled scars that remain from the execution - carefully, Phil raises his hand to let his fingertips brush over them as well. “I mean, I knew he was dangerous and all, but-”

“I know, mate,” Phil looks back at Dream’s face, tight even in unconsciousness, at the darkened, hand-shaped bruises that remain around his throat, at the scar that runs over his left eye, clearly meant to mirror the same one that makes its way down the duck hybrid’s own face. “You said that Quackity and Sam were working together?”

“Yeah,” Techno’s expression darkens, eyes focused somewhere on the wall, seemingly very far away. He said that nothing happened to him in the prison, and he seemed relatively unharmed when Phil activated the stasis chamber, but ever since he came back, sometimes he’ll have moments, and Phil can’t help but - wonder. “Quackity does the dirty work, Sam gives him the way in and out, probably also the tools to do it. It’s-” he huffs a short, self-recriminating laugh. “It’s bad, Phil.”

“Mate-”

Techno shoots him a look, and Phil cringes, knowing already that he’d used the wrong tone. Even with the execution, Techno had been adamant to hide all traces of his own terror and fear away from him, masking it all with fury for Phil’s own sake. He knows, just from the way his old friend looks at the ribboning scars that remain sometimes, that he is far from as over the whole ordeal as he acts, but Techno never wants to talk and Phil never knows the right time to ask and they smooth it all behind plans and explosions and hope that the TNT can blow apart the trauma, too. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that the same thing is going to happen, here.

“As soon as we can,” Techno starts again, pointedly shifting his eyes away from Phil’s face, “we’re calling a Syndicate meeting to figure out what we’re going to do about the prison. Like- come on, man, you couldn’t make a more transparent abuse of institutional power if you tried, really-” he looks over, uncharacteristic uncertainty warring over his features. “If you think that’s good, I mean-“

“Of course, mate.” Phil’s voice softens. “Whenever you’re ready.”

‘Whenever he’s ready,’ as it turns out, is easier said than done, becoming even more evident when their charge wakes up from his days long spell of unconsciousness. The worst of his injuries have, under their careful care and the benefit of many potions, healed enough to no longer directly threaten his life, but the vast majority have quite some time to go before being healed completely. Being as the goal was torture and not death, most of his injuries weren’t made to be life-threatening, but rather to cause as much pain as possible - from the grimace that twists Dream’s face when he struggles to force himself awake, they’re doing their jobs.

“Hey, mate, slow down,” Phil murmurs, pressing the man down by his shoulder when Dream weakly tries to push himself up and off the bed, and his struggling only lasts for a few more minutes before he gives up and slumps against his pillow, eyes cracking open and seeming surprisingly lucid.

“Where-“ his voice is wrecked, and Phil reaches for the glass of water at the bedside as Dream coughs. “Where am I?”

“You’re at Techno’s house,” Dream’s eyes widen and then slip closed as he processes the information, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows as they knit together. “We broke you out, after Techno escaped with a stasis chamber with your book. Do you remember?”

Dream gnaws on his bottom lip. “Um- yeah. I think.” His head turns as his eyes crack open again- “Techno-“

“He’s out, right now. He’ll be back in a bit.”

“Oh.” Dream falls back into the bed, strength seemingly sapped from the short conversation. His breathing stutters, then steadies. “Okay.”

Recovery is slow. Phil doesn’t actually find himself seeing the man very often; now that he doesn’t need around-the-clock care anymore, he’s moved back into his own house, letting Techno do most of the work when it comes to rehabilitating the escaped convict crashing at his house. As he begins to spend more of his time awake and aware, he brings a whole slew of new problems; Phil catches him screaming one day, blurting harsh, angry words as Techno reads, unbothered from the other side of the room, and he stops in his tracks standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Um-“ he winces when Dream curses, smashes something against the floor, and then curls into himself at the sound. Techno doesn’t even flinch. “Am I interrupting something?”

Dream stomps away, face flushed, arms wrapped around himself. Techno raises an eyebrow.

“You lookin’ for something, Phil?” he asks, and the unpleasant knot in Phil’s chest refuses to unwind.

The episodes, unfortunately, don’t seem to get much better. Though he’s rarely outright violent, Dream looks constantly murderous, usually muttering underneath his breath about something or another while he stalks the grounds of Techno’s house. It’s not too long before Techno sends him out to work around the house instead of just moping within the cottage, which also means that Phil sees him a lot more - tending to a small farm behind the house, feeding the dogs, hacking away at mobs, and usually complaining the entire time. It’s unnerving, even as injured and unarmored as the man is, to see him walking around like this; despite his rather pathetic appearance, swamped in sweaters that dwarf him thoroughly and thin enough to look like the slightest breeze will knock him over, his eyes are flinty and intelligent and bubble with promises of revenge.

“FUCK!” Phil turns to see him slamming a shovel into the snow, stomping away into the woods, and his hands tighten around his cup of tea. Next to him, Techno shrugs.

“Nerd’s got a few issues,” he drawls, and Phil laughs shortly.

“That seems like an understatement.”

“He’ll ease up in time,” Techno sounds surprisingly confident, completely content despite the muffled curses that come from the woods next to them. He’s probably used to it, with Chat and all, but Phil can’t quite seem to find the same calm.

“I just don’t know, mate,” Phil shakes his head. “You sure having him around is the best idea? He doesn’t seem...stable.”

Techno looks up at him over the rim of his cup of coffee. His head tilts, considering, but there’s a small smile on his face that tells Phil that Techno, inexplicably, doesn’t share the same sentiments. There was always a part of him that was, for the lack of a better word, softer than the rest of the server for his self-proclaimed rival, a sort of understanding that Phil could hardly hope (nor would really want to) understand.

“Don’t worry, Phil, if he tries anything I can always just tie him up in the attic or something,” Phil huffs a small laugh, amused, and nods to concede the point. “And- well, call it intuition. You could really try talkin’ to him, you know. He reminds me of you, sometimes.”

The words stick in his head despite his best efforts, rattling in his skull when he tries to sleep, lingering when he catches glimpses of the green-clothed man stalking around their properties. He can’t imagine what would’ve prompted his old friend to make the comparison, can’t think of a single thing (besides their affinity for the color green) that would mark him as similar to the - from what he’s heard - deranged menace with a particular penchant for destruction (not that his rants and fits of anger are doing anything to correct that impression). Even so, Techno had sounded so sure when he’d made the comparison, the words offhand like he’d thought them a million times before, like it was a simple observation that held no more weight than commenting on the color of the sky. Phil watches as Dream lugs a pile of logs behind him, huffing at one of Techno’s dogs that comes to chase and nip at his feet and grumbling loudly before faceplanting into the snow. He just...can’t see it.

Days later, Wilbur comes to visit, a grin on his lips as he dramatically recounts his newest exploit: a nation by Las Nevadas, a supposed safe haven away from the glitter and glory of Quackity’s city; it sounds brilliant, it sounds lovely, and more than anything it sounds stupid, and Phil tells him as such immediately.

“You’re being reckless,” he rants at his son, wings flaring outwards and only barely noticing Dream watching from the corner of his eye, “What are you doing- picking fights with Quackity? Starting another nation- didn’t you see what happened to the first two you made? You’re going to get yourself killed, Wil!”

“Well, I’ve already seen what’s on the other side of death, and it’s really not that bad-“

“You’re my son!” The words are angrier than Phil would’ve liked, and he knows that he looks ridiculous and overbearing, criticizing the actions of his fully grown son, but all he can see is Wilbur’s face, slack with pain and grief, stained with ash and soot as his eyes flutter to half-mast in the midst of the rubble of a country he loved and destroyed and destroyed him in turn. “I can’t lose you again, Wil!”

Wilbur doesn’t quite storm out, but it’s a near thing, leaving with a clipped goodbye and leaving Phil seething on his doorstep. He spends the rest of the night pacing around the house in a sort of mad frenzy, wings stretching and folding over and over. Not for the first time, he longs for the sky, to feel the air through his wings and let the world fall into pinpricks below him; it’s this that leads him to the roof of his house, staring stubbornly at the clouds as the sun sinks down to the horizon.

“Hey.”

Phil startles; there, down below him, is Dream. He rocks back on his heels, seeming awkward, before clambering up the wall (Phil rolls his eyes at the ease with which he scales it, the feeling in his chest almost fond) and settling himself on the shingles at Phil’s side.

“Hey, mate,” Phil shakes his head. The fondness leaves, and the irritation that had risen at Wilbur’s words, earlier, comes back full-force. “Sorry- Wil came to visit, we talked. I just needed some time to think.”

Dream hums in acknowledgement, and they fall into a comfortable silence, watching as the sun dipping down past the mountains in the distance.

“You know,” Dream starts, sudden, “I told him the same thing.” He looks up at Phil, eyes faraway with old memories. “Wilbur, I mean. When he made L’manburg- I told him he was being reckless.” He shrugs. “I guess he never listened.”

Phil pauses, Techno’s words ringing in his ears. He reminds me of you, sometimes.

Dream looks surprisingly normal up close - face no longer reddened with fever or pale from blood loss, even the scars fail to really take from the boyishness of his face. He bites his lips, eyes falling away at Phil’s scrutiny, golden blond hair flopping over his forehead, newly trimmed to be something a little closer to his old length, at least in the front, the back pulled into a small ponytail. He’s young, and shockingly awkward, teeth worrying his lip, hands fiddling with each other, shifting his weight from one foot to the other several times a minute. He looks like a kid.

“He never does,” Phil lets himself smile, watches as Dream smiles back, almost like they’re sharing a joke. He wonders how well he really knows the man behind the mask. “Want to come in for some tea?”

Dream smiles wider, and something old and worn in Phils chest, knocked loose ever since he felt his son fall limp in his arms with his own sword shoved between his ribs, falls back into place.

“That would be great,” Dream replies, the words almost hopeful, and they go inside.

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher  higher  higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything  shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @djarinsbeskar @sammysdaisy @whataperfectwasteoftime @mandobloggin @silver-streaked-wings

[thedevillionaire]

Much Better

A supernatural soap opera moment, Cerberus and Kia, featuring Aera (Sorcery Leader) - and the Demon lord's nemesis**, birchbark. As always, any and all questions welcomed, and thank you endlessly for taking the time to read my fics and meet my darlings. 💗💗 **or one of them, anyway.

-- Aera answers the archive chamber door with a fair bit more force and a significantly more frazzled expression than Kia had been expecting, and she double checks the time because of it. Okay, she’s definitely early, but not super early. Still, these hierarchy meetings often didn’t run to schedule, so…

“Hey, sorry, I can wait if…”

“Oh, gods, you’re welcome to him.” Aera turns to yell over her shoulder, “DeVille! Your much better half is here!” before returning her attention to Kia. She smirks wryly at the sound of a violent sneeze and a muted blessing or two from further inside. “He’s been a total delight.”

She addresses this as much to Cerberus as to Kia, the Demon king joining them at the threshold, more than a little dishevelled, crumpled tissues in hand and any semblance of patience clearly a thing of the past.

“Don’t expect me to appease your ridiculous lack of foresight with unwarranted courtesies,” Cerberus counters, his tone one of vivid, seething finality despite the congestion blunting his consonants. “If you’d given any thought to this…how th…hH… HHAHTSSCHuu!” He pushes chaotic ebony back from his face, sniffles forcefully. “This entire place is an allergen!”

“Entire place.” Aera scoffs. “Right.”

Cerberus blows his nose with the rough impatience of someone who is entirely sick of having to do so, excuses himself all the same, and sniffles again immediately against an itch that refuses to recede. “You have the room temperature set to something just shy of subarctic for reasons I cannot fathom and a level of birchbark usage enough to permeate the damn walls, which frankly should count as an entirety on its own, and as per usual, the place is a dustbowl.” He challenges Aera directly. “What exactly am I missing?”

Kia remains in wide-eyed, silent observance, her attentions fixed, intent mesmeric, on her bonded in beautiful disarray. She glances across at Aera, whose reaction is…very much not the same.

The Sorcery Leader’s reply is clipped, curt. “This is not your department.”

“Of…” His breath snags on urgent need, desperate and overwhelming, and Cerberus against all his wishes is forced to abandon his riposte to consuming physical insistence. He Creates the latest in a series of handkerchiefs he’s completely lost count of now and buries his face in it. “Ah-TSSCH-uu! Ahh-HEHTSCHUU! Goddamn it.” Another determined sniffle and he presses the back of his hand against his nose with significant force, returns to his point forthwith. “Of course it’s not my department! My department gets dusted more than once a… hh-HH…once a centuryyiAAHTSCHHuu!” The relentless tickle escalates demanding, unstoppable, and there’s nothing he can do about it but sneeze again, heavy, powerful. “Hh-AHHTSCHHUU! Gods!” He sniffles repeatedly, infuriated, and rubs irritated, reddened eyes and nose, wills still-hitchy breathing to submit for long enough to conclude with a furious, “And there’s no damn birchbark in it!”

Kia offers him a quiet blessing as he excuses himself and blows his nose again, which he acknowledges with a Mindsent apology laced with frustration.

“I thought you didn’t have a dust allergy. That’s the official line, right? Until you do, that is.” Aera rolls her eyes. “Godssakes, Cerbie.”

Cerberus, with a quiet sound somewhere between a dark chuckle and a snarl, flexes a hand; miniature wildfires dartdancing across his fingers for the briefest of moments the only warning before the chamber door is wreathed in virulent flames, crumbling to smoking ash and embers in seconds.

Aera makes a small startled half-shriek that she quickly redirects to outrage. “Holy crap, Cerberus, what the hell?!”

“Oh, did that inconvenience you at all? If only I’d been able to foresee that somehow and perhaps take steps to prevent it.”

“Seriously?! Okay, fine! Okay! Point taken! Gods! You burnt down my door, you…”

“You know perfectly well you can fix that in minutes. I, on the other hand, am probably going to be sneezing all night.” An indignant sniffle follows, pronounced and determined, though despite his best efforts his breathing remains erratic, unreliable. His brow creases slightly, his attention momentarily diverted as Kia Mindsends him pure sensation sympathy, calmative and gentle, and he meets her gaze in an appreciative, already shaky pause he knows is not going to last.

“I can fix it in minutes eventually! The Create part of it, sure! But I have to measure and prep and redo the whole…”

“Ah-HEHTSHhuu!”

Aera sighs, genuflects ostentatiously before straightening and raising a defiant middle finger. “Bless you, Your fucking Majesty. I’m done,” she snaps, and re-enters the chamber, Creating a makeshift temporary screen where the door used to be as she does so. She dearly wishes she could slam it.

“AHTSSCHUU! *snf!* Gods, honestly!” Cerberus turns his attention to Kia in vexed apology, anger shifting to a frustrated weariness. “Sorry, love. Excuse me.” He blows his nose firmly, rubbing it repeatedly in another futile effort to quiet the demanding itch, takes a deliberately cautious, unsteady breath he doesn’t truly trust.

“Bless you, hon.” Kia moves to him, places a gentle hand on his arm. “Should I even ask how your day’s been?”

“Argued with Aera, sneezed a lot. I’m fairly sure that covers it.” With a sharp, strong sniffle, he pushes newly disarrayed midnight from his face, manages a sardonic half-smile for his bonded. “You, darkling?”

Kia laughs softly, empathically. “Aw, sweetheart. Come here.” She embraces him warmly, wrapping one arm around his waist and reaching up with the other to weave her hand through his hair. On tiptoe, she touches a series of soft kisses to his neck in precursor to honeysultry whispersoft suggestion of never mind all that forget everything focus on me babe just me come here honey come here forget everything else now just me babe it’s alright and a Mindsent sensorial aetherwave of calm, of sanctuary, skin-on-skin heat and she moves closer again, cups his face in her hands, kisses him with lascivious invitation unmissable, relax sweetheart it’s over come to me and all is imagery and infusion suggestion distraction seduction take me home babe in flame and velvet heat and hot tub bedroom hearthside blazing slip between warm satin sheets in early night slowdance splendour sweetheart breathe now babe just me just us and she is perfect, she is haven and boudoir and everything, everything, everyth…

Well, almost everything.

Cerberus, wanting nothing more than to immerse in such pleasures and reciprocate without distraction, is nevertheless unable to do so; with a fleeting frown and helpless inhalation his focus dissolves in sudden desperate need and he stifles two rapid-fire sneezes against his shoulder. “hpt-XCH! hh…HXTchu!” Not enough, it’s never enough, and there’s not a thing he can do save submit. He conveys apology as best he can through watering eyes, brings Kia’s head with one firm arm tight against his chest in protection, and turns to sneeze into crooked elbow, powerful and possessing. “Huh-AAHTSSCHHuu!”

Kia’s pulse spikes and she gasps a constricted, involuntary Mm! and inhales deeply before purring a blessing still more breathless than she’d intended, as her beloved excuses himself with a quiet, exasperated groan, sniffles in unreliable recovery.

Cerberus shakes his head just very slightly, wondering pointedly – and not for the first time – if there’s any way that he can just eliminate silver birch from the face of the Underworld and be done with this nonsense once and for all, and looks at his bonded in consternation. “Love, I meant it when I said I’ll probably be sneezing the rest of the...”

Kia curls her hand around the back of his neck, through his hair, silences his words with impassioned kiss, and Mindsends a resolute, heatcertain :It doesn’t matter.:

“It’s just… *SNF!* ...chances are fairly high that I’ll sneeze on you.” A hitch of breath he forcibly suppresses, knows it can’t last.

:Promises, promises.:

“I…I don’t…”

“It. Doesn’t. Matter,” she repeats, entwining herself around him once again. “Trust me.” Her touch heatseeking, direct, undeniable. “I am going to make everything—” An insistent, inviting certainty infused luxurious and redolent as she switches to Mindsend, the crimson charisma carnal.

:—so much better.:

--

[vore-scientist]

Like A Good Neighbor (sfw safe vore)

[M/nb vore with fearplay. safe soft oral non-sexual]

A tale of the Mystic Woods! Featuring Yonah HaEsh and Myran the Dwarf Witch and many other fun characters!

A story of bad first impressions and making new friends! Lots of GT, and a cute little adventure at a magical farmer’s market!

Warning: Careful there are references to Fa.tal! An example would be “ogres are far more likely to eat smallfolk than giants!” (implying that said actions are deadly). That is the extent of such references!

Other warning: mild harm during the immediate post-vore scene. Yonah just goes a little too far in scaring Myran.

——/——////——

“Did you hear?”

“Have you been told?”

“A new resident!”

“I haven’t checked it out myself! But Ms Zukkar told me-”

“A wizard!”

“Didn’t there used to be an old sorcerer there?”

“-new guy’s a witch!”

“So, hear about that new giant!”

“A giant wouldn’t fit in that tower! And wizards is all human!”

“A criminal, on the run they say”

“Maybe a magician? They like towers sometimes!”

“His Majesty wouldn’t hire a criminal!”

“-supposed to be evil?”

There were so many rumors being flung around that the dwarf witch Myran Gamadin decided to see for themselves and set out to investigate. Undoubtedly there was a new resident. The story was that he was a Mage, and a criminal, but also just expelled from The Academy of Wizardry. And a giant? That was strange, the old tower was much too small for a giant! Even if it was magic it was only 10ft taller than your average giant in the first place. However… they did hear about the trial of a giant recently… stuff that happened in the civilized court didn’t really concern those in the Woods.

“Why would you go to see a villain? You’re not evil!”

The World’s Largest™ Maine Coon cat trotted alongside the handsome young dwarf, looking more like an oddly fluffy pony than a cat.

“It’s important to know your neighbors! Even the evil ones!”

Siv flicked his tail up into his witch’s face.

“And he’s got to be just a young man! So young and the expectations on evil mages is so high! He will appreciate a friendly face!” Myran had done the math. If this Mage hadn’t even graduated from The Academy, he was at most 23. Unless he started his education late. But they doubted this.

“Why are we walking! You have your broom!” the cat complained.

“That’s for the tower, Siv. It’s one of those designed by assholes who think it’s clever to have the only entrance be the window at the top.”

“Hrfff,” said Siv.

“Do you think he will appreciate the house-warming gift? I didn’t really spend much time on it…”

“Fresh fish would be better.”

“Maybe if he were a cat. This is for a Mage.”

“Clippings of magical plants? Maybe for another witch. This is someone who was studying Wizardry.”

“Wizards use magical plants too!”

“Yeah, they buy them from witches!”

As the pair stepped out of the trees, they froze.

“I think he’ll like the gift,” Siv admitted as he And Myran stood in awe at the largest magical garden either of them had ever seen.

It wasn’t even finished yet! Plots of earth were freshly turned, and piles of wood, half built into beds that lay in patterns across the clearing. And massively spread apart. At least 3 meters between plots. And the finished ones. Well. They already had some amazing specimens. Even if they were just sprouting. Myran noticed the Twisted WyrmFern and harpy’s breath; delicate, but common magical plants that were being used to test out the soil. It was working great.

The garden did make Myran worry a bit.

Maybe this wasn’t a wizard at all! It could be a witch. And he could be very evil indeed. Even evil witches treated their gardens with the utmost care and attention.

But they had come this far. And the tower that looked over the garden was calling to them. Well. Not really. The green-black thorny vines screamed “STAY AWAY!” But when one had a flying broomstick, one didn’t need to heed such warnings.

Flipping their broom around like a baton, they sat side saddle and Siv hopped on the end, somehow managing to balance his prodigious fluff. They took off. And flew into the window.

“WOAAAHHH!”

It was like hitting an unexpected and large wave on a boogie board, but a magical one that flowed through the body! And Myran had never been to the ocean, so it made their brain swim.

The room, which from the outside looked normal, was anything but. The rumors of this being a giant were not just rumors.

This place was HUGE!

And yet, it was much too small.

Growing up, Myran had visited some giant villages with their family. They hadn’t been THAT much smaller then, but the houses and items in the village were definitely much larger. While giant mages certainly existed, they had their own traditions and made their own supplies.

This looked exactly like the workshop for a young wizard, with additions for the wizard being a giant. It was wild to see some of the common arcane tools at such an immense scale.

Flying over, Myran saw that the resident Mage had an ancient book under a magnifying glass, and had been translating it, with notes and commentary. Spell equations and diagrams were additionally copied in a dedicated smaller notebook.

While it was surely a fascinating read, they could tell at a glance the notes were somewhere in the middle of an involved spell, and they didn’t want to be the reason the Mage lost his place. The workbench had plenty of other diverting materials.

Siv had no interest in such things and curled up against the base of the magnifying glass. The sun hit the metal through the window, making it quite warm.

Myran put their broom down and explored the desk. There were several magical tombs! Rare ones! They flipped through and saw fresh handwritten notes tucked inside. Smart, this mage did not want to tarnish the original pages. There was also an open notebook and a few spell components laid out.

They stepped carefully back onto the notebook to get a better idea of what this wizard was up to. The notebook was written in giant, which Myran wasn’t fluent in but got the gist of. So this was indeed a giant wizard. Fascinating.

That’s what they were thinking until...

FEE FI FO FUM!

Myran nearly jumped out of their boots.

No longer fascinating. Very bad. Very dangerous! They’d heard stories that quoted these lines, classic, even amusing. However, hearing them bellowed by an actual giant nearly stopped their heart. These words were so loud and so immediately panic-inducing, especially when accompanied by thundering footsteps.

I SMELL THE BLOOD OF THE-

There was a pause and maybe a stutter

DWARVEN KIND!

The trap door off center in the room burst open and a giant with a mane of black hair, a trimmed goatee, and a wizard’s hat, climbed out. He was smiling, snarling, showing off impressive fangs.

USELESS TO FLEE, USELESS TO FIGHT, FOR YOU WILL BE MY MEAL TONIGHT!

Eat them!? Oh No. Myran scrambled to their feet as the giant advanced.

Siv had gone catatonic, or nearly, and fled behind the mirror. But Myran just stood there. The next thing they knew, they were in the giant's fist… AND THEN IN ITS MOUTH! There was a brief moment where they thought the giant was going to bite them in half… but no. Worse than that, the giant fulfilled his promise to make a meal of Myran by swallowing them whole.

Never had Myran imagined themselves in this predicament. Witches, as far as they knew, were not prone to being eaten by giants! Giants ate thieves, slayers, adventurers! Though... giants were known to occasionally eat random people that happened to be rude to them as they went about their business.

Myran had not been rude! They just hadn’t had a chance to be polite! This giant had no business eating them.

Not that any of this was actually going through Myran’s mind. Oh no. Myran’s thoughts were preoccupied with panicking about their impending doom!

First, they tried to stop the giant from swallowing. But the teeth threatened to crunch their limbs if they dared to try and find purchase! So, failing that, they tried to slow their progress down his esophagus.

The problem was the walls were too damn slippery! They knew that their slow progress was merely due to the tight fit, as they couldn’t stretch out. The flesh was too tough.

Right before they started to worry about suffocating, they were deposited into a large chamber, sliding into a puddle of nasty smelling fluid. They took a regretful breath of the rancid air.

Yonah sighed as the dwarf left his throat and settled into his stomach. Small yet still filling.

He patted his stomach lightly. “A bit disappointing. Dwarves don’t taste nearly as good as most other smallfolk, but I’m not complaining.” His prey thrashed and yelled but didn’t seem to be coherent.

YEOWCH!

Something bit his hand and he waved it violently. Whatever it was released and smacked into the wall that the desk was up against, crumpled into a motionless pile. Curious and momentarily forgetting his snack, Yonah investigated.

A cat!? And still alive but unconscious. Why had a cat attacked him? Then he saw the abandoned broom next to his notebook. And his stomach twisted.

“You’re— not a thief!” Technically, he could eat anyone he wanted, he wasn’t restricted to adventurers. He was still figuring out what kind of villain he wanted to be. Such self exploration would take time, time the person he ate didn’t have.

“I’m a witch!” He heard them squeak.

“A witch? Invading the lair of a wizard? Are you stupid!” He poked at them. They didn’t like that.

“Let me out!!”

So Yonah spat them up, sooner than he would have liked to, and leaned over them with a frown and glowing eyes.

The moment the witch hit the desk, the cat woke up and was between him and the witch as it hissed.

The witch was shaking and coughing, glancing at him with wide fearful eyes.

“If you’re a witch then what the fuck were you doing in my tower?” Yonah demanded.

The witch was still in shock but recovered enough to speak. “I’m… Myran! I wanted to introduce myself!”

“A likely story! Why would anyone want to introduce themselves to me?” Yonah wasn’t really in the mood for conversation, but figured he could use the practice at evil banter.

“You’re… new to the forest” they coughed.

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m your neighbor!” they said,

Yonah narrowed his eyes, “The forest is constantly moving, no such thing as neighbors.”

“I figured I’d try to be friendly!” they continued as if he hadn’t replied. “Everyone was talking about the new mage in the tower, but no one had any definitive stories.”

Another mistake. The giant snarled.

“You are a fool then! I don’t want any friends!” He hesitated briefly as he said it, not sure of the truth, but recovered fast. “But I don’t want you spreading rumors about my mercy either…” he picked them back up. Gripping them hard and getting their right arm between his teeth. He didn’t bite their arm off, but broke the skin with a fang and pinched their hand. They yelled.

“Stop! Stop! I won’t tell! I won’t tell!”

He dropped them and they sat, crying, holding their bleeding arm and hand which was turning a plum purple.

“Good,” he hissed steam in their face, scalding the skin red as his eyes glowed bright orange. “Now get the fuck out before I eat you for real!” He flicked the broom at them. “And if you ever show your face around here again, I will.”

Finally, they listened to him. They got onto the broom along with their cat and with a burst of magic kicked into the air and fled out the window. Yonah watched until they disappeared, then sat down. His hair hadn’t been smoking before but it was now. Additionally, his eyes still glowed.

His first visitor in months wasn't an adventurer and he’d eaten them without a second thought! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Maybe this was his destiny. For years he’d trained himself to be restrained. Keep his anger in check, Keep his half giant identity a secret and become a wizard. But that had all gone to shit when he’d been discovered not as just a half giant, but as a half fire witch. Chased out of the academy but captured by the authorities of Orr.

Forced to sign a contract with King Ben to become his new pet monster! So why not be a monster!?

But he still wanted friends… his friends from the academy weren’t allowed to visit him. His tower of magic and wonder was so empty. He put his elbows on his desk and buried his face in his hands.

~chink~ his elbow brushed against something.

He looked down and saw a broken clay pot, the soup spilling out and a seedling now helpless and exposed on the desk.

Quickly yonah dipped his fingers into a pouch at his side and licked it, saying a spell. With a puff of smoke he stood on his desk, a mere 8ft tall, and he knelt down.

With his more appropriately sized hands he gathered the soil and with a wave of his hand and another mutter the pieces of the pot shook and flew back into their original places. The pot was… functionally repaired. The proper repair spell required materials to fuse the pieces properly. So it wouldn’t hold water, but it could hold soil.

As he scooped it back in, a piece of paper fell from the loose soil. Curious he dug it back out of the pot and cleaned it off enough to read:

“Welcome to the Mystical Woodlands new neighbor! This seedling is from my own garden. A special cultivation of Frozen Thyme.”

The moment he read it he was instantly planning where this would go in his garden. But… this gift. Did he deserve it? He’d eaten the one who brought it. He chased them away!

He couldn’t accept this gift but he couldn’t just let the seedling wither and die. It didn’t deserve that. And thus, his brain rationalized a way for him to keep the gift. So now what?

Yonah’s brain was too full of rage to do any proper work, so he decided to take it out on the garden, which was still in a state of construction. He’d already torn up old dead pieces of the overgrown mess left behind by the predecessor. Now he was digging spots for flower beds and what would hopefully be an orchard. There was even a designated spot for herbs.

The reason this was slow going was he refused to use magic. For the most part. Thankfully, being giant made digging and construction easier. Now that he had the thyme, he prioritized the herb beds. It was with a sour pride that he completed one as the sun started to go down.

A large wooden box that curved in a lovely arc close to the tower. The wood was specially imported from his The Blue Sky Mountain Giants Tribe in the Implausible Mountains, the smell of it reminding him of home. The frozen thyme seedling was given enough space to grow. He even gave it some friends that he knew would be compatible.

With his mind a little more at ease, he managed to get himself to sleep.

And awoke the next morning with an ache in his heart and a new plan in his brain.

For the first time since he arrived in this prison of a forest, he ventured beyond the boundaries of his clearing. Yonah knew he was allowed, a certain distance from his tower, to walk the forest. It had just seemed pointless. Not wanting to draw too much attention, he wore his gardening outfit: a pink plaid button up and light blue overalls. He had a straw hat that he recently wove to be a wizard hat, as well as his wizard staff. He couldn’t really leave that behind.

The trees in the forest were shorter than back home, but still very large. Thankfully he didn't have to duck so much to avoid branches. In his mind was a list of ingredients he needed to find. Foraging in the forest might seem like a fruitless endeavor, but when you have the keen nose of a giant, tracking down wildberries was a simple feat.

What a bounty! A huge patch of bramble with perfectly ripe berries. He didn’t need a giant’s amount and they would just get squashed if he tried to pick them at his normal size so once again he shrank down. He retrieved a basket from his hat and started to pick berries.

About ten minutes in, the bush began to shift! A section opened up and out ran a gnome with a garden spade. It smacked into his hand mid berry pick.

“Stop! Thief!”

SMACK SMACK!

Yonah was so startled he backed away and returned to his normal size, the basket of berries spilling over.

The gnome yelped. “Giant!” They dropped the spade. “Don’t eat me! Take berries! Don’t eat me or family!”

There was something satisfying about the gnome’s fear and Yonah grinned, “While you would make for a nice little snack,” he said, “I’m not in the mood for gnome today.”

The gnome shook and took up the spade again, pointing it at him as if that would help. From inside the bushes, Yonah heard rustling, and smelled more gnomes. This must cover their burrow.

“Put that away, or I might change my mind!” Yonah growled, showing his fangs. The gnome complied, tossing it aside.

“But you are also in luck. I am not interested in being a berry thief. I have more honor than that. If you would permit me to buy some of your berries, at a discount for me not making a meal of you and your family, I will leave you in peace”

The gnome gulped and nodded, “Am… sure we can make a deal.”

“Pick up the ones I already picked, will you?” Yonah ordered.

The gnome scrambled. “You will need more?”

Yonah nodded. The gnome whistled. And a troupe of younger gnomes carefully came out of the bramble.

“Kind giant has offered to buy some berries. Exchange for not eating us!”

The kids looked nervous and their fear didn’t spark the same kind of joy as the adults. But Yonah had a reputation to build! And he had to admit, it was still a bit fun.

He watched as the gnomes gathered berries until the basket was full and the adult gnome put it down in front of where Yonah had sat down. He picked it up and took off his hat, dropping it in and noticed the gnome’s eyes get wide. Storage space items were not uncommon, but storage hats were tools of professional mages, not common folk.

“That all?” the gnome asked.

Yonah stroked his beard thoughtfully, “Yes. I think so.” He reached into this hat. While he didn’t have a lot of money, Ben had supplied him with funds should he need them, and he had distributed the rings between his various pocket spaces. He got out a large wooden dowel upon which hung many metal rings. Small ones and large ones. With a pair of tweezers, yonah removed a few silver rings and one gold ring and put them into his palm, placing it up in front of the gnome.

Who did not take it.

“Do not insult me by refusing my payment,” Yonah insisted but the gnome did not move.

“More than we charge normally… You wanted discount: berries, a silver a pound!”

Yonah blinked. He still wasn’t good with smallfolk money. When purchasing as a giant, you purchased such large amounts it always cost at least a gold.

“Oh? Er-” he didn’t want to actually exploit these gnomes. “I'm not taking it back! Take the money Or I’ll eat you!” his voice faltered and the gnomes looked a little confused, and a little more relaxed.

“Leave us alone then, yes?” The gnome reached out a hand. Yonah nodded. The gnome finally took the money, giving each of the kids a silver ring. Any fear the kids had was gone as soon as they studied their rings and looked at Yonah with excitement. It was hard not to let the warmth in his heart at their expressions show on his own face.

“Actually!” Yonah announced as the gnomes started to back away into their burrow.

The adult stopped and looked nervous again. Yonah huffed. “I’m not going to eat you, I never was. I just have a question.”

The gnome ushered the kids away, not trusting Yonah, before turning back to the giant. “And if don’t have a good answer, you won’t eat… right?”

With a sigh Yonah shook his head, “No. I won't.”

“Then ask.”

Yonah took a breath, “I am... looking to get some ingredients. I… lashed out at someone recently and I very much regret it, and want to make some amends. I have giant ones back home but… giant sized ingredients do not taste as strong as small ones. Do you know where, or who, I might be able to look for?”

The gnome smiles, “Yes! Mystical Market. Sell our berries there. Open today, also gnome holiday.” They gave Yonah the instructions on how to find the market.

“Thank you- er…” Yonah put a hand to his chest and bowed.

“Kalle” said Kalle.

“Yonah,” said Yonah. The gnome bowed as well, “Don’t be flaunting riches, mysterious half giant. Marketeers take advantage”

Riches!? He did not have endless funds. He would have to be more careful with his spending.

“I am also looking for… Er... Shit!” he exclaimed and was glad the kids were no longer outside, “I don't know their name. Dwarf witch.”

Kalle considered, “Know them. Likes almond cookies. Sorry. Market easier find than people. That all?”

From their tone of voice, Yonah knew the gnome desperately wanted to get back to their family. It was a holiday after all. Yonah stood up and nodded, leaving without subjecting them to any more conversation.

Almond cookies? That changed things. He had only made almond cookies once! He needed a little more help. However, he did not backtrack to the tower. He knew that if he went back, he would lose motivation. Locating the market was his current task.

Unfortunately, it took some luck. According to the gnome, it was a special place that one happened to come across, just by wanting to be there. The more familiar you were with it, the better chance there was of that happening. Yonah really really wanted to be there. So he gathered his will and set off in a random direction.

After an hour of walking yonah felt a weird tingle all over his arms and legs. Like his hair was standing on end and all pointing in the same direction. Had he entered some magical field? No matter, he was fairly immune to passive magic.

Then he took another step and a jolt of magic electricity surged through his body, causing him to freeze up. Before he could collapse, he felt as if a giant hook had caught around his middle. There was no physical hook, but it still yanked him back, pulling in through the forest.

Eventually it stopped and finally Yonah fell over, breathing shallowly as his heart raced. He rolled onto his back and stared up into the trees.

“What’s the big idea!?” Someone kicked him in the side and he sat up. “You’re blocking the way!”

An elf!

Yonah frowned. “You’re so bold for someone I could crush with a finger!” To tease the elf, he poked them in the chest.

“YEOWCH!”

For the second time that day, Yonah got bitten. This time, it was the elf who sank their fangs into his finger, letting go before Yonah pulled away.

“Don’t get sassy with me! Messing with smallfolk isn’t allowed in the market, you'll be banned!”

Yonah looked around “The market?”

He had assumed it was the Mystical Market because it was in the Mystical Woodlands. But now he realized that the name was rather accurate. An entire marketplace incorporated into the forest itself. Stalls and restaurants built into the trees, with carts parked in between. The trees here were also… there was no other word for it: majestic. Larger and older and, compared to the forest he had been exploring before, more deliberate spacing. He couldn’t even see all of it. The forest stretched on for a while, and thus was obscured by the very trees that made up the shops.

There were even buildings in the branches so that ogres, trolls, and giants did not have to bend down to make transactions. He even spotted a few trolls. Amazing! Trolls (and ogres) were much more likely than giants to eat smallfolk. Giants mostly threatened unless the person in question did something really, really stupid.

And yet, there was a troll, large with brown fur and green spots, purchasing a roll of fabric from the elevated section of a gnome shop.

“Yes you idiot, the market! And my cart won't fit through any other path! Move your giant ass or I’ll get the guard to move it for you!”

His elation at having found the market was in conflict with his pride that was being so insulted by this little creature.

“Apologize for biting me, and I’ll consider it!”

The elf looked indignant. “You threatened to squash me! MAGEN!!” they yelled.

Thunderous footsteps were heard and Yonah turned as a proper, full blooded giant, made her way through the shoppers, somehow avoiding stepping on anyone. She was maybe 17, but full grown and taller than Yonah by at least ten feet. Her skin was a light greyish pink and her eyes were a dark red. She wore a lovely headpiece of woven flowers and vines to look like hair, which full giants do not have.

She knelt “This man bothering you?”

The elf nodded. Yonah threw his hands up, “Hey! I don’t mean any trouble!”

“He threatened to squash me!”

The giant glared at Yonah, who glared back.

“How largefolk deal with smalls outside of the market is their own business,” she said. “But inside the market we do not even threaten to squash, or kick, or stomp, or eat!”

“I did not intend to and I did not know I was in the market! I have never been before!” Yonah stood up so that he was not at such an extreme height disadvantage. Magen was a rather short mountain giant, only 35ft tall.

She nodded, “I can believe that.” She stood up. “I would have remembered you for sure.” She sniffed and said in implausible Giant: “You are from the blue sky tribe?”

“Yes! I am.” he answered, also in Giant. “I just moved to the forest. I was looking for the market but… I must have… hit something magic. I sort of fell into here”.

The elf took the opportunity to weave their cart around the giants’ feet, disappearing into the market.

“Ah, the seller seems to no longer push this issue. My name is Magen.” she introduced, bowing.

“Yonah HaEsh,” Yonah answered in return.

“HaEsh! I know the name. Fire man who helped save the Implausible Mountains from the Society of Wizards!”

“That’s my dad,” Yonah said, a little embarrassed.

“Mom told me the story! How exciting!”

Yonah brushed himself off and glanced around, “So... What are the rules here, then?”

Magen shrugged, “Just don’t start fights, alright? All sales are final, so don't go making a fuss if you haggled wrong or think you got cheated unless you believe your items are defective. There are ways to deal with fraudulent goods, but we cannot risk collateral damage.”

“Does that happen often?” Yonah asked, “I only mean to buy food, I can tell if that’s fresh”

“Oh, you have a giant’s nose then. Good. It does not happen often. Makes my job easier. And I usually manage to break up confrontations before they get out of hand.”

Knowing he could likely sniff out the stalls he needed, Yonah asked if Magen could show him around and help him find all the items on his list. She happily agreed. He had to walk behind her as there wasn’t room for two giants to be side by side.

As she carefully led him, she took glances back and down Yonah who was getting a little nervous. It had been a while since he encountered other giants. He was watching his feet to make sure he didn’t hurt anyone, and he was stopping constantly to look into the shops and stalls and carts.

“What is it like, being half giant?” Magen asked, who somehow managed to walk without looking at her feet very often at all. Maybe Yonah was being too careful and people here knew to stay out of the way of largefolk's feet… Still, he didn't want to take chances.

“Er… I have hair, I guess?” he said.

“I was wondering if that was natural or a wig.” Magen brushed the vines spilling from her head.

“But mostly, things were just a bit inconveniently large for me. I still managed.” Then he countered. “What’s it like being a guard in the market?”

“The shopkeepers pool money to have me stand around, mostly. Smallfolk behave when an angry giant is within earshot.” She grinned with all her fangs.

“I thought you said giants couldnt mess with smallfolk here?” Yonah inquired.

“You can’t. It’s my job to interfere,” Magen retorted. “I haven't hurt anyone… badly. I’ve only worked here for a year. But I know everyone and everyone knows me!”

They stopped at a stand selling nuts and Yonah purchased the almonds he needed. The seller seemed a bit disappointed that he bought so few.

“Shopping for someone small?” Magen asked.

“Er- yeah.” Yonah said. They both had to back between trees to let a trio of trolls go by. One was only 10 feet tall and barely came up to Yonah’s waist, but another was nearly 20 feet! They carried baskets and bags on their furry backs, and even had some tied to their tusks!

Before they continued, two elves leapt from the tree nearby and onto Yonah’s shoulders! He was about to brush them off when Magen stopped him.

“Don’t! They are just hitching rides!” At that, he spotted more elves on her head. “You need honey, yes? I know the best shop!”

He followed Magen around the market, which was much larger than he had realized. The elves had no qualms about leaping on and off him and other largefolk shoppers and eventually he ignored them. Magen even helped him avoid making a bad deal for oat flour, saying she couldn’t believe the nerve of the shopkeeper trying to take advantage of a new resident.

Before Yonah left, he wanted to properly thank Magen. “If there is anything I can do to show thanks. Perhaps er-” he looked around.

“You know, the juice stand behind that tree has new flavors I’ve wanted to try. How about you buy me a drink? You should get one too. It’s very refreshing!”

“They make them giant sized?” Yonah asked.

“Oh, they are made by ogres!” Magen replied, rounding the indicated tree.

Ogres, kin of trolls and even more dangerous due to their magical powers. Typically smaller than trolls, but that was not the way to tell them apart.

An entire family of ogres were operating a massive open storefront. Jugs hung from branches or were strapped to the trunks of trees and fruit swung in baskets. Behind the counter was an elaborate prep station operated by two large ogres. Around the entire display were platforms sticking out from the nearby trees. Smallfolk sat on stools enjoying drinks and food at an elevation that made it easy to be served by the ogres. Magen walked up to the counter, which was not at an ideal height for her but was easily manageable. She spoke to an ogre with straw colored fur, blue spots, and large horns.

“Edna! I’d like two passion fruit smoothies please! One giant sized and one…” She glanced back at Yonah. “Full Troll sized!” She stepped aside and pointed at Yonah. “He’s paying”

Edna nodded and passed on the order.

Yonah stepped forward. Bowing “Yonah HaEsh”. She bowed back, “Edna Baneclaw. That will be a gold bracelet for the giant and half for the full troll”

Yonah’s heart nearly stopped. A gold bracelet and a half !? He looked at Magen who flashed her fangs mischievously then back at Enda.

Edna smiled as well. “We don’t have enlarged passion fruit, not in high demand by largefolk.”

With another glare at Magen, Yonah fished into his hat. He didn’t have gold bracelets but he had rings. 10 silver to a gold. Rings to Rings. Bracelets to Bracelets… 10 gold rings to a silver bracelet… 10 silver bracelets to a gold ring. That’s 100 gold rings to a gold bracelet (he had really overpaid the gnomes for the berries... A holiday gift he supposed), but this was not money to spend on frivolous fruit drinks!

Too late, however. The drinks were ready, and he carefully removed golden rings from silver bracelets. 50 gold rings and 10 silver bracelets exchanged for two smoothies. They came in wooden cups with bamboo straws.

This better be fucking worth it. Yonah took a sip.

His eyes widened as the cool icy tart concoction hit his taste buds and he took a long drink. Finally, he looked at Magen and then Edna. “This is incredible!” he exclaimed. Magen grinned and sipped hers as well. “Yeah. Too bad we’re the last two to have some for at least a month!”

“What do you mean?”

“That took all the passion fruit we had,” Edna informed. “Won't get more for a while”

“Worth it! Suck it smallfolk!” Magen teased the people on the platforms, a few looked a bit annoyed, but most didn't seem to care. She didn't seem to care either.

“Well it was nice meeting you, Yonah. I hope to see you again. Oh, and by the way, you can return your mug to the ogres for a silver bracelet, even if you take it home today!”

Yonah glanced at his drink. “Oh! Thanks for letting me know. But where are you going?”

Magen sipped at her smoothie loudly before answering. “This was my break, silly, I need to go back on proper duty now, and you have all your things.” Magen held out her free hand and Yonah shook it, bidding her goodbye. It was getting late in the day now and he wanted to get to work on the almond cookies.

Wait… which way was back to the tower? How could he be so stupid wandering off like this!? His mom taught him better than that. Forest ranger rule number 1: DON’T GET LOST. ...okay, so that wasn’t really a rule. It was supposed to imply that you paid attention to where you were going so you could get back. This was not so easy in the Mystic Woods.

The moment he had walked far enough away from the market, he turned forward and then back, and it was already gone. He had nowhere to go but forward.

It was to his great surprise that only a minute later, he exited the dense trees and found himself in the clearing. The tower was on the opposite side. While he was elated to have made it back safely before dark, there was a distinct absence of any gladness to be home. This was not his home, after all. It was his prison.

Yonah HaEsh climbed up the tower and back into his prison. He took off his hat and sat down at his desk in the workshop, staring into the reflection on the large, ornate mirror that rested upon it.

To do this right, he needed help. Professional help. So he activated his mirror. Or at least… tried. He stared at his own reflection, then spoke. “Mirror Mirror on the desk,” he faltered, “Could you please connect me to Shoshana at the academy?”

The mirror snorted. “You think politeness will work after all this time? I don’t make exceptions. This is why your friends think you’ve forgotten about them! Put in the effort! Ask me properly or don't at all.”

“They’ve called me!!” Yonah insisted, but the mirror said nothing in response. Just like he would do when he got calls from his friends. Yonah growled and snorted back at the mirror, fogging it up. “Mirror Mirror, oh magical vanity, I wish to call Shoshana, at the wizard academy”

There was a whistle from the mirror. “Now that’s how you do it!” it praised. The fog cleared and for a brief moment, he saw his own face again before the reflective surface turned grey. Another moment and the face of his friend Shoshana emerged.

“Yonah!!!” she exclaimed. “You called! I cannot believe it!”

Yonah’s face turned a bit red. “I’ve… been distracted.”

Shoshana waved her hand, stopping any further excuses. “You’ve been through so much! I was worried! Since we graduated, you haven't called at all!”

/I never called before either... / Yonah thought. /It was always you.../ When Grand Master Sean reinstated him as a wizardling student, his friends would call regularly to work on homework and their theses, as he wasn’t allowed to actually attend the school in person. And while he attended the graduation…

That wasn’t a happy memory at all and he didn’t want to think about how he sat behind all the students in the amphitheater in magic chains looking more like a beast one of the adventuring tract students had wrangled for their final than a student.

“I need a recipe!” he said.

Shoshana raised her brows “That’s it!? First call in over a month, and it’s to get a recipe! You don’t want to catch up at all?!” Yonah’s eyes flickered and Shoshana backed off. “Alright, I can see you’re not in the mood. But please, we’re all missing you so much. We’d assumed you embraced the evil hermit wizard life.”

“I… haven’t meant to. But it’s surprisingly easy,” he admitted, grinning awkwardly. “I’d rather not go full hermit, of course.”

“Well, then dont go a month without calling your friends!” Shoshana chided. “Or make some new friends! The forest is full of interesting people, right?”

Yonah looked away, but his eyes were probably glowing orange now.

“This… is for that.”

“Oh!” Shoshana exclaimed, “I should have figured! Of course, I will give you whatever recipe you’d like.”

Yonah got out his ingredients to show Shoshana and explained what he wanted to bake. She nodded and made some suggestions for ingredients and spices to really make these cookies great. He did not have all the supplies she suggested, which led to some back-and-forth as Shoshana pointed out some substitutions for what Yonah bought or already had in his tower.

“Got that all down?” she asked, as she watched Yonah scribble out the final lines to the recipe.

“Yes!” Yonah exhaled in relief. “Thank you so much, Shosh!”

“Next time, we will catch up properly, but I had fun designing this recipe!” Shoshana chirped. “What a challenge. I wish you had called first, before just buying random ingredients.”

“I was already in the forest, Shosh.”

“I know, I know.” Shoshana blew Yonah a kiss and the mirror flickered back to his reflection.

It was time to bake! Which he did after shrinking down.

By the time he was done baking his jam print almond cookies, it was past midnight. He needed sleep and didn't think finding the witch at night was a particularly wise idea, especially since he was getting tired. That meant he was extra likely to be grumpy and irritable. So he placed the cookies in a special cooling rack to keep them magically fresh, then went to bed.

It was right after breakfast that Yonah HaEsh left the tower and, for the second time, entered the forest.

Once again, he had no direction, not that one could in the Mystic Woods. It wasn't even possible to have a map unless it was incredibly magical. Still, he was determined and willing to wander the forest for days if he must! But he’d do so at his full size, which would allow him to cover more ground.

That’s… That’s a witch’s hut! He hoped it was the correct one. It was more of a mound than a hut, with one side covered in rocks and moss and the other a more sheer side with windows, plus a flatter side with a door.

As he approached, a garden came into view and he heard a yelp before watching a small figure dart into the hut and close the curtains. The door opened briefly and a hand hung a sign that read “NO SOLICITORS”

That was the evil giant! Why was he here!? Why did the forest let him find the hut!? Was he here to eat them?! To finish the job!? Could they take on a giant fire witch?! Myran was a damn skilled witch, and at least 15 years the giant’s senior by their estimate, but they were quaking in their boots.

A knock sounded at their door. It didn’t sound forceful enough to be a giant. Siv was in front of them, hissing at the door. Thinking it better to be safe, they peeked out the window, then ran to open the door. Just a crack.

Red faced and holding a basket was… the giant. Only he wasn’t giant. Not exactly. He now stood at about twice Myran’s height. A little less actually. Right. Wizard. Giant wizard.

“May I come in?”

“Depends… what’s in the basket?” They narrowed their eyes. “I don’t want any nasty surprises.”

The wizard’s face got redder as he removed the cover. They opened the door and stood aside. They took the basket with their right hand… Yonah hesitated. Their arm had a massive scar from shoulder to elbow, but the hand was unbroken. The Dwarf noticed and gave him a hard look as he crouched low to get through the dwarf sized door, Siv still hissing at him in warning.

Myran put the basket on the kitchen table and motioned to the couch. “Please, sit.” Yonah did. The couch was small for him but it took his weight. “I’m going to be honest.” Myran leaned against the kitchen table and crossed their arms. “This is quite the unexpected visit.”

“Oh?” Yonah said. Of course, it made sense. He chased them out. Why would he then try to find them again?

“You bit me!” Myran reminded him harshly. “You broke my hand, and you said if you saw me again, you would eat me. Again. And kill me.”

/Ohhhh/

Yonah’s breath caught before managing to say. “I did… didn’t I?” He looked down at his feet.

Myran. sighed. “Yep. Though eating me at your current size would be an impressive feat. So... What the fuck are you doing here? Besides bringing me cookies to fatten me up.”

“I’m not-!” He looked back up to defend himself and saw their cheeky grin. “I didn’t come here to eat you…” They raised an eyebrow in sarcastic disbelief. “I want to apologize. For what I said… What I did. After I ate you. I was so angry. I still am, though mostly at myself. I shouldn't have hurt you. It wasn’t right.” He was almost crying. Dammit, he’d gone nearly a month without crying!

“And for eating me?”

“Huh?” Yonah was thoroughly confused.

“You’re sorry for what happened after you ate me, but what about eating me?”

Yonah bit his lip, “I’m… I’m not sorry about that.”

The witch raised both eyebrows now, genuinely curious as to the workings of this monster’s thoughts.

“I’m supposed to eat people! Especially those who enter my tower unannounced. It’s part of my job! And… And I like it!” He startled himself with that statement. He liked his job? He didn’t even want this job!! He was forcefully employed by the King under threat of death! Being evil had never been his plan and he didn’t want that. Did he?

The witch didn’t look completely satisfied with this answer. But they didn’t get to inquire further as Yonah’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Er- your hand…”

Myran smiled “It was rather mangled by your jaws yesterday. Luckily, I am a very good healer, and well-known in this forest. If you had killed me, you would have had a lot of angry forest residents after your head.” Myran began preparing a pot of tea as Yonah Processed that statement. “You’re a lucky giant aren’t you?”

“What?” Yonah voiced. “For not killing you and putting a target on my back?”

“Yes, exactly. And that was curious. It is rare that evil giants are merciful.”

Yonah looked away, “I’ve only been evil for a few months. I… you’re the third person I’ve eaten at all. And I dont… I haven’t yet… killed anyone.”

That surprised Myran. “I guess I do not know the frequency that giants normally encounter adventurers… but what I meant was you’re lucky that you even get to eat people. Most giants like the taste of smallfolk but they don't actually eat them. It’s rather rare.”

“You said it yourself. Evil Giants eat people,” Yonah pointed out. “Which I am one. I guess it’s… nice that I get to eat folks. But it comes with a cost… It’s only a matter of time before slayers come after me.”

“Most evil giants kill their victims, right?” Myran asked.

Yonah shrugged “I met another one once. Said it depended on his mood.”

“Fascinating… though if you keep up your more merciful streak, perhaps you are less likely to attract slayers?”

“Perhaps…” Yonah had not considered that. He just felt he wasn’t ready to kill anyone yet, but maybe there were other perks than just a clear conscience in continuing to let his snacks go.

“Cracked some sort of code then?” Myran inquired. “Getting to eat people without attracting too much attention? Not that this would stop all slayers,” they added. “I expect you would kill a slayer?”

Yonah nodded, sniffed, and wiped his nose. In that case… Guess he was lucky. Indeed, he’d gotten to taste plenty of smallfolk. Plenty of giants did. It was unique that he’d had his human dad while growing up. But all of the smallfolk in the village knew that when giants kissed their hands, the giants were getting little tastes. Sometimes giants would lick a friend playfully or freak someone out. He’d had a few elvish and human friends growing up, and they sometimes let him and the other giant kids lick them during games of Jacks and Giants. And his academy friends were quite amused by his affections. He very much missed them. It had not taken long for him to get used to living amongst human friends, not just because he got to taste them. And so quickly, that was taken away from him. Friends…

As tears welled in his eyes he couldn’t look at Myran any longer. He closed his eyes and turned his face away. Should he keep talking? Shit, how much of that had he said out loud!? The words continued to come out regardless.

“I know I said I didn’t want any friends. But I do! I need them. And I know I can’t be your friend. You came to me and I fucked it up. But I beseech you to not tell everyone else in the forest to avoid me. I already went to the mystical market and-“

“You… how did you find out that I liked almonds!”

Yonah looked up. They weren’t looking at him but reaching into the basket for another cookie. They munched on it thoughtfully, not a crumb falling into their beard. The tea was ready and Myran poured it with magic, leaving their hands free to hold more cookies. They walked over to Yonah, the tea cups floating with. He took the larger one out of mid air. It was very hot! And he drank. It was… It tasted like tea he’d had at home. His village had alway gotten various teas from the dwarves. New tears came to his eyes.

“You alright?” Myran asked, offering a handkerchief. “You’re a very emotional evil giant.”

Yonah took it and dried his eyes. “The tea is… really good.” That wasn’t the real reason but right now he couldn’t process all of his emotions.

“It’s my grandma’s blend,” Myran said. “I’ve tried to replicate it using my garden, but you just can’t replicate those tunnel grown fungi.”

They dipped one of the cookies into the tea. From their expression, it wasn’t really a mistake but likely didn’t improve the experience. Still they munched thoughtfully.

“I’ll be your friend.”

Yonah’s jaw nearly hit the floor and he almost dropped his tea. It was a few seconds before he managed to pick his jaw back up. Were they serious? They walked over to him, placing their much smaller hand over one of his. Then they smiled most disarmingly.

“Just don’t eat me again.”

Yonah smiled.

“I think I can manage that”

[FIN]

——

(You can imagine that Yonah got to hug Myran before he left, probably a little too tight but dwarves are tough!)

THANKS FOR READING! PLEASE REBLOG IF YOU ENJOYED MY STORY!

REBLOGS HELP SPREAD MY WORK! I also love knowing that people read my stories! My askbox and DMs are OPEN!!! let me know!!!

[Thanks for reading! please reblog! Or message me telling me what you think! I crave feedback! For more mystic woods go to vore-scientist.tumblr.com/tagged/mystic+woods+story or search ‘mystic woods story’]

big thanks to my amazing editors @j0hnnymouse and @vixen525

[stickyy]

Can I have a gn reader x Aizawa? Maybe a college AU where Aizawa doesn't know how to handle his crush because he was awkward when he was young and ended up a bully who was handsy. Thank you!

EEEE this is my first ask so i hope you like it anon! :D thanks so much for requesting!

DISCLAIMER: i do not condone or encourage any of the behavior outlined in the following text. this is a work of fiction, and should be treated as such. :)

wordcount: 2299

warnings: dubcon, verbal abuse, slight dumbification, forced oral sex, brief mentions of gagging/vomit (doesn’t actually happen), aizawa is an law student asshole, quirkless!AU, ooc? more likely than u think

notes: im not like a writer so when i put this in word count and saw it was 2k words i gasped-

MIDTERM

Without a doubt, Aizawa’s the smartest student in your Civil Procedure lecture. You admire him; you’re both first years, but he already has an incredible work ethic and results to show for it. He works two part-time jobs to help pay for school (alongside his impressive scholarship), studies into the late hours of the night (mostly due to his being kept awake very loud roommate), and, despite a bad habit of regularly showing up to your 8 am class slightly hungover, still manages to produce the top marks in the class. 

You’re envious of him, because you’re the exact opposite. Your tuition is paid in full by your parents, you have a wonderfully quiet apartment all to yourself, and you study as best you know how, only to practically fail every assignment. You wish you could be surprised, but the material is a dreadfully bland concoction of boring procedure and esoteric theory that you rarely get further than three or four pages into a chapter. You want to like law, you really do, but there’s something about the intricacies of drafting lawsuits that goes in one ear and out the other. It’s no surprise that you sought out Aizawa’s help, desperate to at least pass the class with a decent grade. 

You wish you hadn’t. 

You don’t understand what you do that bothers him so deeply, but something about you coaxes cruelty from somewhere dark inside of him. You always scurry towards the back of the lecture hall to grab a seat next to him, doing your best to be quiet and unassuming, but he shoots you a venomous glare or a soft flurry of harsh words. And you get it, to an extent- some days you walk into class chattering a little too loudly on the phone, and on others you loudly shuffle around in your book bag to try finding the notes that you attempted to start for this lecture (if you even brought them that day). You know it’s annoying, but you also know you don’t deserve the downright verbal abuse he throws at you for it.

“It’s hard to take notes if you forget your textbook. Try being prepared for once,” he’ll sigh as he slides his textbook to you. Like a good student, he took notes for lecture the night before, but it still took some convincing for him to spare you his textbook.

“Do you ever shut up?” He’ll interrupt you as you babble about your difficulties understanding the most recent lecture. You want to retort, tell him off for being rude, but the words die in your throat; he radiates an annoying apathy that makes you doubt the efficacy of anything you say to him.

“You wouldn’t fail every assignment if you actually studied. Or maybe, you’re actually just stupid?” He’ll quip as you clutch your paper, a red ‘47’ scrawled in the upper corner of the page littered with your professor's critiques and question marks. By contrast, Aizawa’s paper is pristine, donning a singular red mark of ‘98, nice work!’.

With a well placed glare and the sour baritone of his voice, laced with exhaustion, it’s always enough to make your stomach drop from shame and embarrassment. Under normal circumstances, you’d never allow anyone to speak to you that way, but your grade was a dire situation, and with the midterm upcoming, you forcefully swallow your pride and ask him for his help.

You have to beg, but Aizawa agrees to tutor you the day before the midterm. This grade is a make or break for the class- if you do poorly on this exam, you’ll have to drop the lecture to salvage your gpa, putting you half a semester behind your peers. It’s motivation enough to deal with his poor attitude, and the two of you end up reviewing in an empty studying room on the top floor of the library. You began the session alert and determined to catch up, but studying with him shows you just how far behind you are. The textbook sounds like foreign poetry coming from his mouth; Aizawa is nothing short of eloquent when explaining the complexities of something as boring as filing lawsuits, and you spend most of the two hours spent just zoning out, completely unable to focus.

“You’re just wasting my time at this point.” The break in his cadence snaps you out of your trance, unfocused eyes meeting his tired ones, slightly lidded in annoyance, “Are you even trying to remember the material? Or are you just expecting me to spoon-feed it to you?”

Your throat catches, forcing you to swallow a lump as you attempt to ignore his words. 

“I am trying! I just don’t understand why there are two approaches, is all,” You whine, flipping back through your sparse notes to find the section that contained the explanation. 

“I went over that almost 3 chapters ago. If you were paying attention, you would’ve stopped me by now. It’s hard to believe that you even got into this school, if this is how you studied in high school. Did your daddy pull some strings with his buddies in admissions?”

Your eyes narrow, searching harder for the correct section in your notes. That’s a pretty low blow, and even if he’s not completely wrong, it still stings. You now know for a fact you didn’t even read this part of the text, but you keep your eyes trained on the page. At this point, you’d do anything to avoid looking at Aizawa, lest you begin to cry.

“Don’t be an asshole,” is all you can muster, voice shaking with unshed tears, “Would it kill you to be a little nicer? It’s hard to focus when all you do is insult me.”

“It’s hard to focus?” He repeats, his tone a sickly sweet mockery of yours. “Sweetheart, I don’t think that’s my fault. You’re a lot dumber than you think, if you even think at all. The midterm is tomorrow, and we’re just now getting into chapter five. Don’t get mad at me for actually trying to study; if I was holding your hand through it all, we’d still be on chapter one.”

Your vision blurs and a single tear hits the lined paper of your notes, causing the ink to blur as the drop absorbs into the page. You clench your jaw and take a breath before standing up, opening your backpack to put you things away. You didn’t have to take this abuse, you could study on your own. Even if you did poorly, you’d have some of your dignity left.

“It’s pretty rude to just walk out on someone trying to help you,” Aizawa says after a moment, closing his notes shut. “Not only do you give me a headache every single morning, but I try to tutor you and you want to leave without even thanking me? I’m busy, you know? I take time that I don’t have to spare just help your sorry ass out, for free, and you’re not even capable of learning anything from it.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder and move to leave, but you find yourself face to face with Aizawa, his tall frame blocking the door, arms crossed over his chest, and a thoroughly disgusted expression plastered on his features. 

“I should charge you a fee, just for completely wasting an afternoon. Absolutely ridiculous,” His tone is a juxtaposition to his demeanor; he sounds more amused than annoyed, a jeer underlying the words. It makes you feel sick, and you’re suddenly grossly aware of the fact that you're alone with him, the only method of escape blocked. It feels dangerous, and you want nothing more than to be at home, alone and safe.

“H-how much?” You stutter meekly, eager to appease him. “I don’t really have any cash on me but if you have Venmo-”

“That’s not quite what I had in mind,” Your heart starts to jackhammer against your ribcage and panic sets in. You’re frozen in place, unwilling to ask him to elaborate. You may not be very bright, but you have a good idea of what he’s going to ask for, and you can think of a million things you’d rather do instead.

“I know your pretty little skull is practically an echo chamber, so listen closely, okay? We both know that no matter how hard you try, you won’t be ready for the exam by the end of tonight, and I have to work in an hour and a half. So, if you behave and do what I ask you, I’ll let you copy my exam answers tomorrow. Understand?”

You’re silent, paralyzed by fear. A part of you wants to run, desperately, but your mind drifts to the midterm. You know that without any help, you’ll surely fail.

That’s how you end up on your knees in front of him, tears finally streaming down your face from choking on his thick cock. 

“That’s it,” he groans breathlessly, eyes fluttering shut as his head presses back against the door, “I knew you were good for something. I bet this is how you convinced your other teachers to give you a passing grade, huh? A few cocks down your throat-fuck, to save your gpa, I wouldn’t put it past you, dumb slut.”

You hate this- hate being reduced to just a mouth for him to fuck. You hate how he sneers down at you, his eyes alight with sadistic pleasure. You especially hate the treacherous way your spine tingles and heat pools low in your stomach at his amused growls and degrading remarks. He’s just as cruel with the way he fucks into your mouth, disregarding your comfort entirely, hand in your hair roughly guiding your head over his length. He’s almost painfully thick, stretching your lips wide, tickling the recesses of your throat in a grotesque way. You try to wiggle away slightly, just to take a small breath; you’re beginning to feel dangerously lightheaded. You begin to pull your head away but he thrusts his hips upward, holding your head down and  forcing your lips to wrap around the base of his cock.

“S’okay, baby, just relax that empty little head of yours, no need to breathe right now,” he sighs, watching you struggle against him with a smirk, watching the fear bloom in your chest and your mind buzz with the lack of oxygen. Your thrashing shifts his cock in just the right way and you violently gag, eyes widening with the painful sensation. You’re almost convinced he’s going to let you pass out, right before he yanks you off of him. You cough violently, gagging a few more times, drool spilling out of your mouth.

“Throw up on me and a failing grade will be the least of your problems,” he growls, and the threat is a sobering reminder of how fucked up this is. You meet his expectant gaze, and reluctantly return to the task at hand. You can hold out just a little longer, you tell yourself; his hips are beginning to move on their own accord and you know he won’t last much longer. All you have to do is hang on and it will all be over soon.

You know that he’s just a bully, that you’re just doing what you have to do in order to pass this class, that you’re worth more than your grades, that you aren’t stupid- but the dark part of your mind questions if he’s right. Maybe you do belong on your knees, because what do you know? Maybe you are just a dumb slut; there’s no need to study if the only thing you’re good for is swallowing.

The shameful thought forces a new torrent of tears to pour from your eyes, gagging once more on both your tears and his cock, and the look of pure despair on your face pushes him over the edge. Aizawa yanks your head from his cock with a curse and you flinch as his hot cum hits your face. There’s a lot of it, the viscous seed slowly dripping down your face. The sensation is downright disgusting. You feel dirty and used, your throat sore, knees burning, lips swollen from his brutal assault. He presses the tip of his cock on your cheek, smearing his load all over your skin with a cruel laugh.

Through your panting, you keep your eyes closed for a little bit, hoping that maybe this is an awful nightmare and you’ll wake up in your dorm, with an extra day to study and a little more hope in your heart. 

The sound of a camera shutter rips you from your fantasy, opening your eyes to see Aizawa grinning at his phone. You’re too shocked to say anything, only staring at him incredulously from your position on the floor in front of him.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, you know?” He hums as he tidies himself up and grabs his bag. “So photogenic, I’ll be able to get off to this for weeks. Who knows what good you’d be if you were dumb and ugly.”

You didn’t notice that you had stopped crying, but the fresh tears and sound of your own sobs call your attention to fact.

“Try and clean up before you leave, alright? I know you’re a little too stupid to remember, but I don’t think it’d be a good look for you to walk around covered in cum.”

The door clicks closed, and through your sobs you look around at the room, only to notice that there aren’t any tissues left laying around. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him.

(But at least you get an A- on your midterm.)

[flowers-all-around-me]

Ok but no seriously don't do the other one, give me thoughts on corvo/daud

Joke is on you, I will do the other one as well and I will put an unnecessary amount of thought into it <3 (for the ship ask game)

Who accidentally pushes a door instead of pulling/vice versa.

Hmm, both feel too competent for that. But sleep-deprived Corvo might? I think Daud might, on some days, be pretty enough to just watch him try and figure it out. Usually though, he acts annoyed and like he has somewhere to be, but helps Corvo simply because he feels bad for him.

Who doodles little hearts all over the desk with their initials inside them

I think Corvo would be more inclined to do this. He definitely would have done it when he was with Jessamine, and I think it's a small sense of normalcy he can keep. Just a little "Daud Attano <3<3<3." This is also the reason he tries to figure out Daud's last name, but he will vehemently deny that.

Who starts the tickle fights

Once again, both feel too serious for this. But I think that if they ever did get to a domestic bliss stage, they might both be equally prone to do so? Daud would definitely be the one to win them most of the times though.

Who starts the pillow fights

Corvo. They're usually just an affectionately annoyed pillow thrown Daud's way. They escalate really quickly, and into an insane degree.

Who falls asleep last, watching the other with a small affectionate smile

I like to think Daud. Corvo would be jumpy and Daud would want to stay awake a bit longer in case Corvo has a nightmare brewing. But when he sees Corvo sleeping peacefully, he gets a dopey little smile on his face. Which he will not admit to ever.

Who mistakes salt for sugar

Once again, both feel too competent for that. That being said, it would definitely happen to both of them when exhausted. Daud dealt with it enough in the past that he just picked up a habit of tasting a bit first. It does not stop him from making a mistake when he's really tired.

Who lets the microwave play the loud beeping sound at 1am in the morning

Both their sleep schedules would be fucked? But Daud had to share a rather broken house with all his children, so he knows how to be sneaky. Corvo, while having spent a lot of time sneaking around to/from Jessamine's chambers, had the luxury of not being in the kitchen for a long time. So I think it would have been him.

Who comes up with cheesy pick up lines

Corvo. Daud always looks like he lost ten more years off of his lifespan, but some of them do make him smile on the inside. (Daud's pickup lines are usually teases at Corvo while calling him "bodyguard." Corvo took a while to see them for what they are, but he likes them.)

Who rearranges the bookshelf in alphabetical order

Daud. My guy spent time in the academy, he would be used to the library making sense. Corvo strikes me as someone who would definitely not read as much as Daud, so he rarely notices how the bookshelf is arranged.

Who licks the spoon when they’re baking brownies

Both when it's the last time they'll be using it. It's just a waste otherwise. Corvo might lick it in-between uses though.

Who buys candles for dinners even though there’s no special occasion

Hmmm, a tough one. I imagine Corvo? Daud feels too pragmatic for that to actively do that, but he might enjoy it.

Who draws little tattoos on the other with a pen

Hmmm. I would once again say Corvo? I imagine that if Daud has a book to read, he could survive the horrifying ordeal of having Corvo doodle on him.

Who comes home with a new souvenir magnet every time they go on vacation

I think Daud is more likely for some reason? Like, sure, he does not keep a lot of things in his life, but just a little small something when he travels.

Who convinces the other to fill out those couple surveys in the back of magazines

Corvo. Daud hates every second of it and questions why he agreed to it in the first place. He does take them incredibly seriously though.

Hhh this was fun! Even if I surrendered myself to the ordeal of answering an ask (and know that now people will realise there is nothing more in my head than elevator music). Sorry for the (slight) wait, and thank you <3