#you'd think he'd be inspired by The Beast but no

[princegeist]

hehe he is just. a little guy. a creature. over 7 feet tall. little dude. always hungry. aching with an insatiable void inside him that threatens to consume everything. and it's still never enough. it can never be enough. hehe scrunkly. my lil blorbo.

[gauloiseblue]

réchauffer un serpent dans son sein

(König × Angel!Reader)

[TW: rape, non-con, obsession, desecration of a sacred body]

Inspired by this and this posts

There's a saying that woods aren't what they seem. Wander too far, and you might get lost. But if you listen to the rustles, and follow the low whispers between the trees, you might stumble upon an unearthly place. Where the time seems dilated, and the space distorted.

If you're just a small child, there's a chance that you'd never come back. The Fae loves little humans, and it's not a surprise when many of them were lost in the forest.

When he's just a young child, he often heard about the missing cases. Another day gone, another kid disappeared. It's so common back then, that every parent would keep their kids away from the forest. Including his.

But still, the wonder of it got the best of him.

One day, when his parents were a bit careless, he slipped from the back door, and walked into the forest.

In the mind of an adult, his action might seem unreasonable. But at that time, he could only think about the sanctuary. The hidden place for ethereal beings, that the kids in town often whispered about.

The track to the place was steep, and he struggled to get through it. But once he arrived at the creek, all of his fatigue strangely disappeared.

He followed the stream, dipping his feet into the cool water. He took a sip of it, and tasted the mineral so sweet, he hunched down to drink some more.

Upstreams, the brook widened into a pond, with high, flowering walls of waterfall.

The sight of it was nothing he'd ever seen, and would continue to haunt him for decades. His pupils were blown, as they took in the beauty of it. He slowly walked further, until he reached a boulder near the cascade. It was at this moment, he found the trace of divinity.

Upon the big rock, he spotted a golden flow. It's not until he pulled it, that he recognized the shape of it. What's on his hands was a weightless veil—a Celestial veil.

And he was right, because the moment he lifted his head, he saw a figure on the cliff.

She's a pure being, glowing softly with her hair flowing with the stream. She's sitting on the protruding stone on the wall, washing her hair before her feet. The flowering tree did little to cover her body, and his eyes burned, as if he's looking right at the sun. While it should've been obvious by then, the little him couldn't comprehend what he saw wasn't a human. She's never a human.

It took a minute for him to close his gaping mouth, and a little more for her to notice his presence. And when she did, gone was her smile. Since what came after was a terrified gaze that pierced his heart, as if she saw something vile, repulsive. Something that's him.

She came down from the waterfall, and landed softly as if she's unbound from gravity. He clutched the veil tighter, while she approached him like one would to a beast.

"You shouldn't be here." She whispered, "This is not a place for you."

"Are you a Fey?" He asked, eyes fluttered with innocence and curiosity.

She opened her mouth, before she decided against it.

"You should go home." She muttered, before extending her hand towards him, "I'll guide you back, but please, return the veil to me."

"Why?" He pushed on, "Why should I give it back? Do you not want to take me?"

"No, I'm not—" She bit her lip, "Please, I won't harm you."

"How do I know if I can trust you?"

"You can, because I'm not a Fae." She pleaded, "You should leave, before they see you."

"Then what are you?" He tilted his head, "An angel?"

She froze, eyes widened as if he's holding a knife to her chest. He wanted to reach her hand, to offer some kind of comfort, but a sudden wind blew from the forest. It was so strong, that his clothes fluttered against his body.

"They're here." She mused, her voice filled with dread.

He gasped when she pulled him by his hand, and goosebumps broke out all over his body. He shuddered at her touch, and his legs gave out. She staggered when he fell on his knees, before she bent down to pick him up. In the corner of his eye, he saw a strange shadow standing between the trees.

She tried to take the veil from him, but his grip on it was too tight. Caused by a combination of shock and bliss from receiving an Angel's touch.

"I'm sorry." She murmured, before she cupped his chin and pressed her lips against his. Right at that moment, he felt Heaven on the tip of his tongue. His eyes rolled back in head, and his body turned limp in her arms. If her touch weakened him, her kiss could paralyzed him.

In the midst of haze and rapture, he felt the veil slip from his hand, before the breeze turned into gusting winds.

He must've blacked out during the flight, because the moment he opened his eyes, he's already in the arms of his parents.

Their tears had wetted his clothes, and his mother raised his head to see him. He couldn't hear the whispers from people around them, but he caught some of the repeated words. 'Lucky', 'missing', '3 days'.

When he laid on his bed, he traced his fingers on the place she had touched. His arms, his cheek, his lips… The caresses of her fingers still lingered on his skin. He wanted to meet her, to be touched by her again. Alas, he's prohibited from going to the woods.

He was screaming, crying, begging for his parents to let him go. But they didn't yield, they wouldn't give in.

At night, he'd curl up under his cover, as quiet sobs escaped his lips. With his fingers dug into his skin, in a futile attempt to preserve her touch. Yet no matter how hard he clung to it, the heavenly mark would slip away from his hands.

It's not until a half year later, that he finally got the chance to leave home.

He could remember the route like it's the back of his hand; see the big tree, and follow the stream. And when he found the brook, he let out a sigh of relief.

Yet it was short-lived, since the river went on. He didn't see any sign of sanctuary, no flowering trees, no sweet smell in the wind. He bent down to taste the water, but quickly spit it out. It was awful, it wasn't as pristine as he had before.

He looked up, trying to find any sign of the heavenly garden, but there's none. There were only grey clouds, and yellowing leaves upon him.

Faintly, he could hear chuckles and amused whispers from the forest. He turned his head towards the woods, and saw the moving shadows behind the trees.

'... the boy comes back for her…'

'... how cute…'

'... he didn't know that…'

'... she left…'

Perhaps if he could stop for a moment, and listen to them, he could see that his search was hopeless. But he was stubborn. Even after he walked through the creek, and found no flowering waterfall in the upstream.

That night, he's found by the townsman near the river. His eyes were red, and his hands were dirty with soil. The villagers escorted him back to his home, where his parents waited and prayed. They rushed to hold him, asking why he left, where he'd been, but he stayed silent.

He was bedridden for the next several days, from drenched clothes and sorrow he had yesterday. He remembers the weight in his heart, and the seeming emptiness within his chest. Of course, a young boy like him hadn't understood the heartache, but even then, he knew the sole cause of it was the Angel.

He pulled the blanket to his chest, gripping tightly as he sobbed. Why wouldn't she take him? Why wouldn't she look at him?

The questions would linger in the back of his mind, because the moment he looked in the mirror, the image of her flashed before his eyes. Why wouldn't she look at him? Was he so hideous, that she's terrified upon seeing him? If so, why would she kiss him?

He tried to ask the questions to his parents, but what he received weren't answers. Instead, they told him it's just a dream, because Angels didn't exist. He tried to tell the other kids around him, but he quickly learnt that no one believed him. No one found his story plausible, rather, they called him a liar. As a result, that name stayed with him throughout his school years.

On one day in October, as he hid behind the tree in the school yard, he vowed to himself to never tell a soul about his Angel.

While he kept her existence from the others, he still tried to seek her in the forest. When he grew up into adulthood, his parents ceased to worry about his whereabouts. For a reason that he's rarely home. When he's 18, he went down the path of the army. Which granted him more freedom to continue his search.

Of course, he had considered giving up and turned to worldly pleasures. But nothing could compare to her kiss.

It's a wonder how a single encounter could lead to a lifetime obsession. All his efforts, all his knowledge about the forest's paths were the result of a single desire—to see the Angel again. Yet after miles of walking through the woods, exploring every inch of the forest's paths, he found none of her. Not a single trace of her and her existence. Whenever he went back, empty-handed, he couldn't help but feel helpless. As if he's still the little boy who cried by the river.

The emptiness he felt isolated him from his peers, because he knew no one would understand him. When he agreed to the missions that required him to fight in the forest for months, many of his comrades questioned his decision. When he refused the comfort of the night women, the other soldiers would look at him strange. When he's lost in his thoughts, with his eyes fixed on the flowing river, his colleagues would whisper behind his back. Indulged themselves with rumors and speculations.

For a decade, he kept himself at a distance from the others. Until one night, when the alcohol loosened his tongue, he told the story of his past to his fellow soldier. For the first time in his life, someone listened to him without a frown.

"I know someone who knows about these things." He told him, "But I don’t know if he's willing to talk."

He sat up straight as he leaned forward, "Tell me."

His friend hesitated for a moment, before he cleared his throat. "He lived on the outskirts of town, just a bit further in the woods. Sometimes he's in the town's market, selling furs and meats from his hunting." He then leaned closer to say something in low tone, "But there's a rumor that he's selling other things, if you ask the right question."

"What's the question?"

The man shrugged, "I never asked."

He sighed, rubbing his face in frustration. "Alright." He retorted quietly, "Where can I find him?"

The next day, he visited the address his friend gave.

It was a 20 minute drive from the city, and the trip was slowed down since his house was off the beaten path. When he arrived at the driveway, he noticed a man by the house, bringing the axe down as he splitted the log.

As he approached the man, he sensed a piercing gaze on his face.

"What do you want?" The man scoffed, as he made no effort to hide his hostility.

"Someone told me you knew about the creatures in the forest."

"Deer?" The man sneered, "I can sell their pelts for cheap."

"No." He looked him straight in the eye, "I want information about Angels."

The man went quiet for a moment, before he shook his head in a jeering manner. "Another stray from the asylum."

"I'll do anything in exchange for the information."

It seemed to pique him, as he put his mocking facade down.

"Are you from the church?"

"Military."

"Why does a man like you want to know about Angels?"

"It's for personal reasons."

He grinned at him, showing yellowing teeth behind his lips. "You saw one, didn't you?"

He stayed quiet, and the man shrugged.

"It's not my business anyway." He mused, "I don't mind giving you information about Angels—for free, but I'll give you something better if you help me." He smirked, "I'll tell you how to catch one."

—

He stands on the edge of the dark woods, peering into the thick forest, where his first mark once resided. There's a quiet wind that carries the words from the past into his ear.

'... the boy comes back for her…'

He closes his eyes as he takes a deep breath, savoring the smell of the forest.

"First, you have to disguise yourself." The man spoke while he packed up the hunting tools, "Those creatures have a sharp sense of smell, and human's scent is very distinct. So you have to wear their skin to mask your presence."

"What about deer skin?"

"It won't work." He said, "You have to take it from their kin. But there's one creature who has a strong smell, just like a human. It's so strong that it puts other creature's guard down."

"What is it?"

The man smirked, before a familiar name slipped out of his tongue.

A damp musk mixes in with the woody smell, and his grip on the prize tightens. The unearthly cloak feels heavy in his hand—a reminder of his hunt that's still fresh in his mind. The owner of the robe lays down at his feet, with its head far from where he stands.

An iridescent blood drips from his hand, and into the ground below. Painting the grass with luminous hues. He lets go of the iron machete, which falls with a loud thud. It's a wonder how a pure metal could kill the unassailable.

He had seen this creature many times in the forest. The first time was when the Angel touched him, and the rest when he searched for her. It took a form of moving shadows, and he only saw it in the corner of his eye.

"Believe it or not, Faeries were once considered as the guardians of the forest." He chuckled, "It's because the forest is their home, of course they'd be protective over it. They're very territorial after all."

"Is that why their scent can lower other's guard down?" He asked the man, while handing the fangs of the beast. "Because they smell familiar?"

"Correct." He responded, "But acquiring it isn't an easy business, because they're half-immortal. You see this scar? I almost lost my arm because of it."

"Did you kill it?"

The man sneered, "Who do you think I am?"

"Who do you think I am?" He mused, unconsciously repeated the words from his memory. He scoffs, as he realizes how far he has gone for a single obsession. Killing a forest God just to wear its skin, so he can catch the Angel off guard.

As he walks through the path, he drapes the heavy cloak on his shoulders. Putting the deer's skull mask on, before pulling down the dark veil to cover his face. There's no way of telling if the disguise works, since human's noses aren't as sensitive as theirs. But when he tastes the water, he knows he's on the right track.

"Angels rarely change places," The man claimed, "Once they found a good place to stay, they'd stay until they had no choice but to leave." He then added, "If you saw an Angel somewhere, then it's possible you'd see them again at the same place."

"Then why couldn't I find her?"

"Because they hide from humans." He answered, "You could see them when your heart was pure. Oftentimes, kids were the ones who could see them, because their hearts were still pure." He let out an amused snort when he saw the look on his face, "I can understand why she went into hiding. You don't hide your infatuation."

The brook is still the same as he remembers. With flowering walls and waterfalls. His heart beats so loud against his ribcage, that he's afraid the Angel would hear it.

He sucks in a breath, before marching deeper into the pond.

Behind the large boulder, he sees a blinding light reflecting from the water. His eyes narrowed at the sight before him, before a figure began to form at the heart of the lights.

An Angel.

"How do you subdue them?" He asked the man, "If you can't take their veil?"

"That's easy." He replied, "Drench them with blood." He laughed when he went silent. "I didn't mean their blood or any kind of blood, but the blood of the innocent." He rummaged through his cupboard, before he pulled a jar of crimson liquid. "It's a bait for vampires, but you can use it to suppress an Angel."

He furrowed his brows, "How does that work?"

"I'm not sure myself." He scratched his chin, "But there's a theory that Angels are the protector of the innocents, so having their blood on them means they fail their duty. And if they fail their duty, well, you can guess what'd happen to them."

He feels the heat begins to pool in his groin, as he clutches on the blood jar. She's so pure, so unassuming, and he'll be the one who defiles her.

With his strong hand, he hurls the container towards her. It shatters upon contact with the rock, just an inch away from her body. She didn't have the time to react—nor make sense of the situation, as the crimson blood rained on her.

He doesn't waste any time as he runs to her, catching her by her arm. She shouts at him as she struggles, but she's become as weak as a human. It doesn't take as much effort for him to drag her to the shore.

"Stop!" She screamed when he pinned her down by the neck, "This is heresy. You can't do this."

"Should've thought twice before you kissed me." He snarls when she begins to kick her legs around, "Your kiss is a mark, isn't it? You've marked me as yours from the start."

"It was for protection." She declared with a trembling voice, "You couldn't possibly fend yourself from Fey, I had to do it to protect you."

"Don't deny it." He growled, as his grip on her tightened. "You chose me."

She whimpers when his hand locks in around her delicate neck, and she tries to push him away by his wrist. "I didn't. I never chose you."

He goes quiet for a moment, staring at her struggling form. The splatter of blood has painted her body red, staining her radiant skin with mortal essence. A perfect picture of sacrilege.

"I want to be good for you," He spoke as he shrugged the cloak off him, "But you leave me with no choice."

Her eyes widen in terror as she watches his hand descend to her stomach, before it travels down to her thigh. "No. No! Stop!" She cried out when he pried her legs open, before lodging his hips in.

"I heard an Angel can't feel pain," He sneered as he slipped his pants down, "Shall we put it to the test?"

Her scream falls to deaf ears as he rubs his cock against her tender hole, giving himself a few strokes, before pushing his member in.

"The most common method to catch an Angel is to steal their veil—or what we often call as their 'wings'." The man lifts his finger before he could interject, "But, they can always leave once they find their wings back. So it's not a reliable method."

"Then how do you keep them from running away?" He frowned.

"There are a few ways to do it, but it all boils down to the same thing." He took a drag of his cigarette, before puffing the smoke out of his mouth. "Make them commit a sin."

He throws his head to the back, eyes roll up as he lets out a loud groan. Her hole is tighter than normal humans, but the friction of her walls sends him into a delirium state. He almost slips into blackness, if not for the flailing legs against his shoulders.

"Scheiße." He hissed as he thrust himself into her, "You feel like Heaven."

She lets out a broken sob, as her face contorted with pain. "Please—" She begged, "You're hurting me."

"Am I?" He drank the sight of her, before he slipped his hand between her folds, "I'll make you feel good."

There's a bump right above her stretched hole, and the protruding lump feels like a little pearl on his thumb. And when he strokes it, it begins to throb against his fingertip.

"Once they're close to falling, their halo will be visible to human's eye. When that happens, you should pull it off their head."

A flash of light goes off in front of him, and he shuts his eyes from the bright blaze. It flares for a few seconds, before a ring of light materializes above her crown.

He stares at it with fascination and awe, and his grip begins to loosen up from her neck.

She gasps when he touches her halo, before his fingers wrap around the ring.

There's a hard resistance when he tugs on the halo, as if it's bound to a strong magnet. Her hands shoot up to grab his wrist, clutching onto him with a painful grimace on her face.

A doubt crosses his mind when the divine ring wouldn't come off of her, no matter how hard he pulls it. But with every slam of his hips, her halo begins to budge slightly.

"Because once they lose their halo,"

He presses his lips against her ear—whispering filthy things, while he rubs her clit mercilessly.

"Give in." He growled into her ear, "Give in to sin."

"N-no—"

"You have no choice." He retorted, as he pounded his cock into her harder, "Give in to me."

"They can't go back to Heaven."

She screams, as her halo starts to bend.

"No, no, no—! Stop this madness! Please—"

"It's too late." His lips curled into a cruel smile, "You're not going back."

Her walls begin to pulsate, and he feels a cold rapture creep up along his spine. He groans as she squeezes around him, sucking his cock deeper into her. Tears start to wet her cheeks, and he bends down to catch them with his tongue.

A wretched cry echoes through the forest, as the halo slips away from its anchor. He loses his balance, as it crumbles into dust the moment it leaves her crown, while the rest of it flies away with the wind.

Her body trembles from both shock and worldly pleasure, and a sharp moan leaves his mouth when her walls clamp onto his cock. Shoving him into a state of bliss, as he fills her up with his seeds. The foreign sense of fullness causes her body to curl up, and she covers her face as she begins to sob.

He doesn't let her mourn, since her loss is a blessing for him. He laps her cheek, tasting the saccharine drops that escape her eye. Even when her glow has fading, she still feels as heavenly as before.

"At last," He grinned, as he felt his cock throbbed at the thoughts of the future. "You're finally mine."

[coraniaid]

There are a couple of references to the events of the show's previous Halloween episode -- the creatively titled Halloween -- in Season 4's Fear Itself.

Early on in the episode, Buffy reminds Giles -- and the audience -- of the time that "we were all caught off guard when Ethan turned everyone into their costumes." Later Xander dresses up as James Bond, and justifies this choice as: "Insurance, you know, in case we get turned into our costumes again". Neither Buffy nor Xander clarify exactly when this all happened, but the implication -- especially, I think, of the second quote -- is that this is the first time since Halloween that the gang have all gotten dressed up in costumes.

As a casual viewer of the show, you'd be forgiven for thinking that the events of Halloween happened a year earlier. Only ... they didn't, did they? Halloween was a Season 2 episode. If Xander was inspired by that episode to dress up as something he'd want to turn into, then either he used the same approach to picking a costume for Halloween in his last year of high school (in which case why is Buffy surprised that he's doing it again?) or, for some reason, it's only two years later that he's started to worry about Ethan showing up again (and ... why?).

Now, the real reason for this is ... well, there wasn't a Halloween episode last year at all. This is the first time the show has gone back to that particular well. We have to see how the events of that episode have changed how the Scooby Gang approach Halloween this episode because we didn't have the chance to see anything like it in Season 3.

But the most satisyfing in-universe explanation, I think, and one that seems to be more or less compliant with everything we see on screen, is that some time in Season 3, in an adventure that never made it to the television screen -- probably sometime between Beauty and the Beasts and Homecoming, almost certainly before Band Candy -- Ethan Rayne came back to Sunnydale and turned everyone into their Halloween costumes a second time.

No wonder Xander is looking for insurance this time around.

[melonthesprigatito]

So I found out in a Pokémon Masters OST comments section of all places that Atticus shows up as a special vendor in the auction market in Porto Marinada, and the things he sells are clothing items that are easter eggs from past games. The thing I find weird about it is that Atticus himself says that he "took inspiration" from clothing items to make replicas of them to sell. Which is fine except for the fact that there are some items he should have NO WAY OF KNOWING IT EXISTS.

So for funsies I'm ranking all of Atticus's auction items by how likely it is that he and the average Pokémon citizen would be aware of the existence of the things they're replicas of

Ball Guy Helmet: 10/10

Literally a famous sports mascot. Maybe if you weren't into battles you'd be unfamiliar with him but I bet if you typed Pokémon League Galar into PokéGoogle, he'd show up everywhere. There's merch of him too. Cursed, cursed merch. Plus, Penny is from Galar so she most likely told Atticus about the Ball Guy.

Replica Leader Bag: 9/10

More obscure than the Ball Guy, but again. Penny is from Galar, she probably informed Atticus about it. Marnie is the Dark Type Gym Leader at this point. Penny knows about Marnie as much as Paldea trainers know about their Gym Leaders, especially if Atticus decided to look for any neat styles he could copy from them.

Replica Dragon Gloves: 8/10

I fully blame Giacomo for this one. Had to Google Ryuki myself because I'm not familiar with his lore, but apparently he's a famous rock guitarist. Giacomo literally wrote the background music for Team Star, I bet he knows his musicians. I can 110% picture him running up to Atticus like "DUDE DUDE YOU GOTTA MAKE THIS"

Replica Expansion Suit Helmet: 7/10

Ranks surprisingly high considering that nobody in the Pokémon fandom knows what this it because 90% of players dont know that X and Y has a post game story, but assuming Scarlet and Violet takes place a few years after X and Y's post game, Emma has probably been working as Essentia for a few years at this point. A superhero working in the capital city of the region next door to Paldea is probably gonna be recognisable

Replica Aether Shoes: …..5/10???

Uhh….. Umm…. Huh????? I guess the Aether Foundation is famous… But THAT famous…? Would a guy in Spain know about an animal conservation company from Hawaii? And even if if they are that famous, I certainly don't know the kind of shoes Apple employees wear. Or Mc Donald's employees. Or literally any other multinational company. Why the shoes, Atticus? How do you know about the shoes? Why?????

Replica Aqua/ Magma Helmet: 3/10

Ok now this is just getting ridiculous. Even if everybody knew about what went down in Hoenn, I can almost guarantee that nobody knows the specifics or about SOMETHING THAT WAS SECRETLY DEVELOPED BY TEAM AQUA/MAGMA

Replica Ultra Glasses: -1000000/10

WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK

Didn't Sun and Moon's Looker postgame imply that the existence of Ultra Beasts is something that the government/ International Police has been deliberately hiding from the public????? I assume the same goes for the existence of LITERAL HUMAN ALIENS. Either someone from the Aether Foundation leaked a selfie with the Ultra Recon Squad to some obscure message board or Penny hacked the Alolan government just to give her buddy inspiration for neat clothing items he can recreate. I can't think of another explanation.

[monpalace]

ships .. (ocarina of time/majora's mask) link/reader, (linked universe) time/reader.

content .. it's only natural you search for your nephew after he enters the lost woods on a dare. you can't have a problem with the hand dealt to you when the beast who gives you shelter is so kind.

warnings .. no beta, we die like the promise i made to finish this before the summer after my junior year ended (i started this in april, it's august). i didn't know where i was going with this after a certain point and i think that's obvious. reader uses she/her pronouns. large, legal age gap (reader is in her 30's - 40's, time is a few hundred years old). less of a fic and more snippets, but it's almost 7.5k+ words. i don't think i explicitly say which link it is, so i guess it's ambiguous? nephew is named because this would be a pain to write otherwise.

notes .. prompted (not inspired!!) by beauty and the beast, but also the batb fanfic i found after my friend showed my an nsfw ao3 tag account on twitter. beelzebub / lord of the flies from fear and hunger was a huge inspo for link / time's physical description but there is leeway for how he can be envisioned. he's still large as shit though lmao. the layout of the manor was this, only because i wouldn't be able to write this without knowing.

supposedly there's gonna be a second part. supposedly.

idk. i might hate this enough to just. not.

The Lost Woods wasn't as intimidating as everyone talked it up to be.

Yes, it felt like the trees moved when you turned your back to them, and, granted, there were a few mobs of monsters that could get the jump on you if you weren't paying attention, but you had managed to get away with a few scrapes the few times it had happened.

The only thing to keep you company was the howling winds that grew in intensity and your own thoughts that were sprawling into whatever corners they could reach, but that was fine. You'd gratefully take decades-old gossip from the next town over instead of the creeping paranoia of what was behind you.

Of course, you would willingly go through this, that, and whatever else one thousand times over if it meant finding your nephew— and to keep yourself from reprimanding yourself from reprimanding the teens that had dared him out into the woods, but that was another thing.

Along your investigation, you'd found a broken trail of breadcrumbs that led to nothing when you followed them. They were torn pieces of fabric from his clothes, just big enough to be noticeable but small enough to keep himself protected from the elements.

(You'll forever be thankful that a younger your drilled the idea into his head.)

You'd long since discovered calling his name was useless. The only thing you've managed to do was draw the attention of a few wandering stalfos dressed in clothes from centuries ago.

The ones that had managed to find weapons were always the most painful to deal with.

If your determination weren't so established, you would've lost your sanity within the first day.

Food and water were no issue, you were smart enough to pack more than a week's worth of both. There were non-perishable options and several choices for your nephew when you found him; he'd no doubt have his fair share of cravings after being lost for so long.

(Three days was an eternity to you.)

Just before the sun had reached its crest in the sky, you'd realized that there were more empty clearings than trees. Wildlife had become scarce as well.

Where deers and wolves previously ran abundant, birds and squirrels that ran from the smallest of noises replaced them.

The wind had calmed, at least. It no longer wanted to push and shove you in whatever direction it pleased or steal the bag full of items you brought along. You didn't have to hug your sweater to your chest in fear of it being ripped from your arms either.

Instead, it was still.

Admittedly, the clearing gives you more paranoia than anything else.

When your mind starts to wander to places you'd rather it not reach, you begin to hum a quiet tune to yourself— your nephew's favorite— and allow it to ground you.

You were here for a reason. You wouldn't leave until you found him. You'll be fine until you find him, and you'll find some way to live in the forest that refuses to let its inhabitants go peacefully.

It's hours later when you hear the first sound of life (or suspended death) that doesn't feel like a threat— though, in hindsight, you should've been smarter and more suspicious of it when you first heard it.

A high-pitched instrument repeats each croon you let out, eventually taking over and silencing you. You follow the tune without much of a thought. If it were some sort of elaborate trap to lure you in, you couldn't be mad at yourself if you fell for it.

Clusters of trees become less and less as you follow the instrument and its recreation of your nephew's song. You call his name and are met with nothing but the music (from an ocarina, you quickly recognize) growing louder as time passes.

To say you're shocked when a large and, admittedly, well-kept manor enters your field of view would be an understatement. It's covered in vines, invasive arrowroots, and spreading flowers, but looks lived in if the smoldering smoke slowly dissipating in the afternoon air was anything to go by.

You couldn't begin to imagine who lived inside before the woods took it over (or what lived in it now). The architecture says it predates the Hero split in four, but you doubted the inhabitants of the floating sky built something so elaborate when they returned to the surface.

Your eyes jump past the crumbling pillars and dilapidated statues to the half-glass double doors that seemed to open on their own.

The music was coming from inside the manor now.

Steeling your nerves and squaring your shoulders, your hand grips tight on the strap of your satchel as you walk up the stone stairs covered in moss. You have to hold onto the guardrail installed next to it just as tight. Looking down, you find the carvings of it sorely separating it from the older antiquity of the manor.

Taking in smaller details (for future escapes or weapons against whatever lived inside, you'd figure out later), you find that the small pools of water that came from the sides of the manor and ran and fell alongside the stairs you climbed held small clumps of straw-colored fur. Some caused the surrounding water to turn into a pink hue that reminded you of fairies you've seen in childrens' books.

(Your hand reaches into the satchel to make sure you brought all of your nephew's well-loved books as well as a novel or two for yourself.)

(You did, thankfully.)

There's a smell filled with musk that permeates the air the closer you get to the manor, thick with amber and ginger and it reminds you of the times you come across a pack of wolves during your childhood.

Upon entering the manor, you find it was strongest in the wing of the manor to your right. It took over almost the entirety of your senses, but it wasn't an unwelcome or overwhelming sensation. If you paid close enough attention, you could sense the homely feeling underneath the ferality of it.

You prayed you'd be able to tell when the beast returned; if it was gone in the first place.

You take close note of how the foyer wasn't truly a foyer with how it was filled with windows rather than walls that led to a courtyard and how the only way to enter the wings of the manor was the winded stairs that connected via the terrace.

You don't fail to notice how the wing coated in the musky scent is coated entirely in shadows despite all the sources of light.

You couldn't decide if you were thankful or filled with loathing at the idea of what roamed on that side of the manor.

It's a struggle to turn your eyes away from the darkened wing of the manor, but you do manage when the music picks up once more from the left wing. It's significantly brighter and doesn't fill you with a sense of dread as the right one does.

Trap be damned, your nephew was here, you knew it— you felt it.

Reaching the top of the stairs, you find that you're inside a parlor room that leads to three other pathways. One was a library, another was a dining room, and the last was a small hallway.

In any other situation, you'd explore some more. The supposed beast that possibly lived in the manor kept everything in better shape than what you'd expect— or hopefully it was the forest spirits that lived throughout the forest.

Hopefully, those same spirits kept your nephew safe.

You have to close your eyes to better determine where the music is coming from, the only thing you can hear beside it and your own breathing being the manor settling. Your ears guide you inside the hall and you find it branches into a corridor, a bathroom, and two bedrooms.

Common sense seems to leave you when you spot the back of your nephew's head. Your breath quickens as you watch him clap along with the ocarina, you force your eyes to keep their clarity when you hear him hum each note just as you remember.

"''ire," you call in a weaker voice than you intended or thought you had. The nickname he claimed he hated so much tumbled from your lips so easily as you rushed inside the room, one arm rushing to remove your satchel while the other reached out to almost check if he was real.

The Lost Woods were known for their tricks, after all.

When he turns to face you, he's scrambling over himself in the bed. You're able to see how he limps on his right ankle and knee, how the entirety of his limbs were wrapped in bandage wrap as though done by a child. There was no blood, so you hold off on checking him over.

(The bandages were stained, thankfully not with blood. It was mostly dust and grime.)

(You'd have to sanitize whatever was wrong.)

You meet him more than halfway when you catch the way he winces and hisses with each movement.

"Auntie— Auntie— Titi!" His voice is airy as he speaks, emotion causing his words to come out as chokes. His arms reciprocated the tight hug you had on him, forcibly keeping his arms from trembling due to either nerves or injuries. "Titi, Titi, Titi!"

The way he says the word makes him sound like some chittering bug. If you listened hard enough, you could tell how his teeth clattered together, but you couldn't decipher if it was from a chill or emotion.

All you wanted to do was keep his head against the crook of your shoulder and neck while you pressed kisses to the crown of his head and kept him as close to you as you could, but you knew better.

Pulling away, you reach back for the satchel that you previously discarded. "What's wrong? What happened?" You force your voice to even out when you speak, hands already reaching for his arms after you sit the bag against your hip.

He shakes his head, but you've known him long enough to know there was something wrong. "They're from when I first went in the forest," he answers, voice quivering. "It's all healed. I think."

He doesn't push your hands away or pull his arms back when you skillfully unravel the bandages, carefully pulling and prodding the scars that littered the skin, and he was telling the truth despite the coloring.

"Did you forage like I taught you? Why are most of them green?"

"The spirits."

"The spirits?"

"And the soldier." He looks over your shoulder as though searching for their figures. "I haven't seen him yet, though."

Your eyes squint as one of your hands rubs over the strange texture of the scar, the other reaching for the antiseptic and clean fabric in your bag. "Are these spirits children or small trees with masks?"

You'd heard of both in legend. No one's ever seen them.

You're not sure which you'd rather watch over your nephew.

His eyes drift to his side before peering back over your shoulder once again. His brows furrow as he thinks of how to answer, head tilting as his pupils dilate.

"Both," he answers, "and ones that look like scarecrows. I asked them to bring you."

You force your gaze to keep itself on your nephew. You wouldn't let it wander to spirits you couldn't even see. "The ocarina?" You instead ask another question jumping around your mind, sucking your tongue in appreciation when he nods. "Smart boy."

An airy laugh leaves him, his face lighting up with a smile. "Learned from the best," he snorts.

You risk pressing kisses to the apples of his cheeks and forehead at his flattery, hands cupping themselves on the nape of his neck to bring him closer.

A younger him would push you away without a second thought, whining on about how you were embarrassing him in front of his friends.

He lets you do so now regardless of the spirits that surround you both.

"What've you been eating?" Your hands drop to his biceps when you pull away. They weren't thin like you'd expect them to be after three days in the forest; they were fatter than they had been before he left. "Who's been feeding you?"

His answer of "the Soldier," is quicker than you would've liked. "He goes out and hunts. He always brings back meat. I think it's deer.. it tastes.. bland."

"He.. cooks it, right?"

Another laugh wracks through your nephew's body. He knows you're only being cautious, but he can't help it.

"All the way through," he hums, flexing his arms when they start feeling stiff. "I think I don't like it because it's not your cooking."

He knows what your response is going to be before he finishes speaking, years of having lived under your guidance making him attuned to the smallest of your movements.

When your expression shifts from being relieved to disappointment with a twitch of your eye, he can tell you're not pleased with his statement.

Dousing the fabric in the antiseptic, you take his arm in your hand and begin wiping it down. "Don't be rude." Your voice takes on a less-than-pleased rasp, speaking lowly as if you knew the Soldier was near; but you still apologize when the sting sets in. "Have you thanked him?"

(You're sure you would continue to speak quietly regardless of the context of the conversation. You didn't want to risk "the Soldier," doing anything unfavorable.)

(Your nephew's words of praise did little to ease your stressed heart.)

"I never know when he's here. He drops the food off while I'm asleep. He brings books and carvings too." He watches as you wrap his arm in another roll of (cleaner) bandages, undoing the old one on his other arm while you prepare another piece of fabric. "The Spirits say I'm the most excitement he's had in a while, so he doesn't mind."

His voice was beginning to grow hoarse from speaking so quietly. You tap his throat to tell him to relax.

"They say he's nice," he continues, doing as told. Tapping the fingers of his now free hand against your shin, he tries to recall what all they've told him.

"I think they said he used to live in another part of the woods when he was a kid?—" His eyes glance back over your shoulder, suddenly becoming sure of himself. "— Ah. They did. They said he left and came back when he was older."

You raise a brow but don't speak your question.

Your nephew takes hold of your retreating hands in both of his.

A clatter and snippy huff outside the bedroom door rouses you from your light sleep.

Nearing a week into your stay at the manor, you'd think you'd be more accustomed to the noise, but you aren't.

You carefully remove your nephew's head from your arm, using even more caution when trying to remove the conjoined weight of several spirits from your legs as you slip out of the bed.

It's hard, but you manage to do so without waking any of them— you hope.

(You still couldn't see any of the Spirits, but over time you could feel when they crowded around you and when the wind moved as they rushed past you.)

The floorboards creak beneath your feet.

You hear the sound of claws scratching against the floor on the other side of the door.

Pressing the crown of your head against the door, you tap your fingers along the handle to give the Soldier a warning and wait a few moments.

If you listened hard enough, you swear you could hear him scurrying into one of the other rooms before he shut the door behind him.

It reminded you of a dog.

Smiling to yourself, you're careful opening the door, keeping your head to it and your eyes on the floor. You turn to the other side of it to close it, waiting for the click of the lockset to speak.

"Are you decent?"

His confused "huh," sounds more akin to a gasp than any other noise.

You rap your fingers against the handle again. "Can I look up?"

"Oh—" he sounds choked. "Yeah— Yes. Yes. You can. Sorry."

"Thank you," you hum, leaning down to pick up the tray of food. It consisted of almost entirely meat with a few vegetables you figure are exclusive to the woods. "For both the food and taking care of my nephew."

There was a thumping noise behind the door, the frequency of it was like a tail beating excitedly.

The Soldier lets out a croaking noise and you know his mouth started moving before his mind was able to catch up. "No, I should thank you for looking for him— and for telling him not to use his name."

You let out an airy laugh. "It's common knowledge where I'm from. I wouldn't be a good parental figure if I didn't."

Another noise leaves the Soldier as you fix yourself to open the door. You can't discern what this one means. "I don't know when they started calling me the Soldier, but it's not— uhm.. A favorite.. of mine."

"Oh?"

"Soldier," he sounds more confident in himself and you don't have the heart to tell him you heard him the first time, "it's a nickname. I don't know where the kids got it, but I don't like it."

Readjusting the tray to rest against your hip and forearm rather than in both your hands, you hum curiously. "So what should we be calling you?"

He pauses longer than you'd think it'd take to remember your own name, but you wait.

"Link."

"Link?"

"Yes."

"Like in a chain?"

".. Yes."

You nod even though you're sure he can't see you. "I'll be sure to tell 'ire."

"Thank you." There's more thumping from behind the door.

"And thank you."

There's another noise from Link you struggle to understand, but you figure it's because he starves for conversation. "I heard what your nephew said about the food, too. I'll try to find something to flavor it with next time I'm out."

"Thank you," you repeat. Your eyes curve with your smile. "He'll greatly appreciate it."

Link raps his fingers against the door in response, but he doesn't say anything. You take that as your queue to reenter the bedroom.

"How come your side of the house is always dark?"

You gently pinch your nephew's elbow and he swats your hand away, leaning impossibly close to the door that separates him and Link.

There are a few moments of silence from the man that 'ire filled with bated breath. Link takes an audible, steadying breath before knocking what you think is his nail against the door.

"I wouldn't want to scare you both off."

It was an answer you expected, but you were disappointed nonetheless.

"Boo," your nephew groans. You're sure Link could hear the pout in his voice if the quiet chuckle he lets out was anything to go by. "You can't be worse than what I've seen out there."

There's genuine intrigue in the noise Link lets out. "Oh? What exactly have you seen then?"

Pure excitement fills your nephew's expression when he turns to look at you from over his shoulder. His fingers tap against the floor restlessly, tongue already listing off whatever monsters he's encountered (read: come up with) in his twelve years of life.

"— but their teeth are the worst! They're poisonous and there isn't a cure for it!"

You have no clue as to what creature he was talking of now. There were at least fifteen of them who injected poison through their teeth, eight of which had no cure.

(You don't have to strain as hard to see the Spirits as you did two weeks ago. The shadows and light shift around then as they move to sit around your nephew, seemingly hooked on your nephew's every word.)

(You remember when he would crowd himself around you similarly whenever you would tell him a story.)

You close the book that sat in your lap more for decoration than entertainment at that point and place a hand over your heart.

"I drew a lot of them too! My aunt brought them with her!" He pushes himself through the motions of standing up before immediately stopping and returning to his seat in front of the door. "I'll show them to you if you eat dinner with us!"

There are a few stammering noises from the other side of the door and yet you can't bring yourself to apologize for your nephew's bargaining.

Your own curiosity was quickly starting to get the better of you against your wishes.

The noise he had made several nights before makes itself heard again. His claws (you discovered those a few nights ago) scratch against the wooden flooring as he moves to sit against the other wall rather than the door, his voice moving with him.

"I don't want to— I wouldn't want— want to disturb you— either of you." His words are muffled by the door and his growing quietness, a  regretful lilt stuck in his throat. "But thank you for the offer."

If he truly didn't want to join you and your nephew (and the spirits) for dinner, he was terrible at showing it.

"I know I wouldn't mind," you hum, standing to put away the book. A loud thumping makes the floor vibrate and 'ire has to stifle a laugh. "I wouldn't mind picking up a pot and pan again either."

"No!" Link quickly apologizes for his tone after realizing his outburst. "You don't have to. I wouldn't be a good host if I made you do that."

"Are you scared I'll poison you?"

Your nephew's voice drops to a whisper he swears you won't be able to hear. "She can't. She's the best cook ever."

You're not sure how the two correlate, but you'd take thew compliment.

"She won't?" Link's voice drops to entertain your nephew despite his earlier convictions. It takes on a playful direction, fur rubbing against the wood-tiled floors in excitement (based on prior interactions). "You've never gotten sick? Not once?"

'ire begins to shake his head but quickly stops. "Only from eating too much— which you will do, by the way. Best cook around," he reiterates.

Link chuckles, tapping his fingers against the floor restlessly. It takes him a moment to come up with something to say and neither of you push him to hurry.

You were both too hooked on his every word to do so anyway.

"I'll.." He's shy for all the attention. You wonder when the last time he got so much focus on him outside of the spirits. ".. I'll be sure to think about your offer. Why don't you tell me about a few of your monsters so I have more of an incentive?"

Your nephew jumps on the opportunity while you think over the plethora of recipes in your mind.

It wasn't rare for one of the imps to accompany you outside when you went foraging.

You never strayed too far from the manor— the last time you had been dragged outside of the area you had designated for yourself (and your nephew) by the children, Link had to come and rescue to lot of you before the sun had gotten too low.

Suffice to say, it was a rather humbling experience.

Kneeling, squatting, or sitting on the ground had never been easy on your knees or back, but the grass below you had felt as though it were a pillow hailing from the Heavens itself.

Your body works on picking herbs from the ground before placing them in your bag repurposed for your (new) everyday tasks while your mind wanders elsewhere.

You're humming to yourself when a twig snapping breaks your focus.

It was a nice reminder that the imps hadn't, in fact, accompanied you that day.

Your head lifts to survey the surrounding woods. Your entire body was still, mimicking a deer caught on a hunting trip.

There was nothing immediately in your line of sight that could be seen as a threat, but you had lived a long enough life to know that wasn't enough reason to let your guard down.

You're slow to rise to your feet and your ears are strained as you listen for whatever had made the noise.

"I'm sorry!"

You can feel your body relax when you hear Link's voice call out from behind a tree. You sink back to your knees without much thought, clutching the fabric of your top to calm your battering heart.

You weren't sure what you were going to do if it were an actual danger anyway.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he continues. His arms move and you can see one drop against the side of a tree while the other tightens around the corpse of an animal. "You were so still, I wasn't sure if you were okay."

A quiet, breathless noise leaves you. You're not sure if he could hear it, but you can see his shoulders relax when you do. "You're— You're fine! I just.. didn't know that you'd be out and about at this time."

When the hand not occupied with that week's dinner (barely) lifts to grab ahold of a tree branch, you're shocked to just now find out how tall he is.

"It's not your fault. I didn't know you were out here," he grunts while gently tugging at the branch. "Are you alone?"

Your eyes drop to the flora that surrounds you to not feel so invasive. Your fingers rub against the blades of grass idly when a restless feeling overtakes you. "A few of the kids said they'd join me later, but I'm not too sure when that's supposed to be." A short, genuine laugh leaves you. "I wouldn't be surprised if they forgot."

Link lets out his own, quiet laughter that you can only clue together when you see the entire tree shake in your peripheral. "I wouldn't take it to heart. They say they'll join me in hunting all the time but never do."

"Have you ever given them a stern talking to? I've heard that usually works with spirits."

"They barely listen to me as is. I think you'd have more luck than me."

"Is that an offer?"

"Are you headed home now?"

A strange vice tightens around your heart at his wording while you look through your bag. "Mhm," you hum, standing now that your legs aren't like that of a newborn. "You'll have to remind me of the way, though."

"I can guide you," he hums in reply. "You just can't look back."

Turning your back to him, you're surprised you don't jump when a sharp claw gives a ghostly touch to the center of your back.

You're shocked that you disregard the urge to check over your shoulder every step back to the manor.

You were no stranger to 'ire's night terrors.

They'd gotten better over the past few years as he aged, but all that progress had been undone during the near month you'd been in the forest.

Wiping away the tears that had managed to slip out, you ignore the prickly and uncomfortable feeling that comes with keeping your lulling head up so you can watch him.

You'd done it a thousand times before and would do it one thousand and one more if it meant he felt better.

You don't miss how his grip on your arm tightens when you start humming his favorite song. Your hand trails up to his hairline, nails (claws?) tracing the paint on his face that refused to fade.

You'd spent so long trying to scrub them and the green marks off, you hadn't even realized his skin had started to pale into a sickly grey in patches while darkening into (what looked like) a necrotic black in others.

You didn't even want to think about the changes that had started coming to your body.

You were, however, thankful you weren't thinning into a stalfos.

"You're not as sneaky as you'd like to think."

"How'd you know?"

"I have a young nephew. You learn quickly."

A brief laugh leaves Link from behind the cracked door. Though you didn't face him, you could see the way his eyes illuminated the wall in front of you, even managed to catch on some of 'ire's face.

It was a pretty blue color.

You don't comment on it.

"What's wrong?" Your voice has a deep rasp to it, your hand continuing to stroke your nephew's face even after he begins to calm down.

He'd slowly begun dropping more and more barriers (physical and mental) when it came to communicating with you both, having taken up shadows in their stead. He had gotten more confident in conversation as well, stammering and stuttering less the longer your nephew forced him to talk.

It makes you wonder how long it'd take for him to finally make true on those dinner plans.

"I heard him," Link hums just as quietly, the glow of his eyes moving to instead look over the sleeping spirits that crowded themselves around the space not occupied on the bed. "I was worried. Do you want help with them?"

A soft laugh leaves you when one of the imps buries their head onto your calf as though it were a pillow. "They've been like this since we first got here. 'ire," you press a kiss to his forehead when he rouses, waiting for him to settle before speaking again, "says they like to cling."

"You don't mind?"

"He's not too far off from them nowadays."

"Does he miss anything?"

Laying on your back, you being 'ire's head to rest against your shoulder. Your gaze is finally able to see how he'd take up all of the doorway (and then some) through the crack of the door.

You'd be shocked he hadn't flinched away if it hadn't been for the way his hand reached out to clasp it.

The tips of his fingers reached well past the frame of the door, his claws further, and you could only imagine just how much space he was taking up in the small hallway.

You were confident he could fit five or six of you in his hand without trying.

Your eyes jump back to the three (possibly four?) eyes before he can become self-conscious.

"Almost everything," you answer after pulling yourself from your thoughts. "His clothes, his dolls.. He could go without his friends, though."

His eyes jump from your face to the window as he huffs out a nervous laugh. It makes you wonder if he knows something you don't, but you don't push. "And you?"

"Hmm?"

"And yourself," he clarifies, "what do you miss?"

You're silent.

What exactly did you miss?

The feeling of your village's grass between your toes after the rain, the baker's treats that no other could replicate, being a part of such a tight-knit community, the sun after a particularly muggy morning—

There wasn't any need to be a sap.

"I'm not sure," you finally say after a long period of silence. You hadn't realized your eyes had left Link, yet when you force your gaze back to him, he holds it without issue. "I struggled with becoming attached to things unlike 'ire."

"Hm."

"What?"

"I can't remember the last time someone said something like that."

"You have visitors like us often?"

"More than you'd think."

"And what's become of them?"

The glow of his eyes drops to the sleeping spirits that litter before looking to the window again and you quickly understand.

The hum that leaves your throat is more lackluster than you intended it to be, but given how quickly the topic had changed, you give yourself the grace.

"Well," you start after clearing your throat, "what's something that you miss?"

The manor creaks when Link leans against a wall and his confidence in the movement tells you more than you'd expected.

You don't think you'd ever have the same amount of trust he held in it.

There's a playful tone in his voice when he speaks, one of his hands raised to scratch against his chin. "You'd have to promise not to be dramatic when I say."

"Is it my fault you use such outdated terms thousands of years behind my time?"

Link turns away to stifle his laughter, shrouding the room in darkness and forcing your eyes to strain with it.

"I can't say I've had the easiest experience understanding you or your nephew's sayings," he hums, drowning you in the light of his eye when he turns back, "the kids have to keep filling me in."

"Shame, and here I thought you'd been closer to my age. Have you been leading me on this entire time?"

Link's claws knock against the wall, his tail wagging against the floor while he huffs his amusement. "Have I? When I don't even know your name?"

If the weight of 'ire wasn't on your shoulder, you're sure you would've had a physical reaction of some sort.

"It'd do you good to not forget it," he hums, the movement of his tail slowing until it stops entirely. "Titi and Auntie, as much as I hate to say it, won't do much good."

Another lackluster noise leaves you as the arm trapped underneath your nephew lifts to rub your thumb during his forehead. "How fun."

"The kids are too attached to do anything now." The door slowly creaks open before stopping. It shuts so there's only a crack instead. "You'll be fine to share your name now."

"You never answered my question."

"Which one?"

"I haven't asked a lot," you huff before taking a softer tone, eyes rolling closed. "What is it that you miss?"

Link quietly snorts, muffling it by pressing his face to the door. He takes a steadying breath before saying a quiet, "a lot, I suppose. I can't name just a few things." A low noise leaves him, it's similar to a growl. "My friends? Playing music as well— my hands aren't good for much but skewering these days. My horse, Epona, too. She was the prettiest mare."

"Is she red with a white mane?"

"You saw the kids' drawings?"

"I've seen her before, I think— or maybe it was a hallucination?" The hand stroking 'ire's forehead stops as you scrounge your memories. "When I saw her outside the forest, I knew it was real. Another fated hero was mounting her."

You'd like to think yourself a master of figuring out what each noise he makes is meant to mean, but the one Link lets out once you finish speaking is short and of a higher pitch than normal.

When he begins to stammer over his words as he had when you first interacted with him, it feels like years' worth of progress has been undone.

"I— uhm— You— I don't— err— Thank—"

His tail thumps three times before he knocks his head against the door with a heavy groan. He lets out a quiet "Hylia, be damned," you couldn't help but think he hoped you wouldn't hear to go along with his frustration.

"It's been a long night," you finally prompt. "You'd best get some shut-eye before 'ire bombards you with more from his imagination, yeah?"

"Yeah," Link answers in a weak voice. "Yeah," he repeats to himself more than anything, "of course. Good night," he steps away from the door. "Sleep well."

"Same for you."

The night Link finally takes you and 'ire up on your offer for dinner, your nephew and the spirits had taken to floating around the east wing's dining room to prepare it for such a grand event.

"Titi, titi!" One of the Kokiri exclaims, tugging at the fabric of your skirt (that Link had made out of a spare bedsheet). Her voice had a strange echo to it— all of them, really— and had given you migraines up until you'd finally become accustomed to it. "'ire says that you'll make your world-famous pudding! Will you? Will you?"

You ignore her exaggeration in favor of forcing yourself to wrench your eyes away unless you wanted her puppy dog face to work on you. "Should I? I.. I can't say any of you have been acting well enough to deserve it.."

Even in your peripheral, it's not hard to miss the absolutely crushed look on her face. Her eyes were wide and her bottom lip wobbling like she was about to cry despite your joking tone.

"But why—y," she whines, dragging the last syllable on while hiccuping on her breath as she went on. You know the tears pooling in her eyes are just as fake as your rejection of her request— but you know just as well who'll win the battle at the end of the day.

"I—" hiccup. "Want—" hiccup. "Cake—" hiccup.

You raise a brow. "Pudding or cake, sweetheart? I can't make both."

The girl begins to climb your back while you return to sautéing the vegetables, arms wrapping around your neck so she can press her cheek against yours. "Cake! No, pudding! No! Cake! No—"

"I'll tell you what," you interrupt, taking the pan from over the open flame once the food is charred to your liking. Your skin thanks you when you step away and douse the fire, the arid air leaving through the open window. "Why don't you ask a few of the others which they want then we can try and get Link to bake it after dinner?"

The girl jumps off your back with stars practically filling her eyes. She cries out for several names while she runs off, hands clapping excitedly as she shouts out the change in plans.

You're left in peace until your nephew enters with his journals clutched between his arms, bouncing between his feet while he watches you finish plating each food item on dishes you could only dream of owning where you're from.

"D'you think he'll come?" 'ire's voice is low, almost as though scared Link will hear. You know he does if the night of his nightmares a few months ago were anything to go by— but he didn't need to know that.

"He'd better," you answer in an equally low tone. "I didn't spend so long slaving away at this just for him not to."

"Is that a threat?"

The plates in your hands aren't spared by the flinch that wracks through your body. Your reflexes are quick to catch them before any of the food can hit the floor.

'ire, on the other hand, has no issue with voicing his shock in the form of a scream, scurrying from the doorway while dropping his journals. He jumps behind you, hands clutching the fabric of your skirt while he hides himself behind your hip.

"Well?"

Placing a hand over your racing heart after putting the plates down, your other hand comes down to rest on 'ire's head. "It's rude to sneak up on people, you know."

The blond fur of his chest rustles with his laughter. It was difficult to see much else other than that, what with the way he hid himself behind the wall connecting the kitchen to the pantry.

You hadn't even heard his footsteps or creaking floorboards when he first approached. Had he been there the entire time and 'ire hadn't seen him, or had he only walked in after 'ire entered?

You wondered if he was naturally quiet or if he just learned which floorboards were loose.

"Is it sneaking when you were expecting me?" Link's voice is lighter than it usually is, a slight tremble could even be heard if you focused on it enough. He rocks on his feet and briefly leans forward, a less organic-looking side profile coming into view before leaving right after. "If I knew I would be this unwelcomed, I—"

"That's a joke, right?" 'ire stomps away from your side while he speaks, stepping over his discarded compilations of works to stare up at Link with wide eyes. Your nephew ignores the way Link's hands raise to cover his face and how he backs away as soon as he pivots in his foot to face him. "You're not actually gonna pansy out, right?"

Your feet lead you to the two before you can have much of a thought. "Zaire," you say in a terse voice, taking hold of his shoulder and bringing him against your front so you can stop him from interrogating the poor man. "Don't be rude."                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Whatever argument he has dies on his tongue when he takes a good, long look at Link. His mouth gaped open like a fish, one of his fingers lifting so he could push it into the fur of his stomach, watching the skin beneath sink with the force of it as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Woah."

If you had any less sense of dignity, you'd let yourself have the same reaction.

"Don't be rude," you reiterate, pushing Zaire's hand down until it finally reaches its rightful place at his side.

"No," Link breathes into his palms, clearing his voice to try and rid it of the anxiety (and, possibly, humiliation). "He's— he's fine. This wouldn't be the first time someone responded like that. I'd be more concerned if he did any other way."

Zaire shrugs your hands from your shoulders, stepping until he is toe-to-claw with Link. "Then why are you hiding your face? It can't be that bad," he says, tugging at the fur of Link's elbows, rubbing them between his fingers so he could better be accustomed to the texture.

Spreading his fingers enough so you both could see the four holes in the inorganic material, Link lets out another heavy breath. "I'm self-conscious," he can tell the answer doesn't please Zaire and continues speaking, "It's been.. too long.. since I've shown anyone either of my faces."

"A mask is.." Your voice falters off when you finally find the words to speak, losing them again when you fail to find a proper way to articulate your thoughts.

"It's mostly you and the kids, no?" You try again when you figure out a way to better word it. "Is a mask not.. Is it.. necessary?"

When the blue light that emits from his eyes lifts to look at you, an unidentifiable emotion shoots through you. He holds your gaze for a few, silent moments before turning his head and dropping his hands.

"It's like a second skin," he simply offers.

"Sad," Zaire sighs, backing away and turning until he stood in the center of the kitchen. "Can you still eat with it? Like I said, Auntie is the best cook in all the realms and you have to taste it to believe it."

Curse your nephew's skill of lightening a mood.

Rather than let his insecurities keep him from looking at either of you for the duration of the night, Link looks down at Zaire with a playful jolt of his shoulders. "It's not fused with my face."

Zaire's eyes curl into crescents while he grabs two of the plates from the counter. "Good!" His tail (a terrifying new addition when he first started changing) wraps around the third dish, walking himself past the two of you in the pantry so he could place each one on the dining table. "You'll love this then! Auntie," you don't miss the way he adds your name causally, "always makes this on a big day!"

Link repeats your name under his breath before doing the same with Zaire's. He lets out a thoughtful nod as each one rolls off his tongue, one pair of eyes looking at you while the other continues to follow your nephew.

He wrings his hands together when he catches the way you examined him oh-so-carefully, arms crossed with your head tilted.

"It's nice," he gulps as though every inch of nervousness had reentered his body. "It's a nice name. I like it. It suits you."

You don't know if you were teasing him prior, but you decide to do so now.

"I'd hope so." You pat a hand against his arm as you walk into the kitchen, ignoring the oily feel of his fur. You ignore the feeling of him watching and instead focus on searching through the cupboards for the drink you had foraged around to make just days before. "I could say the exact same for you, thankfully."

"Now, why don't you have a seat so I can play host this time?"

[cometcon]

I uh... I did it again. XD My brain has been going brrrr over this fucking GORGEOUS artwork by @zunkome2 on Xitter (click the view on Twitter button to see their art) and it inspired me to write fanfic of it. I love this art so fucking much!!!! I hope I can keep practicing and be as good as them one day. :D

So yeah, I could not stop thinking about this and I love that Blitz is canonically such a horse-girl, and I can totally see Striker realising and using that to his advantage in trying to draw Blitz in and hopefully get him on his side.

Anyway, my brain decided it was time to take like 5 hours of my day on and off making me try to write this to the best of my current ability. Enjoy. XD

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

Blitz was in Heaven.

An ironic descriptor, considering their actual location, but picking a better one would have been impossible right then; especially with a hellhorse nuzzling his chest ever so gently in search of another rawhide strip. Her mouth may have appeared vicious - and technically yes, that Lovecraftian maw was capable of crushing flesh and bone to mush in a single bite - but the non-business parts were also far softer to the touch than anyone less familiar with the creatures might expect.

"Sorry. I'm all out," he murmured regretfully, giving the beautiful beast a scratch on her forehead as she shoved her muzzle into his other hand. He had to take a small step backward however when she suddenly whipped her head up and to the side with a greeting whinny. Strange. What was that abou-

"Lot of others would've lost a limb for that." The unexpected voice made Blitz tense, tail shooting straight out behind him in surprise before curling tightly, an embarrassed flush rising to his cheeks. He peered around the hellhorse's neck, praying his mortification wouldn't be obvious to the cowboy now leaning against his mount's side. How the fuck had he arrived without him noticing? Striker plucked the wheat stalk from between his teeth and smirked. "She likes you."

Blitz coughed awkwardly and began backing away, mind and mouth both rapidly trying and failing to come up with a believable excuse for his actions. "I was just- uh… I was looking for… We had them at the circus, see, and I thought maybe- Strips are really good for their teeth, you kn- I mean of course you'd know that! I just-" Striker's eyebrows had been climbing steadily higher beneath the brim of his hat the longer Blitz waffled on, and in desperation he found himself resorting to a ridiculous escape route he hadn't used since he was nine years old. "Ah, I think I hear Luna calling me! Coming Loonie!" 

He skittered across the corral and clambered over the fence, cheeks burning hot as he cursed himself silently. Why had he turned into such a blathering idiot in front of the one person he'd actually hoped to impress this weekend? Blitz knew a ruthless killer when he met them and Striker was clearly I.M.P material. After a pathetic show like that though, there was no way he would want to-

The ground under his boots had begun to vibrate while he fumed, faintly at first, then increasing to a thundering roll. He instinctively darted to the side and kept walking, expecting whoever it was to just barrel past him at the reckless speed they seemed to be going. But his path was abruptly cut off by a fiery grey mass, Striker expertly bringing his mount from full canter to a standstill in a cloud of dust. He swung her around to stand side-on so he could look down at the choking imp, that shit-eating grin Blitz was quickly becoming familiar with exposing a gleaming gold fang to the sunlight.

"Pretty sure your hound went bean-pickin' with the rest an hour ago," Striker commented, leaning forward to rest an arm on the pommel, free hand tapping his thigh absentmindedly, "Since you got so much free time to burn, how 'bout you come help me check the fences? Got a few posts loose on the South end thanks to that pesky varg pack last night." The hellhorse shuffled under him, pawing at the dirt and snapping her jaws a little at the mention of vargs. "Bombproof wouldn't mind catching a few either, I bet. Maybe you'll get to see her on the hunt."

"Oh, uh…" Perhaps he hadn't completely blown his chances after all? Striker certainly wasn't behaving like he thought Blitz a dithering moron, literally chasing him down to offer another opportunity to spend more time together and bond with Bombproof. What an incredible name for a hellhorse… No, focus! He could salvage this. He just had to pull himself together and show what a great prospect his group would be compared to farm work in the boonies. Preferably without turning into a rambling mess this time. He forced a nonchalant shrug. "Sure, why not?"

Striker slipped his boot free of the stirrup, hand extending in clear invitation. Blitz's brain stuttered, immediately dropping every part of his own peptalk as it dawned on him what the other had actually meant.

"What, you plannin' on walkin' there? It's miles of Wrath terrain. C'mon Blitz, I don't bite," Striker drawled, head tilting as his eyes took on a knowing glint, "Unless you ask nicely."

Well that decided it. Blitz was reaching for the proffered hand before he could second-guess himself, so caught up in his whirling thoughts Striker had to correct which foot the distracted imp tried mounting with. Blitz didn't have long to stew in his humiliation at least, preoccupied by the ease of how he was hauled into the saddle, hands directed to grip the pommel while the taller demon reached around him to grasp the reins. Striker nudged his leg out of the way, retaking the stirrup and leaving Blitz to squeeze Bombproof's sides tightly with his thighs as she responded to her rider. A moment later they were galloping down the driveway, wind whipping past their faces and her powerful form surging below them.

Blitz was wrong. His time in the corral had been a beautiful experience, but still only comparable to Earth at best. 

Now he was in Heaven. 

And he never wanted to fall.

[houseofhyde]

Hello there amazing writer 🙋🏻‍♀️! I hope you are feeling well and are finding the fandom pleasant 🤗.

I thought I'd share an idea that's been festering in my head if you'd like to give it a try (but first allow me to commend your sharply pellucid guidelines for requesting, you have seriously inspired me to refine my own 🥂)

I was thinking of something where Daemon has been chasing a noblewoman, interest kindled by her prideful rejection to become his latest muse; then one night she goes to his chamber, dejected and teary, indignantly asking for company. Then something like the beach scene from Drfitmark where he's far gentler than he thought he would be.

Thank you for hearing me out, have a lovely day 💐

but only for tonight.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader. synopsis. to most, the rogue prince is an untamable beast, with the fury of a thousand men and mind more stubborn than a mule. to you, he's a nuisance in expensive clothing, prone to run away with his tail tucked between his legs each time you reassure him you're still not interested in entertaining his company. till disaster strikes and the only corner of the keep your legs seem to carry you is his chamber doors. warnings. young!daemon (early 20s), enemies to lovers to strangers, kinda softer than usual daemon (he's young and not completely cynical yet), smut (porn with plot, p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, daemon lowkey has a praise kink, dubcon bc daemon is high on life aka the milk of the poppy). word count. 13.1k (this was only meant to be 5k max 🧍‍♂️) hyde's input. thank you so much to @nyctophilic0vitnir for your kind words, your request, and, most importantly, your patience <3 this took me far too long to write and i hope the wait was worth it for you. it pains me to age daemon down (as, personally, i'm a toxic bitch that loves to see daemon be notably older than the reader, since i feel it adds that extra layer of questionable morality to his character and his actions) but it was the only way i felt i could stay true to my personal characterisation of him whilst sticking to the original request. since i view daemon as someone hardened by things in life that only come with age (which, in turn, affects his approach to love/courting), it only felt believable to me that he'd chase after someone in his younger days. obviously not everyone has to agree since, again, this is my personal characterisation of him! i'm rambling so i'll shut up now, enjoy! read on ao3 !

between the blinding shine of the sun and the hateful looks from the ladies seated all around you, you’re shocked to the core that you’ve yet to melt away into nothingness.

the scene is as follows: an arena surrounded by crowds filled with cheering lords and fawning ladies, dressed in their finest of robes and garbs, and with their mouths opened to yell out each time sticks collide or a rider is thrown from his horse; within the arena stand two horses- one so white it offends the eyes and the other blacker than a night’s sky- and, upon their saddles, two men. the first is a man of honour, regal of house and true of heart. he sits like royalty and smiles like a dashing knight, urging his mount towards the stands, no doubt awaiting the gift of the flowered wreath you’d kept yourself awake into the small hours to make. the other man? a fool made of over-the-top armor, a glistening of dark metals and a feathered helmet that, combined with the smug look he sports, has the same effect as simply writing cunt across his forehead.

it is, to your own displeasure, that the second man is who holds his lance out to you first.

“well,” that cocky tone of voice grates you, like the screech of a crying babe, and you fight back the urge to cover your ears, if only by reminding yourself of how his crown-bearing brother is watching from his own seat amongst the crowd. “get on with it.”

“oh, my!” the women in your vicinity swoon, as if the man has just recited a poem of utmost beauty and grace in your direction.

seemingly foolish? most definitely.

but, truly foolish? not one bit, each of them strategic in their behaviour towards the unwed prince, hopeful that someday, should they work hard enough, they’ll be on the receiving end both of his affection and wealth.

you can not mock them- wholeheartedly, at least- for you would be behaving the very same were he any other prince.

“lady cantebury, if you’ll excuse me, i suddenly feel my lunch coming back up.” though you address the woman to the left of you- who, quite frankly, you’ve been ignoring for the better half of the tournament- your words and feigned smile are directed to the man of your ire.

“yes, excuse her, lady cantebitchy,” despite the prince- purposefully, you assume- misspeaking her name, she seems a little too excited that he’s taken notice of her to care. “it takes those northerners a while to adjust to eating something other than half-frozen crops. three moons south and my lady has yet to get used to it.”

“your lady?” you scoff, and quickly scowl, cursing yourself for giving him what he wants: your attention. too late now, you challenge him and lean forward against the railings. “is she with us now, this lady of yours? i should like to pay my respects to her no-doubt deceased sanity.”

“it pains me deeply when you speak so dully of yourself, my lady.” the gaul of this man! to speak such words, to mimic affectionate sentiments and pains in his heart through the clutching of his chest!

and, to make matters worse, to put on this act before the very man you’ve been courting!

the tyrell boy is smiling when your eyes finds his own, but the grip he has on the reigns of the white horse speaks true to the anger that hides beneath the petal-covered surface. you return his smile, and ignore whatever the prince mutters under his breath (something adjacent to greeting that priss of a man, with words more foul and tone heavy on the disgust).

aiming to beckon over the man who should truly receive the gift of your favour, a faint tug on the skirts of your summer’s gown derail your line of thoughts. first, you look to your left, accusing eyes looking upon lady canteburry as if to say she was the one to call for your attention. another tug has your head darting to the right, and there you see her.

the princess is small, in age and height and all else, but she makes up for what she lacks with her overgrown personality and swollen confidence. she’s merely a girl of six, yet she stands as tall as her stature allows, head tilted up to look you in the eye.

“my uncle,” little rhaenyra’s words echo for all to hear, silencing even the most brutishly rude lords as all stand to listen to her sweet voice. “he wants your favour. i think he’s just nervous and forgot to ask for it.”

the last of her words are whispered, loud enough for several women and the prince himself to hear. you shoot him a look as you both scoff over a laugh, him with indiganance and you with disbelief.

blessed be the hearts of children, too pure to know the wrongs of man.

“is that so, princess?” the girl’s nose wrinkles, a sign of her distaste towards hearing you address her by title (“i can not call you ‘nyra in public, sweet child.” you’d told her many a times, hands brushing over her pale hair or accompanying her through strolls in the gardens or helping her escape the boring hours of needle work. “you are a princess, and as one of your ladies it is my duty to address you as such.”)

the girl nods and you spy the way her hair is slowly slipping out of its braid. the actions serves as a reminder, to not just yourself but the gathered crowd of women, of the unfair yet captivating traits of the dragon-riders. fair hair, lilac eyes, unblemished skin.

he wears them differently to the rest of his house.

“listen to the child,” he speaks as if on queue, in tune with your thoughts. “she’s wiser than most her age.”

“unlike you.” you believe yourself to mutter beneath your breath.

the stifled laughter of the queen herself, aemma targaryen, tells you otherwise.

“ao jorrāelagon naejot sagon tolī sȳz, kepus!” you need to be more kind, uncle! another part of the targaryen culture you’ve grown to envy as much as you distaste: their ancestral tongue. which the princess has been improving upon with each passing day since your arrival at the capital, adding yet another person to your list of targaryens who insist on speaking it around you, with no regard to the fact you have no clue of what words they speak. if anything, the prince seems to enjoy it when you storm off, antagonised to the point of despair by his incomprehensible ramblings in his mother tongue. “iā hembar jēda kesan daor tepagon se dohaeragon ao jaelagon naejot gain se riña’s prūmia lēda.” or next time i will not give the help you wish to gain the lady’s heart with.

whatever she says, it’s enough to irritate the prince, if the roll of his eyes are anything go by.

“lykemagon, riña, iā kesan daor nārhēdegon naejot ȳdragon hen aōha bantis zaldrīzes kipagon naejot aōha kepa.” silence, child, or i will not forget to speak of your nightly dragon rides to your father. you may not speak the language, but you’re fluent in context, and so there’s no doubt in your mind that the two are exchanging threats, each wearing that signature look of stubborn challenging you’re more than certain the king grew to despise the moment he realised he’d no longer just face it from his own brother, but his precious daughter too.

when the moment passes, the princess is facing you again, sticky hands plucking upwards to grab onto whatever part of you she can reach and guide you- shove you, if she were stronger than her age allows- closer to the knight in offensive armour.

“uncle, tell the lady what you desire.” the gods were cruel when they chose to favour men over women, tearing away the chance of this poised young girl of ever ruling upon the iron throne, for not even the strongest of men- nor the most foolish, either- would dare to speak to the rogue prince in such a demanding tone.

“to be drowning in whores and wine.” you’re too slow to cover rhaenyra’s ears from the man’s offensive wording.

you suppose she’s heard far worse.

“uncle!”

“fine, fine,” a clearing of a throat, a straightening of a spine and a lunge of a jousting stick in your direction. the horse he sits upon canters a few steps closer and releases the heavy sigh you wish you could. “my lady,” there’s a point to be made with how your eyes drift anywhere but his own as he speaks such blasphemy, a silent scream that you are most definitely, not under any circumstances nor at any point in time, his lady. you’re barely a tolerant of the man! “would you do me the honour of gifting me with your favour, so that i may wear it on the handle of my lance as i shove the other end up this pretty boy’s arse?”

there’s a cacophony of laughter, prompted only after the king himself fails to contain a burst of belly-born rumbles, and then the sweet interjection of ‘nyra once more, voice whiny in a way that reminds you you’ve been cursed with your moonsblood for longer than she’s been alive- even despite your supposed late blossoming!

“kepus! konir sagon daor skorkydoso īlon kȳvanon syt ao epagon zirȳla!” uncle! that is not how we planned for you to ask her!

the prince ignores his niece, eyes spying only upon you and your unimpressed, unmoving, unchanging facial expressions. the frowning lips, the pinched brows, the disdain in your eyes are all marks of something that would- should- send any other man running for the hills, in pursuit of some other lady.

in daemon, it is the pilar of his desire.

“are you going to make me wait all evening?” the teasing smirk and the raise of an eyebrow have become the prince’s signature look around you, from the moment you’d stumbled upon him, hands tangled up the skirts of a serving girl and lips stained in the bloodied red of southern wine. “because i must admit, while i’m not against performing in front of a crowd, i’d rather hoped our first evening together would be a little more intimate than this.”

you bite the insides of your cheek with a force you hope is strong enough to rid you of that grating feeling roused by none other than your greatest enemy: the prince.

by all means, you want to deny him, send him off to pester some other lady for her favour- of which you’re sure he’ll stumble upon an abudance of them who receive him more willingly than you. the crown of pointed thorns and decaying petals and twisted vines is one you’d intended to gift to the rose boy, not the dragon prince.

yet rhaenyra’s little hands and excited smile convinces you to go against your better judgement.

the crowd bursts back to life with cheers and applause as you drop your wreath down the expanse of his lance.

“cherish it, prince daemon,” you call over the crowd, voice drowning out in the masses yet reaching its intended, daemon’s eyes delighting with the attention you give him. “for i just forfeited my chance to be named queen of love and beauty.”

hours later, when the moon sits atop the sky and the king’s guests have had their fair share of feast and drink, you brush off yet another congratulations.

“to our queen of love and beauty!” they cheer, cups to the sky and smiles made of mockery. “our prince sure did pick a fine lady.”

to roll your eyes is your only hope to halt yourselves from chastising the garish men and their claims, a whole rant to throw at them off the cuff of how the only thing their prince has done is place a scarlet letter upon you and slice a dagger through the already fragile relationship you’ve spent your recent days crafting with the stone-faced lady tyrell, who’s spent the past hours staring you down from across the hall and whispering every so often to her husband.

the hand in your own- smaller and distinctly sticky in a way only a child’s hand ever seems to be- tugs and squeezes you along, venturing deeper into the pit of dancing bods, the tuffs of blonde and the poofs of red the only part of the princess you manage to make out as she guides you.

she stops, eventually, when she finds a spot she deems spacious enough and- unbeknownst to you- in the perfect line of view for all that sit the royal table, be they a king, or a queen, or a prince, to witness you both joining in dance, a unique pair among the many couples.

“you know,” the girl ponders alloud, a cheeky grin on her face as her small frame easily twirls beneath your raised arm. “if you married my uncle, you and i would be family.”

“is that so, huh?” she must count her blessings that she remains a child, for were she any older to know better, she’d be tasting the wrath delivered upon any other who’d dare insinuate- much less so boldly propose the idea of- the unification of yourself and the rogue prince. “are you sure you’d be able to handle me as your evil aunt?”

the young girl nods enthusiastically, a silly grin decorating her features and forcing one on to your own down-trodden face, something so infectious in her smile.

when you’d first met the princess, you’d been certain that you’d never warm to her. it wasn’t that she was spoiled or particularly difficult but, rather, you’d never had a child around back home. moving to the capital- under the guise of becoming a lady in waiting to the little princess while truly being an excuse for your father to find you a husband- you’d been unsure what to expect once you arrived. your friendship with the dragon princess was a happy accident.

an accident that’s made adjusting to the capital far easier, sure, but an accident nonetheless.

“uncle!” her recent interest in your courting life and the need to intertwine it with your arch-nemesis’, however, has you rethinking this friendship.

the princess is the one to let go first, ducking out of your hold to crash straight into the prince’s leg, attaching herself onto it like a leech sticks to the skin of a dying man. daemon, seemingly engaged in conversation- with a girl you believe to be part of the lannister house- prior to the appearance of rhaenyra, dismisses the company in favour of his niece, hand clasping itself upon the top of her head and giving several scuffs, messing her hair till it stands in all directions.

and, be it the copious drinks or the immature she-devil who harbours within the depths of your soul, you condemn yourself to approaching the prince.

“stop that!” the words are a hiss as your hands shove away his own and work at smoothing back down the strands of pale blonde. “it took me near an hour to get her to sit still for me while i done her hair, and now you’ve gone and messed my work!”

“then do better next time, perhaps tie it more securely.” never has daemon targaryen had a face so worthy of a slap.

but, as slapping the king’s brother would likely land you straight in a cellar, you settle for something far more childish.

“oh, my bad,” the stretch to reach the top of his head is lessened by the heeled shoes you wear, allowing you to retaliate the treatment he’d given to the princess’ head. “perhaps you should try tying your hair more securely next time!”

it’s a marvellous kind of satisfaction that overcomes you as you gaze upon your masterpiece, the prince now wearing a hardened expression and standing with something akin to a bird’s nest in place of his once perfectly groomed locks.

“i think you’ve been spending too much time with rhaenyra,” he grumbles, attempting to sooth down the mop on his head while trying to maintain an air of collectedness about him as the surrounding guests hide their snickers behind their hands. meanwhile, the princess radiates joy, no fear holding her back from laughing at her uncle. “you’re behaving as if you were her age.”

it’s a struggle to not stick your tongue out, but you fear that would only serve to prove his- likely true- point.

“i’m tired,” rhaenyra, ever the conniving little actress, throws in a fake yawn and stretches her little limbs out as she untangles herself from the prince, staring up at him. the two have always shared a rather queer bond, as though they were cut from the very same cloth, little needing said for them both to understand one another. being aware of this, however, does not make it any easier to accept when they speak of you as though you’re not there. “would you promise to keep my friend company? there’s a lot of strangers at this feast and i don’t want one of them to harm her.”

“i’d say the strangers are the ones who need protecting, princess,” he’s doubled over, moving down to the height of his niece but his focus is all on you and the urge to squirm under his penatrive gaze is stronger than ever. “them northerners can be savages!”

with much protest from you and a shooing motion from the rogue prince, young rhaenyra scurries off towards her septa, eventually leaving the hall intwined with the daughter of her father’s hand, alicent hightower, the pair having been near inseparable since before you’d even arrived in the capital.

you last only four denied dances, three of them which are proposed by the heartbreak prince himself, the only other man bold enough to approach you with your frowning sworn-guard for the night being a lowly lord from the southern isles, kind enough in the eyes yet sporting a few too many wrinkles and grey hairs for you to consider a suitable suitor. and, at last, it becomes time you take your leave, making one last stop before the two royals, once more congratulating the pair on the early stages of the queen’s pregnancy- the first to make it through the initial trimester since the birth of rhaenyra and the sole reason you’ve all gathered, to celebrate the future heir king viserys targaryen claims grows within his wife’s womb- before making your way out into the much quieter, more solitary and notably cooler hallways of the red keep, the noise of the continued festivities drowning out into muffled cheers as the heavy doors slam shut, locking you out.

you breathe easily for what feels like the first time in hours.

ever the fool, daemon seems either incapable of taking a hint or wilfully going to any length to aggravate you, for he matches your steps and follows you out. he’s oblivious to the stare of despair and the roll of your eyes, wishing the man would drop his literal- and figurative- pursuit of you once and for all.

“you’ve been here, what, near four moons?” his voice rising above the stillness of the night captures your attention, widened eyes blossoming with surprise shooting up from facing the ground beneath your feet. “how are you finding your stay? i should hope my brother’s fitted you with comfortable quarters.”

“i, well,” you start, and you mean to finish, you really do. but there’s a loss of connection between your mind and your mouth, one running with a thousand thoughts that fight to reach the forefront and the other parting it’s lips in a broken exhale.

“what, surprised to see i am capable of niceties?” the prince flashes what you imagine most would describe as a charming smile.

“yes. no, actually,” you correct both your words and your posture, unknowingly relaxing that tense feeling that had danced upon the tip of your back and the expanse of your shoulder from the moment you’d found yourself alone with the man walking at your side. “more surprised to see you’re capable of not turning everything into a sexual pass, i suppose.”

“well, you never let me reach the part where i request to see just how comfortable your quarters are.”

that same she-devil who convinced you to mess with his hair perks up her voice once more, seductive whispers encouraging you to cross the space that separates you from the prince and place a hand upon his leather-bound chest, shoving him with less hostility either of you had expected.

“you’re insufferable!” at the very least, you retain the ability to criticise him verbally, though with far more interruptions of failed-to-conceal laughter and less sharpness in your tone.

“i believe it’s pronounced irrefutable.”

“i’m impressed,” you nod along to your own exclamation, vaguely aware of the fact you’ve twisted your feet around till you face the man completely. “that’s a big word for someone with the vocabulary of a foul-mouthed child!”

“if big things impress you, rest assured i’m well endowed.”

“like i said, insufferable!”

when your exacerbated sighs and his teasing chortles fade away into the air of the night, a calm quiet settles over you both, like fog over mountain tops. the rare abscense of the wandering eyes and judgemental snickers and the gossiping whispers exchanged through the courtiers has made way for an unexpected tolerance of the prince’s company, one that leads you astray from your usual disgust and further towards the walking disaster-child that is daemon targaryen.

“come,” it’s a demand, not a request, the talons of your hands digging into the arm of his coat admittedly harder than necessary, a sick depravation found in the firmness of his biceps. you find he gives no protest to the way your arm locks itself around his own. “walk me to my chambers, oh mighty knight!”

“is this your way of accepting my offer to see how comfortable your ch-”

“daemon, so help the seven, if you finish that sentence, it’ll be i who shoves a lance up your arse.”

silence returns like an old friend: with open arms and the promise of a story to be told.

the pair of you traverse through the winding halls of the castle together, arms linked and feet synced- the prince puts a great effort into shortening the length of his steps. to outsiders looking in, you’d almost appear to be nothing more than another couple in the early days of courtship, smiling off to the sides and capable of looking anywhere but each other. the reality that this very man has put your true intended betrothal at risk becomes buried deep beneath the surface of your thoughts, uneager to remind yourself of how you’d last seen the tyrell boy rising from the dirt of the arena, face frowning as the prince called out your name, thanking you for you favour.

“you never answered.” he speaks carefully, voice a gentle timbre as though he’s attempting to coax a wounded fawn out of its hiding place.

“hmm?”

“my question, about your stay. how are you finding it?”

you can not seem to answer him. it isn’t that you don’t want to answer- trust there is another world out there where you easily list off every reason he’s made your time in the capital feel something comparable to torturous and arduous work- but, rather, that you do not have an answer. because not a single person, from your own father all the way to little rhaenyra herself, has dared to ask you before.

no individual has cared to know, yet here the prince stands- walks by your side, more accurately said- and inquires on it.

it jars you so severely you feel the beginnings of an ache in your head.

“oh, well, it’s been... good, i suppose.” both of you share a common disbelief towards the words you speak, yours evident in the way your grip tightens around his arm and his making itself known in a dismissive grunt. “the keep is beautiful, and my chambers are beyond any level of comfort my own house could afford, and the weather is admiteddly nicer. it’s just...”

“lonely,” the man finishes what you started, the hand on his free arm at some point raising itself to rest upon your own. it’s only reflex for your fingers to relax, untense the vice grip you’ve dug into him. “this city is somehow the busiest yet loneliest place in the whole of westeros.”

“don’t get sentimental on me, prince daemon.” to dismiss the mellowness settling in between you with a jovial tone and a pointed look is all you can think to do, far too unprepared to be confronted with the possibility of the rogue prince possessing anything beyond the sheer audacity he displays on the daily. “we would not want someone to overhear and assume you’re soft-hearted.”

the man swallows back a comment of how, while his heart may falter, another of his organs would not fail to remain hardened, and simply gives a noise of agreement. you arrive at yet another flight of stairs, this one so narrow it requires you to walk ahead of the prince, the grasp you have on him never faltering as it slides down the expanse of his arm and reanchors itself on his wrist.

you make it not even a quarter of the way up before your dress proves itself to be a nusance, catching on your feet and sending you crashing forwards, saved from bruising your skin and breaking your bones on the solid stone below by daemon, who effortletsly catches you by the waist.

“i wasn’t aware the king placed you in the highest tower of the keep,” the prince, a known hypochondriac, quips on the amount of stairs  the travels to your chambers entails.

“must be to keep scoundrels like his brother from trying to reach me.” a joke it may be, given you both laugh, but there’s certainly an element of truth behind it.

pray, you will, that you’re never enquired on how often a scoundrel has taken it upon himself to lift the ends of a woman’s dress for no reasons other than aiding her to climb up steps without the fear of her feet catching on the ends of it.

he follows you up closely, closer than he’d been before, and drops the material only after you’ve reached the top. the pair of you move in sync to reform your previous positions, arms intertwining with ease.

“what,” it’s criminal, you think, that it’s taken you all this time to experience how soft the prince’s voice can be once he’s rid it of all that ego and peacoking energy he barks around the courts with. meanwhile, he’s doing everything he can think of to slow your inevitable approach towards your chambers door. “do you have planned tomorrow morning?”

“tomorrow morning?” the question prompts you to look at him. seeing his face closer than it’s ever been before, you see the little details, like the flecks of deep purple that accentuate the lilac eyes, or the small scab on his chin where a shaving knife must have sliced it, or the subtle indent of frown-lines on his forehead that you think a man of his age is far too young to possess. “usually my mornings are spent with the other maidens who reside in the keep, before rhaenyra comes searching for me after she’s broken her fast.”

you don’t mention the way the young girl never fails to bring something tucked beneath her skirts- an apple, a buttered roll, a slice of meat- and forces it upon you, demanding you eat the breakfast you so often forget to take.

“how likely is it that your absence would be noted, say, if you were to go one daybreak not with those wenches?” you wrinkle your nose at the choice of words and he chuckles, mentally notting the distaste you harbour for wenches and reminding himself to use it against you at some point in the future. “my brother says the she-beast they call vhagar laid a clutch.”

“how ominous. haven’t you dragonriders taken enough dragons beneath your wings?” it’s meant to be naught more than a silly comment, a clever play on words to rouse a tired eyeroll from prince daemon. it isn’t, however, supposed to pull a pointed look and a sigh of defeat from the dragonless targaryen. “i’m sorry... i didn’t mean to offend.”

“no, no, it’s fine. just never speak such a stupid pun again.” he juts his arm out, playfully stabbing the point of his elbow into your side and rousing a smile back onto your face, unease slipping out with your next exhale. “it’s for the queen’s babe. my brother demanded i collect the eggs and bring them to-”

“there you are, my love! i’ve been looking for you all evening.”

like a pair of children caught with their hands down a cookie jar, daemon and you jump apart with haste, eyes no longer focused on one another and, instead, on the figure stood at the very end of the hall.

he still wears the armour which he’d been defeated by the prince in.

“laurel!” while your tone may read as elated, it’s filled only with disappointed surprise. “what are- why- what brings you here, at this hour?”

the prince seems to instinctively step closer to you as the tyrell boy begins to approach, leaving his post outside your door. he’s stern, brows furrowed and nothing remains of the man who’d been making you laugh a mere ten paces back.

“i was looking, for you,”

“clearly not hard enough.” you wonder if the tyrell boy catches daemon’s muttered words and, the part of you that agrees with them wishes he did.

you’d been at the feast all evening, with just about every other person of status in the city. if he’d wanted to find you, he’d have been best to make an appearance at the event rather than camping outside your apartments.

“i thought we could take a stroll through the gardens,” the rose speaks as though his idea is not preprostous, inviting a maiden out into the darkened greenery at such a late hour.

passing by the prince, laurel tyrell spares him no attention, as though the man is not even there, and simply makes his way towards the stairway, turning back only when the notion that you stand frozen in your spot kicks in.

“come along, my lady!” my lady. those two words feel tainted from hearing them fall from between the prince’s lips, the tyrell’s voice prickling your skin with it. “i promise i shant keep you late.”

your eyes find the prince.

he nods, once and then a second time.

“go,” he urges verbally, when his actions don’t speak loud enough. “fleabottom’s been calling my name all evening, and i intend to answer it.”

with a twist in your gut and a wretch in your heart, you shuffle your way over to laurel tyrell’s open palm, letting him drag you back down into the night.

this is a decision you come to regret, no later than four sleeps.

because the man's words follow you, no matter how quickly you run through halls and creep up stairwells. they turn every corner you take and pause with every rush of breath you stop to heave into your screaming lungs. you pass doorways and sleeping guards, and they pass them with you too.

this nonsense best prove it's worth once i bed her.

there's anger in the clutches of your hands, clenched into fists of pointed knuckles and skin-digging nails, and sadness caught between the lashes of your eye, drops of liquid heartbreak threatening to stain your skin if you so much as blink.

the halfwit doesn't notice when i focus on her tits instead of her eyes.

the poetic words, the strolls through the gardens, the nights of dancing, the stolen smiles and fleeting looks across crowded rooms, all for nothing.

least she be a maiden. i've heard the feel of breaking one of them in is unmatched.

all for laurel tyrell to be another man who sees only the shape of what you hide beneath your clothing.

you want to hate him, curse him, tell all you meet of his crude words, but, instead, the thought of their reactions leaves you despising yourself, for ever thinking a man could think with more than what sat between his legs.

it is not even an option to contact your father, you lament while climbing yet another winding stairwell, for he’d merely remind you of a woman’s duty, which serves only her house until she takes a husband and, then, serves only him.

if the tyrell boy wishes to bed a maiden, your father’s voice plays in your thoughts as though he were stood before you this very instant, best it be you.

his words, the thoughts and your footsteps all come to a halt at the same time. like reentering your body, or awakening from a nap, you find yourself disorientated, gazing upon a chamber door you register not as your own. no, this door is more akin to the level of gradiose you face each day that you visit the young princess’ room, dragged away by her small hands as she works to avoid yet another one of the classes that she views as a bore.

yet, this is not her door.

sure, it carries similar markings and engraves in the wood, and sports that very same rich colour and shine to it. but something, subtle as it may be, is askew. the princess’ door has silver handles, this one has gold. the princess sleeps in the east wing of this part of the keep and you’re certain you’d marched west, away from the voice of your betrothed. a guard stands by the princess’ door, no one sits outside this one.

bile rises in tune with your hand, staining the back of your throat with anxious thoughts as you hesitantly knock.

you pause and wait.

minutes pass before you’re knocking again, this time with a little more anger behind the way your knuckles hit against the cold oak. it’ll be a wonder if you do not awake to swirls of purple and twists of blue painted across your skin come sunrise.

the tenant of these apartments still does not open their doors.

you hit a little harder, replacing knocks with a forceful, full-handed slap against the door. and then another, and another, and another, and-

your hand meets flesh that prickles with stubble and points with it’s cheekbones.

“what in the seven hells merits such behaviour at this hour?!”

the prince, for the life of him, has barely managed to open his eyes fully, rejecting the bright lights that burn in the hall. behind him is a sea of black, whatever treasures or prisoners he hides within his quarters lost into the darkness. he’s frowning, hair a mess, clothes foregone hours ago, and a distinctly red hand print slowly searing itself into the left side of his face.

the sight brings you more relief than you’d ever thought him capable of.

you’ve always been rational. it’s a badge you wear with honour, basking in the glory anytime one of your siblings met the angrier side of your father that never failed to reprimand them for being less like you, for being incapable of thinking before acting like you, for never weighing consequences until after a deed was done.

till the day you die, you will never find the words to describe what leads you astray from this level-headedness in the small hours of this evening.

you crash into the prince less gracefully than you’d prefer, lips barely meeting the bottom of his and pressing themselves half on his chin as you dive in for a kiss.

a kiss that daemon does not reciprocate.

in fact, he doesn’t even attempt to move, body frozen in place. pulling back to find the sheer unfazed, almost bored look that occupies the features of his face, floods your soul with a horrible, thick, heavy feeling, that stains every part of you it touches. 

you’re ashamed.

and mortified.

and disgusted.

and embarrassed.

and reaching for his lips again.

this time your mouths collide in perfect level, no unwanted chin in the way. wanting- needing something to anchor you down, your hands shoot out to grasp at where a tunic would usually be. instead, you’re met with nothing but the solid, heaving, sweating mass that makes up the prince’s naked chest.

daemon remains stoic.

“i,” you breathe a shaky exhale, a sting nagging away at your reopened eyes as the previous tears reappear. with a nod, and a sniffle, you step back from the man. the nervous tremble in your hands forces you to grab at the fabrics of your skirt, grasping at anything to distract your mind. “that- this was a mistake.”

this entails so much. kissing him, knocking on his door, walking to his chambers, moving to king’s landing, courting with the tyrell boy, letting the prince get in your head and, all over what? a single experience where the two of your were capable of coexisting without tearing one another’s hair out?

it is all one big mistake, the kind that one can’t hope to fix if all they do is turn and run from the danger it exudes.

knowing this won’t stop you from trying, however.

you twist so quick you worry you may snap your spine or strain a muscle, body kicking into action in an attempt to get as far away from the prince as you’d once desired to be from the tyrell boy. not even a full step, do you make it, until an unmovable force clamps down on your arm.

daemon imposes on you this time, leaning down and crashing his lips against yours. his mouth is warm, with lips of honey and hands of stone that grab and pull and tug at the parts of you they blindly reach for.

the prince is not the first man you’ve kissed- nor do you imagine a life where he’ll be the last- but there’s something behind the way his tongue burrows itself into your mouth, his presence so tangible and all consuming.

you pull back, if only to catch your breath, but he follows, taking ownership over your senses.

stumbling backwards and crossing the threshold into the prince’s chambers, darkness takes ahold of you both, bathing you in nothing but the light of a distant moon. you barely register how one of you reaches for the door behind you, only the slamming of it alerting you to the fact it’s been closed. a lightheaded feeling overcomes you, forcing you to pull apart when your lungs scream for air.

“i’m starting to understand,” daemon’s voice is full of rasp, dry and cracking and far too grating on the ears for you to genuinely be finding yourself attracted to it. “why my brother swears by the milk of the poppy.”

a horrible feeling floods your soul, bile burning its way up your throat.

“oh, oh my god,” your hands are at the level of your eyes, pulling at strands of your own hair. “i completely forgot... you- you’re on bedrest, i can, i’ll just leave-”

the prince’s injury had been the talk of the town since it had occurred: a near-deadly run in with a frightened stag amidst a hunting tourney. the horned animal had spooked his horse, throwing the man off its saddle as it reared and ran off, leaving him to face the male deer. the truth of what had entailed, few would ever know, all that was said was that the prince returned to camp dragging the slaughtered animal by it’s horns with a blood staining the clothing surrounding his left shoulder. 

“no, you won’t, heathen!” in rare occasions, daemon would be the only one to pull a smile from you all day. how fortunate that this is one of those occasions, the scowl on his brows contradicting the subtle upward quirk of his thin lips. “you can not dangle a piece of meat before a dragon and then refuse to feed it.”

were you in any state to think rationally, you’d dig more into the fact he’d just referred to you as a piece of meat.

but, then, if you were thinking rationally, you’d never have wound up at his door.

the second kiss is less forceful. no rush enlaced with every touch, no desperation tickling at both your senses, no desire to stray too far from one another.

you find yourself trusting the prince more than you’d like to when he starts to guide you backwards, a gentle pressure on your hips building while his mouth travels over your jaw and reaches the top of your neck. you walk, and stumble, and shuffle wherever the man directs you and, then, you fall.

any frightful scream you would have let out is quickly replaced with a squeal and a giggle of delight, back meeting what you’re confident in naming the softest bed you’ve ever laid upon.

at last, the shine of the moon allows you to see the man hell-bent on attacking you with his mouth.

“what is the meaning of this, hmm?” the condescension in his tone usually grates you. now, it excites you, arouses you, leaves you wondering of what pleasures he could speak with it. “why’re you suddenly at my door, behaving like some wanton whore?”

oh, you think, who knew such crass could prickle your skin with desire?

the shadow of the prince casts down on you, bathing you in an exagirated enlarged image of him, as if the fates wish to remind you of how big a shadow he looms over your own existence. it scares you.

his eyes scare you more.

they’re usually wider, observing every move, full of that mischievous nature the prince is known for. but, if what people say is true and the eyes are the mirror to one’s soul, then daemon’s soul must be a dark pit made up of lustful glares and hooded eyelids, resting so low his eyes almost appear shut.

you want to answer, you really do. but between the hand that circles a grip around your throat and the heat shooting straight for your core, burning up in a puddle of arousal, you can’t. all you can do is watch the man before you, silver hair a beautiful mess just begging for some fingers to be ran through it and stare promising to ruin you in the best way possible.

the silence pleases him.

“do you know how hard it is to get you alone? always got someone wanting to talk to you, stealing your attention. do you even know how many stupid feasts i had to attend to finally get some time with you?” daemon pauses, like he’s waiting for you to relay an answer, guess a number. he loosens up the grip on your neck, teasing your skin with a few soothing strokes of his slender fingers, lulling you into a state bordering insanity. “no answer, sweet girl? or are you lost in that pretty little head of yours?”

“i’m,” your voice is but a whisper, raspy with a new found thirst. “trying to figure out what you want me to say.”

if it’s the wrong or right answer, you’re soon to find out, the sharp faced man releasing a dangerously low chuckle as he takes a hold of your chin. like a pretty doll, you move any time and any way his fingers command you to, finding yourself staring right up into his eyes, a swirl of melting jasmine that reminds you of how alluring yet sultry every inch of him is. lips near touching, he refuses to break eye contact as he speaks up once more, sealing both your fates when his breath hits your face.

“then let me show you what i want.”

his mouth comes down on yours like it’s the answer to all your prayers and, yet, all your nightmares.

it excites you how easily he works his lips over your own, captivating every inch of you when he tilts his head to the right and deepens the kiss. the rhythm of your lips is a mismatch of beats, where one moment you are moving in a sensual waltz, grazing tongues and dipping heads to get rid of that inch of a space remaining between your bodies, and the next moment your tongues are tangled in a tango, the kind where his teeth send blood rushing to your lips with every bite he drags over them and his hand drags shivers down your spine as it makes its way down, down, down your body.

yet it terrifies you how willingly you’ve succumb to daemon’s touch, intoxicated by whatever witchcraft he has in his possession and currently holds over you. there’s a deadliness to the way his lips part from your own only to repeat his previous seamless descent down your jaw and the expanse of your neck, a poisonous element to the way his hand suddenly finds itself clutching the meat of your thigh.

the moment his fingertips ruck up the fabric that safeguards the last of your modesty and meet the ends of your sleep-gown, you’re wishing you’d never slipped it on in the first place, every fibre of your being growing angsty under the weight of his suddenly halted hand. it stays still for an immeasurable amount of time, grazing over your near shear dress occasionally while he continues to mouth at your neck.

like visenya and vhagar at the unstormable vale, daemon parts your legs with little to no effort, creating a pathway for his fingers to travel further up your thigh. blunt fingernails drag up your skin, a trail of goosebumps being left behind, a visible marking of where he’s touching you.

his movements halt too soon for your liking, too much distance between his lithe fingers and your body’s pulsating core.

“have you figured out what i want yet?” his voice is a stark difference to the usual smite-filed, almost spat-out-words tone you’ve grown used to hearing from the man. right now, there’s no trace of sardonic undertones in the thick rasp and there’s no time for an exchange of childish insults while he’s glaring down at you through hooded eyes.

something compels you to nod your head, even though you’re a little too lost in the thoughts concerning what you desire, rather than what the stranger incarnate looming over you wants.

“you have?” the words come out in a layer of amazement, and you have to wonder if it’s because of the lie you’ve just told or the way your legs have closed in around his hand, trapping it between them. “i want to know what you want, though.”

you want his thumb to stop stroking over the flesh of your inner thigh.

you want his eyes to stop gazing down at you like you’re the perfect prey.

you want him to stop teetering your impending pleasure on a string.

you want-

“you.” is all you manage to breath out.

it seems to do the trick, however, your point getting very much across to him. a softness flickers over his features, brows no longer furrowed and smirk curling up into a full smile for what feels like an eternity, but is actually no more than a couple of seconds before his devilish aura is back.

lips meet lips again, the desperation and force behind each stroke of his tongue against yours the same as before. the prince, much to your delight, seems to grow just as impatient as you’ve been since the moment he’d stopped you from fleeing at his door.

one hand still resting between your thighs, his other seizes the opportunity to drag your body closer, till a mere inhale is enough to have your chest pressing into him.

the prince’s descent to the floor is graceful, his figure made of solid muscle and unclothed skin lowering till his knees hit the ground and it becomes you who stare down at him, your hands clutching at the silk sheets his bed has been dressed with in an effort to replace the desire to touch him instead.

choosing to not dwell on the heavy feeling of his eyes on you, or the sheer visual strength depicted in the straining muscles of his thighs, you instead focus on the way his lips have trailed away from yours and are beginning to make their way towards the top of your chest.

his hand abandons post between your thighs and rises to the surface, where long fingers begin to pull at the straps of your flimsy night-dress, successfully manoeuvring the cotton material till it pools around your midriff and your breasts are exposed to the damp air of the night.

with no want left to play around, he dives right in to dragging his lips down the upper swell of your left breast. you imagine he can feel the beating of your racing heart beneath the goosebump littered skin. it doesn’t take long for his tongue to enter the scene, skilfully flicking over your hardened nipple a couple times before enveloping his mouth around the bud.

one, two, three sucks and he’s moving on to your right breast. there’s no lead up, this time, simply his mouth finding delight in toying with your body while he busies his hand with your left side, thumb and pointer finger rolling and tugging and spreading the remnants of his saliva over your heated skin.

the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and has you arching your own, is the faintest pressure of his teeth biting down on you. it dances on a thin line between pleasurable and painful, exhilarating enough to make you throw your head back as a moan slips past your lips. it echoes in the empty room, replaying your own sound for both of you to hear again and again before the chain is broken by a laugh.

his laughter.

“why are,” he picks the right time to trail his fingers down your body, dragging your dress with them till it sits uncomfortably tight around the top of your hipbones, fabric digging into the rapidly heating skin. “you laughing?”

“has anyone ever told you how beautiful your tits are?” it’s crude and heartwarming all at once, not unlike the man who says it and the little smile he shoots up in your direction as he rolls his tongue over your nipple once again.

“no, i can’t say they have.” one hand finds it’s way onto his shoulder- the shoulder that does not possess gauze wrapped around it, that is- and grasps it in a vice grip, the fear of melting off the bed and directly onto the concrete floor all too prevalent as you gain enough confidence to let the other hand slide around to the back of his neck and thread your fingertips in the silver locks, hair as soft as you’ve always imagined it to be. “you’re the first.”

“i’ll wear that title with honour,” he seems to delight in the way you’re carding through his hair, eyes closing while he tilts his head back further into your touch. a delighted sigh follows. “has anyone ever asked to drink from your cunt?”

you nearly choke on your own shock.

“i suppose that’s another honourable title for me to wear.” daemon is beginning to give you whiplash, with all this switching between being unusually receptive to your presence and the man that minutes before was making poetic profanities out of the beauty of your bared chest. he peaks his eyes open again, slowly, adjusting once more to make out your figure in the darkness. when he has the nerves to smile at you, all dreamy eyed and relaxed sitting before you, knees pressing into the ground in a mockery of a bow, some crevice deep within your soul sparks up a fire that burns on the belief that perhaps you’ve been wrong about the prince all along, judging only on what people say and not on how he behaves. then, he reopens his mouth and dampens the flame. “now, do i have to tear you out of your skirts or will you stand up and let me slide it off?”

this time, its your laugh that echoes in the air.

“you think i jest!” he seems to whine his way through his exclaim, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly in a way you’re certain is both influenced by the milk of the poppy that flows through his bloodstream, and is going to drive you insane. “i can not go on another moment like this, you sitting there like something akin to the most mouthwatering summer’s peach, without spending my seed. and, while i’d much prefer to do so inches deep inside you, i’ll settle for a mouth full of cunt.”

“you’re so-” you give up on trying to find a single word to describe him, knowing there’s no word that can quite capture the prince’s essence. “okay, okay, i’ll umm... just stand up and-” the shriek of fabric tearing rips through the space between you. “hey!”

“i’d apologise but, well,” daemon’s dazed smile should not be this gentle, not when it is proceeded with his hands returning to your now bare thighs. “you were trying my patience.”

his hold on you is strong- both the grip he has on your legs and the control he harbours over your mind-, and he plays it to his advantage, laying one palm flat over your torso and forcing you backwards, till your back meets the mattress and your eyes find themselves staring up at the images carved into the roof of the wooden bedpost, details indistinguishable in the darkened room.

from the floor, the prince is grabbing and pulling and maneuvering you down the length of the mattress, finding the backs of your knees and bending them, spreading your legs to a width wide enough for his broad shoulders to sit between. 

“need you closer, my tongue’s not that long.” the prince mutters, half to himself, as your arse meets the edge of the bed, all the way to where his wanton mouth awaits you. as if to give you a preview of what awaits you, the kisses from before reduced to nothing, his tongue pops out to run over the smooth of his bottom lip. your hands return to fisting at the sheets beneath you, digging and searching and reaching for a way to keep yourself grounded through the maddening thoughts of the prince and the current position you find yourself in, and ignoring the anxious ridden vipers inside your mind that spit their venom and hiss their tongues in commands that entail you gathering the remaining fabrics of your tattered clothing and running out these chambers, out the keep, out the damned capital, out the clutches of the man on his knees. though, with the way his fingers squeeze into your thigh, you doubt you’d make it as far as even a single step. “comfortable?”

“as i’ll ever be.”

“all the ladies in the seven kingdoms that would die to be in your position, and you choose to say that?” he tisks, tongue hitting off the roof of his mouth before a blow of air hits against your folds and, though it’s faint from the distance still between his mouth and where he wants it to be, it sends a jolt of excitement up your spine. “i’ll just have to make sure i over-perform, make you more eager for next time.”

neither of you choose to dwell on those words, next time.

him, too occupied with getting his first taste, tongue licking a strip up your core and coming to a stop as the tip of it bumps against your aching bud.

you, too busy having the air knocked out of your lungs, hand unconsciously finding safety in gripping his hair as you lurch upward momentarily, back arching off the bed and mouth falling open in a quiet gasp that echoes around and around.

“hmm, make sure you hold on tight.” you know he’s teasing you, with his words, and with his eyes, and with his mouth that seems to find enjoyment in trailing itself over your buzzing centre and up your pubic bone. “you smell sweet as sin, you know? enough to make any man go feral.”

the chance to reply never comes, not when the prince makes his way back down to your pearl and greets it with the stroke of his flattened tongue. every tiny nerve sparks to life under his touch and you feel yourself grow more sodden, a wave of warm arousal leaking out of your hole. his tongue dives down to welcome it, not allowing more than a single drop- which slips and slides its way down to the crack of your arse, dribbling over your puckered hole- to go to waste.

you don’t even notice the lack of his grip around your left leg until you feel it: the first few seconds of his fingertips probing around your soaked cunt, coating themselves in your liquid pleasure until it’s dripping down the back of his hand.

the first finger to enter your hole is gentle, tentative to the way your body receives him, his pointer and ring finger keeping your folds spread and allowing him the full view of the middle one slowly disappearing from sight, burying itself in the warmth of your womanhood. distracted, his mouth pulls back and his head forces itself into the grip you have in his hair while his eyes soak in the sight above him, flickering up to catch your reaction when another finger enters you, this time with a lot less care as it forces you open around it.

“so pretty,” he slurs over the words, more to himself than to you, delighting as he witnesses you struggling to bite back a pathetic moan when his digits curl within you. he repeats the action a couple times, flicking his wrist back and forth, fingers brushing over your tight walls each time and culminating in a curl that has him pressing against the spongy-like flesh inside. “so, so pretty.”

your hips begin to rut against his hand, meeting every one of his thrusts with perfect timing that has him reaching deeper, further, better places inside of you. all the while the prince is simply watching and admiring the furrow in your brow and the way the swells of your breast bounce in sync with you.

your cunt clenches tighter and his fingers fight to reach deeper before spreading themselves wider in an attempt to scissor you open. he’s giving it his all, a third finger slipping in despite the dull ache setting in his wrist while he coaxes you closer and closer to the tipping point.

the rogue prince takes just as easy as he gives, and it’s that fact alone that drives him to pull his hand back, fingers withdrawing from you and the pleasure you’re pursuing.

“why did you-” you heave through heavy breaths, brain fuzzy from the unvoiced peak you were so close to having, every nerve ready to tingle, every muscle ready to tremble, every toe ready to curl. “stop?”

“because,” the wet smack of his fingers hitting against your pearl is louder than the whimper that drops from your mouth. daemon hears both, however, and grins, quickly landing another smack against your engorged bud. “the goal is to make you cum on my tongue, not my fingers. consider them the appetiser, something to awaken your senses.”

his tongue licks in an upward motion, starting from the tip of your taint and ending at your pearl, and you get deja-vu to just minutes before, when you’d first felt his tongue on your melting skin, the saliva it leaves in a trail behind it serving to cool you down. a shiver runs up your spine as he blows air onto your cunt, the pressure of it doing wonders to stimulate your bundle of nerves.

“would you ever stop?” your whining tone is reminiscent of a spoiled babe, crying and fussing over the need to be fed milk from it’s mother’s teat.

“‘tis you who’s becoming insufferable now, my lady.” the prince, despite what he says, does as you ask and puts an end what feels like unending teasing- really, it’s hardly been a minute but the pulsing of your heat and the loss of a climax leave you no room to think about something as abstract as time.

his lips make a victorious return, wrapping themselves around your centre and sucking against the pulsing nub. every so often, he delivers a couple kitten licks- ups and downs, sides to sides, figure eights- before swiftly returning to kissing your most intimate parts.

in an attempt to make your toes curl, he dips lower and teases the tips of his tongue over your entrance, wet muscle moving over wet skin and tastebuds covering themselves in your essence, till the moans echoing off the walls are indistinguishable between daemon’s and your own.

“you can move.” he grunts into you after a few minutes of repeated alternating between kissing your pearl and tonguing at your hole. it’s muffled with the way he’s holding you down against his face and you feel his lips brush against your lower ones as he speaks. “need you to move. wanna see you use me, sweetling.”

and, really, who are you to deny a prince?

you’re hesitant at first, just like you were all those weeks ago as you watched the flowered wreath slip down his lance. you test the waters and give a single roll of your hips. it feels good, great, especially when paired with his own efforts at dragging his tongue over you.

it takes a few more attempts, and daemon’s patience wearing thin to the point he resorts to grabbing a firm hold of your arse cheeks and dropping your legs over his shoulders, mouth pressing right up against you with his tongue flat and eyes staring up at you in a demand to move, else all the old gods and the new be damned.

move you most certainly do, grinding down on his tongue like you’ve done many a time on the spare pillows that line your own bed, in the hours where the moon sits high within the sky and not a creature stirs nearby to witness your self-pleasing sins. it’s messy, sloppy in the way that his spit mingles with your wetness, a cocktail of fluids sliding down his throat, and painting his lips, and dribbling down his chin as he eats you like a man starved that’s getting a taste of the sweetest fruit.

the rhythm of your hips is thrown off when the man below you switches from having you grinding down onto his flattened tongue to slipping the muscle inside of your hole, thrusting it as far as up as the length of it allows him to. with every time your body comes crashing down on his mouth, the tip of his nose bumps against your clit, forcing you to angle yourself upwards to gain more of the friction.

hands find hair, lips part in unabashed moans, thighs shake with the oncoming of an orgasmic state of mind.

the moment builds too quickly, too unexpectedly, like the ghost of your stolen climax is back with a vengeance and set on ensuring there will be no denying it this time.

“s-shit,” your eyes squeeze shut, too scared to look down at his ecstasy filled eyes in fear of it being what finally tips you over the edge. “oh, there, right there, daemon! yes, i’m going to-.”

the prince pays no mind to your warning. if anything, he takes it as a challenge, an invisible timer beginning in his head and forcing him to see how quickly he can get you to unravel all over his mouth. he’s getting everything he’s imagined since he’d watched you first step foot into the keep, your naked body a mess before him as you fuck yourself on his tongue and your hands, with minds of their own, sliding up to grab and squeeze at your breast.

he watches how the white tips of your nails clash with the darkened colour of your abused nipples, fingers working to pinch, and twist, and pull at them as you lose yourself in the moment.

when you peak, it’s with rolled-back eyes and shaky thighs, his hands gripping at you tighter to steady you as you fidget and kick away from him, his tongue working at coaxing you through your high.

he licks up every drop of your essence he can manage, until you’re cringing in overstimulation and reaching down to push him away. he lets you move him, mouth switching to trail a couple kisses over your inner thigh, something similar to lipstick stains- yet so much dirtier in nature- being left behind on your soft flesh.

“you sound as though you enjoyed yourself.” he’s the first to speak, partly because he correctly thinks you’re incapable of forming anything coherent in the afterglow of your orgasm, mouth agape as you drag and drop the air through your lungs, but mostly because he wants- no, needs to hear you praise him.

“do you ever...” despite your efforts to sit yourself up, against his sheets you remain with limbs melted into puddles jelly and eyes staring wide at the heavens above, a tremble still present in your thighs as you subconsciously feel the patterns his hands dance over them. “shut up?”

“only when my mouth is otherwise occupied.”

silence prevails alongside the ticking of time. some part of you registers the return of your feet to the cold floor and the departure of the man from between your legs. he doesn’t stray far, hands clamping down on your hips, a gentle squeeze or two his own way of searching for your presence, urging your eyes to meet his.

they remain looking upwards.

undeterred, the prince is, bending himself at the waist and resting both hands on either side of your head, holding his own weight up as his face obstructs your view above. life enters you once more, eyes focusing at last on him and his upturned mouth and the remnants of your sexual indiscretions drying into his skin.

“for someone who hates it so much, you sure do know how to stroke my ego.” he must be on a mission, you think, to remind you of why you’ve spent your days avoiding interactions with him instead of tangling yourself within his arms. “i’ve got something much bigger for you to stroke though, once you regain your senses.”

this something bumps against your skin, solid as a rock and spluttering a spit of fluids onto you, warm and sticky. sneaking a quick glance is not enough to fully encapsulate the details that make up this fierce looking appendage, with it’s red-angered tip and its decorative bush of hair and the peak of his stones that sit just past its base, yet it’s all you allow yourself under the scrutiny of his eyes.

“perhaps it’s time you to choose your words more wisely, prince daemon,” your voice is breathy, chest heavy still. you try distract him away from noticing such a feat, hand dancing down the expanse of his bare back till it meets the globe of his arse, nail digging in so deep they’re bound to leave marks, if not draw blood too. “it would be far too easy to punch you in the cock from this position.”

he swallows back a demand for you to speak more about his cock.

clarity bestows itself upon your mind, as your memory serves you a cruel reminder of the words you’d overheard and the voice you’d been running from, dread burning its way up your throat in a sickening twist of guts. the prince must notice the shift in the air, perhaps the way your face has grown a little paler or your pupils dilate as you venture off into the hellscape of your mind, for he’s quick to return you to his hold, heavy body pressing down on you as the prince’s mouth meets yours.

there’s a tangy, sticky sweetness to his kiss, a taste of your self that he gifts you with bitten lips and languid tongue, delving deep into your mouth as if in search of some hidden treasure.

it’s clear now, to the both of you, that your reasons for being here- in his chambers, upon his bed, beneath his body- are nothing if not driven by something deeper, darker, more dangerous than simple ardent lust. months you’d been within reach. months he’d been vocal of his desires towards you. days you’d been betrothed to another man.

but the prince never asks, and so you never answer, letting yourselves indulge in the arts of pleasure and pain.

he pulls on your lip, you pull on his hair. he drags his nails down your body, you dig yours into his rear. he drives you deeper up the bed, you drive him deeper between your legs. he rolls his hips into you, you roll your eyes back into your skull.

“this is a dream. you’re a dream,” perhaps your rational thinking has devolved to naught but hedonistic intentions, for you’re almost certain the mighty rogue has something familiar to wonder intertwined with his breathless voice. the dilation of his pupils, eyes more black than targaryen-lilac, is a mystery you ponder over, wondering if it’s driven more by lust or sedative. “and tomorrow i’ll awake to an empty bed and the reality where you tolerate a rat more than me.”

it’s unclear if he speaks literal of the long-tailed rodent, or if it’s simply a new name for the ever-growing list of things he calls your betrothed.

“do you say that to all the whores you fuck?” your words carry a bite, one your own destructive nature hopes will drive him away from you.

“we don’t speak,” he does the opposite, sinking further into you. you become all too aware of the heat returning to your core when he ruts the length of his cock up your folds, coating himself in a thin layer of your lubricant. “sounding like you, they can never achieve it. they can look like you, from the back, at least.”

believing his words to be a lie feels easier than accepting them as truth. the rogue prince has been nothing if not a menace to the streets of silk since the dawn of his sexual maturity, and there is not an inch of you that can fathom him using these vices as a means to quench the desire for you, seeking out your form in faceless, nameless and, apparently, voiceless cunts.

there’s no great lead up to the breaching of your walls, simply another two rolls of his length along your soaked core and a ghost of a kiss against your forehead before the prince is lining himself up and impaling you with his cock.

you’d been warned all about the ache that would come with the breaking of your maidenhead, traumatised at the young ages of four, five, six and onwards of how, someday, your husband would tear you open and leave you a bloodied mess. and, yet, here you lay, a dull ache burning within you, the feel of a pop and the heavy slap of his stones meeting your skin.

“it hurts, i know,” he hushes you when, at last, a pained whimper breaks the surface of your silence, hips stilled and keeping him buried deep in your walls that fight and squeeze and tighten around the intruder. his face, from the little you see of it past the wall of tears building within your eyes, is scrunched up in discomfort, fighting back the instincts that tell him to pull back and fuck himself into you over and over. “but you’re good, and you’re strong, and you can take it. you know you can, just relax.”

you do as your told, far easier than either of you had expected, and find rhythm in his own heavy breathing, matching each inhale and exhale till the soothing of hands over your thighs relaxes the muscles and you manage to retract the nails that dig deep into his back.

the prince moves only once your legs tangle themselves around his waist, spreading you wider and holding him closer.

from there, a symphony ensues, except where normally one would find the melody of a guitar or the blowing of a flute or the beating of a drum, this one is made of skin slapping, mouth kissing, moan singing. the ache builds and builds till it collapses into a pit of delirious pleasure, the kind that opens your eyes as to why it’s so easy for men and women to succumb to the sins of flesh.

“look at you,” his words are rough while his touch is soft, hand gliding over your breasts once more, pinching and pulling at your aching nipples as he puts strength into gazing down at you, intoxicating himself with the way your bodies join at the hip, his cock disappearing into your walls and reemerging coated in your arousal, glimmering beneath the moonlight. “taking me so fucking well. letting me carve out a home for myself in your cunt, huh? gonna let me stay inside you forever?”

he’s manic, and crazed, and spewing out things that you know should make you cringe and roll over in disgust. but you’re just as far gone, mind no longer vacant in your body as you chase that special feeling only the repeated hammering of his tip against your womb can bring.

“let me cum inside, sweetling,” is it more plea or demand? it’s hard to tell, and hard to care, arms circling round the back of his neck and back arching to press chest to chest. the prince ceases his senseless rambling only to lay kisses down your sweat-covered face, neck, chest, each carrying the weight of his desperation to feel you real and breathing beneath him. “stake my claim over this tight little cunt, leave you dripping from how full i make you.”

waves of pleasure crash over you in tandem, unintelligible groans and gasps all that play through the air as hands clamp down and teeth bite skin. your walls spasm around his cock while it twitches within you, both of your peaks painting your bodies in liquid arousal. warmth fills your cunt and trickles out of you, catching on the dark mass of hair that sits above his appendage, the stark white of his cum sickeningly reminding you to the first time you’d seen snow as a child and arousing the same response from you: a desire to taste it.

he collapses down onto you before you get the chance, however, and the exchange of body heat and shallow breaths lulls you both through your states of ecstasy, slipping into a quiet comfort.

the prince moves slowly, as if not to disturb either of you, and shushes you with kisses when you whine at the loss of him from your cunt, softening cock slapping down against your leg. a few moments pass before he’s moving again, this time with you in tow, dragging at the sheets beneath and working them over you both just as you begin to register how cold the chill in the room is. never mind, the dragon keeps you warm against him, limbs tangling as you make a pillow out of his chest.

“my betrothed.” you take the lead this time in breaking the comfortable cloud of silence which had settled itself above your tired bods. the prince merely grunts, disliking the sound of those two words as much as you dislike the taste of them. “i overheard him conversing with an adviser of his.”

“whatever he said, i’ll cut his tongue out and feed him it.” his vulgar threat drags an airy laugh out of you as he mumbles it into the top of your head.

“my maidenhood, that’s what lead him to offering me his hand.” you laugh again, though there is no trace of humour as it devolves into something of a broken, heart-wrenching sob. “gods, i must be so stupid for thinking a man like him could fall in love with me.”

the silence is unnerving, weighs down on your chest with every breath that ebbs and flows between you both. you’re waiting on it, anxiously anticipating the moment laughter breaks out his ribs and shakes his whole body in amusement at your sheer ridiculous expectations, mocking you for giving away your maidenhood in an act so childish as simply not giving your betrothed the satisfaction of taking it.

marriage is politics, you can picture him saying, love is merely a made up tale to entertain children.

daemon never quite has been one for following expectations.

“i could fall in love with you.”

so it is you who winds up laughing, a repeat of that fractured chuckle that dissipates into something more painful and stings at the cracks in your heart.

“you’re not in love with me, daemon,” it feels obvious to say, yet you’re graced with a disagreeing look upon his face. “you’re obsessed with me, there’s a difference.”

“i beg to differ.”

“you see me as nothing but a lady who doesn’t fall at her feet for you, and it excites you. it’s okay, i understand, but i won’t let you delude yourself nor i into believing its love.”

he has no reply to give, not one that could change your mind.

and so there you lay, naked bod pressed to naked bod, sweat and spit and other bodily fluids becoming the glue that hold you together, with limbs entangled and eyes locked. you see peace in his smile and he watches as sleep slowly whisks you away into its warmth.

little does the prince know your eyes will not meet his own again for many years to come.

not days later, as he stands amongst the crowd of folk bearing witness to the exchanging of vows between the tyrell boy and you, nor several years after, as you return to the great hall of the red keep to see the announcement of prince aegon's birth, your own child stood at your side and grasping your hand, the silver-moon upon her head no match to the straw blonde of your husband.

[zealofchronos]

A male reader blog? In this economy?!? What are the fucking odds?

Unrelated but oogh I love your formatting it's so 👌👌👌 makes my braincell very pleased

Anyways!! Please feel free to disregard this if you aren't actively taking requests, I just wanted to write this idea down before I forgot it haha. So... Ingo, right? Mr train man. The yoinky sploinky.

I'm assuming you've played PLA (if you haven't my bad) but... Perchance some headcanons of a warden ingo and a male reader. Reader is a member of the diamond clan for that sweet forbidden romance.

For specifics, Reader has a weird affinity for Pokemon and has befriended a completely feral weavile that dropped through one of the space time vortexes!! His Weavile is homies with Lady Sneasler so naturally he and Ingo have become friends.

Anyways!! General relationship headcanons between them, perhaps a little sneakiness to avoid getting caught (even if they're extremely obvious and everybody knows) both sfw and nsfw are fine, whatever u feel like doin my man

For a final note, if you do named anons, can I b Bones Anon? Because I eat bones 🦴

Thank u have a good day

hello, hello ! ♡

why, yes, i do so happen to be a male reader blog! also thank you, hehe, i didn't think much about the formatting.. i just got inspired by seeing other writer blogs and went this is my style :)

anyway, looks like not only do we have our first request and first official post, but also my first ever anon! ♡

welcome to the cozy corner, bones anon! 🦴

yes, i have played LA! i've watched some, rp'ed some, but played even fewer for pokémon— i only have shield and LA, and i'm planning to get SV soon though! i absolutely love the idea you've bestowed upon me, ingo is such a skrunkle.

so, without further ado...

on the downlow ;; ingo x male!reader headcanons

content ;- fluff , nsfw , soft dom ingo , sub reader , anal sex , semi public sex , clothed sex , oral ( ingo receiving with implied reader receiving ) , sexy consent , creampie , cockwarming , implied aftercare , pet names ( darling )

not proofread. nsfw below the cut. minors dni.

> hailing from the diamond clan, values of time were always ingrained within you. sure, you weren't as vocal as adaman, but you held it in your heart. but as one who spends his time around pokémon, you never focused on "wasting" time, but rather "taking your time".

> no matter the type of beast you face, your patience never once ran thin, and you made tons of pokémon friends— some normal, but many out of the norm that many wouldn't ever dare approach.

> be it a raging ursaring, or curious ghosts that lurk, you always found a way to make friends. even this absolute feral weavile that everyone told you to not approach. it took way too much time, but you somehow managed to have it partner up with you.

> of course, with the help of the galaxy expedition team, you had found out that sneasel like cold places! you wanted to give your dear weavile some friends, so you decided to make a trip to the coronet highlands!

> little did you know, this little trip would sow a seed that would sprout over time. you met warden ingo, one who stayed with the pearl clan. it wasn't exactly you who initiated anything— but rather your beloved weavile had took an interest in lady sneasler.

and soon began this little relationship.

> ingo doesn't exactly have the pearl clan's ultimate belief in his heart— perhaps that is why he soon began to accept your presence around him and the pokémon he was the warden of. at first it was just idle chit chat as your weavile and lady sneasler began a friendship of their very own, but soon it grew. you'd exchange gifts and trinkets, things that reminded you of each other. it was wonderful, especially when he'd share a berry with you as he said you were as sweet as it.

> spending time out in the highlands meant it was often cold. despite your protests, claiming that you'll get used to it with "time", ingo's ragged coat would often be drapped around your shoulders. he thinks it's fitting on you, claiming that it was as though the "space" in his coat was perfect to hold someone like you.

> the protection of the ghosts you've befriended will always be something you cherish. for when night falls and you long for the other, they guide you in the darkness to meet him. he is more than happy to have you in his arms at the wee hours, and he secretly thanks the pokémon that guided you to him with little offerings.

> surely enough, some of the diamond clan would question your odd disappearances every time you went to seek him out. you'd never tell them where you went, despite them all being worried for you. after all, despite your patience with pokémon, it simply meant you were just as prone to trouble. sometimes the two of you would meet just outside jubilife, exchanging sweet affections hidden away from the gaze of your clans. nobody would be there, and it was perfect.

> by now, ingo proclaimed himself as an expert on... you. he knew you like his pokémon, the back of his hand. he knew what you'd like, where to find you... where you like to be touched, how his kisses affect you. yes... he does think he knows a lot about you.

he wants to know even more.

> nights in hisui were beautiful— the sky above was always astounding. but only one sight would maintain the spot of ingo's most preferred sight; you between his legs pleasuring him with your mouth. the same mouth that spouts flowery words as flirtacious remarks, the same mouth that peppers kisses across his cheeks. seeing you work so passionately to pleasure him makes him want to do the same to you. he will do the same to you.

> sometimes, touches go a little too far, and before you even knew it, the both of you are entangled in one another out in the open. far away from civilisation, far away from pokémon, the two of you are stuck in your own world with only each other. he holds you tightly by your waist as your legs lock around him, clothes barely tugged apart as he wanted you there and then. you couldn't complain, you wanted him too, after all.

> ingo always listens. "is this okay?" or "are you feeling good, darling?" are words you commonly hear in your ears as he gets intimate with you. holding you in an embrace so dear like no other, he makes sure you're always still there, feeling exactly what he wants you to feel. for as long as you tell him, he'd give his all to you and never less.

> you're intoxicating- addicting even. your tightness around him as him groaning in your ears and he simply wants to feel more. his hands roam all over you with a certain fervor, gripping down as he feels you up. your skin on his, you never expected that he was so close. the only sign you got was a low moan in your ears as he nuzzled in close, hips stuttering before he filled you up. you are always too good to him, and he wants to be just as good to you. he'll see to it that he'll clean up your messes, and he follows through every time.

> being a warden is hard work. it's stressful, especially when some other clan members are being nosy or bossy. when this happens, he can't help but want to seek you out. you are his saving grace, his divine angel that he wants to bask in the light of. when you finally meet him, you realise how pent up he is— but he doesn't want anything more but to feel you around him. he has you in his lap, his arms wrapped around you as he nestles himself within your warmth to stay there for as long as you both would like. the comfort of a lover has never felt better than this.

crystcrm 2022. do not reupload or plagiarise my works.

[billerak]

RWTC

As in rewatch get it because it's like team names and this fandom is obsessed with four letter acronyms and-*gets shot*

...

So… I once fixed hyperfixation by rewatching a show and taking notes about it, so imma try the same with RWBY as it's currently taking over a lot of brainpower just existing in my consciousness. I reckon if the rewatch itself doesn't remind me of how much of a mess this show is, taking notes might. Also I really wanna examine the 'Bumblebee was set up from the beginning' allegations. I'm 99.99% it wasn't but I'll give it the benefit of the doubt. Just to make it clear for any bumblebee fan who may be reading this expecting me to be converted into loving the ship: Even if there are hints this early on, their development later would still be a goddamn mess. And just for the record: I will only be taking as 'hints' things that are undeniable. The show is very explicit with its hetshit, I won't take less than that for queerness. (Don't expect this to be an essay I'll just write down whatever I wanna say at any given moment and it will be awful to read, it's basically a diary for myself).

V1: Trailers: Honestly, they're bangers. Music's great. They set up characters. If I had to rank them I'd say R-Y-W-B but I only put Black below the others because I simply like the other fights better. I know why Adam is there with Blake but it kinda feels like he steals a bit of hte spotlight. (And the Dempsey Roll reference in Yellow cannot be beaten, sorry. Well except by Ruby's sheer fucking awesomeness but ykwim). Though tbh ADAM STANDING THERE AWKWARDLY INSTEAD OF JUST JUMPING IS INSANE. YOU CAN CLEAR THAT GAP MY GUY. Also the moon is, well, inconsistent across the trailers. Like you'd think maybe there was something going on with it breaking a bit more each trailer but, no, it jumps from barely broken to even more broken than in the show in Black, then stays the same in Yellow. Which. You know. It's the little inconsistencies that make RWBY, aren't they.

On the Bees: Someone pointed out to me that 'Red like Roses' implies Blake/Yang as the beauty and the beast. I… will grant it the benefit of the doubt in this case. I mean, Monty didn't even fucking know Ruby was standing by her mother's gravestone when he did this I seriously doubt he'd thought that much ahead. But RWBY is inspired by fairy tales, so the use of beast and beauty isn't likely to be coincidental either. This is the only instance where I will grant a 'benefit of the doubt'. I'm more inclined to believe it's actually a coincidence that neatly fit into it later. Blake/Yang have absolutely nothing of the beauty and the beast in their dynamic.

Ep 1: The dust speech at the start feels a bit odd in retrospect. Dust ends up being kind of underwhelming if we look at what it actually does for the plot, it doesn't feel more important than Aura and Semblances. I'd reckon all three could have been mentioned. Is… is that moon transition at the start meant to imply the moon's been breaking off over time? Honestly the creation myth of RWBY is one of the few things I do believe was at least mildly planned from the start so I find it mildly surprising. Maybe they planned for it to break more over time but forgot about it by volume 6 and just had the gods break it all in one go? The rest of the episode is ok. I won't be commenting on the voice acting too much—this was a bit of an indie production, after all. If any particular lines are too awful maybe I'll point them out. That being said, Glenda's semblance is awfully the fucking same as magic. Cinder is using literal magic so that's ok. It really never is quite explained how or even why dust interacts with semblances, is it?

On the Bees: Nothing this ep.

Ep 2: Should I mention the fact that the show never stops to breathe, especially this early on? I guess I'll do it because then when I can be positive about a scene it'll stick out. So… yeah, the whole introduction of Team RWBY is kind of all over the place in terms of pacing. Could ahve used an extra minute or two to make the conversation a bit, well, better paced. Also do Yang's friends ever show up again? I don't think so. And I know it's meant to be comedic but Weiss just swinging about a bottle of dust feels kind of… strange. She should know how stupid that is. That aside, there's a lot of expository dialogue that probably could have been shoved into the classroom scenes. The dust, weapons, etc. Leave room for the characters to actually speak instead of explaining things everyone present should know.

On the Bees: Nothing this ep.

Ep 3: Comedy is VERY hit or miss in general, so I'll just state I… don't really find most RWBY humor funny. I see the intent and I won't criticize it, it's just not for me. On another note: White Rose is my go-to ship in the early volumes. The writers clearly got scared of how much chemistry Ruby and Weiss had so they sort of… barely interact one on one again in the future. Did you know I like Diakko? Because I like Diakko. A lot. Check my AO3. Iykyk. Anyways I don't think the sleepover scene thing is too bad. Could have made Weiss interact with Blake a bit but eh whatever.

On the Bees: So, Yang makes a very pointed comment about being into boys! Very explicit and with no interpretation required! Let's see if we can see similar hints of her bisexuality at any point prior to V6. And on the off chance a bumblebee shipper is reading this: I don't really care how much these minor instances 'don't matter'. If they're such small things, why not have them go both ways? Like, say, the perfect chance that comes up right after with fucking Blake. Which isn't taken. "noo but she says she likes her bow' it's all literal pleasantries to try to get her to talk to Ruby and the second she isn't responsive Yang's like "Nah fuck her." There's more of a romantic interaction here between Ruby and Blake than between bumblebee ffs. Also Yang so far has only shown interest in boys, as evidenced by her trailer. 'nooo she was just pretending' she wasn't pretending here now was she. Anyways if it really was planned this early on what stopped the team from just showing a bit of her bisexuality. Because she also didn't have much of a 'gay awakening' thing moment. Which you'd think they'd give her. Or Blake for that matter.

Ep 4: Nora and Ren are introduced and it's clear Nora's in love with Ren from second 1. Even if it's unclear whether Ren reciprocates or not (And I'm gonna say unclear because dude's kind of very non-emotive in general). I think it's a fine enough introduction to the characters. Weiss is VERY gay towards Pyrrha you cannot convince me otherwise. (just for clarification's sake: I mean it in a shippy way, I know it's not intentionally queer, I'm a yurifag it's what I do). Oh hey look another character getting to be very explicitly heterosexual I'm sure queer folk will get the same treatment in this incredibly inclusive show! Idk if I like Pyrrha's introduction. I guess it's efficient but… well, like everything in this scene, really it coudl use some time to breathe. I could get nitpicky and complain about a lot of things with the 'team selection process' like, uh, the fact that some students have to have died or how there has to have been some terrible teams because of the random nature of it all. And I guess I just did. But I'll also say I'm gonna let it pass because, in the end, it's funny. Also Blake didn't speak a single word this episode. Or get like. Any focus. Like idk a shot of her reacting to other people's shenanigans at least. One of the 4 mcs guys.

On the Bees: Nothing this ep… Like with Blake.

Ep 5: AU where Pyrrha misses her shot because Ruby dodged that bird, and Pyrrha's weapon struck the bird instead of Jaune and Jaune fucking dies. (<- when I say these notes are for me I mean it this is the sort of shit I think about when watching episodes of anything) Like u get what I mean? Ruby and Weiss just have so much chemistry man. I don't get what Pyrrha saw in Jaune acting like a prick back there but idk straight people are weird. And… pretty much that's all I have to say about the episode. There wasn't much of a pacing issue here because it was like, 3 scenes altogether.

Ep 6: So, Yang's supposed to absorb damage to use her semblance. At least in the later volumes. Here she just… Uses it. The trailer version had been fighting and took a few hits so it made sense there but here? And don't tell me it had no effect because she used it to obliterate that bear Grimm. Anyways I think it changes a few times through the volumes I'll be on watch for that. Yang and Blake's meeting is… fucking nothing. More at the end. The, uh, 'fight' with Ruby and Weiss wasn't animated the best. That's all imma say about it. Ok so, Aura is a manifestation of the soul and it can coat yourself and your tools for protection and presumably also enhances attacks and provides healing. Simple enough. But… the thing about understanding light and dark or whatever? Shit never comes up again. Also I seem to remember this is retconned but we'll get there when/if we get there. I don't hate the concept of Aura. Hell, it's almost exactly how I handle at least 2 magic systems I'm currently working on (sans details). I just think it's poorly utilized, being almost always just used as a magical coating and little else. The whole 'manifestation of the soul' thing rings hollow. Also does anyone else ever do the shield-aura thing Ren did here? Leaving aside my problems with Aura in general, Pyrrha's whole thing about helping Jaune manifest Aura: W H A T. T H E. F U C K. Like, did anyone on the team pause to think of the implications of this? Probably not. Definitely not. Just think about it for a second. This implies that it's possible for people with aura to help people without it manifest it. Whether the speech is important or not is irrelevant, let's say it's just something to help someone focus. That's not the freaking point. WHY woudln't they do this to everyone? If Pyrrha could do it with Jaune, who is pretty much a normal ass dude, why not do this for every citizen? It literally takes like a minute. Sure it tires the person who does it but like, what's stopping that person from turning around and doing it to someone else? Let's say it requires training to do it: Why not train people for the explicit job of unlocking other people's auras? And yes, they very explicitly state everyone has an aura, whether it's unlocked or not. Listen to me. LISTEN TO ME. You live in a society where a negative emotion will attract the monsters trying to kill you. Do you know how much safer people would feel if they knew they'd survive at least one or two hits from a Grimm? The panic you could help avoid? Grimm have this thing where they retrofeed themselves, causing panic which attracts more of them which causes more panic etc. By unlocking everyone's Aura you could help avoid or at least severely delay that problem. I don't think this is ever done again. But even if it is, the point would only get stronger, because it's clearly not something only Pyrrha can do. Anwyays back to our regular content, fight scenes with Monty are pretty good most of the time. Ren never uses his bare fists to attack again I don't think.

On the Bees: Every other pairing formed in these episodes had like. A proper exchange when they met. To show what chemistry they had together. Whether it be Weiss ignoring then coming back to Ruby, Pyrrha making a wisecrack at Jaune or Nora's and Ren's whole thing. Yang and Blake? Blake doesn't say anything, she just smirks (I think it's meant to be a smirk anyways). Yang just boasts. I understand Blake's not a very talkative individual but this tells me nothing of what their dynamic's gonna be.

Ep 7: Weiss and Ruby having really fun interactions here and then Yang and Blake have a nothingburger of an interaction. Actually, make that 2 nothingburger interactions. Jaune and Pyrrha get to be comedic here. And that's basically the episode really.

On the Bees: I don't care if bumblebee shippers read a million layers of meaning into Blake not saying shit when they first interact this episde. Fine. But Yang doesn't even have a reaction to it! She doesn't act annoyed or intrigued she literally does fucking nothing about it. Then the pony thing is like… ok. What's their dynamic here? Weiss and Ruby have a really strong dynamic already in place. Jaune and Pyrrha are building one that's at least starting to make sense. Nora and Ren had one from their first seconds together. Seriously. You wanna argue they were planned from the beginning? Well they sure seem like people who ended on the same team and shrugged and said 'whatever' and kept moving without further interaction, unlike fucking EVERYONE else. It pisses me off because you can 100% play Yang's hotheadedness against Blake's more calculating nature, but they don't fucking do that. 'Planned from the beginning' my ass, mfs couldn't even figure out how to squeeze some characterization out of their interactions.

Ep 8: The start of this episode is another case of RWBY humor not really hitting home for me. Another case of Yang just using her semblance for a tantrum. Seriosuly White Rose gets a fucking moment every episode. Yang and Blake barely fucking interact. I'm going insane. The rest of the episode is basically one big action scene, and well, it's RWBY at its best, so no real complains here. Roman is kind of awfully underutilized, isn't he.

On the Bees: I'd love to go on a rant like last episode but honestly shit still applies. The only actual interaction Yang and Blake have here is when Yang is feeling proud of Ruby, and it speaks nothing about their dynamic.

Ep 9: Last episode Blake wasn't saying shit and now she's suddenly a huge part of the redecorating efforts. The problem isn't that I think she should be a loner or aloof, the problem is that it doesnt' feel too consistent. She starts being like "leave me alone I wanna read", she barely exchanges a word with Yang later, and now she joins in on the fun? idk, maybe she could've joined in a less overt way. Other than that it's a fine scene, though it goes too fast for my liking. The classroom scene is amazing because it teaches us basically nothing, other than the mention of the 4 kingdoms. Like it says a lot of shit about 'true huntsmen' which ends up proving mostly untrue through the rest of the show. Which would be fine if it was like, a point made, but it's not really.

On the Bees: N o t h i n g.

Ep 10: More White Rose people really trying to tell me not to ship them because the bees are canon but fuck you THEIR DYNAMIC IS THE BEST PART OF EARLY RWBY. Always with the caveat of 'pacing could be better' ofc. Anyways what the fuck was up with professor moustache flirting with Yang what were they thinking. I think the Weiss/Ruby conflict could have been stretched a bit. Rather than a day, make it a week or something. Still, this is one of the better episodes of the season, iirc.

On the Bees: Nada. Zero. Nanai. But we keep getting fuel for White Rose DO YOU UNDERSTAND MY FRUSTRATION HERE. LIKE SERIOUSLY I WOUDLN'T EVEN MIND THE ABSOLUTE LACK OF ANY EXPLICIT QUEERNESS IN THESE EARLY VOLUMES IF THEY AT LEAST BOTHERED TO MAKE THE SUPPOSED 'PLANNED FROM THE BEGINNING' COUPLE INTERACT PROPERLY. NOBODY WOULD BE CASTING DOBUT TO THE CLAIM IF WHITEROSE HAD ENDED UP BEING CANON.

Ep 11: Ok, here's the thing. Aura is a manifestation of the soul. I can accept it can be measured somehow. The question here is, what exactly happens when it breaks? Like, what happens to your fucking soul? Really, I would just make it vital energy the same way ki or chakra works, because tying it to the soul like that just leads to questions. Anyways this episode is just the setup for the "jaune gets bullied arc". I'll actually not say too much about it because my own thoughts towards bullies are rather… extreme (as in, I would kill them all without hesitation were I given the chance sort of extreme). So instead of commenting on how absolutely terribly I think this arc is handled, I'll… not do that. That being said, none of team JNPR or RWBY standing up for Bunnygirl is kind of bullshit. Also, we know there's cameras everywhere on beacon, so why don't the teachers do shit? Though to be fair, teachers not doing shit about bullying is the most realistic part of this whole thing.

On the Bees: Still nothing.

Ep 12: Ok so the discussion of "making up new races to be racist towards" has been ongoing for as long as the internet has existed, probably earlier than that too. I am white, and I'm not from the US. In my country I'd say we have far more xenophobia than we do racism, and we didn't have a civil war over the the concept of freeing slaves. We just sort of did it. All of this to say: I'm not really in a position to give too pointed an opinion on the whole 'racist towards faunus' thing. With that and my refusal to speak on hte bullying topic, that kind of leaves me with little to say in general about the rest of the volume, huh. That being said, while I don't mind the Jaune/Pyrrha thing, and I do like the idea of Jaune somehow faking his way into beacon… how? How exactly does he do that? Like, think about all the security shit we've seen over the years. How does anyone create fake transcripts? Woudln't Ozpin or Glynda call the schools of their students to make sure their records are correct? idk. Maybe Ozpin just found the idea funny.

On the Bees: Knees.

Ep 13: I like the conversation between Jaune and Ruby, though it feels a bit… random for Ruby to be saying this? I guess the idea is she matured a bit after the conversation with Ozpin but it doesn't really feel like she's at the point where she should be saying stuff like this yet. I think she and Jaune should've played off each other, instead of Ruby acting like she's experienced about this.

On the Knees: Bees. Or, actually, I think it was wasps in that box.

Ep 14: Pyrrha's semblance is later treated as though it were secret (iirc) but she certainly doesn't seem to care too much about it right now. Wouldn't it be a matter of public reacord, anyways? Like, if you go to a fighting school, I'd reckon they want to know what their fighters' semblances are. Wouldn't want to have Gorey McBloodhands walk into the next sparring session and make someone explode from the inside, know what I mean? I suppose the existence of Salem could work to explain the masking of this but… They put up public tournaments where the best fighters are literally shown to the whole world anyways, and most semblances aren't as subtle as Pyrrha's so, you know. Anyways, that moment when Jaune's aura glows… Is… that supposed to be his semblance? I think it was more just that thing Pyrrha said about Jaune having a lot of aura, but if Jaune can use his semblance on himself, well… Fuck, the implications. Jaune could be the most broken character of this cast. Should be, even. Only semblances like Tyrian's should be able to counter him.

On the Bumbles: What happened to the box of wasps anyways.

Ep 15: Ok, so the only thing I will say about the racism arc: It makes sense Weiss would be racist, I just think it comes out of nowhere, when they had at least 2 other chances to show it in the past to build up to all of this. First thing Sun does when he shows up: Flirt! With Blake! More at the bottom Anwyays previous to final episode of the volume and… we introduce 2 random ass characters out of nowhere. And no, this wasn't planned from the beginning, this was done in haste because Monty thought it'd be cool to have them in a fight scene, and it shows. Monty was a genius animator but the guy could have done a little consulting with his team, really. THAT BEING SAID. I kinda think like they did the best they could. For all my complaints, using Sun as the trigger for Wiess's rampant racism (even though it could've been built up to) is effective enough. And… Ok Penny is a bit superfluous and she… doesn't really add anything to the scene other than being a literal obstacle, but, uh, could be worse really. I didn't much care for penny back in the day, but I do love Penny after V7-8, much as her revival bothers me (I remember when they claimed that no, Penny couldn't be brought back to life despite being a machine. You really want me to believe their claims about other stuff when they pull shit like that? You know the whole racism argument could have been a moment for Yang and Ruby to actually partake in the conversation. Especially yang since, you know, they were totally planned as a couple from the beginning.

On the Bees: Nothing! But Sun had a moment with Blake! Two, actually! And Sun's gonna be the one getting the infodump first. Like, dude's really gonna connect more and more deeply with Blake over a cup of fucking coffee than Yang has in literal months- "But no guys you don't understand there was never anything going on there clearly it was nothing it had no narrative impact it was meaningless fr fr" I'll say more about this over the volumes because holy fuck the level of cope is amazing here. I know I'm gonna sound like a goddamn hetfag complaining about this but you seriously need to understand I'm a yuri connoisseur I fucking hate heterosexuality (in media. real heterosexuals are ok sometimes) (this is a joke but only if the previous comment offended you if not it's real)

Ep 16: Well I already said my piece about Blake telling her backstory to Sun rather than her teammates. Way to go Yang, sticking up for Blake in the face of Weiss's continued racism. How effective is it to hold someone at gun/knifepoint, given the existence of Aura? If Blake tried to slit Roman's throat, even with a shot, its unlikely she'd be able to pierce through the aura, right? Cool fights are cool. Ok, racism arc aside, I do think it's kind of a problem that Weiss just… solves her racism because she 'thought about it'. Like, bitch wasn't even confronted about it, you get me? I like the idea of the 'reunion', the problem is… it doesn't feel earned. Pacing issues, like usual, but especially awful here.

On the Bees: N O T H I N G BLAKE WAS MISSING FOR HALF A DAY AND WEISS HAD MORE OF A REUNION WITH HER AND RUBY HAD MORE OF A REACTION.

Anyways, V1 finished. Veredict? It's a mess. It's RWBY. Despite all the criticisms I've thrown its way, I believe I enjoyed it more this second time than the first, to be quite honest.

And no, this volume did absolutely nothing to convince me that Bumblebee was planned from the start. In fact it kind of pushed me in the opposite direction. Like, the VA's really shipped this from the start? Fucking why? They barely interact, when they do it's fucking dry, and Blake has deeper moments of connection with the other two members of RWBY than with Yang. I am genuinely astounded anyone would believe the claims the bee's were always meant as endgame. Fucking hell.

On a completely separate note: Pyrrha doesn't pass the Bechdel Test for volume 1. Yes I kept track of this.

RWTC 2

[jinx-on-mars-19xx]

The Devil's Trap

Not Natural

Dom x Colson (Yungblud x Machine Gun Kelly)

Warnings: spn inspired, demons, monsters, curses, blood, possible abo, threats, teasing, insults, demon Kells, sleeping naked, pulling weapons, mentions of past underage relationship, enemies to lovers maybe, still early so no smut yet (might be a slow burn, I don't know yet!) ⚰️ Rating: mature

Kells grinned, his eyes flashing their natural state behind his sunglasses as he appeared in the sunlit broken down motel room. Hell-tell as he liked to think of them, a place frequented by the seven deadly sins. From whores, to dealers, to killers, to his new prey- the hunter, these places were barely better than his home. This one didn't feel so bad when he looked at the annoyingly brave boy who had been on his mind all night. He didn't know if it was the fresh blood scent on his skin from his new wounds or the way the sunlight reflected on his pale freckled skin, there was something almost calming about the kid and it got on his last nerve. Humans weren't supposed to intrigue him anymore.

He set the food and coffee cup down on the faded table and took a seat in one of the ratty chairs. He let himself spread out, his legs wide and his arms folded, he liked to appear as if he owned every room he was in- because he could. "I've never seen a hunter brave enough to sleep naked. You're a special one Domie." He teased the boy quietly but of course the soldier was attuned to everything around him. Before the demon could blink his eyes to their human lie the Brit was holding a knife out towards him. That was the truly insane thing about Dominic, he rarely used guns. It fascinated the demon more than he could say though he wasn't sure why. He'd lived through centuries, he'd been around before the damn things existed. Why was this punk so exciting?

"Oh bloody f-" Whatever else the boy said was muffled as he buried his face into his pillow and groaned. Loudly. The beast couldn't help but chuckle, he wasn't used to being an annoyance anymore. Everyone was so fucking terrified of him all the time.

"Good morning sunshine! I let you sleep in but I know you're feeling better. Here, I brought you breakfast." He offered, tossing the bag onto Dom's back.

The human grumbled and jumped when the hot greasy bag slapped against his skin but the monster was right- he felt a lot better. He was confused but for the first time in years he actually truly felt rested and he didn't want to look too closely at why. Possibly the blood taste he couldn't get clean from his mouth no matter how hard he brushed, or maybe because deep down he'd known he was being watched over and he was safe to sleep. Finally. "I don't normally drink coffee." He sighed, rolling on his side. He caught the bag with what should have been his aching arm but it felt better than it had in so long.

"You're welcome, that would be me in you. And that's good cause I didn't get you coffee. Yorkshire shit, right? I popped across the pond. Figured I'd prove I got good intentions."

Dom snorted at the mock of his accent in the man's- monster's voice but his belly flipped as he rolled onto his back and tried to keep the sheet covering his morning wood. That's all it was, a normal bodily function. It had nothing to do with the crimson mickey he'd been slipped or the giant fucker in his room who brought him tea from his homeland. As he accepted the cup the demon's long fingers ghosted over his knuckles and a shockwave went through him. Little electric zaps that felt as if he'd touched a live wire. It sent his blood rushing and he cock twitching under the thin sheet. He felt wet. He'd felt power before but nothing like that. Shit the monster was strong. "Fanks."

"Don't mention it." Kells sighed, pushing his glasses down a moment to glare over them. "Seriously don't. I don't do nice, I just hoped with the right lubricant you'd loosen the fuck up a little. Tight ass." He didn't mean to be annoyed but knowing the kid thought everything he felt was from the blood or magic was a bit presumptuous of him. He was already frustrated with himself- he didn't like doing sweet things. "Chilly in here?" He purred, his brow arching behind his lenses. He couldn't help noticing the boy's perky pink nipples looked diamond hard and begging for his fucking teeth. He found himself pushing his spectacles up into his hair before he crossed his arms to keep from trying to reach out.

Dom's brows furrowed, he wasn't sure what part of him the bastard was staring at but his dick certainly wasn't small enough to prove a chill. Wait… why the hell did he care? He shook his head, trying to clear it from whatever was making him act strangely. He definitely wasn't attracted to the literal hell beast. He couldn't be. He refused. He huffed softly and opened the offered bag of trans fats and sodium. Kells brought him tea from home but the breakfast was all American and the cheesy maple goodness of a McGriddle was exactly what he needed. It wasn't distracting his hard-on but he didn't care. "Stop objectifying me." The boy grumbled as he unwrapped his treat and raised his knee, hoping to keep his bits hidden from view. He knew it was most likely the supernatural upper coursing through him, True Blood had gotten one thing right, just not the species. Though of course he hadn't tried vamp blood. Demon blood could make you feel better than any high but it worked stronger than any little blue pill. That was all, he wasn't attracted to the monster. He'd never do that again.

"Eat your fucking breakfast. I'll do what I want. And who said I would want to objectify you?" The monster rolled his eyes in a big show of frustration but the bitch was onto something. It was more like a spider staring at a fly though, it had to be. He didn't like humans.

"You was talking bout me tits." Dom slurred, his mouth full of food. He hadn't exactly been taught the best manners growing up and he wouldn't care to impress his new companion anyway.

"Pfft, what tits? I mean, I guess you have nice ones but-" Whatever he was going to finish the statement with vanished as he clamped his jaw shut. He didn't mean to compliment his prey. He sighed deep and leaned back in his chair, resting his feet on the bed and trying to act like he would nap. He needed a moment to compose himself.

Dominic was so wrapped up in his food he wasn't paying enough attention so when the man- beast set his Doc covered feet on the bed it pulled the blankets down to his knees. Suddenly everything was on display and he moved to slam his thighs closed and pull his knees up so fast all at the same moment that he dropped the last bit of his sandwich on his chest. The demon of course had been staring and now he was truly looking- his lips parted and his eyes wide. They sat almost frozen.

Kells snapped his fingers to clean the boy up but he couldn't look away from his tightly held legs. He couldn't have seen what he had but… he couldn't get the mental after image to disappear either. His eyes narrowed, a bead of drool trying to escape his lips as the kid scrambled to pull the sheet up as if in some old cartoon. The hunter was dramatic but he was starting to understand why.

Dom swallowed a whimper when the demon moved quicker than his eyes could track, one moment he was lounging in the chair and the next he was hovering over him, his hand wrapped tight in the sheet as if to rip it away. "I thought you were human." Kells growled low, his gaze full of that stormy black and blue that proved his power.

"I am. Fuck off." He snapped back but his voice was shaking. He hid his curse so well normally and now it was known. He didn't know why it made his stomach flip that the demon knew his best kept secret but it should have made him feel ill.

"I don't think so."

"I am. I… fuck Kells- please?"

"Please what?" His voice was gravel and his gaze heavy. There was something warring inside him. One side saying to abandon the boy, he had set out to help a human but what he saw proved the hunter was not. "Are you a fucking were? An angel? What are you?"

"I'm cursed okay? I'm fucking cursed. You don't get me bloody life story because you brought me breakfast. Prideful arse'ole!" There were angry hot tears burning Dom's eyes and he was desperate for a reset. He should have just dressed the night before, he knew the demon was close. He knew better but he'd left himself open to being found out. He couldn't help wondering if some part of him had done it on purpose. He'd been suffering alone with it so long. "Wait- angels? It's an angel fing? 'Ow do you know?"

Of course over the years on the road as he searched for the monster who'd cursed him he learned what beasts shared the same trait. Born werewolves had it- at least some of them. But angels did too? Thankfully those fuckers were calmer than he knew they used to be, a new regime kept them under control so he'd never fought one. He'd always assumed his affliction was based on wolves though, but now he couldn't help wondering. It didn't matter though. It was embarrassing either way and he didn't want anyone knowing. He didn't know how to handle the fact that someone did. How could Kells use it against him?

Kells took a breath, he was trying to calm down but instead it just drove his instincts a little more wild. He was so close to the human he could scent him and the smell was intoxicating. At least that made a little more sense finally. He forced himself back and he took a seat on the bed, his hands clenching at his sides. "A curse? You're not just… lying?" He knew their shared enemy was powerful but strong enough to do that? Fuck. "Why would they curse you to be an omega?"

Dom froze at the question, he'd never been given the name for it. All he knew was that one day he woke up with a cunt between his legs, fully functional. It was hell for him every day. He hadn't been in a relationship or took someone to bed in years. He worked his ass off to hide it. "It was a punishment for leaving I guess. Got into a relationship wiv the wrong person. I was young Kells. I don't know shite about why or 'ow or nuffin." He didn't know why he was explaining himself to the beast, he just couldn't seem to help himself. There was something about the demon that made him want to obey. It was the cliff notes version of events, the wanker didn't deserve more of his story. Yet. He didn't know why it hurt him that the bastard almost seemed disgusted by him now.

The demon sighed, he could feel the boy's pain and confusion and he knew he was partially the cause. He didn't mean to seem standoffish but he didn't know how to control himself around the kid. At least now he knew what was drawing him in. The monster who did that was fucked and he craved even more to destroy it. Dating minors and cursing them to a life like that just gave the rest of them a bad name. There were some lines even demons shouldn't cross. The human couldn't be more than a quarter of a century so he knew he must have barely been through puberty before it happened. Fuck he had to get control of himself. "Like I said, I'm here to help. We'll find him Dom. I can help you fix this." He vowed, trying to look the boy in the eyes instead of between his legs.

Dom's heart beat faster and he found himself nodding. He hated the idea of working with evil but… There was something about Kells. He felt himself relax a little and he took a sip of the cooling tea. He didn't think he could accept the offer out loud but he could at least keep from telling him 'no'. "Would you tell me about it? Omegas I mean. You seem to know." He shrugged, his voice softer than he normally spoke.

The demon sighed, his head tilting as he watched the human drink what he brought to him. Why did taking care of the kid make him feel so good? "I'm not supposed to." He answered after a moment but it was the truth. No human was meant to know about the angels, at least those were the old rules. He supposed it might be different. What he really wanted to do was far from talking. Maybe he should just disappear for a while.

"Please? I wanna know wha's wrong wiv me." Dom never asked nicely and he supposed he could treat Kells the same as any other demon but he wasn't sure he could get him in a devil's trap easily.

"Nothing is wrong with you." The beast accidentally whispered and his cheeks felt as hot as the fire of his home.

"Wha'?" Dom choked, his eyes wide from surprise but of course with that the demon vanished, leaving him with cold greasy hash browns, lukewarm tea, a stiff cock, and so much more confusion than he'd started out with. What the fuck was happening?

Author's Note/Tags: @iamnotanearthlingmotherfucker @hollywoodxwhore @jaxbreaker @fenoy7 @cole-way-iero28 🖤

I'm sorry if this isn't up to my normal level of writing, my brother is visiting for a few days and I've been really sick. I wanted to try and get something out though so I hope you enjoy it, at least we're learning a little about them 🖤⚰️

[spaceclefairy]

The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, Ch. 17

Pairing: Michael de Santa/ OFC; Trevor Philips/OFC; Michael de Santa/OFC/Trevor Philips; Michael de Santa/Trevor Philips

Summary: Los Santos is a hellscape, but if you’ve got brains and a little determination, it can be a real hell of a playground. Michael needs money, Trevor needs whatever Trevor wants, and Franklin’s moving up in Los Santos. Jen’s just along for the ride.

This is gonna be fun.

Author’s Note: I’ve been writing this beast of a thing since 2013. It’s been through a thousand different incarnations, but it’s been in my drafts for the last six years. I realize this fandom isn’t as popular as it used to be, but I might as well have a little fun and finally start posting it.

Also, not to be that bitch, but this is on Ao3. I would very much appreciate kudos/comments, if you’re so inclined!

Tagging: @verbo-volant for being an inspiration always

Part 1  ||   Part 2  ||  Part 3  ||  Part 4  ||  Part 5  ||  Part 6  ||  Part 7  ||  Part 8  ||  Part 9  ||  Part 10  ||  Part 11  ||  Part 12  ||  Part 13  ||  Part 14 || Part 15 || Part 16

--- --- ---

Senora Freeway, Three Years Ago

Michael’s flying down the Senora Freeway, Jen’s in the passenger's seat, Night Moves is playing gently in the background, and life is fucking good.

“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” Jen asks, leaning over to card her fingers through the back of his hair. “What's your curfew?”

“Haven't got one tonight,” Michael says, leaning into her hand. “Amanda's out of town for the weekend. We can do whatever you want, baby.”

“Really? Whatever I want, huh?” Jen teases, rubbing his neck. She can see one of his tattoos peeking just over the edge of his collar, and she runs her finger across it. “We could… go see a movie? There's a drive-in on the edge of the canyon right before the county line. We could grab some greasy takeout and not pay attention to whatever they're showing.”

“And what would we be doing instead of paying attention?” Michael shivers from the brush of her fingertips, a full-body shiver that runs from his shoulder to his toes. 

Jen laughs. “Fucking in the backseat, duh. That's what drive-ins are for.”

Michael chuckles to himself - that sounds like a good plan to him. “What if we get caught? Don't want you to lose your job or anything.”

“Please, we're so short-staffed, that old codger wouldn't fire me if I set the mayor's house on fire,” Jen says with a grin. She kicks off her shoes and crosses her legs up in the passenger's seat, relaxing against the door. “He’s gone senile anyway. We’re all just trying to stay afloat.”

“You should run against him, bring in some new blood.”

“Me? DA?” Jen snorted. “I'm not really much for leadership. Or politics.”

“I think you'd be good at it,” Michael replied. His hand settled on her thigh, squeezing her knee briefly. “You’re smart, you’re hard-working - you’ve got the Los Santos look. Good face for politics.”

“Maybe I'll think about it,” Jen shrugs. She’s never one to get sheepish, but she can't deny she's flattered. “Hey, turn here - let’s grab Cluckin’ Bell and head to the drive-in.”

--- --- ---

Present Day

Thanks to Michael, Jen had been in a bad mood all weekend.

Saturday had been little more than a nuisance - a formality of time enforced by the sheer ticking of a clock. Jen had given up calling or texting Michael not long after he'd bolted Friday night, leaving Saturday an open wound. She passed the irritable hours by sticking her nose in her laptop and coming up for air for coffee, and coffee alone.

Sunday was just another twenty-four hours of blind irritation stemming from hurt and confusion. Sunday was spent on the couch watching reruns of old mafia movies and nursing a bottle of wine.

Monday, well… Monday was not a good day to be this angry. It was a status hearing for Jen’s serial killer trial - the trial that would last at least a month. The hearing was a formality - little more than standing up to tell the judge that, yes, the State is ready for trial, and, yes, half the LSPD and FIB are witnesses on said trial, and, yes, it will take at least a month to try.

And, while Jen prided herself on etiquette and professionalism within the courtroom, that Monday was not her finest day. Jen was seething, and everyone could tell. Therefore, no one would talk to her, nothing was getting worked out, and nothing was getting done - at least, not for her cases.

When Jen’s case was called, she stood in her tall, tall heels, the spiky ones she wore specifically on days like today, and stood at the podium in front of the judge. "The State is ready to proceed with trial."

The judge, a curmudgeonly woman in her late sixties, similarly, and perhaps impossibly, was in a worse mood because a month-long trial wasn’t going to be enjoyable for anyone. The judges - especially this one in particular - did not like it when Jen announced that a trial would take place, as Jen's trials generally took a week or more.

The judge sighed. "How long do you expect this to take, Ms. Dixon?"

"Three weeks, maybe four. There's eight counts of murder in the first degree and nearly forty witnesses."

The judge, deadpan, asked, "Seriously?"

Jen nodded, tapping her pen against the podium. "Serious as a heart attack, Judge. This is the serial killer the FIB arrested last year."

The judge looked as if she'd like to retire immediately. "Alright, we'll set it down for trial. I'll send out the scheduling order this afternoon."

Jen stepped away from the podium, click-clacking back to the State's table. The other attorneys hastily made room for her, careful not to scoot too close. With the exception of MaryAnn, they all seemed to be mightily preoccupied with the files in their hands. MaryAnn, on the other hand, stared her down with every step.

Leave it to MaryAnn to be the only person unafraid to ask. She leaned over to whisper in Jen’s ear. "What crawled up your ass?"

Despite Jen’s irritation, she almost smiled. "Nothing."

MaryAnn rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, I haven't seen you this angry at work since the morning after you went on that date with Haines."

That had been an exceptionally bad day, after an exceptionally bad date. They did not speak of that date. Nor the day that followed.

"We agreed never to talk about that." Jen crossed her arms and watched another lawyer stand up for his case. "Mike's being a dick."

"Did you have a fight?" MaryAnn asked. She watched the judge out of the corner of her eye, waiting for her next case to be called while she chatted with Jen.

"More like he fucked me seven ways to Sunday and ran out of my apartment before he'd even zipped up his pants. And didn’t bother to answer the phone."

"Ouch," MaryAnn winced. "Want me to cover for you so you can go home?"

Jen shook her head. "No, I've got too much to do, and we need to keep prepping for trial. I'll take care of it tonight."

"I feel sorry for him…"

"I wouldn't if I were you."

As Jen sat at the table monitoring the goings-on of the courtroom, her phone vibrated. She frowned down at it when Michael’s name flashed across the screen. 

Michael: dinner @ natalias @ 6

How eloquent. Michael wasn't known for his hip-and-happening texting skills. 

Jen: okay

She received no further reply, which wasn't unexpected even on a good day. Nevertheless, she spent a few too many seconds glaring down at the screen. Two of her employees (who had been watching carefully to make sure a blow-up wasn’t imminent) vacated their seats and scurried away, pretending to discuss a case they were working together. She rolled her eyes at their retreating backs, but she could admit it wasn’t their worst idea to go run and hide.

Jen chewed on her lip, deep in thought, until she tasted the rust of blood. Dinner could go one of several ways. Michael could ignore the problem - that was the most likely possibility. He could bring presents and buy her dinner and expect that to fix things. Or, equally possible, he could finally run the other way. That… also wouldn’t be entirely unexpected. Whatever method Michael decided to try, Jen had already determined a conversation needed to be had. 

Once court had adjourned, Jen grabbed MaryAnn and led her back to her office.

“We have to call Haines and Norton,” Jen said. “They worked the last of the murders before his arrest, so we need to start working on their testimony.”

“Are you sure you don’t just want to take your anger out on your favorite punching bags?” MaryAnn asked, curling up on her favorite chair in Jen’s office. She stared up at the whiteboard where Jen had drawn out their trial plan. “You’re not going to have one of them sit with us, are you?”

“I was planning on Haines sitting at the table with us. He has public appeal with that dumbass TV show,” Jen replied, tapping out a message on her phone. She usually tried to warn Haines before she called him. She dialed after she sent the message. “As much as I don’t want him there, he has good ratings - might help with the jury's perception of us.”

Both Jen and MaryAnn were well-known for being rather… contentious during trial.

“I hate it when you’re right… sometimes,” MaryAnn said. She quieted when Haines answered the phone on the third ring.

Haines’s voice rang loud and clear over the speaker. “How can I help you, Jenny?”

Jen’s eye twitched. “That serial killer you and Norton arrested last year is electing to exercise his constitutional right to a trial. Clear your schedule - you’re sitting at the table with us.”

“I guess you need a pretty face for when the camera’s come rolling in,” Haines commented loftily. “I don’t know… I’ll have to check my filming schedule.”

“Well, when I serve you your subpoena and you don’t show up,” Jen started as MaryAnn snickered quietly in her seat, “I can have you arrested on your own TV show. How's that for ratings?”

“Eh, I guess I could use some more screen time,” he corrected quickly. He wouldn’t put it past her to actually do it. “I’ll make sure to let my makeup artist know.”

“If you fuck up this testimony and this guy walks, don’t forget your home address is public…”

Haines scoffed quietly. “Calm down, Jenny. When have I ever fucked up testimony?”

Irritatingly, the answer was never. Haines, for all his flaws and despite his patriarchal athleisure wear, was actually fairly good on the stand. He was somehow able to charm a jury, despite the glaring surface flaws and deep-seated jackassery.

“Just be prepared. You’ll be on the stand for a couple of days,” Jen said, "And wear a fucking suit. I don't want you up there looking like you're going out for a round of golf."

“Yeah, fine.”

Jen hung up. MaryAnn was still snickering quietly in her chair.

“Well, if all goes poorly with your old man boyfriend, there’s always Steve Haines.”

“I would genuinely rather die, MaryAnn.”

--- --- ---

Michael was late. Of course, he was late. Even neutral ground for a conversation wouldn’t make that man deal with the consequences of his actions in a timely fashion.

Jen took a sip of her wine. It was good wine, she determined. She’d already asked the hostess (a woman she’d become incredibly friendly with over the years of being a steady and dedicated patron) to bag up an extra bottle to take home. She had a feeling she was going to need a tall, stiff drink when she got home. 

Jen already knew where this date was going just by virtue of Michael being late, and Michael was clearly having trouble getting himself together to do it.

She could tell him that it was okay, that she was expecting it. She could tell him she'd always known it would end like this - that they'd had a good ride together. She could be kind and make this easier for him, just get up and grab her bags and forget that he existed. And make him pay for the meal, obviously. 

But Jen certainly wasn’t known for being kind. If Michael was going to do this, she wasn't going to make it easy for him.

Michael finally arrived, dressed in his usual suit and tie. Judging by the pink flush on his cheeks, he’d had a couple of drinks before he’d walked in - a little liquid courage. Jen watched him idly as he sat down and adjusted his tie, though it didn’t need to be adjusted. He was looking anywhere but at Jen, though she’d fixed him with a cool, even stare. 

Finally, Jen spoke, tone flat. "Explain."

"I don't really know what to say…"

She cocked her head to the side. "Take your time."

"I- uh," Michael trailed off as though words had entirely escaped him. He paused, trying to hold himself firm against Jen's colder-than-death stare. "I'm- well, I'm- fuck - I'm sorry for runnin' out the other night-"

"I didn't ask for an apology, Mike. I said explain."

Michael knew his choices were limited. He could take what he determined was the chicken-shit way out: apologize and keep on doing this with Jen. Or, he could do what he figured was the right thing to do if he wanted Amanda back - break it off right here and now.

Begrudgingly, Michael admitted Trevor was right - he had to let one of them go. And he'd chosen Jen.

Time to pony up.

"Jen, I can't keep doing this," Michael said, his voice hollow. It's like he couldn't hear the words coming out of his mouth - like he was trapped in an icy bubble. "I mean, we had a good ride. It's been a good six years-"

"Seven years."

Michael coughed. Right. "Seven years. But we knew we'd have to move on from this eventually."

Jen crossed her arms. "Uh-huh."

"Look, you deserve someone who can give you a good life."

"I have a good life as it is, but keep talking if you’d like,” Jen said, raising an eyebrow. 

“I'm still married, Jen.”

That, despite Michael's attempt at a hushed whimper, caught the attention of the table next to them. Two blondes, one tall and statuesque even sitting, the other squat and muscular, ducked their heads together and traded sideways looks.

“Oh, I'm aware, but did it ever cross your mind that you’re married when you were getting your dick wet?” Jen asked, tone getting icier by the minute. “Or when you dragged me into your new bank-robbing 80's movie reboot?"

Michael struggled to keep his temper in check. If he raised his voice, which he knew he shouldn’t do, she’d lose her shit on him (which was not something he ever wanted to experience and would ultimately make things worse). And then he’d lose his shit on her (again, not something he'd ever done nor wanted to experience). He didn’t want to have a screaming match or some knock-down, drag-out fight in the middle of this restaurant. He’d wanted this to be as quick and painless as possible, but he had a short temper and a bad mouth.

"Yeah, I’m sure you really hated the money you got from those jobs. You're really gonna pull the morality card on me right now?" Michael snapped. “You knew I was married from the get-go. I never hid that from you.”

And with that, quick and painless fell out resolutely out of reach.

Jen sneered. “Morality got thrown out the window seven years ago when I fucked you on my couch. You don't give a shit about me or Amanda. You just want your idyllic little life back, with your white picket fence and wife and two-point-five kids and all that shit."

Jen had never spoken to him like this before - not this icy, toneless clip. Screaming was one thing, yelling and cussing another, but this emotionless, icicle tone was downright terrifying. Michael thought he might prefer yelling.

"We never agreed on anything more than strictly casual and you know it!” Michael snapped. He wanted to disengage, he really did, but he was notoriously terrible at backing down. 

The neighboring table was outright staring now, more out of the Los Santos love for drama than any real concern.

"Doesn't matter what we agreed to at this point, especially considering the past few months. This arrangement is no longer strictly casual, Michael,” Jen said. “Whose bed did you sleep in when Amanda left you, huh? Who’d you come running to?"

Michael leaned in, trying to keep his voice down, and failing. "Why are you making this harder than it has to be?"

Jen pointed at him, her long, tapered nail ending in a point. "Because you know how I feel, and you know how you feel, and you’re just blindly fucking ignoring it."

"I've got to take care of my family."

"I’m not telling you not to take care of your family,” Jen hissed, “I’m telling you not to go back to someone who made you miserable for twenty years, and who, I’m sure, you made equally as miserable.” 

Michael didn’t have an answer, because Jen wasn’t wrong.

"The fact of the matter is, you want this to be easy for you. This is not easy for me, and I am not going to make this easy for you, Michael," Jen snapped. This was an absolute promise. “You’ve always walked away from everything you’ve done scott-free - not this time."

"Well, don't worry, you'll get your wish. I gotta carry this with me every fucking day."

"And I hope you carry it with pride."

With that, Michael stopped and took a deep breath. He cared, he really did. And Michael, in his infinite capacity to make everything worse, went for the final blow. "Look, I care about you, Jen. I lov-"

"Don't." She uncrossed her arms and stood up. "Don’t say another fucking word - I don’t want to hear it. You are such an asshole."

"Jen, come on-"

Jen grabbed her bag and coat, retrieved her bottle of wine from the hostess station, and left, the restaurant door swinging shut behind her. Michael could pay for the fucking waters and the bottle of whiskey he was probably about to order - Jen was out of there. The valet, taking a quick look at the expression on her face, wasted no time retrieving her car.

Of course, Michael would pull that card. Jen wasn't stupid - and neither was Michael. Both emotionally stunted, stubborn fools - but not stupid. That had manifested years ago, but, of course, the end would be the moment Michael decided to pull it out.

Asshole. 

Jen revved her car and turned out into Los Santos traffic. God, it would be weeks before she’d be able to go back to Natalia’s after that blowout. She couldn’t stop herself from letting it get out of hand, and there was no way Michael wasn’t going to make a scene. How embarrassing. She’d have to leave an extra tip next time.

She didn't want to go home yet, not after that. She needed someplace to cool down, get a clear head. Some catharsis. 

Tequi-la-la’s would be a good place to cool down. Have a couple of drinks, grab some bar food since she’d never actually ordered at the restaurant. Find someone to take home with her. Yep, that was the best plan. Alcohol, food, and a quick fuck. Mends broken hearts, does the trick every time. Well, probably not this time, but self-destruction was the only option Jen would consider right now.

Yet, rather than taking the exit for Tequi-la-la’s, Jen found herself turning right onto the Strawberry exit. A short drive later, and the glow of the Vanilla Unicorn sign flooded the dark streets. She’d driven around aimlessly until she’d seen the giant neon sign and cut into the parking lot. 

Catharsis. She could get catharsis here, too. She cut the engine on her Jester and sat staring up at the flashing lights.

“Fuck.”

Jen slammed the Jester door behind her and locked the car. She was greeted at the door by the bouncers by name, asked if she wanted her usual table by the hostess. She declined and headed straight up to the bar.

Tiffany, blonde Tiffany - one of Jen's favorite girls at the Unicorn - was bartending tonight. Jen didn't prefer blondes, but Tiffany was undeniably gorgeous and surprisingly quite sweet. And she made a great cocktail. And gave great head. 

Jen leaned against the bar and waved Tiffany over. “You busy?”

“Kind of,” Tiffany snorted. She looked around and saw that she was not, in fact, all that busy, so she shook her head. “Actually, not really. Mondays are slow. Speaking of which, why are you here?”

“Bad day,” Jen responded. “Came in for a drink and… to say hi. Take a break?”

Tiffany raised an eyebrow and called over her shoulder. “Jill, I’m going on break. Be back… eventually.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Jen grinned. “Hey, have you seen Trevor tonight?”

“Uh, yeah, I think he’s in the office. Why?”

“Got a problem with using the office?”

“With him in it?”

“Maybe, if he’s lucky.”

Tiffany shook her head. “No problem at all.”

“Good girl,” Jen said with a wink. “Let’s go.”

Tiffany ducked out from behind the bar and led Jen back towards the office, pulling her by the hand past the private rooms where thudding music filled the dark hallway. Bouncers lined the wall, standing guard past the curtains in case customers got too rough with the girls. Judging by the soft sound of panting, some of the bouncers had been paid extra to look the other way.

Trevor's office was down at the end of the hall, but the girls didn't quite make it there before Jen pulled Tiffany into a heated kiss. One of the bouncers gave them a look, more out of curiosity than concern, then went back to monitoring the couple past the curtains. It wasn't like the bouncers didn't know what was going on - they'd all seen Jen with a girl or two before - but what happened at the Unicorn, stayed at the Unicorn.

Jen shoved a hand up Tiffany's cropped shirt, finding no bra to impede her in her goal, and busied herself playing with Tiffany's nipple. Tiffany wound her hand into Jen's hair and shoved her back against the wall.

“How do you want to do this?” Tiffany asked, panting in Jen's ear.

Jen tweaked her nipple until she moaned, thumb circling the nub relentlessly. “Whatever happens, happens. You okay with Trevor joining in?”

Tiffany nodded. “Fine with me. You give the word.”

“Safe word is pineapple if you get uncomfortable,” Jen said. “Now, come on, I want to stick my tongue in your pussy.”

They didn’t bother knocking on the door - it was unlocked anyway. Cue Trevor doing whatever it is that Trevor does in this vacant office (currently, snorting coke off the desk). ‘

He looked up and broke out into a grin. “Well, this is unexpected.”

“Shut up,” Jen said as she backed Tiffany up against the desk. “You can stay as long as you’re quiet.”

Trevor mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key.

Jen nudged Tiffany onto her elbows on the desk and sank down to her knees in front of her. She hiked Tiffany's skirt up her thighs and peeled her underwear down before sealing her lips over her slit.

Tiffany's hand gripped the roots of her hair. “Ah - getting right to it, babe?”

“Mhm,” was as much of a response as Jen could give with her mouth full. She flicked her tongue along her slit, pausing to suck at her clit, before spreading her open with her fingers and sinking two digits in. She pumped her fingers in and out, tonguing the space in between with reverence, until her mouth was soaked and fingers were dripping.

Tiffany grabbed Jen’s shoulders and arched up into her mouth, thighs shaking. “Fuck, Jen - right there -”

Jen could just barely hear Trevor unzip his pants over the sound of Tiffany panting, but hear it she did. She stopped sucking Tiffany's clit and stood up, leaning over the girl on the desk so she could kiss her.

“Okay so far?” Jen asked softly, mumbling against Tiffany's mouth. Her black lipstick was smeared down her chin, and Jen could only imagine what her own face looked like.

The breathless yes made Jen smile.

“Do something for me?” Jen asked. “Go fuck Trevor. If he doesn’t finish you, I will.”

Tiffany nodded and stood shakily up from the desk. She crossed over to where Trevor sat and climbed into his lap. He moved to grab her ass, but stopped when Jen told him no.

“You don't touch. I touch, you be quiet and take what we give you. Understood?”

He stared over Tiffany’s shoulder at Jen and nodded. To his credit, he followed orders and didn’t speak, likely because he thought Jen would tell Tiffany to stop if he did. (She wouldn’t have, not this time. This was a night for catharsis, not discipline.) 

Jen stood behind Tiffany and held her hips steady as she slid down onto Trevor's fat cock. She reached up and tucked Tiffany’s hair away so she could trail kisses down her neck as Tiffany grinded down on Trevor’s lap.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, Trevor?” Jen said, reaching around to play with Tiffany’s nipples while Trevor watched. “Tiffany’s so fun to play with. Too bad you can’t touch.”

He leaned his head back against the top of the chair and groaned, eyes squeezed shut. His knuckles had turned white from the force of clutching the arms of his chair, the pulse point in his neck fluttering, tendons tight.

“Open your eyes and watch, Trevor,” Jen said, teasing one of Tiffany’s nipples before reaching down to play with her clit. “If you’re a good boy and make Tiffany come first, I’ll fuck you, too.”

Another groan, but it makes him buck up into Tiffany, matching her pace. Tiffany moaned in turn, one hand gripping Trevor's forearm, the other hand wrapped around Jen's hand while she played with her clit.

Jen grinned, spreading the slick over Tiffany's clit. She reached further, massaging the place where Trevor's cock plunged into her. “How’s that feel, Tiff?”

“Good - so good-”

“Gonna come for us?”

A high-pitched, breathy yeah. 

Jen grabbed Tiffany's chin and turned her head so she could kiss her. She felt the tremor wrack Tiffany's body as she came, the sharp moan spilling from her lips muffled by Jen's mouth. 

Beneath them, Trevor was absolutely wrecked, hips stuttering as he rode out Tiffany's orgasm without succumbing to the one threatening to slam through him. His bottom lip was caught between his wolfish teeth, eyes wild, knuckles so white from the strain that Jen could almost see the veins running through his hands. He still didn't speak, but he stared a hole through Jen's forehead, silently begging to come.

Jen held onto Tiffany's hips as she climbed off of Trevor's cock, keeping her steady. Trevor's hand immediately fisted around his shaft, pumping viciously to keep his high going.

Jen kissed Tiffany again, this time gently. “You okay, Tiff?”

“I'm great, sugar,” Tiffany replied. “Do you want me to stick around?”

“Yeah, I like when you watch,” Jen replied. “Besides, someone should watch Trevor get fucked like a good boy.”

Jen turned back towards Trevor, watching him beg silently as he fisted himself. “You can talk if you're good.”

Trevor nodded furiously, groaning. “I'll be good - I'll be so good, Jen, please -”

“I know you will, baby boy,” Jen said, lifting the hem of her dress out of the way as she straddled Trevor's lap. “You always do such a good job for your Princess Jen.”

His hands latched onto her thighs immediately, fingertips digging into her skin as she moved her underwear to the side and sank down on his cock. It was an easy slide, made easier by the mix of Tiffany's come coating his shaft and the precum dripping from his flushed tip. Her hand found his throat, thumbs teasing the prominent veins bulging under his skin, and forced his head against the back of the chair. 

Jen's name, at that moment, was the closest thing to a prayer to have ever come out of Trevor's mouth, followed closely by fuck and please. She gripped his shoulder with the hand not currently wrapped around his throat. When she moved in his lap, it was slow and torturous, not quite enough to push Trevor over the edge with the explosive force he'd started to feel with Tiffany. No, this was worse - this was a wave lapping at his skin, teasing him, pushing him closer and closer -

“You can come now, Trevor,” Jen said, permission like music to his ears. “Be a good boy and come on yourself.”

And he does. He bounced Jen up to the tip of his cock and slammed up into her before pulling her soundly off his cock and coming all over the bottom of his shirt. She kept his head pinned to the back of the chair, the edges of his vision starry and fuzzy, forcing him to keep eye contact until his cock softened against his stomach.

From the desk behind them, Tiffany made herself come again, the sound of her moans bubbling up underneath Trevor's. Jen climbed off of Trevor's lap to help Tiffany clean herself up before waving Tiffany out with another kiss. 

Jen sat on the edge of the desk and offered Trevor Tiffany's forgotten underwear to clean himself up. She watched idly as he stuffed the used underwear into his back pocket.

“Not that I'm complaining,” Trevor said, “but what was that?”

“What do you mean, what was that? You got fucked by two women. Don't think that needs an explanation.”

“But why?”

“Why not?”

Trevor, unfortunately, was a lot more perceptive than Jen gave him credit for sometimes. “What happened?”

Jen, wholly unwilling to relive the events of the night prior to her arrival at the Unicorn, climbed down off the desk and smoothed out her dress. “Why don't you call Michael? He'll explain.”

“Maybe I’ll just go pay him a visit,” Trevor replied, zipping up his pants with some finality. “It’s been a while since I said hello anyway.”

[loosesodamarble]

❤️‍🔥 ship your tumblr cutie patooties (moots and anons) with a character + assign them a troupe ❤️‍🔥

Wow this has been sitting in my inbox for… far too long…

Alrighty friendos, get ready to be shipped!

……….

@cringeyvanillamilk: Steph, I ship you with Kyoujurou Rengoku! You deserve this sunshine man, okay girl! Kyoujurou is strong and dedicated. He's observant and helpful. You're very intelligent, always learning and willing to go. You both are also brimming with energy and enthusiasm for life! You'll set each other's heart ablaze with romance and inspiration to live full lives. Kyoujurou would defend you from any physical threats and with your understanding of the human mind and emotions, I'm sure you could talk him through the difficult relationship he has with his father and his heavy burden as a Pillar. Your trope with Kyoujurou is the Seduction-Proof Marriage. Kyoujurou would love you so much, he'd never even consider any other person once he's with you. No way, no how! And you're a loyal gal, Steph! Once you've got a quality man like Kyou on your arm, you know you're good. (Maybe he'll allow you to glance some other ways because he's that confident that you'll always be with him.)

@acacia-may: Dear Acacia, I would ship you with Mitsuri Kanroji! I love me the Obamitsu ship but you and Mitsuri would be quite the pair. You two have a lot in common personality-wise which is why I think you'd get along great. Mitsuri is the type of girl to see the beauty in everything. She admires and thanks everyone she meets. She's creative and free-spirited. Acacia, you have your Little Trees appreciation and I believe you've mentioned having a number of aus and ships so you've got a big heart and big brain full of creative thoughts. You two could probably go on and on about the nice people she works with or the medias you enjoy. I could see Mitsuri being interesting in learning recipes to accommodate your dietary restrictions too as she's ultra caring and into food like that! Lots of fun and love in your relationship. The trope I'd give you two is Sickeningly Sweethearts, though you two wouldn't gush about your coupledom all the time, you'd be so sweet with each other that it might give people cavities~! 💖

@lyranova: Lyra, dear, the person I ship you with is Loke/Leo the Lion. Loke is a very romantic guy and a bit silly with how forward he can be when interested in someone. He's got a complicated history with romantic relations and women in general but he doesn't let it show so I think that as long as you don't bring it up, it shouldn't cause any issues with the relationship. Loke would be your valiant knight to protect you. And if you ever learn to fight with your own power, he will acknowledge that strength and work with as an equal rather than being over-protective. Out of all the characters brought up in his post, Loke is the most experienced so he will know all the best date locations, no matter what your preferences might be. Your trope as a couple would be Terrible Pick-Up Lines. Sorry, not sorry! Loke would try to be a smooth talker but given your experience with fanfic, you'd probably just laugh them off because you know how funny they can sound. You'd still find it endearing that he's trying to smooth talk you though. Make sure to give him a flirty line back to let him know you don't see his one-liners as complete failures.

@marune2: I’ve decided to ship you, Marune, with Prince Cyril (from Beauty and the Beast of Paradise Lost). It’s the monstrous looks and kind heart of his that I think you might like (because you write characters that are that way). Cyril a bit (okay maybe a lot) snarky but he’s ultimately a good man! He's also magical and it's very cool when he uses his magic! He's got this gothic fairy tale vibe which I think you might enjoy. Cyril is fond of strong-willed people; with your goal to be a comic writer and the work you do, I think he'd give you a chance and grow fond of you with time. Our beast prince here is a little reckless at times and you're a caring person so hopefully you don't worry yourself sick over him. And be warned though, Cyril has some admirers who aren't friendly so when he shows an interest in you, be prepared to fight for your life. I'm definitely picturing the One Head Taller trope with you two. Because Cyril is tall (remember, he's a beast). He will probably poke fun at the height difference, but you can just yank him down to your level if you feel like messing with him back.

(Lowkey, I also recommend you read the manga. Just five volumes, there's some pretty gruesome moments, and there's a bit of dark magic and contracts involved. Though it is a mxf romance and I don't know how much that might affect your interest.)

@thoughtfullyrainynightmare: Twilight/Loid Forger is the character I'd ship you with, Laura. He's no Fuegoleon but he's as close as we'll get elsewhere. Loid is capable and intelligent. But despite being an acute spy, he's a bit dense on some things (like how is he not suspicious of Yor?) and isn't totally in tune with "normal" people which can lead to some awkward moments. But, Loid always tries his best, for the sake of his missions as well as the people he finds himself closely associated with/growing to genuinely care for. The trope I'd give you two is Brooding Boy, Gentle Girl. Loid doesn't brood so much as obsessively worries about his missions and I can see you, having a more normal life and a very understanding heart, finding a way to calm him down and give him advice when he's troubled (or give as good advice as you can when he'd be keeping the spy life secret from you. Though I think you'd eventually catch on cause you're so smart). (Lowkey I was gonna pair you with Loke as well because... Lion, but nah! 🤣)

@simpingforthisonedeer: Anshi, dearest, the fictional character I'd ship you with is Lord Grandfather. You like your old men (Julius/lh+j) and you like your villains (Lucius) so why not both?

But actually no, I'd ship you with Tengen Uzui. You two have a similar vibe in that you both can be loud and goofy, but when things get real, you both can buckle down and be serious. Tengen is more serious about fighting and the battlefield while your strong presence calls out people's nonsense or bad behavior. Tengen can come off as having an inflated ego but he puts on a bit of an act because he knows he's not a fighting prodigy like other characters and doesn't have the same people skills like other characters. You play yourself up too but I know there's genuine confidence in who you are and your abilities. I think you and Tengen would do a great job of building each other up because you two would see the greatness in each other. You two would definitely do the Romantic Ribbing trope. It'd be mutual, you teasing Tengen and him teasing you back because you both are smart and sassy enough to keep the banter going.

(Although you should probably be made aware that Tengen already has three wives and I don't know if that'd be a deal breaker or not...)

[savage-rhi]

For the WIPs, how about Everything, Zen 😘

@seradyn AHHH BIG THANK!!! 💙 I don't have a whole lot done on this one cause I'm still plotting out things, but I do have a little snippet and a summary!

Edit: also adding the song that inspired the story, title and characters

Summary: It is said in the holy book that when Lucifer fell from heaven, he was plunged into the depths of hell and awaits the apocalypse. What if hell wasn't a firey pit of despair, but in fact, living as a human being for all of eternity?

Zen--the most recent reincarnation of Lucifer--after several lifetimes has finally pieced together a way he can break free from the reincarnation cycle. With the aid of Sawyer--a woman with her own troubles and tribulations--Zen seeks the legendary 10 crowns or "horns" of The Beast to return to heaven.

"So," Sawyer let out a sigh. "When this little road trip of ours comes to an end and you go home. What happens next?"

Zen raised a brow and shrugged. If he were more honest with himself, he hadn't thought that much ahead of the game. Not that he'd admit it out loud.

"I suppose I try and break bread with my father," Zen scoffed. He then smirked as another amusing thought came to mind. "Maybe sing kumbaya with Michael while I'm at it. Hell, maybe pops would like a souvenir from--"

He paused and frowned, looking at the inside of the diner trying in vain to find something that popped out. "Bumfuck Montana, or wherever we are right now."

"Bumfuck Montana," Sawyer repeated. She sounded so unimpressed that Zen could feel his pride take a few steps back. "That's original."

"Oh yeah?" Zen smirked. "You think you can do better?"

"I probably could," Sawyer admitted with a grin. "But I don't need Satan on my ass for the next decade or however long I got left."

"Eh," Zen's eyes scanned over Sawyer in a scrutinizing manner. "You don't have much going on there, ass wise. I wouldn't fret."

"Asshole," Sawyer growled under her breath.

"You walked into that I'm afraid." Zen snorted.

Although Sawyer smiled and laughed off his counter, Zen could sense a little more of herself closing off to him. The way her shoulders firmed and the subtle twitch of her fingers against the coffee mug had him uneasy. His therapist from the late 1800s stated such unease from physical tics was due to abandonment issues. He remembered laughing himself to death over that, but admitted perhaps they had been onto something. He hated it when someone pulled away. It demonstrated a dishonesty that infuriated him to the core.

Zen felt eager to verbally rip Sawyer apart, but reminded himself of how fragile her current state of mind was. He gave credit where it was due. She was certainly a phenomenal actor, pretending nothing got under her skin. That was a quality he had come to admire about humans over the centuries. How their resilience was impeccable. He couldn't say the same for himself as he ruminated on his earlier feelings of disgust.

What happened at the truck stop bothered him a great deal, and he wasn't the one who had been assaulted. He may had "saved the day", but the damage had been done. It was clear in Sawyers eyes and the way she had carried herself since then.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" Zen murmured.

"Not really," Sawyer replied. Her eyes scanned over the diner, reminding Zen of a meerkat scouting the plains for hyena. "It's not the first time something like that has happened to me. I'll get over it."

He felt the hairs on his neck stand, and blinked a few times as his mind pondered more than it should've on Sawyer's remark.

"You're not alone in your misery. If it's any consolation."

Sawyer's eyes landed on him, sensing a familiarity in his cadence. It took her but a few moments to register the weight. "You too?"

Zen nodded. He sunk further into his seat as he relaxed and stretched. "You seem surprised."

"I didn't think...since you're, you know who, that you'd know what that's like--"

"I've lived many lifetimes. I'm not a stranger to bodily harm of the highest. Be it male or female." He interrupted, offering a small grin to soften the blow of his confession for her sake. Zen felt something akin to shame shortly after, and dismissively waved his right hand. Trying to tell Sawyer without words not to think too hard on anything. He focused on the birds in the parking lot outside the window. Watching them peck at stale leftover french fries someone had tossed.

"I'm sorry," Sawyer softly replied. He didn't have to see her face to tell she felt foolish for whatever assumptions she had held of him.

"It's whatever," Zen shrugged with a grin. He realized how odd that must've looked considering the circumstances, but didn't linger upon it.

Once the birds took off, having their fill, did he look at Sawyer again. He bit the inside of his cheek.

"You don't me owe me your past or anything you've been through, but I do want you to know that so long as we travel together, that won't happen again."

"How can you be certain?"

"I'm not," Zen admitted. "But contrary to popular belief, I keep my word if you'll have it."

[nottoxicfr]

Hi. so this is probs gonna be a long ask which i apologize for bc i'm a complete stranger LOL but i've been thinking about your dragon install concept since i saw it last night and i wanted to give you my full opinions on it bc i didn't want to blast your notifs with a wall of text in tags

so, for my personal thoughts (because i definitely think we have overlapping interests here esp since you brought up burning godzilla as an inspiration in that post and godzilla vs destoroyah is one of my favorite movies), i think if i were going to draft a scenario where sol is taken over by the FoC, i'd definitely lean into a more biological feeling, if that makes sense. my main hooks for this thought process are 1. while i can't speak on sin devil trigger bc i haven't played any devil may cry games, that is sort of what burning godzilla had going for it (and godzilla as a series hasn't been adverse to leaning into a more body horror adjacent focus with the king of the monsters, ie with shin godzilla) and 2. i think it makes a really interesting thematic parallel to justice. because obviously justice is like, she isn't a machine strictly but she does have a distinct bio-mechanical element to her, so i think its interesting to make a full gear sol go in the opposite direction and have a more visceral element to his design, if all that makes sense

if this comes off as like, rude or unsolicited at all i do sincerely apologize ^-^; bc i do like your concept a lot! i just have a lot of thoughts on this particular topic and i'm excited to see someone who's as interested in dragon install stuff as i am. peace up

Hey there! I don't get asks very often, so I'm pretty happy to be able to answer any of them.

I think you're right about a Full Gear Sol Badguy needing to lean into the biological features to contrast against Justice being so heavily bio-mechanically designed. She's a big Evangelion (which features beasts being bound in armor) reference in Xrd, whereas I think Sol should be something more like Godzilla or maybe Ultraman. A Kaiju, but depending on the circumstance I think he'd be designed with a more severe sense of horror (if he's a villain) or something a little more subtle (if he's still Sol). Either way, I think he leans into his Overture Dragon Install! Sort of like what you might get if you were to try and design an apex predator.

In the situation where Frederick becomes Justice, or whatever name you'd call him, I would think of a design that suggests that the fire is burning him from the inside out, which I guess is sort of body horror-esque? It would be inflicting a constant pain on his body, which would only serve to make him a more aggressive Command Gear, alongside being possessed by the Pope and blowing up Japan.

I did actually do a Sol-Justice swap once. I tried to make him look like a furnace being overrun by fire! His arms were made of fire. There's parts of that present in the Kaiju Sol too, because I have a tendency to design Sol's more monstrous forms like a physical shell being overwhelmed by its contents!

Admittedly, I'm not a Sol expert. Still, for someone like Sol who strives to keep his innards really far from the surface, something like that would be terrifying to experience. It's more important to be scary to him than it is to the "audience," I think.

"The Flame of Corruption exceeds even this physical vessel," is the description I think I used to describe the way fire explodes out of him, rather than just burning like a Charizard. Though, I should clarify and say the design isn't necessarily caused by the FoC overrunning Sol Badguy's human soul. He's still Frederick/Sol! He's just very on fire.

If I think about the Flame of Corruption as a sentient force influencing Frederick, then I think that the overlay of them would probably affect his psyche. However, if he keeps a cool head, then he'd be able to manage the form.

The design was influenced by the Kaiju fights in FFXVI, specifically Ifrit. At one point he fights a mountain! I thought to myself, "I wish Sol could have fought that giant form of Justice like that." I'd recommend looking up the fight, if you aren't saving the game for later. It's super cool, and if you like Dragon Installs, I think you'll see where the design comes from.

I really want a Guilty Gear Action Game while ArcSys is focusing on GG's franchise growth.

I'm glad to find people who enjoy Dragon Install! All my designs featuring Dragon Install designs do particularly well, so it's good to know we aren't alone.

Thank you for the ask!

[tojisloft]

loml. gojo satoru.

wc: 1809 words

tw: wine, mentions of death, mentions of violence, heartbreak, marriage.

summary: gojo angst ?? jjk manga spoilers. DEVOTION.

a/n: this was inspired by loml by taylor swift at 3 am forgive me "i'll never leave" "never mind" JUST KILL ME RN OMFG. lmk if i made any mistakes. i wanted to go ahead w a sad ending but we're already going thru that in the manga so uhm lets win for once, yeah?

ao3 link

you had a bad habit of going back in time and visiting the past, not literally, you were not tony stark. you liked to subject yourself to emotional torture, thinking back on old memories that made your heart burn as if someone had dipped it in hot lava.

you took a sip of the pinot noir as your eyes glossed over the pictures affixed in a photo album. your heart ached, so much you almost thought it was a heart attack.

the picture stared back at you. it was you and satoru kissing, his lips on yours. your hands around his neck, resting on his broad shoulders. his hand gripping your waist, the other cupping your jaw. you could taste his lips on yours even now, you could never forget him. he tasted of unfulfilled dreams and chocolate.

your eyes fill to the brim, tears threatening to overflow down your cheeks. you hated him. so much. you hated him more than paper straws and caramel popcorn. you loved him so much you didn't realize when you started to hate him.

he was so perfect. always so considerate, always so loving and caring. always so, so soft with you, so delicate. his touch felt like feathers but held the weight of his love altogether, so light yet it felt like penetrated your skin and settled into your bones. he made a house in your heart, your body. you had never experienced something so divine. you wondered if you'd gone insane.

you felt that stab in your heart again. you refused to cry for him. to mourn him. he had to return, he had to.

he had a habit of breaking promises and you had a habit of believing him every damn time. but this was the one promise, he'd never break. you know that right? you had to.

despite all the bad things in his life, you were his star, his burning, blinding hope that he can be saved. that he was worth saving, because you chose him, over and over again. he had you. at the end of the day, he wanted nothing more than to sink in your arms and beg for redemption to his god.

your arms were sweeter than heaven; warmer, softer, forgiving, merciful.

you received whatever he provided with open arms, always so tolerating of his sins. so accepting. how could he not fall for you? when you saw him. you saw him. for what he was, a horrendous mix of god and monster, not benevolent enough to be a god, not barbaric enough to be a monster. somewhere stuck in between. but you didn't mind that not for a minute. you were hungry for love. and you didn't mind if the hand that fed you was of a beast.

it was a weird pair, the two of you. you were an angel reincarnate, not any less guilty than satoru, he was a wolf in sheep's clothing. if he was the large, empty black hole then you were light, entering the dark with no escape. one incomplete without the other.

you sipped on the wine again, the bitter taste on your tongue lasting for longer than it was supposed to. you missed him. you ached and you burned and a little part of you died as you looked at another photo.

it was one of you, satoru, and the kids. yuta, maki, toge, megumi, yuji, nobara. your breaths were coming shorter than usual. satoru was smiling, you could just die looking at him. his arms around your waist as he pulled you snug against him. the kids were happy too, as they should be as kids. it was your birthday, oh.

it had been a year since that photo was taken. oh. the glass you had been nursing fell from your hands, shattered into pieces. or was it your heart that had burst in your chest again? you didn't know.

your birthday had always been a special occasion, more for satoru than you. he celebrated it as if it was christmas or new year's. you were against it, but he never listened to you, did he? always made sure to shower you with multiple gifts. the platinum infinity necklace that you always wore, the bracelet he got for you. the ring. the clothes. this house. the wine. everything reeked of him.

were ghosts real? because all you felt was him, even though you knew. you could smell his deodorant, feel his electric touch that made your skin burn, his presence that smothered you, drowned you. he loved you so much. oh god, he loved you so much. there was a hole in your chest, where he was supposed to be. there was a hole in his chest where you were supposed to be.

whatever happened to the strongest and his lover? they crashed and burned.

you flipped again, another photo. if pain was all that was left of him then you'd stab yourself all over again.

it was one from your wedding day. you had eloped. he was in a black three-piece, you remember you tied his bow tie for him. spoiled child never learned how to do it himself, now that he had you, he had no reason to because you'd never leave him. you wore a simple white dress with thin spaghetti straps and it extended to your mid thighs. he was looking at you, in the photograph, he was looking at you with so much love that it transcended time and space and you could feel it even now, through the paper.

it had been the best day of your life, you had made kento and shoko your victims for the day, forcing them to be your witnesses and shoved a camera in their hands. they had done a wonderful job.

the stabbing pain in your heart was different now, it was burning now as if it had been lit on fire.

your phone chimed from beside you. it was shoko checking up on you. you ignored that and your fingers tapped on satoru's chat.

i'll be back soon baby.

you wiped the tears before they could fall. what a shame.

your phone chimed again. your eyes glanced briefly at the text. your heart nearly leaped out of your heart.

coming home. i love you.

you allowed yourself to cry now. finally. letting the tears run down your cheeks.

but how? you didn't care if he had burned out the world to come home as long as he came back to you in one piece. it was insanely selfish but you couldn't bring yourself to care. your momentary bliss turned to dread, what if this was all in your head?

you'd finally gone insane, hadn't you? hallucinating about your dead lover coming home to your arms when you saw him get sliced. you scoffed, smashing your phone against the wall.

you buried yourself in your bed again. hiding from the world, from yourself, from the ghost that haunted your very being.

thirty minutes pass, you cannot sleep. his face flashes before your eyes. he is everywhere. he is in your dreams, in your heart, in your head, in your room– wait.

he is in your room. you slowly slide off the bed, delicately making your way towards him, walking on eggshells. you didn't want him to disappear. not when he was so close to you.

once you find yourself standing in front of him, you hesitantly reach out to touch his cheek, his eyes flutter and he leans into your touch instantly. you can only try to regulate your breathing, but it's a futile attempt.

it's his turn to touch you now. his hands cradling your face, his touch is healing. you don't care if this is an illusion as long you get to feel his touch on your skin again. he looks down at you with such anguish it makes your heart shatter and you instantly wrap your arms around him, pulling him into you, afraid to let him go again. as if you'll close your eyes and wake up and lose him all over again. it's okay, you tell him.

his arms crush you against his frame, literally. he pulls away after a few minutes, studying your face. his fingers tuck pieces of hair behind your ear, wiping a few tears that escaped your eyes, caressing your cheeks as he drinks in the sight of you. of his angel, his saviour. his lifeline. he gulps as he looks at you. he was so afraid he won't be able to see you again, look into your kind eyes again. you were running a fever, his heart cracks all over again until it shatters. looking at you so broken, so small. he felt sick, he had done this to you. he caused this. fuck, he felt like punching himself. how could he do this to you? his sweet, sweet wife?

you couldn't take your eyes off him, even as his hand slipped into yours. his burning skin against yours once again, you couldn't believe it. it felt like a fever dream, to be able to see him again, to feel his hand against yours again. your fingers play with the ring on his finger and you push yourself in his chest. fisting his shirt and sobbing.

he holds you close, his hands rubbing your back and the other in your hair. god, he could take upon all your pain if he could right now, this instant. but he knows you won't let him, so he holds you in his arms, safe. he wipes your eyes as you pull away from him. standing on your tiptoes, you press kisses onto his face. all of his face. his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his eyes, the crinkle of his eyes. you shower him with kisses.

until his lips meet yours in a sincere apology and you find yourself out of breath once again. oh. it's his turn to shower you with kisses. your eyes. your cheeks. your jaw. your neck. your arms. your fingers. he bares himself in front of you, dropping to his knees. his face pressed against your stomach, as he wets your blouse with tears of his own. your hands run through his hair in an attempt to soothe him. his cries muffled against you makes your heart ache again, if that's even possible. stabbing pain returning to your chest, it's not as bad as before you notice. now that he's here, with you.

you fall to your knees, he buries his face in your neck. pressing light kisses as your hand gently strokes his back. satoru pushes his forehead against yours, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss again. god, he loves you so much.

you will be okay, the both of you. as long as you have each other.

a/n: that infinity necklace lore. so its not infinity shaped. it has gojos infinity like his cursed power or wtb, so yk how no ome can touch gojo ?? no one can touch her either, bc gojo spelled it that way so that way he is always w her even when he isnt EVEN IN DEATH

[fycoren]

oh boy oh boy here come my boys

Shattered Shadows

(AKA so very much rambling under the cut)

OK so.

All three of them absolutely thrive in their respective environments, like, they can strike quick & disappear before you process what happened. Defiant Shade in the dark city, Stalk in the sheltered jungle & Riptide underwater.

They're all relatively detached from everyone else in their shatterspaces, but I'll explain those specifics one at a time-

(oh and sonic prime spoilers, yeah)

-

Defiant Shade, is a vigilante, he's anti-egg but doesn't really work with the resistance. He's kind of a street scavenger and built his own gun (though similar to the ones the resistance has)

He's the last of the three Sonic actually meets, he sees what Sonic's doing and, due to having similar interests (that being against the Chaos Council) he starts helping Sonic from the shadows (giving him cover fire and that sort of thing) before just randomly showing up like "alright lets go" lol.

He has this interesting thing where he starts off with a lot of respect for Sonic and then Sonic loses a lot of it- simply by the personality clash. It'll slowly build back up though. He'll learn to work alongside the resistance more etc. Very blunt and does not hold back on his opinions, no matter how harsh.

-

And then we have Stalk. One of the first things you'd notice, is his silence. Stalk makes no noise, doesn't talk nor make any sounds, he's completely silent. He lives in the jungle, as Thorn either cannot catch/find him or has just decided its not worth the effort, as he isn't one of the scavengers.

Most of Boscage's residents would warn you about him, he's dangerous and unpredictable, but his #1 defender is Prim. Prim was once caught in something dangerous, either some other beasts or something of the sort, and Stalk saved her.

He's a lot like a wild animal, he's vicious in protecting his territory, but also curious, and doesn't attack without reason. He definitely understands speech, though with how little he reacts to it sometimes it's unclear if he actually listens or not lol.

He's the first Shadow that Sonic meets, Sonic goes a bit far while trying to get Thorn away from the scavengers, and on his way back realizes he's being followed. After a few failed attempts at getting it off his tail, he manages to trick Stalk and jump him instead of the other way around.

-

And lastly we have Riptide. He's inspired by selkies, allowing him to have the two forms (so long as he has his selkie skin, which, you may lose your hand if you try and grab it). Because I loved the idea of a sea creature Shadow, but he'd need to be able to join everyone in Grim, too.

Riptide was the self-appointed guardian of the Devil's Lighthouse. I'm still thinking on the exact specifics, but he definitely had a hand in Dread's failed attempt in the past. Whether Dread knows or not, I haven't decided yet, I have multiple very different ideas for that stuff.

Personality-wise Riptide is, well, as cool as the sea, having a much more calm demeanor most of the time, knowing he's got the upperhand in most situations while in No Place. He's likely the most agreeable Shadow, if Sonic explains him the full situation, Riptide would allow him to have the prism.

Here's a silly doodle from when I designed him for scrolling all the way down:

Been rewatching Sonic Prime... and I was weak, I couldn't stop the demons.

Soo here's my Shadow variants for all the shatterverses, in an AU where everything else is eeeh about the same, but Shadow was shattered too. Shattered Shadows.

I am so very attached to them. I have many thoughts about them.