#...kin. present tense

[anendtopursuit]

the character profiles in the arkham games refer to the riddler (canon ocd haver) as having "an obsessive-compulsive need for attention" and like. on one hand, my blood boils a little bit every time i read it (though it isn't atypical, since batman media isn't known for its tact in regards to the mentally ill). on the other hand, the "snarky little shit with a batman special interest" part of me wishes i could paste that in every bio i have without some poor well-meaning stranger accusing me of ableism

[privatebenjamincarmine]

Hello, Private! How did you get your namesake?

Private’s my rank in the COG army, if you mean that!

[evorathesylvurr]

getting back into madomagi is so funny as someone who kins/kinned homura because like. nooo she does wanna be friends shes just too autistic and traumatized to communicate!

but it’s also really funny because right now my mind is hyperfixating on sayaka and oh my god that stupid little knight I love her so much.

like i guess im supposed to be fixating on madoka but sayaka has my heart right now and idk why

[pixiefelixie]

*ೃ༄ 한지성 - "EXHIBIT A" (MDNI)

: ̗̀➛ synopsis: somehow, you two end up partnered on a case. you’re a sharp detective who takes work way too seriously. jisung’s an unserious, dorky cop with a habit of looking at you like you hung the moon. as you finally start making progress with this nightmare of a case, jisung’s just hoping your relationship makes progress too.

pairing: cop!jisung x detective fem!reader genre: friends2lovers, slowburn, mutual pining, fluff, SMUT (minors, do not interact), detective romance, ~8k warnings: jisung is pininggg and reader thinks he's HOT stuff, lots of coffee, murder investigation, hostage situation, blood (very mild but present), tense scenes, profanity, flirting, banter, tension!! smut warnings: oral (m receiving), face-fucking, dry humping, lots of uniform talk, bdsm, light roleplay, usage of handcuffs, rough sex, begging, kinda switch!jisung but dom leaning, praise + degradation mix, p in v, unprotected sex and pull-out method (wrap it up!!), again: no minors. pls consume responsibly 💌

i've been thinking about policeofficer!jisung for the longest time so i hope you enjoy this as much as i loved writing it!

the second you enter the room, files are slammed onto jisung’s desk.

a half-empty coffee cup rattles. across the room, another officer, chan, mutters a quiet “jesus” before going back to his newspaper

jisung’s mid-sentence with hyunjin—something about bad traffic or his broken ac—but the conversation cuts off immediately.

“three bodies. same m.o. we cannot carry on empty-handed like this,” you groan, drop into the chair beside jisung, and lean over like your bones gave up halfway down. your shoulder presses into his. he doesn’t move.

jisung's still got that dumb plastic spoon in his mouth from stirring his instant coffee. “good morning to you too.”

you drop your head back with a dramatic sigh, eyes fluttering shut. “i haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, jisung.”

“you don’t say.” he leans back slightly, shifts just enough to angle his coffee toward you. “you want?”

he lets you take it without protest, watching as you take a sip—grimace—then take another one anyway.

“the victims—one of them was a social worker, one worked at a used car place, one was a bartender. no overlap in job, no overlap in routine. but…” you pause, then reach for the coffee again without asking. he lets you. you take a gulp like it might trigger divine revelation.

“but?” he prompts.

“they all attended the same grief support group. same tuesdays. same community center.”

you glance at him, breath catching just slightly from how fast the words tumbled out. “i only realized after the third body. i’d seen the name before—‘sunridge wellness collective’—but i didn’t think much of it until i cross-referenced next of kin statements and time off requests.”

jisung goes still. then leans back, brows slowly rising.

“no way,” he breathes.

you nod. “i triple-checked it.”

jisung exhales a quiet laugh, still half in disbelief. “you genius,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. “actual genius.”

you shrug, trying not to look too pleased, even as heat creeps up your neck. he doesn’t even pretend to look away. just stares at you, open admiration written all over his face—lips parted like he’s trying to find something witty to say and can’t.

you pause. then, very deliberately, look him in the eye. “today,” you say.

he nods along like he always does. “yes?”

you lean in a little, your voice dipping with focus. “you and me. sunridge wellness collective. together. talk to whoever runs those meetings, get a list of attendees, find out who stood out. who stopped showing up after the first murder.”

his eyes flick to your mouth for a split second before he nods, quick, a little too eager. “yeah. yeah, of course.”

he’s blushing. just barely, but it’s there. that pink dusting his ears, the way he fidgets with his pen, suddenly finding it very interesting. you’re already scribbling in your notepad, too keyed up to notice the flush in his ears or the way he’s still looking at you instead of his own notes.

“they meet weekly, tuesdays at 6pm,” you mutter, half to yourself. “if they’re sensitive about confidentiality—”

“we could say it’s part of a wider investigation,” jisung offers, watching you intently.

you nod, pen tapping against the paper. “we’ll split up once we’re there. i wrote down what we need from them. can you check if i’m missing anything?” you slide it over to him.

there’s a pause. you’re already mentally combing through the rest of your notes when you realize jisung hasn’t responded.

you glance up, pen still poised.

he’s just… staring at you. focused in that way he gets when he’s thinking really hard but doesn’t want to say the first version of his thought out loud.

“what?” you ask.

he blurts out, “did you change your earrings?”

your brows lift.

he clears his throat, eyes flicking to your ear. “they’re different. not the little hoops. these are, uh… longer?”

you blink, slowly. “yeah. i changed them this morning.”

“huh.” he mutters, like that explains something deeply complicated. “they suit you.”

there’s a beat of silence.

you furrow your brows, dragging your attention back to the file in front of you. “anyway. we should head out soon. they open at noon, and i want to catch whoever runs the sessions before they get busy.”

“but first,” he says, standing so abruptly his chair rolls back a little. “you—” he points at you like he’s issuing a warrant, “—are gonna sit your exhausted ass down and take a twenty.”

“i don’t need a nap, jisung,” you protest immediately, grabbing the file again. “i just need more coffee and—”

he’s already circling the desk, tugging the file gently from your hand. “uh-uh. don’t make me cuff you to the couch.”

you raise a brow.

he grins. “come on.”

before you can argue again, he takes your hand and pulls you toward the small, beat-up couch in the corner of the office lounge. the thing barely qualifies as furniture, covered in a faded gray throw and the ghosts of past takeout spills, but he guides you down like it’s the nicest place on earth.

you try to stay tense, alert, but your body betrays you. you sink into it harder than expected, your knees weak with exhaustion, head already feeling floaty.

“i said i’m fine,” you grumble half-heartedly as he drops his laptop and boots it up, settling beside you.

“you’re not,” he says softly. “you haven’t blinked since you walked in. you’re talking fast enough to short-circuit my brain.” he slides in closer, laptop perched on his thigh. “now lean. i’ll keep working.”

you open your mouth to argue—but there's a calm steadiness of his voice which makes you give in. your cheek rests against the curve of his shoulder. his blue uniform smells like old coffee and something faintly woodsy. you don’t even remember closing your eyes.

but you do hear him, a few seconds before sleep swallows you whole:

“that’s it. i’ve got you.”

and then—

darkness.

a few minutes later, the office door creaks open.

felix steps in, mid-bite of a granola bar, scanning for jisung—and pauses when he sees you curled up beside him, completely knocked out. jisung’s typing with one hand, the other draped casually across your back. he shoots a glance at jisung, who looks up, sheepish. felix chews, then smiles—soft, knowing.

what was supposed to be a quick visit to sunridge turned into a 4-hour deep dive. the grief group coordinator pulled records, talked through attendees, let you sit in on their latest session. you interviewed three regulars, two volunteers, and tracked down a guy who had dropped out of the group right after the second murder—who, to your surprise, had a history of assault and a sealed psych hold. it was the best suspect you’d had in weeks.

now it’s past nine.

the police station’s dead quiet—just the hum of vending machines and the occasional creak of an old light. you and jisung found yourselves holed up in one of the conference rooms after coming back from the community center, papers spread out on the table between you. a single lamp glows overhead, casting long shadows across the room.

you lean forward, both elbows on the table, voice low and tired. “he also lied about his job. the center told us he works maintenance at the school, but there’s no record of employment there. none. and the timeline fits���he dropped off the radar two days before the second victim was found.”

jisung’s across from you, legs spread, hands rubbing his face like he’s trying to force himself to stay sharp.

you lean in further, voice sharp now, urgent beneath the exhaustion. “jisung.”

his head lifts, eyes locked on you now. “i’m listening, i’m listening.”

without a word, you reach into the folder and slide the photo across the table—grainy, scanned, but clear enough. a man in his mid-forties, average build, receding hairline, narrow eyes that somehow still feel cold even through the poor image quality.

“this is him, hannie,” you say, flat and direct.

his head turns back toward you instantly. the nickname. the tone. he leans forward without hesitation.

you tap the corner of the photo. “kang hyunseok."

jisung’s eyes fix on the photo the moment it lands in front of him.

his fingers brush the corner, but he doesn’t pick it up. just stares. memorizing. narrow eyes, pronounced nasolabial lines, a dull expression that somehow feels too blank. the kind of face that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd—unless you knew what you were looking for.

“this is the one,” you say. “we focus everything on kang hyunseok now.”

but even as the words leave your mouth, you’re already flipping through the folder again—papers rustling, fingers darting like your brain’s moving faster than your hands can follow.

“we need to keep looking. there’s more. but we’re so close. you feel that, right?”

“oh, i feel it,” he mutters, an indescribable tone to his voice.

your brows pull together, confused for half a second—until his eyes flick down to your lips, just briefly, and then back up.

you blink.

he clears his throat, shifts in his seat. “no—yeah—i mean. the case. i feel it. the proximity. i mean—like, in a work sense.”

you blink again, slower this time. “what other sense is there?”

jisung lets out a sharp breath through his nose—half a laugh, half a surrender—and drops his head back against the chair with a quiet thud. “god, for a detective, you’re so fuckin’ stupid sometimes.”

your eyebrows knit instantly. “excuse me?”

you’re quiet for a beat too long, and his jaw tightens.

then, with a snort, he looks away. “forget it.”

you exhale through your nose, sharp. you had no time for whatever this... thing is spiraling into. not tonight.

jisung nods, jaw tense. “we’ll tail him.”

“and the moment he trips,” you add, “we move. no hesitation. i want an airtight case before he even sees us coming.”

he exhales slow, controlled. “good.”

but your shoulders are already sagging. the last forty hours are catching up all at once, like gravity just remembered you exist. you let out a sigh that sounds more like a deflation, and before you even realize what you’re doing, you slump forward and rest your forehead flat against the cool surface of the table.

“god, i’m gonna die in this station,” you mutter into the wood.

there’s a short beat of silence.

then—jisung’s laugh. low and warm and unguarded. it bubbles up so easily it almost startles you. his palm smooths down the curve of your back, steady, affectionate. “don’t die yet,” he says. “we haven’t caught the bastard.”

you let out a low groan, cheek smushed against the table. “i need a drink. not that swill seungmin calls coffee.”

jisung perks up, his hand still lazily tracing your back. “say less.”

you lift your head, barely. “i’m serious.”

“so am i.” he’s already sitting up straighter, that glint in his eye resurfacing. “i saw this bar earlier today, on the way to sunridge. looked new—quiet. kind of divey, your vibe.”

you raise an eyebrow. “charming.”

he stands, stretches, and looks down at you like it’s already decided. “come on. we earned it. it’s my treat.”

you pretend to groan again, but your smile is already cracking through. you shake your head, pushing yourself to your feet.

“god help me.”

clink.

the soft sound of your third round of soju tapping together cuts through the low buzz of conversation around you. the bar is quiet—just the way jisung promised. dim yellow lights hang over worn wood, and the speakers hum some indie ballad you don’t recognize. it’s cozy.

jisung leans back in the booth, sipping first, then raising a brow at you. “so?”

you take your sip, let it linger on your tongue. “i like it.”

he grins. “told you.”

you’re mid-laugh when you glance over at him again—and then it really hits you.

gone is the stiff collar, the badge, the holster. he’s traded it all in for a soft black hoodie, sleeves pushed to his elbows, layered over a white tee that slips right out the bottom hem. thin grey sweats, hair slightly tousled.

and he’s so handsome. in a way that punches the breath right out of you.

you’ve only ever seen him in uniform. and boy was he hot in his uniform. but now—now he looks like someone else. still jisung, but softer. more real.

you roll the glass between your palms, watching the last bit of soju swirl at the bottom. “you know, when i first got assigned to this case,” you start, tone thoughtful, “i wasn’t expecting… you.”

jisung’s head tilts, one brow lifting. “what does that mean?”

you glance at him over the rim of your glass, the smallest smirk playing at your lips. "they told me i was partnered up with someone young, smart, and ‘reactive.’ that’s the word they used. reactive. so i was imagining someone all sharp and broody and... i don’t know. keeps to himself. has maybe… a few cats.”

jisung squints. “so… minho.”

you laugh, “yeah. sure. minho.”

he raises his brows, setting his glass down with exaggerated care. “are you disappointed?”

you scoff immediately, shaking your head. “no.”

jisung blinks, a little thrown by how quickly you said it. “no?”

a beat.

“not disappointed at all.” you pause, searching for the right words. then you glance down at your glass, tracing the rim with your finger. “you pick up on things most people miss. but you're also really fun to work with.”

his cheeks tint pink immediately. like clockwork. he shifts in his seat, clears his throat, but doesn’t say anything.

you smirk a little at his reaction. “and you blush so easily. is that also part of the reactive label?”

jisung groans, tipping his head back dramatically against the booth cushion. “oh, come on, y/n.”

you laugh under your breath, then soften. “the thing is, i’ve just never seen you in action. not when it’s serious.”

he chuckles with that lazy kind of ease that only shows up after alcohol.

you shrug, grinning. “you’re just such a dork. it’s hard to imagine you chasing someone down in full gear yelling ‘get on the ground!’ with that stupid voice you use when you’re out of breath.”

jisung laughs—loud and warm. “stupid voice?”

“you know the one.” you pitch your voice up, overly dramatic. “‘this is officer han, stop resisting!’ like that.”

he nearly chokes on his drink. “okay, first of all, rude. second of all, that’s not how i sound.”

you lean in a little, elbow propped on the table, eyes glinting. “i’m just saying. you’re not exactly the stereotypical cop.”

he chuckles, low and easy, like your words rolled right off him and made themselves at home. “yeah, well,” he says, stretching his arm across the back of the booth, “the uniform does a lot of the heavy lifting.”

you hum, tilting your head thoughtfully. “i'm glad it does.”

jisung raises a brow. “oh?”

you sip your drink, slow. “don’t act like you don’t know. the cuffs, the belt, the radio mic clipped to your shoulder—yeah. it works.”

he blinks once. then twice. “wait, you think the radio mic’s hot?”

you grin. “i think the whole thing’s hot.”

and just like that—there it is again. that pink dusting his cheeks. his hand twitches slightly against the back of the booth like he’s debating whether to fidget or flex.

jisung lets out a breathy laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s trying to physically shake off the blush. “you’re drunk, y/n.”

“maybe a little." you grin, propping your chin on your hand. "is it obvious?”

he chuckles again, softer this time, eyes crinkling. “well, you’re terrifyingly honest.”

you tilt your head toward him. “what, can’t handle a few compliments?”

“i can handle them just fine,” he says, a crooked grin forming. “it’s the part where you liked my walkie talkie that’s gonna haunt me.”

you laugh. “it’s the authority. it’s very ‘do what i say’, you know?”

“you like that?”

“i plead the fifth.”

jisung bites his lip with a small smile. just a subtle press of teeth like he’s grounding himself—like he doesn’t trust what might come out if he says something now. 

your eyes meet his across the short distance, soft in a way that shouldn’t be allowed. not here. not after everything. not when his brain is already scrambled from the case and the soju and you.

jisung swallows, slow. he would buy you drinks every night if it means you’ll look at him like that. if it means you’ll smile like that, lips glossy from the rim of your glass, voice just a little slurred from being too comfortable around him.

it’s insane. he knows that.

but he wants your attention so bad it aches.

you shift in your seat, glancing down at your watch, then back at him.

“we did great today, but i think we should go,” you murmur. “i need to go to bed.”

jisung laughs, low and warm. “i’ll walk you home.”

you look at him for a beat, and then nod, that same sleepy smile tugging at your lips. “thanks, officer.”

he heads to the counter to pay, tugging out his wallet without hesitation. while he’s busy talking to the waiter, you keep going—because your brain doesn’t know how to shut off, even with alcohol in your veins.

“so tomorrow,” you mumble to yourself, half-thinking out loud, “we check the transit footage again. he left the center on foot, so maybe there’s something on the street cams two blocks down—remember that alley behind the florist’s?”

jisung hums in response, glancing over his shoulder to let you know he’s still listening, even while he signs the receipt.

“and if we can figure out which direction he turned, that narrows the search zone. i’ll run the cctv timestamps. you can pull location logs from his old address—see if anything flags.”

jisung slips the receipt into his pocket and thanks the waiter with a nod. as he steps beside you, you hook your arm through his without thinking.

“—and if there’s nothing from the alley, we can try the karaoke bar on 5th,” you mumble, head tipping slightly as your feet carry you forward, slow and steady. “they’ve got an old security cam facing the back entrance. might catch something if we get lucky.”

jisung hums again, soft. a smile playing at the edge of his lips. he knows you’ll be talking the whole way back home.

you didn’t expect him to move this fast.

kang hyunseok was supposed to be a slow burn—one you’d watch, tail, collect dirt on until he slipped up. you thought you’d spend the next few days building a case tight enough to bury him. you weren’t expecting a fourth victim. not now. not today.

but that’s what changed everything.

you slid into jisung’s patrol car with your tablet clutched to your chest, breath caught halfway in your throat.

“get in,” he said the second he saw your face. “talk to me.”

you didn’t even wait for the seatbelt to click. just pulled up the image.

“transit footage flagged a repeat pattern. different woman. same alley. this was this morning. not last week. this morning.”

jisung’s eyes snapped to the screen.

“she’s not reported missing yet,” you continued, voice fast and clipped, “because no one knows she’s gone. she was headed to work—florist on 5th—last seen twenty minutes before this.”

“and hyunseok?” he asked.

“five minutes behind her. same path. same shirt from the footage we saw yesterday. and look at this.” you swiped to the next frame—rear camera from a delivery truck parked across the street. “he turns off into the alley again. she doesn’t come out. he doesn’t come out.”

jisung was already shifting the gear.

you barely had time to process it before the sirens screamed to life.

“jesus,” you muttered, rubbing your face with your palms.

“we were supposed to watch him. ease in. build it clean.” jisung groaned in annoyance.

“plans change.”

jisung nodded, exhaling hard. he flicked the radio on, voice sharp. “this is officer han jisung. we have a possible hostage situation in progress—suspect kang hyunseok—near the maintenance shed behind daehan elementary. request backup and medic at scene. proceeding now with primary approach.”

you swallowed, hard.

“y/n,” he said, quieter now.

you turned.

“if he’s got her in there, he’s not thinking clearly. i need you sharp. no hesitation.”

“i’m with you.”

the cruiser pulled off into the service lane behind the school. from here, the property looked empty—like any other weekday lull. just wind through the leaves, the faint hum of hvac, and the shed.

you both stepped out.

gravel crunched underfoot as you followed close behind, adrenaline settling in your throat like a second heartbeat. the air felt too still. even the birds had gone quiet.

jisung moved first—body low, steps controlled, eyes locked on the shed like he could see through its thin wooden walls. you stayed just behind him, trying to steady your breathing.

he raised his mic, voice low. “visual on target structure. proceeding with primary approach.”

the crackle echoed, sharp enough to make you flinch.

and then—his hand.

without turning, he reached back and touched you—just a light press against your thigh, above your knee, grounding. protective. his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary, warm even through the fabric of your pants. you froze, heat blooming up your spine. he was shielding you—literally putting himself between you and whatever waited inside.

you swallowed hard. didn’t move.

you were both less than ten feet from the shed now. the door sat crooked on its hinges, slats of peeling paint catching in the breeze. faint sounds drifted from inside. a scuffle. a choked sob.

jisung held up his hand—wait—and you stopped instantly.

you could hear everything now. the rasp of someone breathing too hard. shuffling feet. fear. then he spoke through the door, tone level, low.

“mr. kang hyunseok. this is officer han. we know you’re in there.”

silence. your pulse thundered in your ears.

jisung’s voice didn’t waver. “we’re not here to hurt you. but you need to open this door. now.”

still nothing.

then—

shuffling. a soft thud. a another stifled sob.

jisung didn’t flinch. “we’re coming in.”

he gestured, and you moved in sync, pushing the door open carefully. what hit you first was the smell—sweat, mildew, copper. then the sight:

a woman—mid-thirties, bruised lip, hands zip-tied—was crouched in the corner, barely holding herself up.

and behind her, hyunseok.

average build. greasy hair. hollow eyes. he held a rusted boxcutter to her throat, shaking like he’d already made peace with doing something irreversible.

“don’t move!” he barked.

but jisung was already stepping in—one arm up, the other steadying his gun.

“mr. kang. you don’t want to do this.”

“you don’t know what i want,” he hissed. “you don’t know anything.”

“i know you’re scared,” jisung said. “but the second you hurt her, there’s no going back.”

the woman whimpered.

“shut up!” kang shouted, pressing the blade closer. her eyes rolled in fear.

jisung didn’t blink. “look at me. right here. not her—me.”

kang’s stare jerked toward him.

jisung said quietly. “you put that down, she walks out of here alive, and i promise we’ll talk. i’ll listen.”

a flicker of something in hyunseok’s eyes. doubt. maybe shame.

then—

he bolted.

everything happened fast.

hyunseok shoved the woman aside and crashed through the half-open door like a wild animal, the blade glinting once before disappearing with him into the daylight.

jisung moved instantly.

“stay with her,” he barked, already out the door.

you dropped to your knees beside the woman, hands up in calm, open gestures as she whimpered and shrank into herself.

“hey, it’s okay,” you murmured, voice soft but firm. “you’re safe now. i’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

she was shaking so hard her teeth clicked. her wrists were still zip-tied, red and swollen, and a thin line of blood trailed from a nick under her chin. you kept one hand lightly on her shoulder, the other reaching gently for your pocket knife.

“i’m gonna cut these off, alright? then we’re getting you out of here.”

once her hands were free, she collapsed into your side, sobbing.

from outside—you heard it. a shout. a thud. your eyes flicked up. and there he was.

just outside the shed, in the crushed patch of dirt beneath the trees—jisung had kang hyunseok pinned.

one knee pressed firm between his shoulder blades, keeping him flat against the ground, arm wrenched behind his back with smooth precision.

his breathing was steady, jaw clenched, eyes locked down. focused. he had his cuffs out before you even noticed, voice low but clear.

“you are under arrest for attempted abduction and aggravated assault. stay down. do not move.”

kang writhed beneath him, panting.

“stay. down.”

with one hand still firm on hyunseok’s shoulder, he reached back and clipped the cuffs into place—quick, efficient, muscle memory. the sound of metal on metal was sharp in the open air.

hyunseok muttered something under his breath, but jisung didn’t react. he hauled him up just enough to get a better grip, keeping him hunched forward, hands secured behind his back.

and then—sirens.

low at first, then rising—cutting through the stillness of the trees like a warning bell. blue and red flickered through the schoolyard gates, bouncing off the shed’s peeling wood.

an ambulance rounded the corner first, tires crunching over gravel, followed by two black-and-white cruisers that rolled to a stop just a few yards away. doors opened. boots hit the ground.

you looked up just as minho and changbin jogged toward the scene, both in uniform, both already scanning for targets.

“visual on suspect,” minho muttered into his radio, eyes darting to jisung. “he’s got him.”

changbin veered toward jisung without missing a beat. “need a hand?”

jisung gave a sharp nod, handing hyunseok over without a word. you watched as changbin gripped the suspect by the arm, walking him firmly toward the waiting cruiser while reading off something low and clipped under his breath. minho followed a step behind, already on the phone, likely relaying the wrap-up to dispatch.

jisung didn’t move. he just stood there, hand still hovering near his belt, jaw tight as he watched the entire handoff.

only when the car door slammed shut—hyunseok tucked away behind tinted glass—did his shoulders finally drop.

behind you, the ambulance doors swung open.

a medic in navy blue approached, calling gently as she crouched near the woman in your arms. “ma’am, we’re going to take care of you, okay? you’re safe now. you’re going to be alright.”

the woman clung to your sleeve for a moment, fingers weak but desperate. you squeezed her hand.

“you’re okay,” you said softly. “they’re going to help you now.”

she nodded—barely—eyes glassy, mouth trembling. and just like that, she was lifted gently to her feet, guided toward the ambulance with quiet words and steady hands.

you stayed on the ground for a beat, watching her go. something in your chest deflated—not quite relief, not quite closure. just weight.

then—familiar footsteps. a shadow beside you.

jisung didn’t speak. he just stood there, breathing a little too hard, uniform rumpled, sweat drying on his neck.

you looked up at him.

and he looked at you.

for a second, neither of you moved. the weight of it all sat between you—what could’ve happened, what almost did. but then jisung jerked his head toward the ambulance.

“let’s check in,” he said, voice rough.

you walked together—quiet, shoulder to shoulder. the victim was seated now, eyes unfocused, but she turned slightly when you approached.

“she’s stable,” the medic explained, clipboard tucked under her arm. “small laceration to the neck, some bruising, no signs of internal injury. we’ll take her in for observation, run trauma protocols, but she’s lucid. might even be able to give you a statement later today.”

you straightened. “make sure they run toxicology too. if he drugged her, we’ll need that confirmation for the report.”

“got it,” the medic replied, scribbling it down. “any next of kin we can contact?” the medic asked.

you shook your head. “not yet. we’ll pull it from the employee file at the florist’s.”

“alright. you’ll be updated as soon as she’s cleared for statement.”

you stepped back, and without another word, jisung turned on his heel and headed toward his cruiser. you followed, heart still beating a little too loud in your chest.

by the time you slid into the passenger seat again, you felt the comedown start to hit—slow and sharp. your hands were cold.

“did you see him? just—god. fucking mental.” he muttered, jaw clenched.

you reached forward, gently curling your fingers around the front of his vest.

he froze.

his eyes snapped to you, confused, breath caught. “what—”

you leaned in.

and kissed him.

his mouth froze against yours for half a second—like his brain short-circuited—but then his hands found your waist, almost instinctively. the kiss deepened—fast. like all the adrenaline they hadn’t burned off during the takedown had nowhere else to go but here. his hands tightened around your waist, pulling you closer across the console as his tongue slid into your mouth.

you didn’t pull away either. didn’t even think about it. because the windows were tinted. because jisung—officer han, still half in uniform—was making out with you like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

your fingers slid up his chest, skimming the front of his vest, tracing along the straps and seams like you could memorize it all by feel. his breath hitched. his mouth opened more under yours, hungry, desperate, soft in ways you hadn’t expected.

you tugged at the edge of his collar, slipping your hand beneath it, fingertips brushing over the line where his neck met his shirt.

he whimpered. it was soft. barely audible. but you felt it in his throat, in the way his body trembled beneath your touch. he’d just pinned a man to the ground ten minutes ago and now he was falling apart under your hands, lips chasing yours between uneven breaths.

you finally pulled back, just barely—your noses still brushed, breath mingling in the warm space between you.

jisung’s eyes were half-lidded, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. his hands hadn’t left your waist. his thumb was still rubbing slow, unconscious circles against your hip like he didn’t realize he was doing it.

you stared at him for a beat, breathless. then you smiled—small, dazed.

he blinked. “come to my place.”

your smile widened, teasing now. “after paperwork.”

he groaned, head thudding lightly back against the seat. “god. after paperwork.”

you laughed softly, pressing your hand to his chest one last time before settling back into your seat, eyes still on him.

later that night, you found yourself making out with jisung on his couch—somehow still in partial uniform.

the vest was off, discarded somewhere by the door, but his utility belt was half undone, and the top buttons of his shirt were popped open. he hadn’t even bothered changing. neither had you.

it was fast. messy. all the restraint you’d both faked back at the station had dissolved the second the door closed behind you.

now, you were straddling him, knees pressed into the worn cushion on either side of his thighs, your hands tangled in his hair while his fingers dug into your hips like he didn’t know how to not touch you.

he kissed like he worked—focused, deliberate, all-in. but every now and then, he’d let out this quiet, breathy noise against your mouth, like he was overwhelmed and didn’t know what to do with it. like the fact that you were here, in his lap, kissing him like you meant it, was short-circuiting every brain cell he had left.

your hands slid down his chest again, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. you brushed over the strap of his shoulder holster, still half-hanging down one arm, and he shivered.

he pulled back just barely, lips red and eyes glazed, breath catching.

“i’ve wanted you for so long,” he murmured, voice low, still a little breathless. “but you’re so oblivious.”

you blinked, then arched a brow, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “sorry,” you said, sweet.

“the entire office knew how i felt about you. my god, y/n, i made handcuff jokes in front of them.” he groaned, tilting his head back like he couldn’t believe this was real. you used the angle to your advantage—your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, slow and deliberate. his breath hitched again when your knuckles brushed his skin.

“i wasn’t trying to ignore it,” you murmured. “i was just… so caught up in the case. and everything else. but i liked you,” you said softly. “i like you. the way you say my name when you’re trying not to smile. and how hot you looked today when you arrested that bastard.”

by the time the third fourth popped open, his shirt fell apart beneath your hands—and that’s when you saw it.

the ink.

across the smooth planes of his torso, tattoos, ones you’d never seen at the precinct. fine black lines. delicate design. bold fonts. a kind of rebellion hidden under all that authority.

you dragged your fingers lightly over the ink, tracing the design like it would tell you something about him no report ever could.

“do you…” your voice came soft, teasing, as your fingers trailed down just above his waistband, “still have your handcuffs on you?”

jisung blinked hard, like that pulled him right out of his own body.

you tilted your head, pretending to be thoughtful. “or did you use your last pair on kang today?”

his breath caught. his eyes darkened.

“you’re not serious,” he said, voice low. dangerous.

you leaned in until your lips brushed the corner of his jaw. “i could be.”

then you kissed him again—deeper, rougher this time. your hands slid over his chest, bare now, warm under your touch. he gasped into your mouth, his hips bucking up involuntarily as you shifted in his lap, grinding down just enough to feel everything through the fabric of his pants.

his head fell back against the couch, lips parted, eyes blown wide.

“jesus,” he breathed. “you’re—fuck.”

you didn’t stop. you rolled your hips again, slow and deliberate, and he shuddered beneath you. his hands gripped your thighs now, tight and grounding, like he didn’t trust himself not to fall apart.

“i have a cabinet,” he mumbled, words tumbling out as you kissed down his throat. “for my gear. belt. baton. cuffs. i didn’t think i’d ever have a reason to—shit—take them out for this. didn’t expect you to be such a freak.”

jisung groaned with a breathy laugh, head tipping back as you rocked down again. he was hard beneath you—aching through his slacks—and you were soaked, grinding over him like you’d been waiting for this as long as he had.

your fingers moved like they had a mission, gliding over the lines of ink carved across his chest—lines that had no right to be that fucking sexy. his black slacks tented obscenely, cock straining against the fabric like it was begging for your attention. you traced one tattoo down over his ribs, nails grazing, and watched him twitch.

“you’re hard,” you whispered as you leaned down, nose brushing the skin leading beneath his beltline. “all for me?”

he made a strangled sound, breath shuddering out of him. “yes, y/n,” he groaned, voice cracking, eyes half-lidded and burning. “i’ve thought about this—every night.”

the belt came free with a satisfying clatter, and you popped the button of his slacks open, dragging the zipper down achingly slow while you lowered yourself until your breath was hot through the thin cotton of his briefs. his cock strained against the fabric, twitching when you pressed your lips to it through the cloth, wetting the spot with your tongue, slow and sinful.

he whined. actually whined. “please—fuck—”

you glanced up, grinning against him. “so eager, officer.””

he was unraveling. you could feel it. you kissed down the length of him through his briefs, lips dragging slowly, wetly, before finally tugging the waistband down. his cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, leaking at the tip, and your breath caught at the sight.

his thighs tensed under your palms the moment you leaned in and wrapped your lips around the head of his cock.

“ah—fuck, yes,” he gasped, voice breaking, hips jerking before he caught himself. his hand flew out to brace against the back of the couch, muscles straining under the tension of holding still, letting you take control. “fuck, that’s—shit, your mouth—”

you sucked slow at first, tongue swirling, hollowing your cheeks as you took him deeper inch by inch, your hand stroking the base. he was hot and heavy on your tongue, the taste of him already addicting, and every time you sank a little further, his breath hitched higher.

you moaned around him, sending a shiver through his body, and then you started to move in earnest. he was panting now, chest heaving, fingers scrabbling against the cushion like he didn’t know what to hold onto.

“i wanna fuck your throat,” he growled, voice like gravel now. “let me, baby. let me take over. let me use that perfect mouth.”

you pulled off, tongue already out, eyes locked on his. drool clung to your lips, chest rising fast as you let go of his cock and rested your hand on his thigh. he stared down, dazed, hand wrapping around himself. he slapped the tip against your tongue twice before gripping your hair and shoving back in. his cock filled your mouth, pushing deep. you gagged, drooled, took it all—moaning as he started fucking your face.

“i won’t last—” he choked, hips slamming. 

you moaned again, desperate and messy, clinging to his thighs as he drove in deep one last time and spilled with a shuddering cry.

hot. thick. you swallowed every drop.

when he pulled out, cock twitching, you looked up at him, lips swollen, spit-slicked, breathless.

he just stared. “you’re perfect.”

jisung looked ruined. flushed. utterly lost in you.

but so were you.

“officer,” you breathed, voice low, still rough from how deep you’d taken him.

his gaze sharpened instantly, like his body had been waiting for your voice. “what do you need, detective?”

you dragged your nails slowly up his thighs. “i need you,” you repeated, softer now, almost a whisper. you leaned in close, lips brushing the sweat-damp hollow of his throat, your tongue tracing a line up to his jaw. “to fuck me.”

jisung’s eyes darken at your words, as he gently pushed you away to look into your eyes. “then, i'll give it you in my bed.”

you bit your lip. nodded. “take me.”

and he did.

it was clumsy. he tucked himself back into his briefs with a shaking hand, didn’t even zip his slacks up all the way. his cock was still half-hard,, and he couldn’t stop glancing down at the mess you’d made on him. you reached up and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

he didn’t let go of you. one arm stayed firm around your waist as he half-led, half-dragged you down the hall to his bedroom, your steps uneven, tangled together, like you couldn’t stand to be apart for a second. the door slammed open behind him with his foot, and you stood in front of him, starting to undress.

your fingers found the hem of your shirt, and you peeled it up slow, teasing, inch by inch. you knew he was watching every little movement, every flash of skin, and you reveled in it. the heat of his gaze felt like a physical thing, dragging over your stomach, your ribs.

the shirt hit the floor.

jisung exhaled hard through his nose. 

you turned slightly as you pushed your slacks down over your hips, letting them slide to the floor with a soft rustle. the fabric pooled around your ankles and you stepped out of it, bare now except for a lacy pair of panties, clinging to your flushed skin.

“you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice raw, reverent as he stared at your chest.

you crawled onto the bed slowly, as you moved toward him. his breath caught when your knees bracketed his thighs again and you settled in his lap, your fingers curling into his open shirt, dragging it down off his shoulders completely this time.

“you gonna fuck me like you mean it, officer?” you whispered against his ear.

he shuddered. then his hands gripped your ass and pulled you down against his lap, grinding your soaked panties over the outline of his cock through his slacks. but then—he swallowed thickly, voice hoarse against your ear.

“top drawer,” he said, barely more than a growl. “left side.”

you climbed off his lap before you stepped toward the drawer. you crouched in front of it, slowly easing it open. there they were, glinting under the dim bedside lamp. but that wasn’t all. there was a contracted baton, a pair of gloves, a clip-on badge, and two sets of zip ties in a clear plastic bag. you sucked in a breath, pulse racing.

you reached for the handcuffs, metal cold in your hand and you turned around slow. jisung was still on the bed, shirtless now, pants unzipped and bulging. you stepped back toward him, one deliberate step at a time, until you were between his knees again. 

he looked up at you, sweat beading at his temples, jaw tight.

“so this is what you want?” he asked low, like he already knew, but he needed you to say it. his hand came up, brushing the inside of your thigh, making you shiver. “you wanna be cuffed, detective?”

you swallowed, your throat dry. nodded once.

he leaned in. his breath was hot against your stomach as his lips skimmed the skin just above your waistband. “you want me to lock you up and make you take it?”

“yes,” you whispered, barely able to speak through the heat crawling up your body.

his hands slid up, over your hips, around to your ass again, and he pulled you closer, tongue flicking out to taste your skin as he dragged his lips up your body.

“you like that?” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “being restrained? helpless?” he took the cuffs from your hands, the metal clinking between his fingers. “soaked just from the idea of it?”

your breath hitched. your panties clung to you now, slick and tight between your legs.

he leaned back just enough to pat the mattress beside him. “on your knees. hands behind your back.”

you hesitated just a second. your knees pressed into the mattress, but you didn’t move to obey right away. before you could even brace yourself, his hand grabbed your arm—firm, fast—and twisted it behind your back, not rough enough to hurt but with zero room to argue. his other hand caught your second wrist in the same movement, and he shoved them together.

you gasped, the surprise of it slamming into your chest. you barely had time to breathe before he pushed you forward, your torso pressed into the mattress, cheek to the sheets, ass up.

“resisting, are we?” he muttered, voice dark with something thrillingly amused as he pinned your wrists into your back. his thigh pressed between your knees, shoving them wider apart. 

“don’t move,” he hissed.

you heard the soft metallic click as one cuff clamped closed around your wrist.

“you have the right to remain silent,” he growled into your ear, breath scorching, one knee forcing your thighs apart as he leaned his weight into your back. “anything you say can and will be used against you.”

“do you understand these rights as they’ve been read to you, detective?”

you whimpered in response.

click.

the second cuff locked into place, the steel tight and final around both wrists.

he exhaled, a slow, satisfied sound, his body draped behind you, bare chest grazing your back as his lips pressed to your shoulder.

“you have the right to an attorney,” he continued, every word laced with dark heat as his hands dragged down your sides, cupping your hips, thumbs pressing into the creases of your thighs. “if you cannot afford one…”

he leaned down, his lips grazing the back of your neck, his voice a whisper of smoke.

“…well,” he breathed, kissing your neck, “you can plead for mercy instead.”

“jisung,” you breathed, squirming under him now, your breath catching on the sheets.

he chuckled softly—low in his throat, amused. there was a spark of disbelief in it, too, like even he couldn’t quite believe how far this had gone, how fast. that you'd let him cuff you. that he’d said all that roleplay shit like it was foreplay. that it worked.

and god, did it work.

you writhed, but the cuffs didn’t give. not even a centimeter. cold metal bit into your wrists, shoulders pinned, your body entirely his, and he knew it. you let out a sharp breath as his hands slid back down your side. the fabric tore a little as he pulled your panties past your knees. you tried to twist, to shift your hips, but the cuffs kept your arms locked behind your back and his weight kept you caged.

your breath came in ragged, frantic little pulls.

“jisung—”

“mmm?”

his cock pressed against the crease of your ass, hot and hard again, already leaking. he hadn’t even needed to touch himself much. he was just that gone over you, his body recharged like your mouth hadn’t just drained him ten minutes ago. you felt it drag over your skin, thick and slick and pulsing as he lined himself up behind you, the head sliding down your folds, teasing.

“what do you want, detective?” he murmured, voice husky with wonder. 

“please,” you breathed. “jisung, please.”

he groaned. “please what?”

you squirmed again, but his hands held your hips still, his cock rubbing against your soaked entrance, never pressing in. 

“fuck me,” you gasped, desperate now, every nerve lit up and begging. “please—fuck me, jisung, don’t make me beg again—”

without warning, he pushed in. you were cut off, jaw dropping open as his cock filled you in one long, unrelenting thrust. the stretch made your vision blur. he was thick, hot, soaked in your slick. he sank into you until his hips were flush against your ass, his cock buried to the hilt, the pressure absolutely devastating.

“you’re so tight like this—shit, you’re perfect.” he hissed through clenched teeth, gripping your hips so tight his fingers might bruise. 

you choked on a sob of pleasure as he pulled back and thrust again. all you could hear and feel was the sound of skin slapping skin and the wet drag of his cock thrusting deep, again and again, as he built up a rhythm that had your thighs trembling.

“i always thought—” he grunted, hips snapping forward harder now, punctuating every word, “—you were too smart. too fucking focused. all business.”

you moaned, muffled and breathless, your cheek pressed to the sheets.

“never thought—” he growled, fingers digging into your hips as he pounded into you, slick and steady, “—you’d be such a goddamn slut.”

your whole body jolted. heat seared down your spine. your cunt clenched around him so tight he groaned, almost lost his rhythm for a second. you couldn’t form words anymore—just ragged, desperate sounds, your lips parting on every moan. another brutal thrust slammed into your soaked cunt and you gasped, trembling, drool smearing the sheets under your cheek.

“not so sharp now, huh, detective?” he breathed, voice feral. “now look at you—cuffed up, dripping on your officer’s cock.”

your cry punched out of you, high and ragged, as his cock struck something inside you. that gummy spot that made your thighs twitch and your eyes roll back.

“i’m so—” you gasped, words slurring, tears stinging your lashes. “i’m so close, jisung—, i’m gonna—”

he moaned behind you, the sound guttural, overwhelmed. “give it to me, y/n,” he panted, hips rocking into you harder, faster, chasing that high right alongside you. “come on, baby, give it to me. let me feel you fall apart.”

that pet name—the softness of it buried under all the roughness—made you feel things. and then his hand slid around your hip.

two fingers pressed to your clit—slippery, fast—and that was it. your whole body seized. your vision went white. you screamed his name, thighs locking around him as your orgasm ripped through you. your cunt spasmed around his cock, squeezing him so tight he choked on a groan and nearly collapsed over you.

“fuck—” he gasped, pulling out in a rush, cock slick and throbbing, already jerking in his hand as he stroked himself just twice more. he came across your lower back, ropes of hot, sticky release painting your ass, your skin twitching from the heat of it. 

jisung sagged behind you, one hand braced on the bed, the other still resting on your thigh like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you.

you whimpered and your legs trembled under you, body slack with aftershock, hands still bound tightly behind your back, the cuffs biting into your skin just enough to remind you how utterly he'd claimed you.

jisung stirred behind you at once. “shhh,” he murmured, softly. “i got you.”

you felt him shift, heard the metallic jingle of a small key in his fingers. he reached for you, one hand curling gently around your forearm to steady you, then, with a sharp click, the first cuff popped open.

he slid the small key between his lips as he took your wrist out, then let the key drop into his hand to unlock the second one. you felt the tension in your shoulders melt instantly, the pressure gone—but your body didn’t know how to hold itself up anymore.

you collapsed forward with a sigh, arms falling limp to the sheets, your entire weight crumpling under you. jisung caught you, one arm around your waist, the other bracing you as he pulled you gently into him.

jisung eased you down onto your side, careful and slow like you were something delicate. his lips found your shoulder, kissed it—soft, reverent. you let out a shaky breath, still trying to find yourself inside your body.

“i really like you, hannie,” you murmured before you could second guess it. “i don’t just—this wasn’t just—”

“i know, y/n,” he whispered as he pressed another kiss into your back, this one lingering. “i know.”

he curled tighter around you, nosing into the back of your neck, his voice muffled by your skin.

“i’ve wanted you since the first week,” he murmured. “tried not to let it show. i didn’t think i had a shot—thought you were too… good. out of my league.”

you turned your head slightly, enough to glance back at him with a dazed, warm grin. “you’re such a dumbass.”

he laughed, soft and breathless, pressing his forehead into your shoulder.

“maybe,” he said, kissing the back of your neck. “but i’m your dumbass, right?”

you swallowed, pulse tripping.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, fingers brushing a strand of hair out of your face. his eyes were soft now.

“i wanna be yours,” he said. “please.”

you reached for his face with a trembling hand and your thumb traced the edge of his jaw, his skin still flushed and warm from everything he’d just given you.

“i already thought you were,” you whispered.

and then you kissed him tenderly. his smile broke against your mouth like he'd finally gotten something he'd been chasing forever. 

and he had. you both had.

the precinct buzzed with the same energy it had every morning—phones ringing, printers humming, officers shuffling case files with half-empty coffee cups in hand. a few feet from the briefing room, jisung leaned against a desk, hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke to changbin.

“no, seriously. the guy was just resisting like no tomorrow. like he wasn’t scared of me, of anything.”

changbin raised a brow. “you’re sure it wasn’t just your face?”

“yeah, okay. remind me to let you talk next time a guy pulls a blade on a hostage.” jisung was in the middle of rolling his eyes when a familiar voice broke through the low chatter of the bullpen.

“morning,” you said, walking up with a folder tucked under your arm. your tone was casual, but there was a glint in your eye—just for him.

jisung’s whole posture changed.

he stood upright. his eyes widened. and a slow smile tugged at his mouth as he turned toward you.

“hey,” he said, voice sweeter than it needed to be.

changbin glanced between the two of you, brow quirking. he didn’t say anything right away. just sipped his coffee, eyes narrowing slightly.

you held out the folder toward jisung. “victim statement’s being transcribed. thought you might want to review the notes before you start interrogation.”

he reached for it—your fingers brushing as he did—and his smile widened.

“thanks,” he murmured. then added, more pointedly, “you always take such good care of me.”

you rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. you reached up and rested your hand on his shoulder before sliding it down as you walked off down the hallway. the second your back was turned, jisung—still holding the folder—curled his fist and gave it a single, victorious pump at his side.

the entire office lounge knew. how he once rewrote an entire report because you said you liked his handwriting. or how he almost cried out of joy when you borrowed his pen last month.

changbin didn’t know how jisung did it. but somehow, he’d pulled it off.

[bronywnsworld]

I’m trying to write fluff:

Annabeth sat at the edge of the lake. It should’ve been a sign, the draw to water she had always felt since she was young. Yet, she hadn’t needed help stayed blissfully unaware and buried that love deep within her heart. While Arsinoë and Perseleia had been beloved by both Poseidon and his kin due to the shared connection between them Annabeth didn’t have that protection. In fact, form some reason, Poseidon had taken an intense disliking to the majority of Athena’s demigod children.

Though that likely had to do with the earlier ones believing they deserved the same love, the same respect, the same benefits as their half siblings. Perhaps it had been due to him seeing Athena’s attempts at blonde hair grey eyed children as a poor imitation of Arsinoë and had acted as such. Annabeth had never really expected that, to be loved or given anything of much value outside of making her presence small. It is possible she’d even been conditioned to expect the opposite, to be scorned and pushed behind the curtains which had grown into a fatal flaw of pride when she’d done something that could NOT be disputed or overlooked. She’d thought that was why Poseidon hadn’t smitten her upon all her invasions, big and small, in his domain. It couldn’t have been because he’d been fond of her when even her own mother had deemed her unworthy of much more than a cap to make her invisible.

Once she’d gotten to know Percy, really gotten to know her, she believed Poseidon was merely keeping one of two people who cared about his demigod daughter safe to ensure her happiness. She’d never really notice how sometimes he’d stare at her during the trips to Mount Olympus that Camp Halfblood took, never noticing how he tried to catalogue her eyes as though he were a drowning man gasping for water that only she could provide.

Annabeth sighed, sliding bare feet into the water below, feeling a small wave of energy tingle upwards as fish began to swim closer to the intruding appendages.

“Annabeth.” A deep voice soothed and the blonde felt her heart constrict as her body tensed.

“Lord Poseidon-“ she began only to find herself cut off as the god of the sea sat down beside her at the edge of the dock.

“You always enjoyed lakes.” He said lightly. “I find myself somewhat pleased the you of the present still do.” The fabric of his Hawaiian shirt was covered in a god awful pattern that had Annabeth biting back a snort. “I am sad you were not born as my demigod daughter along with Persel- along with Percy.” He seemed to catch himself in a way many didn’t when faced with the reality of their past identities and it brought a wave of affection over her. “Do not take that to mean I am unhappy about your return. Annabeth, Arsinoë, I have always loved you and your sister. Will always love the two of you no matter what forms you take.”

“Even if Mr. D turn us into dolphins?” Annabeth whispered, trying to hide the emotion that was storing in her gut.

“Even if he turned you into owls and the only time I could see you was on the land at night. Annabeth, you have always been enough and you are loved.”

Tears were sliding down her face now.

“You don’t even know me now.” She whispered. “I could’ve become someone you hate.”

“Then I would learn to love you again, if you would let me.” His voice sounded hopeful and Annabeth found herself nodding.

“Only if you apologize to Percy for what you’ve put her through.” She commanded wetly.

“Of course sea star. Of course.” He wrapped an arm around her and kissed her head. It wasn’t what it used to be, nor what Paul and Sally made her feel when with them, but it was a start.

[wntrswolf]

love mirage

✧ pair: benjicot "davos" blackwood (fancast) x freader!secret-lover-betrothed-to-a-bracken

✧ theme/warning(s): slight/implied smut, angst, forbidden romance, star-crossed lovers. — (all characters mentioned are of age!) 18+

✧ word count: 1.8k

✧ author's note: hello! this is my first writing! this one-shot was spontaneously written as it was meant more for self-indulgence but i thought why not share it to others who also has a current obsession with the rising blackwood character, right? :-) anyways, reading fics under the benji tags manifested many scenarios in my head, and gave me inspiration to write something. lastly, forgive me for any possible grammatical errors, i still am an amateur in fictional writing. enjoy!!!

It was the dead of night. The sky had been painted in its darkest hue, the moon stood nearly at its peak, offering its gentle glow along the riverbank. The distant chatter that could be heard during a long day's labor was no longer present, replaced by the solemn silence of nature's symphonies—the flowing river, the rustling of leaves as they danced in breaths of wind, and the lullabies of insects as they clicked and buzzed.

The forest was no stranger to you; befriending the woodland for the passing moons. You often wondered if anyone would, or had, grown an inkling of your periodic disappearance following the hours of supper—what others would think of your father’s only daughter growing a rather sudden interest beyond the walls of your family's stronghold. You always made your way out stealthily, though his words echoed in your mind,

“You are our only hope, daughter. Do not fail us.” A stark reminder of your duty, which would soon bring honor to your family's name.

If it means anything, you knew it was wrong from the start. You had never intended anything as such to happen. For the name of a nobleman was bound to yours, yet your lips would chant whispers of another.

Time became irrelevant right before you met him on this cool summer night. There the young man stood, one hand steady on the hilt of his dagger, ever vigilant should danger lurk in the tranquil embrace of the silent woods; his tense body relaxing upon the sight of your cloaked figure before him—a beacon of familiarity. You had planned to tell him about your betrothal tonight.

Although it was not much longer that you would find yourself a whimpering mess under the Blackwood boy. Your sighs mingled with the saccharine words Benjicot spoke, adding harmonies of moans and gasps of pleasure in the serenity of the haven you both made. You often feared getting caught but Benji assured you in these remote lands, he doubted anyone would be near enough to witness anything— not even the treacherous act you both selfishly indulged in. You still pray to the Gods that they grant you both the favor that no eye spies this clandestine meeting; and the many before.

You never really questioned yourself on why you couldn't confide in your father about your betrothal; had you already envisioned the conversation—mayhem would ensue. It was simple, it was the decision he made—securing your family's position through a marriage pact, a political alliance they called it. Duty, you thought yet again.

You didn't know what, or whom, to shift the blame on—or maybe it was the complexities of guilt. your guilt. You knew the inevitable, yet your selfishness, your greed, your immature desire for love; tainting your rationale. Or that maybe you should feel resentment that your father and the Lord of Stone Hedge, Humfrey Bracken regarded their relationship as close as to being kin. Maybe then you would have the strength to ignore your obligations, this once.

You cursed yourself for thinking the way you did, and you cursed the Gods for the decades-old rivarly between the ancient houses—a hatred and feud born long before either of you were born; beyond your father's time, and his father's before him, yet its roots grew, multiplying the petty divide among those that followed after them.

It made you question what started the war between the two in the first place, as sin begets sin begets sin; however, unwavering was the tryst between you and Benjicot—untouched by the strife and grudges.

He knew. You were aware of his knowledge with the woven webs you had with the Brackens; about your father's bond with the red stallion lord. Your thoughts do not come to a plausible explanation as they endlessly spun in your mind.

And all it took was Benjicot's hips to lower into yours, silencing these whirling thoughts.

Your cloak drapes over you, offering its warmth from the breaths of wind, coming from the riverbank. It spared the watchful eyes of the forest spirits from your unneeded bareness. At your side, Benjicot lays as he adjusts his breeches.

“There’s a war soon to come,” he says as he stares at the sky, hands behind his head, ”And I ought for you to know that given the growing wars, you have not left my mind since.” he nervously confessed.

You hum in response, the weight of his words settling heavily in the quiet of the forest. "I fear what lies ahead, Ben" you whisper, your voice barely above a murmur, filled with both longing and apprehension.

He turns to you then, his gaze searching yours with an intensity that spoke of unspoken promises and uncertainties. "No matter what comes, my love for you will endure." he vows, his fingers gently tracing the contour of your cheek.

You turn your head and sit up, feeling around for your discarded garments to dress.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asks, sitting up, his expression betraying confusion at your abrupt reaction. 

"No, it's not that." you breathed out, your back faced to him. It was this very moment you had feared since the first: the inevitable.

"Well, did you not finish as I had?" he ventured in jest, a playful side of him that you loved. "Or is it because I professed my love for you?", hoping his declaration had not caused you to pull away. "Trust me, I will make sure there's nothing—"

"My betrothal..." you did not let him finish, "it's to Aeron Bracken." you said, still facing away from him as you rose from the ground. You picked on your fingers picked in nervousness of his next response. The weight of your confession hung heavy in the air.

At first he thought he had not heard you clearly, as if the world had gotten awfully quiet. It was when you repeated once more, realizing his ears did not fail him as his blood got hot—of you saying the name whom ignited an unexplainable fury in him.

"Aeron Bracken," Benjicot repeated in disbelief of your sudden confession, "The Bracken twat, eh?" — the very same Bracken he encountered in fresh conflict, near the mill's boundary stones. Although he did not show it, the tension in the air was strong enough to burn and linger its flames; his knuckles turning pale as he clenched his fists at his side.

"A craven false king follower... is bound to your name, to you." he chuckles incredulously. 

He paced in the clearing, his footsteps heavy as he turned to you. "And what are you to do about it?" He posed the question, pain plain upon his face, though hope bled through the mask of his composure. Deep down, he already knew the answer. He could scare tell if asking you such question was to self-inflict torment, or just a desperate need to face the harsh reality of your confession— not a difference between the two really.

You finally turned to meet his gaze, "It's my father's decision," you explained softly. "I... I cannot defy it." You stood before him, as your tears glisten in the faint light. Torn between love and duty.

"Ben," you pleaded, your voice shaking. "You know the stakes. It’s my duty. My family's honor—” 

"Fuck honor!" he interrupted, his voice thundering through the forest. He strides towards you, "It was long gone the very moment we first met—" he huffed out. He knew in his heart that despite the love he developed towards you, the tangled web of your kinship with the Brackens would soon unravel the bond you shared— still, he gambled with the odds, just as you had.

He had ever hoped that the old Gods would bestow the blessing of his fervent wishes—that it would be you, not some other maiden, whom he would take to wife. He often dreamed of you bearing the heirs of his house, growing gray together, and watch as your blood flow through the veins that would carry on his legacy. Yet, it was only ever a distant dream.

You reached out to him, to calm the storm raging within him, but he jerked away. "Tell me, then," he challenged, stepping closer with fire in his eyes. "Where do your loyalties lie, beyond this," he motioned between the two of you. "Are you suggesting that your father, and even yourself, are to declare for the usurper cunt of a King?" he whisper-yells to you. “Or is this some sort of arrangement with those Bracken fucks, to get back at us Blackwoods, simply just using me as a pawn, 'cus you know I'm now Lord?" His words spitting at you like venom;

“Oh, you know where my loyalties lie," you spat, your voice filled with heartache, "But I won't stand for you questioning my integrity nor my family's honor to secure a future." You glared at him as your heart stung with hurt, "And to accuse me... I would not dare to commit something so heinous even if i could; I'm not cruel, Benji."

Benjicot's jaw clenched, shaking his head as he stood facing the river, incomprehensible words muttered under his breath.

"I never asked for this," you whispered, tears welling in your eyes. "But I have responsibilities. We both do." you sniffled, swallowing the tension of your throat away, "And I know you know..." you wiped your tears, "we know... that this was bound to occur, sooner or later, Ben." your voice was barely audible, even with the deafening silence the forest came to be. "There's a war coming."

The silence hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken words and the weight of impossible choices.

Benjicot stood before you, his expression torn between love and anguish. His hands trembled as he gathered his scattered belongings, his movements reflecting the turmoil in his heart. You mirrored his actions, silently picking the remnants of what you felt is to be your last fleeting moment of happiness.

"I swear it," he finally spoke, "would that we were not bound by the enmity between our folks, I would have already vowed myself to you. Long before your father would have you promised to another."

His words pierced your heart with longing and regret, the bitter truth of your circumstances hanging between you like a veil of sorrow. “And I would have gladly accepted it,” you replied with a heavy sigh. "—my Lord."

The Blackwood male nodded, his gaze fixed on yours, filled with a depth of emotion that mirrored your own. With a heavy heart, you both silently acknowledged the futility of your love.

Benjicot turned away first. The distance between you both grew; and his silhouette became one with the dark forest.

You knew that somewhere, amidst the pain and heartache, you would find a way to carry on—a life of uncertainty but fraught with duty. As you walked away from the happiness and love that the forest had given you, the ache in your chest spoke of a love that was lost but will never be forgotten. It would be a bittersweet reminder of what once was, and what could never be again.

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Gancanagh

CR 4

Chaotic Good Medium Outsider

Bestiary 5, pg. 38

These graceful, fey-like entities are one of many breeds of Azata, the celestial natives of Elysium, and like their brethren they exist to spread hope, bring cheer, and fight Evil wherever it may arise. Like many of their kin, this involves using their at-will Change Shape to assume the form of any number of Small or Medium Humanoids, masquerading as the mundane so that they may better catch villains off-guard, or perhaps offer unseen assistance to actual mortals without revealing their true nature... though UNlike most azata, a Gancanagh (which I'll refer to as Gans or Gancans from here on out) looks effectively like a normal--albeit incredibly beautiful--human or half-elf when out of disguise, so their Change Shape is less for hiding and more for meeting the standards and preferences of their potential partners.

Gans embody all that is Good about free love, sexuality, and experimenting with one's self, and as such they are filled with righteous passion... and an irrepressible drive to flirt with just about anyone and everyone they meet. They're incredibly adept sweet-talkers who, unlike the fiendish succubi and incubi (whom they despise with incredible intensity), mean everything they say. Gans can and will hone in on the best qualities of their current targets via casual conversation, with the intention of inspiring a brief but meaningful romance, pulling people into whirlwinds of passion before breaking away and seeking new love. Rather than leaving a trail of broken hearts in their wake, Gans work tirelessly to assure their partners know that the meetings are temporary but meaningful nonetheless, encouraging them to use their experiences and experiments with the spirits to seek out true, lasting love in whatever form it may be... and sometimes, this means these alluring azata play matchmaker with everyone they bed, introducing them to one another if they think something can bloom between them.

And the thing is? They're rarely ever wrong. Guided by higher forces of passion and emotion, Gans have a knack for saying the right things to the right people... provided they aren't sauced due to their devotion to certain OTHER higher forces. Yes, Gancans are quite the party animals, frequently getting deep in their cups and encouraging others to do the same, if only to join them on the dance floor later without fear of how they look. If you can't dance without music, don't worry, as they can provide via their +13 to Perform (Wind Instruments), always carrying fanciful flutes to break out at a moment's notice to provide mood music.

Gans seem to have an oral fixation (FURTHER JOKES WITHHELD), not only preferring wind instruments, but carrying around elaborate smoking pipes and alluring tobacco blends... which typically sit unused at the Outsider's hip, are held unlit between their teeth, or get offered to other people as bribes, because a Gans' lungs are extremely Vulnerable to Smoke. This vulnerability causes the azata to take a -4 penalty against any gas-based effect, and assures that a single puff from their pipes or any other smoking paraphernalia will cause an amusing and potentially charming coughing fit, no matter how mild the blend.

So, three paragraphs devoted to their lore, but what about what happens when they fight? Well, ideally, there won't be fighting. Gancans are--and I'm extrapolating based on presented evidence here, and could be wrong--lovers, not fighters, and have a few tools to dissolve tense situations. They have potent social skills, possessing a +13 to Bluff and a +15 to both Diplomacy and Intimidate, typically enough to prevent some battles from breaking out one way or another, and if those don't work, they can use Charm Person and Suggestion both at-will to temporarily turn foes to friends... or at least keep them from fighting while there's other people still in the room.

Gancans are known to enjoy the occasional spars and wrestling matches, but when facing down foes with rage in their hearts and murder on their mind, they turn into terrifying but graceful forces. Their Grace allows them to add their Dexterity modifier to weapon attacks instead of Str, and while they can only make one attack a round, it's a painful one: 1d6+6 damage, with a crit range of 19-20. They fight exclusively with +1 mithral rapiers, not only allowing them to bypass DR/Silver common amongst fiends, but making them veritable pinatas for anyone that manages to kill or rob one! Good luck, though.

Gancans are protected by 17 AC, eschewing any armor that would prevent people from seeing their bodies and relying only on their Dexterity and natural armor to protect them, though they also have DR 5/Cold iron or Evil to shield themselves from thrown fists and other light weapons. They have 10 Resistance to Cold and Fire and are completely immune to Electricity damage, though that last one's about as unlikely to come up as their immunity to being petrified at the levels one can expect to be fighting one. Once in battle, Gancans also bless themselves and any of their nearby allies with their 1/day Good Hope, making their attacks more accurate and more damaging, while also raising their saving throws from +4/+9/+5 to +6/+11/+7!

Any creature of similar level hoping to slay one of these fierce fey-likes will also have to contend with their 1/day Mirror Image, producing anywhere from 2 to 5 additional targets to soak up whatever attacks are aimed their way. They may only be able to make one attack a round, but at low levels, the same is true for the party, letting the figments absorb entire turns from the martials in the party as the potent and accurate thrusts from the azata's rapiers carve through their HP and willingness to continue fighting.

If you think that only Evil creatures have to worry about fighting one, though, you'd be largely correct; Gans rarely fight to kill against anything but Evil Outsiders, but they're quite hot-headed and can be temperamental when insulted. Many times in history one of them has been driven to cross swords with a potential ally against Evil because that ally insulted the Gan's promiscuity, or one of their past or current partners... and sometimes these become quite serious, especially if the Gan was compared to a fiend that preys upon lust, such as a Succubus or Incubus. This insult is so grave and the fury it inspires in the azata so fierce that they often fight until the offending party is beaten unconscious, rather than just to the point of surrender.

And before we end, let's talk a little more about potent and accurate t[I SAID FURTHER JOKES WITHHELD]. At will, a Gancan can use Invigorating Passion on any willing creature with an act of passion as little as a kiss, gifting that creature a +1 bonus to attack rolls, an extra d10 temporary hitpoints, and the ability to ignore all penalties from being fatigued or exhausted. Not only does this stack with Good Hope, but the Gan can spread the love as much as it feels like... though there is a slight downside in that, at the end of the hour, the blessed target must make a DC 17 Fortitude save or become fatigued (or exhausted). This downside isn't especially impactful if the azata is nearby, as the ability has no per-day limit and no 24 hour immunity, so another round of Invigorating Passion can alleviate its own downside until the target finally lays down to rest for the day. ... and, yes, I know what you're thinking: this does indeed also cover any fatigue and exhaustion accrued during an extended night's stay with one of these legendary lovers.

You can read more about them here.

[myloverrunsthin]

𝔄𝔫 𝔞𝔠𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰

For more frequent updates... continue Quotev or A03

TA 2941, Forelithe 14th

XXI. 

The day ahead promised to be long. Thorin was the first to rise among the Dwarves. With no remorse, he kicked his kin awake, “Up, all of you,” Thorin urged, rousing his nephews first, “We must leave. Now.” 

“Oh, off it, Uncle,” Kíli grumbled, wincing at the sharp pain in his side as he swatted Thorin’s boot away. The Company stirred to life, slowly shaking off their sleep. Even Bilbo rose, eyes fluttering and stifling a small yawn.

You were lucky and woke to a more gentle stir, a soft shake of your arm. As your eyes adjusted, Kíli’s silhouette sharpened into view, “I’d suggest you wake up, milady. Thorin's doing his rounds, in his own sick way.” He muttered, smirking. 

“What?” You stretched, pushing back your hair and sitting up on your arms. 

“Brutal, but better him than Dwalin,” Fíli’s voice chimed, as he emerged from behind Kíli’s bed roll, “I still have a bone to crack from him somewhere, he did a number on my neck last week,” He tensed his arms and wound them back before an audible crack was heard, “Ah, there it is.”

You noticed the other Dwarves moving quietly, packing their belongings, sheathing their swords, and rolling up their cots. Near the doorway, Thorin and Balin were in deep conversation, Thorin’s face set in a grim scowl as he nodded along to his older kin’s words. 

Then, he locked eyes with you. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away. You hadn’t found the chance to talk to him about the other night. Had he forgotten? Or was it too awkward for him to bring up? Either way, he hadn’t spoken much to you since. But, maybe it was better that way. Maybe he had forgotten. Yet the tension remained. You certainly hadn’t.

All of these thoughts brought you back to Gwirithiel, making you regret not saying goodbye to her as well. 

“Milady, catch!” Fíli’s voice cut through, and your pack landed in your lap, jolting you from your reverie, “Gather your things. Brother, you too,” Fíli said with a wink, already rolling up his cot.

The other Dwarves’ hushed murmurs filled the silence as they followed Thorin, who stomped out the smoldering remains of the fire.

You rushed to roll up your cot, hastily grabbing the scattered items around your legs and stuffing only the essentials into your bag. With little time to spare, you buckled the straps and hoisted the pack onto your shoulder, determined to not be left behind. 

The halls were unusually quiet as you crossed the long bridge through the courtyard. Not an Elf in sight, but only the calming sound of the waterfall was present.

The marbled path soon vanished beneath your feet, replaced by the uneven rise of stone and dirt. The company’s pace slowed as the terrain became more challenging. Dori, struggling to keep up, spoke up, pausing to catch his breath, 'Which way are we going, lad?' he asked Thorin.

“We’ll take this path through the valley, before reaching the Mountain Pass,” Thorin answered, pressing forward without looking back as he stepped back onto the uneven, rocky terrain.

“And what about Gandalf?” Ori asked 

“We will see the Wizard later. If he even meets us there,” Thorin said using his stick to continue his hike, "Be on your guard. We're about to step over the edge of the wild." Those were his final words before he rounded the corner to a cave for the rest of the hike. 

You found your stride as you reached the peak of the hill, but a faint sound reached your ears carried by a cold breeze that tickled the nape of your neck and made you pause. The Dwarves passed by one by one, and you lingered, turning for one last look at Rivendell.

The feeling was eerie, and you brushed it off quickly to press forward again but jumped in surprise when you found Bilbo standing in front of you, nearly bumping into him. 

“Bilbo!” You exclaimed, “You really need to stop that.” 

The quiet burglar chuckled, scratching the back of his head, “Ah, sorry! I was calling your name, but you didn’t seem to hear me, ha.” He stood for a moment, twiddling his thumbs before catching himself and stopping, a nervous habit of his. 

There was a pause before you continued, “What’s wrong?” 

“Ah, here,” he said, pulling something from behind his back and extending his arm toward you. “You forgot this. W-wouldn’t want to leave it behind, would you?” He laughed again, a touch more awkwardly this time.

“Oh.” Your eyes widened, and you patted your waist where the weapon should have been. “Thank you, Bilbo.” You took it from him gratefully and secured it at your side.

As you secured the weapon at your waist, Kíli caught your eye from ahead, a half-smile playing at his lips before he turned back to the path with Bofur. 

“My pleasure,” Bilbo shifted nervously, rocking on his heels, “Well then– after you.” Ever the gentleman, he gestured for you to lead the way. Chuckling, you give his shoulder a firm pat as you passed, ascending the rock stairs. 

The Company huffed and grunted as they made their way over the terrain, careful to avoid the edge where the river roared below. Now free from Rivendell’s halls, the Dwarves’ chatter grew louder, free to talk about whatever they wanted with no care of any Elfs brooding over them with every conversation. 

You and Bilbo brought up the rear of the group. As you walked, the two of you chatted, with Bilbo sharing stories of his quiet life back in the Shire. He talked about his few friends and family, and how he planned to write a book about all his adventures once he got home. You laughed at his jokes, amused by his silly, carefree life.

His eyes twinkled, and a wide grin spread across his face, "I do miss Bag End," He admitted his voice warm, looking ahead with nostalgia, “Though not as much as I don’t miss my neighbor, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, that is. Last spring, she decided that her rose bushes would grow better if she 'borrowed' my garden soil." 

You chuckled, "She didn’t actually dig up your garden, did she?"

The Hobbit nodded so quickly it looked like his head might fall off, “Oh, she did! Right in the dead of night! I woke up to find half my marigolds leaning sideways, looking as confused as I was! Would you believe it?”

“She sounds jealous, Bilbo. Your garden is beautiful.”

“She most definitely is, no doubt about it. Every morning since, she walks past my garden, eyeing it like it’s her second breakfast!” Bilbo laughed, taking a puff from his lit pipe, the smoke trailing behind him with each step, “I w-want to add more. I think it needs more trees too. Oh! Maybe some Snapdragons for next winter—they’d fit perfectly after this, and they're a bold statement piece I think.” You’d never heard anyone so enthused about their garden before. You found it rather cute.

As Bilbo's words drifted around you, Kíli’s earlier glance came back to mind. There was something in his eyes that you couldn't quite place.

 “Do you really think Gandalf will come?” Bilbo asked solemnly, bringing you back from your thoughts. He clutched his pack tighter, stepping over a fallen log.

Before you could answer, Bali, chimed, “Yes, laddie, Gandalf promised to meet us at the Mountain Pass...”

The day stretched on, the sun casting harsh light over the path. The sounds of nature were replaced with an occasional grunt or sigh from the company as they navigated steep inclines and treacherous drops.

Eventually, the jagged walls of the valley fell behind you, giving way to an open field. The sight of the pasture was a relief: a lush expanse of wild grass and a thin, sparkling river that traced a path back toward the canyon below. A collective sigh of relief passed through the group.

“We camp here tonight.” Thorin declared his voice firm as he surveyed the area.

Bombur began unpacking his supplies, the clinking of pots and pans echoing through the clearing, while others gathered firewood or prepared their bedrolls.

Even with Bilbo nearby, you felt a bit lonely without your other half by your side, as if a piece of you was missing. You wondered what Joseph was doing right now. Hopefully, he missed you—that would be a comforting thought—or maybe he was listening to an Elven tale. Who could know?

You set up your bedroll next to the river, its running water a soothing white noise that dulled your brooding thoughts. As everyone settled in for the night, another bedroll was tossed down next to you.

A soft thud beside you broke your reverie. You turned, surprised, “Kíli?”

He responded with your name and a smile, his eyes sincere, “Mind if I sit?”

The young princeling bit his cheek, chewing on the corner of his lip as if holding back a grin. He didn’t look at you, instead drawing small lines in the dirt with a stick. “Sitting,” He shrugged. “Is that alright?”

Kíli glanced up at his brother, who was barely holding back a laugh. From his bedroll, Fíli’s chest shook silently, and he rolled over to face the other side, unable to look at his brother anymore.

“Can I ask you something?”

Kíli’s question was tentative, and your brows furrowed as you leaned back slightly. A silence hung in the air, and he took that to continue.

He stumbled over his words at first, starting and stopping before finally managing, “How are you?” Was that all he wanted to ask? 

At first, it was small—a tiny pit forming in your stomach, accompanied by a flutter you couldn’t quite name, but this feeling has recently been happening far too often. A few dozen or so thoughts ran through your head and yet, you couldn’t find anything to say.

“I’m okay.” 

“Good,” He said quickly, “I mean– it’s good you're alright.” 

Kíli glanced around, noting that everyone else had drifted into slumber. He looked back at you as you ran your hand through your disheveled hair, resting it on your neck while you stretched and watched the fire crackle, avoiding his gaze. 

Then, without a word, his eyes flicked briefly to your hair. For a second, he hesitated, his gaze lingering on the way your hair fell loose and tangled. His fingers twitched, as though wanting to do something, but he looked away before you could catch it. You noticed this out of the corner of your eye, but said nothing.

A pause settled between you, and then his voice broke the silence again.

“May I?” He asked quietly, his voice barely a whisper. 

You turned to find him looking at you with soft eyes. “May you what?”

He asked you to turn around, spinning his finger. You did as you told, giving him a confused glare, and shuffled around the other way. 

A sudden jolt ran through you when you felt him gently pat down your head. He was careful, his fingers barely grazing your skin as he raked through your hair, brushing it out with surprising thoroughness.

You didn’t feel brave enough to ask what he was doing, so you let him take his time combing through your locks. It felt comforting, and you weren’t going to say anything about it.

You weren’t sure how long the silence lasted between you. 

With your shoulders slumping, relaxing under his touch, you felt him gather a small section of your hair and twist it at the base of your neck, tucking it under the rest of your locks behind your ear. Kíli continued, twisting and weaving a tiny, almost unnoticeable plait. His fingers brushed softly against your skin, moving carefully, almost afraid you would flinch away. 

But from a distance, Thorin watched, his eyes dark in the flickering firelight. He exhaled, forcing himself to look away and close his eyes.

[sombersummerskies]

A Sage's Regret: Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Unconventional

Word Count: 6132

CW: None

Want all the chapters? -> Masterlist

~~~ <> ~~~

You’re unsure how much time passes while you’re held in Sidon’s arms. If you would allow yourself to be truly selfish, you would never have wanted this to end. But, you still had your responsibilities. Both of you did. Sidon had his people to return to. You still had to find your best friend.

So, slowly, you pull away from him. With the back of your hand, you wipe your face, the short fur of your right arm scratching against your skin. Attempting to compose yourself you clear your throat, weakly smiling at the prince. He reciprocates, smiling despite the lingering sadness in his eyes.

“We should get going, shouldn’t we?” you mutter, struggling to rise to your feet again. Your body felt sore, from the days of traveling and fighting- not to mention how little rest you were getting. You were barely fending off your exhaustion by this point.

The prince says your name, capturing your attention. “Look there,” he says, grasping your arm to gently guide you, “there’s something shining- there, above the fountain.”

Your eyes follow in the direction, and you're silently stunned when you see it. A floating stone in the shape of a teardrop. The same stone you had seen etched into the murals beneath Hyrule Castle, the same stone that had been present on Rauru’s arm when you’d found the mummy. Nearly identical to the one you had seen in the Temple of Time before receiving your Recall ability- before seeing the vision of Zelda. It glowed brightly, beckoning both you and Sidon to approach.

Side by side you walk up the steps, noticing the way that the prince gazes up at the object in awe. You nudge him gently, urging him to approach the stone. He glances at you for reassurance before nodding, taking a step forward. As he does so the teardrop shrinks in size, quickly floating through the air to hover in front of his face. The prince gasps, before he hesitantly lifts a hand to touch the surface of the stone.

There’s a sudden flash of light, so bright that you have to raise an arm to cover your eyes. Blindly you reach out, searching for Sidon. Once you find his arm you latch onto it, holding onto him as the environment around you shifts. As the light dims your eyes adjust, looking around to find a misty field similar to the interior structures of the Zonai shrines.

A voice speaks out, the one that you had heard calling out to you throughout the entirety of the wellspring. But now, it’s clear: a woman’s voice, loud and clear as it echoes through the air. “Sidon, my cherished kin.”

You both look forward, stunned to see another Zora standing before you. She has dark grey scales, her body adorned with golden jewelry and an elegant sash that sits along her torso. Her face, however, is obscured by a Zonai mask that resembles an elephant- reminding you of the Divine Beast Vah Ruta. “That voice again,” Sidon murmurs, holding onto you as he stands up straight, “you’re the one we’ve been hearing this whole time?”

The voice who had been guiding you this entire time, the one who had been calling Sidon her ‘kin’- you could finally see her. The attire she wore seemed ancient to you, similar to what you had seen Rauru’s spirit wearing on the Great Sky Island. This could only lead you to assume that, like him, she was someone from the past.

As she speaks you struggle to pay attention, but with your fatigued mind and exhausted body, it was taking all of your energy just to keep yourself standing.

You hear the praise that she has for Sidon, listening as she compliments him on his ability to control water and his skill in fighting. She refers to him as the ‘pride of the Zora’, and you feel the way he tenses up as he listens to her. It’s only when she utters a familiar title, the ‘Demon King’, that you feel yourself instantly perk up.

“You bested the monster that sullied our domain, but it was a servant of a greater evil- the Demon King. His true purpose was to prevent you from obtaining the stone that you just found- my secret stone,” she explains, gesturing to the stone that rested atop her hand- a replica of the one that had appeared before yourself and the prince.

“That stone that you are wearing?” the prince clarifies, his eyes wide as he hangs on to every word she says.

“Yes. And it is important you know more about the stone and the Demon King. So listen closely to what I have to say. It concerns the Imprisoning War and the destiny of our people,” she replies, the urgency clear in her voice.

“Though we Zora live long lives, this all happened in a time ancient even to us. The kingdom of Hyrule was still in its infancy. A great evil, the Demon King, appeared. He invaded Hyrule and sought to cut the new kingdom’s time short. But Rauru- the first king of Hyrule- brought me and five other warriors together to oppose him. Rauru entrusted us with the means to fight the Demon King. Treasured artifacts called secret stones that amplify the power of those who carry them. As the Sage of Water, I bore a secret stone and fought alongside my fellow sages in battle. However, the Demon King’s power was overwhelming. Even my strongest defenses could not stop his ferocious attacks. In the end, our leader realized it would not be possible to defeat the Demon King outright. He chose to end the battle by sealing the Demon King away… sacrificing himself in the process.”

All of this new information sends your thoughts swirling, struggling to process. You try to think back to the sculpted murals beneath the castle, the one’s Zelda had described to you. So much of what this Zora ancestor aligned with what was depicted in the caverns down below.

When you had found the mummy, the hand that was holding him in place must have been Rauru’s. The stone that Zelda found must have been a secret stone- Rauru’s secret stone. If Rauru had imprisoned the Demon King then-

‘The mummy below the castle is the Demon King. And he’s woken up,’ you realize, recognition flashing across your face.

There’s another shift in the light as the environment changes around you once more. This secret stone- whatever it was, it had the power to not only let you communicate with Sidon’s ancestor but give you a glimpse into the past as well. You gaze around, realizing that you’re looking at a version of the water temple from many, many years ago.

The Zora woman continues to speak, “the rest of us survived, and it was not long after that climactic battle that someone came to see me. Her visit would make the destiny of the Zora crystal clear. It was another of the six sages- the Sage of Time.”

When you see this supposed ‘Sage of Time’, you gasp loudly. Your hands tighten their hold on Sidon’s arm, and the prince looks down at you with concern. Zelda- your Zelda, your best friend, your princess, is standing there in the past. She looks the exact same as she had when you lost her beneath the castle, save for the fact that she was dressed in ancient garments rather than her usual manner of dress.

Her voice rings out as she speaks to the Sage of Water, and it nearly brings you to tears.

“The magic restraining the Demon King will eventually be undone. When that happens, a noble swordswoman will oppose him. We must help. Lend her your power… she will need the Zora’s control over water.”

Sidon’s ancestor nods thoughtfully, the jewelry on her elephant mask shifting as she nods her head. Confidently she declares, “the course of the Zora’s future is clear. It would be our honor to aid in defeating the Demon King. I swear to you that, when the great evil returns, the Zora Sage of Water will awaken once more. The Zora people and their sage will fight alongside your swordswoman.”

The environment shifts again, and you quickly lose sight of the vision from the past. Your heart clenches painfully in your chest as Zelda disappears from view. The mist returns, swirling around you as the ancient Zora warrior bids her goodbye.

“That is everything there is to share of the Imprisoning War and of the destiny of the Zora… Zora’s Domain is once again safe, thanks to you. However, the Demon King continues to threaten all of Hyrule,” she concludes, “Sidon, my cherished kin. You must take up my secret stone and honor the vow I made to the Sage of Time. Fight alongside the swordswoman.”

A bright light blinds you once more, and you stumble backward. You nearly trip over your own feet, but luckily Sidon is able to catch you before you do. You realize that you’ve been returned to the Great Wellspring, with the secret stone still hovering silently in front of the prince.

“Are you alright?” he asks quietly, wary of the way you were swaying on your feet.

You nod, “I’m fine, I think. I just need to get some rest soon.”

Though he doesn't seem entirely convinced, he relents. “If you say so, dearest,” he murmurs, gently placing his hand on your shoulder, “then as soon as we’re able, I will ensure that you can get the best sleep possible.”

“Only if you do too,” you retort pointedly, “you haven’t been sleeping either.”

He laughs softly, “you’re quite right about that. Very well then. I promise that I will get rest as well, little one.”

Then, he returns his attention back to the stone that floats in the air before him. You can’t quite read his expression, it’s a combination of something stern and something solemn. He seems to take a deep breath before speaking once more.

“It’s my destiny to fight by your side,” he says, voice unwavering as he does so.

He’s quiet as he bows his head, deep in thought as he contemplates the task before him. His silver adornments clink softly as he tilts his head to glance at you, the faintest of smiles playing on his lips as he does so. “I came here so that I could save Zora’s Domain… but it looks like all of Hyrule will need my help! I’ll do all I can, just as my ancestor did. I will accept this secret stone!”

His declaration causes a reaction to occur within the stone. Its hue changes, shifting to a bright blue color rather than a simple white. Some manner of sigil is carved into its surface- something ancient and unreadable to you, likely writing left over from the days when the Zonai still roamed Hyrule. The prince lifts his hand, offering to the stone, and it immediately responds by shooting forward and attaching itself to the fabric of his glove. You watch with awe as it does so, marveling at the new aura which seems to surround Sidon.

He was stronger, you could immediately detect it. These secret stones, whatever they were, the effect was immediate. Pure power seemed to ebb from him, blue light emanating from the stone which now sat comfortable atop his hand.

“I am the Sage of Water,” he says confidently, turning to face you with a beaming grin. He flexes his arm before jutting his hand upward to reveal the ability granted unto him by the secret stone, “behold- this is my new power!”

You weren’t sure what you expected to witness. His water manipulation being magnified, or perhaps an enhancement to his spear that could be granted by the stone. Instead, you watch with wide eyes as an avatar, a copy, of the prince reveals itself. It matches Sidon in practically every way physically, aside from the fact that it was made up of a shimmering blue light rather than his true colors.

This copy of Sidon leaps into the air with a flourish, performing one of the prince’s signature flips before landing on the ground in front of you. When it stands at full height it- he- it is forced to tilt its head down to peer at you, considering it retains Sidon’s stature. You stare in awe as you meet its gaze, and instead of finding the prince’s warm golden eyes you’re met with a pair of glowing white ones.

“... oh… sweet Hylia,” you quietly swear, looking up at the avatar.

Sidon- your Sidon, not the copy, bends a knee to kneel before you. He gives you a reassuring smile as he reaches both his hands out to you. He speaks with clarity as he makes a request of you, “here, _____, your hand.”

There’s no hesitation as you reach out with your right arm, allowing him to take your hand into his grasp. He holds it firmly, giving you a handshake before making another declaration.

“I, Sidon, the Sage of Water… swear that I will fight by your side. Please accept this… it is proof of my vow.”

You could practically blush at his words. This meant more than just a simple vow between warriors, you were well aware of that. This was Sidon swearing his life to you, to fight side-by-side with you. Honoring this vow meant dedicating himself entirely to you, body and soul.

It was a vow that could not be made lightly.

The copy of the prince disappears in a blink of light, one that quickly returns to the secret stone on his hand. You watch as the blue light from the stone fills his body before it seems to trickle down through his arms, transferring to your own. The light concentrates in your right arm, before gathering and flowing to your hand- then to your palm- then to your ring finger.

There, a rune appears, sitting neatly on your finger as if it were itself a ring. The rune bears a symbol that matches the one which was carved onto Sidon’s secret stone. He had bestowed you with a new ability. The rune blinks, awaiting activation. When you touch the ring its light flashes once more, and in response the avatar of the prince appears at your side.

“With that ring, you will always have me- … my power with you,” he explains, stammering over his words. He stands up straight once more, looking at the copy of himself and seemingly regarding it. “And I will do all that I can to aid you.”

The irony of his rune, the symbol of the Sage of Water, sitting on your ring finger is not lost on you. If you weren’t so tired, perhaps you would have been more flustered about that fact. You touch the ring fondly, allowing the avatar to disappear into the air once more.

The pair of you walk away from the fountain. Now, with the sludge monster felled and the fountain cleaned, you were able to admire the wellspring in all of its glory. Your feet shuffle along the smooth stone floor as you trail alongside the prince, absentmindedly clutching your right arm. At the entrance to the Water Temple you both stop, and the prince glances down at you with a fond look.

He breathes in a deep sigh, taking in the fresh air. Content, he says, “alright. Let’s head back home, shall we?”

You gaze up at him, silently admiring the way the sunlight reflects off of his armor. Now that he had acquired a secret stone, there seemed to be a new air about him. He seemed more confident, more energized. Now, more than ever, he seemed to embody the true nature of being a Zora warrior and prince.

Then your mind flashes back to what his father had told you in the sanctum: “I must truly be getting on in years to have allowed a mere monster to catch me off guard. Perhaps… the time is nearing for me to pass the title of king on to Sidon.”

Prince Sidon would not be a prince for very much longer. If King Dorephan were to stay true to his own words, he would be stepping down all too soon. His son’s ascension to the throne was imminent- meaning that his marriage to Yona would be certified soon as well.

Sidon would be married, and there was nothing you could do to change that.

Emotion swells in your chest as your breath hitches, a sense of panic rising within you. The prince seems to notice your distress, concern flashing on his face as he turns away from the temple entrance to look at you. You try to speak but you can’t force out the words, struggling to make eye contact with him as you try to think of something, anything to explain your behavior.

He says your name softly, and the mere mention is enough to make you break.

“Sidon,” you mumble, your voice barely louder than a whisper. No one else was around to hear what you might say, and yet, the next words you wanted to utter felt forbidden. If you had more energy you might have even felt ashamed.

“Sidon… kiss me. Please.”

You scarcely have the chance to even register what you had said. Not even a moment to reconsider, to apologize, to walk back your statement. In a flash of movement the prince is kneeling before you- and then you feel his hands quickly holding either side of your face- and then-

He’s kissing you.

You can feel your legs tremble beneath you as soon as he does, and you nearly fumble as you grasp onto him- your lips locking with his own. Your hands hold onto his arm, eyes fluttering shut as you let him hold you closely. The kiss is desperate, nearly frantic, with both of you clinging to one another as if you would never be able to again.

And, that very well might have been the case.

Your hands find the silver neck piece of armor and you loop your fingers around the material, using it to try and ground yourself. You hadn’t even realized that you’d started to cry until you felt his thumbs swiping away the tears on your face. Through whimpering breaths you manage to whisper his name between kisses, the two of you only pulling apart when you needed air.

It takes everything in you not to sob as you speak, barely a hair’s width away from him as you do so. “I can’t,” you cry, voice wavering, “I can’t lose you again.”

He moves his hand, bringing his thumb beneath your chin and gently tilting your head up. His eyes are brimming with tears as well and he sucks in a shaky breath before replying. “I know. I know, and I-” he seems to choose his words carefully before continuing, “... I won’t let it happen again.”

“But the engagement-” you attempt to retort, but he swiftly cuts you off.

“My love, do you trust me?”

His words are stern and in spite of his emotion his eyes had steeled with focus. The question caught you off guard but slowly you nod in response. “Yes,” you answer, and despite everything that had occurred it was the honest truth, “with my life, I trust you.”

Visibly he seems to relax, smiling as he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Good. I’m glad. I know it’s taken… time,” he seems to hesitate as he says this, “and I’m sorry for that. But- but I have a plan. And if you’ll have me-”

“You’re all I want,” you say quietly, which pulls a chuckle out of him.

“And I you,” he reciprocates, “now, I know we’ve enjoyed our time here away from the palace. But, we do need to return, beloved.”

“... I know,” you whisper. You wanted to be selfish. But time was running thin.

He presses another kiss to your lips, and you can tell that he takes his time before pulling away one last time. “Let’s go home, dearest,” he murmurs, moving his hand down to lace his fingers with your own.

You do your best to give him a confident smile. But you knew that once you were back in Zora’s Domain, you were going to lose your access to him. Still, you nod, allowing him to guide you. “Let’s go,” you reply, preparing yourself to return to life as it was before.

…

“A great wellspring, a temple of ancient technology, and a monster that controlled the sludge? How alluring! I am so proud that you and Prince Sidon were able to dispel this evil from the land!”

You smile as you shovel another spoonful of rice and fish into your mouth. Nearly a full day had passed since you’d returned to Zora’s Domain. After a full night’s sleep, a thorough bath, and a few meals, you were finally feeling refreshed and energized. Across from you sat Lady Yona, who had been marveling as you regaled her with the details of your journey to the water temple.

“I’m just glad to be back,” you say with a small laugh, “and that the sludge is gone, of course.”

“Yes, and I’m overjoyed to see the land returned to its former glory,” she replies, “and the palace is pristine once more again, I’m unsure I’ve ever seen the flooring shine so brightly.”

You tilt your head to the side and grin, “you should have seen how reflective the floors were when Bazz forced his soldiers to do cleaning duties.”

Both you and Yona have a laugh over this. And you think to yourself that this is nice, it’s nice to have a friend to share stories with. If you could force yourself to forget that she was soon to be married to the love of your life, this would be nice.

You hide your momentary frown by dipping your head down and finishing your meal.

After a moment’s silence, you look up once more, pushing your plate away. “That little boy, Allegro,” you speak up, “how is he doing?”

Yona clasps her hands together as she says, “oh, very well! He has made a full recovery, as have the rest of our patients with the disappearance of the sludge. Our nurses even deemed him healthy enough to allow him to play with the other children.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” you smile, “I’ll have to make sure I see him before I leave… has there been any progress in finding his family?”

At this, her expression falls, and an immediate sense of dread fills you. “Well,” she starts out, hesitation in her tone, “the guards performing the search did indeed have findings, but they weren’t good. You had found Allegro in the waters of Toto Lake, a lake which has connecting waterfalls to the north. When the soldiers searched those rivers… they found the body of a Zora woman with markings on her tail identical to those of Allegro’s.”

Your stomach drops. “They found… a body?”

Lady Yona nods solemnly, “yes, it seemed that she too had succumbed to the sludge and that the current of the river had washed her away. By the time the guards had found her… it was too late.”

“Did anyone recognize her?” you ask, “any relatives? Any friends?”

She shakes her head, “no, it seems that she and Allegro were both new to Hyrule. Perhaps visitors from another Zora kingdom.”

“... so what’s happened to the woman?” you reply after a moment of quiet.

“She was given a burial at sea, as is tradition for us Zora,” Yona answers quietly, “it was always believed that since we came from the ocean, it is where we should return at the end of our days.”

Your teeth worry at your bottom lip as you think this through. With a dead mother and no other family to speak of, that only leads you to one conclusion. “I see. But the boy, he’s orphaned then. Is there any way to… has anyone offered to-” you huff as you try to collect your thoughts, “... who is going to take care of him?”

Yona fidgets with the golden cuffs on her arms as she ponders your question. “For now, he will likely remain under the care of the nursing staff until a more permanent solution can be found. Such as adoption, should we find a willing caretaker for him.”

Her eyes settle upon you, and you pale momentarily once you realize what she’s implying. She means you. That you could become Allegro’s caretaker.

You stammer as you try to find any excuse, “I- I couldn’t possibly. I have my- my duties, I travel far too often. I’m still searching for the princess- I- I’m unsure if I even have a place to call home right now. I wouldn’t even know the first thing about raising a- a- a Zora!”

And yet, in spite of your insistence, you do find yourself considering it. In a perfect world, maybe. With the princess found, with Hyrule safe, with the land at peace once more. Could you be a parent? Could you raise this little boy?

But this wasn’t that perfect world.

“You have far too much on your plate right now, trust me I understand,” she responds, offering you a warm smile, “but I do ask that you consider it. That young boy seems to absolutely adore you. He opens up when you’re around, he becomes far more talkative… it’s a joy to see. I know you have your duties, champion. But, just think about it, won’t you?”

You sigh, shutting your eyes before you answer. “... fine. I’ll think about it.”

After cleaning up Yona escorts you to the plaza of the palace, and there you find a peculiar sight. Prince Sidon is seated at the base of the statue having found himself surrounded by the children of the domain. The kids were all excitedly vying for his attention, and you quickly figured out why: they wanted to know more about the new, shiny stone on his hand.

The prince had a beaming smile on his face as he spoke, explaining to the little ones that the stone granted him strength and power. That his control of water was ‘stronger than ever’, and that it would empower him to be the best warrior he could be. You smile as you watch, only to feel something tug on your pant leg.

When you glance down you’re met with a pair of bright golden eyes and teal scales. “Allegro! Hello there,” you greet him with a smile.

The young boy grins, bearing his sharp teeth as he tries to speak. ‘Ha… huh… hi!”

“Good job, little man!” you congratulate him. He reaches his arms up, flexing his hands in a ‘grabby’ motion. You recognize it immediately, the universal symbol for wanting to be lifted. You reach down and wrap your arms around his torso, pulling him up into the air and balancing him on your hip. He’s clearly excited, the tip of his tail wagging as his hands grab onto your armor.

As you hold him up you walk closer to the prince to listen in on the conversation.

“It was a fierce battle,” he explains, using showmanship flair as he tells the children about your adventure, “this was a foe unlike any I had seen before- but the Hylian champion and I fought valiantly!”

The children ‘ooo’ed and ‘ahh’ed as he spoke, each eager to hear stories from a warrior. Just as Sidon begins to share the details of your fight with the sludge monster, he glances up and notices your presence. His eyes soften as they settle on you, a smile on his face as he quickly stands up.

“Champion,” he says, bowing his head respectfully.

“Prince Sidon,” you reply, gesturing to the boy in your arms, “you remember Allegro, right?”

“Of course I do!” he chuckles, gently patting the young Zora on the head. The little boy giggles, grabbing onto Sidon’s much larger hand. “Such a brave young one, he is. And I must say, I think you’ve chosen an excellent name for him.”

This makes you blush, “oh, who told you that I picked it?”

“A little birdie did,” he replies with a playful wink.

“Ah, it was Yona,” you nod, rolling your eyes at his antics.

Before your banter can continue, a voice from above the plaza calls out to you. “Prince Sidon and Champion _____! Your presence is requested by the king.” When you look up you see that it’s Muzu looking down at you from the balcony above.

You nod, shouting back, “be right there!”

Your attention is turned back to the little boy in your arms. “Alright, buddy, I’ve got to get going,” you say, moving to set him back down on the ground. His immediate response is to pout, whining as soon as his feet are touching the floor again. You give him a sympathetic smile, “I’ll be back later, I promise. Why don’t you go and play with your friends?”

He gives you a small wave before looking back at the other children. They welcome him into the group with open arms again, already discussing their new ideas for games. Clearly the older kids have been inspired by the prince’s stories, as they debate who should be the ‘sludge creature’ and who should be the ‘knights’.

Quickly you ascend up the stairs and make your way to the throne room, following behind the prince’s footsteps. Once you enter the room you see that Muzu and several members of the Zora council are standing on one side of the throne. Prince Sidon moves to stand on the other, with Lady Yona at his side. You have a place on neither, so you stand before the king instead.

Dorephan seemed to have healed quickly once the sludge was gone, now taking his seat within the palace tall and proud once more. The king gives you a smile before he speaks, waving a hand to address the room. “Dearest champion. Thanks to your courage, the inhabitants of Zora’s Domain are safe once again. No words could express the depths of my gratitude. Thank you, hero. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

You feel bashful as you accept his praise, bowing your head in response. It’s easier than attempting to stumble over your words and try to find a way to match his gratitude.

Then, the king turns toward his son. “As for you, Sidon… though _____ certainly played a key role, your own efforts to save the domain were nothing short of magnificent. I have always believed in you, Sidon. Now, you have unequivocally proven your worthiness to bear the crown. That is why I shall joyously take this opportunity to pass the throne to you.”

Your heart skips a beat. This was it. It was happening. Your eyes widen as your head shoots up and you look toward the prince. He looked nothing short of astounded, having to stop himself from letting his jaw drop.

“Father,” Sidon gasps, shaking his head, “this is so sudden.”

“No, it only seems that way,” Dorephan responds, “in truth, it has been heavy on my mind for some time. Sidon, my son… it is time to ascend the throne as the new king. Take Yona’s hand, and as one, lead Zora’s Domain to a brighter tomorrow.”

You stumble backward, and your face heats up in embarrassment when you realize that you’ve drawn attention to yourself. Multiple of the council elders look at you with clear disdain on their faces, Yona has a look of sympathy, and when Sidon’s eyes meet your own you have to force yourself to look down at the stone floor.

“Me… the king?” you hear the prince ask. There’s a tense moment of silence before he says,“... thank you, father. I will not let you down! I swear it.”

You hear a round of applause and cheers from the council as you feel your eyes become hot with tears, sucking in a deep breath and shutting your eyes tight.

Dorephan chuckles loudly. “That is the spirit, my boy! Now! Accept your place upon the throne. Even the finest swordswoman in all of Hyrule may bear witness to this momentous occasion!”

‘No. No I can’t- I can’t-’ you start to panic inwardly, watching as everyone begins to move out of the throne room. You couldn’t bear to watch this. You knew it was going to happen, but this was so soon. You couldn’t watch him receive the crown, you couldn’t watch him take Yona’s hand in marriage.

The council begins to gather the citizens of the domain into the plaza. Your hand moves of its own accord, reaching for the Purah Pad on your belt. Your breath hitches as you unhook it and glance at the map. Your fingers hover above a travel point- you’re not even sure which one, you just needed to be anywhere that wasn’t here.

‘I’m sorry Sidon. But I need to go.’

You touch the screen. Light begins to surround you as you’re whisked away. No one sees you as you disappear into thin air.

…

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Of course you can, you’ve been preparing your entire life for this.”

Sidon’s hands practically shake as he holds the crown. What was once a symbol of his father’s title had now been passed onto him. He swallows nervously, acutely aware of the crowd of people that have gathered to watch his coronation.

In front of him stands Lady Yona, who offers him a look of compassion as she straightens out the sash across his chest. “You are more than ready to take on this task,” she reassures him, “your father thinks so, I think so, and so does the council. You have everyone’s support.”

“I thought I would have more time,” he sighs, “I thought… well, you know what I want to do. Do you think this will go well?”

Yona smiles, pressing her hand to her lips, “well, it’s certainly going to be unconventional. But these are trying times. Perhaps a bit of change is what could be best for your people.”

Sidon hesitates before he lifts the crown and places it atop his head. It matches the silver jewelry of his adornments, the collar around his neck and the cuffs of his arms. He spots his reflection, making sure to straighten out the new headpiece.

“How do I look?” he asks, glancing back to Yona for her opinion.

“Like a king,” she grins at him, “now let’s go, your people are waiting for you.”

Taking in one last deep breath, he nods and flashes a smile. As the two approach the balcony which looks over the plaza, he can hear the advisor Muzu attempting to control the crowd. “Silence, everyone!” calls out the elder, stepping aside to let them take center stage.

Sidon straightens out his back, giving a look of confidence as he stands before the people of the domain. His eyes skim over the crowd, searching for you. He thought you would be easy to find, and yet, he can’t seem to see you. He falters momentarily, before beginning his speech.

His voice rings out loud and clear as he speaks. “I hereby inherit this crown from my father, The Exalted Dorephan. From this moment on, I shall be king of the Zora!”

The crowd cheers for him, children and adults alike. Behind him the Zora council gives a respectful round of applause, clapping their hands together. Sidon looks over to Yona, who stands beside him. She gives him a nod as she silently mouths to him ‘keep going’. They had discussed this ahead of time, she was there to support him.

His eyes look back to the crowd. He hesitates. He knows what he must do, and he knows that this will change everything. He knows the council members will become upset with him, and he can only hope that his father will forgive him.

With his arm he gestures to Yona, encouraging her to step forward. He can hear the excited whispers and giggles. This is the moment many had been waiting for, the moment when a new queen would finally be announced.

“At… at this precious moment, I ask that you also open your hearts…” he pauses momentarily, heart pounding in his chest. There was no turning back now.

“I ask that you open your hearts to my most trusted advisor and new head of the Zora council, Lady Yona!”

~~~ <> ~~~

I published a fun lil Link/reader oneshot over on my AO3 if y'all wanna read that btw

Link for that fic

and here's a doodle of Allegro as a prize for reading everything :)

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[w1lted-r0se]

creepypasta anon here, that's so lovely to hear!!! we're super excited so below is our request.

extensive details are really helpful for us, so could we get a lvl. 3 pack with all add-ons except for voice claim and favorite place in headspace? and could we get that for either Jeff the Killer or Eyeless Jack? :) that would be beyond amazing aaaa. we do not have any special details we want to request, so if it's okay we would leave it up to you / give you a lot of freedom for creativity since it's a lot. Yip yip thank you so much!

We hope you like thisss ^^

We chose jeff the killer as we know the source better!

Names: Jeff, Jeffrey, Jett, Killian, Ashen, Ryder, Slash, Blade, Knox, Lacer, Corvus, Draven, Luca, Silas, Vale, Gideon, Jasper, Thorn, Cain.

Pronouns: He/him, they/them, it/its, gore/gores, slash/slash’s, blade/blades, edge/edges, burn/burns, mask/mask’s, shadow/shadow’s, blood/bloods, grin/grins.

Genders: Masculine-aligned, male, genderless, voidgender, goregender, knifegender, shadowgender, monstergender, hauntgender, cryptidgender, revenantgender, vengeful-spirited.

Age: late teens to early twenties.

Roles:Protector, avenger, enforcer, chaos-bringer, intimidation front, inner-world scout, shadow-guardian, emotional deflector, inner-world renegade, crisis manager.

Likes: Nighttime, sharp objects, eerie quiet, adrenaline rushes, stealth games, stargazing, dark humor, thunderstorms, urban legends, classic horror movies, heavy metal, leather jackets, survival challenges, dark chocolate, weaponry, the sound of silence.

Dislikes: Bright lights, authority figures, mundane routines, vulnerability, loud noises, overly cheerful atmospheres, betrayal, crowded places, artificial scents, sugary foods, being underestimated, monotony, pointless conversation.

Faceclaim:

How they fulfil their roles: Jeff protects with a mix of calculated aggression and cold efficiency. He is quick to step in during moments of emotional or external threat, using his intimidating demeanor to disarm potential danger. He acts as a shield to the system while keeping an edge of unpredictability to deter harm.

Typing quirk: Jeff avoids capital letters unless emphasizing something, frequently uses ellipses and spaces between words for a detached tone, and occasionally substitutes certain letters like “o” with “Ø��� or “x.” Messages often feel blunt and foreboding, reflecting his sharp personality.

Sign off: 🔪🌕,🩸✂️, ⛓️🖤

How they act inside the system: Jeff is elusive, often staying in the shadows of headspace unless needed. When present, he is commanding but not overbearing, providing both emotional grounding and a sense of protection. He has a dark sense of humor and offers sarcastic commentary to lighten tense situations, even if it’s a bit morbid.

How they act outside the system: Externally, Jeff exudes a quiet intensity, speaking only when necessary. His presence is calculated, his actions methodical, and his tone cold but occasionally laced with a wry charm. His unpredictability keeps people intrigued but slightly on edge.

How they would dress the body: Jeff favors dark, utilitarian clothing with an edge, such as black jeans, combat boots, ripped shirts, leather jackets, or hoodies. He might add subtle accessories like spiked bracelets or necklaces.

Silly little quirks: Jeff flips knives, pens, or coins absentmindedly, taps his foot rhythmically when thinking, and occasionally mutters ominous-sounding phrases as jokes. He enjoys making eerie shapes out of shadows and tells unsettling stories purely for entertainment.

Handwriting claim:

Username ideas: SlashAndBurn, GrinInTheShadows, BladeRunner13, MidnightLacer, SilentSmile, SteelVigil, RevenantGuard, ShadowCut, HollowHunter.

Kins: Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th, Michael Myers from Halloween, The Joker from DC Comics, Venom from Marvel, Ghostface from Scream, Hannibal Lecter from Hannibal, and Alastor from Hazbin Hotel.

Theme song: “Nightmare” by Avenged Sevenfold, “Animal I Have Become” by Three Days Grace, “Bury Me Face Down” by Grandson, “People Are Strange” by The Doors, “Stigmata” by Grandson, “I’m Not Okay (I Promise)” by My Chemical Romance

Special interests: Knife collecting, urban legends, parkour, nocturnal animals, survival tactics, DIY crafting with an edgy twist, gothic architecture, horror films, cryptid hunting, the psychology of fear, night photography, survivor, ddlc

[cheerful-sixears]

Species Transition Plans

As a Celebes Crested Macaque

[Was inspired to make one of these based on what I’ve seen go around.]

-Long Term Goals: I want to live as freely as I can. The itch to run and just explore wooded areas and sit amongst the trees is something I adore partaking in so much. It’s a tranquility I can’t normally find anywhere else to clear my thoughts and just simply be. I want to do this more expressively and less fearfully. Humans frighten me as it is, but I do easily exist amongst them when in clearer mind. I want to build a small structure in the backyard to escape to, safely. 

-Appearance: 

-building a little more muscle to squat and sit more appropriately for my comforts. [currently a process slowly in motion]

-finish Papillon’s/my mask. I want to build an entire suit. It will take me a while, but his face is presently being structured on a base, and that alone was the bigger process I struggled with. So i’m certainly more confident about it.

-not really appearance…but learning to better perform small vocal stims and calls/barks. It is a comfort to vocal stim my frustrations on more difficult days. 

-Practice more physical gestures on top of vocal stims. I would love to map and learn more of their expressive communication styles. 

-Wear more colors and themes that just feel safer. 

-Find a way to make or get fake fangs on days I want to be less dressed/suited up to feel at ease in my skin. 

-Lifestyle:

-Obtain more ‘nest’ like objects to decorate my room with, such as pillow cases that look kind of like foliage and even make/find pillows shaped like logs or branches to put on the bed. Add even some bedding that looks like foliage; like bedsheets and blankets. Hang fake plants and keep the room comfy.

-Continue eating more fibrous foods, as it is essential for me, but also a huge part of my kin’s diet. 

-Spend closer time with my troop. I want to find more comfortable means of sitting on the floor or just relaxing. I tense up a lot, so isolation is sometimes my only comfort.

-find other therians in my age range. I’m 31, and I have been spiritual and physical since youth. I never knew the names, new world terminology, or the community's existence until later in life. 

I hope to find more therians my age on here, or at least closer to my age. I appreciate the younger generations, however I can't relate and distance for personal/mature reasons. This monkey’s too old. 

[hazyaltcare]

Typing Quirk Suggestions for a Dave Pyrope (Homestuck) shardtive/kin/fictive

with themes of lawyers and politicians, DID and multiplicity, autism, nuclear warfare/fallout, post-apocalypse, and imagination.

Character Adjustments

α = alpha, A

β = beta, B

γ = gamma, G

☢️ = O

♾️ = OO

& = and

DID / D.I.D. = did (the past tense of "do")

1 = I

3 = e

Write "system" and "multiple" in all caps. (SYSTEM, MULTIPLE)

Pronouns

I&/me&/myself&

I/me/myselves

we/our/ours/ourselves

wei/muis/muir/muirs/muirselves (or muirself)

somemany = someone/somebody

everymany = everyone/everybody

Text Prefixes and Suffixes

☢️ text ☢️

📻 text 📻

☣️ text ☣️

🧬 text 🧬

🔨 text 🔨

⚖️ text ⚖️

♾️ text ♾️

🧠 text 🧠

💭 text 💭

&& text &&

💥 text 💥

🤯 text 🤯

💣 text 💣

BEGIN MESSAGE. text END MESSAGE.

Finishing your sentences with "end message", has the double meaning of the message ending and the "end" referring to the apocalypse. The begin/end thing also sounds like an apocalyptic log.

Word Adjustments

codification = creation

counterfeit = fake

law-abiding = obedient

laws, ordinances, enactment, fiat = rules

ratification = agreement hierarchy = level, chain of command

radiant, glowing, the bomb = could serve as compliments

revoke = cancel, withdraw, repeal

supreme, sovereign = best

Phrases

beyond imagination = something unexpected or thought impossible.

by any stretch of imagination = as far as you can believe. by no stretch of imagination = it can't happen.

capture one's imagination = something fascinating or thought provoking.

flight of fancy = an imaginative but unrealistic idea.

It's the end of the world! (expletive optional) = dramatic lamentation for when anything wrong happens to you, no matter how trivial.

I've been through the apocalypse, I can do this. = a phrase of encouragement.

justice is blind = the law should consider everyone equal (the usual meaning) or that Justice - be it a personification, or law enforcement - is blind to the injustices of the world (ironic meaning)

leave little to the imagination = clothing that don't cover the body, something that is super obvious, or a scene that is horribly graphic.

mind's eye/ear = mental image or sound.

ray cat in a radioactive zone = referring to the proposed concept of the "ray cat", a genetically engineered cat that could change color to radiation exposure. It could be used to mean "canary in the coal mine". A canary brought by miners to a cave will die when exposed to carbon monoxide, a colorless, odorless gas that could be deadly to the human miners. Thus, the canary serves as a warning for environmental (literally) or societal (metaphorically) dangers.

there is no spoon = a quote from the Matrix (film) which means that the current problem or difficulty is only a figment of one's imagination.

This is not a place of honor. = to say somewhere should be avoided, this references the warning on Waste Isolation Pilot Plant (WIPP) nuclear waste storage facilities. You could even reference other lines from this warning (under the cut).

We should remember the presumption of innocence. = A reminder to not be hasty when judging people, give them the benefit of the doubt.

Mod Vintage (Zg & Ad)

Warning:

This place is not a place of honor…no highly esteemed deed is commemorated here…nothing valued is here. What is here is dangerous and repulsive to us. This message is a warning about danger. The danger is in a particular location…it increases toward a center… the center of danger is here…of a particular size and shape, and below us. The danger is still present, in your time, as it was in ours. The danger is to the body, and it can kill. The form of the danger is an emanation of energy. The danger is unleashed only if you substantially disturb this place physically. This place is best shunned and left uninhabited.

[oddygaul]

Chain Gang All-Stars

Great book.

I sort of hope Chain Gang All-Stars is never adapted into a show or movie. It’s certainly possible that it could be done with proper deference to the tone and message of the book, but I think it’s far more likely that it would end up essentially being what Chain Gang is in the story itself - a hyper-violent spectacle that people tune into because they think it’s cool and action-packed. I think Chain Gang All-Stars is very successful at walking the tightrope line of drawing the reader into the story and letting them flirt with what it must feel like to be a viewer of the program, while presenting enough reminders of its grim reality to prevent you from being totally sucked in. While there were times during the LinkLyfe segments where I was drawn in the way a viewer absorbed in a reality show would be, the battles themselves never give in to ‘just’ being badass. They were tense, certainly, and I was on pins & needles reading them, worried about the characters, but there’s a certain utilitarian brutality to the writing in those sections that keeps them grounded. I’d be worried any adaptation would make everything too stylish and exciting, thoroughly missing the point*.

*To say nothing of any potential dilution of the politics to appeal to a wider audience.

— “All other sport was just a metaphor for this.” —

Chain Gang All-Stars is incredibly good at giving every single character a depth and fullness, even ‘antagonists’, so that even the characters who infuriate us, we understand to a degree. The book doesn't justify evil deeds - there’s no excusing Wil’s dumb ass self - but it shows how easy it is for someone to placate themselves, to keep themselves on a surface level and not dig too deep into their own morality, to convince themselves that they’ve done what they could and that all those who have wrong done to them deserve what they get. The fluid perspective switches it accomplishes this with are fascinating, too. We get chapters dedicated to different characters, of course, be it our leads, our deuteragonists, and plenty of one-off side stories - standard stuff. But Adjei-Brenyah also rapidly switches between multiple perspectives within the same page, hell, the same paragraph at times, which gives us insight into a much wider breadth of viewpoints than we normally would.

By getting to see into the inner thoughts of quite a few Links, we get to see how, while their individual experiences are different, their imprisonment has broken them all in tragically similar ways. From Bishop to Sunset to Thurwar to Staxxx, we see a consistent, crippling lack of self-worth. The A-Hamm chain is unique in preaching a vision of solidarity, accepting one’s past mistakes, and focusing on how they’ve grown and changed as people. Despite this, at their core, none of them can truly find it in themselves to be forgiven, because Chain Gang grinds their lack of perceived value into them unceasingly - ultimately resulting in what is essentially suicide. The carceral system does not allow for or encourage rehabilitation, only suffering and self-hatred.

I thought it was a compelling decision to make the majority of the imprisoned characters we follow legitimate violent offenders. A lot of the abolitionist / prison-critical literature I’ve read often focuses on, or at least begins with, incarceration that is plainly, nakedly unjust, like long-serving non-violent offenders and mandatory minimum sentencing. Conversations about the treatment of murderers, rapists, etc., are naturally more fraught - it’s harder to get someone to imagine an entirely different system, rather than just adjustments to the current system.

Chain Gang All-Stars does not shy away from it one bit. We get self-reflection from multiple different Links, both those who regret what they’ve done and those who don’t; we get conflicted thoughts from family members who recognize that their lives have been fundamentally changed by the imprisonment of their kin, but are still ambivalent about forgiveness; and we get, of course, the fearmongering and appeals to pathos used by government and the media to try and stop any ideas of abolition from even beginning to take root in the minds of the public. The book understands that there’s no easy answers, and instead brings all of these perspectives to the reader, demanding they grapple with the issues themselves.

It does, however, make clear the absurdity of pretending that taking someone whose life has been indelibly touched by violence and putting them into a system that encourages and requires additional violence, by the state, by their peers, is somehow rehabilitation. It’s brought to an extreme in the novel, of course - Thurwar’s overriding instinct that every problem can potentially be solved by violence due to the constant killing she’s done is more reminiscent of a soldier returning to peacetime than anything else - but the message stands.

Some of the most powerful parallels shine through as-is, though. Even when you put aside the horror the Links are put through on a daily basis and the rampant normalization of state-sanctioned violence, the base lack of freedom and personal autonomy is what breaks people. Both during Chain Gang and our looks at other prisons, the regimented days, planned schedule, and inability to spend time or talk with the people they care about are basic human rights that are removed from prisoners every day. Hendrix’s silent prison (an idea I was horrified to find has been enacted before) shows this in one extreme - after being robbed of something as simple as his own voice for so long, Hendrix is willing to risk everything just to be able to reclaim that part of himself. Most heartbreakingly, the morning of the final doubles match, Thurwar’s only desire is to stay in bed longer with Staxxx. Leisure time with your loved ones, one of the most basic luxuries a person ought to have, seen as an unobtainable prize. Don’t need a dystopian near-future novel to see that happening.

Speaking of Hendrix Young, the voice Adjei-Brenyah uses for his sections was absolutely beautiful and oozing with character and I loved it. The way he speaks is simultaneously poetic yet so pragmatic - there’s an idiosyncratic turn of phrase in nearly every paragraph, and his love for the world and its beauty is never eclipsed by his cynicism and the horrible things happening around him. His sections were handily my favorites, despite the looming dramatic irony that overshadows them all.

— “I thought of how the world can be anything and how sad it is that it’s this.” —

As a literary device, the interspersing of worldbuilding notes and Actual Fucked-Up Prison Facts was a genius touch. By priming your brain to expect something more fantastical, the more grounded notes become something of a sucker punch. The first few are all in-universe lore explanations - they’re not entirely necessary, you could’ve pretty much got the gist through context, but the thorough explanation written almost as an ad read pulls you into the mentality of this world… so then, when it drops, say, the net worth and founding members of the Corrections Corporation of America and you get the inkling that this tidbit feels a little too specific to be made up, the lines between the book’s world and our own start to blur.

In addition to the unique cognitive dissonance it invokes, I think it’s a pretty effective strategy to convince or teach a reader who perhaps hasn’t done as much digging about the nightmare that is the American prison-industrial complex. Especially given that the main conceit of the book is a little outlandish, it’s very easy for me to imagine such a reader enjoying the story for its plot, but deflecting or doubting the themes with the classic “Oh, but this is an exaggeration - it would never happen like this! It would never be that sadistic”. In some way, the footnotes feel like the author directly responding with a “Yes, it would, and in fact has already happened this way previously”.

I do wish the footnotes stayed as dense throughout the entire book as they were at the start. In the beginning, they come hard and fast, blending the real and the fictional, keeping the reader on their toes. About a third of the way through, though, they slow to a trickle, becoming a rarity. Adjei-Brenyah keeps experimenting with what the footnotes can convey (“Don’t look down. Help me.” was particularly chilling), but the infrequency starts to make them feel like an afterthought.

— “Just jump.” —

The closer I got to the end of Chain Gang All-Stars, as fewer and fewer pages remained, I was increasingly desperate for something to break. Even as the story continued towards the inevitable, even as it showed me there could be no other way for things to go, I hoped for something else. Anything but what happened.

And yet… the ending gives this book’s message a lot of its power. It’s not a story where things always work out and the good guys always win - it’s a reflection of real problems, and those real problems don’t have such a simple solution. Chain Gang All-Stars is about people living in an unfair world, working within a cruel, unjust, system, and still finding the strength and conviction to believe that there can be positive change. It’s about knowing that progress can be slow, and that the system can feel daunting, and feeling powerless to enact change, and still imagining and pushing for the world to be better anyway. And somehow, that it faces that hopelessness head-on makes it more uplifting than a safer story with an easier ending.

[marauders1971-1978]

Newt Scamander x Remus Lupin

Be reborn, pull a corpse out of a bog, fall in love

Snippets, Songs, Images and Sketches from two fics (linked at the bottom)

It was odd, but not unpleasant company. Remus had spent many long weeks walking across various British farmland and woodland in the days before and after his transformation - both to keep himself away from civilisation and to give himself something to do, lest he fall into a well of self pity. Having another person by his side was a welcome change. 

He was quite adept at herbology, and knew more than enough about mundane and magical creatures to get by in his school years, but it was nothing on Scamander (or ‘Newt’ as he repeatedly insisted). Unusual though it was, at first, to spend so much time with one person and be asked very little about his personal life, and told very little in return, he began to appreciate how refreshing it was to have something to think about other than the death of his closest allies. 

Boggarts and ley lines, bowtruckles and species of wand wood, harvesting of leeches and how to call for various species of mundane birds. His strange (research partner? Friend? Mentor?) employer had plenty to fill their silences. He was rather like James, in that way, Remus supposed. Always with something to say, if the topic tickled him the right way - not to mention fond of a cold morning outside. He still hadn’t officially agreed to let the man conduct any off the books observations or experiments on him at his most vulnerable, but he was warming to the idea. Surely the hands that coaxed red squirrels down from the trees could never do anything too dehumanising. 

Presently, they were sat on their haunches, Wellington boots rendered redundant in the still, murky water of the New Forest peatlands. The sunlight was waning behind them and the low streaks of light pierced through the trees, dappling the wet marsh before them in evening gold. Remus’ feet were numb, but he wasn’t willing to complain, and instead focused his attention on the clumps of mud and thick reeds that poked above the surface of the deeper areas, waiting for magical activity. 

Newt leaned in slightly, so that their heads were close enough for Remus to catch his low whisper. 

“They come out at sunset of course, but I suspect it’s because of the dappling. They can be quite lonely creatures. A facsimile of your kin is sometimes enough.”

Remus didn’t comment, but silently agreed. Particularly as the light tickle of Newt’s conspiratorial mutterings reminded him quite painfully of Sirius’ sarcastic commentary whispered in Remus’ ear at the back of the classroom for his amusement. 

“See it?” 

Remus’ eyes searched the water’s edges until he found it - the dapple of light that didn’t belong. Slightly more silver than gold, and bobbing almost imperceptibly at the wet banks to their right. 

“How will we catch it?” 

Newt gave him a rare sideways glance and a small smile. 

“Play along,” he muttered, before slowly rising to his full height - out of the sparse remaining sunlight and into the shadow. Remus watched as the little orb seemed to come to life. As the light continued to wane, it was much easier to see the creature fully. The orb was but a fishing lure for an unsuspecting mammal, and the beast responsible for it a true wisp of a thing, thin limbed and almost transparent - holding the ghostly lantern up for Newt to see. 

It remained crouched, belly to the soil, muscles tense like a waiting viper, feeling the magical, insatiable hunger beg at its mind. 

“I’m not frightened of you.” 

It was somewhat true. Viscerally, he was frightened. But that was just biology. He could think over biology - his mind was king of his body. No matter if there was fear in his bones, they couldn’t make him flee. 

He was not a miracle worker. The beast did not roll, belly up, and welcome him like the young crups in the suitcase, but there was some tentative understanding between them. An hour and then another slipped by while the two sized each other up. Newt could crouch there all night if his life depended on it (which it did). Eventually the wolf snuffed what might have been read as a sigh of resignation and the muscles in its hind legs visibly relaxed. Its eyes, however, did not leave Newt. 

“Thank you.” He muttered, ducking his head slightly to match his words. Slowly, he moved to the mud wall of the den and sat himself down, leaving a good six feet between the two of them (enough space to cast the chain in a pinch) and took out his notebook. 

“I’m glad we could come to understand each other,” he carried on, opening it to a blank page and taking out a pencil. “I doubt you’d enjoy me anyway. I’ve had plenty of animal bites and nobody has bothered to clean the plate, so to speak.”

As the moon met the horizon and began to disappear from sight, the serenity and careful quiet between them was broken. A hauntingly human scream tore through the silent night and the wolf scrabbled in the mud, trying to lodge itself in the furthest corner of their little den - defensive and frightened. The teeth reappeared for the first time in many hours, snapping at Newt, though this time with a blatant stay back in its wide-eyed stare. 

Newt was never one to act predictably. 

Unwilling to watch and offer no comfort as the creature squealed in terror, he edged forward, mindful to tuck the chain safely up his sleeve, lest it accidentally make contact. Whale-eyed and desperate, it snapped at him, but without much direction. With one hand carefully placed on its tense neck to make sure it couldn’t catch him in its jaws, Newt crouched down along its flank and ran a gentle hand along the thick brown fur in some instinctive effort to console it. 

He could feel the rippling muscles under his hands, knotting and unknotting as the daylight broke the curse. The whimpers and desperate screams were something beyond pain. Newt wondered if the wolf had any awareness that it would be back in a lunar month’s time, or if, at the end of every cycle, it felt it would die. 

They couldn’t hide from the sunlight much longer and the screams died to a breathless keening as its biology rewrote itself all over again. His boldness waned when the animal was gone, leaving behind the sweaty, shuddering shoulders of the man on the ground in front of him. Contorted like a frightened child and facing away from him, Newt could only assume that tears might accompany the frightened gasps. The idea of bearing witness to it did something uncomfortable and foreign to his insides and he felt as though the skin under his hands, where soft fur once was, might burn white hot as punishment for looking and touching where he didn’t belong. 

It was raining.

Remus reached down to the floorboards to collect his jumper and trousers from the day before and attempted to wriggle into them without leaving the scant warmth that had managed to accumulate under the bedding. Finding his wand on the windowsill, he summoned a pair of wool socks and tried to convince himself to stand. 

He’d had worse mornings-after. Nothing seemed to be broken or bleeding, and there was no taste of iron in his mouth. There was an undeniable sickening feeling twisting in his stomach, but there were a hundred things that could be. 

The old floorboards groaned as they bore his weight and he made his way downstairs, careful to make enough noise so that he wouldn’t startle Scamander. There was a warm, dim light coming from the kitchen and Newt was sat at the scarred farmhouse table reading a book with both hands wrapped around a cup of tea. 

At the sight of him, the odd sickening feeling seemed to rise like a tsunami and he clamped his lips together, willing himself not to retch. The other man looked up, and now it was Remus who could not meet his eyes. Instead, he tried to focus on something safe, like his hands, but the ghost of his cold fingers against his back crawled down Remus’ spine and he could think of no solution but to back away, into the dusty sitting room where Newt was safely out of his line of sight. 

“Remus?”

He swallowed a shuddering gasp and the urge to vomit along with it before answering. 

“I’m fine.”

He heard the rustle of Newt’s book closing, but not the scraping of a chair. The thudding in his ears calmed somewhat and he pressed his cold fingers against his eyes.

“There is… literature about werewolves being “moon sick” before and after transformations,” Newt offered matter-of-factly. “Perhaps that’s the issue?”

Remus laughed. Once. Cold and empty. 

“It’s not that. It’s true, but it’s not that. It’s just… It’s been a while.”

Newt was silent. Remus pressed his back against the wall and slid down it so he could sit and rest his head on his knees. He could feel the tense pull of his shoulders, ready to spring up at the threat of movement. Thankfully, there was none. Newt stayed still and out of sight. 

“A while since what?”

Since he’d been seen. Since he’d been touched.

Since anyone had said ‘Moony’.

“Since I’ve had company.”

“Are we going to bury it?” He asked, trying to catch Newt’s line of thinking. He was crouched down beside the jar and had placed both hands on the wide lid. Again, the light caught him. The bright eyes, the determined expression and the careful hands that set his chest on fire with a bone deep pining for the company of friends. 

“I don’t think so. Let’s see if I’m right.”

He twisted and released the lid before stepping back to watch. 

The little wisp climbed, weightlessly, out of the top of the jar and dropped down onto the ground without disturbing a leaf or twig with its tiny feet. Newt leaned in, looking almost eager, as it picked its way across the forest floor to the body of the dog. 

Whatever was in the lantern seemed to have a want, or a need, to be closer. Remus could see it struggling against the ghostly glass like a moth on a window. The two creatures met - the wisp and the corpse - and the lantern was lowered onto the still body. 

As the wisp released its grip, the lantern shattered, as though made of something more than light and smoke. The tinkling of ethereal glass echoed around the small clearing and the little light sank into the dog’s fur. 

And the animal went up in flames. 

Remus staggered back without thought and turned to Newt for some reassurance that the silvery flames were to be expected. Unable to find any horror or panic, he watched the reflection of the fire in his eager eyes instead. Had he known?

As abruptly as it had started, the flames vanished, leaving behind no trace of the dog other than a handful of ashes that slipped away on the slight breeze. The hinkypunk, looking much dimmer without its lantern, disappeared with the ash, like a wisp of smoke. 

Newt vanished the jar and crouched down where the dog had been, his nose almost to the leaves. Remus lit his wand, now that they were without the lantern. 

“Completely gone. Passed on, I suppose.”

“Passed on?”

Newt stood and placed a hand on Remus’ shoulder - the first time he’d touched him since the moon had touched the horizon line the night before. With a slight pressure, he steered Remus around so they could walk, side by side, back the way they’d come. 

“The rest of it. What was left, I mean.” Newt paused for a moment, apparently looking for the right words. 

“The body died a good while ago, I’d think. But perhaps it’s the nature of an environment like a bog. It clings to things that should be let go. Things get left behind, left to stagnate - trapped in the water.”

Remus stumbled on a tree root and felt Newt’s hand tighten on the shoulder of his jacket. He made sure to hold his wand aloft, to better light the path. 

“So it’s alone in there, unable to move onward, or to return to how it was before, it longs for someone, or something to join it. To share the misery or to pull it out, I’m not certain.”

“You think the wisp comes from the bodies?”

“Quite sure. I believe there was something soulful about the little light.”

“I don’t want to hurt people.” He confessed. He wasn’t going to cry. Not over this, again. He’d done his time.

“I don’t think you ever have.”

He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars and pressed his lips together to try and keep from embarrassing himself further. 

“You don’t know me that well, Newt, but thank you.”

There was a rustle, and Remus tensed in fear that Newt might touch him, but no touch came. 

“You’ll have to prove me wrong, then.” His voice had a shy cheekiness that forced a laugh to bubble free from Remus’ tight lips without his permission. It was but a small wave that warned of a coming tsunami of unbidden relief and he turned at the sound of a small laugh and managed to enjoy the sight of Newt’s crinkled eyes as he chuckled to himself despite his recent roller coaster. 

Their laughing filled the room this time and Remus reached for his now tepid tea for something to break the delirium. 

“I should have warned you that you can’t turn your back on Moony,” he mumbled into the rim of his mug. “James did say he was a menace for it.”

“It’s difficult to know what to do with yourself after fighting, I’d imagine.” Newt's gift of dropping true, but uncomfortable statements was as accurate as ever.

Still, that was something he wasn’t about to delve into with an eccentric magizooligist on this weekend afternoon.

“Shall we do the sitting room?”

They went around the windows and doors, sealing them against the outside air and making the place worthy of having a fire in the hearth. Remus found a tin of semi-congealed paint under the stairs and took it upon himself to touch up the flaky gloss after pulling as much moisture from the wood as he could manage. 

Thankfully, there was little more talk of the death of their intended adulthood trajectories and they finished in the back bedroom, Remus pulling the bed frame away from the wall so they could see how effective his limited cleaning spells were at sorting out mold. On his hands and knees between the bed and the wall, he tried not to imagine how foolish he must look to Newt as he cleaned away another unsuccessful scourgify attempt. 

“Maybe a banishment type, rather than a cleaning type?” 

Remus jumped, not expecting Newt’s voice to be so close. He had stretched across the bed on his stomach so he could peer down into the gap over Remus’ shoulder. 

“Christ, Newt.” He looked determinedly down at the skirting board to make sure Newt could see nothing more than the back of his head and certainly not his burning face. “Yeah, that’s a shout… How do muggles do this?” 

He couldn’t concentrate with Newt’s face so close to his hair and, again, tried to push any deeper examination of that reaction to the back of his mind. 

It had been long enough since anyone had been that close to him, so surely it wasn’t unfair to get a little flustered. 

“That’ll have to do.” He retreated a little, before unfurling himself from behind the bed and revealing the slightly better state of the wall. 

Newt kneeled on the bed, apparently content with the outcome. Remus was tall enough to be getting on with, but he had rarely been in a position to look down at Newt. A familiar but unbidden fizzing was set off in his stomach again, along with the sickening lurch of painfully tainted memories of being in this position several years ago. 

“Your knees are dusty.” 

The memory of Newt, twisted on the counter, forcing up the sash with both arms, the hair lit on fire by the afternoon sun and that dangerous slip of pale stomach, was burned into his eyelids. He sank as low as he could in the bath, his knees breaking the surface so he could hide himself up to his nose in the hot water. He couldn’t seem to wash away the image of his crinkled nose, laughing on his bed that morning, nor the wry look in his rusty green eyes. 

He’d been here before. He knew when he was done for. 

He lay there, crumpled like a discarded scrap of paper, until the water went tepid and there were goosebumps covering his thighs. He didn’t know if he was brave enough to let his solitude end, now that he was quite sure what he was afflicted with, but he could hardly hide in the bathroom forever. 

There was a soft knock on the door and Remus startled so abruptly that a wave of bathwater splattered on the tile floor. 

“I was just checking you hadn’t drowned.” It was muffled by the door but he was certain he could hear the cheeky smile in his voice. 

“Unfortunately, I’ll live to see another day,” he grunted, spurred by the intrusion to stand up. As he’d feared, it was bitterly cold, standing there damp, and he swiftly took on the appearance of a recently plucked chicken. “Did you manage to get a fire going?” He called out hopefully, clambering out of the tub and rummaging through his discarded clothes for his wand so he could vanish the puddle of water he’d made. Apparently, Newt had already left after confirming signs of life and he was forced to peer down the staircase in his towel to see if there would be anywhere warm for him to retreat to. 

(Never mind the burning in his chest that screamed of coming home at the sight of Newt’s head in a book that he glimpsed over the back of the sofa. Never mind that.)

Newt shook his head like a wet dog, smattering Remus with water, and clumsily tried to drag his waterlogged body to firmer ground. Apparently out of his depth and without foothold, Remus coiled the rope around his arm a few more times and tugged him in until he could reach out a hand for him to grasp. 

His slippery hand gripped Remus’ like a vice and after a moment of frantic scrabbling, he freed his torso and waist from the waters. 

“I think so, but I couldn’t pull it up.” He was breathless and Remus allowed him a moment to orient himself before he set about helping free his legs. “Wouldn’t go under in the dark - it’s like devil’s snare down there. Think something bit me.”

“ Bit you ?” Remus’ voice came out strangled and horrified - mind full of inferi. 

“Probably a newt or something,” he grunted, scrabbling without grace onto mostly dry ground and untying himself. “Water’s freezing. Can’t feel my feet.”

He looked like a wet ferret with his clothes filthy and clinging to him. He’d lost a boot to the bog and just as predicted, there was some strange creature hanging off his ankle. Remus curled his lip in disgust, leaning closer for a proper look.

It was shaped like a snail shell, but soft and pulsating. He reached out a finger intending to prod it, but Newt caught his hand hurriedly. 

“Don’t poke it, you might hurt it!”

Remus couldn’t help himself from one short disbelieving laugh even though he knew it would annoy Newt. “You must be kidding. It’s biting you. Looks like a massive leech.”

Newt picked up his own leg and forced it round so he could inspect the creature latched onto his exposed skin. “Not a leech. It almost looks like a lobalug, don’t you think?” Remus was flattered that Newt looked up at him as though genuinely expecting his expert opinion, but all he could do was shrug. 

“Never heard of that. It just looks like a fat ugly leech to me.”

Newt was contorted around like a pretzel in his effort to get as close a look at the creature as he could manage without dislodging it. Remus watched him, not wanting to offend him but also feeling that he was not thinking straight. 

“Um, so what exactly is a lubalog?”

“Lobalug. And they’re usually salt water dwellers, but it might be some kind of variant. The body shape is very similar, but the colours are slightly different. I’ve only seen them a couple of times - sometimes used as weapons my merpeople, on account of the venom-”

“Newt!” Remus tucked his hand in the safety of his jacket sleeve and shot out  to flick the creature off. It flopped onto the wet ground and Newt turned to him, scandalised. 

“Remus! They’re quite delicate!”  

“You just said they were venomous!” 

Distracted for a moment, he stepped over, brushing some sketches of what he now recognised as their hinkypunk friend to see what looked like an open journal. His own name jumped out at him, like an inviting little wave, dotted here and there across the open pages of scrawl. Again and again and again. 

Remus. Remus. Remus. Remus. 

Remus traced a thumb over the drawing in Newt’s notebook, remembering the afternoon that he had fallen asleep reading in front of the fire and felt the hair along the back of his neck stand up in some mixed up combination of embarrassment and flattery. The drawings of his mangled body as a wolf, he could do without looking over again, and tucked them back into the pages of the journal, but the others did something strange to him. 

He was both compelled to commit them to memory, but also to look away as though he was prying on something private (which he was) and shameful. He pulled out the portrait. God knows how he’d managed to pull it off without Remus realising he was doing it, but Newt spent so much of his free time either reading about beasts, looking at pictures of beasts or drawing beasts perhaps it was no surprise he had overlooked it. 

Remus wouldn’t say he was unpleasant to look at. He was quite content that he had been blessed with a face that was generally inoffensive and trustworthy. Certain things annoyed him, on the days he felt more self-critical than usual. He wished he had more noticeable eyelashes, or perhaps visible eyebrows to speak of. He had spent too much time admiring the determined set of James’ thick eyebrows, or of Sirius’ long lashes, dark against his pale cheeks. In comparison, he felt a little washed out and bland - not even blessed with the sparkly blue eyes and cherubic cheeks that Peter had to go with the blond curls. Perhaps less of a long neck or a less prominent Adam’s apple, or a more interesting colour of hair might’ve improved him. 

Looking in the mirror, he might think all of those things, but looking down at Newt’s drawing, it felt offensive that he might even suggest anything should be changed. 

If Newt had thought his pale eyebrows and bony neck pleasant enough to commit to paper, then perhaps they weren’t so unfortunate after all. 

He would feed the lethifold for Newt. He would wade through a bog for Newt. He would answer questions that made him confront the horrors of the recent past for Newt. And now that he really catalogued their time together, Newt would do all that and more in return.

That was frightening. 

Of course - Newt could just be a kind man - it was plain to see that he was more than happy to bend over backwards for any misunderstood beast. It was a real possibility that he was simply one more for the collection (and would that be that bad?). It would not be the first time he looked upon another with admiration and desire and received nothing in return. He was familiar with that. He had admired many men to the extent that it might have pushed the boundary of admiration into infatuation. There had certainly been a time where he had hero-worshiped James to the point of pushing his own morals aside just for a glimpse of his approval. Pining was safe territory. 

Reciprocation was dangerous ground. 

And it was the smallest of things that had planted that niggling worry. The constant cups of tea, the willingness to follow whenever he fled, the endless patience, the laser-focus of occasional eye-contact and the invitation in. Into the excitement of his interest, into the adventure on the moors. Into the little house in the countryside. Into the suitcase of worldly treasures that he was sat in now. 

He groaned, weighed down by the heavy reality of it all, and ran his hands through his hair. 

Regardless of the pain it might cause to touch the barely-healed wounds of a few years ago, he had to accept that he was in debt. And not only was he in debt, but that debt was to someone who would keep giving regardless. 

And so he should really begin to repay it, no matter how frightening it might be to participate in his own life and stop just allowing things to happen to him, hoping that if they were going to hit him, that it would at least be a glancing blow. 

He would run right at this one and, God willing, he would be met with open arms. 

“Hey, sit up a bit?”

Newt groaned, screwing his eyes up as though he was worried Remus might try to physically pry them open. He couldn’t help but laugh - there was something undeniably endearing about his scrunched-up face. 

“I have to get this off - it’s filthy.” 

“‘M not filthy.” He winged petulantly, trying to turn away again. “‘M tired.”

Remus sighed, resolving himself to a lack of cooperation, and climbed back onto the bed, resuming his business-like position straddled over Newt’s legs and took one of his arms in each hand. 

“C’mon, up.” He tugged, hoping that Newt might get the picture and help him out a little if he just went for it. Indeed, he allowed himself to be pulled upright and slumped forward straight into Remus, eyes half closed. The solid weight of him draped over Remus’ shoulders and chest was a touch more than his careful mind-wiping could overcome and he froze for a moment, frightened of where to put his hands and of what Newt might find himself leaning against. 

Hopefully Newt was far too preoccupied with trying not to be awake to notice Remus’ heart thudding against his chest. 

“Er, okay.” He flitted his hands nervously around Newt’s torso, arrested by adrenaline. “Okay, arms first, I think.” 

Manoeuvring around the dead weight against him, he manhandled Newt’s arms out of their sleeves, savouring the feeling of his head lying heavy in the crook of his neck and his breath ghosting over his collarbone. Surely that wasn’t a crime? His hands were still inside of Newt’s jumper, the heat of his back burning against Remus’ fingertips and he was unable to resist stroking his thumb over the notches of his spine, pushed out tight against his flesh by his hunched posture. What he wouldn’t give to lean into his desires and pull him close, hands planted against Newt’s back with the sole wish to embrace him so hard that they might melt into one. And what he wouldn’t give to be pulled in, in return. 

Not now, though. He wasn’t being selfish now.

And so he took the trim of his jumper and tugged it up over the back of his head, freeing him from it and making him pull closer at the assault of cold air - his freed arms falling by Remus’ hips. 

“Er, you’re free to go.” He prompted, shrugging a little to see if jostling Newt’s head might liven him up. Instead, one hand just patted Remus’ thigh vaguely. 

“Of course.” He would have to turn himself inside-out in sheer horror if it was revealed to him that Newt had been kidding him on this entire time. 

He didn’t want to push Newt off, lest he just fall back, so he went down with him, extracting his arms from under him with some difficulty. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he rolled back over onto his stomach and buried his face into the bedding. Remus snorted and stood, bringing Newt’s shed jumper with him. 

“Should have seen that coming.”

Their knees were touching. Through the quilt, but to Remus it felt as if he was being burned. Remus stared at the point of contact, feeling the weight of something pressing in on the both of them in the little room. The quilt rustled and then, quite unexpectedly there was the warmth of another’s face close to his. Too close and yet not close enough. That strange, excited, churning anticipation reared its head again and he felt simultaneously like he might vomit or laugh. Newt’s nose brushed against his, then pressed cold against his cheekbone as their lips met, warm and dry, soft and kind. 

He was inhabiting a strange universe where two things were possible at once. Somehow they stayed like that for minutes - maybe hours - and somehow it was over in no more than a couple of loud and painful heartbeats. 

And surely, they must have pulled apart. And perhaps their eyes had met - perhaps not. As soon as the eternal moment passed, his briefly silenced mind filled again with frantic buzzing and before he could comprehend whatever happened in the aftermath, he was standing in the hallway listening to the incessant swishing of his own heart in his ears. 

Newt did not call out for him. And why would he? He’d just fled after a kiss. He dragged his fingers through his hair, tangling his fingers in it, pulling on it as though a little physical discomfort might push out the painfully loud buzzing of his own painful thoughts. 

He needed to get out of the house. 

“All fine.” Remus heard his own words as though someone else had said them. He was far away from the present moment, already in the next one - one where his hand was in Newt’s rumpled auburn hair, where his eyelashes tickled his cheek. Where the other man might feel his triumphant, self-satisfied smile against his own lips. 

And then the moment rushed up to meet him and the fiction became reality. More impatient than he had intended, but just as sweet. There was his hand on the back of Newt’s head - hair soft under his palm, his fingers snagging in the occasional knot. There was the tickle of the other’s eyelashes against his cheek and the smile, impossible to suppress, pressed recklessly against Newt’s own. 

Not soft and kind. He didn’t have the luxury of confidence. Instead, he was forced to fake it until it became reality - pushing himself upon the other in a desperate plea of ‘please, confirm to me that I was right to be brave’.

Newt pulled away and tipped his head forward, breaking their lips apart but resting their foreheads together as he planted a hand on Remus’ arm, gently directing him to sit down beside him. Remus opened his eyes. 

Newt was looking at him - with that same lopsided smile that shorted out his thoughts. 

“I had hoped that would be your answer.”

Remus snorted and kissed him again, the courage coming easy now. “Did you, now?”

There was another moment or two of silence, Remus looking into the dark silhouette of Newt and Newt, presumably, looking back - waiting for acknowledgement. 

When none came, the shadow retreated and the rustling began anew as Newt buried himself back in the familiar quilt. 

A few tentative steps into the room gave Remus enough understanding of what he was looking at to see that Newt had not quite turned his back on Moony. That wasn’t to say he was being watched. Sheepishly, like a nervous cat, he inched forward until he was eye to eye with the wizard on the bed who was looking sleepily over at him, blinking slowly in the dim light. Remus wasn’t sure if it was he, or Moony (or if the distinction was idiotic) that noticed the casual position of Newt’s shoulders, sloped down and exposed - the long, vulnerable line from his jaw to his collarbone bared to the night. 

He would have been suspicious that the exposed neck was an elaborate act to try and put him at ease, if it weren’t for the fact that Moony’s ears heard the easy noises of a defenceless and sleepy man with ringing clarity (some may say it was by design). The slight rattle of a positional snore and the gurgling of many cups of tea sitting in his stomach could hardly lie. 

There was no concealed anxiety in this room.

(Other than the smell of his own fear that was assaulting Moony’s nose, stinging like acid at the back of his throat.)

Emboldened by using the wolf’s image as a convenient mask, Remus stepped forward again, resting his chin on the edge of the mattress and blinking questioningly at Newt’s half lidded eyes. Their faces were so close Moony’s lips twitched as Newt’s breath disturbed the air by his whiskers.

“It’s okay to feel lonely.” Again, just the ghost of a voice behind the words. “Not that I know what you’re thinking - I don’t mean to make assumptions. Just… I just wanted that to be clear. That if you feel alone, it’s alright to look for company.”

It was very difficult to keep strong his weak threads of self control when Newt said things like that. 

Moony shivered. He wasn’t sure if it was anxiety, or the cold, but the involuntary movement seemed to break the seal and before he could second guess his decision, Remus was crouched on the bed - four paws awkwardly occupying the small space that was not taken up by Newt. 

The image of Fenrir Greyback looming over his childhood bed moments before his life as he knew it was ripped from him floated unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t help but groan in horror, then again at the hope that the noise hadn’t sounded like a growl to Newt. 

He gagged before he realised the sickening feeling was coming. That seemed to frighten Newt more than the looming form of the werewolf above him and he pushed himself back up before reaching out tentatively towards Moony’s head. 

“Goodness, not you feeling out of sorts as well. Perhaps it was a brewing error?” 

Newt’s mumblings and worried fluttering fingers were somewhat comforting and Remus would have laughed, if he was able to. 

He had been frightfully careful when brewing the potion. The least he could do to repay Newt was to be sure that he wasn’t going to rip his throat out in the middle of the night. 

No. It was definitely the horror of realising his own power. 

It had always sickened him. 

Moony’s breaths came in rough pants and he couldn’t bring himself to look into Newt’s face - instead fixating on the worn collar of the soft, ribbed undershirt and trying not to let his mind float away. As though he’d read his mind, Newt placed one gentle hand on the top of Moony’s head. 

“Maybe you’re frightened?” Newt posited, gently brushing his thumb over one of Moony’s soft, whiskered eyebrows. “I look for the company of things that won’t judge me when I’m frightened, too.”

Remus absently wondered if knowing that Moony would not answer back had loosened Newt’s inhibitions too. Or maybe it was the knowledge that Remus in there, closer to the surface this time, that gave him the confidence to put a hand to the back of Moony’s head and pull the wolf in close, inviting him to hide his head under Newt’s chin - the other’s arms around his chest squeezing just hard enough to keep him safely in the little room, present and held. 

He wasn’t sure how long Newt let him stay like that, tucked against his chest. He’d acclimatised somewhat to Moony’s superior hearing and no longer heard every breath the other took as though it were an unexpected wave crashing and breaking against him. Perhaps not having his nerves fried at every slight movement or sound had been a helping hand to calm him too. Regardless, Newt’s arms seemed to have grown tired and when they slipped away down to his sides, Remus, or Moony, or perhaps it didn’t matter who, had decided to spend that night - often so panicked and alone - up on the bed, snuggled under Newt’s arm, head lying heavy across the other’s shoulders with the comforting weight of his chin on his head.  

They lay there for what might’ve been minutes or hours, Remus’ mind drifting between memories and blissful nothing as he continued the stroking of Newt’s back. He found he twitched less when his hand  was heavier, so he obliged - thinking of many similar mornings with Sirius and his long, light fingers trailing back and forth over Remus’ arm. 

He didn’t imagine Newt would like that. 

Strange how one could be in the same situation and yet enough small details were different that it felt entirely new. 

In return, Newt’s hand disappeared from his hair and found the flat of his back between his shoulders and with a firm, predictable touch he pulled them closer with an almost crushing surety. Pressed that close, there was no secret to the contours of the other’s body. Long-limbed and wiry, like Remus, but unexpectedly strong, he was buried almost entirely under the quilt and guarded by the arm tensed against his side, the curve of a shoulder by his ear and the familiar entanglement of their legs - uncomfortably comforting, long shins and sharp knees locked together. Safe in the almost-darkness, he didn’t have to trouble himself with what may come next, or if his ears were burning red. Just the smell of Newt’s neck pressed against his nose, the warm quilt and the echo of the other’s heartbeat that was just audible where his sweaty ear was pressed against one equally sweaty bicep. 

He had often thought that the moments after the moon were somewhat like being born - frightening and vulnerable, exposed and cold. Confused and disorientated, forced to acclimatise. Strange that this felt reminiscent - like the other side of the same coin. Warm, a little uncomfortably damp, bare and held in a quiet moment. 

Too warm, actually. Though he was loath to let it end, he wriggled up and resurfaced, swallowing the cool air and he knew his cheeks must be bright red and feeling the strange sweaty stickiness of his right ear where it had been crushed between their bodies. He met Newt’s eyes and his freckled face cracked into an amused and lopsided smile before he could even light the spark of his own self-consciousness.

Giddy with desire and bolstered by Newt’s light-heartedness, he hooked a finger in the waistband of Newt’s shorts and yanked them down as far as his reach would allow. Again, Newt laughed, soft and short, and Remus caught it, lightheaded from the success of his own daring. Newt wiggled his hips - showing off his recently acquired below-the-belt coordination - and Remus pushed them the rest of the way down with a well placed foot. 

And God, wasn’t it nice , wasn’t it electrifying, to be here again? Wasn’t it thrilling to have the hot, excited breaths of someone else against his skin, and his own thudding heart in his ears?

They were still nose-to-nose, laughing against the other’s lips. Newt’s gaze travelled from Remus’ red cheeks to his eyes. 

It was less like staring into the sun - blinding and unknowable. More like peeking through a ground-floor window into the brief fleeting image of foreign life. 

As quickly as he glimpsed it, Newt looked away and pressed a kiss at his temple before rolling onto his back and pulling Remus with him. For the second time that night, but for the first in this body, he found himself looming on top of the other, and once again, he found the other laying there beneath him, unconcerned and - this time - delightfully bedraggled. Head quirked a little to one side as though pondering what might happen next. 

Facsimile of Kin - Chapter 1 - BeckettSimpleton - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own]

As Observed by Newt Scamander - Chapter 1 - BeckettSimpleton - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own]

[teronsrickman]

I wanted a triangle (9(( I love triangles

Despite the fact that the second season is inferior to the first in terms of tension and drama, for me it seemed to be a plus. And in general, I feel like I will rewatch the second season more actively than the first. One of the reasons for my love and hyperfixation is that I suddenly kin Gi-Hun. No, not because I have crush on Frontman. (Well, maybe a little bit because of that) In the first season, I didn’t feel anything like that, because I was basically in mute horror, tension and eating glass while watching, that there was no time for kinns. But Gi-Hun from the second season won my attention by literally becoming the type of characters with whom I associate myself all my life (I’ll attach my kinn list for comparison in the comments). After what he experienced in the first season, he turned into a protagonist who longs for justice and naively, but boldly tries to achieve it. Seeing that the people around him are cruel and unfair and perhaps even knowing, that nothing can be done about it, he still tries to change something in the world and with all his determination he remains humane, loyal, kind, brave and altruistic, despite the hellish cruelty around him and the fact that he is fucking sick of everything. This resonates very strongly with me. I am the same naive fool. Yes, I am a puupy too and I admit it. And if in the first season I headcanoned that I (and Jonsy by the way) were guards, then in the new season I see myself in the game. Btw, the second season does have its shortcomings. For example, I did not like how the guard's life was shown. It seemed to me much more boring than in the first. As if their discipline there had weakened and there was no feeling that the staff were also some kind of prisoners of this place. In the first season, I was interested in the guards even more than the players, which is why I inserted myself with a triangle guard with the temper of a circle. So the second season is different from the first, but does not sag in quality, in my opinion. It just has a different vibe and, to my delight, it moves in my tastes. It's just simpler, I was able to easily get hooked on it, unlike the first one. Yes, I love horror, drama, cruelty and suffering of characters, but I have a hard time with morally complex choices/moments, which is why I just admire the first season, but I haven't rewatched it (although I want to), because it evokes so many complex and strong emotions and that's good, but it's too tense for me. But we watched the second season with friends and it flew like clockwork, it really is more fun, but it hasn't lost the amount of blood, but it is presented without the pathos that was in the first one. Just because the hero and the viewer are at these games for the second time. FCK well and old man toxic ya0i is SO readable that even the non-fandom community noticed these languid glances 001 and 456. I fell into this ship as you can see on twitter. But no matter how much fun we had with it, the second season ended in such a fuck(in a good way), the continuation of which will have to wait until the summer (??) then I will quickly get to Hwang (the screenwriter) and bite off something on his nerves in an attempt to imagine HOW to finish the arc of the characters that they started. I have already come up with so many comics and animatics that I can’t draw (cuz my work, time and skills) and I am sad because of this. Well, and the division of seasons is so strange, it feels like the season hasn't ended, but should just continue later, I don't know why they divided it into seasons, they could have said wait a moment, we'll finish filming later

(spoiler ahead) And the lack of pronunciation about some nuances in the second season puzzled me. Like why didn't Gi-Hun, when he was convincing people to vote against the games, say that those who wanted to would be able to come back again?? He would have said it once, and if this rule had been changed, the guards would have explained it and people who were thirsty for money would have had more reasons to vote for the circle. But I imagined that since you can leave with money at any time, it would obviously be impossible to come back and it seems to be okay anyway

[dalliansss]

It happens precisely as Finrod and Maedhros plan and predict it to be. Angrod does let slip crucial information to Thingol: their deeds, their numbers. Their forces. Caranthir makes a show of his infamous temper: vitriol is thrown against Angrod, in such vehemence that everybody there present can only believe its honesty, and only the most perceptive will know it is an act. A small push to enforce the shove, a little drop of the reagent to spur further chemical reaction; the little crack in the ice forestalling the avalanche–

But the reminder that Arafinwe – Finarfin, on these lands – remains a lord of the Noldor, though Earwen be of other kin– 

An uncharacteristic coldness comes over Finrod’s beautiful face then, though he hangs onto his patience and control and temper with all claws he ever possessed. He knows Caranthir is provoking him; provoking him into showing his hand, exposing himself, to unearth his plan to abscond East while everybody else is embroiled with the technicalities of rebuilding society. The great wildlands of the East, where the greatest potential of Beleriand lay undiscovered–

He and Caranthir look at each other across the table, and Finrod is keenly, sharply aware Maedhros is watching too, as is Fingon. But Finrod wins this round; he says naught, refuses to rise to the bait, and there is the faintest twitch in Caranthir’s temple. Not today, Kinslayer, Finrod thinks. 

“King is he who can hold his own, lest his title be in vain,” Maedhros says, breaking the deadlock between his cousin and brother. “This Thingol does naught but point to us lands where he does not hold power. The Noldor will thank him for this gift, and he will soon regret not coming here himself to treat with us.”

A pause. Caranthir bristles subtly. Galadriel holds her breath, and Finrod senses her tense. They come to it, this one specific moment in history that–

“Yet there is a greater matter here, that the Noldor must acknowledge. I, High King Nelyafinwe Maitimo Feanorion of the House of Feanaro, decree this to be mine official act, made in clear mind and aware of all consequences appurtenant hereto.  Hereafter I abdicate the crown and throne in favor of Nolofinwe Arakano Finwion, of the House of Finwe.”

It is as if Maedhros reached across the table and slapped Finrod across the face.

[stone on the board / AO3]