#;; bones and string i will keep forever {gifts}

[threadxsteel]

tag masterpost

general ;; answered ;; promo ;; self promo ;; starters and prompts ;; wishlist

lywc ;; asleep and in waking {lost history} ;; bones and string i will keep forever {gifts} ;; it echoes in the bones and hollows {that which is sung} ;; listen close to the nightsongs of birds {meme} ;; rain against the window {musings} ;; suede and ink stains {journal} ;; sweet hay and apples {Annwn} ;; to run with the horses and hares {aesthetic} ;; the house of Aylis {the lessons of herbs} ;; the house of Iona {the lessons of shadows} ;; under strange stars utterly and irrevocably lost {to be invested} ;; wildsongs of the valley {about} ;; which is heavier the weight of the blade or the betrayal {Bryn} ;; whispers beneath the earth {ooc}

verses ;; and i will ride with you to the end of the world {inquisition} ;; here my heavy boots find rest {modern} ;; the shadow of the cat {witcher}

companions ;; the lion of the mountains {cullen | sharp teeth and wide grins}

relationships

[jolapeno]

i. to fix a porch

joel miller x f!reader | chapter one of honey stained hands

chapter summary: it’s why he allows himself the chance to look, to admire. His hand slides in yours all over again, as you offer your name—dutifully exchanged. and all he can think is, you’re a pretty thing. He’s seen pretty, laid with it lifetimes ago, but there’s something different in you.

wordcount: 3.5k warnings: typical canon-angst. my spelling. joel trying to fit in and be good for ellie. an: i am so nervous about this. i hope you like. huge thanks to @guyfieriii + @thetriumphantpanda for holding both my hands.

The world had gone to shit, but the world hadn’t gone to shit.

It still grew, expanded—and changed.

Just as it once had. The grass didn’t stop turning green. The trees didn’t stop rustling, the flowers didn’t stop pollinating between bones and disintegrating fabric.

Nature, in all its immensity, didn’t bow to the cordyceps that stole minds and whispered destruction along roads and grass. Nature didn’t allow the rot to take the seasons, as it had done with so many other things.

The end of times wasn’t allowed to touch the moon’s schedule. It didn’t have an impact on how the daylight grew shorter and the night span longer. It had no bearing on the way leaves turned golden, the dew appeared on tall grass, or how both danced under amber-rising and lemon-setting suns.

The outbreak took souls, but it didn’t rid the craved scents of stews and freshly baked apples—two aromas that flooded Jackson's roads.

Mostly, even if something else thrummed along the ground, and spoke in claimed lives, it couldn’t try and claim to have any effect on the way frost made the morning path glitter—or how it made the world still feel magical.

Fungus had stolen a lot. Had spread its poison across state lines and once happy towns. But it couldn’t thieve the natural beauty that shifted in three monthly turns.

Joel wakes in a sea of sweat, panic and desperation. Forehead clammy. Salt and pepper hair clinging in thin spider-leg lines against the creases of his frown.

Each morning, since Joel has been here, has followed the same pattern. The shadowy nightmares were still there, ever-present—swirling and twirling, not ready to stop their dance. Even if the sun is blasting through, informing them it’s morning—it’s the time their claws should retract and allow him to experience a new day.

They never really do. They remain, hanging in the edges of his thoughts, his eyes—even as sleeping thoughts diluted into the present day.

Just the same as he did yesterday and the day before, his closed fist rubs in gentle circles against his chest—right over his heart. Where it thumps and beats, hammering quickly. Fingers and palm attempting to soothe it, half-wishing he could weave under milk-white bone and release the guilt-wrapped tendrils around it.

It doesn’t matter what his routine involves, it’s all in vain.

Little to nothing alleviates it. Not the circles of his hand over the bobbled t-shirt he sleeps in or the way he wills himself to breathe, to fill his lungs—advice given against his will.

Joel has attempted a lot of things, but the tightness always remains. The imaginary vines forever constricting, all stemmed with thorns, digging in, tightening their hold as he struggled to gasp, never mind breathe. It’s like a fungus of its own, a thing poisoning him, ruining him, blackening what’s left of his soul.

All because he made a choice—one he’d make a thousand times (if given the chance).

Blinking, he slowly sits. Back aching, body groaning as the honeyed sun coats the place he calls his. It flutters over the set of drawers, the flannel draped over the handle of his closet, and the strings of the guitar, gifted by Tommy to keep him busy and out of trouble.

It’s a good place he’s found himself in. A normal place—one found in the centre of moving on and trying to live life. Something he gives enough of a shit not to let it be torn from him and a thing he worries is being tugged from his grip all the same.

One wrong move.

That’s what he hears, even if no one says it. It never leaves their lips, but instead is etched into the faces of everyone he has been introduced to. It was discernible on his sister-in-law's face when he and Ellie appeared; it was poorly concealed by his brother when he’d handed him the instrument.

So much so, that he’s become worried all of this—the safety, the future for Ellie—will be taken from him if he breathes wrong. If he makes eye contact a little too quickly, a little too sternly, too forcibly and not followed quickly enough by a half-smile.

He tries. Not for him, but for her. The same person he keeps his jeans close by and his t-shirt on for—the one that makes him sleep on the side so his good ear can hear a scream of his name—just in case. The same person who manages to shift off the worry, dusting him down without knowing the impact she has on him—the young person who forms him, shapes him into someone half-decent, who is willing to try, who is willing to do things with his hands that isn’t fighting or shooting.

The only time Ellie has shouted for him since being here, though, is for breakfast.

Now, the house is silent—too silent. A smile almost appearing all on its own. An image bubbling, appearing, blanketing over the nightmares that tried to linger. One of her, in her new bedroom—the one she keeps talking about painting—all asleep, mouth open, catching flies.

Joel snorts, swallowing it back. All of the darkness that is weaved inside of him. Focuses on the little flecks of dust that glitter in the glow of a new day, how they fall absently in the space between light and dark—making a choice, one he makes each day, to be here. To try.

His hand slides from his chest, landing on his wrist. Sighing, he closes his eyes and lets his thumb slide over the broken glass of his watch—the one he never removes—another thing he does daily. Another thing that has become a routine.

He knew what Jackson was when he arrived the second time. A communal, a place where everyone chips in.

Joel had expected something more to be requested from him. Almost braced to be told he would be stationed on the other side of the gate—in a more permanent role than others. But, he wasn’t.

If anything, he was given tasks.

Menial things, but tasks all the same.

Little jobs, all reminiscent of a handyman back before things to fungus and rot. Oddities, bits and bobs. Projects half-finished or never begun at all—assigned, handed to him, chosen for him because he’s there and capable. And not, as Tommy explains, is because no one trusts him.

The first had been his own porch. The wood split, cracked, creaking—an accident waiting to happen (a thing he’d muttered to Tommy when he’d first walked up the steps of it), more so as the days became shorter and the nights loomed closer.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to find a toolbox placed at his feet the next day. A smug look on his younger brother’s face: think it’s time y’fix y’damn porch, brother. A clap on the back to cement it, a promise silently exchanged—that he could ask more of him when he was done.

And Tommy did, just not how he expected.

His breath mists the same as Tommy’s when he sighs, the weather biting as the two hovered on his newly repaired porch: got something else for you to do.

Maybe he should have said something when the silence filled the air when Joel suggested after. That he’d be good on patrol, that he could help in ways that weren’t repairing porches, front of shops and whatever else he brought to his door. If not for the fact he was grateful for the chance, for her—for the girl who is slowly making friends, who is beginning to smile—he may have done. The old Joel would have. He’d have pointed out that his skin isn’t stained with scarlet, that his hands are worn, but not smeared with the guts of those who’d crossed him. That he’d hung up as much of the former demons as he could.

He suspected, deep down, that Tommy could still see them haunting him. Knew that they kept him awake when the world went silent—that Joel didn’t sleep until the moon was at its highest, and woke with them jeering at him, perched on his shoulders, poking holes into his soul.

Joel also presumed that Tommy could see the way guilt had looped itself inside of him, strangling, making truthfulness harder to spill. Even if Tommy had no idea. Even if Joel hadn’t whispered to even the animals, never mind a person, what happened before he and Ellie had arrived.

So, he doesn’t argue, not as he’s handed another task, and another, then another. Days seep into weeks, weeks ticking into another month. Each time, his jaw grits, and his head nods, all well-versed, practised, as he picks up his toolbox and heads where he’s needed.

Except, today, when he’d finished up the fence that contained the sheep, a request came from someone else—a person he had spotted, but never spoken to. They were weary, guarded—approaching with caution as though bracing for him to snap, to become the callous individual they’ve likely heard through the whispers of gossiped stories.

In time, they approach, asking, burying their hands into their pockets as they do, before they continue with their reasoning for the request—one not for themself, but another person in Jackson.

A person Joel realised was his neighbour.

He’d been a good neighbour once, almost a lifetime ago.

Had hoped that it would come to him when Tommy had introduced him to you the following morning after he and Ellie returned. Your hand in his, smaller, but warm, a smile that was inviting, but slid over to Ellie upon Tommy’s introduction.

You usually rose early, that he had learnt when he’d begun to watch the sunrise before the leaves not just changed, but began to litter the floor in an array of shades. A pattern of habits he had picked up when he’d descended his own staircase, finding you already passing his home or your lights were on, already busy ticking off the hours of your day.

Today, he’d spotted (thankfully) the latter. His coat was thrown on, boots stepped into, toolbox in hand before he closed his door behind him and headed over. Your name on the tip of his tongue, all heavy, thick—an array of unsorted letters he’s hoping will shift into something as he climbs the steps to your front door. The syllables there, desperate to form, but in no order when his hand lifts to knock.

Air is what greets him, as the door rips open before his knuckles can even make contact.

Now, he’s standing in front of you—again. Your eyes land on him, brushing over in thick strokes of warmth, and all he can focus on is how you don’t step back in fright or stand a little taller. If anything, you don’t react, don’t move, as though it’s normal he’s there standing, talking to you.

“Oh, hi? It’s Joel, isn’t it?”

It’s kind, sweet, your tone. Eyes wide in a way that reminds him of a surprised, small animal—except, you’re grinning, not spooked. No sign of fear or question sketched across your features, or into the rest of your face, not as he stands, hovering.

It’s why he allows himself the chance to look, to admire. His hand slides in yours all over again, as you offer your name—dutifully exchanged.

And all he can think is, you’re a pretty thing. He’s seen pretty, laid with it lifetimes ago, but there’s something different in you. Something that has remained, that has weathered the storm of whatever it is, and however you came to be. Your smile rises, sliding into your cheeks, as his brain snaps a Polaroid of it and stores it somewhere less dusty in his mind.

“I just have to nip out, do you need something?”

Your hand sliding a jacket—one he’d just noticed in your hand—around your frame. It buries you, smothering, hiding yourself into it as you pull it around, watching, studying him as he does the same to you.

Shaking his head, he glances at your porch. “No, ma’am. Jus’ here to fix your porch.”

Sighing, you roll your eyes. “I make one comment and… anyway, I don’t want to trouble you. You don’t have to.”

“Maybe I want to.”

Looking down, you stare around at the porch. Him waiting, watching. “Guess it’s lucky for you, I wasn’t planning on taking it with me.”

It tugs from him, not forcibly pulled, but rather rolling from his mouth willingly: a laugh. It’s gruff, covered in cobwebs and sheets. It’s different, laughing with an adult compared to a pun book in the hands of a child.

“Well, definitely makes my life a bit easier that you’re not.”

Smirking, you lick your lips—a thing he spots, and finds makes his cheeks burn. “Yeah, guessing that following me around the animal pen wouldn’t be your favourite thing… after the other day.”

His eyes narrow, attempting to follow—until it dawns. Until it slams into him.

“You saw.”

“I did. Roscoe is a very boisterous sheep, though. So, it’s more on him than you.”

Cursing under his breath, he dips his head. Trying to stifle the embarrassment, the one rising in him like a phoenix, swarming up.

“Anyway, do you need any tools…”

That’s when he notices how your voice dies, your smile fading. Your words all fall from existence as the warmth around the two of you suddenly chills, as though he’s been plunged into a snowstorm. Your eyes had dropped, landing on the box in his hand.

It’s long, too long.

Almost prolonged, the quietness shifting into awkwardness until you’re blinking, head lifting, chin rising, determined and full of insolence.

“I’ll be back soon, yeah?”

Nodding, he swallows. Ignoring, for your sake, that your voice cracks before you’re hurrying past him. Watching, and staring until you’re a blip, a little figure in the distance of the cold morning—unable to forget about it, the look, the one that unhooked something in him.

Because it made him question—made him want to ask.

His hand shifts around the handle of the toolbox, staring down at it—the one he suspects belongs to someone you knew, someone you were close to. One that is in the hands of someone you don’t know, someone you live next to, that you know nothing about.

Except stories.

And fuck, Joel knows the stories can’t be good.

Joel had maybe made an assumption that you’d never speak to him again.

Sarah’s voice, barely discernable, wafting around his mind, assumptions make an ass of you and me, dad. He blamed it on being bitter, tired—or grumpy, as Ellie liked to call him. The kind of qualities he’d rather be known for, than the ones he sees reflected in the eyes of the people living here, wondering the kind of man he was to go back out there and then return.

He’d made the assumption based on the way your eyes flicked to the toolbox when you’d eventually returned home—him halfway done, waving away your offer to help. You barely spoke, and skirted around him, only placing a glass of lemonade on the welcome mat as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

He drained the glass, and hated how good it tasted. Keeping in mind to leave the toolbox outside when he rapped his knuckles on your open door to bring the glass back in, inform you that he’s done. You call out to him, eventually coming into view—apron on, doused in flour, cheeks and smile smothered in it.

For a moment, he could almost forget an outbreak had even happened with the way you looked at him—the way you looked in general. Something out of one of those cooking shows that play at ridiculous hours of the night; a thing that’d had a street talking about with sweet you sounded.

“I bake—sometimes,” you announce, hands down your apron, leaving flour-finger strokes against the navy blue.

He could see that. Placing the glass on the side, thanking you—watching you glance around him, likely for that. He almost tells you, informs you it’s outside, left on your porch. But, he waves himself off as a beeping begins, that he’ll get out of your hair, because you’re busy—knowing deep down it’s the right thing to do.

That’s how he left it.

Nothing more, nothing less.

His thoughts sliding to you when he saw you talking to others; his mind unable to rid himself of the way you’d looked at the box he’d been given to be a helping hand.

So, it surprised him when he watched you climb the steps of his porch from outside Tommy’s. Something in his chest narrowing—different from the way it does when he wakes up in the morning. Observing how you’re nervously shaking your free hand, moving from one foot to the other—a thin t-shirt covering your frame (no coat or jacket on your arms) as you try to stand still in the chill at his dark doorstep.

It’s only as he nears that he sees what your other hand is holding. A bottle, the contents from appearing amber in shade. The hesitancy woven into your figure is more prominent as he reaches his own boundary, unsure whether to clear his throat—and only doing so when you knock.

“Heard he’s out fixing more porches.”

Turning, he finds you smirking. Spinning around on your heels, slowly taking a step down—still above him—before your hand gestures for him to take the bottle. “A thank you.”

Thank you, he thinks, staring at it. His thumb catches your fingers as he tries to ignore the twist and knot of his stomach when he eyes the label. It used to help, for all the wrong reasons. It’s why he’d tried not to drink since arriving here, still able to remember how it used to scratch an itch, how it smothered over scabs—ones that never healed.

It unlocks that part of him that worries that they’ll become inflamed again. All raw, hot to the touch.

“Y’didnt need to.”

“Well, it was alcohol or baked goods—and you strike me as a drinker over shortbread.”

Snorting, he lifted his head, swallowing. “I do like shortbread.”

Your face lights up—shimmers—under the slowly setting sun. A part of him wishing you’d brought him a tin of those instead.

Because the main reason he hadn’t been to the Tipsy Bison is that he preferred the version of him that didn’t drink. The one from before all of this happened—the one with a clearer mind. One that isn’t trying to run but rather settle and live—the one that comes out when he tastes something akin to what he shared with Tess.

The bottle in his hand demands his attention—a note attached to it that reads the same as your words. Gratitude humming, rolling from you, all in plenty. The entry at being neighbours suddenly ajar, the door taken from the hinges so it can never be closed again.

“Next time, then?”

You say it purposeful, full of genuine nature. And, it makes him roll his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek. Palm and fingers still clutching the bottle—unsure if he likes this. The neighbour thing—the pretty neighbour thing. Especially one who looks at him with a sweet smile and who makes lemonade just because.

“I should go, don’t want to interrupt your evening—”

“Well, the only thing you’re interrupting is whether or not I should open this now or wait.”

You stop moving at that, coming to a stop in front of him, smile broadening, almost turning into a smirk. “

Rubbing the back of his neck, he sighs. “Got another job in the morning. Be a lot on my own.”

“What problems to have, ay?”

He snorts.

But then, he finds you nodding, licking your lips. “How about this, for the safety of the porches of Jackson, I’ll help you with your problem.”

“And what’s my problem?”

“You don’t wanna drink alone—likely worried about what it means if you do.”

You say it nonchalantly, as though seeing through him was a relatively easy task. Your body is still not moving; the cold either not bothering you, or you are faking it all so well.

“Alright.”

“Alright,” you say, slightly more chipper than him.

CHAPTER TWO ->

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Deep Sea Tactician.

The Sea Witch has to be as shrewd as he is kind, collecting all manner of wealth.

All the treasures in the world, his--but what is truly invaluable to him is...

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

"Please sign right here on the dotted line.”

Azul taps on the line in question and offers the client his pen. It's a marvel, gifted to him by his stepfather upon graduation. The pen is carved of bone and made to resemble a fish's insides, the nib flaring out into ribs and then ending in a skeletal tail.

The writing implement is claimed.

He watches with eager eyes as the client scrawls on the golden parchment. The signature flows as smoothly as the ink writing it, and as easily as the conversation exchanged with the signer.

One leg of the letter K drags out, underlining the entirety of his first name.

Kalim Al-Asim.

"There you go!" he declares, sliding the contract and the pen back to Azul.

“Thank you very much!" he gushes, snatching up the paper like an octopus might ensnare its target--it is worth its weight in gold, and more. "It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Kalim-san.” “My people will be in contact with your people.”

"Looking forward to it." Kalim reclines in his cushy armchair--one of many that decorate Azul's office. "It's crazy how things work out, huh? I didn't think this is how we'd reunite all these years later."

"Fufufu, it must be fate. I'm honored that you would come and seek me out like this."

Azul rolls up the contract and ties it with a string. It will soon be filed away with the others in an ever-expanding vault.

"Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that the heir to the Asim trading company would approach me for a franchising opportunity."

"Everyone wants a piece of the hottest new restaurant chain. You see Mostro Lounges everywhere now. Having locations in the Scalding Sands can offer tourists a little bit of home away from home if they want the option of something familiar."

"Of course, I completely understand," Azul drawls. "On our end, we will do our utmost to craft unique menu items which will showcase the best of what your home country has to offer. It's sure to be a success!"

Calm, he may display outwardly--but inside, Azul is cheering, fist pumping, and bouncing off the walls with glee. Securing this deal is massive for him, for his business.

"We should celebrate," Kalim suggests, gesturing for his attendant. He wears many bejeweled rings which sparkle with the flicker of his fingers. "A drink? I can call for a bottle of the finest wine."

Azul holds up both hands. "Oh no, I couldn't possibly. I'm afraid I have a lunch engagement right after this. I wouldn't want to ruin my appetite."

His client laughs from his belly, deep and resonant. "I won't keep you any longer then. You have my contact information if you need to discuss the project."

Kalim rises, and at once, his attendant is magically at his side, helping him into his coat.

Azul waits several minutes after they've filed out to enter the code into his safe and deposit the agreement safely inside. The vault door swings shut with a heavy CLANG--and upon its shiny metallic face, he glimpses himself. He's grinning like a cat that has gotten the cream.

His digital watch blinks on, buzzing slightly. Right on cue, his alarm is going off.

Lunch.

Azul heads for the door, tidying himself up on the way. Adjusting the brim of his hat, the lapels of his suit. He mustn't be embarrassed, mustn't be teased.

He opens the door and--

POP, POP, POP!!

Confetti rains down, catching in his headwear and the jacket that hangs off of his shoulders. His assailants wear the same sharp-toothed smiles and mischievous glint to their eyes.

"Jade, Floyd. You two never cease to surprise, do you?" Azul sighs, brushing off the confetti and letting it flutter to the ground. "I thought the plan was to meet at the restaurant, not at my office."

"That was the original intent, yes."

"We changed our minds and came to see you instead, since it's such a big day!" Floyd elbows him. "Finally cinched that big deal with Sea Otter-chan, eh? Now you can make truckloads more money!"

"It's not about the money," Azul corrects him. "The money is nice, yes--but it's the new connections which will prove to be a long-term benefit.

"A clause in the contract stipulates access to the highest quality ingredients procured by the Asims. If all goes well, I can make other requests! Fine china, lavish furniture, a working relationship with Kalim-san, a hefty name with which to brag to other potential clients...!"

The world, his oyster.

The idea makes his smirk grow into a smile.

"Fufufu, things are looking up for the Mostro Lounge's empire! Then even more dough will roll in, far more than the upfront costs of the initial investment!!"

"Aaaah, Jade. Looks like he's lost it again."

"You're right, Floyd. I can practically see the thaumark signs in his eyes," Jade chuckles. "It's good to see that you haven't changed in all these years, Azul. You're still every bit as amusing as you were back then."

"Hmph!" He folds his arms. "What did you expect, that I'd collapse into a wobbling mess without you two at my beck and call? I'll have you know that I'm perfectly competent and capable of running a business without you."

The twins share a skeptical look with one another.

"That's his way of saying he misses having us around. He wants to hang out with us sooo bad."

"It most certainly is. He misses our companionship so much that he personally reached out to invite us to a meal to reconnect."

"And brag about his accomplishments."

"Yes, that as well."

"I-I did NOT!!"

"Tsk, tsk, Azul. You should be more honest with yourself," Jade tuts. "All this success, and you're still unable to afford an ounce of humility? I'm appalled."

"That's rich, coming from you," Azul shoots back. "I could have lunch with any number of wealthy and powerful clientele, but I've chosen to have it with you two! Is that alone not enough humility for you?!"

"Awww, so you did miss us!"

Azul's cheeks color. "I-I never said that!"

So much for not being embarrassed, not being teased. Some way or another, he always falls prey to the Leech brothers' antics.

"He's still being shy, Jade."

"He is, Floyd."

"Know what? This calls for a group hug. I bet that'll help him open up to us."

"You're absolutely right. A group hug will fix this matter in a matter of moments."

"Excuse me?! I-I do not consent to this in any way whatsoever! We must be on our way, our reservation will not hold forev..."

GLOMP!

Azul is embraced from both sides, Jade and Floyd's arms wrapping around him and squeezing him tight. He gasps for air, wriggling between them.

"... Fine, you win," Azul groans, melting into the hug. He tells himself that he has simply given up, not that he enjoys the closeness, the intimacy of friendship. "Are you satisfied?"

"Very~" Jade and Floyd chorus.

"If that's the case, then we'd better get going. That reservation really will expire if we overshoot the 15-minute grace period." Azul pauses, then frowns. "I certainly hope you weren't thinking of walking all the way to the restaurant clinging to me like this. I have a public image to maintain."

Neither brother budges.

"... Jade? Floyd? You did hear me just now, didn't you?"

"Hm, did you hear that, Floyd? It sounded like a mosquito buzzing in my ear."

"I didn't hear anything at all, Jade. Maybe it was just the wind!"

"You two...!!"

Their bickering floats down the hallway and meets a pair of pointed ears.

Ah, squabbling—the true sign of a happy reunion. The listener grins.

“Many blessings upon you, Ashengrotto and company.”

[tinytinyblogs]

Hi!<3 was wondering if you could write a yandere seungmin where reader finds out he’s obsessed and gets all bratty calling him creepy and stuff until he shoved her on the bed and puts her in her place

Keep in mind

It was all about timing, and you only figured it out now. His forever.

(yandere theme, obsessed seungmin, and a lot more) 1,4k words

💬Ta-da! Request complete (fingers crossed)! I'm always in training mode, giving it my A-game. Other requests are open season, just a friendly reminder that I don't write smut. I hope you understand.

Stray kids masterlist here

He used to be a portrait of chivalry, wrapped in charming cuteness. A constant, caring presence, admired by all, his gaze forever on you. Wherever you went, his shadow lingered, an echo of every word whispered on your lips, every opinion uttered about you. He devoured your secrets, accumulating them like trophies in his ever-growing shrine. His excitement, once endearing, morphed into a chilling possessiveness. Every gift became a claim, every memento a stolen piece of your soul. Your reflection, captured in his lens without your consent, became his currency, an ever-expanding catalogue of your existence. Behind his mask of innocence, a disquieting reality lurked. You dismissed your anxieties as unfounded, your worries mere whispers in the wind. But a nagging doubt refused to be silenced. And then, with a single, foolish 'yes' to his seemingly harmless request, the truth shattered the illusions.

He wasn't smitten, he was enthralled. This wasn't puppy love, it was a predatory obsession. The scales fell from your eyes, revealing a darkness hidden in plain sight. The cute prince had become a stalker, leaving you trapped in a gilded cage of his own making. The air hung heavy with a stifling dread as you stepped into Seungmin's room. It was a macabre museum of your life, each carefully collected item a chilling testament to his obsession. Photos plastered on the walls, your possessions eerily familiar in their alien display, cast grotesque shadows under the flickering light. Every inch screamed of your stolen intimacy, a suffocating tapestry woven from the threads of your life. The click of the front door echoed in the tomb-like silence, a brutal punctuation mark on the spiraling paranoia gnawing at your insides. Then, his voice, like honey laced with cyanide, slithered from behind you, "Glad you could make it."

"Surprised to see you here. I almost expected you to run off with your shiny new coffee buddy." Every nerve ending in your body screamed. The sickening sweetness of his words, the way he knew about your coffee shop conversation like it was etched into his bones, it all solidified the terrifying truth. He wasn't your charming friend, he was a puppet master, pulling the strings of your reality. A tremor rippled through you, nausea churning in your gut. "Sick," you rasped, the word falling short against the immensity of your disgust. His secrets, whispered against the backdrop of your adoration, felt like a slap in the face. The years of admiring him from afar, building him up in your mind, now crumbled to dust, leaving you with an aching sense of disillusionment. You spun around, facing the monster he truly was. "Seungmin, you're... goddamned sick," the accusation rang out, a strangled cry against the suffocating darkness of his obsession.

Yet, Seungmin's face held no remorse, only a chilling serenity. The air crackled with his warped delight, his eyes gleaming with predatory hunger. "Insane, Stay away from me!" your voice rasped, the words hollow against the suffocating atmosphere. But your plea bounced off him like a feather against steel. Laughter, cold and metallic, erupted from his chest, echoing in the cramped room like a chorus of demons. "I hate it, i hate you." His laughter echoed like cruel applause as your choked whisper of hatred washed over him, each chuckle twisting the knife deeper. "Oh, Y/N," he drawled, the familiar charm morphing into something monstrous, "that's hardly fresh news. This," he gestured expansively at the shrine to your stolen privacy, "this is just a love letter, penned in stolen moments." You recoiled, the nausea returning with a vengeance.

The Seungmin you'd known, the gentle, almost fragile boy, was a wisp of smoke blown away by the chilling reality before you. This monster, capable of collecting your existence like trophies, could do more than crush an ant. He could crush you. "Me? Sick? Crazy? Insane?" His smile, once boyish, now held a cruel edge. "What else, my dear Y/N? Let's hear your full repertoire of accusations." His voice, still honeyed, twisted with a hint of irritation, as if your resistance was an inconvenience rather than a threat. He leaned closer, a predator savoring his cornered prey. "Tell me," he breathed, his eyes glinting with a twisted challenge, "what else shall I be for you?" The room spun as he lunged at you, his predatory smile glinting in the dim light. You stumbled back, searching for any avenue of escape, but Seungmin was upon you in a flash. His hand, once seemingly so gentle, clamped around your waist with an iron grip, his strength far exceeding anything you'd ever imagined.

He spun you, your vision twisting as the world tilted and the plush bed rushed up to meet you. A gasp escaped your lips as you landed with a jarring thud, his heavy form pinning you down. His arms caged you, their warmth a suffocating contrast to the icy fear slithering up your spine. "Cat got your tongue, little mouse?" His voice, once melodious, now dripped with a cruel amusement. You saw a flash of something unfamiliar in his eyes, a dark hunger lurking beneath the surface. You tried to push him away, your breath coming in ragged gasps. But it was like fighting a shadow, his hold unyielding. His face loomed over you, his smile twisting into a predatory smirk. "Call me whatever you like, Y/N," he purred, his voice brushing against your ear like a venomous whisper. "But remember this," his eyes bored into yours, pinning you as surely as his body, "you will never, ever be out of my sight." The air thrummed with a suffocating silence, broken only by your choked breaths and the rapid hammering of your heart. You felt small, helpless, like a fragile butterfly trapped in a spider's web.

The Seungmin you once knew, the boy of sun-kissed smiles and gentle whispers, had vanished, replaced by a dark stranger whose eyes held the glint of a predator savoring its prey. The harsh crack of his fist against the bedframe echoed in your skull, the world tilting on its axis. A stunned silence stretched before his voice, laced with a dark amusement, washed over you. "Stay away from you?" he mused, his face a chilling tableau of conflicting emotions. He leaned closer, his hot breath a cloying presence on your cheek. Your eyes locked onto his, the once familiar warmth extinguished, replaced by a possessive glint that sent shivers down your spine. "My dear," he uttered, his voice a honeyed trap, "that's the exquisite beauty of today. You are finally mine. All mine." The weight of his words pressed down on you, each syllable a heavy stone pinning you to the bed, to him, to this suffocating reality.

You envisioned sunny afternoons spent in carefree laughter, stolen smiles shared with someone new – all ripped away in a single blow. "No more stolen moments," he continued, his gaze tracing the lines of your face, a predator savoring his prey. "No more whispered secrets traded with fleeting shadows. No more need to stalk your every step, for every path now leads back to me." The room shrunk, morphing into a gilded cage, the air thick with unspoken threats. His words, laced with a twisted affection, were a chilling promise of forever, a possessive claim etched into your very being. You tried to escape the suffocating hold of his gaze, a desperate attempt to reclaim your stolen breath. But his fingers, quick and cold, snagged your chin, dragging your attention back to those eyes you once mistook for innocent pools of sunlight. Now, they burned with a possessive fire, an unsettling echo of the darkness hidden beneath his charming facade.

"Make sure you etch this into your fragile little mind, darling," he purred, his voice dropping to a silken whisper that sent chills down your spine. "From the very first moment, I set my sights on you. You were mine, in my mind, in my soul. And nobody, nobody on this earth deserves the flicker of your attention but me. Not a knowing smile, not a whispered word. Understand?" He leaned closer, his breath hot on your skin, a palpable threat hanging in the air. "Because if you stray, if your eyes dare to linger on another, I won't hesitate to show you exactly what I'll do to them. You'll witness firsthand the wrath of a jealous god, and I promise, you won't like the picture." He pulled back, a chilling smile twisting his lips. Seungmin traced the lines of her face, a map he'd memorized over countless stolen glances. Her fear, though muted, was a heady perfume, intoxicating him with its promise of absolute control. He'd craved her for so long, a phantom limb finally finding its missing piece. And now, with her under his arm, the world felt whole, complete. "Keep in mind, darling."

©Tinytinyblogs

[melonba11s]

Dependent (Lawrence/MC Fic)

Several months ago I uploaded an incomplete version of this fic. Now the full version is here, and I hope you all enjoy it!

Minors and Ageless blogs do not interact, you will be blocked.

Contains: Description of rot, amputation, mutilation. Gender Neutral MC who has a vagina, Lawrence.

Morning was coming. You had been up all night. Not that you had much of a choice anymore. He controlled most of your life now, from what you ate, what you did… How you looked. You laid on your side, staring at the remains of what had once been working limbs. 

Skin twisted and fused over exposed bone and muscle, not unlike the gnarled roots of an old tree. Pushed and forced to bend to the will to the rest of the forest around it, or in this case, to the will of Lawrence’s crude stitches and strange salves. You couldn’t remember much from when he took them, only that smile on his face as he looked down at you. You thought for sure you would die. Visit the river and allow yourself to float away as he described. 

For a while you had found yourself wishing that you had died that day, blood pooling out of your severed limbs and flooding the floor around you. Warm but cold, you could still feel it lapping at your bare skin if you did not keep your mind occupied enough. You had moved past those feelings of wishing you were gone though. You had spent so long mourning the things you would never do again, from the mundane things such as holding a pen or snapping your fingers, to the joys of life such as petting a friendly cat or cooking delicious food. 

You had been depressed, and it had annoyed Lawrence. At first he had tried to help you feel better, you remembered the flower crowns he’d clumsily made from poppies, his favorite flower, the chains of clover he’d make out in the woods and bring in to dress you in. Gentle kisses on your eyelids, assuring you that you looked beautiful. 

You hadn’t felt beautiful though. You’d felt broken, a waste of space. And soon enough he grew sick of trying to comfort you. 

“Forget it.” he had said one day, showing you the delicate bird skull he had found in the woods, covered in moss. You had barely lifted your head in acknowledgment of his waxing poetics over the beauty of the thin bones. And his bitter tone had sent a shiver up your spine, and instantly, dread had filled your stomach. 

You had upset him. So you had struggled to sit up. 

“N-No! Go on!” Desperate, you whimpered in pain as you attempted to move towards him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” the apologies kept falling from your lips, like the petals from a cherry tree blossoming in spring. And with each apology, your world closed in around you until his apartment was all that was left of it. Upsetting him felt far worse than anything else in the world now. 

 Lawrence would bring you bits of the outside world that was now alien to you home. Food, Flowers, Plants, Bones, sometimes little gifts. On his days off, he would go to the forest to work on his art. 

His art… You had not been spared from becoming part of his artwork. Or at least, what had once been you. Lawrence hadn’t put those delicate fingers and lovely red strings of muscle to waste. You remember cringing and letting out a strangled sob when he first showed you the photos. What had once been your arms and legs had been broken and manipulated into crude poses, sticking up from the dirt and reaching for the sun and stars, a macabre flower. 

Eventually though you began paying attention to his words as he showed you the pictures he took. His art was different from anything you’d ever seen in a museum. Unlike a Van Gogh painting, which remained the same no matter how much time passed, every minute, every day, every month contributed to his pieces. 

You now asked to see the photos when he would return from the woods. Greens and grays adding themselves without being asked too, creeping across the skin like spilled paint. Maggots and beetles, forever moving, ensuring that the piece would never remain the same from one second to the next. Skin falling slipping and falling from now purple toned muscle, exposing pale bone that glowed in comparison to the dark colors surrounding it. 

    And how happy he looked when he’d bring out his phone to show you the photos, the shine in his eyes as he explained what had happened, what had been added by the earth to the art now. So you asked to see more, to see other pieces. If you could be so bold though, none of his other pieces compared to what he had made with you. Animal bones and flesh could only do so much, after all. 

But Lawrence wasn’t here right now. Your only source of human contact was gone more often than not. He worked a night job, and slept during the day. Thus you had grown used to sleeping during the day and staying awake all night, waiting only for him to return. And as content as you became to sit and wait for him, you still became restless. You could still remember the day, a few months ago perhaps? You’d had enough, no matter how much it hurt, you needed it. You needed to move, you needed agency. 

You had rolled yourself off the bed with a sharp whine of pain as you hit the floor. You laid there for what felt like hours, preparing yourself. Then you moved your left arm, resting part of your weight on it. It hurt, and you let out a sob. The pain would have to come second though. Tears flowed freely, though you kept yourself as quiet as possible, so as not to disturb Lawrences neighbors. Eventually you had managed to balance yourself on all fours, shaking, panting, choking on your own breath. 

You crawled around in circles slowly, leaving a trail of tears and spit as you kept going, telling yourself that it would hurt for a while. And that’s how Lawrence had found you, about to collapse, still moving, your stumps mottled with bruises, eyes puffy and red, mouth dry.  You were so immersed in your own mind that you didn’t notice him until he spoke, his voice louder than usual.

“What are you doing?” he had been angry, lifting you up easily and setting you on the same chair you had sat in when he first brought you home. You couldn’t explain yourself sufficiently to him, he couldn’t seem to understand how much you needed to move. 

“You’re never getting out of here. You’re mine.” he growled, his face close to yours. 

“I don’t want to leave, I don’t.” You kept repeating yourself, still in tears, but now those tears were from the knowledge you had hurt him, made him angry.  No matter how many times you said those words, you had not convinced him that you were not trying to leave. So for a time he had forced you to drink some strange tea before he left, leaving you there unable to move, unable to speak, barely able to breath. 

When did he begin to trust you? You thought hard back through the past. When he had first stopped making you swallow his bitter mixes, stopped tying you to the bed so you couldn’t roll off, stopped attempting to control your movements. Your thoughts were interrupted by the jiggle of a key. He was home. 

You slid yourself off the bed with practiced ease now, making your way across the floor, but also making sure you were out of view of the doorway in case someone was passing by. They wouldn’t understand either of you. They’d try to separate you both. You’d never see Lawrence again, a thought too painful to dwell on for long. Only when you heard Lawrence close the door behind him, and the harmony of clicks as he locked the door back up, did you make yourself seen. 

Moving as fast as you could across the floor, you lifted yourself onto your hind legs, pawing at his leg and whining, looking up into those stormy blue eyes as he smiled down at you. 

“There you are…” he mumbled, setting down his bags as he got to his knees, running a hand along your back, as if you were a cat he had taken in off the streets. He nuzzled his cheek against yours, pulling you close, his hug more like a vice grip. He buried his face into your hair, which had grown long over the months, running his fingers through it like a wind blowing through overgrown grass. He was inhaling your scent, the familiar musk of his apartment, the spiciness of the homemade medicine he would apply to your stumps, the ever so faint smell of fake lavender from the cheap shampoo he used on you. 

“I got you a gift…” his voice was soft, as he dug through one of the bags he had with him. “Don’t laugh… It’s stupid but, when I saw it in the machine, I thought of you. I figured maybe you’d like it.” 

He had stuffed it into the bag, crushed and folded to hide it from others view. But you could tell it was soft, fluffy even. He dug his hand into the soft fabric, pulling out a large, floppy rabbit. It was anything but natural, a bright blue, an expression more human than animal on its flat face. Unlike anything Lawrence would ever like, something he would never usually bring into his home. But he did, entirely for you.

“I love it!” you instantly dove into it, almost kneading it with your forearms as you nuzzled it with your cheek. Something to hold onto as best you could as you waited for Lawrence to return. “Thank you so much, I love it so much.” you repeated those words yet again. A practiced repetition. One that ensured Lawrence and comforted him, letting him know he made the right decision. You stopped your cuddling of your new toy though and fell still as your stomach growled, loudly. 

Lawrence fumbled around suddenly. Whenever you gave signs of needing something, like food or water, he would always rush to find the thing you needed. Scared of watching you wither away like one of his plants would if he were not attentive enough. 

“Dinner, that’s right. Uh.” He rustled through his bags. Lawrence didn’t keep much food in the house, he once told you that it all seemed to rot way too quickly. Much of the food you consumed thus, was either convenience store fare or fast food. Though you remembered fondly the time he had splurged a little, and gotten take-away from a family restaurant down the road. 

“I uh, got us some hamburgers today.” He held up the familiar brown bag, grease starting to soak the bottom of it. “Let me just, get us some plates and cut yours up for you.” 

He stood, hurrying off to prepare the food. At first, Lawrence had insisted on hand feeding you, something he still enjoyed doing now and then. But eventually, he allowed you to feed yourself when able too. You didn’t find it humiliating at all, crouched on the floor, eating off a plate like a dog, unable to wipe your mouth or pick things out of your teeth. Entirely dependent on him when you ran into something as mundane as that. 

Just the way he liked it. You watched patiently, from your spot on the floor as he prepared the food, carefully cutting your hamburger up into bite size chunks. As he set it down, the sloppily stacked ingredients fell apart and toppled onto the plate. It was becoming less like a sandwich and more like some housewives weird casserole. 

You didn’t mind though, there wasn’t much you could do about it, and in the end, it would taste pretty much the same. Unceremoniously, Lawrence dumped the fries next to them, before covering them liberally in ketchup. 

“Here you go.” he said, his expression soft and welcoming, the same he had when he watered one of his plants. You closed your eyes and leaned into his touch as he patted your head, relishing in the affectionate touch as he set the plate on the floor with a soft clink. 

Lawrence wouldn’t mind if you just began eating right away, but you still liked to wait for him to settle down next to you. Lawrence didn’t really eat to enjoy things, rather, he ate to sustain his physical body. 

“Starving is a really painful way to die. So is thirst.” he had said once over a package of cup noodles. He did like spicy stuff though, and he was almost abusive with hot sauce and peppers. You glanced over at him as he sat next to you, holding his own food in his hand. You didn’t need to look though, just sitting near him you could smell the “Extra hot sauce, add Jalapeno”, ordered in a quiet, monotone voice. 

As it always was, eating was a messy affair. At first, you had felt gross, feeling sauce, grease and crumbs stick to your face. The embarrassment of sticking your tongue out, trying to lick it off. Bright red as Lawrence held your face and gently dabbed at it with a napkin. 

You no longer cared, you reasoned with yourself that there was no shame in having help if you couldn’t do something. You could feel Lawrence’s eyes on you as you ate, messily using your tongue to help pull food into your mouth as your lips pushed it away. 

Mealtime wasn’t really a period for bonding with Lawrence, as it might be for families or couples, so you finished eating as quickly as you could. You never finished before Lawrence though, having hands made eating so easy after all. 

You sat patiently as Lawrence began wiping off your face, using a familiar napkin that he had this time, gotten a little damp under the faucet. It was relaxing, like a little massage, and you found yourself getting a little drowsy from it, despite the chill of the water. 

“All done.” You gave a small squeak as Lawrence lifted you. No matter how many times he did it, it was always a shock. You had nothing to grip him with, no fingers to curl into his clothes, no limbs to wrap around him. You were completely at his mercy, he could so easily drop you. 

You evened your breathing though as he held you snugly against his chest, rubbing his cheek against yours, taking in your scent again. You could tell he was in a mood, one of his moods that would always end in the same thing. 

You wriggled in place as he sat down on the bed, the mattress sinking under your combined weight. You obediently moved your head as Lawrence moved down to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck and shoulder. His lips brushed against your pulse like a petal lost in the breeze, in contrast to his fingers, curled like the gnarled roots of an old tree gripping to the cliff it was perched on. Though in this case, that “cliff” was your hips. 

One of those hands eventually moved though, choosing to dance over the scarring of what was left of your legs. 

“Have you ever noticed…” He breathed quietly, tracing over the jagged uneven skin, “how when you’re injured… the surrounding area becomes so much more sensitive?” His tracing turned into slow strokes, and you found he was right. 

Each slight force of pressure sent tingles up your spine, and you bit down a moan as his hand warmed the area. 

“You’re hyper aware of any kind of sensation in the area…” He cupped the end of your thigh, circling his palm over it as if he were polishing it. You were so focused on his ministrations, how they sent hot flashes across your body, that you didn’t notice his spare hand sneaking down between your thighs. 

You let out a helpless mewl as he slid his hand over your underwear, pressing against your clit. 

“It feels similar, doesn’t it? The intensity of it.” He pressed, stroking over your folds at the same pace he did over the remainder of your leg. 

“Y-Yeah, it does…” You whispered, nodding. You could feel his erection, pressing through his sweats, against your back. Lawrence’s touch always got you aching for more so fast, you twisted around as best you could. 

“H-Hey, calm down, I’m sorry-” his apologies were cut off as you clumsily smashed your lips against his, writhing against him. You could feel yourself slipping off him, so your kissing became more fervent. Lawrence eventually came to his senses, shaking off the shock of your boldness, to grip your hips, pull you up his lap again, return your kisses. 

He wasn’t a very good kisser. He was nervous, never quite getting as into it as you would. He preferred his lips to be touching other parts of your body, such as your shoulders or stomach, rather than your lips. But he continued, and played along, because he knew you liked it. 

Distracted by kissing him, you barely noticed him grab your underwear, sliding them down with ease. You really wished you had hands, fingers, too curl into the waistband of his sweatpants, to pull his throbbing erection out with. To show him just how eager you were for him as well with your body language. 

Instead you were forced to let him lay you down on his bed, licking your lips as you stared up at him. Your arms instinctively moved to hug yourself as he pulled his sweatpants down, but the only thing that happened was the useless waving of your stumps. 

Stumps that before had the ability to hug someone, hold onto them, stroke their hair. Tears pricked at your eyes as you recalled again everything that you would never do again, what you would never be able to do for Lawrence. 

“Don’t cry…” Lawrence whispered, a hand reaching forward to stroke your face. He steadied your jerking movements with a hand on your thigh, spreading you open easily. 

Your eyes darted down to his cock, watching it twitch a little under your gaze. You figured what they said about tall men having bigger dicks had to be true, and even now, his size intimidated you. If you still had a forearm to use you’d insist on comparing the two. 

While his movements before were slow, meticulous, Lawrence always got impatient once he was finally out of his pants. He always felt more comfortable in less clothing, and him being more comfortable tended to lead to him being more frenzied. 

You bit your lip as he lined himself up, finding the right angle. He was panting softly, eyes squinted in concentration as he slid himself in. You were again reduced to small mewls, not wanting to startle him with a loud noise. Your eyebrows were furrowed as he pushed his way in, your walls flexing and pulsing around him. 

Getting used to his length always meant there was the first confusing, conflicting feelings of uncomfortable stretch, and how he’d rub against all your right spots. No matter how wet you were, it would always take a bit of time. 

Lawrence was fully hilted in you now, you could feel his pubic bone grind against your clit. He adored sinking himself all the way inside you and holding you in place, feeling your muscles twitch, the vibrations of your breathing and heart beating against his most intimate flesh. 

It always allowed you that precious time to get used to his length, shifting under him and moaning until- 

“L-Lawrence… p-please…” you began to beg for him to move. You never had to beg for long though, as much as you knew he enjoyed having power over you, you being dependent on him… You knew he’d always give in and give you what you wanted.

“Yes, of course.” he groaned, pulling himself out of your comfortable warm insides. He could never stay out for long though, snapping his hips forwards again to embed himself in again. 

You were at his mercy, no way to grab onto anything, as he quickly settled on his usual, fervent pace, pulling himself out nearly all the way before filling you up to the brim again. How his dick hit all the right places coming both in and out. 

Lawrence leaned against you, pinning your already mostly immobile body under him, moaning in your ear. 

“You’re so warm…” he groaned. “I can feel everything… the way your blood rushes through your veins and causes your flesh to swell, how soaking wet you are, all for me…” his words fell off into a groan as he gave a few harsher thrusts.

“You’re my own flower, I can unpeel your petals at anytime and make you bloom…” A hand dug into the back of your head and hair, pulling it up from the bed as you moaned. You were getting so close, wound up. 

“You’re such a tease, really… The way you coil up and contract… hiding yourself from me…” He was rambling now, something he usually did. And you were hooked onto his every word. 

“But I know you’re secrets… if I just… hit… the right… Spot…” You were shaking, panting, gasping for more. He was focused now, hitting your G-spot over and over again. Your stomach was tightening, a wave of emotions passing through you, thighs shaking, until-

“You’ll unfurl and show me your beauty…” he grunted, listening to you let out a cry of bliss, back arching to press against him while your head fell back against his grip, spreading yourself out for him. Lawrence managed a grin, his face soaked in sweat, before he hunched over, letting out a low moan. You felt his release spill inside you. 

You both stayed still for a moment, Lawrence liked staying inside as long as he could, feeling your walls contract around him as he grew soft. How he liked the feeling of pulling his limp cock out of your sensitive folds, how you always gave a small gasp as he came out with a small “pop”. 

“... I love you…” You mumbled softly, staring up at the ceiling as he buried his face back into your neck, planting those light kisses again. 

In your half awake state, you caught yourself thinking deeply again… Lawrence’s language equated you to a flower… You remember what he said once. 

Flowers are liars… They put on a colorful display to trick insects into helping them, either to reproduce or to eat. 

You were quickling nodding off, still feeling his lips on you, as they moved down to your collarbone. 

Was Lawrence letting himself be tricked by you? Or… was it more like a deer grazing in an open meadow. Your colorful display which helped you live, now letting the buck pick you out from the grass, devour you…

[astradreaming]

the gift | melancholy

After the Battle of Manhattan, the hero of Olympus, Percy Jackson was offered immortality by Zeus himself. In another string, another fate Percy Jackson denied his offer but in another he accepted...

strings of fate

"The Council agrees, Percy Jackson, you will have one gift from the gods." Zeus said.

I hesitated. "Any gift?"

Zeus nodded grimly. "I know what you will ask. The greatest gift of all. Yes, if you want it, it shall be yours. The gods have not bestowed this gift on a mortal hero in many centuries, but, Perseus Jackson-if you wish it- you shall be made a god. Immortal. Undying. You shall serve as your father's lieutenant for all time."

I stared at him, stunned. "Um . . . a god?"

Zeus rolled his eyes. "A dimwitted god, apparently. But yes. With the consensus of the entire Council, I can make you immortal. Then I will have to put up with you forever."

"Hmm," Ares mused. "That means I can smash him to a pulp as often as I want, and he'll just keep coming back for more. I like this idea."

"I approve as well," Hestia said, though she was looking at Athena while she spoke.

I glanced back. Annabeth’s stormy eyes met mine, emotions guarded. I flashed back to two years ago, when she took the pledge to Artemis and became a Hunter. I’d thought I’d never survive without her. She was looking at me the same way she did the day she told me back then.

I thought about the Three Fates, and the way I'd seen my life flash by. I could avoid all that. No aging, no death, no body in the grave. I could be a teenager forever, in top condition, powerful, and immortal, serving my father. I could have power and eternal life.

Who could refuse that?

Then I looked at my father. I thought about my friends from camp: Charles Beckendorf, Michael Yew, Silena Beauregard, so many others who were now dead. I thought of my Mom and Grover, all those at camp who were still alive. I thought about Ethan Nakamura and Luke. And I knew what to do.

“Yeah, okay”

Zeus sternly nodded. The room suddenly began to shine brighter, too bright to see.

I was overly aware of my feet touching the ground yet I felt as if i were floating. My entire body felt of pins and needles, waves of hot and cold flushes simultaneously flow through me, making me nauseous.

I gasp as the room returns to normal. I tried to focus on the feeling of the cold ground as I fell to my knees, but the feeling was excruciating.

I felt as if I was out of my body looking in. Feeling every nerve, bone and every muscle , every breath of air and the stretch of my lungs, every time my heart pumps I can feel the blood rushing through me.

I could feel myself loosing consciousness but the feeling of nothing but darkness was welcoming.

[madam-kumo]

Le Cercueil de Verre

(Yandere Vil x Female Reader)

A fanfic version of the original Snow White stories

Clack

Vil's heels stepped into the large room. He walked past the forgotten and unused gifts he had so gratefully gifted her and the makeup that had long since expired. He dare not throw them away, his dear lover had used it at one point long ago. His blonde lock gently hid the side of his face; it hid his loving smile and heart eyes.

Once he reached the corner of the room, he gently slid his hand over the cold glass. Vil watched as your eyes continued to stay hidden behind your caked lids. The flowers in your resting hands had long since died against your chest but he dare not disturb your before the time has come for him to. Soft puffs appeared on the glass as your chest slowly raised up and down.

Vil felt that he should never hide you in the dark ground and let you be scared of the pitch black void of dirt. You were too beautiful for him to even imagine putting you in the ground like some forgotten pair of shoes in his closet.

Your white dress lay gently across your body like an ocean over land and your jeweled necklace and rings gleamed in the candle light. Vil always felt a rush of pride flow over him anytime he saw the lovely wedding ring on your finger. Oh, how he wished he could hold your hand so you could see his own matching ring. The comb he had specially made for you with his own two hands spiked into your hair like an elegant crown and the corset -he had stringed so tightly that you could almost see every bone in your torso- had not even a singly thread popping out of the expensive lace.

Nearby, a shining bitten into apple lay in a glass box, surrounded by golden accents. Vil treated it like a trophy, after all, it was the objects that brought you to where you are now. Due to it's magical creation, it would never rot and would continue to glimmer like the sun in it's proper place, to gaze upon like a statue.

"Ah~ my love, how I can't wait for you to awaken so we can start anew. I know you'll be upset that I have made you sleep for so long, I just needed some more time" Vil smiled as he rested his head on the glass coffin. He traced your face into the glass with his finger tips as he imagined the life you two would enjoy once you had waken up from your long slumber and allowed him to treat you like his queen. His smile widened just thinking about it.

He continued to continue the mind pictures of you two having a family, living in peace and quiet, and-

The box started to shake.

Vil lifted his head up to look down at your form in his silent but alarmed form. His violet eyes lit up as he saw your face scrunching up and slowly, your eyes opened. "Guards!" He said in a hurry as men with armor appeared at his side in mere moments. "Yes sir!" The guards said as Vil stood up, trying his best to keep himself from acting like a child high on sugar. "Get this case off of your queen, Immediately!" He cried as the guards dashed to hurriedly but carefully lift the heavy box from your form and set it to the side of you.

You lift yourself up as you look around. Your eyes widen as your body starts to sweat. "V-Vil..." You stutter as you try to pick yourself up but find you are too fatigued to do so; your body hasn't been moving for years after all. You hugged yourself, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Everything felt heavy in your gut as you started to shake and your lip quivered; the guards surrounding you two were two much. It was as if they were just as twisted as he was for letting this happen to you.

Tears fell from your face as Vil's eyes softened as he brushed his soft fingers over your cheek to wipe away the river flowing from your eyes. You started to breathe heavier as Vil wrapped his arms around you.

"I know it's a lot to take in right now but-" He looked into your eyes. "you will forever be my queen and I will finally have my happily ever after"

[daydreaming-jessi]

The Lamb is reminded of how close their old enemies are now.

They weren’t sure how much time passed, the lighting inside the temple was always off. Dyed a deep red, forever keeping the interior aglow no matter the Sun’s position outside. All they could hear was the steady rise and fall of the racing wind outside that the morning brought.

A headache was gnawing on the Lamb’s skull, having found them slumped over the altar. A modge podge table cover of scrolls and ink splattered parchment scraps lay beneath them, no doubt staining their wool. Empty ink bottles littering the floor around their hooves, as well as the half drunk bottle of wine they were gifted by the Lighthouse Keeper in Pilgrim’s Passage.

They tapped the quill against their current scroll, looking through their current progress for the hundredth time. This was the worst part of godhood, they found. No longer could they rely on an ancient eldritch being breathing down their neck and whispering to them exactly what to write, how to eloquently string their words together in a harmonious passage. They were good at coming up with new sermons on the spot, they only needed a vague outline to work off of, but actual scripture just stumped them. The flowery language they tried to write with left them dizzy and tired, and that was if they weren’t struggling to come up with something to jot down in the first place. The curse of an empty slate, Narinder had called it.

They leaned back with a drawn out sigh, reaching down to tip back a few generous gulps of wine. Tart blackberries seasoned with sweet spices rolled over their tongue, the back of their throat tingling as a quiet flame was stoked. They should see if they couldn’t get someone else to write this. Surely Plimbo knew someone? He always knew someone. Or maybe Forneus, she seemed a master with the type of prose expected of a God’s writing.

The heavy doors of the temple creaked open, to their annoyance. Was it too much to ask for quiet doors in their dedicated house of worship?

The Lamb looked down the carved stone floor, swallowing a final mouthful of wine. “Shamura?”

The spider stepped through the heavy doors, a cloak carefully draped over their shoulders. “Leshy said you’d be in here,” they noted, pulling down their hood.

The Lamb pulled away from the altar, eager for the break. “What can I do for you?” They asked, hopping off the stage.

They looked around the temple, their eyes tired. “I’d heard you had a successful run in Darkwood.”

The Lamb nodded. “Yes, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten through it so fast before, to be honest. Made for good time.” They tapped their hooves together, considering Shamura thoughtfully. “I should be able to make my way to Anchordeep next, should no further delays crop up.”

Their eyes finally met the Lamb, flickers of hope washing out the dull exhaustion. “Truly? Then you are..?”

The Lamb nodded. “Yup, he’s next.”

Shamura closed their eyes and stilled for a moment, their hand pressed above their heart. “Good, that’s… that’s very good.” They looked down to the Lamb once more, concern softening their features. “You should be careful. The waters grow cold this time of year. Many stay away from the deeper valleys of the sea, and you would do well to keep their example.”

The Lamb knickered, scratching the back of their head. “I’ll be careful. I’d rather not face the embarrassment of dying to frostbite.”

Shamura tugged a small sack from their belt and offered it to them. “This might help, trivial as it might be. It’s a new blend Almer came up with. It’s an interesting mix, has a good aroma. And I know for a fact my dear brother will despise it.”

The Lamb’s ears flicked with curiosity. Narinder always wound up stealing their tea, no matter how much they babysat their mug, he always managed to sneak it past them. It’d almost become a game at this point, yet another in their endless teasing, but it would be nice to enjoy a full mug for once without choking down boiling hot water like the cult was on fire.

“Thank you! I’ll be needing it,” they signed, before tucking the pouch away. As they shifted, something thick pressed against their back, reminding them of its presence.

“Oh! Right, I got you a gift as well, fresh from Silk Cradle. I stopped by there for some stone today.” They pulled out the package and nimbly untied the rough twine. Pushing the cloth aside, they pulled out an off-white lump, and handed it over.

Shamura took the carefully wound ball of spider silk, their claws gentle like it was a child. They pulled out a piece of string, holding it up for a better look, the starlight color of the string somehow still shining through despite the red lighting.

“Ah, yes, yes hello.” Their pupils dilated, further highlighting the string before them, bringing it closer as they examined its quality. Slowly, their gaze grew unfocused, and the grip grew slack. The Lamb tilted their head curiously.

“Shamura?” They reached a hand out when Shamura just… changed, right before their eyes.

Their spine straightened, their chin tilting up, the red glow of the temple coloring their eyes. They were unnaturally stiff, their limbs jerking, their eyes endlessly roaming the temple walls. There was almost a snarl curling around their fangs.

“Many-legged creature, stalk through the night… wrapped in web, yet still they fight…" Their gaze darted to the Lamb, and they instinctively stepped back. There was something familiar in Shamura’s expression, an uncaring clairvoyance they’d seen only a few times before.

“In my silk, I snared a crown.”

Despite their earlier twitching, Shamura smoothly leaned closer to the Lamb, and they backed further away, dread clawing up their spine. The shadows around them lengthened, bringing a chill that wicked away the stifling heat from the countless lit candles. The red glow of the temple dulled, darkening and taking on a purple tinge.

“To their faith, irrevocably bound.”

The two sets of eyes drilled into the Lamb, splitting away all the layers of protection, ripping down all their walls and plunging within, ripping out the soul, holding it aloft for the entirety of the empty temple to behold.

They lifted a claw, and placed it on the center of the Lamb’s forehead.

“I wrapped a precious thing in web and nestled it deep in the bosom of Silk Cradle… but where? When?”

Their head tilted up, their shaking pupils focusing on the red eye of the crown enshrined within the stained windows. Ever staring back.

“And what?”

“Stop.” The crown shook with the pent up energy, the Lamb’s red fleece fluttering with power. Their eyes rolled back, leaving milky white narrowed on the towering spider before them, unnaturally sharp fangs glistening in their snarl. Red globs of viscous liquid bubbled through the floorboards around their hooves.

Shamura studied the quivering creature before them for a beat, when the moment seemed to pass.

They wilted, their shoulders drawing down, the intensity of their focus rapidly vanished, and a slow line of black ichor made its way down their features. Black stains began to blossom on the bandages wrapping their head, and they stumbled to the ground.

The Lamb’s eyes returned to normal and they shot forward, catching Shamura before they fully collapsed. “H-hey, whoa! Are you ok? What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

“Visions… always… worst of moments…” They pinched the space between their main eyes with a pained groan, their hushed tone barely rising above audible. The Lamb had to lean in closer just to catch what little mumbles they managed, despite their instincts rearing away with a scream to run.

“You… you mentioned something in Silk Cradle. Is it… causing this?” The Lamb pressed, and Shamura shook their head, gently massaging the flesh under their bandages.

“No, no… I am…” their ragged breathing finally began to steady. “This is simply a symptom of past mistakes.”

The Lamb glanced up to their bled through head dressings, biting their lip worriedly. “If there’s something we can do-“

Shamura suddenly heaved themselves to their feet, their legs shaking under the sudden weight. “No. I have managed this setback so far. You mustn’t lose focus now.”

“But-“

They lifted a hand, halting the Lamb’s protest.

“After.”

They offered assistance, and the Lamb hesitantly accepted. “I can bear the wait knowing Kallamar’s just around the corner. When he is home, I will accept your aid then.” They leveled the Lamb a look, endlessly exhausted. “Please…”

They grimaced. “I… very well. But I want you to rest in the meantime. This ,” they gestured to the drying streaks of blood and ichor on their fur, “is worrying.”

Shamura took a shaky breath, and nodded. “Y-yes, I think I agree. I shall rest these coming days.” They started to turn away.

“Do you need help getting to your home?” The Lamb asked, and they shook their head.

“I’ll be fine, thank you.” They paused at the door, staring intently at the carved wood. “Apologies, for this episode. I didn’t wish to rattle you.”

The Lamb clasped their hooves together, putting on a bright smile. “What are you talking about? You didn’t scare me. I was just surprised, is all.”

Shamura glanced back once, their steady gaze probing the Lamb’s. “Of course. I’ll be on my way, then.”

The door squealed shut behind them, leaving the Lamb alone.

The smile dropped.

With shaking legs, they managed to stumble over to the wall, where they leaned their weight against the solid wooden pillars. They drew a shaky breath, and another, but nothing slowed their racing heart. They let their head fall back, closing their eyes. The candlelight flickered through their eyelids, twisting with shapeless shadows. Their mind conjured up faces in the twisting dance, old remnants of the past they were starting to give up on burying.

How long could memories haunt a god? Judging by what they’d seen from their predecessors and their own personal experience, they weren’t sure they liked the possible answer.

[allthoselostthoughts]

I’m the fixer in my family. It seems like a bad joke. I can’t even fix myself yet I’m always the one picking up the pieces. It doesn’t make sense but that’s how it’s always been.

I grew up in a tornado, a whirlwind of addiction, infidelity, divorce and screaming matches. I’d sit slumped on the stairs listening to the chaos like the eye of a storm. The lighthouse parting dark stormy skies. Waiting for my parents to just follow that light back to still waters, light breezy sea air and happy memories. Back to me. To loving me more than they needed to fall apart. But they never did.

Everyone says addiction is a disease, but that doesn’t do it justice. Addiction is hunger that devours with sharp teeth. Crunches on bones and drinks marrow. It’s the monster that lived under my bed and the blood that welled up from careful even cuts. It’s the air stolen from my lungs. We’ve never met face to face, yet I’ve been forever hunted. A shadow seen in the corner of eyes, footsteps echoing after my own. We’ve never met, yet addiction has destroyed me.

Ripped me apart at the seams. Ripped me apart where I should have been lovingly sewn together with kind even stitching by supportive hands. Where instead I’ve always had holes, pieces of string begging to be unraveled. And I am. Constantly unraveling, falling apart. I’d hoped someday I’d get the privileged of being stitched back together, lovely and whole.

But I am the only seamstress in my family. The fixer. Life is hard. Addiction is hard. It’s a disease. I can’t explain how thoroughly it has ground me to dust. I go to class with tear streaks dried on my face chanting ‘stop crying’ under my breath and people ask me if I’m okay. I’m not okay. I don’t know if I’ve ever been okay. No one knows what to do with that and I can’t blame them.

Neither do I. I sit through my class learning about depression and mental illness feeling sliced open. I feel like I should explain. Explain how I grew up as the parent. How we lost my mom’s job, our homes and my sanity. How I’ve spent my life bleeding, picking up the shards of her shattered life and poor choices. The exhaustion of wanting it to end as she destroys herself, willfully ignorant of me as collateral damage.

I feel like I have to prove that I’m broken because I earned it. Through alcohol fueled benders, through being unwanted and unloved sleeping on a floor without even a room to call my own. Earned it by threatening to run away and being told I had nowhere to go, no one who wanted me. Yet at the same time I feel embarrassed by it, like my trauma isn’t enough to account for how much of a mess I am.

I’m a car crash in slow motion. Bystanders slowing down to gape at the chaos. I sit in class and stare blankly ahead. It’s completely abnormal for me, who fidgets even in my sleep. Yet it’s all I can do to keep the car crash from bursting into flames. I let my vision get fuzzy at the edges and the voices become thick and muffled in my ears. Dissociating. Another hard earned gift of my childhood.

I let myself sink into quiet waters and don’t know if I’ll ever be able to come up for air. I want to scream, to rage, to hurt something, even myself, to sleep for a hundred years, to fade into non existence, but instead I sink down into darkness with the scream strangled in my burning throat. Because what else is there to do.

[finiffy]

The god blink all four of it's eyes in confusion at the decline. It's halo jingling as it moves closer, the gems hanging into near invisible strings clank together. It rest a enormous finger right next to the mortal. Only one thing being projected out, the simply question as; Why?

Why do they deny to have their lifelong disability fix? When it was the thing they've wished for when they were young, to have their leg fix. To return to normal and be able to walk around with other without having deal with the strange looks at their leg and cane. Why do they deny the offer to return back to normal? Do they not wish to be normal? It can fix that.

It asks this, not knowing why wouldn't this one just take it's gift. Many others had accepted it's gifts with little to no resistance but this one is being stubborn.

"Yeah I know but," The person sighed. They use their beaten up cane to point to the world around them. The only thing that could be seen are the ruins of destructions for miles on end. "This is my new normal. My leg doesnt really matter too much in the face of a supernatural apocalypse." They explained, though the god was right.

They did wish to have their leg to be fixed.

The person remembered when they were a kid and having to learn that they'll have to use a cane like a old person from the doctor. They remembered the devastation they felt, in that cold room sitting on the bed as their parents started to tear up and their younger sibling asking what's wrong with them? Why was everyone suddenly very sad? Their sibling didn't know what news meant at all and was asking for answers that they couldn't answer.

They remembered the odd looks from their peers as they stumbled by while walking to class, the feeling of wanting to disappear forever plaguing their life as they sit out another activity because it would be too straining on their leg. The first month was tough, the second wasn't too much better. The year in fact wasn't good after.

They hated when people feel empathy for them. Just because they feel the same about their leg doesn't make it feel better! In fact, it makes them feel much worse. People feeling the same about their leg doesn't make things easier.

Sympathetic people makes things a little easier, because they don't go, "Oh, I feel for you." Then expect for them to suddenly get all sunshine and rainbow happy. They just tell them that their situation sucks and they hope that they can get used to it.

But...

They adapted, they learned how to move effectively even with the disability. They know how long they can move without straining their body, they know when they simply couldn't keep on going, they knew how to take care of themselves when that happens. They learned how to ignore the looks people would give them, they learned how to explain to small children that "Yes, they do need a cane but that doesn't mean they struggle to live like their grannies."

And they slowly learned that it doenst matter if they use a cane.

They had friends who understood that they may struggle a little bit and that they weren't helpless. Friends who tried their best to accommodate and adjust their group hang outs so they cane be included. Sometimes even canceling plans in order to do something else that they can also do.

They met compassionate people who don't have an ounce of empathy in their bones who asks if there's anything they can do to make things easier. They might not know what it feels like to be permanently crippled but they try their damn hardest help out as best they could.

That's what makes them feel better.

Their life wasn't destroyed by the fact they had to use a cane to walk around. The need to use a cane just became normal. It wasn't something terrible, it was just their life. A life that needed a little help but it became normal.

They can sense that the god could hear their thoughts. So they told it that it just became normal.

They lower their arm, leaned against their cane, then sighed. "Even then, there no guarantee that I'll live tomorrow."

They've already knew that they shouldn't be alive to see this moment and they know that each day is just another chance for them to die. As depressing as it sounds, they've already accepted that they'll probably pass onward. All of their friends, most of their family, and everyone they've met had pass on, some nearly three years ago, and some only about 6 months back. The only reason why they were still on their godforsaken adventure was because they couldn't move on yet. Not when there were dozens of others who still have loved ones in their life that haven't passed.

They simply couldn't just die now, not when they were the one who cause this entire mess. They may not be able to fix if but they'll be damn if they don't try to make it a little easier.

Their eyes harden as they stared down the God. "Listen, I know you can't fix the apocalypse. Honestly, it'll be a fucking miracle if you could fix this shitshow." They took a breath, nearly coughing out their lungs out from the dusty air. They resist the urge and spoke for their one wish. "But could you make it a little better? I might not live tomorrow but there's still people who'll live. People who will live longer than I will, and maybe even survive this shit. People who could survive this if everything gets a little better."

"It doesn't have to be a big change." They elaborated. "Trust me, we do not need another suddenly shift in reality. But make it so those on death's door get to tell their stories, tell everything they need to tell, to speak their final words. Let them find something that lets them keep on going, it could be a old book, their pets, their family or new friends- Hell it could be an unfinished kitting project! Just have them find something to get through this because even if we are shit, they deserve another chance to live and grow."

The god looked back at the mortal, who looked back unflinchingly.

What remains of the world slowed down just a little bit as the two stared at each other. A mortal who lost nearly everything but keeps on going because they know there's others who don't deserve this and a god who only knew mortals that asks for help to fix themselves or loved ones. The god just thinking about the words the mortal thought and spoke.

After a prolonged silence, the god gave into the mortal's request.

There wasn't a sudden flourish of magic but the person knew their request was grant as the air got just a little bit clear and they didnt have the urge to wheeze.

"Thank you." They said their voice shaking, as they dropped the harden tone. Everything they've been working for the past year now finially done. They don't have to keep on going anymore, they can now rest knowing that it'll get anlitte better. The God gave a slow blink in return and the person smiles.

-soap

Holy shit???

Wow, this is an amazing piece to read thanks for sharing Soap

[dinogoofy]

Scorpion/GN!Reader.

Might kiss you, might rip out your guts.- part one

If you think you've read this before, you've read the earlier version! I've edited and changed enough of the story to need a new post about it, so here it is!

A short summary would be that this is a enemies to friends to lovers fic between a winged reader and Hanzo Hasashi. It will be split in 2 or 3 parts!

I also feel like I should clarify that Hanzo is only referred to as Scorpion because the reader does not know his name until the next part.

MAJOR TW FOR DESCRIPTIONS OF GORE

You could still remember it.

The arena. The smell of the blood, the stench of death. The bodies you saw wheeled out in masses of champions. Blood spattered weapons and walls. A picture was clear in your mind of the horror you felt. Of the anxiety and fear you had to push down every moment you remained in that coliseum. After all the training you had been through, nothing could've prepared you for this.

Being a renowned half breed, one of earthrelm and outworld, you and all your feathered glory was never under the radar of the Gods. After spending your life in earthrelm with your mother, Raiden believed that he could trust you. He had tracked you down and informed you of the details months earlier. Asked you to ready yourself the best you could, earthrealm couldn't lose this. And there you were, stalking the hallways before your battle.

You were nervous. Who wouldn't be? You were a hunter, not a fighter. You tracked your targets from the sky, taking them down before they had a chance to truly fight back. Your fighting style had never been meant for a closed in fight like this. You had almost told Raiden no for that reason, but with the fate of Earthrealm in as the prize, you couldn't do so with a clean conscience.

You remember the little girl, the servant who was being harassed by a separate contestant. One that was sure to die, if you got your hands on him at least. You had separated him from her, roughing him up just a bit so that he'd run off. Keeping at least one person out of harm's way. You had no idea of the powerful ally you had just made. 

When the arena was ready for you, it was safe to say that it was more than a bit overwhelming. The cheers deafened you, the bright white outside blinding your first steps out of the dark corridors. You had splayed your wings wide, trying to make yourself look bigger than you were. You kept your head high as your enemy entered the arena.

When scorpion's form stalked into the arena, your stomach had dropped. He was confident. He knew he was going to win. You hoped you didn't look as afraid as you were. He was a renowned powerhouse. Strength, agility, he had it all. You were at a disadvantage, the huge wings that sprouted from your back becoming a curse. It was nothing you couldn't handle however, you had been in tighter spaces than this. 

Hadn't you?

The fight started quickly. You weaved out of his range and dodged his attacks. It was wearing you down. After narrowly missing a particularly nasty kick, you knew you couldn't keep this up for forever. Lifting yourself into the air to try and get an upper hand was easy. You circled the arena around him, preparing to swoop down on him from a nose-dive when-

"GET OVER HERE!" The blade pierced though your right wing, through the muscle and into the bone. A scream of pain ripped through your throat as you were yanked back onto the ground.

 A string of explicit words left your mouth as the blade was yanked out. You got your feet just in time for Scorpion to charge at you again. You couldn't dodge this time. He managed to land a punch, but when you blocked the second you had a horrific realization that you were too close to him. There was no chance to evade the attacks easily now, he could just yank you back to where you were. You blocked his blows as best you could, landing a few hits of your own, when he reached a hand out and grabbed your wing.

The excruciating pain had burned itself into your memory. His hand lit up in flames in a split second, charring your wings. You cried out in pain, trying to push him off of you, but he remained unmoveable. Your wing caught fire, and the flames tickled and singed the feathers of the other one. 

The pain was all you could think about as your lifeline burned and faded, and you hardly noticed when his blade ripped through your throat. He dropped you to the floor, the fire starting to burn out all the while you gasped and gurgled for air.

It went black quicker than you expected. You had died. What a pitiful ending. Slaughtered in the arena, killed while fighting a pathetic fight. All your years of training, and still you weren't good enough.

The first breath that came back to you felt awful.

The room was quiet. Muffled cheers and screaming was heard from outside the dark brick walls. You brought a hand up to your throat, wincing from the pain that erupted from the charred wing as you stretched. The wound was closed. It was healed. Small, delicate hands steadied you as you sat up. Kind brown eyes watched you with concern. It was the servant girl from earlier. You tried to speak, but let out a horrendous series of coughs. You took a deep breath when they finally stopped.

"I… I thought I was… What happened?" She gave you a tight-lipped smile, showing you her blood covered hands. Runes were carved into her skin. The child had revived you with a magic you couldn't recognize. Your intreage turned to concern as you reached out for her. Holding her hands gently. 

You never learned how she knew such powerful magic, and you didn't press her about it. In fact, she never spoke. The servant girl beckoned you to follow her, and led you through tunnels underneath the raging battlefield. Twist after turn, corridor after another, she stopped at a small, empty room. 

Three, dead end entryways sat in the circular surroundings. The small girl sat down, giving you a smile, before plucking a sharp, glass dip pen out of her pockets. Out of all the horrors you had seen, your stomach churned and wanted to revolt at the sight of the kind girl cutting along her hands.

Stroke after stroke, she created runes on the backs of her hands, connected them to the ones on her palms and intertwined their meanings. When she had finished, she pocketed the pen again. You went to call out to her, to ask if she was alright, but the words died in your throat as she slammed her hands onto the floor.

With a bright flash, blood ran from her hands, trailing across the floor in dripping, intricate lines. The streams of blood ran straight up the corners of the doorways, lining all three. She sighed deeply and the center doorway lit up. 

It was a portal. To home. To earthrealm. 

It was beautiful. The chance to leave it all behind. To go home. To rest and recover and… and live. 

You couldn't leave her like this. Not without a thank you. Not without something of worth. The girl looks up at you as you move to stand in front of her, hands glued to the floor. She smiles, and in a raspy, broken, almost intelligible string of noises, she speaks.

"F… feather…?" You teared up at the sorry sound of the sweet girl's voice. And knelt down to her, careful of the lines of blood. With a wince, you plucked a feather from your one, good wing, one the size of her forearm. You gently set it in her lap, but she shook her head. 

You understood what she meant. With a shaky breath, you finally look over at your charred, destroyed wing. The pain was easy to ignore as long as you avoided the sight. But know there was no ignorance, no pretending it never happened. Your bad wing twitched in a motion that had you crying out in pain, but amongst the remaining, once soft down that fell, a single, black, ashy, sooty, burnt feather fell to your knees. You gingerly pick it up, and give her a skeptical look before setting it in her lap with the other. She smiles again, softly. And bows her head to you. 

You turned to look back at her after you stepped through the portal. She finally stands, and bows to you again as the portal closes. 

You never saw her again. In fact, you never saw Outworld again. But even though you didn't believe that a feather offering would ever be enough to thank her, you did not forsake her gift to you. It took years for your wing to heal, for the feathers to grow back. A patch of scarred skin still remained where Scorpion's hand had touched you, but with the addition of many different salves and medicines gifted to you by kind strangers, the fluffy, beautiful feathers returned to you. Flight, However. Was harder to take back.

You read almost every book you could find- created every exercise, every lesson you would need. But the burns left behind nerve damage along with the scars. It hurt to move the places that weren't numb. But you couldn't lose this. You couldn't lose your flight. It was the one thing you would refuse to give up. Eventually, and you did mean eventually, you had it back. You were a little wobbly, sure, but once you got up there… once you got in the sky, floating along the wind currents, relaxing in the cool air… It was almost like you have never lost the ability in the first place.

You never fought again. Nor did Raiden ever ask you too. You imagined he still believed that you were dead, but it was none of your concern anymore. You left that life behind. It took years to heal both emotionally and physically from what happened, and in the meantime you realized that the life you had before… it really wasn't for you. You didn't want that pain again. Didn't want the chance to have everything taken from you again.

You sighed, flipping onto your back to glide along with the wind, wingspan on full display. You had taken up traveling after you had learned to fly again. Hopping country to country, island to island, exploring the beauty of your own realm. But all this traveling had started to wear away at you. You longed for home. For your old friends. For family. But you refused to settle back down, traveling despite your homesickness. You'd find a place eventually, but only once you had seen the world. You didn't want to die a second time without experiencing all the lands had to offer. 

This time, you didn't actually know where you were traveling to. You had just been cruising along the wind current, relaxing in the sky. The lands below were lush and beautiful, the sky a cloudy grey. A nice, cloudy day had always been your favorite to fly in. Days like these being a kind reminder of the days you were young, and energetic, and still learning the sky. You close your eyes, breathing in the fresh air, the tenseness in your back completely disappearing as you glide. For a moment, all you felt was peace.

Your heart rate spiked as a scream sounded off in the distance. Your wings faltered, and you bobbed in the air. Regaining your steady glide after a moment. You frantically searched the ground, shaky hands flexing into fists.  You spotted a Cliffside, eyes immediately focusing in on the small form hanging onto the edge.

It became harder to focus. You started to panic at the sight of a small boy holding on for dear life. One of his hands slipped away, and you flinched, almost dropping into a dive by reflex, but you had to stop and think as his final hand remained.

You debated with yourself on if you could carry him, or if trying would kill you both. He would die from that kind of fall. You could die from that kind of fall. Could your bad wing take it? You didn't know, but you were running out of time. You dropped into a nosedive as his strength gave out.

The adrenaline almost put you into autopilot, the wind against your face becoming your only sensation. You hadn't gone this speed in years. The base of your bad wing started to tingle at the thought, reminding you of just how numb the rest of it was. 

Stop. Calm down. You can do this.

Your panic cooled into a still determination as you grew closer. The boy faced up towards you, eyes wide and panicked and scared. You fought the wind with your arms, finally looping around his waist.

You caught the little boy just 20 feet from the ground. He clung onto your shirt tightly as you started to slow, wings struggling to lift you up after how fast you were falling, after a few, difficult, sore, flaps of your powerful wings, your weight slowly carried you into the gravelly ground below the cliff in a heavy thump. Your knees buckled at the landing, and you cradled the boy underneath you as you collapsed onto your elbows, panting for breath. Your wings surrounded the two of you like a limp cage.

Your bad wing twitched as you struggled to relax it again, and the soreness started to set in. Shit. You really should've practiced that dive in your self-taught physical therapy. Then again, you never thought you'd have to do that ever again.

"Are you ok?" A little voice asked. You opened your eyes to peer at the scared, worried face underneath you. You tried your best to muster a tired, pained smile, and sat up, letting him go. He didn't move far, crouching beside you. You realized that he couldn't have been much older than a six year old. 

"I'm fine. I just need a moment…" You mumbled. "Where are your parents, kiddo?" He frowned for a moment, sitting down beside you with his knees underneath him. 

"My grandmaster is somewhere in the forest, " He gestured towards the lush greenery of the field around him. "-but I think I might have to search for him." He said, glancing up at the cliff. You nodded in response. Grandmaster huh? You analyzed his clothes. A ninja in training maybe, you didn't know how you hadn't seen it before. 

"Don't worry. I'll help you." You smiled up at him while splaying and retracting the bad wing back and forth. After a tense moment, you collected yourself. Making sure that your bag was still secure on you after the fall, and standing. The bad wing drooping limply while the other folded behind you. The boy stood with you, gazing at your wings with wide eyes. You chuckled at his curiosity, holding out a hand for him to take. He stared at it for a moment, and then back up at you.

"Well? Let's go find him." You nudged your hand forward again, and he smiled, taking your hand. You smiled back at him, trying hard not to grimace at the painful soreness of your wing. 

Glancing around, you managed to pick out landmarks you had noticed while flying. Creating a path in your mind of how you could make it back up to that shady, tree covered cliff, you tugged the boys hand lightly. He quietly followed beside you as you walked.

You wandered away from the gravely clearing and into the forest around. Helping the child pick his way through the bushes. The short journey took only about twenty minutes. Mostly consisting of following the edges of the cliff until you could find a slope, and a path that he recognized.

He only let go of your hand when the two of you had to climb a steep side of the path. He quickly scaled it, turning towards you. You smiled up at him, stretching your wings to boost yourself up there out of reflex, but you stopped. Wincing at the soreness once again. The boy looked at you quizzically, and you shook your head at him. You slowly climbed the slope, and continued on. Soon enough, you were moving through the flat patch of shady, woody, land just before the Cliffside clearing. The boy took your hand again.

"Thank you." He said softly. You smiled at him again, squeezing his hand, but not speaking. "...I'm Takeda." You were taken aback for a second, and determined whether or nor you should be giving the child your name. It couldn't hurt, could it? Your voice cut clear through the silent woods as you spoke.

"My name is..."

You started to trail off as a man silently emerged from the brush on Takeda's side, knives at the ready for just a moment. His eyes locked with yours, and then widened. Shocked at the sight of you, his defense faltered a bit, but still remained. You, on the other hand, bristled. Huge wings defensively folding around you and the boy.

You wished it was rage that invoked such a reaction, but it was fear. Your eyes stinged with watery tears that you desperately tried to keep under control.

"Takeda, get back." You commanded, pulling him closer to you by his hand. Takeda tried to speak, but you couldn't hear what he was saying. The awful flashes of memory, the smell, the pain, all of it was running through your mind. Your bad wing twitched and almost retracted back into your body, but you painfully forced it still, desperate to protect Takeda.

"I'm not here to fight you, and I'm certainly not here to hurt Takeda." Scorpion spoke, gaze soft. He hesitated for a moment, but sheathed his weapons. He held his hands out to show you that there were no tricks.  Bullshit. You didn't back down, keeping an angry stare set squarely on him. You could see it in his eyes that he knew that you weren't convinced. Takeda quickly put himself between you two, and you almost reached out to yank him back.

"This is my grandmaster," He spoke in a loud voice. Your eyes widened, flickering back and forth between him and Scorpion. It didn't seem like he was lying, he didn't seem like the kind of kid who would lie- but a child being trained by the deadliest member of the Shirai Ryu? You looked squarely at Scorpion with suspicion, looking him up and down. Your defensive demeanor never let down for a moment. You scowled at him, but when Takeda came back over to you, and reached up for your hands again…

You gave Scorpion a warning look, and relaxed your wings. Feathers smoothing out and wings folding behind your back. You squeezed Takeda's hands gently.

"I thought you were dead?" Scorpion's voice was clear and unwavering, but the question portrayed more than his voice would give away.

"I wonder why." You spit the words like venom. Your bad wing twitched again, this time it felt a little more painful than the twitches normally did. You hissed as you held it still. Takeda frowned, looking like he was about to tear up himself. Scorpion's face fell in a guilty look. This supposed new persona of his had to be a trick. Takeda turned to face his grandmaster. Speaking a few quiet words to him in Japanese that you didn't understand. You were to focused on the pain in your wing to care anyway.

You gazed fondly at the little boy, and sighed. It was clear to see that he was indeed Scorpion's student. You were no longer needed. You inwardly scolded yourself for becoming so attached to the boy so quickly. Sure, you had been longing for a connection… for a family… but this, this was not the place, nor the time.

You looked around, the clearing and cliffside edge was close enough that you could see it through the trees. In an almost dejected manner, you started to make your way over to it. The cliff would provide a great spot to make returning to the sky much easier.

"Will you be able to fly?" Takeda's voice called out to you. You stop in your tracks, turning just slightly so that you could see him, and stretched your wings. You winced as you did, the movement bringing back the soreness and pain you had glimpsed while climbing the slope earlier. You pressed your lips together, only glancing at Takeda before looking back at the sky that shone between the leaves.

If you couldn't leave, where would you go? You certainly couldn't stay here. Not with that Man. Not with Scorpion.

"The Shirai Ryu will extend our kindness to you, if you will accept it." You side-eyed Scorpion as he spoke. Fully prepared to decline before you saw the worried look on Takeda's face. You fully turned towards the two, wings low behind you.

"What does that 'kindness' entail exactly?" Your voice came out just above a whisper, but the malice behind it remained. Scorpion's serious face was a contrast to his student's.

"I am offering you shelter at the fire gardens until you have re-gained your strength." You looked at the boy, and then back at the man who killed you, and then at the sky. Who should you trust? Takeda? Or your own broken body? If you took a fall- 

You took a deep breath, bit your fear back, and approached Scorpion and Takeda.

[fairyavengerwrites]

anniversary ⇝ brock rumlow

content warning: explicit smut. 18+ MINORS, PLEASE DO NOT ENGAGE. oral (f receiving), choking, breast/nipple play, spanking, orgasm denial, unprotected vaginal sex (wrap it up Please), hair pulling.

pairing: Brock Rumlow x reader

word count: 1,500

author’s note: er so that Steve fic did so well it kinda put me out for a while, but I think this one will be good (?). tbh I kinda feel like leslie knope after the harvest festival (as aforementioned) so this is a lil gentler. I wrote this over two days and finished it at 11.30pm, so once again I have no idea what you’re about to experience. also, PSA- i do take requests!! anyways, enjoy! 

You were mad. So very mad at him.

It was your and Brock’s anniversary. Two years. Two whole years since he’d bit the bullet and asked you out. You thought that the man would remember, seeing as it was possibly the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. Apparently, love and commitment terrified him as much as you did, but maybe you’d lost your touch because there’s no way in hell he’d hear the end of forgetting your anniversary. 

Right now, with less than an hour to go until the day was over, and you’d long given up on the man. Instead, you were curled up in your bed, a cup of hot chocolate cradled in your hold with your comfort show playing on the TV, willing yourself not to cry and to sleep instead. If Brock didn’t turn up in the next couple of days, you were going to end things. 

You deserved better than a forgotten anniversary with no explanation. 

You’d just started to doze off when you heard him barge through the front door as always, calling out for you. You decided to ignore it, curling yourself up on your side of the bed and feigning sleep. Only a couple of minutes later did he come through the bedroom door. He called your name again, but you stayed unresponsive. You heard him sigh, and round the bed. He stopped to place a kiss on your head and disappear into the bathroom. You kept yourself still, willing yourself to actually fall asleep before he came out of the bathroom because of course, Brock would know better. He knew you down to every movement, every breath you took. It would be romantic if you weren’t so pissed.

Your cover was blown as soon as he slid into the bed with you, smelling of your shower gel (not that Brock would admit that he used it). He made the move to put his arm around you, but you shuffled ever so slightly to avoid his touch, giving yourself away.

“Sweetheart?” Brock whispered softly. “You awake?” You didn’t make a single noise in response. 

“I know you, princess. You’re awake.” Brock’s hand stroked your cheek, but you still didn’t move. You heard him sigh, then move the same hand to slide up and down your side. 

“Princess,” Brock said, sterner. “Is there something wrong?” You didn’t answer. He sighed again. The hand slid down to your hip, stroking over the bone. Brock shifted closer to you until he was pressed against your back, mouth hovering behind your ear. 

“Sweetheart, you gotta answer me.” It was a command. You puffed, blowing your cheeks out, then grudgingly answered. 

“It’s nothing,” you muttered. You wished you had more space to roll away from him. 

“If it was nothing, sweetheart, you wouldn’t be giving me attitude. Now, tell me-”

“If you wanna know so bad you’ll figure it out,” you grumbled. Evidently, your attitude had been enough to rile Brock up, and he tactfully shifted you so you were lying on your back, caged under him. You tried to look away from him, but he grabbed your chin, forcing eye contact. 

“If you’re gonna act like a little brat then I’m gonna treat you like a little brat, hmm?” Brock snarled, moving that hand down to your throat, pressing ever so lightly at the sides. You pressed your lips together, holding in the whine that threatened to escape your mouth, determined to not let him win. “I was gonna give you your gift tonight, but you want to be a little brat, so I guess I have to punish you first.” Your eyes glinted and you mentally punched yourself. He didn’t forget.

The fucker really had to start leaving you notes.

Although (and not that you would admit it to him), you enjoyed pulling his strings sometimes. 

Brock stalked down your body, sliding your (well, his) shirt up and over your breasts, out of his way so he could trail kisses down your body. He stopped as he hovered over your mound, roughly squeezing then spanking your breasts. You arched up, moaning, feeling his breath over you. You were sure you were dripping for him; you could tell from the way he was staring at your pussy. 

“You could’ve just talked to me, sweetheart, but your attitude means you’re not gonna get to cum.” Brock started his assault on your pussy, latching his mouth onto you. His tongue was rough against your lips, and you whimpered, trying to roll your hips into him. Brock lifted his mouth temporarily to slap your pussy, warning you to stay down before continuing, lapping at you as if he were a starved man in the desert. You felt as if you were melting, only the ruthless pinching and slapping stopping you from becoming adrift in your mind. The hand not roughhousing your tits was circling your hole, denying the one thing you wanted next. 

“Brock,” you whined, sneaking a hand into his hair, hoping he’d get the message. Your orgasm was nearing and you’d already forgotten his previous warning of denial. “I’m gonna-” He pulled away from you, slapping your breasts again. 

“Oh, no, princess. Not until you learn your lesson, baby.” You shook your head at the denial, whining his name again. Brock prowled back up your body, sneaking one hand to the back of your throat, claiming your lips in another steamy kiss. You didn’t notice him shove his sweatpants down, but you did feel his cock suddenly slide up against your lips, smearing his precum and your juices together. You clutched onto Brock, digging little crescents in his back as you held onto him, the friction causing the tension in your stomach to build up again. You moaned into his mouth, lips slacking as you found yourself unable to concentrate. 

“That feel good, princess?” Brock murmured into your mouth, groaning at the sensation of his cock grinding against you. You whined back in response, bucking your hips up. He chuckled at you from above. “I know, sweetheart.” A hand moved to put pressure on your throat again, fingertips squeezing at the sides. You gasped, bucking more wildly, feeling your orgasm approach quickly once again.

“You wanna cum this time princess?” Brock asked, peppering kisses all around your face. You nodded and moaned a desperate yes, rolling your hips faster, but Brock had other plans for you. He lifted himself off you and flipped the two of you around so that he rested against the headboard of the bed, holding you in his lap. 

“No yet princess,” Brock warned, grabbing your hips firmly. He lifted you enough so that he could line his cock up with your hole, then forced you down all the way on him. You gasped as he entered you, stretching you out just enough. Brock gave you a moment to adjust before he started to bounce you up and down on his cock hard and fast. You clenched, throwing your head back as you let yourself melt towards an orgasm yet again. Brock let one of his hands move to yank on your hair, forcing your head up and causing you to let out a strangled moan that relatively sounded like his name. 

“So fucking tight, princess,” Brock rambled, snapping up into you. “Feel so good around me, sweetheart. So good I wanna keep my cock stuffed in you forever. Keep filling you up and up, huh?” You moaned lewdly at the suggestion.

“Oh, you’d like that princess, wouldn’t you? Just so full of me, every day.” Brock rutted faster and faster, chasing his own finish. “You really want to cum now, princess, don’t you?” He released your hair slapped your ass, making you yelp, then whimper. He did it again and again until you predicably squeezed his shoulders again, signalling you were once again nearing your orgasm. 

“It’s ok, princess, you can cum now. Go on, baby, cum,” he ordered, and you did not hold back a second, letting out a small wail as you followed his command. You let your head drop onto his shoulder as he did not relent, only stilling in you a minute later as he finally let go himself. He moved his arms to hold you close and down onto him, grunting your name. You both stayed like that for a moment before he cupped your face, making you look at him again. 

“What was wrong, princess? Want to tell me now?” he urged, stroking your cheek. You bit your lip and looked down shamefully, suddenly remembering how livid you’d been earlier. 

“I-I thought you’d forgotten...” You trailed off, hoping he’d understand. Lucky for you, he did. 

“Princess, I promise you I would never forget you, us,” Brock affirmed, kissing you on the forehead. You smiled meekly at him as he lifted you off of him.

“Start leaving me notes, babe. That’s how we barrel towards misunderstandings like this. Now, I heard something about a gift?”

[rhetoricalrogue]

Jogging the Memory

Fiction Type: Fanfiction Fandom: Dragon Age Prompt: "I need you."

Diving into @fictober-event by putting a spin on some old reliable characters and putting them into the AU @alittlestarling and I have been throwing ideas back and forth to the other for forever.

“I need you to –”

Ravena met Blackwall’s earnest plea with an arched eyebrow. “To keep quiet that I know you from a few years ago?” She tilted her head. “Under a different name than the one you’re using now?”

“You don’t understand, it’s…” he sighed. “That old name is dead now, as is the past that went with it.”

She shrugged and went back to packing her bag. Before he had knocked on the door of the cottage she was sharing with her cousins, Ravena had been preparing to go out into the field and accompany the Herald into the Hinterlands to hopefully acquire horses for the Inquisition. Personal curiosity in the astrariums littering the landscape Roz had mentioned had been the main reason she had requested the to join the outgoing party, but she sincerely hoped that unlocking their secrets would lead to something that would benefit the Inquisition, fledgling organization as it was.

Oh Henri, she thought wistfully, a pang of grief sharp at her chest. If only you were here to see this with me.

“Some pasts we can’t run from, Rainier,” she told him, not looking up as she carefully put a well-worn notebook in with her belongings. She may not have her mentor here with her any longer, but she could still find comfort in the knowledge that his personal effects had been safely stowed away in the inn that he had been staying at before heading to the Conclave. She may never find a body to mourn amid the ashes of the temple she and her dear cousin had once helped restore, but at least she had his familiar book of notes to keep his memory alive. “Especially pasts like yours.”

“My name is Blackwall,” he hissed, tone suddenly sharp, dangerous. Ravena started when his hand shot out and gripped her wrist, her mind flashing to the dagger she kept inside her right boot. It was a gift from her other cousin Rolfe, one that had come with countless lessons on self-defense and how to properly use it. The crushing pressure of the fingers that ground around the slim bones of her wrist was a dangerously silent reminder that those very same fingers could easily wrap around her throat and made her sincerely think that she might have use for all those lessons Rolfe had taken pains to teach her. “And it would benefit us both if you would remember to use it.”

Not breaking eye contact, Ravena wrenched her wrist out of his grasp, eyes narrowing and mouth twisting into a frown. “Is that a threat?”

“That is entirely up to you, my lady.”

Weighing pros and cons had always been one of her stronger suits. It had been years since she had last seen Thom Rainier and the man she had encountered in the woods defending people from bandits was different than the man she had spent a night of passion with while in Orlais supporting her findings from a dig she and Henri had just gotten back from. At the time, she had thought Thom Rainier a handsome, if not arrogant man and the fact that he had thought she was similarly attractive and was willing to partake in a bit of mindless fun that didn’t have any strings attached. They’d spent a mutually pleasant evening together and he was gone before she woke up the next morning. To his credit, he hadn’t robbed her any of her belongings while she had been asleep.

It may be her ego talking, but she would have liked to have made enough of an impression on him that he would have actually remembered her name the next time he saw her. The only thing that soothed that initial sting was the fact that he had recognized her, even if he didn’t remember exactly where he knew her face from.

She licked her suddenly dry lips. The man defending the defenseless and teaching them to fight back was also worlds different than the rumors of murder and betrayal that had circulated after his seemingly mysterious disappearance from Orlais. “Mutually beneficial relationships seem to be a thing for us,” she said, tone careful. Almost instantly, the line of his shoulders relaxed and the flinty edge to his eyes seemed to warm. There was still a cautious way he carried himself, but then again, she had that same manner, her body ready to bolt should he make any sudden moves.

“That would appear so.”

“Even if some of us don’t remember that being the case.”

The laugh that she was met with sounded rusty from disuse, but genuine, nonetheless. “If it makes you feel any better, Ravena, I was a bastard back then. I rarely took the time to process names and commit the faces they belonged with to memory.”

“And that’s different now?” Are you a different person was the silent question that burned at the tip of her tongue, but it wasn’t a question she had any right to ask of him. Not yet anyway.

“It is.” She was not a short woman, but he still had to tilt his head and slightly hunch his shoulders to ensure they were at an equal line of sight. “I…I am trying, at least.”

Ah. So her silent question wasn’t quite as silent as she had thought. “That’s all any of us can do,” Ravena replied. “If it makes you feel any better, I guess I can forgive your lapse in memory. Our past encounter was brief.” She gave him a wicked smile. “Almost disappointingly so. Premature, even.”

He made a face, posture relaxing even further at her teasing. “You wound me.”

“A fitting injury to match the blow to my own ego.”

“You know, I could be persuaded to soothe that injury, should you be so inclined.”

Oh. Well this was an entirely different direction for their conversation to take from where it began. “Is that so?” She went back to packing her bag. “And if I was uninterested?”

“Then this would be the last time I brought it up.” He took a step towards her, his voice pitched lower in a way that sent a pleasant shiver down her back. “I may be an asshole when it comes to remembering names, but I can distinctly remember that night.”

Ravena closed her eyes and swayed towards him, so close that the warmth of his body all but sank into her skin. “Once I jogged your memory, you mean.”

“This is going to be a thing with you, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t decided.” She grinned. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps on always bringing up my past fuck them and forget them tendencies or perhaps on picking up a…mutually beneficial relationship from where we left it?”

Bag packed, she slung it over her shoulder before pressing close to Blackwall’s side. Not giving him any warning, she reached out and grabbed the collar of his gambeson, rising on the tips of her toes to close the short distance between them. It had been some time since she had kissed anyone, let alone this man, but oh. The initial surprise had been sweet, but the answering kiss was even better. Blackwall didn’t wait for any prompting before wrapping his arms around her and hauling her up return her kiss, the press of his mouth against hers almost intoxicating and bringing back several incredibly detailed moments of that night they’d shared so long ago.

She broke the kiss before they got too carried away. While it was tempting to entertain the thought of Blackwall having his way with her there on the nearby table, she was sharing the cabin with Ada and Rolfe, either of the two well within their rights to innocently walk in without thinking to announce their presence.

Ada would have been mortified and run out of the cabin. Rolfe, on the other hand…Ravena was absolutely positive her dearest cousin would have given them a round of applause and some sort of smartassed remark. Ravena loved him dearly and considered Rolfe to be more of a younger brother than a cousin, but she would have had no other choice but to chase him down and kill him for interrupting, so really, stopping before things got too out of hand was for his own safety.

“I’ll let you figure that one out,” she told Blackwall, winking cheekily as she moved past him and towards the door. She gasped when he reached for her wrist again, pulling her back for another quick yet searing kiss.

“I’m a quick study,” he murmured, breath warm against her lips. He moved back only far enough to bring her wrist that was still in his loose grasp to his lips, his mouth moving over the skin there, a silent apology for his earlier mishandling. “Ravena.”

“So I see.” She exited the cabin and held the door open for him. “Shall we? I wouldn’t want to keep Roz waiting.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that.” He held out his arm for her to take as they walked towards the makeshift stables, but she squared her shoulders and walked past him.

“You’re staring at my ass,” she said, not looking behind to confirm.

“It would be rude not to appreciate the view,” he shot back.

She shook her head and kept walking. “Ass.”

The smile on her face remained as they came up to the stables, Roz checking her saddlebags for gear and Rolfe making small talk beside her. Ravena made note of Roz’s worried expression, and she knew that the Herald had good reason to be worried; reports from the Hinterlands were still coming in of pockets of mage and templar skirmishes. While the Inquisition’s agents had made some headway in stabilizing the area, there were still violent flare ups that hopefully would become less and less as fade rifts were sealed and areas secured.

“Everything all right?” Ravena asked, hoping to break the tense silence that Rolfe’s lighthearted yet one-sided conversation hadn’t been able to.

“I guess we’ll find out once we get there,” Roz answered, chewing on her lip. “Are we ready?”

“Ready whenever you are.” Again, Blackwall offered his arm to her as she stood beside her own horse, and this time, Ravena took it. Her branch of the Trevelyan family tree were excellent equestrians, she herself learned how to ride at a very early age, but when an attractive man offered to help her onto a horse, she would have been a fool to let the opportunity pass without taking advantage of it.

Ravena was many things, but a fool wasn’t one of them. It was something that definitely didn’t escape her cousin’s notice either. He didn’t say anything, but the raised eyebrow and smirk he gave her was enough to know that they would be having a conversation once they had a chance for privacy. She sighed and rolled her eyes at Rolfe. It would be easier to tell him the truth; he was a spy by profession and even before his twenty-year tenure with the Chantry, had an uncanny knack for pulling information out of anyone before they even realized they were telling him everything.

Well, almost everything. Ravena glanced at Blackwall, who had elected to ride ahead of them and match his horse’s pace with Roz’s.

Some secrets weren’t hers to tell.

[batgirlsay]

Mosaic of Friendship

An Akagami no Shirayukihime Playlist (for @ans-arcade Platonic Week 2021)

At first I had some trouble finding songs for these prompts… but then I dug through a few of my older playlists and eventually found a song to fit each theme! I’m calling this playlist a “mosaic” since I did have to borrow from a lot of older playlists and the playlist is in order of prompts, not vibes. Some new songs include an unlikely duo of Obi and Kiki fighting together, Obi and Zen competing as their corresponding seasons do, and everyone visiting Shirayuki, Ryu, and Obi in the snow of Lilias. (Image from the “Phoskia” art book, one of my prized possessions and a gift from my friend @vampiregirldraws!)

My Friend- Hayley Williams Competition- Matt Pond PA All is As All Should Be- The Dear Hunter The World You Love- Jimmy Eat World Stay Focused- Rising Fawn Woah (Remix)- Matt Pond PA I May Fall (Acoustic)- Jeff and Casey Lee Williams (RWBY Soundtrack)

Summary lyrics are posted below the cut, and I’m planning on posting individual lyric analyses separately for each corresponding day:

“Little wrinkle by your eye, I never noticed 'til right now, little vicious tiger stripes. My friend, when the blood has dried… you've seen me from every side, still down for the ride. Not a secret I can't keep… if it's wrong or if it's right, I am beside you, famine or fire. We stay safe together, escape death forever.”- My Friend, Hayley Williams

“I won't be able to come to the table, without the greenness that I believe in. Somewhere but I don't know, thoughts of competition will take hold. Back and forth between air that's thin, is the idea that you might win.”- Competition, Matt Pond PA

“What were we before? Were we always what we are or were we made to change? Is all that remains the will to start again or is there more retained when another life begins? But at the end when you're looking out through my eyes, you'll see that all is as all should be.”- All Is As All Should Be, The Dear Hunter

“I’ve got a story it's almost finished, now all I need is someone to tell it to, maybe that's you. I fall asleep with my friends around me, only place I know, I feel safe, I'm gonna call this home. I'm in love with the ordinary, I need a simple space to rest my head and everything gets clear. Don’t it feel like sunshine after all, the world we loved forever gone.”- The World You Love, Jimmy Eat World

“You're going to get through this, whether you know it or not, I am going to pull you through this, just believe me and smile. Hold me tightly… I'll keep you safe, as you breathe through the tears, love. I know you can do this, I know you can.”- Stay Focused, Rising Fawn

“The shiver's going straight down to my bones, the shakes are stretching all the way to my soul. Through the layers, hear your heartbeat, sprawled out in the cold, ever soaring, rolling hills… Now there's nothing but this length of frosted string, on this gray ridge carved by glaciers from into the void, frozen moment lasts forever.”- Woah, Matt Pond PA

“There's a moment that changes a life when we do something that no one else can and the path that we've taken will lead us, one final stand. There's a moment we make a decision, not to cower and crash to the ground, the moment we face our worst demons, our courage found. When we stand with friends, and we won't retreat.”- I May Fall, Jeff and Casey Lee Williams

[matter-of-a-pinion]

Prompt 28: Bow

The snap of the string and the whistle of wind and FWOOP! The sound of an arrow hitting the target.

"Bullseye," Liv said smugly and took a performative bow. "As usual. No need for applause."

"Good," her father answered, pulling the arrow out of the target and arching an eyebrow at his daughter. "Since it wasn't actually bullseye."

Her father was a tall, poised, fair haired man with an intimidating, no-nonsense air about him that usually convinced strangers to keep their distance from him. Yet somehow Liv had always felt it easier to be around him than her mother (who was a short, fair haired, fussy woman with a not-remotely intimidating presence). Nyra had always gravitated more towards their mother, whereas Liv spent more time with her father.

He'd been an accomplished hunter back in the day and it was from him that Liv had gained her love of nature, crafting, and archery. She'd been a born natural at the latter.

Another whoosh and FWOOP and another arrow in the target. Bullseye.

She'd been a born natural; her father had always been better.

He set his bow down and tried to keep the smirk from his face in what was, perhaps, a gesture of kindness to his daughter. She wasn't having any of it.

"I see that smile, Dad! Go on. Gloat. I know you wanna."

"Liv, this isn't about gloating. It's about centering yourself, about how you hold the bow, about seeing the target." He took a deep breath of the cool air and then allowed the smirk to do what it wanted. His blue eyes twinkled. "But I did get a bullseye, you see. Like usual."

"Ahhh!" Liv laughed, standing on tiptoes to press in the dimple formed by her father's smile. "There it is! Nice gloat." She settled back to her feet, "But, might I remind you that you've got like, what, 60 years on me?"

He scoffed, offended. "60!? How old do you think I am!?"

"Mmm. Better not answer that. You're in such good mood. I'd hate to ruin it." She closed one eye, let the wind toss her hair with playful, invisible fingers, and took a deep breath.

"You're a wretched daughter," he said shaking his head with amused wonder. "The practice twin. Like the first pancake. You came out all wibbly wobbly and wrong so we could get a perfect daughter after you."

The string pulled back. She centered herself. FWOOP! Bullseye.

"How's that?" She took another bow.

"It'll do," he chuckled.

"It'll do?? Come on! Can Nyra do that!?"

"No," he admitted. "But neither can you 3 out of 10 times."

"That's a lot of times!" Liv protested.

"Sorry," her father said as he went to pull out the arrow. The air felt colder. The sort of cold that settles in the bones and in the lungs, making moving or breathing painful. Time to pack up. "Maybe when you get another 60 years practice on you, you'll catch up to me, Pancake."

"...You're just going to call me Pancake forever now, aren't you." Liv sighed, expelling a small cloud of visible air ahead of her.

"Mhm," her father answered. "I've become predictable in my geriatric age. Anyroad," he moved over to the storage shed that stood mostly unused by anyone but her father, and threw open the door. His tall silhouette blocked Liv from seeing what lied beyond, though it didn't stop her from trying. When he turned back around he held in his hands a beautiful, slim, hand crafted bow.

"A gift for the broken pancake," he said casually and handed it to her. "Was going to wait until I figured out how to wrap it but…" he shrugged. "It'd just look like a bow in wrapping paper then. So I just…"

Liv's eyes dropped to a dark blue bow wrapped lopsided and limply along the grip of the weapon. She smiled. Their parents rarely got them gifts. And this one… seemed unmistakably hand crafted. Likely by her father himself.

She reached out and took it, her fingers gripping it with awe and gratitude.

"How do you like it?" He asked.

"It'll do," she answered.

[pseudofaux]

even an injured hand grasps at grace

A lonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng time ago I did a follower celebration with short fictions and promised a longer story to the winner. That (incredibly patient) winner was @fieryanmitsu, who asked for a story set after Mitsuhide’s Act II. Holidays, family stuff, a global pandemic, more family stuff, a crisis of creative drive, MORE holidays and MORE time later... Here, at last, it is. Anmitsu, thank you so much for participating in that follower celebration, for being so kind about the mortifying amount of time this has taken, and for being a fellow Cat Daddy fangirl. I am very, very grateful for your grace! M, 6000 words, SLBP Mitsuhide. CWs: obvious but unnamed depression, brief discussion of death by weapons. (But mostly it is happy-thinky-poetic wife worship and baby fever.)

Sometimes when she is exhausted she speaks in this silly way. His love for her makes him warm to his toes. Adorable, his wife is adorable. He will never again allow any other duty to shove her out of the place she deserves in the center of his heart.

He will never hold a sword again. The discovery that there is still any strength in the arm once so mighty, enough that he can use it to work: a cause for gratitude and relief. A gift. He can attend to the responsibilities of his new life. He has a new life. Master Tenkai knows better than most men what death looks like when it bears down in a flash of metal. Sword death is the smooth silver of steel, spear death is the sluggish brown of mud that will cradle a dying man, and death by bullet is the black of blood that comes out so thick it is purple before it is red. Weapon deaths are cold, as though to compensate for the heat of their forging. There is a depth of balance in this that he cannot yet name, a mystery of the heavens like the others he spends so much time thinking about and helping the mountain villagers understand.

This new life is mostly keeping up their modest home (half residence, half tiny temple), and sharing knowledge with the villagers and their children. Of course he still thinks of Sakamoto when he sees the children growing... but his entire life he has been too much in his own head, and since they came to the mountain he has gotten better at leaving memories alone. He does not forget, and he hopes this makes him a decent man. Like any decent monk, he allows the thoughts of Sakamoto their due, which is to rest and flow over him as water flows over every side of a fish. It is right that it surrounds him. He could not and cannot do anything for Sakamoto, or address the irreparable harm he caused. He can consider it, meditate on it, and live with what he has done. And he will. Because he can live.

Swordwork’s precision and steadiness are forever gone from him, he believes. But he still has his arm and still has his life, even after he made peace with losing much more before Hideyoshi’s sword came down. He can pet the cats that congregate around the little temple, and he can twirl bits of string and stalks of grass for them. He can still write, his characters more calligraphic than they were before. He has to work hard to make clear strokes when he teaches the village children, and he feels that is a just requirement. When the house needs repairs, he can make them, and he can draw air into his lungs and live with his failures and successes both, or at least live with his failures and the grace he has been given. He has the brush, and he has the strong walking stick that his wife has helped him cut to the right height. The staff is smooth in his hand after only a few months’ use, a little extra oil applied when they have it. He wonders if he is allowed this easy comfort, but will not allow a walking stick to be a thing that trips his thoughts. His watchword now is moderation, not abnegation. If a fallen tree limb comes to him he will be grateful, and if the wood breaks he will let it go. He is willing, now, to let so much go.

There is only one exception, and she sleeps easy these days, when the cold of night on the mountain curls them together as though they are rabbits in a burrow. They wake slowly to this dream life. The part of him that is a decent monk cannot help but wonder how different their lives might be if it had been this for them all along. He did not want to rule; he had only ever wanted to spare others the hardships of ruling, and allow all good people the comfort of safety, from most divine ruler to most helpless child. These thoughts are in his head. Here in their tiny room in the building that is their home and the village’s temple, she is in his arms. In his heart and his bones, he knows that fact is grander than any man’s attempt at divinity.

He never has to force smiles at the children who come to the temple to learn. They are rowdy, eager, and completely charming. He is comfortably grinning at a group of them when he catches sight of her at the bend in the path that leads to their home. She is smiling, too, and there are tall leafy greens sticking out of the pack behind her shoulders that remind him of the folded wings of a fine hawk, the kind favored by samurai and nature alike. What would they do, if not for her hawklike competence and gentle ferocity?

Likely starve, he tells himself, on both melancholy days and happy ones. It is only the truth. He has learned a few things, but cannot match her, and while he is always available to the villagers, he stays near the temple unless he is asked for in the town. She does their shopping, she is their face. No one of quality can resist being won over by the warmth of her smile.

The children are thrilled to see her, and it reminds him of a dream he has had several times now, something he has kept to himself because it is so precious and he still does not want to ask anything of her. He is not sure if the slips of dream come from the peace of their life or the torment they left behind them, whether the dream is reward or recompense. But the cheers of the children take hold of his heart and make a tapestry of the scraps of his happiest dreams, weaving them tightly with what he is truly seeing. His thoughts nearly take him to his knees-- or perhaps that is an insistent little person, tugging at the edge of his sleeve.

“Master Tenkai!” chirps the village child. “Hana is home, so it is time for our lesson!”

They teach the children together in the afternoon’s warm, clean light, and only send them home when it is time for her to prepare their evening meal and him to complete the evening sweeping of the temple floor. Later that night, she seems relaxed and sleepy next to him, full of food, full of love. She asks, “Do you remember when I asked you to bring me a stone, so I could make you pickles?”

That is a pleasant memory from their life before, a luminescent pearl floating through silt that suffocated so much happiness. But the memory itself is light. So his smile is easy and does not feel like punishment, and he nods and strokes the space between her shoulders.

“On this mountain I have all the stones I need,” she declares, pressing her cheek to his chest. The smoothness of her face is finer to him than any pearl, a marvel of sensation that settles him, instantly and completely. “And I will make you pickles every week, if you want them,” she adds.

Sometimes when she is exhausted she speaks in this silly way. His love for her makes him warm to his toes. Adorable, his wife is adorable. He will never again allow any other duty to shove her out of the place she deserves in the center of his heart.

“Only whenever you are inclined,” he says, drumming his fingertips to tickle her.

Her giggle is sleepy. “There’s not time to make them every day,” she quips, snuggling closer and sliding an ankle between his calves. He has only the one dream that is sweeter than his actual life, and he is keeping it close to his chest for now. But he will not keep anything closer to his chest than she is. They squeeze one another, and he expects they do not fully relax their arms until they fall asleep.

A winter has passed, and a spring. This is their first summer on the mountain, so they are learning the cycle of invigorating mornings, sweltering afternoons, and unpredictable nights. They have already learned from kind villagers how to best coax food from the pebbly soil of their garden, and their efforts in the summer are devoted to this every day until the air grows too hot and they retreat to the shade of the temple to fan themselves with their hands and drink water that (they hope) has managed to hold some of the chill of the night before.  

Every morning he braids her hair, and in these summer days a few strands always escape and stick to the back of her neck, temptations that coax him to bare her shoulders and murmur along the skin he worships. She often swats him away, because even after tending the garden there is plenty of work to do. But sometimes she does not swat him away at all, and some days she draws closer with a magnificent, confident need. He cannot determine if it is need for him or need to show him something, but each time, their bodies become hotter still, sweat running like streams and stinging their eyes even as it makes moving together easier.

There is a day at midsummer when they cannot help themselves, resting on the step to their home. They are covered from the relentless sun by the good new roof of the temple. He is vulnerable to melancholy in the heavy air that precedes a storm. She knows this. By the time the thunder and rain seem to be on every side of them, heaven’s own veil around the little holy place where they live, their hands are in each other’s hair, she is straddling him, and he is kissing her so deeply he can taste their midmorning snack. The last time she went to town she came back with karashi seeds, and their food this week has been bright in their mouths, cleansing and flavorful. He is hungry for it.

“Mitsuhide,” she pants quietly. The rain around them is so dense no one would hear her, but that name is never spoken above the softest whisper. Her other sounds are louder, even louder than the roar of the rain, and he loosens his hold on himself to match her. He groans as he tilts his hips up toward hers, everything that he is straining for her. They are so warm that even though the air is cooling around them, the rain may as well be steam. One of her hands slides from his hair to his neck and then down his chest, between their bodies, until she palms his insistence and he gasps for her until she squeezes. They moan together, unbearably hot in the sweet agony before they join.

“Now? Here?” he asks. They’re alone, but he craves her comfort as much as her indulgence. There is always a point where he stops asking, but before that he needs permission. She gives it in a nod and shuffles off his lap onto the floor, still stroking him through his clothing. Her clothes are already loose from their embrace, and she puts her other hand inside her collar and tugs down until she is cupping her breast. His blood in his ears is louder than rain or crashing waves or the war chorus of a hundred desperate men. He lunges at her, one hand in her hair and another at the back of her neck to soften her landing. When he is over her, he snarls at her temple before kissing the space with the beastliness that is revealed by these stormy days. It is a wet kiss, and because his tongue cannot taste enough of her he ends up licking from her cheek to her hairline. He savors her, salt and spice and earth and somehow his, as he pushes into her hand. She does not let go of him. He never wants to let go of her.

His hand slips from her neck into the heaven of her opened collar, and his thumb finds her nipple between her fingers. She lets go, gives herself to him, and he pants adoration into her ear as he rolls the peak, beautifully strong, until she moans. He knows this is right, that nothing else in the world is anything next to the truth of how right it feels to cage her in, make her tremble, and soothe her, serve her.

So he doesn’t hold back. He tells her she is the most wonderful, beautiful, desirable, beloved. His mind makes poetry for her and he licks the words onto skin he pinches delicately between his teeth. You are rainfall to a dying man, you are here, you feel better than breezes, you are mine. After all he has done, he remains a man, and a man is an animal, as any man who has gone to war can say with certainty.

The thin clothes he wears for gardening are sticking to his body, and he swears he can feel the drag of each thread against his skin as he moves with her, friction enough to spark a fire through their sweat. Her hand on him is maddening kindling.

“You are flames,” he declares as he ruts down into her hand. “You are burning me.” A man is an animal, a gasping creature not sophisticated enough to express all she makes him feel.

She slows her hand and hums, pleased by they way he gives himself over. That is the way they play. “It is too wet for flames,” she murmurs, as though she is consoling him instead of throwing tinder on the fire she has made. “Drown in me instead of burning, my love.”

The affection in her words soothes his amorous madness and spreads the familiar, comfortable warmth to all the tips of his body as the power shifts between them again. He loves her so much. Could any man convey so much feeling? To be an animal is not bad, but it is base, and she is made of heaven and still chooses to be with him. He smiles at her in wonder of all her beauty and bravery. He will focus on giving her anything that he can.

“Gladly,” he whispers, smiling wider. He takes her wrist and pulls her away from her work. When she complies and settles her hand against the floor by her head, he unties the rope of faded jute braids that hold her kosode closed at her hips. She is worthy of finery but dressed in these threadbare rags with him instead, and still her eyes say she has what she desires. As he drops the thick cord beside their bodies, he thinks he will try to find her a pretty bead, or even a nice smooth stone from the stream, something to adorn her middle and give her pleasure when she sees it. She gives him so much pleasure.

Their clothes as temple keepers are very humble, but they are much easier to remove than their daily wear of only a year ago. Sacrilegious but sincere, he mutters his gratitude at the simplicity of baring her body to his eyes. Her slopes are gorgeous, winding like the gentlest river against the air. She reminds him of a war map he saw years ago, illustrated with hills and pools so lovely he mourned as war was planned against the unarmed ground.

He shakes away that memory to construct another of the way she looks right now, sensual and receptive, womanly in the way she came to be when they started their lives here. Back in control of herself, of both of them, she parts her lips and breathes his new name. He undoes the scrap of old kimono that serves for his sash, and peels away his own sweaty robe. When he comes back down to her, she has freed her arms from her sleeves and their hands find each other, fingers dancing warm and worn as they wrap together.

Now it is still raining, but the roar of it has quieted to a loving hiss. The light is gray and blue, so she looks like nighttime. She pulls him to her with the power of dusk closing flowers, and their kiss is moon-soft, full of promise instead of frenzy. Her lip is a marvel between his and he loves pressing it with his own lips and teeth and sucking gently to make it swell. He wants to touch it with his thumb while he’s inside her and then kiss her again, maybe kiss her while he touches her with his thumb.

The chill at his back cannot last when there is so much heat between them, no matter what she says of drowning instead of burning. A man can drown in the bubbles of a hot spring as well as he can in winter’s water. He sucks in a breath and breathes it out into her mouth, and when she does the same with more force he shudders. His hands slide to her hips, where her curves fit into his palms as though he were a farmer and she were a ripe stalk of rice. She is at least as crucial and nourishing.

He is so hard he doesn’t need to take himself in hand. The head of his cock slides (with a sureness he would never claim aloud) between her folds, against the spot that makes her thighs flex. The movement is easy, a slip if not for his control. They are always so eager for one another.

“How?” he asks, and kisses the chin she is offering as her head is thrown back. “Here? This? Just outside the reach of the rain?” A demon is in him, to tease her like this, but the demon wants her pleasure as surely as he does because this is what she wants, for everything to be drawn out until their tension snaps. “Do you want the air on all your skin?” he continues. “I will give you anything. Just tell me.”

She hums the thoughtful sound that means she’s thought of some way to drive him insane. Thunder cracks with an ominous sharpness in the distance, and when she tilts her head and looks at him there is lightning and mischief in her eyes. He squeezes her but still she wriggles out from beneath him... and she goes to one of the beams that holds up the roof, safe from the rain thanks to the overhang. She moves her feet back and bends at her waist and he can do nothing but feel blessed and aroused, so aroused he is stupid. The warmth she put in him turns to tingles, like she has displaced the lightning from her gaze and made his skin the sky and his bones the bare, vulnerable earth. Within himself he feels a frighteningly intense buzzing.

“This first,” she declares. “Just watch for now, darling. Stay where you are.” Her thighs and calves are so defined from the ways she has to toil in this new life that he feels a shadow of guilt for enjoying the sight of her so much. It vanishes when he sees her fingertips between her legs, right at his eye level. She is pulling his mind apart, but her method for that is giving him this gift, and in this life he takes what he is given.

“Yes,” he rasps, and swallows before the dryness in his though makes him cough. “Yes, of course.”

The movement of her arm slides her loosened braid along a shoulder like a brushstroke. Her touches are sure-- she told him months ago that she learned to do this when he made her sleep alone for nights on end. He curses his foolishness even as he is grateful for it. She is always turning the most miserable ingredients into feasts, his wife.

Her sure fingers make circles and dip into her folds to smear her arousal. She likes it a little messy sometimes, another thing she has revealed in the safety of their seclusion. He loves what she loves, and he wants to put his mouth on her, put his cock in her, so badly that he fears his voice will scar his throat in a mad escape if he has to stay apart from her much longer. But he will die of idiocy alone if he interrupts. So he watches, the cool air of isolation doing nothing to keep his belly from tightening when she coos. Her hips begin to drop forward to meet her hand and he bites the flesh of his palm to stave off insanity as long as he may. She is a cat, he realizes, playing with all his many frayed ends. When she glances back, whatever she sees on his face-- he must be flushed, he feels terribly hot-- makes her laugh, dark and sweet. She keeps going and keeps her eyes on him. There is that gentle command so uniquely her in the way she looks at him. It makes him feel like he is blooming frantically, too fast, a blossom pummeled by rain and completely out of control... and she keeps looking, keeps smiling, draws the moment into moments until he thinks he might sob.

And then she curls her fingers against herself to beckon him and says “Come here.” The way her voice puts the words somewhere between request and demand is flattering, but he has no time to be flattered. Rain-cooled air yields against his arms and legs as he rushes to her. Immediately, he is there behind her legs, positioning himself, and the heat of her backside would burn him were he not already so ruined. Against her at last, he can appreciate the way the weak light on her sweat-slicked back is more beautiful than the finest inkwash, the ways she smells competent and domestic and alluring, like the precious sweet scent of soil that hides between mountain pebbles. She is all these things, and she is so calm as his mind whirls in its delirium of adoration and arousal.

He doesn’t mean to tremble, but his hold on himself has been too tight, and the spaces where his teeth dug into his hand throb. Like the mongrel pet to a noble lady, he has little other purpose but to love her. He sees that she can sense it. There is a grace to her certainty when he grits his teeth, even though she is wound so tightly that when the head of his cock finally presses inside her, he must push. Slick, soft, smooth, she feels, somehow, despite the pressure. As he pushes fully inside, their groans are wanton to the point of inhumanity, more like the sound of creatures in the night than of a man and his wife. His wife, his wife. He pulls back and groans again at the way her body fights to keep him. He swipes the braid off her back and kisses her shoulder, pushing back in slowly as her soft, strong body welcomes him.

“More,” she cries, her first sound of vulnerability, and he is eager to take care of her. He knows to move steady and powerfully but keep it slow at first. She comes better around him, but needs to be allowed to focus, so he is quiet as he focuses on her and the way the muscles of his back stretch and roll to please her. He is still a fit man, and he hopes his body thrills her as hers thrills him.

She makes a needy noise between her teeth and moves faster, shaking just a little. She hisses “keep going,” and of course he does. The tension he felt a moment ago is so unimportant now he is not sure if it was real. In the time when things shift between them he no longer needs permission, and he feels the magic calm settling over him-- it is his turn. All he needs to do is what she needs from him, it’s so simple. And he would do anything she asked, for the chance to be so near her when she finds bliss. It is already rising up his legs, like a snake squeezing and sliding, like ripples... and her sighs are like waves. Maybe she is too wet to be flames because she is water itself. The way into her is blissful enough, a slick heavy pressure around him where she is swollen from all their kisses and touching. The challenge of it makes him grin with a ferality he usually keeps well out of sight, and he presses on, pulls back, kisses her shoulder again and calls her his beloved. His voice doesn’t shake.

Hers does. “Again,” she pleads, grasping back for his hand. “I want it again.” She guides his fingers in circles until he knows where she is and what she needs, and then she lets him give it to her. Trust is such a sacred thing.

When he touches her she laughs, and he laughs too, and fucks her with a great deal of joy. They find their pattern: her hips push back to meet his thrusts, so when he presses in, deeply, they fit as cleanly as a carpenter’s masterwork. The storm has truly cooled the air but all it does is chill the fresh sweat on their skin as they move. It invigorates him, makes his spirit shout with a freedom he cannot contemplate at the time. His wife is using the beam that holds up their roof to push back against him, allowing the tender space between her breasts to be abraded by the wood. There is room for nothing but happiness here, nothing to do but honor her sacrifice and make her feel more pleasure.

“Yes,” she rewards him with her voice for a particular thrust, dragging out the sound at a pitch that registers inside him while he is inside her. So he moves himself even faster to try and repeat it, then relishes the sweetness of her soft whine. It makes him feel like he is surprising her with his love for once, instead of the constant way she graces him with her own.

He leans over her a little more. “I want nothing as much as I want your happiness,” he tells her, the croon of his voice broken by the intense way their bodies are connecting. Her hand comes back over his, keeping him in place. Magnificent. “Go on,” he tells her. “Again, love. Just like you want. Just like I want. Again.”

She shudders and stops moving her hips (she clings adorably to the support beam, her arm as tense as her hand on his). He keeps going, because he knows that is what she expects. At the end, what she needs is to be filled, to be given something to clench around, and he needs to be that for her. He is so driven, from inside and out, to fuck her, that he cannot do anything else until he feels it, not think or breathe, only move into her as though he can shove bliss into her body. So he tries, until he feels the shaking of her legs as perfection alights, and then he takes one great breath before it hits them both as she squeezes tighter still. They gasp together again as her clenching and soft sounds pull his warmth to fill her. Abundantly. Deeply. The air comes out of his lungs onto her shoulders, then touches his cheeks with the softness of a cloud.

She is breathing heavily, and slowly she puts her weight against the wood and becomes still. There’s a gentle press against his hand before she drops her arm. He’s tempted to catch it and kiss her knuckles, but he does not want to move from being curled around her back. He does move his hand away and puts the arm around her belly instead, holding her that much closer. She feels exactly as warm and soft as a cat who has fallen asleep in the sun.

There is a slick, sticky feeling all around his cock, but there’s nothing unpleasant about it-- something in him actually relishes it, loves the thought of mixing, loves the thought of there being too much, it makes him want to take her to the floor and have her again-- and she does not ask him to move, so he stays until he softens. “Darling,” he whispers then. “I’m going to get us a cloth.” He has desires, but he has mastered himself.

But she mumbles “No. Hold me.”

So when he pulls out as not to slip from her, he simply sits down and pulls her with him, right down into his messy lap. There’s not a breath between the time they land and her turning so she can snuggle his chest. He strokes her hair and kisses her cheeks and nose and tells her what a marvel she is. She is all pliant affection, touching his arms, kissing his jaw, raising a love welt on his shoulder... reaching to stroke him gently, experimentally, just like she did when they were on the steps.

He has mastered himself, but not as well or fully as she has.

He pulls over their clothes and lays her out on top of them on the temple floor so he can join their bodies yet again, unhurried. They have the time for slow lovemaking in this life, and the grace. Her knees frame him as he moves and he cannot help but kiss one and then the other, reveling in her laughter (when he tickles her ribs, she tightens deliciously around him) as much as in her love. They lay together for a long time after that, cool and lazy in the quiet. When the rain is replaced by the first note of tentative birdsong, they know they should move in case someone comes to the temple. Despite the afternoon, they are a cautious couple by nature.

He attempts to clean her with their clothes, and carries her to their room to rest more comfortably. Her hair clings to the idea of a braid, but much of it is loose and floats about his arms in the sodden air. There is a satisfied tilt to her mouth when he helps her sit, and as he moves behind her the last he sees of her face is her smile curving deeper. He settles his robe over her shoulders and combs his fingers through her hair to ward off tangles. When he is finished, he replaits her hair and kisses the ribbon, then her mouth. She shakes her head, hiding her mouth and making him chase it. His rewards are sleepy giggles, enchantingly low, every time he catches her.

Several kisses later, he redresses and leaves for the kitchen to make them a simple meal. He delights in feeding her by hand as soon as he returns, because their closeness makes him feel whole and doting on her feels right. They stay near as they bathe, and then they go back to bed. It is early, but they will need to start early tomorrow to make up for the time they spent not working this afternoon. They have earned their sleep. He wonders if he will have the dream again.

Tucked into their bedding, she is in his arms, not yet dreaming herself. “Darling,” he says quietly into her hair, and murmurs love until she turns to kiss him sweetly and tells him to go to sleep.

He does have the dream. It is the most wonderful dream yet.

“Chichi-ue!” The voice is high and happy. It is coming from behind him, so he must turn away from the sight of his wife with a baby at her breast. Before he can see the little one who called him-- called him chichi-ue, his child-- the dream shifts and his wife is with an older child, tasting broth and listening patiently as the child recites ingredients. Then his wife is with two children, each holding one of her hands as they turn on the bend of the path to their home, and the smallest lets go of her to run to him. Their faces are all obscured by a sudden cloud of mountain dandelion seeds borne on the wind... all he can see are healthy little legs and feet in clean sandals, slapping against the ground as fast as they possibly can. The movement becomes a child’s hand with a brush, marvelously steady and precise. The same hand around a cluster of flower stems. Scraped knees and palms and little puffs of breath between shrieks and giggles as tears are soothed away. Two voices laughing over the plunking sound of skipped river stones ending their flights, and he recognizes the stream where they stand. The face and voice of the herbalist in the village, kindly telling them to be patient and then whispering something they might try. Four simple bowls, mismatched but meant to be together, set around a table. He can see this scene over his own shoulder, hears those same two voices dutifully expressing gratitude for their meal. The sounds change as his dream gives him the voices at different pitches through time, thankful for their rice, fish, vegetables; the bowls stay on the table, the food in them changing in dizzying whirls of color until he wakes.

“Good morning,” says his wife, in the voice she can only use for the first words of the day. Quiet and deep as a hidden pool. “I love you.”

He reaches to stroke her cheek, and tells her about the dream at last. She tells him her dreams, too.

Exhausted but awake, awed and unsure, he holds his son for the first time in the crook of his better arm. All of him shakes, because he is weeping at the perfect newness of this child. The baby, so unhappy with the village woman who came to help with the birth, settles into his father like poetry, and closes sweet dark eyes, and yawns flawlessly. They way the baby’s tongue trembles reminds him of a stretching cat. Master Tenkai of the mountain cannot look away. There is so much to see, and there is something about gazing at this tiny face, shifting magically from pinched to peaceful, that shows him the virtue of disregarding time completely. He should know it for what it is: another effort by man to control what he cannot. Everything that marks time in a human way can be broken. The sun rises no matter what people do in the night.

One of the temple cats senses a fellow creature and leans up to sniff at the baby. The baby’s father is happy to share the sight. The cat noses at the baby’s plumpness and then slinks off, but Tenkai stays where he sits, holding his son beside the bedding where the baby’s mother is gazing at them both with a tired, happy expression on her beautiful face. Her hair has all come loose from its ribbon. The woman from the village said it was an easy birth, but it certainly took its time. At the end, they have their perfect son, and she is alright. Everything is alright. The greatest challenge facing them at the moment is that he will have to learn to braid one-handed. He chuckles to himself and the baby blinks, then settles.

He will never hold a sword again. Whatever time may be, it feels like he made his peace with a more important truth a very long time ago, perhaps in another life entirely, and had only to relearn it. To hold his woman, and child, and the other he believes will join then... that is more than enough for the warrior who was once Mitsuhide, who became Master Tenkai of the mountain. All else may come and go. He will treat everything with respect, and allow all that is temporary to leave his hand like water. His family, permanent and indescribably precious, is the only thing that he will never, ever give up.