#I never do this split artworks like this

[klayr-de-gall]

Prince/Knight AU

Makoto might have lost the tournament, but he won over the prince

---

My gift for @tonfeanotfound for Nanase Haruka Birthday Exchange 2023 hosted by @nanaseharukabirthdayexchange !

I hope you like it! I wanted to do a little something funny for the "Historical AU" prompt you gave, but it totally ran away from me. Hope you like it anyway!

I had a ton of fun with this artwork. You miiiiight be able to tell with the amount of detail XD Also, thanks to the Admins for putting together such a lovely gift exchange!

[astraystayyh]

Starry night.

in which you and hyune fall in love through paintings.

idol!hyunjin x museum guide!reader. love at first sight, kinda. both mc and hyune are romantics.. lots of art analysis and conversations. very fluffy and soft. like so soft i hurt myself with this you guys.

all the info about Vincent Van Gogh’s life and works are from the Van Gogh Museum. the interpretations are my own but im not an art critic, obvi, just a yearner 💔 please enjoy, feedback is highly appreciated 💞

thank you to the lovely reader who commissioned me!!!! the money went to our stayblr fundraiser for palestine. please consider donating if you are able too as well <3333

“You’ll be able to do it, right?” Your manager Martin looks at you expectantly, and you blink slowly in response. It, referring to leading a private tour of the Van Gogh exhibition.

You’ve been a museum guide in New York for four months now. When you’re not painting, you’re here, amidst the array of artworks nestled in a quaint street near East River. You’ve led group tours before, always under the watchful eye of Martin, a middle-aged man who never forgets to bring you a vanilla bourbon macaron every morning.

However, you’ve never handled a private tour before. You see the desperation in Martin’s eyes as he awaits your answer—he’s the one who usually handles these tours, but he has urgent family matters to suddenly attend to.

You blink again, your tongue unknotting in a split second. “I’d be happy to,” you beam. The exhibition feels like a second home to you; you’ve visited it countless times long before you started working here.

Martin heaves a sigh of relief, smiling back at you. “I believe in you,” he reassures, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Remember why I chose you.”

You grin at his words, nodding vigorously. Your love for art brought you here; your very being seems molded to breathe in paintings and live among them. It’s as sweet a life as it can get.

“You’ll find all the details about our guest in our log. He’s famous, so he’ll be a bit discreet. He’ll expect you to be too,” he explains, hurriedly packing his things. You nod, taking the keys to the art gallery from his hand.

“Don’t worry, the gallery is safe in my hands.”

“I know,” he says with a comforting smile, before finally waving goodbye. You take a deep breath and check the booking for tonight’s exhibition—Hwang Hyunjin.

The name is unfamiliar to you, and so is the face that greets you at 8 p.m. sharp—at least, what you can see of it. He’s wearing a navy cap and a face mask, with a varsity jacket sitting perfectly atop his broad shoulders. He looks young, roughly your age.

“Hi, welcome to our Van Gogh exhibition,” you greet him with a grin. He bows slightly in response.

“No one’s here, so you can remove your mask if you wish. I can take your bag as well,” you offer with a smile. He nods and hands you his black duffel bag, which you quickly pass to the security guard, who places it inside a safe cabinet.

Hyunjin removes his Versace cap, running a hand through his silky black hair. There is an aura of assurance around him, as if he’s poised before a camera in a professional photoshoot. But then, a shy smile appears on his face as he finally removes his face mask, his eyes glinting beneath the golden lighting.

You feel your breath catch in your throat; for a split second, the world around you seems to still, the paintings dimming before the beautiful face in front of you.

“Right,” you clear your throat, “shall we?”

Hyunjin nods, falling easily into step with you. You pause before the first painting, ‘Woman with a Child on her Lap’, 1883.

“This is rumored to be about Sien Hoornik, who became both Vincent’s lover and model. She was a former prostitute, pregnant at the time, and had a five-year-old daughter. Vincent was determined to help her through her hardships, and they dated for a year and a half. But then, he broke it off because he said she was too far gone to be saved.”

Hyunjin nods, his eyes fixated on the painting, his head tilted slightly to the side. “The eyes are telling,” he speaks for the first time, and his voice floods your being like dewdrops reviving flowers at dawn. It is smooth and soft, the end of his words getting lost in the air and caught by your heart.

“The way the mother and daughter look at each other, I mean.” He clarifies, stealing a fleeting glance at you. “There is disdain on the mother’s face, but more toward herself, I think. Maybe because she sees her reflection in her daughter.”

Groups usually scurry past this painting, eager to see Vincent’s more renowned works. You feel your heart soften at how much he seems to be thinking about it, lost in his own world. You’re not even sure he remembers you’re there.

“Vincent was really determined to help her, although his brother Theo disapproved. His parents did too.”

“Isn’t that what love is? To hold someone’s hand even if everyone tells you to let go,” he mutters quietly, his eyes still lost in the painting. A hue of vulnerability colors his words before he clears his throat, as if unwittingly revealing his inner thoughts.

“That’s a beautiful way to view it,” you smile, and he nods, shyly biting his lower lip. For some odd reason, his timidity stirs something unfamiliarly tender within your heart.

You walk over to the next set of paintings. “When Vincent moved to Paris, you can see how his style developed. He let go of the darker tones he used in his infamous ‘The Potato Eaters’ and began using lighter colors, like here,” you explain, pointing to ‘The Hill of Montmartre with Stone Quarry’.

“Do you think it’s because he was happier?” he suddenly asks, and you frown slightly. “Pardon?”

“The shift to lighter colors. ‘The Potato Eaters’ is so sorrowful and shrouded in darkness. ‘The Hill’ is much more colorful, lighter, you know?” His eyes glide to yours, a twinkle of curiosity glimmering in them.

“Vincent did flourish in Paris. For once, he was in the same city as his brother Theo, whom he loved dearly. But he was mainly influenced by modern art, which uses much lighter colors than his previous works. Art critics usually attribute this change in the influence of his contemporaries, such as—”

“But what do you think?” he interrupts softly, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are penetrating, and you find yourself lost in the seas of emotion they contain.

You quiet down, licking your lips tentatively. No one has ever asked for your opinion on these tours before.

“Well,” you begin slowly, “I think it’s possible. Being around his brother and other artists who embraced brighter palettes could have uplifted his spirit. But also, maybe the light colors were his way of reaching for happiness, even if he didn’t always feel it. Art often mirrors our hopes as much as our realities.”

Hyunjin listens intently, a thoughtful look on his face. “I agree,” he finally says, smiling sincerely. You don’t know why the sight of his grin renders your brain putty, like melted ice cream under the kind sunrays.

“His use of lighter colors continued when he moved to the south of France. He was delighted with the bright colors in Arles, painting orchards in blossom and workers gathering the harvest,” you explain, pointing to the respective paintings.

“That’s when he told his brother that he wanted to open a studio for fellow painters. He wrote in a letter the following: 'you always lose when you’re isolated.' He sent out many invitations, but only one painter agreed to come.”

“Paul Gauguin,” Hyunjin swiftly replies.

“Exactly. He was the first and last painter to move in with Vincent.”

“It seemed like the more he tried to escape loneliness, the more it found him,” Hyunjin muses, his eyes fixed on ‘Portrait of Gauguin’ by Vincent. The bright colors he asked you about earlier make you wonder if, beneath the spotlight, Hyunjin too feels lonely.

“Sometimes loneliness becomes a friend. You have to make room for it to allow other things to come in,” you say softly.

“It’s sad how nothing good came out of that roommate situation, though” he frowns, and you nod in agreement.

“Paul and Vincent were very different. They had a lot of eclectic views that often led to disagreements. I assume you know their most prominent one.”

“Yes, when Vincent cut off his ear.”

“Correct, he then wrapped it in newspaper and presented it to a prostitute in the nearby red-light district.”

“A prostitute…” Hyunjin muses, his thumb swiping slightly across his lower lip. “It seems like phantoms of his first love found him again. Even in his most disoriented state, he somehow remembered her.”

“You speak of love beautifully,” you suddenly say, before biting your tongue harshly, instantly regretting your words. But Hyunjin’s eyes seem to soften as he gazes at you, the warm light dancing across his pupils.

“It is a beautiful feeling.”

“Only to those who have beautiful souls,” you speak earnestly, and your words seem to morph into brushstrokes, painting the gallery in hues of red. Intimate, soft, too intimate all of the sudden.

“Vincent’s mental health rapidly declined, and he put himself back into the mental asylum,” you quickly clear your throat, though you can still feel Hyunjin’s eyes on you, not the painting. “Still, that’s when he created some of his most famous artworks, like ‘The Starry Night’. He was inspired by the view from the asylum’s window. It’s dominated by vivid yellow and blue, and the colors and paint seem to describe a world outside the artwork itself.”

“It’s breathtaking,” Hyunjin marvels, lost in the painting, leaning in until his nose almost brushes the canvas.

You suppress a giggle, but your laughter fades as you take in the mole right by his jaw, then the one by his neck. The delicateness of his face, the plumpness of his lips, and the curve of his lashes.

He’s beautiful. The painting could seep him in and he’d fit right in with the silver stars. Outshining them too, surely.

“I really liked the tour,” he smiles, nearly two hours of lazy strolls later. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” you grin back, grabbing his outstretched hand. His fingers wrap around yours slowly, deliberately, as if on a mission to ignite your nerve endings. To set your soul ablaze with his palm alone.

His hand holds yours for a few seconds longer than necessary. Your blush mirrors his when he finally lets go.

He quickly bows again, grabbing his bag from his manager, who was waiting by the door. He almost bumps into the handle on his way out, and you let out an endeared chuckle, your eyes lingering on his figure until he disappears into his black van.

You think you'll never see him again, two lines crossing serendipitously at one point, never to cross paths once more. The thought sends a pang of sorrow latching onto your heart, before you quickly brush it away.

But then you do see him again, the very following night, at that.

It is near nine p.m. when Martin exclaims suddenly, “Mr. Hwang!” and you freeze in your place, book guide in hand.

It has been exactly twenty-four hours since you last saw Hyunjin, but when his voice softly echoes through the art gallery, it feels like a lifelong ache finally soothed.

“Please, call me Hyunjin,” he says, shaking Martin’s hand, though his eyes quickly find yours. They stay on you, unmoving yet tender, like a cotton blanket draped over your being.

“How was the tour with Miss Yn?”

“Ah—“ his gaze finally drifts away from yours. “Yes, it was really nice. That's why I came again,” he explains, a touch sheepishly, and your quizzical eyes meet Martin’s.

“Hyunjin booked another private tour. He specifically requested you to be his guide,” Martin explains, and your eyes widen in shock. You don’t have time to reply because your manager quickly scurries away. “I’ll leave you two then. Have fun!”

You wait until Martin disappears into his office before turning to Hyunjin, who avoids your gaze, one hand deep in his pocket, moving side to side. You remain silent for a few moments, simply admiring the side of his face. You’ve always had a deep appreciation for art running through your veins, after all.

“Hi,” he finally says, his eyes quickly meeting yours. You can’t stop the smile that floods your face, coating every nook and cranny of your features.

“You came back,” you say with a breathy giggle.

“Mm,” he instantly grins. “I don’t know when I’ll be back in New York, so I wanted to truly memorize the art here.”

“When are you going home?” you ask as you take his bag again, your eyes taking in his outfit—a green cap this time, a knit vest over a white shirt, and a silver teddy bear necklace nestled perfectly against it. Pretty.

“Tomorrow. We had a tour stop here, and we’ll go back to Seoul now.”

“And you’ll be spending your final night in the city here?” you chuckle slightly, and he shrugs as if it’s the most obvious decision he ever had to make.

“Why not? I think it’s beautiful here.” though his eyes never move to look onto the paintings, gliding across your face instead.

“And I forgot to take pictures yesterday,” he quickly adds, pointing to the camera in his hands.

“I’ll help you then,” you offer, and he smiles so brightly that it renders you speechless, suddenly wondering if the first person who ever drew a portrait had a similar thought—that they saw a smile so beautiful they just needed to immortalize it.

Hyunjin is at ease before the camera. You can tell by the way he almost pretends the device isn’t there, his eyes fixed on the paintings, mere centimeters away from the canvas. He’s whisked away into another world. You see your love for art mirrored in his soul as well.

“Do you paint, by any chance?” you ask between pictures, and he nods.

“Whenever I have free time. And you?”

“I do. I can show you later, if you’d like.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says, pointing his finger at you, before looking directly into the camera this time. “I’ve been painting magnolias lately.”

“Really? Why magnolias specifically?”

“I read a poem about them. It said that when magnolias wither, they aren’t considered beautiful anymore. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t at one point. It really moved me.”

“You have to be very optimistic to view it that way,” you say as you finally hand him the camera, satisfied with your pictures. You are both standing in front of ‘Almond Blossom,’ the pastel colors drawing you in.

“Withering flowers mean that at one point they were in full bloom. Grief means that at one point you did love,” you muse. “It takes a lot of gentleness to find beauty in endings, to celebrate them as proof of what once was. Don’t you think so?”

You turn to look at him when the flash of a camera catches you off guard.

Hyunjin looks at your picture, a soft smile on his face. “You fit right in with the flowers,” he compliments, though it does not feel superfluous or bearing a hidden intent. It’s a simple observation he wished to share.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, a blush sprouting from your very veins. You quickly fix your posture, pointing to the painting. “I told you yesterday that Vincent painted this for his brother Theo, to celebrate his newborn, whom he named after Vincent.”

“Yes, I remember,” he nods, slinging the camera over his neck and taking a picture of the painting up close. “It seemed to bring Vincent a lot of solace in his final days.”

“I’ve been thinking about your question, whether Vincent was happy. I think he was hopeful more than anything. He had hoped his works would be recognized, he had hoped he wouldn’t be as lonely anymore. Sometimes hope keeps you going much more than happiness.”

“Because happiness will eventually wear off?”

“Right, it’s only natural. But hope… it’s like a flame that never goes out. It might flicker and dim, but it will still be there on your darkest nights.” You bite your lip slightly, your thumb digging into your palm.

“I hope you’ll always have hope in your life, Hyunjin. You’ve been my favorite person to talk about Vincent with,” you say sincerely, your eyes unwavering from his.

You imprint the way his gaze softens into your mind, the slight blush that powders his cheeks, the way his teeth peek behind his smile. You memorize his velvety voice in your mind, the way he accentuates certain letters and how it pulls at the strings of your heart when he says—“I’m very happy I met you, Yn.”

May is gone, and with it Hyunjin, and you think you are a fool for thinking of him as often as you do after only five hours in his presence. You don’t know why your mind is permeated with his essence. But why wouldn’t it be? is the better question. When he’s beautiful, truly, body and soul.

You feel slightly less foolish when a postcard is delivered to your exhibition on a sunny Saturday, one month later. It depicts the front entrance of the Museum of Modern Art in Seoul.

June 13.

“yn,

i saw Vincent’s works once again in this month’s exhibition. somehow they seem less beautiful without our conversations.

i hope you’re surrounded by art, too.

hyunjin.”

June 23.

“hyunjin,

i visited claude monet’s immersive exhibition, you have to visit it as well, once you’re back in new york.

i am still surrounded by art, as always. i don’t think i could ever part from it.

did you finish your magnolias? i hope you’re seeing beauty in them even after they wither.

yn.”

July 5.

“yn,

claude’s works are so different from vincent’s... don’t you think it's beautiful that they lived at the same time yet depicted their world so differently?

my magnolias are finished. i’ve been drawing scenes from your exhibition lately, the picture i took of you is particularly inspiring. i hope you don’t mind.

hyunjin.”

september 26.

“hyunjin,

leaves are falling all over new york. new beginnings are upon us. i hope this view of my window inspires you too.

i wish you happiness no matter the season.

yn.”

october 7.

“yn,

i just saw the first snow at dawn, it was such a pretty view! i’m happy i’m alive today.

i hope snow reaches you fast enough, too.

stay warm.

with love,

hyunjin.”

october 23.

“hyunjin,

i’ve always preferred spring, but snow brought me such a happy opportunity. i’m invited to an exhibition in seoul, next month!

i’ll enjoy it well and think of our conversations.

with love,

yn.”

october 5.

“yn,

the weather is beautiful in seoul lately. i’m happy you’ll be here to see it.

it is late at night, and the moon is shining brightly. i hope it’ll shine as brightly for you too, in new york.

with love,

yours.”

The click of your black heels against the marble floors echoes through the museum, a comforting sound as you stroll through the immersive Vincent exhibition; now gracing Seoul. The colors wash over you, reflecting off your skin, swirling around you until you feel as though you’re being drawn into the very heart of the paintings.

“Enjoying the art, Yn?” a voice like honey drips across your being. Your heart skips a beat, plummets to your knees and races back to its place once again. You feel an ache inside you unfold. memories of Hyunjin’s voice rewriting themselves, perfecting your recollection of his accent and the tender way in which he spoke your name.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, though you refuse to turn around and meet his eyes. Not yet. The scent of his rose perfume is enough to have your heart rattling against your ribcage— a bird wishing to escape its cage and deliver your love letter to its rightful owner.

“Isn’t it an amazing coincidence we met here? In Seoul, no less,” he says, his voice airy as he inches closer.

“I know you’re the one who invited me,” you giggle, finally turning to meet his gaze. His eyes widen slightly before morphing into crescents, as if lifted from Vincent’s Starry Night.

“How did you know? I thought I kept it a secret in our postcards,” he grins sheepishly.

“I kept pestering Mr. Martin about why the museum invited me specifically until he finally told me you were behind it.”

“Well,” he licks his lips, his eyes roaming over your face. “I admit, I missed you. I wanted to see you again. And I happen to be a major contributor to the museum.”

“Fancy,” you beam, before your grin morphs to something much softer, as you realize that you are away from your work, and that the Hyunjin of your postcards is finally before you.

“I missed you too. Show me around?”

“Am I your guide now?”

“Mm. I expect you to be an expert.”

“Oh, I am.”

Hyunjin speaks of the paintings as if it’s his first time seeing them, finding new things to admire, new details to point out to you. You find it hard to keep up, only because your eyes seem more interested in observing him. You’ll tell him later that you were right in thinking he’d make every painting more mesmerizing.

But for now, you stroll together, his hand brushing against yours every now and then. Before long, you’re far from the museum, walking into the chilly Seoul night, his jacket draped over your shoulders.

And you talk, you talk about every painting you’ve seen since his departure, the flowers you’ve picked, and the strawberry field you visited at the end of June. He shares stories of his favorite painters and his beloved dog, Kkami, whom he misses dearly. He speaks of the moon and how your postcards lessened his loneliness. You tell him you’ve kept every card by your bedside, the first and last thing you see each day.

Suddenly your pinky is entwined with his, your cheeks ache from how much you’ve spoken and laughed, your heart lighter than it had ever been.

“Thank you for walking me to my hotel,” you smile softly.

He nods, his thumb swiping across your palm tenderly. It’s only after a while that he speaks again. “I know you said that happiness wears off eventually. But right now, the happiness i feel… I think it will last me for the next four months, at least.”

“Just four months?” you tease, and he giggles, tipping his head back. You wish you had your paintbrushes, your camera, a simple pen, anything to commit his laugh into something tangible.

“For a long time,” he finally says, quietly, resigned. Tomorrow’s flight ticket makes your heart ache, all of the sudden.

“I… I’ll get going. Thank you for inviting me,” you smile, dropping his hand. You know it’ll hurt the more you hold it, the easier it’d be for you to remember the softness of his hand.

So you walk back, you’re near the hotel door, a hand suddenly wraps around your wrist, the security guards both discreetly look away.

“Yn,” Hyunjin turns you around, his eyes are as wide as the full moon hanging close to earth, listening in to your conversation.

“You didn’t- you didn’t show me your paintings.” he says a bit too quickly, desperately.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“Back in New York, you promised to show me your paintings. You didn’t.”

“You remember?”

Hyunjin's chest heaves in response, his warm palms cradle your cheeks, his eyes speak of a yearning you haven’t thought existed. When his lips crash upon yours, fervently, passionately, like the collision of all stars in Starry Night, you have your answer.

He remembered. He remembered as much as you.

Epilogue— seven months later.

“Now… next question,” Hyunjin grins as he takes out a folded paper from a glass jar, five sets of camera’s all pointed at him in the shooting set of Elle Korea.

“If you could feel only one emotion for the rest of your life, what would you choose?”

Hyunjin puts the paper down, adjusts the sleeves of his Versace blue silk shirt. He doesn’t need to think too much to answer— he already has his reply.

“Someone told me, a long time ago, that hope keeps you going longer than happiness. Because happiness wears off eventually. But hope doesn’t. hope is like a flickering flame, it surges and it dims, but it doesn’t go out, so I choose hope.” he smiles suddenly, eyes looking into those of the staff behind the camera.

“That got deep all of the sudden, right? Done worry, Stay, I have hope, happiness and love, all at once.”

He chuckles quietly, picking up the last piece of paper.

“Finally… who’s your favorite painter? Ah, easy, it’s Vincent Van Gogh.”

“What's your favorite painting by him?” the shooting director asks behind the camera, his eyes fixate on the lens. He knows his love will be watching.

“A woman with a child on her lap. It’s not very known, but… if you look into it closely, beautiful things might come into your life and change it forever.”

from left to right, Woman with a Child on her Lap, 1883 — Portrait of Gauguin, 1888— The Potato Eaters, 1885—The Hill of Montmartre with Stone Quarry, 1886— Almond Blossom, 1890— The Starry Night, 1889.

[theorphicangel]

bookshop owner!reader with tattoo artist!suguru is actually brainrotting my mind.

coincidentally, the two stores are directly opposite each other and you can’t help but be drawn to the simple tattoo parlour across.

in bold, the name of the parlour stands above, clean and glistening windows with italic writing promoting to customers. if you squint you can spot artworks displayed in the window, even from afar you can tell how detailed and professional they are.

you’ve never been one for tattoos, your excuse being that you have a low pain tolerance for getting them. but in reality? you’re scared of the idea of a tattoo being permanent , the idea that you’ll get a tattoo you’ll regret or the design will come out ugly or that it’ll—

“do you need help with that?”

a silky voice interrupts your thoughts as you stood staring at the the shop with a cardboard box in your hand. the box contained one of the last piles of books for the store, new arrivals were to come in the next few weeks finally filling up the shelves.

a tall, long raven haired man stands besides you with nothing more but a friendly smile on his face. he stands in a large dark blue sweater, a paper cup of coffee in his hands probably from the local cafe on the same street as you.

it takes you a few seconds to snap back into reality, noticing piercings on his bottom lip and eyebrow.

“I’m fine! thank you.”

“I can take that in for you or at least hold the door open.” the stranger suggests, raising a brow.

a shift appears in pit of your stomach — would it hurt to say yes?

“that would be great, actually.” you return a friendly smile.

as you make your way inside with the assistance of the coffee scented stranger, he begins to make conversation, helping you to the back rooms. “you interested in the tattoo shop across the road?”

you let out a huff, “oh no, not for me. tattoos seem…” you pause for a split second attempting to find the right word, “regretful.”

“how so?”

you ignore the teasing charm of the stranger and continue to give your explanation.

“well for one… it hurts like shit.” you start, “and what if the designs don’t come out the way you want or the person tattooing you messes up? now you’re stuck with this permanent mark on your body, it just seems like a waste of time and money to me anyways.” you huff, finally placing down the box amongst a pile of identical boxes.

the scent of old wood and dust fills your nostrils. The building was older than most among the street yet it still held some sort of modern look. cosy and comfortable was the atmosphere you had wanted to create for your bookstore and it took you ages to find this hidden gem, sending the deposit almost immediately.

the stranger lingers by the doorway of the back room of the store, his dark hair tied up into a man-bun yet it doesn’t fully restrain the few locks which seem to escape. he’s pretty, you muse, as he opens his mouth to speak again.

“maybe this would be some bad news for you but I actually own that tattoo parlour.”

he says it in a lighthearted tone but that doesn’t stop your stomach from dropping any harder.

“oh.”

awkward silence swiftly crashes into the two of you, your face heats up in record time.

you fucking idiot—

“it’s nice to meet you.” the stranger finally speaks, outstretching a hand and as he does so, his sweater rides up his arms a little where you see black ink begin to pattern across his skin.

“shit, m’ so—

“don’t worry about it, s’ not for everyone.” he smiles again with that friendly smile you saw outside. you shake his hand tentatively hoping that he wasn’t offended by your comments. his palm feels soft in yours, fitting into his perfectly. quickly you pull away before you get too absorbed in your thoughts.

“call me suguru.”

you repeat his name and for a second he swears there’s nothing but pure nectar in your voice.

in a reply you introduce yourself and a flash of white teeth come your way in a full grin. he tries out your name for the first time too, adding a compliment.

“I’ve been wondering when they were finally going to sell this building. ” he begins. “I think a bookstore is perfect for this place.”

your face heats up again and Suguru asks for a tour. the store isn’t fully ready yet but you’re hoping for an opening at the end of the month.

“I hope to get an invite.

“Of course, we’re practically neighbours, you’ll be the first to know the date.”

“glad to hear it.”

as he leaves, you wave him over to the other side of the street watching him open up his store.

for the first time in your journey you can’t help but feel a tiny spark inside of you that makes you feel excited for the change coming up ahead and in particular, getting to know this suguru more…

join my summer event here!

[jarofstyles]

Let It Burn

Hey….. now this is unhinged and dark but I figured why not give you a bit of crazy H AND Crazy Y/N 🤭

Check out our Patreon for early access and 180+ exclusive writings

WC- 2.5k

Warnings: whew… dark Harry and dark y/n, toxic relationship and other elements, mention of murder, blood, mention of an abuser (not h), theft, they are not stable lol, breeding kink, rougher sex, tattoos, a hint of anal… it’s a ride :-)

Obviously this does not depict any real people or events!

Artwork is not mine, credit to owner

———

“Did you find him?” Fingers slid over the back of his wrist, alerting him to the woman’s presence behind him. “Look surprised to see me.”

Following instruction, he put on a believable show of raising his eyebrows, letting the smile take over his face before he brought her in for a hug. Playing a role was something the both of them felt increasingly comfortable in each and every time they did it. It should be habit by now, 3 years into it.

“I did. He’s down here, red tie in the second booth to the right.” A stealthy swipe of the button of her purse, he slipped the key inside of her bag. “It should be clear when you go up there. The combination for the safe is in your notes app.” Returning to full height, he leaned his hip against the bar. His voice spoke clearly now, letting the bartender overhear his words.

“It’s been so long since we caught up, hasn’t it? How have you been?” He flagged the man down, giving a charming smile. “Can we get the lady a vodka sprite, please? Thank you.”

“It’s been ages, hasn’t it?” She giggled, playfully swatting his chest. Like they hadn’t seen each other naked in the rumpled sheets of the bed just this morning before splitting up in order to achieve the goal they’d been working towards. “I’m so glad you reached out. I didn’t know you’d be in town.”

Creating an alibi wasn’t really difficult, all things considered.

In all fairness, so was this life of crime. The natural skills they possessed had led them to this moment, led them to one another and bonded them at the seams. A couple infamous and yet unknown, their stories told all around. The wealthy clutched their pearls at their names while sitting at the same tables as them, sharing appetizers. It gave them a sick sense of satisfaction each and every time.

“It was a bit of a surprise. I had hoped you’d still be here.” He moved a bit closer, letting the heat sizzle between the both of them. It was always like this before they completed their goal. ¾ths of the way there, their finish line was so close they could almost taste it. “We do have some history, hm?” Biting his lip, he stroked over her hip. It was always difficult for him to keep his hands off of her- his one true weakness.

“Oh, stop.” She let out another fake giggle and pushed his chest. It took everything in him not to laugh too, considering she was definitely milking it now. Realistically no one was probably listening in to their conversation, but if they were? They didn’t want to leave any room for questioning. “We do. And you know… it’s been a long time considering I’ve been divorced.”

“Oh?” A roleplay of sorts. Harry always leaned into these, smirking down at her. The sparkly eyeshadow glimmered in the low light of the bar, mascara coating her lashes with a slight smudge on her lowe lashline- giving him a glimpse of his future. He loved when she got all dressed up just for him to ruin her. Make a whole different idea of art on her face. “Well, I did hear that through the grapevine. I was hoping you’d be single again.”

Y/N shivered at his gaze. Just one look and he could eat her alive, they both knew it. They were each other's world. Their only weaknesses. A package deal since the day they’d met, there had never been a connection quite as strong as theirs and they both knew not to take it for granted.

In reality, if Y/N wasn’t single it wouldn’t matter to Harry. He’d claim her anyway. Take her again and again in the same bed her husband slept in if need be, because there was no universe that they wanted to exist in that they didn’t belong to one another. It was something a psychologist would probably deem unhealthy, but considering their professions and personalities, they didn’t plan on seeing any of them anytime soon.

“Well I am.” Running a manicured finger down his chest, she stepped into his space. Not uncommon for bar spaces, people getting closer and alluding to what would happen once they reached privacy. “Are you interested?” The coy look through her lashes went straight to his cock, a reminder of the night they’d met. It had been instantaneous, like a moth to a flame. No one else existed in the room once they’d caught eyes for each other, but they played cat and mouse in their banter. It had ended in her coming to Harry’s place and never leaving his side.

His playboy days ended the day they met. No other cunt would feel as good as hers, no one would moan as pretty, and certainly no one would be as filthy as she was. Letting the passion overrun them, letting her nails dig into his back and opening her mouth for his spit, he had met his match in the back of his car where round one of four that night had happened. Meeting each other, kissing, fucking, being partners in crime? It just made sense.

“More than.” The energy crackled between them, igniting his stomach as she brought the little red straw between her lips and sipped on the drink. “I’ve got a room, if you want to go talk up there. It would be a bit more….’comfortable.” And he did have a room-

One booked under a fake name, under a fake identity that wouldn’t be traced back to them. But they both knew Y/N wasn’t going to go straight to his room.

“I think I’d enjoy that. Will you pay the bill so we can go?” Dragging her French tipped claws down his pale skin and tiny thatch of chest hair, she sent the saucy smile up at him before letting her eyes fall down to his lips. “It’s a bit too cold down here for me. I think I’m going to warm up.”

“Go ahead, Angel.” He nodded. “Room 308, when you’re done.”

——

“You are so fucking sexy.” Harry panted, the bag of jewels and cash off to the side. His hands were too busy running over the arch of her back as she ground herself over his lap, fingers tugging his belt off.

“Yeah? How sexy am I?” She purred, head falling back as his lips ran over her sensitive throat. Teeth grazed it, making her inhale sharply before working harder to get him out of his damn trousers.

“The most beautiful… alluring… sexy…. Sensual… evil woman I’ve ever come across.” His words were kissed into the skin, both palms finding her ass and dragging her dress up to bunch over her waist. “And I own you. You belong t’me. You’re never getting away from me.”

The promise would probably turn most people off, make them scramble off his lap and ask what he meant- but for Y/N, it only made her more aroused. Being reminded that there was nothing and no one that would come between the both of them was reassuring, a welcome sensation as she managed to fish him out of his pants. “Fuck me then. Prove it.” Her taunts always worked. Y/N knew how to push his buttons, as he did hers, no surprise in when he flipped them over and pinned her down, giving little time to prepare before lining himself up with her cunt and pushing in.

The groan between the both of them was loud, but their frantic need was overcoming the need to be quiet. “Fuck you?” He cooed. “Every time I’m inside of you… I-own-you.” The last sentiment was emphasized by thrusts that jostled her body. Her toes curled as her legs fastened against his lips, the feral smile on her face growing as the hand not holding her wrists together ripped the top of her dress down to expose her tits.

“Yes, you do.” She hiccuped. “And I own you. You’re mine, and you’re so….” Her words stuttered as each deep thrust got into her stomach. “You’re so obsessed with me. You’ll never let me g-go.” Her last sentence was hissed out. “I won’t let you.”

“Never.” He snarled, rutting into her poor cunt like he was crazed. He sort of was, to be honest. Every time they did another little mission, he got increasingly turned on afterwards. Knowing they pulled it off, they they were richer, that unstoppable feeling only made his cock harder and his need more desperate each and every time. “Never going to let you go. I’d kill someone before letting you go…” he let out a crazed laugh, connecting their mouths for another kiss. “I have, haven’t I? Fucked you with their blood on my hands and you fucking loved it, you crazy bitch.” The word wasn’t an insult, but the highest praise.

Y/N moaned, nodding at the accusation. There was no way either of them were sane, not in the slightest, but they were smart. They were practiced and cunning and no one had a clue who they were. Equal obsession with one another had only resulted in a secret empire of wealth and blood that they would be craving forever.

“I did. I love when you’re mean.” Her cunt was slick and hot, clenching around him as he thrust into her with a fervor that was only matched after their missions. “I love when you hurt people for me, Sir. I love when you fuck me in their blood, I love when you-“ her neck fell back and she arched her body as he shifted and hit the spot she had been waiting for. “Oh- fuck. I love you.”

“Yeah, you do. You love me so much, don't you? Think it even compares to how much I love you…” the man panted. “Got your name tattooed right above my cock so you can see that you own it. Get it wet with your cream every fucking time….” He wrapped his fingers around her waist, pulling out momentarily to flip her over. “Let me see it- let me fucking see it.”

Y/N’s face buried in the mattress, she shakily put her hand back to ride up the dress and show the stamp above her ass marking his name. “That, Sir?” She cooed, knowing it was exactly what he wanted to see. The script that marked her ass as his as he fucked into her weeping hole, his intensity moving up as she felt his thumb trace the outline of it.

“Yeah- that’s what I want. Never going to forget who you belong to, hm? Who owns your heart, your body, your soul. M’nothing without you.” His tone darkened, spreading her ass open and spitting over her hole and pressing his thumb inside. “You’re never allowed t’leave me. I’ll follow you anywhere, I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you. There’s nothing I want without you.”

As toxic as the words were, it sent her over the edge. Hand slamming against the duvet, curling her fingers into it as she sobbed out his name, the white hot pleasure rushed over her body and shook her core. Slick dripping from her cunt and both holes clenching around the intrusions, she felt her eyes roll back as the bullying of her pussy continue.

“That’s my girl. Cum around my cock again.” He commanded. “Can’t fuckin’ wait until I can knock you up. Want you full of my babies, all the fuckin’ time.” Considering their lifestyle the babies had to be put on pause until they amassed enough wealth to feel comfortable stopping full time, but Harry had been dreaming about getting her connected to him in that way for ages. “Full of me. My cum is good, but it isn’t enough. Need to own you that way.” He was crazy, yes, but he loved her.

“Soon.” She gasped, feeling as his thrusts got harder. That talk always made him more aroused, and based off of the pulsing she felt inside of her it wouldn’t be long. “I’ll let you do anything you want to me. Gonna be the b-best. You’ll take care of us, won’t you?” She panted into the air, face turned to the side as he added another finger into her ass. Her eyes flashed with colors as he pounded into her, surely making her sore for tomorrow but neither of them cared.

“I’ll burn down the world for you.” He promised through his grunts. “For you and our little family. Watch the entire thing go down in flames like that one time…” the first time they’d realized they were as crazy as one another. When he had set the car on fire with her abuser inside of it, and she had kissed him for it. “I’ll do it again, and again, and again… fuck, I love you.” Harry’s voice strained as he felt her clench up around him. “Give it to me, baby. Give me your pleasure. I’m so fucking close.”

They needed to get the fuck out of there before their signal blockers ended and the security team caught on to the looping footage. Before the bastard they’d stolen from realized the riches he had brought with him were gone. But neither of them could stop themselves from making their own fucked up version of love before they finished and got into their getaway car.

Y/N could feel how wet she had gotten him, feel the knot in her belly expand as he bullied that one spot in her channel over and over again, each pound making her get closer and closer to the edge. “H-Harry…” she plead for him, putting a hand back for him to hold. Immediately he took it, squeezing her hand in his own.

“I know, baby. I know, you’re creaming all fucking over me. Let it go. Let me fill you up the way you deserve.” He pleaded, fucking his fingers into her as his cock followed the rhythm. “Give it to me, my perfect girl. My pretty little wife, cum on my cock.” The coaxing was low, the headboard smacking against the wall and the sound of their sex obnoxiously loud as she came.

“Oh- fuck!” The man growled as he felt the splash of her cumming on him- squirting on his cock as he fucked into her, his thrusts getting sloppy. “That’s what I wanted, you dirty slut. I am so in love with you and this perfect pussy… fuck me.” He wheezed, feeling the crest of his orgasm wash over him. “Take it, take it all.” The sloppy thrusts turned into short, rough ones. Fucking his load into her, little grunts leaving his chest as he pretended it could catch.

One day it would, and that would be the day their dangerous fun on the road would be over, and they’d begin their lives all over again.

[gia-d]

Back in October last year, I started reading This is an Adjuration by @not-freyja.

By the time I had made it to chapter 5, I had already started typesetting this story as I read because I knew this would be one of those stories that I needed to have on my shelf.

When I finally caught up to the story at chapter 31, I begged the author to let me bind this when it was finished.

Nearly a year later, and what is probably the most important bind of my life is finally finished. Check out these glamour shots, and if you want to hear more about the actual binding process and about how this fic actually changed my life, see below.

So funny story, before I get into the technical side of this bind, but this fic actually changed my life. Not as in I was greatly emotionally moved by the story, though don't get me wrong I absolutely was, but genuinely this fic introduced me to some of the best people I have ever had to privilege of knowing (Hello Class, you know who you are 🩷), and also, it introduced me to Freyja, the incredibly talented author, who, as I type this, is curled up in bed next to me fast asleep after flying half way around the world to go on a two week long date with me.

Moral of the story folks is comment on the fics you like. You might accidentally meet the love of your life on, and I can't believe I'm saying this, AO3.

Anyways, about the bind!

This bind was a challenge from day 1. I had to do the typeset for this 300k word fic 4 times, and had to split it across 2 volumes. This was the longest fic I have ever attempted to bind, and it was so thick I couldn't get it in the paper trimmer.

To make this book as durable as possible, I attempted a few techniques. I secured it with 3 tapes, I made an Oxford hollow, I rounded the spine, I made a slipcase and I used 2.3mm boards where normally I use 1.8mm.

The slipcase is covered with embossed faux leather, buckram and plain ribbon, and lined with gold satin fabric. I've never made a slipcase before so this was an experience.

The books are covered with an emerald green silk finish bookcloth which really gave the books the luxury they deserved. I foiled custom end papers as well as every chapter title page using heat reactive transfer foil on toner ink (never again I am never doing that again omg it took days). Huge thank you to @la-sera for letting me use her artwork which helped inspire this fic!

The grey flashback chapters I had to use HTV for the border decoration and I'm very happy with how that turned out because it was so easy and straight forward, unfortunately it just wasn't viable for the whole book.

It feels weird to finally have these books done. They have my blood, sweat, tears and my heart poured into them, and I've been working on them for so long that it's odd to actually have them finished. I'm so proud of this bind, and feel like I've grown so much as a fanbinder by making these.

Anyways, if anyone has any questions about the process, please don't hesitate to ask!

(and if you are an Linked Universe fan and haven't read Adjuration yet, this is your sign!)

[hbyrde36]

Chapter 1: Under My Skin

Written for the @strangerthingsreversebigbang

Art (coming soon!) by @glitterfang

Beta'd by @penny00dreadful

Rating: E | WC: 5937 | Chapters: 1/2 | AO3 Link

Not for the first time, Eddie was really regretting his decision to book a client on a Friday night, and a new client at that. 

It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do, exactly. There were no dates on his calendar, and going out to random bars and clubs on the weekends to look for quick hookups had begun losing its appeal lately.

But it’d been a long week, and he’d much rather have been getting ready to plop down on the couch with Chrissy to split a bottle of red wine while they watched Drag Race, than preparing to do a cover up for some idiot who’d gotten his girlfriend’s name tattooed on his body, only to fall victim to—The Curse. 

Ask any tattoo artist and they’d be the first to tell you, there was no surer way to guarantee a breakup than to ink your significant other’s name on your body forever. 

And yeah, it probably wasn’t fair to judge the guy before they’d even met, but there were only two kinds of people who tended to make that particular mistake—dumbasses, and hopeless romantics. He just kind of assumed his client fell into the former camp, rather than the latter.

Eddie had just started wiping down the front desk counter, which doubled as a display case for the various accessories and body jewelry they carried trying to kill some time between his last appointment and cover-up-guy, when Chrissy came walking out of her studio.

It was one of the biggest perks, in his opinion, of owning their own shop. Not only did each of them finally have their own work spaces—no more having to listen to other client conversations or fighting over a single bluetooth speaker—but being their own bosses also meant they could decorate and customize their own studios to their heart’s content. 

The main area of the shop was a bit of a catch-all, much like his and Chrissy’s shared apartment. It featured neutral walls lined with a mishmash of all the things they loved, sprinkled in and amongst odd antiques, knick-knacks, and various pieces of unique artwork. There was everything from vintage vinyl record jackets tacked to the wall, to faux taxidermy mountings of creatures that had never existed in real life. 

Entering Chrissy’s studio was a little like stepping inside a Lisa Frank notebook cover. All vibrant rainbow colors and aggressive animal print. Eddie had painted the walls himself, color matching the exact shade of fuchsia as the adjustable chair he’d custom ordered just for her. He was no interior designer so she’d taken it from there, and though the finished product was a little too bright for his tastes, even he had to admit it was still pretty fucking metal. 

Eddie’s space was the polar opposite, featuring dark stained wood furniture and a style of decor that could be best described as a slightly more grown up version of a teenage boy's bedroom. Band and movie posters lined three of the walls, but instead of being held up with thumbtacks, or scotch tape, they were neatly laid in matching frames with thick black edging. The remaining wall held a gallery of photos. Him and Wayne from their last fishing trip, one from when he and Chrissy had received the keys to the parlor unlocking its doors on the first day that it was theirs, and an old snap of him and his high school bandmates standing in front of their homemade banner, among many others.

It wasn’t until Chrissy came up to lean on the counter with her jacket zipped-up and her purse slung over her shoulder that he realized something was up.

“Don’t forget to lock up when you're done.” She said, tapping her nails on the glass. “Oh! And can you stop and pick up some oat milk on your way home? We’re out.” 

“Wait, where are you going? Didn’t you have a client booked tonight too? I thought we were in this together, Cunningham!”

“Not anymore.” She said cheerfully, leaning across the counter to rest her elbows on the glass, leaving an ink smudge on the exact spot he had just finished cleaning. He swatted at her with the damp rag and she jerked back with a giggling-gasp.

“Mine had to cancel.”

Eddie groaned. “I hate when clients do that.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. It’s like a free night off I wasn’t expecting.”

“Not exactly free, since canceling means not paying in full.” He grumbled.

“Oh lighten up! It’s not like we’re that behind on bills or anything.”

“Tell that to the electric company.” He said, mostly to tease her, though he couldn't help glancing up at the excessively large and kitschy skull chandelier he’d found on Amazon that definitely didn’t use high efficiency light bulbs, but he had sworn at the time was worth it for The Aesthetic™.

“Why are you always so grumpy?” Chrissy asked, jutting her lip out in a dramatic reenactment of him pouting. 

Not that he was one to pout. 

“I’m not!”

“Look at your face, you're grumpy right now!”

“That's because y- you’re…” He cut himself off with a sigh. 

He couldn't begrudge her the time off, he’d be hightailing it out of there just the same if it had been him. 

“Just get out of here.” He said, conceding defeat.

She beamed. “Okay! See you later!” She said, all but sprinting to the front doors. “Don’t forget about the milk!”

“Wait, why can’t you–” He started to ask, but she was on the other side of the door before he could get the words out.

“Oh forget it.” He mumbled, stashing the glass cleaner away where it belonged. 

About fifteen minutes later the bell above the door chimed, signaling the arrival of what Eddie assumed to be his last customer of the day. 

Except, it couldn't be.

It couldn’t possibly be because the Adonis that had just entered his humble tattoo parlor was, quite frankly, bonkers hot. There was no way, absolutely no way someone had this guy—this guy—so obsessed with them that he went and got their name tattooed on his perfect body and then just… let him go. 

It was unthinkable.

“Hi, you must be Eddie. I recognized you from your Instagram.” Pretty-boy said with a shy smile.

“Steve?” Eddie asked, blinking hard, completely unable to mask the tone of disbelief.

The other man nodded.

Shit, okay.

So this was him—Steeeeeeve Harrington. This was the guy. 

Maybe there was something wrong with him? There had to be a catch, a series of very red flags or something because all Eddie could think about at that moment was, if he ever got a chance with Steve? He’d never let him go. 

Get it together, Munson!

The bright side, of a sort, was that Steve smacked of straight guy energy, so it was unlikely Eddie would even be in the running for a chance anyway. Better to just put it out of his mind.

Though, he supposed he could still… look. It's not like looking ever hurt anyone. Not that he made a habit out of ogling the clientele. Of course, none of his other customers had ever come in wearing vintage Levi’s that fit their ass like a glove, not to mention the way they fit around his–

“Eddie?”

Fuck. 

Had Steve been talking this whole time while he’d been off daydreaming about what those sinfully tight jeans might look like on his bedroom floor?

“Yeah.” A soft chuckle fell from Eddie’s lips as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “S- sorry, man. Spaced out for a second there I guess.” 

What the fuck was wrong with him today?!

“It’s okay. I was just asking if the plan was still the same? In your last email you suggested we should do this over two appointments.”

Work question… yes, good. Focus on the job! 

“Right. With what we talked about I'd like to concentrate on just the outline today, maybe a little shading, and then in six weeks or so once that’s healed have you come back for the color. If you’re still alright with that?”

Eddie could do the whole thing in one shot if Steve really wanted to sit that long, but with something like this he didn't want to feel rushed. He’d done a few concept sketches after emailing back and forth with Steve about what he was looking for, and honestly what they’d come up with wasn’t really his usual style. He could do it, he was more than capable, but he had to wonder why Steve had picked him, out of all the tattoo artists in the city. He’d seen Eddie’s Instagram, so he knew the kind of work he usually churned out. Hell, Chrissy would have been the more obvious choice for this.

Of course, now that he’d gotten an eye-full of Steve in person he was glad he hadn’t tried to pawn him off on her. He was also really hoping Steve would agree to the split sessions, it would give them an excuse to see each other again.

“Whatever you think is best. I’m putting myself in your expert hands.” Steve said, a hint of a blush coloring his cheeks.

That was… interesting. 

Maybe Eddie had been a little bit hasty in his initial straight assessment?

Steve’s deposit had been paid, and they’d already gone over pricing through email so there wasn't much to discuss as far as that was concerned, After signing some paperwork and getting the other man’s ID scanned into the system there was nothing left to do but walk Steve back to his studio and get this show on the road.

“You can go ahead and take your shirt off, get comfortable. I’ll show you the stencil I drew up and if it looks good we can put it on and get started.” Eddie said, gesturing to his client chair.

He leaned over his desk while Steve got situated, taking a second to gather his thoughts, as well as add a small finishing touch to the transfer sketch before turning back to his client. The sight made his throat go dry. 

It shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. 

At Eddie's direction, in preparation, Steve had shaved his chest. More specifically, Steve had shaved half of his chest. The side Eddie would be working on, that sported the existing tattoo, was bare—smooth as a baby's bottom. The other side was… 

It was…

Jesus Christ.

It should have looked ridiculous actually, and it was a little funny, but honestly all Eddie could think when he stared at the untrimmed side of Steve's upper body, resplendent with the most glorious chest hair, was that it was a travesty, a crime even, that he’d never get to see the whole thing grown out in its full glory. 

The lack of a shirt also highlighted the fact that Steve was incredibly toned, much more so than he had initially appeared even through his slim fit henley. 

Eddie shook his head, praying it had suddenly become an etch-a-sketch and he could clear out his thoughts by sheer force. 

He truly didn’t know what had gotten into him. It was hardly the first time he’d worked on someone he found attractive, but usually he didn’t notice it quite this much. When you pierce and tattoo for a living you get used to seeing a lot of bare skin, including occasionally, areas typically reserved for romantic partners. Professional hazzard, but it’d never been a problem for him before. He was an artist, this was his craft, and bare skin was just another kind of canvas.

He blamed it on his current dry spell, self-imposed as it was. 

It was easy enough to go out on a Saturday and find a guy or girl to bring home for the night, but he was so tired of one night stands and meaningless hookups in bar bathrooms. Where was the substance? He wanted companionship. He wanted a partner. He wanted to fall in love. 

Eddie cleared his throat and crossed the room to hand Steve the stencil, busying himself with raising up his stool to the proper height and pulling on a pair of thick black neoprene gloves while the other man looked it over.  

“It’s great.” Steve said. 

“Good.” Eddie quietly let out the breath he’d been holding. “Alright I'm gonna put this on and have you take a look at the placement, make sure you like it, then we can get started.”

Eddie squeezed out a dime sized amount of the stencil gel and rubbed it into Steve’s chest, laying the transfer paper down in just the right way so that the final design would sufficiently cover what was underneath, assuming he had scaled it right. 

It was perfect. After a quick check in the mirror, Steve agreed. 

While they waited for it to dry Eddie double checked his set up to make sure he had everything he would need for the session.

“Ready to get started?”

Steve took a deep breath and blew it out slow. “Yeah. I am.”

His reply felt heavy, like maybe he was talking about more than just the tattoo. Had they known each other at all Eddie might have asked about it, but they were basically strangers, and it wasn’t his job to pry. 

With steady hands he set the needle to Steve's skin and got to work. 

They weren’t at it for very long before Steve started to squirm. 

Eddie ignored it at first, he could tell the guy was trying hard to keep himself still, and he wasn’t really moving enough to actually disturb the work. Sometimes it took a bit for clients to sink into the feeling, to let the pain fade to the background enough that they could relax a little bit or at least be able to keep their body from trying to react to the odd sensation. But then he noticed the light sheen of sweat spreading over Steve's upper body, and would have sworn he could somehow feel the other man’s pulse quickening beneath the hand he had pressed so closely to his heart, even over the vibration of the tattoo machine.

He should probably stop and do a check-in, suggest a breather or some water. It wouldn't be the first time a seemingly tough muscle-bound guy had struggled to sit for him. 

He opened his mouth to say something about it, lifting the needle as he took a quick glance up at Steve’s face, but what he saw had the words dying on his tongue. Steve was staring back at him, face flushed, breath coming quick and shallow, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. 

That… did not look like a face that was in pain—or rather—it didn’t seem like the pain was unpleasant. 

Fuck.

Eddie flicked his gaze quickly back down to his hands, the needle, fighting the urge to look lower. 

He shouldn’t. 

It wasn’t right.

The professional thing to do would be to ignore the reaction completely. 

But Eddie was a weak, weak man.

He looked. 

Just a quick peek, less than a half-second that his eyes wandered south, and immediately he regretted it. 

Oh fuck, fuck, fuuuck.

Suspicion confirmed. Steve was hard. He was also huge if the unmistakable outline was any indication. Eddie bit his tongue, fighting back the groan that was trying to fight its way out of his throat. 

Those jeans should be fucking illegal. The only thing worse would’ve been a pair of gray sweatpants. Now he was the one sweating.

“Sorry.” Steve said, voice strained.

Eddie stilled, lifting the machine away from Steve's chest again before looking back up to meet his eyes. 

“For?”

Steve raised an eyebrow, challenging him to continue to pretend he hadn’t noticed. 

“It’s fine, really. It… happens. Everyone reacts differently to the pain.”

Steve let out a high pitched and breathy huff of laughter. “It wasn’t like this last time.” He muttered under his breath.

Eddie tried hard not to read into that, not to think about what the difference might be.

“Do you need to take a break?” 

“No,” Steve swallowed hard. Eddie watched, momentarily mesmerized by the bob of his adams apple. “But, uh, can we talk or something? To distract me?”

He sounded so vulnerable, and a little embarrassed. It was enough to snap Eddie out of his daze. The last thing he wanted was for the person in his chair to feel uncomfortable. Talking he could do, it was one of his best things. 

“Sure, what do you want to talk about?” Eddie asked casually, getting right back into his line work.

“You.” Steve answered quickly, pausing to clear his throat. “Um, I mean, did you always want to be a tattoo artist?”

Eddie chuckled. “Yeah, pretty much. I used to spend all my time, including the time I should have been using to study or do my homework, drawing, sketching, painting, you name it, and it just kinda developed from there. I gave myself my first stick-and-poke when I was about 15. My uncle was pissed. Not about the tattoo exactly, but he was worried I wasn't being safe enough about it—sanitary and stuff. Of course, he wasn’t wrong. So, Wayne took me out the next day and we got a book about it, and he bought me all the right materials. Even let me practice on him when I graduated to a tattoo machine.”

“He sounds like a really great guy.” Steve said.

“Yeah, he is.” Eddie could feel the wistful smile spreading across his own face. “Not just anyone could step in and raise someone else’s kid like that. Just wish I got to see him more. I go back to Indiana to visit him a few times a year, but it’s not the same.”

“I don’t see my family very much either, but we’re not close.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. My parents, they’re–” Steve trailed off as if looking for the right words. “Well, let's just say they're not as supportive of my—life choices, as your uncle was for you.”

“Oh?”

“I, uh, came out to them a while ago… as bisexual? They didn’t take it very well. Said I was just going through some kind of phase or crisis or something. Sorry, this is probably, like, way too much information to share with someone I just met.”

“No. it’s—Okay, maybe to a normal person it might be but I've never been what anyone would describe as normal. And… I get it.”

Eddie didn’t really have to say it. The outside of the shop sported every kind of pride flag you could think of. There were pictures right behind him on the wall of him and Chrissy at their first ever pride parade right here in the city. Not to mention his social media profiles, where he had a bi  flag right next to his age and pronouns in his bio. Steve knew, was the point, and Eddie was glad he’d felt safe enough in his shop—with him, to talk about it.

“Wayne was really good about that too.” Eddie said softly. “I’m sorry your parents weren’t.”

A comfortable silence settled between them after that and Eddie left it unbroken, better to let Steve decide which direction their conversation went from here—if he wanted to continue it. He seemed more relaxed already and his… predicament had mercifully gone down as they spoke. 

“When did you—how did you… know?“ Steve asked after a while.

“Junior High.” Eddie answered quickly, smiling to himself as he indulged in a little nostalgia. “Kinda the opposite of the usual story, I guess. I thought I was gay. I had such a crush on this boy a grade above me.  Nobody that would have given me the time of day mind you, I was a band geek and a huge nerd, but he was very nice to look at. Then he changed schools. I was heartbroken of course, which is my excuse for why I let this girl drag me under the bleachers during gym class. One second we were just sitting there talking and the next she was in my lap with her tongue down my throat.” 

“And?”

Eddie shrugged. “And I didn’t hate it. I reacted exactly the way a young boy reacts when a pretty girl is kissing them and grinding in their lap. Honestly, it blew my mind a little bit—had to reevaluate my whole world view.”

Steve hummed in understanding.

“It’s still mostly men for me but–” Eddie sighed wistfully, “Women.”

“Women,” Steve agreed reverently, letting out a soft laugh. “It was a bit more recent for me. A friend took me to a gay bar—dragged me there actually.” He started to shake his head, stopping instantly when he seemed to realize he might be moving too much.

Good boy.

Eddie smirked. “I bet you were popular.”

“You could say that. I’ve never had so many people offer to buy me a drink in my life.” As Steve went on he began to rub his hand along the chair's armrest, mindlessly drawing patterns into its surface with his long fingers.

“It’s funny, at 25 I didn’t think I had anything new to discover about myself, at least nothing big, but after that rather eye-opening evening I had to, like you said, reevaluate some things about myself. It wasn’t a huge shock I guess. Like, I had found guys attractive before—friends, celebrities, whatever, I just thought everyone felt that way.”

“Ah, the bisexual’s fallacy. Sure I think about other dudes sometimes, but only the normal amount.” Eddie said.

“How was I supposed to know it wasn’t!”

Eddie stopped tattooing as they held each other's gaze, both managing to keep a straight face for only a second before simultaneously dissolving into hysterical laughter. 

Figuring it was as good a time as any to take a short break, Eddie stripped his gloves off and slid across the room on his stool to a small mini-fridge he kept tucked under his desk, stocked with water and juice—something he always kept on hand in case a client got lightheaded.

As they sipped their drinks and both took an opportunity to stretch, Eddie decided it was finally time to put his foot in his mouth.

“So, how are you enjoying things on this side of the field? Someone as pretty as you, I'm sure you get asked out a lot.”

“No, uh, I don't know. I- I haven't really been out on any dates with guys.” Steve stuttered out nervously. “Kissed a few, but that’s all.” 

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Eddie said. He meant it too. Not only was Steve something special to look at, but he seemed like a nice enough guy. He deserved to be taken out and shown a good time. Maybe he was shy.

Steve laid back in the chair, puffing his chest out as he got back into position while Eddie slipped a new pair of gloves on. 

“Why, you offering to show me the ropes?” Steve asked, pointedly raising an eyebrow.

Eddie’s mouth went dry. 

Okay, not that shy then. Surely it was just fun friendly flirting though, right?

“Don’t tempt me.” Eddie teased back. Two could play this game.

“Why not?”

“First rule of the trade, or at least the Munson doctrine, no dating the clients.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Steve said, and without even looking up Eddie could hear the smile in his voice, a hint of–challenge accepted–in his tone.

The next hour flew by as they continued to chat, both remarking on the differences between small town life and city life, as well as lamenting how expensive it was, and how neither of them thought they’d still be living with roommates in their mid-to-late-20's.

For a while Eddie waxed poetic about Chrissy, who of course filled the roles of bestie, roommate, and business partner, which tickled Steve to no end. 

He told the other man how they’d met, apprenticing at the same tattoo parlor at around the same time. and wound up bonding for life almost immediately. They were total opposites on the surface but deep down they were remarkably similar. Eddie didn’t go into too much detail, as it wasn’t his story to tell, but alluded to the fact that he and Chrissy had the shared experience of being born to shitty parents, only to be raised by another family member. A grandmother in Chrissy’s case.

It meant that they understood each other more than most, and yeah, being around one another 24/7 also meant they got on each other’s nerves a lot, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.  

At some point Steve’s cell phone began to ring from where it was shoved in his front pocket. He apologized profusely for forgetting to switch it on silent before they’d gotten started, but Eddie assured him it wasn’t a big deal. 

Or—it wouldn't have been, except either it was some kind of emergency, or someone who was intent on reaching Steve immediately, and continued trying to call three more times. 

“We can take a break if you need to get that.” Eddie offered.

Truth be told he could use a little breather himself. All this time of being essentially face down in Steve’s incredible chest was getting to him a little bit, not to mention the way his forearm lightly brushed along Steve's stomach whenever he braced himself across the man’s body. The feel of their bare skin touching was almost too much, and more than once Eddie felt himself breaking out in goosebumps. 

“Yeah, I think we’d better. It’s gotta be my little brother and knowing him he won’t stop calling until I answer.”

Eddie busied himself removing his gloves and taking a long drink from his water bottle while he flipped through a few drawings on his side table, trying to look like he wasn’t hearing every word of Steve's side of the conversation. 

“Hey buddy, I'm a little busy right now. What’s going on?” 

Steve paused, listening attentively to the voice on the other end of the call. 

“Dustin, he’s not abandoning you. Just because he wants–”

Sighing as he was abruptly interrupted, Steve somehow made the huff of breath sound both annoyed and fond.

“Well, did he actually say he didn’t want to play D&D with you anymore?” 

Eddie’s head snapped up of its own volition. Did the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen in real life just say D&D?

“That’s what I thought.” Steve said with a satisfied tone. “It's gonna be fine. I’ll come see you tomorrow, okay? Tell your mom I said hi.”

“Sorry about that.” Steve said, addressing Eddie this time, rolling his eyes as he ended the call. “Teenagers.”

“Pretty cool little brother if he plays Dungeons and Dragons.”

“Oh no.” Steve groaned. “Not you too! He and all his little friends are obsessed with it.”

“I used to play all the time with a group back in high school. We still try and get together for a one-shot at the holidays when we’re all back home visiting.” Eddie paused, concentrating for a second on wiggling his fingers into yet another set of gloves. There wasn’t really all that much left to do, another 20 minutes or so and he’d be done with the outline. “Was he alright, your brother?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine.” Steve replied as he sat back, getting into position. “We, uh, technically we’re not actually related—I'm an only child. But I used to babysit Dustin when he was younger and when he grew up I just sorta stuck around. It’s only him and his mom at home and I guess I thought… I dunno, like, maybe I could help? I drove him to his first school dance, taught him how to do his hair, shave, that kinda stuff.”

“That's… that’s really sweet, man. I’m sure he appreciates having you around.”

With every new thing he learned about Steve, Eddie felt like he was in deeper and deeper trouble. He’d been having a tough enough time keeping it together with simply lusting over a hot body, but now Steve was turning out to be this sweetheart of a guy and, client or not, Eddie thought he might just be worth breaking all the rules for. 

“He’s worried his friend group is falling apart because one of the guys is going out for the basketball team. He’s afraid if Lucas gets in good with the jocks he won’t want to play with them anymore.”

“As a former outcast and enemy to jocks everywhere, I can understand his concern.” 

“Are you saying we wouldn't have been friends in high school then?”

“Steve, Stevie, please. Please don’t tell me…” Eddie trailed off, stopping what he was doing and gasping for dramatic effect–hand over his heart. “Oh god, you were captain of the sportsball team weren’t you?” 

Steve giggled, his beautiful eyes sparkling with it. “Basketball, to be exact. I was the co-captain of the swim team too.”

“I knew it would never work between us.” Eddie tutted, shaking his head as he got back to tattooing. “Are you reformed, at least?”

“Once a jock, always a jock, I'm afraid. I’m a personal trainer now.”

It explained a lot, and the perks—pun absolutely intended—of Steve's day job were undeniable, but as hot as the mental image of him pumping iron was, the idea of Steve palling around with toxic gym bros all day was almost enough to have Eddie second guessing everything.

“Don’t worry though, I don’t like gym bros any more than the next guy.” Steve said conspiratorially. “My clients are mainly older women looking to maintain their strength and mobility as they age.”

Aaaaand Eddie stood corrected. “Lucky ladies.”

Jesus Christ, could this guy get any more perfect?

Steve shifted in his seat, starting to get antsy after keeeping still for so long. 

“Just a few more minutes, almost done.” Eddie murmured, tongue between his teeth as he concentrated on a spot near the curve of Steve’s collarbone.

“Do you do a lot of these? Cover-ups I mean?” Steve asked. “My roommate is the one who actually suggested it. For some reason I just never thought about it as an option.”

“I don’t know if i’d say a lot, but a fair few, yeah.”

“You, um. You can ask about it… If you want.”

Eddie glanced up in surprise. He would never have brought it up without being prompted, it just didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t deny he was curious, and if Steve was okay with it then–

“Okay, I'll bite. Who’s Nancy?”

“My fiance’. Well, ex-fiance’ now. We broke things off a little over a year ago.”

“That’s rough, I'm sorry.”

“It’s okay. Honestly, It’s… I should have probably seen it coming? We were high school sweethearts—got together before we really knew who we were on our own. But I was dumb and in love. I got the tattoo and proposed. I was so happy that day, but looking back it was so obvious that she’d only said yes out of pity or guilt, not because she really wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.”

The part of Eddie that believed in true love—and all that cheesy shit—was sad that a couple who had been together for so long, who had essentially grown up together, hadn’t been able to make it work. Selfishly though, a small piece of him was happy to learn that they’d been broken up for quite some time, lessening the chance that, if he did somehow gather the courage to ask Steve out when the tattoo was done, he wouldn’t be on the rebound.

“It was tough. I felt like a failure for a long time, like I was having to start my whole life over from scratch when I'd thought for so long that she was it for me, but it's actually been… good. We weren’t right for eachother, I can see that now. As much as it hurt, I'm grateful she had the courage to break things off when she did.”

“I’m glad you’ve been able to come to peace with it.”

“Getting this tattoo feels like the final step into letting that life go, y’know?”

Eddie nodded. Steve’s demeanor before they got started made so much sense now.

“Is there some significance to the design?” He asked, making his final line and setting the machine down. He wiped at the excess ink on Steve's skin, raising his head just in time to see the way the other man’s eyes lit up.

“Yeah, Robin. She–she’s everything to me. Like a best friend, but more somehow. I don’t think I really knew what unconditional love was before her. She’s like, another piece of my soul or something. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

Eddie froze. 

The tattoo design was a bird—a robin.

A robin.

For, Robin.

How could he have been so stupid! 

Of course, Steve was getting one girl’s name covered up with something to represent the new one. 

Jesus Christ, they were both idiots.

Eddie for getting his hopes up, and Steve for making the same mistake—twice. At least this time it was a symbol and not a name, so if he and the latest potential Mrs. Harrington didn’t work out, at least he wouldn't have to worry about covering it up.

“Everything alright?” Steve asked.

The question spurred Eddie back into action. He spread the foam soap over Steve’s chest continuing to clean the finished tattoo while his heart crawled up into his throat. 

“Yup. All good.” Eddie forced the words out.

That's what Steve must have meant about not going on dates, he already had someone at home. Why hadn’t he just said that before though? And why had he flirted with him? 

Maybe he’d felt funny at first about admitting to being with a woman after all the talk about being bisexual. Not that Eddie would have judged, but he knew a lot of people did—bi erasure was so real. He understood that, but it didn’t make it hurt any less that Steve had, inadvertently or not, lead him on. 

Eddie gently patted the newly cleaned skin dry with a paper towel and carefully applied a square of Saniderm over the area, smoothing it out as he gave Steve his usual spiel, albeit a little robotically, about how to care for the tattoo over the coming days and weeks.

He quickly turned his back when he was done, telling Steve he could get dressed, and feeling stupid as all hell for being this upset about a guy he barely knew. He’d felt something though, potential—a spark. It was more than he’d felt for anyone in a long time.

Steve got quiet, looking a little confused with the sudden 180° Eddie’s mood had pulled. He felt a little bad about that as he brought the guy back out to the counter, but it wasn’t as though he’d suddenly become unprofessional. He was just… no longer being overly friendly.

After confirming the date for his second session, Steve paid his balance and Eddie walked him to the door.  

“Have a good night, Steve. Call the shop if you have any concerns or questions about aftercare.”

Steve bit his lip. “Oh, I… okay. See you in six weeks then.”

Eddie forced a smile, waiting until Steve was out of sight around the corner to lock up, and slunk back to his studio to disinfect it so he could finally go home and sulk.

Chapter 2

All my thanks to @penny00dreadful for all of your wonderful beta work, and cheerleading, and support, and just generally being THE BEST ��

[turbofanatic]

Hyrule's resting bitch face champion for three decades and counting.

@scopophobia-polaris asked for some more details on this silly guy and I needed to post the redesign of his scars so I'm gonna ramble!

General "rules" I am using for the Bad Moon AU:

-You cannot change the future. If you saw the future, it happens. Maybe not to you, but it happens. Time travel either involves splitting timelines, temporal loops (see the song of storms), or two extremely similar timelines that collapse together (a dumb child goes to the past to plant beans). What does this mean for Termina? OH GOD OH GOD WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TINY WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!

-If you turn into something, you will never entirely turn back.

-Two opposing wishes on the Tri Force will really fuck things up. Also, it happened. Bad Moon is about dealing with the fallout.

Tiny has a series of magic scars from his various transformations. Most of them are benign or beneficial due to Farore's blessing and the Fierce Deity's Mask's intervention, but not all. Believe it or not, this is me nerfing him, because I'm getting rid of all the Terminian masks except for the FD's mask, which gets broken.

-From the Deku mask he has ivy vines. Most are centered along his spine. He uses them to hold stuff. If he sleeps in fertile soil they will grow into the ground and he leaves weird plants that are sort of beholden to him all over the place. Gross. Anyways, remember how the Hero's Shade is covered in ivy? The "missing" eye is also more or less a Deku scrub's pitlike eye now, granting him low-light but otherwise mediocre vision in that eye.

-From the Goron mask he is disturbingly strong now. Most of Farore's blessed are pretty strong to begin with and now he's got Darmani's strength on top of that. His teeth are continuously growing and need to be worn down by grinding them on each other (because he's missing a tooth from that facial scar those teeth are maloccluded and grow all weird). It's definitely inspired by wrathful deity artwork though. He's also extremely resistant to heat. He got the white hair and scales on his shoulders/knees/elbows from Darmani too. Guess what part of his magic scarring the Hero of Twilight inherits!

-From the Zora mask he has some extremely strong scales on his forearms that can be used to defend himself. He can also make nasty electrical shocks, is very resistant to electrocution, is an extremely good swimmer (nowhere near as good as Mikau though), and can hold his breath for twenty minutes easily. His toes are webbed too.

-From the Giant's mask his height just kinda varies. His "true" height is over seven feet tall but it can vary between about 6"/15cm in either direction. He has some control over this but it's more related to his sense of security. He's at his smallest when he's the most insecure but like, that's still 6'10"/208 cm so he's still way too big. Lucky for him the magic also affects his clothes/armor but it takes some time so he just makes/buys things on the larger end and waits for them to shrink to his current size. The effect goes away when removed from his body. Is this so I don't have to be consistent? Yes.

-He turns into a puppy in the War of Eras when he's ten and Zant uses the twilight as a weapon. Specifically an epicyon puppy! A 100lb/45kg puppy! Medli will ride him! I just want to draw the biggest puppy in the world. He can still turn into the big ancient wolf, and thankfully it doesn't do too much to him (unlike Twilink) but his jaw attaches waaay further back than it ought to and he can open his mouth to a scary degree. It's probably influencing those big fangs too. Combined with the Goron bite strength and... yeah.

I'll probably change things because I'm just playing around with him, so don't be surprised when I do!

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - Paris, 1889

steddie, omegaverse, starving artist eddie, moulin rouge dancer steve

Eddie Munson knows he’s lucky. Some days he feels like the luckiest man alive. He lives in Paris, he’s doing what he loves, and most days he has enough money to eat three meals.

And yes, most of that money is charity from his beloved uncle, and NOT from selling his artwork. 

In the year he’s been in his tiny garret, committing to La Vie Boheme, Eddie has sold one painting. He picks up odd jobs, sells sketches on the street, but paints are expensive.

So is coal. 

Winter is fast approaching, and to save on fuel costs, Eddie stays out of his flat as mich as possible, soliciting gallery owners and doing his best to get something in front of the eyes of the Paris elite. Then, in the evening, he goes to the Moulin Rouge.

It starts out with him trying to stay warm as long as possible, as late into the night. And to get cheap drinks.

The Can-Can dancers are just a fun bonus, fun to watch from the back, but little more.

At least until a new omega starts, wide-eyed and covered in beauty marks.

Now he’s *very interested* in the dancers, and even more annoyed with the fact that they’re dancing. He just wants to stare at the lovely omega, to capture his beauty in charcoal and chalk and oils. Eddie pulls out a little sketchbook, doing his best to get his features down.

He’s so absorbed that Eddie nearly forgets that the purpose of the dance is to titillate, the movements quick, the kicks showing off the splits in the dancers’ drawers, the shadow of pubic hair, and a hint of dusky pink.

Eddie wants to draw that too…

He goes back every night, trying to get a bit closer to *his* omega. Night after night he moves closer to the stage, finally close enough to smell. Most of it is heady perfume, he’s fairly certain the majority of the dancers are betas, but there’s a fresh note, sweet and green.

Staring dumbly up at his pretty dancer, Eddie prays for him to look his way. Three nights pass before their eyes meet, the omega flashing him a soft smile.

That night he builds up enough courage to wait at the dressing room door, to show his sketch to the security guard.

To get a name: Stéfan.

The guard agrees to ask Stéfan to come to the door after Eddie slips him a handful of francs. He’ll gladly give up breakfast tomorrow if he can speak to his new muse.

“Bonsoir,” a low, sweet voice says, startling Eddie from his reverie.

He’s wearing a long coat, buttoned up to his neck, hat on his head, but just as enthrallingly beautiful to Eddie. So enthralling that Eddie says as much, murmuring, “Good evening, Angel.”

“No need for that, Stef is fine.” The omega smiles. “You’re an artist, yes?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

Stef reaches for Eddie’s hands, turning them to show off the black smudges of charcoal on his fingers. “And I’ve seen you drawing in the audience.” He drags a finger up the center of Eddie’s palm. “What are you always drawing?”

“You,” Eddie blurts.

“Me? Why?” Stef asks with a laugh.

“I’m surprised every alpha you meet isn’t driven to catalogue your beauty.”

“Flatterer.”

“It is the truth! I’ve never seen a lovelier omega on this earth.”

“I doubt you’ve seen much outside of Paris.”

“It is still true,” Eddie pouts.

Stéfan is still holding Eddie’s hand, both of them blushing. “Are you hungry? There’s a café I like down the way, we could eat a late supper and maybe… You could show me some of your drawings?” He leans closer, sniffing not so discreetly at Eddie’s neck. “And tell me your name?”

“Édouard! My name is Édouard, um…Eddie, call me Eddie. And I would love to get supper with you.”

🎨🍾💗

Stef goes home with Eddie that night, showing him just how covered in beauty marks his body is, moaning as Eddie worships him with talented fingers.

At the end of the month, Eddie sells a painting: a sensual portrait of Stéfan in their bed. 

[merp0515]

Fanfiction Writer Apperation Post!

Ayo all Merp here! I hope everyone is having a great time whatever time zone you got. I'm a simply derpy ass artist that likes to draw stuff that the Internet has shown me! That includes lovely fanfiction stories I tend to read a lot about. Which is why this post is here to bring a HUGE appreciation for someone in the SMG4 community more from the SMG34 squad! My great friend and a badass from many projects featuring their own series such as "Next Step With You!", @shygirl4991 !

We all have known them from many spots that they are part of like the one they are doing with @lizaluvsthis in "Brewing Romance", "The Chains of a Fragile Soul" with @b-r-i-n-g-x , and "Spilt Into Three's/Six Splits For Four" with the artwork done by @alianarepasa !

They have also done some cool group collab with lots of people, bringing out the artworks each group puts out such as "Coffee Prince and The Frog" (collab with Liz and Aly), and "Shadow Vision" (Bringx, Liz and Aly)!

They never fail to be inspired by many other people that sometimes have ideas for our favorite gays but either don't have the time to do them or they want to do it but don't know how to put into words! Some of these beautiful ideas that came to life thanks to Shay's amazing writing skills are "Just A Dream", "Trade For You" ideas inspired by @therabbitdemon , and "Death Of SMG3" requested by @anartisticalniche !

I had the honor of making the cover art for their cute fluffy "Doll Confessions" fic they made a while back collabing with Bringx's adorable GMod photos she did! Even though what got me into their stories was through "Brewing Romance", there's another story that got me into them and had me always checking fanfiction sites to see if they made anything new and that's one of their many solo projects "Azure Potion!"

It's always fun making art covers for them or draw out characters they've created over time with the plethora of stories done by our lovely writer! I highly recommend checking out their other solo stories such as "Forklift Date", "Mistletoe Wars", "True Colors", "Trapped In a Bleakly Winter", and "A Shot of SMG34"!

There's definitely more stories they've written for these lovey gays but it's gonna take me a while to put them on here lol. Nonetheless while we artist have a blast in creating art for all your favorite fanfictions, please don't forget to show some love to the brains behind the whole thing! Without them, we wouldn't be able to enjoy making all the amazing art to show our love and appreciation for ALL of their hard work! As one that does both art and writing (even though I don't really post many stories on here because my writing style is still a work in progress), I'd love to be recognized by both my art AND the writing I do! Remember to see who's the original writer first before commenting anything!

Anyways……

THANK YOU SHAY FOR ALL THE BEAUTIFUL STORIES YOU CREATED FOR THE FANDOM! WE ALL LOVE AND APPRECIATE YOUR HARD WORK LAD!

Never stop doing what you love and keep on writing! 😄

And to all you lovely writers in this fandom. We love and appreciate all the hard work you all do as well! Keep on writing and create lovely stories to share with everyone! :)

Have a mini colleague of some the art I made for Shay's stories in the past including the cover I did for "Doll Confessions"!

[vvampirelust]

hi dear i biblically need a sub! shane fic from you, im begging on my knees 😊

warnings: smut, 18+, men and minors dni, oral (s receiving), dom!reader (ish), sub!shane, not proof read, i hope this is okay love xx

“please,” she spits behind your ear, deep breath following, “tell me what to do.”

shane has you underneath her, face pressed into your neck, hips rocking into yours. her grip on you is tight, arms wrapped around your shoulders, ever so silently begging you to take control. which you do. flipping shane onto her back, hand on her hip, bodies separated only by clothes within her tight hold. “just lay back,” you whisper, dipping down and attaching your hungry lips to shane’s neck, “i wanna make you feel good.”

shane can only release a moan in response, allowing herself to relax beneath the weight of your body atop hers. her cunt throbbing from your words, slick pooling between the thighs slowly parting for you.

it’s agony for her. as you take your time, exploring shane’s body, lips dancing over flushed skin. you’re surely to be scolded for the small bruises left behind by your mouth, but deep down the marks ignite a pleasurable but primal part of you. they decorate her skin like artwork, trailing from her collarbone to her hipbone. small, blushing red against pale skin. as if shane’s body were a dot-to-dot. you don’t stop there, teasing her as you all but worship her inner thighs. so reluctantly avoiding the glistening heat between her legs, you wished to make her beg for it. “gah, fuck babe, come on,” shane rasps, gripping the cream sheets at her sides, subtly spreading her legs further apart. your eyes are glued to her pink, throbbing heat, clenching around nothing. slick drips down between her asscheeks, squirming from the feeling. she huffs, barely audible whine slipping through, “please just do it!”

shane’s head hits the pillow in defeat, chest rising and falling with deep breaths. perk nipples still shining from your spit. “do what?” you ask her, sickeningly sweetly, your warm breath blowing over her cunt. making shane’s hips lift an inch in search of more. “fuck,” she sighs, pushing onto her elbows so she could look down at you between her legs, “make me feel good.” shane swallows when you gaze up at her face, looking dazed from the sheer amount of lust coursing through her. you’ve never seen her like this, so eager to be touched. her messy fringe sticks to shane’s forehead, the brown appearing black as sweat shines along her skin. plump lips are parted, flushing red and swollen, you don’t know which lips you want your mouth on more 🫢 you understand the amusement, smirking up at her, knowing you’re the one who got her like this. “just had to say so, sweets.”

she realises the wait was worth it when your hungry mouth meets her soaking pussy. hand shooting to take ahold of your hair. a strained, choked out moan pushing past her lips, “fuck, yeah!” your tongue laps up and down the length of her cunt, over and over, cleaning up the sticky arousal coating her folds, even as more pools in the split second absence of your tongue. sharp gasps escape with each light flick from the tip of your tongue to her clit, “feels good.”

“mmhm?” you hum, mouth enclosing around shane’s clit. her back arches, hips pressing down into the bed. you follow, nose nuzzling the dark hair decorating her mound as your face buries between her legs. her sounds are music to your ears, the scratchiness of shane’s voice making each pleasures grunt and moan that much more erotic. “shit, baby, your tongue!” she gasps, your tongue laid flat against her cunt, head moving side to side, rubbing her clit. occasionally pausing to suck hard, always earning a cried out moan as a reward. you can’t get enough of her. when your chin dips, cheeks dampening, pushing your face further into her pussy, tongue curling like a cat, searching for another taste of her sweet juices.

shane’s grip on your hair tighten, breathing becoming shallow, finding it harder to truly suck in a deep gust of air. she’s near stuttering, “gonna make me cum so hard,” she groans, hips rolling into your face, “holy fuck.” you’re smiling between her thighs, almost positive she knows it too, as her thighs attempt squeezing close. your hands are quick to stop them, fingertips digging harshly into the flesh of her skin, shane whimpers. your eyes meet her hooded ones, moaning into her pussy, that’s exactly what you want.

[indigos-stardust]

Four Swords Character Design

(Reblogs and likes are appreciated! Please do not Repost)

In my interpretation of the manga, link's soul is split into four based on the core features of his personality. Of course, at the start they are just 1/4 of a soul. My idea is that if they never returned to being Link their souls wouldv'e filled out and they would have become their entirely own people. Over time their appearances would've also changed as the starting clinging to certain genetics too perhaps? Also Shadow is here because he's just amazing.

I've got a huge four swords project planned so this is just laying down their character designs. There's a lot of plot, story, and potential art ideas as well. I'll add Link's Dad and Zelda's design later on as well. I hope you all like my takes on their developing personalities and ways they viewed everything that happened in the manga.

Please keep in mind that their poses aren't necessarily meant to display their "default appearance" but this artwork was just meant to show their character design!

If anyone is curious though, blue is thinking about cleaning products.

Also if ya'll have any name ideas for the series/AU im making let me know!

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ Just like that, baby ❞

Touya Todoroki x ftm!reader | AU, Dabi works as a body piercer, probably inaccurate description of getting pierced | nsfw, smut, p**n with some plot | sub. bttm. reader | wc: 4k

warnings: daddy kink, spit fixation (?), fingering, dacryphilia, dirty talk, praise, degradation, squirting, AFAB terminology (clit referred to as dick though)

masterlist: pt1; pt2; pt3

[ artwork is by @COooGA_ & here's the link to the piece. Please be aware that their content is very dark, do not send them any hate - viewer discretion is advised ]

"Are you shitting me?" Tomura's lips split into a Cheshire smile - his dry lips looking painful enough that it almost made Dabi feel pity. Almost. "You know I never play when it comes to making your life miserable, baby," the pale-haired man sang, cackling as Dabi reached over to swipe the iPad out of his hands. "You're a fuckin' asshole, I got plans tonight!" Dabi's seething made Tomura roll his eyes, turning the screen towards himself as he leans his hip on the counter. "You think I don't know that you're just gonna get your dick wet? The Boy Toy Club again? Really?" those deep magenta-coloured eyes nearly turn into nothing but a speck of red on white as Tomura continues his cackling. Sighing, he runs his hands down his face while he settles on the couch of their parlour's waiting room. Dabi picks at his ripped jeans, inked hands adorned with silver rings curl into fists as his jaw clenches, but Dabi groans as he tosses his head back. "How?" his curt tone makes Tomura damn near giggle. "Toga, she said you dropped the club's condom while taking out your phone." Of course that little fart-face told on him. Dabi couldn't even find himself to be pissed as he runs his hair through his hair, worsening its dishevelled state. "At least I'm not some loser who games his weekends away playing some virgin ass video game and has e-sex -" "Hello?" Both of their heads turn to the door where Dabi's customer stood. You shifted your weight around as they blinked owlishly at the sight of you. "Hey," Dabi gruffs out which earns a cocked brow from yourself. "The fu - I thought I told Spinner to replace the batteries to the sensor" Tomura mutters though he abandons the thought as he comes out of the U-shaped glass counters and motions for Dabi to get off his ass with a glare. You were beginning to doubt your friend's recommendation of this place. They'd been raving and praising the place, as if the Greek Gods had come down themselves to tattoo and pierce mere mortals. The sight before you was anything but...the two men before you were openly sneering at each other as the dark-haired one snatches the iPad from his coworker's hands. "I made an appointment at 9 PM and your Instagram says you're opened until 10 PM...?" The door closes behind you and the cool AC makes you shrug your jacket over your shoulders. The interior of the store was simplistic and with the smell of paint still lingering you figured they must've just upgraded it. The floors were glossy concrete covered with distressed Persian rugs. Like the glass counter, the coffee tables were also glass (the overhead lights exposing every little fingerprint) and framed with steel. It was all cold-looking. Although, the splashes of tattoo designs on the walls along with the Majesty Palm in the corners of the red-bricked walls warm up the space just enough for it to feel inviting. The neon sign above the low couch - where Dabi just lifted himself off - read "Villains Hideout" which bathed the waiting area in the ever-shifting colours of white, blues, purples and pinks. It bathes the moody man in those colours as well. If it weren't for the scowl on his face or the way his jaw clenches you could have admired his tatted-up skin, the way his ruffled-up inky black hair softened his edginess up along with how nice his silver piercings shone and decorated him.

Hah, who were you kidding? The way he clicks his tongue makes heat travel to your groin. Your friends had always shaken their heads at your taste in men. You always liked the ones that looked like they hated everyone in the world though you'd sigh a wistful "except me" that just makes all your friends give concerned glances to each other. So, you drink up his exposed arms and the teasing glimpses of his torso from the opening of the sleeveless, oversized, tee he was wearing. There was some rock band's logo at the front and you tried to see what it was - that was your defence when Dabi had suddenly called out your name...for the third time. "Huh?" Tomura wasn't in the room and your ears warmed as Dabi stared at you expectantly.

"(Y/N) (M/N) (L/N), that's your name, right?" You nod frantically. He briefly eyes you but gestures to the curtain door with his chin. "The last room down the hall, Tomura's setting it up. He's the ass - the guy with the blue hair" he scrolls down the screen and then huffs in amusement. Your eyes meet. Wow, you thought, his eyes are super blue. "A tongue piercing?" his smirk makes you wonder if he's just as mean in bed as his demeanour is. The lopsided grin on your face makes him take in how you were just his type. "Why? That's too hard for you?" an upside-down grin crawls on his face as he exhales through his nose. "Go, I'll be there in a minute", it seemed as though there was something else he'd like to add at the end of that sentence. A purr of a nickname maybe. But Tomura was still in the store and Dabi, although a crude and usually impatient man, felt himself squirming in anticipation as you walked past him. Since your jacket was now snuggly around your shoulders, the cropped length gave Dabi a peek at the expanse of your back. The condoms in his back pocket seemingly warmed up as Dabi chuckled from where he stood, just as eager as he was. Guess he was getting his dick wet after all.

Tomura greets you as he's wiping down the leather seats of the black chair. You return it with a smile, leaning your shoulder against the wall as you take a quick look inside the room. "Small room" your remark makes Tomura snort, shaking his head. "It's Dabi's unofficial spot" "Dabi? That's the guy's name?" Tomura nods, electing to not tell a complete stranger - and customer - that it was his chosen name. Or tell him that Dabi was related to a VERY rich man that he estranged from for reasons unknown (despite their years-long friendship). "He's a little rough around the edges" It almost sounds like a warning to your brain. It must be considering the glance Tomura gives - as if checking your expressions closely. "But he's good at what he does and we're sorta short staffed at night" Toga and Spinner were still apprentices. He couldn't make 'em stay all night here. (Tomura could but he'd rather die than admit he has a soft spot for those weirdos). You wave away his concerns, reassuring him you don't mind. Tomura focuses on wiping the seat down but his eyes linger on the flesh of your hips that were exposed from the backless body suit you were wearing. Paired with a pair of black pants and cropped faux fur lined jacket with a pair of boots - you looked like you weren't heading home after this. He prods. "Tongue piercing's are pretty straightforward, healing is a bit of an ass though" you laugh softly, nodding. "I heard, can't eat much for a week or so, right?" "Yeah, when I got mine I also couldn't stop fuckin' drooling" You laugh with your eyes squinted in amusement. He wants to ask about your plans after, to tell you that despite alcohol being a disinfectant it wasn't a wise choice to be downing shots at a club with a fresh tongue piercing. But he hears your breath hitch and the smell of smoky cologne enters the room. Dabi stands behind you, grinning as he places one hand on the top of the doorway making you feel smaller than him. "Jesus, Tomura, how long does it take ya' to sanitize the room" The man gives him the finger and you glance at Dabi's long legs as he walks in. "I'm only doing this because of you, you ungrateful donkey" The insult catches you off-guard. You hide your chuckles by pretending to cough, clearing your throat after. Eventually, Tomura leaves. He tells Dabi something about closing the store up properly and after a few more insults between them his footsteps fade away to the staff room, then out the hallway and finally out the entrance. By the time that happens, you're already seated and your jacket draped over an empty chair. Dabi's putting on gloves, the expanse of his shoulder and back makes your hungry eyes drink him in. The mirror in front of him makes it easier for you to see his brows slightly furrowed in concentration. But it makes it harder for you to avert your eyes when his electrifyingly blue ones meet you in the reflection. "You look good" You rub at your elbows, smiling coyly as you murmur thanks. He turns, instruments laid out on some sort of cart that he simply pushes with a gentle push of his boots. Then he settles on the round chair and inches closer. Even while seated he seems to tower over you. "Headin' out?" "Nah, just met up with a friend" Dabi's eyes zero in on your collarbones. Your top was one with a halter neck showing off that beautiful saccharine canvas of (S/C) that was littered in red, pink, and purple. "Just a friend?" His tone is playful and your fingers ache from not being able to caress up those toned arms sitting mere inches from you. "...With a few benefits"

Dabi feels himself getting excited. He hands you a paper cup full of mouthwash. "Rinse for 10 seconds then just spit it back in the cup" You do as you're asked and as you begin sloshing around the bright blue liquid your thoughts wonder if those gloves would feel good as they grip your thighs. He's faced away again as he's prepping to mark your tongue. He's pretty sure he should feel ashamed for finding the way your spit connects from the rim of the cup to your lips hot but Dabi has long abandoned shame. "Sloppy little boy, aren't ya?" He watches your face to see any signs of discomfort, ready to back off if you so much as gave him a confused expression. He feels his semi-hard boner twitching as you wet your lips and give him a boyish grin, handing the cup back. "Nobody's ever complained before, they like it sloppy". "Stick your tongue out," You open your mouth, wet muscle glistening under the lights as it covers your lower lip. He dries it with a tissue, smirking as your tongue twitches at the light pressure. "Just like that, baby"

Oh fuck, your thighs are pressing together and you've no control over it. He's got your tongue in his hold, leaning over you as he attempts to find the right placement. You see him furrow his brows again, sharp planes of his face making you gulp. Closer, a feverish voice pleads in your head, get him closer. Dabi eyes your hand as it places itself on his knee. "Nervous?" You shake your head and he quirks a brow as you tug at the hole in his jeans. You motion to your lap, patting it like he was some sort of call girl. He's beginning to like you more and more. The seat creaks with your combined weight but Dabi's on your lap and he's humming as your fingers slide up the back of his thighs and his hips. His crotch is bumping against yours and your eyes goddamn flutter at the very obvious tent. You feel cool metal and Dabi won't admit it but it is easier to do his job from this angle. He adjusts himself on your lap and you reach up his shirt, he pays it no mind and the taste of bland ink blooms on your tongue making you whine in a displeased manner. "Oh can it, you brat" Dabi chuckles, "I know you want something else but bear with it". He lifts your tongue with the clamp, nodding to himself as he ensures he isn't going to pierce through any nerves. He tells you to breathe through it, not to hold your breath and you can see him moving around a bit to grab the needle. The point of the needle makes a tremor go through your hands and Dabi moves his hips making you grip him tighter. He sure knows how to distract someone - "Big breath in" There's pressure, slight but there, "Big breath out". The needle goes through with nothing but a twinge in your brows and a near-bruising grip on his hips. As you peek your eyes up at Dabi through your lashes, he stares right back with a grin full of teeth and eyes glowing in pride. "Good boy, lift your chin up" You can feel drool slip past your lips and down the cork under your tongue. Dabi brings the piercing into view and you flutter your eyes close but he's suddenly tapping your cheek with the back of his hands. "Eyes on me, pretty thing".

He would've wrapped up the process anyways (duh, you're a paying customer) but you were so obedient just following his commands like some sort of lost puppy he felt his hands getting clammy. God, he was going to enjoy wrecking you. He slides the barbell through and fixes it into place. "S'fuckin' pretty" he lets your tongue hang out as he suddenly pulls away from your lap. He walks to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room, tossing his gloves away as he pulls out a can of Asahi beer. You're perplexed but the growing wetness on your underwear makes you content in watching him. He takes a mouthful, places the can down, wears new gloves and settles on your lap again. He's tilting your head, moving you like you're some sort of doll. He leans in and though you're convinced you're the horniest you've ever been in your whole life you hope he isn't going to make out with you. He doesn't, much to your confused-disappointment. Instead, he leans in close enough for your lips to touch only to pour the beer right on your tongue and down your throat. It's a steady flow, it stings like hell but the grip on your chin makes you immobile. So you gulp it down, breathy pants escaping your mouth as you attempt to swallow everything he's giving to you. He's watching every minute detail. The glow of determination in your eyes, the flush cheeks, the sheen of sweat on your temple, the way beer and spit dribble down your chin. He finishes and Dabi leans into your ear. He envies whoever had pierced the beautifully shaped lobes and cartilages, a part of him wanting to mark you with more of his works instead. His teeth on your lobe earn him a squeeze on his ass, and his large hand slithers down to wrap around your throat. "Can't kiss ya' on the lips but I'm sure there's somewhere else you'd rather I kiss, hm?" You nod much to his chagrin. Dabi does a quick once-over on your tongue as he guides it back between your lips but when he makes a move to get his gloves off you whine. Can't really speak much now, your tongue's still tingly and you know it's going to swell soon enough. But as Ursula mentioned, don't underestimate the power of body language (and a few whiny moans). "You want these on?" You nod. "You got a fetish for PVC?" He sounds like he's mocking you so you glare as you wipe the wetness from your chin. He's off you again, laughing at your pout that disappears when your ankles are grabbed and you're sliding down until your legs are hanging off the seat and he's over you. He unbuckles his belt one-fucking-handed. Your cunts practically weeping a waterfall for him. "Show me what I wanna see, baby" he watches your fingers deftly unzip your pants, the adorable shimmy of your hips as you squeeze out of them (he assists but only after snickering like an asshole), then you unzip your bodysuit very appropriate crotch access and finally he sees his prize. "Fuck" your hips cant away as he palms your crotch "You're fucking dripping". The casual way he pushes your underwear to the side makes your heart double in speed, he's staring at your cunt like a starved man. He dips past your folds, sliding up until he reaches your little dick. "Your ‘friend’ must've done a shit job" he said "Your dick's still ready to go" he strokes it, pushing the hood down with those slicked-up gloves and it has you gasping as you arch into his touch. "Your friend should've known better than let a slut like you leave without being thoroughly satisfied or else ya' gonna end up like this, being used like a common whore"

He slips you out of your pants and removes his top. God, he is tatted up. You let your eyes take in as much detail as you can. His hands were inked with all sorts of designs - you figured he started there from how old a few designs looked. But the ones on his neck are deliciously crisp and it was an intricate piece that went all the way down his chest. You wonder what his back looks like. There were swirls of Japanese clouds motif on his shoulder - a sneak peek of the intricate traditional tattoo on his back of red, black and white dragons breathing out blue flames. He snaps you back into reality as he spreads your legs open. "Don't even need to lube you up" he slips two of his slender fingers in and you turn your head to the side, cheek squishing against the leather. His thumb's pressing circles on your dick as he curls and scissors them inside you.

"Holy shit" he guffaws "You got wetter!" He catches your leg before it lands on his chest, brushing it to the side as he curls his fingers again and your choked moan is all he needs to know he's hit that sweet spot. Dabi slips another finger, your used hole takes it with ease as it eagerly clenches around him. "You're practically sucking me in" his cock is straining against his boxers so he grabs at it, squeezing it through the material to relieve it a bit. While there, he reaches back to grab a condom and places it between his teeth. Your eyes are squeezed shut, thighs twitching as he continues the relentless abuse of that spongy bundle of nerves but in a flash, his fingers are gone and you're whimpering at the loss. Your hole clenches around nothing and you're about to throw a goddamn tantrum if Dabi dares deny you of pleasure but find yourself frozen from where you're sat. "Like what you see, pretty boy?"

What you’re seeing is his cock, hard and twitching as the head nearly reaches his goddamn belly button. The tip is a shade of red, precum making it glisten but what’s more, is the ladder of piercings that begin from just above his balls to below his head. There were six piercings all lined up and perfect and you can’t tell if it was your tongue swelling up that was making you drool or your want to have him in his mouth so you can feel them on your tongue.

And what a nice surprise - Dabi’s real hair colour is white unless of course, he bleaches his neat patch of pubic hair which you doubt.

He rolls a condom over it, hissing softly and you can’t help but reach down to spread your lips apart for him. Dabi laughs, a warm hand holding your thigh as the other holds his dick to line it up.

“Thank you, baby. Ya’ know, I would usually take my time with pretty things like you but” your eyes flutter close as his head breaches you.

“If we stay here too long, a blue-haired asshole is gonna check the cameras. Can’t have him seein’ my bitch, he’s all mine and I don’t feel like sharin’” he has a rougher accent that slips when he’s filling you up.

“Ah, mpfh! Fuh...fuckkk...” The heels of your palm dig into your eyes as you feel him practically split you open. A burning sensation makes your toes curl, the stretch of his cock is making your chest heave. The feeling of his piercings has you seeing white faster than you register.

“Shit - did you just come?” he’s not even bottomed out yet but the evidence was the way your walls are spasming around him. He pushes your leg up, shushing as you pant out nonsensically about waiting and how it’s too soon.

“Shut up, you can take it, I know you can”

Tears slip past your eyes and it makes his grin sharp.

“Fuck, you’re even pretty when you cry - makes me wanna be the reason you’re sobbin’” he adjusts his hips and it makes you let out the most pathetic cry he feels his resolve break.

He pulls out nearly all the way and for a second you think he’s giving you mercy but he slams all the way in and the yell you let out has him laughing. A hearty laugh that makes him sound like a goddamn supervillain as he looks down at your teary face.

“Told ya’ you could take it” You clench around him, sniffling as you reach down to feel where you two connect. Your dick twitches.

He fills you up just right. His cock constantly pressed against that spot. You inhale wetly, looking up at him with your eyes all sparkly with tears.

You jerk, your eyes said, you fucking asshole.

“I know but I know you coulda’ and you did” his gloved hand swats yours away and he teases your dick making your mouth fall open, drool following.

“Dumb boy’s like you can take anythin’ you’re given” his words were like a siren's call. Whispering, lulling you into an underwater grave.

“Fuck” the way you tightened around him made him hiss. “Slobbering all over yourself from some dick” you whine again, wiping away the drool but he just snaps his hips in and out of you and you’re crying out again.

You’re laid on the leather, a sheen of sweat coating your skin which makes everything sticky and somewhat uncomfortable but with Dabi’s dick inside you, everything else around you barely exists.

You’re twisting on the seat, head thrown to the side as you moan wantonly - like a goddamn porn star according to Dabi. One of your legs is folded to your chest, the other pinned to the side as Dabi fucks into you. Your hands are braced on his chest, nails scratching and leaving red welts but Dabi takes them with pride.

He wishes he could kiss you, he knows he can’t but you’d have to do a follow-up to replace the piercing. He wants you to come again, just to see him, he’ll hurt you and heal you just like he’s doing right now.

You’re sobbing, you came around him again and he loves the feeling of it. The chair beneath you is downright shaking from how hard he’s pounding into you.

“Duh-Dabi!” you squeal, tongue already numb. The way you mispronounce the pleas for him to go harder makes him so riled up you swore you saw wisps of heat on his skin.

“Your cunt feels so fuckin’ good - Fuck! A perfect cock sleeve made just for this” You’re squirming again and Dabi pulls out making you thrash which he reprimands with a slap to your cunt.

“Please -"

He ignores you, ignores his dick that wants nothing more than to fuck you into oblivion again and instead curls his fingers inside you.

You’re done for - the pressure that his fingers bring makes your hips jerk up and down, twitching and moving uncontrollably. Dabi groans as you squirt all over his wrists, hips jerking as weak spurts follow the big splash.

“Fuckin’ love this hole” he places a kiss on your dick and you’ve half a mind to push him away. Especially when he licks it. But Dabi’s not done yet, your fucked out whispers fall on deaf ears.

“One more time, baby, let me feel you around my cock”

“S’too muh...muhhh”

“Shhh, just stay like that. So fuckin’ pretty for me, so good” his cock is inside you again and you’re crying out, reaching to wrap your arms around his neck.

Dabi grabs your ass and you lose the sticky leather. Now you’re in the air as he fucks up into you, the friction of your bodies rubbing on your swollen cock has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Your tongue slips out, going a bit cross-eyed. Not that Dabi could see, your face was tucked right between his shoulder and neck.

The camera’s red light was blinking but you couldn’t give a damn.

Dabi’s bringing you up and down his dick. His piercings stimulate your gummy walls, making your breath hitch every time it slips in and out of you, catching on the rim of your cunt. You babble, right into his ear.

“Daddy! Fuh! Fuck!”

Dabi plants his feet firmly to the ground, his back wet with sweat.

“S’too buh-big! Can’t! Ngh!”

“Yeah, you can. Take what Daddy gives you” he grunts and you’re sure your ass is gonna have the imprint of his hands so you leave scratches on his back.

He gives one last thrust and cums, the condom fills up inside you and you shudder. He hears you trying to catch your breath, sniffling in between every pitiful intake of air that have you hiccuping.

The sharp sensation of the metal can Dabi presses against your neck makes you flinch. You murmur that he's an ass and he just laughs. The both of you are in the waiting room, Dabi laying you there for a comfier seat and letting the AC dry you off while he was cleaning up the room. Now that he was done, he was sipping beer with you. The atmosphere was casual, laughably so considering how he just fucked your brains out 10 minutes ago. You pull out your wallet after you're halfway through but Dabi walks away from you. He gets behind the counter and pulls out his card making your eyes widen. "Don't sweat it, think of it as a thank you" the card machine beeps and you honestly couldn't even stand up without your thighs and back going all weird so you weren't gonna win this anyways. Still, you pout. "That's the first time someone's pissed I pay" his blue eyes dart to his phone that's hidden from your view, ignoring the middle fingers you throw his way and the stuck-out tongue. [ Shiggy: His hole's that good? ] Dabi glances at the camera behind the counter, licking the back of his teeth as he saw the red light. [ Shiggy: Think he can take two of us at the same time? ] [ Dabi: Fuck off, he's my bitch ] Tomura sends a screenshot of your fucked-out face nuzzled into his neck. Dabi's dick twitches to life. [ Shiggy: Just wanna test out his head game, think I can teach him a few tricks using that new piercing ] Tomura grins when Dabi tells him they'd have to wait for it to heal, moaning as he squeezes his cock. He goes back to the replay of the feed, of you getting your first orgasm and throws his head back as he cums into his fists just as you came all over Dabi's cock.

[lasiocampa--quercus]

For all those stuck in 2019...

I have been very reluctant to share any art / writing for — oof, five years. First because it was plain awful, then because it was not good enough. It still isn't, but as the years passed I got increasingly lonely on other social media, so this is my last resort. After I've failed smashingly here, well, I guess I'll just have to stop trying altogether.

Anyway, a first time for everything. So here's one for you.

[Detail. Scroll down (I mean to say, read the whole post) to see the full artwork]

We don't choose what we love, now, do we?

For five years I've been desperately in love with the idea of putting two brilliant characters — Eggsy from Kingsman (2015, 2017) and David from Bodyguard (2018) — into the context where they could meaningfully interact and explore one another's worlds. Such a context has been established (it is not the subject of the current post but I'd be willing to tell all about it later), resulting in their taking a shine to each other almost immediately. For Eggsy this acquaintance was something excitingly in between the two class extremes he was most accustomed to, sabotaging his life-long distaste for having anything to do with coppers. For David it was a breath of fresh air. He'd been two years well into therapy after the events covered in the series, and he was still struggling to get back on track when he met Eggsy, arch and lively, and at the same time so dashingly insightful as he was. Somehow it felt like they'd known each other for years as they talked throughout afternoons and after-work hours over a pint of lager somewhere in North London. David, usually rather inhibited, smiled and laughed at Eggsy's jokes, charmed by his candour and straightforwardness, taken aback by his astute remarks often delivered in a childlike unassuming manner. To be sure, he'd never met anyone quite like him. The prospect of friendship was an enticing one despite all their differences and despite the pressures of their jobs. While at first one was suspicious of the other's occupation (David, of course, more suspicious than Eggsy, being inherently averse to secrecy of any kind), they soon grew to respect the boundaries imposed by respective lines of duty (David was inclined to believe Eggsy's agency couldn't be that bad seeing as it employed such a brilliant lad). In effect, Eggsy trusted him more than he could ever trust any of his old mates and occasionally slipped into the conversation uncanny details of his field experiences. But best of all he liked exchanging ideas, relaying to David something that Harry had told — or taught — him, expounding on his reflections that were philosophical or even biblical in essence, although he couldn't ever say whom he unwittingly quoted. David would recognise a concept or two, but he never abashed him by mentioning the fellow's name. Over time the content of their communion had got more intimate, insomuch that Eggsy took to dedicating a huge chunk of time to moaning about his relationship with Harry which had gone on for quite a while after he split up with Tilde.

One such time, fuelled by a considerable amount of drinks, Eggsy set to illustrate the supposed reasons for Harry's recent aloofness. He clamorously hurled his jeerings and complaints at David, impinging on much-cherished privacy of the pub tables. Before it started to wear on virtually everybody in their proximity, David took his noisy, fairly plastered companion outside for a breather. The cool evening air didn't seem to have the desired effect of sobering him up a bit as Eggsy nearly blacked out after a brief (but crucial) exchange between himself and David. That occurrence prompted David to call a cab and take him to his place to recuperate. He reasoned it would not be wise to let him dart off home to Harry in such a flustered state, for it appeared as if the conflict between them was merely an ember, or rather, a heap of embers waiting to be stirred. From then on David's conduct was laced with strange acts of gracious benevolence, such as taking Eggsy's trainers off before laying him down, sleepy and a tad confused, on his sofa and leaving the keys to his flat for when he woke up and presumably wished to go home, with little trim notes strewn around telling about it, as well as where to look for aspirin if his head was giving him a hard time after the other night's drunken debauchery. At the time David didn't question his actions, although they clearly ran counter to his long-conditioned circumspection and, to a lesser extent, his vague views on male intimacy. If anything, the day when he, trying not to disturb Eggsy's healing sleep, snuck away for work he couldn't shake off a quaint feeling of invigoration which seemed to permeate his otherwise dull routine of desk duty. Later that day, confident that Eggsy had left, he got back to a startle in the form of his coyly looking, supper-serving friend with unkempt hair and a crumpled white T-shirt. Eggsy stayed not only to defer having to face Harry, but to show gratitude for David's kindness the best way he knew — by doing a kindness in return. He furnished their dinner table with a bottle of wine, promising to go easy on it and proposing a toast to David's general gemness. There they were, having another quiet night of good conversation, the homely setting and their tipsiness conducing to even more warmth and unrestraint, when Eggsy accidentally tipped over his half-emptied glass and stained his T-shirt. If one could ever be sure of such things, one would say that exact moment was the point of no return, the moment of truth. A simple, ordinary incident that tore down a facade with the light tinkle of glass as it touched the floor. From lighthearted jocularity Eggsy went on to unbosom his brooding insecurity. The change in his disposition was so thunderboltingly sudden it made David somewhat uncomfortable. It made Eggsy uncomfortable too. The only suitable course of action suggested they should comfort each other, so Eggsy placed his hand in David's. A bashful kiss ensued. Once it was reciprocated, little smiles creased their flushed faces. Both hardly had an opportunity to process what was happening, but it somehow felt ridiculously, madly right. And peaceful, too.

Well, now that all the heavy lifting is done by that snippet above we can sit back and (hopefully) enjoy this little picture depicting David and Eggsy decently progressed in their ‘comforting each other’. I must point out, however, that what you've just (hopefully) read is really only a summary, a squeeze if you will, of what transpired, produced specifically for purpose of acquainting you with the context. In actual fact the story is teeming with dialogue and detail which, with your kind permission, I would like to show you some other time.

[irafuwas]

Electric Dreams Summary: Malleus’s 1000th birthday is coming up, and the Queen decides it’s as good a time as any to abdicate the throne. Plans for the coronation soon get underway, and when Malleus sits down to write a list of people he’d like to invite to the ceremony, he realizes that almost all of them are already dead. Content Warnings: Major character death Pairings: None Length: 16k (Header artwork from here)

You can either read it after the cut or on AO3!

I.

They bury Silver next to his father in the plot behind their dilapidated little cottage, just as he’d wanted. It’s a warm, sunny day, and the meadow around their home had lately exploded in yellow buttercups and golden cowslips and cool, hushed bluebells, as if the earth had flung its arms wide open in rejoice of the lone casket being lowered into its shadowy embrace. After they smooth over the last clump of dirt and the final eulogy has been read, the tiny procession splits up - some going to loiter in the garden, others heading inside the cottage to dab their damp faces and seek refuge from the heat.

Although Malleus and Sebek never did get to discuss the details of the funeral before Silver passed, they both feel confident in their choice of a modest ceremony – he never was one for frills and fanfare, after all. But even with the small crowd gathered, the cottage is livelier than it’d been in a long while. There’s a spread of traditional Briar Valley fare laid out on the tables – steaming dumplings heavy with ground veal and spices, piles and piles of roast pork and sausages, and fresh apple strudel topped with a blanket of powdered sugar - and Malleus and Sebek can hear the clink of tableware mixing with the murmurs of low voices all around them. But neither of them speak as they quietly sip on their tea.

After a while, Malleus gets up to refill his glass, and he realizes on his way to the kitchen that it’s Deuce Spade who’s been chatting with Kalim al-Asim outside in the garden for the past half hour. He glances at them through the kitchen window as he reaches for the kettle.

They’ve both aged considerably since the last time he saw them. The edges of Kalim’s eyes crinkle severely every time he smiles at something the other man says, but his laugh still rings out as loud and as true as ever. Deuce’s dark eyes crinkle in return, and his hair has frosted over to a dull white that rivals even Kalim’s near-translucent locks. He reaches out to pat a trembling hand on Kalim’s back once his laughter breaks down into a rattling cough.

Malleus turns away, frowning. He goes to rejoin Sebek in the living room, raising an eyebrow at the untouched plate of sausage still resting on his lap.

“Are you not hungry?”

Sebek doesn’t look up as he shakes his head. He sets the plate down on the table and rubs his arms as though he’s cold. It’s a nervous habit that has disturbed him since he was a child, and he scowls once he realizes he’s doing it again.

Sebek had lost his father a few decades prior. He remembers the funeral as though it were yesterday; it felt like he’d just finished washing all the dirt from his hands a few moments ago, and then he blinked, and it was already time to pick up his shovel again.

There are nights where he finds the black maw of the sky is somehow darker and infinitely vaster than usual. Its magnitude, its perfect darkness - blacker than obsidian, blacker than the purest coal, blacker than the gentle luster of a raven’s feathers – immobilize him. Only then, as he lies in bed, transfixed by the endless night, as whispered prayers begin to spill from his lips - at times haltingly slow, at times rushing faster than a waterfall - only then does he admit that he misses his father. The man’s death had ripped a hole in his heart that still hadn’t healed, and Silver’s passing had knocked him down right when he was finally ready to try and get back up again.

He never could comprehend how his mother had remained so stalwart and strong all this time, nor how she’s still retaining her composure at the funeral right now. He’s been watching as she flutters from one guest to another, thanking them for coming, and checking if they need their glasses or plates refilled. It’s striking how young she looks in comparison to his former schoolmates, and he wonders if everyone else felt just as shocked when they saw him and Malleus mingling with the guests earlier.

It takes a few moments for Sebek to put his thoughts together, and then he says, quietly, “I just… I just don’t understand why humans are put on this world for such a short time? What good does it do them - do anyone - to lead such short lives…?”

Malleus doesn’t know what to say, or if he should even say anything at all. He tries to think back on all the times Lilia had soothed his fears as a child, tries to cobble together an appropriate answer based on the bits and pieces of hazy memories that flit through the caverns of his mind. But he knows that nothing he comes up with would help.

Finally, Malleus replies, “Yes, that’s… That’s something I’ve long pondered, as well.”

Sebek balls his fists in his lap. “Damn humans!” he chokes out, his voice barely a whisper. “Damn them all!!”

Malleus places a hand on Sebek’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. If he cannot imitate Lilia’s soothing loquacity, then at least he can do this much for the boy, he decides.

The minutes turn into hours, and the small crowd begins to disperse as the sun dips low into the sky. The air is still warm when Malleus at last steps outside the cottage and begins to head home.

Sebek ends up staying behind the longest. Malleus can hear his sobs echoing through the forest all the way back to the castle.

The day he received news of Silver’s passing, a part of Malleus - a small part he never wished to think about or speak of - was surprised that he ended up living as long as he did. Malleus had always feared, in private, that the boy’s broken heart would claim him much sooner, and he never could decide if he felt saddened or relieved that Silver had waited so long before setting off to go join his father.

In the weeks leading up to the funeral, he’d often think of Silver. Sometimes, the Silver he remembered was just a tiny infant napping in his arms, and other times, he was a bright-eyed boy waving around a crude wooden sword in the air. Occasionally, he’d think back to their years at Night Raven College, and he could still clearly picture Silver’s entrance ceremony in his mind. Lilia was positively electrified that day - he trembled with excitement as he stood next to Malleus in the darkness of the mirror hall. The two of them exchanged proud smirks when the mirror announced the boy’s sorting into Diasomnia.

Malleus never liked to think of Silver in his final years.

As the decades passed, his once lustrous hair eventually faded to a lifeless gray, and wrinkles and worry lines tugged down at what used to be supple skin. And yet – even as he approached the twilight of his life, there was still that same glint in his auroral eyes, still that same air of nobility about him that hadn’t dulled in the slightest. And still that same stubborn streak he’d inherited from his father.

Even a weeklong shouting match with Sebek wasn’t enough to get the aging man to step down from the Imperial Guard. They’d both made great strides in their careers, and Silver was fiercely proud of his hard-earned title – the first ever human to attain the rank of Colonel in Briar Valley’s armed forces. But the aging man was struggling to keep up, some days failing to draw his heavy longsword without it crashing to the ground. And Sebek was quick to notice.

“You utter moron!” Sebek had snarled at him one evening. “You’re going to work yourself to death at this rate!”

Silver sighed. “You think I don’t know that? This is what I… This is what my father would’ve wanted, so…”

Any mention of Lilia always brought the conversation to a quiet end. And then night would fall, and then the night would turn into day, and their argument would begin anew together with the rising of the sun.

Malleus finally stepped in when he found out that Silver had cracked a rib while sparring with some of the new recruits during morning training. He signed the knight’s honorable discharge papers later that afternoon.

After Silver stepped down from the Guard, he and Malleus would often walk together through the young prince’s rose garden. They’d go early in the morning, before the sun had climbed too far overhead and her amber rays were only just starting to bleed into the hazy blue of the cloudless sky.

It was something they used to do from time to time when Silver was little. The rose seeds Malleus’s grandmother gifted him every year on his birthday were rarely ever the same - one year, he’d get a mix of floribunda and polyantha seeds; another, damask and tea – and he would hold the baby up to the rose bushes and point out all the different types of flowers. He’d tell him about how old garden roses differed from the modern varieties, and when and where to do your pruning and why it was so important. And the baby would listen and listen.

“Do you still remember how you’d try and help me prune the roses when you were little? I’d hold the shears for you, and you’d try to press down on the handles with all your weight, but they wouldn’t budge. Your entire body would shake all over with the effort and you had the most serious look on your face. It was always so hard for me not to laugh.”

Silver smiled but said he didn’t remember. He began saying that a lot as he grew older.

“Are any of the roses here the same ones from when I was a child?”

Malleus scanned his garden and pursed his lips before answering, “No, my oldest bush is only about 40 years old. Many of these flowers are the descendants of seeds I planted during your infancy, however.”

“Amazing,” Silver whispered. He reached out and traced a gnarled finger along the velvet petals of a young rose, still not yet unfurled.

“What is?” Malleus asked.

“Ah, I was just thinking about something I’d read in a book lately. It said there’s trees in Twisted Wonderland that are older than even the oldest living human. And I was thinking, long after I’m gone, those trees will probably still be standing there, right? And the planet will keep turning, and the sun will keep shining... It’ll be like I was never even here.”

Malleus furrowed his eyebrows in thought. “…And you find that amazing? You aren’t afraid to leave this world and miss all those things?”

“I’m trying not to be,” Silver replied, a tired smile tugging at his dry lips. “I guess I just...”

Silver searched for the right words. “…I just take comfort in knowing that your roses will keep blooming for you long after I’m gone, my Lord.”

Malleus had wanted to snap at him, wanted to whirl on him like a viper and spit, “But what will I take comfort in?”, but the words got caught in the lump forming in his throat. He turned away from Silver and cursed himself for acting so childishly.

At Silver’s funeral, Malleus’s eyes blurred as they lowered the casket into the ground. He tried to focus on something else, on anything other than the sound of dirt and rocks being heaved onto the wooden frame, and he clung desperately to the shard of a memory from what felt like a lifetime ago.

He’s standing in Lilia’s cottage, and Lilia offers Malleus to hold the baby for the first time. Malleus holds out his hands, but then draws them back in hesitation.

“And you’re certain I won’t injure him?”

“Oh, you’re such a worrywart. It’ll be fine…” Lilia thinks for a moment and then continues, “Ah, I know. Just think of him like he’s one of your roses! You’re always so gentle with them, aren’t you?”

Gentle. A word most would refrain from using to describe Malleus, what with all those rumors and stories of his awful powers. (The Halloween incident still hangs fresh in his mind.) But Lilia was correct – Malleus fawned over his roses like nothing else.

When he was little, he would cup their pleasant, pink faces in his hands with a featherlight touch and whisper to them the secrets of his child’s heart. And every year, when the juvenile buds slowly began to unfurl for him, stretching out their newborn petals in welcome of the boy’s fanged smile and glittering eyes, the joy that washed over him was gentler than any spring rain and warmer than any afternoon sun. They were more precious to him than all the jewels in the castle vaults combined - his own dragon’s hoard of living rubies, topaz, rose quartz, and garnet.

And so he nervously accepts the tiny infant that Lilia holds out to him and he shifts the child awkwardly in his arms. Be gentle. He’s like one of your roses. Be gentle, be gentle, be gentle.

The sound of Sebek loudly clearing his throat next to him ripped Malleus from his memories. He whispered a quiet “Thank you” and took the handkerchief from Sebek’s outstretched hand.

Malleus buried a piece of his heart together with Silver that day, and he buried yet another piece when Sebek passed away a couple of centuries later. And when a record-breaking snowstorm ripped through Briar Valley that winter and decimated his rose garden in its icy wrath, he found he simply did not have the energy to mourn any more.

II.

Malleus can tell that someone is standing outside his room. He figures it’s one of the young servants in training; he can hear her muttering the lines she must’ve been instructed to say as she paces back and forth for a few minutes.

Finally, a tiny voice squeaks out, “Umm, Lord Malleus...?”

Malleus looks up from the book he’d been reading and sees his door has been opened just a crack. A young girl dressed in a servant’s uniform peeks through, wide-eyed.

“Yes, what is it?”

Perhaps out of fear, or excitement – or a juvenile mixture of both – she hurriedly blurts out, “Her M-Majesty requests your audience at once!!” and then promptly shuts the door with a soft thud.

Malleus sighs and tells the closed door, “Thank you. I’ll go to her now.” 

“You called for me, Grandmother?”

His grandmother, Queen Maleficia, smiles broadly at him as he steps into the throne room. She bids him to come sit, and he lowers himself hesitantly into the empty chair – the king’s throne - next to her. It’s seldom that he ever comes into this room, and rarer still he’s allowed to sit there. The hard armrests dig into his elbows, but he doesn’t complain.

“Malleus, I called you here to talk about something very important,” His grandmother says with sparkling eyes. “Your birthday is coming up!”

“Yes?”

“Your one thousandth birthday, my dear. A momentous occasion for us dragon fae, for you’ll finally become a full-fledged adult.”

“Ah.” The cobwebbed gears in the attic of Malleus’s mind begin to turn. He has an idea of where this conversation is headed.

“And as such, I’ve been thinking… I’ve ruled over Briar Valley far longer than I had ever intended. I meant to step down from the throne and let your parents rule after you were born. But of course, things didn’t quite turn out the way I had envisioned.”

His grandmother’s smile falters for a moment, and then she continues, “But now, I feel certain the time is right. My precious grandson, you have grown into such a wonderful young man. You are clever and resourceful, and you have a passionate interest in history and foreign affairs the likes of which I’ve never seen in any budding politician before.”

“I know you’ve faced so, so much loss in your young life already, and you’ve come through it with such grace and humility.” She reaches out to clasp his hand in hers, and Malleus shivers at the shock of her cold skin.

“There is no doubt in my heart that you are ready for this. And that Briar Valley is ready for you.”

Malleus isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say, so he just smiles and then whispers, “Alright.”

“Excellent!” His grandmother rises and claps her hands together loudly. “Someone, go fetch me the members of the royal planning board! We have a coronation to get ready for!” She turns to Malleus, and he rises, too.

“Do go ahead and start thinking about whom you’d like to invite, my dear. I’ll have the board reserve some seats up front for your friends.”

Malleus’s birthday comes and goes with much fanfare and hoorah, and once all the confetti is swept away and the banners and flags are taken down and he no longer has to dread passing a window and risk seeing an effigy of his awkward face staring back up at him from the town square, Malleus takes some time to think about whom he’d like to invite to his coronation. He sits at the desk in his room, pen and paper spread out on the table before him. He sits there for a while, as still as stone, until finally, like a petrified creature released from decades of slumber, he slowly, stiffly reaches out, takes his pen in hand, and starts to write.

He starts with whatever names come to mind first – his old classmates and instructors from Night Raven College, the people he met during his brief internship, the politicians and members of foreign royalty he’s had to endure countless boring dinners and stuffy balls with. His little list grows longer and longer, and he grabs another sheet of paper after filling up the first one. As he sets his pen down after a couple minutes of hurried writing, he’s surprised, but pleased, at how many names he ended up recalling.

And now the difficult part: He must choose the fortunate souls who shall be blessed to attend the coronation of King Malleus Draconia. He smirks and starts with the first sheet of paper, slowly reading aloud the name he’d written at the top. And then he frowns. No, you can’t invite Kingscholar; He passed away already. You attended his funeral, don’t you remember? He picks up his pen again and draws a black line through the name. And then he reads the next name and recalls Sebek once complaining about how the television programs wouldn’t stop replaying Vil Schoenheit’s movies for weeks on end after his death, and he strikes through it. And he does the same for the following name, and the one after that. His list turns into a jumble of scratchy lines, and then he moves to the second sheet, crossing out one name after the next. He realizes with a shaky sigh that most of these people are already dead.

But there is one name that he’s not so sure about, it’s the only one that stands unmarred in his clean handwriting amidst the mess of black ink: Ortho Shroud, younger brother of the late Idia Shroud. He can’t remember the last time he’d seen the tall, lanky figure of the elder brother, but he’s certain he wasn’t at Silver’s funeral. Only Ortho attended; he’d mentioned something about once treating some injury or other that Silver had incurred at the equestrian club. Malleus had smiled as he listened to the story back then, and he smiles again now as he recalls Ortho’s animated figure telling the tale.

He leans back in his chair and rests his chin on his hand as he thinks. Malleus never quite grasped just what the boy was, only that he wasn’t quite human, but not fully machine, either. If he truly was some form of inorganic creature, then perhaps there’s a chance that he’s still…

Malleus moves aside his stationery with a sweep of his arm and pulls out the laptop he keeps stored in the drawer underneath his desk. The construction of Briar Valley’s first nationwide power grid and internet network had recently been completed a couple of centuries ago, and electricity now thrummed throughout the land. It took some getting used to, especially for a folk so accustomed to their magic, but the citizens quickly grew to enjoy the novelties of television and the world wide web. Malleus had also recently learned of the wonders of online chess, and he proudly considered himself a bit of a gamer.

He opens up his email and begins his search. There is a faint memory that clings weakly to his brain of Lilia sending him a message not long after he’d departed for the Land of Red Dragons. There was a grainy picture attached showing Lilia’s pale, outstretched hand, his nails painted cherry red, pointing to some snowcapped mountains towering in the distance. If his memory serves right, Lilia had sent that email to a number of addresses, and one of them might’ve had Ortho’s name in it. He scrolls through his archived folders and clicks on the one he created just for Lilia’s old emails. It takes only a moment to find the message he was thinking of. He remembers now that it was the last time he’d ever heard from the man. He didn't see Lilia again until Silver dutifully retrieved his small body from those frozen peaks.

He doesn’t dare open the attached picture. He quickly scans through the list of names and addresses in the “to” field until he finds the one he was hoping to see, and with shaking hands, he begins a new email. He types a curt message asking the boy how he’s been and if he’d like to stop by for a few days so they can catch up.

He clicks “send”, and then folds his hands in his lap as he waits for a response.

III.

Ortho comes to Briar Valley later that week, and Malleus is surprised at the pure quietness of the boy’s arrival. He’d expected something more grandiose from a member of the Shroud clan, like dark clouds of smoke and exhaust and great explosions of light. But there is none of that – Ortho merely descends from the sky with all the whispered elegance of an owl gliding through a nighttime forest, and he alights a few meters away from where Malleus had been waiting for him in the courtyard.

They shake hands and say their hellos, and Ortho adds that the current director of Styx sends her greetings. Malleus raises a thin, black eyebrow at this.

His curiosity piqued, he asks, “Is she, ah, descended from your brother, then?”

Ortho laughs, high and bright like the aluminum wind chines that hang from some of the trees in the courtyard. “Oh, no! My big brother never got married or had children. After he passed away, another branch family in the Shroud clan took over Styx, and their descendants have been running things at the Island of Woe ever since.”

As they walk towards the castle gates, Ortho explains that the new management agreed to let him stay with them after his brother died, and he’s been spending most of his time the past few centuries overseeing the island’s security system. (Apparently, he can operate it remotely via “satellite”, but for Malleus the word only conjures up visions of the moon, and he tilts his head in perplexment.)

Malleus asks, “And you’re absolutely sure it’s alright for you to be here? I don’t want any problems with Styx, especially not so soon before the coronation.” His grandmother had scowled deeply when he told her whom he’d been planning to invite, and he was eager to assuage her concerns.

“Yeah, Styx is still as secretive as ever, but they’re pretty lax when it comes to me leaving the island. As long as I don’t divulge any top-secret info, of course.” Ortho finishes with a wink.

“I see. Good, then let me show you to where you’ll be staying.”

They walk together to Ortho’s guest room, and the castle servants scatter before them like a parted sea. Malleus knows they’re staring; he can see the white faces of the chambermaids peeking out from behind half-shut doors, but he doesn’t mind. He remembers how intrigued he’d been when he first met Idia Shroud and the little robot that always seemed to be hovering in his shadow. And how shocked he was when the device opened its mouth and began to speak.

Malleus, too, finds himself glancing now and then at the boy walking beside him. He doesn’t look much different from how Malleus remembers. He’s not grown any taller, and his fiery hair isn’t any longer than before. He still has that soft, round face, and those striking yellow eyes and that small mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth.

Later, while Ortho unpacks his charging apparatus and surveys the room for the closest outlet, Malleus asks the question that’d been pestering him since his guest’s arrival.

“Ah, it made my big brother uncomfortable whenever he saw my face, so that’s why I always wore either a visor or a mask while he was alive. Since he’s gone now, I don’t bother with covering up my face anymore.”

“What? Why would your face make him uncomfortable?”

Ortho looks over his shoulder from where he’s kneeling before the outlet he selected. He states plainly, “Because it reminded him too much of his little brother, Ortho Shroud.”

Malleus blinks. And then he frowns. “Wait…. Seeing your face – you, his little brother, Ortho Shroud – reminded him too much of his little brother…. Ortho Shroud. And that made him… uncomfortable?”

“Correct!” Ortho grins like an absolute imp, and Malleus wonders if he’d been studying up on fae humor before coming here.

“….I must say, the more I learn about your family, the more bizarre you all sound.”

Ortho laughs again. “You have no idea.”

Once Ortho is done packing, Malleus asks if he’d like to go tour the valley with him. He answers with an excited “Absolutely!”, and they make their way back out to the courtyard. The day is still young, and a sky as blue as freshly picked morning glories greets them once they step outside.

At the castle gates, Malleus asks Ortho to wait a moment. He squats before the boy and takes his smaller hands into his own. Lilia had once told him that children listen better when adults get down to their level, and Malleus wants to make absolutely sure that Ortho understands the gravity of what he’s about to say.

“Listen to me well, Little Shroud. Most of the fae here are kind and virtuous people, and I trust the castle staff not to lay a hand on you. But I cannot say the same about our townspeople and countrymen. I fear a young child of man like you… Yes, even one made of cool metal and not the warmth of living flesh and blood, will attract those who wish you harm. If, when we are away from the castle, I take your hand and draw you close to me, you must not let go, for it means they are near. You must not listen to their whispered temptations; you must not believe their siren lies. Do you understand? If they gaze at you with eyes of black fire, if they promise you Heaven’s greatest rewards, if you turn to them and see your brother’s face and hear his voice calling out your name, you must look away. Can you promise me you will do that?”

Ortho nods his head slowly, and they set off.

They begin with a cursory flight over the valley; Ortho using his machinery, and Malleus his magic. Malleus restricts his speed at first, concerned he might accidentally leave the boy behind. He’s pleasantly surprised to find Ortho easily keeping pace with him, and when he cries out into cold winds asking if they might go a bit faster, Ortho responds with a thumbs up and a sharp-toothed smile.

And so they race over the castle town, past the church, whose twin spires watch over the land like a pair of dark sentinels, past the cobbled streets and the timber houses of the residential districts, past the bustling marketplace and the quiet town square. Malleus explains how all the buildings radiate around the castle like the petals of a flower surrounding its pistil, and he points down to the linden trees - dull and naked in their meager spring attire - that line nearly every street. He tells Ortho that come summer, the whole town will be bathed in their flowers’ intoxicating perfume, warm and soft and sweet like honeysuckle. The cool breeze feels delicious on Ortho’s skin, and the low buzz of Malleus’s voice beside him is as tender as the overhead sun.

As they circle overhead once more, Ortho is surprised that no one seems to pay them any mind. Not the merchants behind their stalls, and not the townspeople passing by; not the swarm of children playing tag in the maze of shadowy back alleys; not the red-faced shepherd barking at his sheep to move, and not his perfectly unhurried sheep. None of them so much as glance their way as they fly by. Ortho glides next to Malleus and asks him why that is, and Malleus laughs. “My people are deeply intertwined with magic; it courses through our veins from the moment we enter this world. Seeing two people soaring through the sky is no more riveting to us than a toad that hops or a cow that lows. Many of us begin flying at a few months old, after all.” Malleus laughs again as Ortho’s mouth drops open in astonishment.

They leave the castle town behind them, flying faster and faster, beyond the evergreen forests and the rolling hillsides and the miles of grassy fields glimmering with white snowdrops and yellow daffodils. Malleus describes with a smile how beautiful the valley looks in the summer, when the wheat is heavy and ripe for harvest and the modest green farmland transforms into an ocean of gold. He loves windy summer days especially, loves how the acres and acres of wheat undulate and dance in time to the rhythm of the breeze, the entire countryside sighing and rolling like gilded waves as far as the eye can see.

They press on, and Malleus leads Ortho towards the mountain range that rises in the distance like the spikes on a dragon’s back. The farmland below transforms once more into lush grasslands and forests, and a massive river cuts across the valley plateau.

The sight reminds Ortho of a passage he’d read in one of his travel guides:

“Briar Valley is a relatively small nation, flanked on all sides by jagged mountains and bisected by a massive, winding river that many of the locals continue to worship as an ancient Lindwurm. The winters are bitter cold, and the summers are pleasantly warm; it is a fertile land, and the majority of the county’s foodstuffs is produced within Briar Valley’s borders.”

Ortho’s eyes follow the twisting body of the river, and he can easily imagine why the fae revere it as a deity - the mouth of the great waterway stretches infinitely wide like the jaws of a python as it spills into the freezing ocean. But it’s the mountains that truly take his breath away. They are a thousand times bigger and a hundred times darker than what he’d been envisioning based on the photos he’d seen, and their obsidian bulk nearly consumes the skyline.

Malleus points a pale, clawed finger at the angry mass of black rock and stone that rises up taller than all the others. “That is the Forbidden Mountain,” he shouts above the roar of the wind. “Legend says the Thorn Witch once ruled over the valley from atop its peak.”

“It’s amazing!” Ortho shouts back.

They stay there for a while, quietly admiring the black obelisks towering before them. Ortho almost wonders if the Thorn Fairy might still be lurking up there somewhere on that dark peak, the shadow of her terrible specter still searching in vain for the lost princess after all these millennia. He dispels the thought with a shiver.

Finally, Malleus turns to Ortho and says, “Come, let us return to the castle town. There’s a place I want to show you.”

Even from high above, the church had looked magnificent; and now, standing before it on the ground, it’s absolutely breathtaking. The fae’s connection with Nature - a glorious mixture of reverence and intimacy – is evident all throughout the building’s architecture. The façade is richly decorated with a host of stone creatures: rearing bucks locked eternally in battle, golden eagles and barn owls and songbirds frozen in flight, and foxes and hares circling each other in an endless hunt. From up close, Ortho now sees that the bulging lines he’d noticed winding around the twin spires are delicately sculpted rose vines, replete with thorns and all. Jagged spikes erupt down the spines of the flying buttresses, reminiscent of a beast Ortho doesn’t quite want to think about, and they stretch and yawn as they support the heavy weight of the towering walls. As they circle the building, Malleus happily points out all the different gargoyles that snarl at them from their guard posts up high; Ortho had nearly overlooked them in the forest of masonry and metalwork, and he stumbles as he tilts his head further and further back just trying to take it all in. All the travel guides that he’d downloaded had lavishly praised the church as the “Pinnacle of the Briar Valley Gothic style”, and now he understands why.

Malleus ushers Ortho towards the heavy bronze doors at the entrance of the church, and they head inside. A few members of the laity sit hunched over in the wooden pews within, murmuring prayers in a language that Ortho cannot understand. His eyes flick up to Malleus’s face, and then down to his hands, which lay unmoving against his side. After a moment’s hesitation, Ortho takes a step forward, and then another, and he quietly walks down to the end of the aisle, walking just the slightest bit faster whenever he has to pass one of the fae mulling about. Finally, he reaches the apse and the alter. He doesn’t notice Malleus joining him a moment later; he is far too entranced by the stained-glass windows that tower before him. The afternoon sun spills through the windows and pools onto the floor below, bathing him and Malleus in a shower of multicolored light.

In his mind’s eye, Ortho can see the master architect urging his laborers to keep building higher, to push the spires taller, up into the sky, closer and closer to the seat of Heaven’s mighty throne. He can see the sculptors playing with light as though it were clay, molding it in their calloused hands and transforming it into the countless stained-glass windows that crown the head of the altar. He thinks about the townspeople emerging from their dull and darkened homes and blinking into the bright light of the completed church for the first time. What must they have felt? Had their hearts ached for something they couldn’t find the name for, like his heart aches now? Had their eyes burned hot with the threat of strange and unfamiliar tears, like his eyes are burning now? Had they felt as overwhelmed and insignificant and small and suffocated as he is feeling now?  Oh, and to think! To consider - how many weary pilgrims, how many desperate worshipers and weathered souls have stood in this very same spot before him, gazing up at these same venerated panes of kaleidoscopic glass and feeling what he feels; how many millennia upon millennia has this architectural wonder united the peoples of its creator in whispered awe and indescribable rapture!

Ortho takes a shuddering breath, and he steps back to admire the windows once more. He’s seen tracery like this elsewhere, in the churches of the Queendom of Roses and the cathedrals of the City of Flowers. The square sections of glass come together to create a series of fantastic images, and they remind Ortho of the illustrated fairytale books he used to read with his brother when they were little.

Ortho tilts his head back and focuses on the pictures up at the very top.

He sees:

The golden fields of corn and wheat that dot the valley’s farmlands.

Lush forests, twisting rivers, towering mountains, and azure lakes.

Smiling children - with horns and antlers sprouting from their foreheads and wings fluttering on their backs - dancing in a circle, arms linked together.

A fae mother sitting before her cottage and nursing her child, the baby’s tiny horns but white specks on its head.

Ortho’s eyes travel further down. The glass panes gradually transition from cool greys and blues and bright yellows to duller oranges and reds. Further and further down, the redder the panes become, like tongues of fire spilling over the window.

He sees an image of a human man and a fae woman holding hands, with shy smiles on their faces. Both the woman’s wings and the human are gone in the next image, and her smile has warped into a scream. He can’t quite tell what happens after that.

“What is that grey substance the humans are forging in that pane there?”

“Iron.” Malleus hisses the word, as though it burns him just to say it.

Ortho doesn’t say anything as he turns back to look at the windows.

He sees:

Human and fae armies marching towards each other with swords drawn and war flags raised.

Villages engulfed in flames.

A smokey battlefield littered with armored bodies.

Flashes of lightning splitting a crimson sky.

And finally, the last image: A black dragon, its wings spread wider than a hurricane. The glass surrounding it blazes as red as blood.

“Malleus Draconia… What… is this?”

“My people’s history. Our triumph.”

Malleus swallows thickly, and then he whispers, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

All Ortho can do is nod. He dare not defile this place any further with his words.

It’s late afternoon by the time they return to the castle. They head to the dining room to get some lunch, and Ortho watches wide-eyed as a horde of servants materialize as soon as Malleus takes his seat.

Malleus lifts his hand, and a servant steps forward to slide the day’s menu into his waiting fingers. He contemplates for a moment, and then announces he will have the slow roasted pork shoulder served with shredded sauerkraut, potato dumplings, and gravy. A young chambermaid asks if Ortho would like any refreshments, as well, and he declines her kind offer with a smile. His oral intake unit isn’t equipped, and he doesn’t feel bothered enough to go fetch it from his room. He looks around the dining room while they wait for the food to be served. It resembles a grand hall more than anything else, with a massive glass chandelier hanging overhead and several huge windows lining the walls, and he figures the long table they’re sitting at could easily seat over thirty guests. 

Presently, the head chef and sous chefs and other kitchen assistants march out in a line. The assistants all carry a silver cloche server in hand, and they remove the domed covers with a flourish as they set the trays down before Malleus. The pork shoulder has been roasted to a brown perfection, and a thick, crispy layer of fat sits atop each slice of meat. The gravy is dense and richly seasoned, and the sauerkraut is the most beautiful shade of lavender that Ortho has ever seen. A stack of steaming potato dumplings completes the ensemble. The head chef nervously searches the prince’s face for the slightest sign of approval or dissatisfaction, and his shoulders sag in relief when Malleus dismisses the troupe with the wave of a hand. The head chef bows deeply, followed in turn by the sous chefs and other kitchen assistants, and they file back to the kitchen as efficiently as they came.

The entire spectacle delights Ortho, and he kicks his feet in excitement while he waits for Malleus to finish eating. He imagines how the dining room must look like when the castle is hosting a party, when the heavy window curtains are pulled back and the rays pouring in from the evening sun dance across the rows of silver plates and golden goblets and the entire room erupts into light. And he thinks of gaudy princes and princesses discussing the silliest of things in their ridiculous costumes, and tireless knights prowling the castle grounds in search of hidden marauders and ne'er-do-wells, and he thinks of royal balls that last until the first light of dawn pierces the sky when it’s still not quite morning but no longer night, and other such things that tickle a child’s heart.

After lunch, Malleus resumes showing Ortho around the castle. They start with a tour of the Imperial Guard’s training grounds out back, and they stay and watch for a while as the young recruits spar with some of the captains. Ortho almost thinks he should cheer on the recruits, since they might like the encouragement, but he also considers taking the side of the captains, since they are so spectacular with their flashy jabs and stunning parries. The captains ultimately prove victorious, and as they turn to greet the prince, the sight of the small, fiery-haired boy clapping enthusiastically next to him perplexes them more than anything else they’ve seen the past few months.

Then Malleus takes Ortho to the highest of the watchtowers, where they can see the church’s spires jutting up not too far in the distance. And then he takes him to the castle archives and the library and Malleus’s private study. Ortho is especially fascinated by the library, and they spend hours going through ancient spell books and history books and collections of Briar Valley fiction and poetry. So many of these texts have never made it outside the small nation, and Ortho uncovers books about species of fae he’s never even heard of, and books written in languages he’s never even seen. He drinks it all in with sparkling eyes and toothy smiles. In his eagerness, he accidentally tips over a heavy bookshelf while attempting to extract one of its paper treasures, and Malleus laughs so hard that his eyes water when the boy ends up buried under a mountain of leatherbound tomes.

The heavy wooden doors of the library close behind them with a loud bang as they leave. They only make it a few steps before Ortho reaches out and tugs on Malleus’s arm.

“May we go see your rose garden now?”

Malleus blinks. “My… what?”

“Your rose garden! All the travel guides I downloaded mentioned it. They say it’s one of the greatest wonders of the valley, and that you can see it all the way from the forests that border the castle town.”

Ortho notices the frown forming on Malleus’s face and asks, “Don’t tell me something happened to it?”

Malleus sighs. “Indeed. Sadly, the whole garden was destroyed when we had that bad snowstorm not too long ago.”

“Bad snowstorm…” Ortho closes his eyes for a moment as he thinks.  “Wait, I remember that! You mean that monster blizzard that struck Briar Valley over a hundred years ago? People were calling it the storm of the century!”

With a solemn nod, Malleus replies, “I do believe that was the one. …Has it really been a hundred years already? I suppose I just haven’t gotten around to fixing it up yet.”

In truth, he’d considered rebuilding his garden more than once, but he never could bring himself to do it. All the seed packets his grandmother’s been giving him for his birthday the past century have yet to be opened, and they lie buried deep within one of the chests in his room.

A week after that awful blizzard tore through their small nation, he and his grandmother gathered together around the dining table for the first time that winter. They both shivered as they ate, and at one point she looked out the window and murmured something about his “poor roses, the dear things”. Malleus was shocked. He hadn’t even remembered to go check if his flowers had made it through the storm. He’d stopped tending to them sometime after Sebek’s death. It was a gradual thing. He’d water them less often - once a week instead of twice, and then once a month, and then not at all. And then he forgot to tell the servants to purchase more fertilizer when his supplies were getting low. And then he didn’t bother deadheading the bushes in the fall. And then he just stopped going to the garden altogether.

There are times when he’ll wonder, where had that gentleness that Lilia had once spoken of, that love in his heart gone? Had that vengeful snowstorm ripped it from his chest and scattered it to the winds together with his roses? Or had it withered and died and returned to the earth alongside Silver and Sebek’s worn and ashen bodies? Or had it been stolen from his heart long ago, had Lilia taken it with him as he climbed those great mountains, up higher and higher, beyond the radiant clouds and into a world he wasn’t yet ready to journey to?

And there are other times where he’ll go look at the skeletal remains of his garden and he’ll wonder if those rumors about him being detached and apathetic and cold were true. He knew many in Briar Valley believed so. He knew they’d hesitate to even speak of him, as though his name were an ill omen. And he did not blame them. His love was never anything flashy or obvious, was never as bright and as brilliant as the shy half-smiles that Silver would reserve for his father.

No, Malleus’s love was soft and quiet, the glass of his heart opaque, not clear. It was often timid, often awkward, but his love was always there. Even now, even if he could no longer detect its gentle thrum coursing through his veins, his was still the love of that lonely little boy who’d hold his ear against the warm mass of his rose bushes and listen as the flowers revealed to him their perfect wisdom.

And the people he cherished in his heart of hearts were his roses, too. All of them – Lilia, Silver, and Sebek, his parents and his grandmother, and his dear friends from school. To try and rebuild his garden - to press those expectant seeds into the wet earth and wait for the tiny buds to emerge into the light of a January day, to look with bated breath for the sepals to fold open and reveal the sacred pink gems held tightly within their green grasps, to awaken to the sound of the cardinals heralding Spring’s arrival and race to the garden while the sky is still yawning off the night’s indigo embrace and to rejoice at last at the first newborn blooms - it felt blasphemous, like summoning the dead back to life. And his heart was simply too dark and too heavy still for such a thing.

Malleus watches silently as the light of excitement rapidly fades from Ortho’s eyes, and he snuffs out the last dim sparks with a shake of his head.

Ortho sighs. “Well, it’s too bad I couldn’t see your garden, Malleus Draconia. It always looked so beautiful in those pictures I saw. But I’m glad at least the castle and the town and everything made it through the storm okay.”

They resume walking, and Ortho decides privately not to mention the garden again.

Later, after the lilac night had blanketed the valley once more and a calm hush had fallen over the castle, Malleus stalks through the dark halls trying to shake off his restlessness. He passes by Ortho’s room and can hear him murmuring through the closed door. It sounds like he’s talking to someone, but Malleus can’t imagine whom. He hovers at the door for a moment, and then he continues on, not wanting to disturb the boy.

IV.

The next morning, Ortho and Malleus are to have breakfast with the Queen. Ortho wakes up early so he can hook up his oral intake unit in time, and he opens the windows before setting to work. The sun has just barely risen, and the sky is a pleasant gradient of pinks and oranges and yellows and blues. The chilly air is abuzz with thrushes and chiffchaffs singing their daily praises, and the loud cries of haughty wrens undercut the performance. March was in full swing in the valley, and before long the chorus would be joined by the excited twitter of the goldfinches and the sugar sweet call of the willow warblers as spring rolled on.

Just as Ortho finishes equipping his unit, Malleus knocks on his door and softly asks, “Little Shroud, are you ready?”

Ortho answers, “Yes!” and he goes to join Malleus in the hallway. They walk to the dining room together in comfortable silence. Ortho stayed up late last night, gripped with an innocent mixture of nervousness and excitement, but he’s still bright-eyed and brimming with energy. He knows very well that few outsiders are lucky enough to get invited to Briar Valley’s royal castle, and that even fewer still get to receive an audience with the Queen.

Two servants standing before the dining room pull the heavy doors open for them, and they go to where the Queen is waiting for them at the head of the table. She rises from her seat as they approach.

Ortho bows deeply, just as he’d practiced the night before, and says, “It’s an honor to meet you, your Majesty. Thank you so much for permitting me to come here.”

The Queen smiles. “And I thank you for accepting my dear grandson’s invitation. I hope you’ve been enjoying your stay.”

Ortho confirms that he has, and then he looks up and studies her face. The Draconia family’s resemblance is plain to see. She and Malleus have the same bright green eyes, long, black hair, and those sharp fangs that peek out when they smile. Only the thin crow’s feet around her eyes and the slight gauntness of her high cheek bones betray the difference in their ages. She’s a good head shorter than Malleus, but her presence is so much more intimidating. Malleus’s great aura feels like an April shower in comparison to the tempest of energy emanating from her body, and it takes every ounce of Ortho’s willpower not to crumple to the floor when she goes to shake his small hand.

The Queen bids them to sit, and they all take their seats, with her at the head of the table and Ortho and Malleus flanking her on either side. Bowls filled with wax-white sausages floating in steaming water sit before them. A gorgeous, herbal scent - a dazzling mixture of cardamom, mace, parsley, lemon, and other more deeply buried smells - wafts from the bowls. Their plates are decorated with large dollops of dark brown mustard, along with a number of soft, golden pretzels. A crimson-colored juice of some sort swims placidly in their goblets.

Malleus takes his fork and deposits some of the sausages onto his plate. “They’re filled with very finely ground veal and bacon - made from pork loin, rather than pork belly. Poached just long enough for the meat to turn this greyish-white color. They’re one of Briar Valley’s specialties,” he explains.

He waits for Ortho to fill up his own plate, and then continues, “The skin is edible, but we typically don’t eat it. Just take your fork and knife and cut the sausage open lengthwise, and then peel back the skin and eat the meat. And do be sure to try the mustard.”

The explanation finished, Malleus and the Queen take their cutlery in hand and begin to eat. Ortho watches how they expertly incise the sausage casings and extract the white meat as though they were performing surgery. He picks up his own fork and knife and tries to copy their nimble movements as he slices open the fibrous skin. He is pleased to find the meat tastes just as delicious as it smells, and his mouth pulls up into a smile from the rich blend of spices.

Ortho next dips a piece of sausage in the grainy mustard and gingerly takes a bite. He gasps at how sweet it is - he’d been expecting something spicy. It’s nearly too sweet, but only just nearly, and in a strange way he can’t explain, the sugary flavor perfectly complements the savory meat. He eagerly dips another piece of sausage in the mustard and brings it to his mouth, and then another, and another.

The Queen laughs at the boy’s exuberance. “Please take your time, my dear. There’s plenty more where that came from, and if you’d like another serving, just let one of the waitstaff know.”

Ortho begins to reply, but quickly remembers his mouth is full of food, and he shoots his hand over his mouth in embarrassment as he nods. He takes a sip of the juice and considers the flavor for a moment – it’s a pure, bright blend of various kinds of wild berries and other fruit, and the cool liquid somehow invigorates his appetite even more.

As Ortho sets to work on the pretzels, the Queen finally begins her questioning.

“Malleus tells me you went to school together at Night Raven College. I’d been envisioning someone a tad older when he told me that, so I was quite surprised to see just how young you are. I take it your species must age slowly, like ours does?”

Ortho chews contemplatively on his pretzel. “It’s not that I age slowly, it’s just that my appearance doesn’t really change as time goes on. I guess you could say?”

“Oh, really? My, how very interesting.” She takes a sip from her goblet, and her pointed tongue darts out to capture the stray drops trying to escape down her lips. “He also told me you hale from the Isle of Grief, from the Shroud clan. Is your family doing well these days? I haven’t heard from Zephyr in quite a while.”

“Ah,” Ortho says, but then closes his mouth. He’s not sure if it would be impolite to tell the Queen that Zephyr Shroud had passed away four decades ago, and that someone new is leading the family now. He pushes around the last piece of sausage on his plate as he searches for the safest answer. “The Shroud family is doing well. We…. recently got a new clan head, and she sends her greetings.”

The Queen continues, “I see. Please do send her my thanks and well wishes in return. And I hate to pry….” (Ortho privately thinks she does not) “…but are you involved at all with Styx’s operations, by any chance?

“They make my equipment for me, and I help run security at their headquarters, but I’m not involved in their research, no.”

“I see, I see. Good, yes, that’s good.” She nods, but Ortho can’t tell if the gesture is directed at him or herself. She pushes her empty plate away and folds her hands on her lap. Ortho sees a glimmer of hope, and he thinks this strange and awkward conversation might soon come to an end. But all his hopes are dashed when the Queen turns and asks one of the servants for two more bowls of sausage and another plate of pretzels. “Now, what do you mean by “equipment” exactly? And I noticed you hardly seem to have any traces of magic about you. How were you able to attend Night Raven College, may I ask? And is your hair actually on fire? I’ve always wanted to ask your family’s clan leaders, but it slips my mind whenever I see them, and I don’t remember until they’ve already passed. It’s as though each time I blink, you’ve got someone new in charge!” She finishes with a curt laugh, and her bright green eyes bore into Ortho expectantly.

Ortho glances across the table and gives Malleus a plaintive look, but he is seemingly far too engrossed in his pretzels to offer any help.

After breakfast, the Queen excuses herself to go attend to some royal matter or other, and Ortho and Malleus quickly retreat to the library. They wander up and down the rows of shelves for a while, only half paying attention to the books they pull out and flip through. When they happen to meander towards the same shelf and meet in the middle of the aisle, at last they talk, having recuperated enough for conversation.

Ortho starts first, and he exhales like a pierced tire. “That was…. Intense.”

Malleus sighs, as well. “Yes, my grandmother can be quite… severe in her inquisitiveness. I do apologize if she made you uncomfortable at all.”

“Oh, it’s alright. I remember my mom used to drill me and my big brother like that whenever we came home for the holidays, so it was kind of fun, in a way.” Ortho smiles to himself reservedly, as though recalling some precious secret.

“Anyways,” he continues, “I wish my big brother could’ve been here. I’m sure he would’ve loved to meet the Queen.”

Malleus raises an eyebrow. “You really think so? I always had the impression he wasn’t a very sociable fellow.”

Ortho laughs. “You’re right, he wasn’t. But her Majesty resembles a character from an anime he really liked, and I bet he would’ve gotten a kick out of meeting her.”

Malleus isn’t sure whether his grandmother has just been gravely insulted or highly praised, and so he resigns to simply hum in agreement. He tries to imagine how a meeting between the two would even look, but the image refuses to form, his brain balking at him like a stubborn horse. He gropes through a haze of hundreds and hundreds of years of memories and tries to conjure the elder Shroud’s face in his mind, but all he sees is a blur of white skin and blue hair and sharp teeth.

Finally, he looks over to Ortho and slowly admits, “You know, I can’t quite… seem to recall how he looked…”

Ortho flashes him a reassuring smile in return. “That’s okay, I will assist you.”

Some part of Ortho’s body emits a beep, and then his chest plates slide back to reveal a black lens at their center. Before Malleus can ask what he’s doing, the lens turns from black to bright white, and now Idia Shroud himself is standing before them. He’s dressed in the navy-blue coat with the white triangles down the sleeves that he’d always wear at Night Raven College, and his long, fiery hair undulates like waves around him.

For a moment, Malleus is stunned. And then his stupefaction quickly melts into hot anger. Necromancy is strictly forbidden amongst his people, and by no means will he permit this black magic in his own home.

“Wretched spirit!” he snarls. Dark emerald green energy swirls around him, and he raises a glowing hand towards Idia. The books piled around them fly open and the bookshelves begin to shake as a whirlwind of paper dances around the room.

Ortho runs between Malleus and his brother and waves his hands frantically as he shouts, “No, no, no wait! It’s just a hologram, Malleus Draconia! It’s not a ghost, it’s okay!”

Malleus’s slit pupils dart between the two brothers. He tries to focus on Idia for as long as his rage allows, and at last he notices the miniscule dust particles passing through the beams of light that make up the specter’s body. Malleus lowers his hand and dispels his built-up magic with a shake of his arm, and Ortho sighs in relief as he watches the green sparks dissipate into the air. The airborne books crash to the floor a moment later.

Malleus says quietly, more so to himself than to Ortho, “My apologies, I thought you’d…” He doesn’t trust himself to finish the sentence. He knows just speaking the words would stoke his wrath again.

Ortho quickly scans Malleus’s vitals and blot accumulation levels, and he can feel the tension seep from his own body once he confirms the storm of danger has passed. He looks over and sees Malleus staring at the floor, working his jaw in contemplation. Ortho waits for him to speak again.

Finally, Malleus plucks one of the thoughts swirling around in his mind, and he asks, “Can you… Can you project the other students, as well?”

Ortho nods, and the lens in his chest whirs for a moment before the room suddenly fills with a crowd of figures. Malleus scans the familiar faces. There’s Deuce Spade and Ace Trappola and the Child of Man together by one of the windows. There’s Leona Kingscholar, frozen in the middle of a yawn, surrounded by his pack members. And there’s Vil Schoenheit, a compact mirror in one hand, his other paused midair as he fusses with some miniscule imperfection in his mascara that even Malleus’s fae eyesight couldn’t ever hope to uncover. And then he sees them. They’re standing together in the corner of the room.

Malleus takes a step forward, and then stops.

“Do they… Can you make them move?”

“Yes, by taking the footage I recorded while at school and running it through one of my AI programs, I can configure the holograms to perform pretty much any action you can imagine. I can also simulate their voices, if you’d like.”

Malleus opens his mouth as if to speak, and then he closes it again. He shakes his head and says, “Ah, no. No, that’s fine. I’m not even sure why I asked, please don’t mind me.” His gaze lingers on the three of them while he talks. He continues staring at that spot long after Ortho shuts his lens off.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Malleus has a fitting to attend to, and then yet another rehearsal for the coronation. The servants hurry and fuss around him like honeybees on a wildflower as they double-check and then triple-check their measurements. He slowly disappears underneath the long bands of white measuring tape, and Ortho tries his best to stifle his laughter while he watches, looking away guiltily whenever a surreptitious giggle escapes his lips. But Malleus doesn’t pay him any bother; his mind is too focused on other things.

The holograms have been haunting him all morning. He sees them when he looks into the mirror, he feels their presence when he’s alone. They’re always at the corner of his eye, always just out of arm’s reach. As though taunting him. He wonders if they plague him so because of how real they looked. He had seen movies projected onto screens before, and he still remembers the ghastly window projections Lilia would dig out every Halloween. But that footage was always so grainy, so dull and lifeless. The holograms that Ortho had conjured earlier were deceptively vibrant, they had breathed. They were alive. If Malleus had reached out and touched them, he scarcely doubts he’d have felt warm flesh under his hands.

The murmurs of the servants around him pull him from his thoughts, and he is gradually befreed from the prison of safety pins and sewing needles and measuring tape and color swatches. He turns slowly as he hears someone approaching, half dreading it might be another radiant phantom coming to vex him.

“Malleus Draconia, I’ve been detecting a delay in your response speed since this morning, as well as periods of increased heart rate. Is something on your mind?”

Malleus’s shoulders sag in relief. With a sigh, he answers, “Ah, it’s just you, Little Shroud. No, I’m fine. I’ve just been preoccupied with the preparations is all.”

Ortho smiles with all the innocence of a lamb. His barracuda teeth glint portentously. “…Did anyone ever tell you I can detect lies?”

“I am not-“

A chambermaid interrupts to ask if Malleus is ready to start the rehearsal, and he gratefully follows her to the throne room. He hears Ortho walking behind him. He tries to ignore the second set of footsteps he knows isn’t really there.

The cool reprieve of night is accompanied by a sudden rainstorm, and Ortho excuses himself to his room at the first crack of thunder. The blinding marks left behind by the lightning raking its great claws across the sky still terrify him after all these years, and he closes the windows and draws the curtains shut, not wanting to look at those awful flashes of light.

Later, Malleus passes by his room during his usual nighttime stroll, and he again hears Ortho’s excited voice floating through the wooden door. He stands there listening for a few minutes, and then finally knocks on the door. He asks loudly, over the pouring rain, if he might come in, and Ortho shouts back, “Of course!”

When Malleus opens the door, he sees Ortho reclining on his bed, and Idia Shroud sitting in a chair nearby. Malleus groans and closes his eyes, shaking his head. But Idia is still there when he opens his eyes, and he takes a hesitant step back.

“What’s wrong, Malleus Draconia?” Ortho asks wide-eyed, looking between his brother and Malleus. “Is my hologram bothering you again? Here, I’ll turn it off.” The apparition disappears without a sound, and Malleus takes a shuddering breath.

“My apologies, I just wasn’t sure if he was really…” Malleus shakes his head again. “No, it’s fine. What were you doing just now? I thought I heard you talking with someone.”

Ortho sits up and hangs his legs over the bed. “Oh, I was just talking with my big brother.” He watches as Malleus’s usually stern face scrunches up in confusion, and stifles back a laugh.

In his stupefaction, Malleus blurts, “And what were you talking to him about?”

“All sorts of stuff! I was telling him about our breakfast with the queen, and all the cool books we found in the library. Oh! And I’ve been showing him all the pictures and videos I’ve been taking so far.”

Malleus thinks for a moment. “Ah, so when I heard you speaking with someone in your room the other night…”

Ortho nods. “I was just talking to my big brother, yeah.”

“I see,” Malleus breathes out. And then, quietly, he murmurs, “I see… That’s quite surprising.”

“What do you mean?” Ortho asks.

“I suppose I hadn’t expected a robot to be able to be so sentimental, missing your brother and talking to his photo like that.”

“I mean, of course I miss him! But there’s nothing in my programming that makes me feel this way. It comes from my heart, the same as you.”

Malleus blanches. “You have… a heart? The literal organ, you mean?”

“Erm, no.” Ortho winces. “You see I’ve got this magical circuitry onboard and-”

“And there it is again,” Malleus sighs.

“What?”

Malleus crosses his arms. “To me, you have always been a very confusing amalgamation of machinery and human. And I fear I shan’t ever understand exactly what you are.”

During his time at Night Raven College, Malleus had only ever heard fragmentary rumors about the Shroud brothers. The other students would whisper that something terrible had befallen their family in the past, and that Idia had created the little robot in his grief. But neither of the brothers had ever offered to divulge their past to Malleus, and he never asked them to. He kept many things close to his heart, and he respected others who wished to do the same.

“Well,” Ortho says as he folds his hands in his lap. He stares at them for a moment, and after looking back up at Malleus, he continues, “I can try and explain it to you, if you’d like.”

“Only if you don’t mind, I don’t wish to pry.”

Ortho shuffles further down the bed and pats the empty space next to him, and Malleus sits down.

Ortho takes a deep breath, and then begins, “Well, this story starts a really long time ago. There were these two brothers named Idia Shroud and Ortho Shroud, and they always dreamed of going on adventures together…”

Malleus leans over, trying to grasp onto the shaky whispers that spill from his mouth like a confession. He had always thought of Ortho’s voice as bright and animated, like the titter of a goldfinch on a summer morning. But now, for the first time, as he listens to the boy talk, he finds his voice is very small. It’s as though his words have been crushed and shattered, the fine bits and pieces sent adrift like dust in the wind. He notices for the first time, too, just how small Ortho is, he notices the smallness of his hands. Is this not but a child’s body shivering hesitantly beside his? Is this not but a child’s tiny hand gripping nervously onto his own? For him to be carrying such an endless ocean of sorrow inside of him, how has he not drowned from its tremendous weight already? How has the earth not opened up and swallowed him whole, trapping him inside the same deep, dark pit that Malleus has been staring up from for centuries now?

The story comes together slowly, dripping like water, steadily taking shape like some great crystalline structure in a cavern long forgotten by time. And at long last, the pure light of revelation dawns before Malleus’s eyes. With a gasp, he tells the boy he understands now. Yes, that secret truth that has stood unnoticed before him for half a millennium, that has always slipped by him unheard, like a distant cry swallowed by the winds - now he sees it, now he hears it. Now he finally understands.

Exhausted, Ortho closes his eyes and sinks into the bed.

Malleus reaches out and cups Ortho’s cheek in his hand. A dim warmth emanates from the synthetic skin. As he sits there in the cold darkness, he wonders and wonders just what haunts the boy in his electric dreams.

V.

The rainstorm fades away into the black night as quickly as it had appeared. The next morning, the sun rises sluggishly, as though weighed down by the lingering dampness that hangs heavy in the air. The dawn chorus, as well, lacks its usual fervor, and only the intermittent cries of a distant blackbird accompany the horizon’s slow transition from black to red to blue.

If Ortho had been at all bothered by their conversation last night, he does not show it. He greets Malleus cheerfully when they sit down for breakfast, and they discuss only the drab weather and what plans they have for the day. When Ortho asks if he might accompany Malleus on his morning rounds, he readily agrees.

First on Malleus’s agenda is a violin recital. Sometimes he will perform for his grandmother, and he used to enjoy showing off a piece or two for Lilia, but as of late he’s been playing for only himself. The usual forlornness of the music room is somewhat stifled now that he has Ortho with him, and he searches for a chair the boy can use. Ortho watches him, shifting speculatively from one foot to another.

After Malleus locates a second chair and goes to take his seat before the music stand, Ortho timidly asks, “Remember when we were talking yesterday after your fitting, and that maid came and interrupted us?”

“…Yes?” Malleus replies, pausing as he picks up his violin case.

“Well, I still want to know if you’re doing okay. I keep detecting irregularities in your adrenaline and cortisol levels.”

“I assure you, I’m quite fine.” Malleus puts on his best smile as he unlocks the case and takes out his instrument. The smooth blend of maple and spruce feels reassuring in his hands, and he sets his jaw as he begins his tuning. “Now hush for a moment, please. I need to focus.” Ortho acquiesces, and he dutifully goes to sit in the corner of the room. The violin’s mournful voice somehow dissolves the tension that had been sitting uncomfortably in Ortho’s body since that morning, and as Malleus decisively strikes his bow across the pearl white strings for the final, piercing note, a firm resolve solidifies in its place.

Next is a morning meeting with the royal council, and Ortho resumes his endeavors while they walk to the council chamber. He breaks into a trot to keep up with Malleus’s long strides.

“Talking things out can help you feel better, you know!” Ortho implores.

“And that would be lovely,” Malleus huffs through gritted teeth, “- if only I needed to feel better!”

The servants passing by wonder to themselves if the boy is purely brazen, or if he’s just ignorant. They watch as the black column of their prince stalks faster and faster down the hallway, unable to shake off the white and blue speck following him.

The council meeting provides a short reprieve from Ortho’s questioning, and Malleus listens eagerly as the advisors, merchants, secretaries, and other council members take turns giving their rambling reports. The meetings were one of Malleus’s greatest delights; he was always eager to hear how things were going outside the castle, and the merchants would often bring back fascinating stories of what they’d seen during their travels. Most of the members pay no heed to the small boy sitting quietly next to the prince, but Ortho catches some of them glancing his way. Their blue and green and yellow eyes remind him of cat’s eyes marbles, and he admires how they catch the light. He ducks his head whenever they notice him staring.

Malleus’s excitement quickly disperses together with the conclusion of the meeting, and Ortho, in turn, swells up again with curiosity. The other council members file out of the room first, some of them still quibbling and grumbling over the issues they’d been discussing, and Malleus and Ortho bring up the rear. Ortho tugs on Malleus’s sleeve after they pour into the hallway.

“Are you-”

“I’m fine!”

For the rest of the morning, Ortho clings to him like a shadow, his perturbations hanging over Malleus’s head like circling buzzards. No matter how many times Malleus shoos him away, no matter how fiercely he glares, no matter how much venom he tries to inject into his refutations, the boy simply flutters back to his side moments later, as unbothered as a dandelion on the wind. Even teleporting to another part of the castle proves fruitless – Ortho’s location systems keep tracking him down within a matter of minutes.

Finally, around noon, Ortho corners him in Malleus’s study. He asks once more, “Are you sure there isn’t anything bothering you?”

Malleus sets down the book he’d been hiding behind and sighs. “You really aren’t going to let up until I talk to you, I suppose?”

“Nope!” Ortho grins.

“You’re truly vexing, you know that?” Malleus replies, a tired smile pulling at his lips. He gestures to a nearby chair, and Ortho sits down.

“Very well then. If you must know, it’s because of those…” He waves a hand in the air as he searches for the word. “Those holograms you showed me yesterday. I can’t stop thinking about them, for whatever reason. I don’t know if it’s just because I haven’t seen photos of them for so long or…”

“Them?”

It takes Malleus a moment to coax the names out of his mouth. “…Lilia, Silver, and Sebek.”

Ortho nods his head. “Oh, yeah. I remember you were really close to them.”

“Yes, they were like family to me…” Malleus murmurs, trailing off in thought. He licks his lips and asks, “…Does it not… Does it not make you sad, seeing your brother’s picture? And talking to him as you do?”

Ortho shakes his head. “It’s perfectly normal to feel uncomfortable when looking at pictures of your deceased loved ones. I just happen to be one of those people who doesn’t. And when I talk to my big brother, it helps me feel close to him. Everyone processes grief in different ways, after all.”

“Grief?” Malleus scoffs. “It’s been ages since they passed. Why would I still be grieving? It’s not like I hole myself in my room all the time, sulking about.”

“That’s not…” Ortho frowns. “Grief isn’t always loud and in your face. Sometimes… Sometimes it can be really quiet.”

“Mm,” Malleus sighs. He was familiar with that sort of quiet grief, the kind that would strike him faster than a cottonmouth, usually on still mornings or hushed nights, when his loneliness was at its most palpable. It always felt like an ambush, the way it would suddenly materialize in his heart like a rainstorm on a clear day. It was not like the burning, bone deep sorrow that had gripped his body after Lilia left, and neither was it suffocating, like how he’d felt at Silver and Sebek’s funerals. But it hurt him just the same.

“And how exactly does talking with his pict- his hologram make you feel better?” Malleus asks, genuinely curious.

“So my big brother and I had always wanted to travel the world together- Well, more like I wanted to get him out of his room, for once.” Ortho laughs, and Malleus smirks.

“But anyways, we never ended up being able to travel much since he was stuck dealing with Styx stuff most of the time. That’s why I like to talk to him and tell him about the places I go to, and the things I see. I know it doesn’t make up for the memories we never got to make together, but that hologram kind of helps me process all the stuff I regret not being able to do with him.”

“I see.”

Ortho takes his lower lip into his mouth and nibbles it pensively. “Is there anything you regret not being able to do with Lilia Vanrouge and the others?”

Malleus nods gravely. “Of course, for I never got to… Lilia was already gone by the time Silver and I arrived at his farewell party, and that has always weighed heavily on my mind. I know there’s nothing I can do about that now, but… I still would’ve liked to have at least spent one last night together with everyone.”

Malleus opens his mouth to continue speaking, and then closes it again. Ortho waits patiently, watching as Malleus furrows his brows in thought.

Finally, Malleus continues, “…I wished desperately, perhaps more so than anyone else at Night Raven College, to have the kinds of school experiences I’d always read about. I wished to have study sessions with my classmates, to go visit my friends and stay up late talking with them, to go to parties and other social gatherings… And yet, when I finally received the party invitation I’d always longed for, I didn’t even go. I still marvel at my foolishness to this day.” He finishes with a shake of his head.

Ortho crosses his arms and closes his eyes. “Hmm… I might be able to assist you with that. Could we reserve the castle’s ballroom tonight?”

Malleus blinks. “That shouldn’t be a problem… But why?”

“You’ll see!”

Later that night, after Ortho explains his plan, he instructs Malleus to go put on his old house warden uniform. It’s been ages since he last wore it, and the fabric feels alien to him. He tugs at his collar and fiddles with his gloves and fingers the lining of his coat, as restless as a snake eager to shed its skin. Even standing before the mirror, it feels like he’s looking at someone else, like the pale, awkward face staring back at him belongs to some unfortunate stranger. He clicks his tongue and turns to make his way to the ballroom. Ortho greets him when he passes through the towering doors.

“Now, it consumes a lot of battery power for me to run so much footage through this specific AI program all at once. I’ll probably be able to display the holograms for about two hours before I’ll need to stop. Okay?”

“Yes, that’s alright. I don’t imagine this will go on for very long, anyways.”

Ortho glides up to the gallery on the second floor, and he turns to face the dance floor. The plates in his chest once again unfurl to reveal the lens of his built-in projector, and in the blink of an eye, the ballroom is filled with the glimmering holograms of their old Night Raven College classmates.

“Is everything okay? May I start the music?” Ortho shouts from the gallery.

Malleus stills his nerves with a deep breath. “Go ahead!” he calls out, and the ballroom’s speakers start thrumming a moment later. At once, all the holograms turn and look up at him expectantly. Even from where he’s standing atop the stairs, he can easily pick out Silver, Sebek, and Lilia’s white faces peering at him from the crowd. Silver steps forward and offers his hand. Malleus rushes down the stairs and takes it.

The first few steps are awkward and offbeat. Again and again, Malleus moves his hands or feet too close to the hologram’s body, and his limbs pierce through the projected light like a clumsy blade. He winces, both at his inability to perform a simple waltz, and at the sight of his fingers halfway embedded in Silver’s waist. Eventually, Malleus figures out that if he counts the steps, it’s easier for him to move while hovering his hands just above Silver’s body. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three. Their steps finally line up with the beat, and they glide across the dance floor with confidence and surety.

For the first time that night, Malleus smiles, and Silver smiles back. How he ached to pluck that smile off the boy’s face and safekeep it in his pocket forever! Alas, all he can do is drop one arm and raise the other, signaling Silver to turn. He watches silently as Silver twirls beneath him, and their hands rejoin at the next step. After a few minutes, the music swells – it’s time for the swap.

Silver swings away and takes his father’s outstretched hand, while Sebek separates from Epel to come join Malleus. Malleus almost wants to turn around, to just stop right there and simply watch Silver and Lilia dance, but Sebek’s brilliant smile captivates him like nothing else. They move quickly, with Malleus leading the way, and Sebek forceful and heavy in his movements. Where Silver was reserved, Sebek is thunderous, and Malleus laughs as they whirl and race across the dance floor. When the music finally swells again, Sebek hands off Malleus to Lilia with a bow.

Malleus again fumbles for a few moments, having to adjust to Lilia’s much shorter height. He curses as his one hand shoots right through Lilia’s face and the other cuts through his shoulder. After a couple of hesitant steps, he at last finds his rhythm once more, and they move leisurely to the steady thrum of the music.  

Like a pair of jubilant cranes declaring their great love, like the push and pull of the moon and the ocean’s tides, they take turns leading and following one another. The throng of students parts before them, clearing a path for the two to drift down. As the song races on, more and more couples stop to watch them, and soon it’s just Malleus and Lilia floating across the dance floor. Malleus can feel their eyes boring into him, but he doesn’t care. He has been bewitched. He grows more and more drunk on every turn, every dip, every carefully placed step and dizzying revolution. The floor disappears underneath him; the ballroom fades away. There is only him and Lilia and the music. Rapture’s final trumpet could’ve sounded in that moment and he wouldn’t have noticed.     

As the last, winsome notes of the song gradually fade away, Lilia reaches up and ruffles Malleus’s head, and Malleus closes his eyes. For nearly five hundred long years he has lived trapped underneath the immovable weight of his sorrow. He has beaten his fists against it and kicked it and raked his claws down its sides, he has wailed and screamed and roared until his voice grew hoarse, he has cursed Heaven and Hell and begged for salvation from both, but he was never able to get it to even budge. The past few days, he finally felt it starting to shift. And just now, when that small hand he so desperately yearned to feel the touch of had reached out to him, it nearly disintegrated on the spot.

Finally, the song ends, the air stills, the spell is broken. Malleus opens his eyes, and the world reforms before him. He raises his hand and rubs his head where Lilia had touched him. He had almost felt it, almost felt those familiar, thin fingers running through his hair. Maybe if they just start the song over and go through the dance again, he’ll feel it next time.

“Little Shroud!” Malleus cries. “Please! Do it once more!”

“Okay!” Ortho yells from above, and the song begins again. The holograms disappear for a moment, and then reappear in their starting positions a second later. Malleus retreats to the top of the staircase. Then he turns around and takes Silver’s hand.

This time, there is no awkwardness, no clumsy missteps or fumbling movements. Malleus and Silver spin with all the grace of a courting swan, he and Sebek whirl as determined as a maelstrom. When Sebek releases him into Lilia’s arms, he handles the transition with ease, his hands finding their correct positions all on their own.

Yes, this time, when Lilia goes to pat his head, there is the slightest hint of the cool fabric of Lilia’s gloves ghosting over his skin. And as Lilia pulls his hand away, a scent not unlike one Malleus has smelled a thousand times before washes over him – it’s sharp like iron, and musky and sweet like jessamine. He’d always thought it fitting that Lilia smelled that way. The canary yellow bells that adorn jessamine vines were often mistaken for honeysuckle, and many a thirsty child had fallen paralyzed to the forest floor after drinking its sugary nectar. Its sweet smell was both a warning and a temptation, and Malleus found it purely intoxicating. He breathes in the air greedily.

Oh, if they could just try again! Surely, he’ll feel that hand’s tender caress next time!

“Little Shroud!”

Ortho restarts the music and resets the holograms again. And again and again, for hours on end. As the night marches on and the firefly lights of the stars begin to dot the sky, Ortho ignores the high-pitched beeping of his low battery alert.

It takes a few minutes for Malleus to realize the holograms have vanished. He’d been keeping his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he twirled Silver around the dance floor. When he finally opens his eyes, ready to take Sebek’s hand next, he sees only the dark, empty ballroom.

“Little Shroud!” he calls out, and then louder, when he doesn’t get a response, “Ortho!”

He teleports up to the gallery and finds the boy sprawled out on the floor, his eyes closed. He goes to check for a pulse, chiding himself once he realizes his simpleminded error. He flips Ortho onto his stomach and searches for the battery indicator light the boy had mentioned before, and he sees it blinking an angry red.

Malleus lets out the breath he’d been holding with a hiss, and he gathers Ortho into his arms. He staggers as he rises from the ground, the boy’s small frame proving much heavier than it belies.

He takes Ortho back to the guest room and deposits him on the bed. He fumbles as he hooks up the charging cable to the port on the boy’s back. Nothing happens at first, and Malleus worries that he’s done something wrong, but then a voice sounds out, “Time Until Full Charge: 3 hours and 42 minutes”, and a faint, green light begins to glow near the battery port. Ortho’s eyes open a moment later.

Malleus peers over him as he asks, “Little Shroud, are you alright? Can you hear my voice?”

“Malleus… Draconia…?” Ortho blinks a few times, and then sits up. “…Yes, all my systems are operational. According to my memory dump files, it appears I crashed due to a critically low battery. I’ll be good to go as long as I fully charge my battery tonight.”

“Ah, thank goodness…” Malleus exhales, relieved. “I do apologize, I was so absorbed in my own whims I lost track of time. I shouldn’t have put you in danger like that.”

Ortho looks away. “It’s okay... and I’m sorry, too.”

“For what?” Malleus asks, confused.

“I was trying to give you one last night together with everyone, but I went and ruined the whole thing…”

“You didn’t ruin anything!” Malleus exclaims, and then he clears his throat. Quietly, he continues, “You didn’t ruin anything. You gave me something I wasn’t aware my heart desperately needed. And I thank you sincerely for it.”

“Mm,” Ortho mumbles, only half listening. He blinks rapidly and looks around the room - at the door, at the bookcase, at the bedside table. Everywhere except at Malleus.

Malleus frowns. “Is something the matter?”

“I guess I just… I don’t know.” Ortho lets out a shaky sigh. “When I saw you dancing with those holograms, you looked so happy. And that made me really happy, too. But then I started thinking, you’re my last friend from NRC, right? One day, you’re going to be just another hologram to me, same as everybody else...” He brings his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs. It reminds Malleus of how Silver and Sebek would look when they got upset as children, and a feeling he can’t find the name for begins prickling in his chest.

Perhaps encouraged, perhaps despaired, Ortho’s words pour out faster and faster. “I never asked my big brother to make me, but he did. And then he just up and left me behind. Everybody does. And there’s nothing I can do about it…”

His voice shrinks to a whisper. “…I guess I just don’t like that I never got any say in the matter.”

Ortho clears his throat, and then a heavy sob wracks his small body. The tears he’d been fighting so hard to hold back finally burst free and rush down his scrunched-up face. Malleus desperately wants to look away, but the moonlight reflecting off the boy’s tears paralyzes him.

He thinks back on all the times in his life when he had failed to comfort someone. He still remembers the night of Lilia’s departure with perfect clarity, he remembers the pure white of the snowflakes that fell on Silver’s face, how they mixed with the iridescent tears that spilled from his eyes, and how they melted from the warmth of his quiet sorrow. And he remembers the hard line of Sebek’s shoulder trembling under his hand at Silver’s funeral, he remembers how small the huge man had looked, crumpled over, folded in on himself, crushed under the immense weight of his endless grief.

And now he stands before this child who has wrenched back the heavy curtains of his heart and led him into the blinding light of the world for the first time in nearly half a millennium. At times, he viciously fought back against the small hand that guided him, refusing the open pastures before him like some forgotten creature long left to rot within the darkness of its cage. And at times, he was only eager to follow its gentle coaxing, desperate for even the slightest bit of reassurance that he really could escape the pit of his sorrows and the ground wouldn’t swallow him whole again.

Is there truly nothing he can do, nothing he can say to soothe the poor boy’s heart? Must he once again be rendered dumbfounded and dazed by those silent tears?

He decides this time will be different - it must be.

He sits down on the bed next to Ortho and takes some time to gather his words. After a couple seconds, he utters, “I see. Yes, I can certainly understand how you feel.”

“While I cannot say I agree with what your older brother did, I will say this...”

“When Lilia announced he was going to be raising a human child, I thought he had finally, truly lost his mind. I eventually figured out why he must’ve seen no problem with it, since he would far outlive the boy - he’d have his hands full for a couple of decades at most, and then be free to continue living his life as he pleased. I’m sure you can imagine what a shock it was when he ended up passing so much earlier than Silver did.”

“It wasn’t until I got older that I realized I had it all wrong. He must’ve known very well that he was going to die before Silver, and that’s precisely why he decided to take him in. For he knew that he couldn’t… He knew that he wasn’t strong enough to live in a world that had taken his heart away from him.”

“But he must’ve felt that I was strong enough, and that I can do what he could not. I suppose older generations always have such hopes for those who come after them.”

Ortho finally looks at him. He wipes the wet mess from his face and takes a deep breath. “Maybe my big brother felt the same way, that I’m strong enough…”

“Perhaps he did. I certainly think you are, at least.”

“…Thank you.”

Malleus stays with Ortho until his battery finishes charging. Ortho is due to return home the next morning, and they talk about all the things they saw and did together on his much too short visit. And then they talk about everything and nothing, about their memories from their time at school, about all the different people and things they missed, about all their budding hopes for the future. And finally, enveloped in the twilight darkness of that small room, they promise to always keep in touch.

They fall asleep to the sound of the cardinals heralding the dawn.

VI.

Malleus squints as walks with Ortho into the soft light of the courtyard. They stand still for a while, just listening to the gentle hum of the windchimes. The foul weather from the day prior has vanished, and the sun’s golden rays stretch triumphantly overhead. Ortho remarks that it somehow feels like it was both forever ago and only just a couple seconds ago since they last stood there, and Malleus quietly agrees.

He turns to Ortho and places his hand on the boy’s shoulder. It’s time for him to go home.

“And I will see you at the coronation?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

“And you will let me know when you’ve made it back safely?”

“Yup, I’ll email you soon as I get back to the island. And then we can schedule a time to play some online chess together!”

Malleus smiles, and Ortho beams up at him in return. “Good. Take care, Little Shroud.”

“You, too, Malleus Draconia.”

As he watches the lights from Ortho’s propulsion system dissolve into the amber sea of the early morning sky, Malleus strokes his thumb across the packet of rose seeds in his pocket.

[natrogersfics]

The Anthology - Epilogue

Artwork by @faith2nyc Read on AO3

This would never not feel like a fever dream.  

That’s all Steve can think about as he smiles for the sea of flashing cameras before him, the massive poster of Captain America in his stealth suit towering tall in the background. It feels like just yesterday that he had walked onto set, hoping along with the rest of the cast and crew that they would do this project that meant so much to people some justice. And now here they are, prepared to show the world the final product.

He poses for a few more photos and signs a handful more autographs before Maria finally ushers him further down the carpet and straight into the path of the lively host waiting by the entrance to the theater, her camera crew hovering all around. 

“And here we have the man of the hour!” the host announces as he nears, and she turns her mic towards him. “How are you feeling tonight, Steve?”

“I’m extremely excited, Darcy,” he says truthfully, watching as she lights up in pleasant surprise that he had remembered her name. “We made this one as a love letter to all of Cap’s fans, so fingers crossed that they like it.”

Darcy beams. “I’m sure-” she begins, only to pause when she’s interrupted by a chorus of excited squealing. They both look up the carpet to see the cause of the commotion, prompting Darcy to chuckle. “Seems your costar has arrived.”

“Seems so,” he manages to say. Part of him is aware that Darcy still has her mic extended to him and that he’s now frozen stupid while on live television, but he doesn’t care. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, that could pry his eyes away from the sight of Natasha slowly descending the carpet, looking every bit the movie star that she is with her hair falling in loose waves down her back and her lips painted crimson – a few shades deeper than the little red number she has on that hugs her in all the right places and falls just a little past her knees.

Natasha’s eyes meet his as she approaches, her lips lifting in that soft smile he knows is just for him. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” he says, offering his arm out for her to take. She links her arm with his, allowing him to guide her until she’s standing by his side. She looks even more ethereal now that she’s right next to him, and for the briefest of moments, it’s as though he forgets how to breathe. He sighs as a smile all but threatens to split his face in two. “You look stunning.”

“As do you,” she says, and he swears he sees a hint of a blush pave its way to her cheeks.

“The one and only Natasha Romanoff is here with us, ladies and dudes,” Darcy says, and it’s only then that he remembers that he’s still halfway through an interview. If Darcy is at all piqued by his lack of attention, though, she doesn’t show it as she turns excitedly to Natasha before pointing to the cameras. “Wave to everyone at home, girl!”  

Natasha chuckles, waving into the camera with her free hand. “Hi, everyone!”

“Natasha, can you tell us what your experience working on this movie was like?” Darcy inquires.

“Oh, it was magical,” she says. “Honestly, the cast and crew just gelled so well. We really became one big, happy family out there. Which is all you can really ask for when you spend months shooting for hours on end.” She turns towards him, her smile growing wider. “And, of course, it’s never a bad day at the office when you get to work with this one.” 

“Can confirm that lots of people were jealous of your job, yes,” Darcy says, causing both her and Natasha to laugh and him to sheepishly shake his head. 

“I will have the people know that she is also a joy to work with,” he says, leaning closer to the mic before looking back to Natasha. “Getting to watch her work every day was an absolute treat. There is simply no Black Widow without her.” 

“I paid him to say that,” Natasha quips, still holding his gaze even as she attempts to brush off his compliment. He winks in response, eliciting another smile from her. 

“Speaking of the people, though…” Darcy’s words cause him to turn back at the host just in time to see her eyes dart between him and Natasha before zeroing in on the hand Natasha still has resting on his chest. “I’ve been sent to do their work here, so I have to ask. There have been… discussions, if you will, on the interwebs these past few weeks about Cap and Widow’s chemistry maybe, possibly, extending beyond the screen...” She wiggles her brows. “Would either of you care to set the record straight right here, right now?”  

He chuckles at the conspiratorial smile that finds its way across Darcy’s face, and as he looks at Natasha next to him, he lifts a brow up in a silent question. They’ve discussed this ad nauseam at this point, and while he knows, unequivocally, what his answer is and that hers is exactly the same, the fact of the matter is that there would be no going back from this. His next words will alter the path of their lives moving forward, and he wouldn’t dare pull the trigger without her consent. But then her lips curl into that trademark smirk of hers, and that’s all the confirmation he needs to know that they’re on the same page. 

“Actually, Darcy, we would…” he says, his eyes never once leaving Natasha’s. From his periphery, he sees the mic that Darcy pushes closer to him, anticipating his response. He knows the words he wants to say, has rehearsed them in his head more times than he can count. Even so, he decides to let his hand slide to Natasha's waist instead, pulling her to him. 

“What are you doing?” Natasha asks, her eyes lighting up in a mix of surprise and amusement just as Darcy lets out a gasp. 

He doesn't respond, opting instead to lean down and slant his lips over hers. In an instant, they’re engulfed by the sound of the crowd cheering around them and of the cameras furiously flashing away, memorializing this moment forevermore, but he lets that all fade away as he deepens their kiss.

“Think that’s clear enough for them?” he asks when they finally pull away, smirking when she just snorts, pushing playfully at his chest. 

Chapter 8 | The Anthology Masterlist

[yandere-toons]

Yandere Bakugou Katsuki (Platonic Scenario - "In My Defence")

Warnings: strong and bloody violence, guns, swearing throughout, morally ambiguous reader, toxic mindset.

Word Count: 4.192

Artwork: Akiyama Yoco's for Episode 97 of the series' anime.

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"Does he even want us on this mission?"

From out the darkness overhanging an awning slunk a blending of scales and skin. A man below the neck; a viper above; a triangular skull bisected by diamond-shaped eyes; a forked tongue undulating and licking; a rounded crest mottled and flared — nature's grotesque experiments had found a new beast to assemble.

He wound a coil of tongue around lead, colouring it morbid yellow, before stuffing it into the top of a magazine and locking it in place. A ring of light spiralled off the barrel as he took aim, the oblong proportions of his head forcing his neck to twist hard.

A lone bullet whistled low before the crack alerted Katsuki; and you collapsed at almost the same instant to one knee, and thence to the road.

Kirishima dove to catch your head before it split on the asphalt, and the skin on his arms metamorphosed into flesh-coloured rock. He hunkered down close against you, his back to the noise, his body crumbling to grit, then growing back stonier by the second.

A fever of resentment cooked inside Katsuki as though he'd been fed hot charcoal fresh out of a furnace. "What the hell did you do?" his voice rose ten decibels with each syllable, and the skin on his cheeks turned purple as he bellowed out a heap of breath on the last word.

Many a young heart cried out in fear at the depth of his rage, which flowed without ceasing, as foam at the mouth of a rabid dog.

Katsuki charged the villain faster than he could blink, arms outstretched to the point of aching, palms up to reveal the curvature of his hands. There ignited the essence of a bomb, the biological incarnation of a lit match, of flint against steel, glistening and accumulating sweat in obeisance to him.

A thunderous roar and hiss on par with artillery fire wrested peace from every eardrum in the district. The maw of this inferno drank up the earth's light, engulfing it in a near infinite storm of colour. The sun returned swiftly, but the spectre of the bomb danced still in the eyes of each observer, clawing out bursts of black and white that fuzzed round the edges like sparking wires.

You shooed away the hand of another and hovered your own above the gaping wound. There arose the song of metal bending, and the bullet levitated from where it had lodged in your femur. The sudden collision with bone shattered the bullet into tiny, gore-drenched chunks.

Kaminari went rigid as a drop of blood snaked along the bullet, bloated at one end and splattered down. He reeled towards Kirishima, his hands spread wide, grasping at the air. "Can't you do it? Your Quirk makes you way better at this kind of thing than me!"

A few metres away, an explosion devastated the road, and a golden glow of embers flashed across Kirishima's serrated teeth. "Listen to me, you gotta man up!" his expression hardened by the sobering reality of the battlefield, but his voice remained clear and true: the sound of encouragement passed from friend to friend. "I've only got two hands, so I need you to pick up the slack!"

Gulping his last protest, Kaminari crossed his hands over the wound and steeled himself against the slippery flow of blood. "Bakugou's gonna kill me." His chest heaved with a breath so deep he seemed keen to disappear underwater, and he dove into the mess of blood gushing from your thigh.

Kirishima listened to the string of obscenities running amok, some he'd heard before, others mixed in with profanities he'd never imagined in his darkest days. "I think he's a little distracted."

Blood spurted from the wound, bubbling over his fingers, lapping at them with a warm tongue, and Kaminari struggled to keep down the lump in his throat. "Gross," he whined, scrunching his face to the brim with wrinkles. "I so wish I had gloves right now." Kaminari glanced wistfully at Katsuki, whose hands lay shielded in puffs of cloth.

The laughter of the nearly departed wheezed out from under your haggard breathing. "I'll remember that when you take a bullet."

As the pallid white waves swept across his cheeks, Kaminari pronked with a start, his mind's eye now teeming with grisly visions. He let out a weak laugh, almost choked with comic horror, and hoped the levity would ease your pain a little. Every hinge of his smile begged to collapse, but Kaminari forced his muscles to hold it together until you once again propped your neck against Kirishima's arm.

With a flick of your hand, the bullet reversed its course and sliced clean through the wasted left ear of he who had fired it.

A drizzle of red encircled the road beneath his feet as the villain wrenched wide his mouth, hissing, teetering towards escape.

Before Katsuki could bound forth and give chase, Kaminari leapt in front of him and pressed both hands to his chest. His whole body spasmed at that moment, and Katsuki jumped back, his fists twitching. He swallowed down the urge to knock Kaminari out of his way, wrenching a shred of control from what burned through his entrails.

"Dude, we got him! He's totally on the run!" Kaminari laughed goodhumouredly. A glob of blood hopped from his palm, smearing his fingerprints on Katsuki's costume, but as Katsuki fidgeted, the shape mangled into confusing streaks.

Shame churned in his stomach as Katsuki watched the blood fall and answered for himself who had spilt it.

A whisper laden with groans drew his attention over his shoulder, where you had wormed your way into the fetal position. Kirishima knelt at your side and took your hands in his own, sweat trickling down his face. "Squeeze as hard as you can, buddy, you know I can take it!"

"I'm not done yet," muttered Katsuki, dazed by the state of the mission and your deteriorating health, his eyes fixed on the retreating figure's battered form. He seized Kaminari by the back of his jacket and flung him to the pavement. "Until I blow his fucking head off!"

Kaminari braced, rolling until his elbows pressed against his chest and his screams of terror faded into the air. He winced at the scrapes on his hands as he slammed his palms down and lurched to a stop on his belly, the shock propelling a jolt across his spine as he reached out for Katsuki.

The path forward, now unobstructed, promised the sweetest opportunity to crush and dominate his enemy, and it thrilled Katsuki; the ambition to inflict upon this villain a pain like none had suffered before, or indeed ever would again, rampaged ahead of all other desires.

His pulse throbbed in every limb, threatening to burst from his neck, and the details of the world round him warped in and out of focus. Hearing nothing but his own breath and heart, he threw his arms back, splayed his fingers, and bent his knees.

Blast after blast sent Katsuki sprawling into the street, each one picking up speed and hurtling him closer to the villain. Smoke and flames streaked across the Musutafu skyline, obscuring that entire part of the world, the black of the smoke and the red of the flames as intense as a sunrise after a moonless night.

The villain had fled into an office building, the door riven and clashed shut, pinned with a chair. He walked backwards into a cubicle, counting the seconds, pistol trained on anything that broke through the barricade. Yet putting his other hand on the grip to steady the first hand seemed too great an effort;—sweat beaded on his palms, turning his limbs to mush.

Katsuki wove in the air with the tenacity of a guided missile, landing with such force that steam billowed everywhere. He pulled himself up to his full height, rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck back and forth over one shoulder. But first, he thrust a laugh between his teeth, then heaved in another breath and took aim.

Bricks and mortar flew into every corner of the office on wings of smoke, one smashing into the villain's face. The trauma ripped the pistol from his hand the instant after his index finger clenched the trigger on impulse. With a scuff of his shoes on the concrete, he tumbled backwards, his skull caroming off the floor.

The muzzle blast revealed the dark spread rushing down his chin, the numbness of his dislocated jaw, and the silhouette rising from the edge of the rubble in the distance. In the darkness of the ruins, everything touched by sunlight appeared fulgent and blurred.

The demoniacal passion that beat in the throat of anyone bold enough to summon it drove Katsuki's voice to the brink of distortion. "Come out and fight me!" every remaining window in the building cracked at the sound of his challenge.

Katsuki stuck his boot atop the heap of rubble nearest to the entrance and listened, controlling every breath and holding every upset. Amidst the rustling of dust, the injured man's grunting stirred the blood in his veins, and Katsuki let out a yell and leapt towards the source, releasing every bestial urge he possessed.

Two explosions, one from each hand, propelled him higher, reaching their apogee above the murmurs of pain. There, Katsuki swung his arms overhead, blasting the ceiling with precision, setting it ablaze, and plunged downwards with his legs outstretched, poised to stomp the life from the voice. Instead of the crunch of bones under overwhelming pressure, he heard the sound of splinters.

The concrete fissured beneath his feet and a shockwave went up in a puff of smoke, followed by a faint scream from ten paces away. Katsuki lifted his head to see the outline of the villain, who shuddered before him and scrambled in the opposite direction. Periodic whimpers and curses escaped from the gap between his fingers, and each time Katsuki seemed to take pride in this weakness.

Every few seconds, his hand snapped with a crackle of sparks. A mist of light draped in ribbons across his face, the glint of burning orange shining more clearly than ever against the sea of black. At that moment, his canines shone prominently, baring and grinding his teeth until his mouth vibrated with menace.

The villain looked into the abyss of smoke, and in the eyes that looked back, there was no reflection of the hero, only the light of a mind that shrieked with primal hatred and fed on vile fantasies. The same red colour that poured from his nostrils floated in the darkness, shadowing him.

Katsuki swung his arm, puncturing the column of smoke and drawing it back as a curtain. The longer he beheld the villain, the more veins bumped along his temples and muscles bulged like sinewy ropes in his neck. There came the sound of an old record scratching and a firecracker popping, flanked by a flash of light on either side of Katsuki.

As soon as the villain staggered away, a gloved hand struck him in the chest; that horrible moment of death pierced him and the inescapable realisation that he was seeing his own through the eyes of another.

The force of the blast doubled in intensity, pain and heat flooding through his body like a grenade, splintering his sternum and filling his ribcage with shrapnel. A crater opened up in the wall behind him as concrete slammed against his spine, and his feet lifted high enough to never again touch the ground.

Through the din, the hero roared in a trance of vengeance, his voice growing more and more animalistic. Katsuki reached for the villain's heart, his arms tremulous, barely able to catch his breath. He struck with all the strength of his body, his eyes bloodshot from the smoke that sucked the air from his lungs.

From the inside of his gauntlet protruded a metal pin;—as he bent his finger to hook it, an instantaneous surge of rage shot through him. When he loosed the pin, a single word, "Die," burst forth, a word that packed a lifetime of contempt and rancour.

A swirl of the most vivid reds and oranges, hot and unquenchable as the core of a forest fire, tasted the air through the tubes of his gauntlets and soared infernal. An explosion more powerful than the loudest clap of thunder rang out, and everything opposite Katsuki burst into embers and spatter.

A whirlwind of flame and smoke pushed the unburnt pieces of concrete into darkness. Thick soot and ash blackened each window, and with a loud crash, shards of glass rained down into the street. The hiss and echo of shrapnel cascaded through the air, flying on the wind, before the explosion waned to a booming rumble.

Sizzling steam wafted through the air, exhaling the sticky fumes of sweat and blood. The hard soles of his combat boots thudded against fissures in the pavement. Smoke arose from his slick forehead, stinking at the hero as he stalked through the clouds of dust, and the threads of his costume stretched as his chest grew heavier.

These huffs and puffs fell short of his eyes, which glowered at all before them. The wildness that had possessed him withered to its usual ache once the sun gilded his face. With each step more driven than the last, the gloom of the wreckage and those whom it buried slipped further and further from his mind.

Katsuki hovered as close as he could without stepping on you. Dollops of blood dripped from the spikes of his hair and stood vibrant against the black of his costume.

"Hey, Bakubro!" Kirishima scanned the street in the vain hope that he would find the villain handcuffed, not reduced to the meat paste one wiped from their shoe. "Where's the villain?"

The muscles in Katsuki's face contracted, as did the muscles in his fingers, which curled inwards to throttle even the memory of the villain. For a moment, a sour calm passed over him, and the twitching in his cheeks subsided. "I blew his ass to pieces."

"Serves him right." You spat out a glob of blood and phlegm onto the asphalt.

A swell of pride drew from Katsuki a chuckle both brief and spirited, for his eyes lit up as the glow of his brightest explosion. The primordial anger that boiled within him gave way to the triumph and bloodlust espoused only by those who relished the battlefield.

Kirishima, whence he sat with hands clasped about your own, slackened them and recoiled a tad, his face blanching and on the verge of contortion. "What? But we can't just..." he bit his tongue as Katsuki swooped down on him.

"We made a judgement call, shitty hair!" He swung his arm wide. "So back the hell off!"

Another wheezing gasp escaped you, but it shrank to a torn, guttural pant as the moribund life inside failed to regain its strength.

As the short distance from the pavement drew his eye back and forth, back and forth, Kaminari eased his hands about your underarms and hauled you up to his chest. The first step to the pavement shot through your body a convulsion of spitting, flailing, and snorting. Froth and drool gelled in your mouth, and blood emptied from your nose into your throat.

The instant Kaminari dropped you and flinched back, wincing at his own carelessness, the skin on his arm erupted with invisible flame and rocketed closer. The centre of his face seemed to cave in on impact, spewing viscous strings of snot in blood and saliva in tears.

Katsuki struck him hard on the wrist, and Kaminari fell over backwards, cracking his nose with his own hand.

"Dumbass!" thundering footfalls commanded his attention, snarling out a venom that would give even the fiercest of beasts pause. "What the hell are you doing?" Kaminari shivered at his reflection, for in the same eyes that brooded over him, there lay a familiar glaze of fear.

With one hand clamped over his nose to stymie the flow of blood, Kaminari squinted through tears. He pulled his knees close and curled into a ball, his side to Katsuki. Despite the congestion in his throat, which Kaminari fought down to the best of his ability, he looked Katsuki squarely in the face.

"We have to move them! We can't just leave them in the street!"

A howl of an outburst so rancid it transcended words, a drive to demolish anything that moved, poured out of Katsuki between teeth squeezed so tight his jaw cried for relief. Nightmarish tension warped the muscles of his face, and he pivoted away from Kaminari, intent on checking your condition.

"Shut up and let me think for a minute!"

You had fallen into silence, the fatigue taking over, the road seeming fused to your skin, the agony so sharp your heart thrashed and stole the light from your vision.

"Go for Recovery Girl! Tell her we need a medevac!"

Kaminari slapped a hand on his earpiece, flooding every hero channel he could locate with a distress signal.

Katsuki spied it moments before Kirishima drawled his name: the swirl of fog over your eyes as Death trotted near.

He snapped his head up and fixed his most intense stare, a mixture of madness and wrath, on Kaminari's back. "Now!" Katsuki lunged for Kaminari, who cowered back, gnashing his teeth and pushing out searing breath. "I don't care who she's with! Bring her here now!"

A miniature explosion shimmered and evaporated from his palm, which Katsuki shoved into Kaminari's face. A line of froth trailed after each word and splashed Kaminari, who wrenched one eye shut and turned to block the droplets with his hand.

Upon seeing Katsuki towering over him, blotting out the sun, Kaminari hunched forward to make himself smaller.

In that instant, as another frantic shout dangled from the tip of Katsuki's tongue, a wretched terror stole the sound from his world. The shrillest ringing, like bullets raining down on him from all sides, shook his sanity, and a cold sweat plunged down his spine. Warmth drained from the most blistering explosions, and chilling tendrils writhed in his stomach.

The phantom pressure of breathlessness, of a sharp heel against his chest, dug at his heart.

Where reinforcements should have charged in unison, the vacant, lifeless road stretched on, beguiling his wide eyes into staring, twitching with the sickness of a revelation most dire. As Katsuki watched the bend in its infinite, absolute distance, one thought of dreadful proportion stuck in his mind: "No one's coming."

The cacophonous voice scratched at his ears again, but the sharpness of his adrenaline-fuelled senses directed him towards the smell of blood.

Kirishima opened his arms as a final, desperate obstacle, lips drawn narrow, flesh bared and hardened. "Bakugou, you saw what happened with Kaminari! If you move 'em now, they might die!"

Katsuki stopped short, reaching one upturned hand. "Take a look at 'em, shitty hair! They're dying anyway!"

First casting his eyes behind, Kirishima meditated on the truth in those words.

The metal shells of his knee guards skidded across the asphalt as Katsuki shouldered Kirishima aside and hurled himself on the ground before you. Freed of all hesitation, he cradled you for a moment, secured you on his back, and made sure to keep his eyes forward.

Black blood, curdled and rancid like old soup, matted his gloves. The tremor in his legs and the stone in his throat came not from his nauseous spring up, nor from the sweltering rush on which he arced through the sky.

* * *

Katsuki paced a uniform sea of white sandstone, staring into the distance at an unreachable target, a target that chased him from sterile wall to sterile wall. He cursed under his breath, as if chanting a spell, at himself for not acting sooner, and at all the scum that abandoned you on the field. His gauntlets rattled with every swing of his arm, skin smeared with soot and blood.

Every three or four laps, a new wave of doubt seized him, and Katsuki paused to watch your breathing, assuring himself that it hadn't ceased or grown errant. Each time, he searched for the barest hint of consciousness, and each time, the pressure of frustration clenched his chest a little tighter.

His shadow loomed over your bedside, slathered with debris and reeking of scorched death, silent as though he could menace the wound out of you.

At the faint creak of a handle turning and a door sliding open on its hinges, Katsuki wheeled round on the entrance and flung out his arm. A light that rivalled the sun bathed his palm with sweat, but Aizawa's dark eyes peered out still from beneath a veil of shaggy hair.

"Where the hell were you?" Katsuki thrust his hand forth, each word aloft from the bombilation of sparks.

Shota Aizawa, a man whom the undead would welcome into their ranks, faced this threat with reddened eyes half overcome by slumping lids: "Your actions today broke more laws than I can count."

Katsuki swiped a ribbon of smoke through the air and neared the foot of the bed, a strip of muscle in his cheek bulging and pulsing. "I ain't apologising for shit! That bastard got every bit of what he deserved!"

A glimmer of scarlet flared to life from deep behind Aizawa's eyes, and the tips of his frayed hair began to levitate. "If you value your career, I suggest you stand down immediately."

Recovery Girl trudged over, her eyes closed in exhaustion, her legs still moving with an impeccable sense of direction. She trailed the hem of her coat on all the dust of the hospital floor. "I told him to take a break I don't know how many times, but he won't leave his friend's side."

The pulp of Katsuki's stomach knotted, and the hairs on his neck bristled. "We're not friends!" He dragged on the last word, voice heavy and exasperated, as though it were an accusation he fought off daily.

Recovery Girl scolded him, pursing her lips and shaking her head, then took up with Aizawa, who lingered on him for a minute.

"They're just some idiot on my team." Katsuki turned to you again, eyes frozen and puffy, haunted by the thought that your hollowed skin looked fit for a casket.

All signs of the convulsion had been wiped from your mouth and dumped inside a steel bin. A blanket, bleached and prone to tangles, pooled thinly over you, and Katsuki drew it forth into a more complete covering. "Hey," he called, as though pulling you out of training, "I know you're hurt, but don't die."

There was a gentleness of mien then, followed at once by a droop in his posture. "Okay?"

The chatter of flapping gums and popping saliva was a needle down his ear, and Katsuki stiffened, his face gnarled once more, before rounding on the noise. "Old lady, get your ass over here and fix this!"

* * *

The head of the academy, his white fur neatly tucked behind his suit vest and chequered trousers, crept up the slope of the chair. A diagonal scar ran from the centre of his forehead down his right cheek, exposing a stripe of pink skin, dulled with time and deprived of fur. A cup of steaming tea in hand, he sat no taller than a small child.

The autumnal air flowed in, cool and refreshing, through the ajar window that Aizawa had hastened to shut.

Principal Nezu replaced the sound with a most pleasant and disarming one, his voice lowering everyone's blood pressure until it cheered death and destruction. "Bakugou's conduct was no doubt reckless, and we shall assign him extra duties for the remainder of the month."

"That's it?"

A forepaw shot out, silencing him.

"We all agree it was excessive force, but Young Bakugou acted in defence of a fallen comrade." Principal Nezu set his teacup down carefully upon his saucer, head bowed and eyes closed. "The fact of the matter is, villains outnumber heroes ten to one, and they will only grow larger unless we as a school do our part."

His beady eyes turned black as stone in the reddish haze of dusk. "It falls on our shoulders to train the next generation. Like never before, we need students who can meet this threat. Students who push the limits of what heroism means."

Nezu slid forward with his elbows, linked his forepaws, uplifted his mouth with permanence, threaded each finger through the others, and rubbed his hands. "We must never encourage lethal force, but if our students are to succeed, they need also recognise when it may be necessary."

Aizawa took one last look at the after-action report before pulling himself to his feet, leaving open the folder to its description of the villain:

"Identification could not be verified. Body recovered in pieces, result of ten-kilogram detonation at close range; all other remains vapourised in blast."