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twstbookclub · 3 months

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Inked Blossoms

Summary: Jamil didn't think much of you when he received a flower basket. You were his new neighbor running a flower shop—nothing more, nothing less. So, why can't he stop coming by after visiting you once? POV: 2nd Person Pronouns: Gender-neutral Admin/Writer: Cressa🦋 Tags: Tattoo Artist x Florist AU, Tattoo Artist!Jamil, Florist!Reader, Fluff, Romance, Angst, No happy ending, sorry folks, Mentions of Blood and Self-harm, Use of Flower Language, Jamil's POV Word Count: 4, 025 Main Reference for Flower Meanings: Boeckmann, C. (2023, November 17). What does each flower symbolize? The Old Farmer's Almanac.

And I thought the Riddle fic I wrote is my longest one 💀 I actually had this plot in mind in the same month as I thought of the Riddle fic, which was back in April of last year. I only put in one link here, but I fact-checked every flower I used in this fic with other sources. Admittedly, when I wrote this, I received some heartbreaking news that morning and I cried my eyes out. I may or may not have projected those feelings into this and incorporated my previous experiences here. To all the Jamil stans, I'm so sorry that my first fic of this guy is long and angsty. I hope you all enjoy, though 💕

Jamil stared at the flowers on his parlor’s doorstep. Pink peonies and coral roses filled the twine basket, along with a purple flower that he didn’t know the name of. The arrangement emphasized the purple flowers, while there were a few peonies mixed in with the roses. What piqued Jamil’s curiosity were the leaves that lined the edges of the basket. He squinted, subconsciously leaning down to peer at the blooms at his feet.

“... Is that basil?” He mumbled, confused about the inclusion of a familiar herb. It was something he often used in his cooking, particularly when he was roommates with Kalim back in high school. That boy’s palate was too refined for anything bland and ready-made, so Jamil always had to cook with spices and herbs. It came to the point that the smell stuck to his clothes, even after a thorough wash in the laundry. Not just his clothes—even his hair. He already had a meticulous process with his hair care and bejeweled braids, so it was a nuisance.

He shook his head, before he took the flower basket in his hands. The blooms jostled a little, and a gentle hand pushed a peony back in place. Something nagged at Jamil to look to the left, for some reason. When he turned his head, the sign of the shop next door caught his attention.

“A flower shop, huh.” That was new. Jamil vaguely remembered this lot being sold recently, but he never thought it’d be turned into a store like that. It used to be an antique store owned by an elderly woman. She minded her own business, despite the weird and judgmental looks he received for the henna tattoos that decorated Jamil’s tan hands and arms.

Jamil’s eyes darted from the cursive letters of the sign to the flowers and plants displayed behind the glass walls. The name of the shop was painted on one of the walls in gold—above some of the artful arrangements of red roses, white carnations, and calla lilies. There was a shift of color behind them, and he narrowed his eyes again for a better look.

Someone was tending to the flowers. He could vaguely make out the color of their hair and the verdant apron over a white polo shirt. With the large bouquets in the way, Jamil couldn’t see a face. Sighing and shaking his head, he walked into his tattoo parlor with the flower basket in his arms.

If all his time in the city taught him anything, it was that nothing in this world was free.

Still, Jamil couldn’t help but wonder what the purple flowers were. They reminded him of tulips, but the petals were thinner and pointed at the tips. The stamen was visible, too. It was a stark contrast to the blooming tulips he knew: blunt-tipped and oval petals without the stamen being visible. He made a mental note to search about them once he went home.

Jamil found out that the purple blooms were called crocuses, and he wound up finding a website detailing the meanings of every flower imaginable. The flowers replaced the lamp that used to be on the table next to his bed. Every morning, he’d wake up to the colorful arrangement in a vase with his mind stuck on the meaning of each flower.

Maybe he should see what the florist was like. If they were like the antique shop owner from before, then Jamil would just remain polite and ignore them whenever he could.

On a slow and quiet day in the parlor, Jamil flipped the sign and locked the door. He shoved the key in his pocket, while his eyes drifted to the flower displays and bouquets through the glass walls. A blur of white and green moved behind them, but he still couldn’t put a face to the florist.

Jamil would have to see if he was curious enough to put a name to that face, too.

A chime echoed in the store once he stepped inside, and an onslaught of fragrance hit him. He noted that it wasn’t as powerful as the smell of spices, ones that he can taste from the scent alone. Still, it was strong enough to leave him a little lightheaded.

“Ah, welcome!” A voice rang through the back, behind an open door that led to what Jamil assumed was a small greenhouse. Sacks of fertilizer and clay pots filled with flowers peeked out of the metal shelves. The sight was obscured by a green apron, stitched with the same cursive letters of the store sign.

Charcoal gray eyes met lively, cheerful ones. The gloved hands that gripped the door frame were smeared with soil, maybe even fertilizer. Dirt smudged your cheek, but his gaze drifted to your lips. Your smile—too bright to be natural—was difficult to look away from. Something churned in his chest the longer he looked at it.

“Oh,” you mumbled, which made Jamil look back into your eyes again, “you’re my next-door neighbor. Hi! I hope you like the flowers. I’m, uh…”

A sheepish chuckle left your lips, making Jamil’s heart lurch. He resisted the urge to scowl at the feeling. He just met you, and he’d rather not make a bad impression. The tattoo artist came to your store to meet you like a proper neighbor, not to antagonize you.

“I came by to say hi, and you weren’t there. I had to get the shop ready and all, so I decided to leave the basket and hope that it stays there—” You sighed, took off one of your gloves, and ran a hand through your hair— “and I’m rambling. Sorry about that.”

Jamil watched you, anxious and fidgety, and he suppressed a smile. There was something amusing about how you acted like a mouse: squeaking and retreating at any sign of danger. Although, he highly doubted that you saw him as a threat.

You were just… shy. You talked a lot, but you were shy.

“It’s fine,” Jamil raised a hand and smiled, practiced and polite, “and I appreciate the flowers. Thank you. It’s a beautiful arrangement—you have a way with bringing out their natural beauty.”

He probably laid it on too thick. It was a habit at this point: butter up people to ease them, to let their guard down. Jamil merely planned to meet this florist to satisfy his curiosity. He never considered the option of befriending this person, much less engaging in a long conversation with you.

Your face lit up, as if something dawned on you in that moment. Chuckling, you stretched out the hand without the glove and gave him your name. It was followed with a cheerful, “It’s nice to meet you! I hope we can get along, um…”

“Jamil,” he shook your hand with that same, practiced smile, “Jamil Viper. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He noticed your eyes dart towards his hand and arm, inked with the traditional motifs and patterns of his homeland. Under the sunlight that streamed through the glass, your eyes seemed to sparkle. Your mouth parted in a silent, “Oh.”

“That’s so pretty,” you blurted out and continued to stare at the henna tattoos. Jamil simply watched you with wide eyes, but the surprise disappeared in that same instant. Your voice, loud and happy, filled the silence of the room.

“The amount of detail here is amazing, and—Oh, there’s even more tiny patterns inside another pattern. That’s so cool!”

Even though this much praise usually annoyed Jamil (it reminded him too much of Kalim), he found himself flustered. A faint warmth spread across his cheeks as he watched you marvel at the tattoos. You raised a hand, probably to trace the design with a finger, when you paused.

Your smile was frozen on your face, as if you caught yourself doing something embarrassing. Your own cheeks flushed in shame, before you pulled away with a nervous giggle. Jamil almost laughed at how ridiculous you looked at the moment.

He ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that called you cute.

It was supposed to be a one-time encounter. Jamil only visited your flower shop to see the person who opened a new business next to his tattoo parlor. He wanted to see whether this new neighbor of his was going to be tolerable or otherwise. One meeting was enough to deem you tolerable; someone that Jamil could politely wave to if you two happened to pass by each other.

So, why was he looking at a bouquet of irises and white jasmines right now? Why was he standing in your store on a Sunday morning?

“You’ve been coming a lot here lately.” Your voice rang from the back, much like how Jamil first met you. He looked over his shoulder to see you admiring the other flowers with a small smile.

“I don’t mind, really, and it’s nice to have you here. I just didn’t expect you to come here almost every day,” you clarified with a chuckle as you approached him. The telltale flush of your cheeks already told Jamil about how embarrassed you were to confess that. He watched you caress one of the petals of a hydrangea with a gentle look.

For a weekend, it was surprisingly quiet here. People flocked to your store during its first week, and Jamil observed all this in the comfort of his parlor. The window provided a clear view of what was going on, so he didn’t need to go outside. You became frazzled in a matter of moments—running around and arranging the flowers yourself—and that amused Jamil. Just a bit.

Still, you smiled throughout that hectic week.

Me neither, Jamil wanted to say. Instead, he answered, “It’s another slow day in my shop, so I decided to visit. I suppose it’s become a habit whenever I have nothing else to do.”

You chuckled, and Jamil pretended his heart didn’t skip a beat. He ignored the twitch of his lips, curling into a small smile. Oblivious to the look the tattoo artist gave you, you continued to admire the flowers.

“That’s fine with me. Besides, I like your company.”

Your shameless honesty was going to be the death of Jamil. The tips of his ears grew warm, and he tugged his hood over them. He already concluded that you were a thoughtful and considerate person after spending some time with you. You prepared tea and cookies, ones you yourself baked, every time he visited. Careful hands arranged the flowers by meaning and color, which already said enough about you. Being a florist sounded just right for someone like you.

Jamil briefly wondered what flowers you’d give him if you wanted to give him a bouquet.

He cleared his throat, mimicking a cough, before he shifted his attention to the irises and jasmines again. Ever since he searched the meanings of the flowers in that basket, he couldn’t help but be curious.

“Can you tell me what these mean in flower language?” He asked, glancing at you from behind his hood. Whether you found this action odd or not, you didn’t comment on it.

With a curious hum, you leaned over to look at what Jamil referred to and smiled wider. You replied, “Ah, irises can mean wisdom, faith, trust, valor, and hope. As for white jasmines…”

You raised an eyebrow at Jamil with a mischievous grin. He didn’t dare entertain the thought that you were being adorable from the action alone. He didn’t dare hope that the gesture actually meant something.

“They can mean sweet love, and the person who receives them is seen as friendly and pleasant.” You paused, before you suddenly left Jamil’s side and reached for the adjacent wall of flowers. Before Jamil could say anything, you already extended a white bloom under his nose.

Wide-eyed and bewildered, he stared at the flower in your hand. It somewhat resembled a rose in full bloom, but the petals were shaped differently. Another amused laugh echoed in the room. You took his hand, inked with intricate patterns that crawled his skin like vines, and placed the flower in it.

Jamil realized that it was a gardenia. This species of flora grew in some part of the botanical garden of his high school. He was only familiar with it because he used to pass by the area to relax, preferably alone.

“I think this suits you, though.” You hummed and returned to the counter with a spin of your heel. Jamil watched you wordlessly as you disappeared into the greenhouse. From where he stood, the tattoo artist saw pink and white camellias peeking through one of the shelves. He nearly jumped when your head popped out of the door frame.

“Oh, and can you help me carry some of these pots around? They’re pretty heavy, thanks!”

It was only until Jamil got home that he searched for the meaning of the gardenia. The bright laptop screen glared at him as he entered the keywords in the search bar. He clicked on the first result and—

Jamil stared at the words with darkening cheeks. His mouth became dry, and his tongue was tied into knots. His hand slammed the monitor shut, before he abruptly stood up and left for the kitchen. He needed some water. He needed to not think too much into things. You were going to be the death of him, Jamil swore to that.

Still, the words were already seared into his memory: you’re lovely.

Jamil found himself visiting you whenever he could. You always asked for his help whenever heavy labor was involved. If it was anyone else, he would’ve felt annoyed. With you, it was just an excuse for Jamil to stay longer.

Fleeting touches, subtle glances, and shy smiles—it was like your own language. Not a single word was exchanged, yet it felt like you said more than Jamil could comprehend. He didn’t miss the moments when your hands lingered too long over his. He would be a fool not to notice that a cookie jar and a box of teabags sat on the counter each time he visited.

For the past year, you’d give him a single flower every day without fail. One time, after the usual tea, it was a morning glory. Another time, when you were particularly homesick and Jamil stayed to chat, you gave him a hydrangea. When he visited your house and took care of you when you became sick, you gave him a yellow lily the next day. He always brought them home, but it came to the point that a mishmash of flowers in a vase brought color and life to his workspace. It sat under the window, where it bathed under a patch of sunlight. He even considered buying another vase due to the sheer amount.

You gave him all kinds of flowers, but he’d never forget the first gardenia he received from you.

“That looks out of place,” one customer pointed out while Jamil prepared the needle. He already knew what he was talking about, but the tattoo artist still followed his line of sight. A soft smile stretched from one ear to the other, and he didn’t bother hiding it.

Without looking away from the flowers, he answered, “They’re gifts from a friend. It’s the only place I can think of where they can be cared for.”

He ignored the sly, knowing grin on the customer’s face. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Jamil gestured towards the chair and continued to prepare everything he needed for this job.

One sunny day, your storefront was crowded more than usual. Jamil paid no mind to the crowd as he pulled his hood over his head. Inked hands grabbed a bundle of flowers, tied with twine, from the table. They were placed far from the vases that decorated the parlor; just to avoid confusion. His eyes fell on the gardenia he drew on the back of his hand. Jamil added that some time ago, maybe around the past month. Still, it made him smile.

Jamil locked the door, then he instinctively looked at the flower shop. His heart stuttered at the sight of the flowers amongst the crowd. The vibrant and lively blossoms were like a splash of color against the dull tones of the city. What used to be gray pavement and monochrome buildings seemed to come to life with just a few flowers.

He blinked his surprise away, before he gripped the bouquet in his hands. The thrum of his heart and the sweat on his palms weren’t something foreign to Jamil. He always felt like this at the thought of you, even Kalim noticed the change in his friend when he visited once. Your smile flashed in his mind, and his own lips curled into a small one. His feet led him to where he knew you were.

Past the flower shop; past the crowd that lingered at the storefront; past the fresh flowers that gathered against the glass walls. Jamil’s feet grew heavier with each step, as if lead hit the concrete and left faint cracks behind. He stepped through the iron-wrought gates with a soft exhale. His grip on the flowers tightened. He considered going back to the tattoo parlor.

In the end, he thought he’d regret it if he backed out now. Blades of grass grazed his sneakers as he walked through rows of stones. Names were etched into each one, a reminder of who they were to the loved ones left behind. Charcoal gray eyes looked straight ahead. He didn’t bother looking at any of them.

It had been a year since that day, but he still remembered where you were.

Grass crunched under his feet as he stopped in front of an unassuming headstone. Engraved in the stone was your name—funny how he never knew your surname until the funeral. You never told him when you introduced yourself, and he didn’t pry. He even imagined you with his surname at some point, but…

Jamil swallowed the lump in his throat. He crouched on one knee and laid the bundle of flowers on your grave. The tattoo artist made the effort of arranging the colorful blooms in a way that you would. At least, how he remembered that you would.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, and he stared at your gravestone with that same lump in his throat. A sigh rang in the empty cemetery. A cool breeze carried the hustle and bustle of the city. The laugh that used to plague Jamil’s everyday life here was missing. It was gone for months now, but he could still hear it clearly in his head.

“Hey,” Jamil mumbled, clenching his hands into fists, “it’s been a while. I’m sorry I only visited today. It… took me some time to come to terms with what happened. Regardless, you deserved an earlier visit.”

No answer, Of course, there was no answer. You’ve been dead for quite some time now. That was an understatement, considering that a year has already passed.

Jamil’s stomach churned, and an insufferable heat filled his chest. His eyes stung. His nails pierced into the skin of his palms. The lump in his throat seemed to grow bigger, and he found it hard to breathe. Memories of your smile, your laugh, and the time he spent with you and your flowers overlapped in his mind.

He dug his heels into the dirt as he gritted his teeth. The sting behind his eyes grew worse. It was hard to breathe, and he found it harder to speak. He somehow forced the words out with a broken heart, pieces scattered along the ashes of what was left of you.

“You idiot,” Jamil choked out as his vision blurred with tears, “you could’ve called me to help you. How was I supposed to know you were still sick? How was I supposed to know you needed to carry that ridiculously huge flower display across the street? How was I supposed to know that car would lose control and—”

Jamil looked up to the sky with a clenched jaw, teeth clacking and shaking his skull from the force. He wanted to scream. He wanted to curse whatever deity existed in this world. He wanted to forget how you looked, pale and bleeding on the street, that day. He wanted to erase that memory of you until his heart bled out and his voice croaked its last scream.

“—they haven’t found the driver. Everyone who knew you petitioned to keep the shop in your memory. Someone else took over, too. You don’t have to worry about your flowers anymore.”

Since that day, whenever Jamil looked at the ink that adorned his hands and arms, all he remembered was your loud voice and bright smile. Your praise and astonishment echoed in his head like a broken record player. He couldn’t count the amount of times he tried to scrub them clean from his skin. If that didn’t work, he scratched at them until he bled and the patterns were hidden under that shade of red.

In hindsight, Jamil thought that was idiotic of him. Love turned anyone into idiots, anyway.

Sighing, Jamil forced the tears back and looked down at your gravestone. If he tried hard enough, he could imagine you smiling and laughing again. The image of you, lifeless and still on the road, would become a scar that faded with time. He hoped it would be.

“I thought of giving you baby’s breath,” Jamil began as the lump in his throat returned, “along with forget-me-nots, and blue salvia. It would be a horrible contrast, but I also thought of adding pink carnations.”

He paused, before bitterly chuckling to himself. “I don’t have your skills, though. You were always amazing with flower arrangements. I couldn’t hold a candle to you, and I rarely tell anyone that. I didn’t want to give you something that was less than perfect—you deserve more than that, so I settled with sweet peas.”

Jamil knew he was talking to himself. He always found it ridiculous how anyone talked to the dead, even if he understood the necessity to respect the ones who passed. This one time, he understood why people did this. Jamil just couldn’t bring himself to accept the circumstances that led to that revelation.

“They mean goodbye in flower language, but I prefer the other meaning. Maybe, in another life, I would’ve bought you flowers for a date. I was thinking of asking you on a date before. Did you know that?”

Another bitter chuckle. Another shaky breath.

“I was supposed to ask you that day. I finally found the courage to try, and what did I see? You…” The words were stuck in Jamil’s throat. He couldn’t force the words out this time. The clamor outside and the harsh slam of his parlor door echoed in his memories. He didn’t want his last memory of you to be your dying breath. He’d rather not remember that at all.

Jamil shook his head and continued, “I apologize for that. What you need to know is that I like you. I may even go so far as to say I love you, and I’m sorry I never told you earlier. I hope you can forgive me for that.”

The tattoo artist sat down in front of your headstone. He didn’t care if dirt and grass stained his jeans this time. He reached out to trace the name etched into the stone, with the same hand where the inked gardenia peeked out of his sleeve.

“I like your flowers. I like all of them. I still keep them with me. I wish I told you that sooner,” Jamil mumbled, voice cracking at the end. A tear rolled down his left cheek and dripped into the soil. His shoulders shook in a silent sob as he breathed his last words to you.

“Thank you for a lovely time. I’ll never forget you.”

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what-big-teeth · 1 year

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Unearthed (Male Dragon Boyfriend x GN Reader)

Note: GN = gender-neutral

With some magick and a bit of luck, your family has lived comfortably for generations, serving as guides for numerous travelers the realm over. But the truth behind your inherited life lies under your feet, waiting to be found…

The weather was promising, as the year’s almanac assured. No need to pack more than just the essentials this time around. A readied torch, rations, directional markers—

“Hail, friend!”

Your eyes met the statuesque figure approaching you with a wave. Bronze skin glowed around a bright smile as he adjusted his bow sling. It was your temporary employer. You returned the gesture with a pleasant smile and focused on your pack again.

“Was the tavern to everyone’s liking?” you asked.

“Very much so! The food and drink reminded us of home, even though we’re all from different parts of the realm.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

With one last nod to yourself, you closed the flap of your pack and stood.

“Can I ask more about your group’s mission? You mentioned something about the Duke of Rapan in your letter…”

“Milord asked for a general survey of his lands. To learn of any new going-ons from the last venture.”

“N’ that better include some valuables for the takin’, Lockon!”

And on that boisterous note: you watched as the rest of Lockon’s teammates approached. A female elf with pale skin, two other humans with deep brown complexions (the married couple, you recalled), and one gnome, none other than—

“Bradrol the Breaker has never returned home empty-handed! This guide better be worth their damn weight in gold!”

Lockon flashed you an apologetic smile then turned to his comrades. As he calmed the others with gentle reminders to focus, you slung your bag onto your back. He wasn’t the first loudmouth traveler you’ve dealt with and he wouldn’t be the last.

“Apologies for the delay, friend.” Lockon stepped forward towards you, assuming his leadership position. “We are ready when you are.”

You nodded, letting your eyes scan over each person.

“As Lockon has told you, the Labyrinthine Path is the only way to press forward. But as the name implies, there’s more than one path. Some are viable, some aren’t. And all paths grow more confusing over time. It’ll be my job to guide you without incident, just like my relatives have done for many others numerous times before.”

“So ya say,” Bradrol chimed in. He tugged at his wiry, red beard. “None ‘a my dwarven contacts ever heard ‘a your folks. Favager…kinda family name is that?”

“Bradrol…” Lockon began; he was quickly ignored.

“Where’s ya proof?”

Gods above if this wasn’t your favorite part of your job. Reaching into your tunic’s breast pocket, you pulled out a small, intricately cut gem. Sending a frisson of magick into the stone came naturally to you.

A projected image of the reigning queen forced Bradrol’s mouth closed with a sharp click. The way his face reddened and his eyes twitched as her undeniable penmanship praised and heralded her approval of your family’s profession was a lovely bonus, too.

“Do you have any other concerns, sir?” you ask.

There was no reply. You smiled beatifically.

“Shall we begin our trip?”

Once Lockon agreed, you began leading the way.

The trip past the massive entrance and into the tunnel system fared well, as the others did before. Following the magicked pigments, the signs only you could find, left behind by your ancestors was simple in task. When it came to the happenings further inside, however…

You’d never seen one man look so utterly embarrassed…and near ready to kill another. Lockon did everything in his power to keep Bradrol under control. Bribery, power dynamics, begging. But every attempt was met with arguments, snide remarks, and blatant stares of hostility. The latter was aimed at you, mostly. He was probably still sore about the queen’s praise and all. Somehow, perhaps through the gods’ grace, your group pushed forward over the next two days; sleep was quick to claim the shorter traveler due to his excessive doings, allotting everyone else a needed break.

Apologies from the others filled your ears as pallets were unfurled and the campfire was snuffed out. You accepted each one, all while assuring the group you’d dealt with worse before. Still, Lockon’s offer to increase the amount of gold owed you was tempting. You wanted to sleep on the proposal, maybe see if Bradrol would let up since the exit was so close at hand. Or rather, you would have, if not for the strange, muffled clang needling your ears.

With the embers of the campfire having died out, you gathered just a bit of magick into your fingertips. As the shape you wished took form mentally, the energy reflected your desire. Wisps of light curled into little glowing motes in your palm. All were large enough to illuminate but not so harsh as to wake the others. With the stealth gained from traversing this dangerous trail, you followed the sound until you found its source. A sharp heat bubbled up to a boil inside your body.

“What in the seven hells are you doing?!” you hissed.

Bradrol blatantly ignored you, continuing to chip at the very unstable wall in front of him. Tantrums and childishness you could handle; blatant disregard for safety you could not. The well of magick inside you flooded your body, coursing through your veins and over your skin, charged, until it released from your opposite, pointed finger. A bolt of energy flew at Bradrol, barely missing his cheek to strike his small pickaxe. With a yowl, he dropped the tool, now glowing red-hot and sizzling. He quickly stuffed his fingertips into his mouth.

“Ya owe me a new pick, ya brat!”

“Shut it! If you’d kept chipping away at that wall, you’d soon be trapped under boulders and rubble. And who knows how long it’d take to get your sorry ass out!”

“Bah! Just an excuse to hoard away all the gold! Guide my ass,” he said, standing up. “Everyone knows there’s treasure somewhere in this damned maze. And your family knows where it is!”

“I thought you didn’t give a damn about my family! And there is no gold, you fool!”

“A likely story, brat!” He reached down, grabbed a standard pickaxe, and hefted it high. “Now tell me where it is ‘fore I start swingin’!”

“Bradrol!”

He froze, the fire in his eyes dying until nothing was left. Lockon slowly yet steadily closed the space separating the gnome and himself, anger gouging his face.

“I’ve given you courtesy enough, old friend. The Duke will hear about this and any punishment he deems worthy I will support. Completely.”

“But Lock—”

“Enough. Head back to camp. Now.”

With one last huff, Bradrol relented. Lockon heaved a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his wide nose.

“How much?” he asked.

You lifted your mote-filled hand to assess the damage. Chips and cracks riddled the uneven stone, many which could grow with time given any minor shifts or drastic weather changes.

“It wouldn’t be enough,” you said.

“Still, you’ll be doubly compensated. I’ll ensure it. And my apologies again, friend. Shall we?”

With a shake of your head, you led the way back to camp.

The final day was blessedly uneventful. Lockon paid you double the original amount without issue. As you accepted the sack of gold coins, he stated loudly and clearly that any additional funds would be earned through odd jobs. Many, which he implied, would be done by the most boisterous of the group. Giving their thanks and farewells, Lockon’s band ventured forward, leaving you to return the way you came.

The morning sun shone from just above the horizon in a sky unmarred by cloud cover. A welcomed sight, but you couldn’t enjoy it fully. Bradrol’s mining attempts needed a deeper assessment.

Traveling the Labyrinthine Path alone had its perks. You intimately knew how much your body could stand when undertaking large distances. And the few shortcuts you memorized, ones you rarely shared with other travelers for safety’s sake, recouped enough time for you to arrive home early. This time depended on what could be done by the unexpected damage glaring back at you.

Your innate sense of timekeeping estimated it to be midday. Early enough that hunger would resurface soon, but far off to not be an immediate concern. Just enough to see and decide.

The deep breaks in the tunnel wall and floor had spread as you feared. Simple pocks and breaks in the stone now gave way to thin, long cracks; even down onto the tunnel floor. The integrity of this area was horribly compromised with no way to repair it. Brilliant magickians your ancestors were, but their talents lied mostly in specially coded directions and signs.

You clicked your tongue, ignoring the bitter twinge skirting the back of your mouth. A quick, viable path was now lost to future customers lost thanks to one self-assured idiot. You edged closer to the damage. You’d have to add a new magically imbued marker and update the family’s maps, but for now, all you could do was—

Crack.

“!”

You were falling before you could even react. Your backside collided with rough, slanted stone; you yelped. It acted as a slide, funneling you down deeper. Stale air whipped at your face. You tried to dig your heels into the stone to no avail. Down, down, down until your back slammed into icy wetness. Your addled mind drudged up the word “water” just as your body started to sink…

Your eyes flew open.

Deep warmth and calming darkness greeted you instead of drowned clothes and rushing water. And, even stranger, you felt comfortable, as if you belonged where you were. But that shouldn’t have been possible. So how…?

“Finally awake, are we?”

You froze. The voice echoing in the cavern was much too deep, too powerful to belong to a human, let alone another humanoid. But a creature…

Something right next to you breathed audibly. Yawned, actually. Tendrils of golden light lit up the darkness above your head and illuminated the pitch black, scaled leg cradling your body in its bend. The razor, white claws attached to the massive trunk scratched at the ground, chipping away at stone. Why were they so sharp?

“Prior maintenance, mainly. And my kind’s hibernation can be useful when necessary.”

“...Did I say that outloud?”

The creature beside (on was it below?) you hummed, low and deep.

“I certainly didn’t read your mind if that helps.”

“Ah,” you breathed. You focused on your pulse attempting to leap from your throat. Breathed in for four counts then out four more. Peered out into the lit surroundings, filled with piles of gold, silver, copper. Towering stacks of jewels and gems, sprawling numerous tomes and scrolls; sumptuous undefiled silks… Gods be damned.

“The bastard was right.”

“As cute as you are, I was hoping for a more riveting, eye-to-eye conversation. It’s the least you can do since I fished you out of the lake.”

You swallowed your fear and gingerly sat up. No aches or pains; not even a single sign of a scrape. Magickal healing, perhaps? You weren’t sure and you didn’t know if your rattled mind could handle any more surprises. Shuffling your body, you turned to face your rescuer. Molten gold met your gaze straight on, the centered slits widening slightly. The same pitch-black scales covered his entire body, save for the brilliant ivory horns adorning his reptilian head and the folded wings resting against his back.

A dragon. You were staring a living, breathing dragon right in the face.

His regal bearings faded when he grinned to reveal large, sharp teeth.

“Hello there.”

…Shit.

“Um, hi.” Do not freeze in front of the dragon, do not freeze… “Have you seen my pack?”

He paused. Breathed deeply then snorted. He burst out laughing, his head rearing back bit by bit. The noise alone shook the cavern. You climbed to your feet to stand on shaky legs then continued (massive predator before you be damned).

“It’s very important! All of my supplies are in there! My magickal pigments are useless if they get wet…a-and the torch! Do you know how much I had to spend on getting the right oil to prepare it?!”

Instead of relaxing in the comfort of your home, here you were: squawking up a storm instead of talking. But at least your fear was slowly subsiding. As fierce and massive as he was, this dragon hadn’t tried to harm you. So far, so good. With one last long heaved sigh, his maw clicked shut.

“I haven’t laughed like that in centuries,” he said. “But yes, little traveler, your items are here and unharmed. But in return for their location, may I know your name?”

You told him, sighing out one last calming breath and brushing gravel dust from your shoulders. The rest would have to wait until a proper bath. He repeated your name, and it sounded as if he were savoring each syllable. Best not to think about that now; your mind was still working to understand the circumstances so far.

“I am called Masin. And this place…let us call it my temporary abode.”

From what few records you came across concerning dragons, they preferred to claim and stay in one place. Moving was rarely an option, if ever.

“Not permanent?” you hedged. “Even with your hoard here? Unless there’s more than one…”

The last bit was a muttered thought, but Masin’s snout edged closer to you. What a heavy stare to have focused directly on you.

“This is it,” he said plainly. “The only so-called ‘hoard’ I possess, locked away here.”

Like you? Was the unspoken question. You shook your head to rid yourself of the thought.

“Thank you,” you said, instead. You honestly meant to express true gratitude and hope he heard it. “For your help.”

No reply. Not surprising since you were trespassing in some way. You quickly inquired about your pack’s location. Hunger was gnawing at your body and jumbling whatever coherence you still had. He directed you to its general location with a pointed claw. As promised, your supplies were completely intact. But the leather bag itself would need replacing sooner than later. And did you even have enough pigment to note all of this for future generational knowledge? Probably not. Yet another issue to tackle in the days to come. For now, your stomach needed quelling.

But leave it to your past self to want a ‘treat’ during another guiding job. Your pre-made rations would stretch best with the aid of a stoked campfire. However…

“Is there…” You licked your dry lips and commanded the knot in your stomach to loosen. “Is there somewhere I can safely build a small fire? Maybe with some kindling around here?”

Masin yawned massively and flicked the tip of his tail at one of the massive, sprawling piles off to the side. Lots of parchments and papers; that looked promising. Nearing closer, your eyes scanned over a series of sealed, massive scrolls, tomes, journals, ledgers (?). All of it was haphazardly thrown together and towered over you. But from your vantage point, not a bit of rot or age stained the seemingly-new parchment. That wasn’t impossible; just very improbable. Time and age ravaged many things…save for those affected by magick.

“Is something wrong?”

Your fingers reached out to touch the pile but stopped short. Right, your tinderbox….

“Just how old are these?” you asked, rummaging through your pack.

Masin huffed out a golden plume of warm air. You were fairly sure a muted chuckle was hidden beneath the action.

“Younger than me, but old enough to lose my interest. They’re little more than tinder to me. So go on.”

You held your flint and firesteel in hand, but didn’t stoop down to continue.

“This feels sacrilegious.”

A quick glance over your shoulder found Masin grinning.

“An astute observation. They’re religious scriptures,” he says. “From the Neo-Eredian Period…give or take a millennium? They were never meant to end up in my grasp, if I remember correctly. But an offering is an offering.”

“I’m about to destroy lost, historical artifacts?!”

“Either that or let your adorable self starve. Which would be both a shame and a waste, in my opinion. But the choice is yours.”

Heat flooded your face as your shoulders lifted, horribly stiff.

“S-seriously? We literally just met!”

“And yet I speak the truth. Which is best due to our respective situations, yes? By the way, if you need aid staying warm—”

The sparks from your toolset couldn’t work fast enough. Which is stupid, because they did so wonderfully earlier. Eventually, the sparks caught onto the small pile of paper you gathered and carefully arranged for maximum control. Blessedly, as you heated up your rations, Masin remained quiet. But you felt his weighty gaze on your back. It added more heat to the fire crackling before you, surrounding you completely.

Warmed food in hand and your canteen at your side, you turned towards Masin. He held your gaze, having seemingly shifted and craned his neck around to watch you earlier.

“So,” you began. “I’m…not meant to be here. Or rather, I’m not meant to be in this part of the tunnel system. I didn’t even know it existed. All of this is new to me.”

“As it is for me.” Masin curled his tail around his body. “I didn’t want to be trapped here, yet I was. Waking up here wasn’t part of my original plans, either. And I assume a great deal of time has passed since I fell asleep?”

No hints of joking or teasing; that was good. You provided the day, month and year for reference. Without warning, Masin’s front claws gouged the ground as if it were paper. You flinched. With a low, long growl, he relaxed and released the chunks of earth he held.

“My apologies. It seems I was asleep much longer than originally thought.” His line of sight dipped down, breaking his focus on you. “How much things have changed…it’s unfathomable.”

“Then how about a trade?” You honestly weren’t sure if this idea would work, but being stuck with no one coming to your aid, what did you have to lose? Living alone was the main risk of your inherited job, one your late parents always reminded you of. “In return for trespassing and using your space, I can tell you about the world outside. And maybe, if what I say is interesting enough, then we could go?”

You nibbled at your food as Masin’s gaze fell onto you again. Took a sip of fresh water, realizing just how parched your throat was. If this cavern wasn’t his true dwelling, then maybe he’d be interested in finding his true home.

“Interesting as you are charming,” he said. “I agree. However, you need to rest and I need to fully awaken. When we meet in the middle, let’s see what the future holds.”

You nodded, blaming the fire behind you for the excessive heat..

With your hunger and thirst dealt with, you settled in with some reading while Masin dozed. The scrolls you spared from becoming kindle were very interesting. The offered dogma explained some of the realm’s current religious trends and beliefs, but not all. You’d probably have to dig deeper into the mountain of documents to gain more historical context. But you were much too tired for that and had your fair share of safety hazards for the day. A post-lunchtime nap sounded amazing, honestly. But first, the proposed trade.

“Are there any questions I can answer for you?”

One of Masin’s eyes slowly blinked open.

“Are dragons still common? Have any others been spotted?”

Quick and right to the point, unfortunately. But not surprising, if your assumption about this place being his prison was correct.

“No, they aren’t. And there hasn’t been any word of any others like you.”

That bleary stare shifted off to the side as a strange groan emanated from his chest. It sounded somewhat sad.

“But honestly,” you continued, “they could be hidden away from sight, like you were.”

Even with the numerous shadows flooding the space, you caught the edges of Masin’s mouth lifting slightly.

“A fair guess, one that may be true.”

And that’s how you and Masin began spending your time together: sharing stories and mentions of the similarities between the two different worlds you inhabited. At times, Masin would thank you by explaining the place and lands of origin concerning his hoard. Yet once, only once, he called the many riches “offerings”. You tucked that piece of information into the back of your mind.

Nighttime fell, at least according to your body and its growing sluggishness. At Masin’s encouragement, you created a bed from the numerous silks and fabrics gathered in the cave. It was ridiculously soft from the feel alone, and therefore, costly; maybe more than the Queen’s entire treasure trove. As you settled in, you managed to wrap up your story for the night.

“...That’s only the summary of the royal family’s lineage, though. There might be better documents I can borrow later to show you, if you want.”

“My own personal, cute historian. An intriguing idea,” he hummed.

You rolled your eyes, not minding the slight tingle that swept across your face and neck. That was a first.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally said.

The last thing you heard before falling into slumber was Masim gently bidding you a good night’s rest, a greeting you returned.

The following day, since you first met him, Masim stood up. He stretched out his limbs as you finished up your lunch, releasing a series of thunderous pops and cracks. The results of literal fatigue for a thousand years, according to him. You grinned.

“Since you’re more awake, are you up for another story? Or maybe more questions?”

“Not now,” he said. “But I am feeling hungry.”

“And that’s good, right?” No matter how much you inquired, Masin didn’t divulge much about draconic biology. Only the bare minimum. Mainly how he was warm-bodied, what determined the coloration of his scales; things like that. The rest, to your disappointment, he kept to himself.

“Yes. It means my body is finally catching up with my awakened mind. We may be leaving soon enough, after I fill my belly with fish.”

“Good hunting, then,” you bid.

Masin stalked away with a strange grace to his movements further from your shared space. Your own hunger was sated, but you were now alone and there wasn’t much to do to pass the time. You could check out the various piles of “offerings” dotting the areas. The tomes hadn’t been disturbed, and you could find a cozy spot to settle in. Everything about this space just felt calming.

Comfortable, as if you belonged.

With Masin gone, the remnants of magick you felt remained. Originally, you believed he was the source as you woke up without any injury, thanks to him. Because the many items in his hoard were free of any decay or rot. But Masin’s magic only extended to those riches; the sensation his personal magick gave off felt entirely different. For the first time since you’ve been inside this deep cave, now that his body was no longer blocking the area, you looked down.

Dulled, yet colored pigment stared back at you. An intricately mesh or reds, yellows, blues, greens, whites! And stemming from the pigments as they all harmonized to seize hold lull sedate sleep. This was your family’s innate magick. The way the intricacies from the spell sang to your blood, coaxing it to flourish, and how it in turn did so was proof. So was your body healing from its fall into the lake. Family ties through magick ran deep; all users worth their power knew that.

Your want to explore the rest of the cavern swiftly faded into nothingness.

When Masin returned, his black scales glittered from the water clinging to his body. The few campfires you made earlier to better illuminate the area proved that true.

“...What is this?” Your voice sounded so weak, much to your growing anger.

“You know of your family’s magick, don’t you?”

“Not that, damnit! “The ‘offerings’, you being trapped here, you being asleep for so long! You wanting to know more about the outside world but not saying anything about you being here! You’re hiding something and it involves me!” You swallowed around the ragged breaths your lungs managed to pull in. “ Masin…please tell me what’s happening.”

Instead of going back to where he once lay, Masin sat down before you. Leaving the magickal array out in the open.

“As you wish.” His gaze fell down to the array that separated the two of you.

“With luck and time, certain lineages can last thousands of years down the line. You’re proof of that. But you’re not the first of your line I’ve met. A thousand years ago, there were two others. A pair of brothers. The notion that we dragons were considered living gods never sat well with them. How easily followers divested themselves of their personal riches in hopes of receiving luck, love, fertility, good crops, and many more things.

“The final offense for your ancestors was losing everything, as they angrily informed me. Their homes, their families, their riches—all these things they refused to forfeit as offerings were forcibly taken from them without warning. Mind you, my kind never condoned murder or thievery.”

“But you didn’t stop the offerings before it got to that point, did you?”

A tense silence.

“No…I didn’t. When power is given freely, it is difficult to cast aside. I understand that now.”

A part of you noted how sincere Masin sounded. Another, questioned how a thousand-year-long sleep could do just that. You quickly regained your focus.

“Keep going, then.”

“As a result, the families of the brothers were given to me as gruesome, unwanted sacrifices. I won’t…divulge the details. Just know this final offense spurred the brothers to act. Together, they vanished from the land only to return years later wielding a new magic they carefully developed. They used it to lure me here, deep into the tunnels, and sealed me inside.

“To keep myself from aging, I forced myself into a deep magickal hibernation, unaware of how long I would have to sleep. That same magick I cast, it would seem, affected my immediate surroundings. The rest from that point onward is unknown to me.”

Your mind swiftly filled in the blanks from there. One of the brothers moved on and re-wed, beginning a new familial line. From there, your family’s detailed history helpfully provided the rest. Someone of that line returned to these lands, supposedly to use their magicks to aid travelers through the dangerous Labyrinthine Path. But in reality, it was to keep Masin locked away. To ensure he remained trapped deep beneath the earth.

Yet down the road, thanks to mishearings and misunderstandings, somehow, the lie became the truth. And Masin was left to be forgotten and cast away with the other myths of the realm. Until now.

You stared at the magickal array sitting before your feet. Dulled as it was, it was still there, doing its job. But magick could decay with time if it fought against another type of magick. Masin’s own magic. If he tried, Masin probably wouldn’t be able to leave, even if he wanted to. But by having a descendant of his captors from so long ago…

“So was it all a lie, then?” A searing, fissure of heat flooded your body. “Once you had a once-in-a-lifetime chance, you decided to take it so you could be freed?!”

“Not at all.”

Masin said this with no hesitation, no signs of playfulness. This was probably the most serious you had seen him.

“Sorry, but I’m having a hard time believing that. Even if you are telling the truth.”

“Then allow me to prove myself for however long it takes. Let me start anew. No more secrets, no more omissions.”

You held back a bark of bitter laughter. But it was aimed at yourself, not Masin. Because as stern you needed to be for your livelihood to be successful…now, you felt yourself going soft before this massive, living myth. All because of a few heartfelt words and the truth.

…Gods damnit all. You shook your head, ignoring the sharp inhale coming from across the way.

“Your nature as a dragon isn’t something that can be hidden so easily. Unless there’s something you can do about that.”

“Once I’m freed, it will be dealt with. I assure you.”

You slowly sat down before the array and crossed your legs.

“I don’t suppose you have a knife in that hoard, do you?”

Instead of replying, Masin moved. He deftly leapt over you and the array. You watched as his claws stabbed int the piles of the jewels and gems. As he rifled through the wealth, coins, gems, and other valuable items flew through the air to dot the area. Some were even flung into the campfires you’d made over time for lumination. But Masin made no attempt to save them, leaving them to their fates.

With a new mess spread around the cavern, Masin returned to your side and presented you with an ornate dagger. You took it and examined the fingers of your opposite hand. Masin quietly called out to you, but you shook your head.

“It’s alright. I just have to pick the lesser of the most annoying fingers and…!”

Carefully, slowly, you pricked the tip of your chosen finger, hissing. As a bead of blood welled up, you held your outstretched hand over the array with the injury facing down.

“Blood calls to blood and magick to magick,” you said. “It’s part of what saved me, alongside you. With the right command at the right time, it can be changed to perform another task. And now, because of that…”

You turned to face Masin as the array began to glow with its respective colors. You smiled up at him.

“I get to help you.”

A bead of blood hit the array. It shattered like glass, a literal showing of just how weak the magick had grown over the years. As it faded to leave the plain ground behind, Masin gasped, huddling into himself. You shot to your feet.

“Masin! Are you okay? Can you speak?”

As Masin trembled, his form seemed so small to you. No, not seemed. It was smaller. With each passing second, the giant, regal dragon before you shrunk down to a much more familiar form. Humanoid. Deep brown skin accented with a golden undertone gleamed in the firelight. He no longer bore a tail or ivory horns, but the mass of intricate, pitch-black tiny braids brought his scales to mind. And his hands were tipped with thick, white claws. Even curled in on himself, you knew he’d tower over you if he stood to his full height. The trembling continued as you knelt down, your hands clasping at his bare shoulders. But the trembling didn’t keep your attention. It was his laughter.

Joyous, boisterous laughter filled the cavern and nearly threw you off balance. As you swayed, Masin’s muscular arms wrapped around your torso and pulled you close.

The same golden eyes from before, just a bit muted, met yours as he grinned widely with slightly, sharpened teeth.

“As much as I like my draconic form, this one is useful in many ways. If you’d like to later learn how—!”

You swiftly lifted a hand and muffled his next words.

“If you have the energy to flirt, then you have the energy to walk. Let’s get going, shall we?”

But Masin’s arms didn’t budge. They actually tightened, but not enough to be painful as he whispered your name.

“Thank you. For this second chance.”

You settled in his arms. There was something more to Masin’s statement, which remained unspoken. But it encouraged you to return his embrace all the same.

As you worked together to emerge from your sudden entrance point, and return to the true entrance of the cavern tunnels, daylight greeted you. As you stepped forward, Masin walked beside you.

You couldn’t wait to see how that second chance would play out in the end.

#dragon #monster boyfriend #monster romance #exophilia #terato #hope you all enjoy!#and shoutout to those that can find my Elden Ring reference #I'll properly link this story to my masterlists later on

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