#doom tree arch

[heartfullofleeches]

Offer me your flesh... Not like that

Yan Cultist + Forest Entity/Deity Reader [+18 mdni]

Warnings/Tags: Breeding, monster fucking but you are the monster, tentacle peen, slight size difference/kink, brief mentions of gore/blood but not related to the fucking dw

The watcher of the woods.

A creature known by many names for none of which it cared but remained its mantle to claim. Skin akin to aged bark; horns rooted from the base of its skull like the curving arches of branching trees - the beast towered over all sort of man and earned its title for its eyes. Rare were nights starless, but upon an eve without a single dot in the sky it was common to find them hiding out in the trees. As ancient stories foretold - it's said that on those days the guardian of the forest used all its strength even the light of the stars to lead lost souls home. Imposing as it may be, the creature was a peaceful giant, protecting its land and those who treated it in kind, but as legends of old often became lost in translation - it too fell to the hapless adulteration of time and unwavering, blind devotion.

The worship of humans was a peculiar mistress. Old as the soil itself, the watcher predated the existence of mortals in the region and civilization as a whole. When the founders of the town at the base of the hills culled its land to build the foundation their homes - the watcher taught them cultivate the furtile ground and keep peace. It consindered all who entered its lands as members of its flock - no matter how strange they may be.

For the majority, the humans adored their new guardian. The teachings of gods known before where easily tossed aside in favor of a new master. Caring as it may be- the watcher's fair intentions were mistrude as otherwise when it was found to take the bodies of those lost forever to the forest back to the mountains where it lived. It had seen the way humans stored their dead and wanted to honor their cultures as best it could. Its followers mistook its deeds as a call for sacrifice from the crop it had harvested - and who were they to deny their God.

Those who oppose and those who worked their entire lives towards the ultimate goal of being sacrifice to their God were the first to face death. Blood drained; bodies butchered and displayed on the forest floor like fine feasts. Their God was not pleased with their actions and was repulsed by the smell of human blood; diet consisting purely of what its land birthed and the occasional scraps left behind by the natural hunters of the woods.

The humans would sacrifice those worthy at mass and considered new loses to be god's will. It was seen as sacrilegious to return after a night lost in the woods. The watcher lost favor in their humans through these massacres- and the heart wrenching sobs of a lost hiker it had savecthroughly mislead in their worship and bestowed their false knowledge on new generations - but there was one thing they had gotten correct with their research and discoveries involving their lord.

A shift in behavior - marking the change between seasons summer and fall. The watcher's hardened shell withered and softened into thicker, mossy flesh; antlers curling twice as thick and pained whines the kind to send anguish into the hearts of all beings if not for the pleading moans and scents it gave off. The guardian longed for mate - just like every creature in its forest.

In true alignment with their predecessors, the new age failed to realize the correct way to approach their God in such a sensitive state accordingly. Bathing in the blood of the fallen and wandering naked through the wounds - it repulsed the creature so it fled into premature hibernation to rid itself of the aches and frustration. Doomed for entity - the only of its kind; the watcher suffered countless falls with release. It no longer desired the company of man yet yearned for embrace. Alone, wretched, miserable - the watcher imagined its remaining years trapped in endless parallel and pain... and yet as with the seasons-

All things change.

It happened as the trees were stripped of their bearings and nights grew fringed. A musk within range of the watcher's natural intensity wafted over the forest. The fresh dew of spring and the warmth of summer - two elements that brought the creature comfort in harrowing times. Following the scent, the lewd slick of flesh and muffled moans overlap - flooding the lesser god's loins with familiar ache and need.

The watcher tread out into the clearing to find a human perched beneath one of its trees - fingers at work between their legs and shirt tucked between their teeth. A circle of candles and incense surrounded them; a bed of leaves and spare blankets cushioning their body from the hard floor. The tee helped between their teeth was the same color as the moss encasing the local deity's body and the emblem of its horns. A ranger - one that bares resemblance to a face once riddled with fear; now barring the opposite emotion. Lowering the match the mortal's height, the watcher did as it does best - studying the human's acts of self pleasure with intent. Startled by a pitched whine, it's antlers knock against the trees as it lurches.

"You're finally here, huh? Kept me waiting."

The watcher reals as the ranger spreads their legs, fingers plunged deep as they wiggle their hips at the air.

"Don't be shy... We have a special connection you and I.... I'm talking to you."

With a soft chitter - you exit the trees. Stalking forward on all fours, you sniff at the human's arousal as your snout draws against their skin. Black tongue wagging, it sweeps their tender flesh pleased to find no traces of acidic blood and a hint of ripe fruits instead. Enthralled with their taste and scent, the fright as they bring a hand up to your face is enough to cause second retreat. They coo, swallowing the stimulation of being in their lord's presence, and reach out - free hand carding through their hair.

"Hey - hey, don't panic- You remember me, don't you? I was that hiker you saved a few summers back. I always thought the legends were bullshit, but I was still afraid of the unknown. It turned out to be beautiful - my soul mate. See this? I got it when I fell in the river and hit my head on the rocks."

A dated scar bleeds through their hairline. You snort, breath fanning their neck as you cage them to the trees with your larger body, awaiting their next move. Faith unwavering - their hands skim and carcass your torso, glinding through the mossy fur down to the build up of your tension. Teasing the sheath with their nimble digits, you shutter - legs parting as a tendril the color of the night sky and thick as the ranger's thigh unfurls from the slit. Quick to work, the human slides under you - both hands at the base of your appendage. You whine as their lips haul your girth in a trail of kisses - length traveling the side of their face as they reach your thigh.

"You must be in so much pain. So many years with everyone in town going about things the wrong way. It's crazy to think I'm the only one to have figured things out - but it just further proves we're meant to be. Don't worry - I'll take all of your loneliness and pain away."

You don't bother to piece together what their saying. The exhales between each word heightened your sensitive to their mouth riding up to the tip of your growth - lips wrestled slack by the weight pressed to them. You cushion their head and neck with one hand as you thrust, seeking the heat of their mouth. The tendril, slick as it may be - only hits quarter way before the human chokes; the convulsions of their throat drawing a pleased hum from your throat which drones into a concerned murr at the tears lacing their flashes. You pull free - bending down to lap at their face. The ranger's heart swells seeing the light of their god's eyes shine for them solely.

"Don't worry about me - I've prepped for this day since you sent me home. My body is a vessel for your desire - and our future seedlings."

Lost in translation - you get the general picture as they on their back, body displayed for your taking. Devotion engraved into their very being and supple flesh free of damage - this is all you've ever lusted for. The mortal body at your beck and call, captured in its purest beauty. You press forward - crying out in pure frustration and agony as your tendril glossing over its intended target. Rutting and huffing through desperate attempts - your follower guides through your eagerness and their own dire need, and angles themself properly beneath you - wind knocked from their lungs as you sink in at last.

Pushed to edge by every muscle contracting around you, and the sweet relief of finally, finally- obtaining an outlet for your insufferable heats - you howl in frenzied glee. Wasting no time, you start off at a brute pace - jowls snapping in rhythm to each slap of skin. Your follower mewls along with you, hands based on your torso - praying the entirety of the town below can hear your unity. Their stomach bulges with the outline of your tendril and they clench around you conjuring the swell of your young.

"Yes! Ah! My love - breed me! I've waited for this for so long. Take me as you. Give me your love, your young - anything, please!"

Their worship is cut short by the infiltration of your tongue down their throat. Choking as they did on your cock - their eyes dart back as you pin their knees to chest, steady on yours as you plow them into the makeshift bedding. The slick plap of their wetness dragging you back in and the suction of it drives you deeper with every grind. The lack of oxygen from your tongue altering the flood of air makes their muscles tighten further - ripping the first orgasm of the eve out of you as your talons pucker their flesh. Stilling momentarily - thoughts overload with the realization of your true purpose in this realm. Breeding every hole offered to you.

The smell of blood premonating your scents does little to waver the force and intensity of your release - years, decades of build up breaching as you slam against them - pursuing that increasing, staggering high. Your cum floods their hole - leaking around your cock and down their thighs. Rubbing your cheek against their head, you lazily fuck nearly every drop back into them as they twitch and spasm around you. The blessing of being the first real sacrifice to their God was tear inducing.

Your tongue pulls from their mouth, licking salty tears and saliva as apology for nearly asphyxiating them. Your follower gasps and pants, lips formed in conversation but missing the voice to speak. You slip out of them, fluids gushing from their stuffed hole. The sight causes another stir in your nether reigion. Picking them up like an oversized doll, you lean back against the tree as you lower them into your lap - this time being the one to guide your tendril into their greedy hole. Head rolling back, a hand shoots out to grab your horns as you rock upwards into them. Pleasure rocks your very core as they hold onto your sensitive mounts, hands climbing with each bounce. Your cock throbs as they eventually catch on and pour the remainder of their strength into rubbing every curve and bump of your antlers.

Mouth agap - the skin of their shoulder catches in your teeth. Having lost all restraint and repulsion in the stench you bite down, marking as they likely desired. An assumption proven seconds later as a scream tears out of them, body stuttering as they cum around your appendage. Your hand pads their stomach, adding surface for you to better fuck your squirming length into them. You take both of their wrists into your hands - slamming them back on your cock as you finish at the end of their peak - overestimating their shot senses as your length spasms against their fleshy walls. More of your spend leaks from them as you pull out which they shove back as you slump against the ground still cradling them in your arms. The ranger attacks your jaw and chest in kisses, warming your tendril with their thighs and rubbing their own sex against it. Your eyelids fall heavy, twinkling lights dimming. The ranger nestles into your chest - fatigue on the horizon but job far from complete.

"We'll be amazing parents someday. I'm so happy you chose me. Rest now - I'll take care of everything else from here on. Sweet dreams, Dear~"

A new scent - the smell of pine needdles in the winter. Winter - the season when you fell into a deep sleep."

[s-awturn]

Moon Spell || CS55

summary: They were fated to love someone they hated. There was no spell, no grudge, no curse that could break the bond that united them, doomed to die in the feelings they fiercely nurtured. The Moon had determined it and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

“These violent pleasures have violent ends, and die in their triumph, like fire and gunpowder, which, when they kiss, consume each other. The sweetest honey is disgusting in its own sweetness, and its taste confuses the palate.”

cw: Violence, conflict, soulmates, blood, magic, alternate universe, obscenity, pure filth, chaos, fighting, swearing, intense hatred, love, mention of death, blood.

a/n: This came to celebrate Carlos' birthday and to open the new phase of my profile. This is supposed to have five chapters, no more, no less. I don't know what else to say, so read on!

starring: werewolf!Carlos x witch!Fem reader

Part One: We Were Born To Die

”Choose your last words, this is the last time 'Cause you and I, we were born to die”

Europe, 1498.

She packed all her belongings into a deep leather bag, threw in crystals, grimoires, a few candles, and other magical items; she couldn't stay there long, her hiding place had been discovered and soon crazy fanatics would be there to drag her to the stake. She couldn't waste her family's sacrifice in keeping her alive.

“Let's go, Spix, let's not wait for those madmen to take us to the fire or the gallows” she said, picking up the cat and putting it in the basket. Toledo was no longer a safe place, in fact there was no safe place, with the frightening religious fanaticism that the kings of Spain were feeding, everyone was suspected of witchcraft and heresy, women were dragged to the catacombs of churches and were never seen again.

S/N saw husbands hand over their wives, fathers hand over their daughters, everyone wanted the silver coins that the Church was offering. She needed to get away from this, S/N knew that her neighbors were suspicious of her, a woman living alone on the outskirts of the village attracted attention. She couldn't leave any room for bad luck.

She threw a black cape over her simple dress, tightened her boots, and left the house, saying goodbye silently. That house where her parents lived their entire lives, where she herself spent her life, would soon be burned down, so many memories would be turned into ashes; He didn't look back, he clutched the bag under his arm and ran into the woods, listening to Spix's meows, nestled in the bag.

The moonlight illuminated her steps, ensuring that she managed to avoid roots and holes in the ground and it wasn't long before she heard the angry shouts of the villagers, She hid behind a thick trunk and saw the torches shining in the darkness, they cried out the name of God, calling her a witch and accusing her of heresy. S/N heard her door being broken down.

It wouldn't be long before they noticed her absence and went hunting for her in the forest. She needed to run far away, get away from poor fanatics after a few dozen silver coins. Her life wasn't worth that.

She made her way to a remote part of the forest, where wolves and other wild animals hid. No villager would dare to go there, after all, no one wanted to become wolf food.

When she passed through the oak arch, a shiver shook her insides, S/N looked at the sky and the Moon shone so brightly that it illuminated small patches of darkness in the forest, and a thought made her stop: It was a full moon night and the werewolves would go out to hunt.

She was vulnerable in the middle of the woods, with only a small dagger in the pocket of her cloak and her magic. Anyway, she hoped that no werewolves would cross her path, or she would have a lot of problems besides angry Catholics.

She went deeper into the forest, even Spix's meows fell silent. In fact, there was no sound at all, the wind did not cut through the trees, the leaves did not rustle, not even the nocturnal animals screeched in their hiding places. Until a deep sound echoed, an angry growl that betrayed hunger.

Y/N gripped the dagger with trembling fingers, witches and werewolves had hated each other since the first dawn, if it really was a hungry werewolf there, she would love to devour her, just for the pleasure of destroying her; he took a deep breath and ran between the trees, whatever it was, he wasn't going to risk staying there, even though turning his back was already a high risk.

She ended up in a clearing completely lit by the moon, the exact same clearing where she and her mother used to perform rituals to thank the goddess for the harvest and the coven celebrated.

But that was before Ferdinand and Isabella began their persecution. Before she saw her friends burn at the stake, her parents die on the gallows.

A dark bark stopped her in the middle of the clearing, Y/N heard the branches being broken and the frightening sound of teeth chattering. Her heart accelerated painfully, she was terrified, maybe she could make the roots hold him, but her magic wasn't strong enough for that.

Her magic core was weak and did not have enough strength to channel forces of nature. She would have to make do with an iron dagger and the help of the goddess.

— ☽ —

It was the night of the full moon and he could feel the effects surging through his body since early on, and there was a strange feeling present in his chest. Carlos felt that something was going to happen that night, and it wouldn't just be the milestone of his thirty years of age.

He saw his father cross the small village with a group of refugees, religious madness had arrived in those parts and was terrorizing his people, there was no one who did not fear being dragged into the church basement. No one wanted to be tortured and killed.

“Stop daydreaming and go help your sister, that roof is still going to fall on her head” he heard his mother order.

“Where is her husband? That’s that lazy bastard’s responsibility,” he questioned, but received a click of his tongue in return. He growled in irritation, Carlos would beat up his brother-in-law as soon as he could. And he wouldn't care about his sister's crying or his father's lecture.

He trudged over to his sister's shack, seeing Blanca hanging from the roof, hammering some nails into the central beam. This only made him growl even more, he really was going to punch his brother-in-law in the face as soon as he got the chance.

“Blanca, what the hell are you doing there?" He stopped far enough away to see his sister, Blanca wiped the sweat on her forehead and glared at him mockingly.

“I think I'm baking bread, what do you think?” she retorted sarcastically.

“And where is your useless husband? He must be sleeping…”

“Don't talk about him like that, you know his health is fragile” She tries to defend her husband, but this only increases Carlos' irritation.

“He's a werewolf, Blanca, the only fragile thing about him is his will to work” Carlos growled “Get down from there, I'll take care of this, since your husband is as useless as a leaky bucket!”

The woman came down from the roof, and Carlos took her place, still complaining about his sister's husband and insisting on hammering the boards hard, not caring if it would wake the sleeping man. Work distracted him from the strange feeling in his chest, he didn't know how the full moon night would end, but he knew something would happen.

Only when the sun began to set on the horizon did Carlos finish repairs to his sister's house — not without landing two hard punches in the face of his brother-in-law who dared to complain about the noise. He needed to prepare, As it was the first night of the full moon, the effects would be more intense, and he needed to prepare his body and mind to allow the beast to command him.

As night fell, Carlos felt the involuntary spasms and his gums itched, the bones in his legs and arms cracked painfully, anticipating the metamorphosis.

And of course, the sensation increased along with the discomfort, the beast inside him scratched the walls, howling as if it was foretelling something. Maybe it was the villagers appearing on the edge of their land, maybe it was the witches who had returned, it could be anything.

Any damn thing.

When the transformation, he began to run between the trees, smelling the wet grass, the animals nestled in their dens, Carlos felt the wet earth under his feet and when he realized it, he was running on four legs, his peripheral vision was greater and his sense of smell could perceive things dozens of meters away.

He stopped abruptly and howled at the full moon, announcing the arrival of his birthday. That morning Carlos had turned thirty and there was nothing like fresh venison to celebrate.

He sniffed the air, searching for his prey and licked his sharp teeth when he caught the scent of a fox lurking in the bushes. The huge wolf followed the scent into the clearing, his eyes fixed on the distracted fox, he was about to pounce when a different scent filled the air.

The sweet scent of lavender and lemon hit his nose like a blow, disorienting the lycanthrope and he turned his skull, searching for the source of the smell and It wasn't long before the leaves on the far edge of the clearing parted and revealed a girl. Up close, her scent was more striking, more mystical.

Witch.

He growled, angry that she had disrupted his hunt and stirred his senses. His heart was pounding and he studied the girl, she was running away and looked terrified, the witch was sweating under her thick cloak and breathing quickly, her eyes scanning the trees and the wolf knew she was aware of his presence.

He could hear her heart beating and the wind started to blow again, carrying her scent to him and he growled, torn between wanting to smell her up close and killing her.

Werewolves had been killing witches since the beginning of time and his nature insisted that he rip out the girl's little neck. She pulled out a small metal dagger and he grunted with laughter, the little witch really thought an iron dagger would stop him.

He was eager to see her try.

With a powerful leap, the werewolf stopped in front of her, seeing her gasp in fright, her heartbeat increasing to the point of occupying all of the creature's sensitive hearing.

That was his feeling, somehow someone would die that night, either him or the little witch, after all that was the final outcome — regardless of how many ages his existence could drag on, at some point he would die. And the little witch too.

After all, all creatures are born to die.

But fate changed its course along with the path of the wind as soon as the wolf met the witch's eyes.

That could only be a bad joke from the Moon.

[dotomuses]

sagau p1 : miss miko's mumbles. he/they for reader, but no anatomy or dni. tw: none.. tevyat is kinda mean to reader but thats all lol.

💌 no actual reader content right now... just a small something to get started, somewhat an insight on tevyat's views on the reader?

" a hidden source of ancient knowledge, scrolls shoved deep within the akademiya's restricted shelves, gathering dust, painting colourful tales of a primeval deity.

a deity unlike the archons, unlike the dragons and unlike the scattered minor gods and beasts of tevyat, a deity who held no significance to tevyat's intricate laws. a deity with no magnificent creatures to call his own, no powers or blessings to give to kneeling worshippers, yet a deity whose swiftest glance struck the mortals of tevyat tongue-tied and reeling.

"let us adorn you with our flowers!" bellowed the trunks of sumeru's towering thorned trees, "let us sing to you!" whispered mondstadt's wailing, whining gales, "rest on our shores," mewled fontaine's raging currents "or drift on our currents, and let us take you far away from all...". inazuma's thunder cried and screamed, loud as a nursery of hungry children, hungry for the god's attention. natlan's rumbling rocks fell from their perches as avalanches, running like babes wanting to be coddled by their mothers, into the arms of the god. snezhnaya's unwavering snow storms fell and fell, adorning themselves with the prettiest snow flakes, just for a look, the lightest praise, from the god.

the deity's devotees were all children of violence, creatures of doom, beings of hate. but to him, they were the scorned, the regretted, the rejected. they were the most precious of all, the worthiest of his stories, the likeliest to trust in his well-crafted chronicles.

he spoke of worlds outside tevyat, worlds overcome with cold, never receding snow and ice. worlds made of gargantuan ships, each city a large cabin, housing pelicans of metal, and people of stone. worlds where reality and expectation went hand in hand, singing songs of people's dreams, bubbling with emotion, joy and grief.

most of all, he spoke of revelation. to him, to his creatures, to his loveliest of children, it was the solid truth, the undoubted phrases that left the tongues of the cosmos higher than celestia itself. but to the archons, to the people, to every other creature, they were a fraud. a liar, who insulted the archons with his reign over their wicked beasts, who wished nothing more that to provoke celestia's wrath, and be stricken so far into the abyss, he himself would someday become one with it. his hymns stitched words, words that revealed the truth of this world, the truth that-"

yae miko laughed lightly, covering her mouth with her hand, pink pigment shining brightly against her nails. "what a lovely story you've made up for me, traveler, paimon," she began, watching the pair carefully, "paimon makes the loveliest story teller... but do tell me what set you out to recite this fascinating little thing." she added, an eyebrow arched elegantly.

paimon scowled, her little face scrunching into displeasure. "miss yae miko!" she stomped her foot in the air, "we didn't make it up! traveler already said so! she said we got it from sumeru! and won't you answer our question?!" she cawed, pointing dutifully at her companion, who smiled sheepishly.

yae hummed thoughtfully, a finger to her chin "do remind me of your question little paimon" she feigned a small yawn, covering her lips politely, "i'm afraid you've bored me asleep with this one, i can barely recall anything..." paimon looked ready to blow a fuse, ridiculously oblivious to yae's teasing, her rubber heart being prodded at, and easily provoked with yae's taunts.

"we'd asked if any of this makes sense to you miss yae, any familiarity?" traveler began, her voice lofty and slightly strained from unuse, "we've tried with other companions, but not even the akademiya scholars have anything to say." yae miko smiled, her shiny canines concealed, eyes shut in a relaxed manner.

"i'm afraid not traveler, but if nobody seems to recognize this odd 'deity' of yours, why are you so persistent on finding somebody who does?" yae enquired, pressing her lips together in a thin line, shaking her head "perhaps they're just fiction you know... another dashed, yet rather thorough attempt i must confess, at a bestseller."

paimon sagged midair, like a suspended sack of rice. "all this trouble for nothing?" she wailed, "i told you we should have called quits after al haitham said he knew nothing! and i told you we should've called quits again when faruzan shooed us away!" paimon scolded, crossing her arms at the traveler. her companion only raised her hands in surrender, smiling apologetically, and turning back to the other woman facing her.

"thank you for your help miss yae" traveler spoke, pressing her palms together, "we're sorry to have bothered you with something so trivial..." yae miko only molly-coddled her in response, shaking her head left and right. "it's quite alright dear, you've provided me with quite a bit of entertainment... be off now, i'm sure you have much work to get to."

she eyed the parchment paimon read out of so enthusiastically, hesitating from the probable absurdity of the question she thought of asking. "tell me traveler, would you mind if i held on to this for a while? perhaps we could make use of it at the publishing house..." paimon opened her mouth to refuse like a little gentle lady, adamant on keeping all their travel's treasures to themselves, only for the traveler to respond first. "i don't see any use for it, i suppose you could hang on to it miss yae."

yae miko brightened, eyes gleaming happily at her conquest "i'm very glad traveler, you've done me a great favour," she said, taking the scroll from her "now, i shan't hold you back any longer. do visit!"

traveler nodded, waving goodbye as paimon tugged on her scarf, yowling "i told you so!"s, "you should have listened!"s and an accusatory "why did you give it away?". yae lifted her hand in farewell, which dropped solemnly as soon as the traveler was out of sight.

she flourished the paper open, a sudden, uncharacteristic scowl on her face, painting her lovely features in disgust and scorn. "even in exile you bother us all, charlatan." she murmured to herself.

she ought to burn it, and throw its ashes to the fish, but held back. the lovely swirls of the letters mesmerising her, drawled along the page in a dance, elegant beyond words. her frustration only grew, chanting that no matter how much beauty liars weaved in their words, they were still lies.

and no matter how beautiful a liar was, they were still a liar, and would remain one until repentance.

and (name) would never repent.

💌 gahh i feel kinda lame.. its been a while since ive written anything and speedran this on 13% charge. had a dillema choosing between faruzan and yae for this intro piece, but i hope its turned out ok. ill try uploading the next part soon. bye bye!

[clangenrising]

Month 15 - Newleaf

Battle With Razor Pt 7

Scorchplume couldn’t believe what she was doing. The further into the woods they went, the louder the sounds of yowling, fighting cats grew. It was overwhelming. It made her want to crawl into a hole and close her eyes until everything was over. But Goldenstar needed her. She found it hard to believe that Oddstripe had been given a mystical vision of doom but, if there was anything she could believe, it was that Goldenstar was in danger. 

A grey shape moved in her peripheral vision and Scorch sucked in a sharp, fearful breath. Oddstripe twisted to follow her gaze and his shoulders loosened in relief. 

“Stormwhisper!” he cried around the yarrow in his mouth. 

“Oddstripe?” The shape that wasn’t Razor turned to face them with a surprised expression. 

“Oddstripe?” Sagetooth’s voice echoed his question cantankerously. The healer stomped out from behind a tree to glare at them. When she spotted Scorch, her expression flattened to something close to resignation. “And Scorchplume. What in the Dark Forest are you doing here?” The other healers craned their necks to see what the fuss was about. 

“I had a vision!” Oddstripe explained, moving closer. “Have any of you seen Goldenstar? Scorchplume needs to get to her right away.” 

“No,” Sagetooth shook her head, “She’s probably in the thickest of the fighting.” Scorch swallowed thickly and tried to keep her eyes from darting around at every noise. 

“Then that’s where we have to go,” Oddstripe said reluctantly. 

“You’ll get yourself killed,” Sagetooth snapped. 

“She’s right,” said Stormwhisper, “it’s too dangerous.”

“This was stupid,” Scorch huffed, tail twitching. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

“No, no!” Oddstripe’s ears pressed back against his skull. “My vision was very clear! If Scorchplume doesn’t get to Goldenstar, she’ll die!” 

“She has nine lives,” Sagetooth said. “She’s prepared to lose one of them to kill Razor.” Scorch grit her teeth and held her tongue. That was part of the problem! 

Oddstripe shook his head in distress. “No, I mean she’ll die die! Like completely dead!” 

“That’s ridiculous,” huffed Sagetooth. “That only happens if a cat gets sick or drowns, things that can’t be healed immediately.” 

“You all sound insane,” Scorch hissed. “She’s probably already dead.” She almost wished that were true. In that case, she would have something final to hold onto instead of floating unmoored in this unbearable uncertainty. 

Sagetooth growled to herself, tail lashing. “Hush, kit. Don’t speak on things you know nothing about.” 

“Stormwhisper!” a voice called from the other side of the small clearing. “It’s Darkmoon!” Dawnbird came dashing in as Coyotechaser and Sparrowpaw trailed behind with a bloody Darkmoon limping between them. 

“Bring him over here!” Stormwhisper said, attention completely diverted. “Blazingbrush, grab the poppy seeds!” 

“On it!” 

“He’s having trouble breathing,” Sparrowpaw said, sparing only a brief glance their way. 

Sagetooth chewed her lip for a second and then said, “Oddstripe, if you’re completely sure, you should go looking. StarClan will guide you.” 

“Alright,” nodded Oddstripe. He stepped up beside Scorchplume and looked towards the battlefield, tail arched behind him. 

“This is crazy,” Scorchplume said. “You know this is crazy, right?” 

“I know,” Oddstripe fretted, looking at his son who was already darting back towards the battle. “I can’t do nothing though.” He stepped forward, then stopped all of a sudden, eyes wide. “Do you see that?” 

Scorch leaned in to follow his gaze. “What? I don’t see anything.” 

“Look!” he said breathily, pointing with his muzzle. “See how the sun is shining through those trees?” Scorch looked again. The trees seemed completely normal, the dawn light filtering in between the leaves. There was a small trail of stronger light where the branches let in more of the sun’s rays. It didn’t seem particularly special to her mind.

“So?” she asked.

“It’s leading perfectly through the trees,” Oddstripe said, already bounding towards it. “We have to follow it!” 

“What?!” Scorch bristled. “But it’s nowhere near the battle!” 

“Come on!” was all he said, shouting over his shoulder. 

Scorch let out a frustrated whine, claws kneading the damp earth in frustration. This was insane! She was following a crazy person into the woods for no reason! Still, she glanced around and decided she didn’t want to stay here and she knew she wouldn’t have the stomach to just go back, so she dashed to catch up with him. She hoped that Goldenstar actually needed her help or else she was going to feel so stupid after this. 

She followed Oddstripe through the trees for a while as he raced along the thin line of sunlight that cut a path between the trees. Scorch had to admit, it was strange how continuous the line was, how it was never blocked by shrubbery and it never led them up the side of a tree. She shrugged it off as a freaky coincidence. The sound of fighting faded behind them, allowing her nerves to settle just a bit. 

Then, suddenly, the playful sound of a bell rattling with effort. 

“Wait, shh!” she hissed softly. “Stop!”

Oddstripe did so, ears perked attentively. “What is that?” 

“A collar bell,” she whispered, “It’s one of the Exalted. What are they doing all the way out here?” 

“Let’s go look,” Oddstripe said, creeping closer. 

“W- Don’t-!” Scorch bristled indignantly. Her protests didn’t slow him and with another frustrated kneading, she slank after him.

Ahead of them was a small clearing in which a large tabby tom stood hunched over something, shaking it in his jaws. Scorch’s heart leapt into her throat at the sight of Razor. What was he doing out here?! She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart was beating so fast she thought her body might explode. 

“Oh, Stars,” Oddstripe whispered beside her, his voice full of horror. 

At the sound, Razor turned to face them, eyes searching the underbrush, and Scorch gasped. The thing in his jaws was Goldenstar, her body limp and bloody, eyes gazing vacantly as her head lolled in their direction. Razor dropped the body and it hit the ground with a wet thump. 

“Who’s out there?” he asked, teeth bared. Scorch took a step back. Oddstripe started to move forward. 

“What are you doing?!” Scorch said in a whisper so high it was almost a squeak. 

“I have to help her,” Oddstripe said, shifting his posture lower as if about to sprint.

“She’s dead!” Scorch hissed. “There’s no helping her now!” 

“There you are,” Razor’s voice sent a chill down her spine. The way his eyes swept over the shrub told her he couldn’t see them yet but he stepped over Goldenstar’s body and prowled in their direction. 

Scorchplume had no idea what possessed her to step forward in that moment. She should have run. She should have left Oddstripe to his foolishness and started heading for the hills. Instead, she inexplicably walked straight into the fire and she had no idea why. 

When Razor saw her, his furious snarl softened in surprise. “Gingersnap.” He said. 

Scorchplume swallowed dryly. She didn’t know what she was supposed to say. Oddstripe was right behind her somewhere, sure to be discovered. Carefully, she sidestepped Razor to get a better look at the corpse, hoping to lead his attention away from the hidden healer. 

“Razor, what have you done?” she asked hoarsely. She stared past the body and let her vision fog, unable to actually look at the grisly details marring the pelt of the cat she had been sharing a nest with for the last few weeks. 

“Don’t be like that,” Razor frowned, closing distance with her. He licked the blood from his muzzle and buried his nose in the fur at the back of her neck. She stiffened under his touch, stomach turning queasily. It felt like he had her insides in a vice and was squeezing them as hard as he could. 

“Forget about the savage, Gingersnap. She’s gone now.” 

Scorch inhaled shakily. “Razor, please…” 

“What?” he asked, a hint of annoyance replacing the sickly sweet tone he had been using. “Please what, little bird?” 

“Please, just…” She didn’t know where she was going with this. “Just let me go.” 

Razor’s posture shifted dangerously. “Let you go?” he breathed. “Careful, Gingersnap. You almost sound like you don’t want to go back with me.” 

“I don’t,” she sobbed, backing away. “I never did!” 

“That’s a lie,” he shouted, “words planted in your head by that filthy wild cat!” Scorch, hunched down against the ground, spared one glance past him at Goldenstar’s body. Oddstripe was crouched over her, rubbing chewed up yarrow over her gaping wounds in a futile display of optimism. Razor’s paw shot out and pushed her chin upwards. 

“Don’t look at her!” he snapped. “She’s gone now. Look at me.” 

“Stop it!” she cried, pushing him away. 

“No,” he boomed, shoving her roughly back, “you need to learn! I am the only one who has ever cared about you! I gave you everything you wanted, practically crawled over glass to suit your whims, and all the while you snuck around behind my back! Why?!”

“Don’t touch me!” Scorch screamed, unable to think another thought. She reared up on her toes in an attempt to feel less like a cowering child. 

“You will never be satisfied!” Razor laughed bitterly. “You’re a leech, Gingersnap, all you do is feed off other people but it will never be enough for you! You will always be empty and miserable and incomplete!” Scorch pressed her ears back against her head to block out the words. He was just trying to get into her head, she couldn’t listen to him. 

Razor leaned down and lowered his voice to something pleading and gentle. “Why can’t you just let me love you?” Scorch struck out with her claws and they gouged into the soft flesh of his eye. Razor snarled in pain and recoiled, blinking away the blood now pouring down the right side of his face. 

“You little bitch!” he hissed and swiped out with his own claws. Her body moved instinctively, ducking backwards on muscle memory, and the strike grazed her whiskers. Her heart was pounding. Mouth dry, she lunged and swiped at him like Goldenstar had taught her only to be slammed onto her back by Razor’s massive paws. 

“You’ll pay for that,” he growled, blood dripping from his face onto hers. She squirmed helplessly. Why had she done this? For months she had avoided this exact course of action knowing it would end in her death but something about these Clan cats had sabotaged the defenses she had been building all her life and introduced a fatal flaw. She wondered if an apology would do anything at this point. 

“There!” she heard Russetfrond shout from a distance. Razor turned his head and bared his teeth in a snarl. With a screech, Orangestar leapt onto Razor’s back in a blur of ginger fur, and he stumbled away to try and throw her off. Scorchplume gasped for breath and scrambled to her feet, cheeks drenched in tears. 

“Are you alright?” Russetfrond asked, appearing at her side. 

“I don’t know,” she swallowed. The deputy looked her up and down and seemed to conclude that she was fine. He turned his attention back to the battle and sprang off to join Orangestar. 

Scorchplume crouched down against the earth and fell apart.

[icaruien]

MY LOVE, MINE ALL MINE.

history is oftentimes written by victors, but the same does not stand for ryomen sukuna. his was written by the survivors of his victory—and survivors, they rarely ever have the time to truly understand the scope of the story. in other words, this is ryomen sukuna's lifetime, retold.

CONTENT WARNING! ryomen sukuna x top!m!amab!reader (featuring a single cockwarming scene and a single cockwarming scene only lol). this is literally just me dicking around with the idea of sukuna with some semblance of a moral compass, even if it can't be love. disgustingly out of character sukuna for the sake of the plot. way too much historical inaccuracies made. headcanon / brainrot blurb based.

prior to all the bloodshed, all the terror, all the horror ryomen sukuna would wreak upon the face of this once peaceful earth, he was a boy with a vision and a dream so great that it consumed him whole.

a little known fact about sukuna was that he had been born into a world that had believed in him from the very moment he existed. he was born into a village that had safe-guarded his greatness, his fame, with premonitions and destines. a load of bullshit, probably, but once you were born into a fate, no matter the way it was determined after your birth and not before it, then you were already doomed. sukuna was no different— the narrative had caught him, strangled his throat in a noose, and he would die for his fate.

so here was a boy made for greatness, but that was not enough. after all, what good was such prowess if you stood on your own? for every existing thing, there must be a contradicting point; an opposing force that clashed against an existing object, drawing out the best and the worst of it.

and you were just that for him.

"doesn't that make you a hypocrite?" sukuna drawled out, his expression twisting into something nasty as he glared over at you. you were entirely unbothered by it, your back pressed against the bark of the tree. your eyes were shut, the summer breeze brushing against the bangs hovering over your temple, over the arch of your brow, over your closed eyes. a small hum escaped your throat. "no." your adam's apple bobbed as the words left your lips, throat working as a low rasp made its way into the hazy air. sukuna tried not to stare. he failed. "it makes me someone who knows how to pick his battles." "you would slaughter thousands for a cause, but you won't even kill a bug," sukuna scoffed. "how does that constitute as picking your battles." you blinked an eye open lazily, a small smile curling on the corners of your lips. small. quiet. knowing, like you were sharing an inside joke with an invisible figure. sukuna hated it, hated knowing that a world without him existed in your head. "slaughtering thousands in that hypothetical case has reason," you answered. "in this case, what reason is there to kill that beetle?" sukuna scowled. "it's irritating," he snapped. you snorted, amused, then your hand flicked out lazily and the aforementioned beetle was found dead on the ground just inches away from the both of you. sukuna stared, and stared, and stared. "i thought you didn't kill without reason," sukuna said finally. "i don't." you looked over at him; smiled. "but you said it's irritating. that's reason— even if it's stupid."

so, hm. perhaps opposing force wasn't exactly the right word. to say that you opposed his mindset was inaccurate. more so, you were the force that kept him at bay, a leash around his throat that forced him to settle before he could tip right off the edge, a placard by the side of his bed that read THINK— IS IT TRUE? IS IT HELPFUL? IS IT INSPIRING? IS IT NECESSARY? IS IT KIND?

literally.

you had it pinned up on his wall.

"i fucking hate that thing." even when you both moved from that little house in the middle of nowhere, up to the castle you had both crafted a home and a base out of, that stupid sign followed him wherever he went. it was the second thing you had put up on the wall (the first thing being him, sweaty and panting, mouth parted to release the moan that had been stuck behind his teeth since the moment your hand landed too high on his thigh in the meeting room), and it was the first thing he had wanted to rip off. you turned, burying your face into the space between his shoulder blades. he couldn't see you, but he could feel the way your mouth curled into a smile against his skin. "oh, but i love that thing," you said, your arms moving to wrap around his waist. "it serves a good reminder." "you put that up to mock me." "that i did," you agreed brightly, nuzzling your nose against the back of his ear. "but it's also true, you know. each time you speak, you must remember, 'THINK: Is it tr—' hey! watch it!" you were effectively silenced when sukuna turned, bringing a pillow down over your head with it. sukuna scowled at you, irritated by your audacity— except it quickly melted away when the sound of your laughter echoed through the room; soft like butter, honest like the summer. "alright, alright, i yield." you chuckled, tucking sukuna close to you. he grumbled, but he went easily. you were good at pissing him off, but you were good at soothing his frayed edges too. sukuna hated it, hated you. (no, he didn't, but boys like him were unfamiliar with the idea of anything but worship and hatred, so he said nothing. he could say nothing, because nothing felt right.) you sighed, nosing at his hair, and sukuna wanted to scream. "you know, if you hate it so much, you could always take it down," you said amusedly. "it is your room." "don't be ridiculous," sukuna snapped. and that was that.

because sukuna's room had stopped being just his room a long time ago. you had carved yourself too much space within it for it to be his entirely. there was the poster (that stupid poster that sukuna never took down), and your robes hanging over the back of his chair (even though he told you to put that away), and there was the toy you had put up on the desk (a memento, the first gift your disciple had given you before you had taken him in). and, well, it was your room just as much as it was his.

and the many nights you spent there rather than your own room was testament enough to that.

cockwarming was a rare treat sukuna indulged in. you were both too busy with your lives for something so time-consuming. but tonight was different. tonight, he had time. tonight, he could have you like that. "are you done yet?" your voice broke through the silence of the evening, raspy and low with the sleepiness that came with the such a hour. the lamp was already burning low overhead, casting longer and longer shadows across the length of the room. sukuna couldn't bring himself to care for either of those things. his nerves were frayed, irked by bothersome politicians who didn't know how to be competent, only how to be annoying ass-kissers. if it hadn't been for the thought of your unimpressed expression, hand falling on his shoulder to give him a half-hearted squeeze at his actions, he would have killed them all. but sukuna couldn't bear your silence after such a shitty day, so he didn't. he didn't, and he was good, and you were right here. so what if he lied a little bit about the urgency of the letter he was responding to? it got you to stay a little longer, hold him closer to you for a bit longer. you were blinking yourself awake periodically, but that was fine. you were here, you were right fucking here, and sukuna would do so much worse than lie to have that. you shifted, and sukuna clamped down on you on instinct. a soft moan escaped your lips, and sukuna stifled his own noises as you both settled once again into place. you sighed, firm arms coming around to wrap around his waist, and you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck. sukuna's eyes closed on instinct, sinking back into your warmth and the feeling of your cock piercing him open simply for the sake of it. "'kuna." your voice was quiet, muffled. he caught it anyway. "what part are you on right now?" sukuna blinked down at the letter. oh, right. he was actually supposed to do that. he stared at the kanji sloppily written on the sheet of paper, and he realised he couldn't actually send this. so, technically, he had nothing. "i'm going to start over," he announced. he was about to scrap the paper when your hand came around his wrist, forcing him to stop. sukuna stilled, wondering if perhaps he had been caught. if he had been, would you tell him off? force him to get off? sukuna clenched down on you on instinct, and you let out a groan against the shell of his ear. "easy, 'kuna. i'm not going anywhere," you said, your voice a low rasp. "come on, i'm going to help." for a moment, sukuna couldn't do anything but blink down at the poorly written letter in front of him. you had known— that much didn't come as much of a surprise, really, with the way you were a damn prodigy when it came to reading sukuna's mind. no, the startling bit about this was the fact that you had known, and you let him have his way anyway. huh. he hadn't realised he looked so pathetic when he begged you to let him sit on your cock while he worked. he should work on that part. but for now, he would indulge in this moment because he could. because you were right here, and sukuna was so fucking tired of the assholes he had to deal with everyday, and your hand was wrapping around his as you guided the tip of his pen over a fresh page of paper. it was an out of body experience to see you write the opening bit of the letter. the words were written with his vocabulary, written in his handwriting, but your hand was the one guiding him through it all. he felt like a child all over again, learning how to write for the first time. he blinked, throat feeling dangerously dry, and managed a weak, "what are we doing?" "writing that letter." a kiss to his nape. soft. soft. soft. "now, come on. tell me what you want to say, and i'll write it with you."

it didn't come as a surprise that some of sukuna's advisors (the kind that wanted to see sukuna destroy the world, the sort that wanted to make him into even more of a monster) hated you, really. whenever they tried pitching in an idea that could lead to the demise of masses, you would always turn the question around and ask them the reason and importance of it.

the infuriating part (for them, that was, not for you because this was the part where your lips would curl into a smug smirk that you would try to hide behind your drink) was that sukuna listened to you each time. every fucking time.

so much that most people had grown to notice it, too.

sukuna wasn't a man built for playing the eavesdropper, mostly because this was his home and his territory, so everything was well within his rights to know. he didn't need to play the fool, to creep in the shadows for information. that was why he had spies to do that for him. he crept closer to the door, footsteps cautiously light, and played intruder within his own home. because you were right there, sorting through your papers, with an advisor that he recognised to be one of your favourites— the one you said had a good head on his shoulders, enough that you liked having good conversations about trades and whatever else that you talked about the others about with him. sukuna hardly ever pried, mostly because the second he tried, you would level him with a flat gaze, but he knew enough. probably. hopefully. because you were there, sitting around the table, talking about him— sukuna, as if he wasn't there (and, well, he wasn't supposed to be there), and he could still hear the fondness in your voice and the light skepticism in the advisor's voice, and sukuna's head was light, light, light and he was going to do something stupid like burst inside or float right out of the damn building— "he's like a good dog whenever you're around," noted the advisor. it was only because sukuna knew you were so fucking fond of him that he didn't rush in immediately to tear his face off. you let out a short laugh, incredulous. always believing the good in him even behind his back. it's unbelievable, nauseatingly so. sukuna hated the way his throat ceased at the thought anyway. "sukuna isn't entirely unreasonable," you said with a small shrug. "you just need to talk to him, really." your advisor friend let out a disbelieving huff under his breath, even if he said nothing else to it. sukuna echoed the sentiment.

and the thing was that sukuna wasn't necessarily a good dog. he wasn't a well-behaved dog, just one that behaved well around you for your sake. there was a distinct difference between the two, no matter how subtle the dissonance may seem at first glance.

this much becomes devastatingly apparent when you would leave for an overseas trip or another, the sort that even sukuna couldn't join on due to a variety of reasons. while these trips were kept to the minimal (not just by sukuna or yourself, but by literally everyone else because they were all batshit terrified of the man sukuna became the moment you left), they were still inevitable.

sukuna transformed into an entirely different man when you were gone; the starting glimpses of the man and the monster he would become in the faraway future. 'sulky' would not begin to describe the moods that he would get into. he always had a taste for cruelty, but you would always be the one to hold him back before he could get too violent. no one dared say it aloud, but you were his moral compass— you kept him tethered to his humanity on the days when he would get too monstrous. with you gone, it was all free game. torture became a commodity during these moments. prisoners who had the misfortune of being put on trial during these days were treated cruelly (although never unjustly, because he could barely feel anything but nausea at the very thought of torturing innocents anymore. fuck you, really, for ruining him this fatally.) and they found themselves craving the sweet mercy of death. it was futile, though. sukuna hardly ever let anyone off easily, and not when he was in one of his moods. no one could talk him out of it. even the letters that you managed to send would only dissuade him for a few hours, leaving passers by a full-frontal sight of sukuna drifting almost in a daze through the hallways. there would be a faint smile on his lips, impossibly soft, and no one had to look at his hand to see the letter he was holding so reverently between his fingers. but, just as all else was, this lightness was impermanent. soon, he would get into those bouts again and no one could pull him out of it. sukuna was stuck in the depths of his own destructive nature— except this time, you weren't there to pull him out of it.

but then, you would come back and things would be right once again. or, however right it could be with sukuna's bloodthirst and his craving for violence perpetually in-tact, engraved within bone and marrow. it was still better though, than whatever sukuna would get up to at your absence.

sukuna would get ridiculously clingy after your absence, too. his nails tore through your robes, your skin, your flesh, until there was blood all over his hands and all over his lips, and he would have you pressed against the mattress underneath him, gasping for air in between kisses as he demanded more and more and more. the funny thing was that during these moments, sukuna would always be too needy for your warmth that he wouldn't even think about fucking you. he just needed you there with him; arms holding him firmly, hands digging into him with all the desperation that he was using to hold onto you, lips entangled and refusing to let go. clothes would be found strewn all over the floor, but there was nothing sexual about the act. there was just your bare bodies sliding against each other, sharp edges tucking into soft nooks like an old key sliding its way back home. sukuna never admitted anything out loud, but he knew you could read him during these moments all the same. after all, you were an expert at reading him, and he wasn't trying to hide anything right now. not from you, not after he'd craved you for so long. your hands tangled its way through his hair, holding him impossibly close. your teeth clacked against his, violent and tender all at once, and he could taste your smile on his lips— sweet, soft, and devastatingly real. because once again, you were right here. you were right here, and sukuna could have you all over again. blood spilled into his mouth, but you didn't reprimand him for it. your nails simply dug into the flesh of his hips, leaving your own mark on him. a ruined sound left his lips, and he didn't try to stop it this time. he wanted to be heard, wanted you to hear him. you had to know, to understand every single ugly thing he couldn't bear to say out loud to your face. you had to know. you had to. your breath brushed against his lips, and sukuna wanted to chase after you again. you didn't let him, keeping him at bay, a hazy distance away, and then you were smiling, soft and radiant, the rising sun blooming on the horizon of your lips, and sukuna understood all of a sudden of all the fools who would chase after the sun. "easy, 'kuna," you murmured. "i'm right here." yeah, you were. you always were. he kissed you again, and you tasted of the burning sun and distance finally being closed and home, home, home.

here is the part the history books never mention—

as a child, ryomen sukuna leaves home to strive for a destiny he had been told about but never taught how to live. somewhere along the way, he met the then boy who would be his most trusted advisor and your closest companion. you were his antithesis— the sun placed against the moon, the earth against the tide.

as a man, in his greatest years ryomen sukuna was often found with you standing by his side. in every burned painting, in the corners of his destroyed home, in the bedsheets and in the throne room, it was you who stood by his side, a hand pressed over his nape, forcing him to still and to kneel and to remember his place. he had always been unkind, but you kept him from being cruel. you were his guiding light and directing force, his anchor and his leash, the central piece of everything he did.

as a corpse, ryomen sukuna, the king of curses, emerged from the ashes your body left at the wake of your death. no one remembers.

[13as07]

Patience #3.5

(Jiraiya Smut)

[Art work is not mine! Credit to Ibuo]

Requested by: Myself

Word Count: 6,231

Warnings and/or Pre-Notes:

Part 3 from Jiraiya's POV

Sorry it’s so long but not really cause I love writing his prospective

Nicknames/Name Calling: Little One, Sensei, Sweet Girl, Princess, Sweetheart, Obedient Girl, Sir, Sex Addict

Exhibitionism (public sex)

Age Gap/Power Indifference (teacher/student)

Creampie

Spanking

Little rougher domination

Improper use of a hairbrush (Yes, in that way. Still not sorry)

———————————————————————

The whimpers my kunoichi spills out only make the next few days seem even more looming. It's been driving me crazy, knowing I can't treat her like I have been. No random quickies everywhere all the time, no cuddling up in public or drowning her in affection. We're back home now, I have to be at least somewhat professional.

Plus, there's the small hovering doom of talking to Tsunade. I can only imagine the lecture and string of profanity she'll use once I tell her I did - and have been - sleeping with my student. Not to mention the black eye I'm sure I'll get since my old squad mate has a habit of responding with her fists before her words.

Once she does calm down, Tsunade will probably tell me I'm playing with fire, that I'm ruining my kunoichi's future, that I'm injuring my reputation, that I've managed to reach a whole new level of perverted. But it's so worth it.

     If I have to I'll give up the shinobi life, I'll retire, I'll focus on writing my books, and my kunoichi can continue living her life like the badass little ninja she is. Or we can both quit and buy a nice little cottage on the outskirts of town with a private hot spring.

My mouth clicks shut, cutting off my Princess's praises long enough to get my thoughts straight before I start them up again. That's a long-term idea. A long-term idea that has no room in our blooming relationship. I haven't even taken the girl on a proper date and I'm already planning my retirement with her. We've been doing stuff so backward it has my thoughts in knots.

"Little One?" I call, dipping my head down long enough to get the words out. I tip my head back up, taking in the sight of my student. She looks so hot, back arched with her pants around her knees as I have her pressed up against the tree. Her hands seem small under mine, another reminder of our size difference. I think my Princess is making me form a size kink.

"Sensei?" She whispers back, glancing at me for a millisecond before they're back in place. My Sweet Girl is focused on the entrance of our home village, the closeness both exciting and terrifying her. It's cute, seeing my student wrestle with herself over how wrong but good the situation feels.

I press kisses behind her ear, matching them to the thrusts I make into her pussy. Every bottom-out I do gets rewarded with a gentle kiss, pulling more pretty noises from my Sweetheart. "We..." I start, my climax coming quicker than I want it to.

I'm worn out already today, courtesy of me stopping and pushing my Sweet Girl against a tree every thirty minutes or so. I keep trying to convince myself it's to get it out of her system, but I'm pretty sure we both know it's to get it out of mine. "We can't..." I try again, stopping when my dick twitches.

My Little One bucks her hips backward, pushing me over the edge way before I'd like. I want to enjoy our last bout of freedom, I want to stay in this moment until I have her skin memories and damn it, I want to last longer than two minutes. "We can't what?" She whispers as if the trees outside the village will voice our sins.

"We can't..." I try again, shoving myself back into my pretty Sweetheart, soaking in the feeling of her wrapped around me, the feeling of her pussy leaking down my balls, the feeling of her, as I fill her cunt again today. Marking my territory in my new favorite way. "Be all over each other," I finally manage to get out, my mind a bit clearer now that I've finished.

"Why not?" My Sweetheart whimpers as I pull out of her.

My Sweet Girl looks beautiful like this. Her legs are spread wide, giving me the best possible view of her pussy. It's pinker than normal, from my overuse of it today. She's gapping, desperately clenching from the new emptiness as I spill out of her, coating her gorgeous thighs in the thick white of my cum. I swear I could spend a whole chapter explaining this view alone, maybe I will.

"It's unprofessional, Sweet Girl," I softly explain, giving into my want and bending forward to scoop myself off her skin. She looks nice coated in my semen but it looks so much better in her. "Besides, I need to talk to Tsunade about... this," I add, thrusting my fingers into her. My Sweetheart might look gorgeous gapping for me but it doesn't mean I like leaving her needy.

She whines as my fingertips toy with her, disappointment in her face. At least this time I know it's from my words and not my seeming inability to keep up with her sex drive. "You're fine, Sweet Girl," I mutter, kissing her shoulder in a failed attempt to muffle my laughter. I love the mess of whines and whimpers my student becomes when she doesn't get her way, and almost every time I can't help but laugh with joy at the sight.

The moment doesn’t last though, the weight of today setting in. God, I'm too attached, way too quickly. The thought of my Little One sleeping alone in her apartment makes my chest ache. She should be sleeping with me, in my house, in my bed. I should be able to roll over and hold her in the middle of the night like I've done for the past few weeks.

The thought is upsetting, it makes me anxious. My hands jump forward to cover her up again. I don't need someone to see my student with her pants down, literally. My attention quickly shifts to repeatedly squeezing her hips to counteract the anxiety weighing on me. My anxiety only seems to grow as I heard her towards the village entrance.

When that doesn't help my anxiety either, I change pace to feeling her skin against mine again. My hands grasp at her, my lips just as hopeless as I brush new kisses into her neck, desperate to press the feeling of her skin into my mind.

"Sensei?" She giggles, starting to silence my anxiety. "You're pretty all over me for it being 'unprofessional'."

"Hush Princess," I whisper, shifting my attention away from her. I scan the entrance, my fingertips dancing over her skin, helping more of my anxiety seep away.

I hate the thought of being away from her. What if something happens and I'm not there to help? When we're on a mission we spend twenty-four-seven together. That's not going to happen now that we're home.

My head dips down, placing another marking on her skin in our last few seconds of true alone time. I cup her pussy too, tapping my fingers against my Sweetheart before I tug away. My temporary goodbye to our very active sex life.

     I feel like a schoolboy once again. The anxious attachment young boys experience with their first girlfriends. So distressed, so upset at the thought of being apart from my Sweet Girl. Maybe some time apart won't be too bad, as long as she's safe.

     The thought of this being a healthy space makes me feel better and makes it easier to let go of my grasp on her and pull away.

     "Sensei? Are you going to ignore me again?" My student asks, distraught covering her face as I pull away. My Sweetheart doesn't like me pulling away, which is evident from her wrapping around my arm. She looks small, wrapped around me like this. She looks even smaller when she squirms from my fingertips brushing over her pussy. I'm definitely developing a size kink.

     The distraught she's feeling quickly gets replaced. My kunoichi's mischievous glint fills her eyes as a pout forms on her face, promising a bratty tantrum to follow. "What if I get needy? Then who am I supposed to do?"

     I take it back, I don't feel like a schoolboy. I feel pissed off like I'm ready to throw down with any man that dears to glance at her. It's the same anger I had at dinner with Riku, jealousy that I can’t seem to control.

     Before I can stop myself, I tug my arm away from her, jumping forward to grip her face. This is another new thing between us. Since my Princess doesn't like my hand around her throat, I've started gripping her face to keep her attention on me.

     I snap her head upward, forcing her eye contact with me as I glare down at her. "Don't you dare," I husk out, soaking in the way my Sweetheart's eyes soften. They're round and glazed over, tempting me to break my temporary hardness. "Go ahead, try your little act. See how far that gets you," I continue before dipping my head down, making sure the next sentence stays between the two of us instead of the villagers eavesdropping on the street. "See how empty everyone else makes you feel compared to your Sensei."

     My Little One's hands snack up my arm, her fingers clinging to my wrist as her breath picks up. I enjoy the view, the way she seems so eager for me as I pull away from her face. It's cute, her eyes, how easily I got her roaring again, how she tries to pull my hold off her even though she knows it is useless.

     "I'm just kidding, Sensei," she whimpers, a whine bubbling in her throat. My student flutters her eyes down, focusing on my fingers clinging to her cheeks.

     That only pisses me off more, making me shift her head again. "Joke like that again and I'll beat your ass back into obedience, you understand me?" I mutter, watching for her reaction.

     My Sweetheart's thighs rub together, only encouraging my roughness. Her eyes are drowning in lust, tongue almost hanging out of her mouth in a pant. "Yes, Sensei," My Princess says softly, quickly making my dick hard again. I need to talk to Tsunade.

     "That's my Sweetheart. Be an Obedient Girl," I praise, debating on kissing her or not as a reward. There are a lot of people out and about though, and I really should bring Tsunade into the loop before I'm public about my relationship, or lack thereof. I need to take my kunoichi on a date.

     "Yes, Sensei," she repeats, satisfying me. I rub her cheeks for a second before letting her go.

     Date ideas swirl around my head as I continue walking. I shouldn't take her out to eat, we already do that all the time, so it wouldn't be any different. Well, if I take her somewhere fancy but I should probably put a little more effort into it.

     My Sweet Girl's hands collide with my back, balling up my shirt once I'm in her grasp. "Sensei, where are we going?" Her sweet voice rings out, silencing my thoughts for a second.

     "We have to report to Tsunade, Little One," I answer, slowly my paces so the chance of her tripping goes down.

     Her fingers tap against my back, tapping out some melody as she trails after me. "That's boring. Are you going to talk to her while we're there? About us?" She asks, making my anxiety claw back into my chest.

     "No," I answer quickly, my prediction of Tsunade reaction rolling around my head. I don't need my student seeing Tsunade hand me my ass.

     My Little One clings to my shirt, the material balled in her hands again. "Why not?" She's upset, actually upset and not her whiney 'I'm needy, fuck me' upset. It makes my heart ache. I don't want to disappoint my Sweetheart.

     "You don't need to be present during that conversation, Sweet Girl," I answer a laugh following my words. I can only imagine her face while I'm getting my shit rocked. "Don't worry your pretty little mind, I'll talk to her soon, have some patience," I coo, trying to ease over her emotions.

     "Promise?" My Little One asks, her voice softly as she clings to my shirt harder.

     "Promise."

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     My heart seems loud in my ears as I search the hallways for my student. Today's anxiety is a mixture of the speech I've been practicing to confess my situation to Tsunade and because I can't find my Sweetheart.

     I left her for ten minutes, only ten minutes, long enough to talk to the Head Anbu. Long enough to fill him in on the new information on the Akatsuki. Ten minutes and she's gone. On the plus note, she can't be in too much trouble. After all the Hokage palace is the most secure place in the village. My Little One can't be getting into much mischief... I think.

     I roll over my speech, rehearsing it again so that when I finally talk to Tsunade I have it down. Tsunade who already seems suspicious. Tsunade who seems to have noticed every whine, whimper, and grasp my kunoichi has tried in the past week. Tsunade who asked why my student spends so much time at my house.

     Tsunade who I've avoided talking to because she's terrifying. I know I've been putting off our conversation. I know it's disappointing my Sweetheart. I know my Sweet Girl is getting upset from the lack of me, from the lack of sex, the lack of my time and attention, and from the lack of us having a proper relationship. From me sucking at relationships and putting off asking her on a proper date. I need to stop putting stuff off.

     "Oh my God. You thought... oh my," my Princess's voice rings out, distress evident in her voice.

     My body jerks, panic washing over me at the sound. My pace picks up, scanning the hallways and rooms for her. What situation could she possibly be in? Why couldn’t she just obey me and stay put?

     "No!" Someone barks, making me stress even more. "Well not at first but when you said you were training under Jiraiya I just... I wanted to be sure you weren't..." The voice continues, making it easier to figure out where the possible threat to my kunoichi is.

     I scurry forward, turning down the hallway I'm pretty sure the voices are coming from. I was right, which is good, but so bad.

     Genma, one of Tsunade's guards, is hovering over my kunoichi. My Little One that has her hand down his pants. My Sweet Girl who told me when we got home that if I ignored her, she'd find her wants somewhere else. My student who's looking up at Genma with those big beautiful 'fuck me' eyes that should be looking up at me. My Sweetheart that's enveloped in Genma's frame that doesn't make her seem as small as she seems under me. My Princess and Genma who are making my blood boil.

     "I'm not a pervert," Genma continues, pissing me off even more. How can he say that? He has her caged, has her stuck under him, has someone young enough to be his student pressed up against the wall as he humps my Sweetheart like some street mutt.

     I know it's hypocritical of me. I've spent the past month sleeping with my Little One, I'm older than both of them, I am known for being a pervert. But she's my student, my kunoichi, my Sweetheart, which means I have dibs. Dibs that I fully use, constantly.

     "Could convince me otherwise," I huff, my voice coming out louder than I meant. I can feel my anger seeping off of me, I can feel the heat of it on my face and crawling across my chest.

     Despite that, my Little One doesn't seem to notice. "Hi, Sensei!" She calls, shifting out from under Genma's arms, her hand still buried down his pants, which only pisses me off more. "How was your meeting?" She continues, her soft sweetness soaking through the heavy situation.

     That upsets me even more. My Sweet Girl is so happy to have my attention, so happy to see me, all because of my lack of affection towards her. I storm down the hallway, Genma getting paler the closer I get and my student getting happier.

     Genma jerks away from my student, bowing once I get closer. "Jiraya, Sannin, sir," he shrieks towards the ground. He's as nervous as I'm pissed. It's would funny if I didn't have the image of my kunoichi clinging to him burned into my head.

     "Genma," I call back, focus set on my bubbly student. She's all smiles with her usual mischievousness in her eyes. She's happy I caught her. It almost hurts, knowing even though I'm angry my Sweetheart is joyful to have my attention. "My student is too young for you." That's a lie, Genma is a more fitting age gap than her and me, but I'm choosing to ignore that.

     "She's only... ten years younger... sir." The sentence snaps my anger back into place, completely counteracting the soothing my student unknowingly started.

     My Princess shifts, mirroring me as she shows off her smile. "That's not so bad, Sensei. After all, you're thirty years older than me," she points out, as cocky as ever.

     I crouch down, locking eyes with her before I start speaking. "Ya, well, I don't have you pinned to the Hokage Palace wall, rubbing my boner against you."

     Somehow her smile grows even more. Her curved mouth opens, a promise to throw a comment about us into the open. I jerk forward, wrapping my hand around my Sweetheart's mouth to cut her off. "You're being a disgraceful shinobi," I hiss out, deepening my glare.

     Genma moves, pulling himself out of his bow. "Sannin, sir?"

     "Get out of my presence," I hiss, burning my student's cocky face into my mind. She looks cute and inspirational. Maybe I'll put this scene in my new book too.

     "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," Genma mumbles before darting away, leaving me alone with my cocky attention hungry student.

     My Sweetheart jerks away from me, mouth running as soon as she's free from my grasp. "You know good and well you'd be thrilled to be humping me against the wall too. Or maybe not, since you seem to not be into me anymore."

     She's right, about the first part. I'd give anything for a few uninterrupted minutes with her. My skin burns from not being able to feel hers, my fingers are impatient with the yearning to feel her hair running through them, and my balls are so heavy it feels like I'll nut just from her stare.

     The second half of my Little One's rant isn't correct, nowhere near it. It ticks my anger even more. Can't she tell how much I want her? Can't my Sweetheart see how desperate I am for every part of her? Hasn't she noticed how much I crave her touch? Her voice? Her eyes? Her laugh? Why can't my pretty kunoichi see how addicted I am to her? How much I adore her sass, her attitude, her personality, her very being?

     "Little One," I grumble, terribly failing at hiding my anger that I know truly isn't her fault. I'm upset at the situation I put us in, at the fact I keep putting off talking to Tsunade. "If I had it my way, we'd be locked up in my house for the next week doing nothing but practicing scenarios for my new book," I confess my little fantasy to her as my hand cups her cheeks again. I cling to her face, soaking up the softness of her skin rubbing against mine.

     I have thought about it a lot, reenacting scenes from my past books, and recreating situations with her so I can take them in better to be able to describe them perfectly in my next novel. I've been rolling over the plot of my next story, thinking of mirroring it to ours.

     My Sweetheart will make a fantastic read, an amazing heroine. I can't help the fact that my recent writings have curved around her, that I'm set on giving her to the inked paper, all to share my small piece of heaven with others that occupy the living realm. It would be sinful not to share her with the world.

      "But," I continue, shifting closer to her with the hopes it'll stop my wandering mind. "We have a very important job for our village. I cannot drop everything every time your pussy aches for attention. Stop acting like a spoiled Princess." The words seem harsh, even as I say them, but she pays no attention to them.

     My Little One goes straight into her tantrum, further proving to me how little of my longing I share with her. "You haven't paid any attention to me, Jiraya! You said you'd talk to Tsunade but you haven't. It's all your fault we're not having sex, much less anything else. I can live awhile without you in me but you won't give me any undivided attention."

    "Oh ya? Is that your issue Sweet Girl?" I mock, my ego completely rubbed from her whines. "Is that why you're acting out? You miss me? You miss my attention? My dick, you sex addict? You miss my little kisses and touches? You miss our dinners alone?"

     My Sweetheart wraps herself around my arm again, her fingers clinging to me as those big dewy eyes of hers look up at me. It's tempting, to give away to my jealousy, ball her up under me, fuck her against the wall like Genma so desperately wanted to.

     But I can't. She needs to learn there is a time and place. The Hokage palace is neither the right time nor place.

     Her fingers dig into me, clinging to my wrist. "Yes," My Sweet Girl whimpers, as pouty as ever. "Like me back, Jiraiya. Pay attention to me. Like me back," the repeated sentence comes out soft, almost a cry as the words tumble from her lips.

     Her last sentence rings in my ears, making me feel better about whatever this is. This isn't some fling for my student, it's something she wants. Something she craves just as much as me. "I'm sorry, Sweetheart. I know I've been busy. I'll make it up to you, I promise," I voice, loosening my fingers.

     I tip my head, brushing long-awaited kisses across her face. My Princess feels nice against me, only encouraging my addiction even more.

     Despite the attention, she's still huffy. "Sure you will."

     "I will," I reiterate, shifting my head closer to her ear. "Because I like you back," I whisper, brushing more kisses across her. "We'll go out tomorrow, okay? A nice dinner all alone, and I'll give you all the attention you want. Just be patient, Sweet Girl." I know it's unfair of me, I know she has been patient, I know. But, events of the day are already in motion and I can't put them off. Not unless I want Tsunade on me.

     My kunoichi clings to me tighter, trying to tug my hold off as she whines. "You said that earlier this week. I have been patient. We're not going to get to eat alone, we never do. Hurry up and talk to Tsunade." She gets to be a pouty mess because she's right. We can't go anywhere - much less sit down to eat - without bumping into someone who wants or needs something from me. The life of a famed shinobi and a high-selling author.

"I will. Today. I promise," I mutter, the anxiety of talking to Tsunade already sliding up my spine. I shift my gaze, soaking in the color of her eyes again to help calm myself. "But, tonight I'm going to beat your ass red since you want to be such an unobedient girl," I continue, scanning for her reaction.

From the way my Princess has been reacting recently, she likes it when I'm a little more rugged on occasion. This time isn't any different. Lust pools her eyes as her legs rub together, a tell-all sign that I've turned her on. "Why?" She peeps out, her fake innocence covering her face as she looks up at me.

I can't help but laugh at her little act, at how see-through we both know it is. I dip back down, barely letting our lips touch as I talk. "Why? Because, Little One, you went and acted like you're on the market for anyone to have. You are mine. My student, my kunoichi, mine, and apparently filling up your tight little cunt and marking you up isn't enough proof for you."

My words turn me on just as much as I'm sure they make my Princess brew. Just the thought of my cum dripping out of her pussy is enough to make my dick ache. "You are mine," I say again, watching the way her eyes light up. "Repeat it," I order, desperate to hear her agree. Desperate to know for certain that my Sweetheart does want to be mine.

     "I am yours."

     I am not a religious man, but I swear to whatever God I can find in the time I have left, I will thank them every day for getting to hear those three little words.

     My eyes shoot down, quickly followed by my hand, as I watch my Sweetheart attempt to stimulate herself. She doesn't get to do that, she doesn't get to get off after she's spent the past few minutes teasing me, tempting me.

     I grip her inner thigh, tugging her legs apart as I start my next order. "I have to run an errand for Tsunade. You, Sweetheart, are going to go home, strip, and sit on my bed with your head in my pillows and your ass in the air." The thought of my Obedient Girl actually obeying me strains my pants even more. 

     "You are going to wait, and wait, and wait until I am done. If you even dare to touch yourself, I will overstimulate you until you feel like you can't breathe, am I understood?" It's harsh, like I was before, but I intend to stay true to my words. If my Little One wants to prance around with Genma, she doesn't get to cum on her own. She gets to be reminded of how well I know her body, how easy it is for me to satisfy her, and how quickly I can become too much for her.

     "Yes, Sensei," she mumbles, still trying to rub her thighs together. The plushness of her fills my hand, her tissue soaking through my fingers, turning me on even more. I swear this errand and my conversation with Tsunade is going to feel like an eternity.

     I litter her lips in soft quick kisses, digging in my pocket for my keys. "There's my Obedient Girl. Use those patience I've taught you," I murmur, giving her my keys as I soak in the feeling of her mouth against mine.

     "Yes, Sensei," She repeats a bit louder this time, making the fit Tsunade would throw if I pushed off her errand seem worth it. It's not, I have work to do, I can wait. I can wait. I can wait.

     "Sweet Girl," I praise, tilting my head as the words spill out. I deepen our kiss, keeping us connected longer this time. I can't wait. "Go home and wait," I order, pulling away from her beautiful face. I can't walk away, and if she doesn't, I'm going to get one hell of a beating from Tsunade.

     My Princess does as she's ordered, playing with my keys as she walks away from me. I stay put, watching the way her hips sway as she walks away. I swear this girl is going to be the death of me.

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     The closer to home I get, the more my anxiety seeps out of me. I did it, I told Tsunade about my student and me. She didn’t attack me, she didn’t even yell. All she did was sit there and glare, which somehow was worse than anything else. It means that tomorrow she’s going to have one hell of a reaction. Oh well, that’s tomorrow’s issue.

My balls ache when my front door falls into view. My Sweetheart is waiting for me in there, my Sweetheart that’s about to get her pussy destroyed and her cunt filled. It’s been too long since I’ve left my load in her.

My actions are quick, anticipation fills my balls more than my semen does. It’s a blur, getting into the house and making my way to my bedroom. “Little One?” I call, swinging my bedroom door open.

A groan brews in my throat at the sight of her. She’s laid exactly how I asked her, her head buried in my pillows and her butt in the air. My Princess’s pussy is on display, her wetness glistening and walls clenching for me. “There’s my Obedient Girl,” I coo, walking across the room.

“Welcome home, Sensei. How was your errand?” She asks, knuckles white from clinging to the pillowcase. God damn, I want to shove my dick into her dripping cunt, I want to fuck her until tears coat her face, I want to fill her pussy so much that I’m leaking out of her all through tomorrow.

“It was fine,” I finally answer, eyes still locked on her pulsing cunt. “How has my bedroom been?” I ask, settling on the bed. I run my fingers through her folds, enjoying the warmth and her juices oozing from her.

“Good,” she whimpers, pussy clenching even more from my small touch.

I shift my focus, messing with her hole to see it gap even more for me. I’m a jerk about it, barely pushing my fingertips into her. My focus stays on this spot of her, ways to describe her core running through my head.

After a beat, I tug my fingers further up, focusing my teasing on her clit. “You've been very bratty, Sweetheart. I'm worried my spoiling of you is making you rotten, Princess,” I confess to her despite not actually being that worried about it. I like how bratty she is and how needy she can be. It’s nice having a partner that can keep up with my urges.

My Little One bucks backward, her pussy unsatisfied and upset with my teasing. “I’m not,” she whimpers, his desperately trying to get me to finger her pussy.

“Hush, Little One,” I mutter, smacking her pussy before completely pulling my touch away. I pay attention to how she reacts, partly for her good and partly to describe this scene in my next book. I’ve finally settled on a plot, and beating her ass is going to be the opening chapter. This is going to be the first chapter, her pussy dripping for me and aching even more from the small slap I gave it.

I stand up, off to go find something to spank her with. I could use my hands and watch the way her butt easily fits in my grasp, but if written that scene a hundred times. I need something new, something exciting for my readers.

I settle in front of my desk, shifting stuff around in search of something to use. “Sensei?” My Sweetheart calls, dividing my attention for a second. “What are you doing?” She asks as my eyes settle on my hairbrush. That could work, it could work very well actually.

“I told you, Sweetheart,” I start, heading back towards her. My student has shifted her position, head tucked down to watch me under her pressed-together knees. “I'm going to beat your ass red.”

My eyes jump between her pussy and her face, enjoying the sight of her like this. When my knees collide with the bed, I’m back to action instead of just admiring her. My hand settles in her hair, clinging to her locks as I fix her position. I know I won’t be able to beat her ass if she’s looking at me like that. “Stay like that, Sweet Girl. I don’t need the neighbors hearing you.”

I release her hair, my sights set on the arch of her back. I love how pretty my Princess’s back looks when she’s bent like this. My fingers tumble down, sliding over the bumps and valleys of her spine. I change my mind, I could spend a chapter describing the curves of her back instead of the sight of her pussy.

When I run out of valleys on her back, my attention shifts to her butt. My touches are gentle and soft, toying with her skin to prep it for the spankings it’s going to receive. Once I’m satisfied with my cooing, I focus back on the reasoning for her position. I pull the brush backward before letting it swing down, smacking the plastic of it into her behind.

“Sensei!” My kunoichi squeals, jumping forward from the blooming pain.

My eyes skirt over the blooming pink of her behind, the outline of the brush head stamped into her cheek. “Oh, you’re fine spoiled Princess,” I mutter, scanning her body language, making sure she’s not uncomfortable and that the smack wasn’t too hard. I grip her waist, tugging her back into position.

I go back to calming her skin, toying with the pink skin as I watch the way her pussy clenches from the touch, making sure I’ll be able to describe it perfectly in my rough draft tonight. When I’m satisfied with a description, I turn back to spanking her.

I coat her behind in more spankings, switching between her cheeks as I coat them with pink ovals. It’s intoxicating, the sound of the hard plastic colliding with my student’s skin, the sound of her whines and whimpers, the sight of her pussy clenching.

Her juices drip from her cunt, starting to cost her thighs. “Aw, look at that. You like this, don’t you, Sweetheart?” I tease, landing another smack as the fingers not wrapped around the brush dips into her. “Your pussy is all wet from your spankings,” I continue the mockery, sliding my touch through her pussy. “Let me take care of you, Little One,” I hum out, satisfied with the rest run, though we might have to try again if I struggle with my writing process.

I bend down, sliding my lips over her sore skin as I toy with her, ideas of how to spice up the story tumbling around my head. My eyes flicked to the abandoned brush, an idea forming in my head. I’ve heard stories of women getting off with their hairbrushes, I wonder what that would look like, how my pretty Princess would react.

“Sensei?” My Sweet Girl whines, the sound going straight to my dick. She thrusts backward again, only encouraging the growing boner in my pants.

My fingers wrap around the brush again, tugging it up before I line it to her cunt. “Princess?”

I tip the end of the handle into my Sweetheart, getting her to jump forward in response. “What are you doing?!” She yelps, head snapping down between her legs again.

My student is beautiful, with eyes that enchant me every time I see them. God, I’m addicted to this girl. “You need to learn to listen, Little One,” I start, lining the hairbrush against her again. I tip it back into her, moving slowly just in case. I don’t think it will hurt, but it’s a different plastic than a dildo so I’m still going to be careful. “I told you I wanted to practice scenarios for my new book.”

Her pussy shifts open as I press the plastic further into her. My Sweet Girl’s walls clench around it, trying to sink it further into herself. It doesn’t work though, making me a bit smug. “You’re a pervert,” she mumbles, hips rocking in need.

I give her what she wants, slowly thrusting the brush in and out of her. “I’m not a pervert. I can’t write a scene I haven’t acted out, and you, my Sweet Girl, made it very clear you don’t want me doing my research on other women. So, that leaves you.” It’s an honest observation, even from before we were screwing. It’s gotten worse since we started sleeping together, my kunoichi’s jealousy being just as bad as mine.

My eyes drop at the same time my hand does. I snake it between her legs, quick to find her neglected clit. It doesn’t take long for my Little One to come undone. “Sensei,” she whines, her pussy clinging to the brush as she coats it with her cum.

“Princess,” I call back, dipping my head down. I go straight to licking up her mess, enjoying my fix of her as I occasionally brush a kiss or two against her thighs. “This will make a wonderful chapter for my book,” I mutter, thrusting the handle of the brush into her again. I need to make her orgasm with it once more, just to be sure I can describe the situation perfectly. What an obedient student I have, one that’s perfect for my research.

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[mythicalmyles]

Hide and seek with predator prey thingy?

With Slendy? Or Offenderman?(if you write for him)

(maybe both? Jabxhdjsns thats asking abit too much aint it?)

Maybe when he catches (name), he breeds him full?

Maybe he would also degrade (name) a bit? Telling them how they are such a pathetic, but delicious little morsel?

👉👈

.

- 🐺

Decided offender since i aint written for him yet<3

Noncon, teasing, overstim

(Name) honestly knew it had been game over the moment he stepped inside of the woods, the feeling of being watched had his hair standing on end all night. He’d lost the path a while ago and hadn’t been able to find it, he couldn’t remember even when he’d lost it. Suddenly he had looked down and just no more path. He felt like he’d been looking for hours, his mind ticking with each passing minute.

His chest felt compressed and he had the odd feeling like he was being hunted, he didn’t have anything bigger then a fox in the woods and they wouldn’t bother. But his hearing was sharp and alert as he made his way through the dense trees, a feeling of doom had him pausing before a yell was ripped from him.

Something wrapped around his chest and dragged him through the bushes and around trees, the speed dazing him when he was abruptly stopped. Horror filled him as he registered what was in his vision, an eldritch horror filled nightmare stood before him. He would’ve screamed if not for the tentacle that shot around his neck, cutting off air flow.

(Name) couldn’t breath and his head began to get fuzzy, mind swirling as the white being cocked its head at him. “So pathetic, can’t even find your way out of the woods. Such a shame.” It’s voice echoed through (Names) head, his body froze as more tentacles began wrapping around him, keeping him spread open. (Name) whimpered, trying to wriggle but failing as it was strong.

“You were so easy to catch, it was almost unfair.” The sound of his sweats tearing filled his hearing, wide eyes staring at the terrifying being. “Such a pretty little thing.” (Name) whimpered as he felt something press against his home, rubbing against him and drawing choked sounds from him. He desperately wriggled in the beings hold, its appendages tight on his flesh. “S-s-.” A tentacle wrapped itself around his mouth, the only sounds being muffled.

(Name) froze as the tentacle finally slid inside of him, his body locking up as his mind blanked. He couldn’t stop himself from moaning as the tentacle inside of him began twisting and fucking him, his body arched as he felt its appendages slide over his body. They teased him by sliding across his nipples and wrapping around his cock, squeezing and playing with him.

The being took its hat off, hanging it on a tree as it smirked at the sight of its prey loosing his mind as he was played with. (Name) felt his mind drift as his body relaxed, allowing another tentacle to slid into him and ripping a loud moan from him.

Ecstasy filled (Names) body, every slid of the tentacles against his prostate driving him further into his mind. He had no chance of escape, instead choosing to just allow what was happening. His hips mindlessly rode the tentacles, barley registering he was even doing it. The tentacles kept a tight grip but allowed more movement the more submissive he became.

“Might just keep you, a pretty little lap dog.” It chuckled, its voice sending every hair on (Names) body standing on end. His desperate eyes gazed at the being, his orgasm fast approaching. It removed its tentacle from his mouth, instead wrapping it loosely around his neck.

(Name) gulped as moans poured from him, the tentacles inside him slamming deep. “Good boy, moan for me.” (Name) shook, his eyes rolling back as he came. His body completely relaxed into Offenders hold as he rode out his high. “I want to see that delicious face again.” It smirked as another tentacle slid into him and they sped up, thrusting fast inside of him. (Name) practically wept as he felt his cock begin hardening again, his body shaking. “Plea-please.” (Name) hiccuped out only to recieve a chuckle and a particularly violent thrust.

“You can take it.” A large smirk covered its face, sharp teeth filling (Names) vision. It didn’t take much longer to draw another orgasm from him, his voice hoarse as he screamed. (Name) couldn’t think, the tentacles still fucking him and stretching him out. “Tonight will be a fun night.” It chuckled, voice rumbling throughout the forest.

[spiribia]

not to grip your shoulders desperately for a moment, but i never personally saw caithe’s egg thievery as an illogical progression of her character. there’s a consistent thread of this profound loneliness and uncertainty in her throughout the personal story. i don’t blame people for finding her later actions random, either, because it’s possible to just miss a lot of this stuff and some time had transpired - but look at the twilight arbor dungeon, where she enlists you, rytlock, and logan to help her confront her evil ex (afraid of succumbing to her plant wiles). and rytlock and logan get angry at her, and both ditch mid-dungeon. leaving only you by her side - which she comments on. and meanwhile faolain is saying, look how all your friends abandon you, no one will stick by you - but i will, so give up and come to the dark side already. and you can see how caithe believes this, with only the commander as her anchor otherwise. and caithe is basically gripping the commander for dear life at this point. there’s that vision from the pale tree of the doomed future where destiny’s edge never reconciles, and caithe feels so hopeless and alone she does actually run back to faolain. and at lion’s arch where she first tries to get destiny’s edge back together, and they only bicker and storm off - and she, despondent, is left with a sylvari commander who can assure her that they are still here for her, at least, and caithe says, no, you’re right…i suspect that will be my only comfort that gets me through the nights to come. she is literally sending you (sylvari commander) DMs like this

and then in comes mordremoth telling her You cannot trust anybody. You cannot trust yourself. And you cannot trust even the commander.

[bardic-inspo]

Midnight Chimes

Chapter Seven: Morbid Curiosity

Pairing: Astarion x Cursed! Tav

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Series Summary:

It’s easier for Astarion to believe Naomi tastes so sweet because she was his first. Easier to ignore the fact that every undead in vague proximity yearns for the same blood that’s sated him night after night. Easier to pretend her music is arcane as any other bard’s, and not divine enough to wake corpses from the dirt. Easier to pretend Naomi is simply a bard, and not something more akin to a siren. One that's slowly realized she's not just another sailor, after all. Easier to bury the fact that he's already stupidly in love with her. Like she wouldn't just raise that out of the ground, too. A curse rears its head. A devil comes calling. Astarion fights for his freedom from Cazador. He and the rest of their merry little band fight to save Tav from the doom she feels she's fated for.

Chapter Preview:

“Tell me what I taste like, and I’ll show you what you’re missing.” The tadpole twists behind his eye and twists his stomach with it. She really does mean to show him. “All right,” Astarion drawls. He combs his mind for his favorite endearments, pinching the prettiest from its stem and fitting it between his teeth. He leans forward, near enough to catch the slight scent of lavender beneath the staleness of her sweat. “I’ll do my best, darling,” he purrs, “but you should know there’s nothing from my mouth that could do justice to how exquisite you tasted all. Over. Mine.”

Chapter CW: None

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“My friend,” Astarion drawls, patting the earth beside him.

A faint sigh leaks from Naomi’s lips, folded down with the weight of the world. She doesn’t heed his invitation, opting instead to stand there and ogle him. He can’t blame her for being so captivated. He’s a sight to behold, after all.

Astarion’s legs splay in front of him, his back propped by the rough trunk of a tree. Cool air licks the lithe stretch of his bare chest, soaked in starlight. Naomi’s gaze seeps over his skin, down to the white shirt bunched in his lap. He sets his handiwork aside for the moment, tucking his needle away for safekeeping.

“Darling, I’ve been looking for you evvvverywhere,” he says with only a little slur. Enough to put an arch in her brow.

“I wouldn’t have been hard to find if you were,” she mutters skeptically. “Are you drunk?”

She takes a tentative step towards him in someone’s else’s shoes. They’re far too big for her feet. Silly little squirrel lost her own boots, stumbling around in the swamps. Poor thing.

“I have drunk. A bear,” Astarion hums happily, the tip of his tongue swiping languid over his lips. The woodsy, syrupy sweetness of the bear lingers there. Naomi’s eyes do, too.

She’s too slow to bury the bob in her throat, not far from where his fangs sank in. Her feet shuffle beneath her. Caught. Astarion’s smirk curls like a noose.

I know what you’re thinking, he could say. Because I’m thinking it, too.

But it’s too soon. He wouldn’t want his little squirrel to go scuttling away. Not now that he knows how delicious she is.

But soon, he thinks, with a twinge of melancholy. Soon, he’ll say all the right words. Like a spell, she’ll be beneath him all over again. And he’ll have the rest of her to taste, too. Perhaps her body is as sweet as the nectar he drew from her neck.

It doesn’t matter, truly. Whatever petty cost Astarion might have to grit his teeth and endure is already worth it. She dealt with that insufferable Gur hunter handily. Artistically, even. But Gandrel won’t be the last hunter that comes calling. He’ll need Naomi to still feel as generous when Cazador sends more fearsome foes.

For now, at least, he only needs to convince her to be as generous with her presence as she was with her blood.

“Sit, my sweet,” he says, insistent. “See the stars with me. I’ll regale you with the poetry I promised.”

“Poetry?” She scoffs, as if it’s something a bard shouldn’t appreciate.

“For your fine vintage, of course,” Astarion croons.

He lets her see the hunger in his eyes as they trail down her figure. She’s wonderfully pert in the tunic she slipped into for sleeping. Even if the flutter of it by her heels makes her look like a specter.

“Don’t you remember?” He prods. “You wanted to know what you tasted like.”

It’s that promise, or morbid curiosity, that spurs her closer. She looks like a ghost, blanched silver in the moonlight, stark shadows haunting the hollows beneath her eyes. But she moves like the shambling dead. Her shoes drag, floppy on her feet, interrupting the quaint melody of crickets chirping intently in the long grass. Astarion’s nose wrinkles at the noise.

“You look dreadful, you know,” he says flatly.

It doesn’t dissuade her from dropping to a seat beside him with a dull thump. The tree takes her weight, leaving only a thin sliver of space between them. Astarion’s attention snags on her tunic, sliding off her shoulder. Pale blue skin peeks out, peppered in the same purplish freckles that powder her nose.

“Well, I feel dreadful,” she mutters darkly. “So I suppose, for the moment, my matching looks are one of the few things that make sense.”

“I do hope it wasn’t our last evening together that put you out of sorts,” Astarion says with the slightest pout.

Her collar doesn’t cover her souvenirs from their prior late-night liaison. The two perfect punctures have faded almost entirely. Now she wears the new necklace of bruises that the hag traded her for her old amulet.

He did try to be gentle, when he bit her. A bit, at least. It’s not guilt, squirming in his gut, exactly. She gave him permission, after all. Still, his tongue feels weighty with a question he should’ve asked sooner.

“Did it hurt much? I already know you liked it,” he says, smoothing his tone. “I’m more curious how much you like pain. That priest of Loviator certainly painted a pretty, pretty picture. It had all my favorite colors.”

Naomi scoffs. “Has the poetry started yet, or are you just warming up?”

“Warming you up, dear.”

“It was fine, Astarion,” she sighs again, exasperated this time. She props her knees to her chest and loops her arms to hold them there. “My head felt a little fuzzy afterwards, and I might’ve lost my mind along with my shoes. But I don’t think you get to take credit for that. Not everything’s about you, you know.”

Astarion surveys her blankly. His face feels heavy, lips still abuzz with the blood of the bear, his mind awash with it.

“Oh. You mean that business with the hag?” He waves a hand, as if casting a thoughtless cantrip. “You said it yourself, it was just like that debacle with the harpies. Though, they didn’t resort to extortion. I suppose that was some precious trinket of yours, that necklace she took?”

“Nothing worth dying for,” Naomi shrugs, gaze guarded. “They’re a dime a dozen, back home.”

“Mm,” Astarion hums, fingers rapping against a gnarled root. “And what is ‘home’ like for you, darling? I’ve had this drab little cave in my head this whole time, you know. I don’t know much about the Underdark. Never once been.”

Her lips twitch. The start of a smile, maybe. Something for him to tug on, and perhaps something to tug her shoulders down from her ears. Ease that strain holding her taut so he can slip through the cracks in her armor.

Her tone is a teasing one. “Tell me what I taste like, and I’ll show you what you’re missing.”

The tadpole twists behind his eye and twists his stomach with it. She really does mean to show him.

“All right,” Astarion drawls.

He combs his mind for his favorite endearments, pinching the prettiest from its stem and fitting it between his teeth. He leans forward, near enough to catch the slight scent of lavender beneath the staleness of her sweat.

“I’ll do my best, darling,” he purrs, “but you should know there’s nothing from my mouth that could do justice to how exquisite you tasted all. Over. Mine.”

Her smirk blooms wide. “You’re hedging, dear. Shaky way to start. Self-deprecation isn’t what I’m into. But do go on.”

“Hm?” Astarion huffs, cocking his head, indignant. “My bittersweet treat isn’t impressed? Even with her cheeks all warm and flushed? I think your body betrays you, dear.”

“‘Bittersweet’ is the best you can come up with?” She tuts. “Surely you can do better.”

“You were my first, you know,” he blurts. “I don’t have much to compare it to.”

The words leap from his tongue in reflex, without a trace of sweetness. And the aftertaste of his admission lies more bitter on his tongue than Naomi’s fading flavor did. Astarion’s jaw shifts tightly as he watches her amusement melt into sickly sweet pity.

It needles him with a dozen daggers, that look. Astarion rips his gaze away to the indifferent night sky. Naomi’s face still burns behind his eyes, like vivid blots of color staining his sight after staring too long at his favorite star.

He snuffs out any chance she has to say something insufferable.

“I’ve wondered what the others might taste like, now that I’ve had you,” Astarion carries on dryly. “Only theoretically, of course. Take Karlach, for example. Her blood’s been aged in the hells. She’d be potent, like a fiery whiskey. Wyll must be something palatable. Perhaps a sugary cider. And Gale, his blood strikes me as something rich, refined. Like well-aged brandy.”

“Shadowheart has to taste at least a little like red wine,” Naomi muses. “She drinks enough of it.”

“Mm. She’s enigmatic. A vintage port on two legs.”

A smile steals its way back onto his lips. She’s been a good little bard, playing along with his game. Astarion angles a glance her way, letting his voice drop husky.

“And then, there’s the lovely Naomi Tavriel. A bouquet I’d know anywhere for the rest of my days.”

She blinks back at him, wary, but spellbound nonetheless.

“I could say she tastes of soft-crushed lavender and sharp, vibrant citrus. But I’d only be telling a thimble of the truth,” Astarion says in a rough-edged whisper. “Her blood sings. She is a tremble on the tongue. A current with sweetness so consuming, all that’s after can only be bitter.”

It works too well, this poetry in lieu of flattery. The twangy pitter-patter of her heartbeat gives her away, though her expression stays tamed. Her tongue darts out to wet the plump curve of her lower lip while he watches. Their gazes meet, and the daintiest pastel pink melts across her cheeks.

He only told a thimble of the truth, after all; Naomi’s blood in his mouth hardly painted the world in bitterness. On the contrary, it cast everything before in dull monochrome, and everything after in vivid, throbbing flavor. Possibility. Potential. Power. It all roared awake in his veins with only one taste.

His next words are brimming in nothing but honesty.

“I can’t imagine what it must be like,” he says wistfully, “to ever have enough of you.”

“Better,” Naomi says beneath her breath, before her eyes flutter shut.

Unbidden, Astarion’s eyes close, too. His delectable daydreams dissolve into plummeting darkness. Warmth envelopes him. When his eyes tear open again, he sees furling heat instead of misty starlight.

Astarion’s lungs burn in some old instinct for air as he breaks the surface of Naomi’s memory. Gasping, he bobs in water of brilliant, simmering turquoise. Salt burns his eyes. He blinks feverishly. The scent of fresh earth and moss turns in his nose.

His bare toes scrabble against the pebbled lakebed. Panic bubbles up in the back of his throat. He can’t swim. Not really. Not that he’s tried to, in the past two hundred or so years. He finds a solid foothold and stills, eyes sweeping his steam-kissed surroundings.

No reflection shimmers in the shallow water as clear as a mirror. Silver fish as thin as hairs dart past his ankles. A steady tremor ripples across the surface, tingling pleasantly against his submerged legs.

Reeds rustle behind him. Winged bugs flutter between, unbothered by his presence. Butterflies, he thinks, but then he frowns. Their wings are leathery. Bat-like, but beautiful in deep jewel tones of emerald, ruby, and sapphire. And it’s fungus they flit between, not grasses; it grows in narrow, perforated tubes of luminous yellow. The tiniest breeze plays the fronds like flutes.

Far from his safe haven in the shallows, a waterfall veils the cliffs in delicate silver. Astarion’s neck aches as he cranes back, following the stream to a split in the rocky ceiling and up, up, away into infinite darkness. Perhaps it tumbles down from the heavens themselves. Its roar could rival a dragon's.

Past the falls, the faint glimmer of blue torchlight catches his eye. If he squints, he can make out the rough shape of crystalline spires twined with indigo rock and veiny, black stalactites. A standard hangs from the stonework, set with a familiar symbol. Naomi said it was a temple. She used to wear the emblem of the dark dancer strung around her neck, before she gave her amulet of Eilistraee away to the hag.

A softer sound drifts through the pouring percussion of the falls. Music. It emanates from the temple, washing gently over his ears like a slant of sunlight.

Astarion’s eyelids grow heavy. Cool air, damp with mist, caresses his cheeks. He could happily stay here for hours, swirled in warmth, mesmerized by the drumming falls, ears peeled towards the faint tease of a fiddle. But a flurry of splashing on the nearby shore shatters his piece of peace.

Astarion whips his head around to see a storm of children bearing down on the lake. Water sloshes, frothy with their reckless abandon. A scrawny half-dozen drow, none older than a decade, blunder past him. Astarion grates out a bristling groan none of them seem to hear.

His attention latches to a little girl, white hair knotted atop her head, strings of it sticking wet against the angled ears she hasn’t quite grown into. She wades ahead of her comrades, jaw set, her lilac nose scrunched with a warrior’s determination.

He knows her, even without her freckles, or the birds tattooed on her cheek. It’s not so different from the way Naomi looked him over, fangs and all, before she shoved her way into his own memories.

Naomi leaves her friends behind in knee-deep depths. She swims on, striking out towards a splinter of radiance searing the blue water near-white. Sunlight, he realizes with a pinch of surprise. The tiniest, hairline slice of it.

“Touch it!” One of the children calls out, hands cupped to his mouth.

“I dare you!” Another shouts.

Snickers follow. “She’s too scared.”

“She’s not. Look -- look!”

Astarion tenses. Naomi stills, treading water just a few inches from that slash of sun. She reaches out a trembling hand. Light bleeds across her fingertips.

Bat-winged butterflies burst from the reeds. Naomi’s scream bounds off the stone. Astarion’s ears ring raw with it, even after the shriek cuts to crickets.

A sudden chill plunges him back to the present. Astarion shifts around a shiver, scowling. Rough bark rubs between his shoulder blades. The starlit summer evening in the forest feels tepid now. Not nearly so warm as the brilliant waters were.

“That was…breathtaking,” he mutters mournfully. “Until you broke it. What in all the hells was that wailing about?”

Naomi’s laugh is an easy one. “I thought it melted my skin. I’d never seen it that shade. I’d never seen myself in the sun at all.”

“My, my. We are birds of a feather, it seems. Though, your little venture didn’t result in you roasting,” Astarion says, lip curled. “It’s quite different, I promise you.”

“O-Of course,” Naomi stammers hastily. “But it was enough to keep me in the Underdark for some time.”

“How long did you choose to stay in the dark? I wouldn’t know what that luxury is like.”

“Well, I’m nearing a century and a quarter, and I only surfaced about eighteen months ago,” she says, toeing the dirt. “Strictly speaking, it was a choice to stay down there. But we don’t always realize what it is we’re choosing. Especially when we’ve never known any different. Especially when we’re afraid.”

Astarion swallows the sudden lump in his throat, gaze flitting down and away to his own feet. His hands itch, restless, until they find the stowed needle again and take once more to stitching. He barely has to glance at the hole in his shirt sleeve to pull it neatly closed with thread, but he does, anyway, just to have reason to look elsewhere.

“You’re not wrong,” he sighs, irritation relenting to weariness. “And a year and a half isn’t long in the light.”

It would be a mere drop in the bucket in his centuries of torment. Barely a ripple in the grand scheme of things. Nothing that could make up for the rest of it. But what a gift it would be, to have that much sunlight.

He should be so lucky.

“It’s not like there isn’t light down there at all,” she murmurs. “Just not much from the sun.”

“A vampire’s dream, indeed.” Astarion answers, hollow.

“When the freckles came, I thought I was dying, you know,” Naomi laughs again, but it sounds flimsy, like a board bent near breaking. “I wrote home and everything. Said my goodbyes. Felt like a fool once I figured it out.”

Astarion pauses his stitching, the corner of his mouth curving in spite of his envy. If she let out such a shriek from that little leak of light, he can only imagine the kind of caterwauling that came out of her when she was fully bathed in it for the first time.

His tentative smile comes with a strange twist of sympathy. That day, on the beach, with the sand seared white with high noon, and his own skin blessedly unburnt, Astarion had run for the shadows as if Cazador himself hounded his heels. He’d wanted to laugh. To retch. To cower. To dance. All at once.

“It’s a jarring change,” he says, glancing her way again. She’s pensieve. And staring quite intently at the needle poised between his fingers, dipping in and out of his sleeve.

“Lots of drow get sunsick,” she says quietly. “Some never get over it.”

“Some fare just fine, it seems. The sun suits you as well as the stars do, darling.”

Naomi’s eyes flicker to his. He wonders, with a sharp pinch beneath his ribs, what she sees when she says so earnestly, “Likewise, Astarion.”

Dismay sinks in his chest as she peels her eyes away to the trees and a new knot bends her brow. He loathes the weight of the feeling. Loathes, even more, that it struck all the harder for having caught him by surprise.

“You’re having a terrible time up here, aren't you?” he asks gently.

“It’s not a walk in the park down there, either,” she says flatly. “None of those other kids you saw with me ever saw the sun again. They didn’t live long enough to have a chance.”

Astarion’s heard how harsh the Underdark can be. The slice she showed him was brimming with beauty. And he knows well enough the cruelty of pretty things.

“But you thought it would be different,” he says. “That all of this would be different.”

“Ever since--” Naomi stops short, jaw clenching. “Well, something about all the undead, scheming devils, murderous githyanki, and hungry vampires is making it hard to sleep at night.”

“Sleep?” Astarion raises a brow. Something you don’t want to see in a trance? He wonders, but he doesn’t ask.

It’s another aversion they’re both familiar with.

“We’re all having a terrible time, Astarion,” she sighs, voice wrung raw. “We’ve been tadpoled, for fuck’s sake.”

“Speak for yourself. I happen to be flourishing. In no small part thanks to you.”

He shifts, ostensibly to stitch another hole he’s spied in his sleeve. But the motion lets their shoulders brush. Just the barest stroke of skin over skin. Her breath hitches softly enough, keener ears wouldn’t have heard it.

“I’m grateful, you know,” he says just as softly.

Astarion’s needle sinks into the fabric again, pulling the gap closed. Naomi adjusts her seat against the tree. Oh sweet thing, he thinks, as her shoulder settles warm against his and stays that way. How long since you’ve been touched, if all it takes is just the one to have you hooked? He feels an odd strain of sadness alongside his swell of victory.

What a lucky thing she is, to know such sanctuary in her own body. How lucky she is, that he knows just the touch to make her feel holy in it.

Any good spell has three ingredients. She’s already succumbed to the somatic component. One touch started a thirst for more. She’d shared her blood, binding them in something material. All that’s left is to say the magic words.

Astarion toys with them in his mind, shuffling innuendos like a deck of cards. I could show you a much better time. Show you how grateful a hungry vampire can be. Help you sate your own hunger, so to speak. Don’t you think you deserve some fun too, darling? A little treat for my little treat.

Naomi clears her throat pointedly. “I don’t know you half as well as I should, to have been half as helpful as I’ve been.”

Oh, I was thinking we could get to know each other intimately--

“Tell me something about yourself, Astarion.”

Astarion stiffens. The magic of the moment expires, but he doesn’t mourn it.

“I won’t tell you about ‘home’,” he says curtly. “If you want to know about the Gate, ask Wyll, and he’ll recite half its history. But, after what happened with that awful Gur, I suppose you should know about Cazador.”

He tells her, sparsely, of his life when he still knew sunlight. The little he remembers fits in one mouthful. She interrupts to ask if he can still see that life in reverie.

“No, I can’t,” he answers sharply. “And I can’t see any of my prior lives, either. If I do manage to die, I won’t have another life after this. Arvandor doesn’t take souls sullied with undeath.”

That shuts her up for a good while. Arvandor doesn’t take drow, either. Kindred spirits thrice over, he thinks ruefully. Shunned by sunlight, sleep, and salvation.

He tells her of his untimely death at the hands of vagrants. Of Cazador’s Szarr’s too-perfect timing. The only choice he thought he had, and one he never would have made, if he could do it over again.

Most of all, he tells her of his tormentor. Astarion finds that once he’s started the telling, it all spills from his mouth with a feverish momentum. He speaks as if he’s running downhill; it has more to do with gravity, pulling him down from dizzying height, than any of his own volition. It falls out of him with the stony weight of inevitability.

He’s left with a familiar, noxious dread at the bottom of his belly, at the end of it all. He doesn’t look at her, sure he can’t stomach her pity after sloughing through that mountain of shit. She doesn’t say anything he thought she might.

Instead, she says, “You’re very good at that, you know.”

Astarion’s head jerks up to trace her gaze to his own hands, with the needle still fitted between his fingers. “I had to be,” he blurts without meaning to. He scowls darkly. “Hm. I do hope you were paying attention to my words as well as my hands. I won’t be repeating myself.”

Naomi’s expression hardens. He thinks of her as a little girl again, striking fearlessly into the unknown. Shrieking when it bit her. “If Cazador comes calling, he won’t find you alone, Astarion.”

A laugh punches from his lungs. “And what do you think you’re going to do about it, dear? If he wanted to, he’d kill everyone in this camp like that.” He snaps his fingers, teeth clenched.

Naomi studies him carefully. “I guess we’ll have to get creative, then. Or, at the very least, you’ll have good company on your way out. And a good last supper. You can feed from me when you need to, you know. As long as we talk about it first.”

Astarion flounders. “T-That sounds…eminently reasonable. And so very delicious.”

“Mm. I’ve heard from a reputable poet that I taste so good, nothing else does,” she says wryly.

Her eyes drift shut as she leans heavily against the tree they share. His shoulder takes some of the burden of her, too. Astarion allows it.

She’s been such a generous thing. And her warmth is a balm to the disquiet riled by that same generosity. Astarion’s stomach knots. Every sweet thing he’s known has been a bitter one, too. If not during, then after.

He rubs the needle between the pads of his fingers, staring out into the space between the trees while the black of night bleeds into morning blue. Birds take to shrill song and flapping among the branches. Except for the rhythmic thump of her heartbeat, his little bard stays quiet as the grave. Too quiet. He’s acutely aware of her hair, loose from her bun, trailing over his collar. Tickling like a feather to his neck.

She’s too soft. Too pretty to be anything but poison. Too sweet to be anything but bitter in the end. Astarion means to end it here, while it’s still the former. He’ll ply pleasure and loyalty from her another night.

He glances down.

“Oh.” He blinks, dumbfounded. “Oh no. No, no.”

Astarion goes rigid, throat thick. She’s asleep. At long last.

She twitches fitfully. It’s not a good sleep. Elves aren’t usually that good at sleeping at all, unless they’ve practiced like he has. But better she has bad sleep than none at all. Someone has to say things to the druid, Halsin, tomorrow. They’ll need their leader to lead.

And Astarion needs to finish the spell he started. She’ll need to be rested. Ready for him.

Once she settles, he’ll leave. She’ll never know the difference. Easy enough.

So he waits. He watches the wrinkle in her brow. The restless fussing of her legs. Glares at her gods awful shoes, steaked in dried blood and dirt. Glares at her pouty, purple face. Contemplates if her horrible footwear should be fed to fire or to wolves.

Gingerly, he leans forward just enough to rid her feet of said shoes. He throws them to the woods with a vehemence. She doesn’t stir even slightly. But he stays, with his body pulled taut as a bowstring, in case, any second, she might. So he can be gone before she bats her eyes open.

Astarion’s not sure how long he stares at the slow rise and fall of her chest, or the smush of her cheek against his steel-stiff shoulder. But it’s been enough time that when Gale’s shadow washes over him, Astarion has to squint when he looks up. Daylight and a seething wizard glare back.

“What?” Astarion hisses, wincing as stiffness prickles along his neck.

Gale’s eyes burn between Astarion and the still-sleeping Naomi. Gingerly, Astarion shirks free of her at last. He stands, dusting off his breeches. Gale unfurls the blanket he came bearing and tucks it to cover Naomi’s bare toes.

“Oh, let her be,” the vampire chides, as he makes for the cave and Gale stays rooted. “She’ll wake soon enough.”

“Perhaps someone should stay--”

“I can hear her pretty little heartbeat from inside the cave just as well as I heard your snoring from all the way out here.” Astarion sneers. “I’ll know the moment she wakes. Or if she finds her way into trouble again.”

It’s far too easy to pluck on Gale’s nerves. Far too much fun to stop. Reluctantly, the wizard falls into step beside Astarion, leaving their bard to her makeshift rest. As soon as she slips from sight, Gale’s lecture starts in earnest.

“If she chooses to help with your hunger, then so be it,” he fumes. “But after such a trying day as yesterday, I won’t stand idly by while you leech--”

“I kept my teeth to myself, thank you,” Astarion says blithely. “It was our fearless leader who came seeking my calming company, if you must know. Poor thing couldn’t trance all by her lonesome. Something a fellow elf can understand like others can’t.”

Gale isn’t going to have any of his own teeth left if he insists on grinding them so roughly. Astarion grins widely, letting the points of his fangs peek from his lips.

“Maybe,” Astarion croons, “she didn’t seek you out since you won’t shut up about ‘making transcendent love to Mystra’ for more than five minutes. You should really curb that habit, or your goddess will be the last lay you ever have, you know. No one wants to hear about how good your ex was.”

“Naomi’s a good person, Astarion,” Gale answers tersely. “And I'd wager she’s been through more than she’s letting on. If comfort is what she wants and what you’re offering, then by all means, make merry. But if you mean to take more than you give--”

Astarion barks a laugh, bracing a palm against his own chest. “Gods, Gale, really? You’ve come around on my thirst for blood, but it’s my more mundane hungers you have a problem with? Well, fret not. I’m a consummate lover.”

Gale flushes to a perfect, pained pink. Astarion snickers beneath his breath. He brushes past his mortified magician to peruse the loot they’d gathered from the goblins’ fortress.

“And besides,” Astarion drawls devilishly, “all we did was talk. All night long. No wonder she’s so tired.”

“Is there something in particular you’re scavenging for?” Gale grumbles.

Astarion paws through the crates, past crusted chainmail, crude clubs, and flimsy maces. Finally, he finds his prize.

“She needs shoes. These will do nicely.”

They’re sturdy, at least. What the plain leather boots lack in character, they make up for in not falling apart. And they should actually fit her. An improvement for Naomi, to be sure. But Astarion can do better.

He takes them back to his tent and sets them aside while he roots through his stash of thread. Green isn’t her color. Black would blend too close to the dark shade of the shoes. Red, of course, looks lovely on her but--

Astarion stills, turning over a spool of blue. It isn’t the same vivid shade as the lake she showed him. But it’s bright like a sunlit sky. Astarion takes a needle in hand, and takes to stitching sharp-tipped swirls, reminiscent of waves, into the leather.

When he’s done, she’s still asleep. She stiffens, suddenly, at his approach, groaning her displeasure. Astarion freezes.

He’s gone before she bats her eyes open. The grass is still flat where he sat beside her before, and where the boots now rest in his stead.

A/N: I truly do have nothing against Gale, but it’s just too much fun to have Astarion harass him, hehe.

I’ll tease that for those of you chomping at the bit for the ‘eventual smut’ tag to come to fruition. You won’t have to wait much longer ;)

If you want something spicy to keep you sated in the meantime, I did recently post a smutty Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride evil power couple one-shot called “Blood in the Mortar”. I’ve also got a multichapter in the works for them that I intend to get drafted further ahead on before sharing.

I love each and every one of you who reads, likes, comments, and reblogs. Seriously means so much to know I’m not writing in a vacuum. I appreciate you all, and hope life is being kind to you!

Divider credit for before and immediately after story text to @firefly-graphics. Divider credit for scene breaks and banner below to @saradika-graphics.

[eilinelsghost]

In Memory Beside You

A little birthday ficlet for @actual-bill-potts.

You are an absolute treasure of a person - brilliant, incredibly hard working, a marvelous writer, a truly kind and caring friend. You bring so much laughter and joy to all of us and it has been a delight getting to know you this past year. I hope your day is filled with lovely and delicious celebrations!

Tossing this one on the pile 😊

Arafinwë knew the path without thought. He had long ceased numbering these pilgrimages to the silent groves and his feet could find the way of their own volition. Here the low hill, then round about and over stream’s passage, now the living arch of yew branches bound in their fast embrace. And as on every visit, he shuddered as he passed beneath the boughs. Their shadow touched him with the breath of the dead and with their snaking arms came the image of spirits reaching out, his sons’ hands extending toward him from their long rest.

He left the passage and drew a stifled breath. The yew grove itself was less unnerving than its entrance, but still the air hung close and the branches wove a low canopy, muting light and sound alike. Arafinwë found himself wondering once again whether this atmosphere mirrored the Halls themselves, placed thus to ease the spirit’s return by degrees, or whether the weight was an opposite, pressing fëa and hröa together as they wove back into one.

It had been oppressive in his first visits, the silence resting upon his chest, and each time he fought down panic as the hours of his vigil crawled by. But now he shrugged into it as though drawing on a blanket and its weight was a comfort, here beside the dead.

He slowed before a particularly ancient tree and brushed his hand along the bark in greeting. Its roots were twisted about the base, branches arching in various formations, and along one side they curved into a makeshift bench. Arafinwë settled himself upon this with a sigh and tried to quiet his thought.

One breath in. My father, taken in the night.

One breath out. My brothers, slain in the dark.

One breath in. My sons, gone before me.

One breath out. I sit in memory beside you.

He had begun these ritual visits soon after the return from Araman, drawn in his loneliness to seek that grief which he had found no license to mourn. For his father’s death was his brothers’ banner and Exile the lament it demanded. And amid that cacophony his own grief had been drowned, buried beyond his own hearing until the reckoning came. Until the breaking.

He had heard it then throughout the empty palace when he stumbled back from the Doom, reeling in fury and anguish. It echoed along the marble halls. Its dirge was in the silence of stilled fountains. It was his one companion as he lifted the shattered remnants of his people, and his shadow while he set about the atonement for the dead. 

At last he had followed its pull and ridden out from Tirion, passing like light over the starlit plains of Aman till he found the Halls and the yew grove’s grim, yawning arch twisting before him through the dark. He had come there only once before, long years ago when he was a curious youth trailing behind his brother’s sojourn. 

What is her body, shorn of its soul? Fëanor had sensed the boy behind him when Arafinwë followed him in secret to Mandos’ gates and his voice drifted back through the yew boughs. Here will I keep vigil, not in the gilded vales of Lórien, for here my spirit sits beside hers where all is remembered, and nothing forgot.

And here Arafinwë too kept vigil—his brother’s ritual of lament the only comfort to beckon amid his sorrow. He had ridden to the yew grove before the sun’s rising, and every year since, lingering in silent remembrance first for his father, then for the brother who gave him this rite, for the brother who had been his steadfast companion, his guide. For each son in turn, the last less than a year gone. Ai Valar, each beloved infant he held…there, just there beyond the crags and the clinging roots, gone now beyond his reach.

Others came too to this grove, more often now than in those first years when naught but silent accusation walked beneath these tress. But the trickle of the returned was ever growing as the wars in Beleriand drew on and often he would encounter those he knew, waiting too among the gnarled boughs—Olwë’s people summoned to meet sisters and brothers who abandoned the Great March, parents who had disappeared in the dark years. Now and then a pair of his own people, waiting with hesitant hope to greet a grandchild of whom they knew naught till the summons—life announced through death. He watched their hope with longing, witnessed each reunion’s joy with the sharp pang of bitterness upon his tongue. 

One breath in.

One breath out.

There was a rustle in the thicket behind him and he turned, expecting a similar break in the solitude. But instead, a tall stag strode past, black and sleek as obsidian, its movements rolling like wind through the grasslands. Arafinwë caught his breath with a gasp as it lifted its head and met his gaze. They were not unknown to him, the wardens of the fëantarwa, for they moved ever through the grove in ceaseless watch.[1] But only to the summoned would they raise their eyes in greeting, heralds too and not mere guardians.

His heart pounded as the creature’s gaze did not falter, but rested full upon him, purposeful, unblinking.

Then came another rustle in the wood, jarring amid the heavy silence—a twig snapping behind him, a sharp intaken breath. The stag sprang through the thicket with a crash of bracken and Arafinwë turned, anticipation pulsing through every fiber.

It was a mistake. This was no one of his knowing. 

The figure stood a stone’s throw from him, of middling height, his hair dark and roughly cropped above the shoulders. He was staring at Arafinwë in disbelief and he took a halting step forward as their eyes met, his every motion flooded with confusion. 

Where were his kin, the king wondered in indignation? They should be here to ease this passage. It was negligence to leave a soul staggering alone through its return—nay, it was cruelty rather. Death was unnatural; its remedy hardly less so.

The king’s face softened in pity. It was more likely, he realized, that there were none in Aman to greet him, yet one more of their Silvan kindred slain in the darkness and brought to life uprooted. A stranger in a land unknown and unchosen. There had been many such in recent years and Arafinwë struggled to discern whether life’s restoration was balm to them or injury.

“Arafinwë Ñoldóran?”

The king rose in surprise as the stranger’s voice broke through his thoughts. It was resonant, the syllables of his name warm and earthen within its touch, and a shiver ran down his spine at the other’s recognition. “I am he,” he managed at last. “How is it that you know me?”

“I do not.” The man faltered and shook his head, the dark eyes full of wonder. “Only you are so very like him…”

His speech was in Quenya, Arafinwë realized with a start—fluent, but tinged with an accent he could not place. None of the Silvan folk had known the tongue, nor the Sindar who too had joined the ranks of returned. An uneasy prickle rose at the base of his neck. “Who are you?”

“I am called Bëor.” He spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable with care as his tongue too relearned its steps. “But my name is Balan Beldarion. I was…in Beleriand I wedded your son.”

1. fëantarwa: garden of the spirits (lit: spirit-garden)

———

Sorry it’s just a teaser. The full au will materialize eventually, but I couldn’t help trying out a smidge of it for the occasion. 😊 Happy birthday friend, have an immortal Balan. As a treat.

[kanobarlowe]

Hi I just wrote a little something that will not make sense to anyone except like 2 people maybe but I had fun writing it. I won't spoil what but it may or may not relate to a book I'm working toward publishing.

———•———•———•———•———•———•———

Blues and purples metamorphosed into reds and pinks as the morning sun dawned across the trees. The autumn leaves glowed in its cool rays, and the forest appeared engulfed in flames of dying vegetation. Thin branches shuddered as the whistling breeze swept through the woods. Lake Bozepokoj's waters lapped against rocky shores, defending its depths against the oncoming winter frost that crept in each morning.

As herders emerged from their tents, breath puffing in crisp clouds before their grizzled faces, cattle lounged and slept in a tight pack in the rocky wolow pass that arched high above the forest basin into lands beyond. The men tied their camping bundles to packmules before whistling for the hounds to rouse the cattle and guide them down into the trees toward the lake. A peaceful morning, the threat of oncoming winter slowly forgotten as the sun breached the trees each waking moment, casting light into an illustrious wood.

It woke as it did each day from its slumber deep in the cavern depths. Sunlight had not yet peeked into its forested glen, but the shimmering waters cascading around it whispered of morning.

The skull lifted from its patch of grass, eyes hollow and void of life. Then the body emerged from its jaw like pooling blood dribbling across stone, melting and bubbling into a great creature of fur and flesh. It stepped forward, inky darkness trailing behind it. Two thin, bat-like wings sprouted from its sides, but folded as clawed paws and thick hooves lurched over the ground with each step. Its breath, raspy through the skulls fangs, echoed in the caves beneath the lake.

Its bony visage peered upward, to the hole that led toward the sky. It could feel it, even from it's safe home: death. He felt the prickling of grass that screamed and wailed underfoot, in the mouth's of animals, relenting its life to the cold. Each leaf that fell from the branch cried, piercing its ears. The forest creatures, from rabbit to bear, wailing in a sickening song that burned its hollow ears.

In a home, it felt the spattering of brain on wood as a man killed another man for sleeping with his woman. Farther along, an arrow soared through the air before striking a hare that could barely squeak its pain as it perished.

It felt each pain. Stabs to the skin, grating against flesh and muscle and bone, ringing in its ears - oh, it knew the pain of death all too well.

How it longed to wail, too.

In a croaking gasp, the creature tilted its head upward... and screamed.

The howl tore through the morning air. All the forest fell silent to the ear-piercing shriek. Shepherds with their flocks and herders with their packs froze, hands to spears, searching the trees for it - for the skull, for the sign, for doom.

Deep in the cavern, its body twisted, cracking and snapping beneath the oozy blackness of its form. Black blood, thicker than the blackest inks, splattered across the cavern floor as a hand twisted out of its figure. The hand grasped the darkness and pulled, and the creature fell in a spasm on the ground. Twitching like a deer succumbing to the wracking pains of wasting, it came apart, tearing itself to pieces in screams and moans of torment.

The arm grasped the skull and pulled. A shoulder emerged from the darkness, then a torso. A human body, a man, emerged from the bestial mess and gore, skin stained with grime and blood and soot. Naked, the man stood on wobbling feet, then tore flesh from the beast, wrapping his nude figure in its wet, pungent carcass.

As he donned the decrepit skull, the flesh conformed to his, wrapping him in what became black cloaks and furs. Hollow, black eyes peered out of the skull's sockets, and a tangling, writhing mass of hair burst out of the back of the skull like a wild mane.

The man stepped forward, away from the creature that birthed him. He sucked in a breath and looked toward the sky as the sun broke out, casting light across his face as it welcomed him to morning.

[crowwritesaway]

Ivar the Boneless Loyal Friend, Raven VI

“You’re telling me she still sees him.” Raven scoffed, walking beside Sebastian. “Yes. She goes every night.” He said, turning to glance at her. “Well, it seems like I need to pay him a visit.”

He nodded. “Arrange a meeting. That’s be all for now.” She said, dismissing him. “Of course.” He replied, walking off.

She sighed. She has to break it off with Ivar. Or I have to get rid of that plaything. Hmmm, clearly I can’t let her decide. For someone who’s next in line for the throne. We’re doomed. She rubbed her forehead.

“And what is my woman doing here?” Hvitserk asked, hugging her from behind. “Taking care of a problem.” You leaned against his back.

“I missed you.” He whispered softly. You smiled, there was nothing more that brought you peace than being in his arms. “I missed you too.”

“Is everything okay? You seemed troubled.” Hvitserk insisted, he hated seeing you like this. He wanted to know to see if he could help you.

“Just something that needs to get fixed.” Hvitserk raised a brow. You were hiding something. Ivar was right. Lately, you had been acting strange. What could it be?

“My love.” You turned around and put your hand on his cheek. He looked down at you, smiling he answered, “Yes.” “I know I have not been myself but I promise. I will be better by tomorrow.” He hummed. He adored you. Trusted you. He laid his forehead against yours. Licking his lips, his dark eyes stared back at your grey eyes. “Are you done for today?” He gripped onto your love handles. You breathlessly replied, “No.” You cursed your duty in your mind. “That’s too bad.” Your back arched. “Hmmm.” You bit your lip. “What have I said about biting my precious lips?” He mockingly asked you. “Not to.” You mischievously replied. “Exactly. Only I can.”

“My heart.” He reluctantly pulled away. “My love.” You said, sighing. I’m lying to him. I’m lying to Ivar. “I’m always with you.” “Forever and ever.” You said finishing his sentence.

“I trust you will be done with whatever is tormenting you.” You nodded. “However, if by tomorrow, I see you frown. I’ll have to know.” He swore. You bit the inside of your cheek. He wasn’t playing around. You knew that. “It’ll be done.” He pulled you towards him by your waist. “I have to go.” You mumbled, leaving your head on his chest. “I know. Before I go, look up.” You furrowed your eyebrows. What?

You looked up. Hvitserk leaned down and pulled you into a heated kiss. You instinctively closed your eyes and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. He groaned into the kiss. He gripped your love handles as he guided you back into a tree. “W-wait.” You tried to say. He hinted at you to wrapped your legs around him by tapping you on your left thigh. You shook your head. I need to think. I need to go solve the. The…what was I going to do?

Hvitserk have you a kiss on your neck before taking a step back. You leaned back on the tree. You chest was moving up and down. He looked at you with lustful eyes. “I love you.” He said, smiling. You stared back at him. He waited. “I love you too.” You smiled softly at him.

You managed get a hold of yourself. “Let’s head back.” Hvitserk gestured for you to walk beside him. “Mmmhmm…” You walked over to him.

You both made it out the forest. “I’ll see you around, my heart.” He kissed you and walked off.

You glanced around. “Esperanza. Where is she?” You thought to yourself. You walked over to a maid that belonged to Esperanza. “Esta Esperanza en su habitación. Is Esperanza in her room?” You whispered to the maid. “Si.” She shakily whispered back.

You nodded, made you way to Esperanza’s room. You sneakily entered the house. You didn’t want anyone to notice you and report your presence. Although you had a feeling that Ivar would connect the dots sooner or alter.

You walked into her room. “Esperanza.” She was brushing her hair. She was startled by your presence. She moved to get up. “Don’t. Sit down.” You locked the door.

“Have you ended it?” You said, motioning the unsaid word with your hands.

“Uhh, y-yeah. It’s done.” She said, looking unsure. You leaned forward, saying, “Really.”

You coldly laughed. “That’s not what I’ve been told.” “I-I…are you going to believe a stranger over me.” She said, putting a hand over chest. Yes, I would. Sebastian is devoted to me.

“I’m not joking. You, him, and me are going to have a little chat.” “No!” She angrily refused. “That or I’ll deal with it.” She pursued her lips. She’ll probably kill him. “Fine.” She had no choice.

“Great. I’m glad we came to an understanding.” You clapped your hands. “Set up the arrangement for tonight. At your usual place.” You turned the knob and exited her room. Behind you left a fuming Esperanza.

You bumped into someone as you attempted to leave the house unnoticed. You glance down. Margrethe. She dropped the clothes from the fall.

“Oh, here. Let me help.” You bend down and quickly picked up the clothes. Margrethe was blushing. She couldn’t tell you to stop. It would be offensive. “Here. Sorry about the clothes.” You apologized, you were too lost in your thoughts.

“What are you doing?” You heard Ivar say. “Correcting my mistake.” You replied, looking over your shoulder. Ivar was standing there glaring at Margrethe. He was using his crutches. “Leave.” He ordered Margrethe. Margrethe nodded, leaving quickly before anything bad would happen.

“I thought you would be outside.” Ivar told you. “Oh yeah. I was on my way.” He frowned. At this time, you would be with your men. Ordering them to train. And preparing for that attack you had told him about.

“What where you doing?” He asked, staring at you. “I was taking a nap.” He tilted his head. A nap. Since when do you take naps.

“I was tired. I know it sound weird but I-I had a headache.” You rubbed your head to sound convincing. Ivar nodded. He understood. You were lying to him. He knew you too well. He did ask Hvitserk to see what you were hiding but apparently he needed to do it himself. “Are you better?” Ivar pretended to be concerned. “Yeah, all better. I gotta go.” Ivar nodded. “Yeah. Go ahead.” He said, trying to read you.

“Okay. Bye.” You hurriedly walked away. Shit. Fuck. A nap. Seriously.

Ivar narrowed his eyes. He watched you leave. I need to figure this out before I lose my mind. I’ll join her later. And if I have to, I’ll follow her.

Stay around for more of Ivar the Boneless Loyal Friend, Raven

If you enjoyed reading, consider supporting 👇

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

"I have quoted my own version of a William Blake line for so long now that I like to think it’s mine: We are here to learn to endure the beams of love. I have lived by these words for nearly fifty years, ever since I first read the quote. It is the sentence I want my family to remember when I am gone. (Also, I hope they forget that someone else said it and that I get the credit.)

This is a radical idea, absolutely contrary to everything I was raised to believe. I was taught to strive, to feel ashamed, to keep the family secrets, to believe I was better than, yet always in danger of lagging behind. I was taught to judge and surpass and above all to showcase a shiny surface of confidence, individualism, and self‐sufficiency. We were not a playful family; we were amused. I was taught to observe other people’s mediocrity and general ruin, and to make quiet and arch comments about it. What Blake is saying is that none of those things are who I am or why I am here. But without them, who on earth am I? Still a student? Aging, set in her ways—moi?

And to bear the beams of love: What a nightmare. No thanks. The cold vibrating spaces inside us protect us and keep us on our toes. Love breaks your heart and love makes you soft. It gets in past your Brooks Brothers armor and makes your skin as permeable as the little green tree frog my friend Caroline found in her shower. If you practice en‐ during people’s bewildering love for you, it will change you molecularly: it loosens you, gooses you, warms you. Bearing the beams of love can dislodge ancient sachets of joy, pain, shame, and pride trapped inside you, and make you smell strange and funny, like soup.

So maybe don’t.

You are not stupid. Love can leave bruises on the heart, an oceanic ache. When you give someone your best love, you too are filled with warmth. The world can be so lame, disappointing, and even mean, like an alcoholic father towering over us. But we can’t give up on love batting last or we are truly doomed. As Carl Sagan said, “For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.”

I consulted my six‐year‐old colleague to see if he could amplify his earlier statement that love is, well, you know, this stuff.

“Tell me more, if you can,” I said. “What is love?”

He thought this over a moment. “It’s like, you know—duh.”

[invested-in-your-future]

Imagine thinking fantasy story tropes means that the creators believe in creationism, especially when the god figures are so deeply flawed. That says everything about your intelligence when it comes to media critique.

Never said creators believe in it. I honestly don't think Miles HAS a worldview at all beyond genuinely believing his blond blue eyed OC is great. If he did it would be reflected in his work and the work is just a jumbled mess right now. I guess at most I can believe Miles genuinely believes that racism isn't real somehow.

The trope IS creationist in the way its used though. Like, literally Remnant is a result of intelligent design somehow, which breaks the core themes of the story itself. Literally majority of civilization's greatest achievements or story decisions can be attributed to magic plot device relics. The show literally built up their expy of "technological advancement of civilization" as something that only exists on magic god powers.

"Gods are flawed" isn't a novel concept. Even modern religion sometimes plays into it. The part that matters is that they are. Like this is not some "oh gods did it" plot convenience even, there being gods is an active and crucial part of MilesWBY plot.

"Two Gods Did This" Being at the core of the MilesWBY worldbuilding is an issue in on itself.

There's no sense of personal decisions or complexity of human morality mattering because everything bad ties to Salem's little tantrum and everything good is often because of relics. And everything good is also preordained or "intended" because of magic freaking tree - the "good guys" don't just act upon their beliefs to stop something bad, they are "Sent there with a mission from higher being".

In a piece of fiction that opened with two characters pondering the value of humanity and the ambiguity of human nature and whether it leads to self destruction, humanity surely doesn't matter at all.

In a story that spent three flawed but good volumes setting up the lead cast as someone with flaws and someone who will have to face reality soon, that reality no longer matters or exists.

The more grounded contemporary nature of the setting is broken, the social issues, racism, classism, etc which were at the core of the setting are just not a thing anymore.

The Humanity is not allowed to make bad decisions or self-destruct without Salem and her Magic Flying JRPG Fortress of Doom being involved.

The Humanity is not allowed to have flaws or just do evil things. Racism isn't real (LOL). Persecution, mistakes or war ? Easily solved. Because there's always "the bad guy" and everyone else are the "good guys"

The Lead Good Guys are Unchanging, Infallible constants that are not allowed to develop or make mistakes or change or actually parse their trauma. They exist solely to Stop The Bad Guys because of a grand over-arching scheme of Divine Greater Will in form of....magic freaking tree and talking animals...

[anmarifromearth]

Chapter 1: Beaux-Arts Note: You can read the finished version on Quotev, but for Tumblr, I'd like to upload the chapters one by one.

WC: 4.3K -- Masterlist -- featuring art by @amalthiaph

She leaned in closer, a mischievous gleam in her eyes, "since this house was built long ago, did you know that there were passages in between the walls?"

“I live with my grandmother,” I told the cab driver, who’s too inquisitive to my liking. I dug my nails on the window tint, trying to peel it away, “And she doesn’t want to talk about my parents.” Thinking being too inquisitive isn’t worthy of a broken window tint, I chose to just lay my head on the window and watch the old townhouses pass by. “Maybe I don’t have any.”

The cab driver chuckled, “That’s impossible.” He looked at me through the back mirror, “You can’t just spawn out of nowhere. Maybe you got your eyes from her.”

I sat up, with the wish that he was right. I like to think she has blue eyes, blonde hair, and skin too light that would make Snow White run for her money. I shook my head, that sight was just a dream. I’m talking about that one night I was wrapped in something like a sack or a tablecloth as I walked down the pavement in our neighborhood, the delicious smell of after rain engulfing my senses. I looked up at the hooded figure that held my hand. The orange streetlight only blessed me with a few strands of blonde hair and green medieval dress. And that was the end of the dream.

The cab driver cleared his throat. “We have arrived,” he said, as he entered a beautiful rusty gate and into a path that leads to a forest. It was an alternate of dark oak trees and eerie statues that have seen better days. This is not a good entrance to a prestigious school.

One thing that caught my attention is that old clock tower already visible above the dark oak leaves. It’s much like the Big Ben, if the Big Ben was not a tourist favorite, and is allergic to new paint, and did not bother to have an hour hand.

“Do you like the clock tower?” the cab driver noticed that I had been silently judging it.

“Is it even a clock when it doesn’t have an hour hand?” I clapped back.

He chuckled as he shook his head, “I supposed it isn’t.”

“Do you know what happened to it?” I asked, leaning to the driver’s seat.

“I have no idea, love,” he said. He lifted a hand off of the wheel to point at the end of the road. Maybe I have been too rough, I thought, as we stepped out of the forest of doom and into the yard of an old but magnificent building. The yard has bushes shaped into different shapes lined up along the path walks. There are brick stairs of about seven steps before the covered entrance to Wessman School of Arts.

The building is characterized by its symmetry, making it satisfying to look at. It has arched windows and arched doors so intricately designed. There is somewhat a hierarchy of spaces that made it easy to identify the floor levels—which are the classrooms, the library, and the dormitories without even looking at my student manual.

I jumped out of my seat as the cab driver honked its horn. “That’s 30 bucks,” he said smilingly, watching me close my jaw that I didn’t know has been opened since I saw the manor-turned-school.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled as I shuffled through my wallet for thirty dollars. “The school is beautiful. Was it Beaux-Arts?” He gave me a raised eyebrow. I pointed to the building before us, “It’s raised by a few steps, arched windows, pedimented doors, symmetry and lines?”

His eyes show he was somehow in between clueless and wondering how I knew about all that, but he simply chose to shake his head as he extended his hand for the money, “It’s built in the 1800s. They call it Velvet Manor.”

“Why is it the school named Wessman, then?” I asked as I began putting on my maroon blazer, a small part of our school uniform. 

“I only arrived here in 2003,” he said as he opened the door to his side. “I wish I knew,” I heard him say in a much louder voice as he walked over to my side and swung my door open. “My best guess is that the headmaster is the descendant of the Velvets,” he began as I stepped out of the vehicle, “and is not polite enough to name it after them.” He gently closed the door, “Or at least have the clock fixed.”

A small smile paints my face as I stuffed both hands on the blazer pockets, and looked up at the stupid clock tower. It's not as big as the Big Ben; it has a diameter of more or less two meters. I frown at the glare of the sun and grunted as I held up my wristwatch to check the time. Five minutes before the assembly, I mutter to myself. I pick up my maroon-colored luggage bag I adorned with little stickers and listened to the small tapping of the keychains that creates a subtle background music to my walk up the entrance. If only I knew this had stairs in front, I would have opted for a hand carried bag.  

The keychains jiggle as I pulled the bag up one step, then another, then another. I have not yet gained any distance, when a boy ran past me and knocked me back down. I rolled on the stone pavement, my luggage bag landing on my right leg. Annoyed, I pushed my bag upright but gravity pulled it back down. I let out an even louder grunt, warranting a questioning look from other students as they looked down on me, looking like a wet puppy on the stone floor.

I felt weight off of my right leg as a hand pick up my luggage and set it on the floor. He held out the other over my face, and I wished I didn’t spend so much seconds thinking about what he was doing. I quickly grabbed his hand and mumbled a tiny apology. I took my time dusting off my skirt before I noticed a faint shout from the distance, “CHRISTINA!” I glance around the area. “CHRISTINA!” The woman shouted again. I quickly spun around to check the forest. “CHRISTINA!” there it is again. This time, I searched among the students, and saw, in a small window of bodies, a blonde girl underneath a hood. “Blondie,” it went again.

But that’s not right. It said ‘Christina’ and it was a woman’s voice, this was of a boy. Quick as lightning, I spun around realizing who it was. A tall boy, in full Wessman uniform, stood at the top of the stairs looking down on me, his curly black hair covering most of his forehead. He tapped his fingers at the handle of my luggage bag, which he seemed to have carried up the stairs for me while I’m too busy searching for the eerie voice. “We’re going to be late for the assembly,” he said in his British accent. Wessman School of Arts has students from all across the globe, but still, I think it's absurd to travel this far when there's Oxford. 

I spared one last glance to the forest before running up the stairs to meet him, holding out my hand for my luggage. He gently pushed my hand away, “I’ve got it. There’s three more steps before the main doorway.”

I swat his hands as I reached for my luggage, “You don’t have to.” He pulled his hand farther.

“I insist,” he said as he carried it up the three steps, “I am Isaac, but you can call me Zach.”

“I am Iris, and this is too cliché for a first day in school,” I grabbed my bag. He exhaled in defeat and let it go. He gestured other his hand to our front, and I noted how he wore his leather wristwatch on his right. This means he's left-handed. I nodded as I began to make for the main doorway. 

He looked down on me as we entered the rich wooden door. Half of it has small glass slots allowing people to see through it. “Are you a freshman too?”

“Yes,” I answered in a much louder voice, my voice begins to get drowned by the chatter of the other students in the hallway. I am yet to remind myself to never judge a book by its cover, for however horror-movie-looking Wessman is in the outside, it doesn’t compare to its interior. The ceiling reaches up to seven meters, maybe, made completely out of marble and designed and lined with real gold. The piers are twisted in shape and are lined at least five meters apart. And the cornices, all golden, were carefully detailed and carved. Like many old houses, it has a wainscoting that reaches up to at least two meters from the marble floor, and is made of wood.

“It’s lovely isn’t it?” Zach said, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s been renovated many times so now; it’s a mixture of different architecture styles each room you go to.”

One of the things my grandmother told me is that architecture students either run their hands on the walls or look up at the ceiling the moment they step in, so I already have a hint I’d be seeing more of Zach, whether I like it or not, “You’re majoring in Architecture as well?”

He let out a little chuckle as he turned his gaze back to me, “Yes, and you?”

“The same.”

His hands travelled to the brown leather satchel he carried over his left shoulder, and reached for a black notebook. It is also made of leather, and is engraved with the name Theodore Isaac in silver. I also noticed that he's got a blue canister over his left shoulder. He turned the notebook to my face, “Do we have the same classes?”

I scanned the schedule he held out in front of me. To both my surprise and somehow dismay, I gained myself a new friend. “Yes,” I began as I nod my head, “we do.” He clapped the notebook close, causing a tiny gust of wind to blow on my face.

“To the assembly area then,” he said enthusiastically as he gestured to a pair of wooden doors on our left. I reached out for the doorknob but he quickly swatted my hands away and pushed the door open for me. I granted one last glance to the ceiling up above, carefully noticing the exposed wooden beams, thinking about how it looked like before all the renovations.

To our, surprise, we were met with dead silence; no massive group of people in maroon blazers or chatters loud enough to make your ears ring. It was an empty ballroom.

“That’s not right,” Zach said, his voice creating an echo in the deserted room. “We might have taken a wrong turn.”   

We stand beneath a white ceiling with a six-sided star recessed in the middle. A great golden chandelier hangs in the middle of it. Giant piers stood on either side, its top carved with leaves. It’s Corinthian. On our left is a series of tall windows, illuminating the room in natural golden light. Like most Beaux-Arts, there is a hierarchy of spaces. For this, there is a grand staircase that leads to a huge painting of a family.

The couple was dressed in silk and satin, much like royalties. Between them is a child, perhaps their daughter. She was dressed like her parents. She held a faint smile. She had blonde hair, thin lips, and fair skin. A picture of a blonde girl beneath a hood flashed in my eyes. I was with her in that dream. She was there in the entrance earlier.

I was pulled out of my trance by Zach’s voice. “Maybe they did some last minute change of venue we weren’t aware of,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “It would have reached at least one of us.” I glanced back at the portrait, “Maybe we really just entered the wrong room. We were too busy checking our schedules when we walked.”

He nodded, my point getting through. He kneeled down as he brings out the Staedtler canister that has been hanging on his shoulder. He twisted the lid open and pulled it out with a pop. He pulled out a roll of deliciously smelling old paper. He began to carefully unroll it on the marble floor to reveal a floor plan. At the bottom of the paper, it says, in black ink, ‘Velvet Manor, 1815'. “See,” he pointed to the paper, “This is where we entered from the outside.”  His finger travelled across two parallel lines of which I assume to be the hallway. He traced an upside down L, “This is where we turned.” There was a small box on the left of his finger, indicating there is a room there. His finger travelled further on until he reached the end of the hallway, “This is where we entered.” The pointed to the room labelled ‘The White Room’.

He looked up at me as he began to roll the floor plans. “This is one of the two copies of the school’s plan,” he explains as he carefully places it back on the canister. “My parents got them from an auction.”

I couldn’t make out the last part of Zach’s sentence, as the air gradually fills with noise with every word he spoke. He slowly stood up, frowning and fear-stricken as he looked up around. I did the same. And to our surprise, the room was now filled with students. “Is it just me,” I unknowingly placed a hand on his arm that held the canister, “Wasn’t this place deserted just a few seconds earlier?”

Still shaking, we shared a horror-filled glance. As if our brains connected, we both ran for the door.

“Where are you going? The assembly isn’t done yet,” a boy, darker in skin, chirped in. He was shorter than Zach but about twenty centimeters taller than me.

We both straightened ourselves, finally realizing that we are in the right place; the student assembly.

He raised his eyebrow on us, perhaps noticing how shaky and pale we were, he asked, “What happened to you two?”

“This place,” Zach motioned to the body of students, “was deserted earlier.”

“No,” he began, “We’ve been here the entire time. I’m Charles Clinton Andrews.” He held out his hand.

Zach exhaled, perhaps ridding himself of the terror we felt, and quickly grabbed it and gave it a little shake, “I am Theodore Isaac von Stratmann but if that’s too long for you, you can call me Zach. I am an Architecture major.” He motioned his hand to me, “This is Iris…?”

“Gardner,” I said, trying to regulate my breathing. 

“That’s it?” Zach said. “Iris Gardner? I always assumed Iris is just your nickname.” I shook my head. He turned back to Charles, “This is Iris Elizabeth Gardner. She is also an Architecture major.”

Charles smiled at us, “That is cool because,” he pulled out a tiny paper from his maroon blazer, “I am an Architecture major too.”

The students began to clap their hands as the man atop the staircase, the headmaster I assume, finishes his speech. “Welcome to Wessman School of Arts,” the acoustics of the room allowed his voice to echo all throughout without the help of microphones. Beaux-Arts, I thought. 

“That’s Humbert Wessman Phillips,” Charles explained. “He is the only descendant of the Velvets.” I turned my attention to the portrait behind him. It’s different now. It’s just a portrait of a man, a different one.

“What happened to the original owners?” Zach asked.

Charles tapped his fingers on his chin, “Honestly, I don’t know.” He shrugged, “Heck, no one does.”

“They disappeared?” I chimed in.

“They did,” Charles began to pull us out. “I know what's going to happen next so lower your head, Zach. We're sneaking out.” Carefully, he guided me and Zach through the students, some giving us a questioning look. Charles only ignores them. Finally, we reached the oak door and carefully pulled it open, just wide enough for the three of us to pass through unnoticed. We straightened ourselves as we reach the deserted hallway. Charles began to walk and Zach quickly followed. I listened one last time to the faint sound of the assembly, which was a woman grouping the students for something.

“Where are we going?” I asked, pulling my luggage.

“Anywhere we can hide so we wouldn’t need to listen to the tour,” Charles said.

“Don’t you think we should be there?” I asked.

“Nah,” Charles said, looking at the closed doors along the hallway. “It’ll just be talking about where’s where. As if we can’t figure that out ourselves.”

Zach held out his canister again, “Well, we should hide, or they’ll definitely see us.”

“We could hide here,” I pointed to the door on the left.

“That’s the museum,” Charles said without even looking at me, “And it’s been locked since 2003 after a bunch of students broke in at night.”

Charles stopped at the end of the hallway and pointed his finger to the left. “Let’s hide in the forest.”

“No one wants to go to the forest,” Zach protested as places the canister’s strings over his left shoulder.

“Exactly why we should hide there,” Charles said with a smile.

***

We didn’t walk further into the forest. No one wants to. We decided to settle underneath the oak tree that is closest to the edge. In order to not be noticed, we sat crossed-legged on the side of the trunk that faces away from the school, the only downside is having to stare into the dark series of trees. We used our blazers as cover.

“Why did you want to leave the assembly?” Zach turned to Charles, who was crushing the dry leaves with his fingers.

“I told you,” he began to say without even looking up, “I don’t like the tour.”

“But you haven’t experienced the tour,” Zach pointed out. “Why did you really want to leave the assembly?”

Charles threw the dry leaves he’s been crushing, defeated. He exhaled as he faced Zach, “I don’t like the White Room.”

“Why not?” I asked, placing my right hand over my chin, “I think it’s pretty.”

“Because it’s haunted,” he answered.

And it’s as if Zach and my brains were connected, we both let out a groan in unison. “Are you for real?”

“YES!”

“It’s old,” I protested, “Of course ghosts would live there. You know, given the chance, I’d haunt this school too, it’s beautiful.”

“You know,” Charles slightly got up to reposition himself into a kneel, and faced us, “It’s been haunted even after it’s just new. One of the maids was cleaning the windows one Sunday and she saw two unfamiliar people walk in the White Room.”

“Could be anyone, really,” I rebutted.

“The maid has seen everyone who live in the manor,” Charles answered back, violently throwing more dry leaves, “She was certain it wasn’t anyone she knows. What’s weirder is that, before she could even ask who they are and what they’re doing in White Room, they vanished into thin air.”

Zach opened his mouth to speak, “I must agree, that does raise some questions.” He leaned his back to the trunk, “But I would rather be there than here on our blazers, on damp ground, beneath an oak tree and facing a creepy forest,” he pointed to the forest, dark from the oak tree leaves that prevent the sunlight from passing through.

“This is better,” Charles settled back to sitting position. “Heck, anywhere is better than Velvet Manor.”

***

This is a beautiful room, I thought while staring at the ceiling. The wooden beams are exposed, for aesthetics maybe. The horizontal beams are painted gold and the vertical ones are maroon, and carved on them are patterns; chevron and thread respectively. The walls were finished with dark oak wood from the floor to about the height of the doorway, and the rest to the ceiling were covered with peach wallpaper, gold patterns in it. The moldings on the dark wood oak are very grand. The windows were about three meters high, white curtains hanging onto them. The floor was of rich and shiny cherry; it would be a shame to step on it. The ceiling was finished with wood planks lined and spaced at about a centimeter apart. And there, in the middle of the room hangs a very beautiful bronze and gold chandelier. Its light looks some sort of a flower that's about to open on spring. It gives off an orange lighting to the peach room.

It was all so grand, like the room of a royalty. Well, every room here looks as grand as this one. I twisted in my bed. It was a single, but a bit bigger and more layers than the ordinary. But the sheets were soft I could bury myself in it forever.

"Are you trying to make yourself into a giant burrito?"

I forgot. I have a roommate. I quickly sat up, holding myself up with one elbow. "No," I replied, "I was just thinking this is such a nice room," a hint of amusement in my lips.

Her brown hair scattered around her head as she plopped down on her bed. She has green eyes and tanned skin. I haven't really asked her name. “'Nice' is an understatement,” she said, locking eyes with me. It seems she has better people skills as she held out her right hand, “I’m Charlotte Amelie Meyer.”

I grunted as broke out of the roll of soft blankets I caged myself in, to walk across the room, in my socks. “Iris Gardner,” I said as I shook her soft hand.

“What?” she held herself up on one elbow, “That’s it? No second name?”

I shrugged. 

She nodded her head hesitantly, “Alright, then. It’s very nice to meet you, Iris Nicole Gardner.” She chuckled.

I did a playful roll of my eyes as I laugh. “You’re like my friend Zach. Zach von Stratmann.”

“Isaac?” she jolts up, surprised.

“You know him?”

“You know him?” she asked back. “I’ve known him since kindergarten. We’ve always been classmates but we never talked. Everyone tries to, but he’s too fixated on those floor plans he always kept in that stupid blue Staedtler canister. It was Rotring in middle school.”

I raised an eyebrow, “He’s always had those floor plans?”

“Always,” she answered as she lay back on her bed to stare at the ceiling. “If he’s ever had a sibling, it’s that canister.”

I smiled.

“His parents always wanted him to go here,” her whispers have a tone of sadness in them, “and I’d pay to know why.” She glanced to me, who kneels by her bedside. “Hey, by the way," she leaned in closer, a mischievous gleam in her eyes, "since this house was built long ago, did you know that there were passages in between the walls?" with that, her eyes travelled to the walls, looking as if she'd want to try them. “I like to think his father wants him to learn about the architecture of the manor that’s why he was sent here. His father’s an architect. Did he ever mention that?”

I shrugged my head. “He only ever said his father got the plans from an auction.”

“Yes, and perhaps,” she reached out for the ceiling, “he fell in love with this manor he thought it would be best if he sent his son to see it in real life,” she exhaled.

“How did you know about the passages?”

“They mentioned it in the tour earlier,” Charlotte answered. 

We were thrown out of our shared moment when my phone ticked, multiple times. I got up from Charlotte’s bedside to grab my phone off of my nightstand. I unlocked it to find a floating Messenger icon on the upper right corner of the screen, the small circle divided into three. It’s a group chat of three people, and I don’t need to open it to know the members.

Zach and Charles had already had a long conversation, mostly composed of talks about their rooms with an exchange of photos every now and then. Their rooms were much like ours, just different in wallpaper color. Zach was blue and Charles was of sage. A more notable difference was the fact they were both alone in their rooms. Perhaps they’re smaller than hours, making it not ideal to make them shared room.

CHARLES: Do you want to go out tonight?

ZACH: Yes, where do you plan to go? I saw a café just within walking distance from the gate.

CHARLES: No, not out out. I meant sneak around after curfew and find the ghosts.

ZACH: There are no ghosts.

CHARLES: Oh, come on. I just want to prove there are ghosts and that Velvet Manor should be feared more than that forest of doom.

I blew some raspberries. This seems to have caught Charlotte’s attention, who is now looking at me and not on the ceiling. “My friend thinks the manor is haunted after a maid said she once saw two people she’s unfamiliar with.”

Charlotte smiled as she resumes her moment with the ceiling, “Five dollars and the ghosts are probably just people who travelled to different rooms using the secret wall passages.”

Holy crap. “Charlotte, you are a genius.” With excitement I never had before, I quickly unlocked my phone to type in my message, a series of taps sounded off the room as I did so. 

IRIS: There were no ghosts. The manor has secret wall passages. And it’s these passages that they used which is why the maid didn’t see them arrive nor exit.

I closed my eyes to celebrate my silent victory, phone still in hand. But this little victory didn’t last long when that ticking sound filled the room sooner than I planned.

CHARLES: Hidden passages? Let’s check them out!

***

And that was the first chapter. It's terrible, I know but I wanna share it anyway. Being bad at it is better than not doing it at all.

[esta-elavaris]

Fallen Through Time

Part Ten [2,428 words]

An AU of my completed, 400k+ word fanfic Catch the Wind [AO3], in which Elizabeth, not James, is the one to discover Theodora Byrne after she crash-lands into the world of Pirates of the Caribbean.

Page breaks by cafekitsune.

Also now on AO3 and FF.net.

Masterpost - Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine - *Part Ten* [you're here!]

Tag list [let me know if you want to be added!]: @missfronkensteen @teawithshakespeare @dancerinthestorm

The books gifted to her by Captain Norrington ended up being a blessing in more ways than one. Yes, it was a relief to see that they were finally on good terms, and that she was at least somewhat sure now that she could talk to him without walking into any unknown bear traps set by his suspicious mind (a good thing, too, because her next course of action would’ve been to serenade him with that one Elvis song, and it would’ve never worked). But the books themselves offered her a way of getting out of the house without being doomed to wander and loiter under the scrutiny of every person who happened to pass by.

They still scrutinised, of course, but at least now she was much too absorbed in the words under her nose to notice them. It also meant she wasn’t stuck with the dilemma of whether to return their stare with one arched eyebrow until they became embarrassed and looked away, or to suddenly pretend to find some aspect of the scenery very interesting until they removed their gaze of their own accord. The former solution was a fun little game to play if she was feeling combative, but it wouldn’t win her any friends.

So, on a few mornings a week when Elizabeth was otherwise occupied with the convoluted minutiae that went into being one of Port Royal’s leading ladies, she would slip out after breakfast – a packed lunch of her own making in hand, as well as Norrington’s books. It was as close as she could get to the concept of simple pleasures, seeing as she sorely lacked the ability to go out and buy herself a mocha followed by a trip to a book shop, but it was much closer than she’d have been able to get without Norrington’s help.

For that, she was grateful. She had much to be grateful for, of that she was fully aware – especially since the reality of her situation sank in, and she stopped feeling like she was wandering through a very strange, and alarmingly lucid dream. Luck had played a big factor in her circumstances. After all, she was not begging on the street, as she might’ve been stuck doing if none had found her. She hadn’t been branded a pirate and hanged, as she might’ve been had Norrington found her. Her biggest worry was passing the hours and preparing, mentally, for Jack’s arrival – and that was a rosy prospect when compared with fears of starvation or lack of shelter.

It wasn’t so much that she doubted her ability to get by under duress, but it was nice not to have to. She’d certainly have no time to sit beneath palm trees by the sea reading books in that world – and it proved such a distraction that she didn’t even notice Norrington’s approach until his shadow fell over her.

“Good afternoon, Miss Byrne,” he eyed her like he wasn’t quite sure what he was up to.

Then again, that had long become his habit – and she was quickly growing used to it.

“Hello, Captain. Is it afternoon already? The books were more of a blessing than I could’ve guessed – I’ve been absorbed since morning,” she said.

“I noticed,” he said, his eyes flickering in the direction of where the Interceptor sat in the water a ways off.

“I’m not sitting right in the middle of another notoriously un-sound site, am I?” she asked, bemused by the admission.

“No – not at all, I…”

Then, though, he must’ve realised the implications of what’s he’d said – like he’d been watching her, for he cleared his throat and continued.

“You’ve gotten through it remarkably quickly,” he nodded to the copy of Meditations, now sitting amidst her many skirts.

Realising she was probably being rude, she made to rise but he stopped her with a gesture, considered her for a moment, and then slowly – reluctantly – lowered himself down to sit beside her. “Even for one who can read.”

He made the joke watching her closely, like he was half-worried she wouldn’t find it funny at all. But she did, not least because it surprised her, and she breathed a laugh.

“I’ll probably read it a few times before I return it to you. Just to save me treating your house like a library I’m not actually banned from. I have to ask, though, am I robbing you of your lunch break again?”

“I seldom take it. Not to eat, in any case – I find it slows me down,” he denied. “Although I see you brought yours with you.”

“I won’t be the idiot who tries to explain the importance of good nutrition to a military man,” she snorted, glancing in the direction of the half of the sandwich she had not yet touched. “Did you like the one I made you? I didn’t know if it was weird of me, but I wanted to do…something, and my resources are limited. Seemed to defeat the point if I was just having the Swanns do something in my name.”

“It was confusing – the dish, not the gesture. That was unusual, perhaps, but the sentiment was appreciated all the same.”

“It’s quite clever actually,” she replied. “The bread lets you eat without your hands ending up covered in food – so you can eat while you work. Or read, in my case. So I won’t be returning your books with greasy little fingerprints all over them. A good on-the-go meal.”

Although side-stepping the name – just in case the Earl of Sandwich was a good friend of the Swanns – felt a little awkward. As she explained it, though, an odd sort of change overcame Norrington’s face, and then he cleared his throat and made a noise that was caught somewhere between a laugh and a cough.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“That…makes more sense.”

“Makes more sense than what?”

“It’s no matter,” he shook his head.

But Theo was like a dog with a bone by that point.

“Don’t tell me you deconstructed it.”

His lips thinned, and she had to remind herself that this was not the sort of man that she could joke around with like that. Groves, maybe, but not Norrington. Then, however, he surprised her by sighing and admitting drily.

“I’m unused to meals that are supposed to come with a set of instructions. A product of my time at sea, no doubt, where dining is altogether simpler.”

Theo laughed, mostly because of his surprising willingness to talk nonsense with her.

“That’s not true – I’ve seen the amount of lobster and crab served around here. That’s an obstacle course disguised as a meal.”

He smirked, bowing his head as he did so as if to hide his mirth. But it shone through in his words.

“Dangerous words, Miss Byrne. They’ll see you uninvited from every dinner party in the port.”

“Do me a favour and repeat the story, then. Loudly and for all to hear,” Theo grinned, a twinkle in her eye.

Although with that said, she feared the topic was steering towards the less than fun time she’d had of it among Port Royal’s best and brightest, so she picked up the half of the sandwich she had not yet touched.

“Here. My eyes were bigger than my stomach. Have it, or it’ll go to waste.”

“I could not rob you of yours.”

“I’m not hungry – and considering how you thought the last one was supposed to be eaten, I’m amazed it wasn’t taken as an act of Irish aggression.”

He sighed, and then eyed it. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Relenting – much to her surprise – he took up the sandwich from the cloth she’d wrapped it in, eyed it, and then took a bite. Theo picked up her book and opened it at the page she’d marked, pretending to read it more than actually eating it. Nobody liked to be creeped on while they ate.

“I’ll admit, Miss Byrne, that I am glad I relented and gave it a second chance,” he said after a few minutes.

She looked up with a little smile, finding a chunk of it gone as he considered the rest. When she next glanced to the Interceptor, she found a few of his men by the nearest rail, turning their gaze in their direction every now and then. Looking back to Norrington, she expected him to make an excuse to quickly leave, but instead he appeared unimpressed at worst, and then spoke again.

“What passage are you at?”

“What? Oh- erm,” she picked the book up, suddenly feeling just the slightest bit nervous as she opened it.

So much had been made of her ability to read, it would be embarrassing now if she arsed up the words and proved herself to actually be illiterate, wouldn’t it?

“If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment,” she read.

At first he was silent, and she wondered if he was just busy eating, but when she next looked at him the sandwich was still in hand, and he was hesitating rather than chewing.

“Do you disagree?” she asked – although she didn’t think he did.

“No,” he admitted readily enough. “But it seems a poor consolation in your current circumstance.”

“Not at all,” she said, and then faltered.

Not because she didn’t know what to say, but because there was a lot that she could say on that score. Her earlier thoughts on how lucky she’d been, on how much worse everything could be. And then there were the constant reminders she firmly gave herself over and over – that her wits had gotten her this far, not only in Port Royal, but in life. What point was there in not trusting them now? When she needed them most? As she dithered, he finished the sandwich, apparently content not to rush her.

“I’ve been lucky,” she settled for. “The only distress that I’ll find here is that which I’ll unleash upon myself – if I decide to be all…fatalistic about everything. Speaking of, actually, there’s another bit here. Accept the things to which fate binds you, but do so with all your heart.”

There was a bit in the middle that she’d carefully omitted – and love the people with whom fate brings you to. The last thing she needed to do was read that out and have him think she was out here husband-hunting, of all things.

“It hasn’t been a difficult thing to accept. Compared to the other, more likely scenarios that could’ve played out. Drowning, becoming shark food…washing up elsewhere.”

“The latter is markedly less disastrous than the previous two.”

“I washed up into the lap of kind folk,” she snorted. “That’s rare. I really beat the odds. I’ll tell you what, though, I’ll never take up gambling in my life – I think I’ve used up all my luck for life since coming here.”

“I shan’t argue with the logic if the end result is wise,” he said drily. “But on that note, I must take my leave. And thank you once again for feeding me.”

“You provide the food for thought,” she brandished the book. “It’s the least I can do.”

He snorted as he stood and bowed his head in farewell – regarding her strangely, albeit with another one of those reluctant chuckles, when she saluted him in parting.

As James went about his duties for the rest of the day, Miss Byrne was never far from his mind. Even if he’d found her intolerable, he would have still gone to speak to her – for he saw no other course of action. If Miss Swann was right, and he was beginning to suspect her way of thinking was much more on the mark than his original line of thought, then Port Royal’s newest resident, then he knew that Miss Byrne would only confide in him (as a role of authority here) if she saw that he truly was amicable. When he wished to be. Sometimes.

Admittedly, none could ever accuse him of being personable, but he was at least fair. He could be turned to in a matter such as this, to handle it with whatever delicacy was required. There were no delusions in his mind that they would become great friends, nor that she would more readily confide in him over Elizabeth thanks to something such as friendship, but she had to see that he was a trusted figure - one that would protect the good folk here. And it was looking more and more as if she was one of those good folk. Strange, perhaps, but good.

All of this was true, and all of it was sincere. It was just a somewhat surprising after-effect that he did not find her intolerable. Even as he'd been perfectly prepared to go to her and bite his tongue through all manner of inanities, solely in the name of building a rapport that would prove useful later. In fact, the more they spoke, the more he found himself strangely enjoying her company rather than merely tolerating it, or putting on a show of finding it entertaining.

Throughout the rest of the day, he attended to his work aboard the Interceptor, readying it for their next voyage – a short one, merely aimed at maintaining peace and safety on the surrounding waters rather than rooting out any ill-folk. As he did, though, he found himself repeatedly glancing in the direction where she sat beneath her tree, never once looking up from the book.

Towards the end of the day – when a warm, glowing afternoon was beginning to fade to a cool evening – he looked back to that same patch, deciding that if she was still there, then the gentlemanly thing to do would be presenting an offer to walk her back to the mansion, as a matter of safety…and found himself feeling oddly disappointed when she was no longer there. And that ran the risk of becoming rather dangerous indeed.