#he was raised under the beast's sun ::-

[misterradio]

tshirt that says RAISED UNDER THE BEAST'S SUN

[comfortless]

Offering you a prompt because I know you could make it perfect! ( ๑‾̀◡‾́)✨ You know about Minoan Bull Leaping? What about that with a hybrid Köni?

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. König is a man here!!: ears and a tail and a set of horns but that’s it!, fem (afab) reader, nondescript animal death, codependency and a little possessive behavior, reader gets injured, historical inaccuracies, one-sided worship, mentions of violence, reader is a virgin for three seconds, cunnilingus, smut.

word count: 11.5k.

  You’ve practiced this, and still the tension and nervousness bleeds through you, courses like a steady river under skin and curves around bone. The bulls are so much larger than the fallen trees and heavy stones you’ve danced around and over for practice, and the nights spent tempting them with treats had never been enough to prepare. Twigs and jagged edges are nothing in comparison to the horns of very alive and breathing beasts; petting their heads is far simpler than prancing over their horns.

 The bulls wait in the field, grazing, sturdy monoliths amidst a sea of green below the warm light of the sun. It kisses every inch of skin, highlights the determination and giddiness on the faces of others and lines your frown in shadow. Three feral bulls for two men and a woman far more practiced than you; a rugged, adolescent thing with his horns barely poking through waits just for you, misplaced from the herd and huffing indignantly some distance from the rest. 

 You watch the others go, one by one, as they skip and somersault toward their gruffer partners. Your hand rises up the expanse of your robe to brush over the jewels layered along your throat. Their movements are rushing water, fluid and perfect, so elaborate and pretty that you fear even blinking will cause you to miss the most important details. 

 And then they reach their bulls. 

 Some huff, one tilts his head in curiosity. An attempt to gore, perhaps, except… these things are not vicious, only happy creatures. They know the importance of the dance just as you do. When the curious one does accept the grasp of a man’s hands over his horns, you feel yourself beginning to walk, possessed by the need to claim your own bull and perform just as they do. 

 The show that you put on is less graceful, but does not lack heart. A trip on your first somersault that sends you into the grass, righted immediately when you hear your bull huff only paces away. You laugh, coo, and chirp as you approach with more balance. The sparkling jewels dance over your skin just as the others dance over their bulls, leap after leap, and the animals remain calm. 

 Yours is no different. He allows you to graze your fingertips over the soft fur of his back, does not so much as flinch when your press your palms flat over the sides of his face. The horns poking out of his skull are rounded at their tips, not yet properly grown in. You kiss the dip between his eyes and tell him how special this performance must be. To tame a wild animal is something divine in itself, but to tame a bull takes someone truly virtuous. 

 The grass tickles along your calves, the sun feels so warm and lovely against your face. You sigh in contentment as your steps lead you back, arms raised in preparation to jump. The others cheer you on, guide you with their voices as they wait next to their animals. The scent of nectar and pine lulls you to comfort, allows you the courage that you lacked initially; knees bend and arms raise, your eyes locked on the sprouting horns. 

 With your posture immaculate, you take your first leap.

 The sun catches on something tar black and glimmering waiting in the trees just out past the pasture. Two tall horns springing from either side of a head, the stature of a man, just as your fingers curl over the calf before you’s much smaller horns. 

 The heart in your chest ceases its pounding for a moment, and your eyes must have widened the very same as a child’s would when encountering something sweet or shiny to treasure. 

 There’s a man attached to those horns in the tree line. Though you could not make out his face beneath all of the shade and foliage, you were so certain that it must have been a man.

 A man larger than any man in Crete. Impossible and imposing. 

 The tumble that follows this reverie is what breaks away any hope of this being a lovely day. 

 Your concentration was broken the very second that the creature showed itself, and it was far too late to stop even when you were no longer a part of what was occurring between you and your sable-furred calf. The animal senses the not-right about the situation, takes it as a cue to move just as you were lifted over him and sends you sprawled out into the blooming wildflowers. The earth at your back, the sky to your front, and the pain takes its time to trickle in like winter chill and crawl up from your soles to the base of your neck.

 The thin gold of your necklace must have snapped, because one of the jewels lies over your middle now, and several others have been left for dirt and birds to claim in the grass. 

 It’s your bull that comes to worry over you first, his wet nose nudges at your cheek when the scent of blood from broken skin taints the air with iron. It’s just a scrape along your palm, sullied by the peak of a jagged rock lying buried just below the soft soil of the pasture. The blood runs in small streams when you marvel at the wound, held up keeping sun from your eyes. 

 His coarse tongue finds its way to your hair, retrieves the flowers from it as if his stomachs could not wait for the consoling to be done to be fed. In your stupor, you almost want to call the poor thing stupid, but you only tell him that he’s done as well as you hoped. 

 You’ll dance with him again, you promise. 

 The injury takes time to recover from, even with the most patient of healers seated at your bedside. He reminds you that a woman of your standing is something special in herself. Proud, noble, and meant to be wed in the coming months each time he layers salve over the scrapes and the expanse of bruising along your back. Your linens are changed by the slaves of your household, new jewels provided in abundance and placed around your neck as though you even need to look presentable now, bruised and stuck in your bed.

 No one knows what you saw, not really. You aren’t even certain what that vision was. They whisper of madness when you bring it up. The Minotaur remains in the labyrinth, far away from here and bedded down in the dark. Men don’t possess the horns of bulls, and you must have damaged your head too, because no one believes a word you speak about it, about him.

 Your mistake, you learned, was probably what spurred your poor calf to be chosen for sacrifice. A bad omen forfeit, maybe. So young and gentle, and now gone. The soft fur off his ears and the quivering of his nose wouldn’t be felt again, and worse still…What if you were not meant to leap with them at all?

 There is fruit and barley served up onto a plate made of bone as you’re ordered to eat by your healer. People can be crueler than bulls, you think to yourself; you haven’t even got the desire to eat after hearing such a thing. You’re bleeding from the heart when the first bite is forced into your mouth, gut twisting and fingernails digging into soft linen. 

 “I promised…” Your voice is muffled by a particularly fat portion of plum. It goes ignored by the withering old healer that tilts your head back and strokes your jaw with a soft palm to encourage you to swallow.

 “Eat.” 

 And when you don’t, when you spit it back onto the plate, you’re rewarded with another bite and further encouragement as your sobs fill the room. It should be expected, not as hard as bone or as tough as the skin of the fruit when you’re finally offered sweet wine to swallow it down. You shouldn’t be a mess over an animal who served his purpose well and would be heralded as some savior for giving some clumsy woman trust and a chance.

 It’s just that there’s so much more to it, for you. Patches of purple and swelling are much easier to spot than guilt and other turmoils. 

 Your first should have been beautiful, should have left those watching with stars dancing in their irises. You couldn’t even handle a calf, and you feel more pitiful and helpless the longer that you harp on those thoughts. 

 You rest and have dreamless bouts of slumber. You walk alongside the healer, leaning against the old man for support when you find the pain is still very much there, stinging and vile. The people about the city always smile to you, offer you flowers and sweet fruit and ask when you’ll be well enough to dance again. 

 Often, it even soothes the ache that they can’t see well enough. Provides some hope that, yes, you can return to what you’ve always hoped to do, display your grace and strength and find some place in a flowery pasture before the day of your wedding. You’ve heard of women tearing a place that makes them bleed on horseback, how getting the pain over and done with then has made consummation far easier when that day comes for them. Maybe that could happen for you too. 

 You ask to hear the story of the Minotaur more times than should be appropriate from the slaves of your household. Some of them are foreign, not entirely sure of just how it should be told. You find yourself especially fond of one of them who twists her words to make everything seem honey. 

 “…I like to think that he wasn’t alone down there,” she finishes on her second retelling of the night. The first had ended with a separate possibility altogether, one that saddened you to the core. 

 “Do you?”

 “Yes,” she laughs, taking the comb of carved bone to your hair, gently running it through each tangle provided by your pillow from lying in bed for the entire day. “Maybe he had friends or…”

 “A wife?,” you question in amusement. Bulls didn’t take wives, even if they were part man…

 “He is a man. Surely he had a woman,” she laughs again, bright and giddy, and follows it with a shrug.  “You said that you saw him. Maybe it’s a sign.”

 “I didn’t say it was him,” you almost wail in embarrassment. It was true that you had endlessly questioned and pondered for the past few weeks, speculated on what may or may not have been there, beneath the trees when you took your fall. For some odd reason, your fascination with that creature had ignited a flame someplace in your chest, growing ever brighter with each day that passed. “He didn’t have a bull’s head. Only the horns.”

 She plucks at your hair with the comb a little longer in silence before setting it aside and casting you an almost fretful glance. “That sounds scary…”

 “Oh,” you sigh. She’s right, of course. There were plenty of terrible things described with those attributes. But… if bulls didn’t scare you, then surely bullmen could not be any worse. “He didn’t hurt anyone though.” 

 “But you did get hurt,” the girl reminds you sympathetically.

 You swallow dryly, and at last decide to put these fantasies aside. Your injuries were almost healed in full, and the last thing that you needed was for everyone to think that you were not simply wounded, but crazy too. A mad woman wouldn’t find a husband, and you were not a cow meant to be fantasizing over bullmen. The place you were given since birth was that of noble standing, a woman worth her weight in pearls and gold, not meant for fields and horns.

 When morning rises and the yellow-red glow of the sun pokes its way through your window, you find you’re able to stand properly without the old man’s help to keep you upright. 

 You wash your face with the water from the clay pot in the corner, smile to yourself when you dab carmine onto your cheeks and smear it with the palm of your hand to look the part of some blushing dove.

 Your robe is clean and soft when its pulled over you and fastened, delightfully comfortable when there’s no more bruising to irritate. Incense is lit, and you immerse yourself in what is before you rather than in shadow. 

 There’s a clamoring in the street below your window as you finish preparing for the day, both cheers and shouts of fear that stir both confusion and trepidation in your belly. It takes some time before you can coax yourself into taking a peek, find the strength in your trembling legs to look upon what may very well be the final march for a man deemed worthy of execution or perhaps some other misfortune. 

 Everything is painted honey and gold over the chalked clay of the buildings and the smooth stones layered over the streets.

 There are women fleeing, a few cowardly men accompanying them. Children walk backwards or affix themselves to high walls to stare back at what’s being led by soldiers clutching thick lines of woven rope. 

 The thing that follows behind them leaves your heart in your throat, because it… he, is no prisoner or omen.

 The bullman from your endless daydreaming walks with his arms fastened behind him, thick tail flicking in irritation at his backside, soft auburn ears fold back against his head. 

 The face, closer now, intrigues you the most, because as you’ve claimed endlessly: he only looks the part of a man. Some rugged barbarian, for certain, but still he does not bare any resemblance to the Minotaur or any other beast from the tales and songs. Though his nose is crooked, and pale scarring layers in abundance over tanned flesh, he looks almost sweet. There’s a gentleness about him that betrays the strangeness of his silhouette from before.

 And he bleeds crimson like any other man, from a wound dug out in his shoulder where a spear must have pierced him. The blood along his chest has not even had the time to dry. 

 The poor man is bleeding and naked, not a scrap of cloth to conceal him any place, not even where his hair curls above his loins.

 You imagine what the healer and slave girl must think now, when the subject of your endless ramblings is out on display for the entire city. Whether monster or forgotten god, the bullman is here, and in your haze of thought you will yourself to storm out into the street. There are hisses of confusion and fear all filtered and feathering on the air, many voices, but what is worse are the screams. 

 He doesn’t even possess it within him to look afraid, only terribly annoyed or maybe even somber. It was difficult to tell by the lack of expression on his face. His eyes are sad, but his lips are pressed into the barest line. The only indication that he feels anything at all is the swishing of his tail, a tell of anger in bulls. Maybe in men baring their resemblance, too.

 “Where are you taking him?,” you demand, a shrill cry from your doorstep. 

 No answer comes your way from the soldiers at his side. 

 “Please…”

 The words fail you as you find yourself stepping in front of this march. Ten soldiers to keep one man in a hold, it was ridiculous. Though he towered over them and possessed horns sharp enough to gore, to see him like this… It all stirred so much emotion within you that you almost think you must have really injured something in your skull, because the city spins around you and your eyes sting fiercely. 

 Every step halts when you begin to sob right there in the street like a bereaved wife finding out her husband has been tortured or killed in some distant land. Even the bullman seems intrigued by your tears. The quiet blue of his eyes flits from what stands beyond you to your face, puffed and slick with tears. Why cry for a man you do not know?, he seems to ask wordlessly. Why throw yourself out in the midst of danger? 

 “… my bull is dead, so I would like to…” To dance with this one. To see past the abomination of what he was and maybe cherish him in the way he deserved without deserving.

 His ears prick forward, and he huffs something whispering and foreign in his tongue. Just one word that you’re uncertain of the meaning of, probably demeaning considering that you had called him an animal, not man. But he speaks. He speaks and that is enough for the soldiers to exchange cautious glances from the titan they lead to the curious display of the crying woman in front of them.

 “You want to dance with this bull?,” one asks, both amusement and disbelief painting each syllable. 

 You nod your head, weak but fiercely resolute in your wish. 

 Not “this bull”, but perhaps “this god”.

 You’re both stripped bare of any defenses, fates left in the hands of men who only know to kill and fuck. Somehow luck shimmers through, because you’re presented with one of the ropes a soldier carries. It’s offered to you with a stiff, callused hand, dropped unceremoniously into the palm that rises up to wait. 

 You walk beside your bull, not where you would rather lead him but where the other men urge for you to go. People watch on with curious stares, and you know most assuredly that when your healer hears of this new derangement, you will suffer another fortnight in bed with herbs and prayers over your head.

 The bull watches you the entire time with a stare that lacks any emotion. The beast could be grateful, humiliated, or considering ripping you apart the moment his binds were undone and you wouldn’t have the slightest idea of it until he was upon you. What’s stranger still is that you don’t fear him. He looks to you the entire time and your hand clutching the rope does not tremble. Your pulse races, but only with something beyond fear, something an ordinary man has never gifted to you.

 The gated pasture is bears a cool breeze when you enter, you watch as one of the men ties your new bull to a post and tells you that he is wicked, but the only crime he’s being accused of is being what he is. 

 “You’re hurt,” you assess a little dumbly when everyone has paraded away. The grass stains the white linen you wear as you sink to your knees at the titan’s side. 

 You’ve nothing to tend to his wound with. Dirt is smudged into the divide in his flesh with gentle swipes of your thumb, a strip ripped from your robe when you try to stop the bleeding further. He hisses when you fasten it tight, shoots you a glare that both makes stars fall in your eyes and sets a stampede to rush in your heart. Your heart, you think, but really it’s something else. You feel hot all over and it’s the stupidest thing. 

 “I know, I know..,” you mumble as you tie the cloth, straighten yourself out and cover the expanse of your thigh that’s been revealed as you settle back into place. “Can you move it?”

 “Yes.”

 It hardly registers that he’s freed himself somewhat until a massive hand curls tightly around your wrist. The touch is not at all gentle, it’s probing, the tip of each digit leaving small curved indentations in your flesh, intent on keeping you thoroughly in place.

 “Why aren’t you afraid?” His voice comes as an odd grumbling, seemingly unused for some time. It isn’t deep, either, which comes as the most jarring thing about all of this. It’s so pleasant, that even with his iron hold you find yourself smiling as a flurry of affection stirs between your breasts.

 Because I was right, you yearn to say, but hold your tongue for fear of seeming too brazen and less subservient than you should be, catering to a god you’ve never even heard of. Both man and bull, something divine and strikingly handsome even with his soft features. 

 “Should I be? Will you curse me..?,” you ask, softening your grin to glance up at him through your lashes. Demure and flirtatious before you even think to catch yourself. A maiden should be more cautious dealing with ordinary men or things not yet known, but even when your expression reverts to one of mere curiosity, it seems too late. 

 His nostrils flare as he regards you; then, his hand shifts upward to stroke at your bare shoulder, fingertips move to dance over your clavicle. The hand comes to rest beneath your jaw, a thumb carefully brushing over your chin. Then, he withdraws all at once, turns his head with a huff of breath. He doesn’t bellow as the other males in the pasture, does little to seem more cow than man in your presence. Perhaps it’s a practiced courtesy: to appear more human than the additions crowning his head suggest. 

 “Dummes mädchen.” He doesn’t tell you what that means, and his voice canters off to silence when you push and prod to ask.

 He doesn’t budge when you ask where he’s come from, some distant land across the sea you even speculate. You ask him what he is in name, and in turn his ears seem to lower, flatten further, as though he were trying to hide them altogether. There wasn’t much he could do about the horns, though. 

 The bull barely even returns your shy glances, the only indication that he knows and rather likes that you’re still seated at his side is the flare of pink that rises from his throat to settle upon his cheeks, the way his jaw tightens and loosens when you speak. 

 “What is your name?,” you ask him when the silence grows too much. You’re starting to feel beads of sweat prick at your skin from the glow of the summer sun above, and more than anything you want some closeness, some proof that maybe your listless life is not a total loss. Earning a god’s favor would only be too lovely, the perfect cure for the unnamed thing that ails you. “So that I might worship you properly?”

 That prompts a response. 

 He turns to you with a forced stoicism, one that does little to subdue the way his eyes widen and his face burns. Being jabbed at and held captive like an animal would make any man more than a little unhappy or wary, but your words dissolve that into smoke in an instant. He tells you his name in a keening sort of voice, one reserved for wolves or agitated horses.

“König.”

 You repeat it, once, twice.

 It sounds funny and foreign, too simple for what he appears to be. You tell him your own when he doesn’t ask, repeat it just the same so he remembers his only acolyte. Someone so cute for a god of beasts or maybe even good harvests.

 You wanted to pry further, have every secret expelled from his tongue, unite in words and quell that horrid, demanding passion. It’s why men run way to brothels, you supposed. Excitement and the allure of something pretty to stake a claim into… but you’re a maiden rather than some feather-headed soldier.

 “When you’re better, we will dance,” you declare with a hope that he might understand. “My first offering to you.”

 König stirs, rumbles someplace in the expanse of chest. His hair curls there in the widest patch, you note, trails down right to thighs that make brick resemble only soft clay. You’ve never openly ogled a man like this, and it doesn’t feel shameful, not when you’re convinced you already have an understanding here. 

 You couldn’t imagine he would crawl on his knees for you to prance over him like a yearling deer, bellow like a proper animal when you took his horns in hand. The ugly, ivory prongs about his head looked too dangerous anyhow. One slip… you didn’t want to imagine what would happen then. 

 “… Richtig.” Then, “What do I give to you?”

 His question confuses you fully, because the way he speaks it does not seem curious at all. As if there’s already a resolution in the words. No clothing, no weapons, not even a coin. The only thing present and available is what sits between his thighs, a daunting pillar. He asks only for a consent to what he does not bring out in words, only hinted at from the way his gaze drags up from your throat to your eyes.

The strangest mating rite from the strangest man of all…

 You don’t ask him about that.

You let the words hang in the air for a stretch of time. Then, you fetch him some water from the creek just past the field. You untie the binds still shackling him to the fence post as he drinks from the shallow bowl. He laps at it like a dog, furrows his brow a little when you’re caught staring again. 

 There’s too much to look at to entirely separate yourself from him. And he speaks so oddly it’s difficult to distract him with conversation. So you settle to admire, and he does so in turn. When you find yourself watching the way his chest puffs with each intake of breath, his stare only maps you the same, mimicking or appraising.

He grunts, too; flicks an ear when he stares down at your lap and embarrassment immediately floods you when you realize that his senses are not entirely human, either.

 You fold your hands into your lap and part your lips to speak again, to maybe ask him why he came here at all to serve as some distraction from the way he appraised your hips with that dreadful stare.

 “When?,” he interrupts immediately, casting his dish aside and straightening up to look down upon you. Exacting some misplaced wrath, you assume. Let a woman leap over him and maybe have his freedom after. He just wants it over with, and you can’t blame him at all.

 “I told you… when you’re better.” 

 That must not have been the right thing to say, because his injured arm is the one he gathers you with, brings you up and over him to press your chest to his and glare down at you. The glow of the setting sun seems dull by comparison to the ember in his eyes.

 “I am fine.”

 The calendars have been a blur since you fell. You huff and pout in thought, trying to think in spite of the way the closeness has you feeling dumb and dizzy. 

 “A few days..,” comes your answer, quiet and apologetic. “I’m nearly certain.”

 König sighs and you feel it flutter your hair, the warmth on your neck. His arm drifts from around you, as if to signal that you could depart at any moment. Whatever had possessed you now leaves you in place, flustered and miserably infatuated. It pains you that he only seems exasperated by this entire ordeal rather than enthused, but he seems to soften somewhat when you don’t bolt away immediately. The tension leaves his shoulders slowly, and the summer sky of his eyes is placid instead of burning.

 He could strike you down at any moment, leave you gored out here in the grass with common bulls, destroy the fence and maybe all of the people in the city too… but he seems intent on just keeping this silly oath and having you seated here.

 “They caught me when I came to find you,” he says, blunt and careless, as if seeking out a woman he saw once from across a field is just a common thing to do. The very same as worshiping some creature driven out from the forest. “I saw you. Then you fell.” 

 “You were looking for me?” Your words are expressed with shaky intakes of breath, nerves alight with both love and caution. Led toward you by want, a thing you both seemed to feel. 

 He goes utterly stiff at that, but grits his teeth softly as his gaze casts down to where you’re seated in his lap. 

 A chance meeting… or maybe it was something as wonderful as fate after all. 

 You looked the part of lovers already, and perhaps that’s made him shy… but bulls don’t get shy, and König is no exception here, because his hand immediately rises to lift the robe covering you, drifts the linen up to reveal the soft fabric of your loincloth.

 “Yes,” he grunts, staring down at the prize between your legs. A reward he’s already promised to himself, one you freely give when you don’t give him a smack or shove his hands away. 

 He smells of the forest: of wispy pine nettles, water from a spring, juniper. Of a man, whose closeness you had yet to have entirely. No bristling comes; you don’t close yourself off. He’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen— sad cow eyes and the bulk that only comes from a life rich with work and fighting, survival and instinct.

Had he ever even had a woman?, you wonder. Did he find you lovely, too? 

 König huffs appreciatively, lowers his head to your chest to bump his nose against your breasts. You release the breath that was caged unbeknownst to yourself, and your arms come around him naturally, cradle him there. Maybe he had never even been held… So, you pet him, trail your hand along the nape of his neck, up and through the messy strands of hair atop his head. 

 “You are injured too,” he hums into plushness, breath washing over thin fabric and causing your nipples to rise in answer. He must have felt the scab on your palm, healing, but still coarse and stiff. Even in what you perceive must be some sort of courtesy, worrying over your scrape, he doesn’t peel himself away from what entices him most here. His hands descend to stroke at your sides, trail down lower until both palms are fitted against your backside. 

 He squeezes, slow and intentional, weighs your flesh in hand. Explorative and further appreciative when another hiss leaves his lips to filter out along your clothed sternum. If he were not seated on his tail, you imagine it would have swayed fiercely, excited by the earlier fight and now the prospect of breeding some silly woman. You don’t have that indicator to read his thoughts, but the throb of the mighty weapon between his legs is enough to know. It’s warm and hard beneath you, gives a slight jump when your fingers dance over the base of his horns.

 “I got hurt because of you.”

 “Little maiden… I would never hurt you. Only please you,” he declares, sounding prideful. Just as a bull should, even in such a predicament. Like a god, proper and true. Surely this city would be cursed for what they’ve done to him. He will fuck their virgins and leave everything else scorched and ruined. And a part of you is almost giddy to know the very first would be you. 

 You’ve yet to touch men, but you knew well enough what the wetness down there meant, what his erection meant. Why men grope and fondle just as he does to you now, when a hand rises to tug down the top of your thin dress, when his head lifts just enough to lick at the side of your tit.

 The air around you both thrums, pulses as though there are thunder strikes surrounding. And the sky is still clear when your head lolls back to face it in full as a nipple is enveloped by a hungry maw. He suckles at you, pushes his hips upward and strokes at your ass when you whine and pant. The cover of nightfall grants you some mercy, because no one is around to hear those cries or the way he grunts into your flesh, greed pouring from the both of you. No gods or stable hands, only a glassy moon and a blanket of star shine amidst murky sable like sea water. 

 When he lies you back, viciously lapping at your breasts, sucking your skin to grind between his blunt teeth, you take the horns into your hands again to tug him close. He groans, bellows like a man starved into your chest, drool and bruises layered over your skin. You should be in bed, waiting for some droning dullard to wed you first… not allowing a beast of a man to lower you into grass and dine upon you like this. 

 The gods would probably find this humorous… even if he might very well be one of them. How easily mortals could be swayed, even virtuous women, at the appeal of some miserable thing to save with an ugly, big cock. 

 But one or two bullmen was more than enough for this world, surely. No spawn of yours would be sent to a labyrinth deep below the earth, dark and desolate, and you’ve already bled this moon…

 It pains you to push back against the face that sends pure fire through your belly with each swipe of his tongue, but you do. König seems both dumbfounded and frustrated when he separates from your flesh, the moon in his eyes eclipsed in full. 

 “I can’t..,” you try to explain, to tell without telling that you don’t want to push some horned infant from your cunt just because you like him a little. You wet your lips and stare up at him, hopeless and lost here. 

 “Why?” Your bull doesn’t understand, because of course he doesn’t. He’s trying to give you the only thing that he has to offer. Maybe he’s fucked other women before, women who took him gleefully and sang pretty beneath him, coated that raging thing between his muscular thighs in their essence and left lovely pictures in his memory. You don’t know why that thought alone is enough to make your head feel cloudy with wrath. 

 He asks again when you tug your bottom lip between your teeth. Bulls may be sacred, but no one’s ever said that they were not stupid. 

 König only pulls away enough to hover over your sex instead, panting gruffly like something starved and prepared to plunder an unsuspecting hen. Still, he waits for an answer, and you don’t think to spare yourself enough to close your parted thighs. 

 “I thought we would… after we danced,” you try, and maybe that would have worked if you didn’t have your softness and every treasure laid bare to him like a submissive vixen. 

 The beast only shakes his head and raises your legs to rest over each of his bare shoulders, corded in muscle and heat. He doesn’t nick you with his horns, careful even as he pushes his face right to your womanhood. The loincloth remains in place, but it’s the most fragile barrier. His breath makes your toes curl as it hits your sex, sends a wave of pure want swooping from your chest right to your cunt. 

 “You smell..,” he muses quietly, trails off as though drunk on just a whiff of you. When a thick finger tugs the cloth aside, you squirm from panting breath arcing over sensitive flesh. It’s the wettest you’ve ever been: little fantasies did nothing by comparison to the real thing, presented right before you and inspecting you down there. 

 He flattens his tongue over your entrance and relishes in the way that makes you squeal, draws back just to repeat the motion and watch you with pupils blown when your chest begins to rise and fall rapidly. 

 “You have not been touched.” His ears flick as he speaks, gaze dragging down, back to the pussy that calls for him. 

 “No… that’s why- ah-“ 

 The ideas of children and expectations are long forgotten when his tongue presses to a spot that sends you shivering. It circles over it, too warm and heavy to bear. Your back arches, breasts heave, and he laughs into your cunt knowing he’s found the very spot that would make you forsake all but him. 

 The torture grows delicious and lovely, what he had done to your breasts is exactly what he does there. He suckles at the bud, scrawls his name over it with a wet, lapping tongue. You feel as though you truly have gone mad, fingers curling into the earth to keep you in place, because not even the gods could tear you away from this moment, not now…

 It’s when your trembling thighs begin to tense and your voice grows further pitched that König decides to probe at you with a finger, too. It slips in with resistance, and the intrusion is strange… both horrible and ethereal at once. The titan finds a space inside of you, one to curl his finger against. It’s clumsy, uncertain until he finds that that is what makes you cry the loudest. 

 There’s a blinding white as though the sun has seared its way into your skull, sent the rays of its warmth into your very veins. It brings about a haze, leaves you quivering and panting as bliss rolls over you in steady waves. He gives you another lick, from your slit down to your ass before sitting up. Not an ounce of hesitation is weighed in his stare or his actions when he brushes the thick cockhead through your labia. 

 “I am going to fuck you,” he declares in a groan, already feeding you a fat inch of him. There’s still lingering resistance, but the honey that drips there now is in abundance, coats him with each shallow thrust. 

 You choke on the pain of such a sudden stretch, but find yourself only leaking more at the sight of him: a god laying claim to some mortal girl, you, above you, in you. The sounds he makes only ripen the elation. There’s desperation in each grunt, and his eyelids flutter as though he’s found something truly holy. 

 He drops over you, an arm to either side of your head when he sinks in fully. As if to dull the ache of your womanhood, at the loss of your title of maiden, he licks your cheek, the corner of your mouth, any place to soothe. When you capture him in a real kiss, your taste still lingers there upon his lips.

 He seems even more delighted that you would show him affection than what’s occurring between you. The press of his hips comes to a halt, because he savors that display of what is or isn’t love. It’s almost shy, the way his mouth molds over yours, the way a hand drifts to your hair to pet at you. The other lowers to take your thigh and draw it up and keep you pinned in place. 

 You think to hold him now, too, when he breaks away from the kiss to gaze down at you with a shimmering stare, one that speaks more substance than anything he’s given you in your entire conversation. Your nails stay bedded down with the dirt, though, knowing with a fierce certainty that once he moved again it would be the only tether to dull the ache of a vicious fucking. 

 Except, he’s only gentle. 

 The cock inside of you takes a slow drag out, teasing and tentative as though trying to memorize every ridge inside.

It’s agony, because it feels like lovemaking.

Beasts don’t make love, they only have violent ruts and part ways entirely. König fucks like a man devoted. His eyes never stray from your face when he pushes back inside, all too careful. It must feel better than the being amongst his kind in the mountain he descended from, because the sounds he makes are fragile, barely contained whines that seem foreign from a man of his stature. 

 “I have been… watching you for so long, little..,” he huffs, burying his hand into your hair and dropping his head to press his forehead to your own. The words barely register, hardly make sense when the thick tip of him pushes right into the softest part of you again. It’s better than a finger… better than anything you’ve ever felt, and with everything so doughy and hot what you want to say only comes in a keening whine.

 “Gods,” he continues when your sounds are smothered and blanketed by the filthy, sloppy sounds of your own wetness. You must be soaking the very earth you lie upon, dewy and warm. “Better than I dreamed.”

 The slowness paves way for a heady, brutal thrust when he realizes that he isn’t hurting you. It only feels better the more that he moves, with each thick vein along his cock felt, with how he repeatedly spears against that spot that brings tears of rapture to the corners of your eyes. That new pace does not relent. You squeeze him the most like this, savoring in how he carves his way inside, molds you to take shape for him in what looks like pure violence but feels like love. 

The sounds of impact and the scent of sweat and arousal surround you, the moon above and everything beneath it seem of so little importance now.

 König does not silence himself even though you wished that he would. He pants against your face in his mother tongue, babbling endlessly as pleasure spikes for him. It wouldn’t be long until he filled you to the brim with thick spurts of seed, you could feel it in the way he throbbed against your walls, how each thrust was more prolonged and deep. Your mind swims, pleasure so intense its as if you’re drowning in the deepest depths of the sea itself. 

 “I came from the valley..,” he tells you in a feverish whisper, only now recalling that you didn’t know a thing about him before offering your cunt, maybe even your heart…

 “Not a god… not anyone…” 

 It’s too much when his hips press in faster, when his cock reaches the end of you, over and over in frenzied repetition. Overwhelmed and stuffed to capacity, you sob and quiver, taking him into your arms and clawing at his broad back. The pain only seems to make him more feral, because his hands leave your thigh and your hair to grasp at your face instead, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he bares his teeth and spears into you relentlessly. 

 “Little one… I want this for the rest of my life,” he growls. “Promise me…”

 The words sit on your tongue, fully prepared to surrender yourself to some beast of a faraway valley, chased and poked with spears or fire… Any hope of a cozy life would be forfeit here, already has been the moment you allowed him between your legs. It’s a horrible secret, one surely only Pasiphaë must have known of… how wonderful it felt to be bedded by a man like this. Not old enough to have fathered the Minotaur, but surely bred to be something akin to him. 

“…I promise,” you whisper, perhaps desperate for this torturous copulation to end… or continue. Feeling so whole, full, right. Your offering is beating warm and overflowing in your chest, and König only looks as though he’s about to break at your words. The blue of his eyes grows glassy, translucent waves painting over each iris, but those tears don’t shed. They’re only dismissed with more needy rasps.

 He growls, hooks his teeth into the sensitive flesh of your throat when his strokes begin to stutter. Your bull comes with a muffled howl, pumps pearly ropes of seed as deeply into you as he can manage. Your hiss of surprise is stifled with a blazing kiss where he moans into your open mouth, delves his tongue as deeply as his cock. He pumps several more times, intent on spilling every last drop inside, none wasted.

 It seeps to earth when he parts from you, when he inspects the milk and honey of successful union between your legs. He looks surprised, confused almost when that stare is guided back up towards you as his chest continues to rise and fall swift with exertion.

You raise yourself up on your elbows, draw your legs shut. Not in shame, but… apparent embarrassment, your former courage is diminished when he looks at you as though you’re the most peculiar thing beneath the stars, when you’ve revealed yourself almost entirely and had him fuck and take apart all of it. 

 Maybe it’s the same for this beast, because his surprise and unshed tears are so evident here. He no longer looks the part of a god, but a lost man.

Not anyone, he had said. Is that what he felt? Or only what he had been told..?

 “You’re not a monster,” you whisper. The chill of night settles over your skin, but there’s still warmth here, blooming like a flower in volcanic soil; the sun itself was incomparable to this peculiar thing that had taken root here. 

 He snorts at that and shakes his head. The ears there are cute and pluming with fluff, a reddish brown that suits him so remarkably. He’s kissed by the sun, even bathed in moonlight here. The prettiest of monsters, if he’s fooled himself into believing he is one. 

 “You should not have given yourself to me,” he tells you as his eyes narrow. The threat holds no weight, if it were one at all, because he grasps at you and pulls you in close; brings your cheek to his chest, right over his pounding heart. “I will not leave you alone.” 

 “Good.”

 Maybe he’s speaking through the haze of a good fuck after being the cause for screams or raised weapons for so long, but you pray it comes from a truth. You’ve offered him a full meal of you, a treasure that none other has had, left yourself weak and aching all for one. His grip only tightens around you, refusing to let go as if to confirm your belief.

 You’re brought back to the earth with your bull curled at your back, two powerful arms snaked around your middle with his nose pressed into your hair. 

 “After your dance, you will come with me.” There’s no longer a request, only an order. You’ve accepted him as both your man and mate, and it seems to please him greatly. His chest puffs against you, pride and contentment harbored there. 

 “To where?,” you ask him dreamily. The sea is what you’ve seen the most of, and the foothills and mountains seem a distant place. You imagine that maybe where he’s arrived from must have had others like him, maybe the women there were what he had had before… And maybe that makes you more precious somehow, different and coveted because you hadn’t run, only charmed him with questionable nursing and a request to prance over his back. 

 “Everywhere,” he answers immediately, stroking at the dip between your breasts. “I will never let you go.”

— — —

You’re separated from your bull come morning. It’s heart wrenching and terrible after a night of such passion, but you couldn’t allow for anyone to see you out there with your clothes in disarray and sperm slick and running down your legs. You had waited for him to sleep, for his dreaming to give way to raucous snoring before you slipped away, casting him a woeful glance. The giggling on the way from the pasture would have been terribly humiliating had anyone been awake to hear, but you were fortunate last night.

Come morning, there’s a pain between your legs and traces of blood in your loincloth. You hastily cast that from your body, hide it beneath your mattress before crawling back into bed with your thoughts a whirl. Candied fruit and precious stone, everything sap sticky and sad all the same… because as much as you would like to venture there, to see him, it was most rational to keep away.

If you were caught, you could only imagine the trial or lack thereof. The spears that would have come then wouldn’t miss their target. He would be deemed something far worse than a monster for daring to touch a lady such as yourself.

You bide your time tending to your duties and praying that your loss of virginity isn’t as apparent as it feels to you; when the thoughts drift back, the warmth upon your face only grows and your thighs immediately press together.

And you ponder his offer of leaving the temples and people behind to haunt someplace else with him, away from all else.

It's mad.

You barely knew him, of even what he was. He didn’t even have the sense to keep secret that he had been stalking you for some time, before you ever even noticed, with his fat cock buried inside of you. His ways of courtship lacked any shame, and maybe that’s why the passing thought of a normal man being in your future seems only lackluster. König could hunt, build, provide far better, you assumed, given his stature… And the gods gave him the knowledge of the most tempting tricks with his tongue.

The days leading up to what would call you back to him pass in a tortuous crawl. Even distracting yourself with thoughts of him in lonely silence with a hand between your thighs seems too little. You’ve even asked every slave woman here just how she gets the thoughts of men out of their heads. The advice is merely that sex does not always lead to marriage and children; they part ways like the animals in the forest and leave little room for love in their dens.

You hoped that he was thinking of you, too.

It would be ridiculous to say you’ve missed him, but seeing him in that field bound by rope again once you return is exactly what you want to shout. The birds call from the trees, singing beautifully and everything seems to glow, all except for König.

There are shadows beneath his eyes, cast long and dark from a lack of sleep. He does not even look your way when you take your place next to the others.

He’s forlorn. Maybe even pissed at having been gifted a warm meal only to have his face tugged away and a rope secured to hold him back from tasting or touching again. You should have warned him, about customs and etiquette, reassured him with your words that a little distance was fine because you’ve already made up your mind… but it seems too little and too late to peep your objections now.

The beast is led toward the other bulls by a man half his size, looking as though he’s on the brink of soiling himself from fear. The screams from before are not present now from onlookers, but König seems far less comfortable here than he did in the streets of your city.

Flowers are brought and tossed to both the hooves of bulls and the feet of dancers, yet none are presented to your partner at all. Even with green springing up below his feet, the area he waits in seems barren by comparison. It’s miserable and sad, all of it, and you once more long for being so winded against him that you two seemed to be the only things alive beneath a night sky.

You call to him when the man holding his lead gives it a sharp tug, and it’s dropped instantly as if you really hold some power over what becomes of him… You only hoped that whatever fate lay in wait for him would be coupled with your own. A passive life in a cave or something like that, where you could call him your husband, even… watch the sweat drip down the muscles of his back as he coaxed a fire to life.

Your bull tilts his head towards you, and though he tries to force the very same indifference from before his inner thoughts betray him. His brow remains furrowed, his expression grim, but his ears perk up and he immediately marches toward you. His gait is more of a charge, and had those horns been pointed to you, peril would await.

Punishment only comes in the form of a large man staring at you as though you’ve just wounded him terribly. You remind him there are no blades here with the gentlest touch of your hand along his bicep, swept down to curl at his wrist. It’s the most you could do here, and you could only pray to Aphrodite that your love would be understood regardless.

“You left,” he gruffs, raises a hand to tilt your chin up just enough to face him, though his gaze averts the second that you lock eyes. Shy, definitely not, but with so many watching, he seems entirely out of his element. The hand that graces beneath your chin even trembles, but it’s not fear you find when you search his eyes again.

Hurt.

It’s unmistakably hurt.

“I’m surprised that you did not,” your answer is a whispered one. He should have freed himself, whisked you away like an unsuspecting bride. You recall the other women’s ramblings from before, of men and how little what you experienced together may have meant.

“I do not wish to be apart from you.” He speaks as though it’s the most common knowledge of all, as though you’re a silly thing for ever believing that your want and his are one in the same. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t belong here, amidst people that cast their judgment yet herald the animals that he bears a small resemblance to.

Neither do you belong, you realize. You haven’t belonged since the day you spotted him amongst the trees.

The odd looks that follow König are cast upon you now, too. They see this peculiar beast with one of their women and think of her as sullied down to the marrow in her bones. You must smell of him, marked without a proper mark at all. He hasn’t branded you with any more than soft bruises from kissing your breasts and fitting the length of himself inside of you.

You take your risks and call them offerings, and he greedily accepts each and every one you bestow. You allow it when the hand cupping your jaw drifts lower, graces your breast with the softest touch before taking your fingers between his own.

“You have to be patient.”

He snorts at that.

Bulls are not patient creatures.

The ceremony has already begun. There are real animals here: beasts even larger than König that chew at the grass below them, flick their tails and ignore all that happens around them. There’s prancing and singing, elaborate acrobatics and leaps that must have taken years of practice.

And when you dance with your bull there is none of it.

He stands in place as you twirl around him, weaving around behind and before him as you bend to collect fallen blooms from the ground. Yellows, blues, flowers with no name or place, scavenged from fields further than the pasture. Your laughter pulls even a smile from his hardened face, a face you’ve found handsome since seeing, but must provoke terror in most men…

He’s so horribly endearing in his own ways. It’s the fastest you’ve ever fallen, or anyone in the whole world has, even… The legends and stories speak of love that shoots straight and strikes true like feathered arrows, singing on the wind until they prick their targets. You honor them just as he seems to, and you would tell them to him if only he asked.

Your head and heart are muddled and sick with love, melted down like precious metal within your body. He twists and brings you back together and whole when you’re taken up in his arms and lifted.

“I could touch the sky,” you laugh, clinging to an ivory horn. Pressing a kiss to the pointed tip of it, you swear you detect the heat from his face on your belly.

“Little one… I will take the sun for you, if you ask.”

“You would burn,” you warn.

He drops you then, cradles your body close to his chest instead and carries you as though you’re nothing more than a small dove with broken wings, something to be cared for.

“You make me burn already.”

“König…”

“No, not…” He shakes his head, smushes your cheeks between a thumb and the rest of his fingers as you’re forced to lock eyes again. The giant’s hand is careful with you, more gentle than his teeth or his…

“Call me something else. Something better.” There’s a keening to his voice, a fervent desperation there. A need to be not simply wanted. Wherever your titan has come from with his constellations of scars, the wound still there on his shoulder and all the pain he masks in behind a forced grimace… it has all led him here.

To the woman he watched practice taming bulls for weeks or months, to the only person he believed could accept what he is.

He only wanted to hear it, to have the most shattered wish answered with a tender chime. To bed you wasn’t enough: it could never be so simple. Your heart has been what he’s after all along; he reassures you in self just in voicing this.

“You’re lovely… my love,” you breathe. “You’re mine.”

His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, and the pools gathered in his eyes do seem to shed. Your face is released as he rubs away anything that may shed. The dark circles are coupled with red rings now, but still no part of him seems weak or broken. He hides that away with everything else, bottles perceived weakness and sets it out to sea and gives you the grin of a proper brute instead.

“Ja… you are mine too.”

You’re set down only as the bull leaping comes to a close, when the people retreat and König seems content in knowing that no one is left to whisk you away. It’s all that he’s waited for, to have you alone after this tradition he did not quite get. He played his part well enough, even if you hadn’t had the chance to climb onto his back as the others had with their bulls.

Only then does he begin to tell you of a life bought and sold without end, of the fighting pits you’ve only heard of and never seen. His tongue does not spare you details of chains and spears, what they do to men like him. There are hundreds of scars, each with a misery attached, some still carrying pain that never heals. Promises were always in abundance to keep him contained, weapons were smithed and placed into his hands since before he could remember…

The life you had imagined for him has never existed. There’s never been love there: he spares you the nature of the women he may have been fortunate enough to touch before, but he whispers that you’re the only one who has ever kissed him.

Your heart breaks for the wounded boy he’s buried inside, and you weep when he tells you he’s only ever prayed for a woman like you. Someone soft and cute, who didn’t run or wail… Who craved him just as terribly if not more, gashes and teeth, horns and all the rest.

And he comforts you when you cry, pulls you in so tightly that your breath catches and the tears do sob. You whisper apologies into the hair on his chest, for all the awful things you would never imagine doing to him, and he scoffs at the pity in your voice.

“Do not cry for me,” he whispers into your hair, leaves a trail of kisses along the crown of your head before dropping to his knees before you and pacifying the best he can by stroking along your back. “I have you now, hm? My little maiden, richtig?”

“Yes. Yes, always,” you promise. Another gift.

You’re led away from the pasture under the veil of nightfall, your arms curled around one of his own. There are men about carrying sharpened steel, thieves and drunkards hiding out in the dark as well, but not an ounce of fear trickles through you to diminish what’s already felt. The stars above are in abundance, brighter somehow on the night you forfeit all.

König speaks unguarded now, each question is met by a response. It’s the first time he’s ever been asked about himself, he tells you this when you express your satisfaction at finally hearing more than a few words at a time. He’s terribly cute when all of the praise and attention cause his face to ripen like summer fruit, red and shimmery with sweat rather than dew.

You’ve brought nothing for a journey, but he swears to you that there is pilfered honey, wine, fruit and furs in his den, some dark place he describes as special. It’s the only place he’s ever called home, so surely it must be.

König doesn’t warn you that the trek takes weeks, nor that the mountains are even more beautiful up close. The foliage is wild, the air fresher and free of the smell of cattle and people, and each climb seems steeper than the last. He doesn’t tell you of the wolves or bears, but you hear them at night when he pulls you even closer to him. The wild things won’t hurt you; the wildest of them all considers himself to be the king here, a ruler that they respect or dread rather than dare to cross.

It isn’t a cave that greets you when you come to rest after days and nights of exertion, but a hut built of cut wood and clay. Built as well and thoroughly as any builder from the city would have done. He tells you of where he learned such things, watching men work after sparring with animals and their own kin in pits; how they would promise to rear families in structures like this, how he hoped in crafting all of this that one day he might have the same.

“It’s wonderful,” you tell him, crossing the threshold to find just what he has already told you was waiting here, so far off from common roads that none of it has been pillaged.

The gifts come aplenty, too: a new comb make of bone for your neglected hair, jarred honey and trinkets from his travels or pulled away from a former captor’s corpse. There’s even a weapon for you here, a blade sleek and shimmering, some foreign sword that astonishingly reminds you of a part of him.

“I will find a prettier one for you,” he says as you examine the blade, heavy even when held in both of your hands. It’s only a mercy that you are not the provider here, because there would be no deer or even rabbits slain when even holding it makes your movements sluggish.

“… I like it. All of it.”

He plucks the blade from your hands with ease and casts it aside. The sound of it tapping, then clattering against the wooden boards rings out loudly before he’s upon you. The trek to the mattress seems an eternity, longer than even the venture here. Cloth and jewelry, the only lasting remnant of your former life follow suit, piling over the sharpened steel.

There’s a bear’s pelt beneath you to soften the stiff straw, less wild and ferocious than it may have been in life, now smothered by the lingering scent of him. The lonely nights spent here must have been terrible and tragic. Did he allow the shield to fall and weep then? In the comfort of bear skin and the calling of night birds outside, tears and wasted seed.

The urgency is a looming beast on the air, prevalent and fierce when you’re pulled into König’s lap. Your bull lacks the patience to prepare you with his mouth or a curled finger now, only pivots your hips to take him with a prod as his head lowers for his mouth to latch onto your breast.

“I am in love with you,” he whispers against your flesh. You’re left at his mercy as he guides you with one large hand placed upon your thigh and an arm curled around your back. It’s slow, always slow when he begins, when he’s drunk on the feel of you surrounding him and every new feeling that floods his head.

The ears prick forward when you sing for him, whimpering as he buries himself further. As though it’s the most pleasant sound he’s ever heard in the span of his life. The only thing more beautiful is the acceptance and surrender you offer. There’s never been a shield in place, no guards to watch over you… he’s the only thing; he’s broken through every gate or wall to steal you away from those perceived defenses.

He knows, too, when your panting mouth repeats his own words.

He bucks into you with more haste, slips his tongue into your mouth and groans when you take it between your teeth. Skyward and earthly with each motion, the sea and the mountain tethered as one. And maybe you’ve never leapt with the cattle from your city, but you dance with this bull so naturally that it vanquishes any doubt of where you’re meant to be. What you’ve yearned for was not the taming of animals, but maybe a man…

Your orgasm comes sudden, a wave of wet heat that drools from your core, aids in the glide of the feverish pace he guides your hips into. König’s head tilts back, bliss painted upon his expression from how you close in around him.

You take your chances and press your face to the column of his throat, biting down on him just as he had you. The salty sweat on his skin leaves its taste on your tongue as you lick over the freshly painted mark. The sounds of his own pleasure are cast away; he goes silent and still, and you almost fear you’ve made some terrible mistake here… But König comes undone at that, desperately gathers you in his hold as he pulses within you, writhes beneath you.

He refuses to release his grip even when his cock grows soft, just rolls you onto your back and covers you like the thickest blanket.

“You didn’t fall this time,” he huffs into your hair.

Though your lips part to try and order him to be quiet, he grinds his hips against your own as if to make the obscenity of his comment even more apparent. It only heightens the warmth you feel sweep up into your cheeks.

“Little dancer…”

And finally he rises above you, another wild grin slowly gracing his scarred face. A thumb brushes against the pulse in your neck until his hand rests right over the heart tucked beneath your breast. It’s better than any promise of a lofty field or a mountaintop, even covered in sweat and come, to see the way that his eyes light up with pure mirth when he feels it’s beating.

“You feel it… you didn’t lie,” he mutters, and you try your best not to allow that comment to claw amongst the others he’s made that left wounds in your heart, gashes that bleed for him.

“Why would I?,” you ask, voice so thin and soft you would think it unheard if not for the flick of his ear.

“I did not think anyone would ever…” He rubs at his face as he falls to your side, only to pull you in close again. The defenses raise in those words, but lower as they do time and time again when you nestle into his chest, pet at the curls of hair there.

“They said no one could ever love me.”

The tears in his eyes finally are laid bare. They roll down his cheeks, and he does nothing to hide them this time. You accept his silent crying without comment, the only indication you share that you know, see, is in the way you press a kiss to his jaw where they gather and spill.

“Fools, they were..,” you whisper to him, just as quietly as before. The sanctity blooms further as his chest rumbles, a contented hum coupled with a squish to bring you even closer to him.

“Ja… just fools,” he answers you in a voice not broken, only softer than it has ever been. “Like you. For this… giving so much.”

“And you are greedy.”

He nods once before reaching for your hand; his own curls over it, still splayed out over his chest. He’s no cocky, rough brute now. He pets at it with a trembling thumb.

“I will never let you go.” He speaks it as though it is a curse, rather than the blessing you’re certain that it is. Most women would fear a lustful beast raised up to kill even gladiators, yet there’s only the sweetest consoling to be found with him for you. “You will suffer me until we both die.”

“I could not imagine a better fate.”

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (III)

AU MASTERLIST || FINAL CHAPTER

PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)

WORDCOUNT: 12.0k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, body horror, horror, angst, mutilation, violence, wounds, blades, death, many religious imagery/references, nudity, protective!Simon, NSFW, soft/loving smut, fingering, mating press, implied virgin!reader due to time-period standards, pretty vanilla, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Simon’s skin is bare to the moon, and he can taste your blood on his tongue. 

Eyes wide, the man’s lips are loose; jaw slackened at the horror that lays below him as crimson drips down the swell of his Adam’s apple and between the dip of his chest. He can’t move, even as the chill sets into his spine, the hair over his arms and on the back of his neck standing on end. 

All he can see is your body. 

You don’t move, you don’t smile or send him that stern look of stubbornness—the snow falls to your head, it collects on the side of your face and limp corpse. Your torn clothes show the weeping wounds and jagged remains of flesh. 

But none more so than one on your neck. The gaping tear made from his fangs. 

Not me, Simon’s fingers twitch at his sides, your body in a pool of red. Not me. 

It was him, though, wasn’t it? 

He doesn’t remember what happened, cannot recall the memories in his brain—a demon, the Lord of this forest, and a prisoner all in one. You hadn’t killed it, no, there was no way to do that. Silver could only do so much.

But it had done something to you, to make your scent twist and rot. Your soul didn’t smell right.

“I…” Simon’s voice fails him. 

His body is broken and bent, his entire side burning with pain, but none of that matters. Brown eyes quiver, and the man goes to lick his lips only to gag at the taste of copper, snapping his eyes away to pant quick breaths into the tree line. 

Simon’s hand raises to hover above his stomach, shaking. 

“I didn’t bloody do that,” he mutters, the evidence on his chest and stuck in his pores. The forest is silent. “I didn’t do that.” The man says it louder. 

You stare forward numbly with a broken neck and a torn-out throat.

Foot twisting him around, he levels his back to you, hands coming up to his head as his jaw clenched so tight his molars scream at him. What had happened? What had gone on? Simon closes his eyes and hunches his shoulders forward. 

“No,” he growls. “No, I didn’t fucking do that to you.” 

The night continues to keep him in its black hold, the snow absorbs the blood and black liquid. He can smell the rot—the infection under your skin as it brands your corpse. 

This forest was like a beacon to every monster in its vicinity. It called them here and made them lose themselves. Under the light of the moon and sun, whenever its branches told him to run and hunt as a beast, Simon Riley had no option but to obey. He would come here on a moment's notice when he felt the change coming over him, to his hut and his glade. 

There were few times he could predict it, and no matter how much he wanted to stay with you, that just wasn’t how it worked. 

Every monster that was called here was bait for that demon, and no monster had the ability to wield anything that could kill it. No silver. No holy water. 

But a mortal could. 

Every hunter entering these dark bounds had been hunting the wrong colossus and never had the chance to know it. 

Simon bends slightly forward to hold his head tighter, grunting out whimpers as if trying to keep his brain from falling out. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. Then louder than a scream and longer than the first, “Fuck!” The trees shiver. 

Simon harshly pulls at his hair, feeling the strands snap before he slides his hands up and down his face; trying to push off the crimson yet he only succeeds in spreading it. He can’t hear your heart beating anymore, can’t hear the swell of your lungs. Nothing. 

Hand lashing out, his knuckles connect with the hard bark of one of the tree’s trunks and he sends it back and forward three more times until his fingers crack and bend. When he’s done, the man doesn’t even notice the tears freezing on his cheeks as his breath puffs out in clouds. 

Simon silently stifles a ragged inhale and sags forward, unable to turn back and look at you—he can’t bear it after everything he’s been through. Forehead tapping the rough bark, his pain-filled body flaring, the blond clenches his fists like an angry child.

He should have told you in the glade—in the safety of consecrated ground where holy men and women had been buried for time immemorial. He should have explained why it was only you that made him whole.

But Simon was a silent creature; a creature of silent glances and hidden softness that borders on a fear of abandonment. He would never tell you until you happened to figure it out yourself or if it became undeniable.

Oh, you should have stayed away. 

His knees threaten to give out, so he lets them go until he can move his body to the side and lean against his tree. Barely breathing, he cares not about the cold. As he did when he was a child, all those years ago yet still shrouded in pain and hate, he loses any and all expression from his face—brown eyes dark as they stare at nothing. 

There had been a moment that he’d come back to himself as the Ghost. A brief moment. 

Simon wants to hang for the memory he now holds. 

Your eyes, blood-burst, looking into his own as his fangs rend your flesh in two. The feeling of your neck snapping under his jaws. Tongue lolling in blood and licking its muzzle; whiskers dripping.

This time Simon gags, but he also hurls up his guts, too. 

Bending his aching spine, his forearm keeps him up, bare thighs tensing and nerves quivering as his abdomen bunches. Simon pants staring blankly at the bile in the snow, saliva pooling in his mouth. He still can’t look at you. 

With little left for him, the man curls up in the snow and resigns himself to freezing to death, arms loose around his waist and injuries screaming at him. 

He’d killed you—is death not the only option left for him as well? 

Simon lays there until his eyelids grow heavy, only thinking of you and how you had been. Your kindness, your wit. He enjoyed your loudness, and there was no one to perfectly challenge him but you. 

From the first time he’d seen your form, it had only ever been you. He was yours, utterly; wholly. He should have told you to stay away.

“M’sorry, Love” he whispers into the ground, shivering violently, lips blue. His head is turned away as the trees hold their breath. “All my bastard fault—should’ve been me. It…fuckin’ hell,” Simon breathes, clenching his jaw. “Should’ve been me.”

He mutters his self-hatred until he falls silent and his chest rattles. Until the forest listens. 

Until it answers.

Simon’s eyes snap open to the sound of a world cracking in two and finds your body gone. 

—

This place isn’t real. 

You sit in a mirror vision of your shop, but nothing is correct. Looking into the corners, shadows slip away with quiet laughter, and the door rings but no one walks through. It’s…repetitive. It never stops, but you can’t seem to leave. 

You think it’s been days, weeks, even. Always it feels like there’s something watching you, and the window of your shop shows nothing but black night outside and flickering lamps. 

It doesn’t feel right to speak. 

If you speak, whatever is standing out in the street will know you’re here. 

You shake as you watch it now, silent and swallowing down saliva. Its eyes have been ripped out, and the chains along its wrists drag so loudly you can hear them even through stone and wood; they make you flinch and shiver. For whatever reason, the phantom of the man cannot find you, though he has been looking. 

He even knocks on the door.

It was a clanging, dead, thing. With a slam of a gnarled wrist and a raspy cry of your name on his slit tongue. You don’t want to ask how it knows your title, so you only hold your hands to your mouth to stifle your sobs. But for all of this, you still contained self-awareness.

You’re in Hell, or some strange, twisted version of the middle point. Purgatory. 

But why? Why here of all places—your soul had been branded, you heard that curse and felt the blackened nectar in your flesh. Had known what Simon had…

You blink quickly, looking away from the twisted man and taking down a shaky inhale. 

Whatever this place was, you and this shade were the only ones here. The only once-human ones, anyways. You didn’t exactly want to go out and meet him. 

“Please!” It bangs on the door again and your head snaps up in panic, hand whipping to your mouth to hide the sharp gasp. If you ever got out of here, you never wanted to see your home again. This version ruined it. “Please, let me in. I can’t see—it took out my eyes! Please, please I need my eyes.” 

Your eyelids close tightly, your heart clenched and beating fast. 

All of this terror lets you think about Simon. And so you do, and try to not blame him for what he did even if you know in your heart it’s not his fault. 

You remember the first time you met him, and you think that’s perhaps one of the best memories you hold. 

“If you expect me to fix this, you’ll need to hand over half of your soul and a blessing from God himself,” you frown at the remains of a pair of tweed pants, blinking with your mouth agape. “I’d ask what happened, but I think that would put me on a list of some kind, Sir.” 

Simon stares.

“How much?” You sigh and shake your head. 

“Really, there’s very little I can do here short of just offering you a new pair.” Placing the scraps on the table and lightly pushing them forward, the man moves his large hand out to take them from you. 

Your fingers touch, and you blink as a slight spark makes you flinch. Simon as well, you remember, had snapped his hand back to him, his eyes slightly widening and his throat holding down a breath. 

“Woah,” you mutter, touching your head as you suddenly go lightheaded. “S-sorry about that, I don’t know what—”

“Both.” Simon slides the fabric back to you. 

Your senses come back in a slow sweep and you clear your throat. “...Both?” 

“Fix the pants and sell me another, yeah?” A quirked brow, but something else swims in that dark gaze, something that fights with itself. “I’ll pay. Money’s no problem.” 

“Oh,” you blink, taken aback. The both of you stare at each other. 

You’re struck by the thought that this man’s eyes are far more deep than anything you’ve looked into before. 

“Of course, if that’s what you want.” He grunts, tipping his head and looking to the side for a moment. He wears that strange covering, too. The one that sits on his nose. 

“Good.” Simon backs up a step before pausing. “You have a name, then, Tailor?” 

You tilt your head and cross your arms, eyes narrowing carefully. “Just as you do.”

That silk fabric twitches, gaze sparking. 

“Simon Riley.” Your smile slowly pulls at your muscles, and for the first time throughout the day, you truly mean it. 

You don’t know how time works here, but you also can’t really understand that you’re dead. Of course, the thought of an afterlife crossed your mind in your living hours, but you’d never thought you’d go to one so soon. 

But every time you blink, you don’t think you’re meant to be here.

So, again, why? The question was mulled over incessantly after every memory of Simon, and you start to believe he’s the catalyst. 

What were you missing? 

The man himself had hinted at it, talking about how your scent to him was opium—like a drug. It kept him…him even when a monster. 

“Please!” You’ve discovered that all of the windows are bolted and the front door is locked, but it never becomes daytime here. A perpetual night and a pleading soul guarding you. In the long hours where you sneak from one empty room to another, so similar to real life that it makes you sick, you wonder if this place is an exact replica of the city you called home.

If some of the other houses are not so vacant after all; the inhabitants hiding like you are. Purgatory sounds about right.

Chains drag and there are garbling sobs and you stare at the door without the key to open it. 

The thing was blind—if you could sneak past it…your eyes looked out the window to Simon’s home across the street. There was a pull to all things that included him. A sanctity. Despite how your life had ended, how you’ll surely still think about it and sob out of pain, you can’t blame him for it. 

He didn’t have control.

You begin to think of a plan to break out without making any noise as you close your eyes tightly, hands clenching at your sides. 

“Back again, Mr. Riley?” Your bell rings and you glance at the intimidating figure walking through. He takes a deep breath when he enters, nodding in greeting before lumbering to the counter. 

“Any trouble?” He had a habit of asking this when he’d been gone on a longer trip of his, always back disheveled and with bags under his bloodshot eyes. As if he gets back and the first thing he wants to do is come see you.

The thought didn’t bother you. 

You laugh, “I’m happy to report the only thing that happened was that a pigeon ran into the window.” 

Brown eyes glance over his shoulder to blink at the impression of feathers on the front glass.

“Poor Bastard,” he huffs, amusement in his accented tone as he slips his hands into his pockets. “Get any feathers out of it? New pillow if you’re lucky.” He tilts his chin. “If you know how to pluck a bloody corpse, that is.”

“You’re incredibly strange, Mr. Riley,” you laugh, nodding your head at him. “I’ve never heard a man state such things.”

“I wrong?” Simon grunts, but you hear his slight smile in his tone. 

You only roll your eyes. “I highly doubt a pigeon would give you enough feathers for a pillow.”

“Well, you’re just not fuckin’ trying hard enough then, yeah?” 

“Are you here for a reason, Sir?” You can’t stop smiling, holding back your loud laugh as happiness is plainly stated on your face. “Or are you just here to speak to me about the feather-quantity of the local birds?” 

Simon’s eyes are crinkled slightly, and you try very hard to imagine him beaming just as you do, though you know it’s slim. 

You want to make him smile; you want to be the reason he does. And you don’t even know why. 

Your very soul leaps when you see him from across the street, it tightens and calls out like a reaching hand desperate to grasp into another counterpart. You’d never felt like this about a man before, much less one you barely knew anything about on a personal level. 

You liked Simon Riley.

“I was thinking ‘bout a new undershirt. Black.” A hand moves up and a pile of money is placed on your counter. “Anything’ll be good, just need a new one.” 

“Of course,” you easily slip into business, not bothering to look at the sum. “Special occasion?” You pause before fake laughing. “A lady to impress, perhaps?”

Your heart sinks more than it should; nearly hurting. Did Mr. Riley have a courtship? 

He blinks at you carefully, long lashes caressing his scarred cheeks. You swore his lips under the silk twitched. 

“No,” is all he says, blunt and casual, thighs shifting. 

You stare, hands touching themselves on the counter as heat burns your cheeks. 

“Okay,” you mutter, embarrassed, though you don’t know why. “That should be no trouble at all. I’ll just need your measurements.” 

Simon nods once, staring at your hands before he takes off his jacket and places it on the wood. You grabbed your long measuring tape and slipped to the front, asking lightly for him to hold out his arms. 

Heart hammering, he does so; great torso flexing and face blank. 

You begin with the chest, sliding your hands along his clothed body to flatten out the tape until you can see the mark it rested at. It would be false to say you didn’t lose your breath slightly, being so close and able to freely feel the swell of his muscle. Under your fingers, his pulse was like a hammer, and he was so large you actually had to give him a hug to connect the other side around him.

“S-sorry,” but Simon’s eyes are entirely blown, body tense and slightly shivering as your hands feel him. 

“Don’t be,” he breathes, and you feel the push of his lungs to his ribcage; molten heat. 

Your lips tingle, and heat seeps into your stomach as you shift your thighs to quell it. 

Simon grunts, and his head turns down incredibly fast. 

You blink. “Mr. Riley?” 

“Nothin’,” his lips flinch, and his brown eyes, more like black now, dart to your lips. “M’fine. Keep going.” 

You do so, oblivious to the coil in the man’s gut that mirrors yours, flaring with every gentle poke and prod.

It was when you’d almost given up that there seemed to be something else on your side in this god-forsaken place. You found your knife. 

It was in the same drawer where your tape measure should be, just sitting there where all else was absent. You stare and slowly reach for it, sliding your fingers over the hilt and the glint of the blade before picking it up. 

But you’d checked this drawer a million times over, what had—

There’s the sound of a fluttering of wings outside of your shop, and you’re unimpressed with yourself at how your mind immediately goes to a helpful pigeon spirit. You hold a hand to your lips to stop yourself from laughing, despite it all.

A spark alights in your heart. 

“Thank you,” you whisper to nothing, turning the blade over in your hands and smiling. 

Walking slowly, you avoid every creak in the wood—unlooping your belt for the small prong that would come in handy. Placing the blade into the slit of the lock, you insert the prong above it, twisting and waiting to hear a series of clicks; putting your ear next to the wood. 

The dragging of chains is far off, the loud wailing distant. 

Now or never. 

You hold your breath and listen to the sounds of the lock, sweating and grimacing. It’s so very silent outside—you’re so used to the clanging of metal and the clop of hooves that it scares you more than the monster. Like you’re standing out in a field but there’s no wind, no air even. Unnatural nothingness. 

So hard at focusing, when the click of the door lets you know it’s open, you don’t notice the heavy breathing on the other side. Standing and taking out your knife, you silently celebrate plucking your belt away just as the handle jiggles. 

Only you’re not touching the handle. 

Blood leaving your face, you can only skitter to the side as the hinges squeal like a dying animal, the barrier slowly opening as your back flattens against the wall. At first, nothing happened. 

The door is open and you stare wide-eyed as no sound enters your ears. Lamp-light seeps in, creating a long glow along the floors. 

A ragged breath makes you want to shrivel up, and then the wailing starts. 

“Please, please, where are my eyes?” Too close. 

You flinch wildly as chains are dragged into the room, the scent of dead wood sticking to your nostrils. Up close, the man’s skin is dripping water—seaweed over his shoulders and hanging off his restraints. 

He walks inside and the gaping wounds of his eyes make you nearly gag. “Where did you take them? I want them back, please, let me borrow yours until I find mine again.”

He drags his heavy silver chains far into the shop, stumbling and groaning through sobs. Those things seem to have no end to them, and he bumps and walks into the back room right as you slip outside. 

Immediately, you rush out into the street, crossing the cobble and hopping the long metal ahead of you as you re-loop your belt with one hand and grip your knife tightly. Getting to Simon’s house, you grasp the handle of the door and pull.

It jerks with a bang of metal.

Locked. 

“Shi…” you trail your curse and bite your lip. Silently, you take a step back to quickly think as the warden still calls hopelessly from your shadowed shop. Where else would you go? The inner city? The town?

Your eyelids blink. 

The forest. That had to be it—there had to be answers there, right? 

You were beginning to grow more fearful that you would be stuck here forever, in between life and death. A branded soul and yet, you weren’t in Hell. Or, at least, you imagined Hell far more hot than this. 

Turning, you slip down the steps and speed walk down the road, not running for fear that your shoes would make too much noise. That was also strange—all of your clothes were mended here, stitched back together as if never cut; wounds healed and nonexistent. You weren’t one to complain.

“Where are you going?” The Warden is on the steps, and he falls down them in a shattering of bone and a slurp of wet skin. “Please, give me my eyes! I can hear you running away—I can smell your souls! Let me have what little is still free! Let me see!” 

Souls?

You start sprinting as the great wail of chains lets you know you’re being pursued. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your lips expel, skirts swish, and muscles tense all at once. Like a race, the man’s panting breath is almost felt on your neck, bare feet far faster than he should be. “I don’t have your eyes—I’m sorry, but you’ve really got the wrong person! T-try down the block?!”

You call loudly behind you in hopes that it will get him to give up on you, legs pumping harder as he screams with rage and you curse yourself with every breath. He’s gaining on you, somehow, this blind beast is gaining on you.

There was no way you were making it to the forest.

In a split-second decision, your shoes skid over the street, and, steeling yourself with what little sanity you have left, you turn with your knife at the ready. 

Hell, you’d already died once. 

But you’d never forget the image of this beast running towards you with a wailing mouth and dragging chains, the things so heavy they wrench back his arms. You falter for a moment, but shake your head and raise the knife in one hand, gritting your teeth despite your unimaginable fear. 

Bravery was far too hard at this moment, but there was no more running. You take down a shaky breath and will your arm to stop vibrating with its sweaty palm.

“My eyes!” It screams. “Give me your eyes!”

Seven feet, five, four, three—

A familiar rageful roar takes over, and a black shadow covers the street lamp light from above as if a storm of vengeance. You watch as the gargantuan body flies over you and wastes little time for pleasantries.

The Ghost slams its body into the Warden, and they go down in a flurry of feral snarls and wails. You watch, frozen still with shock, as black claws can be heard tearing through flesh and rending meat, a slick slapping of pig slop as black blood spills to the streets. 

In the utter absence of all else, you listen with a quivering body, the fear extending down to your spine. Not of the other thing on its back, wailing and sobbing about its eyes even as its gut is invaded by a large muzzle and ivory fangs, but of that muzzle-owner itself.

You didn’t realize how much of a shock it would be to see Simon again. Like this. 

Your eyes stare blankly at how an arm is ripped from its socket, shredded from a shoulder, and tossed to the sidewalk with a rabid jerk; the body of the Warden lifted as the Ghost rises to his back paws and grips tightly. Hands on the lower half, mouth on the top, your jailer is torn in two with nothing more than a tear and a sound of vertebrae popping. 

Black splatters over your cheeks, but you make no move to swipe it away. 

Simon drops the body to the ground, and it twitches—it speaks as it bounces. Brown eyes dig into its mangled face, ears erect. 

“My eyes…M-my…eye—” A large paw pad is pressed into its head, and pressure is leveled. Brought down like an anvil. 

The Ghost crushes a skull under his foot and the resounding pop is enough to make you snap out of your frozen terror. He turns to you seconds later, mouth stopping its snarling and going silent all at once. 

The beast blinks slowly, ear twitching once.

Averting your gaze, you completely give up in light of this new arrival and clench your eyes shut. Your neck hurts—burns—like it’s being ripped open over and over again, snapping, and the light getting sucked away. 

Great feet take lumbering steps forward; you take one back. 

“I…I don’t,” you shudder and shake, hand holding your knife. Your mind can’t comprehend him being here—in this void with you, leaping in a great bound to tackle the monster to the ground. No, no, this was another phantom. He was going to kill you again. 

Wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t his fault.

You back up some more until there’s a soft huff. It’s tiny, small as if coming from a lap dog that Mrs. Ida would own. Your eyes are firmly shut, yet he tries again. 

A wet nose is leveled to your forehead, pressing in and tapping you lightly. A chuffing noise echoed in the back of his throat, gruff and low as he breathed you in. You hide a whimper as that nose dips to your neck, imagining the ways he’s going to sink his teeth in and how your bones will—

The Ghost sags into you, and with a flick of his ears, the large head begins to rub into your flesh as he grunts. Your eyes snap open as his gargantuan hands circle your waist, anchoring you to his chest as he leans back on his haunches; small noises bouncing from his breast as he curls his head behind yours. You’re lifted gently as you squeak, hands snapping to dig through fur and, like logs, your feet dangle from under you. 

You don’t speak as Simon begins running out of the city, down the black outskirts. Into the midnight shadows the two of you disappear in the direction of the mirrored forest, your body in his grip and the side of his head never failing to lean into yours. You can feel his eyes roving, darting down and around, before always coming back to you regardless of the things he smells here. 

Like a candle in the dark, he had already scoured the bounds of this purgatory for you—waiting for that small flicker of something to grasp onto that would let him find your light. And it hadn’t been your scent or the way you’d yelled. It had been the very call of your soul, or, at least, souls. 

Because that was what it was. 

The reason you were here instead of Hell was because that corruption had only marked your soul. Not realizing that half of it didn’t belong to you. 

Simon knew little about how it worked, but sometimes people are only born with a fraction of their soul as theirs—the other pieces snapping into place when a match is met but still not held as theirs. Your other half, the reason you stayed here, was because Simon’s soul had held you up like a rope to an anchor.  

That spark in the tailor’s shop; the longing and the insatiable pull to be near you—marked as two pieces of a puzzle sitting right next to each other, the image leaking from one to the other. 

A Fated Pair.

The Ghost breaks through the treeline and you curl into him as he covers you with his arms, eyes watching the black trees and the void of space above him. There were no stars here—no moon. You can’t see anything, but he can. 

Simon rushes your intertwined souls back to the place he had dragged himself through; a great fissure in the earth that had opened and swallowed your body who knows how long ago. Weeks, months—years, even. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered. 

His instincts brought him through, and his guilt had kept him going; this all-consuming and deathly guilt. He’d never forgive himself, but he can’t leave you here. 

Simon finds the fissure as great screams begin to wail out from the city, echoing off the trees and over the air. A scream and a plea. Hundreds, thousands. 

He doesn’t bother to stay, because you’re in his arms and his nose breathes in your scent. You grip onto him tightly, shaking with a fear-bathed quiver to your lips, and those large arms hold you ever closer; a large grunt and a rub of his chin. 

Simon stands on the very edge of a void, and he jumps. 

—

You wake to the large dog curled around you, softly breathing and using his body to shield you from the gentle snowfall. So warm does his blood run, that you don’t even feel the cold on you, only the brush of silk and the hard press of his hands. 

Simon’s breath ruffles your hair, his spine shaped in such a way that not a sliver of you is visible to the world beyond your head in his neck, resting on the swell of his softness like a pillow. As if he was a swan, keeping you in a bed of feathers.

Your eyes flutter open, and you take air down to bathe in the scent of earth. 

The Ghost shifts, grunting and not letting up on his grip. 

You’re in the very same place you died, yet there’s no evidence of that—the blood is gone, the broken trees are surrounded by young ones, and the snow is deeper than it had been before. But your clothes are…

You shift, and the beast lets you go easily, though his eyes don’t leave your face. He stays on the ground as you sit up, looking down at yourself. 

While the forest may have moved on, you, it seems, have not. 

Your clothes are back to the state they’d been in before—torn and ripped open, long gouging marks and stains that would never come out. You tense at the sight, swallowing saliva down as if wine with a grimace. Like a magnetic link, your eyes slowly turn up to meet Simon’s. 

He waits. He watches. That muzzle of his closed and his breath slow. If you told him to get away, there would be no doubt that he would—he would disappear and never come back to you, a memory that fades into a dream and then farther on. 

Your fingers twitch as his large claw lifts, a finger pointed and slowly coming up to your face. You try not to balk away as it draws near to your nose, where a tiny snowflake rests. The blackened sickle pauses, Simon’s chest expands, and then he slightly brushes it away with little more than a twitch of his finger. 

The knife is only a foot away, sitting bright and glinting in the morning light. You look to the sky to distract from your burning cheeks; your internal war. 

Light. Real and glowing above you from a globe set into the heavens. 

Gazing at it with wide eyes, your sockets fill with stinging tears, blinking until they slip down your cheeks and you put a hand over your mouth as a small sob wafts out. You bend your spine forward and cry, gasping. 

Simon keeps himself away, unknowing if he should reach out or if he would only make it worse. His great body is tight with agony, souls raging with pain. Everything in this form was more instinctual, more in tune, he wanted to comfort you—to make it alright again, but even as a human, when had he ever been good at that? 

The Ghost watched, body wound up but still deathly still; ears pointing straight. His hands twitch. 

You sob until your lungs hurt and your head feels light, not knowing how to process this in the slightest. When you’re done you numbly stare at the ground below you, trying to rid your mind of death, demons, and wool. 

A human hand on the top of your head makes you startle. 

Snapping your red eyes up, you meet tight orbs of brown, a face twisted with remorse and a deep inner hatred. 

“I…” Simon’s lips utter out, his voice low and pale skin in the snow. “M’sorry, Sweet Girl. I can never fuckin’ give you an apology that matters, eh? But I need to say it—I need you to know.” You stare and feel his fingers caress your scalp. He looks away, breath small. “It’s all my bloody fault, yeah? So don’t you dare think for a second that anythin’ comes back to you.” 

The hand threatens to leave you, to slip back down and return to his side, but with a small noise of alarm—one that had Simon’s eyes widened in concern—your body darts forward. 

Connecting with him, you make him grunt as his biceps press into your side, shocked as his first reaction is to make sure you don’t fall. 

“Get me out of here,” you plead. “Please, Simon, get me out of here.” 

There’s no hesitation as he lifts you upward, a bridal hold like the same he had used to lift you above the thorns and mutters into your hair as he quickly walks into the trees. 

“C’mere, I’ve got you. Don’t cry, c’mon now, you’re back. You’re back.” The knife is left far in the past, and there it will stay—far away from the two of you. “Breathe, then.” 

You bury your head into his neck, breathing hard and shaking not from the cold but from memories; things you shouldn’t know. 

“M’sorry,” Simon says again, voice cracking. “Christ, I’ll never say it enough.” 

If you hated him he understood—would welcome that Hell in its own right. Of all the things he’d done, this was the worst sin he could have ever committed. He’d spend the rest of his life thanking whatever power was out there that had broken the earth for him; had led him to you. His tailor.

You sob through a panicked chuckle. “Y-you already have, you brute.”

Simon rubs his face into your hair, holding your quivering souls together and opening his mouth in a shaking exhale as his eyes flutter. 

“Breathe,” is all he says, repeating everything like a record and an order as you hone on the stiff tone—getting you to focus. 

You follow the pulse in his neck, lips pressing into his flesh as your head tilts. 

You’re both back at Simon’s hut as you still try to calm yourself, the man’s face turned into yours and his forehead pressing into your scalp. There’s so little for you to grasp onto besides him—how he feels, the dig of his fingers, and the sound of his breath. 

He sets you on the bed and he pauses, kneeling down slowly as his hands come to gently clutch your cheeks. 

“Can you look at me, Love?” Simon asks you, voice gruff in its low tone. You shiver, sniffling, before your eyes stutter over his features and land on those burial mound browns. He releases a tiny puff of breath—a flicker of his lip.

“Atta girl, jus’ like that, then.” The man blinks slowly, tilting. Simon looks you over with a heavy expression, one that shows the pain and the weight he carries. “Need to get these off, okay?”

A finger lightly travels to your neck, tapping the remnants of your shirtwaist as a few more tears slip out when you blink, shakily nodding. Simon’s lips tighten. 

“Want to do it yourself,” he breathes, “or is it alright if I touch you, Sweetheart?” Your hands are too unstable to do it yourself, he knows that just as well as you do. 

So, in a small broken whisper, you simply utter out, “Please.” 

Simon nods once and the topic is settled; he knows.

The man’s fingers deftly undo the buttons, one after the other as the light from outside seeps into the small square of a home. He doesn’t comment—doesn’t make a sound—just does what he can to help you and get you sorted out; Simon could hear the rapid set of your heart, feel your pulse like a rampaging storm. 

When you’re down to nothing but your flesh, the man grabs the covers from behind you and wraps you in them, his eyes not once flickering downward until you’re entirely swamped by fabric. A hand on your waist squeezes. 

By now the brush of his skin atop yours had sucked you in as if lighting had struck with every pass or small press. The glide of his scars and calluses grounded you here. 

There were very few beings that would hunt for you through life and death and fewer that stayed that course. Thumbs once more brush away the water on the swell of your face. 

“Sleep,” he utters, even if there’s light outside. 

You gaze at him, at his stubble and his pale complexion; the wind rustles outside. What would he do? Guard the door most likely, perhaps even think of how to get into town and grab new clothes for the both of you, food, and necessities. Simon’s mind was fighting itself, just as it always had but now there was the largest stain on his consciousness that he could ever remember having. 

He was worried if he handled you, you might break under him. You…you already had. Avoidance, even if it killed him inside, was the best course of action.

Your mouth is filled with wool, tongue heavy, but in your heart and whatever feeling you have burning in your chest, you know you can’t let him move away from you. Simon being this close made it…easier. Even if a piece of you was still hesitant about black fur and sharp teeth. He had said it himself, hadn’t he? 

Simon wasn’t the Ghost, but at the same time how could they ever be apart from one another? 

Yet, your lips are already moving just as he’s about to stand up. 

“Stay?” Simon’s lungs take in a silent breath, a moment of long silence as he tries to understand why you would want to be around him at all. His hands twitch, your eyes catching the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a slow swallow. “Please, Simon,” you breathe. “I don’t…I can’t be alone again.”

He grunts and is already lifting you. 

Simon shifts your body back and lays you nearest to the wall, shuffling his body until he can lie with his spine facing you; his face to the door as he stays unblinking. 

“Nothing's going to happen to you,” he says, and you turn so you can lightly rest your head into the span of his shoulder blades. Simon’s jaw clenches. “It’s safe here. We’ll figure it out when you’ve got your energy back.” 

You want him to explain, but perhaps right now sleep was the best option. For all intents and purposes—you can’t even remember when you last had true sleep. So you stay there, skin to skin, and breath to breath as the sun still shines outside; the wind travels slowly. 

As you slip off, Simon has to restrain himself from turning around and pressing you into him—leveling his head above yours and breathing you in like how he wishes he could. But no. Too much. 

He’d explain it all when you were better. 

So he settles on the fact that all he can do is watch the door with a far-off expression, his body sagging back into you as your heat meets his.

—

You slept for three days, and in that time, Simon had only left once. On day two he went into town where he’d snuck like a thief—and there truly was no better analogy. Wearing only a blanket once more, the man breaks into your closed Tailor’s shop; boards on the windows and a sign out front to set it for sale. Inside, everything was as it had been left. Dust and layers of stale air, but there was never a better place to be for Simon.

It was where he met you, after all. 

He takes everything he’s able to carry. A large trunk of clothes, personal belongings, and anything that looks of great importance; clothing himself in a simple undershirt and pants along the way. With that, he goes to his own home and grabs all manner of money. Come morning, people would believe it was a robbery, and that was perfectly fine with him. 

Mostly everything belonged to you, anyway. They could have his sparsely furnished home and its cracking foundations. It mattered not. But he knew you needed your work—your passion. 

As he grunts and lifts the trunk, a knicker echoes out behind him. Blinking, dark eyes look behind to find a meeting pair—a long horse’s neck leaning out of a stall. They stare at each other before Simon huffs a chuckle and turns to the shadows.

When you finally did open your eyes again, deep in the third night, everything was different. 

You blink at the bright roar of the fireplace, the flickering of the candles that push back any darkness—curtains on the windows to hide the blackness of midnight. There are your belongings on the cleaned table; the foot of the bed and, there, on the desk. Measuring tape, fabric scissors, and yards of materials are stacked in the spotless corners. 

There’s no doubt that the broken window is fixed for the moment as well. 

New sheets sit on the end of the bed, waiting for you to get up before he can fit them. Jaw loose, you glance all around as the fabric pools at your waist, bare body glistening in the light as your head moves like a bird back and forth slowly. Dare you say it, the place felt…homely. Warm. Small, yes, but the definition of comfort rarely mattered when speaking on size. 

There’s a shuffling sound outside the door and you realize you’re alone. 

Face stuck at the door, your sudden tension is somewhat lessened by the small grunts and puffs of a large nose and heavy, clawed, feet. Somewhat. 

An open maw bites down on your throat with a tearing of flesh before your neck fully snaps.

Your hand lightly comes up to your throat, pressing very loosely as the sounds continue, spiking your cautious curiosity. You know you shouldn’t be holding this against him, but, you had…died. You had felt your neck snap and your blood coat his fangs. 

Somehow, Simon had brought you back from that, but he had been the one to do it in the first place. 

No, you think, feet very carefully sitting on the floor. No, not Simon. The Ghost.

Yet again—aren't those the same? It was a constant question.

Your lips are thin as the dagger in your heart digs ever deeper, but it is your dagger, and it is also your heart, too. Yours. Standing, you cover yourself with the thin sheet, hearing it drag behind you as your body takes you to the door with quiet and even steps. 

So much the two of you have gone through—it seemed hard to comprehend it in this world of black fire and battling beasts; hell and purgatory. He’d tracked you down…how? As your hand meets the handle, slowly walking feet coming closer from beyond it, you tighten your hold on the fabric near your neck and breathe slowly. 

You first see crimson, and then the beady brown eyes of a large dog and a stained muzzle. Breath tight, you stare at the dead bodies of two sheep in the Ghost’s maw, limp bodies hanging from the legs out of puffed cheeks. The both of you halt your courses. 

Simon’s eyes slash down your nearly-naked form, and he drops the animals to the ground before his head darts to the side; snow splattered with blood and the imprint of large woolen bodies. He snorts and takes a single step back, seemingly hunching down lower as he sniffs the air in distraction. 

His feet pivot, one clawed foot moving away.

“Simon,” you say, breath puffing over the cold air. He waits, head only slightly tilting your way; eyes pointing down. You don’t know why you speak, why you call to him like this. 

The silence settles as you struggle to articulate, mouth opening and closing like it was a choice between speech or the metaphorical blade to your throat. You close your mouth and look to the side, the lids of your eyes tightly shut. 

Without another word, you’re setting your feet in the drowned snow and walking up to him, fingers shaking before your hand extends from the elbow. It rests above the side of his muzzle, hovering with a tiny quiver as you fight with your own fear. 

You can feel Simon’s eyes on you now, watching. Always watching. Forever watching. Eyes like hard earth; like the dirt under your nails. 

Simon’s throat grumbles, and before you can make a decision, he helps make one for you. 

He softly moves his great lumbering head down and to the side—slotting it under your hand as you gasp, feeling the strands of fur under your grip. Immediately, your eyes snap to meet his, seeing long lashes holding snowflakes. The Ghost’s so large that he has to bend low in order to give you a comfortable resting point for your hand; sitting in between his sharp ears. 

You swallow down your nervousness as the seconds draw on, your heart rate slowing until you can properly move closer and feel the waves of fur beneath your fingertips. Playing with them, you card your digits in gentle strokes, hearing the low purr that rattles your bones as a great weight is leveled into your torso. 

A tiny giggle emanates from your chest, and the beast responds by only pushing himself deeper into your stomach. 

“Easy,” you mutter, eyes light as a smile forms on your lips. 

The chill seeps in gradually as you both stand there, a werewolf and a barely-clothed tailor. Before long you’re shivering even as you feel content next to Simon and to steal some of his furnace-like heat. 

You pull back and the wolf momentarily tilts to find you, only to open his eyes when he can’t feel your sturdy body. He blinks, before slowly standing back up to his full height. 

The light from the hut seeps out to cover you, and you take comfort in that—if the door shuts on its own, you’d be left in a darkness you know you’ll fear for many, many years. With its illumination, you speak freely.

“I don’t know how you did it, Simon,” his right ear twitches. “But…but I want you to know that I don’t blame you for what happened. I should, I know I should, but for the life of me, whenever you’re near I can’t think straight. Please, when you’re back to,” you huff a tiny laugh, “whenever you’re back to walking in a man’s skin, explain it to me. Explain why I can’t think of anyone else but you.” 

Avoiding the sheep, you step back into the hut and close the door as those dead eyes follow loyally, the wolf not breathing beyond a thin line of condensation wafting into the air. 

You only make it five steps back to bed before the wooden barrier is opened loudly, hitting off the back wall and shutting closed on its own. Turning back quickly, startled, you’re met with a fast panting chest and a human hand that swipes blood away from his lips. Bare skin is close to yours, and your eyes widen at the instantaneous blown feeling of your pupils. 

Simon’s face is above yours.

“Because you own half of my fuckin’ soul,” he breathes into your scalp, accent rich and heavy with implication. “Just as I own half of yours.” 

Literal or a metaphor, you care not. 

You both stay there, hearts pumping and skin tingling as the air increases in temperature—the sheet around you held in a tight fist suddenly seems almost suffocating. Your arms itch to drop it. Drop it now and let him see you; let him feel you like no other has. Where did these thoughts come from? Or…had they always been there?

The man hasn’t moved, and you know he won’t do anything unless you ask it of him, but you can smell the sweat on his skin, the scent of blood and musk. Quick death and dragging claw. 

If he was fire, it would be a blessing to be burned. 

“Simon,” you say, voice tight. He grunts like a damn dog, hands at his sides twitching as his bare chest shines. So many scars. You want to trace them, to feel them writhe. “You’re no good for me.”

“I know,” he growls. 

You press your lips to his and breathe him down as the sheet falls from your shoulders, all-encompassing hands finding the swell of your hips and sliding behind them; gripping tightly. Your own dig at his waist, finding the bulk of his abs and the deep tapper of his v-line before you gasp at his hand kneading the flesh of your arse. 

At the motion, Simon takes the opportunity to smirk before letting his tongue slip into your mouth. You release a small noise from the back of your throat, and he groans—one hand coming up to grip the base of your skull and maneuvering your head farther upward. He pulls back and presses into you, your face growing hot as he finds your neck and starts leaving deep open-mouthed kisses as his chest vibrates. 

Lips swollen and sensitive, you whimper as he bites down at every other interval; arms around his waist and nails running up and down his spine. Simon shivers, hips lightly bucking as you press on the small of his back. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Love,” he nuzzles under your ear, pupils wide and blackened, feral-like. “The things you do to me, yeah? Drivin’ me up a damn wall whenever I caught a whiff of what I did to you.”

Your stomach is rolling in tight knots of desire, lungs heaving as his hands squeeze and travel. At your core, you can already feel the slippery effect on your folds—a stain of sin that leaks out with nothing to hold it hostage inside of you. Face tightening as Simon groans long, he leaves hickey after hickey, as if unable to not mark your neck and under-ear. 

The feeling of teeth there doesn’t even startle you, no, not now. 

You ache with need, legs threatening to close in on themselves before Simon loops a hand in your inner thigh and keeps them open. The world around you blurs as your body tingles with a yearning that almost hurts.

“C’mon now, Sweetheart,” his lips come back to yours and you let him ravish you with long, deep kisses as his hand moves up. You balk forward and shiver as you feel the deep press of his growing lust for you against your stomach. “Don’t wanna know how long I’ve been dreamin’ about this.” 

Your eyes flutter, and you gasp out through the joining of your hungry mouths, “Show me, Simon. Show it to me.” 

His teeth bite slowly into your bottom lip, easing you into this game of wolf and sheep as his half-closed eyes open and dig into you. Simon’s fingers flex but don’t move, the other still at the base of your neck; your own have been leaving crescent-shaped marks on his back for a while, absentmindedly pulsing along with the heated blood in your veins. 

There are still the remnants of sheep’s blood on his cheek—slashed up the side of his face and over his deep-set eyebrow, but you find you don’t care at all. 

With how his fingers tap so close yet so far to that sensitive bundle and the dripping mess of your insides, nothing matters. 

“My Girl wants that?” Simon hums, and as easily as if he were picking up a shirt from your shop, he lets his thick fingers push you open as you suck in a quick breath and sag into him. Into his neck you sigh, hitched airways making it seem tight. Instinctually you open your legs wider, whining at the press of calluses and scars in your clutch and sliding up your sensitive walls. 

Simon stops and waits mid-way past his first knuckle with two fingers, groaning as you tighten and flex around him at the foreign sensation. His thumb at the back of your head moves up and down, his own thighs hard with eagerness and a stain in his abdomen from the lack of attention—but he cares little about his own leaking head, content only when able to give you pleasure in the purest form. 

Your stomach as well as his are wet from his weeping tip, the chill of it making you both shiver and try to mash your bodies ever closer as the sheet below you two is tangled at your feet. The fireplace crackles. 

“Simon,” you keen, and he answers with a bite of your shoulder before rubbing his head into your neck. Like opium, he’d said. If only he could tell you your scent now was convincing enough to make him lay on a bed of burning coals if only he could smell it for three more seconds. 

Arousal. Lust. Animalistic desperation that Simon’s eager to bring you to the brink of—face sick with pleasure and eyes blown with numb satisfaction. Open and bare to him.

“Attagirl, that’s it,” he slides his digits deeper as your hips buck, making him grit his teeth to hold back a grunt as his dick is jostled. “So wet for me, fuckin’ perfect. Let me help, yeah?” 

“Fuck, Simon,” he buries his fingers at the base, wasting no time in crooking them back toward him and pulling his wrist down. You moan loudly, stretching and being played like an instrument. Simon’s fingers repeat the motion until you’re a mess of rutting thighs and shaky legs. 

The man takes down every moan and whimper—every sigh and jerk with a growing sense of pride. His dick is begging for friction, and the little bit he gets is from your stomach rubbing against it with every slippery sound of his fingers entering and exiting your core. 

Simon’s mouth is open with a tight pant for breath, mirroring yours before the pad of his palm rubs against your bundle. You arch into him, whining and pleading instantly with a burning face, half convinced something had overtaken your body to make you act in such a way. 

The man moves his fingers faster, making sure to maneuver his limb in such a way as to get your clit harder and harder with every pass, leaving you limp in his arms. Simon anchors you to him with a hand on the back of your shoulder blades, grip hard and knuckles white. 

As your face screws up and a fire burns in your core, nails leave long scratches down the back of his torso as if he was a wooden trunk to tie a horse to—a rock in a storm. 

“Simon,” you sigh out, head stuck under his chin. “S-so good, keep going.” 

He opens his mouth as he rubs his chin on the top of your scalp, mixing your scents together potently. 

“Look at me,” Simon utters, in his desperation to bring you to the edge, his accent is as deep as you’d ever heard it. “Look at me, Love. Wanna see your eyes watchin’ me as you fall apart. I’ll make it good, promise.” 

“K…” You gasp as everything keeps building up and up, teeth clenching together and legs fighting to close around his hand—Simon bullies you open through the overstimulation; the flood of your senses. “Know you will!” 

“So good to me, Sweetheart,” he grumbles, taking you by the side of your cheek and leaning back slightly so he can still let you rest on him but also watch. 

Your eyes flutter with every rapid intrusion from Simon’s digits, tight and textured walls giving in to him as he pushes and prods, searching for something as his brows crease and his abdomen bunches. The man’s biceps flex and strain, feet wide open and lips parted as he locks onto your gaze. 

“Fuck, what a bloody sight to see. Yeah, you enjoying that, then?” He mutters, and only when he pushes those teasing words out does he find a point inside of you that leaves your mouth opening and your toes curling; that he truly loses his breath. 

Holding your head forward, Simon’s jaw slackens as your face contorted with pain-like expressions of confused pleasure, sweat glistening your forehead and your lips swollen—neck nothing more than raised skin from all of the man’s biting. 

You strangle down such an instinctive and leg-shaking moan that Simon nearly forgets that he’s not even truly inside of you yet; balls tightening with building excitement and his length begging to be squeezed, used for nothing but that same expression on your face.

“Christ,” he breathes, teeth grinding and feeling you fight to keep his fingers in. Slick drips down his wrist, tapping the floor in a clear stain that could bring him to his knees. 

You can’t even speak, spine curling with such raw electric sparks. If Simon isn’t careful, your legs will entirely fail you. 

“Sim-” Your voice is high, mixed with panic as you let him hit that same point again and again like a hunter. “Simon!” You chant, fighting to meet his eyes as your vision blurs. 

Everything was too hot, the scrape of his calluses on your flesh like a knife raking through your insides with pleasurable stabs. 

“Jus’ like that, Love,” he breathes, not blinking. “C’mon know you feel it. Squeezin’ my fingers just right. Look at that pretty little face.” 

You’re building and building, standing on the precipice of a large chasm. There’s nothing to stop you from going over the edge—and you don’t want anything too. 

Your body tenses gradually, knees wobbling and your abdomen pulling into itself. A sharp claw seems to play with the string of your impending release, fiddling with it and taking it into its fingertip; rubbing it back and forth in a slow game.

Your breath comes out in short gasps, moans getting higher and more cut, Simon’s eyes are transfixed, panting like a dog, and, in an instant right before you break, moves his fingers at a break-neck pace. 

Your sharp cry is caught on his lips, sucking it down as your orgasm floods his hand, leaving it a sticky mess that he continues finger-fuck you through with firm strokes. He’s whispering praises on your lips, keeping you up as his hand snaps to your waist when your legs buckle. Your walls move like a noose, letting the man fantasize how it would feel to have you speared open in his lap as you writhe and take him down in the low light. 

All of these thoughts, this sight, make him harder by the second. 

Simon keeps moving his fingers, drawing your explosive release out until you plead quietly for him to stop from overstimulation. The sensation makes your abused clit cause your spine to arch with every touch of his wet palm. He obliged, the sound of slick slapping halting, but his fingers didn’t leave your spasming cunt as your limp head fell to his shoulder. 

Your chest heaves, aftershocks leaving your mind blank to all else but the press of skin and sweat. The air reeks of sex and hot breath. 

Simon’s head clacks yours, fingers flexing as you whimper and dig your hands into his sides. He chuckles and slowly pulls out, taking long strings of cum with him as they string his fingers together and dribble to the floor from your slit. He holds you up, uncomfortably shifting his feet when your body jostles his raging erection—making him hold back a tight gasp. 

“Good?” The man asks, gruff and casually. Your open mouth lays a firm kiss on his burning flesh as he side-eyes you waiting for a response. 

“Yeah,” your voice is far off. Simon chuckles lowly. 

In an easy sweep of his arms, you’re picked up and carried to the bed; set down to the plushness that’s down one sheet. You lay on your back, gazing up at the man as he stares down at you in turn. 

Neither of you speaks until Simon has to rip his eyes away, clearing his throat. Your eyes travel down before widening at the violent red of the man’s length—the thing twitching and dripping pre-cum down to the base in an obvious plea for stimulation. Yet Simon makes no move to do anything. 

“You should get some more rest—”

“Let me help,” you whisper, eyes widely innocent as they meet the browns that snap your way, those orbs slightly widening. “I own half your soul…right?”

Simon watches you, jaw loose. 

“It looks painful,” you ease out, pointedly moving your gaze downward with unabashed boldness. 

“Is,” he utters. If he was being honest, he was worried that he had been coming on too strong—that this part of the night might be going a bit far. You were a lady, after all, and he respected you as such. He needed confirmation. 

“Then let me help, Simon.” Your eyes blink at him, hand coming up to trace the bulk of his thigh muscles. His breath goes shallow, self-control fraying fast. Just a little more. You lick your lips. “I want to feel you take me like no one else has. I want you to stay in this bed with me until the fire goes out and the light outside peels through the curtains. Can you do that for me?”

Your wet core pulses again, wanting—waiting for something more. Something only Simon could give you. 

The man’s chest rattles. “Yes,” he relays, words low. 

After a moment of eye contact, the man places his knee on the bed, shifting so that he has himself in between your legs; hands coming up beside your head. Your lungs are heavy, fingers coming up to rub over his blood-stained cheek as his nose brushes yours. Simon’s stubble itches you, but you still sigh constantly as he kisses you once more. 

This was slower than the previous—less desperate though you don’t know how as you could feel the strain of his length prodding like a hot iron in your inner thigh. It made you slightly nervous, the size and the action itself, but you didn’t doubt who you wanted to be the one above you. 

Simon kisses the side of your lips, nipping at the skin as he grunts out, “You sure?” 

Brown eyes never waver as they stare you down. Any ounce of hesitation would be found immediately and the action would be over; Simon paraded around as a cold and heartless beast, but never had there been a man more considerate of your own safety. He didn’t want to hurt you. 

You drag your fingers through his hair and he shudders, one grip sliding to your legs as the drag of barely-there claws makes your breath hitch. Your lips mutter, quietly, “Yes.” 

“Gotta make me believe it, Sweetheart,” Simon kisses over all of the marks he left, slowly dragging the warm press of his mouth and side-eyeing you. 

You glare down at him and feel his smirk on your skin, how he hooks his hand under your knee and lightly lifts the limb. Your muscles flex at the sudden spread of your legs, your hand in his hair grasping tighter. Simon sighs low as your body shifts, shivering at the slick heat he restrains himself from rutting against. 

Face burning at your bare excitement, the man’s eyes glaze over. 

“I’m sure, Simon.” 

“Don’t wanna make you feel like you have to—”

“Simon,” you interrupt his comment, and the blond huffs, the air sliding over your heated skin.

“Tell me if it hurts and I’ll stop.” You smile softly and drag his face back to yours, kissing him deeply. “Let me try…” Simon mutters on your lips, and soon both of his hands are pushing up your knees as you widely blink at the openness of your core before your legs are folded up. 

You whine at the stretch, the embarrassment of having your dripping folds on full display. This was foreign to you.

Simon hums, looking down and groaning. He taps his forehead to yours as you breathe deeply, letting him take control. 

“Okay?” He asks, and your heart skips a beat. 

“Are you going to keep stalling,” you breathe, looking into his gaze teasingly. “Or are you going to show me how you can’t function without me beside you?” 

There’s a stretch as he lines himself up, hips moving back and abdomen sliding over yours—your lungs stutter as his eyes glint at you; lips flicking in a smirk.

“You going to keep me here?” You breathe, voice breathy as Simon’s length begins to steadily press forward, your face twists as you take him down, lines forming on your forehead. “Make me,” his hands keep your legs up beside you, open as they tighten. His lids narrow in concentration at the tight vice of your walls, having to slowly bully his way into you inch by inch. “Make me tailor your clothes a-and spin your wool?”

The sounds from your joining bodies are vulgar. A slide and a coating of flesh with natural assistance as Simon’s jaw clenches, not able to help the jump of his pelvis as you moan and arch your back as he moves even farther into your clutch. 

You both writhe as he bottoms out, bodies shaking at the intensity of the moment and the sparks under your flesh. 

“Ah,” Simon strangles a whine, eyes tight shut as yours follow. Quick kisses are placed on your lips. “Don’t tempt me, yeah?” 

The great stretch of your insides leaves you sighing, tiny waves of pain pushed back by pleasurable pulsing and the scrape of veins. His head lays in the hold of your womb, slick leaking out from the ring of your core. 

“We,” your hips jerk, and Simon’s hands on your knees tighten until you know there’ll be bruises come morning. “We’re beyond temptation.”

Simon chuckles—his eyes dark and glimmering in the firelight. “Smart girl.”

He lets you adjust there for a moment, even if his dick is pleading with him to move and drive your back into the mattress; to see your face crease in rapture. But that wasn’t what his head wanted, no, he wanted this done right. 

When you look at him and your thighs stop shaking, he carefully grinds himself into you, letting your bundle of nerves meet the wirehair of his happy trail and give himself the slightest feeling of relief. You bite your lip, one hand on Simon’s cheek and the other still in his hair. 

The angle of your legs makes you feel him that much deeper, even as he simply grinds himself inside of you and doesn’t move much beyond that. 

“Feels good, y’know that?” Simon mutters as your mouth takes down a slow breath, eyes stuck on each other as the man fully begins to remove himself and softly flinch his length back into you; exiting just enough before letting him re-enter. “Tight; warm.” He shudders, gritting his teeth. “C-can smell you like this—how much you want it. Always have.” 

You whine at the words, tightening around him as he begins gently fucking you in earnest, the slap of skin and tight walls joining the crackle of wood. The scents on the air are a perfect mix of addictive pheromones—so potent even you can smell it as you try to meet every dig of his hips.

Simon’s face goes to your neck, nuzzling into it as his eyes go tight. 

“Fucking hell,” he breathes out a groan into your ear, mouth open. 

 The heat returns easily to you, the burning in your gut. Simon’s pelvis hits you, stimulating your clit every time in the perfect way, as if he’d glanced at your body once and immediately memorized what made you tick. His sweat drips and pools with your own, slick leaking out to the mattress and making you feel dirty in the best way as your cut-off sighs hit the ceiling. It's hot in here; nearly too hot to focus on the slide of skin and dig of your nails into his hair. It’s telling how fast you seem to hit that peak again, at the constant scrape of his veins and the push of your walls as if trying to force him in. 

Your back arches into him, and Simon cants his hips faster, biting on your chin and pulling at your lips as his eyes watch with eagerness. His abdomen bunches at the sheer pleasure he feels making you feel like this, chest heaving and large build all but swallowing you below him. 

“Simon,” you breathe, kissing him on his lips eagerly, growing desperate. 

“Let me take care of you,” the man grunts hard, getting harder to focus, “trust me?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, clenching your jaw as he brushes a spot so deep inside of you that your eyes go blurry for a moment. Your lips move without your brain understanding the slurred words. “Yes, I trust you. I…I…oh, fuck.” 

He sighs and bites a whimper down as your walls flex, gripping him tighter and tighter. 

“Knew I’d find you,” Simon pushes your legs harder into the mattress, form slightly shaking. You moan high into his mouth, eyes fluttering and knot growing tighter. “Knew I’d make it right, eh? Death can’t keep you away from me, not now. I’ll find you.”

You gasp, itching cord snapping and release spilling out around the plug of his dick as he continues on as you jerk and rut out of order; eyebrows pulled in. It isn’t long after that Simon follows you, shoving his lips on yours as his mouth parts with a tight cry. Inside of you the spill of his seed fills your womb and he fucks through it, hands releasing your legs to rub up and down your sides. 

Your core floods as he stays there, resting and stationary above you, his weight heavy but not crushing. The both of you stare at one another and breathe down the heated air; all of the scents and the desire there—the unspoken bond that extends life and death. 

Simon grunts and forces out, breathless, staring through blown pupils.

“I’ll always find you.”

In the morning there’s a pile of wool sitting in a cloth sack against the wall, and the sound of chopping wood outside. The curtains are drawn to the bright rays of the morning sun as they meet your softly smiling face, visage half-covered by the newly fitted sheets.

[raz-writes-the-thing]

A Fruit So Sweet (House of The Dragon One-Shot)

Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Reader / requests are open

Summary: Daemon's noticed you before, and tonight he makes his first move.

Fic type: fluff

HOTD: (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The Targaryens had always been a source of fascination for you. Their slim jawlines, and bright, white hair. They looked so… holy up there in the Sept and in the Castle, like Gods and Goddesses looking upon their subjects. They were about as close to the Gods as you could get. You often wondered how the common folk felt, looking up at them with their bejewelled necks and glinting armour. 

And that wasn’t taking into account their dragons either. Great, big beasts that could block out the sun as they flew overhead. They were beautiful. When you were young, you often thought about sneaking off to the Dragon Pit, stealing an egg and waiting for it to hatch. Then you could fly away when it was old enough and go and live somewhere secluded. Or even just travel, and live where you please. 

At least that way there would be no expectations on you except the ones you placed on yourself. 

But you were young then, and all children had to grow up eventually. 

So you did your duties, curtsied when required, learnt your needlepoint and sat through age after age of lessons with the Septors. Your only real peace was in the library or the gardens. Hidden away where you could let your legs splay like a man’s would, or hunch your back over a leatherbound book. You could be unladylike and no one would know. Or care. It was the perfect escape. 

Until he started coming around, possibly looking for his own escape. He hadn’t noticed you the first few times, or maybe he just pretended not to, but when you saw him, you’d always snap back into place, sitting pretty like a lady should. 

You had your book in front of your face, elbow on your knee and hand propping up your chin. You were hunched over the novel, enraptured by the tales of daring, dragons and adventure. You were so enraptured by the words on the page that you didn’t notice the arrival of another person in the back corner of the gardens until a hand was between you and the pages, raising your chin with their fingers. 

Oh. 

“My, aren’t you the picture of decorum,” he teased, eyes glinting with mischief. You snapped back into yourself, your brain suddenly catching up to the situation at hand. Your back instantly straightened, though his fingers lingered under your chin for another few moments. Then they were gone, taking their warmth with them. 

“My apologies, my Prince,” you breathed, suddenly very aware of the heat in his gaze and the fact that you were both out here in the gardens, hour growing darker by the minute and unchaperoned. “Would you like the solace of the gardens? They’re quite peaceful at this hour, I find. Should I take my leave?”

You make to escape to the safety of the castle halls, but Daemon stops you, fingers brushing the skin of your bare arm softly to keep you from leaving and yet giving you room to run should you need it.

 

“Running away so soon? And without your gift, too. You wound me, my lady-“ he practically purrs, a sly grin spreading across his lips. You tear your eyes from where his fingers brush your skin, sliding up his chest and settling on his mouth. 

“Gift?” You echo quietly, confusion evident in your voice. Daemon’s grin widens just a touch, almost imperceptible. Gifts weren’t common unless a courtship was underway, and the Prince had so far not shown any interest in you as far as you knew. But then, they didn’t have to. All a man had to do was woo your father to get to you. Not an easy task, thankfully, and yet… “My Prince, I-“ 

Daemon shushed you gently and presented you with a pomegranate from behind his back. You looked at the fruit, perfectly ripe. You’d always loved pomegranates, but they weren’t common here, and they were expensive. A frivolous expense saved for the royal family, your father would say. You’d only ever had one before on your fifteenth name day. It was a memory you cherished deeply. 

Daemon arched a brow when you still hadn’t taken the fruit from him, and you reached for it gratefully. You roll the fruit in your fingers, finally meeting his gaze. 

“Thank you, your Grace,” you say, a coy smile playing across your lips. You can’t help it. He is rather handsome, even if a bit older than yourself. You play at the thoughts of being his wife. His strong arms holding you at night, watching he and his dragon, Caraxes, come in after a long flight. You shake the thoughts from your mind. One pomegranate did not mean that Daemon Targaryen wanted to wed you and take you far away- no matter how much you might wish for it. “A very kind gift.” 

“I’ve seen you,” he says, disregarding the praise, and you stand, putting the book onto the chair you were just inhabiting. “Hiding away. What do you hide from?” 

You look over his shoulder out at the bay below. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear the water lapping at the shore. You shouldn’t be out here. You shouldn’t be having this conversation. The Court was well aware of Daemon’s reputation, and being caught out here alone would do no wonders for your own. 

“I…” you fight to find the right words, not wanting to be offensive but not wanting to lie or bend the truth either. “Everything.” 

Daemon doesn’t reply to that. It’s a silent request for you to elaborate, but you get the feeling he knows exactly what you’re talking about anyway. 

“Do you not want to see what the world has to offer? Do you not want to fly away and live a peaceful life away from the burdens of our society? To be improper and free?” 

Gods, you’d do anything to take a big bag of gold and set off somewhere else. Anywhere else. Maybe a nice villa in Quarth, or perhaps Dorne. It was true the Westerosi had a delicate relationship with the Dornish, but you’d always wanted to see the Dornish countryside. You’d read about it, of course, and had seen the painted ink artworks etched into the geography books the Septors had you memorising from the age of six, but that was nothing compared to being able to see it, to feel the sand in your fingers. You’d never even seen sand, locked up in the castle as you were. 

Daemon doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to. The way he looks out upon the view of the bay below tells you everything you need to know. He does. 

“You’ve never travelled far then?” He asks, effectively deflecting the conversation from both the topic of himself and back onto you. He was quite good at that, deflecting probing questions about his person. Daemon was a relatively private man, not that there was anything wrong with that. 

You let out a rather unladylike breath and clasped your hands together around the pomegranate. 

“I’ve not been past the castle gates, my Prince,” you replied sadly, eyes flitting to the castle walls below. You’d been here your whole life. It was too dangerous, supposedly, to travel far. Especially when the common folk were unhappy. Or so father says. 

You do not miss the slight furrow of his brow, but it is smoothed only moments later. He takes a breath in and turns back to you. 

“Now that is a shame,” he clicks his tongue. “Perhaps I should sneak you out of the castle one night and show you what fun you can have in the city below.” 

Your eyes widen comically at the thought, and you find yourself spluttering at the proposition. Underneath the inbuilt horror response to the idea of leaving the castle, however, you consider what you might see if you were to accept. 

Taverns and drunkards laughing and singing their songs? Market-goers scrambling for the best price on a rare fruit? Or perhaps dog fights? You knew, of course, there were also far less enjoyable things happening on the streets below, but they didn’t sit right on your mind, so you attempted not to picture them. 

“Perhaps,” you reply amicably. “Though what I would truly love to see is over the Narrow Sea. Other lands…” Your smile turns upwards slightly. “Doesn’t that sound exciting?” 

Daemon chuckles, keeping a close eye on you. Then here’s there, in your space, crowding you against the banisters and twirling a piece of your hair around his finger playfully. 

“Would I be permitted to call on you tomorrow?” He asks devilishly, eyes glinting in such a way that tells you that he doesn’t much care what your father thinks about calling on you. All you need to do is say yes. “We could take a stroll in the gardens, or… perhaps-”

Your mouth makes a sound, and you have to stop yourself from interrupting him. The words die on his tongue and he nods his head for you to continue. 

“I do apologise, your Grace,” you rush out. “It’s just… would you perhaps take me to the Dragon Pit? I should love to see your dragon.”

His expression appears familiar, as though this is a request he has heard before. 

“I don’t think your father would take too kindly to me taking his eldest daughter to the Dragon Pits, my lady,” he replied amusedly, lips twitching. 

“It will be our little secret,” you hush back, biting back a laugh. Daemon seems to like this, the idea of a secret between you. 

“Allow me to walk you back to your chambers, my lady,” Daemon says, reaching for your book and letting the ringlet of hair go. The action sends a shiver down your spine but you allow him to do so. You thank him for the kind offer and the both of you set off towards your family's chambers. 

It’s a short walk, which is a shame, but you find yourself giddy at the prospect of what the morning may bring. 

When you reach your chambers, your father is waiting for you, watching the moon draw darkness through the windows. The hour is late and he was worried for you, and when he sees Daemon kiss your hand goodbye with the promise of seeing you tomorrow, his eyes narrow in suspicion. 

“You won’t mind, will you, my lord?” Daemon feigns the question, knowing that as the Prince, he cannot say no. “If I call upon your daughter again tomorrow?” 

Your father agrees to it, but he doesn’t look overly pleased. He’s aware of Daemon’s reputation as well, clearly. 

You bid Daemon good night, thank him once again for the pomegranate and set about your routine before you retire for the evening. You do not, however, expect to get much if any sleep tonight, though. 

Tomorrow you meet a dragon. Daemon Targaryen’s dragon, no less. 

What more could a girl ask for?

[aphroditelovesu]

Hey, i'm also from brazil and i love the way you write! Taking advantage of the fact that I saw you talking about yandere apollo pjo, could you do some headcanons about what he would be like due to the differences? like, in today's world. Would he look at your phone or something?

❝ ☀️ — lady l: it's a headcanon, in a way, but also an imagine, a combo of both! I ended up geting excited and focusing more on the platonic part and I hope everything it's! I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes!

❝tw: obsessive and overprotective behavior and fluffy.

❝☀️pairing: yandere pjo!apollo x gender neutral!reader.

❝word count: 742.

Apollo is the god of poetry and will always be writing the most beautiful poems for you. All of his hymns will be dedicated to you and any pop influence he will use as inspiration to worship you. Apollo dedicates each verse to you, each word carefully thought out in the overwhelming love that the god feels, transforming pop influences into hymns of worship.

In the intervals between his divine exploits, Apollo is captured by the passion of modern melodies. Transforming pop influences into passionate songs, his lyres resonate in heavenly places, echoing the immortal feelings he has for his earthly muse.

Apollo as a divine father is smothering and protective. He doesn't give a damn about the rules that govern the gods, not when it comes to his favorite child. He will distribute gifts, presents and will help and support them in everything he can. Apollo will always make it clear that they are his greatest pride.

As you face challenges and monsters, Apollo protects you, interfering in divine destinies when necessary. The sun god becomes a constant presence, guiding and encouraging his favorite child to embrace its heroic nature. Apollo, the divine father, defies heavenly rules in the name of love for his child, doling out divine gifts and guiding them along the path to greatness.

One day, while you were facing a particularly difficult challenge, Apollo decided to intervene in a more direct way. He descended from Olympus, enveloped in golden light, and appeared at your side. His presence was warm and comforting, like the rays of the sun emanating from his divine form.

"My dear child," Apollo said with a beaming smile. "The time has come for me to join you on this journey. Together, we will face the challenges that present themselves, and I will guide you with my divine light."

Apollo watched with beaming pride as his child flourished under divine tutelage. He guided the mortal steps with the light of knowledge, shaping the favorite's destiny as a sculptor carves a masterpiece. Each of his child's deeds was a glorious echo of the pride Apollo felt, reflected in the rays of sunlight that illuminated his celestial face.

Apolo is very connected to modern technology, oddly enough. He would have a cell phone, the best and most expensive, and it would be full of photos of you. His music playlist would have all genres, an eclectic god, after all, he is also the god of music and appreciates all types, honoring his essence as the god of music.

He wouldn't touch your cell phone unless you allowed it or if he had some kind of suspicion. In this case, you can be sure that the god will search your cell phone in search of something. And he will definitely take selfies of himself to leave for you.

During moments of rest, Apollo shared divine stories and ancestral teachings with you. His words were like ethereal songs, dancing in the air and penetrating your heart. Each narrative was filled with wisdom and profound lessons, like the notes of an eternal melody.

On a starry night, after an especially epic victory over a colossal beast, Apollo gathered the gods and goddesses for a divine celebration on Olympus. Heavenly music filled the halls as everyone rejoiced in their achievements and the union between the divine and the mortal.

At the height of the party, Apollo raised his golden lyre and began to sing a song that transcended the limits of Olympus. His melodious voice resonated, telling the saga of his favorite child, full of courage, triumph and divine love. The song inspired tears of joy in the eyes of the gods and goddesses, witnessing the success of his protégé.

At the end of the performance, Apollo looked at you with pride in his eyes. "My child, you are a masterpiece that surpasses any divine song. Your heart is a melody that enchants the gods and transforms Olympus into a more radiant place. May your journey continue to shine like the stars that adorn the night sky."

Since that day, the bond between you and Apollo has only grown stronger. The god's blessings continued to guide you, while the teachings shared under the stars became a beacon of wisdom on his journey. And so, under the protection and love of Apollo, the heroic epic unfolded, marking destiny with the eternal light of the god of music and poetry.

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Ruggie Bucchi - Platinum Jacket Vignette

"Happy 100th Anniversary"

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Ruggie: Can't believe I'm here bein' a supporter for some museum like this. Guess ya never know what life's got in store for ya.

Ruggie: I mean, I totally wouldn't've ever paid to see paintings that I can't even fill my belly with…

Ruggie: But I guess it's okay if I don't gotta pay. I wonder if they got paintings I've seen in my textbooks.

???: This painting… These are the hyenas from the King of Beast's legends. When the three of them are lined up like this it's kind of intimidating…

Ruggie: Well, yeah, they were out there patrollin' lava quarries 'n goin' out on scoutin' missions, so.

Trey: You sure know your stuff, Ruggie. I guess that would make sense for a hyena beastman to know.

Trey: But still… Both patrolling and scouting seems like painstaking work.

Ruggie: Oh, yeah. From the stories I've heard, they had some pretty tight scrapes…

Ruggie: Like there's one where while they were out chasin' some stubborn foe, they ended up runnin' off a cliff tryin' to catch 'em…

Ruggie: Which had 'em endin' up flyin' into some real prickly thickets.

Trey: If it were me, I'd probably hesitate, worried about getting hurt. Guess the hyenas who worked under the King of Beasts were just that brave.

Ruggie: Brave? Then I guess I'll take that compliment, too. 'Cause I've jumped into thorny thickets like that a buncha times!

Trey: You've jumped into the thorny thickets…? A bunch of times!? Why would you do that…?

Ruggie: Actually, did you know? In the Sunset Savanna, there's this real steep cliff that's become a bit of a tourist attraction.

Ruggie: It's the perfect place to catch the settin' sun, so a ton of tourists go up there to snap a pic, leanin' over the fences 'n everything.

Ruggie: And like, sometimes there's folk that'll get so focused on settin' up the shot, or that'll bump into others that they'll drop and lose stuff.

Trey: I'd expect they'd have to let their stuff go if they dropped it off the cliff… But how does this all tie into you talking about the thorny thickets??

Ruggie: Sheeheehee. So actually, at the bottom of that cliff, there's a huge bramble of thorny thickets.

Ruggie: It's off-limits, and it's pretty dangerous, so no one really heads down there.

Ruggie: So, that's why I'd sneak down in the dead of night, and pick up all the lost items!

Ruggie: Sometimes I'd find little wrapped pieces of candy, watches 'n accessories, and even wallets!

Ruggie: Well, it kinda depended week to week what dropped, but… That was a great way to make some quick cash.

Trey: B-But if you had gotten injured, would all that have been worth it?

Ruggie: Yeah, true. Back when I was just a kid, I could slip in 'n out pretty easily, but I had to stop when I started getting' bigger.

Ruggie: Not only was I makin' big bucks, but the cliff's environment was getting' kept clean. Felt like a win-win deal to me.

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Ruggie: Oh, this one… It's a painting of the thunder god and his son.

Trey: Yeah, according to the legends, he came to the human world just after being born, and was raised by adoptive parents.

Ruggie: Basically, that means he was raised apart from his actual dad, right? Amazin' they actually look like they get along good.

Trey: Haha… I wonder. Do you get along with your dad, Ruggie?

Ruggie: Nah, I don't got one.

Ruggie: He left back when I was a kid, so I don't remember anythin' about him, 'n I don't know what he's up to now.

Trey: Oh… Is that so? Sorry, I didn't mean to overstep my bounds.

Ruggie: Huh, that reaction's pretty different than what I'm used to.

Ruggie: Back home, there's a ton of kids just like me, so usually they'd just shrug and go, "Oh, okay" and move on.

Trey: And I guess it doesn't sound like they're saying that just to be considerate.

Ruggie: Obviously. Because the bigger problem is not havin' the money to buy food!

Ruggie: Granny'd take care of me, but there wasn't much we could do 'bout our empty bellies…

Ruggie: When I was big enough, I'd start working together with all the kids in my little neighborhood to scrounge up some food.

Trey: Kids running around trying to gather food on their own… That's hard for me to imagine.

Ruggie: There's a buncha ways to gather up food. We'd go into town and ask for alms, or drop a line in the river.

Ruggie: We were always pretty hungry, so we'd pretty much do anything… Oh, like we had a great time once digging for potatoes.

Trey: Is digging up potatoes that exciting?

Ruggie: WELL, YEAH!

Ruggie: There's actually a type of potato that grows in my country that can get as large as 20 kilos…

Ruggie: Around the time the potato harvestin' was finishin' up, we all snuck into the fields at night…

Ruggie: And we'd pick up some stunted potatoes that were left behind, as well as dug up some other forgotten potatoes.

Ruggie: We were all up in arms to pick every single one before the sun rose!

Trey: Why'd you go at mid… Never mind, I'm not going to ask.

Ruggie: And then, this one year when I was diggin', I hit the jackpot!

Ruggie: It was a potato so huge I wouldn't've even been able to carry it with both arms! It had't've been heavier than 20 kilos～

Ruggie: Didn't think there'd be any potatoes left that huge… Maan, I really lucked out then.

Trey: 20 kilograms, huh… With something that big, I don't think there'd be much to worry about eating for a while.

Ruggie: Don'tcha think?

Ruggie: I was thinkin', like, we could dry whatever was leftover and turn it to powder to make it last a bit longer…

Ruggie: But then Granny ended up boilin' 'em, fryin' 'em, and basically makin' a ton of dishes. It was a potato party extravaganza!

Ruggie: Me and the other street kiddos were just packin' 'em away, and little by little it started to disappear…

Ruggie: In the end, I couldn't make anything to save it for later.

Trey: Ah… That's rough.

Ruggie: And I never saw a potato that huge ever again. Guess good luck like that only ever hits once in a while.

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Trey: Woah… This painting has a real powerful presence.

Ruggie: So, this is a painting of when the Thorn Fairy transformed into a dragon to fight, huh.

Trey: She looks way stronger than what her stories say. I bet I would be no match for her.

Ruggie: Eh!? Trey-san, you lookin' to pick a fight with the Thorn Fairy? It'd be waaay better to try 'n flatter her instead

Trey: Oho, but that might be the scarier route, don't you think? You might end up in deep trouble if you were to offend the Thorn Fairy instead.

Ruggie: Sheeheehee. Oh, but I'm pretty good with that kinda stuff.

Trey: Haha, well, I guess I have to admire that pluck.

Ruggie: But man, she's really something. She's the one that caused all that lightning too, right?

Ruggie: They say it was always thunderin' and lightnin' outside her castle as a way to keep intruders out… That's a huge undertakin', huh.

Ruggie: But with all those lightning strikes, I bet the bread prices were super cheap near the Thorn Fairy's castle.

Trey: Bread? …Ohh, right! Because when lightning strikes, certain particles are released in the air that helps plants grow.

Ruggie: Huh? Wait, are ya sayin' there's actually a whole science behind the whole "bread gets cheaper whenever it thunders"!?

Trey: Oh, isn't that what you meant?

Ruggie: I was just sayin' what Granny would always say…

Ruggie: Wait, so does that sayin' mean that 'cause more wheat gets harvested, more bread can get made, and that's why it's cheaper?

Trey: Yeah. Although, with how much we've developed our fertilizers nowadays, I don't know how much lightning strikes actually play a part anymore.

Ruggie: Cooool, I had no idea. Guess you Science Club folk know your stuff.

Ruggie: I bet Granny didn't really know the meanin' behind it like you did…

Ruggie: But I bet she saw with her own eyes the change in bread prices whenever there were tons of thunder and lightning.

Ruggie: But still… Kinda weird, huh. Sheeheehee.

Trey: Weird? What is?

Ruggie: Back when I was a kid, I only ever cared 'bout food, so there's no way I woulda been interested in learnin' why the bread was cheaper.

Ruggie: But now, I heard your whole spiel, and my reaction was to think it was pretty cool. Guess I'm maturin'.

Trey: Well… Maybe it's just that you can actually afford to take the time to listen now?

Ruggie: Maybe, maybe not. 'Cause my wallet's still pretty empty…

Ruggie: Oh hey, maybe this is just me bein' able to relax my stresses away, huh!? …Maybe not, heh.

Trey: Could be, if you're enjoying your time here, at least. Oops… Look at the time.

Trey: I think I'll head out to go check on how my dormmates are doing. See you, Ruggie.

Ruggie: 'Kaay, see ya. I'm gonna keep lookin' around this area a bit longer.

Ruggie: Hm? This painting… A lion cub's just lollygaggin' with a warthog 'n a meerkat.

Ruggie: I'm wonderin' if they even know all the scary things that can happen to animals that step outta their territory, hm?

Requested by Anonymous.

[misguidedasgardian]

The Hour of the Wolf (3)

III. The Tower

MASTERLIST

Summary: People are coming and going

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Targaryen!Reader

Warnings: Cursing, war, death, mentions of killings, genocide and war, threats, talks about bedding and non concensual sexual relationships, threats of mutilation, SPOILERS for ASOIAF, and Fire & Blood, also, might spoil House of the Dragon 

Wordcount: 4.6 k 

Notes: Sorry for the delay my loves! I’m travelling! and I’m so marveled by the things I see in real life that I’m having trouble entering into my magical world jeje

I must say… and warnings for spoilers for the chapter, but Maester Gerardys was brutally unalived by Aegon in Fire and Blood, yet I’m bringing him back to life because we need known faces in the keep! jeje I don’t want to made up so many characters! 

I did not double check this for mistakes

So this is what she meant with “that could be easily arranged”, Cregan thought, as he saw his Queen petting the snout of her huge fearsome dragon

Vhaelar? She called it?

It was big, very big, not that he had many dragons to compare it to besides Jacaerys’ dragon, this one was much bigger

White, it was unusual, his scales lit up under the sun, giving him an unrealistic look, like the huge beast didn’t belong in this plain

He had just seen it burn eighteen men to dust and yet, the creature didn’t even spare him a look, he didn’t felt threatened by the dragon, like she wouldn’t hurt him, like she knew him

You were speaking to her, in a language he couldn’t understand, perhaps it was High Valyrian, only he heard you speak his name to the dragon

And then the beast directed her golden eyes directly at him. it was barely a second before she turned her whole attention back to you

You were speaking to her, and she understood you perfectly 

The last child of Rhaenyra, the young Queen, the last dragon

An impulsive, broken young girl, young QUEEN, had the last dragon, the only one left

He smiled widely

You had the anger, and the power to back it up, you were going to be loved by your allies and feared by those who weren’t, and that was the perfect combinations, loved by millions, feared by them too

The huge beast raised her head, growling, you took some steps back and she took flight, her huge wingspan making his clothes flutter like it was the wind. You walked towards him with a soft smile on your face.

But the smile didn’t reach your eyes, it never did 

“I thought the dragons in your family…”

“She didn’t rest on the pit, that is why she was spared from the traitor’s rage”, you referred to the common folk as traitors… 

“The trials have come to an end, your grace”, he said surely

“Indeed”, you muttered

“Yet, I have send ravens to all corners of the realm, people from all over will come to swear their allegiance to you, so… busy weeks are coming”, he warned, you barely nodded

“I’m glad”, you said softly

“But not only that… they will not only bring their oaths, they will bring their problems, I fear I must warn you, they will make demands of you, the entire continent was devastated by a civil war, every town, city and holdfast”. You heard him intently and nodded

“Yes, thank you, my lord Stark”, you offered a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, and he sighed barely loudly

Should he be scared of you?

He felt like he was very close to a wild animal, he would never know how or when you were going to react. He was waiting for the perfect moment for you to snap and turn on someone or something

He really hoped you wouldn't

But somehow… he hoped you would

He wanted to see the fire in you, he had to stoke it, because fire was better than nothing, fire was better than the remains…

You were sitting the most dangerous seat on the realm, he needed you to be dangerous, if only a little bit, he needed to see the fight in you, a passion of some sorts 

That night he found you in the library, to his great surprise, you were reading tomes about Jaehaerys and Aegon the Conqueror’s rule 

You were tired, but didn’t want to relent the story about how The Good Queen Alyssane prohibited the Prima Nocta and with which laws

The Lord Hand my Queen, introduced your Queen’s Guard, you smiled at the man as you closed the huge and dusty book

“My Lord Hand”, you greeted

“My Queen”, he said, “may I”, he said painting to the chair, you nodded

He sat slowly in front of you, he got rid of his cape, instead wearing a leather best instead

“What are you reading? if I may ask?”, he said softly

“Just somethings about the laws that were created by the Good Queen Alysanne”, you said dismissively, “you needed to speak to me, my lord”

“It’s time, imperative and time sensitive that we name the new small council, we cannot rule without one”, he said, you barely nodded, “we will need, A master of coins, a master of laws, a master of ships, a Grand Maester, and… a Master of whispers if you choose to have one, and of course, a Hand and the Lord commander of your Queensguard”, he listed

“We have you”, you said with a smile, and Cregan barely nodded, this was not the time to inform you he wanted to return to the North… he will give you more time, “And Lord Arryk”, you muttered, “we have mAESTER gERARDYS”

“You wish to name him Great maester?”, he asked, you nodded, “very well”

“I don't trust anyone else”, you whispered

“What do you mean?”, he asked, concerned

“Maesters come from the Citadel… of Oldtown… of the Hightowers”, you whispered, Cregan nodded

“Yes, I understand your concerns”, he said softly, “how about Lord Corlys?”, he said then

“He is old, and betrayed my mother”, you said quickly, “his time has passed”, Cregan nodded

“I’m not sure if antagonizing House Velaryon is a good idea”, he said gently

“We pardoned him, and let him keep his properties”, you muttered, “he will have to be contented with that and his granddaughters”, you muttered

“Very well”, he said

“No Velaryons, no Hightowers”, you said firmly

“Tyland Lannister”, he said

“Master of Coin”, you said with a nod, “he might be a Lannister but he served King Viserys and…. Aegon… loyaly, we need the Lannisters”, you admitted, he nodded

“Great”

“After the war, who do you think has the greatest armada of the Seven Kingdoms?”, you asked 

“It has to be the Redwyne’s”, he said firmly

“Are they summoned to court?”

“Yes my Queen”

“Good”, Cregan smiled as you never stopped to surprise him

“They pledge for Aegon, but I’m sure under the right circumstances, they will bend the knee to you”

“Then we will make sure, that the Tarlys present themselves first”, you said, “the Lords of the Reach, and make sure we serve their wine at the festivities”, Cregan nodded 

“So, we have a grand maester, a Lord Commander, a Master of coins and luckily a master of ships…”, he listed

“We need a maester of Laws”, you said softly, “a strong, joust man…or woman”, you corrected, “someone who draws respect…someone who knows the real world, who has traveled and seen to the furthest corners of the Realm”

“You are describing Lord Corlys”, he said, concerned

“There has to be someone else”, you whined

“I might know someone”, muttered Cregan, “He served the blacks”

“Good”, you muttered with shy smile

“He is at court, he was summoned when I called for the remainder of your mother’s small council”. Yes, introducing you to important Lords and Ladies of the realm, he needed to ease you into politics, who to trust and who don’t

Making you Queen was not only for revenge, not because it was the right thing to do…

Were you actually good for this? where you meant for the throne?

“Even if we don’t need a master of whispers, I think we should have one”, he said softly

“Who that might be?”, you asked back

“I will look into it”, he was also going to look into who was going to replace him as hand when his inevitable return to the North comes to be, but he didn’t want to say that yet…

He needed you stable, and surrounded by people you trust first

“You should have some sleep my Queen we all need it”, he said gently, you nodded, and raised from your sit, “I’ll walk you to your rooms”

He had the rooms of the king ready for you, and it was a curious thing to sleep there, but you did, it had been two years since your grandfather, and your mother didn’t use the rooms, so… it wasn’t that odd.

They replaced the upholsterers, tapestries and paint, and it looked beautiful, filled with flowers and soft colors, you liked it, it was spacious

Cregan stopped at the doors

“Thank you, my lord Stark”, you didn’t know why, but you always felt relaxed and safe next to him, but now, you felt nervous

“You are most welcome my Queen”, he said softly, “tomorrow, I’ll introduce you to your prospect of Master of Laws”, he said softly, “we were made brothers at arms at a time in White Harbor when I was very young”, he said softly

“Good”, you said said with a soft smile, “If he is a friend of you, he is a friend of the crown”

“you are speaking like a true Queen”, he said with a relieved smile

“Good night, my lord hand”

“Good night my queen”. he said firmly, and you closed the door gently, as a guard was posted at your door

The Very next day, the sweet maids dressed you in one of your mother’s dresses, of when she was young, a reed dress with details of gold and a white collar that made you look truly regal, they fixed your hair and applied a soft powder in your face to even the colors on your skin

They even placed rings in your fingers and a necklace in your neck

Cregan thought a private introduction was better for you, so he ask you break your fast in the gardens, it was getting chilly, but the morning were still beautiful 

As you already had some buttered bread and fruits, Cregan nodded to the man beside them, both appearing  in the garden.

You were a bit startled when Arryk announced them, but smiled as you saw both men approaching

Of course you recognized Cregan, but the man besides him? Gods

He had a… singular… appearance, he was of a dirty blond hair, unruly beard decorated by silver beads, his hair was long thought trimmed in the sides letting you see the skin of his head, the hair that remained, in the center and top of his head was braided backwards by a long braid, he had tattoos in the sides of his skull, he was dressed in blue leather, and furs, high boots. 

He was… peculiar

“My Queen”, said Lord Stark, “may I introduce to you, Lord Reysen Celtigar”, he said, “Son or Bartimos Celtigar, your mother’s master of coins”

“Celtigar?”, you called, impressed

“My beautiful Queen”, he said, dropping to the floor in front of you, “You must not remember me, you were young, but in the years you lived in Dragonstone I visited a few times with my grandsire and father”, he said quickly, “I was, being the second son, send to travel the world, I was not here for the war, sadly…”

“Your house loyalty to mine is clear, my lord”, you said softly, “you should you join me for breakfast”

“You are too kind”, both men sat in front of you

“Lord Celtigar here has traveled far and wide, all over the Seven kingdoms, and even Essos and beyond”, said Cregan softly

“Really?”, you asked

“I shall tell you everything you’d like to know, my sweet Queen”

And Cregan Stark and Reysen Celtigar distracted you from the shadows lurking on the corners of your eyes.

Cregan saw how Reysen shamesly would court you in front of him, how your smile lit up the garden and how you’d giggle like the young women you actually were, this was going to be good for you, have men that are blindly loyal to you, rather by loyalty, or pure desire and love, but loyal in the end.

And that is how the Celtigar was named Master of Laws, he was young, yes, but he had seen things many haven’t yet, he was of Cregan’s age, and his elder brother was the Lord of Claw Island, fiercely loyal to you and your cause.

With a small council made up, people named, only Lord Redwyne was missing.

The Hightowers you hated… wholeheartedly, but you needed to rally the other most important houses of the reach, with the Redwyne and the Tarlys that was possible, assured also

In the coming days and weeks, the castle was brought back to life and filled with people oof all noble houses, the entire city was receiving thousands of lords, ladies and their people

And audiences needed to begin, people were going to swear their allegiance all over the week, they were going to make pleas and requests, and at the end, they were going to watch you being crowned, the location was yet to be disclosed, and Cregan feared you had to make this happen in Harrenhal, were it could held a host this big, but it was too late.

You were going to be crowned at the Throne room

And Cregan could see that your heart was not truly invested, but… today he had the maids dress you and fix your hair in a magnificent way, dressed in black and red and gold, your hair mostly let loose, decorated with golden treads, and a crown made by your own hair half of it braided in magnificent braids

Not a Queen, but you looked like an empress

the epitome of royal power

And the entire seven Kingdoms was going to see you like this. 

He escorted you, alongside your small council, and sat you on the Iron Throne, in front of the room filled with expectant lords and ladies 

“This day, we receive you most lustrous Lords and Ladies from all over the Seven Kingdoms”, presented Cregan, “for you to swear your allegiance to the new Queen and bring an end to the conflict that devastated our lands for two years”, he said out loud, “you stand in the presence of (Y/N) of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and protector of the realm”

“All hail the Queen!”, chanted Arryk, and the room came alive with their chants

“Hail the Queen!”, it made you shake, grabbing tightly onto the throne

Your grandfather was right, this thing was truly uncomfortable 

“The audiences will begin”, presented Cregan Stark

“Allow me, to be the first!”, Cregan and Reysen shared concerned looks when the first one to step forwards, was, indicated by the embroidery on his clothes, a hightower. 

Your stomach dropped, you suddenly wanted to throw up

“Lyonel Hightower, my Queen”, you raised an eyebrow, not impressed with this pompous individual

“Of course”, you looked at Cregan, annoyed, who had decided to invite this clown into court

“This Kingdom had seen enough war”, he said easily, “let’s stop this animosity, let’s bend broken bonds”

“How do you suggest we do that?”, you asked 

“Through a marriage pact”, he said and you chuckled darkly, “let’s join our houses, my Queen”

“Yes, because that really helped my grandfather, did it not?”, you said with poison in your tongue, “worked so good the last time”, but this clown was clearly not reading the room. The throne room was deadly quiet, but he just kept talking

“I will bring this Kingdom back to glory, with all the power of Oldtown”, he just kept talking, “when I marry you, most gracious Queen, we will have the prowess to…”, he kept going on and on, and you only wanted to throw up, that is until… 

You saw her

Right then, hidden amongst other lords and ladies

Her hair was now tainted with gray, his face cut by age and stress, but she was there… dressed in light blue

Alicent hightower

When she met your eyes you saw her flinch, because they reflected what you felt about her…. utter and pure hate.

“...My aunt”, that is when your attention was returned, “the most gracious Dowager Queen is to be placed back in the citadel…”

“The only place she should be placed is deep in the black cells”, you barely whispered, but that sound alone made the entire court, even the pompous bastard, shut up

“My Queen…”, muttered Alicent, taking a step forwards, and everyone remained quiet

“What do you want?”, you asked, visibly shaking with rage

“I’m here to beseech you, to ask you to give me permission to be sent to Old Town…”

“Why?”, you cut her, “so you can plot on how to take the crown from my family again?”

“No…”, she said, shaking a smile, “I only wish to live the remains of my life in peace”, you scoffed

“My Queen, when we marry, our family…”

“I’d rather die alone than marry a HIghtower”, you said loudly, and you heard gasps and snickers alike, “you don’t understand what is going on, so let me enlighten you, you will surrender your entire treasury to the crown”, you said firmly, and the room was silent again as the color dropped from Lyonel’s face, “ten million golden dragons?”, you said

“But my Queen”

“The hightowers are enemies of the crown as it stands right now”, you said, “and the price to be considered members of the Kingdoms again is that one”

“But…”

“You have two children, they will be my cupbearers, squires of court, here, in the Red Keep”, you muttered, and he nodded rapidly, “fail to meet my expectation, fail to jump when I say so, and I’ll make sure that I truly bring back this kingdoms to the glory they deserve because I will burn your High Tower and the Citadel to the ground, the last dragon is mine to command, remember that, a dragon is worth more than gold, and more than a thousand armies…”, the man shakily dropped to the ground on one knee

“Yes my Queen”

“… and you…”, you turned your rage to Alicent now

Cregan watched you from the corner of his eye, fearing the worst, he had advice you to leave her be, chained, but alive, but he was not going to refute you now, in front of the entire court, if you commanded your guard to slay the old Queen, the order had to be carried out, there was no other choice 

You only grabbed onto the throne tightly, trying to reign in your emotions,

“How dare you?”, you asked finally, the eyes of the old Queen snapped open, “I wanted to have you burn with the rest of the traitors, because you were the true orchestrator of the death of my entire family”, you accused, “YOU!”, you said, standing up, “you usurped my mother and threw the entire Kingdom into chaos, but I, decided to spare you, because of my hand’s advice, to ignore you, let you live the rest of your withered life in peace, yet you have the audacity of coming here and demand things of me”, you said fiercely

“No… I didn’t demand I… It wasn’t me!”, she ran over her own words, nervous

“Lord Hightower”, you called, now turning your attention to the old shivering men in front of you, “thanks to the audacity of your aunt, you will pay for her, five hundred thousand gold dragons, or else”, he opened his eyes widely, but lowered his head

“Yes my queen”

“And you, Alicent, it’s clear that we have been very indulgent, you are from now on forbidden to receive any visitors, and you better spend the rest of your miserable life avoiding me, or else I’ll have your head, because I’m sick of looking at it, I see it every night in my worst and darkest nightmares already”

“Y-your grace”, she trembled

“And everytime you see Lord Stark, you better fall to your knees and kiss the floor where he is about to walk, it is because of him you still draw breath, instead of my parents, my brothers, and your children”, you said with disdain

That is what it took for her to break in sobs, one hand trying to drown them, and the other clutching her chest

With only one look and gesture of hand of Lord Stark, two of your three Queensguards grabbed Alicent gently and removed her from the throne room

You took a long breath as Lyonel and all traces of the color green disappeared from the room. ou closed your eyes for a second, took one, two, three long breaths, and you opened them again, you saw your smile council, Cregan nodded at you, giving you his approval 

“So, who is next?”, you asked out loud, and the entire court seemed to take a step back. Except from one, old Lord, who stepped forwards, helped by a cane and the help of a royal guard

“Lord Bewford, of House Blount your grace”, the man introduced himself and you smiled softly, nodding at him and signaling to him to present his troubles, “I gave 500 hundred men to the cause of the righteous Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, is not much, but in that army where my two sons, they are both gone now”, he murmured, “Winter is coming, I need strong young men to help in the fields and around my household”, he said shakily. You nodded

“I will never forget what you sacrifice for our cause, good Lord”, you said, “I will cut off taxes for the coming season, and furthermore…”, the maester gave you a piece of paper, “I have news of the local orphanage, where girls and boys are in need of roof and food, I bet that with willingness, they can help you in exchange for a home”, you said softly, and the old man’s face lit up

“Thank you, your grace!”, he said, trying to kneel 

Cregan smiled widely, and the rest of the Lords and Ladies took that step forwards raising their hands wanting to be greeted by you. 

It was going to be a long day

But you held your ground with patience and grace, that Cregan thought you must have inherited from your grandparents.

Your rage dwindled as your tiredness grew, but the court did not witness more outbursts, your distaste and even hate for the Hightowers and exclusively to them, make the rest of the royal houses relax and bend the knee more easily, picking sides between the Targaryen Queen and the most hated house in the Kingdoms.

Cregan thought you were going to be met with more resistance, but he was surprised to see the ease with which the Lords and Ladies of the house directed themselves at you. He was amazed by how many marriage proposals you received, to which you made deaf ears to, but they were still there. He had a young page to write down the names, for him to study for future prospects. 

And when you offered Lord Redwyne to be your master of ships and he agreed with a laugh in front of the entire court, that sealed the day. 

The Keep was boasting with life, just as he wanted it to be, now that he didn’t met with incredible support of the houses, he had to separate the true loyal, with the ass licking ones.

He stopped the audiences at four hours after noon, to give you rest, and there were more things he needed to do. 

He had to speak to you about which houses you would like to invite to spend the season at court, to make your court.

He was met in the hallways by Arryk

“Have you done it?”, he asked, “have you looked for potential brothers at arms?”

“Oh yeah, my Lord, but we have a small, or rather… a large problem…” 

“What now?”, they both reached the second story balcony to the courtyard, and Cregan stopped in his tracks when he looked down and the courtyard was filled to the last inch with hundreds of men from all ages and sizes, soldiers, knights

“They all want to do the trials to belong to the new Queensguard”, said Arryk with a wide smile, and Cregan laughed

Of course everyone wanted to serve the young new Queen

“Alright, let’s start by sorting them by Kingdom, and if they have real battle experience”, Cregan commanded, with a smile, “have some fun”

“Yes my Lord”, said Arryk, almost laughing

But then, your new appointed small council called to Cregan Stark to an important meeting

When Cregan entered the small council room he felt the uneasiness, the nervousness of all the important men gathered there, and as he walked to the head of the table, all looks were on him

“Gentlemen”, he greeted, if there was something wrong, he wish they would tell him, “Please, let’s not waste any more time, tell me why we are here, why we are meeting without our Queen”, he said hastily, gods, he hated politics

“My Lord Hand”

“Why are we meeting without the Queen?”, he asked severely

“She is our Queen, yes, but she is young, and clearly unstable. The Hightowers decided to take it, yes, but what when they don’t?”, muttered Lord Redwyne 

“So…?”, he asked, “she is right, they are a haunted house, that brought down the House of the Dragon with their schemes, and their ambition”, he said angrily

“Lord Hightower has a point, the Queen will need a husband, we need security of the Line, and also… someone who will… help her…”, muttered Tyland

“Well, I came up with a list, and we present it to her…”, muttered Cregan

“It has to be you Lord Stark”, said the maester, that did took him by surprise

“No…”, he said

“You signed an alliance”, remembered Lord Lannister

“When I signed it, the Queen was still alive, Young Jacaerys, the heir to the Iron Throne was still alive…”, he said gently, “I was supposed to be married to a princess with five brothers, who was supposed to become the Lady of Winterfell, I was not supposed to become King consort of the Seven Kingdoms”, he said severely 

“It has to be you, Lord Stark!”, said Redwyne again

“How about you?”, he asked, looking at his friend, Celtigar, who had remained quiet, “I have a five year old son!”, he said, “alone in Winterfell, with no mother to care for him, I have to go back to him, I can’t abandon him”

“You can come and go as you please, your wife will have a dragon!”, said the Maester

“it can’t be me”, he repeated

“You are the most loyal and trusting, the one everyone will trust as a King consort”, fought Tyland

This is not what he wanted

He had come here because he had promised the Queen, because he wanted to bring justice, and even perhaps vengeance to the realm

But he had signed the pact of ice and fire…

“The North remembers my Lord, your name, is in that treaty”, said the maester, “I saw you sign it”

This is not what he sign up for

I see you very quiet my Lord Celtigar...

Ok so... this was another chapter of them being... accustomed to their roles... next one we will see more of reader's and Cregan's relationship and we will be more personal... we will also see Aegon again, poor thing... again... sorry for the delay

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[quiteliterallyilliterate]

MDNI

Ok, for real this time.

CW: Sex/Sexual content, not feral twilight, but he’s almost there, light marking, breeding

Reader has feminine anatomy and no pronouns.

Not proofread!!

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

Spring was a very prominent season among Ordon. Sure, every season had its place in their ritualistic life. But given Ordon was a small farming village, the icey cold of winter and droughts of summer didn’t provide them with much. Hell— even the goats were cranky without fresh grass to gnaw on.

But the sun would, with time, melt the snow and nourish the land. Small flowers would poke up on the edges of pathways and riverbeds. The bank would crack as the sheets of ice splintered and gave way. The grounds would soften and absorb the first rain of many months.

Link had always loved spring. As a boy, he loved the warm sun on his skin as he picked away at fresh grass, splitting the blades and getting soft dirt under his fingernails. As he grew, the season proved to be enjoyable far beyond just its temperance. Laying largely in, of course, that his job of caring for a herd of goats relied primarily on their happiness. Spring was kind to him. The sun didn’t beat at his skin, the goats didn’t groan their discontent, the work was plentiful, but pleasant.

Only one true downside sprung to mind with the season of spring. He remembers being particularly younger -perhaps his first season working as a hand with the goats- and getting rammed by a particularly competitive ram. His chest and back had minor bruises, and his palms were scraped.

It was that year he learned there was a lot more to caring for a herd of animals than simply providing them what they needed.

‘One must adjust themselves’ Fado explained as he wrapped the scrapes, ‘To the animals, you are new. Not one of them. Competition to that ram, in his eyes.’ He chuckled heartily as Link explained that he was only trying to help feed them. ‘They ain’t smart enough to know that, kiddo. Don’t you worry yerself. Now run along, I have things handled.’

The years passed. He grew familiar with the herd and they grew familiar with him. He could pick out which were particularly moody, the others more friendly. He knew their waking and feeding times to the minute. He knew which were the most prone to being lame.

But most importantly related to avoiding injury, like that of his prior example, when they’d mate.

And though he never would admit it aloud to a single soul so long as he had dignity, the idea was captivating. The thought that someone could feel the primal need to fuck so badly that the world becomes irrelevant was one he’d often entertain on quieter nights, his lungs struggling to draw steady breath as his hands wrapped around his cock. There was something about that need to rut into somewhere soft and warm and fertile never failed to draw strangled whines from his throat.

But of course, that was before he had to actually tend to said urges.

That was before his soul was shattered and welded back together with something more beast than man.

He’d found, more often than not, that a rut was more annoying than anything else. He was constantly covered in a thin sheen of sweat from his body temperature being so elevated. Worked wonders for attracting attention as a bead of sweat would travel down the contours of his muscles. However, having consistently damp sheets because of it was so annoying he’d sleep on the couch most nights. The aggression was mostly annoying because it resulted in him cursing out the goats so often he was sure he looked utterly insane.

That was, of course, not even mentioning the sexual aggression.

The weeks dragged out and the temperatures raised up. And every single night Link would come home, take a shower, eat some dinner, and proceed to spend the rest of the evening with his hands between his legs. Occasionally a pillow would find its way between strong, plush thighs, his hips bucking and grinding pathetically at the sensation. But even after his hands, thighs, stomach and bed were stained with sticky cum, another wave of mind-numbing heat would roll over him.

Notably most annoying was there was no solution. Horny as he was, the beast would shove away any lover he tried to take in distaste. It craved something special. Something specific to sate his urges and carry his kin.

At first, he thought this to be a cruel and unusual curse from Hylia. Her way of forsaking her hero who was permanently ‘tainted’. It only seemed fitting when one considers the purity culture the church possesses. That it was something beyond simply shameful to tend to temptation.

But then he met you. You who was always different. Who both him and wolf pined for. Who had him tripping over himself for your affection. You who he didn’t care about the consequences. So long has he had you.

You who did not spit at him for who he was— what he was. You who loved him regardless. You who kissed his tattoos and markings. You who reassured him during his anxiety attack, that you weren’t ’too good for him’ that he truly was deserving of love either way.

So much had shifted since then, though nothing really had at all. The both of you both still split chores and cuddled at night. But now both hemispheres of his sentience could be satisfied knowing you were his. First as a lover who he could cuddle and kiss, someone to cherish until the end of his being. And second as a mate who he could protect and claim, someone to breed and carry his pups.

Not much changed as of genuine dynamics, but his outlook most certainly had.

Spring, familiar in the back of his mind, began to bloom. The snow melted off the fields, the life returning to the woods, his mind running wild at seeing any newly exposed skin.

To some extent he felt indecent. The man in him wanted to help you prepare for the festival, to caress your warm skin and pepper your cheeks with kisses. He wanted to enjoy life at your side. The wolfish, however, wanted nothing more than to pin you to the bed and fuck you senseless. To make new life as if his own was dependent on it. The civility instilled in him was mortified with the thoughts of the primal.

But that of course, made them no less present. Nor did it made his skin no less warm, or his jealousy less looming.

Ordon never really held large events, but the equinox of each season was mutually assured to be the time to go all in. Each family would show up with multiple dishes and drinks and the festivities would last long into the early hours of the day. It was your first time at the spring festival, the children presenting you with a flower crown and giddy grins. You both ate and drank your shares, laughing among the village. Just like any other family at the table… that was, excluding the lack of little ones.

Eventually, some of the more drunken began to sing and chant, the makeshift beat and music causing some to dance and sway. Link hung back as you were tugged into the crowd by Ilia. The fading sun caught your skin, dousing it in a radiance beyond mortality. He could hear your laughter amidst the voices, clear and crisp. You were divine, he decided. Not just perfect or stunning, but someone he’d devote himself to until he had nothing left to give.

He’s actually quite unsure on how long it was he sat there in admirance. He got more than a few comments on how utterly lovesick he was for you, but it didn’t matter. Not to him. Not now you were finally his. You came back, a smile lingering on your lips as you kissed him, your hand squeezing his shoulder with some sense of urgency.

“Are you alright?” His hand, rough from a life of nothing but work, cupped your jaw with such delicacy. His voice was hushed, not wishing to draw attention to you in the case something truly was wrong. You grabbed him by the collar, demanding him closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you spoke.

“I think it’s time we headed home.” And who was he to deny you? Especially not with the lilt in your voice, one that had him weak willed to your order.

He didn’t bother putting you down as he walked through the front door. He had you on the bed in seconds. He straddled your hips, a single strong hand pressing you to the mattress by the neck. His hands tugged sharply at your shirt, ripping away the fabric with a muttered promise for a new shirt. He immediately defended upon the skin, latching and sucking marks and bruises.

“Yer so fuckin’ stunning sugar” He whispered against your skin, kissing the hickey he just planted.

“All laid out f’me, huh?” His accent thickened, his teeth grazed against the fragile skin of your throat, pulling it taught in places.

“All yours, just for you” You managed to weakly affirm. He grinned, sharp and suggestive.

“All mine.” He nipped at your neck, his subconscious running crazy with the scent of your skin. Begging him once more to claim— to mark what’s his. Reverently, he kisses the lovebites he leaves. Some bleed, but his tongue travels along each ridge in the bite mark. He savours your blood on his tongue. It’s the finest drug, setting each half of his mind reeling and his own blood rushing. He travels to your perked nipples, suckling on them both in turns as his hand massages the other one.

“So good for me.” He lets his hand trail down to your thighs, pressing them open. He chuckles at how easily they spread apart. A fang drags lightly against your skin as he kissed right above your hips, directly on top of where your uterus would be.

“G’na look so pretty, all stuffed with my pups.” He looked up at you through his lashes, his hands tightening around your thighs with the look of need on your face.

“I’ll help ya’ darlin’ don’t you worry” He slid back, hooking a finger over your waistband and asking a slightly shaky “may I?”

“Please, Link I-“ His hands ripped through any clothes that separated his mouth from your cunt. His hands slid to your hips to pull them even closer to his face as he lapped away. A starving man would’ve been more civilised with their meal.

But as far as he was concerned, he was drinking the most intoxicating wine straight from the tap.

He payed no mind to your whines, nor did he slow as your thighs squeezed his head. He would occasionally dive up, his tongue toying with your clit. He lets your fingers thread hrough his hair, pulling him as close as possible before gushing into his maw. He revels in the pain of your knuckles tugging at your hair. He leans in closer, trying to drink you in even more. You tried to pull back to give him breathing room, only to be pulled back in by the hips. He licked your pussy clean, some cum still dripping down his chin. Your hips buck at the sight, a man so pussydrunk he could die of suffocation between your thighs and be happy. He gently traveled back up to kiss either of your cheeks and comb through your hair, massaging out the insides of your thighs as you resurfaced from your mind.

“Love?” He praised you in his tone alone, his forehead pressed against yours as he untangles himself from between your legs.

“Yes?” You open one half-lidded eye to see a beggar man, eyes full of such hope.

“C-Can I,-“ He didn’t need to say ask before you knew the question.

“Yes.” He’s careful, as of trying to convey to you in the motion of pressing your legs upward just how much he loves you.

Something in his eyes darkens the second he’d sunken inside your heat. He paused, letting you adjust to him and your muscles to relax.

“Fuck that greedy hole a’ yours fits me- so so well” He grumbles out, his chest rising and falling, as if staying still were truly a great effort to him. He bares his teeth, unnaturally sharp for one of his kind. His hips suddenly draw back and snap against your own, his length pushing against your cervix. He mumbles fragmented praises incoherently, slamming into you with an abusive pace, contrasted to the slow circling of your clit. His hand is so warm against your sensitive nerves, you want help but buck and wail in a desperate attempt to keep the stimulation as you get closer and closer to cumming. And you know you’re not alone— his grunts turning raspy the closer he himself gets to cumming, almost like a growl.

“Gna’ knock you up.” His hips buck out of time, but certainly no less fast. Your cunt flutters with the dizzying combination of sensations.

“You want that? My litter? Pups of our own?” Perhaps it was the near ferality in his tone that caused you to topple over. Or maybe it was his two fingers that curled around your clit. Even his cock nudging against your most sensitive bundle of nerves. He followed not too soon after, your silken walls squeezing around him must’ve been exactly the fix he’d been lusting after.

You both spent a few minutes curled up, catching your breath and letting your minds settle. You begin to shift, only to be met with a needy whine and arms around your abdomen.

“Nonono! Not yet- Please stay still” Link’s arms were loose, willing to let you go if that were your decree. You made no motion to move, much to his delight. He kneaded out any of your sore muscles and whispered praises into your hair as he played with it. Your eyelids began to flutter, sleep only staged off by his quiet whisper.

“Hey Darlin’?”

“Hm?”

“I love you. I love you so much.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Ambitious King.

Long live the King of Beasts, he who shines like the sun.

He stands atop the heap, clutching victory in his righteous grasp.

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

"We've come to finals of the interschool Spelldrive tournament!" an announcer blares over the stadium. "It's down to the wire, and this will be the deciding round. With the scores tied, it’s anyone’s game!!"

A crowd chomps at the bit for a winner to emerge from the field. They lean forward in their seats, clutch onto hope, stuff their mouths with soda and popcorn. This is a show, the players, actors, and they, the audience.

Leona allows himself a smirk.

We’ll give’m a real show-stopper then. That crown is as good as mine.

“What should our strategy be this time, sir?” a teammate—a Scarabia student—asks.

They’re huddled shoulder to shoulder, one student contributed from each of the seven dorms. Their allegiances may lie in different places, but they all wear the same black and violet uniform. They are all Night Ravens, united under one banner: his.

“We’ll finish this in a single decisive blow,” Leona replies, snapping his goggles on. “I’ll take the disc and score us that final point. The rest of you, cover me.”

“You heard the boss,” the smallest player says. It’s Epel, tiny but feisty—a contrast to his big blue eyes and lilac waves of hair. “Don’t worry, Leona-senpai! I’ll fer sure keep’m offa yer tail!”

“That’s what I like to hear, kid.” He raises his head and calls, “Clear!”

And with that, the players peel off into their own positions. The other team, uniforms pristine white and hemmed in royal blue, are patiently waiting. Leona pulls up to the center of the field where the referee and the opposing team’s leader await.

When he looks, he falters.

It’s a face that is frighteningly similar to his own.

The same skin color, the same lion ears and tail, the same construction of the features—if not softer and more friendly. His mane is held up in a ponytail, bright red-orange that fades into a golden yellow. He’s younger than he should be, missing the slight creases under his warm brown eyes and the lines that flank his perpetually smiling mouth.

“Falena?”

An icy dread creeps up from his core. The world around him seems to slow and come to a complete stop.

But this can’t be. My brother is 10 years older than me. He’s no longer a student, he’s—

“Leona? Is something wrong?” Falena inquires with a cheeky grin. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to play against family.”

Annoyance flares up.

Brother or not, Leona detests that smile. The smile of a man that has robbed him of everything.

“Dream on,” he snarls back. “I’m overthrowing Royal Sword Academy and you."

The referee lets the disc drop and blows into his whistle. “BEGIN!!”

"Aaand it's started!!" the announcer declares.

His body instinctively kicks into action. He swipes the frisbee, keeping it afloat in a blaze of blood-red magic.

RSA swarm him, magical pens at the ready.

“Protect him…!” he hears Epel shout. “Protect the king!!”

His team charges, each of them trained on their target. NRC and RSA, reflecting the other, copying movements as they bound around on the field, seeking an opening or cutting it off.

Leona blows into enemy territory, furiously racing to the goal post.

"What's this?! It looks like Captain Kingscholar of the NRC team has already devised a plan to secure victory. They're closing off any aid the RSA team can offer to each other!"

The crowd revs up like an engine coming alive, a slumbering city waking. Blood thunders in his ears, louder than his audience.

"Oh no, you don't!"

"Oooh, and here comes the upset! It's Captain Kingscholar of the RSA team, come to interfere with the game plan!"

Leona swerves, and a stream of fire narrowly misses him. "Tsk!"

A flash of red and gold, and there's his brother at his side. "Sorry, Leona. It won't be that easy."

"Knock it off. I don't have time to play games with you!"

He dives, trying to shake Falena off--but he pursues, relentless in the chase. They thread each other in the sky, trading spells.

Explosions of heat and color. Shards of ice whizzing by, columns of water. Windy whips lashing at them. All-consuming light and darkness.

"This is amazing, folks! We are witnessing a brotherly quarrel the likes of which we've never seen before... Look at that dazzling display of flight technique and spellwork!"

Through it all, Falena' laughs.

So carefree, so cheerful. A knife twists in his chest, and the anger spikes again.

"That's enough...! I'm ending this," Leona snarls.

His magic collects in a single sphere. There is no body to it, no true shape--only a contained vortex of gales. They violently churn in an endless cycle, raising a storm in a jar.

He sends it hurtling at Falena, who moves to conjure a barrier--

Too late.

The ball expands, releasing its energy in one deep sigh. The audience is slammed back into their seats, the players blown to the ground or sent crashing into the bounds of the stadium. They're dazed, confused, scrambling to rebalance on their brooms.

The path, he sees, is clear.

Now...!

He lets out a monstrous roar and blitzes for the goal post. The disc sparkles, charging with power for the final blow as he gallops toward his prize.

The announcer hops back on, his voice frantic. "Could this be it?! Can Captain Kingscholar of the NRC team reclaim the throne from his brother?!"

Noise builds around him. RSA players calling out to each other, NRC players changing his name, the crowd cheering.

It's now or never.

Leona spikes the disc with all his might. It clears, the winning shot like a shooting star. Some golden object encapsulated in a blaze of fire.

The adrenaline in his blood sings with triumph. His tired muscles, his heavy breathing, the sweat upon his brow--badges of honor.

The sound intensifies, joined by whistles and shrieks. Feet stomping, hands clapping. People standing and hugging their neighbors. (Leona thinks he sees Crowley among them, sobbing uncontrollably.)

“This is incredible, ladies and gentlemen! You’ve just witnessed history being made today…! Night Raven College has snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, breaking Royal Sword Academy’s 99 year win streak!!"

Leona slowly returns to the ground, dismounting from his broom. He lands beside Falena, who is sprawled on his back and wearing the usual smile.

"Ahahah, looks like you beat me," he says casually.

"... Fool. Get up, you look ridiculous. The acting king of the Sunset Savanna shouldn't be rolling around in the dirt." Leona looks away, but awkwardly offers a hand.

Falena laughs and accepts it, hauling himself up. "That's a funny joke. When did you get a sense of humor?"

He scowled. "I didn't make one."

"Are you still half asleep? And you still beat me?" Falena punches him in the bicep. "That's my talented big bro."

"What... big bro?"

There it is again: something cold and sinister inside of him. The lingering feeling of wrongness.

Suddenly, the adrenaline in him turns toxic, and he feels as though his flesh and bones are burning. Leona seizes Falena by the shoulders and shakes him.

"What the hell is going on... Gaaah!"

A metallic screech fills the stadium. Pain blossoms in his ears, and Leona rushes to guard them, hands dropping away from Falena.

"Oops, sorry! Technical difficulties, folks!" the announcer apologizes. "It looks like even our equipment wants to cheer for Captain Kingscholar of the NRC team, the star player of today! Let's give him a round of applause!!"

They explode with excitement, Clapping and calling out louder than he can think.

"What a judicious young man!"

"He controls such powerful magic with ease...!"

He stands there, shocked, at the rain of adoration. Him, recognized? Respected, saluted, and seen as the wonder he is? Him?

His mind clouds.

What is this,,,?

"Leona-saaaan!!"

He turns, finding his teammates jogging over, Epel at the head. There are members of his own dorm with them--Ruggie, Jack.

"We gotcha now, Leona-san! Thought you could get away without getting your fur ruffled, huh?" Ruggie snickers, then gives Jack a thumbs-up. "Alright, fellas. You know what to do!"

"Hah, the hell is this? I didn't ask for a surprise after working my tail off."

"Sorry, Leona-senpai! Ruggie-senpai's orders!" Jack says very seriously. "This is the only way to give you a proper sendoff for carrying us to victory... You've earned it!"

"1, 2, 3...!"

"Wha...?!"

Leona is seized and hoisted into the air with a collective whoop of excitement. Tossed up, up, up. The stadium lights glaring, sound blasting.

He returns back to his peer's arms, and heaved up again. Down and up, down and up. Each pass makes him more nauseous, blinded and deafened by the dizzying joy.

"Long live the king! Long live the king!!" they chant.

The king... me? Leona fights against it, pushing as hard as he can.

But his body is tired, his mental capacities drained, his emotions worn. The situation, too sweet, too cloying.

I'm... the king... I won. This is my prize.

He closes his eyes and lets himself fall.

This time, for good.

When he opens them again, he swears he sees a dark figure flying high above the stadium. Not on a broom, but floating of his own accord. A pair of horns protrudes him his head, and he glimpses a pair of ghostly white hands clapping.

One additional spectator with glowing green eyes.

"Congratulations, Kingscholar."

[hotpinkstars]

kaeya, shenhe, and miko with married/marriage hcs? tyyy

-> married

synopsis -> how said characters are like during marriage.

a/n -> HI OMG this is so cute!!!!!!! thanks for requesting mwa!! i'm sorry about how late this is and if it doesn't make sense i'm half asleep and i'm listening to travis scott so. train of thought may have been elsewhere.

warnings -> none!

w/c -> 1.2k

-> kaeya

kaeya is certainly one hell of a husband, that's for sure.

it’s not that he’s a bad one, he just goes about marriage in his own way. your marriage will be filled with late nights and celebrating a hard day at the bar. not that you don’t mind, though, the more time spent with your husband the better!

his teasing attitude won’t go away even when you’ve been married for quite a while. in fact, it’ll only get worse (not in a bad way, just more of it). he’s known you long enough to know what bothers you and what doesn’t. 

he’s not too cuddly, but certainly won't be opposed to it if you want it. he runs cold anyways, so it's always nice to have an extra sheet of warmth laying on top of him while the two of you sleep. it happened more often when you two were just dating, but still, it’s fun to do it anyways.

kaeya and you like to sit either on the couch inside or outside on the porch (depending on the weather) and have late night talks, sipping on a few glasses of wine. it’s always fun for the both of you to catch up on each other's days, not a single part going unsaid. whether those late night wine chats take it to the bedroom or not is up to you.

he’s a very supportive husband, and knows the right times to be serious. you crying is not a time to tease, unless you gave him permission. whether it’s crying, work related, injuries, etc, he’s going to be serious and will be super supportive in the moments you need him to be. 

he might rush you a lot on different things, whether you’re walking too slow or whatever else, it’s all just teasing, and in reality, he’s a pretty patient man. 

-> shenhe

shenhes a wife who needs a lot of guidance, but will understand what to do after a while of learning.

one thing about her; she’s never been in a relationship. considering she was raised by adeptal beasts, she didn’t really understand the concept of it before you came into play.

she saw you as a super close friend at first, and then realized the feelings of butterflies she’d feel in her stomach whenever she went near you wasn’t just being super fond of you. it was feelings, and she came to understand when you confessed to her. 

when she told you she liked you back, seeing your happy, relieved face made her chest flutter in a way she’s never felt before. and then as time went on, you two were engaged, and soon after officially married.

her favorite activity is eating out on the porch with you. whether its sitting on the steps leading up to your house with a plate or a teacup in hand or having a whole table and two chairs for a nice meal under the warm liyue sun. 

shes a very serious woman, and it doesn’t go away even when you’re married. she has her soft spot for you, but whenever you seem even the slightest bit off, she turns serious and almost bombards you with questions until you tell her. she learns later on (and quite fast, actually,) that those questions aren’t necessary, and it is up to you to tell her. 

she also kind of loves hugs. she likes the safety she feels with your arms wrapped around her midsection, your head on her shoulder or her head, depending on your height. 

when she sees you crying, at first, she might be unsure and a little panicked, considering she’s never been in such a situation before. but as time goes on, she gets more used to it, and she’s more opened to taking you in a warm embrace if that’s what will calm you down.

she pays close attention to the gestures you give to her, so whenever you’re sad, sick, etc, she’ll try to do similar things. making breakfast, brewing tea, doing housework. you might have to direct her from whatever place in your home you’re in, but it’s all worth it in the end. 

she doesn’t really mind cuddles during sleep. she might be a little stiff, but that’s normal to you considering who you’ve married. she’ll hug back occasionally, and you understand it when she doesn’t. crabby shenhe who didn’t get sleep due to too much heat on her body in the mornings is something you’d rather not deal with.

she’s also really supportive, but in a slightly different way than kaeya. she’s incredibly encouraging of you to do what you want and to follow your dreams and to not let anybody else dictate what you want to do. that’s one of her main focuses- she wants to try and ensure your success. you do thank her everyday for that.

-> yae miko

miko is a very fun wife to have!!

one thing about her is she always tries to fit your vibe. you like to party? she’ll come with you, but she’s the one making sure you don’t leave drunk. no drinks for her, and if she decides to order one, she’ll get a small thing of red wine at the most. she’s not big on alcohol.

if you like picnics at sunset, she’ll always accompany you! because if it’s with you, it’s fun anyways, no matter what you two are doing. she always finds pleasure in being near you, no matter how long you’ve been married. it seems like you two can talk forever and ever, and it’s crazy how you never run out of conversations. 

she’s also very independent. you’ve never seen her try to rely on others, which makes it a little complicated with trying to help her through her feelings. you never push her, just like she doesn’t push you when you have your moments, but you encourage her to let you be aware of her feelings (just like she does with you).

she really likes cuddles, and is clingier than people might think. she can be rather pouty (either in a teasing way or just as a joke in general) if she doesn’t get her cuddles. you know she’s not really hurt, but it’s always funny to see her face change from a pout to a look of content in three seconds flat. 

she’s supportive, but would rather you follow a path that she believes is good for you. not in a toxic way, not in a “i dictate your life you have to do what i tell you” way, but in a sense where she’s leaning you towards the things that she knows you wont regret and the things she knows you will be successful in. she’s lived long enough to know that.

she’s not one to boast about her marriage, and would rather keep it as laid back as possible. being married is fun, and it’s always fun to be able to know that you have someone who has your back, whos always going to be there to defend you, and is always going to love you. but she doesn’t think it’s necessary to make it such a big thing, considering a lot of people have spouses. 

she’s always there for you. to dry your tears, to cheer you on, to help you when you’re stuck on a roadblock. you’re so fortunate to be married to her.

[n0tamused]

hello! hope you’re doing well. can I request hcs about Calcharo with a s/o who owns dogs? the man deserves to be happy

(inspired Calcharo’s Hobby voiceline)

A/N: Sorry for the wait, got a bit busy and I really wanted to write a short little drabble for this scenario. Hope you enjoy!

Contents: Calcharo x GN!Rader, fluff

Long and pale fingers of the setting sun crept over the hill, fading and beautiful in their last moments. The grass grew tall here and the fields stretched on as far as the eye could see, with gentle rising slopes and hills here and there. It was all fun for the four legged beasts -  although such a title did not suit them. They had teeth and their size was not like an ordinary street dog, but they were the kindest companion you had in a long while, loyal to a fault.

The big gray one ran up the hill, her faded white paws swallowing up the incline with ease while her slightly shorter companion fell a step behind. Moving in a blur, his white fur made him stand out the most in the field of green and sandy browns. He had joined your little family not too long ago, and he was still growing. It made you wonder how big he’d grow if he was this big already.

Pinching your fingers together and pressing them to your lips, you let out a sharp whistle that made both of the furry heads spin to meet you from afar. Small eyes spotting you and tails raising up. Lin, the gray one, let out a bark, as if to question you, interrupting the precious playtime, while Bai, the white one, remained quiet at her side. “Come here, Lin, come here, Bai!” you shouted the command, and although not too happy about it, both dogs obliged and began to pad their way through the grassy field towards you. Just as the sound of their movement became more audible on the ears, another set of sounds began to approach closer from behind. Rustling of the grass and a snapping of a branch had you turning around to meet the person. Your hard expression fell into a much softer one after your eyes met the pale azure ones of your partner. 

“Calcharo! Hey, what are you doing here?” you question, mirth written in the lines of your face and the gentle wrinkling of skin around your eyes, and your hastened step to close in on him certainly didn’t betray that sentiment. The man looked at you, pale lashes fluttering as he gave a few blinks when a gust of wind blew in his face. 

“I came here to come and get you, it’s getting much too late” Calcharo told you as he came to stand more at your side and not directly facing you, a subtle act in which he hoped not to put you at tension. He wasn’t scolding you, rather, he was simply worried. 

“I’ve got two guards already, and if you ask me, I think a third one would make too much of a crowd” jesting, you turned to face the field again, and as if on cue, the two dogs made their way up the small hill you two stood on. At the sight of Calcharo, Lin’s tail rose high and wagged, her ears perked and her step hastened as she raced up to him. Squealing happily she did a small hop on her hind legs, and Calcharo had no other option but to give her the attention she was crying out for. He leaned forward, capturing the dog’s fluffy cheeks in his gloved hands and scratching back and forth, slowly moving his hands around to give the rest of her some well deserved pats and scratches. Lin coiled at his feet like a cat, ears pulled back in a manner so adorable it made you audibly ‘aww’ at the sight. Soon enough, Calcharo was scratching at her back, making one of her hind legs thump the ground. 

“I think it’s safe to say she likes you more than me,” you said with a chuckle, crouching down to give Bai, who was still shy, some attention as well. Bai licked his muzzle and tucked himself under your arm after he circled around you, his eyes curiously watching Lin who fell on the ground now, nipping at Calcharo’s ankles.

Calcharo chuckled, or huffed moreso, as he went down to one knee to follow the line of action this dog dragged him to, but it would be false to say you didn’t see a hint of a smile on his face. “She may like me more, but she listens better to your commands” came a reply from him as his long hair fell over his shoulder and hid his pretty profile away from you. It had you leaning to the side in hopes to glimpse it once more. 

“Pftt, as if, she learnt them all from none other than you, may I remind you” you said and gave Bai a ruffle between the ears, and then behind the floppy one, making him whimper in delight as he leaned further into your hands. The sound had Calcharo looking up at the ghost of a dog, white fur speckled with dirt from playing in the field. But regardless of the dirt, he left Lin with a final few pats on her shoulder before coming up to Bai who shied away behind you. “He’s still a little shy. But he has made great progress, honestly.. He looks after Lin but he is still yet to learn the commands''.

“He’ll learn in time. What matters is that he’s doing well now” His hand stretched forward after he kneeled down to make himself less intimidating, allowing the dog to come up and sniff him. Bai huffed, and what can only be understood as acceptance he sat down beside you, looking at you then at Calcharo. “He is protective of you,” Calcharo noted, looking at you as he rose to his feet, now not hiding the amusement in his eyes. “I’m relieved to see it”

“I suppose.. He is quite clingy. Although I am surprised he didn’t cling to you more, especially since the two of you are so alike”. Calcharo snorted at your comment, a small eye roll and a sway of his form showing his relaxed demeanor. He didn’t expect you to say something like that - being compared to a dog wasn’t on his list of activities today. 

“What?” you beamed, chuckling as you realized what you said, but eager to prove your point. “You two not only look alike, but also behave the same!” you added as you got onto your feet, Bai following along your movements, pale eyes staring up at you and Calcharo while Lin licked her muzzle and went to sniff around. “You both look brooding and serious all the time, but you’re both so clingy- protective! When you’re not around I’m sure you warg your way into this dog to watch over me, I’m sure of it” you teased and jested, but there was truth to your words as well. “And most importantly of all, I love you” you added, and like a cherry on a cake, it hit Calcharo deep in his chest.

“That’s enough” he told you with an amused sigh, his gaze averted to gaze somewhere aside, and then it looked for Lin. “It’s time for us to get back to the city, it’s getting dark”.

“I have no fear, I have three of the best guards in the region” 

Lin barked from the bushes and came up to both of you as you began your descent from the hills and Bai walked up to Lin before both of them broke into a chase.

“Lucky you” Calcharo looked at you, his pale lips showing the seldom seen smile, the gentle curl of his lips making him look younger, and even more handsome.

“Lucky me, yes. But I am lucky just to have you with me”

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[milunalupin]

— tale as old as time

a/n: welcome to my beast!remus x beauty!reader series ! i hope you come along this journey with me and enjoy!

chapter one

remus lupin x reader ★ 1.4k words

Gowns and music filled the ballroom, the castle's servants walking around with silver trays of the most luxurious desserts in France. Beautiful and wealthy people danced around to the sound of the piano and the most famous opera singer money could buy in all of Europe.   

The ballroom was decked out in glimmering jewels and fresh flora, the smell of roses strong in the air.  In the middle was Prince Remus Lupin, twirling countless girls about, a smirk on his handsome powdered face.  The Lupins ruled the Alsace region, their wealth apparent by their acres of meticulously landscaped property, the glimmer of the sun on the enormous castle blinding. Remus was an only child who was raised by King Lyall and Queen Hope, until the queen passed away from an illness many years ago, leading the Prince to grow up with the influence of his cold and selfish father.

Staff members were forced to turn a blind eye when they would see the young master walk through the castle with watery eyes or badly hidden bruises. No matter how much they pitied him, his father would rid them of their job in a heartbeat if they dared speak up about it. With every passing year, Prince Remus grew to be increasingly more his father, prioritizing status over everything.  Remus' life was filled with anything he wanted, and obviously once you have everything, things get boring. So, he constantly hosted balls and invited only the most beautiful and influential people in France. Men and women came from all over the country dressed in the most lavish of outfits, trying to gain the attention of the young Prince. 

In a silky yellow tailcoat stood the royal family's head of kitchen staff, Sirius Black. He let out an exaggerated sigh as he stood along his colleagues, James Potter and Peter Pettigrew.  "How many girls will leave crying tonight, do you think?" 

James, dressed in all white with embroidered lapels, rolled his eyes and frowned as he watched the Prince.  "He'll never get married if he keeps acting like this, never form a true bond with anyone." 

A huff came from Peter, who looked the worst out of the three of them (according to Sirius), in a simple brown waistcoat. He held his prized pocket watch in his hand, constantly checking the time to ensure the party was running smoothly.  "The prince's love life isn't really any of our business, Sirius." 

Peter Pettigrew, to say the least, was a suck up, and nothing but loyal to the royal family. It was in his blood; his family having served the royal family for decades. Naturally, he started working under his father in the administrative department and moving ranks until he was appointed head of house, managing the rest of the staff as His Highness' right-hand man. 

James Potter credits everything he has now to his beautiful mother, Euphemia, who was an incredible seamstress who worked in the castle years prior. Now, James assists the young master with his clothing as well as leads the housekeeping staff with his mini assistant Harry, who's favorite thing to do is fold the towels into swans. 

Sirius met James when they worked together at a pub in town before James accepted his position among the royal staff. He was an orphan who had run away from his abusive foster parents. Euphemia felt for the boy and had immediately taken them in like her own son. Cooking meals with his new family ignited his love for food and with help from the Potters, had gone to culinary school. Later, with James's help, began as a waiter at the castle turned kitchen manager. 

Prince Remus, to be frank, doesn't love, not really once his mother had passed. Once under the orders of his father, his image, and the people he surrounded himself with became a priority. Being human was being vulnerable, and being vulnerable was being weak. That's why he found himself surrounded by attractive women, knowing that each one hanging onto his arm believed that they would be the one he fell in love with, inheriting his fortune and power. His arm was around one of the maidens' waists, loosely spinning her as his eyes scanned the room for someone more interesting. 

"My lord, I can't help but believe you might have an interest in me. this is the second time we've danced tonight; you need not be so shy." 

His eyes dropped back to Amelie? Emily? who blushed under his gaze, looking up at him through her fluttering eyelashes. He scoffed and retracted his hand from her waist, pushing past her towards another, ignoring her pleas and attempts to grab his arm. As much fun as he had being the center of attention and being the one everyone wanted to be with, he despised the desperate ones, none of them being worth his actual time. 

-

"Papa, I brought the napkins you asked for!" 

Sirius, James, and Peter turned to find Harry, James's son, holding a stack of cloth napkins up to him with a bright smile, his glasses sliding down his nose. James grinned as he took the napkins from Harry, pushing his glasses back up his nose and fixing his hair. 

"Great job Harry, now run along." 

"You've got him working already Potter? A chip off the old block, that one is." Peter chuckled, smiling along his colleagues as they watched little Harry skip away. 

The doors suddenly burst open, a woman in a cloak falling to the ground, her hood slipping and exposing her ratty grey hair. The maidens closest to the door gasped and squealed as they backed up, trying to distance themselves from the old woman. The music has stopped, Prince Remus weaving his way through the crowd to stand before the elderly intruder. 

"Who let you in, peasant? This ball is invite only." 

The woman looked up, her cloudy grey eyes looking into the Prince's. She held up a single rose, offering him the flower for temporary shelter from the cold. Prince Remus scoffed, rolling his eyes at the woman. The party goers laughed at the old woman from the other side of the ballroom. 

A smirk appeared on the old woman's face, as her body under the cloak began to glow a warm yellow, what seemed liked enchanted haze spreading towards the aghast party goers. Flower petals began to float around the woman as she transformed into a younger, more beautiful version of herself, her now bright blue eyes staring into the Prince's. The guests screamed at they scrambled to escape the sorcery they've witnessed, polished shoes trampling over expensive fabric and rose petals. 

The royal staff looked on in fear, not knowing how to help their master in this situation. James weaved through the people rushing out and found Harry hiding in a corner. He picked him up and turned to head out the door but stopped when he heard a deep growl coming from the center of the room. 

The cloud of magic enveloped Prince Remus, his bones cracking and expanding as his body slowly transformed him into a large, furry monster. His perfect silk robes tearing and falling off the Prince's new body. Large curved horns grew out of his head, and his perfect teeth evolved into sharp fangs. His once perfect appearance turned into one of a menacing animal. 

The young Prince had failed his test from the enchantress. He had not shown kindness to a stranger in need and had confirmed his own selfishness and entitlement. He was mean and ugly on the inside, so she had turned him into who he really was, a beast. Adding on to that, she left a powerful spell on the castle and villagers, turning the royal staff into household objects for allowing the Prince's behavior, and erasing all memory of the royal castle and its inhabitants from the villagers. The curse was infinite, unless the prince managed to make someone fall in love with him. 

Over the years the castle grew colder, lonelier as Remus and his staff became more hopeless for a chance to end the curse. Snow had fallen over the crumbling castle and grounds, the bitterness of the cold outside matching what Remus was feeling in his heart. 

 He was doomed, turned into a disgusting monster for the rest of his days, because who could ever learn to love a beast? 

[florencemtrash]

Flame, Shadow, Beast : Flame

Azriel x Reader x Eris

Summary: Years after Eris frees you from his father’s prison, you’ve managed to find a new love, new friends, and build a life for yourself in Autumn. But when a certain Shadowsinger stumbles upon your home, dragging in painful memories of betrayal and longing, you’ll have to face the things you left in the past and make choices about the future you want.

Warnings: Fluffy Eris x Reader and our favorite monster, Bryaxis, makes an appearance.

Flame, Shadow, Beast: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

It was a cruel irony that winning a war was the easiest part of ruling. Eris thought about it often, doubts invading his rare moments of quiet; Maybe he’d made a mistake. Maybe the lives of thousands of Autumn Court members - both those loyal to him and to his father - hadn’t been worth the weight of the crown now sitting on his head.

The wood and gold had been harvested from the body of one of the Old Gods to whom some of the rural folk still owed their ultimate allegiance; the rubies had come from a land beyond the western seas as a declaration of war back when they’d been ruled by a more ancient race of beings - the predecessors to the Blood Rubies the Summer Court was so fond of doling out. Eris wondered if he’d ever get used to carrying so much history on his body. 

The sun had barely crested over the treetops, blanketing the forest floor with streams of liquid gold, when he came across your village. The first fae he saw - a female with short elk horns extending gracefully from her temples - nearly dropped her basket at the sight of him. Eris gently bowed his head in greeting and her face flushed as crimson as the red garment dye that stained her hands. 

“My High Lord,” She breathed out, dropping to her knees despite the prickling straw that perpetually littered the roads.

Heads of varying shades of chestnut and scarlet appeared behind closed windows like candlights. During the harvest months everyone woke and slept with the sun. 

One by one fae streamed out of their homes, each of them carrying tribute in the form of freshly baked bread, baskets of apples and peaches, sheepskin cloaks, and barrels of mead. 

“Stand.” Eris gently commanded them as they fell to their knees, “We’re just passing through.” He could see the hesitation in their eyes. They feared disrespecting him. 

Eight years of being High Lord and he had yet to perfect the delicate balance between distance and familiarity with his people. 

Halvor coughed from beside him, eyes raised from beneath the shadow of his bronze helm.

Get off your horse and talk to them. His eyes said, repeating the mantra that you liked to say around the royal pair.

Eris understood and dismounted with grace and power. With his scarlet and gold riding cloak, flaming hair, and ruby crown he looked like the spirit of Autumn come to life - all sharp edges and burning stoicism. He was a living fire.

But fire could give warmth as much as pain - nurture and grow as much as it could raze the world to the ground. So Eris took his time to speak with the people. He sampled their mead and ale, complimented the pixies who wove threads of warm oranges, yellows, and reds with their nimble fingers, and visited the rolling fields of corn, barley, and wheat that waved in the brisk breeze. The gray-tinged sky above tasted of power and freedom. 

Under Beron’s reign, the fruits of the fields would have fallen entirely under the purview of the High Lord with little remaining for the people who tended the long grasses. Now that they were allowed to own their own land and keep what was due to them, the air was lighter here, happier. It was the first harvest in a long time where they’d feel comfortable enough to celebrate properly.

The mask ebbed away, leaving him feeling lighter than he had in ages as he walked through a town.

A familiar face stared out from behind the small crowd that had gathered by the wheat fields. Talk of this year’s harvest festival rose in the air until everyone could taste the spiced rum, roasted pistachios, caramelized apples, and pumpkin with fresh cream on their tongues. It was still months away, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t get excited now. 

Eris broke away - an easy task when they parted ways for him like a hot knife through butter - and approached your smiling figure.

“I was wondering what was taking you so long.” You said, clasping your hands behind your back and smiling at Eris.

“So you came all this way just to investigate?” Eris arched his brow. You were no stranger to these people (and much beloved), but you preferred to keep to your little cottage beyond the town.

“Surprisingly, yes. For you, I would come all this way. And,” You shook the small parcel in your arm, “For Aliona’s candles.”

He grinned and offered you his arm, which you accepted, and quietly began to walk back to where Halvor had been dutifully waiting with the horses… and taking more than a few samples of drinks from beside his stead. 

“I also wanted to make sure he hadn’t killed you in your sleep yet.” You said, tilting your head towards his brother. 

“Careful, Y/n.”

Halvor was the youngest of Autumn’s trueborn sons, and had grown to become Eris’s second over the course of the war and the years that followed. Cruelty was still hammered into his bones - a disfiguring mark left by their father - but disloyalty was not one of his many negative traits. He’d been the only one to come to Eris’s aid in the war, and subsequently the last of Eris’s brothers to survive. That counted for something in your book.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it seriously, but I could’ve poked fun in a better way.” You said softly, gently leaning into his side. He forgave you quickly. He could never stay angry at you - he wasn’t even sure it was possible.

Halvor tipped his head towards you, eyes the color of freshly brewed coffee staring at you with mischief.

“My Lady.” He said half-mockingly, sweeping out his arm into a shallow bow. 

You rolled your eyes. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

“Why not? Is my brother not a good enough romp for you? If you want better company I could-” 

Eris cut off his words with a growl of warning. Halvor only tipped his head back and laughed - a grating sound that eight years of peace under Eris’s rule still hadn’t managed to file away.

“We’ll be walking to her home from here.” Eris said, slipping into his High Lord voice, “Try and keep your distance and be on the lookout.” Halvor nodded, turning serious at the shift in his brother’s voice. There were countless enemies who would be happy to snatch the crown away from a new, as of yet untested, High Lord.

He followed obediently, keeping his distance as you and Eris both bade farewell to the townspeople. 

You lived on a patch of land too far to even be considered the outskirts of town, but you were a familiar face to everyone. A healer by trade and Eris’s most trusted advisor and friend, you were the one they called upon in the dead of night when evil whispered nearby or sickness fell upon them. 

Evaldre, they called you in one of the Old Tongues. The exact meaning had been lost to time, but it spoke of someone cherished and highly regarded. Some of the bold ones even went so far as to call you “Our High Lady.” 

Ten years ago uttering those words would have meant the swift swing of a sword on one’s neck. If High Lord Eris knew of it, he never seemed to mind.

Bryaxis waited for you on your doorstep, pleasantly lounging in a patch of light and watching the gentle fall of crisp leaves from the trees above. Both Eris and Halvor’s horses groaned low in their throats, hooves pressing into the soil to stop before the clearing. Halvor whistled at them to move forward, but they refused.

“It’s that devil dog of yours,” Halvor said, dismounting and tying off the pair on a low hanging elm branch, “Makes them anxious.”

He whispered words of comfort to them, sliding his hands along their thick necks until they stopped bucking against the reins. Eris had his dogs and Halvor had his horses.

“He’ll stay inside then. Wouldn’t want you to have to walk back to the Forest House with your tail between your legs because you lost the horses.”

Eris smirked when Halvor threw an obscene gesture your way. 

The dog in question, black as night with shining silver-blue eyes, stretched and nuzzled into your outstretched hand as you reached your front door, Eris following closely behind. 

“Will you be long?” Halvor called out to Eris, raising his eyebrows suggestively with his hyena grin. 

“Go home if you’re so impatient. I can make it back on my own.”

“I’ll wait til noon.” If Eris was finished by then, it would mean they took care of business… if Eris wasn’t finished by then, it would mean they were taking care of other business, business Halvor would do no good sticking around for. He snorted at the thought, then lost himself in imagining the other females he might be able to seduce back at the Forest House.

You both passed through the enchantments woven into the wood of your home, feeling a rush of power pour over you like water over stone. 

Eris snapped his fingers and the candles you’d placed on your dining table and mantle burst to life, fluttering about like dancers. The fireplace followed suit, sending a wave of warmth throughout the house. Firelight bounced off the rich velvet and creams that adorned your home - a cleaner mimic of the Autumn lands that existed behind the walls and flooded in through the open windows.

The Forest House was a place of luxury, massive enough that it would take you an entire morning just to walk from one end to another, and filled to the brim with treasures of gold, bronze, and enough precious jewels to sink a ship. It was a palace fit for a High Lord. But this was a home, so he took off his crown and hung up his cloak.

“What happened to him?” Eris said, kneeling on the ground and giving Bryaxis a well-deserved scratch behind the ears. The millennia-old creature closed his eyes in satisfaction. “The last time I saw him he was a cat.”

You chuckled, bustling about in the kitchen for a tea set that would match and piling pastries on a plate. The smell of browned butter and strawberry rhubarb jam waltzed in the air.

“He’s been experimenting with new forms.” You said, smugness and pride warming your chest. Not so long after Eris had freed you from the mountain and given you a new home, Bryaxis had found you, drawn to your power. Twin bargain tattoos snaked up from the bridges of your feet to your ankles like vines up a trellis - the first promised that you would do no harm to one another in exchange for dual protection, the second allowed you to take a portion of his power, giving him to opportunity to mold his being into a form that could experience the world in a more physical sense. 

Gone was the shapeless creature of shadow and nightmares. Enter Bryaxis the wolf-dog (and occasional housecat) who still radiated enough power to scare away any creature (wicked or otherwise) that dared to disturb the peace of their home. But he could curl up by the windows and watch the night sky uninhibited, and in his heart he was a creature of violence and simplicity in equal measure.

“I like this one better than the cat.” Eris said with a grin, for the monster had copied the shape of one of his prized hunting dogs. Bryaxis seemed to growl in appreciation when Eris straightened up.

He sighed in contentment, feeling the stress of his crown melt away when you wrapped your arms around his middle, burying your face in the crook of his neck and breathing in the scent of cedar, smoke, and cinnamon.

“Hello.” He murmured softly, turning in your arms and pressing his lips against your forehead.

“Hello.” You whispered, brushing your lips against his with a sigh, “I missed you. Where have you been all this time?” The finished reports on your desk, much like your empty bed, had been waiting patiently for Eris’s next visit.

He hesitated, pulling away to look at you. He brushed aside a few stray strands of hair that had fallen out of your braid. “The Night Court.”

You stiffened, “Keir?” 

He shook his head, frowning, “Rhysand.” 

You blinked, and he saw darkness pass through your eyes. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.” 

Twelve years. 

You’d been Beron’s prisoner for decades before. Then you’d escaped and managed a couple of years of peace. You’d found a home and a family… or so you thought. And then twelve years ago you’d been betrayed - handed back to the now deceased High Lord on a silver platter and trapped beneath the mountain for four years. It made your blood boil to think about the people who helped put you there. 

“You’ve been dealing with them for years now,” You forced out in a diplomatic tone, “It’s good for you to have allies, especially strong ones like them.”

“Y/n-”

“You should've told me. I don’t want you to worry about my feelings when it comes to these things. Autumn comes first and-”

“I’ll always worry about you.” Eris said, tilting your chin up and catching the moisture gathering in your eyes that you’d furiously tried to blink away, “And there’s no choice between you and my Court. You belong here. To protect Autumn - to protect you - are the same thing, my love.” 

Your cheeks burned at the careful way he spoke, the sincerity in his voice he reserved solely for you in moments like this.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Y/n. I promise it won't happen again."

Fury burned in his stomach, a continuation of the anger that had steadily been eating away at his patience during his visit to the Night Court. To see the Inner Circle look so safe and happy in the bubble they’d carved for themselves in Velaris, naive to the pain and suffering they’d caused you, had made him want to burn The House of Wind to the ground. Alliance be damned. 

He hated them nearly as much as he had hated his own father. 

“I don’t want to think about them.” You declared, setting your jaw and smoothing away the lines of anger that had formed on Eris’s forehead, “To hell with them.” 

Eris smirked, loving the determination that settled in your eyes as you dragged him over to the living room and finished setting up the tea that had started to whistle on the stovetop. You would carve out a space for yourself in this world and be happy, even if it killed you.

“To hell with them.” He repeated.

Business and pleasure. The two were impossible for him to separate, which is why he cherished time spent with you. The pair of you spoke easily together, seamlessly transitioning from discussions of grain reports, treaties, and trade deals to banter about the Harvest Festival and the latest court gossip. Halvor was long gone, and Bryaxis off hunting, when the talking ceased and Eris found himself comfortably spread out on your velvet couch, shirt unbuttoned, and head resting in your lap as you wove your fingers through his hair.

He opened his eyes, lazy and slow, and quietly took in your features - the slope of your nose, the gentle curves of your cheeks and lips as you smiled at him, the contentment in your eyes that shifted into deep thought. 

He waited for you to share them with him.

“I’ve been thinking about your proposal.” You said carefully and he froze beneath your hands.

“You-you have?” Eris swallowed and sat up, keeping his distance even as he dared to hope. You’d both been keeping your relationship secret, visiting each other under the guise of court business and court business only. It had certainly started out that way, but things had quickly shifted into something far more intimate and worthy of secrecy… Then Eris had asked if it could stop being so secret.

You nodded, searching his face for something more than the neutral mask every High Lord learned to master. 

You moved onto his lap, laying your hands on the sides of his face as his eyes widened ever so slightly, “My answer is yes.” 

“Yes?” He asked in disbelief. 

Yes to living with him. Yes to going to court with him. Yes to showing the world that he was not alone in his duty. Yes to being by his side wherever either of you went.

No more hiding in this house on the outskirts. No more being afraid of what had happened in the past. No more loneliness.

“Yes.” 

He shuddered under your touch and suddenly he was everywhere. His hands roamed the expanse of your back, pulling at the fabric of your bodice. Red locks as vivid as flame got knotted beneath your fingers, and his body pressed flush against yours, desperate for any contact as his chest continued to shake with laughter. 

You stayed with him on that couch, neither of you wanting to bother with the effort of walking the extra twenty steps to your bedroom, as articles of clothing were hastily torn off and allowed to float onto the floor in crumples of fabric.

A growl from just outside your front door, low and gravelly enough to shake the ground, woke the two of you up. The sun was kissing the horizon on its way down, lateral rays of light streaming through the window and splashing onto the bookshelves and walls like gold paint. Eris groaned with displeasure, pulling you flush against his chest when you dared to draw yourself up on your arms to look at the door. 

You giggled against him, pulling a rare smile from his lips when he felt your laughter. 

He was all warmth and color beneath you as you shouted at Bryaxis to give you more time alone. He could practically hear the rolling of eyes with the huff that Bryaxis gave out. But he eventually trotted away to find a patch of soft grass from which to watch the sun set.

“It’s good to know a murderous beast like him still has a sense of humor.” Eris quipped, practically humming with pleasure when you melted into him. “You would know. You can be funny sometimes.” 

“Sometimes?!”

“Sometimes!” 

“You must give me more credit than that.”

“I will not.”

“You must. Your High Lord demands it.” Eris said, puffing out his chest and deepening his voice.

“Your High Lord demands it.” You parroted in a silly voice that made Eris chuckle and kiss you again.

You laid in the silence for as long as you could, until the sun was once again buried in the ground and the calls of the Forest House could not be ignored. With every piece of clothing Eris pulled back on his body, the vulnerable joy that came from being with you seemed to dim. 

Was he a lovesick fool for asking you to come to court and be with him? Was the protection of a High Lord worth the dangers that came with it? Lucien had been the first of their brothers to fall in love and he had paid for it dearly. Sometimes Eris had nightmares that you would suffer the same fate.

Eris watched you as you laced up your bodice with quick fingers, fixed your hair, and smoothed your skirts. You looked heavenly in the light of the fire. You were everything he could have dreamed of and more… because you were real… and you loved him as fiercely as he loved you. Which meant he could lose you.

“Y/n.” He whispered your name like a prayer, drawing your attention. You drew close to him, pressing your forehead against his as he took a deep breath, “What you’re agreeing to… you know what it will mean, don’t you?”

You closed your eyes and nodded. This was no light decision and it was why you’d taken three months to come up with an answer for him. 

“It will mean people will come for me, and never stop coming for me, just to hurt you and to hurt this Court.” Eris flinched, but you wouldn’t let him open his mouth to dissuade you. You’d given this much thought, and your decision was made.

“It will mean constant scrutiny from the other Lords and Ladies. A life spent in a house known for its history of cruelty and disloyalty. A life that will never fully be my own.”

Eris was beginning to think he’d truly made a terrible mistake in asking you to be with him. But before that cold mask of his could fall over his features, you grasped his face in yours hands and forced him to look at you.

“But it will also mean a chance to be with you. A chance to lead alongside the first person to give me a real home - a real family. A chance to continue to build and protect what I love. I love you, Eris, and I love Autumn, and I’ll be damned if I don’t protect what I love.”

Eris clenched his teeth, holding back the emotion that threatened to spill out like a ruptured damn.

“I won’t be like this at the Forest House.” He said, hating the truth of the words that fell off his tongue, “I won’t be able to show who I truly am when I’m around others, at least not for now. They’ll call you foolish, or cruel, or wicked for being with me. I can’t promise you an established and worthy court. I-”

“Then we’ll build it ourselves.” You said fiercely, pouring your power into the words, “We’ll build a new court, a new life for ourselves and everyone here. I know you’ll do everything you can to fix things, even if it breaks you.” You whispered the next words reverently against his lips, “Let me help you. Let me do it with you.” 

Eris let the tears run rivers down his cheeks, even as he set his jaw, and stared resolutely into your eyes.

“Let’s do it then. Together.”

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______

Author's note:

*shouts from the mountaintops* I just want Eris to be happy! And I want him to have someone he trusts that can rule alongside him!

That's it. That's the note. Oh and let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters.

Love,

Florence B.

Taglist: @nightless @mmb-09 @thesnugglingduck @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kemillyfreitas @logankemaek @the-sweet-psycho @a-frog-with-a-laptop @flameandshadowx @applerubyy

[bunny-lily]

Tether Me - Chapter 5: Part 1

Pairing(s): Geto/Gojo/Reader Summary: Right in the middle of you savoring the beverage and scrolling aimlessly through your phone, a piece of paper was suddenly smacked down onto the wood in front of you. You paused mid-sip and looked at it blankly, then traced the source of its origin up to Satoru’s gleaming, boyish grin. When had he let himself in?

You raised a curious brow at the man, finishing your gulp. “What’s this?”

“That, sweet girl, is a wedding invitation,” he declared with all the vigor of a show host announcing the spoils the victor had attained, “and you’re gonna be my plus-one.”

Your other brow lifted to match the first. “Eh? Since when?”

“Since now,” he sidled up to you, leaning into your space. “I need a wedding date, after all, and I’ve chosen you to be the lucky lady to accompany me.” CW: No y/n | polyamory | slow burn | slice of life | alt au - no curses | fluff | light angst | eventual smut | forgive me, there's internal monologues | I like using big words... | Gojo & Geto are whipped for you | emotionally constipated reader | (most of the tags have been condensed, you can find the full list on my ao3 here) AN: additional warnings: depictions of past abuse and childhood abuse, misogyny, violence, assault/battery. See Ao3 for extended tags. Ch: Prologue | Ch: 1 | Ch: 2 | Ch: 3 | Ch: 4 | Ch: 5 - 1 | Ch: 5 - 2 WC: 10.8k

The sun is warm today. 

It coats the exposed stretches of skin on your arms and legs in a cozy, yellow glow. Shadows from the leaves dancing on the branches of the tree behind you cast across your face, splotches of blueish-gray that provide a hint of coolness on your relaxed posture.

The sky is your favorite shade of teal, with fluffy, white clouds spread across it far and wide, forming funny shapes and animals that only you can discern. There’s a bunny-looking one that you’ve been following for a while now, watching as it extends its legs while bounding lazily across the eonic, untold cyan. You’ve named it Marshmallow for its resemblance to those bird-shaped, sugar-coated treats.

Which doesn’t really make sense, but you don’t care all that much. It makes sense to you.

So far, the story you’ve created about Marshmallow is simplistic, but it’s giving you something to do. Marshmallow is frollicking in a massive meadow, running around between tall stalks of indigo grass and snowy flowers. She’s celebrating her freedom after escaping the maws of a vicious wolf, bouncing back and forth in joy as she claims the sky as her home, where no wolf can catch and eat her so long as the sun shines through the heavens.

There, she is safe to chirp and thump her little feet and fly as much as she desires, no longer fearing being trapped in the muzzle of a hungry beast.

In the far distance, you can see a smear of dark gray hugging the horizon. It’s not close enough for you to fathom how big it is, but you can tell by the streaks underneath it that it’s raining over there. The flowers will be happy, you think. Fresh water to help their roots spread and their petals bloom.

You like days like this, where it’s quiet and calm. Birds spring from the electricity cables spanning down the length of the street, a bug occasionally buzzes past you, and the air smells sweet.

Your legs swing back and forth lazily over the short cement-brick wall in front of your house. The light stone is brisk under your palms, a comfort in the burn of summer. You’ve already had a crisp icy-pop earlier, but now you’re uncertain if you should have saved it, as the temperature has gone up quite high.

It’s peaceful out here, but, confessedly, incredibly boring.

Yet, you savor it all the same. Anything is better than being in there, where your heart rarely has a chance to settle, always tapping on your veins to keep them active and roaring with blood laced too heavily with poisonous adrenaline. It’s nice to have an opportunity to rest and relax, a rare moment of serenity, even if you do feel a little lonely.

Glass shatters somewhere behind you. Skin meets skin.

You wince.

The world grows a little more dim. The bunny splits in half.

Tranquility can only last for so long under the richly fragrant blooms of the Callery pear hiding you from the sight of those within the house.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, woman!?”

You stand up slowly, your fingers already growing jittery as you brush off the dirt and prickling twigs that dug imprints into the backs of your thighs. The heat no longer bothers you.

“Can’t you do anything right!? Can’t even get me a fuckin’ beer! You’re useless!”

“I’m–”

They left the kitchen window open again, the mesh serving to let air in while keeping insects out. It does nil to block sound.

“This is the one fuckin’ time I get a goddamn break from supporting this fuckin’ family, and this is how you repay me? By droppin’ my goddamn bottle of beer?”

You’re scared. You don’t know why you are, he always gets like this. He’s always yelling.

You think you’re used to it by now, you try to tell yourself that you are, but your heart still pounds uneasily in your chest. It feels like there’s ice in your veins, prickling and spreading frostbite in tiny kitten nips. It spreads to your stomach, growing heavy and sinking lower and lower, steel through honey.

You hate being scared. It makes you feel sick. You wish you didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

“I’m out there, breakin’ my back every damned day for you and that stupid brat–” you flinch, “workin’ my hands to the bones, and all I want is a drink to wind down after a long day of work.” It’s midday on a Saturday. He woke up an hour ago. “I ask my lovely, darlin’, sweet little wife to get me a beer, and what does she do?”

You think you can hear a woman mumbling something, but it’s hard to make out over the man’s screams.

He bangs his fist on the laminated kitchen counter, by the sink. Metal utensils stored to dry clink against each other from the force. “Answer me, woman!”

“You…bumped…accident–”

“Speak up!”

“Y-You bumped into–”

“Oh, so, now you’re goin’ off and blamin’ me?”

A sob. “It was an accident.”

“It’s always a fuckin’ accident with ya, ain’t it? Always forgettin’ shit, always lazy, always so clumsy. All you women are incompetent. Can’t even get me a damn drink without wastin’ my hard earned money. The money that supports your livelihood, by the way.”

There’s a hiccuping sound, followed by another bang on the counter.

“Now you’re throwin’ hysterics! You ungrateful whore, fuckin’ manipulative bitch, usin’ crocodile tears. I’ve been so kind, so patient, so lenient with you,” you tried to count the bruises he left on her one time, but you lost track after thirteen. “But you’re just so fuckin’ spoiled, yeah? Damn hag. It’s ‘cause of me you get to sit your pretty ass at home all the time and do nothin’ all damn day while I’m out there, breakin’ myself for a useless bitch of a wife.”

Your nails dig into the tree’s bark for support. A white petal twists and ebbs as it falls from a flower above, landing on your shoulder.

She’s silent beyond short gasps of air and phlegmy sniffles. A stifled choke here and there.

“Don’t ignore me, bitch,” he hisses, then groans in defeat, as if he is choosing to surrender and indulge her. “Agh, it’s pointless, you’re too fuckin’ stupid to understand. You damn women are always so fuckin’–”

He says a word that makes you cringe horribly.

The heavy stomping of boots follows his tantrum, then there’s complete stillness. You wait outside for a long time, hesitating. You want to go to the woman, to comfort her despite your young age and inherent naivety.

You startle out of your skin when you hear the screechy garage door open and hare around the bulking trunk of the tree to hide behind it. Your back presses into the rough material, breaths barely filling your lungs before they’re pushed out again. Your skin crawls at the subdued sounds of the man’s mad ramblings, too indistinct for you to make out.

His tone tells you enough. It tells you he’s angry, and that he’s saying a lot of bad words that you’re not allowed to say. 

Bad words hurt people, baby.

As hidden as you can manage to be, you peer around the calleryana, grimacing at the loud, metallic thump of his car door slamming shut. You watch as the contraption, old with time and lack of maintenance – ‘It’s vintage,’ he slurs, bragging about the red machine like a proud father that treats it better than he treats his own teeth. Better than he treats you. – coughs and rattles down the short length of the driveway.

It turns along the curb, twisting ‘til its nose faces your direction. You jolt back out of sight.

You’ve always despised the sound it makes, the horrid noise passing by you and growing quieter as the car chugs down the gray asphalt. Like a dying goat. Or, cats yowling as they tear into each other in the dead of night. Jarring and uncomfortable, instilling a sense of dread in you.

You wait for a long time like this, staring blankly at the end of the street, holding your breath. You wait for the car to reappear at the turn, to come back no sooner than it had gone. You wait for him to loop the neighborhood. 

If he’s in the same mood, or worse, who knows what could happen. Maybe, he’ll have the courage to pull the trigger and end it all with a swift right hook this time.

Minutes or hours later, the street remains empty, and you exhale the breath you’ve been holding, allowing yourself to cautiously hope he won’t return for a while.

Itchy imprints are left on your palms, the backs of your arms, and upper back as you peel away from the tree and sneak across the yard to the rear of the house. Even though he’s not here anymore, you still walk on your tip-toes and avoid stepping on sticks or leaves.

The backdoor is open. It leads into the living room, with the kitchen doorway on your right. From this angle, you can see the fridge and sink. The cup holding the clean utensils has been knocked over.

You walk forward and turn left, instead. You stick to the walls, where the wooden floor doesn’t creak as loudly, and make your way to the bathroom. The light flickers on, struggling for a few seconds. Its orange illumination is dim and makes you nauseous.

You pull out the stool from the cupboard under the sink and pop it flat, then climb on top to reach the mirrored cabinet above the faucet. It’s a singular, fluid action; a habit, muscle memory honed over time.

You pry open the semi-shiny, scratched panel and dig around through the mess of products inside. You push aside aftershave, old tubes of half-used creams, rusted safety razors, and bottles of miscellaneous concoctions that intrigue and scare you in equal measure.

You collect the needed items, stacking a stocky, dark bottle of hydrogen peroxide, cotton pads, knock-off antibiotic gel, and bandages into your arms. It’s not as heavy or hard as it used to be, and you don’t forget anything after so much practice.

Hopping off the stool, you shuffle your way to the kitchen.

From the doorway, you can see the woman sitting on one of the dining chairs, partially facing you. Her face is in her hands. Her shoulders tremble with mute weeping. There’s green glass and something wet spilled across the floor.

You’re careful to mind your step and veer around it.

If she’s aware of your presence, she doesn’t react, and says nothing. She doesn’t lift her head as you wriggle your gathered spoils onto the table, diligent in making sure none fall off. She doesn’t make any noise as you pull out a chair beside her and hoist yourself onto it. She’s eidolic as you sort the items around into a neat order for easy access.

She only responds when you reach a small hand forward and curl it around her wrist. Your fingers barely reach halfway. 

“Mama.”

Her movements are lethargic, tired. She lowers her hands sluggishly and looks up at you, but she has that far-away glaze over her eyes. She’s staring at your face, but her mind is a million miles away, unseeing.

You learned it was useless to try and bring her back to earth when she’s drifted so far off. So, you don’t bother attempting. Not anymore.

There are a couple cuts on her face, one stretching diagonally under her left eye, and one curving from the right side of her chin to partially underneath it. A bruise is swelling along her temple, and an old ring of claw marks adorn her throat like a necklace. Dried tear tracks mar her visage, eyelids puffy and scleras red. He was forgiving this time.

She lets you guide her palms down to rest on her lap. Her muscles don’t twitch as you dampen a pad with hydrogen peroxide and delicately begin dabbing it on the wounds to clean them. The blood, no longer beading and trickling, fizzles under the influence of the solution. You take care to not get any loose fibers caught in the new injuries.

It was nice of him to leave the ones that are still healing alone. He isn’t always this kind.

You’re too focused on your work to notice when your mother comes back to herself. The fog over her irises lifts, replaced with a glassy sheen, but no tears remain to fall.

She looks a lot like you, just older, and fatigued. Faint scars linger and taint her sullen expression. Her eyes are sunken, cheeks hollow. Your eyes are the same color, as is your hair. Your upper lip follows the same curve hers does.

The only difference is your age, what you’ve been through.

Your bruises, along your limbs, weren’t caused by him.

You stopped asking questions a long time ago, too. Around the same time she stopped physically showing any sort of pain or discomfort she might experience from you taking care of her. You smear a thin layer of the gel over the cuts, capping the tube.

As you’re reaching for the bandages, she suddenly grasps your wrists, spooking you.

“Promise me, baby,” she urges you frantically, voice low. Like she’s afraid he’ll hear her, even though he isn’t home anymore. “Promise me you’ll never let a man tie you down.”

You gaze at her – at the shallow cuts on the side of her chin and under her eye, the rapidly swelling bruise on her jaw, the spot forming on her temple – and nod once. It’s not a difficult choice. Hell, you don’t have to think about it to agree. 

All you’ve ever known about love is that it does nothing but hurt those who experience it.

All you’ve ever known about love was taught to you by fists and shouts.

All you’ve ever known about love was that it would break you, like it broke her, if you let yourself fall to it.

Wordlessly, you swear you’ll never end up like your mother.

Audibly, you seal the vow. 

“I promise, mama.”

─────•(-•ʚɞ•-)•─────

It’s cold outside.

The sun hid behind the wide expanse of ashen-gray clouds that painted the sky a new color, one of mottled Nile lily and argent. You could make out shallow waves and hills in the skyline, but not much else, the world washed in desaturated periwinkle.

It made for a great environment for pondering.

Months had already gone by since you made your vast move to this quaint little stead, all in the blink of an eye. It was nice; peaceful. The routine you'd built up kept where no other had before, and instead of boredom and mundanity, or the anxiety that came with getting too comfortable, you were enjoying yourself. 

You were content.

In the mornings, you'd eat breakfast with Satoru and oftentimes Suguru, then continue the well-proceeding renovations on your house. In the afternoons you'd work at Granny’s shop, and your nights were free. Usually you'd either go to the park for a while, hang out with your friends, or go straight to either Suguru’s or Satoru's house.

Geto-mama and Geto-papa took a particular liking to you and enjoyed having you over. You learned very quickly where Suguru got his spice tolerance from, the pair of parents being worse than him in overusing various pepper seasonings.

His parents were also ridiculously tall, especially his mother, who stood toe-to-toe with Suguru himself. He was the spitting image of her.

You underestimated how much Geto-mama liked plants until she sat your pretty ass on the armchair in her living room, threw a blanket over your legs, and proceeded to whip out decades’ worth of knowledge on all kinds of husbandry.

Which, actually, was very entertaining and engaging, with plenty of hands-on activities. You were now the proud mother of a cardboard egg carton full of itty bitty forget-me-nots. 

When she told you that she was a kindergarten teacher, it all added up.

She was a blast to listen to, every conversation with her energetic and fun. You had a great time everytime you hung out with each other, leading you to frequently exchange flower and vegetation pictures with her over text. She had some shockingly hilarious husbandry memes, and you’d never seen Suguru come close to pouting before he learned you texted with his mom more than you did him. 

Sure, it was barely a downward twitch of his lips, but he looked so much like a wounded puppy that you had to fix the situation ASAP.

Which meant texting his mother in secret.

His father was vastly different from his mother. The silent type who didn’t speak much, spending most of his free time sitting on the couch, filling out crossword or sudoku puzzles featured in the weekly newspaper. 

You chalked him up to be the type to emotionally close himself off, until you saw him embracing his wife while she cooked, face buried against the crook of her neck while she rambled his ear off about anything and everything. 

You picked up on how he followed her around soon after that, always trailing after her around the house, lamb and shepherd. 

They shared more similarities than you initially caught. He was a teacher, too – a professor of ethics at the nearby college, specifically. Though he wasn’t talkative, he made for fascinating and thought-provoking conversation when he was in the mood to chat.

Suguru was a lot like his dad, you concluded, based on careful examination of the way they interacted with others and the world around them. They were both the wordless protector types, speaking more in gentle touches, subtle expressions, and words of affirmation than with open, boisterous actions. They were observant and highly aware of the emotions of others, and acted well on them.

Which is to say, they could both read you like a book. They knew when you were thirsty or hungry before you did. You weren’t as close to Geto-papa, but despite his quiet nature, he made it clear to you that you could go to him for anything.

Unlike them, Satoru was nothing like his dad.

You met Gojo-sama once, and wanted to keep it at only once if you could help it.

He wasn’t necessarily rude or anything, quite the opposite. He was polite, courteous, and respectful.

Problem was, he scared the absolute bejeezus out of you.

He carried this constant aura of authority with him everywhere he went, stern and straightforward to a fault. Where Ijichi was a trembling mess in front of Satoru, he went ramrod straight when in Gojo Saichi’s presence. He turned himself into a statue, and you couldn’t discern if it was from fear or great reverence, because Gojo-sama was quite kind to him, all things considered.

You were still spooked by the man, though, and preferred to avoid him. Lucky for you, he more-or-less lived in a town a few hours away, far enough to need to take the train, as he was busy working.

The only person you’d seen him cower before was Granny, as she apparently also knew him since he was younger. Whatever that woman was built of, you wanted it.

One day, sometime in late summer, you broke the golden rule of avoiding the park on Thursday nights and very quickly found out why Aoi and her boyfriend fucked there. They went at it like rabid animals – hell, you thought they were animals at first. Then, you saw a bit more ass than you were bargaining for and bolted out of the park, swearing to avoid the bushes they had chosen to desecrate at all costs.

You had come to know most of the more commonly seen townsfolk by name now, but that was about it. You were still introverted, after all. Everyone outside your group was an acquaintance, generally. You knew some people better than others, whether by intention (Granny, Shoko, Utahime) while others not so much (Aoi's boyfriend’s ass), but that was fine.

You sighed softly as you watched lilliputian snowflakes drift past the window of Granny’s shop, your chin propped up on your palm. They stirred and danced, waltzing with one another, then came to rest on the ground.

It wasn’t cold enough for them to stick – winter in this part of Japan was fairly mild – but it was alluring nonetheless.

You couldn’t remember the last time you stopped everything to just…observe. You hardly had enough time to settle and let your lungs fully fill to admire the scenery anywhere else you went. A shame and a waste, you knew that. Some of the places you drifted to were revered for their natural beauty, or hypnotic architecture, or lively communities.

You’d be lying if you said you went to them with the first two in mind. Mainly, you drifted towards densely packed locations. The more people, the more sounds, the less you were able to hear your own thoughts. Clubs, dating apps, friend groups full of names you would never remember, nothing worked.

Being unable to think left you feeling like your sanity was being torn apart by ragged, filthy nails. It made you want to rip into your own skull to wrench out the obnoxious fucking buzzing. At first, you thought there wasn’t enough noise, that the rattling was a result of there being too much room in your cranium that let things clatter about.

Living above subs and stumbling your way into various parties, drinking your weight in liquor until you couldn’t think at all, making out with someone knowing that you wouldn’t be able to handle anything more than light petting, nothing sufficed.

It’s possible you moving to such an isolated valley wasn’t such a difficult thing to believe. Something, something, insanity.

The passage of time seemed nonexistent here. When you arrived, you were slipping into summer, battling the hellish heat under the AC at Suguru’s house blowing on full blast, prancing in the river with Satoru, and now it was snowing. It felt like only yesterday, or at most before yesterday, you had arrived.

The memory of your first night on a floor you couldn’t believe you actually slept on in hindsight was so distant, yet merely a few hours back on the clock of your mind.

Intrusive thoughts – the same that told you to stab your hand, jump off a cliff, fantasize about your worst fears and subsequently having panic attacks because of it – persisted. Hard habits to kick, but they were significantly quieter nowadays. Further spaced out, too.

The voice of the demon clinging to your cervical spine, the one that urged you to run like your feet were on hot coals, had all but gone mute. Sometimes you got the thought, but it was more reflex than anything else.

Maybe, just maybe, you found where you were supposed to be.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Granny’s calm voice roused you from your reverie, drawing your attention to her.

Like you, she peered at the slow-falling flakes, following the twirls and spirals they made when a mild breeze caught them. If you had to name the expression she wore, it would be reminiscence. You’d think that, after living here for as long as she did, one would be used to the sight of the year’s first snow. Impassive, even, or perhaps irked by the omen it brought, but the childlike wonder sparkling in her eyes told you otherwise.

You sensed you would never truly get used to it, either. 

“Yeah,” you matched her tone, returning your fixation to beyond the window. “I’ve seen snow before, but never really…”

Granny easily picked up on what you didn’t voice. “It’s quite magical.”

You nodded faintly, unbothered by the countertop digging into your elbow. 

The day was uneventful for the most part.

Geto-mama had stopped by earlier in the day to pass you a plate of mini lemon tarts, which you idly nibbled on while reading. She had taken to using you as a test subject for her experimental baked treats, and (to your massive relief, since you lived in constant fear of Satoru and Ijichi and their calamitous baking skills) she made amazing snacks, and taught you when she had the time to.

Everyone else was busy either completing preparations for the forecasted snowfall, promised to last the week, or they’re already bundled up at home, staving off the frost from within.

Which meant it was slow-going at the shop, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. 

It gave you time to catch up on the new manga series you’d picked up from the shelf of the store after becoming curious about it. It was an odd story, something about a boy whose body was doused in a fire that could never extinguish, but it kept your mind busy.

The tale under your hand was…difficult to stomach. Not for any massive horror or emotional reasons, no. Rather, it was so painfully cringy that you had to periodically stop and take a breath to steady yourself.

The plot was rather good, an interesting concept for a world that would make for a fantastic anime, but the author really enjoyed causing his readers physical pain from the dialogue. It made for fantastic taunting material, though, and Satoru and you enjoyed ripping into the characters.

It amazed you that this author apparently had a popular manga in both Japan and the States that was released only a couple years after this one, because wow. It was bad.

The dainty chime of the bell drew your attention away from your manga in time to see Suguru ducking under the door frame, giant that he was, a furoshiki-clad object in hand. A quick skim over the shop had his sights landing on you, locating his target. His eyes creased into slim lunes, the corners of his lips digging into the plush of his cheeks as he approached you.

You stepped out from behind the counter and oof-ed when his free arm encompassed you and tugged you into his hoodie-covered chest. 

He placed the side of his face against the top of your head and rubbed it endearingly. You never chalked him up to be the type for physical affection when you first met, but here you were, practically getting scented by a territorial feline.

“Hey, you,” he lilted, withdrawing after far too much time passed for the embrace to be considered a normal greeting between friends. His palm stayed in contact with your figure, gliding across the curve of your waist as he was pulling back, seemingly reluctant to part. It raised goosebumps on your nape and along the lengths of your arms.

“Hey, Suguru,” you welcomed, your lips subconsciously tilting upwards. Your heart filled your chest with a warmth akin to the heat the hot chai he frequently made for you. “What brings you here?”

“Brought you lunch,” he explained as he set the object down on the register counter. A succulent scent wafted towards you, forcing you to restrain your stomach in a chokehold around its neck like a crazed mutt. Decorum and politeness were vital in the presence of royalty.

You crooned, grinning wider at him. “Aww, Sugu, you didn’t have to do that.” 

He merely shook his head, tucking his hands into the center pocket of his hoodie. “It’s no problem. You mentioned you never tried somen or nikujaga, so I figured I’d make you some.”

His kindness and thoughtfulness had you swooning, so much so that you had faith even the biting chill of the world outside the temperate shop wouldn’t dare bother you.

“I’m serious, Suguru, you’re too nice to me,” you pouted playfully, to which he shook his head in disagreement.

“No such thing,” he replied, leaning back against the wall behind the counter. He jerked his chin towards the bento box. “Eat before it gets cold.”

Not needing to be told twice, you untied the cloth and pulled it away, further unveiling the mouthwatering scent. The container was still hot as you scooted it off the cloth that you folded neatly, then frowned minutely.

“You didn’t bring a box for yourself?” You asked, worry etched into your brow.

He smiled at you. “I ate earlier, don’t worry.”

“Such a good man, dear,” Granny reappeared, squeezing his arm affectionately. “Your parents raised you well.”

“Thanks, Granny,” he said, keeping an eye on you to make sure you ate. His concern was assuaged when you began feasting contentedly, his shoulders loosening. “How’s the shop?”

The old woman waved her hand loosely. “Just fine. Not many have come in today. Oh, but your mother did.”

He nodded. “She told me she wanted to stop by and drop something off before she went to work.”

“Tarts!” You covered your mouth with your palm to muffle your words and pointed at the plate of half-eaten snacks next to you. “Sho yummy.”

“Ah, her lemon tarts? Those are pretty good.” He approved. “Don’t let Satoru know she gave you those.”

“How is Yoriko doing?” Your sorta-grandmother asked, since the topic was brought up.

“Mom is alright,” Suguru answered. “She’s fussing over the snow, as if it doesn’t snow every year.”

She complained indignantly. “She’s just like her mother, that one. Always worried about the smallest things. Your father is a terrible enabler.”

He snorted. “You think he’s any better? They enable each other, it’s an echo chamber.”

She tutted disapprovingly. “Missing the forest for the trees,” she mumbled, then reached out and patted your head. “You can leave for the day after you finish eating.”

You furrowed your brow. “Really? But, it’s so early.”

“It’s alright, there won’t be much work to do today. You should go enjoy it.”

You were prepared to argue further, but were halted by the hard glare she gave you. “Okay, fine. Thank you, Granny.”

“Good girl,” she patted you one more time for good measure. “Eat up, now.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to get rid of me,” you teased.

“I am,” she deadpanned.

You balked at her.

A laugh rumbled in Suguru’s chest, and you turned to him with wide eyes. “Can you believe this? She’s trying to get rid of me.”

He cocked his head towards you. “She’s just being kind enough to let me steal you away.”

You grumbled as you stuffed more food into your mouth. “Unbelievable. The absolute gall of you people, passing me back and forth like a football.”

He and Granny exchanged light conversation, talking about his folks’ plans for their farm in the coming spring, once the cold season passes, while you nibble away until the box is empty and you’re stuffed.

“Thank you for the food, Sugu,” you sighed in satisfaction and slid off your stool, stretching your arms above your head.

“You’re very welcome. I hope you liked it,” he spoke as he gathered the bento back into its furoshiki.

You chuffed. “You kidding? Your cooking is always amazing.”

The elder jabbed your ribs painfully with her elbow, making you wheeze. Unperturbed, she cupped a hand around her mouth to mutter to you. “He likes you.”

“Granny, please,” you rubbed the spot she impacted. 

Your further objections were cut off when you found a scarf tossed over your shoulders, the fabric being looped around them a couple times to properly cover your neck and the lower half of your face. The culprit of the surprise attack stood in front of you, now sans his own scarf, as he was diligently securing it in place on you.

“Suguru,” you crinkled your nose at him as he tucked the ends of the fabric into the collar of your sweater. You didn’t fight him on it, but you did feel perhaps a teensy bit child-like with the way he cosseted you.

He merely smiled, cupping your cheek when he finished. “Indulge me.”

Granny gave you a knowing glance from your side.

You freed your chin to stick your tongue out at her before you were stuffed straight back into the scarf. It smelled like Suguru, like tea and spice and him, and you instinctively nuzzled further into the thick material.

“My place?” He moved a section of your hair away from your face so it wouldn’t bother you.

You acquiesced easily, offering to take the bento and furoshiki, to which he declined. You waved goodbye to the weird lady who kept looking between you and your friend while waggling her eyebrows as you stepped out of the shop. You had no idea who she was. What a strange person.

Cough.

The bite of winter nibbled anywhere your clothes didn’t cover as you met the outside world. Baby snowflakes began to gather and melt in your tresses, and you shuddered as a slight draft skittered past your legs.

His fingers easily slipped into the gaps between yours, palms pressed together as he tucked both of your hands in the pocket of his hoodie. 

That was the thing about Suguru – he knew what you needed without having to exchange words. He was nothing if not perceptive and observant, a caretaker at heart. Likening him to a guardian angel would’ve been an understatement, in your opinion.

It unsettled you at first, the way he would do something for you, whether or not you said something. You were nervous he could read your mind, but extensive testing (consisting of you saying random gibberish in your head) proved he couldn’t. He was simply good at guessing what you were thinking, and was spectacular at planning ahead.

Your thumb rubbed idle circles into the back of his hand, grazing over the prominent knuckles and thick veins there. 

You admired his hands a lot, everything about them. Their size, the roughness of the pads of his fingers, their strength. You liked that, regardless of the feats he was capable of pulling off with those hands, he was always attentive and dovish in the way he treated you.

You enjoyed watching him tear apart old cabinets the same way you enjoyed watching him leaf through a book. Those hands, the ones that dexterously tore out prickly weeds bare, were the same that affixed the fabric keeping your neck protected from the elements in place. Capable of destruction and creation in the same stroke.

The bones of his wrist were a particular draw to you, you couldn’t help but stare at them whenever the chance presented itself – you swear it’s not in a creepy way. Like a hand fetish, but not sexual. Was that a thing?

Ugh, this was just digging your grave deeper. You had to shift your thought process a hint to the left.

What else could he do with them? You’d bet easy money he’d be killer at knitting if he ever asked his dad to teach him. He had a good sense of textiles, knowing the texture of something before touching it, if he had to at all. 

A flake dropped onto the round of your cheek and you flinched, rubbing at your face with your free hand. As much as you loved winter, you were looking forward to getting to Suguru’s place to get the sprouting wetness out of your hair. You adored snow, but you’d rather snuggle up under a blanket and relax with him.

You craned your head back, taking in the expanse of ash, stretched from mountaintop to mountaintop. 

The crests were sugar dusted, fluffy powder so delicate, you could sink through it effortlessly. Icing glazed down in streaks, brooks and streams frosted by a thin layer atop them. If the town river had a thick sheet of ice over it, you could try to convince your friends to go ice skating with you. 

Satoru would be the easiest to convince, Suguru would be the hardest, and Shoko and Utahime would be somewhere in the middle.

Never having experienced nature to this degree, as you hadn’t given yourself the chance to in years past, you pined for a taste of all of it. Hiking in autumn, swimming in summer, sunbathing in spring…you doubted the snow would be dense enough to ski on, and the mountains were too short and steep, but ice skating was well within the realm of possibility.

Whatever season it was, you were determined to be part of it, and to take it with you.

“What’s on that pretty mind of yours, hm?” Suguru eased you from your daydreaming.

You angled your head so you could see him and still fantasize about flying above the frigid clouds. “Suguru, are you any good at painting?”

His head tilted to the side, woefully reminiscent of a curious puppy. “Painting? I never gave it much thought. Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking of turning one of the walls in my house into a simple mural.”

“What kind?”

You ran your tongue over your back teeth in consideration. “I haven’t decided yet. Nature-esque would be nice, vines and stuff. Nothing complicated.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” he replied, squeezing your hand. “We can look at some inspiration together later, if you’d like.”

You grinned brightly. “Absolutely!”

He reciprocated the smile and reached for his door, making you realize you’d arrived. He hiked the furoshiki up to his forearm and curled his fingers around the knob, twisting it and pushing inwards. In seconds, you went from the crisp sting of wintertide to the protection of his home, shielded from the snow and chill. 

The scent of the food he made earlier permeated the residence, undertoned by a layer of sandalwood and agarwood incense.

While you were wriggling off your shoes, Suguru was undoing your scarf, pulling it off with smooth movements to hang it over the coat rack. His hands took your face into them, large thumbs rubbing over the swaths of plushness under your eyes to thaw them out.

“I’ll make you some chai,” he said, sharp, russet irises darting across your features. “Wanna sit in the kitchen while I do that?”

You nodded, fleetingly nuzzling into his hold to warm the tip of your nose. He obliged you, only releasing you when you were satisfied with the pleasant buzz tingling over your skin. He motioned for you to go ahead while he pulled off his hoodie and put his shoes away.

The walls of his home had become calming to you over time, the path to his kitchen now one you could follow automatically. You’d even gotten your own designated spot at the breakfast table in his kitchen. Sure, it was a two-seater, so it wasn’t saying much, but it gave you that happy, fluffy feeling anyway.

You slid into your seat as he came in, his hands busy with coiling his long, obsidian locks up into a messy bun that he pinned into place with a claw clip. He was always careful with his hair, taking measures to ensure its condition remained pristine and luscious. You admired and spited him for it; the former for his dedication, and the latter for inflicting you with the constant desire to play with the silk strands like a honeymoon lover.

Suguru was structured and organized in everything he did, preparing chai not excluded. Your jaw rested on the curve of your palm, your focus placed on him as he moved around the room with practiced dexterity.

If you were honest, this was one of your favorite things to do.

Sitting in silence while observing Suguru do his thing lured you into a drowsy sort of state. Not sleepy, but definitely cushy and snug, an invisible blanket laid over your back, weighted and heated.

He taught you how to make it – rather simple, once you know – but his tasted better than anything you could ever make. You could’ve been biased, but you wholeheartedly believed he made the absolute best chai.

A mug was slid over the tabletop to you, mouthwatering steam rising from it. You peered down at the milky-brown liquid with hearts in your eyes, hands grasping the ceramic without hesitation. Suguru enjoyed drawing cute things on the surface of the drinks he made, and used a shallow bowl of milk foam and a toothpick to painstakingly doodle a pudgy bear for you to gulp down.

“Thank you, Suguwu,” you crowed happily, almost feeling too bad for the bear to drink him.

Almost.

“You’re very welcome,” his hand settled on your nape as you lifted the edge of the mug to your lips, gently blowing on the tea, then taking a sip. “How is it?”

You purred. “So good,” you praised him. “Your chai is incredible.”

He chuckled and positioned his index and thumb an inch or so above your hairline. He pressed down, and you stiffened as a sharp spike of pain went through your temple – then you were melting with a satisfied sigh, sliding back into the chair. You had no idea how he knew where to poke and prod to have you turning into putty, but it left you feeling squishy and content, thus you had no complaints.

“Very good, I’m glad,” he said, accepting your compliments, both spoken and silent. “I’m gonna go take a shower. Put the mug in the dishwasher when you’re done, please.”

You nodded and murmured in acknowledgement, relaxing with a dopey smile as you sipped at your chai.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but you’d gained a sort of philosophical appreciation for things like this. Stopping to smell the roses, feeling the snow on your lashes, tasting vanilla and black tea and cinnamon under your tongue, the things you hadn’t bothered to treasure, you now made sure to.

After a few minutes of slouching and drinking lazily, you sat back up and pulled out your phone, unlocking it to occupy your mind.

Right in the middle of you savoring the beverage and scrolling aimlessly through some social media app, a piece of paper was suddenly smacked down onto the wood in front of you. You paused mid-sip and looked at it blankly, then traced the source of its origin up to Satoru’s gleaming, boyish grin. When had he let himself in?

You raised a curious brow at the man, finishing your gulp. “What’s this?”

“That, sweet girl, is a wedding invitation,” he declared with all the vigor of a show host announcing the spoils the victor had attained, “and you’re gonna be my plus-one.”

Your other brow lifted to match the first. “Eh? Since when?”

“Since now,” he sidled up to you, slipping into your space. “I need a wedding date, after all, and I’ve chosen you to be the lucky lady to accompany me.”

Unamused would be a good way to describe your mood. You weren’t very fond of weddings; they were loud, busy, and grossly romantic. Sure, the idea was nice on paper, but spending half a day (or, more often, far more) watching two people slobber over each other in a socially acceptable version of PDA always made you feel gross and invasive, like seeing something you weren’t meant to.

And envious, to some extent, but you preferred to not dwell on that.

“Take Suguru,” you suggested.

Satoru’s nose wrinkled like you waved something expired under his nostrils. “That old hag? No way, he’d kill all my game.”

You scoffed. “And I wouldn’t?”

“Not at all,” he tipped further toward you. “You are the game.”

“Very flattering,” you returned to your phone and tea. “Today I learned that I’m a game.”

He made an affronted noise and curled over you to stare into your eyes, making sure you had no choice but to stare back. “I didn’t mean it like that! Come on, bunny, it’ll be fun!”

You set your cheekbone against your knuckles. “What’s in it for me?”

The Gojo heir puffed up his chest, going full peacock. “A date with me, of course.”

A tempting offer on its own, but not enough. “And…?”

“And,” he continued, “I’ll treat you to anything you like, just name it.”

You deliberated on what sort of ridiculous thing you could ask for that could get him to back off, partially because you really didn’t want to go to a wedding, and partially because you were curious about what the great Gojo Satoru could and couldn’t achieve.

What could you ask of him? You knew money was of no concern for him, in terms of anything your brain could come up with. You weren’t about to ask him to buy you a whole ass estate, no, you were thinking more in the realm of something purposelessly expensive but practical.

You weren’t a big fan of jewelry, hardly wearing the stuff. You’d had enough of world travel as it stood, so a flight to Spain or France or whatever was out of the question.

Your eyes flickered down to his lips unbidden. Plush, pink, parted with anticipation.

A kiss.

You caught the cringe that bubbled up the column of your spine by a hair. What ugly hell did that intrusive thought crawl up from?

Mentally picturing slapping yourself with a sad, wet newspaper and calling yourself a bad pooch, you jumped on the next thing you could come up with.

“Make soap with me,” you said.

Ah, finally, a good idea. You could use some decent soap to scrub your brain wrinkles free of filth.

He frowned. “Soap?”

“Yeah, like one of those soap-making kits. I’ve wanted to try one of those since I was a kid,” you clarified. 

“Done,” he agreed with a serious bob of the head. “What else?”

You blinked. What else?

As greedy as you could be at times, you already felt bad asking for the soap kit. You didn’t like people spending money on you, even if it was on Satoru’s tab. You knew his wallet ran deep, you were afraid to know how deep, but your point remained.

You gnawed the inside of your cheek.

You really didn’t want to go to the wedding, but you did kind of get his hopes up with that soap kit ask…

It’d be a good idea to know who you were up against.

“Whose wedding is it?” You queried 

His reply brought you a vast amount of satisfaction. “Aoi’s and her fiancé’s.”

Ohohoho, this you had to see. The bush-sex-freaks getting married?

Alright, worth it. “Fine, I’ll go–”

“As my date,” he insisted, not letting you finish.

You half-groaned, the sound ribbing more than anything else. “I’ll go to the wedding as your date. Happy, now?”

He cheered as if he’d won the lottery and pressed a giant kiss to your cheek, rubbing his nose vigorously against it for good measure. “Yippee! I knew you’d agree!”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the up-quirk at the corners of your lips. “I swear to God, if you’re just using me to get numbers from girls–”

“I’m not,” he sneered, following you as you got up, gulped down the rest of your chai, and set the mug away into the dishwasher. “I wouldn’t dare do that, not when I already have the number of the girl I like.”

Something under your ribs twinged. The girl he…likes?

Whatever the odd pinch of discomfort was, you shoved it aside, refusing to address it. “Trying to get her attention by making her jealous of me, then?”

Duckling to mama, he continued to trail after you out of the kitchen and towards the living room. “Nope.”

You made a ‘hrm’ noise. “So, you’re the one who’s jealous and you’re trying to get back at her?”

“Nada.”

You gave up rather easily. “I got nothin’,” you declared, stepping into the living room.

“Don’t you get it? You’re– oh, hey, Suguru,” Satoru cut himself off to greet Suguru, who was reclined in the armchair, freshly showered and casually reading a book. “Didn’t know you were here.”

The nox-haired man halted mid-paragraph and slowly dragged his gaze upwards. A pair of glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, further adding to that skeptical mom look he had going on. “You didn’t know I’d be in my own house? Yet you figured she would be?” He spoke incredulously and gestured towards you.

Satoru shrugged and dropped himself onto the floor in front of the T.V., tugging open the doors of the cabinet it stood on to withdraw a game controller. “Was lookin’ for her. She wasn’t at my place, since I just left it, and wasn’t at the shop. Next logical place: here.”

“What about the park?”

“In the fuck ass middle of winter?” He jeered. “I’m a himbo, but I’m not stupid.”

“Wow, he’s self-aware,” you commented dryly, climbing onto the couch and nestling into the corner closest to Suguru, tugging at the blanket on the back of it to drape it across your lap. “He did find me here.”

“Touché,” he conceded. “What’d he want from you?”

You used the armrest as a support for your back and tapped open your phone, searching for something to read. “Oh, just an invita–”

“Suguru!” Satoru’s commanding tone clipped through your words. “Play Smash with me!”

“No.”

The cotton ball sulked. “Please?”

“No.”

“Pretty pleeeease?”

“Still no.”

“Pretty please with sugar on top?”

Suguru let out a long-suffering sigh. “Satoru, we played Smash just this morning for, like, two hours.”

Gojo’s lour deepened. “Not even if I added ghost peppers on top of the sugar?”

Geto’s upper lip curled. “Gross.”

You set one foot on the floor, keeping your other leg positioned on the couch, and used the coffee table to lean as far forward as you could to pat the absurdly fluffy mop of white Gojo called hair. “I’ll play it with you later, how’s that?”

If fireworks were a person, they’d be Satoru. Dark one moment, then lighting up the sky the next. “Okay! Wanna watch me play GTA, then?”

“Sure,” you assented, entertained by how his giddiness reminded you of a child opening presents on Christmas.

He got into the zone, navigating through the menus with a grace that told you he’d done this countless times. Watching another person play a game could be tranquilizing in its own right; you could turn your brain off and peep the horrors of him crashing a helicopter head first into a street in the middle of Los Santos. 

His manic tittering as he created the most heinous looking vehicle further added to the domestic atmosphere of Geto’s home.

You retrieved your phone at some point to scroll through it, then stopped when you saw a post of a girl showing off her fairy braid. You chewed on your lip, thinking, then dropped your device once you made your choice.

“Suguwu.”

“Mm?”

“Lemme braid your hair,” you demanded, making grabby hands at him. 

You couldn’t make a fairy braid as pretty as that, but you could sure as hell make a stellar normal braid.

He took one glance up from his book to you, then he was standing up from his arm chair to sit in front of you at the foot of the couch, already engaged with the words beneath his fingers again.

Satoru gaped, distracted from his game.

“Wh– you never let anyone touch your hair! Not even me!”

The noiret flipped the page as you carefully undid his bun, clasping the clip to the neck of your shirt. “That’s because you’d do unspeakable damage to my hair if I ever let you. Besides, nobody else knows how to treat hair well.”

A blue eye twitched. “Oh, yeah? And she does?”

Suguru opened his mouth to quip back, only to let out the most scandalous groan you’d ever heard when your nails scraped lightly across his scalp. 

Sweet disciples of Jesus H. Christ, what was that sound?

He reclined into your touch, book promptly forgotten on his lap as he tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

“How long did it take you to find a routine?” You asked him, hoping to distract yourself before your imagination took off with the noise now permanently ingrained on your brain. “Your hair is so soft.”

“Trial and error,” he said with a rasp. “My mom has the same hair as me, so I learned from her. You?”

You combed your fingers through his silken locks with a delicate touch, moving slowly so as to not catch and tear any potential knots. Whenever you found one, you carefully untangled it before proceeding. “Trial and error for me, too. My life changed when I discovered leave-in.”

“I think I’m in love with you,” Suguru mumbled.

You burst into giggles, your laughter fueled by Satoru’s baffled expression. In two seconds flat, he had dropped the controller and was directly in your face, brows set with determination.

“Braid my hair, too!”

You snorted horrendously and angled your face away out of embarrassment, Suguru’s chuckle making you laugh harder. “S-Satoru,” you heaved. “Your hair is too short to braid.”

“Don’t care!” He grasped your hand and planted it firmly atop his head, his demands made clear. “Do it anyway!”

“Okay– okay!” You panted, willing the rest of your chortling away. “Let me do Suguru’s hair first, then yours.”

Subdued, he sat on his knees on the couch cushion next to yours, and though he didn’t prod, he very much continued to reside in your personal space. His wide eyes were fixated on your hands as they worked sedulously to curve and twist Suguru’s hair into an elegant braid, intrigued with every shift and swoop.

You were no professional, but you were beaming with pride at the end. Using the claw you’d removed earlier, you folded the braid into itself, then pinned it into place, satisfied.

“There, all done,” you announced. 

Geto peeled his droopy eyes open, but made no move to stand and go back to his seat, fully content to stay where he was. “Thank you, pretty girl.”

Satoru threw himself over your lap, face down as he shoved one arm under and the other over the thigh pillowing his head and hugged it in a hold bordering on a death grip. “My turn!”

His poor parents.

Dealing with an adult Satoru was already hassle enough, considering his impatience and penchant for pestering the living hell out of you to get what he wanted. Kid-sized Satoru was probably eons worse, if the anecdotes from others were anything to go on.

You spoiled him, anyway. 

Your fingers carded through his hair, eliciting a loud purr. Given the significantly shorter length of his hair, you elected to transform isolated sections into micro braids. They held themselves together nicely, the rhythmic and repetitive motions lulling both you and Satoru into amicable quiet, disturbed only by the occasional scratch of pages sliding against each other as Suguru returned to his book.

It took you some time to figure out that Satoru had fallen asleep, his breaths deep and even, cheek squished against the plush of your thigh. He was turned towards you, allowing you to inspect his features closely.

He really was beautiful. 

In gaps of time like this, where he wasn’t bouncing off the walls with energy, you could pick apart the details that made him who he was. 

His brows and lashes were the same shade of gardenia as his locks. Thick petals protected those whirlpools residing beneath, hiding the blue of a moonstone’s shine. His lips formed a natural pout, a tad glossy in the middle, dark magenta lining the inside. 

He had freckles, you discovered. They were faint, virtually invisible unless you were this near to him, but they were there. They dusted across the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks, giving him an extra boost to that boyish charm of his you had become partial to.

He really was handsome, blessed by the heavens, made in their image. 

Your susutake-eyed friend gained your attention with low-toned words, pulling you away from your veneration. “I’m guessing it was about the wedding?”

You took a few seconds to recall what he was talking about, the reason Satoru was looking for you. “Oh, yeah.”

“Wanna be my plus-one?” Suguru inquisitioned.

You exhaled, drawn out and defeated as you laced your digits through the mane of the boy napping on your lap. “Satoru already coerced me into being his plus-one.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be my plus-one, too.”

Your brow knitted. “How so?”

Topaz locked onto you. “Simply by being my plus-one. We’ll all go together.”

Satoru stirred as you mulled over it, your motions pausing in fear that you woke him. But, he merely repositioned, his lanky arms moving to encase your waist so he could press his face against your stomach, then he sank back down into deep sleep.

Your heart fluttered, fingers brushing his hair out of his eyes. 

A bird, downy and young, burrowed into the nest behind the defensive embrace of your ribs, and chirped shyly. A fragile thing, one that cautiously set foot into a desolate and hollow place, hoping to fill it with feathers and, perhaps, an emotion akin to devotion.

It’d need compassionate hands to hold it, to nurture it, let it rise and spread its wings wide until they could sprout from your shoulder blades to return what was once lost.

You had to allow it to do so, though. You had to be the one cradling it to where you were most vulnerable, let it seep strength from your pounding heart, but you recognized that your warmth alone wouldn’t be sufficient. You had to let others in, let their hands clasp around yours, let them share the fires of their souls with you. 

In the past, such an idea was inconceivable. The nest had been empty for endless years for a reason, unsuitable for any kind of life, especially a docile and infant type.

You weren’t in the past anymore.

You were terrified to give anyone entry to the darkness that painted the walls of your ribcage, sapping all light that deigned to creep in, but…

How you longed to feel the sun on your skin, to feel the moon crowning you.

It didn’t have to be everybody, no. It could be just them, the celestial bodies you cowered from yet coveted.

Just Satoru and Suguru.

“Sure,” you decreed. “Why not?”

─────•(-•ʚɞ•-)•─────

You twisted side-to-side in front of the mirror, examining yourself, dissecting every part of you.

You were standing on the rug in your room – your actual room, the one in your house, rather than Satoru’s. After months upon months of hard work, you were finally able to say you’d accomplished your goal of fixing it up to be properly habitable. 

And, yes, you’d stolen the rug from ‘your’ room back at his place to bring here.

One thing you didn’t consider about living alone after having so long to get used to living with Satoru was how lonely it could be, so the fluffy piece watered that feeling down. 

After you’d made the move here, he insisted the room in his home was permanently yours, and that you’d always be welcome there. Well, more accurately, he begged you to stay. While you were too enticed by the idea of having your own house and being able to live in it, you frequently slept at his anyway. It was hard to beat the repose that came with the familiarity of his estate, and knowing he was close by.

But, the benefit of having a solo-abode was that he couldn’t pester the living hell out of you while you got ready for Aoi’s wedding. 

Your makeup was flawless, as it should have been, given how long you’d been slaving away on it. You didn’t do your makeup often, so you were plenty chuffed with how it turned out. It only took two-and-a-half hours, too! 

…You were smart to start early.

The thin chain around your throat complemented the neckline of the dress Suguru and Satoru gifted you beautifully, glimmering like the sparkling dots decorating the profile of the fabric.

Breathable fabric followed the shape of your body, powdered with microscopic, iridescent glitters that fluctuated with every movement you made, catching the light zealously. Satoru had snuck it in with the soap kit, shutting down each of your attempts to reject the gift. 

Suguru had chosen the style, while Satoru selected the color. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t suit you. 

It was perfectly tailored to you, flattering and enhancing in all the best ways.

You wouldn’t admit to anyone that you spent ten minutes running your hands over your tits, waist, and hips after putting it on. You looked good. Like, good good, the kind of pop and spunk and beauty that you’d swoon over in a hit music video. 

You had a pair of sandals that were miraculously a match, which meant you could not only turn down Satoru’s offer to get you a new pair, but you didn’t have to worry about wearing beaten up sneakers, either. There was no way in hell you were letting that man buy another thing for you. He wouldn’t tell you how much the dress cost him, no matter how many times you banged on his chest and demanded answers, so anything more was out of the question.

He relented after bickering back and forth, giving you the relief to dress up without guilt.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

As you finished fawning over yourself, there was a knock at your front door. Your heart rate spiked and you giggled, giving yourself a second to cool off, lest you looked too eager. No man liked that, you’d been told.

You skipped across your house, pausing to admire the accent wall in the living room. Suguru had painted a fairly simple nature scene on it of tree silhouettes encasing a mountain background, and it’d become your absolute favorite thing. You knew he was good with his hands, and you were elated with the results.

Giddy, you popped open the door, where you found the men of the hour awaiting you.

Oh, hell.

They looked like kings in those tuxedos of theirs, fit for royalty. They were already striking, you wholeheartedly believed they couldn’t possibly clean up any better. Boy, were you wrong.

Suguru’s gorgeous mane was interwoven into a plait that rested over his shoulder, dotted with baby’s breath flowers in resemblance to constellations, courtesy of Geto-mama. Satoru’s tresses were swept back, looking minimally less disheveled. You really couldn’t ask much from his hair, it did what it liked, when it liked.

“Oh, my god,” you said. “I wanna see you in suits.”

Suguru laughed, deep and rumbling, orbs glinting with mischief. “Next wedding, princess.”

“Look at you!” Satoru whistled, checking you out blatantly. “Damn, you look hot as fuck. That dress is perfect on you. Who picked it out for you?” He teased, sapphires glimmering. “I wanna get a drink with him sometime.”

Suguru snorted. “You don’t even drink, Satoru.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t get a drink with the handsome fella who dressed our girl up so pretty.”

You rolled your eyes at his antics. “You look fantastic, too, Satoru. Both of you! Seriously, you’re killing it! You’re gonna steal all the attention from the groom.”

“So long as your attention is on me, I don’t care,” he winked, taking your hand to ghost a kiss over your knuckles. Heat rushed through your being, adding to the blush you applied earlier.

Suguru bent over, pressing his own to the spot right in front of your ear. “You look beautiful, angel,” he murmured. Pulling away, the two of them presented corsages – one in blue and white, the other in lilac and black. 

You placed a hand to your chest, taken aback and flattered. You picked up on how their corsages matched the flowers they had respectively pinned to their breast pockets.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” you snickered and offered out both arms for them to take and adorn.

They were coordinated as always, neither wrist bare for longer than the other. 

“They’re gorgeous,” you doted. “Thank you.”

Suguru’s palm slid up your forearm, digits pressing so tenderly into your skin, spawning chills under his touch. “Only right for someone as ravishing as yourself.”

You blushed, relishing in the praise. It was alright to indulge sometimes, you considered it a treat for finishing your home renovation. The opportunity was there to let loose and wash away all your worries, you’d be a fool not to take it.

“Coming from you,” you blew him a jesting kiss, which he pretended to catch. “Cheesy.”

“Let’s go already!” Satoru butted in, hooking his arm with yours.

Suguru extended his for you to take, continuing to be the polite and proper of the two. “Shall we?”

“We shall!” You declared. For once, you were excited to attend a wedding.

So long as it was with them, you’d go anywhere.

banner by cafekitsune ♥

taglist: @kimi01985

[lorei-writes]

Arsenic Green

Gilbert von Obsidian x Reader Yandere (?) ~1.3k words

In which a certain lord dares think about courting you...

Content Warnings: blood, poisoning, food, biting, side character death

“To our friendship,” Gilbert toasts, his smile unwavering, beaming brightly in cold light. The man seated opposite of him shifts in his chair before too raising his drink to his lips. Absent-mindedly, Lord Bassewitz takes a sip, to then promptly set his cup aside. Slice of lemon sinks under the weight of the turbulent alcohol, yet that is overlooked. He steals another glance at you, so very faithful in his adoration of your every gesture. His mellowed eyes take in your smile with barely concealed elation, a thin veil of dreamy mist setting over his features whenever you as much as concisely reply to any of his questions. An Icarus enchanted by the allure of a sun, he dares to bring your attention to himself.

Tendons give under the knife’s edge, roasted skin willingly parting for meat to be cut. Gilbert rips the pheasant thigh from the roast, claims it for himself. He plates it over silver, eye as red as the finest of Benitoitian wines studiously searching for any signs of change to the metal. Gloved fingers grip the cutlery with cautious elegance. The process repeats, steamed vegetables, smoked fish, minced mint roulades, salads, cheeses and other dishes gradually gathering around his place by the oaken table. He lifts his glass, the alcohol contained within it eagerly dyeing the dining hall walls in splashing crimson. Black leather caresses the fragile stem as delicately as if it was you, not a fraction of him, of his being, betraying his desire to snap it in half.

“To our friendship,” Gilbert toasts, his smile unwavering, beaming brightly in cold light. The man seated opposite of him shifts in his chair before too raising his drink to his lips. Absent-mindedly, Lord Bassewitz takes a sip, to then promptly set his cup aside. Slice of lemon sinks under the weight of the turbulent alcohol, yet that is overlooked. He steals another glance at you, so very faithful in his adoration of your every gesture. His mellowed eyes take in your smile with barely concealed elation, a thin veil of dreamy mist setting over his features whenever you as much as concisely reply to any of his questions. An Icarus enchanted by the allure of a sun, he dares to bring your attention to himself.

Again.

Yet again.

Gilbert could never forget about any of his dear friends and likewise, he does not forget about any of yours or any who dare consider themselves as such. He cannot. You are his. His alone. Tigers are territorial beasts and since you’ve chosen one, you havenot meant to be shared. Not that you truly had much choice; regardless, the dinner must go on, so go on it does, silver shrieking against silver as Gilbert cuts into the fish to then oh so slowly chew the slice, savouring the acidic marinate with obstinate thoroughness. He lets out a hum of approval and you turn your face towards him, candle light casting shadows into any concerned creases that mark the space between your brows.

“Hm? What is it?” he asks, so innocent despite being anything but.

“Is… everything well?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Gilbert brings another bite of fish to his lips. He consumes it slowly, intently, never once dropping your gaze. It is as if he wanted to reinvent the sacrum, to turn the act into a binding vow between you two, an enchantment or a curse that would always return you to him. It slows the time, has the breath solidify in your lungs, passing seconds turning to dust and drying out your throat… And then Gilbert swallows, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple shaking your world. “Are you upset, little rabbit?”

“What? No, no, of course not,” you assure, shaking your head vehemently, long hair bouncing over your shoulders. “I’m enjoying this meeting. Really.”

“Give me your hand.”

The world greys again to then completely fade away. It is just the scarlet, that of his smouldering stare and the one buzzing in your veins, each thud of your heart thundering through your ribs. You are as if hypnotised, phantom hands combing through your waves, pushing them aside to descend over your neck. Frigid breath envelops your skin in white frost, lips that are not there just barely kissing the marks you’ve so diligently covered with make up. You have to obey him, the choice a mere illusion dreamt by your trembling arms. So you do as he says and give him your hand, the pads of his fingers brimming with electricity as they brush against your palm. Gilbert brings it to his face, his very real cool replacing the invisible ghost from before, leather caressing your skin to then grip it tightly, coil around you wrist like a snake.

You are his.

You are his.

You are his when he kisses the back of your hand, when he turns it around and sucks at your wrist until it bruises, and you are his when he punishes you for being so willing to entertain another man. Your nerves sizzle as Gilbert takes your ring finger into his mouth, hot tongue wetting your skin for his teeth to immediately sink into it. Hard. He drinks from you like from a chalice, relishing in your pain and fright alike. You are his, his to do with as he pleases, his to crave loyalty into and his … His… For all eternity. Only. His.

***

Lord Bassewitz is undeterred.

***

Lord Bassewitz is insistent.

***

Lord Bassewitz… still is. But why? Why is it not Lord Bassewitz ‘was’?

***

A tap at a time, Gilbert walks down the corridor. His step has gained a certain spring, a kind of lightness it has not possessed in years. He’s pleased or relieved, or perhaps both – or maybe it is just the sun, so warmly inviting in its bright affection streaming through the tall windows. Regardless, he is satisfied and in this satisfaction he magnanimously overlooks the shivering doors he passes by. All until one.

The cane strikes the granite floor, just short of producing sparks. Gilbert readjusts his cloak, an impeccable smile on his face, and knocks on the wood. His hand moves towards the knob by itself, his fingers turning it without waiting for any reply. They – he – cannot possibly postpone the moment any further. He’s grown tired of that.

Hinges move soundlessly as Gilbert steps inside the room, a speck of obsidian against the carmine wallpaper. He lifts his cane, the walnut floor squelching under his boots. He wipes the soles on the carpet. Gilbert strides forward nonchalantly, almost as if unaware of Lord Bassewitz knelt over a puddle of bloody vomit. Pale-faced, the man has become a mere shadow of himself, shrunken and sunken to the point of being less the phantom that haunted you during that dinner. Not that he haven’t strived for that. After all, he has hoped, craved, to be even as much. Ruthlessly wayward in his foolishness, Lord Bassewitz raises his head. Ignorant, he sins with arrogance.

You, he mouths silently, bloody red staining his yellowish purple lips and soft sheen of sweat covering his brow. Short of breath, Lord Bassewitz can only claw at the ground with his brittle nails, memories escaping his mind with each garlicky huff of air.

“A-Anti —”

“There is none. It’s already too late.” Gilbert sits down in the chair by the window, sinks into the shade provided by the backrest. He relaxes into the plush cushions, one leg crossed over the other and a hand resting on his knee. As if taxidermied, his face is twisted in eternally joyous smile, unreadable save for the scalding cold coagulated in his eye. Gilbert taps away a lively, joyous melody.

And he remembers.

He relishes his memories.

Gilbert recalls Lord Bassewitz’s hand brushing against yours as he brazenly appeared in your path. He remembers his longing gazes, the lovesick sighs, all the questions and greetings that should have never been thought nor spoken out loud, let alone exchanged. He remembers your lovely visage, infidelicly presented to somebody that was not him. He recalls the many days he’s waited and the many meals you’ve shared and the orders he’s issued and that sweetly acidic taste so prevalent on his table ever since you’ve considered straying – and he relishes, he relishes the scene displayed in the room now not only wallpapered in red, almost wishing to too experience the heavenly coppery taste that brought him to this end. Gilbert’s jealousy is the colour of arsenic green, equal parts venomous and poisonous.

And it could have been only him or Lord Bassewitz.

So Gilbert watches.

Until the very end.

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[akisunlovesnalu]

Every Witch Way

A fic that I wrote inspired by this photo. Originally I wanted it to become a detective fic but my brain spiraled and I ended up with this. It became an adventure mystery story and of course, the government hates them :) I liked the idea of them traveling through the desert and I'm not too sure where the guild fit in this but just know that all Magicians (Witches) are in hiding because society believes they are evil. Most normal people do not have magic so someone spread a theory that the only reason witches have magic is because of human sacrifices etc. It's important to note that witches want to keep their powers under wraps or else they will get reported to the authorities and sent to the hier-ups in the capital. Nobody knows what happens to the witches who are caught but they don't want to find out.

That might be some unnecessary background information so skip over that if you wish and enjoy!

When Lucy finds herself kidnapped by a ruthless group of bandits, the last thing she expects is to be saved by a witch with Pink hair and his talking blue cat. And she most certainly didn't expect to become their good friend and travel companion. Who knew evil sorcerers and government conspiracies can lead to unexpected friendships.

As the blond girl dragged herself, hands tied together in front of her, and sand covered bare feet weakly trailing after her, she realized how fast camels might actually be. You see, in all of the stories she had read so far, none of them did the four legged beast's speed any justice. They never quite described how hard it was to keep up with them. It was always “The creature was big” or “The creature was furry” but never “When kidnapped by a group of bandits, tied to and forced to stumble behind a literal camel, it may be hard to keep up.”

See if any of the books had written that in, maybe Lucy Hearfillia might be faring better in her situation. But alas, she was not.

“Stop lagging behind, blondie!” One of the men snarled, pulling on the rope to further demonstrate his annoyance. Lucy stumbled forward, struggling to stay upright. She hung her head low, very aware of the menacingly bright sun and quietly sighed.

Oh what she would do to somehow get out of this unfortunate turn of events.

She has probably been traveling together with these no good thieves for about 3 hours. After being abducted from the only good town in this godforsaken desert, the men forced her to follow them, ignoring her cries of where she was and demands to let her go. She gave up eventually of course. Not even her vocal cords could handle the immense heat that came with the dry deserted area.

“Hey boss.” The big one said, glancing over at her with furrowed brows. He had been the one to capture her in the first place. Of course Lucy could have easily taken him on but… a moment's hesitation was all they needed to successfully tie her up and steal her ring of keys. Aquarius was going to kill her!

 “Not that I really want to, but... Should we give the chick some water?” 

The man in front of the big one grunted, his blueish hair blowing with the small breeze and clearly showing off his strange X-like tattoo. Lucy watched on with little interest as a bead of sweat traveled down his forehead.

“I wouldn’t bother.” He scoffed. “Every time we’ve tried, she just spits it back up. Plus, earlier she tried to bite off Javier’s finger, do you really want to risk it?” He raised an eyebrow.

The man in question made a whining noise, clutching his injured hand to his chest and glaring at their prisoner with watery eyes. He mockingly raised the water bottle to his mouth, chugging it in an attempt to get a rise out of her. Lucy rolled her eyes, instead looking back down at the smooth sand beneath her feet.

The big one made a noise of understanding. “Even after we lied about it not being drugged too-”

Javier spit up the water that he was previously chugging, shakily putting the top back on and storing it back inside of the camel's holding bag.

“You idiot!” ‘Boss’ hissed, turning a piercing glare unto the man beside him. “She still didn’t know-” He paused, glancing over at their very interested prisoner and forced himself to  take a deep breath. “You know what, it doesn't matter, she'll be fine.”

“But, Bora-”

“She’ll be fine!” The man who Lucy now knew as Bora raised a fist threateningly. He smirked in sick pleasure as his henchmen coward away. Before she even had time to pull a face of disgust, he turned to Lucy, eyeing her hungrily. “Now, let's get a move on. The employer is expecting us by sundown and I'd rather not have the sun beating down on me any longer than necessary.”

The rest of his men tiredly murmured in agreement, picking up the pace and forcing the blond girl to — once again —trudge through the slippery sand. She hissed as her feet pricked on some sort of stick-like plant. Oh Mavis if she could just reach into the pouch hanging off of Bora’s belt-

“I don’t see the issue, it’s not even that hot.” A new voice said, startling the crew of 14 bandits plus Lucy herself. Her head snapped up for the first time in a while. Ignoring the ache in her neck, the girl rapidly searched the area until settling upon a man with… pink hair. 

He didn’t look too shocked to see a kidnapped girl tied to a Camel. Nor did he bat an eye at the blue cat that sat on his head, lazily playing with the goggles that held his hair out of his face (Did she mention that it was pink!?). And his attire looked so incredibly… bold that Lucy was sure she would faint. Seriously, who was stupid enough to travel through the desert in a black long sleeve shirt, a tan vest and a literal scarf. It was like the guy was begging to get a heat stroke.

She had immediately decided that whoever this man was, he was insane.

“Now.” He grinned, getting into a fighting stance. “What was it you said about an employer?”

Oh look now he wanted to fight off an entire group of bandits. Lucy scoffed. Definitely insane.

Where did he even come from?

Bora snarled, holding up a hand and signaling his guys to pounce on the man wearing freaking cargo pants. Once again, the pink haired freak didn’t even flinch. He stayed rooted to his spot, grinning a wide smile and daring one of them to come at him.

They did, of course, and to Lucy’s surprise were blasted back by a large ring of— 

“Fire!”

Well that certainly explains a lot.

Even after that big scare, the men were back on “Mr. cargo pants” as soon as Bora sent each and every one of them a snarl. The blond snorted as soon enough, all 14 men were on the floor, some of them even halfway in the sand and halfway not.

Bora’s horrified face soon turned back into a scowl as he fully processed Lucy’s teasing. He jumped off of the Camel, ignoring a curious looking “Mr. cargo pants” and stomping over to her. 

“Something Funny?” He said.

“Yeah, actually.” She chuckled some more, tugging on the rope in silent frustration. “Looks like you're about to get your ass handed to you.”

Bora growled, raising his hand in an attempt to threaten her. Lucy eye’d it wearily, but made no attempt to move out of its path. To her pleasure that seemed to aggravate the man even more.

“I’ll show you!” He cried and Lucy's breath hitched as he brought his hand down to strike her across the face… 

The sound of skin hitting skin somehow echoed throughout the desert and Lucy was sure her face was stinging a bright red…

Except it wasn’t… to be honest she felt no pain. Almost as if she hadn’t been hit at all… Cracking her eyes open she realized that a figure stood in front of her, effectively blocking both the sun and her view of Bora. At this, the girl was finally able to piece together what happened.

Bora had aimed for her face, only for his wrist to be caught by “Mr. cargo pants” himself. 

What an interesting turn of events indeed. 

Lucy was quite surprised by how calm she was in this type of situation. No other girl would be able to keep a straight face as they were surrounded in an alleyway, tied up, and forced onto a camel, only to be saved by a strange man (who was definitely insane) that kicked ass and breathed fire. Though if anything she’d have to blame it on experience.

The silence was interrupted by a snarl, one almost inhuman. Bora shrieked, snatching his hand away and forcibly putting a distance between him and this insane man.

“H-how dare you!” Bora shrieked, reaching into his belt and pulling out a knife. Lucy’s eyes flashed onto the leather pouch before giving the man a hard glare.

“You’re one of those demons aren't you!” His voice shook but was filled with so much venom. “The horrible bastards that turn to rituals and blood sacrifices in favor of magical powers!?”

Mr. Cargo pants made no attempt to move, only stared Bora straight in the eyes with an unreadable expression. 

“So what if I am?” He answered.

Lucy felt her lips turn into a frown.

“Then you’re worse than me!” The man laughed maniacally, waving his knife around as he spoke. “Why bother saving this chick with magic earned by bloodlust? Wait…” He gasped dramatically looking at Lucy and then back at Mr. Cargo pants. 

“Oh…” he cackled this time, using a shaky hand to clutch his side. “You probably need her right? For another sacrifice?”

As he continued with his dumb speach Lucy felt her patience slipping. She bit her lip, tugging on the rope once again with no success. She growled, now desperate enough to be pulling against the weight of a freaking Camel.

“Let’s make a deal, hm?” Bora held the knife to his mouth in thought. “I’ll let you take her for just a bit of cash. I’m sure you and your demon friends would love such delicate, pure hearted prey right? Blah Blah Blah Blah-”

Lucy tuned him out and her pink-haired savior still made no move to attack, only balling his fists and taking deep breaths. She understood… the need to prove him wrong… to just shut him up! Which was what she was planning on doing! As soon as she got rid of this stupid rope-

Her savior lunged, slapping the knife out of the bandit's hand and catching him by the neck so quickly that Lucy had to blink, just to make sure she had actually witnessed that.

Bora struggled against his grip, clawing at his arm as he gasped for breath. “Y-you…” He coughed. “You monster!”

The pink haired boy dropped him, cracking his knuckles as Bora attempted to crawl away.

“Hit me with your best shot!” He screeched. “Monster!” 

And that’s when Lucy’s attention was directed towards a flying blue blob. It took her a minute to realize that the blue blob was the cat previously perched atop her savior's head. She couldn’t help the small shriek that erupted from her throat as the cat landed directly in front of her, a look of pride overtaking its face.

“Hold on!” It cried, using its claws to slowly cut away at the thick rope. Lucy stood stock still, mouth wide as she watched a cat! a talking cat, free her from her ‘Camel Prison’... 

This day just kept getting weirder and weirder. 

She felt the rope loosen up and took that moment to slip her hands free.

She rubbed her wrists, absentmindedly thanking the (blue, flying, taking-) cat and zoning back in on the fight. Well… what she thought would be a fight. Instead, Lucy saw Mr. Cargo Pants kneeling by a tied up and unconscious Bora, checking his pulse with a bored look in his eyes.

The girl wanted to laugh at how quickly that ‘battle’ had ended. In fact, she did laugh! How could she not? Here was Bora, big bandit leader with unquestionable power over his 14 lakey’s, beaten black and blue after a fight that had barely even lasted a minute.

Pathetic.

Lucy was almost ashamed to have put her morals over her own safety. Taking on this guy would have been a sinch, the rest would have probably run away with their tails between their legs. 

The girl released a breath, finally finished with her laughing fit. She wiped a tear from beneath her eye, grinning wide at her two saviors.

“You’ve got guts!” The cat… the blue, flying, talking cat.. Spoke. It spoke… Lucy felt her face twist in confusion.

“Thank you…?”

Mr. Cargo pants finished tying up the rest of the men and strode over to them, his arms crossed over his chest as he gave her a somewhat proud look. “Happy’s right y’know. I’ve never seen another girl in your situation stand up to their captor…” He paused before quietly adding. “Well maybe Erza but I doubt she’d get captured in the first place…”

“Happy’s?” Lucy questioned, raising her brow. “What do you mean?”

“That’s Happy.” He stated matter factly, pointing over to the flying cat- Holy Mavis, this would take some getting used to. It waved. Lucy numbly waved back.

Mr. Cargo Pants held out his hand in greeting. “And I’m Natsu!” Oh well that’s good, he’s got a name. Mr. Cargo Pants was starting to seem a bit bland based on his earlier performance. Maybe she’d just call him Fire Freak, pyromaniac for short?

“Hey Natsu.” The girl smiled kindly, getting over her initial shock and shaking his hand. He held onto her hand for longer than necessary, his grip strong. The pink-haired traveler held her gaze, dark onyx eyes practically burning into her soul. His calloused hand gave her own one last squeeze before he let go, looking around as if nothing just happened.

“What're you doing this far out in the desert anyways?”

Lucy blinked, her brain taking a minute to compute after his strange display of… comradery? “I was… Traveling.” She admitted.

“With them?” Natsu and Happy blinked, looking back at the pile of motionless body’s. Finally the boy turned back to her, shaking his head and clicking his teeth. “Man, you need to get yourself some better travel companions.”

“N-no!” She barked. “I was kidnapped while traveling! Are you an idiot!”

“Well why didn’t you just say so?”

Lucy ground her teeth in frustration. One more word out of this man’s mouth and she’d be wanted for murder. She rolled her eyes. What a scatter brain.

“Well, thank you for saving me.” She settled with, surveying the litter of body’s decorating the wide desert floor. “Can I ask you to direct me towards the closest town?”

Natsu nodded his head, pointing in a direction. “We’re actually headed to one right now. Care to join?”

“... Sure!” Lucy agreed after a bit of hesitation. She turned around and untied her very important pouch from her precious Camel Captor. 

“Thanks for keeping these safe, I guess.” She said to it. The camel snorted out a noise of disinterest as Lucy stroked it’s neck. 

Natsu let out a snort, turning away and whistling casually as Lucy sent him a hard glare. She may have been forcefully tied to and painfully dragged across the desert by this Camel, but still, she felt a sense of comradery between them. She was going to miss him…

As Lucy turned to leave, the camel let out a large glob of spit, barely missing her head. The girl shrieked and ran to catch up to a curious Natsu.

She takes it back. That damn animal won't be missed. Not one bit.