#his father is the wind and his mother is the yellow bird

[peridot-tears]

During the main quests, this appears p often. It literally means "Jin's Journey":

But the kanji for "Jin" -- 仁 -- also means "benevolence," emphasizing a respect for humanity. So 仁之道, while it means "Jin's Journey," can also be read as "the path/way of benevolence."

He isn't following the bushido, or 武士道，the way of the warrior/samurai, but rather 仁之道, the way of benevolence, a path that diverts sharply from the "honor" that samurai follow.

[evilgwrl]

Arranged marriage! With ghost where she’s from a small island and ghost comes to collect taxes well the island is just a few hundred short they can make it up next year? Right?! Nah ghosts is like mmmmm I’ll take what yall call a princess mean while she’s struggling as much as the other fokes on the island so when Simon takes her way and finds out she’s never lived the simple life he makes it his mission to show her the good that can out of this arrangement smutty if you would 😭 I’m obsessed with the arranged marriage trope with ghost he’s a cutie patootie

Arranged Marriage w/ Simon Riley

Holy moly I love this…

Thank you for this idea @creepytoes88 I hope you don’t mind that I made him a king, I just wanted it to flow with giving her a better life and the tax collection <3

King!Simon Riley x Reader

Archipelago

CW: Being sold by your family to pay off debt, sharing a bath, oral sex (f receiving), orgasm bc simon knows what to do ;)

Word Count: 2,623

Twisted fingers hooked under the bark, knees scraped with stagnant flora, coiling limbs of bushy thorns blistering around the tropical plains. There was a subtle burn that sunk through your thighs, muscles gnawing at your bones before you finally settled on a thick branch, wind hissing in your ear, almost warning you. You paid no attention.

Pupil-blown eyes stared off to the view in front of you, lapping in the vicious strain of turquoise, untouched coral glistening an array of colours under the harsh sun. There was a trickle of sweat that ran down the back of your neck, your hair thrown into a rough bun as you shielded yourself with raggedy, overworked fingers.

You watched the skerries surrounding your island, a flurry of birds swooping low before nestling down on the warmth of the rocky floor. It was a peaceful sight. Nothing but the low crash of waves to be sound, the occasional calling of a fellow Islander working its way through the palms and out of the sand, before landing in your ear.

You felt the prickle of pain shoot through your feet as you landed on the ground, the grass covered in speckles of yellow dust sticking in between your toes as you hurried down to the village. Any bit of tranquillity soon disappeared as your eyes locked into the sight of the townspeople, the Island far too small to accommodate such needing families.

“Y/N! Where have you been? The King shall be here soon and you’re off running with the fairies.”

Your Mother’s tone was harsh and reprimanding, her eyes tight with wrinkles as she scowled, chucking a makeshift broom at you. You weren’t exactly sure what the difference of you sweeping would make, the life you live here, swept or not, is strikingly different to the one of a King. No matter how beautiful your Island is, your feet are permanently stained with grains of sand, skin is littered with dull scars and fresh scratches.

You understood her worry, offering her a gentle, apologetic smile as you followed her bustle of orders. Your Father was the village Chief, a wise man who led the people to survive without the worry of advanced civilisation.

You were seen as a headcase to the others. A woman whose head wasn’t fixed well enough to her shoulders. A dreamer. Your mind was amplified by the need to do more, to see more. Untouched beauty too turns mundane when you’re not allowed to experience it.

As night fell, the waves seemed to settle, burying themselves in the crops of sand that spanned around you, 10-legged creatures hiding away in the cocoon of a cracked shell. Palms slept with the safety of coconuts that would blossom into the town’s delicacy, the meat tender on the tongues of children, the water fuel for the fishermen. There was a large bonfire lit, the earthly crackle occasionally popping as a spark flew out, hissing against the cool air before dispersing into a drag of smoke.  

Girls chattered around you, smoothing down their appearances as they used crushed berries on their lips and the apples of their cheeks. You were never fussed about the King, hardly paying attention to him on his previous arrivals if he even bothered to show up. You took note of his lack of empathy, normally sending one of his men in his place, unbothered by the Island that’s supposed to fall under his command.

You heard the ship pull up, wood striking against the ground as it split between the beach, a carved woman tangled to the figurehead, flowing hair etched between wood and a man’s knife as she breached the island. They were a loud bunch, deep voices echoing across the Isle as your father walked down to greet them formally.

The air grew silent, thick smog suffocating the air as your father appeared, his figure shaking as he hobbled towards you. Toughened hands gripped your cheeks, stroking the sun-kissed skin to comfort you.

“Father, what’s wrong?”

“We- We’re short on our taxes,” he gulped, a hand planted in your matted hair as you scrunched your brows together.

“But how? We’re sensible, we work harder- How?”

“Things happen beyond our understanding sometimes, sweetheart, just know me and your mother love you very much.”

“I know? Why are you-” you stalled “- Why are you telling me this? What’s going on?”

“The King needs a wife,” he hiccupped as realisation set in, spine snapping into a cold flush as you attempted to wriggle free from your father’s grip.

“No-“

“I have to, Y/N, I don’t have a choice!”

“A choice? There’s always a choice! How could you do this to me?” The strain of a sob wracked through your chest, your heart beating eerily slow against your rib cage as you wailed out for your mother who only walked away, her face concealed by strands of hair. Hands coiled around your biceps, dragging you towards the ship as you carried on, cementing your heels into the dirtied sand to anchor yourself.

“Stop resisting,” A harsh voice spoke into your ear, nails breaking the surface of your tender skin as you nipped at the air, wriggling. Your limbs felt mangled as you were thrown over someone’s shoulder, your stomach caving in with a penetrative force as you choked on the air, saline tears streaming down your face.

Aching skin collided with the sand as you were thrown onto the floor, leather boots staring back at you as your head cocked up. His figure was tall, dressed in all black with a row of medals displayed on his breast pocket. His stare was dark, irises the colour of burnt whiskey, pale lashes flickering down at you before looking back up. The rest of his face was covered by a woven garment, handcrafted to perfection, painted with a white skull.

“Did you find it necessary to throw her at my feet like she’s some dog?”

“Your Majesty she was res-“

“It is a yes or no question.”

His voice was thick with malt, a hidden arrogance underlying his words as his eyes spoke for him. A veiny hand was offered to you, light scars tracing his knuckles before he lifted you, admiring you for a brief second.

“She’ll do. I’ll be back in 6 months,” The King spoke roughly.

The sea breeze was tranquil given the circumstances, the ocean rocking your tears to a halt as you huddled yourself away in the captain’s quarters. Your body was trailed with layers of silk, dirtied clothes moulded to your skin as you sniffled. There was a vast smell of salt, almost suffocating you as it burnt through your nose and hair. You scrunched your skin, rubbing at your nostrils before nestling yourself into a pillow.

You awoke to the sound of commotion. You took in the handful of women surrounding you, their hair tied back in a tight bun, protected by a frilly cap. They wore black and white dresses, aprons attached to their fronts and smiles on their faces.

“Good evening, your majesty. Shall we run you a bath?”

You sat up, hands creasing against the sheets below you as your eyes adjusted to the new scenery. You weren’t on the ship anymore.

“Where am I?” You choked out, huffing your chest out to look more intimidating. In reality, you look cowered, skin droopy with betrayal, burst blood vessels evident under your eyes.

“In your private quarters, the King requested we come to you, settle you in.”

You scowled, “I just want to be alone.” They left in a hurry, feet skidding against the floor in a squeak as they shut the large oak doors behind them.

The room was one for Royalty. The large bed was dressed in golden sheets, red swirls detailing the plush headpieces, solid gold baubles along the edges as tall stakes met the ceiling, lace hanging from them for privacy. Your feet hit the polished marble floors; calloused skin not used to such luxury that you almost yelped in unfamiliarity. Glass trickled from the overhead chandelier, an arrangement of crystals advocating flickers of light across the room, an occasional rainbow seeping through like a diamond in the rough.

Oil paintings hung from the walls, detailed gold wrapping around them as the figurines stared at you dauntingly. A plethora of books rested on shelves, a comforting sofa tucked away in the corner, highlights of red bursting through the stuffed pillows, plucked by the finest of feathers.

The room felt suffocating, the air a terminal sickness that wove into your lungs as you realised the severity of the situation. Your father – your parents, had sold you away to the King to pay for lost taxes. You were a miserable sight as you huddled over onto the floor, chest collapsing with cries as you attempted to grip the material beneath your knees, desperate for the sensation of sand.

Simon watched you intently from the door as he cracked it open, a deafening cough sounding from him as you looked up at him, bewildered.

“I understand the circumstances aren’t the best, but your people owed me, and they chose you as collateral.”

“I want to go home,” you hiccupped, facing away from him in humiliation. His leather shoes hit the floor, striding up to you in only a few steps.

“This is your home now, and in a few weeks, we shall be wedded. Whether or not you choose to invite your family is up to you, but I shall not tolerate disrespect. If you didn’t want the maids to tend to you, that’s fine, but I will.”

You watched his stalking figure disappear into another room attached to your quarters, the heavy pour of water indicating that he was running you a bath. You rose to your feet anxiously, popping your head around the corner as you took in the room. A large tub was carved with porcelain, wide in size with golden feet, bubbles guzzling under the powerful stream as the scent of lavender filled the air.

“Undress,” He spoke as you cocked a brow.

“In front of you?” You scoffed.

“You didn’t want the maids, now you have me. Undress.”

Your clothes itched as they were ridden from your skin, bare body flushed under the light as you attempted to conceal yourself from his bruising vision. The water scolded you as you sunk in, muscles relaxing instantly under the soothing oil. It was an irregular feeling.

You heard him shuffle behind you as you turned, eyes gawking wide as you took in his naked figure, cock resting low against his thigh. A squeak slipped through your lips as you turned around in a fluster.

His mask was off, his face a welcoming surprise. His brows were thick, bulging above slit frames, his nose slightly crooked with a masculine appeal to him.

“What are you doing?” you gasped, chest tight, eyes bulging.

“Bathing,” he practically snarled, “move over.”

Your belly felt hot, the unknowing feeling of arousal seeping through your pores as you adjusted in the water, the liquid rising as he stepped in before you were pulled back against him, bottom flushed against his thighs. You were tense.

“Relax, it’s just a bath. We will not do anything until you’re ready but after marriage, I will need heirs.”

“Heirs? I don’t even know your name!”

A hand coiled around your waist, tugging at the tender skin for a moment before it rested, settling at your upper thigh.

“It’s Simon, Y/N.”

“How do you- “

“What kind of King would I be if I didn’t even know the name of the woman I’m marrying?”

The air was hazy with steam, almost suffocating you as you felt yourself relax against his hard chest, delicate twirls of hair tickling against your spine. As your body settled, Simon washed you, entwined rag lubed with delicate soap as he massaged it into the crevices of your skin, any dirt seeping into the water. His fingers were long as they massaged against your scalp, digging any knots out with a gentle force before rinsing it.

You found yourself refreshed as you settled into the sheets once more, body fresh with a floral scent, skin drenched in almond oil, the glistening reflecting against the flame of the fireplace. The bed sunk in as Simon crawled in next to you, menacing frame wracking against yours. It was silent, the usual sound of waves and birds no longer hushing you to sleep.

Your fingers twitched as you played with the hem of your nightgown, letting out a low, exhausted breath.

“I shall not hurt you for as long as you are mine, Y/N. I hope you grow to trust me and understand that I am a man of my word. If you allow me, I would like to show you who I am and the life you can have here.”

You swallowed. There was an itch inside you that couldn’t be scratched, his words only adding fuel to an uncontrollable flame as you turned to face him, cocked up on one arm. Your gown hung low, strap dangerously low on your shoulder as he adjusted his vision back to your face, lips parted with a flushed manner.

“I’ve never experienced anything before.” Your voice was low, an evident streak of self-consciousness staining it as you averted your gaze.

“Let me help you.”

Rugged fingers lifted your gown up, silk resting against your stomach in a hunched manner as Simon gripped at your thighs, spreading them lewdly. He huffed out a hum of appreciation as you jolted in embarrassment. You were so open, so exposed to fresh eyes.

“No one’s ever touched you here?” He asked. You shook your head, gazing down at him with an unspoken innocence. You felt his lips curl against your thigh as he placed a gentle kiss to it, letting it rest against the warm skin before two fingers pulled apart your lips, glistening folds presented before him.

You felt pleasure tickle up your spine as the King placed a small kiss against your clit, a mewl escaping you as you instinctively attempted to press your thighs together. He let out a tsk as he looked up at you, amused by your reaction.

“Relax for me,” he said, arms flushed around your thighs before his tongue soaked up the middle, your juices drenching his lips as you squealed, your fingers wrapping into his dusty hair as he ravaged the taste of you.

The noises you made were wanton, slopping breaths soaking the air as he worked against you, slurping you into his mouth with an aggravated need for you. His teeth grazed against your sensitive clit, wrapping his lips around it before sucking, an obscene scream sounding from you as he continued the assault.

“Taste so fucking good,” he quipped, holding your belly down in place as your hips lifted, clit overstimulated by the amount of pleasure it only just began receiving.

“Sim-Simon, I feel strange- somethings happening,” you croaked, pulling at his hair in an attempt to stop him.

“Let it happen,” he growled, his tongue thrusting against your entrance as a finger pressed against your nub, rubbing it in circular motions as you began to hold your breath.

The pressure in your belly was turmoil like an unknown danger was approaching. Simon didn’t stop, the sound of your breath hicking stirring something primal inside of him as he held you down before the pressure inside you popped, a broken whine piercing the air as you came, hips rocking desperately against the King’s face as he growled against your heat.

He pulled away, spit slick against his chin, cocky smile on his face as you panted, chest rising and falling in a synchronised fashion. Your legs closed instinctively, wetness seeping between your bottom as you shivered, satisfied clit throbbing.

“I’m not done yet, sweetheart.”

[archonsbane]

BEAUTY IS TERROR

The gods crafted all mortals to have weaknesses, and foremost of many of Il Dottore’s is you. So when you ask him to be your companion to an annual winter ball, he is powerless to refuse. 

pairing. prime!dottore x reader, implied segments x reader, implied harbingers x reader, implied dottore x pantalone 

cw. gn!reader. reader is the tsarita’s child. reader referred to as they/them. dottore is a warning by himself. mentions & thoughts of violence + murder + human experimentation. drinking. biting. biting hard enough to draw blood. a bit suggestive but not nsfw. 

wc. 15k

an. first ever fic! hope you enjoy :D the title is from ‘the secret history’ by donna tartt. 

Dottore is no stranger to running away. 

He remembers the first time. He had been a child then, wide-eyed and tongue-tied, so unknowing about the world. His parents were fighting — they always fought, about money and work and him — and his father, a big man with small-set eyes and a hard mouth made for scowling, had begun to go on one of his drunken rants, prompting his mother to scream louder. He was crouched behind the stairwell, watching their shadows flicker and dance with the candlelight on the yellowed walls of their home. 

How hard he prayed that autumn day. His lip quivering, hands clasped together, every atom in his body searching for a hint of mercy from those who claimed to love him, both gods and parents. Stop, he would chant in his mind, stop, stop, stop. As brown and red leaves fell outside, as day turned to night, he prayed. He had never prayed so long or so hard until that day. The shouting never stopped and the gods remained silent.

Autumn reigned outside, and his faith died with the spring. It was a season of rot: the rot of the earth without, the rot of faith and soul within. He sucked in a harsh, shaky breath as the walls trembled from the screams. For a moment the house pulsed as though it had a heart. If it did, it had long been poisoned. 

He slipped out when the house went quiet, his parents dragged to exhaustion by their fight. There was no real goal in his mind, only that he wanted to run far, far away. He ran as fast as his little legs could take him, the wind in his hair, the distant call of birds at his back. He ran and ran and ran, and sooner or later the sun found him alone in the woods and free. 

Not for long. His parents found him three days later, surviving only on berries and the leavings of other beasts, grass-stained and muddied, yet cleaner than he had ever felt. He had shed his faith like a dirty coat, and his shoulders trembled with new-found purpose. That little rebellion earned him the worst beating he ever took in that house, but it no longer mattered. 

The next two times were far less pleasant. Even after all these years, they still rankle him. It had been a dark, starless night when the villagers came to cast him out. For his ‘madness’ and ‘monstrosity’, or whatever the hell they were shouting at him. He was too busy trying to not die to listen to all that. Some carried pitchforks, other crudely-made cudgels, and bats, yet all carried torches. It was like all the stars had come down from the sky to enact upon him his inevitable destruction. Inevitable, but Dottore did not believe in such silly lies anymore. He would take his fate and crush it with his hands and build a new one from smoke and ash. That house was the chain that tethered him to that broken old village. He burned it down that night, his parents still inside, and the chain broke; it was more than liberty: it was rebirth. He likes to think he was born on that ashen grass surrounded by the house’s fire and brimstone remains, sweaty and stained with blood. The Tsaritsa claims all the Harbingers are her children, but he knows he is not a holy child, just a creature forged from Hell. But Heaven imparted on him a farewell curse: the jagged scars that run down the left side of his face to his neck, smoking with resentment and remembrance. He left before the villagers could find out he was, in fact, not dead. 

Sumeru Akademiya, he thought, would be different. All the scholars were mad for knowledge, he had heard. So was he. He had expected to find a treasure trove of opportunity. He found old gray sages scared of their own shadows and peers who could not tell the difference between madness and truth. It was a shame, really. Nothing is as pitiful as something with wasted potential. But he had long learned if life did not go as planned, he would carve his way through, as a river changes the earth. And so once more he ran. 

The next time, fate would not catch him running like prey pursued. The Fatui had given him the opportunity to create the enhanced humans he knows could surpass the Heavens above. The next time, the gods above would meet their equal: a mortal man who, too, has learned the divine act of creation. 

“You’re thinking again.” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts and back into the planes of reality. “Am I really so boring of a companion that your mind has to wander off?” 

He frowns, tapping at the armrest of his chair. Sometimes the memories come back to him unbidden, especially when he wants to think of anything but the present that sits in front of him. You sit across from him (it was his intention that he sit as far away from you as possible), legs informally crossed, your elbow resting on one knee and your chin cupped by your palm. You look nothing like the feared heir to Snezhnaya you normally are. Your grin is as pure and unfiltered as the spring sun, amplified by the fire roaring in the hearth, the look in your eyes warm and guileless. It’s a facade, unnoticed by the untrained eye. Your teeth are bared like a beast’s and your gaze is as sharp as a predator’s. When it pleases you to play the darling child of winter, you do. But he knows better. You like playing this little game with him — with all of the Harbingers, really, he’s seen how you’ve attached yourself to them, not only him, and it makes his chest tighten with some unnamed emotion — teasing him and complimenting him and following him around like some malignant ghost from the children’s tales. You’re a cruel little wolf like that. You play with your food before swallowing it whole. 

“You, boring? No.” Never boring. As irritating as your frequent visits are, he will always be kept occupied by one of your antics. “Unexpected? Yes.” You barged into his wing of the palace unannounced in the night, having completely evaded all his guards and segments, and casually sat down on his couch with a tray of tea and biscuits that seems to be a pacifying gift.

You pout mockingly. “Still haven’t forgiven me?” 

Irritation flickers against his skin. He readjusts his mask and scoffs. “It’s been five minutes, I require much more time than that.” 

“How ‘bout your gift?” You clasp your hands together. “Please? It’s your favorite. I got it from Lonnie.” Your leg bounces, an anxious habit of yours. What could possibly make you nervous? Certainly not his presence, you had made that clear, with all your unabashed visits to his lab, his foreign workshops, and now his own rooms. 

“I’d really rather have whiskey.” 

You raise a brow. “I didn’t bring any, and there aren’t any glasses.” 

“There’s a bottle in my drawer. Under the…” He trails off. He keeps indulgent snacks underneath a false bottom, just because, but you seem to already be aware of it. You slide out the wooden plank and hold up the bottle, the brown turned golden in the light of the fire. “... of course, you know.” 

He reaches for the tea cup on the coffee table, hot in his palms, but that never bothers him anymore with all the modifications he’s made to his body and swallows it all in one large gulp. Black tea with a twist of lemon. Four sugar cubes. His favorite. Somehow that makes his mood even worse. You hand him the bottle as you sit back down (closer to him now, which he does not fail to notice). He pours into his teacup until it almost sloshes over the edge.

The moment of silence stretches for a moment too long. He really wishes you’d just get on with it and end his misery, he wants to sleep or work or do something that removes the stain of you from his mind. Your face flickers like a flashlight in his peripheral vision, ghostly in the smoke. Your eyes glow terribly bright, a godly trait from your mother. It’s as beautiful as it is eerie. He transfers all his weight to his left foot, then his right, then back again. You wait for him to finish drinking, your gaze never leaving him. 

“Have you forgiven me now?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously calm. He swirls the whiskey around in his cup. The grandfather clock in the room ticks and tocks and he wishes for time to go faster just so he’d be rid of you already. “Do I have to?” He’s always dealt insolence back tenfold, ask any of his segments, or the poor, cursed souls who lie in his personal mortuary, many of whom have committed lesser crimes than breaking and entering into his personal space. “You really think you’re that special?” 

“Yes.” 

He wants to strangle you and wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your stupid face. He wants to carve out those eyes so they’d never make him squirm under their gaze again. He wants to — he does not know what. 

He scowls and runs a hand through messy curled hair. “Five minutes, before I have my segments drag you out.” 

Amusement flickers across those too-bright eyes. You know that he knows he won’t. You let him pretend anyways.

“Wonderful!” You say happily, like a child just told they could play in the playground for a little while. “I need a favor.” 

There’s an unexplainable drop that he suddenly feels in his chest. He had expected you to be here simply to annoy him or make fun of his sleep schedule (that does not exist) or something stupid like that. Why, he cannot say it out loud. His company has never been termed as pleasurable anyways, as much as you continually seek it out. This is expected, it should have been. 

You place a cream-blue envelope with gold lining on the coffee table. He tears it apart, secretly smiling at the way your brows furrow in annoyance. The tattered paper has elegant calligraphy that marks it as from some noble-born priss, one of the many in Snezhnaya whose names he has never bothered to learn. They wrote that they were cordially inviting Their Imperial Highness to… 

His eyes narrow. “The Sokolov Winter Ball.” He waves the paper in front of your face. “No. No. No. Absolutely not—”

“—yes, oh, come one now, it’ll be fun—” 

“—you know how much I hate these things, and all those useless, simpering lords and ladies hate me—” 

“—they’re not simpering. Some of them are nice, like Duke Romanov’s daughter, and anyways, you’ll be with me the entire time and they won’t dare to insult a Fatui Harbinger to their face.” 

He slams the paper down on the table. The teacups rattle from the impact. He leans forward, chin raised in defiance. “No.”

You cross your arms and lean into the couch. “Too bad. I command you to go.”

"Can't you ask the others? Why torment me, specifically?" He gestures wildly with his hands to emphasize his irritation. 

You place a hand on your heart, eyes blown wide for extra effect. "Torment? Dear Doctor, you sadden me so. Can't I spend time with my favorite Dottore?" 

"Oh? And here I thought Gamma was your favorite."

"You're my favorite of all the non-Gammas. Anyways, I can’t really take an eleven-year-old to the ball."

"Just take Theta and be happy with that." 

"But I want to take you." 

There’s a desperate lilt in your voice that weakens his resolve. Could you really? This wasn’t just another one of your jokes, was it? He hates balls, hates the moronic socialites of Snezhnayan society, but absurdly, hope becomes a twittering hummingbird in his heart. 

He grits his teeth. "I should file this as some sort of abuse of power." 

He wants to deny you, he does. He knows he can’t. He feels the insidious truth squeeze at his black heart. 

You reach out and pat his head condescendingly. "You do that, dear." 

"Is there anything I can do to make you take someone else?" He waves his hand at nothing. "I'll give you my entire secret stash of chocolates." It's hidden beneath the false bottom of his desk. A very obvious hiding spot, but he doesn't think anyone should care much for a simple stash of chocolates. He prides himself on it, for all its insignificance. He's collected chocolate-covered hazelnuts from Mondstadt, boxes of assorted chocolates from Fontaine, white almonds encased in matcha-infused chocolates from Inazuma, and choco pies from Liyue. 

"Er," There's a strange, sheepish smile on your face. "No." 

“Will you leave even if I still say no?”  

“No.” And then, in a hushed tone barely above a whisper, the final blow to his resolve: “Well, yes, if you really don’t want to go. But consider it, at least? I want to do this with you.” You don’t look at him as you say it, you don’t turn that captivating gaze of yours on his body to make him squirm. Your face is turned towards the fire, the glow of it making your cheeks red. He almost believes you. He wants to believe you. 

You sigh at his silence. “You can get something out of this.” 

He raises an inquisitive brow. “Like?” 

“Archons, I don’t know. A favor for later. More funding. More… resources. Whatever. Anything I can wrestle out of the others.”

It’s a good deal, he muses. Your influence as heir apparent is not one to be undermined. Moreover, the other Harbingers are strangely fond of you. They would bend for you, and not just out of duty. 

A pause, and then, with a world-weary sigh he puts his face in his hands. He does not want to see your ebullience, it would hurt his pride too much. “Alright.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to snatch them back and stuff them down his throat, but it's too late. 

A joyful sound leaves you. He hears the rustling of cloth and excited steps on the wooden floors before he’s enveloped by the warmth of your body. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, and your head rests on top of his head.

He flinches slightly. You pull away but your hands remain on his shoulders. He hates, hates how his heart leaps to his throat, how every atom in his body starts to vibrate with life. He cannot, will not, let you have this power over him. He tugs on his heartstrings like a puppeteer and wills his heart to turn to stone. 

“You’ll have a fun time, I promise.” You disentangle from him your hair falls over your eyes, and without thinking, he lifts a hand and brushes it away. You grab his hand and entwine your fingers together. “You won’t regret this.” 

“I’m there to accompany you and leave as fast as possible,” Dottore replies wryly, but his heart lurches. 

He cannot explain to himself why he allows the moment to go on longer than he should. You both stay locked in position, half-hugging with your hands intertwined. Your eyes are half-lidded, your eyelashes fluttering with a mix of embarrassment and playfulness.  His gaze trails from your lashes to your lips, red as cherries. His throat feels suddenly parched and his cheeks flush with warmth. From the fire, he tells himself. 

The grandfather clock chimes midnight. 

You watch with amusement in your eyes as he jumps back, elbow hitting the armrest, swallowing the noise that threatens to escape his body. Suddenly all the irritation comes rushing back up to the surface of his skin. Many a man has fled from that look, from the green children Arlecchino supplies them with to veteran soldiers who have faced blood-soaked horrors on the battlefield. 

You blink innocently. 

He rubs at his temple, glaring at the fireplace in order to avoid looking at you. You quickly school your lips into a languid smile and start to ramble on about the details — white tie, no theme, dinner, and a ball, don't be late, and remember your manners — and his mind has started to drift to the experiments he needs to finish. There's a particularly annoying disease that's been sweeping through the masses, and the Tsaritsa charged him with taking care of it. He's already gotten a dozen test subjects but one particularly insolent one destroyed a week's worth of research while trying to escape. Then there's a whole batch of delusion prototypes in need of a field test, and it's almost time for his segment's monthly inspection. 

"—and you need to learn how to dance." 

His head snaps up. "You're kidding—" 

"Nope," you say, cutting him off. Archons, one day, he swears to himself, he will make you shut up (How? A voice inside asks. He has no answer.) and his life will be all the better without your grating voice sniffing at his heels like a hungry dog. "You'll be taking classes with me starting next week. Mother says it's about time you learned, too. Everyone else knows." 

He scowls at you. You've got him by the hook — no matter what, the Tsaritsa's will cannot be questioned. A thousand times he deflected, making up excuses or sending segments in his place. He does not think it ever fooled his Empress, but she never pressed on it. She would forgive them a thousand little times over, but when she was steadfast in her resolve, her will was as unconquerable as a glacier. 

“Fine. Just get out already.” 

Your little chuckle rings in his ears. “Mother might call in the army to search for me if I linger.” 

Oh, thank Tsartisa. “Then go,” he says dryly. He really, really does not want to be accused of high treason today. Your mother was terrifyingly overprotective.

You roll your eyes. “That’s no way to see off a guest, but I’ll forgive you from the kindness of my heart.” 

For his personal gratification, he launches a throw pillow in your direction. You catch it with one unamused brow raised. You throw it back and it hits him in the face. 

You put on your boots and your cloak and slip out the door, gently closing it with a click. The fire is still roaring, but the room feels much colder now. There’s a strange, hollow place in the room he cannot help but feel that your shape should be filling. There’s a dull ache pounding in his chest. 

He rubs his eyes and moves to his desk, his perpetual sweet tooth aching for that chewy heaven in his taste buds. He almost thinks he's opened the wrong drawer when he finds nothing there, but with a flash of anger, he realizes there's a note in your familiar handwriting. 

Sorry. I'll pay you back. :) 

You insolent little minx. You ate all of it. 

He sighs and pulls back his leather chair. He falls into the soft fabric, all the tension in his body dissipating into the air. He’s too tired to be annoyed. All the energy he exerts in your presence could do that. He sinks deeper into the plush chair and stretches his legs underneath the desk. If there’s ever been a miracle in his life, it’s that his spine hasn’t broken yet from all of the bone-shattering positions he puts himself in. 

He’ll have to adjust his non-existent schedule now. The Doctor operates on impulse and instinct, rotating between experiments and whatever’s captured his attention, sometimes not leaving the lab for days on end or going out and doing more… personal research. He’s begun digging deeper into Ruin Guards, and what he’s found has fascinated him. You would like it, he thinks. He’ll have to tell you all about it one of these days. 

Archons. What have you done to him? Slipping through the iron walls of his heart and plunging yourself deep into the myocardium. You’ve infested his body like a disease, and now it seems all thoughts and actions have been dedicated to you. He hates it, he enjoys it, he cannot tear you out of him no matter how hard he tries, and he’s tried. Oh, so many times. 

Now that you’ve left, he allows his lips to curl into a sneer. That moment — the entire night, really — was just a weakness he has not yet stamped out. He wishes he could tear his heart out and stomp on it until it stopped doing that infuriating flutter whenever you’re near. He sucks in a harsh breath and taps frantically on the armrest. He is so, so fucked. 

Dottore is no stranger to running away, yet it seems you’re the one divinity he cannot escape from.

The morning before the first lesson finds him sleep-deprived, exhausted, and in an absolutely foul mood. The previous night (or, rather, three a.m. that morning), a Chaos Core went wild and exploded. It was the last in his stock. He sent Beta to hunt for more, but it would be a while until he returned with a sufficient amount and he had to put a hold on his studies ‘till then. One of his test subjects had also been spitting out defiance after defiance as of late, dragging his research longer than it should’ve gone on. He killed them, of course, sometimes you just have to cut your losses and be done with it, but it wasted so many days spent conducting test after test. The thought of it makes him furious all over again, but he cannot be in a mood today. 

Dottore has never found out the secret of looking as though he’s just waltzed out a Fontainian perfume commercial like Pantalone, but today he looks worse than ever when inelegantly he rolls out of bed. His appearance has never bothered him before, not with his mask covering the worst of it, but his hair sticks out in so many directions it looks as though he’s just been hit by lightning, his skin is sickly pale, and his eyes are wide and bloodshot. He drags a hand down his face and moans in exasperation. He knows you won’t care, but court conduct requires just a little bit of dignity from him. 

A much-needed shower and eye drops solve the worst of it (or so he hopes). He still looks like Death himself has come to haunt the palace’s hollow hallowed halls, but that was his common appearance anyways. 

The Fatui and the servants who go in and out of the palace keep their eyes trained on the ground as he passes by, a manic grin that shows sharp ivory teeth on his face. It’s an effort to keep up the appearance running on three hours of sleep, but the memory of that night rattles around in his mind, and he will not be that weak again. Just for fun, he turns his gaze on one of the new-bloods. The way they flinch brings a sliver of confidence back to him. 

A familiar figure makes him pause in his tracks. His grin is genuine now, and he feels this is a wonderful restart to a day that has, so far, been miserable. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Regrator.” 

He does not have to see the front of his head to know Pantalone rolls his eyes and stares pointedly off to the distance before turning around to face him. He looks as youthful as ever, still looking like an early thirty-something, as he has for the entire time Dottore’s known him. The smile on his face is polite and patronizing. 

“Dottore,” Pantalone forces out. He folds his fingers together across his stomach. “How… lovely to see you.” 

“Is it?” He gives the man a mocking smile and tilts his chin up with his hand. “Lovely, but so cold. Where are the happy smiles for me, my lord?” 

Pantalone scoffs and crosses his arms, half-turning away. “A wretched creature like you doesn’t deserve one.” So he’s dropped all formalities, then. This would be interesting. 

Dottore places his hand over his chest for dramatic effect, in a comically similar way that you had all those nights ago. “I thought we were getting along so well. You wound me, Lonnie.” 

“Good. I hope it kills you.” 

A faux gasp leaves his mouth. Pantalone’s eye twitches. He turns to leave, but Dottore wheels ahead of him and blocks his path, stretching his arms wide. As much as you annoy him, he can’t say he does not understand what you feel when you do. Pantalone, his favorite target, always elicits the best emotions that keep him entertained for weeks after. His rotten heart beats with energy. 

“Pantalone, Pantalone, Pantalone,” he says, in a child’s sing-song voice, “Won’t you indulge me just this once? You’ve been so busy, you’ve barely had any time for me and our oh-so-enjoyable meetings this month.” 

Pantalone looks close to pushing him out of a crystalline window. Dottore hopes he does not, the Tsaritsa does love her windows. 

“It seems you’re the one who does not have time today, Dottore,” He says, “You’re expected for your dance lessons in about, oh, five minutes, aren’t you?” 

Dottore hisses, his mood turning sour all of a sudden. “Who fed you that morsel of information?” 

“People like to gossip,” Pantalone shrugs, amused and unkind, “but if you must know, it was Theta who told your maids who told the guards who told my maids who told my secretaries who told me.” Damn that Theta. Dottore makes a mental reminder to reboot that impertinent pillock’s system without you finding out. “You really must hurry,” he continues on, oblivious to how Dottore glares a burning hole through the pillar behind him, imagining the ‘scolding’ he’ll give his segment when he sees them, “You wouldn’t want to keep them waiting, do you? I feel enough pity as it is that you’re their chosen partner. I can’t imagine why they would choose you…” 

“... over you, my dear Regrator?” 

Pantalone simpers, but an emotion Dottore knows all too well flashes across his eyes. They’ve known each other for too long and too closely, no matter how much he tries to hide, Dottore can break down that steel skin of his and pry out the truth from his chest. “I am far more handsome, and sociable besides.” 

“But they chose me.” 

Pantalone levels his gaze to Dottore’s. The corners of his mouth are curled down, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his narrowed gaze is sharp as a knife. He says nothing.

“You’re jealous,” Dottore says, jumping well over the line that all of the Harbingers put between their facades and the truth. His grin is wolfish and triumphant. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?” 

Pantalone glares at him and turns to leave. “I have better things to do than be jealous of you. Good day, Dottore.” 

Dottore takes long strides to stand in front of him, blocking his path once more. Before Pantalone can open his mouth and spit out insults that could have him thrown into the far northern military camps if it were any other person, Dottore leans in and whispers into the shell of his ear, “I know,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, “things like being jealous of them, too.” 

He whistles a happy tune through his teeth as he leaves, the Ninth Harbinger paralyzed behind him. He does not pay any mind to how his skin has been set aflame or how his heart beats wildly in his chest. 

Yes, if he could only be that way with you, everything would be alright. He cannot understand why it’s so different from you. It’s the power, a voice whispers. It always circles back to that. Only three people stand above him now: that rat bastard Pierro, your mother, and you. You and your irritating smiles and your irritating laugh and your irritating jokes. You unnerve him with the way you hold his life so carelessly in your hands. A single touch, a mere look, and you could send him spiraling down to the depths if you so commanded. Everything he’s achieved in his life undone. In this pack of wolves the Tsaritsa calls her children, both by blood and bond, there’s a clear hierarchy in which you stand above all others. 

He and Pantalone can devour each other whole, but when it comes to you, he’ll have to force the bitter taste of defeat down his throat. It’ll take everything in his power not to gag. 

He’s ten minutes late when he finally arrives at the Queen’s Ballroom. The ballroom is beautiful, made of marble and gold furnishings. The floor is polished hardwood arranged in complicated swirling patterns that mimic the winter winds. The ceiling is painted with scenes of the nature of the north: galloping wild horses and sly foxes, wolves prowling through the green underbrush, golden ivy snaking at the edges as clouds raced on a blue sky. The crystal chandeliers are unlit and unneeded, the pale light of the morning provides enough to see clearly. This part of the palace is rarely ever open, the Tsaritsa is not one to throw balls and parties like so many of her aristocratic subjects do, so the doors stay locked. Of course, any exception can be made for winter’s favorite child. 

He barely even notices the dance instructors wheedling about in the corner. He immediately finds you, leaning against a floor-to-ceiling window. One leg is crossed over the other. With the morning light coming in through, you’re bathed in the brightest living gold. For a moment old prayers come crowding to the forefront of his mind. For a moment all that time spent on his knees seems to be reasonable, if only it had all been dedicated to you. For a moment you’re baptized by the sun, for a moment you’re holy. 

The cocky smile on his face, a remnant from that moment with Pantalone, crumbles. His breath hitches in his throat. Oh, shit. 

You turn to him, mouth pressed in a thin line. Your pointed steps ring across the floor as you stalk toward him, and he cannot help but feel like a trapped critter. He wants to fight or flee or do something —

“I thought you wouldn’t show,” you murmur, reaching for his gloved wrist with the lightest of touches. He swallows at the sensation of touch. “I was starting to think you had flaked out on me,” you say teasingly.  

“Oh, no, I was just… occupied with another business,” he mutters, looking back at the entrance. A smirk cannot be restrained. You raise an eyebrow and he shakes his head, still grinning. “It’s alright now.” 

Your answering smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds. The two of you walk side-by-side toward the instructors on the other side of the room, close enough for your shoulders to brush against each other, a united front. He realizes, quite abruptly, that you were nervous too. 

The dance he has to learn is the Varsovienne Waltz. Their instructors are a pair of siblings, boy and girl, who look very much alike with dark eyes and dark hair. They regard him with the fearful respect most everyone regarded him with, taking care not to seem too patronizing. 

He first learns the fundamental dance positions. He thought he was mechanical, awkward, and unsure for the first time in years (Archons, how do you manage to coax these emotions out of him?). You said he was doing well, and the instructors affirmed so, but he cannot tell if that was genuine or from a place of fear. 

And then comes the actual dancing. 

They demonstrate it beforehand. Together, the pair of siblings glide across the floor with the gracefulness of swans fluttering about in the lakes. You had already learned this dance as a young child growing up in the icy walls of Zapolyarny, and so after the instructors had finished, you request to dance with one of them, if only to test your muscle memory. You take the role of follower, prompting Dottore, who guesses he would be assigned the role of leader, to imprint each step and twirl into his mind. 

He hates the sick feeling of anxiousness brewing in the pit of his stomach as he watches you dance. But it does not go away as he watches you laugh and toss your head back, not a hair out of place. It’s not a surprise you’re so good at this, each move perfectly executed, your angles a wonder of geometry. This kind of life was your birthright. But not for him, not for the boy who had grown up in an indigent village on the borders of Sumeru. His history is not what bothers him, though, he had shed it from himself like a coat a very long time ago. What bothers him is you. 

Vexation pools in his mind the longer he watches. He begins to impatiently tap his foot against the floor, his mouth twisting into a sneer. This was your life, not his. Dancing is not something the Second Seat of the Fatui Harbingers should be doing. Such a frivolous and foolish activity was not meant for a man of his nature. Heavens, what was he doing here? Hundreds of years ago you couldn’t have dragged him into the ballroom kicking and screaming if your life depended on it. Now he stands here, awake at six-in-the-fucking-morning operating on barely any sleep for you and your dance lessons that’ll be put into use for only one night. One night! 

You could do this to him. You could force him to take dance lessons like some twelve-year-old lordling. You could tear down the meticulously made steel and calcium walls that surround his heart with a sharp smile and bury yourself within the bloody tissue. You could make a home there, familiar and warm, floating above a poisonous black rot. Only you could coax half-forgotten emotions out of him that he thought he had sealed away centuries ago. Meeting you, he thinks, has been the worst thing that’s ever happened to him thus far. 

He wants to turn to leave but finds his feet rooted to the ground. 

He barely notices you’re done before you saunter up to him, hands your hips, your mouth pressed into a thin, worried line. 

“Are you alright? You look…” You cock your head to the side. “... not good.” 

“I’m better than I’ve ever been,” he rasps, extending a gloved hand. “Can we get on with it now?” 

You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. A moment passes before you decide to stay silent and take his hand. 

The girl instructor lifts the needle on the gramophone and the record begins to spin. The music is a sweet, simple melody. He has never heard it before, but memories of days spent exploring the surrounding forest of his village catapult to the forefront of his mind: dipping small toes into warm springs as he ate sticky sunsettias, the juice running down his fingers, the warm, incessantly lovely sun on windblown hair. He shakes his head like a wet dog shaking off water. 

He does not realize just how much tension his body holds until you hum as he spins you around, your back to his chest, his left hand on your hip, and his right hand cupping yours. “You need to relax,” you say. 

“I am relaxed,” he replies stiffly. 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Your Imperial Highness,” he mutters, a sardonic smile on his face, “I think I am much more qualified to say what my body feels more than you.” 

You purse your lips but say no more. The look in your eye tells him you don’t believe him at all. 

The next three hours are agonizingly slow-paced, yet somehow when he reaches the end of it, are a blur of colors and shapes and unintelligible music as though he had been shot past it all. He would not be surprised if the gods somehow made time move slower then faster then slower than normal just to play another cruel trick on him for their own amusement. 

He isn’t terrible, and his rarely-used combat experience has finally found some employ, but he lacks your practiced poise or the easy grace of the instructors. He moves less like a human and more like some forest creature, his physicality more wild and jagged than it was elegant. The instructors tell him his lordship took to the dance more easily than most, and with a few more sessions could be flawless, but he does not pay any mind to them and instead places his gaze on you. Something unpleasant lurks behind your carefully-blank expression. His mind lurches with the sudden urge to find out what had gone wrong and go back in time and fix it. Trial and error is something he is intimate with, and his mistakes do not bother him, so long as he fixes them. He realizes, suddenly, that he wants to please you. 

Pantalone does not need to push him out a window, he’ll very well throw himself from one after this. 

“Walk with me,” you say, slipping an arm through his. Your expression is almost quiet. He has no choice but to let you lead him out the door and into the hallways. The guards at the door bow their heads and murmur the appropriate greetings. He does not miss how their eyes land on their interlocked arms for a second too long. People will talk. 

You both stroll through the hall in strained silence. He flexes his fingers. 

“Are you alright?” 

His head snaps to the side, his ears unbelieving. He had been bracing himself for a reprimanding, for jeers, for mockery. Not this. “Pardon?” 

Was that pity in your eyes? His jaw clenches. Anger, black and brutal, burns within. “Are you alright?” 

He tries to disentangle himself from you, but an iron grip keeps him locked in place. He forgets how truly strong you are. “I’m fine.” 

You sigh and look at the arched ceiling, as though exasperatedly asking it if it could hear his words. “Dottore, I’ve known you for a very long time. You overestimate your ability to lie to me.” 

He grits his teeth, forcing the words out of his throat. “I am fine. I have weathered much worse than dance classes, Your Imperial Highness. If you found some fault in my conduct or wish to admonish me then please, don’t drag it out.” 

“Admonish you?” Your eyes widen, startled. “What? No, I’m just—” 

He barks out a laugh, self-deprecating and cruel. “What? Pitying me?” 

“Worried about you.” You stop. You step forward and face him, eyes bright and shining, the corner of your lips curled into a frown. “Don’t be mean.” 

Worried. You were worried about him. His anger ebbs away and morphs into soft bemusement. You don’t move from your position, instead, you cross your arms and tilt your chin up in defiance like an angry child. He almost believes you’re genuine, but he knows better than to argue with that stubborn jut of jaw. 

He huffs, willing up his signature grin. It’ll be easier to make you happy if only to get this over with. “I’m sorry to hurt your feelings.” He flicks your forehead and thrusts his fists into his pocket and starts to stride forward. “I’m quite alright. If you’re wondering about my less-than-stellar performance, it’s the three hours of sleep I got.” 

You roll your eyes and scurry after him. Before he can escape, you grab his hand and lead him toward a wing of the palace he has been in only a few times before. Your own. 

“No, no, no, you’re not escaping me today.” A childish groan escapes him and makes you giggle. “You can sleep after this, but humor me for a bit and have breakfast with me.” 

“You didn’t have breakfast?” 

“Did you?” Fair point. 

He wants to go back to his room and sleep until sunset, but he cannot help but feel a spark of interest. Most of the time you simply hang about his laboratory and annoyed him, but for you to actually invite him to something as simple as breakfast with seemingly no other motivation than to spend time with him was a break from your norm. A very unfamiliar break. 

All his instincts call for him to flee. 

“Alright,” he says, against the better judgment of his head, “just this once.” 

The imperial family’s apartments are bigger than the Harbingers’, and much emptier. The hall is big and white and echoing, with wide hardwood flooring that was arranged in an intricate repeating diamond pattern. There are paintings of you and your mother, silver embellishments in the likeness of frost plastered on the walls, the furniture was elegant but plain, and the windows had no curtains. The only hint of your personality is the vases of your favorite flowers. Everything had an eerie, deserted look, haunted by the ghost of you. There were barely any people, only two stoic guards posted at the entrance and a maid that scurried past them. He never realized just how isolated you were from the rest of them; no wonder you sought the Harbingers out so often. 

Breakfast appears with instantaneous magic: fried bacon, sunnyside-up eggs, blinis, and biscuits. His stomach rumbles at the sight. He hasn’t had anything to eat that was more than trail mix in close to thirty-six hours, not that it bothered him significantly, he was used to getting distracted by his studies and forgetting to nourish himself. Thankfully, he had improved his body long ago so that it could weather mortal flaws like hunger. 

He wolfs down a slice of bacon while you slather a blini with butter and honey. He rarely eats with company if not forced to. Outside of that, he only ever eats with his segments on the off-chance they’re all free, which is simply a microscopic natural disaster filled with food fights and whining and endless bickering. But breakfast with you is a quiet affair. You eat with calm, methodological grace. He subconsciously looks at you, noting your dining habits, wondering if this was your favorite food. You catch him staring and send him a bemused smile. He looks away, suddenly interested in the tapestries that adorn the walls, feeling heat rush to his face. The windows are open and he can hear the world outside: birds twittering about, the recruits at their morning drills, servants rushing to do this and that. A stillness settles within his bones that he has not felt in a very, very long time. Part of him wants to rip it out, but another part shushes it. He is tired, sleep-deprived, and busy. He still has experiments to do, reports to check, papers to sign. But right now the sun is coming in, soft as a caress, and you are sitting across from him and smiling.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” you say suddenly, your words cutting through the silence like a sword. “but you seemed really out of it earlier.” 

He raises one eyebrow and takes a pointed bite of his bacon. “Is this a therapy session or breakfast?” 

You kick his leg beneath the table. “Archons, ‘ttore, I just want to be nice.” 

Nice. Inwardly, he laughs. He absently pushes the runny eggs around on his plate. “Hm. There were just a few things on my mind, nothing to worry about.” A pause. “I’m very surprised you haven’t teased me yet for my horrible dancing skills.” 

“Ah.” You prop your arm up on the table and rest your cheek on your fist. “Actually, I was expecting they’d be just as bad as your harmonica skills. But you’re actually okay. Not good, but you’re getting there.” 

He splutters. His mouth opens and closes, much like a fish, before he erupts. “My harmonica skills are amazing! You’re just deaf or inane or have horrible, horrible taste.” He pokes his silver fork in your direction. “I’ll have you know I was the best harmonica player in Sumeru, thank you very much.” 

You bite on your lower lip, vaguely amused. “Really now.” 

He leaps to his feet and leans forward, hands on the table, a flurry of feathers and cotton cloth and fury. “Yes, really now! If you weren’t heir to the throne I’d have you chopped up into little pieces and sold to the butchers for that.” 

“I think you’d miss the pleasure of my company too much to do that.” 

He harrumphs and jerks his head away. “You presume too much.” 

You laugh. It’s warm and comforting and familiar. He wants to never hear it again. “You’re so pretentious. Can’t you admit you’re just a little bit fond of me?” 

“Fond? I—” The word coils around his throat. No, he wasn’t fond of you. He was simply slightly more tolerant of you than everyone else. “—no. No, I’m not.” 

He isn’t, really, he isn’t. All these little moments were just lapses of mortal weakness he has yet to stamp out. Something else to add to his itinerary of things to modify. This acquaintanceship with you was getting too bold and too powerful and one of these days he’s sure it’s going to come crashing down on him. 

“I think you are.” You dangle your fork between your fingers. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.” 

He waits for you to continue. But you don’t. You sit there and stare at him, twirling your fork, those eyes bright and big and full of inexplicable warmth. One corner of your lips curls up into an absurdly endearing lopsided smile. He banishes the thought from his brain. The silence stretches, on and on and on, until it becomes a blanket that suffocates him. 

He taps his fingers against the table. “You’re madder than I am.” 

“You of all people should know the difference between madness and truth.” 

“It’s not the truth.”

You peer up at him and cock your head to the side. “Is it?” 

You stand and circle around the table, dragging one finger on the wood. He turns his head to the door and away from you. You hover next to him, just a breath away from his skin. He fights to shove back down the shaky breath that threatens to escape him. He does not know why he doesn’t just move away, putting those barriers back up that he allows you to shatter over and over again. The pieces are on the ground, ready to be gathered and assembled once more. He is a scholar, he knows how to eliminate weakness, how to tear down and rebuild over and over again until his product becomes perfect; he can build on the evident fragility of his resolve when it comes to you. 

All it takes is discipline. He must throw you back as he throws back enemies on the battlefield. He must deny you any more ground. 

One hand intertwines with his while the other holds the pulse of his wrist. His heart begins to beat itself to death in his chest. He relents and turns to look at you, your face carefully blank, but he has known you for too long. Something stirs within your eyes, something hungry and wolfish.

You bring his hand to your lips and gently turn it over to expose the scarred skin peeking out from in between his sleeve and his glove. His wrist is barely an inch away from your mouth. You lean forward and bite, hard. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to sting. 

He jerks away, eyes widening with incredulity. “You—” 

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. There is no hint of remorse or disbelief for what you just did in your eyes. You smile at him, affable and innocent as a puppy. But there was nothing puppy-like in your eyes. How could he have let himself forget? You wild little wolf. His wrist throbs, but to his surprise and disgust, the sensation was not at all unpleasant. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, not sounding the least bit sorry, “I wanted to see what that would be like.” 

“You wanted to see what it would be like to bite me?”

“To mark you.” You move forward as he moves back, a twisted iteration of the waltz you danced earlier. “I don’t understand why you don’t let me in. Did I do something wrong?” His Adam apple bobs up and down as his back hits the wall. “Tell me, please.” 

He looks at you and runs his tongue over his teeth. Every coherent thought evaporates within the confines of his brain. He cannot let you know the truth. He cannot. 

“Get away.” His voice is hoarse. 

There’s the slightest hesitation in your muscles before you take a small step backward. In one swift motion, he lurches forward, grabbing ahold of your shoulder and your chin. He leans over you, red eyes blazing underneath the mask. Something cruel and sharp slithers in his veins and buries its fangs into his anatomy. He does not know who he is angrier at — you, or himself. You for being an inescapable prison where he was the prisoner. Himself for never trying to escape or not trying enough. 

He grazes his thumb against the outline of your lips. “You insufferable little brat,” he spits, “the other Harbingers may allow you to do whatever you please with them, but that weakness is not inside me, and you cannot root it out. You—” He squeezes your skin. “—you cannot conquer me, no matter how much you try.” 

Will you have him thrown out of the Fatui for this? Locked up in the deepest cell? Will you ask your mother to impale him on a glacier, forced to slowly wither away? He watches and waits for your response.

You smile and easily disentangle yourself from his grasp. You lean forward, one hand on his shoulder, your lips brushing against his ear. 

“Liar.” 

He does not think he’s upset you, but you’ve abstained from interacting with him outside of your dance lessons, which themselves have become awkward and brief. You regard him with the same absentminded politeness you would a waiter or a maid, your eyes glazed and the candor of your voice mild. Ever since that night, you’ve made no move to tease or touch. Even as you dance, your bodies locked in a tangle, every time skin brushes against skin your new-found coldness burns like ice. 

He tries not to dwell too much on your last conversation, on the phantom throbbing of his wrist where your teeth had bit into his skin. 

His life has become strangely empty now. There’s a hole in the shape of you begging to be filled, but no material could ever replace your flesh and bone. No one’s barging into his laboratory to annoy him or sneaking into his apartments at odd hours of the night. All for the better. 

Except it isn’t, because now it’s the night (or rather, morning) before the ball and he can’t seem to sleep and the past few weeks have been absolutely insufferable. He’s irritable, much more than he normally is, prone to commonplace mistakes, and worst of all, unfocused. His segments have noticed, even the younger ones, who have been increasingly more competent than him. He knows that they know the reason why; he sees the various looks of disapproval, amusement, and disgust. Zeta even had the gall to make fun of him for it, to his immediate regret, as Dottore scolded him with such ferocity they all went quiet in a rare show of obedience. Perhaps he should scold them more often. The resounding silence, if it happened more often, would undoubtedly improve their research and his moods. 

He stares down at the unfinished reports on the metal table, acutely aware of the laboratory clock ticking away the minutes. Another and another and another go past. He’s been staring dumbly at the thrice-damned half-empty papers for two hours now. He can feel Theta’s bemused eyes burning into the back of his eyes as he mops up the blood from their latest failed experiment. Suddenly the sloshing of the water is too much for him to bear. 

“Go. Leave that for the maids,” Dottore barks. He hears swift footsteps before they pause right at the door that leads into the segments’ living quarters. 

“You should sleep,” Theta says. Dottore turns in the swivel chair and shoots him a pointed look. “I’m not saying that out of, urgh, concern,” the segment hurries to correct, “only that, don’t you have something to prepare for tomorrow—” He shoots a glance at the clock. “—I mean, today?” 

“None of your business.�� 

“We’re the same person if you hadn’t noticed, so yes it is my business.” 

Dottore rubs his eyes and stays silent. There’s too little energy within him to bicker right now. Theta is still rooted in his spot, smirking silently. He crosses his arms.

“Maybe,” he continues, with a mischievous lilt in his voice, “if you’re feeling too tired to attend, I’ll be glad to—” 

It’s almost comical how fast Theta goes flying into the metal cabinets. He lets out a groan of pain. Dottore does not even comprehend when he stood up and punched him. He only knows the way rage flared in his chest, that wild emotion that he could not name roaring in his ears. He had been the one asked to the ball. Him, over Theta. Theta was your favorite of all the adult segments, for who-knows-what reason, the segment that was him during his final year in the Akademiya. You always claimed it was because he was the most fun to be around (Only the Archons can understand your definition of fun) and so it was him you often asked after. 

But this time it’s Dottore that you wanted, and he would not let anyone take away what was rightfully his. (Your voice seems to whisper in his ear, as though you were standing right beside him, “I want to do this with you.”)

The second he realizes his thoughts, he’s tempted to shoot himself with one of the expertly made and modified Fatui guns. It’s the tiredness, he reasons to himself. The lack of sleep was poisoning him with irrationality. The last time he slept was… well. Approximately four days ago. 

He remembers the last thing he said to you, and thinks of your wolfish eyes and predatory grin. You cannot conquer me, and your sly answer, Liar. How is it, he thinks, that he has barely seen you in weeks yet your presence has enlarged and completely overtaken him? The scholar in him wants to pry around for answers, but another part, a mortal part he thought he had killed long ago already knows what the answer is. 

He wonders if you still actually want him to be your partner. With the way you’ve been ignoring him these past few weeks, you might truly prefer taking one of his clones instead. The only adult segments in Snezhnaya right now are Theta and Zeta, the latter of which was on the other side of the country doing research on the mysterious disease. Theta was the only true threat to his position… unless, of course, you decide to ask one of the Harbingers or your subordinates instead. 

To his surprise and mild disgust, uncharacteristic fear grips his heart. Shit. If you took someone else to the ball, he would lose the reward you had promised to grant. He needed it — Tsaritsa only knows how much people, especially certain bankers, love to get in the way of his research. 

The thought of you swaying in another person’s arms tonight almost makes him punch Theta again. 

Theta is rambling about something insignificant, still scrambled on the floor and clutching his bruised face, glaring daggers at his creator. Dottore would have paid more heed to a rat squeaking in the corner. Dottore jerks his head to the door. A dismissal. 

An annoyed sound leaves Theta’s artificial throat. “Looks like I touched a nerve there, Prime. Scared I’m gonna steal them away?” 

“No.” 

He huffs. “Whatever. It’s just one date, I’m always gonna be the favorite.” 

Dottore wonders if he can get away with Theta’s permanent deactivation without you finding out. Probably not. “It’s not a date.” Until now, he had never thought of it as such. But Theta speaking it into existence makes his heart thump. “It’s—it’s a business agreement,” he insists, privately cursing the stutter, “an acquisition of advantage.” 

“Uh-huh. That’s why you’ve been applying that skin cream Pantyliner gave you every night? Even though you’ve never opened it until now?” 

“A certain image is required of me, not that your rat ass would know.”

“Honestly, it’s hilarious watching you fall over yourself for them.” 

Dottore hisses. “I’m not ‘falling over myself’ for them.” 

Theta grins, all that sharp teeth flashing in the fluorescent lights. “Sure.” 

“I’m not!” He sounds indignant, like a child protesting their involvement in mischief they were very much involved in. 

Theta rolls his eyes as he stands and disappears into the other room, snickering. “Whatever helps ‘ya sleep at night, Prime,” he calls after. 

Dottore sighs and massages the bridge of his nose. “I’m not,” he says softly, almost desperately, though, of course, no one hears it. Just the empty air, eating his words. 

He sighs again and glances at the clock, still ticking away. It’s half past three in the morning. You had agreed to meet at six in the evening. You had told him on the day of the last lesson, very aggressively, that under no circumstances should he be late, which he was infamous for being. If he slept now, he could get some much-needed rest before the ball. 

It’s a fitful sleep, though any sleep is better than none. He oscillates between the waking world and darkness, his body simultaneously feeling like it has been doused in fire and thrown into the icy-cold bays of Snezhnaya. Three-quarters after one o’clock he’s woken, gently and fearfully, by one of your subordinates. In a quivering voice, she tells him you had sent an entire team to “ensure full preparedness”, which he knows really was just to say, “don’t show up in a fucking lab coat”. He reluctantly lets them pull him around in a flurry of various outfits for him to try in a long, awkward, and agonizing two hours. He allows them to style his hair, clenching his teeth all the while, thinking about how furious you be if he harmed one of yours as his fingers twitch. In the end, the effort is barely seen — it’s really just a cleaner, shinier rendition of his usual hairstyle. 

They don’t do makeup. They know better than to cross that line. No one, save for the Tsaritsa and the Harbingers, has ever seen what's underneath the mask. 

The outfit they chose, in the end, was appropriately glamorous, though not as fancy as something Pantalone or Signora might wear. The royal blue fabric is soft against his skin, though his cravat seems tight around his neck. Strange, since he was the one to do it and did not deviate from how he usually did it. He tugs on the white fabric and realizes his hands are shaking. They haven’t in centuries, not since his expulsion from the Akademiya. White hot rage sears through his bones. You are the reason behind this resurfacing weakness. He has no doubt about it.

He almost wants to dive back into bed and flake out on you; it would be terribly amusing, but ultimately pointless. The consequences are not ones he wants to bear. 

He does not want to see the looks his subordinates will undoubtedly give him once they catch him on his way to the foyer of the imperial family’s private apartments, where you had agreed to meet. It was a revolting thought: The Second Seat trudging through the halls like a tamed dog The thought of it makes him want to puke. He’s already heard the multiple rumors of your relationship, has heard the giggles, has seen the coy smiles. He wonders if the other Harbingers experience it as well. 

Instead, he takes one of the palace’s secret passageways known only to the top three Harbingers, Pierro, you, and the Tsaritsa. The narrow stone hallway is dusty and dark, rarely used and reserved only for emergencies. He can see well enough with the enhanced vision he gave himself when he moved to an artificial body. He knows there are many more passages snaking through the walls that he does not know about, yet for all his explorations and the hours spent poring over the palace maps, he has never been able to find them. He supposes they’re for only you and your mother. Zapolyarny Palace was a strange place, filled with magic of a thousand years past. He’s heard rumors of ancient spells and complicated runes imbued in the walls of the palace, keeping out any who dare intrude.  

The passageways are filled with twists and turns, with multiple ladders and stairs and secret doors he had long since memorized in his mind. He emerges from behind a tapestry and steps into the deserted hallway adjacent to the foyer. 

Truth be told, he likes this part of the palace. He keeps his private estate and rooms in a similar sparse fashion, mostly because he just can’t be bothered to decorate. But he feels that the emptiness here is intentional. The beauty is quiet, serene even, as silent as the first brush of snow. Especially when the Empress is in one of her moods and true frost conquers the walls and floors and snow impossibly starts to fall indoors. When that happens, suddenly, the palace is transformed into a winter wonderland, conjured out of childlike whimsy. 

You await him at the bottom of the staircase. 

He pauses mid-step, the breath caught in his throat. He has never seen you so… dressed up, before. He knows you like going out on this excursion or that: to the opera with Pantalone or taking a pleasure barge with Columbina, and when out in the public’s eye a level of regalness was expected in your fashion. But alone with him, usually shut up in the labs or in his private estate, you wore simple clothes that allowed freedom of movement. 

But tonight you were glittering, doused in jewels he knows could fund him for years. The moonlight slants in through the windows, making you shimmer. He has never seen you look more ethereal, as though you had just stepped out of one of the Snezhnayan fairytales you so loved. And although he never grew up in Snezhnaya, looking at you he feels as though he has read those fairytales, has spent nights under the covers living in every word in his head. He looks at you and sees magic.

He realizes, suddenly, that he wears the same colors as you: royal blue and white. And then, just after that punch to the head, he remembers: royal blue and white are the colors of the imperial family. 

He swallows an emotion he does not want to touch with a hundred-foot pole. 

“Hello,” you say softly, terrifying warmth blooming in your eyes, “you aren’t late.” There’s a tease in the words. 

He harrumphs and looks away, trying to conceal the growing red in his cheeks. He thanks the Tsaritsa she does not keep her palace well-lit, even at night. “You ought to have better expectations of me. I know I’m not known for punctuality but I know when something is important.” 

You smile. It is blank and careful. “Well then.” You extend your hand. “Let’s go.” 

He takes your hand and lets you lead him to the awaiting carriage. Suddenly the room is too hot and stuffy and your body is too close yet too far. He wishes you’d press yourself closer but you haven’t in weeks, not since that fateful day. He almost misses it, before he catches the feeling and inwardly scolds himself.

Not for the first time, he wonders what game you’re playing at. You had declared, though indirectly, that you could conquer him, yet had made no move to do so. He squints at you from underneath the mask. Your face is set in a neutral, almost air-headed expression. It was the expression you used during boring meetings that you couldn’t care less about. Was he boring you? Exasperation and aggravation flood his mind. Him? Boring? He supposes he hasn’t been trying to poison you as of late. And anyway, it was you who came to him. He had never sought you out before if not for business reasons. Was he expected to make some kind of move? 

The ride to the Sokolov estate is coated in a heavy, awkward silence. Or at least, he thinks so. You don’t seem to notice. Or care. Zapolyarny Palace is situated outside the capital city, so the carriage ride takes more or less an hour. The hour is the longest he has ever experienced, except perhaps the hours he spent dancing with you. You say nothing the entire time, simply stare languidly out the window, your chin cupped in your hand. Midwinter already rules over the land, not that it really mattered when it seems two-thirds of the year saw snow. From time to time you put your hand through the open window and catch a snowflake. There were fleeting moments your eyes would meet, there would be a pause, then a quick aversion and you would both retreat into the invisible walls you had built around yourselves.  

He wonders if you expect him to apologize. 

The silence is enough to suffocate. 

Then, blessedly, the manor materializes in the distance. He almost breathes an audible sigh of relief. He has to restrain his body from jumping out of the carriage as soon as the door is opened. He exits the vehicle first and extends a helping hand to you as you shuffle out, like a proper gentleman. Not that he was one. 

You smile at him. Still, blank.

The Sokolov Winter Ball is an event for aristocrats by aristocrats. There are barely any Fatuus in sight, exempting the noble children who had joined to cur favor and prestige, though such children were few and far between. Though the Tsaritsa rules over all, there is undoubtedly enmity between the nobility and the Fatui; the two factions are caught in an uncertain back-and-forth of power, constantly at each other’s throats and on the verge of bloodshed. In public, members of both groups were expected to be cordial and pretend there was equality among them. So Dottore did get a certain satisfaction in seeing the lords and ladies of Snezhnaya bow before him, even if it was really to you rather than him. 

He almost falls asleep internally as you go through the motions of socializing, him following behind as he has nothing else to do: trivial small talk, false fawning and compliments, pretending to care about the latest gossips sweeping the city. You did seem to actually care about the latter, one of the many characteristics you shared with Pantalone. He, on the other hand, was utterly uncurious to the silly little lives of the people. 

They mostly pretend he does not exist. Not rudely, but fearfully. They understand Dottore is not exactly in the best of moods and offer only commonplace courtesies. 

He wonders how long you can go treating him like this, like some distant, half-hearted acquaintance and not… whatever he should be to you. He has never, ever been the slightest bit interested in socialization, but he wishes, just once, you would turn your head to him and chat. Even if the talk was the silliest of topics, even if he did not care a wit about them. He simply wants to hear warmth flood your voice once more, wanted to hear your ringing laughter.

He flinches slightly when he fully realizes the thought that had crossed his mind. 

“You should smile more,” you say to him as you wheel around the ballroom, trying to avoid another mother who hoped to introduce her dashing children to you, undoubtedly in hopes it will blossom into marriage. The thought of you marrying one of these pathetic pups stirs fierce vindication in his chest. “You’re scaring them.” 

“I am smiling,” he says, frowning. 

The utterly annoyed look you give him makes him laugh, the sound deep and full of heart. 

A little later, when the clock strikes nine, Duchess Sokolov practically materializes in front of the both of you with an element of surprise even Arlecchino would admire and only scheming, middle-aged women can conjure. Your startled half-smile makes her smile in turn, the look of it sly. After a session of unabashed bootlicking, where she complimented almost every piece of your body, from your feet to your eyelashes (the only other person he has ever heard say such things is him), she asked, with a grandiose show of humility, if Your Imperial Highness would do us the honor of opening the dancing with my son? 

If anything, Dottore admires her gall.

His body moves before his mind can comprehend what he is doing. He places his hands on your shoulders, smiling widely, making sure his sharp teeth are visible to anyone who dares steal you away. 

"The geir has already promised their first dance to me, Your Grace." The words come out wild and aggressive, like the barks of a wolf. "I'm afraid your son will have to wait his turn." If I let him have one. 

The duchess pales slightly and steps half a foot back. "Forgive me Lord Harbinger, I wasn't aware." 

You laugh and press your gloved hand to your mouth, a lovely gesture.  "Oh, please excuse Lord Dottore. He's a very particular person. I'll be glad to dance with your son after."

The Duchess visibly brightens and blunders away after numerous thanks, eager to tear away from Dottore's burning glare. You slip your arm through his and weave through the sea of bodies to the center of the ballroom, the party guests skillfully parting to let you pass. He does not think he is imagining your smirk.

As you near the center, Dottore ignores the hot flash of anxiety in his stomach. It has been so long since he has felt that emotion or other adjacent ones that it takes a moment for him to recognize it. Memories of those torturous hours spent dancing, and dancing, and dancing again resurface in his memories. Though not as graceful a dancer as you, he had reached a level of acceptable elegance towards the end that received glowing praise from the instructors. You had smiled, shrugged, and said nothing. It had left a strange empty feeling lingering within him. 

What reaction did he even want from you, anyway? He thinks the instructors weren’t lying; the fear in their eyes was minimal. He would most likely never dance again after tonight. So, it truly did not matter what you thought of his dancing. It did not matter. He had gotten over the anxiousness that came with socializing a very long time ago, and it is not the crowd that is making him nervous. So what is it that he fears?

He feels himself getting more and more agitated as you both pull yourselves into position: two hands outstretched and intertwined, his hand on the small of your back, yours resting on his shoulder. He feels the sharp, curious eyes on the both of you as the music starts.

“Relax,” you whisper. 

“I am relaxed.” 

“No, you’re not.” You squeeze his shoulder. “Your body is so stiff.” 

“I’m doing fine,” he grits out. 

“You’d do even better if you’d stop fidgeting and relax.” 

How could he relax when you’re so close? He can hear your breaths and count the lashes of your eyes. Your eyes already shine naturally with unnatural brightness, but beneath the light of the chandeliers, they seemed to gleam like the faces of a diamond. 

“Is something wrong? You’re staring quite intently.” Your voice evaporates his thoughts. He swallows nervously and looks away, his gaze darting around the room, hoping to see anything but you. “Dottore?” The tone of your voice has been nothing but level for weeks, so the sliver of genuine worry that escapes into the words makes his heart jump. 

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” 

He moves as though he’s in a dream, lost and dazed. He cannot explain to himself why he leans in closer, or why he squeezes your hand cupped in his. He messes up — once then twice then thrice, missing a step or taking the wrong turn even though he memorized the entire routine in his head the night after your first lesson. It cannot be his memory, flawless as it is. 

It’s his heart, his Archons-damned heart, thumping against his ribs. It’s your inquisitive eyes on him, your cold skin pressed against his. It’s the way there is something genuine and vulnerable living in the light of your eyes. It is the way there is a very dangerous mortal emotion flooding his veins. It is the way he cannot help but want to press closer, wants to take you into his arms and sweep you off your feet this night, and many more. 

It is an utterly terrifying thought. This is what he is scared of, he realizes with a jolt that earns him a questioning look from you. This closeness, this… intimacy. Your hands on his skin, warm enough to make him believe you’re both human. 

How long has it been, he wonders, since he has wanted to stop running away. 

The music reaches a crescendo quietly, as though from far away. For all he can hear is thump, thump, thump, his mind all but submerged in the fervent tide of his own beating heart. 

When the dance ends, he needs more than one hand to count the mistakes he’s made. You had gracefully saved him from each mistake, maneuvering your body in such a way that the flow of the dance was upheld. As he bows to you, the crowd bursts into rapturous applause.  

Before he can even blink, numerous lords and ladies have already swarmed the both of you like angry bees, buzzing with life. Each vy for your next dance, the questions flying so fast you barely have time to plaster on a polite smile. You’re generally a sociable person, but your eyes widen as the crowd presses closer, each bothersome member trying to be louder than the next. Your gaze lands on him.

He wraps a protective arm around your waist, scowling at the crowd. Briefly, he remembers you had promised a dance to the son of Sokolov, and then decides he could give less of a fuck about that. 

“Their Imperial Highness needs space,” he snaps. The response is instantaneous; he almost laughs at the way one girl jumps almost a foot back, banging into a boy behind her.   

You grace him with a thankful smile. He thinks he would kill all of the people in this room to earn it again. 

“I need air,” you declare, more to yourself and him than anyone else. Before someone can get in the way of your plans, you hook your arm through his and lead him out into the gardens. 

The Sokolov estate is massive, though not as big as Zapolyarny. The hedged gardens sprawl north, east, and west, with the manor at their backs. Though there are lots of small flowers here and there, it is mostly made out of small trees and shrubbery, unlike your own gardens back at the palace, which were bursting with all kinds of plants. It was hard for most greenery to withstand the cold so far up north, but the Tsaritsa had scoured the land for every flower that could grow in Snezhnaya and created for you your very own Eden. 

The glow from indoors lights up the pathways but slowly grows dimmer and dimmer as you both wander down the winding stones. He has no trouble seeing, a perk of inhabiting a modified body, and, it seems, so do you. A godly trait, perhaps. He would love to thoroughly study you one day, though your mother would probably not approve of it. 

You walk in companionable silence, arms still linked together. He wants to say something. What, exactly, he does not know. 

The manor has all but faded into the distance when you stop at a quaint marble pavilion, the night outside cool and still. There is a large pond next to the pavilion, bright and silver as a knife in the moonlight. Faintly he hears the chirping of crickets in the underbrush, the gurgling of water from a nearby miniature fountain, the honks of swans. 

You cross your arms and lean against the railing, eyes glazed and unseeing, lost in thought. He hovers behind you, uncertain as a child with an angry parent. The breeze cards its fingers through your air and makes it flutter with the wind. The air is sweet, and even the annoying chirp of the crickets softens into a mellow sound. You remain silent, your gaze trained on the water.

In the steady stillness, all those emotions from the dance rush back into his heart. Rage — at himself, at you, at the world — burns through his chest. How could he have been so stupid? So weak? He thought if only he played the game right, if only he took the correct steps, he would escape unscathed. He had not realized he never stood a chance. 

Gods and their goading, tricking everyone into believing fairness was not a shadow on the wall, fickle and false. He would have never won. 

You cannot conquer me, he had declared to you, already conquered. The more he writhed from your grip, the deeper your claws sank in. And if he ever does escape, it will be with claw marks on his soul. In this game you both play, he has played and lost. Defeat is a bitter taste on his tongue. It happened again. The gods have bested him again. 

And you. You did not even know it. You still gaze thoughtfully at the pond. He resents the way you still stand so serenely as his entire world comes crashing down around him. 

He has always been a man of action. He never waits, never stays still. Yet here he is. Staying still. 

When the silence swells into something unbearable, he says, "Am I really so boring of a companion your mind has to wander off?" He levels a cool gaze at you, hoping to mask the way his fingers flex at his side, the way his teeth grind against each other, and the way his heart thumps and thumps inside his chest. 

You turn your head to look at him. Your answering smile is amused. "You could never be boring, Dottore. Not you."

"Is that why you've been ignoring me for weeks?" The hurt slips into the words before he can catch it. He winces inwardly at himself, embarrassed at the sordid display of emotions. There's a flicker of pleasure in your eyes as the words soak in. 

You shrug like a child denying their wrongdoings. "I thought… I thought you’d be inclined to dissect me and damn the consequences if I approached you again outside our lessons, after our last encounter." His wrist throbs with the memory. Mischief slips into your voice. "Why? Did you miss me?"

Yes. "Hardly." 

"Really."

He scowls. "I barely noticed your absence." 

You rest your chin on your fist. “Mhm. Theta told me you were miserable without me.” 

That stupid, loose-lipped segment was asking for deactivation. Dottore truly does not know where the young segment got his penchant for gossiping. It was something that he, Prime, never did. But it did stem from spite, which is where ninety percent of his decisions originate from. “Theta, as you know, is a serial liar.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell him that the next time I see him. Anyways, I don’t think he’s lying. Pantalone told me you’re behind on submitting your financial reports,” you hurry to correct when he gives you a look, “more than usual, I mean. And I heard from a little dove you’ve gotten nothing done these past few weeks.” He makes a mental note to lock Columbina out of his lab. It’s a futile pursuit, he knows she’ll find a way in through Archons-knew-what means, but it doesn’t mean he can’t try. 

He arches a brow, though you can’t see it through the mask. “How arrogant of you to assume you’re the cause behind my recent… difficulties.” 

“I don’t think it’s arrogant to be correct. Or maybe it is. Would certainly explain the reason you have oceans of arrogance.” 

“Haha. What evidence do you have, anyways?” 

“Gut instinct.” 

Despite himself, he laughs. The sound is scraping and throaty. “You would make an absolutely dreadful scholar. You need evidence, my liege, before you go around making such far-fetched claims.” 

You say nothing. You slowly walk towards him, a wolf on the hunt, smiling all the while. He stays rooted to his spot, frozen. Watching. Waiting. There is a part of him, a concerningly large part of him, that longs to feel the warmth of your skin again. Another part wants to eviscerate that part. But he stands still, and he knows, oh he knows why. 

Was it truly such a miserable fate to be conquered by you? To be desired by you? He wonders if deer run only because they want to be caught by the wolf. 

You lift your palm to his neck. Your thumb pokes and prods underneath his jawbone. He leans into your touch, baring the hollow of his throat. You’re so close. You could do what you wanted, and a sick feeling tells him he would let you. You were poised to maim, to kill, to devour. But you don’t. You simply continue to press against his skin with the flat of your thumb. 

He realizes too late what you’re looking for. 

Your devilish grin is equal parts terrifying and utterly gorgeous. Mischief truly becomes you, he thinks dimly. “There,” you say softly. “Tell me, Doctor, why is your heart beating so fast? Hmm? And—” You remove your hand from his throat and his heart screams for you to place your hand on his body once more. You grip the edge of his mask, tilting it slightly up. Enough to imply your intentions. “���May I?” 

He does not mean to nod, but his body moves of its own accord. 

You let it fall to the ground. He has never considered himself to be the most handsome of men, even before the scars. And he has never cared much for his appearance. But suddenly he is aware of his rough skin, of the jagged lines that cut through the left side of his face. He wants to pick up the mask and hide once more. But the way your eyes sparkle as you take him in, all of him in, makes him feel crafted by the gods themselves. You gently brush your thumb against the bottom of his eye. 

“Dilated pupils,” you whisper. “Whatever could be making you anxious, my lord?” 

His eyes narrow and his scowl deepens, but he does not move. “Maybe I’m coming down with an affliction. Maybe I’m having a heart attack, or my drink was poisoned. Maybe your presence is so foul it is enough to kill me.” 

You laugh softly. He wants to record it and play it over and over again until his heart beats to its rhythm. “We both know that’s not true.” You caress his scarred skin with your knuckles. “Do you think I can’t tell? This is my mother’s domain, after all.” You do not say that foul, four-letter word. But you let it hang between the two of you like the blade of a guillotine. 

He's doomed himself, he knows. Human connection is not something the Second Seat should trifle with. Attachment is humanity's weakness, to be exploited and used for his own gain. The burn scars on his face remind him there is always, always something else the gods could take away. But though he has cheated death for these past four hundred years, he cannot cheat his own humanity. It is something he can never escape. It terrifies him. It beckons him closer. He thinks of your smile and your laugh. 

Your smile transforms, though your lips do not move at all. It becomes brighter now, something true and warm. He wonders how long you've been waiting for this. The sight of your smile is the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes upon. A voice, unbidden, whispers in his ear: there are things worth burning for.

The breeze has stopped, he realizes. As though the very world is holding its breath. 

Oh. Damn it all to the Abyss. 

He closes the distance between the both of you and presses his lips onto yours. 

You taste like wine and chocolates and all things addicting and sweet. Your lips are softer than he ever dared dream of. The shocked gasp that leaves your mouth makes him smile against your mouth. He jumps at the opportunity faster than you can react. He surges forward and grabs your waist, pressing your chest against his. His teeth graze your lips and he can see your eyes widen as he bites down, hard. Your resounding whimper makes his chest bloom with pleasure. He understands, truly, he does, why you play your game with him. With all of them. To have you weaken in his grasp, to finally, finally elicit the same vulnerability you seem to conjure so easily from him, is an experience he will never forget. There is nothing in all of the world that is as addicting as stripping monsters into mortals. 

It seems like an eternity before you finally pull away, his hand still on your waist, a silver string of saliva connecting your lips still. Your eyes are blown wide and our fingertips brush against your lips, against his teeth marks. They come away red with blood. 

“You—” The word catches in your throat, and you splutter out weak noises before you regain your voice. “—you fucking bastard!” 

If I have to burn, you burn with me. 

He shrugs, grinning. “See? It’s as you said. I’m never boring.” 

His heart thumps with equal parts terror and euphoria at what he had just done. There is a part of him, smaller now, but still there, that still flinches in his head, utterly consumed by terror by what he has just done. To announce his heart’s desire so brazenly, so thoughtlessly. Yet it was a fair exchange. He had forced you to offer up your own heart as well. Catching you off guard was such a sweet sight, it excited him more than anything had in these past few years. If he had known the sensation of kissing you would be so sweet, he would have done it long ago. 

“Fuck. Fuck. What the hell?” Though he does not believe in karma, your panicked state cannot be described as anything but. “I didn’t think you’d…” You shake your head, laughing weakly. “Fuck.” 

You bury your face into his shoulder, still cursing softly. He debates pulling away, but instead, he wraps his arms around you. You seem so small, so fragile, like a baby bird that has fallen from its nest. He hums as he traces soothing circles on your back.  

"Did you miss me too in the past few weeks?" He asks impulsively. It is out of a desire to satiate his curiosity more than anything.

You draw in a shaky breath. He feels you smile against his skin. "Of course I did." The reply vindicates him.

Beat.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, looking down at your head. 

He nudges you. Had you fallen asleep somehow? It wouldn’t be the strangest thing you’d ever done. 

He does not catch what you say, what with the softness of your voice coupled with it being muffled by his chest. But you stir in his arms, still unable to look at him. 

“Is everything alright?” He repeats. 

“No.” A pause. “I’m a bit afraid.”

“Of what?” He asks, puzzled. 

“That if I look at you, my heart is going to burst from my chest.”  

It starts as small chuckles, then wheezing, the bellied laughter as he doubles over. Now you were the one holding him in your arms. There’s nothing funny about what you’ve just said. It’s not even a joke. But wasn’t it, in some twisted way hilarious, after all this time, how the scales have balanced themselves? 

You stare at him, incredulous, your previous anxious state shed like a snake skin. You disentangle yourself from him and slap his chest, hard, which only causes him to double down in his fit of laughter, clutching at his sore sides.

“What’s so funny?” You say shrilly. “Don’t laugh at me! Dottore!” 

“I’m not sorry,” he says after recovering himself, wiping a tear from his eye, laughter still laced in the words. 

“This isn’t funny!” You pout and stomp your feet on the ground indignantly, like a child. “You’re so mean to me.” 

He smiles. “Always, my dear. What did you expect?” 

You sigh. The sound is drawn out for dramatics. You cross your arms and turn your body away, chin up, a comical imitation of an irritated housewife. “I should’ve just taken Theta.” 

Suddenly the smile dies on his lips and his body is flooded with an ugly, twisting rage. Stupid Theta. Always ruining everything. “You don’t mean that,” he says coolly. “I’m the one you wanted to take tonight.” 

That evokes a sly smile from you. “Aww, are you jealous, my dear Doctor?” 

Definitely. He scowls. “Of course not.” 

“You seemed jealous back at the ball, too,” you tease. 

He recoils as though the words materialized themselves into the physical plane and slapped him in the face. “Of those low lives? Never.” 

“So, you wouldn’t mind going back to the dance I promised the son of Sokolov?” Urgh. He had hoped you’d forgotten about that. Anyways, it’d be a bit awkward to go back now. You’ve both been gone for so long you might as well ditch the party. And if you insisted on going back… well. He wouldn’t let that happen. You’d be forgiven, of course, and people fear him too much to make it an issue. He wonders what excuses you’ll have to draw up when you inevitably apologize to the Sokolov family for leaving so early. 

“It’s not worth your energy.” 

“But I only danced once tonight!” 

“It was good enough.” 

“You were not that good. I kept having to cover up your mistakes.” The words, though snarky, hold no actual venom. Though, it does prickle him. The overachieving scholar within yearns to be more than ‘not that good’. And anyway, who is Il Dottore, if not someone who goes above and beyond? Your smile urges him to take the bait. 

He does.

“Then,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, extending a gloved hand, “would you allow me to make up for it?” 

You place your hand in his.

Dancing has never seemed fun to Dottore. Little things (well, little socially acceptable things) have. It’s a waste of his time, in his opinion. The constant pursuit of knowledge has been his entire life. Even when he was mortal, he never understood what happiness such frivolous activities could elicit that books could not. Yet he does not recall a time he has ever felt such soft, weightless happiness as he does now. As he sways with you to invisible music in the sweet grass of the night. You mess up, and he does too. You trip on stray roots. He is unbalanced on the uneven ground. He blames it on your shared jumble of nerves. You giggle and smile and blame him. But you continue to dance, letting him spin you around as the moon bathes you in silver. Now all those years running from divinity seem so silly. How could he ever fathom running away from this? 

It disgusts him somewhat that he’s fallen into… whatever he could call this… so easily. All that time spent battling you, battling himself, all evaporated in a single night. All that effort turned to cinders. He finds that he does not mind as much as he should. He does not think the game has ended, no. You’ll play it again and again and again, until time reaches its empty end. He does not know whether he wants to devour you or be devoured by you. He does not find the latter as unappealing as it once was. Who could have guessed that pain could be pleasure? He pitied — no, he still does pity — mortals for their sad, forever-yearning hearts that beat for contentment, for companionship. Yet he finds that same weakness in him. It is utterly terrifying.

But as you spin in the moonlight, your laughter ringing in his ears, and his heart thumps and thumps, he thinks it is utterly, utterly inescapable. 

[missterious-figure]

Eclipse and Y/n flying together!

Eclipse still lives in his parent's cave, which is right next to the town that Sun and Moon were made in. (The one that got burnt down) Eclipse's parents were both peaceful dragons that kept to themselves. The only time they would venture close to human settlements is when they were looking for shiny objects to put in their collection.

Eclipse was born with a very disfigured face. Although his parents they were quite shocked, they loved him regardless. For he was their one and only child. Eclipse enjoyed playing with his father and learning to fly with his mother. Such fond memories... Those were brought to an abrupt end early in Eclipse's life. It all started with a wretched witch whom had stumbled upon their cave one fateful afternoon...

Warning: Violence, Gore!

Eclipse lazily rolled onto his back, his legs, wings, and tail sprawled out. He scratched his bloated belly with one of his claws. He wanted to go get a drink, but couldn't bring himself to move off his warm, cozy sunbathing rock. Big meals always made him feel this way.

He and his parents had just finished a delicious feast of salmon that they had caught earlier this afternoon. Mother was sleeping soundly in her sunbathing spot in the middle of the cave. Father was rummaging around, looking for something by the nest. Eclipse didn't even lift his head to see, nor did he care.

"This is the life." He thought to himself. He had plenty of space to play, lots of food to eat, and, most importantly, he had a loving family. This was home. His happy little place. Eclipse started slowly drifting to sleep. Closing his eyes, he listened to the sound of the leaves outside blowing gently in the wind, as if singing a lullaby just for him. A cheery cricket would occasionally join in, spicing up the rhythm. Birds chimed in with beautiful harmony. Such a warm, sweet melody.

Before he fully fell asleep, Eclipse suddenly heard Mother stur. He then heard Father swiftly move closer to her location. Reluctantly opening his eyes, he lifted his head. He followed their gaze. Both of them were staring intensely at the cave's entrance, not so much as twitching a claw. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary. He strained his ears. The cricket and birds had gone deafeningly quiet. A twig snapped somewhere out side. Maybe just a deer? "Darned bushes!" A angry voice huffed from outside.

A big clump of worry started forming in Eclipse's stomach. "Daddy?" He whispered as he quietly jumped down from his rock and rushed to his Father's side. Father was standing next to Mother, who was now sitting up on the floor. "Shhhh!" Father hushed abruptly. He reared up on his hind legs, not taking his eyes away from the direction the noise came from. "Eclipse, get to the nest. Right now!" He commanded.

"But-" Eclipse whimpered, before he cut his own sentence short after a stern look from both his parents. He looked down and turned to go. He hadn't even been able to take a step when a shadow appeared in the mouth of the cave. A human! Eclipse had never seen one so close before. It's skinny body was draped in a long purple cloak with tiny yellow stars. It wore a similarly colored hat that put a shadow over a white bunny mask covering it's face.

The human was shocked to see the dragon family for only a few seconds before it regained it's composer. "Ah, perfect~ Just what he needs." It's voice was very feminine, so it was most likely female. "Leave! Now, human!" Father thundered. Eclipse had never heard him this angry. But the human seemed unfazed. Mother and Father both started snarling at the bunny lady. Eclipse joined in from behind. "You heard us human! Leave! Before things get nasty!" Mother called in warning. "Yeah!" Eclipse shouted, though it came out as more of a shrill.

With a sudden burst of speed Father ran at the bunny lady head on. He swiped a massive wing-claw at her as he let out a mighty, ground shaking roar. The human ducked under what would have been a devastating blow and dive rolled behind him. Her speed seemed unnatural. The human twisted around to face Father as he came around for another attack.

She waited until the last second then jumped over his head and gracefully landed on his back. Before he could react, she flipped off him and to the floor. Father growled, annoyed by the human's maneuvers. He wiped around and bounded at her again. Two glowing green orbs began to quickly form in the human's hands. When they got to the size of small melons, she threw one after the other at Father. Both hit and imploded on his body, showering the cave with two green, fiery explosions.

Mother, who had just shooed Eclipse to the nest, turned to see her mate flung across the cave and slam his back into the floor, almost landing on the nest. He groaned as he slumped, barely conscious. Mother shrieked, furious with the interloper. Now she was going to avenge her mate.

Eclipse watched helplessly as his mother swiftly made her way to the human. She opened her jaws and let out a huge goat of fire. His attention was grabbed from the feiry fight by a loud grunt. His father! Disregarding his parents direct command to stay in the nest, he raced to Father's side. Father was desperately trying to hoist himself up. "Daddy! Daddy! Are you okay?" Eclipse cried, touching his nose to his Father's. "G-get back to the nest!" He collapsed to the floor again. "Father sounds so... tired... and weak...-"

A flash of bright green light and a loud thud interrupted Eclipse's thoughts. On the opposite side of the cave Mother had been thrown to the ground. Even though she was only hit with one orb, the force had knocked her out. As Mother lay quietly on the floor, the bunny lady started to walk towards her. Another green orb began to materialize in the intruder's palm. "Oh, you poor, simple-minded creatures... " She began to tut dangerously.

"He needs you for his plans." She was getting closer and closer to Mother as she continued "Now, be nice little beasties and OBEY."

"NO!" Father called out to his fallen partner. "Get away from her, human!" His voice was growing weak from a sudden sleepiness. No matter how much he clawed at the dirt or thrashed about, he couldn't get himself to stand. He was so unusually exhausted. The bunny lady ignored his pleas. The she gave a chilling cackle as she stopped right next to Mother's tail. "You and your family will do nicely. You had so much fight you." She breathed to the unconscious bragon. She held the green orb above her head. "Time to make sure you're fully asleep!"

Eclipse lunged and bit the women's arm are as hard as he could! "Eclipse! No!" His father croaked frantically. Father was starting to succumb to sleep. His cries landed on deaf ears. Eclipse was in full protective mode. The human swang her arm so swiftly and with so much power he was immediately shaken off. But the orb was flung away as well, barely missed Mother.

The air was knocked out of Eclipse upon impact with the rocky ground. Tears stung his vision and his head spun. The intruder's eyes seemed to glow with rage as she turned slowly to face a winded Eclipse. She was only a few feet front of him in a heartbeat. "You've got guts, don't you, little guy~?" She chuckled. But this was far from funny. She used both hands to clutch his shoulders and bring him to eye-level. She pulled him mere inches from her face.

Eclipse hadn't realized he was only half as tall as her until now. Her eyes had an evil purple sheen to them. "How 'bout I spill those guts of yours~?" She tilted her had "playfully". All the courage he had vanished into thin-air. She forcefully threw him a couple yards away. He quickly stood on his wings and legs. But he couldn't move, he was too afraid. She stood were she was, only moving her right arm so her palm would be aiming at Eclipse.

Purple light began to shine from her hand, quickly forming into a purple orb. Eclipse was frozen. Like a deer caught in the headlights, he was motionless. He had to move. He NEEDED to move! Move! MOVE! MOVE!!! The orb blasted from her hand. Eclipse finally got his body to move, but it was too late. The brunt of the blast hit the right side of his face and scored part of his body. All he could see was white. Pain shook his body. He couldn't even feel the rough landing as he slid across the ground.

The pain stopped, the whole world stopped. White. Pure White. Buzzing ears. Nothing but white and buzzing. Out of nowhere the extreme pain came flooding back. Wave after crashing wave of chaotic, agonizingly grueling pain. He squirmed and wriggled, trying to get away from this scorching sensation. It was burning, melting! He couldn't hear himself, but he was screaming louder than he had ever thought he could. He couldn't control himself as he clawed at his face. He couldn't stop. The added pain made him struggle faster.

Purple. Purple was everywhere. Teeth, lots and lots of black, pointed teeth. They were ravenously sinking into his flesh. They were devouring him. All the while chuckling, laughing, at some unheard joke.

The woman hadn't moved an inch, still by Mother's unmoving tail. She stood there and underneath her mask, unbeknownst to anyone, she had a wicked, twisted smile on her face. She enjoyed this very much. How funny it is to see the little one squirm and cry in the dirt. Rustling behind her caught her attention. In the blink of an eye, something big slammed hard into the interloper's body. The bunny lady was knocked clear out of the cave. It was Mother's tail to the rescue! She must have woken up when she heard Eclipse screaming.

Mother got up on wobbly legs, immediately tumbling over to check on her destressed son. "HONEY! OH, MY BABY! PLEASE! MOMMA IS HERE! OH, MY ANGEL! MY POOR, POOR ANGEL! ---SNFT! - IT'LL -HIC!- BE -- OKAY! It'll... be... okay... it has to be..." she rapped Eclipse in tender wings. He was still sobbing, but not as much anymore. Mother couldn't bare to look at him. She was too scared to see what that monster had done to her little one. She hugged him closer.

Something behind her moved. She snapped her head around, snarling like some feral creature. Her eyes were hungry for bloodshed. Her back arched in fury. But she immediately softened after seeing her startled mate wobbling at them. Father immediately recognized what had happened. They came close together and nuzzled each other's snouts, tears burning their eyes. Father loomed over the crying child curled up in Mother's wings.

Eclipse suddenly went still. Both parents now turned their full attention to him. The both gasped in terror. Some of his shoulder and flank had been scorched, but that wasn't the worst of it. It was his face that tanked most of the blow. Half of their son's face had been melted clean off. Bone was being exposed. The smell of burning flesh was pungent.

Father bellowed and soured out of the cave with malice in his heart. He was gonna find that DAMN witch and FUCKING cook her alive for what she done to his son. Mother stayed with little Eclipse and started using magic to heal him. The bodily wounds healed up right away. His face? Mother stopped the bleeding and had healed the melted skin. But his skin wouldn't meld back together. The bone was still exposed and open to infection. Mother couldn't do ANYTHING to help.

She needed to find a solution quick or her son would surely perish. Father stormed into the cave, fuming. He couldn't find the witch. He came over to his mate, who had just put their son into the nest. They spoke for a long time. There seemed to be no way their son would survive...

Until Father remembered that, in the village below their mountain, there was a skilled and incredibly magic craftsman that created mechanical parts for humans missed arms and legs. Maybe he can fix Eclipse's face... There was only one way to find out. Their son's fate might as well rest in this human's hands...

* * *

[sagemonsters]

The Drider & the Shepherd's Daughter

Summary: a fairy tale where Malina, the shepherd's daughter, is tasked with begging a drider for silk for her sisters' dresses... and finds herself desiring more than just the silk.

Status: SFW

Pairing: cis female human x cis female drider

Word Count: 2,579

*

Long ago and far away, there was a shepherd who lived in the mountains with his flock, his dog, his wife, and his three daughters. His name is not important. His dog’s name is not important. His wife’s name is not important either, but his daughters’ names are. The oldest was Claudia, who was fair of face and had eyes more blue than the dreams of sapphires. The middle girl was Isolda, who was fair of face and had eyes more blue than a clear midsummer sky. And the last and least was Malina, who had a face you wouldn’t look twice at and eyes like fog, and who had killed her mother.

The shepherd and the two elder daughters often reminded Malina of this, because they had watched Malina’s mother die of childbed fever barely a week after Malina had been brought into this world.

She grew into a child of average build, weight, appetite, and sensibilities. She wore her sisters’ hand-me-downs and played with the wooden toys that they outgrew. She learned to hold her tongue rather than talk out of turn, and to observe others carefully. She watched the patterns of birds in the air and sheep on the ground, and feared the howling of the winter wolves. She dreamed the dreams of children everywhere who feel that they are neither wholly understood nor wholly loved; dreams of being spirited away to someplace where her real father and sisters welcomed her, a place where her hand-me-down socks didn’t have holes and her father called her by her name rather than “girl” or “you.” She was, in short, neither monstrous nor mad, and although underloved she was never outright rejected by her family as she changed from a child to a woman.

The local lord had three sons, all spirited young men who were fair of face and had eyes as blue as the faraway ocean. Sometimes they rode through the village on market days and gave flowers to the peasant girls in exchange for kisses.

The eldest of the three young men saw Claudia. He offered her a bundle of bright yellow jonquils, and Claudia kissed him. She twined the flowers into a crown to rest upon her golden hair, and told the boy that she would look much better with a crown of metal and a bridal veil. The eldest of the lord’s sons was already captivated by Claudia’s beauty, but knew well that peasant girls didn’t marry into nobility. Nevertheless, he could not deny her.

“Weave and sew your wedding dress, and come to me again,” the eldest son said. “If it is as beautiful as you are, I will marry you.”

So Claudia returned to the shepherd’s home, and carded and wove the bales of soft white lamb’s wool into cloth, and then cut and sewed the cloth into a dress. But she had no pearls or jewels, and she knew that a peasant’s woolen gown could never rival a satin gown made by a master tailor in one of the southern cities, so she called for Malina.

“Girl,” she said. “Go into the mountains and fetch me a bolt of cloth woven from spider silk.”

“Sister, I can’t,” Malina protested. “The drider will eat me from my toes to my head. It’s too dangerous.”

“You killed our mother,” Claudia reminded her. “Fetch the silk so you can atone for her murder.”

Malina hung her head in shame, then packed a basket with bread and cheese and salted mutton, pulled on her hat and shawl, and set out. She climbed the mountain trails, which grew narrower and steeper and stonier with every step she took, until she found a canyon crowded with massive spider webs. Antlers protruded from an equally massive storage cocoon beside the entrance.

Malina waited outside the canyon. Only the wind stirred the webbing, and dusk began to fall as the sun set behind the peaks. A chill descended over the mountains, and Malina pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders.

There was a chittering noise, followed by the sound of too many legs thudding against the ground. “Are you lost, my dearest?” asked the drider who loomed out of the deepening darkness. She had the torso of an elf and the lower half of a spider the size of a pony, with a multitude of glowing red eyes filling her gray face.

“I’m not lost, Mistress,” Malina said. “I came here looking for you.”

The drider paused, then asked: “What is your name, my dearest?”

Nobody had ever asked Malina her name before. She told the drider.

“Dearest Malina, what do you seek?” the drider asked next.

“My sister needs a bolt of spider silk cloth for her wedding dress,” Malina said.

“And what do you offer in exchange for a bolt of my cloth?” asked the drider.

Malina offered her the basket.

“Dearest Malina, I eat my meat raw and wriggling, and I take neither bread nor cheese,” the drider said. “Offer me something else.”

Malina offered her the promise of a lamb from her father’s flock.

“Dearest Malina, a single spring lamb, no matter how tender, is not enough for a bolt of my cloth. Offer me something else.”

“I have nothing else,” Malina admitted. “Unless you desire my life.”

“I do not desire your life,” the drider said. “Will you give me a kiss for a bolt of silken cloth?”

“I will give anything to make my sister happy.”

“Be careful what you say, dearest Malina,” the drider whispered, and approached on her many legs. Malina’s own legs wanted to tremble, but she held her ground. The drider cupped Malina’s face gently with her gray hands, and Malina’s eyes fluttered closed. The human didn’t know if her heart thundered in fear or anticipation, but she could have sworn that it stopped at the soft press of the drider’s lips against her own a moment later. When Malina opened her eyes, the drider presented her with a bolt of silken cloth that shimmered under the moonlight.

“Here is your cloth,” the drider said.

“Thank you,” Malina said. Her lips tingled. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Arachne,” the drider informed her, and sent Malina home down the mountain trails.

Malina arrived before dawn. Her father hadn’t noticed her absence, but Claudia was happy to receive the silk. She cut and sewed it into a dress, and this she showed to the eldest of the lord’s sons. Even with no pearls or jewels, the dress was so beautiful that the young man had no choice but to marry her. Claudia left the shepherd’s home to live in the lord’s castle. 

Malina dreamed of Arachne’s lips and hands upon her, and felt a pang of hitherto-unknown desire in the morning when she awoke alone in her bed.

Another market day, the second-eldest of the lord’s sons saw Isolda in the village, and offered her a bundle of bright crimson roses in exchange for a kiss. Isolda accepted, and twined the roses into a crown to rest upon her coppery red hair. She told the lord’s son how fine she would look with a crown of metal and a bridal veil, and this second son, thinking of his brother’s fortune in finding a beautiful wife, posed the same challenge as his elder sibling had done.

Isolda returned home. She did not bother sewing a dress of lamb’s wool, and instead summoned her sister.

“Girl,” she said. “Go into the mountains and fetch me a bolt of cloth woven from spider silk.”

“Sister, I can’t,” Malina protested. “The drider will not let me impose on her generosity a second time, and I fear…” She didn’t know what she truly feared, however, and could not continue.

“You killed our mother,” Isolda said, not noticing her younger sister’s hesitance. “Claudia may have forgiven you, but I haven’t. Fetch me the silk so you can atone for her murder.”

Malina lowered her eyes to the floor in what might have been shame—but her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The young woman packed her basket a second time, and donned her hat and shawl. This time, however, she took her mother’s wedding band and slipped it into her pocket before heading out the door. Once again, Malina climbed the mountain trails that grew narrower and steeper and stonier with every step she took, until she found the canyon. She waited, and dusk cloaked the mountains in darkness. Arachne emerged from among the webs.

“Dearest Malina, what brings you here?” the drider asked.

“My other sister needs a bolt of spider silk cloth for her wedding dress,” Malina admitted, “and I will do anything to make her happy.”

“Be careful of what you say,” Arachne warned. “What will you offer me in exchange for a bolt of my cloth?”

“Will you take my mother’s ring?” Malina asked, and fished the silver band out of her pocket. She held it out, and Arachne approached to inspect it. Malina’s heart once again began to hammer in her chest as she looked at the drider’s lips.

“I place no value in metal,” the drider said eventually. “Offer me something else.”

“Will you take another kiss?” Malina said. And then she surprised herself with: “I would be happy to give it to you.”

After a moment, the drider smiled. “I will take your kiss, but I will ask this of you as well: will you wear my favor, dearest Malina? Will you wear it always and visit me at least once a moon for a year? If this is acceptable, I will give you the cloth.”

“It is very acceptable,” Malina said, and leaned into the drider’s touch. Their lips met for a second time, and this time Malina knew that the thrill in her heart was something very different from fear. When they finally pulled apart, Arachne gave her the bolt of silk. The drider also gave her a shimmering length of ribbon, and tied it gently around her right wrist. Her hands were warm and soft as they brushed against Malina’s.

Malina returned home with the bolt of cloth before dawn. Her father had not noticed her absence, but Isolda was happy to receive the silk. She cut and sewed it into a dress, and this she showed to the second of the lord’s sons, and was married to him shortly thereafter. Isolda left the shepherd’s home to live in the lord’s castle, and Malina kept her promise to visit Arachne once a moon.

Finally, the youngest of the lord’s sons came to Malina in the village on market day. He offered her a fistful of daisies plucked from the roadside in exchange for a kiss. Malina blushed and accepted, but the kiss felt awkward and forced. Malina pulled away.

“Do you want to marry me?” the youngest son asked.

Malina hesitated, then shook her head.

The lord’s son didn’t seem to recognize this. He continued: “Your sisters’ wedding gowns were amazing dowries. They said that you gathered the silk from a man-eating drider in the mountains. Fetch me three bolts of this silk, and I won’t ask you to make a dress out of it.”

“Sir,” Malina protested. “I cannot marry you.”

“Yes,” the youngest son agreed, “you aren’t beautiful enough. However, you will fetch me the bolts of spider silk. I command this of you, as the son of your lord.”

“But I can’t,” Malina protested. “I can’t impose on Arachne’s generosity a third time, and ask for three bolts of cloth rather than one. It is too much.”

“Arachne?” the lord’s son asked. “It has a name?”

Malina froze into stillness. 

The lord’s son looked at the shimmering ribbon still tied around Malina’s wrist. “What’s this?” he asked, and reached out to examine her.

Malina pulled away again. “It’s nothing, sir,” she said. “I made it from a scrap of leftover fabric from my sister’s dress.”

“You’re lying!” the lord’s son declared. His eyes narrowed. “You’re in league with the drider! Did you enchant your sisters’ dresses so that my brothers would be made stupid with infatuation? They’re married to worthless peasant girls now! I’m no fool, though; I can tell you’re a witch. Guards! Guards!”

Malina fled the village as fast as she could, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She knew her father would offer her no shelter from the lord’s son, the village church no sanctuary, and so her feet took her along the mountain trails that grew narrower and steeper and stonier with her every leaping step. She did not wait at the canyon mouth as she heard the baying of the lord’s hounds, but slipped into the maze of sticky webbing. She slowed as she navigated between them, and struggled not to fall into the silken traps.

Arachne descended along the canyon wall on a silken line from the spinnerette of her spider abdomen. She looked down at Malina with her many red eyes, and listened to Malina’s panting breaths and the growing cacophony of the hounds and guards.

“Dearest Malina, why do you weep?” the drider asked in her soft voice.

“Arachne, Arachne, the lord’s youngest son called me a witch and said I used magic to enchant his brothers,” Malina said. “I think they want to kill me.”

“Dearest Malina, do you wish them to live?” Arachne asked. Her many eyes glowed bright as bloodied garnets.

“Yes,” Malina said.

“Dearest Malina, do you truly wish it so? Do you truly wish it after their cruelty to you?”

Malina hesitated, and the baying of the hounds and the shouting of the guards drew nearer. They had almost reached the canyon. 

“I wish it so,” Malina whispered.

“Then so it shall be,” the drider said, and spun more webs so that neither human nor hound could enter the canyon without Arachne’s assistance. The guards’ swords tangled and caught in the sticky webbing without cutting it, and the dogs refused to come near. After a time, the pursuers gave up and went away, their voices fading down the mountainside.

And now Malina was alone with Arachne. She could not return to her father’s home, or to the village, and she could not call upon her sisters at the lord’s castle. She was, for the first time, without a family, and her tears stung her eyes more fiercely than ever.

“Dearest Malina, what brings you such sorrow?” Arachne asked, and pulled Malina into her strong gray arms. Malina leaned against her.

“I am lost,” Malina said when she had mastered herself somewhat. “I have nothing. I have nobody.”

“Dearest Malina, you have me,” Arachne said. “We can travel far from these mountains, and make a home where none can harm or hate us. We will be safe. We will be happy. I promise you this with the breath in my lungs and the beating of my heart.”

Malina turned in the drider’s arms to look into her face. “Dearest Arachne, how can I thank you?”

“Will you wear my favor always?” Arachne asked.

“Yes, and I already do,” Malina answered.

“Will you kiss me?”

“Yes, and I already have.”

“Will you marry me, dearest Malina? Will you call me your wife and cherish me until the end of our days?” Arachne asked.

“Yes, and I always will,” Malina answered. She reached for the drider and kissed her a third time then, slowly and softly, feeling wholly loved and wholly understood.

*

You can also read this story in the April 2023 edition of the M❤️NSTER magazine, or download a nicely laid out PDF from my own itch.io page (both downloads are free, but please consider tipping where possible).

If you enjoy my writing, please consider buying me a coffee so I can have a warm drink while I write!

[bvlladonnas]

♡ ANGEL'S SILLY HEADCANONS: FLOWERS (2/2)

we're back in the fucking building (angel forgot she never finished this). ximena's, freya's, kaito's, & briar's favorite flowers, and why. / @valpoinspo

ximena likes peonies. peonies represent prosperity, good luck, love, and honor. the flowers are quite expensive, particularly for a family of twelve, and so they were often part of ximena's birthday gifts growing up, a rare treat to have adorning her shared room. she loved the way they bloomed, how they would take up a whole vase. when xime got to her house in chile, there was a bouquet of peonies awaiting her on the counter, the most she'd ever seen. she sobbed the whole night after reading the card (what's new, miss sentimental) – her parents and grandparents had pooled money to get her this many, a "good luck" on her new endeavors, a request to continue to make them proud. she dried pressed every single one of them so they could never die.

honorable mentions: carnations, camellias, and lotuses.

freya likes yarrow. a common sight around the reservation growing up, freya used to spend endless hours counting petals with their friends (what they thought was a clever way to stay out past curfew and mess around). yarrow reminds freya of home, and endless nights laughing under a blanket of stars. since yarrow represents youthful love, rania received a small bouquet of it when freya finally asked her to be their girlfriend. very cheesy, but clearly it worked. now every bouquet rania receives (or any bouquet freya buys, actually) contains a bit of the flower; they see little piece of themselves in every bunch.

honorable mentions: hyacinths, orchids, and pincushion flowers.

kaito likes cherry blossoms. much like oliver's reasoning, they remind him of home. while he doesn't have as many bittersweet (heavy on the bitter) memories as oliver does, the yellow and white petals remind him of simpler times. walks home from school with his brothers, strolls through the park with his mother. the one weekend a year his father would be home and not look at his phone once, prioritizing his family over his work. they would sit outside and bask in the falling petals, watch the trees sway in the wind. cherry blossoms represent rebirth, new beginnings, and renewal, something kaito will know intimately quite soon.

honorable mentions: birds of paradise, spider lilies, and lily of the valley.

briar likes tulips. tulips, while having a variety of meanings, are known for representing love. to briar, they represent his mother. on the way home from school they'd often stop by the store to pick her up a bouquet with whatever money he could scrounge up at the time. it was a rare instance of a genuine, excited smile from the woman, something briar though they couldn't give her anymore. he likes yellow ones, specifically, because those were her favorite. there's a spot on his windowsill that houses a singular yellow tulip in a vase at all times. ask them and they'll just say they thought it looked nice.

honorable mentions: california poppies, cactus flowers, and wisteria.

[ranchracoon]

Ch. 7 Lord Moreau II

The day you had been dreading arrived, unfortunately you didn't die or get horrifically maimed in some freak accident so you had to go. The final buttons on your (suit/dress) were buttoned, your hair was styled the way you liked, and you had to borrow make-up from Angie to cover the dark circles under your eyes. You hadn't been sleeping well, or eating, and you kept making mistakes while cooking or cleaning to the point that Angie had to monitor you like when you first arrived. The anxiety ate away at you piece by piece like you were a carcass at the bottom of the ocean being slowly eaten away by crustaceans. Now you were a walking skeleton but looked like a ghost; the blackness of your outfit didn't help either.

Angie hollered, you sighed heavily and looked toward the desk with the sprawled strips of fabric. You had tried to make...something during your sleepless nights; followed the instructions in the book but it came out looking like a tattered dog toy. In frustration you pushed the fabric off the desk into the bin before walking out the door into the hallway. You descended the stairs and looked over at Angie, she wore a black dress with a transparent shawl over her shoulders and head, she had pulled the shawl to cover her face but it remained visible enough for you to see the disdain on her face. For once in her life probably, she decided not to say anything about your appearance and merely hummed under her breath.

You opened the door for her and hesitated, only for a moment, to see if maybe the lord would appear and follow you. They didn't. Angie and you walked the path as usual, both of you paused in front of Claudia's grave to put a fresh candle down and light it. The longer you stayed, the more comfortable it felt to be around the grave, you paused every time you passed by. It felt wrong, insulting almost if you didn't. The fog added a haunting feeling to the surrounding foliage, if you weren't already looking like a ghost, you half expected one to walk alongside you.

The village was a sea of black and grays, you and Angie divided through the crowd down to the docks where a stage stood alongside the Cliffside. Alcina sat on it with her daughters, next to her was Mother Miranda, and an empty seat. On the other side of the stage was a man in a black leather hunter hat with greasy salt and pepper hair, and a five o'clock shadow for a beard. That must be Heisenberg. You hadn't met him yet but he looked disheveled and homeless from the disarray of his...suit, if you could even call it that. It looked like something you would have made only with more stains. His most prominent feature is the rounded sunglasses he sported despite there being little sunshine.

Next to him was Salvatore in a black suit with a flashy yellow tie. You scrunch your face. To avoid his gaze, you looked toward the dockside and saw a wrapped body in a small wooden boat, it didn't take a genius to gather that it was his father. The microphone's feedback echoed through the spread out speakers, you flinched from the high pitch but it drew your attention to Mother Miranda who cleared her throat.

"Thank you everyone for joining us on this mournful morning to see off our beloved Lord Howard Moreau. If we could all bow our heads for a moment of silence."

Everyone around you bowed their heads, the only sounds were the wind through the caverns, distant birds, and the water brushing against the docks and shore. Mother Miranda sighed, she stood with her hands folded in front of her.

"Now, his son Salvatore will do the honors of casting his father out into the bay, as was his final request."

Salvatore stood with a smug grin, it gave you a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, something didn't smell right and it wasn't the fish. Shouldn't he be sad his father died? Then again, you weren't exactly sad when your parents died, but you also weren't happy. Salvatore went down to the boat and bowed his head, you couldn't hear what he said but after he lifted his head he knelt, and pushed the boat out into the bay. The crowd, along with you, watched as the boat floated out of view into the ghostly thick fog rolling over the calm water. A shiver ran up your spine, unsure if it was from the cold or not, but you hugged yourself anyways. Salvatore walked back up to the stage slowly, as if basking in the attention. He approached Mother Miranda who handed him a rolled document then dipped her fingers into a black liquid. She rubbed the liquid over his forehead while her lips muttered words that couldn't be heard. He bowed to her then waved Mother Miranda aside and took the microphone in his grimy hand. The black smear prominent on his forehead.

"Welcome my beloved villagers. As of today, I will be taking my father's place today as Lord, I see no reason to wait. This sorrowful day shall be turned into a day of joy. I want to celebrate my father's death, for that is what he would want, but also celebrate me. Please join me in food, drink, and all day festivities. In honor of my father!"

There was a dull cheer from select members of the crowd, all of them men, while the rest of the crowd shifted impatiently. You looked over at Alcina who rolled her eyes, her upper lip twitched as if holding back her disgust. The wind picked up and you shivered again, you really wish this outfit was warmer or that you were able to sew that jacket. The crowd pushed and shoved you around, separating you from Angie which sparked a bit of panic in you. Someone forcefully bumped into the back of you, lunging you forward but before you could hit the person next to you, someone caught your shoulders. In the blur of people, you hadn't noticed the hands being replaced with something heavier, warmer, and you were caught off guard by the new smell of whatever covered you.

Eventually you were slowly pushed through the crowd to the edge of the stage where most of the people had vacated. Your hands brushed the thick cloak over your shoulders, panic set in as you furiously looked through the crowd for who it might belong to, but no one looked your way. The cloak was black on the outside but mahogany on the inside. You lifted the collar of it toward your nose and it was intoxicating. It was a mixture of amber, sandalwood, some other wood you couldn't put your finger on, some hints of jasmine, and moss? It smelled earthy but heavenly at the same time and you wanted to drown in the smell. Instead you settled for wrapping yourself up in the large cloak as a way to coat yourself with it. It was still warm from whomever previous wore it.

With less people around, you got a clear look at those who went toward the direction of the docks and those who went back to the village. From the corner of your eye you caught the Dimitrescus taking their leave with Alcina in the front. You gave a small wave to them, the daughters returned the wave and leaned forward to walk toward you but your view was cut off by a certain disfigured frog. A groan left you but you roped it in quickly as you met the eyes of Salvatore. You crossed your arms and scowled, the goose bumps returned over your skin, a chill ran up your spine, and you felt naked in his stare.

"Hello Y/N. I'm so glad you could make it to my ceremony, care to join me in the celebration? Have some food, a couple drinks, and maybe an evening float on my boat?" He asked with his hand held out.

"Oh um no thank you I really should be getting back to the manor-"

"It's rude to deny a lord. I've been patient and nice Y/N, the least you could do is humor me." He cut off.

"I rather humor a polar bear while wearing a seal suit." You retorted.

Salvatore sneered, a growl coming from deep within his throat as he took a step forward and grabbed your wrist tightly. He yanked you closer to him, but out of instinct your other hand swung and hit him in the jaw. He stumbled back and his grip released you. Time seemed to slow down at that moment. Behind him you could make out Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela gasping with huge grins on their faces. Alcina looked surprised but impressed at the same time. Still on the stage was Mother Miranda who only had a look of complete neutrality.

"Ow fuck.." You whined as you rubbed your knuckles.

Salvatore rubbed the side of his face that you struck, his entire body heaved in anger; he was hunched over and the sheer amount of rage in his face made it look distorted.

"First you insult me by refusing me at the festival. Then your lord insults me the greatest by not showing. Now...now you have the audacity to strike a lord?!" He yelled.

You backed away when he stood back up right, it was a tiny bit humorous to see him posture; you might not have been as tall as the other women in this village but you were taller than him and that gave you a microscopic bit of joy.

His glare turned to Mother Miranda, "aren't you going to do something about this?!" He snapped.

The man from before, Heisenberg, took Salvatore by the shoulder before Mother Miranda could speak.

"Easy there. You might be a lord now but you still have a lot to learn, so the girl has a little fight. Shouldn't you know a thing or two about fighting Moreau? You don't yank the line in on the first tug, you gotta wait until the bobber goes down."

Both you and Salvatore looked at him confused, "what are you talking about?" Salvatore asked, irritated.

"I'll explain it to you over a drink. Come on, leave the girl be. I'm sure there's plenty of feisty maidens in the tavern just waiting to settle in with a lord for the night."

Salvatore returned his heated glare back to you, "this isn't over." He threatened.

The two of them walked away to the village, your eyes were wide and you were stuck like a deer in headlights. The scuffling sound of shoes broke you of your trance when the three daughters shook you gently to life. All of them are still holding giant grins.

"That was awesome!" Daniela praised.

"I'll say, I'm just mad it wasn't me who smacked him." Cassandra chuckled.

"It must have felt so good to see the look on his face!" Bela giggled.

Alcina walked up behind them, they quieted their laughter and stepped aside to make room for her. She looked you up and down with no emotion, but the corners of her eyes gave the tiniest hint of amusement. Her gloved fingers stroked the fabric of your cloak curiously. You watched her and caught a brief glimpse of what looked like the Beneviento crest inside the cloak. Alcina sucked in a breath softly then dropped the cloak, her eyes told you she recognized this cloak and that only ignited your curiosity.

"Moreau is a loose cannon like his father. You are a representative of house Beneviento. Both of you have greatly insulted him. As amusing as I find it, I would urge you caution. Mother Miranda has been forgiving before, but it is a rare sight. If I were you, I would go home before you offend anybody else." She stated coldly.

Like a scolded child you nodded your head and turned tail, you didn't bother looking for Angie; knowing she'd pop up unexpectedly but Alcina was right. The people returned to their homes to change, many of the villagers had gone back to their normal routines while others drank, sang, and ate. In order to keep the cloak clean, you bunched up some in your fists so it wouldn't drag in the slosh of the village. Who knows what kind of liquid it was.

You slammed the gate behind you and grimaced at the way it shook and the sounds the aging wood made. The fog still covered everything in sight along the path to the manor. Any attempt at running was foiled by loose roots and uneven terrain so you settled for a fast walk. It slowed to a walk, then eventually stopped when you came to Claudia's grave. You knelt in front of it to catch your breath and brushed away some of the debris from her headstone.

"What did I do..." You whispered.

The wind blew harshly, causing the cloak to whip around you frantically. You raised your arms to get ahold of the cloak until the breeze passed, only this time you felt eyes on you. Unfamiliar, uncomfortable eyes. The breeze wasn't the only thing that caused you to shiver with unease, so you quickly stood up and hurried to the manor. Once inside the safety and warmth of the manor you breathed out a heavy breath, your shoulders laxed, and you closed your eyes for a moment. Once you composed yourself you went upstairs and sat on your bed. You pulled the cloak to your nose and inhaled the scent again, relaxing in its alluring smell.

This had to be proof that the lord was at the funeral but deep down you knew no one would accept that, anyone could have put the cloak on you. The man at the stall did say that Lord Beneviento made a lot of the clothes for the village. You undressed to examine the material and sure enough the crest was stitched in the back. The look that Alcina had was what caused your head to hurt, she has seen the cloak before, that you were certain of. With a final inhale of the cloak, you folded it gently then carried it all the way down to the basement to place it in front of the lord's bedroom.

You had to do something to distract yourself so you did what you did every other day: you cleaned. Sweat dripped down your face, it splattered on the wooden floors that you scrubbed until your knees were bruised. Every crevice was vacuumed, dusted, and cleaned thoroughly enough you could see your reflection. As soon as you collapsed onto the floor the door opened, you cracked open an eye to see Angie hobbling in with a grin and a giggle.

Before you could question her, she stumbled and bumped into the side table which answered it for you. She didn't notice you sitting on the floor, or maybe she did and didn't care as she found her way to the elevator. You listened to the ding of it, her snickering to herself as she shuffled in, then the creaking of it lowering until you couldn't hear it anymore. You closed your eyes again and continued to lay on the floor; you were on the verge of sleep when the cuckoo clock startled you from your break and you looked up at the clock. 8pm. You really had been working all day. Just as you were about to stand you heard yelling from outside, at first you mistook it for the wind until it got closer and louder.

"Beneviento!"

In a panic you rushed to the front window and peaked out behind the curtain to see Salvatore stumbled up the walkway. It was kind of impressive that he managed to get all the way up here without falling, that quickly faded once you saw the mud stains on his pant legs. He stumbled back and forth, yelling and screaming with every step until he reached the gate. You went to the door and pried it open, watching Salvatore grunt with the gate then kick it forcefully to stumble through.

"Salvatore? What are you doing?" You yelled.

"Shut up! I'm not here for you. Beneviento! Face me you coward, you insult me on the day of my lordship and the death of my father? You send your maid to make a fool of me? Come out here now!"

"Salvatore you're drunk, just go home." You tried to reason.

"Oh. Oh I see. The great, mysterious lord needs someone to stand up for him. Come out here Beneviento before I break my way through." He screamed.

You stood in the middle of the doorway when he approached with both your arms outstretched, he stood in front of you huffing enough you could smell the alcohol. He swayed back and forth trying to size you up, you could easily kick him down the steps from here but the words of Alcina were in the back of your mind. The elevator dinged, Angie would certainly thrash him into next week but it wasn't Angie's footsteps you heard. They were spaced out: step, one, two, step, one, two, step. Both you and Salvatore froze, you watched his eyes suddenly sober up as he went back down the stairs. The footsteps stopped behind you, slowly you lowered your arms and moved to the side. The presence stood next to you. Lord Beneviento stood next to you.

Continue Reading

[ffxivaltaholic]

Prompt #3: Tempest

#FFxivWrite2024

"She is truly wild, a hurricane of rage, this beast, a Ligaka, that bared beak and talon in battle with reckless abandonment. Vicious, like a raging storm that rained feathers down upon her foes, I gazed upon her as she flew overhead, watching me with dark eyes. I am an intruder to her. While she was not the one I sought out most, she was on the list. The colors of her plumage were close, a mix of vibrant green and striking yellow, with warm orange accents bristling through the creature's massive wings, but the one I sought most was more vibrant and larger, with a cracked beak and a broken talon, compliments of my departed mother. But for now, I had a job to do and a village to protect, just as mother had done before me. I am a hunter, and I specialize in elite hunts, where beasts of impressive size and skill had to be culled. It's in my blood, and I'm damn good at it..." An impressive creature, one Tlalli ultimately respected to a degree, but once they grew to this size it became a threat to the village, as the territorial bird would start attacking villagers and livestock alike. There were many over the years she had felled, mostly in search for the one that had cost Tlalli her mother, and every time the Ligaka's name appeared on the hunt board, she would take the job, ever hoping to find that one elusive beast and prove herself. To redeem her mother's name and to finally let her spirit rest peacefully. Yet to the day, now in her thirties, the massive monster had not appeared again.

Perhaps it had already been slayed? Her father had sought the beast for many years too, only relenting once his body could no longer handle the harsh terrain and aggressive wildlife, now he taught the next generation from the safety of the village. Her brother had taken a different path, rather than taking up the blade or spear, he settled into crafting, and had honed his skills with weaving beautiful clothes and tapestries. Tlalli was the only one left to carry on for her mother, Xitllali, for whom she was named after, and she did her work with pride.

"You going to come down you feathery bastard?" She called up, eying the beast with a cheeky little grin. "It is time for you to be grounded." Despite working along-side the Vipers, Tlalli had a habit of using spears and lances in her hunts, carrying a short spear in one hand and a longer one in the other. She had picked up this style specifically suited for flying monsters, a means of bringing them down to her level. The Ligaka would scream down at her, a shriek that one felt to their bones, a challenge, and then it swooped. Exactly as expected. Springing into action the Hrothgar would wind up, her short spear arched back with her arm, waiting for the exact moment to release it. The monster descended closer, and she took a deep breath, exhaling as the spear was loosed, her powerful arm launching the weapon with precision and honed skill. In the past she had tried to down the beasts by hitting their chest, but the thick feathered plumage would often soften the impact, and she'd lost a few good spears that way as her target fled. It was best to take out a wing and bring the Ligaka crashing to the ground. At times that was enough to make the kill, other times she quickly dispatched it, not wanting to bring unnecessary suffering. Years of honing her skills paid off in the moment as the vile shrieking tantrum of the beast was disrupted by Tlalli's spear, lodged in the left wing, causing the diving Ligaka to crash to the dirt below with a heavy thud. The fall, along with the animal's weight, was enough to stun it and allow for her to make a killing blow. Retrieving the spear, Tlalli would look past the line of trees, to where others waited and upon bringing a hand to her lips, she sounded the whistle to indicate it was safe. From there some others would join her to clean up the carcass. Nothing was wasted, that would be an insult to the Ligaka. While eliminating it was necessary to protect those in the area, it also provided food and tools from it's remains. Even the feathers would be taken and used in various items and outfits. Everything had a use. Taking a single long tailfeather for her collection, and proof of her work, Tlalli would retrieve a crumpled piece of paper and punch a small hole through the middle with her thumb nail. The hunt flier was complete and she could go and claim the bounty. Another beast felled, but no closer to her 'golden alpaca'. The monster of her childhood.

One day, she would find it.

[goldmanguyperson]

wrote this last night its a poem about a bird boy

its not excellent but i do like it

there once was a boy

who wished he were a bird

A great big majestic eagle

Spreading his wings towards the sky

Never to worry about

the trivialities

of humanity

Knowing nothing but wind

and trees

and water

and fish

His mother found him silly

Too lost in a runaway imagination

to know what he wants

his father found him crazy

too far out of his head

to know who he was

Barrages of cold words

where there once

would only be

a light cheerful dismissal

A savage stranger’s comment

where there once

would only be

a good time on a playground

And one day

Lost in pain and fear

He ran out

In the wind and the gray

And to the sky he weeped

And to him did the sky

And each drop that hit

On his strange soft skin

Sprouted those telltale spikes

of a young feather

And on his legs

those rough yellowed scales

And in awe

And losing better judgement

He ran back

And showed his parents

exclaiming his pure joy

They screamed

He ran

And in the open light of day

Sun breaking out

His arms became wings

His feet became talons

His teeth a hooked beak

Eyes sharpened

but still distinctly human color

and to the sun he weeped

a flooding torrent

but his tears dried in its heat

and the warm embrace grew

as he flew

up

and up

and up

and in this light

feathers now glowing

he could not help

but to think

“i will find my place”

and know it true.

There is now a bird.

Who once was a boy.

[confetti-cat]

Each, All, Everything

Words: 6.5k

Rating: PG

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love, Romantic Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A retelling of Nix, Nought, Nothing.)

The giant’s daughter weeps, and remembers.

—

She remembers the day her father first brought him home.

It was a bit like the times he’d brought home creatures to amuse her while he was on his journeys, away on something he called “business” but she knew was “gathering whatever good of the land he wanted”. Her father had brought back a beautiful pony, once—a small one he could nearly carry in one huge hand. One for her, and not another for his collection of horses he kept in the long stables. She wasn’t as tall as the hills and broad as the cliffs like he was, so she couldn’t carry it easily, but she heaved it up in both arms and tried nonetheless. (And—she thought this was important—stopped trying when it showed fear.) She was gentle to it, and in time, she would only need speak to it and it would come eat from her hand like a tame bird. She’d never been happier.

(The pony had grown fearful of her father. Her father grew angry with anything that wasted his time by cowering or trying to flee him. There was a terrible commotion in the stables one day, and when she sought her pony afterward, she couldn’t find him. Her father told her it was gone, back to the forest, and he’d hear no more of it if she didn’t want beaten.)

(There was a sinking little pit in her stomach that knew. But when she didn’t look for the best in her father, it angered him and saddened her, so she made herself believe him.)

The final little creature he brought one day was so peculiar. It was a human boy, small as the bushes she would sometime uproot for paintbrushes, dressed in fine green like the trees and gold like her mother’s vine-ring she wore. He seemed young, like her. His tuft of brown hair was mussed by the wind, and his dark eyes watched everything around him, wide and unsure and curious.

When he first looked at her from his perch on her father’s shoulder, he stared for a long moment—then lifted a tiny hand in a wave. Suddenly overwhelmed with hope and possibilities (a friend! Surely her father had blessed her with a small friend they could keep and not just a pet!), she lifted her own hand in a little wave and tried to smile welcomingly.

The boy stared for another long moment, then seemed to try a hesitant smile back.

“This,” boomed her father, stooping down in the mist of the morning as he waved away a low cloud with one hand, “is what I rightly bargained for. A prince, very valuable. The King of the South—curse his deceitful aims!—promised him to me.”

“He looks very fancy,” she’d said, eyes wide in wonder. “How did the king come to give him to you, Father?”

“How indeed!” the giant growled, so loud it sent leaves rattling and birds rushing to fly from their trees. He slowly lowered himself to be seated on the weathered cliff behind him and picked up his spark-stone, tossing a few felled trees into their fire-basin and beginning to work at lighting them. “Through lies and deceit from him. When he asked me to carry him across the waters I asked him for Nix, Nought, Nothing in return.”

The little boy shifted, clearly uncomfortable but afraid to move much. Her father scowled, though he meant it as a smile, and bared his yellowed teeth as he laughed.

“Imagine his countenance when he returned to find the son he’d not known he’d had was called Nix, Nought, Nothing! He tried to send servant boys, but I am too keen for such trickery. Their blood is on the hands of the liar who sent them to me.”

Such talk from her father had always unsettled her, even if he said it so forcefully she couldn’t imagine just how it wasn’t right. Judging from the way the boy curled in on himself a little, clinging meekly to her father’s tattered shirt-shoulder, he thought similarly.

“Nix, Nought, Nothing?” She observed the small prince, unsure why disappointment arose in her at the way he seemed hesitant to look at her now. “That is a strange name.”

Her father struck the rocks, the sound of it so loud it echoed down the valley in an odd, uneven manner. He shook his head as he worked, a stained tooth poking out of his lips as he struck it again and again until large sparks began alighting on the wood.

“His mother tarried christening him until the father returned, calling him such instead.” He huffed a chuckle that sounded more like a sneer, seeming to opt to ignore the creature on his shoulder for the time being. “You know the feeling, eh, Bonny girl?”

The boy tentatively looked up at her again.

The fire crackled and began to eat away at the bark and dry pine needles. A soft orange glow began to creep over it, leaving black char as it went. With a sudden, sharp breath by her father, a large flame leapt into the air.

“It is good that she did so. He is Nix, Nought, Nothing—and that he will remain.”

—

Nix Nought Nothing grew to be a fine boy. Her father treated him as well as he did the prized horses he’d taken from knights and heroes—which was to say that the boy was given decent food and a dry place to sleep and the richest-looking clothes a tailor could be terrified into giving them, which was as well as her father treated anything.

Never a day went by that she was not thankful and with joy in her heart at having a friend so near.

They spent many days while her father was away exploring the forest—Nix would collect small rocks and unusual leaves and robin’s-eggs and butterflies, and she would lift him into high trees to look for nests, and sometimes stand in the rivers and splash the waterfalls at him just to laugh brightly at his gawking and laughing and sputtering.

Some days she wished she was more of a proper giant. She wasn’t large enough for it to be very comfortable giving him rides on her shoulder once he’d grown. She was hesitant to look any less strong, however, so she braided her golden curls to keep them from brushing him off and simply kept her head tilted away from him as they walked through the forests together.

He could sit quite easily and talk by her ear as they adventured. Perhaps she would never admit it, but she liked that. Most of the time.

“I’m getting your shoulder wet,” he protested, still sopping wet from the waterfall. He kept shifting around, trying to sit differently and avoid blotching her blue dress with more water than he already had. “I hope you’re noticing this inconveniences you too?”

“Yes,” Bonny laughed. “You’re right. I hope there’s still enough sun to dry us along the way back. Father won’t be pleased otherwise.”

“Exactly. Perhaps you should have thought that through before drenching me!” he huffed, but she could hear the grin in his tone even if she couldn’t quite turn her head to see it. He flicked his arm toward her and sent little droplets of water scattering across the side of her face.

Her shoulders jerked up involuntarily as the eye closest to him shut and she tried to crane her neck even further away, chuckling. Nix made a noise like he’d swallowed whatever words were on his tongue, clutching to her shoulder and hair to steady himself.

“You’d probably be best not trying to get me while I’m giving you a ride?” Bonny suggested, unable to help a wry smile.

“Yes. Agreed. Apologies.” His words came so stilted and readily that she had to purse her lips to keep in a laugh. As soon as he relaxed, his voice grew a tad incredulous. “Though—wait, I can’t exactly do anything once I’m down. Are you trying to escape my well-earned retaliation?”

“I would never,” she assured him, no longer trying to hide her smile. “I’ll put you in a tree when we get back and you can splash me all you like.”

Somehow, his voice was amused and skeptical and unimpressed by the notion all at once.

“Really? You’d do that?” he asked, sounding as if he were stifling a smirk.

She shrugged—gently, of course, but with a little inward sense of mischievousness—and he yelped again at the movement.

“Well, it would take a lot of water to get a giant wet,” she reasoned. “I doubt you’ll do much. But yes, for you, I would brave it.”

He chuckled, and she ventured a glance at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Bonny and brave,” he said, looking up at her with a little smile and those dark eyes glimmering with light. “You are a marvel.”

It would probably be very noticeable to him if she swallowed awkwardly and glanced away a bit in embarrassment. She tried not to do that, and instead gave him a crooked little smile in return.

“Hm,” was all she could say. “And what about you?”

“Me? Oh, I’m Nothing.” The jest was terrible, and would still be terrible even if she hadn’t heard it numerous times. “But you are truly a gem among girls.”

If by gem he meant a giantess who still had to enlist his help disentangling birds from her hair, then perhaps. She snorted.

“I don’t know how you would know. You don’t know any other girls.”

“Why would I need to?” His face was innocent, but his eyes were sparkling with mirth and mischief. “You’re the size of forty of them.”

The noise that erupted from her was so abrupt and embarrassingly like a snort it sent the branches trembling. She plucked him off her shoulder and set him gently on the ground so she could swat at him as gently as she could—careful not to strike him with the leaf-motifs on her ring—though it still knocked him off his feet and into the grass. He was laughing too hard to seem to mind, and she couldn’t stifle her laughs either.

“Well, you are really something,” she teased, unable to help her wide smile as she tried futilely to cast him a disapproving look.

That quieted him. He pushed himself to sit upright in the grass, and looked out at the woods ahead for a long moment.

“You think?” Nix asked quietly.

She smiled down at him.

“Yes,” she laughed softly. “Of course.” When he looked up at her, brown eyes curious, she held his gaze and hoped he could see just how glad she was to know him. “Everything, even.”

A small smile grew on his own face, lopsided and warm. He ducked his head a bit and looked away from her again, and embarrassment started to fill her—but it was worth it.

It often weighed on her heart to say that more than she did. She supposed she was the type of person who liked to show such things rather than say them.

She had a cramp in one of her shoulders from trying to carry him smoothly, but the weight on the other one—and on his—seemed far lighter.

—

She remembered the day her father came home livid.

She couldn’t figure out what had happened. Had he been wounded? Insulted? Tricked? He wouldn’t say.

He just raged. The trees bent under his wrath as he stamped them down, carving a new path through the forest. He picked up boulders and flung them at cliffsides, the noise of the impacts like thunder as showers of shattered stone flew in all directions.

She was tending to the garden a ways off—huge vines and stalks entwined their ways up poles and hill-high arbors made from towering pines, where she liked to work and admire how the sunset made the leaves glow gold—and suddenly had a sharp, sinking feeling.

Nix was still at his little shelter-house at their encampment. Her father was there.

Dread washed over her.

“Riddle me this, boy,” her father boomed, in the voice he only used when he wanted an excuse to strike something. “What is thick like glass and thin as air, cold but warm, ugly but fair? Fills the air yet never fills it, never exists but that all things will it?”

There was silence for a long moment.

...Silence. The answer was silence. Her father was trying to trick him into speaking.

Her hands curled around the bucket handle so weakly it was a surprise she didn’t drop it. Her father could crush him if he felt he had the slightest excuse.

Hush, hush, hush, her mind pleaded. Her hands shook. For your life and mine, hush—

There continued to be silence for a moment—and then, Nix must have answered. (Perhaps in jest. He tended to joke when uncertain. That would have been a mistake.)

There came the indescribable sound of a tree being ripped from its roots, and the deafening thunder of it being thrown and smashing down trees and structures.

Her whole body tensed horribly, and all she could see in her mind’s eye was nightmares.

No, she thought weakly.

Her father kept shouting. But not just shouting, addressing. Asking scathing rhetorical questions. She felt faint with relief, because her father had never wasted words on the dead.

I should have brought him with me. The thought flooded her body and left room for nothing else but dread and regret. I could have prevented this.

The stables were long and broad and old. Once, they had housed armies’ steeds and chariots. Now, they were run-down and reinforced so nothing could escape out the doors. The roof was broken off like a lid on hinges at intervals so her father could reach in to arrange and feed his horses.

Her father had seen no reason to keep the stalls clean. When one was so packed with bedding it had decomposed to soil at the floor level, the horse was moved to the next unused stall. There were so many stalls that she barely remembered, sometimes, that there were other ways of addressing the problem.

“The stable has not been cleaned in seven years,” her father boomed. “You will clean it tomorrow, or I will eat you in my stew.”

She couldn’t hear Nix’s response, but she could feel his dread.

Her father stormed away, more violently than any storm, and slowly, after the echoes of his steps faded, silence again began to hang in the air.

That night, it was hard to sleep. The next morning, it was hard to think.

She did the only thing she could think to do in such a nervous state. She brought her friend breakfast. His favorite breakfast—a roast leg of venison and a little knife he could use to cut off what he wanted of it, and fried turkey-eggs, and a modest chunk of soft brown bread.

When she arrived with it, he was still mucking out the first stall. There were hundreds ahead of him. He was only halfway to the floor of the first.

“I can’t eat,” Nix murmured, almost too quietly to hear and with too much misery to bear. “I can’t stop. But thank you.”

The pile outside the door he’d opened up was already growing too large. Of every pitchfork-full he threw out, some began to tumble back in. He was growing frustrated, and out of breath.

Why would her father raise a boy, a prince, only to eat him now? Her father was cunning; surely he’d had other plans for him. Or perhaps he really was kept like the horses, as a trophy or prize taken from the human kingdoms that giants so hated.

Was this his fate? Worked beyond reason, only to be killed?

Pity—or something stronger, perhaps, that she couldn’t name—stirred in her heart. A heat filled her veins, burning with sadness and a desire to set right. Would the world be worthwhile without this one small person in it?

No.

This wouldn’t end this way.

She called to the birds of the air and all the creatures of the forest. Her heart-song was sad and pure—so when she pleaded with them, to please hear, please come and carry away straw and earth and care for what has been neglected, they listened.

The stable was clean by the time the first stars appeared. When she set Nix gently on her shoulder afterward, he hugged the side of her head and laughed in weary relief for a long while.

—

She remembered the lake, and the tree.

“Shame on the wit who helped you,” her father had boomed. He’d inspected the stable by the light of his torch—a ship’s mast he’d wrapped the sails around the top of and drenched in oil—and found every last piece of dirt and straw gone. Had he known it was her, that she could do such a thing? She couldn’t tell. “But I have a worse task for you tomorrow.”

The lake nearest them was miles long, and miles wide, and so deep that even her father could not ford it.

“You will drain it dry by nightfall, or I will have you in my stew.”

The next morning, soon as her father had gone away past the hills, she came to the edge of the lake. She could hear the splashing before she saw it.

Nix stood knee-deep in the water, a large wooden bucket in his hands, struggling to heave the water out and into a trench he’d dug beside the shore.

When she neared him and knelt down in the sand, scanning the water and the trench and the distant, distant shoreline opposite them, Nix fell still for a moment. She looked at him, hoping he could see the apology in her eyes.

“Can I help?” she asked.

He shook his head miserably.

“Thank you. But even if we both worked all day, we couldn’t get it dry before nightfall.” He gave her a wry, sad smile, full of pain. “The birds and the creatures can’t carry buckets, I’m afraid.”

It was true. They could not take away the water.

But perhaps other things could.

She stood and drew a deep breath, and called to the fish of the rivers and lake, and to the deep places of the earth to please hear, please open your mouths and drain the lake dry.

With a tumult that shook the earth beneath them all, they did. The chasm it left in the land was great and terrible, but it was dry.

Her father was livid to see it.

“I’ve a worse job for you tomorrow,” he’d thundered at Nix as the twilight began to darken. “There is a tree that has grown from before your kind walked this land. It is many miles high, with no branches until you reach the top. Fetch me the seven eggs from the bird’s nest in its boughs, and break none, or I will eat you before the day is out.”

She found Nix at dawn the next day at the foot of the tree, staring up it with an expression more wearied than she’d ever seen before. She looked up the tree as well. It seemed to stretch up nearly to the clouds, its trunk wide and strong with not a foothold in sight. At the top, its leaves shone a faint gold in the sunlight.

“He is wrong to ask you these things,” Bonny said softly. Her words hung in the air like the sunbeams seemed to hang about the tree. There was something special about this place, some old power with roots that ran deep. “I’m very sorry for it.”

“You needn’t be,” Nix assured her. His countenance was grey, but he tried to smile. “But thank you. You’re very kind.”

She looked up the tree again. Uncertainty filled her, because this was an old tree—a strong one. Even if it could hear her, it had no obligation to listen. “Will you try?”

He laughed humorlessly. “What choice do I have?”

None. He had none.

He could not escape for long on his own—he could not be gone fast enough or hide safely enough for her father not to sniff him out. The destruction that would follow him would be far more than he would wish on the forests and villages and cities about them.

She, however, bit her lip.

She slipped the gold vine-ring off her hand, and rolled it so that it spiraled between her fingers. It was finely crafted, made to look like it was a young vine wrapping its way partly up her finger.

“This is all I have of my mother,” she said quietly. “But it will serve you better.”

Before he could speak—she knew him well enough to know that he would bid her to stop, to not lose something precious on his account (as if he weren’t?)—she whispered a birdlike song, and pleaded with the gold and the tree and the old good in the world to help them.

When she tossed the ring at the base of the tree (was it shameful that she had to quell a sadness that tried to creep into her heart?), it writhed. One end of it rooted into the ground, and suddenly it was no longer gold, but yellow-green—and the vine grew, and grew, curling around the tree as it stretched upward until it was nearly out of sight.

Nix stared at her with wide eyes and an emotion she couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, it made her ears warm.

She smiled slightly and stepped back, tilting her head at the vine.

“Well?” she said. He was still staring at her with that look—some mix of awestruck and like he was trying to draw together words—and it made her fold her arms lightly and smile as she looked away. She quickly looked back to him, hoping faintly that her embarrassment wasn’t obvious. ���You’d best hurry. That’s still a long way up.”

He seemed to give up finding words for the moment. Nix glanced up the tree, now decked with a spiral of thick, knobby vine that looked nearby like uneven stairs.

“Give me a boost?” he asked with a bright grin. “To speed it up.”

She laughed and gently scooped him up in both hands. “A boost, or just a boost?”

He beamed at her. “As high as you can get me,” he declared, waving an arm dramatically.

She laughed and shook her head. ”Absolutely not. Ready?”

Nix nodded, and she smiled thinly and poured all her focus into a spot a good distance up the tree. With a very gentle but swift motion, she tossed him upward a bit—and he landed on his feet on the vine, one shoulder against the bark, clutching to the tree for support as he laughed.

“A marvel!” he shouted down to her as he climbed. “Never forget that!”

The sun was nearly setting when he descended with the eggs bundled in his handkerchief. He was glowing.

He triumphantly hopped down the last few feet to the ground.

A moment after he landed, a soft crack sounded. He froze.

Slowly, he drew the bundle more securely into his arms against him and looked down. There, by his foot, was a little speckled egg, half-broken in the grass.

She put a hand over her mouth. Nix clutched the rest and stared.

A grievous pain and numbness slowly filled her heart, and she knew it was filling his too.

His shoulders began to shake, and his eyes were glassy.

“Well,” he laughed weakly. ”...That’s it. That’s... that was my chance.” The distress that overtook him was like a dark wave, and it threatened to cover her too. He only shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for—for helping me.”

For everything, she didn’t give him a chance to add. He was looking at her with the eyes of one who might say that. She couldn’t afford to be overcome with the notion of saying goodbye now.

“No,” she said. Her voice was quiet, at first, but it grew more resolute. “It won’t end this way.”

He blinked up at her, still clutching the other eggs to his chest. She looked down at him, then across the stretch of forest to their home.

Without a word, she gently picked him up and set him on her shoulder. Her jaw tensed as she strode quickly through well-worn paths of the forest, walking as fast as a horse could run.

Once home, she set him down. He was still looking at her questioningly. Her heart beat faster in her chest, and she hoped he couldn’t see the anxiousness rising in her and battling with the excitement.

“I will not let him have you,” she announced firmly. The trees and hills all around were witness to her promise. “Grab what you need. We’ll leave together in the hour.”

—

She‘d barely had time to fix her hair, grab her water flask, and decide it would be best this time of year to go south.

Her father’s footsteps boomed closer across the land.

—

They fled.

They ran, and ran, and struggled and strove, and she called for the help of anything she could think of that would have mercy on them.

Her comb grew into thorns, her hairpin into a hedge of jagged spires. Neither stopped him. Her dress’s hem was in tatters and sweat poured from her brow when they were finally safe.

Her flask lay behind them, cast down and broken, its magic used up.

Her father—her father—lay stretched out motionless in the flooded plain behind them, never to rise again.

—

There was a tiny spark of hope they had that they clung to. A hope of a future, of restoration, of amending the past and pursuing peace—of a life worth living, perhaps far, far away from things worth leaving behind.

(“I’ll go to the castle,” he’d said, his voice brimming with nerves and hope and uncertainty and sadness and an eager warmth. It made her heart try to mirror all those emotions alongside him. “I can tell my mother and father who I am. I’d still recognize them, even if they don’t know me. They’ll take us in, I’m sure of it.”)

He set out into the maze of village streets, assuring her he’d ask for directions and be back promptly. She stayed back by the well at the edge of the town so not to alarm anyone, too exhausted to go another step, but full of hope for him. She would wait until he returned.

(And wait. And wait. And wait and wait and wait and dread—)

The castle gardener came to draw water, and—as if she weren’t as tall as the small trees under the huge one she sat against—struck up a conversation with her about the mysterious boy who’d fallen unconscious across the threshold of the castle, asleep as if cursed to never wake up.

(The spark didn’t last long.)

—

She remembered when he could move.

“Please,” she whispered, as soft as her voice would go. “Please, if you can hear me. Wake up.”

(“Oh, dearest,” the gardener’s frail wife had murmured to her when the kind gardener brought her home to partake of a bit of supper. “I’m afraid they won’t let you in as you are. Would you let me sing you a catch as you eat?”)

The gardener’s wife was frailer by the end of it, but her heart-song could change things, like her own. Instead of towering at the heights of the houses, she was now six feet tall by human reckoning, and still thankful the castle had high halls and tall doors.

(Their daughter, a fair maiden with a shadow about her, had watched from the doorway.)

Nix Nought Nothing lay nearly motionless in the cushioned chair the castle servants had placed him in. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he was in a deep sleep.

He was still smaller than she was, but not by much. He seemed so large, or close. She could see details she’d never noticed before—his freckles, the definition of his eyelashes, the scuffs and loose threads in his tunic.

The way his head hung as if he could no longer support it.

She held him gently—oddly, now, with both her hands so small on his arms and an uncertainty of what to do now—and wept over him. She sung through her tears, her heart pleading with his very soul, but to no avail. He did not wake up.

He didn’t hear her—likely couldn’t hear her. All around him, the air was sharp and still and dead. Cursed.

Still, her heart pleaded with her, now. Try, try. Don’t stop speaking to him. Remember? He never stopped trying.

“You joke that you are nothing," she said, with every drop of earnestness in her being. "But I tell you, you are all I had, and all I had ever wished for.”

There was power in names. She knew that. But was his even a proper name? It really wasn’t—though it was all he had.

It was all she had as well. She had exhausted everything else close to her. There was nothing left to call on, to plead with, but him.

“Nix Nought Nothing,” she said softly. “Awaken, please.”

Her voice, no longer so resonant and deep with giant’s-breath, sounded foreign in her ears. It was mournful and soft like the doves of the rocks, and grieved like the groan of the earth when it split.

“I cleaned the stable, I lave the lake, and clomb the tree, all for the love of thee,” she said, her voice thickening with tears. A drop of saltwater fell and landed on his tunic, creating another of many small blotches. “And will you not awaken and speak to me?”

Nothing.

—

She didn’t remember being shown out of the room. Her vision was too blurred, and her mind was too distraught and overwhelmed. The next thing she could focus on enough to recall was that she was now seated on a stiff chair in the hall. Someone had been kind enough to set a cup of water on the little table beside her.

The towering doors creaked softly behind her, and at last, someone new entered. She looked over her shoulder, barely able to see through the dry burning left behind by her tears.

A man and a woman stood in the door. They were dressed in fine robes, and looked like nobles.

"What is the matter, dear?" the woman asked, looking over her appearance with eyes soft with pity. She came close, and her presence was like cool balm, gentle and comforting. "Why do you weep?"

The gold roses woven in the green of the woman's dress swam in her vision as she dropped her gaze, unsure what to say. These people seemed kind. But were they? Would they send her out from here, unable to return to him?

They would be right to do so. She was a stranger here, and Nix could not vouch for her like he'd planned.

"No matter what I do," she finally said softly, "I cannot get Nix Nought Nothing to awaken and speak to me."

In one moment, only the woman stood there—in the next, the man was beside her. The air was suddenly still and heavy like glass, and it felt as though there was a thread drawn taut between them all for a moment.

"Nix Nought Nothing?" they asked in unison, their voices full of something tense and heavy and sharp. When she looked up, nearly fearful at the sudden change in their tone, their faces were slack and pale.

Something stirred in her heart. Look. What do you see?

Green and gold. Their wide eyes were a familiar warm brown.

—

Now, things are changing.

According to the servant who'd been keeping an eye on him, all from the kingdom had been offered reward if they could wake the sleeping stranger, and the the gardener's daughter had succeeded. It was a mystery how it had happened—by whom had he been cursed? Her father? Then why could she not wake him, but a maiden from the castle-town here could?—but now, with the King and Queen hovering beside her and unable to stay still for anticipation, no one cared.

The gardener's daughter was fetched, and bid to sing the unspelling catch for the prince. (Prince. He was a prince, while she was a ruffian's daughter. She kept forgetting, when she was with him.) It was a haunting one that grated on her ears, as selfishly-written magics often did—and as if bitterness still crept at the girl's heart at the sight of all who were here, she left as soon as it was finished.

Nix Nought Nothing awoke—he awoke! He opened his eyes and sat up and looked at her as if seeing the sunrise after a year of darkness, and how her heart leaps high into her throat at the sight—and true to form, only blinks a few times at her as he seems to take her in before coming to terms with it.

"You look a bit different," he remarks, tilting his head slightly. "Or did I grow?"

She chokes on a snort.

"Hush," is all she can say. What had been an attempt at an unimpressed expression melts into a wavering smile. "Are you done napping now?"

He opens his mouth to retort, but a grin creeps onto his face before he can. He snickers. "Have I slept that long?"

"Nigh a week," the Queen says—and when Nix turns his head and sees her, his eyes grow wide. The Queen's smile grows broad and wavers with emotion, and the King's eyes are crinkled at the edges, and shining. "It has been a long time."

Her own father had never shown love like this—like the way Nix tries to leap from his chair at the same moment his parents rush to hold him, all of them laughing and sobbing and shouting exclamations of love and excitement and I-thought-I-would-never-see-you-agains. So much joy rolls off of them that she thinks she could have stood there watching forever and been content.

The first thing he does, after the first surge of this, is turn and introduce her to his parents, who had barely finished hugging him and kissing him and calling him their own dear son.

"This is the one who helped me," Nix says, already gesturing to her in excitement as he looks from her to his parents. "She sacrificed much to save me from the giant. Her kindness is brilliant and she blesses all who know her."

She tries not to look embarrassed at the glowing praise as Nix comes and stands beside her as he recounts their blur of a tale to his parents.

"Ah! She is bonny and brave," says the King. By the end of Nix's stories of their escapes, they're smiling warmly at her with such pride that she dips her head and smiles.

Nix Nought Nothing glances sideways up at her and raises a brow, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

"I've tried to tell her that," he agrees. "I don't think she's ever believed me."

She purses her lips and glances down at him. "I'll believe it the day you believe you are not nothing."

"Alright." Simple as that, he folds his arms and raises a brow at her. "I believe it. Fair trade?"

"Fair enough," she decides, with a crooked little smile. He beams, as if she's done something worth being proud of, and looks to his parents, who indeed look proud of them both.

"We would welcome you as our daughter," the King declares heartily, and both the Queen and Nix brighten, which makes her too embarrassedly fixated on the thought of family? Starting anew? to register what comes next. "Surely, you should be married!"

Nix looks at her, arms still folded, his eyes twinkling. There's something hopeful in his eyes that makes her certain this diminutive new heart of hers has skipped a few beats.

"Should we? Surely?" he asks, as if this is a normal thing to be discussing.

She works her jaw and swallows a few times, unable to help how obviously awkward she still likely looks. A flush tickles her face, and the queen seems to put a hand over her mouth to smile behind it.

"I... don't... suppose... I would mind," she manages, and—with those bright eyes so affectionate, and on her—Nix starts snickering at her expression. It's rude, but so, so warm she can't mind. She only discovers how broadly she's smiling when she tries to purse her lips and glare at him but is unable to. "Oh, go back to sleep!" she chides, too gleeful inside to truly mind, even as she makes a motion as if throwing one of the chair-cushions at him.

"Never!" he declares, pretending to dodge the invisible pillow. He makes broad gestures that she presumes are meant to emphasize how serious he is about this. When he stands straight and tall and sets his shoulders, she thinks that the boy she's explored the forest with really does look like a prince. "I have my family and my love all together in safety at last. We have much to speak of, and much time yet to spend with each other." He's a prince, but of course, he's also still himself. He immediately gets a mischievous glimmer in his eyes and puts a hand to his chest nobly as he does what he's done for as long as she's known him—jokes, when his emotions rise. "I shall never adhere to a bedtime as long as I live!"

My love, her heart still repeats every time it beats—as payback, likely, for her calling it diminutive. My love, my love, my love.

She doesn't let it out, for she doesn't know what it will do. But the words weave a song within her, so vibrant and effervescent and strong, brighter and clearer than any she's had before.

"I am glad to see you are certainly still my dear son," the Queen says, her own eyes twinkling. "I'm certain you both need fed well after such a journey. Come, perhaps you both can tell us more of it as supper is prepared."

They fall into an easy tumble of conversation and rejoicing and genial planning, and her heart is so light she thinks it must be plotting to escape her chest.

On the week's end from when she brought him here, Nix Nought Nothing and his family welcomes her into their home. It feels natural. It feels warm, and homey, and so pleasant and right that she often has to stop tears of weary joy from welling up as she considers it all.

Once upon a time, she thought she'd known happiness well enough without him. She had known what it was like to be without a friend, and without love.

Now, it’s hard to remember it.

[rune-writes]

Spruce Tea

Fandom: Final Fantasy VII

Word Count: 2008

Rating: G

Pairing: Cloud Strife/Tifa Lockhart

Summary: Autumn of 0002. An infantryman suffered an attack outside of the Nibel Reactor after protecting Tifa. Hoping to help alleviate the pain, Tifa climbs the mountain once more in search of spruce leaves, which her mother once said is good for one's health.

Note: written for @clotiweek 2023 Day 1: Spruce - Healing.

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Mother said spruce tea was good to for one’s health—

Tifa thought as she slowly made her way through the dead leaves littering the forest floor. Pick the ones on the lower branches, wash them, brew them. They used to keep a jar of it all year when her mother was still around. Tifa used to believe that was all her mother needed to get better, so she’d learned everything she could about the tree—where best to forage it, how to best extract its properties—but of course that had all been wishful thinking. No herb could save her mother, if modern medicines couldn’t. Still, the knowledge hadn’t all been for naught. 

Tifa adjusted the shoulder strap of her satchel. Nibel mountain in the fall always looked especially beautiful. An orange glow permeated the red-and-brown foliage, seeming to turn everything it touched into gold. The breeze was cool, rattling the boughs and their leaves and pushing the wide rim of her cowboy hat back. She pushed it back down, securing the cord more firmly beneath her chin. 

It had been a while since her last trek through these trees. Her lessons with Zangan would sometimes bring her deep into the forest, but she’d never gone this far alone. Probably that time when she’d climbed the mountain after her mother’s death only to fall down a cliffside. Cloud had taken the blame for it—the adults all saying he was a bad influence, none of them listening to a word she’d said. That had probably been the start of the rift between them. Not that she was particularly close with him before, but they were neighbors and their mothers were friends. She’d thought they could be friends too. But no matter what she did afterwards, the distance always remained. He was so far away. A glance here, a smile there; her father watching them like a hawk. 

The line of birches and oaks slowly gave way to browning conifers: firs, pines, cedars. The leaves were still mostly green, though Tifa could spot several browns and yellows. She took a path she vaguely remembered from memory, ducking under an especially low bough of fir. The spruce trees should be just around the corner, she thought. 

Somewhere ahead, birds chirped. A gust of wind brought the fresh scent of pine to her nose. Tifa closed her eyes and breathed it in. 

“Tifa?”

Tifa stopped in her tracks, lips parting in a half-smile. “Cloud,” she greeted, turning around and expecting to see a fresh-faced blond-haired boy— 

No one was there. She blinked, then blinked again. Light shimmered in the empty space, a circle of luminance on the forest floor. Her smile turned to a frown. Of course he was not here. She wasn’t seven. There was no Cloud to come and fetch her. 

***

The call had stopped Tifa in her tracks. She turned, then found Cloud in the space next to a birch tree, hand on the trunk as he bent down, catching his breath. Sweat glistened on his forehead. 

“Where are you going?” he asked through his still-apparent exertion. He held a stitch on his side. Tifa looked past his shoulder. She’d gotten well away from the village—she could hear no more of the afternoon din from the village square. Had he followed her all the way here? 

She turned back around and pointed in the general direction ahead. “Somewhere,” she said. She hadn’t actually been there before. Her mother had only told her of the spruce trees in the mountain. Tifa had seen the leaves kept in a jar at her house, watched whenever her mother took it out and ground them before brewing them in hot water. Her mother only drank it when the coughing fits were worse. She noticed because whenever her father came home and saw her mother in the kitchen with a cup in hand, his lips would always pull taut. I’ll make you tea, he’d say, ushering her mother to their bedroom. Now rest. Her mother always went without much protest. 

But then the fits began again that morning. The spruce jar in the cabinet was empty. Her father had been away so she couldn’t ask for his help. She’d meant to tell her mother, but when she’d peeked through the gap in her mother’s bedroom door, she’d glimpsed her propped against the bed frame with her favorite cream shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders. Asleep, or trying to; weary lines made creases across her pale skin. Was it just her or did her mother’s cheeks look even more gaunt than they usually were? 

An unwanted thought buried itself in Tifa's mind: that her mother’s health had worsened. So, Tifa had taken it upon herself to look for those spruce leaves up in the mountain. Not that she knew where they grew… She could probably tell from the shape of it, though. She knew them by heart. It shouldn’t be too hard. 

When Tifa explained her reasons to Cloud, she was met with a frown. 

“Do you know where those trees are?” he asked. 

Tifa’s lips pursed in self-defense. “I know they’re up in the mountain.” 

“The mountain is huge. By the time you found it, night would have fallen.” 

Tifa set her jaws. Her mother was sick. She wasn’t going to let her die. 

Tears pricked her eyes. She whirled on her feet, a new sense of purpose in her stride. But Cloud caught up with her, easily keeping pace. 

“I’ll take you there,” he mumbled. 

She cut him a glance. The frown was still there in the stubborn set of his jaws, but his rich blue eyes stared fixedly ahead. She found herself giggling and her steps slowing down. Pain she hadn’t noticed before shot up her legs, and she realized her shins beneath the hem of her white knee-length dress harbored cuts and grazes, the wounds welling red but not deep enough to bleed. 

“Here.” Cloud extended his hand, face angled to the side. With a smile, Tifa grasped his hand and let him lead her to where the spruce trees stood. 

*** 

The trees were where Tifa remembered them. Pride swelled in her chest as her memory indeed proved right. She circled the copse, seeking the right kind of leaves. Not too brittle, not too fresh. A little hard, seeing as most of the evergreen were already transforming to brown or red. But she found it nonetheless, amidst the yellows. Carefully stepping over treacherous ground, Tifa ducked beneath a branch and reached up to touch the hard, needle-like leaves. A small smile formed across her lips. She fished the flip knife from her bag and cut a hefty amount that should last ‘til winter. 

The sun had already moved halfway toward the distant horizon by the time Tifa returned to her house. The lamps hadn’t been lit; her father was still out. She crossed to the kitchen, slid her satchel over her head and placed it on the counter. Grabbing a colander from the cabinet, she dumped all the spruce she had gathered, then placed them in the sink and turned the tap water on. She picked away the dirt as she washed the leaves clean, trimming the dead parts out. Then she let them dry on a tray under the patch of sunlight by the window.

When evening fell, Tifa had already packed the leaves away in their glass jar right before her father got home. She already had their dinner ready, laid out on their small table. He noticed the tea. 

“What’s this?” he said. 

Tifa shrugged, feeling rather self-conscious. “I went out a bit.”

Her father sat down, grabbed the cup, and breathed in the scent. The rough lines of his face twisted in a wash of nostalgia. His lips wavered as he smiled, bringing the ceramic rim to his mouth and taking a sip. He paused, savoring the taste, or perhaps lost in memory. 

“It’s good,” he croaked, blinking rapidly. He reached up to wipe the corner of his eye. Tifa hadn’t noticed the tension coiling in her shoulders until she released it in a long, shudder of breath. Her father cleared his throat. “What’s the occasion?”

Tifa’s gaze fell to her dinner: mutton, grilled and coated in gravy, with a side dish of mashed potatoes and peas. “You…heard of the attack at the reactor…right?” Tifa began. “One of the Shinra men got hurt while protecting me. I wanted to make sure he’s alright.” She felt her father’s scrutiny, her own backlash rising at the back of her throat. Her father had been mostly lenient with her autonomy. He’d let her train with Zangan, explore the forest and mountain alone, and become their village’s official guide, but apparently, it was too much to leave her alone in men’s company, even though Tifa could probably break most men’s arms now with a flick of her wrists. She had suspected—still suspected—it was because of her fall, but that had been seven years ago, and the source of his ire—misplaced, though it was—was nowhere in town. 

The thought sent a pang to her heart. Two years and not even a letter to say how he was faring. Claudia never showed it on her face, but Tifa knew the absence of news from her son gnawed at her heart. 

“I was their guide,” Tifa said again. “I should’ve made sure the path was clear.” It was as much her fault, as the fall had been.  

Her father eventually conceded and Tifa beamed. When it was time for her to visit the inn, she grabbed the glass jar she’d set aside for the infantryman and kissed her father’s cheeks. Zack greeted her at the inn’s foyer. 

“Ah, you just missed him,” the SOLDIER said after Tifa told him the reason for her visit. “But I’ll pass your message along. Your well wishes too.” He meant to take the jar from Tifa, who had a mind to keep it and give it tomorrow instead. But it would probably be better for the infantryman to have the tea tonight, before duty took him elsewhere. She let Zack take the jar from her.

“Is he alright, though?” she asked. “I thought he’d be in bed for the rest of the day.”

“He’s made some good recovery, yes,” Zack said, then paused, noticing her pout. His face softened. “Don’t worry. He’s tough. He wouldn’t have jumped in front of you like he did otherwise. But I’ll make sure he gets the rest he needs. There was a prior engagement he couldn’t afford to cancel.”

Tifa nodded, his reassurance failing to quiet her concern.

“Speaking of, Tifa,” Zack said again, “about that boy you mentioned.”

“What?”

“The blonde-haired boy.”

Tifa blinked. In her quest to gather spruce leaves, she’d completely forgotten her email to Zack, inquiring after Cloud. Heat quickly rose to her cheeks. “Forget about it!” she said, a tad too forceful. She fumbled, hands waving in front of her. “I’ll, uh, just leave the recipe with you, then.” She crossed to the receptionist table, asked for pen and paper, and wrote down her mother’s recipe for the spruce tea. Zack had a smirk on his face when she handed it to him. It made her bristle, rather self-consciously. She ducked her head, murmured a “bye, then” before withdrawing from the inn, Zack’s quiet chuckle following her retreat. 

Outside, fresh, pine-scented wind rolled down from the mountain. Tifa breathed it in, letting it cool her nerves. Across the square, beyond the water tower where Cloud once made his promise, Claudia’s window-lit cottage sat hunched like a small giant next to her own two-story house, with smoke puffing out of the chimney and a pretty arrangement of potted flowers decorating the front. Maybe she’d give the woman a visit tomorrow. Who knows? Claudia might impart some more homemade recipes to her, not least of all her infamous stew. With a silent prayer to the stars for Cloud’s good health and well-being, Tifa slowly made her way back to her house. 

~ END ~

[lys-9-10]

Sequel to "Cats, Mud Puddles, Balderdash and Other Signs of Friendship"

Ch. 1 of the sequel now posted on AO3! (will have 2 chapters and a brief epilogue). I guess this is kinda both a sequel and a prequel, b/c we get some Bokuto backstory. :) Preview below image.

Preview:

Five-year-old Koutaro runs outside immediately upon seeing his father’s car pull up in the driveway.

“Daddeeeeee!” he squeals, as the man climbs out of the vehicle. With one hand, Koutaro clutches a volleyball to his stomach. With the other, he pulls on his father’s pant leg. “Play volleyball with me, Daddy?”

Koutaro’s father gives his leg a shake, dislodging his child’s tiny fingers.

“Koutaro, I just got home. Let me have some space to breathe, please.”

A whine starts to work its way up Koutaro’s throat—but then he remembers that his father doesn’t like those sounds, so he pushes it down.

“Okay, okay!” he says instead, rather cheerfully. “Later!”

Koutaro’s father walks into the house, closing the door behind him.

For the next several minutes, Koutaro sits on the front porch, alternating between tapping his knees with his hands and thumping the ground with both feet at the same time. At one point, he sees a yellow bird and cocks his head at it curiously. The bird cocks its head back. Koutaro’s plump face breaks into a delighted grin and he jumps up, ready to run toward the bird and play with it.

The bird flaps its wings and takes off into the air.

Koutaro’s shoulders slump and he goes back to sitting on the porch.

Some time later, the front door swings open and Koutaro once again bounces to his feet.

“Daddeeeee! Is later now??”

It isn’t his father. It’s his mother, and she holds a finger to her lips.

“Shhh, Koutaro. Daddy is taking a nap. You want to walk to the store with Mommy?”

 Koutaro knows that the store sometimes means getting a cheese stick or a meat bun or something else yummy. (But not candy. Mommy doesn’t let him get candy, because she says they make him too “wild.”) Yet despite the potential of something yummy, Koutaro shakes his head.

“No, no, no store for Ko-ko today. Daddy says he gonna play volleyball with me soon!”

Koutaro’s father had in fact said no such thing and Koutaro’s mother seems to know it as she looks at her son with a pained grimace.

“Koutaro, I told you, Daddy’s sleeping. Come to the store with Mommy.”

--------- Nine-year-old Koutaro’s arm is still reverberating from the spike he hit in their lunch-time scrimmage. The last spike of the game. Match point.

Despite the fact that it’s only elementary school intramurals, and none of his peers had even cared about what the score board said, Koutaro is still drunk with victory. He can’t wait to get home and share his news….

“DAD!” Koutaro hollers as he bursts through the front door to his house. “I scored match point in intramurals today! My spike was sooooo awesome, my arm just went waaaaaaaahh—” He winds back his arm to demonstrate—and freezes. The look on his father’s face as he lifts his head from his newspaper is one of marked irritation.

“Inside voice, Koutaro. Please.”

Koutaro is careful not to talk too much at dinner-time that evening. Which means that he doesn’t talk at all, because he knows by now that he can’t tell what “too much” is by other people’s standards.

Still, Koutaro is bursting with energy—he is on an average day and today he scored match point—so as an outlet he begins rocking his chair back and forth. He relishes the satisfying thump that happens every time the chair falls back to the ground. A slow grin starts to spread across his face. Not talking can be fun too, it turns out.

There’s another thump . It’s not the thump of the chair. It’s the thump of his father’s fist making contact with the table as he angrily sets down his fork.

“Koutaro, please stop rocking your chair. I’m losing my patience.”

Koutaro flinches. Then crumples in on himself as he says quietly, “Sorry Dad.”

----- Fifteen-year-old Koutaro bounds up to his team-mate Konoha after practice.

“Hey hey, Konoha! Practise spikes with me for just a lil’ bit?!”

Koutaro bounces on the balls of his feet, smiling hopefully at the fellow first year. Konoha sighs.

“We literally just finished a three-hour practice, Bokuto-san.” “I knoooow. But I’ve still got so much more in me! Don’t you??” Konoha gives him an exasperated look. “No. I don’t.” Koutaro deflates a little—but then perks up a moment later. “How bout we take a short break then get back at it?! Here, you can have my energy drink! I really don’t need it anyway.” He laughs lightheartedly.

Konoha groans and scrubs a hand over his face. He makes no move to take the drink that Koutaro is eagerly holding out to him. “Bokuto-san, I’m going home. You should too.”

“. . . Oh.” Keiji looks at the floor. “Okay.”

Koutaro stays in the gym for two more hours, practising spikes against the wall. Maybe if he tires himself out—burns all his excess energy—he’ll be less irritating at dinner… ---------

“I’m Akaashi Keiji from Mori middle school. I played setter. It’s an honour to be here.”

Sixteen-year-old Koutaro’s ear perks up when he hears the word “setter”.  

Koutaro is always interested in people, so he was already regarding this new first year with considerable curiousness. (There’s also the fact that the first year’s face is like something out of an air-brushed magazine. That helped too.) But at this word, he scrunches up his fists with excitement and starts quite literally squirming.

A setter!! Maybe this Akashi Keiji will toss for him after practice…

Koutaro ignores the slight twist in his gut that tells him that, based on history, this is unlikely—and skips up to Akashi Keiji once practice ends.

“Heya! You’re Akashi-kun, right?”

Akashi looks up from the broom he’d been pushing. His face is remarkably expressionless—but Koutaro thinks that maybe his eyes widen the slightest fraction of a millimetre, for the slightest fraction of a second. Koutaro winces. Maybe Akashi is shy? Koutaro has been know to scare off shy first years…

Akashi clears his throat. “It’s Ah-ka-ah-shi.”

Koutaro smacks himself in the face, with unnecessary dramatics. “Whooooops! Sorry, Ah-ka-ah-shi-kun!”

“No need.”

Koutaro grins, then moves a step closer to Akaashi. “Say, mind practising spikes with me for just a lil’ bit?” He holds up his thumb and forefinger, about an inch apart, to demonstrate the small amount of time he’s asking for. 

Despite the sunny grin on his face, Koutaro is already bracing himself for the “no”. Especially when Akaashi’s eyes widen another fraction of a millimetre and Koutaro is positive he’s scared him off.

“Sure.”

Koutaro blinks. He takes a startled step back. “Huh?”

Behind him, he’s become aware that Konoha is staring at them.

“Sure,” Akaashi repeats. “If you want me to.” And then, after a slight cough, he adds. “I’m a rookie though. I’m not used to setting for star players, so you might have to be patient.”

Koutaro hears Konoha letting out a guffaw. But he doesn’t pay him any mind. He’s too busy beaming from ear-to-ear.

It wasn’t even that Akaashi had called him a star player; he hadn’t even registered that, really. Normally, a comment like that would be enough to get Koutaro preening and flexing his muscles. But in this case, he’d stopped listening as soon as Akaashi had repeated the word “Sure.”

“Alright!!” Koutaro springs at Akaashi and claps him heartily on the back. “You’re the best, kouhai!”

------- They practise for more than a little bit. After the first half hour, Koutaro is expecting Akaashi to initiate stopping any minute now. And he’s trying really really hard to mentally prepare himself to not beg for more time.

Don’t do it, he sternly orders himself. It was very nice of Akaashi-kun to stay with you this long. When he asks to go, let him go.

But Koutaro feels sinking dread in his gut as he wonders whether he’ll be able to obey his own instructions or not. Mom has told Koutaro he has problems with “impulse control”. He thinks this sort of thing is what she means.

As it turns out, Koutaro’s capacity for impulse control never gets tested. Because Akaashi doesn’t initiate stopping. Not after the first half hour. Not after the first full hour. 

His body does start to flag a little, and he’s drenched in sweat… but he keeps putting the ball up for Koutaro. Really well, too. “Your sets are the best!” Koutaro exclaims, throwing his arms wide with enthusiasm.

There’s an almost imperceptible shift of something in Akaashi’s eyes—and then he says in the most neutral tone one could imagine: “Thank you.”

Koutaro can’t help but laugh out loud. This rookie is so funny.

“Do you ever get excited about anything?!” Koutaro asks, still snorting giggles through his nose.

Akaashi appears to consider the question for a moment. “Rarely,” he says at last.

That prompts another bout of laughter on Koutaro’s part.

But later, as Koutaro is walking home, he sobers and bites his bottom lip as he recalls Akaashi’s response. He can’t help but feel envious… Maybe if he spends a lot of time with Akaashi, the rookie’s lack of excitement will start to rub off on him?? And he wouldn’t be so “much” anymore…

Suddenly, Koutaro finds himself smiling again, his dark mood swiftly dissipating. Spending a lot of time with Akaashi! That would be fun.

/preview. Read the rest on AO3! :)

[tilosecretbirb]

eir//blackhairedarcher. Dream sequence: flower meadow.

Birds sway on tall stalks of grass. Their song radiating over the field billowing with crowns of wild flowers bright and sweet. But none were as brilliant as the ones she had beside her.  Raven hair slides through her fingers. Smooth and soft. Thick and fluffy. Made for cold weather and high climbs.  With every lace a waft of warm musky lavender and citrus envelops her completely. 

She sits cross legged on the ground, humming a tune from her mother's people in Dale. From a time long before the dragon.

The dwarrow prince sits in her lap, his back to her while she braids his hair in delicate intricate webs. Placing tiny meadow flowers throughout. Bright stars and orbs of yellow, orange, and pinks in a night time blanket. 

Her fingertips gently run the rounded edges of his ear, her lips twitching into a soft smile. Something blossoms in her chest. Something warm and soft. Something just for him. 

Placing bigger flowers among the larger braids she nods in satisfaction, a hum leaving her throat.  Tying off the main braid her hands run down his shoulders.  Ducking to his ear, “done.”

“Oh?” Looking over his shoulder his smile kicks her right in the stomach. Brilliant like a flash of lightning on a dark summer sky. This dark summer storm of a prince.

  “ I added flowers. Seven of them. Like in the poem.” Eir informs curtly trying to avoid looking at his face so very close to hers. But it's unavoidable. It's right there. His soft lips are right there. 

Her breath hitches and her gaze lingers upon them, tuning out whatever it is he's saying in favor of an inner monologue. An inner monologue written by her father. 

But the spell is broken when Kíli's hand brushes her loose bangs behind her ear. A cavalier grin wide on his face, “your turn!”

“Huh? What?!”  But it's too late. He's already rounded her. Standing behind with his archer's grasp undoing her own braid. His nimble fiddlers fingers gliding and gathering her auburn hair over her scalp.  There's no escape.

Her eyes slip closed and her face stains red. Shes a little bird ensnared in a hunter's net. No amount of struggling would save her.  As the wind blows and the grass sways she relaxes. The rhythmic movement of his hands melting the tension in her body as fire burns a candle down to its base.  Is this how he felt?

  “Do you like it?” He inquires softly his large calloused hands resting on her shoulders. Gazing down upon her from where he stood admiring his handiwork and the way she fawned beneath his touch.

  “No,”  Eir replies staring straight ahead unable to look up at him. If she did she'd do something she wouldn't be able to take it back. Her hand climbs covering one of his squeezing it fondly,  “ I love it.”

Leaning back against him she never wants to wake up.

[rowanmgrey-author]

ROYGBIV Tag -- lets get colorful

From my lovely sister: @dyrewrites over here

Rules: Find each of the ROYGBIV colors in your WIP.

I'm tagging @mthollowell-writes, @stesierra @aziz-reads @anonymousfoz and everyone else who wants to join!

--

This is from my WIP Bloodlines.

--

RED

Ward spun around in time to see red eyes and claws aiming for her throat. She dropped from the tree branch into the kill zone below. Eron called out to her. She yelled back, “Stay up there.”

ORANGE

“Well, shit,” Eron said. “You said it.” She looked at Silas. He had his sword out now, the massive blade scratching along the floor. Runes carved his skin, tattoos that once were black ink now glowed a brilliant orange, as though the inside of him was made of fire.

YELLOW

“OK, who wants the shitty chair?” Eron said, gesturing to everything. Ward shook her head and took the seat closest to the back wall, facing the group, with a good view of the door. Eron crowded in on her right, taking up the hideous yellow chair with shrieking metal legs and small pizza icons on the cloth-covered back. Jackal sniffed then chose his spot next to the coyote. He received some interesting looks, which he ignored. Khalon took the spot at the end of the table, and Luz sat to his left.

GREEN

As soon as they met the edges of the forest they were enveloped in shadow. The large pine trees and vibrant green foliage surrounding them like a forbidding shroud. The sounds of the birds chirping and the wind swaying in the trees were usually relaxing, but she knew there was something sinister in the forest. Something hungry.

BLUE

Cassian stared at the Demonic God. The first born of the Demon Gods, Father of Demons. He’s so…handsome, Cassian thought. Nergal had light skin, flawless and glowing in the caves dim firelight. His clothing was ornate, a black vest with dazzling ice blue-colored jewels across the shoulders. His trousers were tight and black with leather strips wrapped around his calves. He had no shoes, his toenails more like the talons of an eagle than that of a human. Most fascinating of all were his horns; so many horns that Cassian took to counting them. Four on both sides of his skull, curving backwards, and two more much smaller extended backward from his stark blonde-white hair.

INDIGO

Indigo trotted up the stairs and straight for Rianne’s door. The dark-furred husky scratched at the door until Rianne peeked out of her bedroom. She was wearing green leggings with a cute maroon dress over the top, dotted with an irregular pattern of small arrows. The sleeves barely covered her shoulders. She’s growing so fast. Her auburn hair was in a long, loose braid that mimicked their mother’s usual look. She turned around after closing her door to pet Indi. The moment she saw her big sister, she smiled.

VIOLET

I don't have anything for this one ><

taglist: @anonymousfoz @schepper-wubs-wips @dyrewrites @mr-orion

[floralcavern]

WoF fanfic - Whiteout

I lift my head. Whirls of ugly cobalt come from the direction mother and father are. They finally quieted down. They know my hearing is sensitive. But oh well. Let the flow go on as the clouds brush by.

I stand up. Father was at the table and mother was starting on dinner. The tension and silence was horrible. I hear brother come in. I immediately rush to him. I need his rays of yellow to effect me in some way.

He wraps his wing around me. "How was your day?" he asks softly, his usual waves of yellow and light blue echoing off of him.

"My ears ring. And not like a song. It just plays on and on."

Brother gives me the usual face of confusion. I don't understand why everyone makes that face when I speak. It's a perfectly understandable response.

"Were they fighting again?" he asked, tightening his wing around me.

I simply nod, keeping my head low.

Waves of bloody red immediately radiate from him as thoughts of blue, blue, blue father come into play.

"No, no, no," I bed. "Don't start conflict. The silence has come. The time is done. There is dinner mother is making. Let's go get some!"

Brother exhales with his head lowered, but then he lifts it and smiles at me. There's only a couple things I know keep him going. A beautiful dragoness whom I've never seen nor met. She must be someday when the sun and moon rise and fall many times. And me and mother.

I lead him to the kitchen, where mother is setting out plates of mountain goat.

Father growls and says, "It seems we're having goat. Again." I see an ugly aura of green coming from him and I flinch.

"But it's so tasty, see father?" I try to grab his attention, which he only gives me half of. 

I look at mother. "Thank you! I will eat this charitably!"

Mother gives me a smile, beautiful shades of blue radiate from her, calming me. But then, the blue turns to burnt orange as her ears flatten against her head and she turns to father. "Give your daughter some time of day," she hisses at him.

Brother sits next to me. "No, She doesn't deserve his attention," he says coldly.

Brother and father do one of their usual staring contests.

"How dare you think that!?" brother hisses. I jump. I usually block out my family's minds as I find them as untraceable as a song from an albatross that is trapped in another dragon's claws.

"Stay out of my mind!" father exclaims.

"What did he think?" mother asks brother.

"He imagined using a spell on Whiteout to make her a killing machine for the IceWings and he's use her to kill me!!"

Mother's eyes go blank with coldness. So cold I shiver. Is there a wind? Can the clouds just stop moving? Can they stop moving so fast!?

Shouting breaks out among my family, I caught in the center of it. I shrink down into my chair, covering my ears as I try not to cry. But whirls of burnt orange, green, and brown all cloud my mind that I can't help but break into tears.

But no one notices.

Except brother.

He helps me up and leads me into my bedroom. The painting I finished earlier was still drying on the canvas.

Brother's mind is a deep, troubling purple that barely calms me.

He sets me on my bed and gives me my toy of the creature he calls 'scavenger.' I call it 'human.' The humans in my classroom said what they were. Can he not hear it? was what I wondered for a while.

I curl into a ball and my brother puts blankets over me. He's trying to have me rest. But I can't when the yelling is still.. so... loud...

Brother senses this.

"Ohhh, we're going high above the skyyyy~" he sings softly. A lullaby... One he created a couple of years ago. "And we'll fly real super high. And we won't come down. Even if the rain starts to pound."

I join in the quiet singing. And soon, we join together in our own quiet melancholy. "And even if the birds get mad. We'll keep flying so we won't be sad. Then the rest of the day won't be so baaaaad. Let's keep flying. Fly, fly, fly..."

And I slowly drift to sleep, the last color I see is brother's pale red...

[misterkingdom]

FIRST LINES MEME: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

I’m going to divide this between original fiction and Fanfic.

ORIGINAL FICTION:

1. It’s May in New York City which means it’s pissing rain down from the glaucoma grey skies.

2. Jacklyn “Jack” Gilmore flicked her half finished cigarette into the virgin snow at her feet, the red tip of it glowed like a falling star until it hit the ice with a dying hiss.

3. The sky was smudged grey with clouds threatening rain of biblical proportions.

4. Tommy sat in his room, drinking a beer he commandeered from Dad’s liquor cabinet—which was just a fancy way of saying that his father kept the alcohol in the higher cabinets since Tommy was a toddler and didn’t bother to move it when he got a little, a lot taller.

5. The air this high up in the mountains was thin, the wind moving through the castle sounded like the howling of ghosts.

6. Conan James Lynch III’s lips were glittering with spilled beer in the putrid, yellow light of the cheap lamp in the corner of the too small living room.

7. Toodles Galore was a six foot three, beast of a man, with rolling muscles and skin shiny, oiled to perfection. He smelled of something flirty and evilly tempting, like a forbidden fruit drowned in Vodka. His cheap wig was bone straight and white-blonde, contrasting with his midnight skin. His artificial, jean blue eyes were watching The Spaceman with something more intimate than he's felt in a long time, as the man slipped cherry Blow Pop between is full lips. He wore a red, frilly, threadbare, heart red robe with black, black laced panties underneath, holding back an impressive package.

8. The bathroom walls were flamingo pink and hasn’t had any work done since Dylan’s mother remodeled it in the mid-2000s. The floor was checked black and white, smudged with footprints. A red, fuzzy rug peeked out from under the sink. The mirror was dream hazy with the friendly fire of toothpaste as Dylan and his Dad’s toothbrushes rolled around in a dirty glass—black and red, respectively.

The bathroom had the flavor of a seedy motel that charges hourly. Dylan’s mother had always been a Vegas girl, through and through. This bathroom held the one piece of her wild spirit that hadn’t abandoned him when she up and left to live in England with a minor lord she met online nine years ago.

9. Aishwarya Mehta sat behind the office desk, watching the electric blue open sign to the family motel wink. It was sometime between the wolves and the birds, the clock had blinked off hours ago. The front office was eerie and abandoned at night, with only a tinny rendition of Creep by Radiohead interfering with her walkie-talkie keeping her company. Her older brother had snuck off hours ago, probably to sleep in one of the unoccupied rooms.

10. The Spaceman wraps his lips around the brown cock of a sweating, cold, Bud Light. The beer hasn't burned since he was thirteen. The drink slides down, silky as Ella Fitzgerald’s voice.

FANFICTION:

11. The sun rises in her irises like it does over an ocean—all sapphire blue with a sprinkling of gold cradled in them. In their depths lies a coldness and a question: How could someone so disgusting, so lowly dare to touch her? Syril doesn’t have an answer. He just breathes in the scent of jasmine like it’s the last breath of air before he is pulled under into the deep.

(From a WIP starring Dedra/Syril from Andor.)

12. He’s supposed to knock her out but her lips on his were soft as satin and she’s silver in the moonlight.

(From an Until Dawn fanfic starring Josh and Sam.)

13. Cold blew from the river Thames, dragging its icy lips across Widowmaker’s dead face—she can scarcely remember the sensation of skin on skin, but icy tears crawled down her face, the sensation reminiscent of spider legs walking down her cheeks.

(From a Windowmaker/Tracer fanfic.)

14. Dick’s hair had grown long, untamed, black waves cascading down to his pale collar bones. He wore a large army green jacket, jeans, and white sneakers. He sat against the hood of his funeral black 1990 Dodge Charger outside of a diner, smoking a cigarette. He was only lit by the red light of the neon sign bleeding across the parking lot—it’s a good thing Tim has binoculars as he lay on a roof across the street.

(From a Batman-Tim/Dick fanfic.)

15. “You are like the sun—“Namor began.

“Hard to look at?” Shuri joked, trying to drown her nervousness in humor—a familiar situation. It instead forms a rock in the pit of her stomach. It was the type of wordplay that would earn her a soft chuckle from T’Challa. T’Challa wouldn’t approve of this, he’d search the entire ocean for her. But he’s not here, he’s nowhere. He’s dead…and he took the Black Panther with him.

“Radiant.” Namor continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Come here.”

(From yet ANOTHER Black Panther Namor/Shuri political marriage fanfic. I know there are dozens, which is why I won’t be posting this.)

16. They sent in the social worker when Jason Todd told the first three cops to fuck off. She looked as if she road in on the last bus out of Las Vegas—fried, bleach blonde hair, blueberry eyeshadow, dry lipstick the color of fresh blood, and burnt gold skin with black pupils. She was trying too hard to sound sympathetic. It came out as synthetic. It hurt his ears.

(From a Dick/Jason fanfic.)

17. Elsa Bloodstone didn’t know how she would die but she knew it wouldn’t be in bed, dying easily was not her birthright. The Bloodstone was, however. In pursuit of it, she ended up in a cage with a monster who wore the face of a unassuming, handsome, slightly dopey gent. When she first laid eyes on him, she thought she could eat him for lunch. He didn’t ooze masculinity like the other men crowding the room. He also didn’t want to fight her. She should’ve known he was the most dangerous. It’s always the quiet ones. She took a shuddery breath. He hopes he makes it quick and then somehow devours her stepmother.

(From a Werewolf by Night Jack/Elsa fanfic,)

18. Steven’s body wasn’t a temple—it was a flat and too many people were living in it. Marc is the stereotypical strong silent type but Steven can tell that the little American man inside him was getting antsy. They share a body so all of Marc’s anxiety about all the crazy magic shit is getting to him. Steven had been ignoring Marc but it only seemed to make him louder, like there was a megaphone blaring in his head.

(From a Moon Knight Marc/Steven fanfic.)

19. The sun was shards cracked by the reaching limbs of trees as they rode along a faint path, in symmetry with the too clear, rushing stream that scattered their reflections. The lush green, towering trees roofing over them, painted their piece of Eden a friendly emerald. The blue of the sky was unbroken by clouds, clear as a polished mirror. The windless, mild weather, spoke of a cool summer, even though the cusps of autumn loomed nearby.

Their Imperial Warmblood was a large animal, bigger than any horse Dorian has ever seen. It was cloud white and named Snowball by Sera. The elf had apparently named every animal they’ve gotten in all of Skyhold. It’s a feat, considering how many creatures Dorian runs to in any given day.

Snowball was followed by Shadow, a large, oil slick black Ferelden horse that Cullen grew attached to. It was trailing at a slower pace, making soft noises that could barely be heard over the light clatter of hooves. Their bags were stacked on the horse like pebbles on a riverbed.

Cullen’s body was a hard, hot weight against him, even through Cullen’s armor and Dorian’s leather. Dorian somewhat felt bad for Snowball, the way they were two bulky men weighing the mount down, but the horse didn’t look like it was a burden.

The commander dragged his finger up Dorian’s side until it reached the underside of his arm. Dorian suppressed a squirm—he was particularly ticklish right under his armpit. He found that out from Iron Bull—while Cullen moved his gloved finger down the curve of Dorian’s bicep. The touch was ghosted, hinting that the commander could be caressing him with the rough pads of his scarred fingers or holding him with his slightly out of true fingers.

Cullen moved his hand until it was splayed on Dorian’s lower belly. Dorian inhaled against the heat pooling in him at a mere placement of the commander’s hands, even through the Dorian’s heavy outfit, and Cullen’s gloves.

Dorian held onto the reins, lest the animal gets startled and paralyzes them both.

“I get the feeling you want something, commander.”

“Is that so?” Cullen’s stubble-itchy jaw scrubbed against Dorian’s freshly shaved one. Both of his hands rested against Dorian’s for a moment before he moved them to Dorian’s navel. Dorian failed to suppress the shudder and the ache where Cullen could be right now if they were to stop in the middle of nowhere.

Cullen inched back before planting one wet kiss in the vortex of Dorian’s neck. The commander held his lips there while sticking his hand into the material of Dorian’s harness and trailing the hot hand until he felt his peck. Cullen’s leather covered thumb caught on the sensitive bud of his nipples. Dorian bit back a gasp as Cullen slid his hand even further down until just the tips of his fingers brushed Dorian’s cock. Dorian failed to swallow his groan. He took one of his hands off the reins and pressed Cullen’s hands further down. The commander got one good stroke in before Dorian begrudgingly took Cullen’s hand out of the outfit. He stopped himself from grounding down on the saddle for relief.

“We need to stop, love.” Dorian said. “This is technically bestiality. We need to get off this horse.”

“Get off this horse? I know you’re a hedonist but this is a little much, don’t you think?”

“Oh, you know what I meant.” Dorian said as he pulled the reins. The horse stopped with a soft noise. Shadow got the hint and stop just short of the other mount. Dorian got off the beast slowly and stretched. His thighs hurt from being in that position but Cullen, ever limber, came down with grace.

(A piece of Dragon Age: Inquisition Cullen/Dorian fanfic which I will never post ;__;)

20. “The Supreme Leader respects you like I would a very clever attack dog.” General Hux said. “We could never lose you. I could never lose you.”

Kylo Ren stared up at the general from the hospital bed. His wrist itches and burns but the pain feels faraway. The lights smear into diamonds and Hux is just a black figure far above him.

Kylo Ren’s body feels made out of stone. He feels like an empty vessel for the First Order to pour and pour and pour their hate toward the Resistance, the Republic, the Jedi—everything, until lashed out violently to suit their needs. Now more than ever, he feels like a sick dog on a leash. He believes in the cause but the cause believing in him was the most important thing.

Leia and Han Solo made the decision to send him to Luke Skywalker. He joined the Knights of Ren because of the wise Supreme Leader. He was clay—something to be molded by hard hands. He was mere pieces before he joined the First Order. He was sewn together by their hopes and dreams—a Frankenstein’s monster. The only thing he can take credit for is his mistakes.

If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred.

He now sees that the only substantial decision he’d made in years was to bash his wrist against the bathroom mirror.

Hux pushed one of the three medical droids out of the way. The bot whirled as it fluttered. Hux then took his handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed the stiff, dry material under Kylo Ren’s eyes—were there tears? Hux’s look of cold formality flickers into one of pity.

“So tell me, Ren, were you hoping to die? Is it because you were bested by a scavenger?”

Kylo Ren took a staccato breath. Rey. Rey.

“Well, you don’t get to die.” Hux said. He stuck the towel back into his pocket. He gently cupped the side of Kylo Ren’s face. His leather glove was cold and dry—a barrier between their faux intimacy. He can’t remember the last time he felt skin on his. “You are a tool and I won’t let you die until you’ve served your purpose.”

He wasn’t trying to die but he didn’t mind that death could’ve been a side effect.

Hux traced his thumb along Kylo Ren’s bottom lip.

“Our live are not our own, Ren. We fight and die so something greater can grow in our place. You will do well to remember that.” Hux’s slipped his thumb passed Kylo Ren’s teeth and rested on the tip of his tongue, the fresh leather was chaffing. He pressed down until spit pooled in Kylo Ren’s mouth. The general removed his digit from Kylo Ren’s mouth, leaving a trail of spit ending on his chin. “Are you listening to me?”

Kylo Ren reached beyond the general’s face and crushed one of the medical droid, barely feeling the pinch of electricity or hear the whirring come to a halt. The pieces fall like dirty snow, like fiery meteors, like stars as they sprinkle on him.

Hux smirked.

“Good.”

(From a Star Wars fanfic—Hux/Kylo Ren.) **

The pattern I notice from my original fiction is that it’s all pretty grim and dirty, especially the way I describe scenery to set the mood. I hope I’m not too one note.

The pattern I learned from my from my fan fiction is that it’s a lot of hero/villain and opposites attracting but doesn’t that make it more fun?

I don’t have any writer friends to tag so I tag all of you reading this! If you do it, tag me in it so I can read your writing! Thanks.