#i wanted to draw something a little darker at least once this week... i think it turned out good!

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Younger Gods: III

Younger Gods Master List Dream x fem!reader

Chapter 2

Dangerous magic and old friends lay the foundation of a fate foretold, and Morpheus spends too much time in the library.

Warnings: language, briefly referenced suicidal ideation, self-neglect/harm, extreme sleep deprivation, Dream is still his own damn warning

A/N: First - THANK YOU ALL. Seriously. You're amazing, I love you, and I'm working on catching up on comments. Now for the bad news. Ya'll broke chapter 2. Like, literally. I went to edit the tags list and Tumblr said nope. Imagine a small, family car with dozens of people stacked inside and hanging off the roof. It just won't go. The chapter also didn't show up in the story tags, at least whenever I checked. So...

*The taglist is officially discontinued*

I am making that up with something special, though, so make sure to read the A/N at the end!

Chapter 3: Darker Fates

“Gracious, darling, you look dreadful.”

She collapsed into the rickety café chair. Across the laminate table sat her oldest friend. Her one friend. And she immediately wondered how much to tell him. Only two days stood between her and her involuntary trip down memory lane, between her and the Sandman. She’d seen dark birds from the corner of her eye once or twice, but they always turned out to be crows and magpies. That didn’t mean Matthew wasn’t following her, of course.

She hadn’t escaped the consequences of her actions yet, and she didn’t want to drag one of the precious few people she cared about into the muck.

“What happened to your courtly manners?”

“What happened to your face?” He shuddered delicately, burying the real concern she caught in his sharp grey eyes with dramatics. Signaling the waitress behind the counter, he added, “We’ll need another pot of tea, please.”

The woman blushed and hurried off to fill the order. Doubtless, he’d been flirting while he waited. Damn silver fox. Although he was over one thousand years old, he wore it well. His greying curls and tidy beard looked playful rather than unkempt.

“Do you have what I need?”

He nodded. “Tea’s on it’s way.”

“Not the damn tea, Taliesin.”

The twice-born bard sucked on his teeth, glancing from the front windows to the back counter. Only spilled coffee stains and a sticky smear of jam occupied the other tables. He acted like this kind of deal might draw attention, and he had good reason to think twice about handling magical items in public, but no one cared what two people meeting up at two in the afternoon in a cheap café shared over a cup of tea.

He slipped his hand into his coat pocket and retrieved a small, stoppered bottle. The liquid inside moved like tar, oozing up the side of the glass as Taliesin angled it in the light. Even caution couldn’t banish his instincts as a showman.

“Understand.” He looked her in the eye, his scintillating smile packed away for a stone glower. “This is a cruelty, not a blessing. Now, I won’t ask why you need it. I wouldn’t insult you like that. But it’s my responsibility to tell you this is a bad idea.”

She could think of worse.

Before she could explain herself, the waitress pranced over with the tea. She set the pot between them and provided a fresh cup and saucer. Taliesin grinned, winked, and sent her on her way again with a word of thanks.

“One day your philandering will get you into trouble, old man.”

He sniffed and poured the tea, adding the slightest splash of milk, just the way she liked it. “I never begin something from which I cannot safely extricate myself. And, besides, a little teasing will make her day.”

He slid the cup across the table, and she wrapped her hands around the porcelain to drink in the heat through her chilly palms. She couldn’t seem to stay warm these past few weeks. Anyway, tea wasn’t what she’d come to drink.

“Will it keep me awake forever?”

“Nothing is forever. Nothing you can taste, touch, or smell.” He sounded both chiding and nostalgic. “But this will last seven years and seven days.”

“Good enough. What do you want in exchange?”

Tutting, he tucked the potion back in his jacket, and she sagged in her seat. “Tea first. I have grand and patronizing cautions to give.”

She lifted the cup, maintaining eye contact as she took the biggest, loudest slurp she could manage. It tasted nice, and its warmth felt even better in her stomach and throat than it had on her skin. Why did the bastard have to be right about everything?

The twinkle in his eye suggested he knew what station the train of her thoughts had left, and he slurped from his own cup in merry retaliation.

“First,” he licked a drip from his mustache, “and foremost: this is vile magic. It doesn’t gift wakefulness – it steals rest. The fae designed it with little prisoners like you in mind, to be taken in spaces where time melts and enchanted food will cheat the body’s need for sleep. Since – I dare presume – you do not have those safeguards, this could kill you.”

He left the words to sink in, trying to scare her off the purchase. When she reached out to see if he knew someone willing to make this potion, he’d leapt at the opportunity himself. It was his way of protecting her, and it gave him a chance to interfere with what he clearly saw as self-harm.

Since she wasn’t sure she could survive another nightmare like the one Dream hauled her through, she’d take her chances with death by her own hand.

“Consider me warned, but it doesn’t change anything.”

Taliesin bowed his head over his teacup, groaning. Any fantasies that he could talk her off her current path finally cracked. “You really are stubborn, rain cloud.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Oh, no. That you found all your own.” His smile grew back, wan but alive. His hand settled on the table, palm up, and she abandoned her tea to settle her hand over his.

“Just promise,” he said with a gentle squeeze, “that if you feel anything going off, if you even suspect something’s wrong, you’ll call your old friend Taliesin. Okay?”

She squeezed back, trying to smile for him, but she was too tired to make the expression stick. “Okay.”

Nodding to himself, he echoed the agreement again, “Okay,” and reached into his pocket. He slipped the bottle between their joined hands, and she pulled away to put it in her sweater.

“What do you want in return?”

“Well!” He smacked the table with both hands, grinning in a way that promised trouble. “I thought long and hard about it, but rather than jewels, or secrets, or power, I think what I would most like from a lovely young storm god is…” He paused, glancing meaningfully out the window at the dreary, grey-yellow afternoon. “A walk in the rain with my favorite little cloud.”

He sounded so damn happy about it he infected her with the feeling. It was nice to be needed. Wanted. Even if she’d just lied to his face.

A friendly rain gathered and fell as Taliesin got up to pay the bill. He left the waitress looking pleased with herself – and probably a generous tip. Then he came to meet his rain cloud at the door. An umbrella appeared from some hidden pocket and he grinned, holding out his elbow for her to link arms with him.

“I always come prepared,” he bragged as they stepped out into the shower.

“You say that like you don’t live in Wales.”

“I never said you were the only thing I came prepared for.”

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Given the mother’s name to track, Lucienne did eventually find the record of the little storm god’s dreams, but they were useless to Morpheus. He studied the handful of pages warped by the curse she wore around her neck with mounting frustration. Apart from reports of which nightmares feasted on her pain during her brief, forced rests, they gave him nothing.

Her mother’s dreams proved more illuminating. They, at least, gave him a line of inquiry to follow.

The woman dreamed about her child from the moment it was born, from the minute the father tore her away to trade. The mother wandered endless rooms, following a crying child’s voice while she slept. She dreamed of little coffins and wailing infants she couldn’t find in nurseries dripping with gore.

Arcane shapes and dead languages shadowed her sleeping hours as she learned magic. In the waking world, she became a capable witch. There, as in the Dreaming, every hope and wish bent to finding her baby.

She never gave up her pursuit.

But in the end, it was the daughter who found the mother.

Her favorite dream grew out of a memory. A rainy afternoon, a crack of lightning, and a knock on the door. A painfully thin teenager stood on the steps, dripping in a thunderstorm, looking up with wondering eyes. If Morpheus had any doubts as to the girl’s identity, the scars around her neck put them to rest. She still had blood in her hair, rusty smudges caught in the grooves of old scars, fresh hurts and healed wounds calling to the mother’s instinct to protect and care for.

Although she had plenty of nightmares about losing her daughter again – finding her bed empty, losing her in a crowd – the nature of her somnolescent musings shifted. Softened.

And a familiar face came to call. The Welsh bard, Taliesin, whom the demi-god child kept safe at the cost of her hands, brought little gifts to the old woman and her young daughter. His winks brought warm flushes to the mother’s dreams, and she rested easier at night knowing that her little girl would not be entirely alone in the end.

She had sacrificed ten years of her life to a fairy bargain that won her nothing but a hand-sized portrait of her baby girl during her long search. By the time the child returned, her mother had grown old. They only had twelve years together before the lost child lost her mother.

The woman died. The record ended. But Dream knew where to look next.

Abandoning his throne for the library, he wrestled against a growing sense that he was running out of time. Time for what? Time for whom?

He was still Dream of the Endless. He still had a realm and billions of dreamers to manage. The puzzle of the storm god who brought home his raven lingered like a toothache, but he could not abandon his responsibilities. Determined as he may be to remove the golden collar from both the Dreaming and the dreamer, the curse had lingered for decades without disturbing anything significant.

It had been months since he picked through her dreaming mind to discover more about her – more about the curse. Only now, as the things settled back into a comfortable kind of order, could he indulge his curiosity, his side-quest as Death mockingly called his interests. And he was more than interested. The longer the questions lingered, the more of his attention they consumed.

Perhaps it was the crossroads. The Fates said he’d already pushed the storm god towards a darker fate, but they never said it was too late to change that course, and the three often left the most important truths unsaid.

If only he knew what to look for. Perhaps that was why he spent so much time and energy researching the collar. It gave him a target. Without it, he felt like a dreamer caught in a pitch-black nightmare, groping blindly for anything with which to reclaim the light.

But he did not have to search alone.

“Lucienne.”

His librarian looked up from a stack of new, peering over the rim of her spectacles. “Did the mother’s dreams help you find what you needed, my lord?”

“In part. Though I need another volume.” He handed over the two records, the mother’s dreams and the storm god’s. Lucienne set down her tower of work and went to shelve the two immediately. They slotted beside each other, the mother’s name in curling script, the daughter’s blank.

“You know,” Lucienne said, “I only found the nameless one’s record because the mother’s kept reshelving itself with the daughter’s book. I fixed it twice before I realized. It’s rather sweet.” She sighed. “If vexing. What volume do you require, my lord?”

Morpheus spared the books another glance, wondering how much of the mother’s arcane studies had influenced her history of dreams. But she’d given him all she could, and now he must turn to the living for answers. “The bard Taliesin’s records, and anything else we have on his history.”

“That is more a section than a collection, lord.”

“Yes.” It wasn’t his first time encountering the bard. “I may need to speak with him, but he will be loathe to leave a story once he is introduced. I’d prefer to find answers in the records. Will you help me?”

“Of course. Give me a moment.” Lucienne paused. “Give me several moments, please, my lord.”

On Lucienne’s first trip, she retrieved the official record of Taliesin’s dreams. He’d lived a long life, and he dreamed vibrantly. The tome was several feet thick, and the library echoed when the librarian set it on the table.

“Thank you, Lucienne.”

“I’ll fetch the rest, sir.”

Taliesin’s early works, recorded on parchment and scrolls, sat between books published under a dozen nom de plumes in later centuries. When the librarian returned with a cart stacked high with history books referencing and theorizing over the man and his myth, Morpheus excused her.

“These should suffice, Lucienne. I will let you know if I do not find my answers here.”

“Of course, sir.” She brushed dust from her immaculate coat, checking the sleeves, before folding her hands neatly behind her back. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Already buried in the works of Taliesin’s unconscious mind, he shook his head. “Not at this time.”

She bowed and left. The library would be chaos without her. He could remember when it was. It was no mean feat, organizing a universe of stories. It made her wise in ways he had only just begun to appreciate.

The man whose dreams he searched enjoyed other kinds of wisdom. He’d gained a third of the world’s knowledge by accident, but he’d spent the better part of his life learning the other two thirds by choice. Advisor to kings, story-weaver, and a natural mage, he had the wisdom and craft to recognize some of the magic wrought into the storm god’s collar. He’d tried to take it off when they first met, and he studied for a means to free her after his escape.

Morpheus wanted to know what the bard found.

However, though his dreams in the past few decades often welcomed a shade of the storm god to play out adventures and tragedies as part of a colorful cast, Taliesin’s attention did not linger on the curse. It was little more than a bright shadow that pricked his conscience.

He sat back in the chair, glowering at the books that had failed him.

It seemed every whisper of progress led to more questions in this riddle, and not for the first time, he wished the library could offer more insight to the happenings of the waking world. He should not need to ask for help so often.

At least, unlike the storm god, the bard embraced his dreams. Like all great storytellers, he had explored his fantasies and fears ravenously. When he next slept, Morpheus would pry loose some answers. It shouldn’t be difficult. The bard dearly loved the sound of his own voice.

----------------------------------------------

Taliesin presided over a court of housecats.

He was aware enough to know the royal courtiers of Edward II did not, originally, have literal claws, but it made perfect sense in the moment. Edward and Gaveston were in the corner, playfully wrestling – maybe – while Isabella stalked closer with murder in her vertical pupils.

“This is not the way,” he huffed, plucking a kitten from the mob joining ranks behind Isabella, a gorgeous tortoise-shell with no interest in his opinion. The kitten sprang spread-eagle back to the floor.

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

His favorite idiot, his little rain cloud, curled under the steps to the dais. She’d found herself, once again, where she did not belong, and if her eyes didn’t reflect the torches set around the room, he never would’ve known she was there. It was the wrong court altogether, but she had a talent for trouble and a gift for surprises.

Dropping to his knees, he reached under the wooden platform to coax her out. She’d become a fetching little half munchkin, half Norwegian forest cat caught in the lanky middle ground between kitten and grown cat. A menace, to be sure, but too cute to ignore.

“Come out and play with your friends,” he said as she wriggled even farther out of reach. “It isn’t good to hide all the time. You need to do some seeking, too, lovee.”

But she was very determined and his arms just weren’t long enough, so he manifested a trail of nibbles to catch her attention. He could be patient. He could be tricksy. Good friends, he firmly believed, should be both, because sometimes people were just too stupid or too stubborn to accept the help they obviously needed.

He sat up to kneel below the empty thrones and clapped his hands on his thighs.

Well. He’d done what he could for now. Across the room, poor Gaveston was learning the price of being a king’s favorite. The yowls and cries almost distracted him to the point he didn’t see the massive black Maine Coon stalk into the throne room. The cat’s eyes glowed, both literally and metaphorically. In his kneeling position, Taliesin actually had to look up to see those eyes, and he gulped, wondering if he was about to be eaten.

“I have questions for you, bard.” The cat spoke with authority in a voice like honeyed night.

Taliesin recognized it, though it hadn’t come from a cat before, and he dismissed all thought of stupid whot, why, what, how demands.

It may be his imagination at work, but it was not his realm.

“Dream King.” He bowed. Then he remembered he was dreaming and squinted at the cacophonous mess of the long-dead king’s feline transformation. “Ah. This makes so much more sense.”

The cats blinked out of existence, or at least out of his dream, and he sat back on his heels. The stone chamber grew quiet. A plaintive meow from beside the stops, however, proved not all the cats had gone. The junior cat approached and let him sweep her into his arms, even purring when he scratched under her chin.

Still aware of the Endless – no longer in cat-form  – Taliesin allowed himself a moment to enjoy this imagined pleasure. The little storm god made an adorable ball of fur. “You’d never make this so easy in the waking world, would you?”

She sized his finger with claws and teeth to prove she wasn’t easy in any world.

“There is unwelcome magic in the Dreaming.” The Nightmare King didn’t wait for Taliesin’s focus, confident as any monarch that his words would be heard, that the listener would take note and action. “You have studied it.”

Taliesin nodded, taking his word for it and stroking his friend the kitten as he picked through his long memory for anything of interest to the King of Dreams. “I have studied many shapes of magic, lord.”

“This one is close to you.”

Some darker note in the Dream King’s voice snagged Taliesin’s ear, and he looked away from the cat to study his face. Lips bent in a frown, brows pinched, the king had his starry eyes pinned to the creature in the bard’s arms. Taliesin looked back down to see a phantom of the collar growing around the kitten’s neck. She writhed against it, mewling in pain, staring up at him like he could do anything to help her.

He’d tried, and he’d tried again. He still hadn’t given up entirely.

Couldn’t the poor thing’s shade at least find relief in his dream?

She scratched him in her fit, and he bundled her closer, pinning her fast and safe as he’d failed to do when she was small and alone and willing to suffer in his stead. Even if he couldn’t free her, he’d never abandon her.

The truth of the matter struck him. He felt the cat shudder against his heart when she’d been so calm and accepting a moment ago, and he knew.

“So, you’ve met my favorite idiot.”

“Yes.”

The word betrayed nothing, not how they met, not how he felt. But he wanted to banish the collar once and for all, and Taliesin could get on board with that.

“It’s fairy-make,” he said. “Broken in the waking world, but still manifests in the Dreaming.”

“I know. What I do not know is why. What terms closed the circle around her neck? It appeared to suppress her godly half in life.”

Taliesin tried to cradle the cat even closer without suffocating her. “If you do not mind my asking, lord, how do you know even that much?”

“I saw it,” the king said, casually, like it wasn’t one of the worst things the bard had ever heard, “in her dreams, in her recollection of the past.”

Closing his eyes, the bard took a deep, deep breath in through his nose. He had to hold it for a minute, because it desperately wanted to leave his throat with a string of curses Dream of the Endless would not enjoy. When he was sure he could exhale without heaping abuse on the dolt’s head, he let the breath go. He did it all one more time, and then he said, “I think I understand why she wanted to stay awake.”

Eyes still shut, he murmured to himself, “Why didn’t she tell me? Self-destructive little –”

When he finally looked, the world had changed. Gone was the castle, the throne, and the sweet little cat from his arms. He’d imagined a cheap bedsit in Cardiff, the kind of place the little storm god may stay on the run – and she was definitely on the run, from nightmares if nothing else.

The young woman lay sprawled in a puddle of moonlight, half dead, and fading fast. Her skin clung to her bones, eyes sunken, old wounds open and bleeding from malnutrition and scurvy.

The empty potion bottle sat on the windowsill.

Dream of the Endless studied the scene with clear interest, and Taliesin beat down his protective urges in the name of pragmatism. If she was running from Lord Morpheus, she wouldn’t turn to Taliesin for help when the potion dragged her to the brink of death. It wouldn’t be a life lesson she could grow through. It would be a life ended.

“She came to me a few months ago,” he said, hoping the Endless would care enough about the woman shackled to the curse to consider her in his grand schemes. “She wanted a potion to stave off sleep. I told her it was dangerous, and I thought she’d come to me for help soon, that I could teach her something, but –”

The body on the floor laid so still. How many months had it been? How close was this nightmare to reality?

“I said her dreams would be kinder when she next slept,” the king murmured.

He didn’t have to say he didn’t understand.

Taliesin crossed his arms and cleared his throat. Someone, at least, would learn something this night. “Well, she’s a storm, isn’t she? She isn’t capable of moderation. When she’s happy, she’s ecstatic. When she’s angry she’s electric. When she’s afraid she is very, very afraid. And she’s terrified of you.”

Dream looked over his shoulder at the bard, still looming beside the dying phantom.

“I neither wish nor intend her harm.”

“You don’t have to intend harm to hurt her.”

The Endless fully turned to him, and the bard spoke with all the confidence of being truly heard. Just as the king did upon entering this dream. “You, I presume, dug very deep in a very dark place. That hurt her. Frightened her. If you push her far enough she’ll chew off her own leg to get away, or didn’t you see the part where she nearly decapitated herself to escape the damn collar?”

Silence filled the room. An ugly, cheap place to die. Taliesin wondered how long it would take to find her if she really had gone to ground. He couldn’t trust the King of Dreams to care about anything beyond the Dreaming’s borders, and he wouldn’t trust her health with the one who pushed her to ruin in.

He had spells to find her, but he wasn’t sure he could hold her if she went into a panic.

In the stillness, they could hear her death rattle.

“What will your potion do to her?”

His potion. Yes, he supposed it was his fault. The girl really was like a stray cat, hiding under porches to die quietly rather than let someone help. He should’ve known.

“It keeps her awake. Eventually, she’ll feel too ill to eat. She may hallucinate. Her heart will fall out of rhythm and she’ll waste away until her body doesn’t remember how to function.” He smacked his head back into the wall, wanting punishment, hoping to jog some inspired idea free. “I warned her.”

Of all the Endless, and he’d met quite a few, Dream was the most inscrutable. Cold and detached, but prone to dangerous spikes of interest that spiraled into nearly obsessive passion. His vengeance came swiftly and his affection grew slow. But Dream was, usually, just. He didn’t enjoy undeserved suffering, and Taliesin had to hope that after walking through the little storm god’s dreams, he’d understand she’d earned none of her pain.

It wasn’t too late. He’d lost track of time, but a tableau this desperate wouldn’t come to pass for at least a year.

“If you are of a mind to assist, Dream Lord…” He pushed off the wall, suddenly and entirely desperate to move. “I have an idea.”

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Her fear grew bitter as her strength waned. She could taste it when she struggled to eat, and when she gave up meals, it poisoned the water she drank. Terror tasted like blood from bitten lips and dust on her dry tongue. Her hands shook, and her throat burned from stomach acid, but it wasn’t bad enough to call on Taliesin again. She knew what he’d say.

Whatever happened, she would not fall asleep.

Besides, she wasn’t dying yet. She was only sick. If the Dream Lord pulled through her bloody history again, she wouldn’t survive. If she had a choice, she’d pick a death in the waking world, free of the collar and safe from the Dream Lord who dragged her through horrors so callously.

She wasn’t convinced he believed in her innocence, either. If he knew he’d threatened someone trying to rescue his damn raven, surely he would’ve apologized.

Better to stay awake and ignore the cramps in her belly.

The rain soothed her. Fitful storms plagued the town she’d chosen as a hiding place, and the old folks grumbled to each other at the grocery store about the weather. Maybe they’d gotten used to it in the past few months. She hadn’t been out in a while.

She didn’t sleep, but she still rested. Her eyelids didn’t grow heavy when she sat by the window and watched the drops racing down the pane. She remained awake, aware, and as close to peace as her racing thoughts allowed.

The window became her favorite pastime, and she spent days studying the changing clouds as angry squalls rolled up the coast, how the grey sky trapped the light during gentler showers.

And she grew weaker. Quietly flirting with the line between sick and deathly ill.

She saw impossible things beyond the glass. It took her a few days to realize they were hallucinations, not a fae spell or some petty apocalypse.

When his reflection appeared behind her in the window, she thought she was seeing things again. And then he spoke.

“You are killing yourself.”

She jerked around, stumbling on numb feet to face the monster. The Nightmare King. Her hand wandered her neck, looking for the collar to prove this was a dream, but she found her scarf instead.

“You are in the waking world,” he confirmed. “You hid yourself well.”

He took a step towards her, and she lunged back. The same game in the wrong realm.

“You still think I’m some kind of threat?”

Another step towards her, another step back – she nearly tripped on the leg of a chair, but she refused to look away for an instant, even to save the scraps of her dignity.

“No.”

He moved the way he spoke, aware of every nuance, every shift, slowly drawing closer. Sure and smooth as a stormfront.

What did he want? She abandoned her home, gave up the precious little sleep she could tolerate, and he still pressed her. He didn’t look angry and cold, like he did on the beach. Something sharp glittered in his eyes, though, a keen edge ready to cut her.

They passed through the living room, through the kitchen, and she only had a few more steps before this slow chase met an abrupt end.

“I’m running out of ground to give, Dream Lord.”

“Good.”

A final step, and her heel met the wall. He closed the distance, keeping the same predator’s pace as she pressed herself flat against the peeling wallpaper.

“Do you want me to fight?” Her growing storm raged. Lightning sheered over the sleepy town, turning the evening bright as noon. Thunder rattled the windows, but the Dream Lord didn’t so much as flinch. “Do you want an excuse to hurt me?”

He stood inches away, eating up her personal space until she felt his shadow had already swallowed her.

“No.”

“Then what do you want?” A whisper with the desperation of a scream.

His razor eyes cut deep, and she quaked in place, afraid to move but wishing she could shrink, become so small he wouldn’t notice her.

“To turn you from a darker fate.”

He raised a hand, and she cowered from the expected blow. When none fell, she peeped at him sidelong. His palm hovered between them, like he was holding up a gift.

“Sleep.”

Stooping ever so slightly, he blew over his hand, sending a gust of sand into her face. She bucked against him, flinging one arm up to cover her face, the other to shove at his chest. But it was no good. By the time he curled his fingers back, she could feel her grip on the world slipping away.

“Poor little storm god.”

Her knees buckled, and she slid down the wall, losing herself by inches to the inescapable lure of the Dreaming and its master.

She slept.

Chapter 4 A/N: I've never done prompt requests, but I've never had 500 FOLLOWERS EITHER (holy shit). I'm celebrating, and you're invited. The rules are a little convoluted, I won't be able to do ALL the things, but you'll all get a say in what makes the cut by voting. To join the fun and check out the rules, go here. Even if you don't join in, there will be one-shots aplenty for you to browse.

I'll be working on a chapter each for my other two active fics while I wait for replies, so you may not see another Younger Gods chapter til next week. For those clamoring for more interaction between the reader and Morpheus, it will be well worth the wait.

[stagbells]

beetle wings & other broken things.

From: @iinkhorn

To: @magn0lia-blossoms

Note: Sorry this came a bit late..! In a fit of madness and several lapses in judgement, I accidently made this 16,000 words long. Oops. Anyway, hope you enjoy <3

Written work under readmore

Author: iinkhorn

Title: beetle wings & other broken things.

✦ ✦ ✦

There was a Voice, carried to Oro by the wind.

It is not the wind itself, for the wind outside whispered in many voices, in languages not understood. No, this Voice, It spoke in his dreams, and it was everywhere, a burning light on his mind’s horizon, whispering, shouting, pleading, weeping, commanding him to listen. 

DREAM OF ME, It says, in a voice that belonged to no one. Oro snidely refuses, preferring the dark, blissful quiet of his own dreams.

DREAM OF ME, It says, in a voice that belonged to Mato, then Sheo, Esmy, and Master Sly. One by one, they promised they would forgive him. That they would love him once again. That he didn’t have to be alone anymore. And all he had to do was dream of the light.

(Sheo tended towards pleading, whereas Esmy wept, before fading to silence. Master Sly’s voice, the most distant, was fond at first, then cold and disapproving. Mato’s voice, the loudest, was all of these and more.)

However, if Oro is reliable for one thing, it is persistent, vicious stubbornness (not his own words). He does not bow to anyone undeserving. He does not surrender. Above all else, he loathes being told what to do, by ghosts or otherwise.

When awake, Oro takes action to clear his mind, meditates poorly and restlessly, scarcely eats save for sour hopper draught and pale bitter roots. His clumsy efforts succeed; he manages to sleep undisturbed, for a while.

But when the while runs dry, he finds himself hardly able to sleep at all, if only to escape the voices and their bodies of light.

Oro had been so sure of what he wanted, once. But his dreams begin to infect his very thoughts, between the cycles of sleep and meditation. Training doesn’t help, nor does neglecting it. Not even counting his piles of Geo manages to lift his meager spirits. Memories of when he was not quite so alone digs claws into his chest, drawing blood that wasn’t there. Some things could not be defeated with a nail, loathe of this though he might be.

In the end, lying awake atop his meager bed on the floor, he clings to his own body until it hurts, surrendering to nothing as he grapples with his own madness.

Oro is no fool. He knows in his heart of hearts that the voices aren’t real. But even so, his resolve crumbles as his shamefully soft insides shout and plead no, please, I’m so sorry for everything, come back, come find me, I don’t want to be alone anymore. His inner shell begs him to surrender, to let the warm light swell into every sharp crack and broken crevice until the pain is gone and nothing of himself was left.

Greedy. Cowardly. Unworthy. Unloved. Losing himself and all that he is was not entirely an undesirable idea. This was perhaps the most ugly truth of all.

After some torturous weeks, when he can no longer stand the sound of his own thoughts, Oro fills a traveling sack with meager provisions, a rolled-up pallet, his thickest cloak, and his severed fifth limb; a dusty nail, as cold as a brother.

Perhaps I miscalculated, he thinks a little desperately. Maybe this ash-swept grave isn’t the end of the world after all.

Perhaps there were places deeper and darker than the one he hid himself, where his dreams couldn’t find him, free from even the occasional penniless wanderers he suffered from. It could be nice, he reasoned, to live in a place without sour-tasting prey, falling armored corpses and their vast stink.

(These days, there is a peculiar taste on the wind, of which has made its recent home on the edge of the edge. Oro was used to the dead and their stench, but this was something alive, a foreign idea among the typical miasmas of the dead.)

At the very least, it would be good to stretch his legs and breathe new air, sour as it was. Oro hardly ever ventures outside except to hunt, and never beyond where the ashen wind blows. (He might blame the cold, if such a thing bothered him under his cloak and its heavy shaggy collar. Nevertheless, he blames the cold anyway.)

Oro takes one last look around his tranquil house, the skylight above, the shadowy purple curtains drawn over the walls as if to hide them. Not one of his nails in view, carefully maintained. His hefty Geo cache, of course, is well-hidden deep under the frozen ground. Should he never return, his wealth will remain safe from thieves and scavengers.

The only thing holding him back now was his own cowardice. He takes a deep breath, the dust in the air fleeing from him, and opens the door. 

Only to find that his door would not, in fact, open.

Irked, he pushes again. Fails again. Something heavy was blocking the way. Oro summons his strength, shoving his shoulder against the door with great might, and hears a loud scraping as some solid object outside is moved.

He shoulders his way through the conquered door with irritation, frigid air hurrying through the gap, and immediately trips over the corpse.

With a startled shout, Oro stumbles away as falling ash blinds him, breathing hoarsely as he looks down at the body curled at the foot of his door.

When he manages to calm himself a little, he bows forward, and warily examines the body. It’s curiously unlike the armored corpses he so often encounters; small and thin, with blue shell-like armor. A hood rather than a helmet obscures its face. It overall makes for a distinctly foreign look (a shame, to travel all this way just to die).

Upon closer inspection, he finds what he looks for; several large gashes across the body’s chest, washed with clear, uninfected blood. A feeble dark hand clutches a shield (if it had a weapon, it was nowhere in sight), and the other is raised, fingers splayed, propped against Oro’s door as if attempting to get inside, but never succeeding.

He swallows the emptiness in his throat. Watches pointlessly for breath, any sign of life. For a long time, the only thing that moves in the world is the ash, already intent on gathering upon the strewn body.

His first thought brushes pity. Swiftly, Oro’s heart hardens, and he crushes the feeling between his fingertips.

Fear waning, he sneers at the corpse of the Fool, clearly just another victim from above to taint the scenery. He turns to look behind, spotting the trail of disturbed ash where the Fool had somehow managed to drag itself down the slope from the cliffs and acid pools, surviving the hopping and spitting predators, all the way to the hidden door of Oro’s hut.

Despite himself, a strong, grudging admiration emerges inside him for the Fool’s strength and determination, even while dying. A warrior’s spirit until the end. Shame it found its demise in such an unworthy place.

“I will bury you,” Oro suddenly speaks aloud, shaming himself as he does so, “when I return. If I return.” If the vermin doesn’t eat you first. 

The wind blew. The body did not respond. The wind blew. It was all any of them could do.

“More than you deserve,” Oro mumbles, as if the dead were listening. He turns away, treading the path away from his hut. He carefully avoids the trails of dried blood, which glint from youth. If only he had left his house a day earlier, listened a little more carefully to the sounds outside his door. As if he was in the business of nursing paupers who bought their deaths with Geo and called themselves warriors because of it.

Already, Oro’s body is tired, his nail a heavy burden on his back. There will be no one to bury him if he doesn't carry it.

No doubt the Fool carried not a single Geo to its name, either.

✦ ✦ ✦

The world grows darker, more cavern-like, the walls closing in. Oro walks paths familiar only to him, avoiding giant hopping beasts and tiny spitting aspids with ease (the burns on his body ache every time their flying bodies are within earshot).

He is led by the arm of the escorting wind, released by its soft fingertips at the day’s end. At his feet, a powerful humming rumbles the ground, and small, hairy flying creatures watch him from nearby. He knows not to get too close, and flees their slow, buzzing approach.

Oro walks farther down, farther than ever before, the sour air heavy in his mouth. The world bathes in a dark brown hue, black plumes billowing from beneath the ground. Remnants of civilization are everywhere, glinting spikes and shining spires defeated by giant roots and hanging filth. There is stillness save for the scuttling of spiked creatures with bright, mindless eyes.

He passes ruins so large and grandiose that a king might have resided within them once (monuments to the consequences of extravagance; to possess wealth was one thing, but excessive pride was entirely another, Oro thought). 

Oro stops, pondering the ruins around him. Yes, he could make a home here, make meals of the local creatures should they prove edible. It was certainly quieter, emptier of bodies, though the smell was considerably worse and the scenery less appealing. The once-silver roads are covered in dust, no footprints save his own; clearly no one has ventured down here for an age. Oro wonders if that makes him the foolish one.

The Nailmaster had not been outside of the Kingdom’s edge for more years than he had left. He occupies his days with cycles of sleep, meditation, and of course, training. A physical nail may have a start and an end, but to wield one is endless.

(And he had never truly been alone. One could hardly be, with all the corpses and predators everywhere, stinking up the place. Nevertheless, it was certainly good for business, if one’s business was to be left completely and totally alone.)

The few lampposts he encounters are tall and stately, brightly lit despite the passing eons. He unrolls his pallet under the light of one, intending to nest in a hollow shell nearby. A sudden, distant howling from some creature stays his hand.

As fast as a beam of light, he draws his nail, a beacon in the shadows. The burning eyes of nearby scuttling bugs see their reflection in the steel. If there is some great beast nearby, Oro would not merely sit around, content to be eaten as he slumbered. The dead grass bends from the strangely silent wind, pointing Oro in the direction of his fate.

He crouches along quietly with light footsteps (not an easy feat for one as large and bulky as he), eyes narrowing at every shadow and shivering root. His path ends quickly as the tunnel leads to an enormous cave, the ground falling and relinquishing to a vast sea of shining teeth-like spikes, as if Oro had just entered the maw of the caverns.

Clearly he can see the other side in the near distance, where the path reforms and leads beyond. It would be impossible to cross for ordinary bugs. Oro may sleep contentedly knowing no beast could get to him here. But still, something calls him beyond.

Oro could see it in his mind, the figure of Mato lecturing him on the foolishness of even trying, hiding behind a veneer of concern and support for his brother. In reality, Mato would have been too frightened to attempt such a journey.

Had he not been alone, Oro wouldn’t have done it even for a reasonable sum. Unfortunately, the only thing stronger than his love of Geo was his hard-shelled pride.

He makes doubly sure that no one is around before he lays his supplies on the ground. He grumbles and mutters under his breath as he gathers his nail and cloak in his arms. With an audible crack, he opens the broad elytra at his back, reluctantly revealing a pair of dark wings underneath.

It takes a moment for the stiff appendages to get blood moving through them, as Oro has not opened his wings in an age. Usually he preferred to spend his days pretending they didn’t exist. Never would they aid in a fight, Master Sly informed him once, and only served to make him look more oafish than he already was.

In another moment, Oro is suspended in flight, making his rather slow and sluggish way across the ravine. At first, he stumbles and drops down, almost killing himself, but manages to save himself. The sheer wind bites and scratches at his fragile appendages; Oro endures.

Throughout, he feels extremely foolish, like a fat, stupid Boofly hovering in clumsy flight. If someone were to witness him now, Oro would grant himself a favor and allow himself to plummet into the pit of spikes below.

His feet touch the path, safely on the other side of the pit. He indignantly throws his cloak over his back and tries to regain an ounce of composure.

The caverns are aglow from the soft light of large, membranous… vesicles of some kind, ones filled with orange liquid, disgustingly pulsing as if the organs of some enormous creature. The more he looks, the more Oro finds, nestled in every corner where there was space and accompanied by orange roots that resembled veins.

Growing increasingly disturbed, he resolves to slay the source of the beastly noises as quickly as possible and promptly flee in the other direction, never to return.

The howling grows more powerful, accompanied by an occasional frenzied shriek. Oro is surprised when the familiar steel whine of a nail cutting air touches his ear. He readies his own nail, stiff and poised, and enters the cavern from where the howling is loudest. The uproar seemed to shake the very ceiling itself. Oro conceals himself poorly behind a shell outcropping, and sees It.

A bug of Hallownest, in a furious blur of a swinging nail and billowing cloak, was currently in the throes of battle with one of the mindless spiked creatures, of all things.

The shadow creeper, completely oblivious of its current situation, merely sits there unmoving. However, its impenetrable shell seemed to be giving the other bug some trouble, who was unable to pierce it, try as it desperately might.

(Meanwhile, the Nailmaster amuses himself by noting that the size difference between the two was almost negligible.)

After a moment, Oro then notices (how could he have missed it?) the bulbous orange sack resting atop the bug’s horned head. It appeared quite heavy, weighing the bug down as it was forced to stagger and stoop.

(It is with growing horror that he realizes the orange membrane was not merely resting on top of the bug’s head, but rather emerging from inside of it.)

Mouthless, the bug of Hallownest howls and howls, mad with fear. Its puppetlike movements are crazed yet becoming increasingly sluggish, swinging and beating uselessly against the shadow creeper like a child who had just picked up a nail for the first time.

“Oro, you oaf,” Master Sly chastises from deep inside an unbidden memory. “You wield your nail like a club.”

There is a sickening crunch as Oro steps forward and drives his broad nail through the paper shell of the small creeper with ease. A weighted silence follows as the wind holds its breath.

Warily, Oro pulls his nails back and straightens, staring down at the other bug. He waits expectantly for it to speak, to thank him profusely, even offer Geo for his trouble (alright, that was pushing it).

It’s a small yet solid thing, thin limbs trembling from exertion as it stares expressionlessly up at Oro, two empty eyes that held nothing within. It seemed barely capable of even holding its nail. Oro is merely impressed that the creature hasn't yet collapsed.

If this was a bug of Hallownest, it was unlike any other he had ever seen before. From above, Oro could see thick cracks in the face of its shell, the orange burden it carried oozing thick liquid out of every crevice. He might have even pitied it, if pity were not a waste of time.

“Well?” Oro demands impatiently, clear voice cutting swiftly through the sickly air. “Speak up, then. Aren’t you going to thank your savior? You certainly possess the voice for it, noisy thing.”

The bug stiffens, head sagging to the side due to the sheer weight on its head. With a sudden cry, it hefts its nail into the air and attempts to bring the blade down upon Oro’s face, the highest point it could reach.

His body hardly moves as he expertly brings the flat of his broad nail down upon the bug’s head, striking the orange membrane, which weakly deflates like a vile balloon. The bug immediately collapses backwards onto the ground, dust rising to catch its fall.

“Hmph. Ungrateful grub,” Oro mutters critically.

Truthfully, he does not know why he didn’t just slay it out of mercy. As he walks away, he finds himself hesitating. Oro turns back to the bug, unsure of his intentions, but then freezes.

His helpless eyes can only watch as tiny orange seed-like creatures spill from the orange sack, squeaking and stumbling, blindly fleeing into cracks in the rock walls. The head of the bug is quickly emptied, leaving behind a broken shell that looked almost… hollow. 

It seemed, then, that the repulsive things were a cluster of parasites forming a single mass with the bug as their vessel. Without them, the bug looked smaller than before. Almost dead. Perhaps left without even a life or will of its own.

With a grunt, Oro startles backward as the vessel’s eyes stare up at him. Achingly slow, it raises its broken, unburdened head, reaching weakly for him before its head hits the dirt. Unconscious, its small chest rises and falls, nearly invisible to Oro’s eye.

He is unwillingly reminded of the corpse he’d left behind in the kingdom’s edge, the one lying dead in front of his door, frozen hand reaching for a savior that would never come. Oro looks around, spotting the glow of the seed creatures lingering in the walls, perhaps waiting for a chance to infect the hollow bug once more. Cruel it might be, then, to leave the body where it lay, but Oro has never once claimed to be otherwise. 

He sighs. Why is it always the destitute that come to him for pity?

“You had better be carrying Geo in your cloak, or I’ll drop you in the pit,” Oro threatens the prone vessel.

Of course, he is no honorless thief. Only the very lowest of bugs looted from the sick or the dead.

Grumbling, he gathers the strange bug and its unremarkable nail, both weighing less than his own rather more impressive weapon. He hopes very hard that no creature with a mind is around to see him cradling this creature as though it were his child. 

The return flight over the sea of spikes is swift, as Oro’s wings grow used to being used once more. Once safely on the other side, blessedly free of sickly orange monstrosities, Oro dumps the body and its nail on the ground, a little more harshly than he intends.

“There. Perhaps you’ll be safe here… or, perhaps not,” he sneers at the unconscious vessel. He was beginning to regret doing this; charity always left a bad taste in his mouth. “Regardless, your fate is your own, now.”

Good riddance.

With that, Oro leaves in the direction he’d come, intending to think not on the previous events a single second longer. The echoes of howling, long since silenced, rest heavily on the abated wind. Like a stale breath in the mouth of a dead creature.

He finds his sack and rolled-up pallet where he’d left them. While eating and outfitting himself, Oro comes to a reluctant decision. Relatively peaceful as these ancient caverns seemed, it appeared there were nasty surprises hiding deep within unexpected places, and he would be loath to discover creatures bigger and more skilled in combat than that broken vessel had been. Not that any beast or warrior alike could hope to face a Nailmaster and triumph.

(Those engorged cells pulsing in every crevice as if alive, bright orange roots growing like weeds, odd seed creatures without mouths or eyes, scurrying out of the empty head of that vessel… such things frightening and familiar, perhaps, is what truly scared him. Things a nail alone could not defeat.)

It would seem, then, that a long and disappointing journey home awaited him.

He travels dourly to the awaiting lamppost, makes his bed in a hollow shell, attempting to meditate out of obligation and failing out of routine. Memories of shrieks and howls nestle inside his shell as empty eyes watch him in the dark. Oro sleeps, for once, without a light in his dreams.

✦ ✦ ✦

Of course, when one carries leaking honey, then pests are certain to follow.

(One of the Master Sly’s many, frequently repeated wisdoms. In truth, the fly was probably just fed up with the three brothers making a mess of their food as children. How sweet memories tasted bitter on the tongue of the mind.)

On his journey home, Oro notices that one of the honey jars he carried was leaking from a loose cap at the same time that he realizes that he is being followed.

Cursing under his breath at the sticky stain on his cloak, his eyes follow the thick trails of brown honey underfoot. Something moves in the corner of his eye, and Oro narrowly sees the white face duck behind a cliff not ten strides away.

Irritation forgotten, the tip of his nail strikes the armored ground. He stands to his full height, looming over every creature he might meet, and his short horns almost touch the low tunnel ceiling. The only noises come from the boiling acid pools hissing somewhere nearby, calling creatures to swim in their depths.

He has no confusion about whether a bug or beast stalked him as silently as a ghost, for Oro knew that face well. It had only been a day, after all, since he’d carried that broken vessel from its fate and left it behind for another.

(How was it possible that it survived? From the splitting open of its infected head, to the brokenness of its shell; it was any wonder that creature could move, let alone walk. It was almost admirable. If sheer desperation could be called as such.)

For a long time, the world is motionless. Oro is forced to sheathe his nail and resume walking, leaving his back left unguarded, but he isn’t fearful. This land was merciless to any who weren’t familiar with all its various deadly offerings. This is the card he will play.

Want a rematch, do you? Oro thought smugly. Or do you believe yourself a hunter stalking its stupid, oblivious prey? Well, you’ll have to survive this place first.

With a sudden burst of energy, Oro increases his speed tenfold. He climbs smooth cliffs that possessed little footholds, hopping across acid pools on small stones where one misstep meant death, dodging flying orange acid and swaths of needle-like legs above his head, all while maintaining a relentless stag’s pace.

Finally, finally, he stops. Breath and wind wrestling heavily inside of his chest, Oro stands at the mouth of a familiar cavern, his hut nestled at the bottom of the slope. For some moments, he waits for his blood to cool, but there is no sign of his little stalker anywhere, having certainly met its death without Oro having to raise his nail. He allows himself a little triumph, congratulating himself on his cleverness.

Weary of running and of pointless adventuring, Oro forgets all about the corpse at his door and his promise to it. It doesn’t help that the body is gone with hardly a trace, shield and all. He enters his lonely hut, falling into the embrace of the welcoming heat and lovely darkness of his home. In a moment, he will heat up a bitter hopper draught and dine on its flesh. He almost finds himself looking forward to it.

“Shame. You were gone for so long, I thought you had died,” croaks a small, nasally voice from the corner of the room. “Welcome home, Nailmaster Mato.”

Oro, currently in the middle of unholstering his nail, promptly drops it. The weapon falls heavily on a small purple vase and breaks it, trinkets spilling onto the floor. A high-pitched ringing fills the room, his ears.

“That is, if you could call this paltry fortress a house,” the weak voice adds in an afterthought as the ringing dissipates. Oro can see the figure under the blankets of his bed on the floor, a hooded head the only visible part of him.

In his house. In his bed.

His anger, a boiling tidal wave, rises into his throat all at once. His mind grapples between shock and confusion as he processes the situation with the speed of a fly in honey; he can only focus on the bug’s mocking words.

“You…” Oro glowers with poison in his voice, a rumbling earthquake threatening to splinter the floor. “You. What… did you just call me?”

“Ah, yes. I suppose I thought you a Nailmaster. You know, with your oversized nail and monkish clothing,” the bug answers, quick wit and poison to match. He pauses to choke wetly into his fists, sounding as if blood was in his lungs. “M-my sincerest apologies.”

“My name is not Mato,” Oro snaps (as for some reason, this is what offends him most). He picks up his nail from the floor and points it at the bug across the room. “And as for you… you have ten seconds to get out of my house before I use this.”

“Do you even know how to, you big brute?” the bug mocks, but the fear in his face betrays him. His dark face is pale, and Oro can see that he’s trembling, but perhaps for another reason. An image flashes unbidden in his mind of a frozen, twisted corpse with its chest broken, armor dark with blood; apparently not a corpse after all. However, it could certainly still be arranged.

“Seven seconds,” Oro sneers, moving a few steps closer. Without breaking eye contact, the bug’s tiny, frail hands start to scratch wildly at the floor, presumably for his shield, which lay just out of reach. Oro wonders how this fool bug thought it would save him.

“Four seconds. Any final clever words?” he says darkly at the bug’s panicked silence. “You certainly had plenty of them to say not moments ago.”

Oro moves, and then stops, standing at the foot of his bed and looming over the intruder, who was struggling to sit up. Blankets fall from his chest to reveal loose bandages; apparently the scavenger helped himself while he was in here. Probably wasted no time in rifling through Oro’s possessions—in fact, it was probably how he learned the name ‘Mato’, from the portrait miniatures of his brothers buried somewhere in the room. This angers him most of all.

The ten seconds are long since up. Oro stands over the prone bug, taking advantage of his sheer size and frightening figure. He lazily passes his nail from hand to hand, leaning on it in a way that would make the Great Nailsage pinch his arm.

In truth, he’s uncertain if he intends to use it.

“Well? Aren’t you even going to beg for your life?” Oro demands at the bug’s stunned silence. “You must not value your life, if you haven't even thought to offer me money.” 

“I’ll pay you. G-geo,” the bug says immediately, gritting his teeth; a drop of blood trickles down his chin.

“Hmph. You have no money,” Oro replies with a cruel half-smile; he doesn’t need to check to know it’s true. Momentarily stunned, the bug heaves a labored breath, choking. No doubt trying to get Oro to pity him.

“I… I cannot get up,” the bug admits with a whisper, to which the other scoffs.

“If you were capable of dragging yourself from the acid pits to dirty my bed, surely you can make it outside before dying,” the Nailmaster reasons.

“If you’re strong, you’ll survive,” said Master Sly, and it was true. If you’re strong, you’ll survive, and it was true, until strength no longer mattered.

Once more, the previously arrogant bug had nothing to say. Rolling his eyes, Oro sheathes his nail. Before the bug can react, he picks him up by the scruff of his hood and starts to carry him gingerly towards the door, away from his body as if he were holding a gross piece of trash.

“Okay! Okay! I’m sorry I insulted you! You left me there to die!” the bug howls. He struggles with every last scrap of strength he possessed, but only manages to ruffle Oro’s cloak with blunt claws. “Fine! Nailmaster! Nailmaster Sheo!”

“Wrong again.” Oro takes his heart and beats his pity with it. If only he was Sheo, or Mato. They two would have certainly spared this miserable wretch, their hearts bleeding onto the floor.

“Wha– all three of you look the blasted same!” the bug wheezes, face pinching with a comical frustration. Finally, he ceases to struggle and grips his claws around the Nailmaster’s arms.

“Should have peered closer, then.” 

Oro opens the front door one-handed. The light from outside bathes them both in a pale light, and the touch of a frigid wind makes the bug dangling in his hand go still. In the far distance, predators hover and dance, burning eyes forever hungry.

He extends his arm, holding the bug out of his door above the frozen ground. He cannot tell which one of them is making the other tremble. The small bug slumps; his hands on Oro arms loosen their grip as a tear spills down his face in a pathetic display. The Nailmaster cannot believe he had once thought this one a warrior.

“Oro,” the bug whispers, eyes vacant, all fight gone. “Don’t leave me here to die. Not again.”

He stops.

“Oro,” Esmy whispered, eyes burning, all hope gone. “Don’t kill me here. Not where your brothers can see.”

What a monster he’d become. No better than the mindless, loveless vermin skulking around, hungry only for Geo and blood. It is no wonder that his brothers hate him, that Sly thought him unworthy.

Oro sighs.

“Don’t get blood on the floor, or I’ll make your shield into your headstone,” he threatens, and before he can stop himself, turns and drops the sputtering Fool onto the floor of his hut.

Without going inside, he shuts the door, shutting himself out.

Oro is suddenly overcome with tiredness, as if he were an old man without an ounce of strength left. He drags himself onto the bench next to the door with a great heaving of his chest, putting his chin in his hand and staring at the falling ash with misery, the occasional faraway corpse (falling and falling—would ever it end?).

Over some minutes, the wind blows a pale fog into the cavern (probably from the city) obscuring everything in the distance from view. Burning eyes danced and danced in endless motion, never needing to rest, their bodies forever asleep.

From the fog, a small, cloaked figure approaches. Ironically, its lack of a face rendered it quite unmistakable.

Oro watches with some trepidation as the broken vessel drags itself to where he sat, staggering and stumbling as if drunk, a dripping nail clutched in its trembling hands. His own nail sat in his hut where the Fool was. Oro made no move to get up and retrieve it.

(Even when far away, it never breaks eye contact, which admittedly unsettles him just a bit.)

The long, dark tendrils of its cloak drag along dirty ash as it stumbles towards Oro, stopping just short of nail reach, which greatly surprises him. For a long moment, they stare warily at each other, the vessel swaying on its feet.

(He does not know for what it waits for; has he not already given it enough?)

Finally, having grown fairly uncomfortable, Oro speaks.

“You are quite brave, to follow me all the way here where the world ends,” he remarks dryly. He is now satisfied that this creature does not appear to want to attack him. “Or perhaps just stupid.”

“Bravery, determination…” Master Sly said. “These are just more words for stubbornness, something you have in abundance.”

“Too much rigidity, and even the strongest blade breaks,” he added. “Learn to bend once in a while, you oaf.”

The broken vessel bends sideways to look up at Oro with its curiously empty eyes, and the deep, jagged hole in its hollow head makes his face twinge in sympathy. It was a difficult thing to look at, but he can’t make himself look away. Not for a second time.

He tries again.

“From where did you get that dirty old nail, little grub? Stolen from a corpse, perhaps? I’ll inform you that I do not tolerate thieves in my domain, not even those who steal honorlessly from the dead.”

Then, in a motion that makes Oro tense, the vessel holds up one small hand, palm-up, to reveal a glistening handful of what he immediately recognizes as honey. This mad creature must have gathered it from the ground, where it had fallen from Oro’s back. (Perhaps it had gotten its nail in a similar manner.)

For a time, Oro can only sit there in shock. Then, he laughs. Quiet at first, then louder still. It is not a noise he has made in a long, long time. The very action practically cracks open his stiff chest.

The vessel mirrors him soundlessly, bobbing its head, horns tall and split (so unlike any bug he’d ever seen). Oro wonders where its howling voice has gone; left behind in the sickly caverns, perhaps.

“You’re going to need much more of that honey,” Oro hisses, unable to help himself, “to pay off the debt you owe me.”

Why is it always the poor that decide to stay? 

In his mind, he ruminates over where in his hut he stores his medicine, bandages.

✦ ✦ ✦

The world grows colder, the seasons changing (down here, such a thing did so very, very slowly, but change it did all the same). Oro possessed limited knowledge of the traditions and holidays celebrated by the bugs of Hallownest (as Sly was not born here, he did not pass them down to Oro and his brothers), but he does recall a popular one that occurred in the rare cold season. (All Soul’s Eve. Wyrmnalia. What ridiculous names.)

In his hut, Oro wraps the broken vessel’s head in bandages, over the gaping, bloodless hole. He’s uncertain if it will have any positive effect, but it was better than accidentally staring down into the creature’s unsettling… hollowness.

All the while, the broken vessel sits motionless, placid, amenable to every of Oro’s motions (he tries not to be rough when touching the creature’s broken parts, but gentleness does not come to him naturally). Additionally, it seems to respond more often to his tone rather than his language itself, which makes Oro wonder if the creature even understood him.

“I think,” Oro ruminates as he rolls up unused bandages, sitting cross-legged on the floor, the broken vessel mirroring him, “that I shall call you Howl.”

Never feed vermin, and most important of all, never give one a name, unless you want them to follow you around begging for scraps for as long as you live.

The vessel—Howl—acknowledges him, but otherwise doesn’t react. A fitting name for one so earth-shakingly loud, though Oro much appreciates its newfound, if not unsettling silence (he wonders deeply on this sudden change).

If the vessel had its own name, it does not share it.

Across the room, Tiso (a name Oro by contrast had unwillingly learned; he believed ‘Fool’ suited him better) scoffs quietly, running his hand over fresh bandages wound tightly over his shell. His other rested protectively over his shield, tapping and tapping. Despite losing his body’s weight in blood and nearly freezing to death, the fool seemed to possess endless energy, and never stopped moving, not even when asleep.

“Is that pale thing your pet, then? A true warrior does not waste time doting on the lesser, you know,” Tiso smirks, though he sounds hoarse. How quickly his arrogant personality was restored now that he was back in a warm bed instead of the cold where he belonged.

Ignoring him, Oro ruminates shamefully over their delicate encounter not long ago. Tiso─less prideful than Oro but no less arrogant for it─has since been taking full advantage of this. 

When no one pays him any attention, Tiso sighs loudly into the heavy silence, and the sound grates into Oro’s skull. Hardly a day later and he is already beginning to regret his choice to grant free shelter to the noisy, ungrateful bug.

Perhaps worst of all, was Tiso’s endless, unrelenting questions.

“Are Mato and Sheo your brothers, then?” he tended to remark out of the blue, when Oro least expected it. “Where are they? Do they claim to be Nailmasters as you do? I’d once believed there to be no great warriors left in this decaying burrow, and I’d be eager to be proven wrong. Though few could truly challenge me.”

After days of not sleeping, he is pulled from an uneasy, lulled meditation, opening one eye to glare at Tiso. It appeared that the stronger Tiso grew, the more questions he tended to ask.

In another corner atop a pile of Oro’s cloak rested Howl, who perhaps was sleeping (he couldn’t quite tell). It was still too soon to tell if the little creature was responding to the medicine, the bandages. At the very least, it no longer staggered as it walked.

At first, Oro ignores Tiso, which proves to be a mistake, as Tiso takes it up as an invitation to talk all the more.

“Hey, brute,” Tiso insists. “I’ve grown weary of lying here day after day, drinking nothing but disgusting blood and medicine draught. This dull serenity is driving me mad, and neither you nor the squib make for anything resembling decent conversation. You claim to be a warrior, yet I have never witnessed your supposed skill with a nail. When I can stand, you should spar with me, so that I may rebuild my strength and return to the Coliseum. This time, when I emerge victorious. I may even consider sparing you a miserable cent.”

At these mad words, Oro breaks his own muteness, utter disbelief tightening his throat.

“You truly are a fool,” he scoffs angrily, unable to believe the sheer stupidity he was hearing, “if you have learned nothing from this ordeal. I have allowed you to bring yourself back from the brink of death, and already you are clamoring to undo my hard work. Of which, may I remind you, you have not once compensated me for,” he adds.

Unmoved, Tiso has the gall to roll his pale eyes.

“Indeed, because pouring a disgusting draught down my throat and spooling paper around my body is such a difficult, heroic task,” he speaks sarcastically, but he looks away from Oro’s withering gaze with a frown.

When he has the strength to do so, Tiso begins to rifle through Oro’s things (though he did not possess much) without so much as a request for permission, unashamed as he did so.

Surprising himself, Oro does not stop him, though he watches the bug’s movements extremely carefully. Tiso runs his probing fingers over various trinkets, old weapons. Though they are far and few in between, his hands linger the longest over pictures of his brothers, or Sly. However, he does not interfere, as it is in these moments that Tiso is blessedly silent.

Except for the times he isn’t.

“I have abandoned my own family, too, you know,” Tiso remarks out of the blue, almost casually, but a waver in his voice betrays him. “And my family, in turn, has abandoned me. However, I often find myself grateful, having become all the stronger because of it.”

Oro immediately stills, busy unwrapping bandages from Howl’s head. The vessel in question sits between his legs and plays happily with a small trinket (at least, as happily as it seemed capable of being).

He debates ignoring Tiso, or denying the implication of the bug’s annoyingly insightful words. In truth, he does not desire either of these things.

It takes an age, but finally, Oro speaks.

“I do not forgive, and I do not forget,” he says firmly, words flowing steadily like blood from a wound. “Those who betray you do not change either way. Better to harden your heart and trust only your own company. That is from where my strength comes.”

Tiso’s expression grows intensely amused at Oro’s weighted words.

“Finally, a genuine reaction from underneath that cold, unbreakable shell! And more than three words at a time, no less,” he teases, grinning widely. “I was starting to think you a mere half-witted brute after all.”

Oro glowers at the bug, secretly offended, and from then on resolves to say nothing so personal ever again.

“The week almost reaches its end, and you seem almost entirely healed,” Oro changes the subject with a threatening voice tone. “Practically fit to once again reenter the wasteland on your own, I daresay.”

“Ehh. You have sensitive inner flesh, for so hard a shell,” Tiso sneers, proving once again to be unexpectedly good at reading Oro’s tones and expressions. However, he meekly waits at least another hour before attempting to insult Oro again. Almost a new record.

In the meantime, Oro takes it upon himself to train the strengthening vessel, without exacting a payment, no less (at least a little bit; he hasn’t yet stooped low enough to be that generous). He recalls the vessel’s pitiful, frankly atrocious form in the ancient caverns, no doubt having received no training at all. It would be a gross disrespect of his teachings to neglect this.

And so, Oro brings Howl to the scarcely-visited back of his hut where a training dummy forlornly stood in a small, empty cavern. It's dressed in pale ruby clothes—the color of a Nailmaster—in a painful reminder of Oro’s own debt, the battle he has yet to confront. From the day he created it, Oro has yet to bring his nail down upon it. He would never admit it, but without Howl, he would never have mustered the courage to even venture back here once again.

“First. Let me be reminded of your capabilities, before I may teach you my own,” he instructs Howl, settling cross-legged on the ground nearby. “By the end of the day, I want you to strike the dummy until it falls.”

In its own way, the vessel appears to accept Oro’s instructions. Gripping its nail with two hands, Howl throws the weapon backwards and strikes the ground behind it, before bringing the weapon down in a swift arch, hitting the dummy squarely in the face.

The dummy barely twitches.

Despite himself, Oro chuckles, reminded of himself as a child in his early days, clumsily swinging a nail he could scarcely carry. He forces his smile from his face when Tiso (comically swimming in one of Oro’s spare cloaks and still shivering despite it) emerges from the hut to join them. He does not protest, however, being pleased to observe the bug’s ability to walk was growing stronger every day.

Howl turns its drooping, bandaged head to look at the Nailmaster, seemingly uncertain. Already, dozens of harsh criticisms rest under his tongue, all assuming the tone of Sly, but Oro bites his sharp tongue. Instead, he stands.

“Hmph. Here, allow me to demonstrate proper form,” he informs the vessel.

First, he bows deeply to the dummy, emphasizing respect for the opponent. (When Tiso does not laugh, Oro glances at him, and sees the bug engrossed in a stone journal of some kind, unusually oblivious to the world.) When he straightens, the dummy’s dead eyes stare unblinkingly into his, and Oro tries very hard not to imagine Mato standing before him.

Then, taking a step back, he rushes forward with blinding speed, swinging his nail in a powerful horizontal arch that cuts through the very air itself. The dummy slams backwards against the ground before springing back to a standing position, its eyes trained upon Oro’s.

“My signature Nail Art, the dash slash,” Oro informs Howl with grave pride, of whom stands in attention, face intently following Oro’s nail. “Its strength lies in precision and proper form, swift speed followed by a powerful stroke. Let not your feelings become heavier than your own nail, lest you be too weak to wield it,” he adds in an afterthought.

From the ground, Tiso scoffs loudly, to which Oro glares at him, confused. However, the bug doesn’t look up from his tablet; Oro wonders what the Fool is so intently reading, but doesn’t sink so low as to betray his curiosity.

“Ehh. On the contrary,” Tiso snidely remarks, “it is from our feelings that we draw our greatest strength. The will to succeed, the desire for greatness, for glory...! If you imagine your every opponent to be your greatest enemy, only then you may muster the strength to cut down each and every one.”

It isn’t the first time Oro has heard this idea. However, by contrast, Mato tended to be less arrogant and rather more sentimental in his naive convictions.

“Emotion is an unreliable flame, and rage especially is short-lived and energy consuming,” Oro coldly argues; it isn’t for the first time that he says these words. “Strong emotions may foster a temporary increase in strength, but also inner weaknesses. In short, you become sloppy, and predictable.”

Of course, by saying so, Oro falls into Tiso’s trap.

“Prove it, then, O Great and Powerful Nailmaster,” Tiso cries eagerly, seemingly forgetting the cold as he stands and stares intensely at Oro. “Prove that your words are truer than mine by fighting me, and we will finally see who is the greater warrior!”

The Nailmaster grimaces, noticing, for the first time, an unusual strain in Tiso’s voice, as if he were sick. When he doesn’t reply, the bug attempts to goad Oro even further.

“Who knows, it may even be I who is worthier as a teacher for this pale grub,” he leeringly boasts. “Tell me, oaf. Are you frightened of me?”

Howl looks between the two with seeming uncertainty, wringing its cloak in its hands.

It is then that Oro finally sees the burning glint in Tiso’s eyes, the wavering of his body, the slight slur of his speech. No wonder Tiso was acting as cruelly as when he’d first invaded Oro’s hut; he was clearly drunk, driven mad from sleeplessness.

They never discussed it, but Oro knew Tiso suffered from his dreams as he did, laid awake at night as he did. Perhaps they feared the same terrible light on their mind’s horizons, whispering, shouting, pleading, weeping, commanding them to listen.

However, the rather less disciplined Tiso seemed to be cracking under the strain considerably worse than Oro was. And now he was spiraling out of control.

“Come, Howl,” Oro says quietly to the vessel, bidding it to follow. “That’s enough for today. We shall resume this lesson tomorrow.”

In the corner of the Nailmaster’s eye, he sees Tiso’s body flail as he brandishes something in his hands; a stone journal. Suddenly, Tiso’s nasally voice fills the cavern. 

“Ahem! What place is there for us in the world, us defects and disappointments?” he loudly begins, in a clear mockery of Oro’s voice. He realizes with a chill in his blood what exact journal Tiso read from.

“Those of us abandoned ones, we are not fit to sit among the glorious on their Patheon, so we must either wander or hide where none may discover our sheer unworthiness. Maybe it’s fate I have resigned myself to, maybe it’s something else inside of me. Either way, I am content to live alone among corpses and vermin. In this grave, I can be just another ghost, scattered into pieces by the decaying wind…!”

“Are you quite finished?” Oro utters lowly, trembling in shame at hearing his deepest, most private thoughts read aloud to him. Somehow, Tiso must have dug up his old journal, authored back when the Nailmaster had first resigned himself to a life of lonely, bitter solitude.

However, it is a sharp betrayal Oro hadn’t expected, not from one he had slowly been considering almost resembling a friend.

Breathe, he commands himself, gut twisting with miserable rage. Do not kill him. Not in front of the little one.

Then, Oro makes a grave mistake. Instead of confronting Tiso at the height of his madness, he chooses instead to walk away, intending to deprive the bug of the attention Oro knew he internally craved.

However, instead of ceasing as expected, Tiso’s voice rises to a shout, shrill and desperate, pure of madness.

“What can one do with all this sadness!?” he shrieks, growing increasingly frenzied. “You cannot kill it, starve it, or make it bleed! You can only gather your sadness in your chest, and try to keep it warm despite the cold shell you carry around! DO NOT HEED THE DEAD, for they are COWARDS! They will grant you no favors, only burdens! Better to cut them from memory just as you cut the life from their body–!”

Tiso’s voice cuts off sharply as Oro brings the flat of his blade down upon his head. The Fool immediately collapses. The cave echoes long after the screaming stops.

And then…

“Please, help me…” came a small voice from inside of Tiso’s body, one that did not quite belong to him. “The light… it won’t leave me alone...”

Tiso stops moving. Stops breathing. Dead.

Breathing. Knocked out. Breathing.

Not dead, not dead. 

For the longest moment, Oro stands there, head bowed and breath heaving as though he’d just ran to the city and back.

He tries not to let Howl see the tears on his face, revealing the weaknesses hidden deep inside of his brittle shell, all his miserable guilt and cowardly shame. But when a tiny hand touches his own, it is all he can do to look down upon the empty face of a small, broken creature, and see a flicker of something reflecting back.

The wind blew. The ghosts did not. The wind blew. It was all any of them could do.

“We…” Oro breathes.  “We must leave this cursed place. The very air is driving us all mad. To where, I do not know. Before we each lose ourselves forever and can never come back. I do not know.”

He does not know where Sheo lives, or else he may have never considered his next actions. In his mind, an image of a lonely hut among great cliffs, far away at the top of the world. Oro would rather die than travel to that place. But it is a trade he might be willing to make, for the sake of the broken and dying vagrants he’d come to consider his friends.

To Mato’s hut, then.

✦ ✦ ✦

The ride to the surface is relatively uneventful. At first, Oro is nervous of his, well, size, but the old stag assures him that neither his height nor weight will slow him down.

“I carried the mighty Hegemol upon my back, once!” he groans happily. “Granted, the knee on my fourth leg has never been the same since, but…”

Regardless, as they race through the dark, low-ceilinged tunnels, Oro keeps his head down for fear of losing it.

At some point during their journey, the sack on Oro’s back begins to shift as an unconscious Tiso awakens, stuffed unceremoniously inside for convenience.

“Ehh… n-not these rattletrap creatures…” comes his nasally voice, a whisper in the roar. It startles Oro, who nearly thrusts his head into a stalactite. “A real warrior… c-carries himself to combat…”

How did he know they were…?

“Hmph. How interesting,” Oro says dully, staring ahead into darkness, “that you should recognize when you are traveling by stag, despite not seeing our surroundings. One may even believe… that you are familiar with these sounds, and the feeling of being carried upon a saddle.”

The Fool only groans, saying nothing. Soon, the sack ceases to move once more.

Settling into old habits of conversation that idled on companionable ribbing, Oro hesitates to bring up Tiso’s previous madness. Strong in his mind was the memory of his terrible words echoing the walls of the cave, as well as how Oro had dealt with him like a feral beast. He wonders if Tiso will even remember. He wishes he himself could forget.

Meanwhile, the little one, Howl, looked perfectly content upon the saddle of the stag, letting its head be pulled gently back and forth by the steady gait of their companion steed. It seems almost to be fatigued, but never quites succumbs to sleep. Oro closes his eyes, his thoughts abandoned in the tunnels behind them.

When they arrive, Oro dismounts, landing on the platform with the grace of a nauseous boulder. Uncertain if stags typically required payment, he bows deeply, resorting to flattery as a means of distraction. A favored method of Sly’s.

“Thank you deeply for your service, great stag,” Oro grovels (though he finds his words to be genuine). Next to him, the vessel bows as well, albeit sleepily. Its large head droops, nearly toppling its body into the platform before Oro snatches the scruff of its cloak.

The old stag stomps his myriad feet and bellows deeply in his throat, blowing air out of his great nose. Clearly unused to gratitude and attention.

“I will be here when you return, should you require my services once more,” the old stag rumbles happily. Then, he pauses, head tilted in thought.

“Be careful, friends. The surface world… its winds carry below a stench of flame. A smell… from nightmares.”

The stag shudders his great carapace, huffing and shaking his great horned head. Perhaps senile…?

“Watch over yourself, little one,” he rasps to an impassive Howl. Then, he sets about the arduous task of lowering his sizable body to the ground, no doubt with aging and aching limbs. (Oro could relate to this beast.)

On his back, Tiso moans, clawing weakly at Oro through the cloth of the sack. Above, a muffled but powerful wind calls to them, unrestrained by caverns and stone walls. 

Nearly there. There’s still time. To save us all.

On the lift up to the twilit entrance of the stag station, Oro debates taking the vessel’s hand to better keep track of the little vessel, who had a habit of wandering in inspection of random objects and creatures on the ground. He quickly dismisses the childish idea.

Oro has not been to the surface for a long time, but he still remembers its vast sempiternity, the moaning of the wind carrying the voices of those who had once dwelled there, as if to ask where they all went. And receiving no answer.

They emerge from the dimly lit stag station to the full, radiant light of a single lamppost, and are temporarily blinded. Oro grimaces, and stumbles determinedly forward.

As they walk, they discover that more than a few of the abandoned houses are illuminated from inner lights and appear suspiciously well-kept. An iron bench sits invitingly underneath the very lamppost that blinded them from its sheer luminosity.

It’s far too open out here. Exposed, like a belly-up beast without a shell. Anyone and anything could approach from any direction, at any time. And they would be all the ignorant.

Oro glances down at Howl, who is walking with lurching strides to match Oro’s long strides, but despite this, falling increasingly behind. It appears for all the world uncaring, unafraid, as though the very ground weren’t on the verge of eating them alive. The Nailmaster notices that, along with its feet, it’s dragging its nail behind it, and the blunt tip scrapes along dirt and stone, weakening it.

“Pick up your nail when you carry it,” Oro snaps. “A warrior who profanes their weapon is as good as dead.”

He regrets his harsh words quickly. Fear and paranoia, and the anticipation of what (and who) awaited them twisted his tongue. The little vessel slumps, perhaps from being rebuked, perhaps from fatigue. (Maybe all three of them suffered sleeplessly from dreams. Regrettably, the Nailmaster had never once considered the vessel to be suffering the same as them.)

Oro sighs, caverns under his eyes, and stops walking. He kneels down, rocks grating against his knees. He takes the broken vessel’s meager weapon, and the creature only stares at him. He sheathes the metal toothpick next to his own weapon.

“Hmph. I will carry you on my shoulder… but only if you promise never to speak of it later,” Oro wryly says, half-smiling.

The vessel doesn’t move, looking expectantly at him. Oro has a vision of another slender figure looking up at him in the same way, enormous eyes filled to the brim with impossible expectations, waiting for a younger Oro to get on his knees so that he might climb his back.

(Sly always believed he was a better teacher when riding upon the shoulders of his much larger students, his advice and admonishments directly inside of the brothers’ ears as he clutched one of their horns, moving their heads as he pleased. Even now, Oro couldn’t claim to understand the Great Nailsage’s methods. Though, perhaps that is why he was Great.)

Howl is larger than Sly was, but nevertheless, it settles down into the thick shag of Oro’s cloak, legs on either side of his neck. Oro jumps when a cold, mouthless shell settles into the valley between his horns. He imagines the exhausted vessel feeling grateful relief, voicelessly praising him within its empty head. The Nailmaster grits his teeth as his horns bump against ones that weren’t his own.

Oro continues walking, burdening two creatures that most certainly were not going to compensate him for his trouble. He may as well become a stag, at this rate.

(As Oro passes one of the occupied houses—clearly a shop of some kind, given the signs—he believes he hears, for a moment, a familiar muttering of some voice he might have once known coming from somewhere inside. Advice and admonishments. The sweet tinkling of Geo against Geo.)

(Two more familiar voices join the first, and the sounds they made resemble laughter. The howling wind blows; the voices cease to exist. Oro continues walking, faster this time, and the tasteless air tastes bitter.)

The cliffs await them sleeplessly. Oro feels as though he were on the verge of collapse. He would never admit as such, but the combined weight of Howl, Tiso, and his heavy nail were not helping his exhaustion in the slightest.

Perhaps we can go back to the town, offer Geo for safety, a brief resting place, he thinks desperately. But his mind, although fraying, has yet to lose itself completely. He trusts nothing; not strange townspeople, not familiar voices, not his dreams. Besides, his cold Geo stones were better suited to keeping him warm from inside his pockets. The cliffs await.

At their backs, the little town of Dirtmouth stills and fades. Ahead of them, in the distance, there is fire, growing brighter the darker the endless cavern becomes.

One after the other, increasing in number, red flames emerge from the fog atop black poles, scarlet and twisting; somehow never snuffing out, despite the unyielding winds.

“Hmph. How truly lively this miserable little town has become,” he mutters sarcastically to himself.

At first, he thinks the torches invented in a delirious madness, until the gentle, haunting music fills the air. It emerges from inside large, pointed tents, mouths open in an eternal scream. At the entrance of the grandest tent, a pair of long-necked beasts in slitted masks kneel upon the ground, watching Oro alertly. They say nothing as he approaches; perhaps mindless, though their intense gazes seem intelligent.

A traveling circus? In this dying kingdom? Oro thinks derisively. As if a colosseum wasn’t enough.

Oro looks beyond the path where he knew impassable cliffs stood, knowing how to surmount them. But in the haze of the fog, he’s long lost track of how much farther he needs to go.

The scarlet flames of nearby lanterns crackle and spit; even from a distance, Oro can feel their warmth against his shell. The music slows his shallow breathing to a crawl as he becomes as weightless as air. Crimson eyes watch him in the darkness, but when he looks, there is only fire. 

Oro approaches the doorway of the grandest tent, and the house of madness invites him inside.

As he walks within, soft earth transforms into layers of fabrics atop the hard ground, causing his footing to waver. Soon, Tiso crawls out of the sack on his back and Howl from his shoulder, as silent as ghosts (though such creatures are the opposite of quiet). Together, the two abandon him to his fate.

When the whispering starts from behind heavy cloth walls, he does not draw his nail, for his limbs are frozen in raw terror, his chest bursting with caged laughter. The ground itself is alive, pulsing and pulsing under Oro’s feet, as though from the beat of some great heart.

The tunnel goes on, becoming darker all the time. The music grows thicker. The smoke grows louder. A voice, deep and lonely, sings lovely and low.

“He says that time is on our side

Another thousand beasts have died

Beside me”

Oro walks until the tunnel ends, and he reaches the familiar short cliffs of the kingdom’s edge, where the corpses fall from above like rain. His dread swells like the belly of a hopper filling with blood. He can see a body laying abandoned on a cliff nearby, different from all the rest. It is Tiso. Not merely dead. But rather left to die, by Oro.

“He says our lives will never end

Another thousand of my friends

Have left me”

Oro walks until the tunnel ends, and he reaches the familiar tight caverns of the ancient basin, where radiant sickness pulses in every corner. His dread swells like orange seeds in a throbbing membrane, filling the hollow, broken corpse of a bug lying nearby. It is Howl. Not merely dead. But rather left to die, by Oro.

“He says our dreams will endless flow

Another thousand lands to go

Ahead me”

“He says–” says the voice, deep and lonely, “that you’re early. Mrmm.”

At the end of the darkened tunnel, Oro stops. A broad, masked bug was standing nearby, squeezing and pulling a legged accordion from which music mournfully seeped. Close by, the outside world loomed beyond the tent’s open doorway, a draft blowing dust onto the patterned floor.

“Early for what?” Who says?

“The Master says, of course,” says the broad bug, squeezing and pulling. “I sense that you possess one as well. A master, that is. You will know why, then, you are early.”

“Early for what?” Oro insists. I once had a master. But no longer.

“No longer…?” says the broad bug. “You carry heavy burdens, then, for one who claims to be unchained. Heavy debts. For yourself? Or for others? Mrmm.”

“Early for what?” Oro shouts, but the bug does not hear him over the music.

The Nailmaster ponders drawing his great nail and intimidating this strange bug into telling him what exactly was going on, but his nail is heavy on his back, and his arms shake from the though. Most of all, he’s afraid, and deathly so. But of what, he does not know. It takes everything he has left inside of him just to keep moving forward.

The music continues (if Oro listens closely, he can hear the same notes played over and over in succession, in a song that never ends), and so does Oro, deeper and deeper into the tent.

Oro enters a crossroad, and his shadow becomes four.

“You have a lost, hardened look about you. The abandoned ones always do.”

It’s Sly. He’s young, and wears a pale ruby cloak over his tiny wings—the color of a Nailmaster. His brothers don’t know what to make of him. But Oro has eyes only for Sly’s shining nail, wider than his body by far. But only a fool would assume a bug’s strength based on their size. It is Oro’s second lesson, after loneliness. And after each, love.

Oro enters a green grove, and his shadow becomes three.

“This is not hatred. This is love left to rot.”

It’s Sheo. He’s the leader of the three (or so he used to claim), all because he can swing his nail in the exact ways that Sly loves best. He’s the most skilled, but he rejects power, throwing it away to seek purpose instead. When Sly resents Oro’s unworthiness and Mato deems Oro an enemy, Sheo is kind. But kind is all Sheo ever is. Within his brother’s heart, Oro does not know what feelings truly lie.

Oro enters an arena, and his shadow becomes two.

“See how I weep. Doesn't it remind you of home?”

It’s Mato. What he lacks in skill, he makes up for in emotions and a bleeding heart. In his lonely home at the top of the world, he’s been training endlessly, under the guise of mastering the Great Nailsage’s teachings. Oro wonders if Mato can harden his heart just enough to kill his brother when the training is done.

Meanwhile, Oro neglects his nail, abandoning himself. When the day comes and he loses to Mato, he will finally be worthy of something.

Oro enters a graveyard, and his shadow becomes nothing.

“Grief does not sleep. It does not laugh, it does not weep. Do not heed the dead, for ghosts are fools who wander the world in a dream, too cowardly to accept their own deaths. I will be no exception.”

It’s Esmy. Until it isn’t. Until it wasn’t. And none of them have ever been the same.

His path is his alone. For the first time, Oro knows where it leads.

✦ ✦ ✦

Someone is shaking him, rousing him from sleep. Oro wakes up with a groan as all the pain hits him at once, making him feel as though his body had been trampled underfoot of a stag.

“Hey, brute,” a nasally voice says. “For a supposed warrior, you sleep through every noise and snore loud enough to attract every predator’s attention. You must really want someone to stab you in your sleep.”

“Fool,” Oro breathes. He has never been so thankful to hear so grating a voice in his life.

He opens his eyes to see Tiso hovering over him. Something tender blooms inside his chest as the sight of the bug, alive and well. This quickly changes, of course, when Tiso starts poking Oro’s face, flaring pain in every touch. The Nailmaster hisses, batting away small hands.

He notices, then, the little vessel sitting nearby, looking at Oro. Not dead, either.

Oro laughs. It’s a quiet, broken thing, but sometimes that is the form happiness takes, and one can only accept it. Tiso stares at him as if he were mad.

He sits up. Looks around. The three of them are gathered in a small room with scarlet fabric walls, pillows of every shape and color piled on the floor. The ceiling of the tent sits low, which meant that the entrance was nearby, where they could continue their journey. But for now, it’s far too warm and comfortable to even consider the thought.

“What happened,” Oro questions quietly, and with a claw, plays with a long strand of Howl’s unusually dirt-free cloak. The vessel looks at him as it cradles a freshly-polished nail, empty expression somehow content.

“I’m uncertain of much,” Tiso admits, and his voice is steady. “I was asleep, yet… awake, in some horrible dream. You carried me and the pale one, until you came to this ghastly place and collapsed, like a stumbling oaf with his legs cut. It was a rather shameful display. Or so I can imagine. I was, of course, inside of the sack.”

Immediately collapsed…?

“What horrible dream, might I ask?” Oro presses, feeling ill enough to ask permission. Tiso looks as though he regrets bringing it up.

“A warrior does not whimper and quiver in his sleep,” Tiso sneers, but weakly so. At Oro’s silence, he looks away.

When Tiso speaks next, it is a testament to the stubborn, strange, foolish friendship they two unexpectedly share. 

“I was… back at the Colosseum, that most glorious of places. Fighting, of course, with the strength of one hundred warriors, as my kind are renowned for. Glory was becoming my very blood. And then…”

Tiso trails off, hugging his chest, fingers tapping where several thin scars wrapped around his armor, his chest. At his side, Tiso’s shield sits untouched as he rejects its comfort. Clearly, in the dream, such a mere thing did not save him.

“And then… it ends,” he whispers. “The weight of the world crushes me, and my broken body is thrown into the acid pits, abandoned to vermin. I die, and the world scarcely takes notice. I-I was laying on that cliff for so long. Until the world itself ended.”

The breath inside of Oro is still, and he cannot manage to rouse it, not even to offer words of any size and comfort.

A movement stirs the room, pillows shifting as Howl crawls to sit beside the Fool. Very slowly, as if in the presence of some skittish creature, it rests its head upon Tiso’s shoulder. Immediately, the Fool’s hackles rise as he jerks and sputters, appearing ready to throw the vessel off of him before he visibly forces himself to relax, quivering like grass in the wind. Oro lightly chuckles at the comical scene, and Tiso seems to remember something.

“I am sorry, you know,” Tiso bites suddenly (Oro takes a secret pleasure in the fact that those words seemed to cause him pain). “For– for my previous words, back in that ashen grave. I was a bit mad, I confess, and I… lost myself. I regret reading that journal to you. I do not even know for what reason that I did.”

Oro waves his hand, and although the bleeding does not stop, it is a near thing.

“Forgiven and forgotten,” he says, and he surprises himself by meaning it. “Though I, for one, do not regret the opportunity to shut you up with my nail.”

Tiso smiles, a sharp and crooked thing, and it is genuine.

The three sit in companionable silence, pain and relief, wounds coming to a close.

After a moment of idle staring, Oro notices, then, the fresh bandages wrapped around Howl’s head. The gray pinpricks where soot-covered claws touched the cloth. It’s a small detail, but the Nailmaster realizes with daunting terror that the three of them are very much not alone in this nightmarish place.

Oro struggles to get up, his shell aching.

Tiso easily stands, and the vessel after him. He walks to Oro (who dwarfs him even while kneeling) and offers his hand, pointedly refusing to meet the larger bug’s eyes. Oro makes an expression that some might claim to resemble a smile.

He takes his hand and, without actually borrowing Tiso’s strength, stands straight before he suddenly pulls the ornery bug into an embrace. Tiso is taken off guard for only a moment before he scowlingly pulls away, fingers tapping on air. For once, the bug has no words to offer.

“Onwards,” Oro says with conviction. He reaches down to take the vessel’s hand, his nail in the other. Together, the three of them duck warily under the doorway, nails and shield.

The hallway of the tent twists into several, shadows seeming to rearrange on a whim. Oro keeps a keen eye for the blue light of darkness, the scent of outside air, but every light he catches disappears into the flame of a lantern, every scent into the stench of smoke. 

It doesn’t take long before the three are lost. Throughout, none of them dare to speak, wary of things nearby that might be listening. 

Then, the blanketed ground changes to something more solid, more metal. The walls disappear, and the darkness stretches into everywhere.

“My friends,” says a voice from the shadows, and the very sound of it is Fire itself. “I bid you welcome to my stage.”

Startled, Oro nearly shouts when a being materializes without warning in a screech of smoke, almost as if from a dream. Hanging lanterns stutter to life, brilliant and blazing, and a vast stage is illuminated, rich velvet banners and carved horned pillars.

A slender, very abnormal looking creature observes them with an upturned head, a pair of bright, scarlet eyes and a cloak of ash-colored wings. (Perhaps most important, Oro notes, is how this bug is very tall, far more than himself.)

When the creature shifts to peer down at the vessel, Oro moves to stand protectively in front of Howl, hiding it from view with a sullen look.

“You,” Tiso hisses, shoulders raised. He reaches swiftly for his shield and brandishes it about as threatening as one could while holding a thin dinnerplate. “You…!”

“Peace, friends,” says the creature, holding up a blackened, long-fingered hand that shined with silver rings. “I am Grimm, master of this troupe. Welcome… to my most grand of stages, on the earth of this fallowed kingdom.”

He inclines his head as if to bow, but falls short.

Oro makes an expression of disdain, twitching to do the same, but refuses. What kind of master does not bow properly to its guests?

“Where is the exit to this blasted place?” he demands rudely, not bothering to introduce himself. Grimm seems to fade further into darkness.

“Everywhere, for some,” he crackles, in a changeless tone. “Others, however, are not so fortunate.”

“Cease your riddles, soothsayer,” Tiso snaps, brandishing his shield further before hesitating, peering around at every shadow. “What is this place, anyway? At first, I had thought this a house of paltry carnival spectacles, but…”

He taps the ground with his shield, a hollow drumming of shell against the maroon ground. It is decidedly not the ground of a mere tent; nor, for that matter, of Dirtmouth.

“This place… it holds the sacred motifs of the Arena. The ground tempered in blood, the iron claws hanging over the doors, the scent of excitement in the air…!”

Tiso closes his eyes and breathes deeply, as if reveling in the scene. Oro cannot tell if the Fool is excited or frightened. Perhaps both.

“Such as a flame changes shape, so too does the stage dance and bend, infinite in its purposes,” is all that Grimm offers. “The same could be said for dreams. Alas, my friends, you are early. For this, I offer my sincere apologies. It seems that our troupe has arrived in the throes of a local holiday, and our stage is temporarily fit for neither act nor audience.”

“Early…” Oro speaks up, growling. “Early for what?”

I sense that you possess one as well. A master, that is. You will know why, then, you are early.

He hefts his nail. This time, he does not intend to be ignored, dream or no. Tiso glances at him with trepidation, as though he were not eagerly trying to attack Grimm moments before.

“Why, Nailmaster Oro. For your grand spectacle, of course,” says Grimm, eyes glittering, and Oro growls, panic rising. “Your brother is nearby within the town, reveling along with the rest of your kin. Perhaps you sensed them… when you wandered uninvited into my dwelling. Although, I fault you not for this. The night is cold, and it is endless here.”

The nightmare... such things were woven into the very stitchings and fabrics of this veiled and shadowed place. Despite such terror, these bugs seemed free from madness, from the light of dreams. But of what cost?

“How– how do you know his name? How do you know any of this?” Tiso loudly demands. But his anger does not reach Oro, who merely stands there, dumbly suspended. One thousand thoughts manifesting at once.

“Mato… is outside?” he breathes to the twisted specter. Grimm hums quietly, and the sound roars in Oro’s ears.

“A true vendetta is a curious thing. It weighs heavily, yet nothing at all, tangible on one’s very shell, and acrid on the nose. And a fine burden to relinquish, in glory… or in blood. The stage is set, my friend. You need only enter it, and take your place among the dancing revelers.”

Oro doesn’t understand at first, what Grimm is offering him. Even when he does, he still doesn’t understand why.

“And what exactly will you be getting from this? If I were to accept this offer? ” Oro asks. “I… cannot fathom...”

An intuition told Oro that this creature was beyond the sanctity of Geo.

“Time,” Grimm says simply, “of a very certain kind. And as for my kin… a ‘paltry carnival spectacle’.” At his last words, he gazes pointedly at Tiso, though his air is humorous.

Oro suspects that Grimm is not telling the entire truth.

“My dear Nailmaster,” he says with an air of finality, staring straight through Oro. “A parting thought for you. Go be with those who love you. Who’d mourn you. Do so while there is still yet time.”

At Oro’s stunned, confused silence, Grimm folds his hands and speaks again, sounding politely regretful.

“Alas, there are preparations to do, and my dreams await. Brumm, minstrel of this dread troupe, will show you the way to the outside world.”

Grimm bows to them, properly this time, wings raised and folded. When he stands, his eyes fix upon the vessel standing behind Oro’s back, and he does not look away. 

“Until our next meeting.”

With a hiss of flame, he twists into a cloud of fading scarlet smoke; the stage lights and lantern fire die in unison. 

Meanwhile, Oro is numb. His two small friends watch him, one wordlessly, the other voiceless. The minstrel, Brumm, silently awaits them at the edge of the stage, staring and staring. He holds a long torch, and a many-legged accordion hangs idly from his back.

Oro recognizes this bug, immediately, as the one from his nightmare. He prepares to confront him, but Brumm doesn’t spare the Nailmaster a single glance; instead, he looks only to Howl, and Oro falters.

“...Hrmm. Your fresh bindings. Do they still wrap comfortably around your head?”

The vessel stares up at Brumm, and its shell bathes in red in the light of the minstrel’s small flame.

“Good, good. My techniques are still worthy,” Brumm drones. He pauses, but says nothing more, leading the three out of veils and shrouds. Somehow, it only seems to take a few turns before bitterly chilly air fills Oro’s lungs once again. As they stand in the gaping maw of the entrance, Brumm appears again to hesitate.

“Yes?” Tiso sighs petulantly. “Speak, then, before we perish from the cold.” The bug immediately looks down upon Howl. He kneels in front of the small vessel, puppetlike in his movements, but his air is warm and sincere.

“Remember this, discarded one. You will never heal back the part of you that is lost. But that does not mean you cannot still become whole again. Hrmm.”

And then he is gone, and in the distance, an eerie melody resumes its haunting song.  Oro isn’t entirely sure that it ever stopped.

On their slow, wary way back to Dirtmouth, Tiso is the first to break the silence.

“So, Oro…” he sneers playfully, though his tone is tired. “Next time, when you drag me half-mad into a nest of freakish creatures, do so in a different tent. Especially if you plan on slumbering. Or I really will stab you in your sleep.”

In the corner of his eye, he sees the Fool look hopefully up at him, clearly expectant of a smile or any sign of good humor. But Oro is as far from laughter as he is from his house at the edge of the kingdom. He does not even muster a grunt.

The three of them walk in silence again, for a time. It is not something Tiso easily tolerates.

“So…” he remarks. “Your brothers. The two Nailmasters, I presume? That ghoulish creature remarked that they were here, together, celebrating one of this kingdom’s quaint little holidays. He then offered you precious use of his arena. I can only imagine these things to be connected.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Oro intones dully, eyes never leaving the road. Tiso pauses to think.

“A real warrior,” he begins, and Oro internally groans, “does not hesitate to confront the battles that lie ahead. No matter how long the road, or frightening the prospect. And brothers die by the nail just as easily as any other,” he adds.

It is Tiso’s way of offering comfort, Oro knows. But that doesn’t stop the anger from swelling.

“You are full of strange notions of what makes a warrior, despite not being much of one yourself,” Oro replies with vitriol. “Your death would have been a testament to that.”

Tiso’s face falls, and hardens.

As always when Oro says things he regrets, his heart trickles with blood, another wound discarded onto the pile. He wonders of bugs whose shells were composed entirely of scars.

He sighs. Tiso walks, drawing his hood farther down upon his face, and does not look at him.

“I… owe my brother a debt,” he offers, sorrow and regret, and Tiso perks up. “Penance for crimes committed long ago. Kin we are, yet we may as well be enemies. He… he swore to kill me, once he became stronger. And I…”

Oro stops speaking.

I will bury you. If it means my end. If it buries me, too. This is the last thing Mato said to him; it was when Esmy’s blood was still wet on Oro’s nail.

“...I wonder if my death will be enough to redeem myself.”

He fantasizes Mato standing mightily before him, mercifully withholding his nail just long enough for Oro to tell him why, why.

That’s why I fled like a coward. That’s why I hid myself in that ash swept grave, down where the world ends. That’s why I chose to tread this path without you. That’s why my nail haunts me so.

After a moment, Tiso chuckles, his own misery seemingly forgotten, and Oro glares at him.

“Ehh. Do not give me that look,” Tiso says, and his smile is sad. “It’s just, well… you call me the Fool, and yet…” He trails off. 

The little lights of Dirtmouth town emerge from the fog, safe from scarlet smoke and flames. 

Oro’s heart sinks into the ground when he sees them gathered in the square, the brightly-lit houses and the small bustling crowd of creatures great and small. Most of them are unfamiliar to him. But even from a distance, he recognizes the two hulking figures, identical in looks to Oro.

(It is All Soul’s Eve, he realizes. The solstice of the earth, carefully celebrated by the late Pale King, where bugs exchange gifts and revel. That is likely why Mato had deigned to descend from his home at the top of the world, and Sheo from his green kingdom of thorns.)

But what Oro does not expect to see, however, is the Great Nailsage himself among them. He’s dressed in blue instead of red, and his great nail is nowhere in sight. Oro suddenly feels as though he were on the verge of collapse once again.

Then, the Nailmaster comes to a decision.

He swallows his burning cowardice, but it crawls back up his throat, choking him.

“Tiso,” he says hoarsely, and the bug looks at him. “Tiso. Listen closely to my words. Are you listening?”

“That depends highly on the message,” he replies, faltering at Oro’s urgent tone.

“I need you to enter that fading town, and give a message to my brother, Mato,” Oro says lifelessly, a gravestone for his every word. “Tell him… to meet me in the tent of Grimm. Tell him… that I am finally ready to give him what I owe.”

Tiso only stares at him, mouth agape. But Oro has already turned away from him, and looks to Howl.

“Go with him,” he instructs with a shameful tremble in his voice. “Go with Tiso. And do not look back at me. F-for if you do, and I look back upon you also, I will run again from my fate and never come back, and die a lowly, honorless coward.”

Oro kneels on the cold, hard ground, in the most revering bow there is. He takes the vessel’s hands in his own, and they are the smallest he’d ever seen.

“Perhaps maybe, in rescuing you, sheltering you, teaching you the way of the nail… I have redeemed myself, if only a little. In the way that truly matters most,” he intones. “Now, I go to settle my debt once and for all.”

Howl looks up at him, and the wind is silent.

Oro leans forward, and bumps his forehead against the vessel’s in the way he and his brothers did as children. For a moment, their horns tangle. When he looks into the empty eyes of his broken vessel, who was no longer quite so broken, he imagines reaching his hand inside and pulling out its soul, thrumming and alive.

“Oro, wait…” Tiso whispers, but Oro is already standing, and walking back from whence they came, claws tearing at his heart in his hand. He does not look back, and he is not followed. The wind blows lonely, and Oro sympathizes. 

The music, it awaits him, calls to him from the wasteland. He enters the gaping maw of Grimm’s tent, and this time, he has no trouble at all in finding the stage. Alone in darkness he stands, accompanied only by his nail, though he is not quite afraid. Fear is not an adequate enough word to describe the thing that he feels.

Finally, he sighs, weary of waiting in the dark. He sheathes his nail, adrenaline hollowing his body.

With some nimbleness, he climbs the wall where the audience would spectate from above, rows and rows of seats, empty of everything but shadows. He wonders how exactly Grimm’s kin will fill them, and how they will know when it was time. Oro claims one of the seats farthest from the stage, and sits heavily, his face in his hands. 

He did not say goodbye before. Not really. Not properly. At the moment, it seemed to be for the best. But now it is becoming one of his greatest regrets.

Go be with those who love you. Who’d mourn you. Do so while there is still yet time.

Why on earth did Oro decide that he was out of time now?

The sheer silence becomes a tangible creature, teeth and claws dragging against the floor, mouth breathing in his ear.

Oro, admittedly, is not surprised when Grimm soon materializes from the shadows, a single lantern illuminating the darkness to announce his presence. He sits down next to Oro, who wonders for the first time why the audience’s seats lacked a separate throne built in opulence for the master. (Could it be that Grimm himself was part of the act…?)

Grimm looks below, and his gaze appears for all the world like a king surveying his kingdom. When he speaks, the very shadows stop to listen.

“So often does it feel as though so many things are ending at once, and that not enough beginnings are occurring to balance out the endings,” he says, “and so often does it feel as though the world itself is taking a toll. Is… ending.”

“Hmph,” Oro grumbles irritably. “What is the meaning of your twisted words?” 

“I am saying that this,” Grimm gestures to the stage with a grand flourish, “does not have to be your end, my friend. Unexpected things occur often on the stage, and improvisation is a necessary skill for any actor. Instead of ending, you might even find yourself… beginning, in a manner of speaking, should you desire it. I, of course, would assist you, and be glad for it.”

The troupe master’s tone indicates that he is again offering Oro… something, but this time, Oro doesn’t have the will to ponder the words of this most unusual of creatures.

“It matters not what happens after,” he replies dully. “Just that it happens.”

Grimm hums. A hush falls over them.

“So… where is your kin, then?” Oro asks, for the mere sake of conversation. “You had led me to believe they would be here.”

“They will be. When the time comes,” Grimm promises. He pauses, head tilting in thought.

“A precious thing, to have kin,” he croaks wistfully. “Most are not so fortunate, to have ones like them, and to be loved by them in turn. You might have thought certain members of my troupe to be my blood, but alas. I am the sole member of my breed. There is no one else like me.”

He waves an airy hand, conjuring a flame in the palm of his hand, as though the two of them were sharing a dream. The heat from the fire burns Oro’s face, so perhaps not.

“Of course, there can be certain strengths in being alone. Invulnerabilities. But oh,” Grimm laments, “so cold. I think you, of all creatures, may know of what I speak.”

“Hmph. You would somehow know, wouldn’t you? Blasted creature,” Oro hisses. “Although, your words ring true. For the longest time, I cowardly hid myself away at the edge of the world, and considered myself a mere ghost outside of its grave. Until…”

Until certain creatures wormed their way into his life, forcing him to (mostly) set aside his selfish ways. Tiso, and Howl. A vessel, and a fool. Each of them half-dead, abandoned by the world. Perhaps that is why he kept them, because they were so alike. To save himself from loneliness, such as how a fire battles away the cold.

Family, he thinks, his tongue running over the teeth of this begrudged, bloodied word. Kin.

As usual, Grimm appears almost able to read Oro’s thoughts.

“I noticed your vessel discarded, enveloped carefully in your care. A creature of fine craft, more so than you realize,” Grimm says, his eyes burning bright. “If I myself were to have children, I would not live to raise them. In fact, rather than death, I would find myself reborn, with no memories of my previous existence… except for one.”

In the palm of Grimm’s hand, the flame pulses, and it is hauntingly beautiful. The two of them stare into the fire in unison. Grimm continues.

“One may think fire able to feel its own heat, but I find that the opposite is true. During such rituals, at the very moment of my death, I feel, for a brief moment, a warmth. And every time, it makes such stasis almost bearable.”

Does it hurt to die? Oro almost asks. Nevertheless, Grimm bows his head in what may have been assent, or may have been nothing at all.

“Who are you really, Troupe Master Grimm?” Oro chuckles, but doesn’t really expect an answer. “For all the world, I have never met another such as you. You speak and breathe as though you were born in a dream… as fire itself.”

There were so many things in this world that he didn’t yet understand. And now, never would.

Grimm seems to smile at this. Of usual, his answer answers nothing.

“Fire lives and dies, yet can be reborn in an instant. As long as any are willing to light the lantern within a darkening world, I will be there. To dance… for as long as I am able.”

“Hmph. I see,” Oro says, though he actually doesn’t. He looks from the fire and down into the stage, imagining Mato below with his nail drawn, waiting and waiting. “I suppose that is the discipline of living. Those who dance to survive, and those who do not. From kings and masters to mindless vermin. Everyone together in the arena of life.”

Are you ever afraid to die? Oro almost asks. 

“That is the nature of nightmares,” Grimm answers. “Fear with nowhere to go but within. But within, perhaps… is where our true selves hide.”

Oro ponders this. Another moment, and Grimm raises his head.

“Your kin arrives,” he simply says. “And mine.” As he speaks, the shadows begin to grow bodies, masks with slitted eyes, staring and staring. Somehow, with Mato standing on the stage below, it is the least frightening thing in the room.

The stage is set, as it was and always has been. A familiar music takes shape in the air; Brumm must be nearby. Oro had never thanked him for his kindness to Howl. Too late, too late. And yet, his death arrives a lifetime too early.

Oro takes his place. When he looks back at the audience, Grimm is not among them. The scarlet fire of lanterns dance, and do not stop.

Across the room, Mato stares intensely at him, and Oro knows that his brother is carrying one thousand words on his tongue, bursting at the seams to be spoken. But now is not the time for words. It is the first time in an age he has laid eyes on his brother outside of a dream; fitting that it should end inside of a nightmare.

A sudden hush falls over the audience, anticipation written in their very hearts. This is what they were born for.

When Mato suddenly shouts, lunging at Oro with all of his strength and conviction, Oro does not move. He armors himself in regret, waiting for the redeeming edge of a nail to pierce his shell. For worthiness to spill out, and make a mess of the floor. Mato will make his death swift. If Mato is reliable for one thing, it is that he possessed the softest heart out of anyone.

Oro waits until the world itself ends. However, the blow of the nail never comes.

Suddenly, a weight like a barreling tram hits him full-force as Mato crashes into him. He takes Oro firmly into his arms and collapses them both onto the floor, shouting unintelligibly all the while.

Then, a sheer blow hits him square in the forehead as Mato rams his strong head against Oro’s in the way they did when they were children, stunning him even more than he already was. His brother is laughing, and his brother is weeping. It is very nearly the same thing.

The wind is howling—or perhaps it was just the audience. It takes a long moment for Oro to return Mato’s tight embrace. But once he does, he never quite lets go.

When the loveless wind blows, it does not speak to him. Another thousand of Oro’s dreams come and go, each of them as lightless as the last. And a thousand more.

✦ ✦ ✦

[purposefully-lost]

The back porch was the only place she'd been able to find that offered her any solace. The music from inside the house still thumped loudly and there were voices all around, yelling or laughing or whispering in corners, but at least it was sort of muffled out here. She could hear the cicadas starting to grow louder as the sky grew darker. If it weren't for the light from the house, it might've been pitch black, and she sort of wished it was. There was a sort of isolation to be found in the dark that was comforting right now. It made her forget she was supposed to be at a party, enjoying herself or whatever it was Steph had dragged her out for.

Chris sat on the steps with her elbows resting on her knees, a still full beer can and her glasses both abandoned beside her. She watched the darkness of the backyard and shivered a little, even though it wasn't that cold. Her cheeks felt sticky with tears when she tried to wipe them away with a wrist. Somewhere out in front of her, a few small points of light blinked in and out, fireflies lingering past their usual time to roam. Like everything else, it made her think of Jack.

They were supposed to go camping. Well-- maybe. If she could get permission from her mom, if he could get away from home for a couple of days, if she passed her driver's test that was coming up in another few weeks. But either way, that'd only been one of their plans. They were also just going to hang out, maybe go to the park, maybe go hiking or swimming or go see a movie when the local theater had discounted showings on Fridays. Jack had hinted once that he could get some weed off his brother and though she'd never smoked- not before tonight- it hadn't seemed like a bad idea. Really, she'd just wanted more time with him.

And now she didn't know where he was.

"Fuck!" It was soft, and solely to herself. Her eyes had welled up again even though she'd told herself she had to stop crying so she wouldn't be all red and snotty when she finally went back inside and found Steph to take her home. Her breath hitched and a small, frustrated whine came from her throat as it all threatened to just rush out again. She'd only barely gotten her breathing under control when she heard the door behind her open, the light bleeding out over her. Turning quickly away from it, she tried again to scrub at her eyes, and then the door shut. Someone was hovering behind her. She chose not to acknowledge them.

"..Christine?" A voice asked after a long moment. One that she knew; it was hard not to know Andrew Campbell's voice, considering the sway he seemed to hold over so many of their peers. "Chris Prescott? Hey.."

His voice was soft and immediately set into that tone that people used to soothe. That sort of hey, it's okay, I don't know whats going on or I don't know you, but I'm trying kind of voice. She hated it. Chris crossed her arms and seemed to draw in on herself, pulling her knees to her chest and hiding in her arms even as Andy seemed to plop down beside her. He started to reach for her shoulder, then pulled his hand back when she cast a wary glance at him. He held his hands up like he was surrendering. "Hey. I- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.. interrupt." Even as he said it, he didn't go away. He let his hands fall to his lap and frowned, worrying his lip. "Are you okay? Parties not your kind of thing?" He asked, with a small smile, like he was offering her a way out of the awkwardness. She didn't take it. Sniffling, she looked away again, towards the yard and the comforting dark. His smile fell and he went quiet.

They sat there together, sharing some kind of heavy silence, for a few long moments. When she glanced at him again he was chewing at his thumb. Then he looked at her and caught her gaze, dropping his hand. "Hey, Chris.. can I ask you something?"

She didn't answer, so he forged ahead.

"Is this.. about Jonny?"

That got her attention. Grey eyes focused on him as she turned her head to face him, her cheek still resting on her arms. With a little more light cast on her face, those eyes were stormy and absolutely heartbroken, puffy and red around the edges and her cheeks shiny where she'd cried. "What about him?" She asked, wary.

"Nothing, just..." Andy struggled for a moment. He leaned back on a palm and looked at the yard just as she had. He was still wearing his jersey, she realized. "I miss him too."

Chris watched him. It was hard to will herself to speak to him, as popular and supposedly perfect as he was, but for that reason curiosity won out. "I.. didn't really know you were friends with him."

"I've known him for a while," he said, with a barely-there smile, fond and nostalgic. "Des and I've played sports together for a while, and he's Des' little brother, so.." He trailed off and the smile faded as fast. Des was dead. Violently so. He cleared his throat and looked at Chris again. "..Jonny was the best of them, you know. He should've had better than the Bakers."

Was. Her gaze hardened a little, her hands squeezing at her skin. It was a hard question to ask but she wanted to know the answer, even if her voice broke, even if she had to speak so softly that she wasn't sure he'd hear her. "Do you think he's.. gone?"

Andy looked at her. She realized, with the little bit of light filtering from a living room window, that his were wet. "I hope not."

They fell silent. It wasn't too bad, all things considered, sharing the quiet with Andy. After a couple of moments her breath tried to speed up and she shivered again, though before she had to try and stop the tears by herself, Andy scooted closer. He carefully moved her glasses and the can out of the way so he could throw an arm around her shoulders and pull her to his side. Just the warmth and the contact was enough to calm her beyond a few tears for right now.

"Hey," Andy started, still holding her close, "You know how I met him. So how did you?"

Surprising herself, she answered.

-----

They had to have been out there for an hour. At first it'd just been awkwardly traded stories about Jack, and then it'd settled into something more comfortable, and then Andy had popped the tab on that beer and passed it to her after a long pull. They shared it until it was gone and Chris was giggling over a story about the bugs Jack used to dig out of his backyard, about how excited he got over them- especially when he had someone to show them too, like Andy. She wished she'd had the chance to look for bugs with him, but that didn't matter right now. What mattered is that Jack loved bugs and the cicadas were still singing and Andy hadn't really let go of her. His smile was infectious now as it had been on the baseball field that night, if not moreso, and even if she was crying too, it was the first time she'd really smiled since Jack had gone missing.

She was laughing- really laughing- at something he'd said when the back door opened again. Both of them turned to look back, met with the sight of a shocked silent Stephanie. She glanced between them, then grinned. "Oh my god," she said, stunned and a little giggly. "Chris! You didn't tell me... Sorry," she said to Andy, though she was still clearly over the moon about whatever she thought was going on, "But I'm gonna have to steal my friend back for the night. Our ride is going home."

"That's no problem," Andy said, with the same easy smile as always. He looked at Chris, then helped her stand, then picked up her glasses and handed them to her. Chris warmed. He was just being friendly and she knew that, but Stephanie clearly didn't. He looked her over and smiled. "Thanks for the chat, Chris. I.. wait!" His eyes lit up. He glanced at Steph. "Wait just a minute. I'm gonna get you my number," he said to Chris, and then he was darting back inside. Steph looked at Chris with wide eyes and mouthed, Andy Campbell?

Chris frowned at her. "Shut up. It's not like that."

"It certainly looked-"

"He was friends with Jack, too," she clarified. Steph softened at that. That was a fresh wound, and she nodded.

"Come on, then," she said, reaching out to hook her arm through Chris'. "Let's get Andy's number and get out of here."

[thegreencarousel]

Summary: I have so very little to look forward to each week so I’ve watched Black Adam 3 times in the cinema during cheap Tuesdays and I just want to talk more about it. Putting this under a cut as it is very long and out of consideration for my followers because none of you followed me for this out of the blue hyperfixation lol. Don’t worry, content you do follow me for will be back soon once I get this obsession out of my system. It also goes without saying there are massive spoilers under the cut because I’m dissecting why this film is making me so obsessed ;u;

I think its a bit unfortunate that you might have to rewatch Black Adam multiple times with the mindset of wanting to dig out the diamonds from the coal to appreciate the quieter moments of the film, which was overshadowed by how much the movie really wanted to be an epic action piece. Granted it did the epic part really well, perhaps a bit too well given how its a sensory overload which can be too stimulating for some and just perfectly too much for me (my adhd brain was so overstimulated it went brrrr hence my obsession in rewatching it). Its also deeply unfortunate that in the battle royale of which writer/director gets to keep their voice in the movie the end result was a draw with at least 4 conflicting tones. 

I wish they let the contemplative voice run the show, I don’t think it would have made the movie any less epic because it would have allowed for some breathing space in the film after all the action. Which were all truly well directed, the cinematography and fight choreographies really embraced their superhero directing and I can tell whoever storyboarded Hawkman’s scenes has become a bird person because he moved beautifully like a bird of prey in the air (also Aldis Hodge gave so much despite having most of his face hidden behind a helmet). I’ve already gushed about the cinematography, so the only thing left is the script, which unfortunately was so confused in its own existence that it dragged everything else down despite the best attempt of the cast, the music and visuals. I think its a shame the script was too scared to really tackle the darker side of Black Adam’s character, or at the very least the grim consequences of his lack of control over his abilities. The script was lacking in a lot of ways but given that this is supposed to be a Black Adam origin story, it is unfortunate that the JSA and even the Tomaz family had more obvious personable moments than the titular character himself.

Personally I really enjoyed Black Adam’s introduction; the way he’s shrouded in shadow with only cracked bits of his lightning icon for light and the jagged edges created by his cloak in the silhouette really evoke Brightburn vibes, which coupled with Dwayne Johnson’s hard stare did enough to tell the audience that Adrianna might have woken something dark and not exactly friendly. I think people are kind of hard on DJ for saying he is just playing another Rock character because imo the way he approached Black Adam kind of reminded me of his character in Faster where he played an ex-con seeking revenge against his brother’s killers and went down a bloody path which he later regretted. Its only in this sense that I would agree DJ was playing a similar character but only in its execution. I admit my bias that I do enjoy DJ as an actor even when some of his movies are not the best, but I do think there is something to be said about how his stoic, hardened fascade as BA was contrasted greatly with how emotional he was as Teth-Adam the father. It was a shame that very little of Teth-Adam the human was allowed to appear in BA, though arguably I can maybe see it in the way he refused to compromise for less collateral damage because in the past he had to repressed so much of himself for fear of his family being the collateral damage. And now that they’re gone, with him being alive because his son refused to let him die as a consequence for him being a hero, I could see how this might twist him to be someone more reckless. Unfortunately the script refuse to explore this aspect, but inklings of it were there in DJ’s acting.

It was also such a wasted opportunity that the script didn’t have Adrianna or Amon react negatively in the aftermath of the mine explosion. I think DJ did a great job there in appearing regretful and subdued despite his bombastic performance in previous scenes, and the twist and his subsequent depowering scene was a beautiful emotional treat. I wish we’ve had more of that, that quiet and sadder BA to juxtapose against his effortless violence. The brief moments where we do get that are unfortunately ruined by rather cheesy one liners or mistimed comedic shifts. Therefore a great transition to his depowering scene would have been a moment where BA was confronted by the consequences of his lack of control, whether it be Amon’s injuries and fear of him or Adrianna’s worry and fury as his mother. I mean he was sort of regretful and aware of how out of control he was, but that acknowledgement went too quick for us to see that this was what made him decide to surrender himself. This is something that should have been very obvious during the first viewing and not a moment that only felt impactful in the second and third viewings only because I was looking out for it and strained to really hear the dialogue.

Another scene which took me repeated viewings to notice and missing it kind of impacted the story beat: I have complained that Black Adam didn’t try to bridge what we know about him from the intro of Shazam, but it’s only on the third viewing that I realised BA actually really did kill the other wizards in the fight to lock him away. Initially when the wizard said BA killed the other wizards I thought he meant it in a figurative sense that they died trying to fight the Seven Sins which were released by BA’s powers. It was really hard to tell with all the rainbow light flying around but if you ignore all that you can also see BA blasting lightning at the wizards, and in the birds eye view you can see their bodies lying on the ground. I can maybe overlook the lack of acknowledgement that him using his powers for revenge resulted in a near apocalyptic event on the world if we could see clearly that he killed the wizards that tried to stop him. The accidental release of demons on the world as a blowback of the misuse of his powers is sort of an understandable accident, but him intentionally killing the people trying to stop him from further chaos seem like it would have been a great point to bring up to support the JSA’s mission. I think it diminished the urgency of the JSA and made them out to be rather flat when there could have been another layer on top of the criticism of American powers on international soil, because there was a difference in BA killing Intergang mercenaries/the king intentionally and slaughtering the Council of Wizards who recognised the danger in letting someone who could let his anger destroy the world go free.

I’ve asked my brother, who only watched the move once (unlike his questionable sibling) if he could remember what happened to the wizards and he admitted the light show was so distracting he could only stare at Djimon Hounsou’s wizard and was also surprised to hear BA killed the other wizards. I think this was a rather important scene the movie should have made clear to audiences because up till now BA just felt like a very misunderstood dark hero and not really someone capable of killing indiscriminately if driven to it. It would have been a great callback to the Brightburn vibes as well as the villainous, darker side of the character that was advertised about and long established in the comics. I think this and the post-mine explosion scene were the two biggest wasted opportunities in letting the audience feel conflicted about BA. I think its harsh of critics to say BA was intentionally written to be simple and deprived of any subtlety because the scenes I’ve pointed out did have indications of a deeper story, was actually included in the film and the actors all acted their hearts out in those moments. However given that I was only really able to appreciate those moments fully in repeated viewings perhaps it wasn’t unwarranted to say it appeared shallow at first glance.

I will now talk about why the film had me hyperfixated, obsessed, and went away hook, line and sinker with DJ’s Black Adam. From now till the end this will be utterly 100% fanning, brain empty no one home in this head. I did say I watched this movie 3 times in the cinema and intend to wait for the blue ray release for more. This says something about myself that I will need to explore at a later date but I have a very weak spot for stories that focused on grieving parents. When BA talked about how the world only mattered with his son in it, staring at the statue of an adult version of his son that he will never be, I think my brain just broke and whatever transgressions the movie committed prior to this with the script was forgiven briefly. In a lot of ways BA came across as rather arrogant in the unabashed use of his powers, confident in the knowledge that no one can stop him. However if you view that unrestrained and uncontrolled use of his abilities through the lense of a grieving father who had nothing else to lose, who only wanted to die so that he could see his family again and was forestalled by the knowledge his son died so he could live, it suddenly felt like the weak veneer of a man who wanted to fight to the top of the food chain for a chance to die a death that was out of his control. 

This also puts a lot of things that seemed rather janky earlier in a different perspective. For one thing, BA constantly having to reiterate he isn’t a hero felt rather flat prior because it seemed like he was just parroting the movie’s byline, that he is supposed to be the anti-hero and a villain adjacent character, but never actually do anything that showed he isn’t a hero. However when you recall these lines in conjunction with the reveal that his son gave up his powers so he could live and then died for it, it made a lot of sense that BA will never call himself a hero because he didn’t work for his powers, it was given to him by the blood of his son. It was only until he gave up his powers voluntarily and then saved everyone from Sabbac that he was on the path to accepting his mantle of heroism (or at least, something close to it). Even his willingness to save Amon from Ishmael couldn’t change his mind on how he viewed himself because his actions then did nothing to challenge his perception of himself and his powers. Giving it up voluntarily meant he recognised in his own self depreciating way that his son would have been ashamed of how he used his power after his death, and if the absence of his abilities meant respecting his son’s legacy then so be it. There is also something incredibly heartbreaking about BA noting that his son thought the world would be nothing without his father, but BA also felt the same about his son and there was a sense of bitterness and defeat that he was unable to achieve the same sacrifice for his son.

On this note, I do think critics were a bit unfair in saying BA was just parroting the Terminator and John’s dynamic with Amon. This was actually something you catch during the first viewing as the film made sure the tone between BA and Amon is quite different from that of the Terminator and John’s. Yes the catchphrase shtick was similar, but imo in Terminator it was an attempt to humanise the Terminator, in BA it felt like it came across as an attempt to modernise BA because Amon was very openly a superhero geek who might have a future in merchandising. I think it was one of the more interesting and endearing callbacks to popular culture because you can see BA actively trying to do what Amon suggested and being frustrated by himself when he failed, and then being pleased with himself when he finally got it right. I attributed this whole thing to his dad mode being switched on full throttle the moment he woke up to Amon after having a nightmare about his son. The film was not subtle at all with that transition, it made it quite clear the audience was meant to see that BA subconsciously view Amon in place of his own son, which while also a bit cliche kind of distanced it from the Terminator comparison. I do agree that the confusion to 21st century living could have been done better, a good contrast would have been when MCU’s Captain America was defrosted and he ran out into the busy street and was instantly overwhelmed by how different it is. Although maybe this established BA as a villain adjacent character than a hero because his first instinct was to kill the people making those loud unfamiliar noises rather than staring at them in confusion lol.

Overall I kind of give the film a solid B-. I’m not sure if we’ll see a Black Adam 2 given how everyone seem rather sure it would be a flop, but since DJ is a producer for it who knows. There are also a lot of things I do want to say about the obvious yet lacklustre attempts in criticism about neocolonialism but it would also involve criticising the film’s lack of callbacks towards the Egyptian culture that inspired BA or any attempts beyond the superficial to cultivate Kahndaq as a culture that felt like it could be a country in the Middle-East rather than the appearance of one. Which I’m not educated enough to talk about so just to put it there, I was very aware of it and it did grate on me but I’ll leave that to the more well learned.

[charmed-henry]

The Fall of Rome: A Battle of Beasts and Bows [Part Two: Into The Dark] || Henrose

Date: 2 July 2022 Featuring: @thehuntress-rose Warnings: Blood, slashing, violence, death of multiple minor characters (NPC)

Henry and Rose face off against the Princes of the Order, including some familiar faces.

HENRY

The group split, and Henry stuck with Rose.

He didn’t really know what he was doing here. He didn’t entirely know if he belonged here. He wanted to prove that he belonged here, of course– that he was atoning for his sins, that he was trying to right all the terrible, terrible wrongs he had wrought on the people around him. Eric. Ashleigh. And there would be more, if Henry didn’t take a stand.

Sticking with Rose gave him direction, at least. It reminded him why he was here. And so he didn’t stray far from her, creeping along the corridors to try and attack from behind.

A shout, somewhere around the bend. Henry froze, drawing his weapon. “Did you hear that?” he whispered. 

ROSE

Rose felt a familiar uneasiness in the darkened castle. The first and only time she’d been inside was a few weeks ago and it had been filled with life and people. Now it was a quiet, haunted place once again. The only comfort she had in this liminal space was Henry. She looked over to him in the silent waiting they did. He looked older. Maybe it was the moonlight on his features. Maybe it was the grief, or even the act of treason they were committing by being here. His eyes seemed darker, his face was too serious. Here in this ancient castle, where they might very well die, Rose could only really think about how she missed when he was happy. 

She heard the same noise he did and nodded in response, nocking an arrow. Guns were too loud for covert ops. She was proficient with swords and blades, but Rose was a dead shot. Rose was a trained marksman. This was a better time than any to use those skills, even if she had gotten rusty. She kept her bow down as she stepped forward almost to the landing. The blonde peered around the corner and saw Princes heading up the stairs, right where they were stationed. Her hand went out to press Henry against the wall, to cloak him in shadows. “I see three coming up the stairs,” she whispered as she, too, slunk into the darkness.

HENRY

Henry gulped. He had fought beside Rose before, of course. He remembered it well, that night on the boats. With Eric. And Gabriella, and the lake monster.

But this was different. These were the people Henry had grown up alongside, that he had once believed to be his brothers. But the betrayal of his family, when they had decided to flee, had proven to Henry that blood didn’t really matter the way he once believed it did. Rose wasn’t his blood, but here she was, the only person in the world Henry could be certain was his ally against all of this. And so while the thought of fighting alongside her made him nervous– what if something happened to her?-- he had to trust that the strength of their bond would be enough.

“On your guard,” Henry breathed, his sword at the ready. 

The man’s face came into sharp view as he approached, and Henry was momentarily frozen as he realized who it was. Augusta was supposed to marry him. In another world, he might have been Henry’s brother, not just in arms, but in name, too. 

“Charming,” the man snarled. “You always were such a little weasel. Coward.”

Henry gulped, every memory of the boys who used to taunt him at training running through his mind. They were never going to win, were they? With Henry on their side– Henry, who had never been quite strong or brave enough; Henry, who was too soft-hearted and daft; Henry, who simply didn’t fit in. Well, they didn’t stand a chance.

The taunting threw Henry off his balance, and the man managed to get a hit in, grazing Henry’s side with his sword as Henry jumped aside just in time. He let out a strangled yelp and attempted to counter, but the man laughed– and now there were more on the way.  

“You’re the coward,” Henry spat, thrusting his sword back at his opponent. 

ROSE 

Henry hesitated and the moment disarmed Rose. These were Princes of the Order. Henry, Tom, Phil, and John knew these men. They had grown up together, they were possibly even friends at one time. The Huntsclan taught her to not hesitate even when facing a friend, but it was easier said than done. Rose gritted her teeth when the enemy spoke to her friend. Her grip tightened on the bow, fingers pulling the taut string back slightly in agitation. 

Rose stood only a few feet away from the swords clashing. If she weren’t behind Henry, she’d be of more help. From her position, if she took the shot at this man… she could hit either of them. The huntress took a few calculated steps back, surveying her options. More men approached from the same direction the current adversary came from, reaching the top of the stairs now. An easy shot. 

With her breath, she pulled back the arrow and let it go. The metal tip whizzed past the melee and hit her target square in the shoulder with a sickening thunk. The prince let out a grunt then yelp as the force caused him to stumble. Then in rapid succession another arrow sinking into his chest sending him backwards over the banister. Another scream and a resounding thud. “So much for the silent part of the mission,” she muttered mostly to herself. Rose looked to Henry’s fight and back to the other approaching knights before backing up down the hall and nocking another arrow but keeping it low. This was bad… the more noise they made the more people would show up. Rose took a few steps back before walking right into a tight grasp. The girl gasped and lost her arrow to the floorboards as another prince, approaching from behind them, grabbed her arm. Her free hand dropped the bow and went to grab for her dagger. 

HENRY 

They were properly dueling now, slashing and parrying like they were back in training again. Except this wasn’t training. Henry’s opponent wanted to kill him. And Henry…

Well, he’d never had much stomach for human foes. Or any, really, since last year. Henry didn’t know what he was aiming to do, really. Mostly, he was playing defense. He needed to get away from this Prince— he could see, out of the corner of his eye, that Rose was in a tight spot— but he didn’t want to kill him, either.

Deep in thought, concentrating on the duel, Henry didn’t even notice another Prince coming up behind him and slashing at his shoulder. Henry cried out in pain as bright red blood bloomed over his white tee shirt. He stumbled, but the hit snapped him into focus. He whipped around and hit his attacker with the blunt end of his blade, knocking him to the ground. “Okay over there, Rose?” Henry called through gritted teeth as pain exploded in his shoulder. He just had to keep going. 

ROSE

“You left your back open, you stupid little gi–” his vituperative words caught in his throat as Rose stuck the blade wherever she could find. It just so happened that it was over her shoulder and into his neck. She kicked back with her elbow, forcing the assailant off her. His hands went to his bleeding jugular, grasping onto the lifeforce seeping out of him. The knight fell to his knees before her and she looked down on him for a moment.

“You left your throat open, dumbass,” Rose insulted back. Underestimating her was a fatal flaw, she was going to exploit it. 

Henry’s yelp called her back to where they were. He was fighting a losing battle, and more princes had to be on their way. Thinking tactically, Rose rushed to the side of the man she just downed, “I’ll be taking this.” The blonde slipped the golden hilted sword out of his side scabbard, shaking off his loose grip on her ankle as she strode away. Joining the fight in an overhead arc, Rose slashed the blade through the air missing completely. “I’m fine, are you?”

She noticed the blood blooming across his chest in her periphery. They couldn’t afford to share a worried glance in this battle. Their foe was better than the both of them. Rose could only hope they weren’t better than them combined.

HENRY

“Yes, I’m fine. Just a scratch,” Henry panted, which, improbably, made him think of Monty Python, which, idiotically, made him laugh to himself. Maybe it was the searing pain across his shoulder, making him delirious. 

But Henry couldn’t worry about that. He turned his back to Rose, so that they were backed up against one another now, each covering the other. It was strange how natural it felt– it was vampires all over again, it was sea monsters all over again, just one key difference: the monsters weren’t monsters. They were men. 

Men just like Henry.

If Henry were ever to forgive himself, the part of him that was monstrous needed to die. Swiftly and decisively, no more half-life wasting away. And so he pressed on, slashing and jabbing, ignoring thoughts of how those injuries were probably going to be fatal from all the blood that was leaking across the stone floors of the castle, until it was just himself and another boy, not much older than himself.

“Henry The Mad!” the boy, Andrew, Henry recognized him now, taunted as his sword clashed against Henry’s. Every time Henry made a move, Andrew seemed to mirror him, like he was Henry’s shadow. “What’s so funny? Are you going to keep laughing after you’re begging for my mercy, Henry The Mad?”

Henry didn’t say anything in response, just gritted his teeth and tried harder to find a chink in the boy’s armor, a weak spot. But they had been trained the same way, by the same masters. They knew all the same tricks. Henry was never going to win like this.

“Watch my back,” Henry muttered to Rose, and then spun around, attempting to pin Andrew against the wall. He was exposed now, if any more of his childhood “friends” showed up– but Andrew was trapped, and Henry was just going to have to hope that Rose would watch out for him. 

Andrew struggled, but he was backed up against the wall now, and for once, Henry had the advantage. With a slightly clumsy maneuver (made more clumsy by Henry’s injury) he managed to twist his opponent’s arm so that he dropped his weapon. And now was Henry’s chance. He pinned Andrew to the wall, sword raised against his throat.

“You won’t really do it,” Andrew taunted, sweat dripping down his forehead. 

“What makes you think I won’t?” Henry grunted in response.

“You’ve gone all soft-hearted.” He spat the last word. “Traitor.”

Henry gritted his teeth. “The best people I know… are soft-hearted,” he said through his teeth. “I wish I were like them. They’re better than me.”

“I’m better than you. At least I’m going to die for something that matters.”

Two other men were on the floor, groaning, fading. Henry pressed the blade closer to the boy’s throat, but he didn’t seem afraid. And Henry realized this was what Andrew wanted. What Henry would have wanted, once. What he had been trained his whole life for. There was nothing nobler than to die for your King, even if that King was dead now. And to be killed by a traitor…

Henry wasn’t going to give this Prince what he wanted. There were worse consequences to suffer than death, Henry knew this, because he was living them, and he thought everyone like him deserved that too.

He kneed Andrew in the stomach hard, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to double over. Andrew groaned loudly, and Henry took advantage of this brief moment of distraction to kick him again, hard against the wall, in the knees– it was a crude and artless tactic that Henry only knew because his parents had insisted on teaching the girls self-defense before they went off to uni in London, and Henry had wanted to tag along– but it was effective. One kneecap, then the other, shattered– and Andrew fell to the ground, wailing.

Still very much alive. But no longer a problem to Henry. 

Henry picked up the Prince’s sword, his hands shaking now, and stuck it in his own hilt, trying to ignore the groans of pain coming from the floor. He didn’t want the sword, but he didn’t want someone else picking it up, either. He fell back into rhythm alongside Rose, noticeably paler and shaken now.

ROSE

Rose didn’t like having her back to Henry. If this castle was the Underworld, she was Orpheus. Forbidden to gaze upon Eurydice amidst the horrors. Should she waver, even for a moment, the pair of them could be doomed. So, Rose trusted him blindly. She could hear the dry laugh, the animosity this Prince had. The harsh words from a once ally. Henry asked her to watch his back and that is exactly what she was going to do. Squashing the rising concern in her chest, the huntress focused on her own battle. 

The Prince she faced tried to push her backwards, inching forward with every change in footing. It was a pincer tactic, the Order surrounded the pair of traitors and pressed inwards. Unfortunately for them, the Huntsclan wasn’t so structured in its fighting. Rose parried and stood her ground, not letting him press forward. The blades clashing together was drawing closer to her form. He was a better swordsman, but Rose wasn’t afraid. She merely lowered her stolen sword and adjusted her footing. A flash of silver reflected across her placid face as the knight arced his sword down. Rose didn’t block him. The tip drew a dark red line across the back of her arm as she had changed her stance, purposefully leaving herself open for the attack. She merely hissed at the tear opening on her bicep and took the slash. With his momentum pointed downwards, the huntress dropped her sword and lifted her back foot. The boot swung up and delivered a roundhouse kick to her opponent’s temple. 

HENRY 

Caught up in his own fight, Henry didn’t see what was happening between Rose and her opponent until he heard the sound of her hiss in pain. Rose was tough, and she didn’t like to show when she was in pain, but after fighting alongside her so many times, Henry was attuned to her reactions to things. 

He whipped around and his stomach dropped at the sight of the blood. Henry had been slashed by another one of the Princes himself, as the throbbing in his shoulder continued to remind him, but that was all forgotten. This was different. This was Rose.

And this was not, surprisingly, any kind of protective instinct over Rose because she was a girl. Maybe two years ago, Henry would have reacted in that way. But Rose had proven that the Order’s conventions about who could be a fighter didn’t actually mean anything in practice. It had more to do with the scenes that Henry remembered from the last time he fought alongside Rose: Eric, bleeding out and falling swiftly through the water. Only getting away with his life because a mermaid took pity on him.

Well, this time, Henry wasn’t leaving it up to chance. He gave Rose the space to make her kick and then advanced, his decision not to kill forgotten, stabbing the sword at the Prince’s side. It was a cheap shot, one that would have been easily dodged in training, but he was distracted by the kick to his head.

“Henry?” the Prince looked at his former comrade in surprise, then coughed blood. Henry stumbled backward. He recognized this one, too. He was older than Henry, better at fighting, and he had never really been anything but kind. But the Order made monsters of everyone. 

Henry looked around, refusing to look him in the eye. “I think that’s all of them,” Henry said, his voice odd and far away. 

“Henry,” the Prince said again. Henry felt ill. He ignored him.

ROSE

Blood dribbled down her arm, curling around her elbow and into her clenched palm. The sticky feeling of it was all too familiar. At this point she had her fists up and ready if the Prince decided to get up, shaking hands be damned. But then Henry came to her aid. The girl watched it play out in seemingly slow motion. Had Henry always been so polished in his swordplay? She remembered the golf clubs on the rear deck nearly two years ago. She remembered thinking she was better than him until he got her talking. She remembered how much fun it used to be to just be with him. 

Now she stood, covered in blood, analyzing swordsmanship as her friend defended her. Henry stabbed the Prince. Rose repeated that in her head. Going into this, the thought of fighting people he knew almost made him sick. But in the spur of the moment, it seemed Henry had no regard for the life in front of him and for what? For Rose? 

“Henry?” Rose spoke in reply. It was her turn to be the concerned one. She didn’t want him to hurt, but this should. It’s supposed to hurt. The blonde raised her bloody hand to reach for his cheek, an unwelcome comfort. Though she froze, leaving it hanging between them for a moment. There was a slight tremor, one she would have been reprimanded for in New York. She didn’t know why she was shaking. Rose didn’t feel afraid, except that she was. Not for her own safety, but what this violence meant for her friend. She dropped her hand to her side and wiped it on her pants. 

Instead of another pitiful excuse for reassurance, Rose spoke clinically, “Yeah. We should probably try to meet up with another group, right?” 

HENRY

Henry looked at Rose, willing the rest of the scene to fade away. He didn’t want to think about it. Not now. He would have the rest of his life to think about this moment, his former brothers weak and bleeding on the floor of the castle, all because of him and Rose. But right now, if he thought too hard about it, he had a feeling he might collapse. He was already starting to feel dizzy.

The only thing that felt real was Rose. She said his name and Henry clung to that, stepping close to her. Rose, he started to say, though his lips just moved silently. She seemed almost to reach for him just then, and Henry almost reached for her too. Maybe he just wanted to hold onto someone in this moment– or maybe Rose wasn’t just anyone. Maybe she was the only one.

And then she put her hand down and she wasn’t just a girl anymore, she was a soldier again, and so was Henry. He snapped back into the role of the fighter he was supposed to be, pushing away any of those confusing thoughts. There was no time for that. The others might need backup. 

“Yes,” Henry said robotically, turning toward the hallway. “I’ve got your back.”

ROSE

Rose couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Maybe that’s what made this corridor seem so hollow. Not the four dead and dying. Not the way the moon trickled through the far window, barely lighting the space. Rose couldn’t tell what Henry was thinking and that felt foreign. Her eyes searched what she could see of his face in the darkness. Much like before the fight, he looked more serious than she’d ever seen him. Older. Forever changed. 

The huntress looked at the carnage around them, sweeping her fraying braid behind her shoulder again. For the price they paid, it didn’t seem like much. The Order was far from fallen. Rose’s heart fell to her feet when she thought about the price of morality. They were doing the right thing, and yet it would haunt them forever. She let Henry get a few steps away from her in her contemplation before catching up to him. And even though she didn’t know how to be there for him, she slipped her sticky hand in his as she fell into step with him. “And I’ve got yours.”

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

s.o.s, m | knj

pairing(s): namjoon x reader

summary: It's two in the morning and Kim Namjoon is at your doorstep, asking you to fuck. In a fuckbuddies way, because, as a wise man once said, "I may not know love, but I know snacks." Well, you do agree with this statement. Let's go with the flow!

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; smut (fem reader, slight D/s dynamics, blowjob, cowgirl); friends-with-benefits and feels through fucking (classic for me, haha, maybe I fell in love with him while writing it, oops)

happy birthday, Kim Namjoon <3 #happyRMday

--

now playing – pado by bibi

“Hey!”

“Shit, Namjoon, are you trying to break my door down at two in the morning or what? What’s with you? Why didn’t you just type in the lock?”

Kim Namjoon’s large frame and big brown eyes glanced at the silver-blue electronic number pad on your apartment door. “Oh. Right. I forgot you had that now.”

“I have it because you keep losing my key!”

He rubbed the back of his now blond head sheepishly. He must have dyed it recently because it had been dark brown last week. It was shorter than before, trimmed at the sides and longer at the top. Usually it was styled, but right now it was messy and puffy like he had been running across the city on those long legs of his or, more likely, windblown from riding his bicycle on his way here.

Namjoon didn’t drive. He said it was to maintain world peace.

“Do you wanna fuck?” he asked you breathlessly.

You looked down at your massive black sleep shirt that made you look like a lump of fabric, but, well, he picked today to pop the question and what were you gonna do? Say no?

You snapped back up, smacking your finger on your left wrist. “It’s two in the morning!”

“One forty-five, yeah,” Namjoon agreed, glancing at his brown leather-banded, white-faced watch. Simple and sleek. You noticed he had a few colorful string-woven bracelets on his wrists, likely handmade by someone in the various rural villages Namjoon liked to visit in his spare time. He dropped his arm and smiled brilliantly at you with those dimpled cheeks.

“I was thinking about you. You know, that habit you do when you run your hand through your hair and flick your wrist at the end, elegantly spreading your fingers out. Super sexy.”

You felt your ears heat. “Hahah… what?”

He scratched his head and stuck his hands in his loose black pants, draping his warm gray t-shirt over his wrists. Lowered his chin and flickered his eyes to you, awkward half-smile on those full lips.

Oh.

Shit.

“D… Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered, backing up and shifting your eyes. “You always do that.”

“Do what?” Namjoon chirped, stepping inside and out of his brown sandals.

“Give me those puppy eyes even though you’re built like a fucking tank.”

“I snore like one too.”

“Yeah, I know.”

But none of those things really mattered because your arm was snaking up, your other hand slapping the door closed, looking down until you couldn’t look down anymore, lifting your head to playful dark brown orbs and a dimpled smile, already leaning down, his scent of warm cotton and faint florals washing over you, and then his lips touched yours and it was over.

You could say no, you could, but you never really wanted to.

Namjoon wasn’t being rude showing up so late. After all, you had already told him it was one of your fantasies, a late-night rendezvous, a bit of unexpected expected fun. Namjoon was willing to help, a game of ping-pong between casual, sometimes lovers, both too busy and scatterbrained at this point in life to commit to anything, but that worked for you and for him, or at least that’s what you told him and what he told you, his large hands now encircling your back, fingertips pressed into the thin fabric, sighing into your mouth, rhythm of those long fingers dancing up, up, sinking into your hair, tangling himself in it, nibbling at your lower lip.

“I just love touching your hair,” that deep, deep voice whispered to your lips, eyes still closed, smirking as the tip of your tongue darted out, playing with him as he spoke. “And I like messing it up a little.”

“A little? You like messing it up a lot.”

Namjoon curled his fingers inward and pulled back, your head following automatically, grinning with you as he opened his eyes, devious even with the dimples.

“Okay, yeah, you’re right.”

It wasn’t fun if it wasn’t with him.

You raised your hand and spread your fingers out, slowly running your nails up and then down his chest, smirking back at him, your tongue peeking out between your teeth.

Namjoon once said to you, let’s just go with the flow, ride the wave.

He sucked in a breath right now and pulled you close, hands letting go of your hair as he captured your lips again, deep, ravenous kisses that took your breath away, such wonderful lips that loved to travel across your body and wander that wonderland, his hands already reaching for the hem of your shirt, bunching it up as he stumbled back into your apartment, dragging you with him, you riding the wave of his passion, dragging his shirt up with yours, tossing them aside, body to body, exploring lips on that warm skin and muscular chest.

Namjoon also said things like, I may not know love, but I know snacks, so, yeah, he was always poetic like that. Full of wisdom and weirdness, arguably the best combination one could have when struggling through this nonsensical world.

You pushed him down on the bed, kissing all that tan skin, running your nails down his shoulders, walking down his defined biceps finger by finger, digging in a little harder, pairing it with kisses and drawing stars on his pecs with your saliva, making him smile and flash those dimples.

“Like that?” you teased, drawing back a little so he could watch the mastery of your tongue at work.

“You know me,” Namjoon chuckled, the sound radiating from his chest to your mouth, sending ripples through your spine. “I like cute things with a little pinch.”

“Like those tiny beach crabs?”

Now he actually laughed, that throaty, booming laugh of his, nodding with affirmation.

You sometimes wondered when the waves would stop and roll out, sometimes wondered if the tide of Kim Namjoon would go low and leave you behind, but maybe it was the moon or something, cosmic threads that sent him rushing back to your beach, bright and sparkling, always catching the light and looking good from every angle.

“Fuck, I always forget you’re huge.”

“I am not huge. You are being dramatic.”

“Dramatically sucking your dick.”

You knew how to take his breath away, how to make him gasp and his hand fly to your head, groaning as he pushed you down, your throat closing around his rapidly swelling length, tongue all over in the small window you had to wetly caress every contour and vein, bobbing your head in time with his gentle nudges, waiting for you and your jaw to adjust before thrusting a little harder, a little rougher, choppy waves and lost breath. His scent filled your nose, his toned hips in your hands, digging your nails into that muscle, inhaling and drowning in the feeling, pressing him between tongue and roof of your mouth, feeling the head hitting your throat, so you tightened your muscles.

Namjoon moaned your name, brown orbs turning darker from dilated pupils.

It filled your ears and soaked into your chest, your heart pumping faster, beating harder, drawn to the sound like a sailor to a siren.

You took him deeper, pulsing around the head, sticking your tongue out a little to lap at his balls collected in your hands.

“A-Ah, fuck… You’re always so, so good… always making me think of you…”

You watched his eyes close, his hand gripping your hair, not unkind, simply adding a little bit of force, but you were in control of the pace, riding the wave, filling your mouth with his hardness over and over, closing your own eyes, small tears collecting at the corners, unable to breathe, but you already knew you were diving and you practiced for this, holding your breath and bobbing your head fast and tight, your fingernails clawing at his sides just the way he liked, a little neediness, a little desperation, maybe an act or maybe not, honestly hard to tell with how often you had blown him, so maybe it was part of you now, just like how sometimes you would be alone and smell his scent even though Namjoon wasn’t there at all, maybe real but probably an olfactory memory, strange that it would happen just like that, a wave of warm cotton and faint florals that you drank in small trickles right now, your mouth occupied with his thick length, listening to the sloppy, wet sound of his cock being swallowed over and over again by your suffocating mouth, saliva sliding over his balls and onto your chin.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, fuck!”

Pushing you down, forcing you to deep dive, swallowing on instinct, clamping your lips around his jerking cock with every gulp of gushing cum, the strong salty taste lingering in the back of your tongue as your throat was stuffed with the swollen head. Namjoon shuddered deeply, resonating pleasure that drifted down his torso and through your fingertips. You lapped up anything you missed, sucking it off and Namjoon hissed at the sensitivity, tugging at your hair sharply.

You hummed and retreated a little, breathing again, licking the underside of the tip, wiggling your tongue over the slit and around head, opening your eyes to Namjoon’s panting smile.

“You want me to punish you or what?”

Nah, you wanted to ride the wave, but this particular wave was pretty fucking big.

“Oooh, fuck…!”

Namjoon raised his arms and grabbed your pillows, thrusting his hips up into your pussy after you had lowered halfway. The condom wrapper flew off the bed, probably to be found in some random place in your room tomorrow morning.

A later you problem.

Hands on his chest, sinking down, gasping for breath at the forced stretch at his girth, but it was nicer that way, wet and getting wetter, spreading your knees and arching your back, your hair falling down your shoulders, rolling your body to smack down onto his crotch, fuck, so hard and so full, starting a rough, choppy rhythm because Namjoon was deliberately not letting you set up a reasonable pace and kept thrusting up a little too fast, a little too hard, hot moans tumbling out of your mouth, feeling the crashing pleasure try to overtake you, drawing your knees back in to feel all of him, your palms sliding up, grasping those strong shoulders, lowering your head to speak to those sultry brown orbs reflecting your open mouth and half-lidded gaze.

“Namjoon… please, oh, f-fuck… if you’re gonna be like this, j-just fuck me…!”

He grinned, dimples on display.

“Anything for you.”

Mayday, mayday, you needed to be saved from that teasing smile and those words.

His hands fitted to your shaking hips and held you up easily, lifting his hips up at a deep, hard pace, emphasis on strength and less on speed, the muscles of his arms tense and locked to keep you above him as he slammed his hard cock into your pussy.

“Ah, yes, yes, right there, Namjoon, yes…”

You could go deeper so you did, slapping your hips down too and making Namjoon grin under you. Shit, something about those round cheeks and bright smile while he was railing you practically to heaven was doing something to you, washing out your senses and giving you no time to think, squeezing him inside you and feeling him twitch back, something so sexy about how he could do that even while fucking you, and you saw him suck in a breath, witnessing your effect on him, his hold becoming tighter, his dark lashes lowering, hooded eyes and locking with your gaze.

Drowning in the pleasure with you.

“Come on, you want it, right?” he panted under you, voice so deep it felt like you were underwater, your skin vibrating with the seductiveness of his tone and the depth of his sound mixing with the harsh slaps of skin to skin, wet and wonderful. “Show me you want it, give it to me.”

You couldn’t say no, already tightening your core and smacking down on him harder before he could even finish speaking, the ecstasy shooting up your spine and pouring all over your scalp and mind, letting go, pitched cries and blissful moans, Namjoon moaning with you, your name on his lips and filling up your bedroom, clutching his shoulders and staring into his eyes, breathing in warm cotton and faint florals, cast away into a wild paradise.

You clenched around him and gasped, a powerful jolt rocking through you, surprised at the sudden squelch but then you felt the overwhelming rush barreling through you, sweeping you into pulsing pleasure, one of your hands losing grip and grabbing onto the pillow beside Namjoon’s head, his heavy breath and your exhaled name blowing over on your prickling skin, realizing you were accidentally closer than usual because your hand slipped, his hands tightly wrapped around your waist and slamming you down onto his crotch, groaning and tipping his head back, his eyes closing, Adam’s apple prominent against his flexed neck.

If possible, suddenly you could breathe even less.

Your pussy throbbed around his twitching cock, his orgasm spurting into the condom and your juices soaking his skin with each flinch of the aftermath, wave after wave crashing into you, your arms trembling to hold yourself up so you could absorb it all – him, the dwindling pleasure, the moment when his eyes opened, your name drifting out of those lips in a lustful haze.

“I should… go back to mine, huh…” he wheezed, chuckling slightly. “Otherwise, I’m going to snore too loud and you’re not going to be able to sleep…”

You slid down, closer, closer, seeing the mole underneath his lower lip with his rueful smile. His fingers were drawing circles on your hips.

“I bought earplugs.”

You silenced his laugh with a kiss.

--

masterpost

[watchmegetobsessed]

SLEEPLESS

a/n: omg! it's been so long since i last wrote something for harry so it feels a bit weird but in a good way to be back. i've been spending more time offline so writing hasn't been going that fast like before, but im working on a few other stuff too! just please be patient with me, im trying my besti swear! so now enjoy this oneshot of two oblivious and stupid roommates who start sharing a bed...

pairing: Roommate!Harry x reader

word count: 8.1k

masterlist

Living with three boys has its perks but also a lot of downsides too. It’s not how you planned, you were set to move in with one of your friends from second year, but she bailed on you last minute, leaving you with no place to live when most of the houses were already taken for the next at least one year. You were bracing yourself to sleep under a bridge or something already when your heroes came along.

You went to high school with Harry Niall and Louis, but you weren’t exactly in the same friend group, just knew about each other. Then you ended up in the same Lit class freshman year with Harry and he was basically your pass into their little group. You hit it off pretty easily and you always wondered why you didn’t become friends before college. Later you had two more classes with him in the second semester and it was just all a coincidence that he found out about your living situation.

“Why don’t you move in with us?” he prompted one afternoon when you were studying together in the library.

“I’m not sharing a room with any of you, Harry,” you sighed, shaking your head.

“You wouldn’t have to. We had a fourth mate living with us but he dropped out about a month ago. You could take his bedroom.”

“Are for real? You should talk about it with the boys first, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind it. They like you too and if I’m being honest, the place could use the touch of a woman,” he smirked and you just rolled your eyes, but you were incredibly thankful for the offer.

So after talking with Niall and Louis about it and once they gave their amens on the situation, you officially moved in with the three of them.

You’d be lying if you said there hasn’t been times when you thought about choosing the bridge, living with boys is not exactly a dream. They are messy, sometimes loud and oblivious about certain things women do and need. You’ll never forget Niall’s face when you packed the shelf above the toilet with your tampons and pads. The horror in his eyes as he examined all the different sizes and types.

“But why so many? I don’t get it why you need the large ones and the mini ones too,” he huffed.

“Because I vary them according to the strength of my flow.”

“Bless you,” he scoffed and just walked away.

They tend to leave their clothes around the house and they don’t always realize when it’s time to let some fresh air into the place either. Harry has a sixth sense wanting to use the bathroom when you’re in and Louis always forgets to get rid of his spoiled food from the fridge. Tini things that surely got you thinking if it was a good idea to move in with them. But then there are times when you can’t even imagine sharing a home with anyone else than these three idiots.

The way Harry always leaves you a cup of coffee on the counter when he has an early class on mondays and wednesdays, how Niall always waits for you to get home after your night shifts at the restaurant you’ve been working at, but he always just says he was watching Supernatural on TV. You love that Louis goes out of his way to get you your favorite pastry for breakfast on sundays when he goes for his morning runs. But the absolute best is that you never feel alone or bored with these three around. Something is always happening and they make sure to involve you in everything, making you feel like part of their little pack.

Tonight is Thursday and Thursdays are movie nights in your home. It’s been a tradition since the first week and you haven’t missed any of them. Sitting on the couch at your usual spot, you laugh as Niall growls in annoyance when you suggest to watch another rom-com.

“Not again!” he protests, sitting on the floor by the coffee table you and Harry thrifted a few months ago after the previous one was broken at a smaller party held in the house.

“Why? I bet Harry would love it!” you grin, glancing at the guy in talk who is now entering the room with a big bowl of popcorn.

“Of course he would, because he is a pussy! And the two of you always team up, dragging Louis with you so I can never watch something I enjoy!” Niall whines as Harry sits next to you, not too bothered by his friend’s cries.

“Come on, I bet you enjoyed Crazy, Stupid Love last week!” you laugh, remembering how he whined for the first part, then fell asleep at the end.

“Love, if you think that was enjoyment, I wouldn’t want to be your boyfriend,” Niall scoffs and you gasp at his reply.

“Hey!” you snap at him, but can’t help laughing. This is how it always goes with you and Niall, the non-stop bickering can sometimes drive Harry and Lou insane.

“Okay, so what do you want to watch?” Harry asks, throwing some popcorn into his mouth as he gets comfortable, an arm resting on the back of the couch behind you, the other one busy with the snack in his lap.

“There is this new horror I’ve been dying to see!” Niall’s blue eyes light up right away, but you’re fast to break that shine.

“Nah, no way. I’m not watching a horror movie.”

“Why not?”

“Because I fucking hate them and they scare the shit out of me.”

“That’s like the whole point!” he protests, but you shake your head no again.

“What are you fighting about again?” Louis asks, walking into the room after his quick shower, the smell of his body wash filling the room for a few moments.

“I want to watch a horror movie, but Y/N is a little baby and she doesn’t want to.”

“I’m not a baby! I just don’t enjoy watching people get killed or demons sucking the life out of someone!” Niall just rolls his eyes at your response.

“But it’s always what you or Harry wants to watch, why can’t I choose just this once?”

“That’s not true, we watch movies you like too!” you retort, but Niall gives you an unimpressed look. “We watched that crime thing, that was your choice!”

“That was three months ago, Y/N,” he sighs and as you do some quick math you realize that he is right.

“Hey, he has a point. Let’s just watch what he wants this one time, yeah?” Harry curls his arm that’s been on the back of the couch around your shoulder and he pulls you to his side, squeezing you gently.

“But I hate horrors,” you pout, knowing well that it’s already kind of settled, you lost this battle.

“It’s just a movie. And if you get scared in the night, you can sleep at mine,” he offers with a wink that surely makes your heartbeat fasten a bit.

If you’re being honest, you’ve always had a tiny crush on Harry, even back in high school, when you didn’t really know him. He was the cool guy, but not the douchebag type, more like the one that was nice to everyone and earned their respect and liking. Getting to know him just proved that he really is a great guy, but you figured he would never feel the same way about you. These three guys only saw you as their sister and that was in a way kinda worse than being friend zoned, but there’s nothing you can do about it, so you just decided to come to peace with your situation. But that doesn’t mean you don’t get flustered when you see him wander around the house in just his boxers or when he gets a little touchy with you, which happens a lot, because that’s just how he is. Hands on your shoulders, a little squeeze on your hips, the gentle touch of his fingers on your back, they happen all the time and they get your pulse up every time. You can only hope it’s not that noticeable.

Niall finally gets what he wants and you agree to watch that stupid horror movie. It doesn’t start off too bad, but it quickly escalates and makes you shudder every time the screen gets a little darker or the music is foreshadowing that something is about to happen.

“Jesus fuck!” you jump a little when the killer appears out of nowhere in the scene.

“You alright?” Harry asks, peeking down at you.

“I fucking hate this dude,” you mumble, rubbing your face with your hands, to get your shit together. Harry chuckles lightly next to you, his arm pulling you to his side close and you gladly sink against him, the warmth of his body giving you some comfort and a sense of safety.

Your eyes are on the screen, but your mind is dancing around how his fingers are delicately running up and down your arm, drawing circles and little shapes on your skin. It could put you to sleep easily, even with the woman screaming on the screen after seeing her husband get killed.

“Just imagine the guy with a funny mustache,” Harry murmurs, leaning closer to you so he doesn’t bother the other two guys with his comment. “Or maybe in a ridiculous outfit.”

“Like… in a onsie?” you ask, squinting your eyes at the screen.

“Could be, yeah,” he chuckles quietly. “Just imagine him running through the woods in a onsie with bunnies all over it.”

You can’t push your laughter down, covering your mouth with your hand so you don’t bother the others. Harry just smirks, giving you a squeeze as you’re still melted against his side on the couch, legs pulled up to your chest, while his are spread out in front of him.

“Definitely not that scary,” you giggle and Harry hums in agreement.

“Would you mind getting a fucking room, you guys? You have two, in fact!” Niall snaps at you playfully, when you start laughing again.

“Sorry, sorry!” you clear your throat, your cheeks heating up at the comment, but luckily it’s dark enough to hide your embarrassment. Niall is always quick to make dirty jokes and tease you in a way that makes you nervous, especially when it involves Harry as well. He has made plenty of comments about you and Harry since you’ve moved in, implying that the two of you sometimes act like a couple or that you should hook up. Harry is always quick to shake them off, that’s how you know he couldn’t even take the thought seriously.

At the end of the movie you feel like it wasn’t bad, not with Harry holding you close at least.

“Will you be screaming tonight, Y/N?” Niall teases you, making you roll your eyes at him.

“Either way it’s gonna be your fault.”

“I can live with that!” he laughs, bidding his goodbye before he shuts the door of his bedroom behind him.

You do your usual evening routine, get ready to bed and by the time you’re done in the bathroom all the boys have retired into their rooms. The hallway stands dark in front of you, only a tiny bit of light coming from your bedroom since you left your bedside lamp on in there, but you still can’t help the eerie feeling that washes over you. That movie didn’t sit right with you and now you have to face the aftermath of it.

Switching the lights in the bathroom off you sprint into your bedroom, pictures from the movie flashing in your mind of the killer just jumping out of nowhere. You shut the door and lean your back against it for a moment, taking a deep breath. Tonight is going to be long.

No matter how hard you try, you just can’t fall asleep. You’re way too alerted, opening your eyes at the tiniest of sounds around you, which is unfortunate, because your window is looking over the main street, unlike two other rooms in the house, that are facing the small backyard. Harry and Louis have the luck to have those rooms.

Every time you’re about to fall asleep something from the movie sneaks into your thoughts and you get scared to death. Soon, you realize you won’t be able to sleep on your own tonight.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you wonder if Harry really meant that offer that you can sleep with him or not. Part of you is convinced it was just a joke, but when you hear someone shouting down the street you push your doubts aside and you quickly find yourself making your way to Harry’s room.

You knock on the room lightly, not wanting to wake anyone else up. The last thing you need is Niall seeing you go into Harry’s room in the middle of the night.

No answer comes from inside, but you won’t just leave it at that. Opening the door you’re facing another dark room, barely making out the furniture, but you already know the route by heart. Making it to the bed your eyes finally adjust to the darkness and you can see Harry lying on his side, sleeping peacefully. Squatting down you place a hand to his shoulder and give him a tiny shake.

“Harry?” you call out quietly, but his answer is just a huff. “Harry, it’s me,” you try again, squeezing his arm. He furrows his eyebrows before slowly blinking his eyes open, finding you in his sight.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” he asks in that groggy, low voice you love hearing in the morning so much.

“I can’t… Did you mean that I can sleep here if I’m scared?” you ask, afraid that he might just have a good laugh and send you back to your room. For a long moment, he just blinks at you before nodding his head and you feel relief washing over you.

“Sure,” he hums.

“O-okay then I’ll bring a blanket and take the floor and--”

“Shut up, you are not sleeping on the floor,” he growls, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into bed with him as he scoots over, making you space on the mattress.

It’s a bit weird at first, lying in bed with Harry, especially because it’s just queen sized, so there’s not much space between the two of you, but it seems like Harry doesn’t mind it so why should you?

Your nerves are a lot calmer with Harry next to you, but maybe it’s still because of the movie or because you’re a bit anxious about the whole situation, you just still can’t relax enough to fall asleep.

“Y/N, no one is gonna kill you here,” Harry speaks up surprising you because you thought he has already fallen back asleep.

“I know, I know,” you whisper, trying to sound convincing, but you can’t fool anyone, especially not him.

He huffs deeply and before you could realize what’s happening, Harry’s arm is curled around your waist, pulling you against him, spooning you from behind, the warmth of his body wrapping your figure almost entirely.

“If a murderer comes, they will have to fight me first, alright? Now sleep,” he mumbles against your hair, squeezing you gently. All at once, you couldn’t care about killers and dark shadows around you, because Harry was right there, holding you tight and there was nowhere you wanted to be more than right there.

You slept like a baby. Harry’s closeness kept every nightmare away from you and the morning came with ease. Harry’s phone wakes the two of you up at eight, because he has a morning class at 9.30. The two of you are completely tangled up in each other, lying on your side facing each other, Harry’s arms are wrapped around you, while yours are hugging his waist. Groaning at the sound of his alarm, he rolls to his back to reach for the phone on the nightstand and then he finally turns it off. It’s bright outside, the darkness of the night finally long gone. You’re still groggy when Harry rolls back, his arm coming back around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world and in a sense, it feels like that. But as you both slowly wake up, you realize that you might be a little too close. Slowly but surely you let go of each other, rolling to your back, staring up at the ceiling.

“Hope I didn’t kick you in my sleep,” you smile at him, peeking over at him, hoping to break the awkwardness of the situation.

“No, don’t worry about it,” he chuckles, rubbing his eyes, before pushing himself up and off the bed. You follow him with your gaze as he steps to his dresser and grabs a pair of clean underwear. “I’ll put on a coffee while I shower, want one too?” he asks, though you know he could make one for you anyway.

“Sure, thank you,” you nod and he nods back, yawning as he walks out of the room, leaving you lying in his bed, a bit confused and kind of aching to be held by him again.

Two days pass by, everything is going as per usual, neither you nor Harry brings up that you spent the night in his bed that one particular time. Now it’s saturday and you all were planning to go out, but a sudden storm has cancelled your plans, so the evening turned into a cozy, lazy hangout instead of a wild party at some frat house.

Louis decided to work on a paper that’s due in two weeks, Niall has been relentlessly swiping on Tinder while you and Harry are spawled out on the couch, watching some shitty action movie that was on TV, since you both were too lazy to choose one and put it on. Deep down you’re a little happy you don’t have to spend the evening in a crowded, smelly house, drinking cheap alcohol.

Harry gets up from his seat to grab himself a drink just when Niall growls in annoyance.

“What is it?” you ask.

“They keep unmatching with me after we’ve talked a little!”

“Have you thought about the reason?” you smirk at him, knowing well that Niall probably isn’t the easiest to talk to, he surely takes it too far too soon.

“Well they probably don’t like that I ask them if I can go over,” he shrugs, making you laugh.

“You’d go over in the pouring rain?” Harry asks, returning to his spot on the couch. He puts his drink to the coffee table and instead of sitting into his previous position, leaning against the arm of the couch, he lies down, laying his head to your thigh, making your breath hitch for a moment.

“Of course not!” Niall rolls his eyes. “But I thought it would make them think I would do anything for them.”

“It makes you seem desperate,” Harry retorts, earning a questioning look from his friend. “What? It does!”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does,” you nod in agreement. “Going over in the middle of a storm just to fuck? Sounds like you’re having a hard time finding someone.”

“Women are so fucking complicated, and for what?!” he growls, before storming off to his bedroom, like an angsty teenager, leaving you and Harry alone.

He doesn’t move, his head stays on your thigh using it as a pillow. His curls are tickling the soft skin on your thigh and you have to fight the urge to play with his hair or scratch his scalp. You stay like this for the rest of the movie and when he gets up you almost want to pull him back.

“Alright, I’m fucked, I’m gonna go to bed,” he yawns, stretching his arms out into the air as he heads into his bedroom. “Good night, Y/N.”

“Night, Harry!” you call after him as you watch his frame disappear down the hallway.

Sighing, you slide down on the couch, cursing under your breath that you’re still so hung up on Harry. You really thought that you had it under control, but lately those damn butterflies are acting up in your stomach at everything he does.

“I’m pathetic,” you mumble under your breath just as the sky rumbles outside with a blinding lightning, making you jump with a squeak. “Shit,” you huff, already knowing that falling asleep will be a pain in the ass. Again.

You’ve always hated storms, they make you think that something bad is about to happen, a tree is about to fall into the window or a lightning will blow up the building. It’s kind of stupid, you know it, but you just can’t help it.

Tossing and turning, you jump every time a lightning flashes somewhere outside and a few seconds later the thunder rips through your whole body, almost making you fall off the bed.

“Oh God,” you let out a shaky breath. You have no idea how long it is until the Storm finally stops and you’d really like to have a good night's sleep. So pushing your anxious thoughts to the side, you get out of bed and head over to Harry’s room once again.

It’s such a deja vu from a few nights ago, as you gently knock on the door you wait again, but this time you actually get an answer.

“Yeah?” you hear him call out from inside and you slowly open the door, peeking your head inside. Harry is lying in bed, his head propped up against the headboard as he is scrolling through his phone. “Y/N? What’s wrong?” he asks, putting the phone aside as he sits up.

“I just, I-I know it’s stupid, but I was thinking… I don’t know--”

“Y/N, just tell me, alright? Come on in,” he gestures for you and you slip into the room, closing the door behind you before sitting to the edge of the bed next to him. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t sleep during storms…” you admit, looking into his eyes, hoping he gets the hint where you want to head with it. He stares back at you for a moment before he scoots over, lifting the covers up, giving you the green light to join him.

Relieved, you climb over to him, making yourself comfortable as he wraps the blanket over you, his arm immediately coming to cradle you, this time pulling you to his chest so your head is laid upon his shoulder, a hand gently placed onto his hard chest, probably right above where his butterfly tattoo is adorning his abdomen.

This is now easily your favorite place. Safe and tight in Harry’s arms, protected from anything and everything, like you’re in a little bubble as soon as you get on his bed.

Lightning strikes outside again and you shiver a little. Harry probably notices it, because he tightens his hold around you, as if it’s his way telling you that he is here and nothing bad is gonna happen. Eventually, you’re able to shut the outside out and only focus on Harry’s warmth, the touch of his hand on your arm and his even breathing. And then finally, you drift off to sleep.

This morning is different from the previous one you spent here. There’s no alarm since it’s Sunday, neither of you have anything in particular to do, so you wake up feeling rested, the Sun shining through his half drawn in curtains, no trace of last night’s storm can be noticed from where you’re lying in bed, the sky is as clear as ever. Sometime during the night you got tangled in a way where Harry is the one now cuddling you, his head lying on your chest, hugging you as if you were a giant teddy bear, his leg thrown between yours, lightly snoring against your sleep shirt. You can only see his mop of hair and the urge to play with them is back, but this time, you give in.

Leaving one hand on his back, you move the other one to his unruly locks, gently playing with one before you comb your fingers through it, lightly scratching his scalp. Harry hums in pleasure, shifting from his dreams back to reality, but he doesn’t move, just keeps humming as you massage his scalp.

“It’s not a good morning, it’s the best,” he mumbles groggily, making you chuckle at his words.

One of his hands is flat against your ribcage and the damned butterflies start dancing when you feel his fingers gently stroke your side as you keep playing with his curls. This feels so idyllic, as if you’ve been like this forever. You wish that was true.

Groaning as he stretches, Harry rolls to his back, making you instantly miss his body pressed against yours. He rubs his eyes, sighing deep as he blinks up at the ceiling a few times, then he turns his head to the side, looking at you.

Just when he is about to say something, outside his door it sounds like someone just broke a pile of plates and it’s followed by Niall’s usual annoyed growl. You both get out of bed to go and check what happened, not even thinking about how it might appear that you both are coming from Harry’s room in the morning.

Harry flings the door open and there is Niall, collecting pieces of a plate from the floor, his breakfast scattered down the hallway as well while he curses under his breath.

“What happened?” Harry asks, picking up a bigger piece from the plate.

“Fucking tripped,” he growls back, glancing up just for a moment, then back down, but then he processes that you’re standing behind Harry, in his room, in the morning. “What the fuck are you doing in Harry’s room?” he bluntly asks, quickly forgetting about the mess he just made.

“What?” you ask nervously, your pulse quickening in an instant. Harry stands up, seemingly not too bothered by Niall’s question.

“You slept in his room?!”

“She did,” Harry answers, leaning against the doorframe.

“Wait, are you two fucking?” Niall’s eyes widen, snapping back and forth between you and Harry.

“Just because two people sleep in the same bed, doesn’t mean they are fucking, Niall,” Harry chuckles, seemingly amused by the situation that’s got your stomach knotted. Louis’ door opens and he walks out, his hair a little messy, but already dressed, a mug halfway filled with coffee in his hand.

“Wha’s this circus out here?” he asks, looking around, his eyes scanning over the mess on the floor.

“Did you know these two are fucking?” Niall asks him and Harry lets his head drop back at his words.

“Are you?” Louis simply questions and you shake your head no.

“We are not. Y/N can’t sleep in a storm so she came over to mine.”

“Funny, she doesn’t come to me when she’s scared,” Niall scoffs.

“I never came to you because you don’t understand that sleeping together doesn’t mean sex,” you retort, though your ears are practically burning from the rising anxiety inside you.

“Wait, whoa. This wasn’t the first time you two slept together?”

“She was scared after your stupid horror movie too,” Harry shrugs.

“Wow, so are you guys a thing now or what?”

“Niall!” Harry growls and you’re not entirely sure what bothers you more. Niall’s shock and interrogation or the way Harry seems so cool and unbothered, like it’s no big deal. Maybe because for him it really isn’t, it’s only about the sleeping, nothing else, even though the cuddles are a little beyond the lines of friendship.

“What? I’m just asking the important stuff! Am I not allowed to tell dirty jokes to Y/N because you’ll cut my prick off?”

“You shouldn’t tell those anyway,” Louis chimes in and you nod in agreement.

Seeing that the conversation is just getting more and more awkward with each passing moment you decide to pull yourself out of it. Pushing yourself past Harry you mumble an excuse me before rushing back into your room, the three boys eyeing you curiously as you shut the door behind you, finally putting a physical barrier between you and them.

You shouldn’t be this offended, it’s not like any promises were made and you should have known better and not fall for him more than you already did. It was silly of you to think that there was anything more behind these nights spent curled up against each other, or when you woke up tangled and melted together. It was never what you hoped it to be.

Then and there you decide it’s better if you distanced yourself from him, or at least go back to how it was before. No bed sharing, no cuddling and preferably no bitter feelings.

It all goes well, because you have a pretty busy week after that day, you always have something to do and it’s not like you spent the night with Harry randomly, so it was evident that you stayed in your room so far.

But about a week later another storm was threatening to strike. The sky was gradually darkening all afternoon and now it’s only five o’clock, but it feels like eight. It’s Sunday, you’re quite exhausted since you were working until three. Niall was out somewhere with some of his coursemates and Louis went home for the weekend, won’t be back until Tuesday. It’s just you and Harry, who’s been sprawled out on the couch in only his sweatpants while you’re making yourself an early dinner so you can go to bed soon and have a good night’s sleep.

It doesn’t take long for the rain to start pouring, you’ve just gotten out of the shower when the first thunder rips through the place, making you gasp in fear. Harry’s head snaps around, looking in your way where you’re standing at the bathroom door, a questioning look in his eyes, but he doesn’t say a word. Ignoring his gaze, you just make your way into your bedroom, not even thinking about what could be on his mind. Is he thinking about whether you’ll ask to sleep with him again or he doesn’t care about it at all?

By the time you are ready to go to bed, the storm is fully raging outside, making your insides tremble every time you see a lightning or the thunder breaks the quietness in the house. You make one last trip to the kitchen, finding Harry leaned against the counter as he eats an apple.

“Going to bed early?” he asks as you pour yourself some water.

“Mhm,” you nod, avoiding looking at him.

“Everything alright?”

“Sure, I’m just tired,” you force a small smile onto your face just when a thunder rumbles outside, making you jump. Harry is watching you curiously and kind of expectantly, but you’re doing your best ignoring it. Instead, you just grab your water and head back to your room. “Good night.”

“Night, Y/N,” he calls after you, and you can feel his burning gaze on your back right until you close the door behind you.

Your plan to sleep a good ten hours goes right out the window. It doesn’t seem like the storm is about to calm anytime soon, so you’re stuck to suffer through it on your own. You’ll be damned to go to Harry’s, that would be an instant heart break and you just can’t take that right now. Long, torturous hours pass by with you lying awake in bed and part of you wants to go running over to Harry, but you force yourself to stay. It’s not happening tonight.

You fall asleep sometime after two in the morning when the thunder and lightning have stopped. Unfortunately, you need to wake up early in the morning, so when your phone’s alarm shakes you out of your sleep, you feel like absolute shit. Dragging yourself out of bed appears to be the hardest thing right now. As you make your way out, you are met with an all too familiar figure sitting at the small dining table, two cups of coffees in front of him, one obviously made for you.

Harry’s eyes snap up at you curiously, taking in your terrible looks as you head to the bathroom.

“Morning,” you mumble under your breath.

“Good morning’,” he nods in your way and though he doesn’t say anything else, you can tell he has a few thoughts about your current state.

Once you’re done with your morning business in there you join him at the table, barely able to keep your eyes open.

“Rough night?” he asks, eyes examining your face.

“Kinda.”

“The storm?”

You don’t answer, just nod your head. He remains silent, but you can feel that he is dying to ask another question.

Why didn’t you come over?

You’re glad he doesn’t actually asks you, because you wouldn’t be able to give either a normal answer or say anything without starting to cry. Instead, you just grab your coffee and head back into your bedroom to get ready for the day.

That week on Friday all four of you are invited to a party. At first you want to cancel, but some of your friends from classes will be there too and it’s been ages since you’ve been to a great party, so you decide to tag along with the boys.

For the first half of the evening you go your separate way, spending time with people you don’t actually live with and see every day. One drink follows the other, though you make sure you don’t go farther than getting tipsy. You’re not in the mood to deal with a nasty hangover in the morning.

Sometime after your third or fourth drink you run into Niall and he pulls you into their little circle that also involves Harry. When he sees that you’ve joined them, his eyes light up and goes out of his way to get next to you.

“I haven’t seen you in ages!” he whines, slurring his words as he wraps an arm around your shoulders to keep you at his side. He is definitely drunk, that you’re sure of.

“It’s been just about two hours, Harry,” you roll your eyes, but can’t push your smile down. You’d be lying if you said you’re not enjoying having him so close. Your dynamic hasn’t been the same since you stopped sleeping in his bed. Not that it was such a regular activity, it only happened two times.

“But I missed you, I feel like we haven’t… haven’t talked in so long!” he huffs, knitting his eyebrows together. “Have you been avoiding me?” he asks leaning closer, so your conversation can somewhat be private.

“That’s silly. Of course I haven’t!”

“But it feels like that,” he pouts with glossy eyes. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

“Sure,” you nod, the bitter taste of lying filling your mouth.

“Alright, cool,” he smirks and pulling closer he kisses into your hair before he engages with the rest of the group again, keeping his arm around you as if it wasn’t a big deal.

For the rest of the evening you simply don’t leave his side and not because he doesn’t let you, but because you don’t want to. Harry is not the only one missing the other, this week you’ve noticed that even though you’ve been keeping yourself busy, your thoughts always took you back to one particular, curly haired boy. Despite everything that’s been going on, he is your friend first and foremost who you love spending time with and talking about anything and everything.

Both of you are intoxicated, Harry a bit more than you, but you’re having a blast playing beerpong or ruining Niall’s chances with girls he is trying to pick up. You’re genuinely having an amazing time and it wouldn’t be the same without Harry.

Arriving back home your little group splits, everyone using the bathroom after the other and you’re the last one in line, because you always take the longest. By the time you’re finished, Louis and Niall are both locked up in their rooms, but Harry’s door is still open, some dim lighting illuminating the hallway. As you approach it, you find him throwing his dirty clothes into the hamper, but his head perks up when he sees you.

“Good night, H,” you sigh, quite tired and in need of a good sleep, but before you could head into your own bedroom, Harry grabs your wrist and pulls you into his. “What is it?”

“Sleep here,” he simply prompts, already leading you to the bed.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

“I-I… I don’t--” you stutter, feeling flustered from his offer.

“Come on, you can’t say no,” he tells you, already crawling under his covers and then he holds them up as the invitation.

Taking a deep breath you follow him and make yourself comfortable in your almost usual spot. Harry’s arm falls over your waist in an instant, spooning you from behind as he hums pleased. But a few moments later he lifts his head, looking at you with concern in his eyes.

“You know you can say no, right? I was just joking.” Looking back at him you give him a small smile. Even drunk he makes sure you aren’t doing anything you don’t want to, but how could you not want it? You’ve been aching to sleep next to him all week, especially after the last storm when you suffered alone in your room.

“I know, Harry.”

“Alright, okay,” he nods, his head dropping back to the pillow. “I missed this,” he mumbles with a sigh.

“Yeah?”

“Mm, sleeping alone sucks,” he hums and in a split second, your heart breaks.

Harry didn’t want to sleep with you, he just wanted to sleep with someone and you were the one there. It has nothing to do with you.

You want to blame him, you want it to be his fault that your chest is now aching, knowing that it truly doesn’t mean the same thing to him it does to you, but you know you can’t. It wouldn’t be fair, so once again, you’re left with a sinking heart wrapped up into Harry’s embrace that suddenly feels burning.

“Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night, Harry.”

When the morning comes Harry is still sleeping deep beside you, an arm thrown over your waist, puffing warm air against the side of your head with every breath he exhales. Seeing him so peaceful warms your heart, but then you realize everything that happened last night, how he only used you because you were available and not because he wanted you.

You don’t want to wait for him to wake up and face him, your emotions would surely bring the best out of you. So carefully, you unwrap yourself from his hold and sneak out of his room, back into yours.

There’s no way you can face Harry right now, so before he could wake up you leave, planning on spending the day in the library, working on your assignments, hoping the school work will take your mind off of how badly you’ve been friendzoned.

Sometime after eleven Harry actually texts you asking where you went and you just tell him you have a shitload of school stuff to deal with. He asks if he can join you, but you tell him you’re with a group of your classmates, even though you’re sitting in an almost entirely empty library. He luckily doesn’t push it and leaves you to be. Hopefully he’ll be fine when you take another step away from him for a while to get your head straight and sort your emotions out.

You get home quite late, but not late enough, apparently. Because walking into the house you find the boys clearly getting ready to watch a movie.

“Just in time!” Niall beams. “Join us, Princess!” he laughs, grabbing himself a cola from the fridge.

“Oh, no, I have some things to work on--”

“Come on, you’ve been in the library all day, you can have a break!” Louis tells you and you know you won’t be left alone, they are just so persistent.

So you join them in your usual spot, which is of course next to Harry, though you’re trying to avoid his gaze that hasn’t left you since you arrived and by now you’re certain he knows you’re avoiding him. There’s a reason why he asked you last night if you’ve been doing it lately, he is not stupid, but this is not the time to deal with it.

With your inner crisis bubbling inside you, you completely forget to ask what you’re watching. A few minutes into the movie it becomes quite clear however.

“Is this a fucking horror movie again?” you ask, snapping at Niall, who just starts laughing.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Harry will gladly let you sleep in his bed tonight,” he teases, making your whole face heat up at his comment. Harry slaps his chest before he turns to you with concern filled eyes, but you pretend like you see nothing, turning back to the screen with your jaw clenched.

You’re fucked.

The movie is a fucking shitshow and leaves you traumatized. When it’s over, you think about why didn’t you just stand up and go into your room when you realized it’s another horror. For a change, this one was filled with demons and monsters that hide in the shadows, just what you need before going to bed. In the night. In a totally dark room.

Exiting the bathroom you’re already planning on watching something lighthearted and cheerful in your room, hoping that would make you forget the movie you just saw and give you the chance to actually sleep.

Walking past Harry’s room you see that it’s still open and you catch him expectantly looking at you when you appear in the doorway as you walk down the hallway, your eyes meeting for just a split second before you disappear from his sight and shut your bedroom door without a word behind you.

No matter how many random videos you watch on YouTube, some scenes from the movie are just imprinted into your mind and they have you trembling in fear. Every shadow looks like a demon or ghost, hiding in your room, ready to haunt and kill you and you’re on the verge of actually crying. It might not be only because of the movie, more like everything else that’s been bottled up inside you, added to the fear the movie has brought to you.

Shutting your eyes closed you try to take deep breaths and for a bit it actually seems to help, but that is until you hear the door opening. It gives you an instant heart attack and you can’t keep your tears back anymore.

A whimper leaves your mouth as the door opens and you can only see a shadow entering the room, totally not recognizing Harry in the dark.

“Y/N, hey, it’s just me! It’s okay!” he quickly clears, seeing how shaken up you are. He rushes over to the bed, one hand cupping your cheek, the other one finding your hand and before you could think, you grip it hard.

“You scared the living hell out of me!” you cry out, sobbing.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to check on you.”

Silence sets between the two of you that’s only momentarily broken by your shaky breaths as you try to calm yourself down.

“Why didn’t you come to mine after the movie if you were so scared?” he then asks, surprising you with how straightforward he is.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you mumble, blinking the remaining of the tears away as Harry stares down at you intently.

“Why would you think you’d bother me? I like having you there.”

“But it’s… Doesn’t matter,” you sigh in defeat, but it just concerns him even more.

“No, tell me!”

“Harry, just go back to your room. I’ll be fine.”

“You definitely won’t and I’m not leaving until you don’t tell me what’s going on,” he protests firmly and you lose your patience to keep lying to him.

“You just wanted someone to sleep with yesterday, okay? You didn’t need me. And… I don’t want to depend on you more than I should.”

Harry stares back at you with a blank expression and you feel like this is going to be the end of your friendship. You have to come clean about your feelings and he’ll tell you that he doesn’t feel the same way. But then he speaks up and the tables turn faster than ever.

“Y/N, I wanted you to sleep with me last night. Not just anyone. You.”

“What?”

“I really thought we have been on the same page, but apparently, we’re not even in the same book,” he sighs, confusing you even more. “Wasn’t it suspicious how things have been between us lately? The way we slept, the mornings, did you think these are normal things to do?”

“I-I thought that… it didn’t mean anything to you.”

“Well it did,” he replies and you breath hitches in your throat. “I was trying to take it slow, see how you’d react to everything and I thought you were feeling the same way. But then last time you didn’t come to my room when there was a storm and I thought that was your way of telling me that you want to pause whatever’s been going on.”

You’re just blinking in shock, listening to his words. This is nothing you expected.

“But then you seemed like you opened back up last night and you agreed to sleep with me, thought we were back on track, but then you were nowhere to be found in the morning, avoided me all day and now you would have rather spent the night crying here alone than to come over to me. What did I do? Just tell me, because quite frankly, I have no idea what we are doing anymore, Y/N,” he sighs, clearly tired of this insane game you’ve been playing without even knowing.

“So… you did all of this, because… you…”

“Because I like you, Y/N. But there’s a possibility it’s already way more than just a strong liking,” he admits with a soft chuckle that melts you in an instant.

“Oh god, I could cry again, but not out of fear this time,” you tell him, making him laugh as you scoot closer to him on the mattress. “I feel the same way, Harry,” you softly tell him, your hands finding the base of his neck while his hands have wandered to your waist so now he is pulling you towards him until he ends up in his lap. His face is now so close, and even in the dark, you can see the cheesy smile on his pink lips.

“You’re not saying this just to keep me here because you’re scared to be alone, right?” he asks, clearly joking, earning a wholehearted laugh from you.

“No, but I guess that would be a major benefit of it.”

“I’ll protect you from all the demons and killers under one condition,” he smirks, his face already inching closer, his nose is already touching yours.

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“I get to kiss you.”

“Deal.”

You barely say this one little word, his lips are already on yours, kissing you in a way that almost knocks all the air out of your lungs. You press yourself up against him, his arms curling around you, holding you tight as if he is already protecting you from everything that scares you, though you can’t really think about the stupid horror movies now that you’re kissing Harry.

He pulls you down with himself making you lie on your back as he holds himself up above you, his lips parting from your just enough so he can look into your eyes.

“How about I kiss you every time you feel scared?” he prompts, pecking your lips gently as you pull your legs up and his hips settle between your thighs, while your hands dance down his back.

“Alright, I’m in,” you smirk at him and for a moment he just stares back at you, smiling wide, in complete awe that it’s finally happening. Then he cocks his head to the side before speaking up.

“Are you still scared?”

“Very,” you nod. “I’m shaking.”

“Good,” he grins before his lips press onto yours again.

Thank you for reading! Please like/reblog if you enjoyed!

[biracialdisaster]

Saturday

Pt 5 of the Jailbait AU

Pt 1 ~ Pt 2 ~ Pt 3 ~ Pt 4

Dear Arvin

I wish I could see you. You’ll know the security is even tighter since the riot. I hope you’re doing ok, and I hope you think about taking some classes, learning a new skill. It can make the time pass more quickly.

I think about you a lot. Every day, actually. Multiple times a day. Especially before I go to sleep.

I’ve (very prematurely probably) set up a PO Box so you can write me back. If you want.

Florence (like Florence Nightingale, you know?) x

*

Dear darlin’

Imagine my face when ol’ Warden Fisher says I have mail. I couldn’t think of who’d write me ‘cept Grandma, and she usually visits instead. She did send some cupcakes once.

I’ve read your letter at least five times since I got it this morning.

I think about you too. Every moment, seems like. Dream ‘bout you too. ‘Bout the last time we saw each other. Heaven ain’t got nothin’ on your lips.

I’ve signed up for a carpentry course. Reckon it’s no more’n doin’ the county’s work for no pay, but you’re right that it’ll keep me busy. The devil makes work for idle hands, or so my Grandma always says.

Arvin

*

Dear Arvin

That’s great! I hope you enjoy the course. I’ve seen too much alone time hurt inmates before. I don’t want that for you. Are you talking to anyone? Do you have any other inmates near you?

Tell me about your life before.

Florence x

*

Dear darlin’,

Spoke to a couple guys in my row. Just shootin’ the shit. It passes the time. Sometimes we play cards in our little section, if it’s deemed we’ve behaved well enough.

Warden says I’ve been here six months now. Hard to tell what day of the week it is, or even what month, when every day’s the same.

The carpentry’s good. You were right. Keeps me occupied. I like workin’ with my hands - always have. Did fix to be a mechanic one day, but guessin’ that avenue’s closed to me now.

My life before? Well, you know ‘bout Lenora. She was younger’n me. Fragile, sweet, too good for this piece of shit world. Creepy-ass preacher got his claws into her, got her pregnant, cast her off. I ain’t never fired a gun before that. I couldn’t let him live, not when he as good as killed her and her baby.

I had work, too, weren’t much but I earned a fair wage off construction by route 60. Was savin’ for a new truck.

I miss you. Tell me somethin’ good.

Arvin

*

Dear Arvin

I’m so happy you like the carpentry.

Something good? Well, my mama recently gave me a book of very old, handwritten family recipes. I’m working my way through them. The peach cobbler is amazing, I wish you could try it. The beans are pretty great too, I fried them up with bacon and made some hot biscuits. You’d like them, I’m sure.

Please make an appointment with me. I want to see with my own eyes that you’re okay.

Florence x

*****

A few days pass after you send your letter to Arvin. You go to work, don’t see him in the yard, go home, worry about him. Think about his soft brown eyes and wish you could feel the lean stretch of his body above your own.

The next day, there’s a couple of messages on your desk. Including an appointment request from Arvin. Thank God.

The letters you’ve swapped over the last two months have kept you going, and in some small way, you had hoped that distance from him would help you put him out of your mind, and him you.

But neither of you seem to have succeeded.

In your heart of hearts, perhaps you didn’t want to put him from your mind.

You schedule him first, because you can’t bear to wait. You make yourself take several deep breaths a few minutes before his allotted time.

You had an idea last night, but in the cold light of day, you’re not sure if you can go through with it. Can you? Dare you?

The sound of the tumblers in the lock dropping as the door opens draw you from your reverie. You turn to see Arvin being led in by Warden Fisher.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he says. His eyes are clear, darker brown than you remember. His hair has been trimmed, and he’s freshly shaven. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and you suppress a shiver, remembering the frantic, deep kisses you shared in your office.

“Good afternoon, Mr Russell. Please, sit.”

The warden takes a few steps back as Arvin, still cuffed, sits. His gaze finds yours and he looks up at you, the light from the small window catching on the flecks of gold in his cocoa-brown eyes.

“How can I help you?” You sit opposite him, brushing your hands against his as you do, hoping it looks accidental. The softening of his expression tells you he appreciates it.

“Been feelin’ under the weather lately.”

“All right.” Your fingers tremble a little as you reach for the usual equipment. “Let’s do the normal observations, shall we, take it from there?”

“Sounds all right to me,” Arvin agrees. You’ve missed his deep, syrupy drawl, sugar on grits, so much.

You take his blood pressure, listen to his heart beating. It’s heaven and hell, being this close to him, breathing him in, without touching him the way you want to.

“How about eating, drinking? Is that okay?” You hold his gaze while you say it, hoping he gets the message.

“It ain’t been that great,” Arvin says softly.

“Let’s have a look at your mouth, if you don’t mind?”

He opens for you.

You make a show of using your little torch. “Mr Russell, I think you might be quite unwell. Contagious, in fact.”

Fisher steps back, and then steps back again. “How contagious?” he asks.

“Potentially very.”

He takes another step back. “Do you suggest we implement quarantine procedures?”

You click the torch off. “I think it would be in the best interests, yes. I’ll oversee it, of course. You can use the quarantine cells down the hall from here.”

Fisher is already crossing to your small office and picking up the shiny black telephone handset. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

While his back is turned, you run a hand through the soft pile of Arvin’s hair.

“Missed you,” he murmurs.

“Missed you, too. The days seemed interminable.”

He makes a little sound of agreement, leans into your touch. You stroke your thumb over his cheek and he turns his head to press a kiss to your fingers.

You spring apart at the sound of the telephone being set back in its cradle, and Fisher ambles towards you.

Arvin looks away, down at the floor.

“Arrangements are made. One of the other wardens’ll be along with the quarantine keys for you, and I’ll stay here until then. Make sure you don’t unlock the cell for any reason, unless one of us is with you, are we clear?”

“I have worked here for six years, Warden,” you remind him, but gently. Fisher isn’t that bad.

“Just lookin’ out for you,” he mutters.

You nod and thank him, and try not to make too much eye contact with Arvin. Tonight you’ll be alone together. No one watching. No one interrupting. Your stomach is heaving with butterflies and your inner muscles are already fluttering greedily with the possibility of feeling him intimately. You shut your eyes and struggle for calm.

After all, there’s hours to go yet.

[sylverstorms]

Cassandra x Maiden----Anonymity Ch.3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Your quiet days in castle Dimitrescu met their end the moment Cassandra took an interest in you.

You should have known. Perhaps you did know and just didn’t want to admit it.

The woman –vampire, mutant, what even are they— is a bipolar sadist.

One night she may be walking down the halls sending you a sexy wink under her hood as she passes you by, the next she could show up out of nowhere and cut you ‘hello’ with her sickle, scoop up the blood with her thumb to taste, then disappear again. The evening after that, she may not even give a damn about you, may not spare you a single fleeting glance, like even the notion you could be worth her time is laughable.

And it is, isn’t it.

Humans are nothing to them. Your significance is below that of a pet. You may as well be livestock. It doesn’t matter, though, so long as you continue to breathe and remain intact. They’re the two essential factors to escaping. All else is secondary.

It doesn’t matter how Cassandra views you.

You don’t even like her.

What is there to even be drawn to? She’s covered in blood more often than not. The scent of iron usually drowns out her perfume. She’s capricious and cruel and the living personification of an unsheathed knife. You prefer your routes safer. Playful, creative pretty girls that are good for you and most importantly, sane.

Whatever weird tricks your brain and hormones are playing where she stars –you hate it, what is wrong with you— they’re just delusions, you reason, born from her questionable flirting and your time in captivity. It’s just a really bothersome case of Stockholm Syndrome you’re developing. And it has to stop.

Another week passes. You don’t see her.

You are on another night shift when you hear the telltale buzzing of insects down the corridor. Hervoice reaches your ear afterwards;

“Ugh, Bela, you never complain about anything. It’s so annoying.” Two pairs of heels steadily tap towards you.

“I leave it to you and Dani to cover for me, since you complain about everything.” The quieter sister drawls. You can easily picture her roll her eyes as she says it.

“You know, you really should sound more thankful I came with you in this unearthly cold.”

“I gave you the option not to—”

“Just to have you rummage through that bookshop for what was definitely the most boring twenty minutes of my life.” Cassandra continues.

From the fleeting glance you steal at them, the entirety of her attention is on Bela. You don’t think she’ll notice you as you continue polishing the corridor’s decorations. It’s just another one of these nights where you don’t exist and you’re deeply glad for it. Not just for yourself, but also the other maids.

“I thought I was going to die of frostbite.” she growls, shaking the elder sister’s arm.

“Technically, you can’t.” Bela shakes hers back.

It would be… cute, if they were any normal family. But you are quick to remind yourself of what they really are. Devils in human form. Monsters that took you from your home and trapped you here, to clean after their mess, with the threat of death looming over your head every second.

Their steps pass you by. You can almost breathe normally again, when—

Cassandra stops.

“Not even going to tell me hello?” The hurt in her voice can’t be genuine, you tell yourself as you turn around to face her. She’s closer than you thought, enough for you to be able to make out the tiny melting snowflakes caught in her long lashes.

“Um—hello.” you say, awkwardly.

“Cassandra.” Bela lets out a soft sigh.

“Bye, Bela.” The brunette pointedly speaks over her shoulder.

And to your horror… “Just keep in mind what mother said about the maids.” the eldest sister leaves you alone with her.

Each further step until the blonde disappears from view fills you with dread. Cassandra has that spark in her eye that you’ve learned to not associate with anything good. She’s completely still until she’s sure the two of you won’t be overheard or interrupted.

Then, she moves.

Her hands all too easily shove you against the wall. It’s more startling than painful, you realize, when your back doesn’t protest much at the collision.

Cassandra maintains eye contact with you as she tugs at the fingers of her gloves. You cannot fathom why it looks that sexy, the way she pulls them off, whether it is intentional or not.

“Plaything.” she says. Another new nickname for you. Not that you ever expected her to care to know your name. “I’m terribly cold.” she doesn’t seem to be lying, though the soft pout that curves her mouth is surely for effect.

It’s a test and your wellbeing depends on it.

Only, you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. Ruling your nerves under control, you decide to start slow. “Shall I light the fireplace in your room, my lady?”

“Maybe I want something more… immediate.” she replies, raising her hand to your neck.

The second her freezing skin touches your flesh, you cannot help but flinch. It feels like a slightly softer block of ice. Cassandra’s eyes creak at the corners. Of course, the sadist is enjoying your torment. Slowly, her fingers move under the collar of your black button-up shirt, which only makes it worse. The cold spreads, a peculiar tingle at your stomach with it.

“Well?” she asks. You get the memo that just sitting back and letting her have her way isn’t going to work, this time. You call upon all the willpower you possess and act.

Carefully, your hands rise to meet her own. You aren’t looking at her in the eyes –you don’t think you could— as your fingers wrap around hers and bring them in front of you, close to your body, warmed from hours of work. Instead, your gaze locks on the golden jewel decorating the chocker at her throat, before falling down, to your point of contact.

It is not the first time you see her hands without gloves on, but it only now hits you just how dainty they look. Her nails, filed round, are dyed a darker shade of crimson, stark against the white of her skin. There isn’t a single blemish or uneven spot you can feel on her palm. It is a princess’ hand you seem to be holding, not a killer’s.

But appearances can be deceiving.

The very corner of Cassandra’s lip curls up, amused or pleased or both. She then reaches forward, at the lowest clasped button of your shirt… and frees it open. You’re sure you aren’t breathing. Two more buttons are released. Her fingers, at least now considerably warmer, splay against your stomach. Something inside you quivers like a flickering candlefire.

You don’t want her touch.

But a traitorous, weak part of you has already decided that it does.

“You work out?” it is merely a whisper between you. She presses a little closer, entirely unashamed to be feeling the contours of your middle up while you’re burning with embarrassment.

“…probably the days of working in the fields.” you say, voice low because it cannot be trusted any higher. She’s doing a little thing with her thumb over your skin that you desperately want to deny turns you on.

Thanks to her you’re now freezing and burning at the same time.

Cassandra just stays like that for a few more seconds.

“Draw me a hot bath.” she eventually orders and extracts herself from you as if she’s not remotely happy with her own decision.

-

-

You don’t really know how she likes her bath and she doesn’t tell you.

All you can do as you test the water on your hand is pray. Your mind isn’t really working right after the touching at the hallway, but your survival instincts are strong still. Strong enough to remind you that Cassandra likes to be treated like royalty above all, so bubbles are your best friend in this. The more, the merrier.

The Dimitrescu daughter does not ask if the bath is ready when she comes in. You aren’t used to her being so silent, so you turn to see if something is wrong –but immediately regret it when the heavy robe clinging to her body drops down. The only glimpse you catch is of the fabric pooling at her feet like a shadow.

Your eyes stay glued on the queen-sized bathtub, even when she approaches. They turn to the side as she enters it.

You want to ask if the water is fine, but you can’t find your voice. You lose even your train of thought when she lets out a small hiss as she sinks in, replaced by a moan once she’s completely settled back, neck tilted and eyes closed in bliss. The polite thing is to let her bathe in peace, so you move to do just that.

Cassandra has other plans.

Her hand shoots out of the tub to wrap around your wrist, inescapable as an iron shackle. Those intense yellowish eyes are on you again and they seem to be glowing under the dim lights.

“No.” she says. “Massage. Now.”

Ah, great. You think. You’ve spoiled her. But if giving Cassandra massages is what is going to keep your hands attached to your body, you won’t complain. It’s just that… you can’t really focus right now. None of your thoughts are right or remotely what they should be. You need time off from her, rather than touching her.

Thankfully, the moans are kept to a minimum and there is no teasing. She is utterly relaxed, only giving the occasional command for higher or lower. It does kind of kill you when at one point she whispers “Right there.” but you are able to move past it.

You leave fresh towels beside her when you’re finally allowed to leave. Back in her bedroom, you light the fireplace in a way that you make sure will last through the day, while she’ll be asleep. The plan is to leave before she returns, but she’s already there by the time you’re finished with the preparations.

And –you’re trapped.

Because, again, she’s changing and you have to look away to preserve your sanity and probably your eyes. “No peeping, now.” she calls over her shoulder. You know better than to dare.

You keep your hands busy arranging bottles and boxes at her vanity until she’s done. Cassandra does that ‘flashing’ thing where she’s on one side of the room one moment and right behind you the next. You only then notice a little insect flying back into her form. It was spying on you.

“You didn’t even look near me, huh.” she says it like ‘congratulations, you passed’, but there’s a bitter undertone of disappointment in her voice.

She’s only feeling down that you didn’t give her an excuse to slice at your face, you think. Then again, does she really need one?

“I wouldn’t, my lady.” you assure. “If I may be excused—”

“Did I say you can go?” she turns you around, none-too-gently, her hands on your biceps tight. You’re effectively pinned against her and the vanity, but you have much bigger problems to worry about, when you take in what she’s wearing.

Cassandra is clad in a flimsy nightrobe that leaves little to the imagination, the fabric nearly see-through. You can see the edges of her lacy underwear underneath it, how nicely it sits against her perfect curves. To make matters even worse, the robe ends at about mid-thigh and your eye catches the expanse of creamy skin on display.

Your brain nearly melts.

“I don’t know what it is about you, plaything, but you’re working up my appetite.” she confesses, pressing into you, pressing you harder into the furniture. You try to think of literally anything else than how well her thigh is slotted between your legs.

If you’re supposed to look away from her lidded eyes, however, you can’t. And if you’re not supposed to feel the echo of her nails on your arm all the way down to your center, you can’t. You are definitely not supposed to be so achingly curious about her bow-shaped lips. But you just can’t.

“You’re working me up.” she breathes, so close you can feel the ghost of her lower lip on yours.

And then –her mouth is on you and you forget how to breathe. Your eyes close and just feel, instead. If this is how you die, maybe it isn’t such a bad way to go. It’s been too long since you kissed anyone, seems like ages ago now, but you gradually remember how to move once you allow your muscles to unlock.

Not looking at her makes it easier. Her lips are balmy and smooth and slide so good on your own you can’t think at all, much less of what she’s capable of. You would have guessed her to be aggressive, but Cassandra is oddly hesitant, the only thing hard about her being her grip.

You’re not sure what you’re doing or how you get so bold, but your hands trail up to her waist and pull her in. The little hitch in her breath threatens to break you. It provides the perfect opening to part her lips with your tongue. As soon as it touches hers, she moans low in her throat and slowly drags her hips against your thigh.

Oh. God.

There’s a hollow ache in your stomach. You’re shamefully wet for her. The voice of reason is mute in your head, until you’re forced to break your liplock to breathe and it only then hits you what you’ve just done.

Cassandra’s lips are insistent on your jawline, on the vulnerable spot under your ear. Her open-mouthed kisses are just hard enough, at first, but then start to border on painful. Your heart skips a beat when you feel the press of teeth, yet she rips herself off of you before she bites down.

“Ugh. I’m… so thirsty.” she says it lightly, but her voice is hoarse and something about her body language gives you the impression she’s hurting. “You should leave. Fast.”

You almost make the mistake of reaching for her. Almost.

Cassandra turns away from the temptation of your veins.

For both your sakes –mostly for yours— you hurry out of her room and never stop to look back.

[homerforsure]

Whumptober No. 6 Bruises / Touch Starved / Hunger Whumptober No. 30 major character death / left for dead / ghosts

Me: I can’t believe I have to post this absolutely incomprehensible piece of writing. 

Me: You don’t... have to?

Me: No, I’m gonna. 

Buck has an exceptional number of pillows on his bed. There are six, before he knocks a few to the floor every night, and he burrows into them like a nest, curling up with one against his chest, two pressed against his back, one between his legs. His sheets are a ridiculously priced, cool, crisp cotton that welcomes him in, surrounding him. The blankets he uses aren’t weighted, but they’re heavy and thick and he keeps his air conditioning turned up so he doesn’t have to give up the feeling of nestling into them in the heat of summer. Along with the white noise machine on his night stand, all of it is chosen to trick him into sleep. To keep back the feeling that night time in his own apartment is the loneliest part of Buck’s day. 

It wasn’t perfect, pre-covid. It’s been a long time since Buck had someone share his space, share his bed, someone he could reach out and touch whenever he wanted. But his life outside of home was full. He didn’t lack for closeness; in some ways he had more than he’d ever dreamed. So while he had lonely moments, they weren’t a constant ache in his chest. 

These months though. These months hurt. Facetime isn’t a substitute for curling up on Maddie’s couch with whatever silly-labeled wine she’d liked best that week. It’s definitely not a substitute for Eddie’s couch and losing to Christopher over and over again at Mario Kart. The last time they talked, Eddie had reached over and ruffled Christopher’s hair and Buck felt it. First as a tingle up the back of his scalp and then as a bruise to his heart. Eddie’s touches, so constant and so casual, became essential somewhere along the way and Buck feels himself reaching out for them even when he knows it’s not allowed.

“Six feet, gentlemen,” Bobby says gently when their orbits swing toward each other and Eddie makes a dramatic show of raising his hands and taking a giant step backward. Bobby just shakes his head and reminds them it’s the price they all agreed to pay for not wearing masks in the firehouse. 

Buck starts dreading the end of a call when taking off his heavy turnout coat leaves him feeling cold and exposed. He folds into himself, claiming a chair, putting in earbuds and crossing his arms tight over his chest, pulling his knees up even though he knows better than to put his shoes on the furniture.

It’s a similar position to the one he lies in at night, clinging to the pillows, trying to draw comfort out of the smooth fabric. In those moments, his loneliness is so loud it might as well be a beacon sent out into the universe, a burning shout of need. 

And that shout is heard. 

***

“Have you guys heard of exploding head syndrome?” Buck asks one morning when the calls are slow and the crew is all lingering in a lazy way rather than rushing off to take care of their other duties. 

“What, the band?” Chimney asks.

“I think it was an album,” Bobby says.

“No,” Buck sighs. “It’s a sleep thing. It’s this loud noise that you hear when you’re falling asleep like a massively loud explosion. Only it’s just happening in your head.”

“Is your brain actually exploding? Like an aneurism?”

“No. It’s just the noise.” 

Just the loudest noise Buck had ever heard. It woke him up with a feeling of abject terror. It was an explosion that didn’t echo. It just rang, clear and true through his eardrums like the end of the world. Even as he struggled out of his sheets, searching for the source so he could run from it, part of him knew it wasn’t a sound that left any physical evidence. What could it even be? A sound like that? An old fashioned safe dropping from two stories up? A car crash without the crunch? Just a high speed collision of two immovable objects, all of the equal and opposite reaction of their momentum forced to escape as sound. 

Once his heart rate had slowed, he googled. He wasn’t initially sure what to google. “Ridiculously loud noise woke me up” seemed at once too vague and too specific but sure enough. Exploding Head Syndrome. It was what happened. Obviously. But Buck remained too full of adrenaline to sleep. As he sat up in bed, he couldn’t shake the urge to look around. Under the bed, in the closet, behind the shower curtain. He didn’t feel alone. 

“I’m just glad it’s happening in your head instead of mine,” Chim laughs. “Maybe try putting some earmuffs on before you go to sleep tonight.” ***

The sound doesn’t reappear. Buck is relieved, but sleeping doesn’t get any easier. He tries to soothe himself with obscenely long hot baths, by ordering a hoodie that’s more fluff than fabric, by running a foam roller across his muscles, trying to pry them into relaxation. It’s so much work and it does so little. Buck’s entire body is screaming out at all times for a hug or a massage or even just a really fucking good haircut. It takes longer and longer to fall asleep and the little sleep he does get isn’t restful. It’s like whatever meager comfort he manages to give himself during the day is leached away in the night. 

He doesn’t even notice the bruises at first. It’s an easy enough thing to miss. Their job is heavy physical labor and Buck barrels through a scene like a one man stampede. Bruises are as common as the smell of smoke in his hair. The ones Eddie points out on his arm though are different. 

Buck’s carrying a kitten at the time. The fire they’ve been fighting is beaten back to smolders. Buck shucked off his coat, wet and dripping from the hose and too cold for the shaking animal, and grabbed a blanket from the ambulance to wrap her up and cradle her against his chest. He’s rubbing his face against her damp fur, feeling the softness like a concentrated shot of endorphins when Eddie asks, “What the hell happened to you?”

“What are you talking about?” Buck asks and Eddie’s hands are pushing up the sleeves of his shirt, rolling them up to his shoulders while Buck’s trying to hold onto the cat.

“You don’t feel that?”

“Feel what?” He’s maybe a little ruder than he means to be but the sleep deprivation makes him cranky and the touch deprivation means that Eddie’s gently probing fingers feel like a dream on his skin. The care in the brush of his hands makes Buck’s knees weak. 

“Your arms are bruised to hell,” Eddie says. “Are you- Did someone grab you or something?”

“I swear to god, Eddie. I don’t feel anything.” Except grumpy and exhausted and longing. 

“Jesus, it goes all the way up your shoulders. It looks like-” He stops, pulling Buck’s collar aside and tracing a small spot that Buck can’t see even if he turns his head. “They look like fingerprints, Buck. Are you seeing someone?” 

“What!”

“These are handprints. And they’re dark. Do you really not-”

Buck wrenches himself from Eddie’s grasp so he can turn around and look at him because if Eddie’s really accusing him of putting everyone at risk by trying to date someone right now… But Eddie’s face is nothing but concerned. Which makes Buck scared. 

“Is it really that bad?” he asks, clutching the cat to his chest. 

Eddie rubs a hand up Buck’s back (it feels so good, hot like Buck’s t-shirt isn’t even between them and is it just because it’s been so long or just because it’s Eddie?) without looking around to see if Bobby’s watching and that’s really all the confirmation Buck needs. It’s bad. 

***

After that, Buck starts to feel them. He wakes up and he can’t breathe. He wakes up and he can’t move. He wakes up on the floor. He spends every moment that he’s asleep fighting to wake up. Buck can only remember fragments and pieces of the torment but he knows that it feels like drowning. Like being held down. Like being grabbed and pulled and smothered. He thinks he remembers long dark hair. 

Google is useless. Sleep apnea. Sleep paralysis. Sleep terrors. Even sleepwalking. None of them can account for the worst of it. For the physical signs of whatever is happening to him while he sleeps.

Bruises bloom blue on the pale skin of his hips. Purple on his ribs. Green on the back of his neck. The ones that Eddie saw first on his arm fade to yellow.  A long scratch runs down the side of his face. Dark circles under his eyes grow darker every day. 

“What’s happening to me?” he asks his reflection.

All he wants is to be able to ask that question with someone’s arms around him. He wants anyone to hold him tight and shush his fears and tell him that it’ll be okay. 

It’s easier than he thought to hide it. Buck just chooses his shower times strategically and opts for a long sleeve uniform, complaining that he ruined his short sleeves ones by grabbing bleach instead of detergent while he was half asleep. 

He’s always half asleep these days.

At least in the bunk rooms, he gets some semblance of rest. Whatever presence he feels in his own bedroom doesn’t cross this threshold and Buck sleeps deeply, almost missing the scream of the alarm. 

“It’s getting worse isn’t it?” Eddie asks, cornering Buck in the locker room. Buck can’t help but nod and Eddie steps closer as if to touch him. 

Buck flinches away and Eddie pulls up short as though hitting an invisible wall. 

He breathes Buck’s name on a pained exhale and says, “You have to get some help. Whatever it is…”

“I don’t know what it is!’ Buck answers. “It’s living in my house and it- it- God. Maybe I need an exorcism.”

“Maybe you should come home with me,” Eddie suggests and Buck recoils again. 

The firehouse seems safe but there’s no guarantee that Buck won’t be followed anywhere else. He’s desperate to be safe--desperate for Eddie to make him safe--but not at the expense of anyone else. Not when he doesn’t know what he’s facing. 

“Okay,” Eddie says. “But call me in the morning.” 

***

The burned girl screams louder when she sees Buck than she did while they were putting out the inferno of her car. 

“Stay away from me!” She shrieks. “Stay awaystayawaystayaway.”

“Miss, we’re going to need you to calm down,” Hen says to her. “Buck, you wanna move aside? Like preferably somewhere she can’t see you?”

Buck does because the patient’s well-being is more important than anything, but his skin feels like ice. He wants to demand to know what else she sees when she looks at him. Wants to know how she knows. For half a second, he imagines following her to the hospital and waiting for her outside the glass doors.  

They aren’t far from her house (52% of accidents happen within five miles of home) and the girl’s father arrives on the scene before they finish prepping her to be transported. And he sees Buck. 

He freezes when he does, but at least he doesn’t scream. He ignores Buck completely, instead going to the ambulance where his daughter is still crying and trying to soothe her. Hen offers to let him ride in the ambulance, but he says that he’ll take his car. 

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” he says, returning to Buck as the ambulance pulls away. “What you summoned… That’s not a normal ghost.”

“I didn’t summon anything! It just happened.” Buck’s voice is high-pitched and he just barely stops himself from grabbing onto the man’s arm, but the man doesn’t seem afraid of Buck the way his daughter was. “What is it? How do I make it go away?”

The man shrugs, “She came in through an open door. Which door depends on the person. But she’ll do everything in her power to keep it pried open. All you can do is try to close it again.”

It is… the least helpful advice Buck’s ever been given in his entire life. But the man’s daughter is on her way to the hospital and he needs to follow her. He vanishes. 

***

They’re about to have four days off. Buck’s bracing himself to meet the woman in his dreams. To look around in that dreamspace for open doors and slam them shut again. He can do it. He has to. 

***

The next night Buck wakes up and he can’t move. He’s paralyzed on the bed. He’s paralyzed on the bed and someone’s standing at the top of his stairs. 

She’s not… right. Buck can’t quite see in the dark and he can’t lift his head but the woman on his stairs isn’t solid in the way a human should be. The outline of her is strong, but it’s like she’s a shell wrapped around a cavernous emptiness. She’s across the room but she’s already pulling at him. 

Buck tries to thrash but his arms are pinned as if her hands are already on his wrists. He needs to reach the lamp. If he can just turn on the light.

“Get away from me,” he pleads and the part of her face where lips should be turns up, revealing pointed teeth that stand in front of a void.

“You called me,” she says. The words don’t come from her mouth and Buck doesn’t hear them with his ears. It’s wrong wrong wrong. He throws himself hard to the left and he rolls, flying further than he expected to, suddenly free, and crashes hard into the table, knocking the lamp to the floor. It shatters, bulb and all and pain scrapes across Buck’s shoulders.

“Poor boy,” the ghost mocks. “Poor lonely boy. Just wants someone to touch him. Just wants someone to stay with him. I heard you.”

“No,” Buck says and he tries to scramble, but his feet can’t find purchase on the floor. “I didn’t want you.”

He doesn’t deny the call. Can’t deny it when his heart is reaching out in the same pleading, desperate way now. Please. Anyone.

In the time it takes to blink she’s in front of him. She’s so close. She shouldn’t be able to get that close without standing on him but she’s there. Her voice whispers in his mind, “You should choose your words more carefully.”

And then her hands are around his throat.

The pressure is insistent and her motive is unmistakable. She’s going to kill him. She’s going to squeeze the life out of him. He’s going to die here and Eddie’s going to find his body because Eddie’s going to come rushing over as soon as Buck doesn’t call him in the morning and what if this thing is still here waiting for him. 

Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

Buck’s mind yells for him like his lungs did when Eddie was buried except now it’s Buck who’s too far away, who’s trapped somewhere deep and dark with no hope of escape. 

He tries to breathe and his breath whistles. It’s like the first time someone handed him a styrofoam cup of coffee and he tried to drink through the plastic stir stick. Black stars twinkle in the room and tears build in his eyes. 

Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. 

There’s a shift as she adjusts her grip and it’s enough for the stars to clear. Buck throws himself forward, shaking his head like he isn’t a ragdoll trapped in the jaws of a rottweiler, like he has a hope of breaking free and then he does. The ghost is thrown off balance and Buck jumps, scrambling back over his bed for the stairs. He can’t even think about defeating her, finding out the secrets of where she came from, closing whatever fucking door he left open. All Buck wants to do is live. 

A force behind him swells like a wave to lift Buck off his feet and slams him into the bathroom door. He expects to slide off of it and onto the floor, but he’s held in place hard, his head turned and his cheek pressed to the wood, toes just brushing the ground. 

“You begged me to come,” the ghost hisses. “I’m here for you, lonely boy. Don’t fight so hard.”

A hand skims up his back, nearly gentle, but leaving a numbness in its path and Buck shudders in disgust. He jerks against the door, but his arms are wrenched behind him and he screams. He realizes it’s the first time he has.

“I didn’t call you! I don’t want you here! Get out.”

“I came because you needed me.” A long finger trails down his cheek and Buck whimpers. She’s taller than him now. Was she always? “I could feel you from so far away. An aching ball of need. I’m here for you now.” 

“I don’t need you,” Buck growls and the room flashes like lightning. He hopes to fall, almost expects to fall, where he can scramble again but instead, Buck is hurled away from the door completely. He has time to see that he’s above the stairs, throw his hands out uselessly and then he’s frozen. 

Buck hovers there in the air above the stairs, dangling in the grip of the ghost, like a cat grabbed by his scruff. Kicking wildly, he grabs for the invisible hand that’s holding him, yelling “No, no, no, no.”

“Need me now?” the ghost asks. 

Smothering the terrified part of him that nearly answers yes, Buck forces himself to stop twisting and just hang there. He doesn’t want to fall. He doesn’t want to die. But what he needs isn’t going to come from the ghost. 

“No,” he answers. 

And he can’t explain how he knows what her face looks like when it’s screwed up in fury, but he does. It’s vicious and vindictive and Buck’s not surprised at all when he’s flicked away from her and down the flight of stairs. 

He seems to hit each one as he falls, something that should be impossible with the speed that he’s traveling and the force with which he bounces off of them, but the ghost is obviously responsible. Air leaves his lungs as his ribs crack against the stairs. His elbows and knees scrape. His head bangs the rail. Buck’s long, long legs seem to tangle as he falls, cartwheeling him down and he lands in a heap at the bottom. 

As he tries to figure out if he can still move, the door flies open. 

Warmth rushes in. Buck hadn’t even realized how cold it had gotten since he first woke up, but the room seems to thaw around him. It’s like sunlight. 

It’s Eddie. 

“Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Evan. Buck. I’ve got you, Buck. I’ve got you.” 

Tenderly, he scoops Buck off the floor, unsnarling the mess of his limbs and feeling all over for the damage he can’t see. “I’ve got you. Open your eyes. Come on.” 

The ghost stands at the top of the stairs and then she’s at the bottom. Buck clambers backward again, digging his heels into the floor to push himself upright in front of Eddie, to try and hide him from view. Eddie doesn’t seem to see the ghost. All of his attention is still on Buck, stroking his hair, promising over and over that he’s there, that he has Buck. 

All of the ghost’s attention is on Buck too. “You need me,” she says. “You called for me.” She sounds different now. Bitter. Like Buck wasted her precious time. 

“I don’t need you,” he says and he reaches behind him to grab Eddie’s hand. “I already have everything I need.” 

Lights flicker and that impossibly loud sound bangs in Buck’s ears again. He gets one last look at the ghost’s vicious, violent visage and then she’s gone. 

And then Buck wakes up.

[luffles424]

Luminous

☼ Pairing: Jimin x reader 

☼ Genre: tentacle monster!Jimin, some fluff, smut, mostly just pwp

☼ Count: 9k

☼ Warnings: 18+, public sex (no ones around but they’re on the beach), tentacles (kind of a given), big dick jimin, manhandling, lots of cum, some cumplay, creampie, cum inflation/belly bulge (not a whole lot, just a small bump) unprotected sex, restraints, choking, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, tit fucking, thigh fucking, oral (m recieving), deep throating, anal, double penatration, minor nipple play, praise kink, mating cycles, slight impreg kink

☼ Summary: The Busan summer festival is your favorite event of the year. You like all the food and things to do, but your favorite part is watching the fireworks at the end of the night, gathered with friends and family. It’s fun and joyous. Except this year you’re spending it without them. So you find a secluded spot on the beach to watch alone. Except... you might not be as alone as you thought you were out here. 

☼ a/n:  This was written for Sol’s (jamaisjoons) collab event ‘The Summer Bucketlist’ and my prompt was ‘watching fireworks.’ Uhhh this idea was originally very different and then I started thinking about tentacles and now here we are 🥴🥴🥴 Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think! My ask box is always open ~ 💙💙💙💙

☼ Banner made by the absolutely amazing @jamaisjoons​ (who did such wonderful work on it and I hope the fic lives up to the beautiful banner she made me 💕💕💕)

You let out a small contented sigh as you slip your feet into the water. This is your favorite place in all of Busan, this hidden little jutty of rock just off one of the smaller, less popular beaches, more popular among locals only. You’ve spent more time than you can count out here hanging out with your friends, passing the time and using the salty sea breeze to help combat the heat of summer. You’ve been out here plenty on your own too, just like how you’re out here alone right now. 

The sun’s dipping below the horizon, the sky slowly turning an inky black. The perfect backdrop to what’s going to happen soon and the main reason you’re out here at all to begin with rather than at home. The summer festival is happening and once the sun disappears, the sky will be decorated with fireworks, and you and your friends discovered years ago that this is the best spot to watch them, unobstructed and no one around to fight for seats. 

You kick your feet idly in the water, enjoying the warmth of it as you lean back on your hands as you watch the last few rays of light slip away. You wished your friends could’ve made it though. But Namjoon was stuck in the city for work and Taehyung was out with his girlfriend at the festival. A brief feeling of sadness overcomes you because you had been planning to go with Taehyung and his girlfriend and your own boyfriend as a double date. Until he dumped you a week ago over text because he’d moved to the otherside of the country and apparently was nothing like the man you met since he didn’t even have the balls to break up in person. 

You suspect that there was a lot more than his flimsy excuse of it’s just not working and long distance is hard. It most likely has something to do with the new girl that you’ve been told about that has shown up on his socials. 

For what it’s worth, Taehyung and Namjoon both offered you company but you waved them off. Namjoon’s job opportunity is much more important and as much as you love Taehyung and his girlfriend, you didn’t particularly feel like being third wheel to their (normally adorable and heart warming) love. 

You think this is better anyway. It’s peaceful out here. The smell of salt being carried by the breeze brings a myriad of memories that all bring a smile to your face and it’s easy to forget about the hard things in this moment. It’s healing to be out here. As much as it sucked that you got dumped, you can’t be too upset. You saw the cracks forming the more he opened his mouth and talked, if he hadn’t done it, you likely would have been doing it soon anyway. You let your head fall back, letting your eyes slip closed as you simply enjoyed this. You should tell the others that you all need to make another trip out here soon. 

Plus you’d come much earlier when the sun was still high and swam some. Using the ebb and flow of the ocean to erode your worries and stress. Then you’d sprawled out on your beach towel on your rocky perch and let the sunset dry your skin before you slipped back into your shorts and tank top and allowed the peacefulness to swallow you. 

You startle slightly when there’s a loud, echoing boom and color flashes across the sky. You’d been lulled into such calmness and had almost forgotten why you were out here to begin with. You watch the sky passively, watching the occasional flash of color and shapes as the firework people warm themselves and the crowds up. You know the real show won’t start for at least another 45 minutes, knowing the tell by the fact that there’s still the faintest of traces of blue on the horizon. 

Your feet continue their idle movements in the water, until something slick brushes the bottom of your foot and you scream on instinct, quickly jerking your foot free from the water. You back up an extra foot from the edge, to the safety of the blanket that you spread across the rocks, just as an extra precaution. You’re sure that whatever touched you was probably just seaweed. Maybe a plastic bag or some other trash that someone carelessly threw into the ocean. But anything touching you in the water when the water is nothing more than an inky black expanse is enough for you to decide that’s enough soaking for the night.

Just as your heart rate is returning to normal, something slips over the edge of the rocks where you’d just been sitting. It gleams in the moonlight, silver, smooth, and shiny, as it makes a cursory probe at the edge, like it’s looking for something. It’s probably no thicker than your thumb and you deliriously wonder if octopi are even capable of coming up on dry land, let alone the reason why one might be coming up right now. Though the longer you stare at it, the more you realize that it’s far too smooth to be from an octopus, completely devoid of the telltale suckers. 

You shuffle a little further away. You really don’t want to move too quickly, not if you don’t know what it even is and if it can follow you or how fast whatever it is. But your slight movement only seems to catch it’s attention and to your growing horror, it lashes out almost faster than you can see and wraps itself firmly around your ankle. You scream again, because aside from that, there’s really very little you can do out here all alone with it on you.

Any attempts to free yourself prove futile, the slender appendage is far stronger than you would’ve expected from such a jelly-like creature. It gives its own experimental tug, one that pulls you marginally closer to the water before you once again scramble backwards. It lets you and that just serves to freak you out more.

Then, a few more tentacles appear over the edge of the rock, watering dripping and spreading out around them and then there’s a… hand? You frown as a seemingly human hand, if perhaps a little ashen looking, plants itself on the rock right alongside the tentacles. The fingers flex for a moment before something, somehow even more surprising, appears. A fairly human face, or at least up to the eyes as that’s the furthest it raises, peaks up over the edge, gaze quickly zeroing in on you. Your heart stutters in your chest as your eyes meet and its pale silver eyes gleam like its tentacles. It’s hair is wet and slicked back and, though the locks are currently water logged and a few shades darker, it’s clearly also a similar shade of silver as its tentacles and eyes. 

Another hand joins the first along the edge of the rocks and for a moment it doesn’t move at all. You stare at it, you know it’s definitely bigger than an octopus now. You don’t think you could take it. It’s dead silent aside from the gentle lapping of the waves and you’re terrified to move for fear of what it’s going to do to you. It gives the slightest of tugs on your ankle and when you don’t budge it finally lifts itself from the water. 

You try to back away again, but it’s grip keeps you in place and you let out a startled scream when another tentacle darts out to wrap itself around your other ankle. The… monster… sits on its knees at the edge for a moment after pulling itself from the water. 

It, he?, looks almost perfectly human. Skin a dimmed golden shade, frame small but packed with lean muscle… apparently well endowed in human terms. You jerk your gaze quickly away when you realize just where you're staring. Your life is on the line, now is not the time to to fucking ogle the monster and think about if he can get hard like a human and if it possibly gets bigger. You force yourself back to his face, cheekbones prominent and lips plush as he seems to be looking you over as well, though his gaze continually seems to dart behind you, brows knitting in confusion. 

His eyes appear almost human except that it doesn’t seem like he has a pupil, silver swallowing the whole of the iris. It’s slightly disconcerting. His tentacles shift behind him, drawing your attention to them finally. The ones not on you shift behind him restlessly, never seeming to settle. A thin one drapes itself on his shoulder before slithering across his skin to the other side, forming a strange sort of living necklace. It’s hard to pin down an exact number with them constantly moving, but there seems to be a lot and they seem to come in primarily two sizes, thinner ones like the one draped around his throat and wrapped around your ankles and thicker ones easily the width of 3 or 4 fingers, you try very hard not to compare their girth with what you had glimpsed between his legs. 

You’re trying to formulate a plan to get away when there’s another boom of a firework, bathing everything pink for a moment. And what you’re certainly not expecting is for the way the monster startles at the sound. The tentacles around your ankles tighten almost painfully and then before you can completely comprehend what’s going on, you’re being pulled closer to him. Once you're close enough, he’s leaning down over you and you squeeze your eyes shut, unsure of what’s about to happen but positive that it’s unlikely to be good.

But nothing happens and as the seconds stretch, you slowly peek an eye open. His face is almost directly above yours, but it’s not you that he’s looking at. Instead, he’s studiously scanning your surroundings, looking tense and on edge. When you glance at the way that he’s leaning over you, you realize that he seems to be almost… protecting you? Which only serves to confuse you more.

Deeming there to be no immediate threat, his gaze turns down to you and you freeze now that you're faced with him this close. He blinks down at you before his lips part and he makes a strange sort of clicking sound, but you’re more focused on the sharp teeth revealed when he makes noise. Definitely sharp enough to tear into you and eat his fill.

“Please don’t eat me,” you squeak out, hands coming up to cover your face.

There’s silence for a moment before a deep chuckle sounds from him. You peek between your fingers at him and there’s a smirk stretching his lips. 

“Oh, I have met your kind before.” His voice is soft and surprisingly melodious given the higher pitch the clicking was. 

You can’t help the words that slip from your lips. “My kind?”

His lips twitch and he tilts his head. “Humans. Are you not human?” He pushes himself up slightly to inspect you again. “You do not appear to be one of my kind.”

“There’s more of you?”

His gaze darts around. “A few.”

You swallow, about to speak again when another firework goes off. He startles above you and drops closer once more, body pressed firmly to yours as he glares around, trying to discover the source. 

You’d laugh at his constant startling if your throat wasn’t suddenly so dry. His chest is every bit as firm as it looked and you can feel every shift and ripple as he looks around. It’s incredibly distracting. Why did the monster have to be hot? You squeeze your eyes shut again. You should not be thinking about how it’d feel to touch the monster with your hands. Or how other parts of him would feel. 

He shifts off of you slightly. “It is safe for now.”

You blink your eyes open, frowning at him. “Safe? What are you talking about?”

His head tilts and he reminds you of a confused puppy. “Do you not hear the loud noises?”

A giggle slips out and that seems to perplex him further. “No, no. I do. It’s just… Have you not been around here before?” 

“I have always lived here.”

“Have you… been on land before?”

His brows pinch and there’s the slightest of flushes coloring his cheeks a deep blue-gray. “I come up here every year.”

“How have you not heard them before then? They’re just fireworks.” You see the streak of a new one and point to it quickly, drawing his attention to it just before it reaches its peak and explodes in a sparkling cascade of gold. “They’re for entertainment. They’re not dangerous.” You pause. “Okay they are. But not at this distance. The only people who could possibly be in danger would be the ones firing them.”

“Fire… works?” He mumbles, sitting back on his haunches as his face remains tilted towards the sky even though the phosphorus has long since burned out. “Will there be more?”

You slowly push yourself up, cautious of what he might do but his focus remains firmly upwards. “Yeah, they’ll keep shooting some singles off for a little bit longer then they’ll start the big show.”

He says nothing else and you wonder if you can use the time to slip away before you realize that he still has two tentacles wrapped around your ankles. There goes your chance for escape. At least he doesn’t seem interested in eating you. Yet.

Another firework goes and you watch his eyes widen as he follows its trajectory up until it stops in an explosion of color and sound. But you’re far more taken watching the childlike glee on his face and the way the colors gleam on his skin and tentacles. The colors add another level to his already stunning looks, making him look far more ethereal and angelic. He grins as he watches and he looks much less like a terrifying monster. Though you worry what will happen once the fireworks stop and there’s nothing to distract him. Maybe when the real show starts he’ll be so engrossed that you can slip yourself free of the tentacles and make a quick and quiet escape. 

You shake your head, looking away and up at the sky too. There’s nothing much you can do right now with their grip on you still too tight, so you might as well also watch the show. The fireworks are slowly starting to increase in frequency and he seems to squirm in excitement the closer together the pops of color come. 

“Do you have a name?” You ask suddenly, looking back over at him. Maybe you can text Namjoon or Taehyung and tell them that if you disappear to look for something with that name. Probably Taehyung. He’d be more likely to believe that you’ve been taken by a monster than Namjoon. He’d probably ask if you’ve drank or smoked anything. Get too drunk camping once and claim that bigfoot tried to kidnap you and you never get believed again. 

He doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t even seem to acknowledge that you spoke. But then his lips purse and he looks over at you for a moment. “Jimin.”

“Jimin?” He bobs his head and turns back to catch another firework going off. “My name’s Y/n.” You murmur, unsure if he’s even interested. 

It hurts a little that he didn’t seem interested in you back, but you suppose that you don’t know whatever his monster customs are. And you really shouldn’t look too deeply into why it hurts that a monster doesn’t seem interested in you. That should be a good thing. It means you have a better chance of getting away. 

There’s a long break in the fireworks and Jimin’s lips push out into an adorable pout as he turns to you with sad eyes. “Is it over?”

You laugh and shake your head. “No. It’s actually just getting ready to get started. Now it’s the big show. You thought it was good before. Just wait.”

He gives a simple nod and turns back to the sky, content to wait patiently for the rest. Silence descends on you both and you feel like you should be more worried about the tentacle monster sitting in front of you. But Jimin seems harmless enough, he certainly hasn’t tried to eat you or anything and that’s certainly got to count for something. He seems far more interested in the fireworks than in you now anyway. 

You’re just starting to relax when something cool and damp brushes the skin of your lower back. You freeze, back stiff as whatever it is tentatively touches the warm skin before slithering further up your shirt. You bite down on the urge to scream, you don’t want to startle Jimin again. Just because he was protective before, doesn’t mean that a scream coming from you would produce the same result. And before you can twist to see what is crawling up your shirt, the tentacles around your ankles slide a little further up your legs, ends timidly probing along your flesh as they go.

Another tentacle, one of the thicker ones, slides across your arm, wrapping once around your wrist and nestling the tip into your palm. The cool sensation is bizarrely familiar and it takes you only a moment to realize that whatever crawled up your shirt a moment ago is another tentacle. You’re about to speak when a thin tentacle trails up your arm to rest against your shoulder, gently tracing your jaw and neck. 

You swallow. “Um, Jimin?” All you get is a hum in response. Does he not realize what’s going on? “Jimin? What’s happening?”

Either your words or tone finally pulls his attention to you and when he sees his tentacles wrapped around you, he flushes a pretty blue. He scoots away, working to encourage them to release you, but this time of year they always have a bit more mind of their own. He makes an irritated clicking noise when they don’t move.

The one in your hand seems to respond to his sound though you’re not sure if it’s the way he wanted it to or not but it tightens around your wrist slightly before becoming… slicker?

You look at it, a weird mix of horror and maybe a little arousal. Maybe you shouldn’t have watched so much hentai when you were younger. You look back up at Jimin, at a complete loss. “Jimin?”

Jimin looks incredibly embarrassed, burying his face in his hands and making more distressed clicking noises. Probing tentacles aside, he looks adorable all flustered like this. A few of his tentacles wrap around his wrists and shoulders, patting his skin soothingly but that only seems to make him more distressed. 

The tentacle at your back has reached the tie to your bikini top beneath your shirt and is prodding at the knot with interest. You don’t know what to do to stop the distress you can practically feel coming from Jimin. The tentacle in your hand squirms slightly, drawing your attention back to it. You swallow, sneaking a quick peek at Jimin as you do the only, seemingly illogical, thing you can think of right now and you close your hand around the rowdy tentacle and squeeze. 

The result is instantaneous and certainly not what you had expected. Jimin moans. So then even if he’s not in control, he can still feel through them. Interesting to know. Jimin’s mouth hangs open for a moment before his gaze is meeting yours and you suddenly feel like maybe that was the wrong thing to do. 

There’s simmering fire in his eyes as he tries to speak as calmly and evenly as possibly. “I told you I come here once a year, correct?” You nod and he continues. “I come here to mate.”

You blink at him, mind completely blanking out. “M-mate?” You hate how high your voice sounds. 

He nods, sending a glare at the tentacles touching you. “When I saw you here, I had assumed you were one that I have spent the mating period with before.”

“Fuck, did I ruin your hookup?”

“Hookup?”

Your body heats with embarrassment. Maybe if you ask nicely, Jimin will let you go drown. “Whoever you were supposed to meet here. Did they not show up because I was here?”

He’s quick to shake his head. “I did not have plans. But sometimes if someone is near they will stop by. If they are not, I can take care of myself.”

The image of Jimin splayed out on the rocks by himself, tentacles sliding across his skin, wrapped around his cock, drawing more of those noises from him shoots straight to your core. Your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand accidentally tightens around Jimin’s tentacle again, drawing a gasp from him. 

“I apologize for not warning you sooner. The fireworks distracted me but it appears that it did not distract them.” He gestures to his tentacles. “Give me a moment and I should be able to free you so you can leave.”

His eyes slip closed and your gaze drags over him, startling slightly when you realize he’s started to grow hard too. You feel crazy that the first thing you think is how badly you want to touch. 

This is such a bad idea, but before you can stop yourself or second guess, you’re speaking. “What if... you didn’t though?”

Jimin freezes, but the tentacles seem to grow more restless at your words. Another thick one stretches the distance between you both to rest against your thigh, slicking your skin wherever it touches.

“You do not know what you are saying.” He grits out.

The tentacle in your hand squirms and you give it a small squeeze, maintaining eye contact with Jimin as you do so you get to fully enjoy the shudder that ripples through him. “I um, think I have a pretty good idea what I’m saying.”

He shakes his head, hair falling over his eyes. You didn’t think it would be so hard to convince a tentacle monster that you wanted him to fuck you. This was by far the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. For all you know, he could eat his partner afterwards. If you live past this encounter, no one would ever let you live it down. If they even believed you. Your gaze drops involuntarily back to his cock and you find that he's fully hard now. And it’s almost a little intimidating how big he is, longer and thicker than anything you’ve ever taken before. You don’t think your fingers would be able to wrap around the girth. But any apprehensions you think you’d feel normally are nowhere to be seen, all you feel is overwhelming want. You want to try to fit him, to feel the burn as he stretches you out. You want to taste and you want him to absolutely ruin you. 

Unsure of any other way to convince him that you do want this, you switch tactics. If you can’t convince him with words, you’ll just have to show him what you want. You release the tentacle in your hand, though it keeps itself wrapped around your wrist, and move to remove your shirt. Seeming to know your plan, or maybe just through a stroke of luck, the tentacle that has been exploring your bikini top seems to have discovered how to undo the ties and as your top hits the ground beside you, your top slips to your lap.

His eyes dip to the scrap of fabric in your lap before they trace slowly back up, expression worryingly blank. You belatedly realize that this might not even be a good signal to him that you do want this. You don’t know what others of his kind look like, if any of them look anything like you. For the most part, he looks human enough, you’d think that maybe this was enough, that maybe this is at least sort of familiar to him. You feel suddenly self conscious, this was such a dumb idea. You really shouldn’t let the horny brain lead. You’re just about to cross your arms to cover yourself when the tentacle that had been on your thigh slithers up your stomach to sit between your breasts. 

You glance at Jimin and his eyes seem darker, jaw clenched tight. His tentacles seem to grow more agitated behind him and the ones around your ankles tighten to tug you closer, both to your surprise and apparently also Jimin’s. He flushes, staring down at you with wide eyes as your thighs come to rest against his. 

The tentacle on your chest squirms and Jimin’s gaze drops to watch. Your gaze drops too, intending to look at the tentacle currently writhing around on your chest and smearing slick there but you only make it halfway. Because Jimin is now fully hard, thick cock curving up towards his belly and the sight of it has you enraptured. He looked big when he was still soft, but now fully hard, or at least what you assume is fully hard, he looks positively massive. The skin of his cock is the same muted tan of the rest of him, the tip almost blue-gray, close to the color his cheeks turned but deeper in color, and it’s leaking more silvery looking fluid. You wonder if it’s the same thing that is leaking from his tentacles. 

Jimin shudders and it takes only a moment for you to realize that the reason is because a thin tentacle has wrapped itself around the base of his cock. It makes you want to touch too. So tentatively, you reach out, gaze flicking between his cock and his face to gauge his reaction and giving him more than enough time to pull away. 

He watches your fingers brush against the tip, dragging a smear of slick further down the shaft but he makes no move to stop you. He lets out a shaky exhale and, emboldened by the noise, you wrap your fingers around him. Or you at least try your best to because his girth keeps your fingers from meeting. 

Jimin makes a rumbling noise and then there are two more tentacles massaging at your thighs, working their way up until they meet the edge of your shorts. They only probe along the fabric for a moment before slipping beneath and continuing their exploration towards the apex of your thighs. They trace the edge of your bikini bottoms before one of them presses against your pussy through the thin fabric. 

You gasp and Jimin’s gaze is back on your face, attention wholly focused on you as his tentacles press again, but this time with a little more pressure. One happens to brush past your clit and you jolt, a moan slipping from your lips and the tentacles seem desperate to recreate that reaction as they narrow their focus to your clit. 

Jimin groans again and his hands come up to cup your cheeks, his tentacles all stilling for a moment. He waits until you look up at him. “Are you sure? It will be harder to stop once we start. Are you positive you can handle it? I do not mind spending the time alone.”

It’s sweet how concerned he is about you. But now that he’s started, all you can think about is being fucked by him while his tentacles play with every inch of you. You squirm back slightly and he seems to take that as rejection, if the flash of disappointment you catch on his face is anything to go by. You quickly undo your shorts, tugging them down your legs, assisted by his tentacles once they reach your ankles. 

He swallows and you watch as the tentacles from your ankles relocate to your thighs to keep you spread wide as the two that had been in your pants resume their work on your clit, now free of the hindrance of cloth. You bring your slick fingers to your mouth and keep eye contact as you lick them clean. It’s salty like the sea, but rather than the bitterness of cum, his has a hint of sweetness to it. It’s slightly addictive.

He stares at you for a moment and then he’s making another clicking noise and the tentacle that had been around your wrist unwraps itself and slips between your legs to join the other two already there, though it bypasses your clit to circle your dripping hole instead. 

“Needy.” He coos, though you’re not sure if it’s directed at you or his tentacles. Maybe both. 

He shuffles in close again, seemingly content to just watch his tentacles play with you. You whine, you like the feel of his tentacles, but you want him to touch with his hands and lips too. You want more. Maybe the needy was directed at you after all. He glances up at your noise, watching the way your mouth drops open as his tentacle finally wriggles it’s way into your pussy. It’s firmer than you expected from touching it, but still much more malleable than a cock would be. But it’s softer nature allows it greater freedom to explore your walls as it moves slowly in and out of you, certainly a different experience for you but you definitely can’t find it in you to hate it when it can reach all the right spots inside of you easily.

You reach out, grabbing the first part of Jimin you can grab, his arm, and tug him insistently down on top of you. He complies easily, seemingly curious as to what you want. You wonder if he’s ever kissed a partner before, if that’s something that his kind does. You hesitate and Jimin immediately notices, head tilting in curiosity. 

“What is wrong?”

You’re gasping before you can formulate your question, the tentacle inside you having quickly found your g-spot and is now making sure to rub it with every thrust, sending waves of pleasure rippling through your body. Jimin’s head dips down and his nose rubs against yours. 

“Are you okay? I have never been with a human and so I am unsure of what might hurt or bring pleasure. Please tell me if they are hurting you.”

He looks so sweet and it makes your heart stutter a little. You tilt your head, capturing his plush lips in a kiss. They’re warmer than you expected, giving the cooler temperature of his tentacles. It takes him a moment of inaction before he seems to catch on to how to kiss back. He makes a small noise when your tongue brushes his lips but he easily parts them for you. His sharp teeth skim your lip and it leaves you gasping into his mouth. He seems pleased with the response and he trails his lips across your jaw and down your neck. 

“You did not answer my question.” He murmurs, teeth gently teasing the skin of your neck, mindful of their sharpness. 

His tentacles are driving you mad, bringing you so close to your orgasm but seeming to know exactly when to slow back down to draw it out even longer. “What… question?” You gasp out.

“Are you okay?”

You’d scoff if the tentacles around your clit hadn’t started circling in tandem, winding the coil in your belly tighter. “So… so okay… Fuck, Jimin, are you sure you’ve never been with a human before?”

He pulls away from your neck enough to look down at you, a pleased smile stretching his lips. “I have not. Am I doing good?”

You nod enthusiastically, hands tangling in his hair to pull him back in for a messy kiss. He makes a pleased sort of clicking noise in the back of his throat and his tentacles speed up. And this time when your orgasm draws near his tentacles keep their speed rather than slowing again and you cum, back arching off the blanket as your pussy convulses around the tentacle. His tentacles continue their ministrations and Jimin pulls away to stare down at where his tentacle disappears inside you with wide eyed wonder. 

He groans as he watches with rapt attention. “Does it do this every time?”

You squirm, oversensitivity quickly setting in as his tentacles refuse to let up. The borderline painful feeling robs you of words to tell him to slow down and give you just a moment to breath. The tentacle inside of you swells and then everything grows a little slicker as Jimin chokes on a gasp. You struggle to reach out to grasp any one of the tentacles, to just lessen the sensations ravaging your pussy just a little, but before you can even make contact, another tentacle is wrapping around both wrists and dragging them above your head. 

“J-Jimin, please…”

Jimin pays you no mind, tentacles working faster under his focused gaze and it doesn't take long for you to be thrown into a second orgasm, though it feels almost like the first one never ended. You cry out, much too loud even if the beach is seemingly deserted right now. You shudder as your orgasm crests and Jimin’s tentacle seems to stiffen inside you before you feel suddenly wetter and stickier and full. The tentacle slips out of you after a few weaker thrusts and a small gush of thick liquid follows and the tentacle suddenly seems much less enthusiastic than its counterparts. Fuck, did that mean…?

“Jimin,” you whine, waiting until he finally tears his gaze away from your dripping pussy. “Do… do your tentacles cum too?”

His head tilts in confusion. “Come?” He thinks for a moment before realization seems to overcome him. “Ah. Do you mean do my tentacles also release?”

Embarrassment creeps over you. Something so clinical shouldn’t have you aching to be filled again when you just came twice and apparently already filled. You nod shyly. 

“Yes. They also release. It is to give the best chance of a successful mating.”

You swallow, eyeing the tentacles behind him wearily. “Do they all have to?”

He shakes his head, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. “They do not. Only the big ones release. And from those, they do not all release every mating.”

You feel equal parts relieved and disappointed, though you know that you should probably question your disappointment. But you’ve already come this far, no reason to start questioning your potentially bad decisions now. 

He tilts his head. “Does it bother you? They do not need to do it near you if it makes you uncomfortable.”

You choke, unsure how to respond for a moment. This whole situation should really terrify and appall you. But you only find yourself growing hotter at the idea of being used by his tentacles and covered in their cum. You chew your lip before giving a small nod. 

His eyes trace over your face before he seems to light up and he leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Does the thought of that arouse you, sweet? I must admit, most of my previous partners were less than enthused about that aspect of mating.”

You groan, wanting nothing more than to bury your face in your hands in shame but Jimin’s tentacles keep your hands studiously bound above your head. Even his own kind didn’t like it. Why were you so weird? He giggles, leaning down to brush your nose with his own. His face is set with a kind smile, but his eyes still dance with mirth and lust. 

“I find it very arousing that you like it so much. Tell me what you are thinking about, sweet.”

To punctuate his words, another tentacle slips between your legs, rubbing along your sticky slit. You moan and Jimin’s eyes shine with fire. “I… was thinking about you fucking me and filling me up and leaving me all messy.”

He smirks. “I can do that, sweet. Just ask.”

“Jimin, please, fuck me… Fuck, ruin me…”

Jimin’s grin turns positively feral, sharp teeth on display. And for a moment, fear ripples through you as Jimin looks truly like a monster for the first time since he’s surfaced. But then his tentacles shift around him, eager for their chance to touch. Jimin shoos the thick tentacle away from your pussy, the ones around your thighs assisting him in situating you how he wants. He runs the tips of his cock through the mess left there by his tentacle and a pleased chirp leaves him. 

“You are already so full. Do you think you can take more?” He purrs.

You nod and his cock presses against your entrance. He presses just the tip in and he stretches your pussy more than the tentacle did. You gasp, breath robbed from you as the stretch borders on too much. But Jimin seems to sense it and pauses with just the tip inside, allowing you all the time to adjust to his massive cock. 

Jimin’s hands skim up your thighs, the tentacles resting passively on your clit once again coming to life and the jolt of pleasure has you squirming on Jimin’s cock. His hands rest on your hips, gripping them with bruising strength to keep you from moving. You whimper at the casual display of strength, at the way that he seems to not even be trying to hold you still while his tentacles slowly circle your clit to get you to relax. 

Two other tentacles slip up your body, pressing against your breasts and kneading at the flesh experimentally. The sensation is different, while the tentacles don’t have the surface area the way a hand does, they are capable of moving in ways a hand simply can’t. They grope at the flesh, exploring and testing the limits. One brushes past your nipple, causing you to gasp and suddenly both are on the pebbled buds, playing with them to draw even more noises from you. Their motions mimic the motions on your clit and pleasure sparks across your body once again. 

The tentacles shift slightly, long bodies draping down the sides of your breasts and then they press the mounds inwards, forcing the flesh together around the tentacle still resting on your sternum. Jimin grunts at the sudden pressure around his tentacle and your gaze drops to watch with fascination as the tentacle starts to thrust into the tight space, silvery tip gleaming with each press through. 

Your pussy clenches at the thought of it slipping a little further up and into your mouth, of tasting that salty, sweet slick from the source. A high pitched noise sounds in Jimin’s throat as his hips stutter forward at the feeling of your pussy tightening around him and you moan as he slips a little further into you, stretching you just a little more. Now though, the stretch makes you ache for more, the burn finally passed with the aid of the tentacles playing with your clit and nipples and slowly pulling your pleasure back to the surface. 

You really need him to be completely inside of you and when you dig your heels into his ass to try to get him to move, he seems hesitant. His tentacles, however, seem more than thrilled at the idea and more than happy to help you in your pursuit. The ones around your thighs tighten and pull you closer, until Jimin is buried to the hilt in the clutch of your pussy. The noise is filthy, the mess from his tentacle spilling out around his cock to smear on your thighs and drip down your ass. 

Jimin goes rigid when he’s fully inside you, eyes trained on where you’re joined. He seems transfixed by the sight of your cunt swallowing down every inch he has. Your whine has his head snapping up to look at your face, drinking in the way you’re moaning. The tentacle between your breasts slips a little further up, tip bumping your chin once before it’s shifting to your lips. Your tongue darts out, swiping through the salty fluid. Jimin shudders, hips flexing where they press into you and you let your mouth fall open for his tentacle to slip in. 

Your tongue swirls around the tip and it squirms, pushing in further than you expect and causing you to gag. It pulls itself from your mouth with a pop and you frown at it’s loss before shifting your gaze to Jimin, who seems to be glaring at the tentacle like it did something wrong. 

“Jimin?” When he looks at you, you give him an amused smile. “It’s okay. It just takes me a minute.”

His head tilts but the tentacle makes its way tentatively back to your mouth, hovering until you open again for it to slip back in. It goes a lot slower this time, keeping its thrusts shallow. You hum encouragingly, tongue pressing and massaging the underside as it moves and the tentacle slides a little deeper. You gag only slightly this time, much more prepared now, and after a few thrusts you grow used to the intrusion and it can slip just a little bit more down your throat. 

Jimin watches for a moment before groaning and then he’s pulling his cock out until just the tip remains before slamming back in. You moan around his tentacle, noise muffled as it delves further down your throat. It stays there for a moment and the lack of oxygen has your head start to spin. Your hands twitch where they’re still bound above your head, but before the real need for oxygen comes and you have to try to alert Jimin that you need to breathe, the tentacle is pulling out, switching to shallow thrusts while you get a quick break to breathe. The sudden rush of oxygen has you feeling nearly euphoric and you can only hope that the tentacle does it again. When you whine around it, it pushes back into your throat and the rest of the whine is muffled by it’s girth. 

Jimin’s fingers flex against your hips as he watches and feels how much of his tentacle slips into the waiting warmth of your mouth and with a moan he starts fucking into your pussy with a quick pace. Your hands grab at the tentacle binding you, needing something, anything, to ground yourself as Jimin fucks you senseless. You feel wholly overwhelmed at the way his cock fills you, the way the tentacles swirl around your clit, your nipples and breasts, at the way the one in your mouth begins to stiffen up. 

The tentacles shift on your breasts, kneading the soft flesh once again before pinching at your nipples. You moan around the tentacle in your mouth and it gives a shudder before flooding your mouth and throat. You choke slightly, jerking your head slightly at the sheer volume being released into your mouth, far more than you can handle. Spit and cum drip from the corners of your mouth as you struggle to swallow and the tentacle pulls itself from your mouth before it's finished, painting the lower half of your face even more in its silvery essence. Jimin’s eyes gleam at the sight, seeming to become even more frantic with his thrusts. 

“J-jimin…” You whine, voice rough from use. You’re not entirely sure what you’d finish that statement with.

“You are doing so well.” He coos and the praise has your mind going fuzzy. “You look so pretty like this.”

He reaches up, sliding a hand through the mess on your cheeks before letting his hand drag the mess back down your body, leaving a shiny trail down your throat, in the valley between your breasts and across your stomach. He slams in particularly hard and you cry out, voice echoing across the empty beach and ocean, much too loud but you no longer care.

Jimin glows golden, the light haloing him and your fucked out mind is sluggish to make sense of the sudden color change. Then you remember why you were out here to begin with and you make the connection just as the resounding boom of the firework follows just after the shower of color. The fireworks show must be finally starting because the next second Jimin is bathed in blue, then pink.

But as quick as your attention was taken by the colorful shadows splashed across Jimin’s beautiful face, it’s taken back as he shifts suddenly, hands leaving your hips to push your thighs together as he continues to fuck you. Your calves come to rest on one shoulder and Jimin uses the new position to fuck you even harder. 

Something slick drags along the crease where your thighs are pressed together and a second later a tentacle is pushing into the tight space. Your skin tingles where it presses into your skin and with every thrust it makes through the tight press of your thighs, it bumps the tentacles on your clit. Jimin presses a kiss to your leg and you feel the breath leave him as his tentacle speeds up and he hisses.

The sensations are nearly overwhelming, to the point that you almost miss the new slim tentacle kneading the flesh of your ass. It delivers a pinch to the skin that leaves you gasping and you’re much more aware of it as it runs along the seam of your ass. You squirm, or at least attempt to, because between the tentacles restraining you and Jimin’s firm grip on your thighs, you’re left nearly immobile as you get fucked. The tentacle slips a little further up, gathering some slick before it’s dipping back down to prod at the tight ring of muscle of your hole. 

You shudder and if you could move, you’d press down onto the tentacle, force it to fill you because you need it as much as you need Jimin’s cock in you. “Fuck, please, don’t tease…”

Jimin’s face is set in concentration and you don’t think he heard you, except a second later the tentacle breaches your ass. You moan, glad that it was a smaller one to start. It thrusts tentatively, growing bolder as your noises raise in pitch and then a second slim tentacle is joining, slipping past the tight ring of muscle to thrust in counterpoint to the first. 

Jimin’s thrusts slow, his head tilting back as he pants. He looks like a sculpture, so beautiful that it aches a little. Something that people should look at and marvel over. A moan slips past his lips as the tentacles in your ass speed up a little, taking some time to also shift apart and spread you open even more. 

“You… are endless…” Jimin breaths out. It sounds reverent. 

The tentacles slip from you and you have no time to mourn the loss before they’re being replaced by one of the thicker tentacles. The stretch hurts a little, but with so many other things happening to your body at the same time, you’re quickly distracted from the ache. The tentacle stills anyway, allowing you time to adjust to its thick girth. 

“You are so full of surprises.” He says, head dropping forward once more to let his gaze rake over your shuddering figure.

The tentacle in your ass thrusts in response to Jimin’s words and when you don’t indicate any pain, both pull out and thrust roughly back in. The tentacle between your thighs and in your ass thrust opposite Jimin, keeping you full and stimulated when Jimin pulls out. 

“Please… Jimin please, fill me up, you said you would…” You feel slightly delirious with need, every thrust of his tentacle adds extra pressure to your clit and you feel so close to cumming, teetering on the edge. 

Jimin gives you no verbal response, only that of him pressing your thighs together a little harder. A few more thrusts of the tentacle between your thighs has you clamping down on Jimin’s cock and the one in your ass as you cum, body shuddering as the tentacles and Jimin continue to thrust. You squeeze your eyes shut, vision nearly whiting out entirely as your orgasm slams into you. The tentacle between your thighs lasts only a handful more thrusts before its stiffening and releasing, splattering your chest, belly, and thighs in the silver cum. It gives a few weak final spurts before slipping back through your thighs as Jimin parts them once more. 

His cock twitches as his gaze falls over you messy form, the normally silvery liquid lighting up in splashes of color with every new explosion that happens above you both. He’s never seen a more beautiful sight. One of his hands lands on your thigh as the other bats his tentacles away from your clit, an action that you're grateful for for only a moment because he quickly replaces them with his fingers. You arch and cry out, jerking your hands with enough force that you seem to startle the binding tentacle and it releases you. Your hands wrap around his wrist, tugging futilely at it to get him to let up. 

You moan his name desperately, trying to squirm away from the sensation as his tentacles keep you held close as he continues to fuck you through your overstimulation. 

“Can you do that for me one more time? You feel so good when you do that, sweet.”

You whimper. You want to say no, that it hurts a little and that you really don’t think you’re capable of another orgasm. But the pout he wears stops you and you find yourself nodding without even thinking about how you’re going to get past the too much feeling currently overwhelming your body. 

Jimin gives you another feral grin, eyes roving over your figure as his fingers work quick circles around your clit. For no experience with a human, he’s an incredibly fast learner. He seems to know your body better than your ex had and the two of you had been together for almost 2 years. 

The tentacles on your breasts move to collect some of the slick covering you, smearing it around your nipples as the pinch and play with them, the slick adding a new layer of feeling to the actions. 

“Come on, sweet.” Jimin purrs as his cock seems to swell ever more and the tentacle in your ass starts to stiffen. 

Another rough thrust and a few twists of his fingers and you’re cumming again with a cry of his name. Your pussy and ass convulses around him and Jimin lets out a series of clicks and chirps as he finally cums, flooding your pussy and ass with more silvery slick. There seems to be a never ending stream from his cock and after a few moments, pressure on your lower stomach makes you look down, groaning at the sight of your slightly distended belly.

Jimin makes a contented noise, rubbing gently over the swell. “You would look so beautiful swollen with my children.”

His cock gives another twitch and a feeble last spurt of cum and Jimin and his tentacles seem to deflate. His chin presses to his chest as he takes in slow, deep breaths. The tentacles all slowly slip from your body and you mourn the slight warmth you lose. Another few moments pass and then Jimin is gingerly pulling his cock from your abuse pussy and gazing over your whole body with almost reverence. 

You feel too exhausted to do much more, but you can feel his cum dripping from you, forming a puddle beneath your ass. At least you're next to the ocean for easy clean up. If you had the energy to do that. Maybe in 5 minutes… Or an hour. You can’t even feel your legs right now. You’re pretty sure you’d just drown.

Jimin stretches out beside you, arm coming to wrap around your middle, seemingly unbothered by the fact that it lands in a mess. You blearily realize that his tentacles seem much smaller now too. His head tilts and you realize that he’s watching the fireworks again. Like he didn’t just fuck you within an inch of your life and leave you ruined for anyone who comes after him. 

You watch in silence for a while, endeared by Jimin’s ohs and ahs as he discovers new types of fireworks, the different shapes and effects that can happen. 

“Jimin.” You call softly. His nose brushes your shoulder in response. “Will… Nevermind. It’s stupid.”

Jimin pushes himself up enough so that he can look down at you, frown marring his pretty face. “What is it?”

You fidget, suddenly hating that you’re naked and still covered in him. You glance over at the water.

“Do you wish to go in, sweet?”

It’s an easy out and you don’t feel strong enough to ask the real question yet, so you give him a simple nod. He grins, scooping you up and gracefully sliding you both into the water, arm wrapped tight around your middle to keep you afloat. 

Colors flash around you as you stare into Jimin’s eyes, every color reflected there as well. Before you can second guess yourself, you lean forward and press a kiss to his lips. He lets out a surprised noise and then giggles when you pull away. 

“Do you wish to go again?”

Embarrassment fills you and you shake your head. “No. Um…” You take a deep breath. You can do this. “Will I see you again?”

Jimin’s face is unreadable for a painful stretch of time, though you’re sure it’s only a few seconds before he’s grinning. “I find myself quite taken by humans. I could certainly use a guide.”

You grin back, pecking him again. “First lesson, when humans like someone and want to spend time with them and go on dates, they give them kisses.”

He hums, giving you a kiss of his own, just a little deeper than yours. “I think I quite like kisses.” Then he grins and it’s full of mischief. “I think fireworks are my favorite though.”

You snort, prodding him with a finger. “You sure it’s the fireworks you like?”

He makes a thoughtful noise before nodding. “They make you luminous, sweet.”

[dr3amofagame]

au where c!dream is an enderman hybrid and that was the way how he became friends with ew!ranboo

yo!! this is such a fun concept, and i love c!endersmile with all my heart haha. have this fun ficlet (and sorry for the late ask) !

tws: none? i think. woah !!! :O

“Hey, Boo.”

Ranboo turns, chirping happily at the sight of the masked man behind him. Dream smiles softly, brushing his mask out of the way to expose his face as he settles to sit besides him.

He doesn’t look that good, if Ranboo is being honest. His face is pale, the undersides of his eyes mark with dark, bruise-like shadows. His smile twitches a bit at the corners, shoulders pulled up and tense. Ranboo watches him as he turns to look at the side, ears flicking absently as he continues to stare intently at Dream.

“What are you looking at?” Dream says, finally noticing his scrutiny, narrowing his eyes playfully with a small laugh.

“Have you slept at all?”

Dream’s smile falters, slightly, and Ranboo glares at him half-heartedly as he raises his hands in mock-offense.

“Woah! Give a guy a break, will you? I didn’t know I was going to be interrogated,” Dream looks away, the heavy sigh that falls from his lips immediately after betraying his lighthearted tone. Ranboo chirps again, indignantly, when Dream doesn’t offer an answer, and Dream huffs.

“No, I didn’t,” and there it is, Ranboo thinks tiredly as he hisses quietly in reprimand. Dream balks, clicking quietly in indignation as his ears raise, “Don’t give me that! It’s fine, really, I’ll sleep later. You worry too much.”

“And you’re an idiot” Ranboo snips back, thoroughly enjoying the way Dream makes a series of clicking noises instinctually, spluttering in his seat, and rather childishly decides to stick his tongue out at the other. Dream rolls his eyes.

“So mature,” he huffs, and Ranboo does it again for good measure.

“Ender’s lights, what am I going to do with you?” Dream smiles, reaching over to ruffle his hair while Ranboo makes a big show of unhinging his jaw and baring his teeth in rebellion. Dream finger combs through it, shaking his head as he does so. “This is getting long, you know.”

Ranboo shrugs. “I think I was planning on getting it cut soon.”

“Mm,” Dream sifts through the strands gently, and Ranboo purrs quietly at the feeling. “Whatever you want. I like it.”

He keeps combing through the locks carefully, and Ranboo relaxes at the feeling of the fingers easing through his hair, the calloused fingertips pressing lightly against his scalp and drawing soft chirps and purrs from his lungs. He vaguely feels it as the hands go from combing aimlessly to doing- something, bringing strands of hair together and pulling them taut, twisting together into something that feels complicated even as Ranboo’s head tips to his chest, brain going pleasantly foggy as he drifts asleep.

“Boo?” Dream’s voice cuts through the mist, turning into chirps and clicks of his own when he doesn’t immediately respond. “Did you fall asleep?”

“No,” Ranboo protests, his words losing significant weight when a yawn cuts him off. “M’awake.”

“Are you tired? Have you been sleeping enough?” Dream frowns, looking at him closer. “You better not be skipping out on sleep to hang out with me when your asleep side doesn’t know, Boo.”

Ranboo swats at him with his tail, getting a sharp yelp in return. “Hypocrite. How many hours have you slept in the last week, again?”

“That’s different!”

“Yeah, and I’m the Ender Dragon.”

Dream huffs, making a small chirruping noise as his tail moves from side to side. “You’re such a brat.”

“And you’re old.”

Dream whacks him lightly on the head, and Ranboo - unable to hold it back anymore - begins to laugh, starting with soft giggles that devolve into gasping, full-blown laughter when Dream’s composure similarly begins to crumble. They’re both a little sleep deprived, so it’s probably at least half out of delirium, but it’s nice to see Dream so relaxed, for once, so he doesn’t say anything further. After a while, when they’ve both calmed down, Ranboo settles back onto the palms of his hands, tail swishing gently behind him as he looks into the sky.

“It’s a clear night today,” he says after a moment, slightly awed despite how many times he’s looked into the same sky before. He reaches a hand up towards it, fur a stark white against the blue-black night. Deep inside his chest, something stirs in longing. “It’s a little like-”

“Home,” Dream chirps next to him, quiet enough that Ranboo only barely hears it. He smiles softly as he looks over before switching to Common, “The End.”

Ranboo hums in agreement. His mind swirls with half-formed memories, the gaps filled by Dream’s descriptions and his own imagination- a sky even darker and more vast than the one above them, spindly purple trees stretching up over islands of pale, porous rock, obsidian towers too high to see the tops of, bearing magical crystals as protection for the Dragon’s nest. He loves the Overworld, loves the home he has made here, loves the people - but some part of him, a shard lodged deep in his chest that burns cold at the sight of the sparkling sky above him, never quite stops pulling him home.

“Why is the End blocked off?”

He winces as soon as the question leaves his mouth; it’s something he’s wondered for a long time, but nothing he ever asked. From what he’s heard about the End’s Guardian, from Phil and Techno, and how unexplored the strongholds have been that he’s found, he’s got the impression that Dream is a little touchy about his heritage, or at least the place he came from. To his surprise, Dream doesn’t have any obvious outward reaction to the question, simply humming in that insufferable, noncommittal sort of way he does sometimes that makes it impossible to really know what he’s thinking about.

“I was worried, at first,” he starts, seeming to weigh each word before he speaks, “that it would be too dangerous. And then things here got messy, and I became worried for home, instead.” Ranboo nods after Dream goes quiet, sensing that the older won’t give any further explanation. He leans back again, looking up at the sky, when Dream suddenly speaks once more.

“I’ll bring you, one day, voidchild,” Ranboo startles a bit at the term of endearment, fur standing up in embarrassment. Dream laughs softly, the sound settling deeper into a purr. “After all of this, when it’s safer for everyone again. I can show you around.”

Ranboo smiles, a purr of his own rumbling deep inside his chest. “I think I’d like that.”

---

Months later, Ranboo stands at the water’s edge, the skin around his eyes burning as he stubbornly refuses to let the tears within them fall. The area around the prison is as quiet and haunted as ever, the obsidian walls serving as a silent witness to his anger in the middle of the night.

“Liar,” he hisses, a traitorous tear slipping past and burning a trail down his face. Just as every time before, nothing shifts, no one comes; there is only the cold night air and Pandora’s Vault, here, to watch his grief. “You said you would bring me home.”

The wind whips at his face, blowing the water away and easing the sting. His voice cracks against his will as he looks down and away. “Who’s going to show me around now?”

[snackhobi]

Had the worst day at work. 🗣🗣Need fluffy soft android tae to make it better

this is set in the human touch verse / part 1.5

Part 1 / [1.5] / 2

(masterlist here)

pairing: android!taehyung x reader / word count: 1.4k / genre: fluff (sfw/general) / warnings: none! (this is set after part 1, no spoilers for part 2!)

ANON I GOT YOU! 😤 I’m sorry your day at work was bad but I hope this lil oneshot makes it a little better!! ✨ and I hope tomorrow is better for you! this hasn’t been beta’ed, I typed this out as soon as I saw your message, I’m sorry for any mistakes! was a fast one!

You love your job. Honestly, you do. You know you’re lucky and that a lot of people hate their jobs, slog away at them just to make ends meet, no real passion for what they do. You’re lucky that you have a good job that you like with coworkers that you love. Really lucky. Extraordinarily lucky.

But everyone has bad days.

Days where clients are rude and brash. Days where the ideas you submit aren’t right, aren’t good enough, where everything you come up with gets sent back to the drawing board or scrapped altogether. Days where the café down the road from work is out of your favourite pastry, the last cinnamon roll stolen out from your very eyes by the person in front of you, your little guilty pleasure gone just like that.

(You watch, aghast and agape, as the other customer takes one bite into that last cinnamon roll, wrinkles their nose, and discards it in the trash. It would be one thing to have stolen it so brazenly from you, but they didn’t even finish it. You’re in disbelief.)

Your usual coping method for days like this? Get home, flop on sofa, eat takeout, feel sorry for self. It’s something you’ve gotten good at over the years, wallowing alone in your empty apartment, feeling angry and sad and small; left to stew and circle on those Really Rough Days that everyone has, unfortunately. Compounded by your solitude, your own lonely, echoing chamber. You could complain to your friends, of course, co-workers who would understand what you’re going through—but you feel stupid. Selfish, even, in complaining about these little things. So you keep it to yourself.

Or at least, that’s the plan.

Taehyung’s greeting is vibrant and bright, as it always is. His hair is red today, a shock of scarlet that fizzes on his head and frames his lovely face—he’s even changed his eyes too, a rarer occurrence, muted hazel, almost-green, an autumn forest at dawn. Seeing him makes everything a little better, an ice-pack on the mottled bruise of your day, a warm compress against an aching pain.

A little better, but not entirely.

“Hey, Taehyung,” you reply, trying to etch a smile across your lips.

Instantly, his LED flickers yellow.

“Y/n.” His voice is soft and low as he watches you kick your shoes off, hang your coat up, going through your usual daily motions, smooth with ease of practice even if your limbs feel heavy. “What’s wrong?”

You pause.

“Nothing,” you say. “I’m just tired.”

You hadn’t realised you were so transparent. Hadn’t realised that it would be so easy for Taehyung to see that something’s off, that the levity behind your words is forced, today.

Maybe, back when he’d first stepped foot in your apartment, your lie would have slipped past him. But he’s been here for a few weeks, now, and he’s grown to learn your idiosyncrasies so fast it should be frightening. (But it’s not. It’s… comforting, actually. Knowing that he can read you and does so because he cares about your wellbeing, worries about you, just as you worry about him.)

“Y/n,” Taehyung repeats. 

There’s something a little more emphatic in his tone, something firmer, and you can’t help but look at him.

His LED is yellow and there’s a little frown laid across his brows, his smiling mouth set in a pursed line as he looks back at you, but he’s still soft around the edges. Concern. It’s written all over him, across every inch of his face and body, curled in the curve of his fingers as he reaches out to take your hand.

“What’s wrong?” He says, again, and something inside you dissolves, melts from black ice to gentle water under his warm touch.

“Just a bad day at work,” you admit, an almost embarrassed murmur at this confession of weakness. “I’m feeling a little stressed, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s okay.”

Taehyung’s LED is flickering, swirling yellow, before it transitions into that soft blue you love so much. “Go sit down.” He squeezes your hand. “I’ll make you something.”

Taehyung is still learning, far better at art than most other things, but he knows exactly what you like. The hot chocolate he presents you is piping hot, thick and creamy, and he’s even arranged some of your favourite biscuits on a small plate for you, set in a neat half-circle, a rainbow of cookies and otherwise. And when he sits next to you, he reaches for your hand, holds it loose but safe, looks at you with his big, big eyes—eyes that are back to their usual brown, now, his hair black atop his head, his default settings. 

(You’ll never say it out loud, because Taehyung looks incredible no matter what, but you love this look. It’s your favourite, his dark hair and darker eyes, because it’s what makes him look the softest. It’s entirely Taehyung. There are no remnants of V.)

“Do you want to talk about it?”

And… you do, actually. You do want to talk about it. But still, you hesitate, until Taehyung squeezes your hand again, and all the tension rushes out of you like the air out of a balloon.

It’s weirdly easy to talk to Taehyung, someone who listens intently—like he always does—his LED a gentle looping river that flows on his temple as you spell out the minutiae of your day, each rock caught in the shoe of you life that you’ve struggled to kick out.

It’s strange, to feel coddled like this. Strange to have someone just want to listen to you, someone who cares about the things in your day that had built up into a mountain. Strange, but… nice. It leaves you feeling lighter, buoyed up, like you’ve shed part of the burden on your shoulders, like Taehyung has helped you lift it.

Things are better, the next day. Everything is fine, and your day is good; you know that yesterday was just a blip, something easily dismissed, all the easier for Taehyung’s unswerving support. A bad day is nothing important and doesn’t need thinking about. So, you put it out of your mind as you work, all but forgotten when you get home, back to Taehyung’s glittering eyes and wide grin.

His fingers are stained with paint and there are swipes of it down his apron, staining the once unmarred fabric, evidence of his endless creation. You love it, love that he loves to paint, to create, making things just because he can. For himself.

“I made something for you,” he says, and, oh. 

Oh.

For himself, and for you too, it seems.

It’s a series of tiny, beautiful canvases. There’s an incredible floral display, chrysanthemums and peonies and roses and lilies and more, more, more, paint layered so thick that the petals literally rise from the page. Each one fits in the palm of your hand, so small and gorgeous, so much wonder contained in each small canvas; you’d forgotten about these. Wonder where Taehyung unearthed them from, without leaving chaos behind, your studio as organised as always.

“Do you like them?”

“Taehyung,” you murmur, staring at the canvas of forget-me-nots that’s cradled in your palm, each petal warm blue with softened hints of pink and purple, so pretty as they sit atop their stems. “I love them. They’re for me?”

Taehyung’s smile is warm, warm, warm. “I thought you could keep them on your desk at work. That’s why I painted them so small,” he says.

No one’s ever painted anything for you before.

“They’re so beautiful, Tae,” you say, and Taehyung’s LED flickers in delight at the nickname, the endearment, familiarity.

“You had a bad day yesterday and I thought you might like something nice to look at while you were at work,” he says, and his voice is so yielding and sweet, marshmallow soft. “Looking at your paintings makes me happy, and I thought you might be happy if you looked at mine, too.”

Your fingers tighten around the tiny canvas in your hand. You do feel happy.

You feel happy looking at Taehyung’s paintings.

(You feel happy looking at Taehyung.)

(The forget-me-nots sit next to your monitors, your eyes resting on those tiny, delicate blooms more often than you realise. Forget-me-not, you think, and then smile. As if you could ever forget about Taehyung.)

[tteokdoroki]

⤷ 𝐅𝐋𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐒 : WRITTEN CHAPTER

⤷ CHAPTER SUMMARY: with no help from your friends and worry for keigo building in the back of your mind, you race to the winged hero’s home, only to  end up with more than just a sick bird.

warning(s) for this chapter: please read ! this chapter contains heavy!smut, rated 18+, unprotected sex ( please wear protection ! ) mentions of rut, breeding kink, fingering ( female recieving ), spanking, male masturbation, overstimulation, light!praise kink. just smut i’m not even sorry.

author’s note(s): hello everyone! i bring you another written chapter, this one contains p u r e smut and isn’t essential to the plot, you can skip if that makes you comfortable !! nonetheless, please enjoy <3

previous | part twenty four - the rut | next

word count: 3.9K.

the air feels different.

you’d been to keigo’s apartment before, a nice little place up town where all the real pro heroes live. fancy condos and three story houses, with private gardens as far as the eye can see and celebrity a-listers walking their dogs up and down freshly cleaned streets.

something about the area makes you feel out of place, like you don’t belong, like you haven’t achieved enough— but you were never one to dwell on materialistic things.

sliding the spare key out from underneath his doormat, you roll your shoulders before pushing it into the lock. it clicks and you take a deep breath. something, is making the air feel different. you don’t know what it is but something doesn’t feel quite right. “keigo...?” you whisper into the darkness of his apartment, stepping in and closing the open door behind you. the lights are off and all the curtains closed but you can make out the outlines of emptied plastic water bottles and heaps of finished take out boxes and god it smells.

worry flushes our from your heart and pumps it’s way around your body in the form of blood, because, how long has keigo been sick? he’d been acting odd last week, maybe a little bird like? his honey sunrise eyes just a little darker, his pupils narrow like avian slits.

perhaps it had something to do with the puff of his wings when you walked together on patrol or his sudden affinity for chirping like a bird every time someone threatening passed you both.

maybe this was all connected to this ‘rut’ thing. google had been little help, especially since denki had teased you about your curiosity. there was little time to think about it now, not when your birdie was probably dying somewhere in the corner of his own penthouse. you kick aside a stack of pizza boxes, turning your nose away from the smell of stale crusts in favour of calling out keigo’s name again.

there’s a beat of wings that sounds from behind you, it has your heart rate spiking and eyes widening. “there you are baby bird...” you barely have time to register what’s going on when your back is slammed into a nearby wall, a slight tingle of pain runs up your spine but it’s not enough to make you cry nor is it enough to distract you from the towering figure above you. keigo looks different under the dim lighting, he no longer wears his pretty boy smile that shines so bright you could mistake him for the sun, his soft blonde hair is even more tousled than usual and his eyes darken as it drinks in every inch of your body. “i’ve been waiting for you,” he leans in, warm breath just tickling the shell of your ear. “could smell you all the way from the parking lot...fuck.”

keigo groans lowly, the very sound reverberating in your skull, causing you to grasp at his thin cotton shirt.

you flinch, it’s drenched with sweat and he’s boiling hot underneath but you can’t bring yourself to let go, it’s as if you need his physical presence to ground you. “you’re...shoto told me you were sick and, i had to see if you were okay... for myself.” you breathe, closing your eyes. he’s close, way too close, but the heat that radiates from his body is addicting and the blonde knows it. “you’re burning up!”

“a symptom of the rut baby, i take it you didn’t find much with your search hm?” keigo’s voice lowers as his teeth graze your earlobe, his hands are settled on your hips, thumb slipping just under the hem of your shirt to rub at your skin but he doesn’t make a move to go any further. you don’t deny his words, your quick google unsuccessful due to denki’s disruption... so you’re curious, what does he mean? you shake your head ‘yes’ in agreement, which makes your lover chuckle darkly. “a rut, little dove, is my innermost and primal urge, to mate.”

you blink once. “mate?”

“to mate,” keigo nods, lips drawing into a knowing smirk as he presses his body closer to yours. it’s almost as if someone has taken a vacuum and sucked all of the air out of the room, the bird like man’s scent becoming your oxygen— intoxicating and fuzzying your mind. “to breed, to fuck.” the last of his words send your head spinning, the fire of desire beginning to burn at your insides. you know now why shoto and the others kept you away, with keigo like this, in his most primal form... there’s no telling what he’ll do.

what he’ll do... to you.

keigo watches the clogs turn in your head with the way eyes light up, and smiles. a feral, primal smile while want and need swirl in his golden eyes. arousal pools in your underwear at the idea of being with the man you love in such away. unfiltered, raw and pure and keigo knows it. “i want...i want to help you...” you admit, biting down on your lower lip. your voice is quiet, but you can feel your lover tremble underneath your touch.

maybe it’s your scent, maybe it’s because he knows you’re aroused or simply because of your words. it could be all three, but you don’t care. you just want him.

“say you need me,” keigo responds simply, lips dancing across your jawline to hover over your lips, “say you need me ‘cause i’ll stop if you’re not ready...” he finally cups your face with his freehand— a contrast to the feral aura he exudes, tilting your head up to face him. you’re inches away from a kiss, seconds from succumbing to your own desires.

“i need you kei, i always do.”

your words alone are enough to drive you both into a passionate kiss, sparks crackle in the air as your lips meet. the kiss is tender at first, as if keigo is testing the waters— small sucks of your lower lip, tiny nips here and there which send shivers of pleasure up and down your body.

he swallows each of your whimpers, hungry to pull more of those sounds from you as he kisses your rougher, harsher, until your teeth and tongue begin to clash. his knee slips between your thighs, pressing against the heat of your panties ( which are now soaked ) through your jeans. your hands slide from his shirt to his hair, pulling on his sun kissed locks while keigo pushes your hips back and forth against his meaty thigh.

“oh, look at you baby bird,” the blonde whispers, gaze focused on the way you grind against him desperately. “if i didn’t know any better i might think you’re the one in heat. so cute, the way you move for me. fuck, been thinking about you all day— do you know how many times i’ve cum for you already?” you whine instead of forming a response, burying your head in keigo’s neck. his knee bumps your clit, causing you to choke on a quiet moan. “so needy, i just wanna take you right here and now.”

he doesn’t, instead, your naughty bird picks you up, stumbling around piles of mess and finished snacks, and somehow, through the darkness, he makes it to his bedroom— somewhere you’ve never been before and tosses you onto his comforter.

you bounce at least once against his bed, with keigo crawling over you and caging you in not long after. “please,” you mumble as his thick fingers find the button of your jeans, pulling them off and throwing them somewhere into the room, followed by your shirt and bra. “kei, i want you.”

you’re breathless as he moves above you, his cheeks are flushed and his honey glazed skin gleams with perspiration. the sight alone is enough to send your eyes rolling back in your head. keigo targets your panties next, shuffling down your body while pressing kisses between your breast and down your navel.

pressing a thumb to you clothed clit, keigo watches in awe as your hips jump up from the sensitivity of going untouched— he even goes as far to follow your moan with a beat of his crimson wings and a guttural moan of his own.

bare digits ( you note that he’s forgone his signature black leather gloves ) slip past the waistband of your underwear and touch at your slick heat, pushing past your entrance— making you gasp aloud. “so wet little dove, i can feel you clamping down on my fucking fingers, sucking me in like that…” your cunt gushes at his words, making keigo hum in satisfaction, slowly thrusting his fingers into your tight heat.

you whine, you plead as he curls two digits inside of you, rough pads caressing your iron hot walls. you spasm amongst his feathered sheets, unintelligible cries of his name tumbling from between your bitten and swollen lips. each noise ( or song to keigo ) that leaves you mingles with the lewd squelching from your heat, but it still isn’t enough. you need more, you long to feel him.

tugging at his hair, you yank your lover up to your lips, swiping your heated tongue against his bottom lip and kissing him until either of your lungs burn for air. keigo’s fingers never stop pumping inside of you, curling enough to press down on that spongy spot that has your thighs closing around his arm and your hole spasming from pleasure. “k-kei, keigo, please i want, need’ta…” you mumble, the knot in your stomach that’s been tightening starts to unravel and both of you can feel it.

“wanna cum pretty bird? are you close?” he pulls his fingers from your heat, eyes locking with yours as he slides them into his mouth to lick them clean. “not until you cum on my cock, y’got that?” you whine at the loss, feeling empty wile you crave to be full, but have little time to focus as the man above you rolls you onto your stomach, exposing your burning core to the cool air of his bedroom ( your panties had somehow been lost along the way ).

he lands a light spank to your ass, soothing the stinging flesh before working on shedding his own garments and throwing them into the pile of clothes on the floor. drool pools in your mouth at the sound of keigo spreading his precum across his cock, jerking himself off in preparation to take you. you grip the sheets, wiggling your hips in anticipation as keigo spreads your cheeks apart, slowing pressing his length into you— inch by inch.

“f-fuck, you’re so tight babybird,” he chirps, bottoming out inside your dripping core and making you moan. “gonna sing me a song, baby?”

you nod, earning yourself a spank to your ass. keigo growls, the sound rumbling in deep within his chest. words, use them. he grumbles, setting the slow pace for his thrusts— throwing his head back as your pussy flutters around his weighty cock. “yes, wanna sing for you kei…wanna make you feel good,” you gurgle, brain short circuiting from the burning stretch of his iron hot cock inside of you. the head of his length catches on every ridge of your sopping heat, your hole leaking from pure desire just for him. just for keigo takami.

takami has a bruising grip on your hips, you’re sure he’ll apologise for that later but the pain pushes you closer and closer to the edge as he brings you back onto his cock to meet his thrusts. you squeal at the burst of roughness; the sounds of keigo’s balls slapping against your ass only heightening your arousal— wings beat frantically behind you and you look over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of his ruby wings fluttering in all their glory.

you’re both close, nearing your highs and you can tell by the way keigo angles his thrusts to hit that spot that makes your body flare up with heat and your eyes roll back in bliss. your moans tangle together, creating a symphony that keigo could listen to forever.

“together, lets cum, together…” keigo whines almost desperatley, his thrusts growing sloppy. everything is messy, mixes of your arousals dripping down your thighs and onto white sheets. black spots paint your vision as the blonde presses his chest to your back, his laboured breaths in your ear are enough to tip you over the edge, combined with the feeling of his thick girth, plunging into your soaking hole.

stars dance around the room and you cum with an needy cry, painting both of you with the sweet nectar of your release. keigo follows suit, humping away until spurts of white paint your insides with his seed.he rides out both of your highs, grinding against you — keeping you plugged full of his cum, satisfying his primal need to breed his mate.

the electricity in the air from earlier eases into a quiet hum, whilst a wash of tiredness settles in your bones. a small whimper leaves your lips as your lover rolls you over, he doesn’t pull out— still seemingly hard while he leans over you, linking your fingers and pressing a kiss to your knuckles, “thank you,” he mumbles sweetly, pressing his chest to yours.

“anything for you,” you whisper back, eyes locking with the man above you. the symptoms of his rut seem to have lessened and while you can still spot the lust that dances in the golden flecks of his eyes, yet the domineering emotion in his eyes appears to be love.

warmth bursts in your chest, because the man you care for so deeply, is staring down at you with love, pure and true. the mood in the room changes, falling into a softer tempo as keigo slots his hips against yours again— his cock never leaves you, not even when he hisses with sensitivity.

you doubt that the pair of you will last very long. breathless moans fill the air, leaving tingles on your skin as you lift your hips to meet keigo’s slow thrusts. your lips graze one another’s, barely meeting in gentle kisses and small praises whispered to one another.

moving to your neck, the blonde  presses light kisses across the sensitive skin, sucking marks there to let the world know that you are his and his only. your hands brush lovingly at his hair, ruffle through his feathers and tentatively touch at his sweet lips.

your senses come alive, as one of  kei’s drop between the closeness of your bodies to rub circles into your clit, the amount of love and pleasure mingling on either of your lips, shared between your breaths and moans has you at the gates of heaven. “you’re so good for me yn,” keigo manages to speak, each word punctuated by a moan or a thrust. it’s the first time he’s said your name since you’ve stepped through the door, and you can’t help the tears that prick in your eyes. “so, so good for me, my perfect baby girl, my pretty girl…so good.” his praise continues the closer you get to your highs.

he kisses away any tears that slip down the apples of your cheeks, moving to press softer ones against your lips while he swallows your whimpers. “keigo, wanna cum with you again, please…”

“anything for you,” he repeats your words from earlier, filling you with adoration as his hips pick up the pace, driving you both closer to the edge. “i, baby…i—“ you can see it in his eyes, feel it in the way he moves. he loves you, keigo takami loves you and the words are on the tip of his tongue but they get caught in his throat; barely making it out as he pushes his face into your neck with stuttering hips while he cums for the second time, the mixes of your previous arousals leaking out of your filled hole.

keigo doesn’t stop moving, grinding his hips into yours and using his digits to circle at your clit. he pulls you close as you shake through your final orgasm, pressing kisses into your hairline and whispering sweet nothings into your ears. the blonde collapses onto you, being careful not to crush you with the weight of his body and his wings.

he slowly pulls out of you, and you whine at the loss of being so full but you’re instantly back in his arms not long after— head on his chest, feeling his racing heartbeat slow.

you draw random shapes into his skin, listening to both of your breathing calm— you smile softly, knowing that keigo’s rut has subsided for now and all there is, is the warmth between you. “i’m sorry,” he says after sometime, still holding you as if you’re going to disappear.

“what for?”  you ask, lifting your head to catch his eye.

“i didn’t say it, i want to, believe me, i’m just not ready yet. i just hope you know how much i...really like you.” you instantly know what he’s talking about and burst into a small grin. you could never doubt his love for you, even if he hadn’t said those three words.

keigo looks taken aback, confused at most and all you can do is lean up and press a warm kiss to his sweaty cheek, watching as they become stained with a vibrant red that could almost compete with his wings that are now tucked away beneath him.

he pouts and your smile widens. “i really like you too kei, there’s no pressure here. just me and you.” your words seem to do the trick because the blonde breaks out into his signature melodious chuckle that has your heart soaring and peppers your face with kisses. you rest together some more before keigo carries you to the bathroom ( you tried to stand but your legs were too wobbly ), cleaning you up gently and tenderly, kissing every part of you to prove his unspoken love for you.

you head to the kitchen for some water afterwards, keigo taking a quick shower before his next hot flush. he’d allowed you to take a spare change of clothes to make yourself comfortable so you opted for one of his large shirts and a pair of boxers.

sipping at the cool liquid, you already feel refreshed and you’re just about to make your way back to the bedroom when a knock sounds at the door. “i’ll get it!” you yell back into the apartment, heading towards the door to open it up. you’re met with a pair of bicoloured eyes, accompanied by a set of emerald green ones and jump back in shock. fuck.

“yn?” izuku gasps, peering at you with furrowed brows. you shrink under the couple’s gaze, suddenly remembering the fact that shoto had mentioned he would drop by after his date with your best friend. the tips of your ears heat up as you notice the look of disbelief that paints todoroki’s face, the clogs turning in his brain at the sight of your ruffled state and change of clothes.

“oh todo, you came!” keigo beams, arm wrapping around your waist as he comes to greet the others at the door. he spots a plastic bag in the bicoloured haired male’s grip and easily pries it from between the othe’s fingers. snacks it appears. “i owe you one.”

todoroki shakes his head as if to set himself free from his living nightmare and slips his hand into midoriya’s to speed up his great escape. “yeah, no, we’ll be seeing you now!” he chirps, scurrying away with your best friend in tow.

“bye izu! i love you!” you call out with an amused chuckle, waving off your green haired friend.

“later yn, love you more!”

kiego kicks the door shut as he leaves your embrace to set the food down on the kitchen counter, ravaging through it to see what the younger todoroki had brought. you stand dazed, watching your pretty bird as he opens up a box of wings and starts devouring them one by one— you guess that the rut makes him pretty hungry, especially with the stamina keigo has.

the blonde pauses, avian eyes darting across the room until they settle on you. “want one?” he asks in such a small voice you almost coo at him like he’s a child. you shake your head yes, taking a seat on the work top next to him and let him feed you little pieces here and there.

a comfortable silence settles between you both as keigo snacks on other things your friends had brought him, offering you some from time to time and making sure you stay hydrated. “i’m never going to live that down,” you say, pouting around the straw that punctures the juice box keigo had given to you. “shoto looked scared, and izuku was confused, no doubt he’ll tell denki and the others!”

hawks finds your whines adorable, he shows you that by the way he reaches up from leaning over the counter to pinch your cheeks. “what’s so bad about that baby bird? ashamed to be seen with me?”

you know he’s only teasing you, but that doesn’t stop you from huffing in fake annoyance and using your now empty juice box to bonk him on the head.

“i’m never going to hear the end of this, they’re going to tease me forever...”

keigo stands up to his full height this time, grabbing your wrist gently before you can move to bonk him again— he leans in, pupils narrowed into diamond like slits and you can feel the shift in the air once more.

his warm breath fans over your bottom lip, making you tilt your head up upon reflex, desperate for a kiss. “well i guess i’ll have to be the only one to tease you, little dove.” the blonde announces, pressing his lips to yours— signifying the beginning of a long night.

you go several rounds after that, all over his apartment as if keigo is trying to christen the place. between each one, he tells you a little more about his rut and how long it lasts ( a week at most but he’d suffered the most part alone without wanting to bother you ), he feeds you and keeps you hydrated— let’s you nap in his arms or his bed while he takes care of some of the rut himself.

by the end of the night you’re completely tuckered out, tangled in his sheets with your bare skin pressed against one another. his warmth helps lull you to sleep, but keigo stays wide awake knowing he’ll probably be restless throughout the night.

the blonde can’t help but smile at how peaceful you look, under the silver moonlight that slips through his shitty curtains, you’re perfect to him— everything he’ll ever need wrapped up in one person. he loves you. he knows he does. keigo takami never really had a chance at love; he never believed that he deserved it either— he’d done some regrettable things in his life, hurt some people he’d never wanted to but you, you were different.

he’d never hurt you, keigo would love you, treasure you, give you everything you wanted and more. he made that promise to himself.

the bird like man strokes a single thumb across your cheek, watching eagerly for the regular rise and fall of your chest. you’re breathing. he leans down, pressing a kiss to your cheek— whispering words for only him to hear. “i’m in love you, yn ln,” he says, nosing the spot he had kissed, tracing the outline of your lips. “and one day, i’ll be brave enough to say it out loud.”

⤷ TAGLIST: ✈️ CLOSED

@underratedmage @darlingstudies @iambashfulperson @jqnposts @ih8beefnoodles @miniatureland @ozzy-bozzy@someweirdshitman @bro-vocaine​ @4keigos​ @xxangelofpunkrockxx​ @hyperkaiperrose​ @sailor-moons-butt​ @montechristos​ @semiathleticnerdykid​ @headfirst-halo​ @sasukelore​ @patricia-ceballos​ @jadenyukis-bodypillow​ @leel-lol​ @bokutosuwus​ @moonlightaangel​ @atsumumu​ @cathy8taffy​ @sya-arts-blog​ @rosa-gamer​ @yuesphere​ @ela-ena​ @d3ad-b3at-b1tch​ @starry-yui​ @cowward​ @actuallyazriel​ @bunny-on-crack​ @yourlocalbabybird​ @moon-spirit-yue​ @chaichai-the-weeb​ @tuddles-on-ice​ @gomezuwu​ @loser-keiji​ @witcherydotcom​ @s4kurajima​ @nishinoya-is-baby​ @astroninaaa​ @witches-brewe​ @skyrina​ @underoosjae​ @darlingely​ @mirukosyn​ @peachpetalhoney​ @kayisweird​

[strawbabysimp]

Hisoka Relationship HCs

Who doesn't love a magician with a murder hobby♡

He forces you to watch Grease at least once every week or two and performs all the musical numbers. Probably has a Pink Ladies jacket hidden somewhere in his closet that he pulls out for the occasion.

He'll throw cards at you lightly whenever he wants your attention but if you ignore him for too long he'll make one of them draw a bit of blood to get you to look at him.

If Hisoka goes out while you're sleeping he'll leave a piece of Gum on the pillow beside you for you to wake up to.

There's going to be nights where he comes home covered in blood and doesn't talk much so you have to gently clean him up and make sure he eats something before bed

You won't find out much about his history. He doesn't want to talk about it and makes that very clear. But sometimes he'll mention a small detail and his aura will change to something filled with bloodlust and sadness and you realize that perhaps it's a good thing he doesn't talk about it.

Despite Hisoka not telling you much about his, he'll want to know EVERYTHING about your backstory and where you come from. He'll even get mugs of tea and snacks set out so he can just listen to you talk about yourself for hours.

His biggest insecurity in the relationship is that one day his bloodlust will get out of control and he'll hurt you badly. His emotions tend to all mix together and where there's love there's always an underlying urge for something darker. He's pretty good at reigning it in and is very conscious of his actions but he does need to distance himself sometimes.

Hisoka runs all his new magic tricks by you and refuses to explain how he does them no matter how much you beg.

Building card towers is one of his favorite things to do and if you ever lay down on your stomach for too long then he'll see that as an open invitation to practice his building skills on your back.

If you don't like PDA then yes you do. You have to. This man will not tolerate a single second of not touching you in public. Whether it's holding your hand, kissing you, carrying you around, etc, he doesn't care. He just wants to be near you at all times.

Hisoka's favorite part of you is probably something you view as a flaw. He likes things that set people apart and what you may find unattractive or strange he practically worships.

He watches a lot of cooking shows. It's where he learned how to cook and he has no shame if you come into the room to see him in nothing but an apron with his bloodlust directed at an "unworthy" contestant as he tries to follow the recipe on the screen. He definitely has all of Gordon Ramsey's cook books.

If you do anything illegal and don't have your own Hunter's License he'll take the blame for you. "You have Y/N on camera? No I don't think you do~" If that doesn't work he'll just kill them which sometimes you argue about later but he just smiles through the whole ordeal.

You better be prepared for some pet names. Love, darling, my sweet, baby, really anything he comes up with he'll call you. It's his most common way of showing affection and he absolutely melts when you start calling him little nicknames back.

Hisoka's always showing you off. He mentions you at the beginning of every fight, blowing a kiss into the audience where he knows you are. He even does your makeup just like his before he steps on stage so y'all can match.

[duskholland]

One Million | Tom Holland Smut

summary ↠ you’re not one to shy away from competition, so when your co-star Tom approaches you with an opportunity to secure the ultimate bragging rights, you aren’t afraid to play a little dirty... ↠ famous!y/n x tom.

word count ↠ 4.3k

warnings ↠ mxf protected sex, oral (fem receiving), fingering, swearing, fluffy feels.

a/n ↠ this took a very soft turn, but I’m not mad about it tbh. it’s definitely inspired by that thirst trap photo that Tom posted the other day. does that man ever chill??? for frame of reference, Tom currently has 35.4 million followers on Instagram, which is...insane lmao. I guess this is kind of similar to my last Tom fic, but I’m really digging famous!y/n, so I wrote it anyway and I’m really happy with how it turned out! I hope you enjoyyyy :)

18+ !!!! this contains NSFW material, so do not read if you are a minor.

“Y’know, Y/N, I think my fans love me more than yours love you.”

Your eyes widen as you take in the bold statement. With a grin rising on your face, you glance up and across the sofa, your gaze drawn immediately to Tom. Your co-star has a cocky smirk fixed to his lips, and he raises an eyebrow defiantly as he meets your eyes.

“As if,” you scoff. You sit up straighter and stretch out your back, glaring slightly at him. “My fans love me. That’s why I’ve got more followers than you on Instagram.”

“Low blow.” Tom isn’t looking so cocky now, as he draws his arms across his chest and pouts at you. You try not to stare at the way his tight black t-shirt clings to the bulge of his arms, but it’s quite difficult: Tom is incredibly attractive. “Plus, that’s barely even true. What are you at? Like, 37 million?”

You delight as you tilt your phone screen towards him, his brown eyes widening in shock as you exclaim, triumphantly, “40!”

Never one to accept defeat so easily, Tom reaches up and wraps his hand around your wrist, his touch keeping your phone in place as he brings his index finger up and begins to scroll through your feed, greedy eyes skimming over the numbers. You stay still, trying not to think about how nice it feels to have him gripping at your skin so tightly. 

“Well, I get more likes than you,” he finally resolves, his words significantly weaker than they’d been previously. When you raise an eyebrow at him, he shrugs. “I do!” 

“No, you don’t.” Disliking the way he seems cocky now, you shuffle up the sofa. The cushions are firm and slightly uncomfortable, but that’s what you get when you’re crammed inside a trailer on a film set. You’re just glad Tom had suggested you spend your lunch break together in his trailer rather than yours -- his, at least, has a working lock on the door and a functioning mini-fridge. “Give me that.” 

He passes you his phone, and you fall to a stop when you’re sitting right beside him, your thighs now pressing together. Your teeth catch at your lower lip as you begin to scroll through Tom’s profile, your irritation slowly rising as you realise that he’s right: he does tend to gather more likes on his posts than you do. 

“Shit,” you mutter defeatedly. You pass him back his phone and lean back, stretching your arms above your head as you groan softly. You can feel him, looking at you with those warm, brown eyes, his stare taking in the curves of your chest and the way you know your nipples strain against the fabric of your white t-shirt, so you make a poised effort to jut your front out just a little further than is truly necessary. When you bring your arms back down to your sides, his eyes find yours, and the way his pupils are blown a little wider brings a smirk to your face. You’d be lying if you said you viewed Tom only as a co-star, or even as just a friend: really, there’s been this palpable, will-they-won’t-they air surrounding the two of you ever since that first day on set. The timing’s never quite been right, but as your gaze shifts between his handsome, seductive grin and his phone, you have a feeling that things may change sooner than you’d imagined.

“How about we settle this, once and for all,” Tom suggests, his words slow as he thinks. His eyebrows pull together as he picks his phone up and presses the small plus button at the bottom of the app, creating a new post. “We have a little competition, right here, right now. Whoever wins gets supreme bragging rights.”

“And what exactly do you have in mind?” 

Tom’s tongue slips across his lower lip, wettening it torturously slowly and his firm gaze settles on your mouth for a quick moment, his lips pulling into a slow smirk as he takes in the way you fluster beneath his gaze. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“We both post something, together, at the same time. Whoever gets to a million likes first, wins,” he explains.

“And I can post anything?” 

“Anything you’d like, love.”

Your eyes narrow as the cogs begin the twirl in your mind. “And when I win..?”

“If you win, darling, I’ll let you rub it in my face as much as you’d like.” 

You hum slowly, letting one of your hands fall to Tom’s covered thigh. You feel his muscles flex beneath your touch, and it makes your thoughts darken. “Let’s raise the stakes,” you suggest, “If you really believe in your popularity, that shouldn’t be an issue, right?”

A semblance of hesitation twitches out across his face, but Tom nods nonetheless. “What do you want?”

You let your hand go for a little wander, the tips of your fingers circling up to his knee. You tap a small rhythm over his jeans as you string your words together, doing your best to sound as innocent as possible as you say, “Winner takes all.” 

“Winner...takes all?” 

“If you win, I’ll let you do anything you want to me.” 

Tom��s quiet for a moment, and the silence that envelopes you is charged with the past few weeks of lingering touches, suggestive stares, and building sexual tension. When you drag your eyes from Tom’s knee to his face, you find his cheeks tinted a light rosy red and his forehead pulled tight. His eyes narrow as he looks at you, but then one of his arms moves and wraps around your back, and he’s bringing you in closer. You lean into the touch and find yourself swinging a leg over his thighs, your body shifting in closer as you straddle him. He’s hot and firm beneath you, and you find yourself sinking into his thighs easily. 

“And if you win?” Tom continues, both of his hands now resting on the curve of your waist. His fingers are light, teasing, and you try not to think about them as he drags his touch down to toy with the hem of your shirt.

You let your lips brush up against the shell of his ear as you move closer, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. His cologne is strong and distracting and a sense of lust pushes aside all other logical emotions. “If I win,” you say, whispering into his ear, “I get to do whatever I want to you.” You brush your mouth, feather-light, across the column of his neck, barely leaving a kiss to his skin. 

When you move back, Tom’s face is flushed significantly darker. He tilts his head to the side, his loose curls flopping over his forehead, and he looks so fucking attractive that it’s hard to keep your mind focused when all you can think about is how lovely his head would look, buried between your thighs, or how nice it would sound to hear his deep grunts as he fucks you. 

“You’re on.”

You sit back in his lap as you force your attention back to your phone, ignoring the way your body is slowly rising in temperature. You know exactly what you need to post in order to win, and luckily, you already have the shots edited and saved as a draft; you’d been prepared to post them last night but something had told you to hold back, and now that’s going to play to your advantage. 

“I’m gonna win,” you tell him confidently. “There’s no way you’ll be able to beat me. May as well just throw in the towel now, Holland.”

Tom just hums in response, his eyes fixed firmly to his screen. “We’ll see about that,” he counters. “Are you ready?”

“Not gonna let me see?” You ask, taking stock of the way he’s purposefully angling his phone so you can’t get a sneaky peek. 

“Nope.” His tone is infuriating and the way his eyes twinkle mischievously makes you doubt, for the first time, your ability to win this bet. “Don’t want you getting any big ideas and beating me.”

“Fine,” you grumble. You move your thumb to hover over the post button, eyeing him sceptically. “3.”

“2.”

“1.”

In sync, you press post, watching as Tom does the same. You watch as it takes a moment to load, and then it pops up into the top of your feed. You grin as you refresh, and you see Tom’s post slip up. You can’t help but sigh wistfully as your eyes take in his photo.

It’s so obviously a thirst trap, but fucking hell, you don’t care. He looks glorious. You forget for a moment that you’re straddling the man as you pinch your fingers together and zoom in on the photo, your eager eyes taking in the lines of Tom's sweaty, post-workout body. He’s posing in a mirror, the lighting all dark and mysterious, but the lines of his hard, exercised abs are clear, and his face looks so goddamn sexy pulled into an intense smirk that it makes your panties wet.

“Holy shit,” Tom says. You shake yourself out of your blissed-out thoughts and look up to him, finding him staring at his phone, looking at your post. Your lips quirk into a small smirk as you watch him swallow deeply, his lower lip pulling into his mouth as his eyes examine your photo unabashedly. “When did you become a Calvin Klein model?”

You shrug lightly. “Had a shoot a few weeks back,” you say. “I think the photos turned out quite well, don’t you?” 

You know the photos are bomb. The air on set had been electric, the photographer had been a creative visionary, and you’d felt unbelievably alive the entire time you’d been posing. The branded underwear and bralette clung to your body in just the right way, and for the first time in a long time, you'd felt radiant. The photos capture that completely, and you know that you've probably played dirty - because who can resist a thirst trap? - but you can't bring yourself to feel guilty because Tom's done the same thing. 

He doesn’t give you an answer verbally. Rather, Tom takes one final look at the screen, curses beneath his breath, then tosses his phone aside and pulls you closer. Your centre settles over his crotch and you find yourself raising an eyebrow as you feel his hard cock straining up against his jeans. His hand finds your face, fingers grasping at your chin, and you let him tilt your head towards him, eyes dark and heady. His mouth is close now, his breath warm and smelling of peppermint and lavender, and the temptation to dive right into kissing him is almost overwhelming, but instead, you decide to tease him a little bit.

With a slight smirk on your face, you move in, allowing yourself to grind against his covered crotch as you let your lips kiss at the corner of his mouth. Tom groans softly, the noise rattling straight through your chest and sending excitement rushing between your legs, but you reach up and curl your fingers through his hair, and delight as you continue to kiss around his face, your pecks light, always avoiding where you know he aches to feel you. He lasts a few minutes, his eyes fluttering shut as he allows you to tease him, but as you drop your mouth to his jaw and start to nibble at the sensitive skin there, Tom pushes you away.

“Such a fucking tease, love,” he murmurs, voice dark. One of his hands slips up beneath your t-shirt, skating over the curve of your back. “No bra?”

You give him a slight shrug. “No need,” you say. “You know, you’ve probably just made a million people horny, just from that one picture.” You pause as Tom’s hand skims around to the front of your body, gently, delicately shifting up to cup one of your boobs. A soft hiss passes through your lips as he drags his thumb across your nipple, his touch firm. “You’re quite the specimen, Holland.”

“Could say the same about you, love,” he returns, bringing his second hand beneath your top. He explores your front, and your body responds naturally as you push nearer to him, craving more of his touch. “Better check the likes.”

“Don’t move,” you ask him, ignoring the way his smirk drips with confidence at the words as he continues to play with your breasts. You reach down and pluck up your phone, opening up Instagram and moving to your profile. A loose chuckle falls past your lips. “I’m at 1.2 million,” you brag. 

Tom growls. “What about mine?”

Your smirk is quickly wiped from your face as you find your way to Tom’s profile. “It also has 1.2 million.” You keep refreshing each post, but the numbers are moving too quickly for an outright winner to emerge. “I think we’ve tied,” you’re forced to admit.

Tom’s mouth finds your neck, and he delights in dragging his lips up and over your sensitive skin, kissing softly, deeply, tenderly, letting his teeth occasionally drag over you as you whimper. He makes his way up to your ear, his tongue swirling around your ear lobe, and you have to stifle a moan as he whispers, “guess that means we’re both winners,” in that delicious, husky voice. “C’mere.”

He finally catches your lips in his, his mouth moving fiercely against yours as you return your fingers to his hair. He groans as you pull on his strands, bringing him nearer, kissing him back just as hungrily. Your mind lingers on that image he’d posted, of himself all hot and defined and sweaty, and it brings the heat between your legs to the forefront of your mind as you start to imagine what it’ll be like to see the thing in real life.

His kisses are needy and messy - a collision of teeth and tongue, but you part your lips and you let him push his tongue into your mouth, his hands clinging to your front. As his thumbs skim around your nipples, you grind down against him, every part of you on fire as you let Tom consume you. 

“Is the door locked?” You ask between hot kisses. 

“Fuck,” he says as he breaks away, angling his head back to look at the rickety trailer door. “No.” 

With a reluctant sigh, you catch his lips in a long, hard kiss, and then break away. You’re a little unsteady on your feet as you stagger up, your chest feeling a chill as Tom’s large hands fall away from your skin. You can feel his eyes on your ass as you quickly go to the door and turn the lock, breathing out a sigh of relief as you realise that’s it: no more distractions, only Tom, and you, and hopefully, a fuck so good it rocks your world.

When you turn around, you see that Tom’s moved. He’s ditched the squeaky old sofa in exchange for the small double bed that’s hidden in the corner of the trailer, and he’s laying across it, waggling his eyebrows seductively. You giggle as you approach him, your eyes skating over his bare chest, and you appreciate that he’s taken the time to pull off his top and jeans, and you scramble to do the same.

“If it’s a tie,” Tom mumbles, as he wraps you in his arms and presses you down into the mattress. His arms go either side of your head, his eyes skating across your naked chest. “I think it’s only fair we each get something that we want.”

You let your hand wander down his body, your fingers curving over his abs before grasping at his length over his boxers. The groan that rumbles up his throat makes you catch your lower lip between your teeth. “Seems fair,” you concede, a smirk lilting at your lips as he grinds down against your hand, pushing his aching member further into your touch.

“What do you want me to do?” He asks you. 

You kiss him a few times as you ponder his question. There are about a thousand things you’d like Tom to do to you. 

“Might be nice if you ate me out,” you say finally. The man raises a ruffled eyebrow as he slides down your body, grinning. His fingers push into the soft flesh of your inner thighs as he spreads them apart, face level with your hot core. A shy smile on his face, he maintains eye contact with you as he presses a gentle, dry kiss to your covered clit. “Fuck, Tom.” 

He’s a tease. For a while, he seems to enjoy kissing everywhere but your centre, always lingering just over or beside your silk panties. By the time he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband and tugs them down your legs, you’re throbbing and wet, and you’re so sensitive that you’re thrusting down to meet him the second you feel his tongue dragging through your slit. 

“Taste so good,” he coos, voice muffled by your heat. He wraps his arms around your thighs and holds you in place as the wide, flat expanse of his tongue leaves bold stripes up your centre, exploring and poking at your slick folds. He’s attentive — keeps an eye on you and notes the way you respond as he does certain things, and within no time at all, he’s got you moaning and squirming. The sensation of his tongue as it firms and slips into your aching hole, or as it sucks and flicks around your clit is sensational, and the fact that it’s Tom makes it a thousand times better. 

“Shit, Tom, you- fuck, you feel so good.” Your hands twist around his curls, finding relief as you tug at his strands whenever his tongue caresses you particularly strongly. “You’re gonna make me cum.” 

Your words seem to spur him on, and as you make brief eye contact with him and see your juices soaking his chin, you realise that’s exactly what he wants. Tom slips two fingers into your flushed entrance and coaxes up against your back wall, fucking you roughly as his tongue continues to twist around your clit. 

“Cum for me, love,” he urges, speaking against your slit. “Want to watch you fall apart for me, gorgeous girl.” 

You’re seeing stars before you know it, your legs tensing and your mouth falling open as you cry out, Tom’s fingers and tongue working you through it. He makes out with your heat like there’s no tomorrow, the obscene sounds mixing with the way his fingers twist and thrust, and it’s got to be one of the best orgasms of your life because you’re still shaking from the aftershocks even as he’s pulled his fingers from your cunt and pushed them into his mouth. His eye contact is unwavering as he licks his fingers clean, a dirty twinkle dancing in his eye. 

“Fuck,” is all you can muster, your chest still heaving. Tom falls to rest beside you, and you’re quick to turn and move up to straddle him, enjoying the view of his flushed body as you grind your soaked centre over his boxers. “I guess it’s time that I return the favour, Tom. What would you like me to do?” 

You run your fingers over the grooves of Tom’s muscular abdomen, admiring the lines of his abs as his hands wander your sides, drawing up to find your boobs again. You raise an eyebrow and draw a lovely, rattling chuckle from his mouth. 

“Sorry, love, can't help myself.” He rolls your nipples between his fingers teasingly, smirking as you whimper. “There are so many things I’d like you to do…” One hand moves and he cups the back of your head to pull you in. Your lips connect in a deep kiss and you shift against him, his muffled moan sinking into your mouth as he bucks up against you. “I think I’d like you to ride me.” 

“You think?” 

Tom moves his hands to the curve of your bare ass and he squeezes softly over your skin, nudging the line of his strong cock further into your slit. “Y/N,” he says, eyes flooding with heat as you teasingly rock down against him, “I need to feel you. Been waiting- fuck, been thinking about you on top of me for months.” 

You reach down and pull his boxers down his legs, returning to settle in his lap with a smirk on your face. “Who am I to deny that?” You ask, voice sultry. “Condom?” 

Tom reaches out and rummages through a nearby drawer, procuring a silver packet with a grin. 

“You fuck a lot of people in this bed, Tom?” 

He splutters, and you feel bad for a moment, until he says boldly, “Not been with anyone since I met you.” 

You raise an eyebrow, ignoring the way it makes your heart beat a little faster in your chest to hear those words. “Me neither,” you admit. Then you take the condom wrapper from his hand and rip it open, and the mood shifts as you wrap your hand around his length and give him a few pumps, Tom groaning deliciously in response. Once he’s full and hard, you pinch the tip of the condom and roll it down his length, settling yourself over him a moment later. You grind down for a few moments, enjoying the feeling of his rock hard tip rubbing over your clit. 

“Please, love.” 

You see the desperation on Tom’s face and quell it with a long kiss. Your hand guides his length between your legs and you sit back on him slowly, moaning into his mouth as he fills you up completely. Your lips separate, and for an aching moment, your foreheads are pressed together, and there’s an air of unspoken silence hanging between you as you get a little lost in his deep brown eyes. You swallow deeply, the emotions stirring in your heart making you nervous, so you quickly kiss him again, and then his hands are on your waist and he’s guiding you along. 

It’s electric. As your bodies connect and you gradually begin to move faster together, you find yourself getting lost in it. You drag your lips over Tom’s necks and collarbones, kissing him and sucking lightly, and enjoying the quiet whimpers that fall from his pink lips. His hands explore you, grabbing at your ass, or your boobs, before one of them settles permanently between your legs and toys with your clit. His fingers work magic as his hips jut up to meet yours, the combination of your movements allowing his cock to hit nice and deep inside you. 

You wonder why it’s taken you so long to do this with him. Tom’s eyes watch you intently, notes of adoration mixing with his obvious arousal. At some point, his free hand stretches out and tangles with yours, and then your intertwined fingers fall to the mattress and you find his lips with yours as you begin to build towards your high. His grip on your hand keeps you anchored, even as you begin to get lost in the hazy pleasure of it all, his body twitching slightly as your walls start to squeeze him. 

“G’nna cum,” you manage, voice thick. Your clit pulses beneath his fingers. “Fuck, Tom, you feel so good in me. Love your cock.” 

He kisses you harshly, but it fades to a softer kiss as you hold your mouth against him. “Let go, baby,” he urges, “‘m close too. Want to feel you, darling.” 

It’s the way he grinds down to meet your bounce as his fingers rub your slick clit that has your breath hitching and your orgasm rippling across you. You don’t even try to stay quiet as you rock against him, his length brushing over your walls perfectly, and his face screws into a picture of orgasmic bliss as he cums with a splutter, his grip on your hand tightening as a string of curses fall past his lips. 

A deep breath escapes you when you collapse beside Tom, your body blissed out and tingling warmly. A smile springs across your face as he brings your joined hands to his mouth, kissing over your knuckles softly. It’s so gentle and loving that you find yourself looking at Tom a little differently, his lips now appearing alluring and inviting, and the shaggy curls resting across his forehead endearing. You inch closer to him subconsciously, and one of his arms wraps around your shoulders to keep you against him. 

“So,” he says, voice a little uncertain, lacking that normal charismatic charm. “That was…”

“Life-changing,” you suggest, punctuating it with a light laugh. 

Tom nods, large hand shifting over your bare back. “You could say that.” His eyes focus on your lips for a moment, before he moves in and lets his mouth press across your forehead. “Would you want to… go on a date with me, sometime?”

You draw your lower lip between your teeth as you nod bashfully, finally allowing yourself to feel the butterflies that twinkle in your heart every time you see him. 

“I’d really like that,” you admit. You press a kiss to the top of his shoulder before snuggling down, wrapping your arms around his warm chest as he holds you near. “I’d say this was a pretty good outcome to our bet, wouldn’t you?” 

Tom chuckles. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d say we’re both winners.” 

He kisses your temple, lips soft, and you know that he’s right: you feel like the luckiest woman in the world, to be held in his arms like this, to have felt him so intimately, to have his heart held in your hands, even if you don’t quite know it yet. 

“Definitely,” you agree. “I couldn’t think of a better prize.” 

And he kisses you then, mouth meeting yours in a slow burn of new love, and you know that he agrees with you wholeheartedly.