#no I mustn’t be as this sound is foreign to me

[numberstationmason]

Not done with movie yet, and I’m trying to restrain myself but my word, Liquid Sky’s soundtrack is Ass on Fire! Jeez Louise !

[soap-ify]

AIM AT MY HEART | eros!john 'soap' mactavish x f!reader.

synopsis — while everyone celebrated love, you met a god. [3.5k words]

tw / cw — mdni 18+, lonely!reader, reader is bit of a loser actually, typical misogyny and objectification of women during that time (just briefly mentioned), spoiler alert soap is eros and is bit of a freak, little breast play, reader is said to be a virgin, cunnilingus, p in v. — please let me know if i missed any tags!

notes — after some research and finding like few different names for love festivals in ancient greece, i decided to stick with calling it the festival of love. this isn't going to be historically accurate or anything, just a silly idea i came up with for valentines. unedited.

It looked like the rain was your date for this festival, the cold droplets gently kissing your skin just the way a lover would.

Every street was simply bustling with people today, all trapped in their own little bubbles forged by them. Married couples and young people in love alike. Now was the perfect time to say that love was in the air. It didn’t disgust you by any means, no. You love love — you wonder if it’s just as dreamy as it sounds. To have someone to call yours, to be touched and to be heard. A feeling that your heart pleaded for, ready to pathetically beg for it even. You don’t see much of it on the streets though, so you wonder if it’s naught but a myth.

Loneliness can mess up with anyone. You were still unwed, always met with the disappointed stares of your mother and the unnerving promises of your father stating that he’d find a groom for you. Probably some old man.

So no, you weren’t disgusted by all the couples roaming around in this festival of love. Just envious, sad — even if some of the love they displayed might just be for the show. On top of that, no one was aware of the incoming rain. Though most were now sheltered somewhere or protected by clothed umbrellas, though meant for the rich. So here you were, strolling in these soaked streets uncovered. Hey, at least the rain was willing to give you some company.

Some people looked at you with a pitiful gaze through the distance. Most men walking in groups whistled at you, staring at you with the most vile eyes. Carnivores. All you could do was just sheepishly stare ahead, doing your best to not look down at the ground while walking and looking like some kicked-out puppy. Even though you definitely did feel like one right now. Fresh food for the predators in the open.

Love. Such a familiarly foreign request. What must you do to get it, pray to the gods? Would Aphrodite listen, or Eros? Why hadn’t they blessed you yet? Taking a turn into the alley, you made the mistake of getting distracted by some plants nearby, instantly bumping into someone. “Oh, sorry, I-” Warm hands steadied your almost falling body, interrupting your apologies. You looked up to see blue eyes staring at you, the scrutiny of the stare making you feel as if he was opening you up like a book and reading everything within.

“Dinnae apologise, hen.” He let you go with a soft chuckle, an understanding smile lacing his lips. The slight amusement in his rough voice was enough to make your heart squeeze unintentionally, your throat going dry as you stared at him with wide eyes.

“Okay.” You dumbly replied and walked past him, not giving any of you a chance to make the conversation progress. How impolite. After all, what were you supposed to say to him? That you’re lonely as fuck and that his voice made you feel all funny inside? You mustn’t lust over a stranger. Probably married.

But oh, those blue eyes were now ingrained in your brain. He had looked at you as if he knew you, as if he knew of each of your flaws.

You missed the way he kept looking at your back while you walked away.

Sleep came to you a bit too easily. It was quite the odd occurrence, considering that you’d always be tossing and turning while staring at the ceiling creepily for a good half hour until you’d fall asleep.

A warm hug to your pillow and you were knocked out within seconds, drowning into slumber.

Darkness. That���s all you could see, that’s all what was within reach. You didn’t know if you were dreaming or not. What you did know was that you felt as if you were floating, higher and higher. Wait, were you dead?

You were just about to reach out to the blankness surrounding you when you felt strong arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you in. When you opened your eyes again, you found yourself in your… bedroom? Bedroom for sure, just more dreamy. As if it wasn’t you who lived here. As if it were the room of the gods. The air seemed lighter, the colours more bright.

You tried to struggle against the strong grip on your waist, your back pressed against something strong. “Quit struggling, hen.” The growl behind you caught you off guard, causing you to go still. That voice. That voice. You remember it all too well, the guy you bumped into in the street earlier.

Once his grip on you loosened, you quickly turned around and faced him, finding him looking at you triumphantly, his body adorned in nothing but a white shawl that covered only one shoulder and his waist. His body was sculpted beautifully, muscles made to be caressed delicately. Perfection, that’s what he was. You caught a small glimpse of the wings on his back — mighty and fluffy. You nervously cowered, mind too overwhelmed to comprehend what was going on here. You were being touched by a stranger. Only tales by some women had warned you about the perverse nature of most men. It terrified you.

Your eyes darted over to the loose blindfold lowered down to his neck, and the set of bow and arrows laid down on your nightstand.

You didn’t know why you were so afraid to look into his eyes. It was as if looking into the eyes of god and being forced to acknowledge all your sins. Was he a god? Or an angel? He reeked of purity, of utter diviness that you couldn’t even dream to look at. Though here you were, being looked at by someone that just seemed so seraphic. It almost made you feel guilty.

“Who are you?” You blurted out, unable to hide the way your hands were trembling. You were forced to look up when you felt something cold gliding against your jaw, soon realising that it was one of his arrows, mapping out your face. Just the way an artist would with his muse.

He was silent for a while, simply observing you. Or maybe just thinking of what to answer you with. What should he tell you? “Ye can call me Johnny.” He finally settled on a name after some contemplation that thankfully went unnoticed by you.

“Johnny…” You tested his name carefully, your hands carefully reaching out to grasp onto his arms, not even realising that you were somehow sitting on your bed now. ”What are you, Johnny?”

“A god.”

And there it was again, that victorious grin. He was proud of the reaction he was getting out of you, the utter confusion and bewilderment etched on your face was nothing short of adorable to him. Poor, poor human.

“Ye looked lonely tonight.” He continued, leaning in closer, his presence seeming even bigger and more imposing than before. “Ye seemed sad. Like a wee lost chick. Made me feel somethin’, ye ken. Sadness f’ye, maybe?” He chuckled and shook his head, gently undoing the blindfold on him. His hands were soft yet rugged, holding yours with great care, gently tying the white silk around your wrists. Not too tightly, just firmly enough.

“Oh…” You weren’t sure why you weren’t struggling against the bindings. Maybe it was due to the fact that your brain had slowly comprehended who he really was. Arrows, playful, love. Eros. You didn’t know what to do, and you definitely didn’t know why you liked it. Gods above, you must be going insane. Wait, he’s a god too. Can he hear your thoughts?

“Yes I can.” He interrupted the raging storm of thoughts in your head with amused nonchalance. You could feel embarrassed heat creeping up on your cheeks, daring you to humiliate yourself further.

“Why is a bonnie lass like ye unwed?” The god cooed, his free hand still holding the arrow and gently tracing your jaw, moving down to the front of your neck, and downward to the neckline of your dress. He didn’t dare to stop there, moving the sharp point of the arrow towards your left breast, grazing against the soft fabric of your clothes. Shove it in, make me find love.

“U-Um…” Your words were caught in your throat, fingernails unknowingly digging hardly into his muscular arms. “I don’t know.” Despite how doltish that answer may have made you look, it was the truth. You didn’t know why you were some lonely maiden staring at the night sky every night, dreaming about the undying devotion you couldn’t reach for.

Johnny didn’t respond to that, satisfied enough to just stare at you. You soon realised that you didn’t feel creeped out by his gaze, you yearned for it. Attention for a god. Even if he viewed you as a lamb of some sorts, temporary affection was making you feel alive.

“I’m not gonna sacrifice ye or anythin’, hen.” He read your mind again, and he was enjoying it way too much. It made you feel a bit frustrated, a bit too desperate.

“Why am I unwed?” You shooted his question back at him, daring to meet his eyes. “My mother hates me and my father, he… Just why can’t I be one of the blessed?” You unintentionally hissed, met with nothing but a mirthful grin plastered on his lips. Would it be a sin to think of a god as some bastard?

“Ain’tcha clever for shootin’ my question right back at me?” He sounded almost proud at you, slowly putting the arrow down and easing you down to lay on your bed properly, putting your tied wrists above your head. You were being so easy for him too, despite the irritation adorning your face. Your body had been starved for this, for some touch.

You didn’t make any effort to stop him as his fingers skillfully undid your garments and teasingly began sliding them off, revealing more and more of you until you were all naked in front of him. A meal for the god. You weren’t worried about being touched like this, especially when you were still not taken. The cool air hitting your skin made your shiver, your legs rubbing against one another.

“I have never been… used before.” You didn’t know how to word it. Well, he probably knew anyway. That’s what was expected from a modest woman. Being innocent and a virgin until she was on her marital bed with her groom.

“Stop thinkin’ so much, hen.” He silenced you by pressing a chaste kiss on your neck, your lips letting out an involuntary whine. Heaven touched you from his lips, and you felt love for the first time.

“Poor ye, so desperate for affection.” You felt his stubble tickle your cheek as he whispered into your ear, the sensation making your body jerk slightly, your wrists lightly tugging against the silk binding. You felt so sensitive, being aware of everything going on while simultaneously being confused by this foreign feeling building up inside you.

“Don’t tease me…” You whimpered almost pathetically, wishing that your hands were free so you could run your fingers through his untamed patch of hair, or just caressed the slightly shaved sides of his head. “It’s not funny.”

“If ye say so.” He snickered, pressing kisses on your cheeks and the side of your neck, making you whine a bit at the ticklish feeling, blood rushing to your face as you squirmed under him. His large hands slowly begin to caress your torso up and down, fingers rubbing against the softness of your softness before sliding up to cup and size your breasts up, thumbs carefully touching your hardened up nipples.

Despite the way he clearly enjoyed teasing you, he handled you with an equal amount of gentleness. It was so considerate, something you hadn’t heard from the tales some of the women would tell you about men.

“How does it feel?” He asked you, his gaze almost warm.

“Good…” You replied weakly, unable to find your voice amidst all the emotions you were feeling. You leaned into his touch, eyes lazily half open, trying to admire his face properly. It felt like a crime to look at such beauty.

He leaned down and started pressing soft kisses along the valley of your breasts, feeling the rise and fall of your chest with every breath you took. Why must he kiss your body as if he was worshiping you? As if you were the god, not him.

His lips traveled down to your naval before finally reaching to between your thighs, his hands moving down to gently part your legs open, feeling them tremble slightly once his eyes settled upon your sweet cunt, already glistening with arousal. "Can I?" He asked, earning a shy nod from you.

"Yes..."

“M’happy my arrows never hit ye before.” He mumbled before pressing a soft kiss against your puffy folds, hearing the way your breath hitched. “Happy that nae one got to touch a bonnie thing like ye yet. All saved for a god, eh?” He sneered, his fingers gently parting your folds so he could properly look at your clit, pressing a kiss right on it.

The sudden sensation made you let out a soft moan, fingers trying to reach for the silk binding on your wrists. Sensitive. Sensitive yet so good. “Johnny…”

His breath alone continued to fan your cunt for a few seconds, his blue eyes looked up at you from in between your thighs before he dived in, his tongue licking a fat stripe. Your hips bucked at that, seeking more of this friction as he hummed at your taste, his tongue making contact with your clit and pressing against it, feeling the soft pulse underneath.

He had to stop himself from biting you, that’d scare you away. Maybe some other day. For now, his hands gripped your plush thighs firmly and kept them apart, feasting onto your cunt hungrily, drool sliding down his chin as he sucked and licked on your twitching clit, feeling it get swollen and all achy with need. You just tasted so good, better than all the things many worshippers would leave at the temple. He wondered if you’d be willing to be his forever, to let him taste you everyday.

It all felt so good and overwhelming, you could feel your eyes tearing up. He went on and on until you felt your orgasm crashing into you suddenly, a bit prolonged as he kept his mouth latched onto your cunt, feeling your hips buck needily, shaky mewls leaving your lips while he eagerly lapped up your release.

You collapsed back breathless, almost in daze, every inch of your skin tingling with the pleasure coursing within you. Your glossy eyes looked over at Johnny who had just finished lapping your cunt up, now proceeding to nip and suckle onto the plush of your thighs, making you writhe. “Next time, m’gonna make ye squirt all over my fingers.”

Next time? Fingers?

Hope bloomed in your otherwise desperate heart as you nodded hazily, soft pants leaving your lips after your orgasm subsided. You felt him climbing on top of you, the soft rustling of clothes making your fingers twitch, your eyes looking over at him through the semi blurry vision. The white piece of cloth he had been wearing slipped off him, falling down to reveal the entirety of him. Big, powerful. He was indeed a god, sculpted better than the statues. You didn’t want to imagine what he could do with all his strength.

Your eyes fell onto his left pec, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart twinge oddly. If you were to stab him with his own arrow, would he love you?

You did your best to not look in between his legs, somehow clinging to the thinning string of modesty.

“Ye’re makin’ me feel unattractive.” That cheeky pout on his lips made you huff softly, your face feeling too warm. Just when you were about to protest, he leaned down to press his lips against yours, silencing you with a kiss.

You felt as if you had sinned, while stepping close to Heaven at the same time.

You let him guide you, his lips parting against yours while you obediently followed him, finding yourself drowning into this kiss. He might as well swallow you whole now, you’d be happy.

One hand reached up to swiftly undo the silk cloth around your wrists, freeing you. You were quick to wrap your arms around his neck, clinging onto him for your dear life, feeling him trying not to chuckle against your lips.

“Look at ye, being so eager. S’cute.” He whispered once he broke the kiss, pressing down into you, making you feel his cock rubbing against your thighs. It felt big, ridiculously enough. You trembled anxiously, finally daring to look down, letting out a soft whimper when your eyes settled onto his cock. You both tried to grind against it and squirm away, your brain melted into nothing but a puddle.

Love — it was threatening to flow out of your chest. Pure, blissful. Your legs lazily hooked themselves around his moving hips, trying to pull him down for another kiss. He was quick to comply, feeling you moan needily into his mouth while he grabbed the base of his girthy cock, lining it perfectly in between your legs. “Fuck… Lemme just-” He knew he had to be extra gentle, he was huge. He carefully eased the the tip of his cock into your cunt, watching you pull away from the kisd and whimper, your warm walls greeding clenching around him, trying to suck him in.

“S’too much!” You whined and bit down onto his shoulder, not caring how hard you might be biting. Your fingernails dug into the firm muscle of his back.

“Ssh, ye can take it.” He hissed under his breath, pulling his face back so he could look down at you properly, one hand gripping the side of your hip while his other reached down to gently fondle your clit in between his fingers. The sudden jolt of pain and pleasure merging together made your eyes roll back, feeling him settle deep within your cunt, some of his cock still not fully in. He wouldn’t dare to anyways, he would never wish to hurt his precious human.

“Such a bonnie lass… Look at how I fit inside ye.” You just looked so perfect underneath him, as if you were made for him, to be filled by him and kissed by him. “Squeezin’ me so tightly, s’too big f’ye, eh?” You shook your head at that, as if you weren’t the one who was moaning about him being too big earlier.

He slowly begin thrusting into you, his heavy cock dragging against the sweet spongy spot inside you, stimulating it. You bit onto your bottom lip, muffled mewls leaving you while his fingers continued to steadily rub your swollen clit, not losing their rhythm. Not even a single halt — the continuous motions caused pressure to build up within you, your legs tightening around his hips.

He eyes moved down to where your body connected with his, aweing at the way his cock was stretching you nice and wide, making him twitch inside you. Fuck. He couldn’t have a mortal holding such an effect over him, but he was far too gone to even think about that anymore.

“Johnny-! Joh-” Your words drowned into your moans once you felt your orgasm hit you even harder than before, your body convulsing underneath him as you clenched hard around him, causing him to grunt. A pretty white ring formed on his base as he continued to thrust into you, The squelching sounds filling the room were obscene, and served nothing but to arouse him more. His grip on your hips tightened just slightly as he felt his own impending orgasm.

“Gonna fill ye up.” He gritted his teeth.

With one final thrust, he released his hot cum inside you, his thrusts not stopping, fully intending to make his cum stay inside you and not drip out. Your fingernails accidentally scratched onto his back at the sensation of being filled up, feeling all warm.

Your legs and arms loosened around him, feeling yourself slump into the soft mattress, all pliable and fuzzy. You panted softly, feeling all sweaty as you stared at him. His hands were quick to craddle your face, pressing a kiss on your temple.

“I might as well just keep ye now for myself, hen.”

You woke up with a jolt, sitting upright on your bed, your breathing laboured. Your inner thighs felt sticky, and your eyes drifted over to your nightstand, catching an arrow alongside a rose laying there.

Would it be possible to be impregnated by a god?

[like-a-bantha]

Lost/Loss

Summary: Everything changed after Eriadu. Hunter becomes withdrawn, and you can't help but worry about him. You do what you can to show him you're there for him.

Pairing: Hunter/GN Reader (No Y/N, no descriptions of reader's appearance)

Rating: T

Warnings: Angst, mentions of major character death

Word Count: 1.7k

AO3 | Masterlist

One week of radio silence. Our contact was supposed to get back to us five days ago with intel on Hemlock and his captives. Instead, we’ve sat around on Pabu tensely awaiting a holocall that we’re beginning to lose hope in receiving.

Phee was kind enough to offer us room in her home, and free reign of her holotable, to act as a sort of base. It’s been quieter since we were last gathered around this table. The usual boisterous laughter and interrupted rants replaced with worried silence broken every so often by a sea breeze that no longer carries the joyous sound of Omega and Lyana playing just outside. That mission, Hemlock, the Empire, took so much from us; it’s taken an incredible amount of effort from Hunter, Wrecker, and I to not allow these forces working against us to take our hope on top of it all.

Echo and Rex referred us to this contact not long ago, someone who they’d worked closely with during the war, someone they trust. I commed Echo. Hunter advised against it, said it wasn’t worth it, that all we could do now was wait. I snuck out to the Marauder to use the long distance com anyways. Of course, the conversation was brief, and he has as much information as we do. Sit tight. Waiting game. All that.

“How’re they holding up?” His voice low, even with the volume adjusted to its highest setting. He’d mentioned returning to Coruscant last time we spoke, it must be the middle of the night there. We always did have terrible sleeping schedules.

“Not well, but I mean…” I trail off, we both know the reason, we both hold some foolish hope that not saying it will make it less true, “They miss you.”

“But you don’t?” There’s that sass, that glint of normalcy I’ve both craved and feared these past two months.

A laugh escapes me as if on instinct, it sounds foreign, “Nah, thought I’d never shake you. So clingy.”

“You’re one to talk, you do realize it’s 0100 here?”

This, our shared brand of humor and sarcasm, too, feels so distant to me now. Slowly, it comes back to me, “Oh, I’m so sorry, did I wake you up? Were you sleeping?” 

“Like a baby.” His warm chuckle crackles through the com speaker, and mine through his. The silence that follows is warm, easing his way into broaching the question, “I take it he’s distancing himself again?”

I sigh, a deep sigh only brought about by reality, “I get it, I really do — and, honestly as bad as it sounds, I wish I didn’t because this kriffing hurts — but withdrawing like this, I don’t know why he can’t see it’s only making the feeling worse.”

“Have you told him that?”

“‘Course. He just says something about how we can’t give up and stares at the holotable. I don’t want to give up, I can’t give up, I just hate seeing him like this.” 

Echo hums, but just as he begins to respond, static and unintelligible voices play loudly through the speaker. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go. Good luck.”

I nod, wiping at my misty eyes as I reach for the switch to end the transmission, “Be safe. Talk soon.”

Silence. Mournful, somber silence echoes through the lonely hull of the once lively ship. Everywhere my gaze falls sits a piece of their history, our history; one of Tech’s unfinished projects, a drawing of the ship Omega had called extra credit, Echo’s favorite brand of instant caf. Unable to withstand the weight of these memories, I decide to take my leave and the silence follows me back to the cottage.

I return to a rare sight: an empty house. No Wrecker sitting at the kitchen counter disassembling and reassembling explosives. No Phee asking him to take it outside. No Hunter hovering over the holotable awaiting a call. No com to tell me to hurry back, mustn’t have been an emergency.

I make my way over to the holotable, fingertips gliding across its rounded edge as I approach Hunter’s usual seat. When I pull out the chair, I’m met with a sight that would normally make me laugh. His shredded scarf that he’s grown so attached to, destroyed on our last mission to gather intel, along with his prized bandana that appears to have shrunken in the wash. The best I can muster is a bemused huff, taking the bundle of abused fabric into my arms as I sit. Suddenly, I’m struck with an idea. It could be a very stupid idea, of course, but a very good idea doesn’t always equate to a very smart idea. It’s a perspective thing and seeing as the only perspective available at the moment is my own, I figure I may as well get to it before more perspectives show up.

After careful work, I neatly fold remaining fabric and stash it in my pack with my tools; as the designated mender of the group, I know firsthand there is no such thing as too many fabric patches. Returning to the table, finished product tucked delicately in my vest pocket, approaching voices grow louder and louder.

“I’m telling you, it looks good! Stop fussing, leave it… yeah, like that,” Phee’s voice nears the door, and I’m sure I hear Hunter grumbling about something. The door whooshes open and my eyes widen with surprise. When I meet Phee’s gaze, she seems to silently plead for backup, “You’re back! What do you think?”

She gestures to an unamused Hunter, visibly fighting the urge to fidget with the hat he’s wearing. It doesn’t look bad on him, very few things would, but he doesn’t exactly look comfortable. Unwilling to hold the spotlight any longer, he grabs the floppy brim and removes it from his head, tossing the garment onto the table as he takes the seat next to me. Unable to help myself, I lean forward with a smile and run a hand through his slightly disheveled hair.

“That bad, huh?” Phee sighs, Wrecker following closely behind as she heads for the kitchen.

“I liked it,” The glee still empty from his voice, even at something that would’ve garnered one of his trademark laughs a few months ago.

“Me, too, big guy.” Phee sets a crate of groceries on the countertop. Wrecker’s taken to cooking. Though he’s been much quieter these days, Wrecker seems like himself again when he’s preparing a meal.

Hunter’s gaze is locked on the table, silences between us were never tense like this. When he speaks, he doesn’t look at me. “How’s Echo.”

It isn’t a question, more of a remark, maybe even an I told you so if I really read into it. I answer it like a question anyway, “Good, but no word from the contact.”

He hums. The silence that follows deems the told you so unnecessary.

I reach into my vest pocket. Now’s as good a time as any. “I made you something.”

He hums again, gaze flicking away from the table for half a second in question. Right now, that’s probably the best I’ll get. I place an open palm on the table before him. After a moment's hesitation he rests his hand atop mine, palm up, and I look to his eyes as I delicately drape a band of maroon fabric with thin gold stripes across his fingers.

Hunter’s expression is unreadable, regarding the gift silently. I bite my tongue, attempting to hold in any preemptive apologies in fear that I may have overstepped. My flat expression shifts only when I see his eyes begin to well up, before the first sorry can push past the floodgates he turns to me with the faintest smile. A smile I haven’t seen in too long. His grip tightens around the bandana as he rushes to pull me into a tight hug. Instantly, my arms wrap around him, tears forming in my own eyes. “I love it,” his voice low, he places a kiss on my temple, “thank you.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do more.” My voice comes out a whisper, all of the words I hold back seem louder. “We’re going to get them back, Hunter.”

“Not without a fight.” He says grimly, holding me tighter, as if he’ll lose me the second he lets go.

“I know,” I pull back to look into his eyes, my hand coming up to cup his tattooed cheek, “but we fight as a team. We can’t keep bottling all of this up, we need to take care of each other, ourselves.”

Hunter rests his forehead against mine as he sighs, “You’re right.”

“I know. How’re you feeling?” He shuts his eyes as my thumb gently ghosts back and forth over his cheekbone.

He thinks for a moment before releasing me, opening his palm to look at the bandana in his hand. “Lost,” he turns the garment over, examining the back, “Loss. I couldn’t protect them. You, Wrecker, Phee, you’re all I’ve got now and I’m afraid I won’t be able to protect you either.”

“Tech protected us. Omega, too. I think it’s cruel to put that duty solely on yourself, Hunter. It’s an impossible weight to carry on your own,” A tear falls from my eye, quickly sliding down my cheek before landing on my pant leg, “please, let me carry some.”

“Giving it away doesn’t sound easy, either.” His own tears threaten to spill over, I hope I never get used to the subtle, somber shake in his voice, “But I’d like to try.”

When he looks up with a sad, weary smile, I can’t help but lean forward and place a small kiss to his lips. I begin to withdraw, but Hunter’s palm cups my cheek and pulls me back in for a longer, gentler and tearful kiss. This time, the silence that follows is peaceful as he rests his forehead against mine once more.

His loose hair falls around his face and I accidentally pull a few strands into my mouth as I inhale. He chuckles a bit as I pull away, a sound I’ve missed dearly. I can’t help but let out a small laugh of my own, reaching up to once again run a hand through his curls, “It’s gotten so long.”

Hunter smiles, turning the bandana over once more before presenting it to me, “Do the honors?”

With a smile and a nod, I take the cloth from his grasp, delicately wrapping the fabric around his head and tying a single knot.

“It’s perfect,” He places a soft kiss to my knuckles, taking my hand in his, “thank you.”

The holotable chirps. Incoming transmission.

A/N: Someone pointed out Hunter's hair looks longer, plus the new bandana, I just had to get this out of my system. Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think, comments mean the world to me! <3

[twilightmalachite]

Shu Itsuki - The Beauty of Distance

Author: Umeda Chitose

Characters: Shu, Kuro

Translator: Mika Enstars

"Non! You mustn’t use such expressions in a public space! Watch your language!"

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Season: Summer

Location: Café COCHI

Shu: (A cup of tea after returning to the country truly is good for the body.)

(The storefront doesn’t appear to be busy either, so I can stay here for some time… Hm?)

(How come a shadow’s suddenly fallen on my table—)

Shu: !? Ryu~ku… I mean, Kiryu! What are you doing outside the window?

You’re pointing over at my seat… Do you want to come in and sit at the same table as me?

Ah, goodness, trying to converse through the glass will only bring attention. How about you just come on in?

Time passes…

Kuro: …Yo.

Shu: Quite the greeting you have there. You should be telling me what had you appearing outside the window out of nowhere.

Kuro: What’s the rush for? It’d be rude if I took a seat without orderin’ anythin’, wouldn’t it?

Shu: Hmph. Then hurry up and order yourself something to drink.

Kuro: I told you I’m choosin’ one now. Well, I suppose orderin’ ice tea would be a safe bet.

Shu: —Goodness. I was planning to take it easy for a bit, but to think you would show up.

Kuro: Take it easy and don’t mind me, then. Well, I’m the one who imposed himself onto ya, so guess I’m not one to speak.

Shu: …So, what do you need from me?

Kuro: Just spotted ya and thought to say hi since you’ve returned to Japan.

But well, there’s somethin’ I wanted from ya too. Or well, somethin I wanted to ask ya.

Shu: What do you want to ask?

Kuro: It’s about when I went to France with ya to film for a travel show. There was that incident involvin’ ya, remember? Y’know, the one with the erotic stuff appearin’.[1]

Shu: Non! You mustn’t use such expressions in a public space! Watch your language!

Kuro: …My bad. Didn’t know how else to describe it.

Anyways. Just was wonderin’ about that, if the incident was resolved, y’know. Since we sorta had to leave at a critical point.

Shu: …Sigh. I don’t believe you have the right to know, given you left me for dead at a crucial moment.

But it’s not like I’ve heard anything about the rest of your trip either. Did you get to finish filming?

Kuro: I heard the feature itself is still bein’ edited, but we should’ve gotten some good footage?

Shu: ? That’s quite the vague answer.

Kuro: …To be honest, what left the biggest impression on me was how the flight home was also really tough.

Shu: Good grief. Why don’t you just ask not to be given anything that requires you to be overseas, given you’re so poor with vehicles?

Kuro: ‘Cause we rookie idols ain’t in any position to selfish demands like that.

Shu: Don’t care, give your opinion regardless. You don’t want things like that to negatively affect your health.

Kuro: …Haha, how come your responses to me are always so snappy, Itsuki?

I felt we were able to speak rather peacefully all the way over there. Was it somethin’ about the foreign atmosphere?

Shu: Was it peaceful? Morisawa and Tsukinaga were there, I just have the strong impression that it was quite noisy. What did you and I even get to talk about…?

Shu & Kuro: ……

—By the way… (That reminds me…)

Shu: What is it?

Kuro: Oh no, it’s not a big deal, what were you sayin’?

Shu: Neither is what I had to say… I’ve got a favor for you since you’re here, but it’s nothing important.

Kuro: A favor?

Sounds good, lemme know what ya got for me…♪

Shu: Why are you so pleased? I’ve just figured to ask if you could carry my luggage.

I’m currently here at COCHI after leaving my luggage back at ES.

But my luggage contains my personal tools and such, so I’d like to bring them back to Starmony Dorms myself. However, with the luggage quantity, I don’t believe I can make it in one trip.

So I thought perhaps you could help me out, so I wouldn't have to go back and forth.

Kuro: That's all? No sweat!

Though…

Shu: Are there any concerns?

Kuro: It’s ‘bout our room. I haven’t heard anythin’ ‘bout Sena returnin’ to the country, so I’m assumin’ it’s more or less available, but…

Isara and I have been real busy, so we haven’t been able to give the place a good clean lately. Had I known you were comin’ in advance, I would’a gotten it clean.

Shu: Hm… That being said, you guys aren’t all too messy, right?

Kuro: Yeah. But if I knew ya were comin’, I could’ve taken the chance to hang and fluff up your beddin’ while cleanin’ up, y’know?

I’ll at least use the dryer to freshen it up for tonight. ♪

Shu: …As usual, you act as if you’re my mother.

Kuro: Hey, what’re you takin’ my bill for?

Shu: We’ve each finished our drinks, so it’s about time we leave. Though, I haven’t heard what you were going to say yet.

Kuro: I’m ready to tell ya ‘bout that anytime, but ya didn’t answer my question.

Shu: …As thanks for carrying my luggage. I’m going to go pay our for our bills, so you can wait outside.

Kuro: …And off he goes. He really doesn’t need to thank me for that…

Location: In Front of ES Building

Kuro: …That is a lot of luggage. Definitely not somethin’ you could’ve done in a single trip.

Shu: I’ll take the trunks, and you can take the suitcases… But isn’t it about time I hear about what you had wanted to say, Kiryu?

Kuro: Jumpin’ right to it, arentcha… Let’s start headin’ towards the dorms if you’re ready. …But it really ain’t that big a deal.

Shu: Still, it’s something you wanted to tell me. It wouldn’t be fair if you only had heard me out, wouldn’t it?

Kuro: ……

…A new shop opened on Time Street recently. It’s small, but they have a pretty impressive selection of stuff.

They carry those rare fabrics and threads you always seem to be orderin’ and buyin’, too.

So, I thought ya would like the place too, Icchan. I thought I’d let ya know, since I doubt ya hear ‘bout this stuff bein’ overseas and all.

Shu: ……

…Kagehira and others fill me in on things from time to time, you know… But this is the first I’ve heard about a shop like this.

Kuro: Really? Even I just found the place only the day before last.

Shu: I’ll head there right away once we drop off the luggage. This shop’s selection that you’re praising so much has piqued my curiosity.

Kuro: Jumpin’ right to it, arentcha… Wait, didn’t I just say that?

But well, ya don’t know how to get there, don’t ya? I don’t got anythin’ goin’ on after this, so I’ll show ya the way.

Shu: …I’m sure I can just figure out the way from others. But if you’d like to show me the way, then you’re welcome to.

Kuro: Alright. And ya can tell me ‘bout how that incident went while we’re at it!

Shu: Kiryu… Is that all you wanted to hear about in the end?

In that case, you can tell me everything you can remember about your trip, then.

We can try talking about what we’ve been up to in a normal way, can’t we? …It didn’t feel right hearing that we can’t interact peacefully in this country.

[ ☆ ]

story directory

Referring to the incident from Astraea’s Atelier. For context, uncensored paintings and statues began to mysteriously appear in Shu’s atelier from time to time, causing him a lot of stress. Shu, Chiaki, Kuro, and Leo theorized it was one of Shu’s artist fans and beneficiaries leaving their art throughout Shu’s atelier in hopes of having their art recognized by him instead after having been dismissed as “vulgar” by him.

[fe-fictions]

I absolutely adore your Virion stories. Do you have more to share?

(I do! Here's some Virion comforting Robin who's very very overwhelmed ;;; U ;; )

When Virion came into the tent that evening, he did not expect to find you crying. You, his strong, confident, solid as a rock wife, was hunched up in the corner of your tent, knees drawn to your chest as you sobbed on your cot.

Immediately Virion was on the defensive.

“Amour!” He cried out quietly, darting to your side and gathering you up in his arms. It was all you could do to grasp onto his tunic, burying your face in his chest as he enveloped you in his embrace. “Mon amour, what has happened? Why are you so upset?”

You could only shake your head, clutching him tighter as you hiccuped between sobs. His heart broke at the very sight of you so broken.

“There, there…you mustn’t cry, mon ange…non, you are so beautiful, so wonderful…you do not need to cry. The gods above shed tears when they hear you so distraught…”

He rested his cheek against your head as you cried, cradling you as closely as he could. He ran a soothing hand through your hair, the other rubbing slow circles on your back. He was understandably alarmed; never had he seen you in such a state, even if you had only been married for a few months.

He wondered if this happened more often than you let on, or if this was the first time you had ever broken down in such a way.

For several minutes the two of you remained there, Virion’s comforting murmurs becoming sweet nothings in that foreign tongue he spoke when he was lost in thought.

The sound of his voice seemed to do more than enough to help calm you, your shaking shoulders slowly subsiding and your tears coming to a stop. With a soft sigh you sank against him, steadying your breaths as your husband pressed tender kisses into your hair.

“I-I’m…s-sorry…sorry, Virion, I…I-I don’t know w-what came over me…” Your voice wavered in such a way that managed to crush what little of his heart he had left into tiny pieces.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my dearest darling.” He assured you with another kiss, gently pulling back to cup your cheek tenderly. “Please, tell me what has you so distraught.”

“It’s n-nothing, I just…” You sniffled, staring up at him and trying to make sense of yourself. You shook your head again, brushing away your tears.

“It cannot be ‘nothing’, my love. Look how your tears have fallen.” He said with a gentle disagreement, reaching up to wipe away the tear stains left behind. You sniffed again, letting him tend to your flushed and wet face, willing your lip to stop its trembling.

“I-I’ve just been…a little overwhelmed.” You finally confessed, “I-it’s been so busy and stressful… and there’s so much pressure, as tactician, and…I-I’ve already made so many mistakes, b-but as we get closer and closer to Plegia I fear that…I fear I’ll ruin everything  more than I already have.”

“You have not ruined anything, darling.” Virion contested you, drawing your eyes up to his once more. He held a fire in his gaze that calmed your fears, “I have always had the highest of confidence in your skills, as has the rest of the army.”

“And what of those w-who are no longer with us? What of t-those who will not be, b-because of my choices?” You told him, staring up at him with a fear in your eyes that made you seem like another person entirely.

His Robin would never look so afraid. His Robin was a strong and capable woman, never once blinking in the face of fear. His Robin, who was always so very strong. And yet…as he watched you struggle to recover yourself…he realized you were also very human.

“My precious one,” He began softly, cupping your cheek with a loving smile, “You are, above all, the most intelligent and careful of all of us. Your tactical skills are matched by none, and you have led us to victory countless times. No one blames you for the deaths of the few, when it could very well have been a hundred times worse than where we are, now.”

You looked up at him silently, trying to let his words have their truths. Deep down, you knew he was right. But you really didn’t feel that way, at all.

“Virion…”

“You are a capable, powerful woman. You can do anything you put your mind to; but perhaps that does not mean you should. I fear that you have put far too much pressure on yourself, and you’ve caused yourself to have such an awful breakdown. Really, Robin, I think what you need is to rest…rest your mind and fear not of what may come.”

“But there’s s-so much that I’m relied upon for, I…I c-can’t just…”

“You can rest.” Virion insisted with a softer tone, “You earned it, my love. You deserve rest more than anyone that I know. You do not have to worry that the end may come because of a choice you make. I know that is much easier said than done, but…I suppose that is what I am for.”

You gave him a questioning glance as he pulled away, untying his cravat and tugging off his gloves and boots. His pauldron and belts were set aside as well, and finally his vest came away, before your husband was before you in his far more accessible tunic and trousers.

You smiled to yourself, looking at him as he settled down to lie next to you, opening an arm to invite you in.

“You want me to t-take a nap, or something?” You asked as you pushed away the last of your tears, to which Virion noded.

“More than anything in the world, mon amour. Come, you must rest with me.”

“V-Virion, I don’t think we should-”

“You needn’t worry about what we should and should not do. That will be my job for the next few hours, non? And right now, I worry that you have not been sleeping well and are in desperate need of recovery.”

“…Well…I suppose you’re not wrong….” You trailed off, glancing away from him only a second longer before you relented and practically fell into his arms, snuggling up beside him and wrapping your arms around him tightly.

“There we are.” He whispered with a pleased hum, kissing your forehead as he continued his gentle ministrations. “You needn’t cry anymore. At least,  you needn’t do so alone. I will be here to take care of you, mon ange, always.”

It was a promise he adhered to faithfully as time went on. No matter how upset or how stressful, Virion never failed to be by your side. You never worried about being alone with your most frightening thoughts, now that you had the archest of archers to save you from yourself.

A fact you would always be more than grateful for.

[imalittlewoodenboy]

Do you want to read a fantasy story about trans/queer characters?

Do you want a novelized exploration of what it means to be masculine?

Do you have Jesus related daddy issues?

Do you want a story with a gay trans male lead where:

-None of his problems are trans hate related?

-He (spoiler alert) will not die?

-No one gets raped at any point?

Then boy do I have a story for you. I am looking for beta readers to give feedback on my draft. I have tagged properties that influence, and inspire me, hoping that fans of those might also be interested in this.

The first chapter is below, thank you for your time and attention!

Chapter 1. The Heat

The light was warm as the dry evening air. Fires danced over the fabric that draped over support poles of hearty wood. The woodgrain had stripes of a pinkish color, and tan running through it. Cypress. Sounds of laughter and conversation poured from the mouths around the table as the group dined on dry bread, mild cheese, slightly withered fruit and nuts. The wine was warm, but perfect. The evening itself was agreeable compared to the previous hours, even though the air was oppressively hot on tired, weathered bodies. It seemed not to bother the men. All but one. Tone’s broad shoulders were sunken just a fraction lower than most days. Strands of the darkest brown hair fell over his forehead, tickling the slight bump in bridge of his long nose. The hair clumped together with dust and sweat from a day of travel. Many days actually.  His thick black brows furrowed over equally black lashes, and thin lips parted for need of water. It seemed they only had wine. 

The festivities and the men paid no heed to their leader’s shoulders nor brows. They asked him eagerly when they would move on to the next city. Asked his plans. Asked the future- believing he could give it to them. “Lord, we must be growing ever closer to the desert city.” Shari said. She was a thickly built warrior with the darkest brown skin that almost appeared purple in some light, and longest hair, intricately tied in box braids. “What do you see for us there?”

“Surely we mustn’t spend much time there. We could arrange our way back to Dalgen.” Taran cut in. He had a serious brow, that hung down over his eyes, and long curly black hair that contrasted against his rich Sienna skin. He was muscular too. He was the only one of his skin in the group. Foreign even in a diverse group, and the only one who seemed unfased by the opposing heat.

“We mustn’t forget how our people suffer, untreated there.” Early spoke next. He was young, with dirty blonde hair, and stubble all over his face. He had pale skin, like Tone, but where Tone had burned in the sun, Early had tanned, only making his teeth whiter, and his eyes more blue. “When will we go back to dalgen to help them?”

Tone’s eyes, tired, amber, and surrounded by fine lines, were no less captivating beneath their heavy lids. They bounced to each and every party member that spoke to him. They couldn’t go back to Dalgen. A dread filled his mind at the mention of it. Even if he told them that, only more questions would come. Though he could not give them the answers they wanted, he could give them attention. That wasn’t nothing. Was it? Would that be enough for them? to have his gaze for a moment? Did he dare divert it long enough to search their table for a jug of water? Jonathan was from Emor. He was fine featured in a way that made him look near a decade younger than his age. His hair was cut to one length, ending midway down his neck. It hung in big loose waves, dark brown, and soft. He watched from afar, watched the men pour Tone over with questions. Tone looked thirsty. Would he speak up for himself, and stop them wanting more from him? Even Jonathan couldn’t take his attention off of Tone. He had something that commanded everyone’s attention. It was refreshing just to look upon him. He was their leader, not by his own choice, but by his very nature.  “Why must you beg for the future?” His gentle, calm, stable voice finally broke through the group, and settled the clamor. Everyone seemed to exhale, in relief, or maybe satisfaction, and look to the source. Tone was sitting just a little straighter. “As I’ve told you, I am no god. I don’t know the future, and I should not want to. Knowing the future would be a curse, not a blessing. It won’t bring it faster, nor make you more prepared. The future is ever changing, and we have little power over it. All we can, or might do is in the present.” The group listened with baited breath, all eyes on Tone. No one could look away. He looked to their faces a long, melancholy moment. “For instance, you all know that you will die someday, but knowing when, or how, would only inhibit your life. You would wish you didn’t know.” He looked down at the table. 

He’d barely finished speaking, and the clamor resumed. The party looked to each other now, lauding the wisdom of their leader. “I must record that one.” Ayoade mumbled, searching for parchment to write on. 

“He speaks the truth, we must focus on what is at hand.” Taran agreed, speaking to Shari.

Early still looked dissatisfied. Many of them were, but Tone had teased at professing. He did it so rarely, everyone had to take it seriously.

This small speech at least gave Tone a moment where no one seemed to be looking at him directly. The pale shoulders sunk again, and he took the moment to rest. He knew all too well that they would be at him again in moments. How this joyous supper with friends felt like a battle for survival. How weary he was. How hot his face felt. It was so warm, even though the sun had set hours ago. 

As if Jonathan knew, he slowly approached with a pitcher of cool, sloshing water, and poured it into a clay cup in front of Tone, then slowly knelt beside him. This action required the man next to Tone, Taran, to move down slightly. Everyone wanted to sit near Tone, but Taran was his right hand man. He always was there by his side. He moved out of the way of Jonathan with obvious annoyance for such a slight. 

Tone saw the water, and barely seemed to notice Jonathan at first. He was so thirsty. Jonathan even went so far as to hand the cup to Tone the moment he was done pouring. Tone looked in Jonathan’s eyes for just a fleeting glance of true gratitude. It was too short, but no less intoxicating to have his attention. Tone drank deeply. His pale throat bared, and red from the heat. Thin, chapped, pink lips on the beige clay cup. His hand surrounded it remarkably. It was so large. Jonathan’s eyes caught on his pronounced adam’s apple next. It bobbed as Tone swallowed. As he pulled the cup from his lips, a drip formed at the corner of his mouth. Jonathan had a cloth on his belt, and pulled it to Tone’s cheek to get the drip.

Tone felt better, but a drink of water, however wonderful, couldn’t heal a tired body in this hot night air. The cloth could wipe the drip of water, but it would shortly be replaced by sweat. Again, as if Jonathan knew, he took the cloth, and dipped it in the cool water pitcher. “Allow me to try and cool you, my lord.” He offered, and pressed the cool, wet cloth to Tone’s forehead. 

It was perfect. Tone relaxed into the touch slightly, and his next blink dared to be a slow one. The cool wetness of the cloth was just what he needed. Jonathan always had just what he needed. A few of the men around him had tuned back in, and were starting to speak to him again. Tone wouldnt have time to relax. The slow blink would be all the reprieve he could get it seemed. He felt the touch. Analyzed it. Remembered it. Just what I need. He actively thought to himself, but what the others needed was their leader. He caught a distasteful glance from Taran, the man that Jonathan had shifted away from Tone. 

Jonathan drank in the moment that Tone’s body seemed to unclench. That tiny moment that he leaned toward him before the attention of Taran and the others soured it. The others didn't even see him relax, it was so brief, but Jonathan felt it. He had helped for what it was worth.

When Tone glanced around he saw two others looking too. Anders, and Ferdinand. His mind reluctantly gave up the milisecond of relief, and he leaned away from Jonathan’s touch. A frustration grew in him that he knew was misplaced. How could Jonathan know him so well? How could he see just what he needed, but not see how giving it to him would backfire? Why did he always have to fulfill those needs so instantly, when he couldn’t enjoy the comfort? Jonathan, all that is good, must you know me over supper? Tone thought to himself, wishing he could communicate to Jonathan that he was right- he needed this. We’re unwedded, and you’re far too young. This looks inappropriate, and you know it. They already assume things based on your profession. Must you always give me just what i need right here and now? Could you fit all that in a glance? He tried to without letting the others see. More and more attention turned back to him. “That’s enough, Jonathan.” Was all Tone said, a little sharply as he shifted away from him. “… Thank you.”  Jonathan pulled the cloth away as Tone thanked him, then refilled his water, even though it was in short supply. A secretly rebellious statement. A tiny little ‘You deserve comfort’ in response. It didn’t go unnoticed by Tone, as they shared one last minuscule glance. Jonathan left, only seconds after sitting down in the first place, to look after the needs of the other party members. He stood from the pillows on the ground, and his bare legs under his short tunic were between Tone and Taran for a moment before he walked off.  The legs between them were what set Taran off. “I don’t see why you waste your time with someone like him.” He said, barely a moment after Jonathan was out of earshot. It was bold, but Tone trusted Taran more than any of the others for his moral drive. “I can understand the appeal… if someone were interested in young men… but… an Emorian..?” he searched for the right words, trying not to sound judgmental, when he clearly didn’t approve. “I understand and agree with your teachings on treating sex workers with kindness, but for others to see you with him like that…” he trailed off a moment. “To let him touch you so… It doesn’t suit your image. It doesn’t inspire devotion. It makes you look like any other man. Sinful.. mortal.”

Jamie added on. “And he’s Emorian. To be so close with a teenager… especially if he comes from the very race that abuses ours…”  Tone kept his gaze straight forward. Of course what Taran, and Jamie said was understandable, true even. That didn’t mean Tone liked it. It didn’t make it fair. He got more tense with every word. The logic Taran spoke was justified, but his attitude was not. He spoke of Jonathan’s profession with venom. With distaste. Taran thought Jonathan lesser for his past. Jonathan caught Tone’s eye across the space, serving wine to a group of men.. all of them nearly twice Jonathan’s size, and totally ignoring him. As if he were some sort of slave, or object. Nonetheless, Jonathan was smiling. He was sweet. There was a purity of spirit about him in stark contrast to the way all the men seemed to see him.. as dirty. distasteful. As Taran spoke, more of the men turned their attention in agreement. Anger, and fatigue swirled in Tone’s shoulders as they raised, and he snapped at Taran. 

“I’m amazed that men such as yourselves can be so blind.” Tone worked to speak calmly, but heat grew in his words. “We work tirelessly in every town we visit to do what?” He asked rhetorically, looking to all their blank faces. “We help people who’s humanity has been ignored. We feed, we heal, we care for those who have been ignored. How can you work so hard to restore humanity to others, and yet ignore his?” All attention was on Tone again as his voice began to raise.  “There is not a man among you who personifies my teachings such as he.”  “My lord, we have devoted our lives to spreading your wisdom. He has chosen a sinful occupation. One of greed. Surely he is the shallow one..?” Early put forward, and a few were brave enough to agree. Jonathan had been serving the men, but now that all of their group was focused on Tone’s rare heightened state, Jonathan had caught on that the conversation was about him. He made himself scarce before Tone could spot him, but stayed just past some of the colorful fabric of their tent. No one could get far enough from each other on an expedition like this- when all the walls were fabric.  “You’ve misunderstood me then entirely.” Tone snapped, jumping to his feet. His voice had always been powerful, even when it was quiet. It was smooth, deep, and felt like his words were dipped in warm honey. The kind that tastes so good you don’t even mind getting your hands all sticky. But now, it boomed, and excited the listeners. Even though he was mad, it was still beautiful to listen to. “He cares for his fellow human. He doesn’t see it as… demeaning to serve drinks and to cook or clean for us.” His voice boomed. At this point, unseen by all present, Jonathan left earshot. He went to the furthest tent to avoid hearing more. It was almost as if hearing positive words of him from Tone was too much. he felt unworthy of such attention, even if he had wanted it moments ago. It was like looking into the sun. “He just wants to take care. You’re all happy enough to enjoy the fruits of labor that you so despise.” Tone spat, looking to each of them directly. Taran, Shari, Ayoade, Anders, Grace, Early, Qiana, Jamie, Sam, Ferdie. Finally, silence. From all of them.  The moment grew long, and Tone realized how it must have looked. Someone dared to question his interest in a prostitute, and he snapped at the whole group. A rather out of character snap as well. They would certainly have their theories now. Was there even anything he could do to stop them…? No action would have stopped the speculation. Especially now. The effort of the day finally caught up, and Tone realized what he should have known hours ago. “I will go on a walk alone.” He stated to dumbfounded, guilty, and resentful faces. Then promptly turned, and walked out of the tent, scattering a group of servants that had dared listen in to his rare, but beautiful raised voice. His sandals drug through the sand as he stormed off. He was an imposing height that, even though he was quite slender, and docile in attitude, could still intimidate when moving as quickly as he did. He disappeared over a sand dune, and no one dared go after him.  “It is dangerous for him to get so familiar with whores” Grace said bluntly, brave now that their leader was out of earshot. Tone had never yelled like that at him, but he was of the few that weren’t phased by it. Though Grace was the smallest of their group, he could be the most brave. Or brash. Jury’s out.

Taran nodded “I am devoted to our leader and our cause- you know I would only have brought it up because of outside perspective” He pointed out. “If the crowds start to see him as not following his own ideals… well it puts us all in danger.” 

“It doesn’t help our cause, you’re right” Jamie said through squinted eyes. His pale skin had freckled in the sun, and left his face covered in spots. Though many of them had European skin, his seemed the most out of place here under red hair.

“He’s right.” Anders said through the conversation, and people perked up to listen to him. Anders had long dirty blonde hair, and pale skin.“He has taught nothing but humility. We are quick to judge Jonathan’s profession, but slow to realize that few people would choose that profession.” he seemed to think out his words carefully “Perhaps… we don’t like Jonathan because he makes Tone seem too human.” he realized. “He makes him just a man..” he trailed off. Some seemed to take this in. Some heartily disagreed.

“Just a man.” Shari said with a soft laugh. “As if you could really believe that of Tone.”

“Just a man or not, the public thinks him a god. It only helps us to maintain that. If they realize he’s not, they’ll call him a liar.” Taran argued.

“He never said he was.” Ferdie pointed out. 

“You think that matters to a mob?” Taran retorted.

The conversation slowly began to pick back up, several debating about Jonathan, never checking to see if he was even still there. The sky was purple and cloudless against indigo dunes, and the horizon stretched out in all directions. Their camp was comprised of 3 tents. One large, colorful, and open, where they had their supper, then one larger tent where all the followers slept together on their individual mats. The remaining tent was for some servants, their faithful pack ferret, and food storage.  Tone had retreated far enough to a high dune that overlooked the little valley which their camp was set up. He stood with their tall pack ferret. The very first one they had got when they set out on their journey. He was old and grey now, with white hairs littering his lively face. Tone leaned his head against the big creature. He had carried their bags and tents so dutifully for so long. Tone wondered if it was time for their old friend to retire. His mind went to Jonathan next. He felt a guilt over his treatment. Jonathan had come and given him such refreshment, such reprieve, and Tone didn’t offer anything in return but frustration. He would need to remedy this. 

Torches of fire mimicked the many stars in lovely yellows offset by the blue shadows of night. The air was still oppressive, and Tone wondered what options he had for the night. He had to return soon, both in need of rest, and to quell any question that he was off with Jonathan somewhere. They all had seen him all hours of their time together. They knew well that Tone had no time alone, not to mention enough time alone for a prostitute’s services. He slept in full view, with all of them there in the communal tent. Though spacious enough for them to have their own corners, there wasn’t privacy. All could be heard, and most could be seen. When he went back, he would surely face the group, and have to withstand more conversations, and questions. If he didn’t… he’d not be able to lay down. That motivated him to make the trek back to his bedroll. Back down the hill to the welcoming firelight. There was light on the horizon too, he noticed. They’d be in a town again by the next night. Chapter 1.1 Chapter 1.2 Chapter 1.3 Chapter 1.4 Chapter 1.5

[rainbowsalt0412]

Osamu Dazai’s Entrance Exam - Prologue

What are ideals?

There are innumerable answers to that question. One could say it’s merely a term, or an idea, or perhaps even the source of all meaning. But if you ask me, the answer is obvious. It’s the word written on the cover of my notebook.

My notebook has all the answers. It is my creed, my master, and a prophet that guides me. At times, it can be either a weapon or a solution.

Ideals.

Everything I am is written in this notebook, which I always carry with me. My entire future lies within it, from what I’m eating for dinner to where I’m moving five years from now, from my list of tomorrow’s tasks for work to the cheapest radish prices in the district. My plans, projects, objectives, policies—they’re all there, waiting for me to bring them to fruition.

I would even argue that this notebook is like my personal prophecy. My ideals are always inside—all I need to do is follow them. My future is under my control as long as I stick to the plans within this notebook. Control of my future—what promising words.

However—No matter how brilliant an ideal may be, if the path to realization is too far, then the light at the end is nothing more than an illusion, and those ideals—meaningless. Thus, the quickest path to fulfillment is inscribed on the first page of my notebook:

“Do what must be done.”

My name is Doppo Kunikida, an idealist who lives in reality, a realist who pursues ideals.

And this is a record of the struggles between a man who yearns for the realization of ideals and a new hire destined to interfere with them.

***

7th

Around three days have passed since I wrote a new page in my notebook.

What happened during that time is as follows:

Takekoshi came to my house. We took a stroll under the moonlight together.

Hacker Rokuzo Taguchi contacted me back regarding the foreign ship.

I ate a pear. It wasn’t sweet.

I mustn’t let petty things bother me.

Ah, I wish for nothing more than to do what is right.

“Stop right there!”

I chase the offender through the city of Yokohama. Mirthful vendors hawking at their stands, crowds of people talking in the streets, customers begging for discounts, and the sound of rickshaws riding east and west over the pavement: The busy shopping arcade is as boisterous as ever. If someone was to start a fight on the right side of the street, the people on the left side wouldn’t even notice, I’m sure.

I push through the clamor in pursuit of a criminal, a real lowlife. He made a scene at the jewelers’ before taking off with some merchandise. Mere baubles, but his third robbery earned him a request for his arrest.

I pursue the criminal after catching him on his fourth offense, but he has a good pair of legs on him, not once slowing down. We pass the market. I continue to cut through the rowdy streets, hunting down my prey until he disappears into a narrow back road.

“You better keep up, newcomer!” I yell to my colleague running behind me.

“Wait, Kunikida! My shoe came untied!” 

“Who cares?! Just run!”

Slowly lagging behind is a colleague who just the other day joined our office.

His name: Osamu Dazai.

A rather proper-sounding name.

“Phew. Kunikida, I’m exhausted. Could you slow down a little? This isn’t good for my health, you know.”

“Just pick up the pace, you lazy oaf! My own health is suffering thanks to you!”

“Congratulations!” 

“Oh, shut up!”

Osamu Dazai, a man of unknown origin and capabilities, a man most deficient in motivation, lives to throw off my schedule. He’s far too carefree and takes everything at his own pace. To make matters worse, his hobby—

“By the way, Kunikida. Our man is getting away, y’know.”

My train of thought interrupted, I look ahead to see the runaway mow down a street vendor’s vegetables before taking a left to escape. I instinctively click my tongue. Then I dive into my memories to recall a map of the area. He’s heading toward a narrow residential district with hedges lining each side of the street. There are countless houses to escape to or hide in around that area.

“You see that, Dazai?! Thanks to your dawdling, he’s now going to be even harder to catch!”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s all according to plan. More importantly, guess what I just saw.”

“I don’t care!”

“It’s this incredibly rare book called The Complete Suicide. I’ve been searching all over for it, and I just noticed it on display in the used bookstore back there— Ah! I have to go back and buy it before someone else does.”

Nobody asked.

“I could always just shoot you in the head if you want to die that badly!” I yell, to which he replies:

“Wait. Seriously? Wow, thanks.”

He smiles bashfully, even though there’s nothing to blush about.

For a man who doesn’t put much effort into his job, he sure puts a lot of work into fantasizing about suicide. It’s a world unfamiliar to me. However, there isn’t a waking moment when he isn’t searching for the cheapest, quickest way to off himself. He’s obsessed with suicide.

A suicide aficionado? How vile.

But no matter how twisted my partner’s interests are, no matter how much he tries to sabotage the mission, I will not allow the criminal to escape, for failure is not written in my schedule.

I chase the lowlife into a dark path wide enough for only one person at a time. Both sides are lined with hedges, and I can see a well and the backyard of an old house. A washing machine lies knocked over under the roof’s eaves. I open a map of the area on my mobile device, and a white dot representing our location is displayed along with the buildings and backstreets.

Narrow paths branch out in every direction through the residential district. If the thief keeps heading straight, he’ll most likely make his way to the old factory district, filled with premodern warehouses. We would have an easier time finding a needle in a haystack than finding him there.

The criminal slowly fades into the distance.

Looks like he really is heading toward the old factory district. 

“Damn it!”

The foul curse slips off my tongue. I won’t be able to catch up when I’m this far behind. And he would no doubt repeat the crime if he is allowed to get away. It would put our client’s business at risk while even further damaging our detective agency’s image.

What should I do? What can I do?

“Well then, I think it’s about time we end this so I can go buy that book. We just need to slow him down, right?” Dazai breaks into a smile.

Then he takes in a deep breath before yelling in a booming voice:

“Fire!!”

The townspeople immediately lunge into the streets in a panic, blocking the criminal’s path of escape. People nearby come rushing out in utter confusion: a woman holding a pot lid, a young man with sleepy eyes, an elderly fellow carrying his shogi board. People crowd the streets one after another, making it impossible to get by.

The criminal is at his wits’ end. The path is overrun with people, meaning going back is no longer an option, either. Verbal threats wouldn’t work against a crowd desperately searching for the fire, and an open door now further blocks the offender’s path of return.

“How’s that?”

“You idiot! Yes, you stopped him, but it doesn’t matter if we can’t get to him!”

“Sure we can! I mean, that’s why we have the skilled detective Doppo Kunikida with us, right? I set the stage, so now it’s your turn to show us what you’ve got.”

I’m going to sew those lips of yours shut before long!

I open my notebook and quickly jot something down. After ripping out the page with the words WIRE GUN inscribed, I infuse it with my will.

“The Matchless Poet!”

My special skill.

I don’t know how I do it, and I can’t logically explain how it works. All I can say is that’s just how it is. There is no rational explanation for why it has to be a page out of my notebook or how it can transform in spite of the laws of physics.

The sheet of paper transforms into a wire gun exactly as written. I leap onto a nearby fence before pointing the muzzle at the thief. That’s when I notice him reaching for a gun in his pocket to threaten the citizens blocking his way.

You know something is wrong with the world when even a lowlife crook in the outskirts of town has a gun.

At any rate, I can’t let him use it in such a densely populated area!

I aim, then pull the trigger. A harpoon-shaped hook shoots out toward the target with a steel wire trailing behind. Before the thief can even lift his arm completely, the hook knocks the gun out of his hand, then pierces his sleeve, tethering him to the wall behind.

“Jackpot.” Dazai offers a pathetic attempt at a whistle.

I reel in the steel wire while kicking off one fence and landing on another, repeating the movement to make my way forward. After jumping over the heads of the townspeople, I land right in front of the fugitive.

As I lift my head, he takes out a dagger he was hiding in his pocket. He swings the weapon not even three feet away, but the blade of an amateur has no chance of hitting me. I casually tilt my head to the side, then gently grab his elbow and wrist. With the help of his momentum, I twist his wrist while pushing the elbow in the opposite direction to send him flying into the air. He makes an arc in the sky before slamming upside down into the wall. His face contorts in surprise as if he doesn’t know what just happened. Then he falls to the ground and passes out.

It’s a throwing technique that uses the opponent’s momentum against them.

The area residents look back and forth between the thief and me in mute amazement. Soon after, Dazai finally catches up before addressing the crowd. “Our sincere apologies for all the fuss, ladies and gentlemen. However, there is no longer any need to worry. Oh, and the fire was a false alarm.” 

One resident speaks up. “J-just who are you people?”

I whip out my detective license and hold it up in the air so everyone can see.

“There is no need for concern. We’re with the Armed Detective Agency.”

***

[omgpoorshelby]

Dominating James

Requested by @mossybank

This is pretty long. I was gonna make a fic originally, but I'm so scatterbrained and it wouldn't flow. I may have gone too far...

Warnings: nsfw, James being bratty and talking too much as usual, slight knife play, edging

James just assumed it would be the same as usual until he walked into the bedroom

He knew it would be different when he saw the box of various sex toys and things you had on the bed

He would be so confused as to what you were gonna do to him at first

"So.... it's like when you ride me?"

"Well, yes and no. There's more"

He'll just stand there and awkwardly stare at you while you prepare the bed

He ends up snooping through the box

Poor boy ends up finding a strap on

"What in the devil's name is this???"

"Uh.... that's not for tonight, don't worry!"

His eyes practically pop out when he realizes you're adjusting restraints to use on him

"No no no, absolutely not, I w-"

"Quit whining and take your clothes off already"

"....... alright dear"

He lowkey feels awkward being completely naked in front of you when you're still covered by your lingerie

"Dearest, I-"

"You'll be calling me Mistress tonight, now get on the bed"

He'll reluctantly crawl over to you and glare up at you when you tie his hands to the headboard

"What do you want your safe word to be, Mr. grouchy pants?"

"James Patrick March does not need a safe word"

"Then stop being such a little girl

He might actually blush the slightest bit being completely helpless and bare in front of you

He'll refuse to look at you for a bit since he's bitter

He'll have his head tipped up and to the side

"Look over here"

"I refuse"

"Fine"

You'll slide the dull edge of a knife down his throat to get his attention

His mouth fell open at the feeling of the cold steel

The knife somehow helped relax him into the situation (murderer things ig)

He watched the knife as you trailed it down his chest

Just the sight of you with a knife in your hands made his cock throb

"Just let me have my fun.... alright James?"

"Alright Mistress"

He secretly wants to be fully dominated, he's just too "manly" to say it

You smirked at his compliance and sat between his legs

He was calm until you reached for the sex toy box

You ended up deciding to try a vibrator on him

"No no, hold on. I... I'm not even sure what that is, and I will most certainly not be allowing you to put a foreign near my- oh.... ohh~ "

You slowly pumped his cock while letting the vibrator buzz against his tip

You tested various settings on him

He actually whimpered

Yes, the James Patrick March whimpers

"... was that a whimper?!"

You couldn't help but giggle at the little sound that came out of him

He's definitely blushing a little more now

"No! you must be mistaken dear y/n, a whimper is a sound a dog makes, I am no dog. You're clearly hearing things, I do not whimper. Never have, never will.... absolutely never"

It was so funny to watch him get all defensive, you let it slide that he didn't call you Mistress

You continued to use your hand and the toy on him

He's surprisingly loud

Besides the fact that he won't stop talking

He'll keep trying to touch you despite being tied down

Once you can tell he's close, you pull everything away from him and stop touching

"W-what are you doing?"

"Relax James, it's a game...."

"No it is not, games are fun. This is not fun, so it mustn't be a game"

Much to his dismay, you continue to edge him

He's so petty he'll try to stay quiet

It doesn't work

The more you do it, the more little groans he lets out

He actually starts to get a little shaky

"Does it feel good?"

*literally moans* "...... No"

"Your cock says otherwise"

The vibrator would be practically dripping with his precum

"Dearset-"

You stop touching him

"Mistress, h-how much more of this abuse do you expect me to endure? You've done it seven times already, I've counted"

"I'll stop when you beg me"

He probably looks so offended that you would even suggest he'd beg

"I refuse to do such a low thing"

You'll take your hand off of him and move up to grab his face

That actually made his cock twitch, but he'd never admit it

"Then you won't cum, James. I'll put my clothes back on and leave you tied here"

His bratty ass will just stare at you and not say a word

But if you do actually get off of the bed and try to leave him, you'll hear a little "please allow me to cum, Mistress...."

He'll just be pouting when you turn back to him

He probably won't say it now that you're looking at him

You'll finish him off with a blowjob (after you call him a good boy to annoy him)

You have to scold him for trying to buck up into your mouth

He doesn't take long to finish since he's been waiting so long

He came harder than he ever had before to be honest

But again, he won't admit it

"So? Thoughts on being a sub?"

"....I suppose it was alright"

He's still a horrible actor

He wants you to dom him again and it's obvious

Please torture the brat out of him

Taglist: @mossybank @kitwalkerangel (lmk if you wanna be added or removed)

[bretongirlwrites]

Her Cyrodiilic was so flustered, that I feared I was inconveniencing her, by conversing in it; but when on inviting us in, and busying herself about the kitchen, she slipped into dialect, she became if anything more lively; and so I settled, got out my note-book, and tried quite in vain to note down some of her words. It was such an easy intermingling, that I at once asked where she had learnt Cyrodiilic; she said it was as good as native, that her father had been from Bruma. 

    ‘Oh!’ said I: ‘it will be interesting to see how that dialect has interacted with, –’

    But she was not listening; and so I prepared my notes whilst she put the kettle on, and put together a little tea. – At length I cast a question into the steam and the whistling: that of whether or not she knew how to read.

    ‘Read?’ she cried indignant.

    ‘Oh!’ said I: ‘I know I mustn’t presume, –’

    ‘Read!’ she said again, and laughed: ‘what the bloody hell would I do that for?’

    I was a little taken aback; but did not presume; merely shuffled my papers, and ensured I had the correct interview before me. It would be a different interview, from those with the literate; and I was most intrigued as to what I might find out from those less influenced by writing. 

    ‘Fat lot of good reading does,’ she went on, – took the kettle off the fire; brought over the tray: ‘my boy went up to Solitude with his reading, and all it did was turn him into a right arse.’

    She pushed a spoon in my direction; and looked dismayed when I took it in my wrong hand, rather than put down my pen. – She had taken this whole business to be a discussion; did not like it when she was not given full attention; said that I’d learn far more from listening than from writing. 

    ‘What exactly are you getting out of this anyway?’ said she.

    ‘Oh!’ said I: ‘I am making a map, – a sort of Atlas, – with all the dialects of Skyrim; so that we can study them; and have a record of them for posterity, –’

    ‘And what’s the use of it?’ said she.

    I thought I had answered that; and could not say much more; only something vague and Gwylim-esque about academia and learning and cultural preservation. 

    ‘You’ll be wanting some of my recipes,’ she cried at this: ‘not my ruddy dialect or whatever you call it.’

    Handed me a sweetroll, and a big pat of butter; and rambling, told me how I ought to make it, or rather, – how she made it; interspersed with the best wood for the oven; how her grandmother had made them; and Kyne’s breath, it’s getting downright hot for the time of year. Ruffled her apron; turned to the oven again, still chattering, – and I grinning at Jenette, began to write.

    ‘What are you up to?’ she said at last, when she saw my scribbled notes.

    ‘You have given me so much linguistic information,’ said I, ‘that you are my most valuable study thus far.’

    She squinted at the paper, – in that moment, for the first time in her life, wished she had learnt to read. – ‘What odd writing you have,’ said she: ‘I am sure my lad doesn’t write like that. – But what do I know?’

    ‘Oh! this isn’t Cyrodiilic exactly,’ said I: ‘that’s my notation for pronunciation. I wanted to represent sounds, so I invented a collection of symbols, –’

    ‘I am sure,’ said she perfectly soberly, ‘that that’s how you end up accidentally summoning a daedra.’

    She not elaborating, I put her words into symbols, and reached for another bite of my sweetroll. – Complimented it; she beamed; and said that she’d give me the recipe to make at home; and a hundred more, if I wanted them.

    ‘Ah, well, you see,’ said I, ‘I do not do a lot of my own cookery; but I’d be happy to record them for posterity, –’

    ‘You and your posterity!’ she cried: said it slowly, pos-ter-ity, as if it were perfectly foreign to her: ‘what is the use of reading, if it does nothing for the present? – You are here to learn about Skyrim’s culture, are you not? – Then put away your book, and listen!’

[mandoalorian]

Borrowed Time [Din Djarin x F!Reader]

ੈ♡˳‧₊*: • Chapter 4: The Bounty ✩࿐ ˚.✧

Summary: You are the princess of Mandalore, held hostage on your own planet by Moff Gideon and his army of Imperial troopers. Left with no choice, you send out a distress signal; a plea for protection— and who comes? None other than Din Djarin, a foundling of The Death Watch. He, by creed, is your sworn enemy. And where you have asked for his protection, he has been told by his mentor that he must marry you and gain the ability to restore Mandalore to its former glory.

Word Count: 2400>

Warnings: allusions to male masturbation, protector!Din comes with his own warning.

Series Masterlist

Maker, you were beautiful.

The way you slept was so peaceful, basking in the moonlight. Din was surprised you could even sleep that well on top of the rock hard slap he called a bed. He thought the child was cute when he slept, but as Din watched you, revelling in the way your chest rose and fell with every breath, he swore he had never seen such heavenliness in his life.

He’d gotten lucky, he had to admit that. You were the Manda’lor, and you could’ve been a Gungan or a Rodian or who knows what… but you weren’t. You were a human who looked distinctly similar to the illustrations of angels in the fairytale books Din grew up reading. You were brave and fierce, but you were still the same girl who burst into tears only minutes after meeting Din. You were special, different. And Din had never let himself feel this way about anyone before. Truthfully, it scared him.

And Din didn’t get scared either. He was a scarred, battle hardened Mandalorian warrior. Very little affected him... but already, his heart ached for you. He was yearning. He saw the way you were with the child, and the love you had in your heart. He was a fighter, and the way the creed had brought him up, he’d never known any different, but you were a princess. You showed him that you didn’t need to win your battles through violence, but you could do it through peace and love. Just like your mother; duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore.

Din sighed, and raised his hands to remove his helmet. You were asleep, so it was okay. Just for once he wanted to look at you with his own eyes. And somehow, it was even better. Din discarded his gloves and quietly took off his beskar armour and boots, preparing to settle himself down for bed, but as he undressed, he didn’t take his eyes off you once. So so beautiful.

Maybe you and Din were more similar than you first realised, because Din was throbbing by the time he went to the refresher. He leaned against the cool wall and closed his eyes, palming at his erection through his pants. He felt so confined and he was desperate for some kind of relief. But when he closed his eyes, he wasn’t seeing the usual darkness. All he could see was you.

-----

You weren't sure how long you had been asleep for. But it was the distinct smell of bone broth that woke you up. Your eyes slowly fluttered open and it took you a few moments to focus your vision, getting used to what was about to be your temporary (yet still new) home. You stretched your body and yawned, bringing your fists to your face to rub your eyes.

“You're up,” Din commented, his modulated voice stating the obvious. You jumped when you saw the beskar clad figure standing at the edge of the bed—just watching you. How long had he been watching you? “There's a bowl of bone broth waiting for you.” he informed you and you scrunched up your nose at the unpleasant smell. “What? You don't like it?”

No. Was there anyone in the galaxy who actually liked bone broth? You assumed it was just something the settlers on Sorgan ate because they had no other choice, and it was cheap. Did the Mandalorian really drink bone broth? He’d already sounded irked and you had just woken up. 

“Uhm…” your voice trailed off, your gaze flicking between the bowl of soup and the Mandalorian. "Do you have any fruit? Sourberries, maybe?" You tried your best to dodge his question and sound polite, but judging from Din’s reaction, you mustn’t have done a good job.

Din scoffed, before taking his rifle out of the armoury and attaching it to the holster on his back. What did he need a rifle for? "No. You think I have the credits for that? Sorry princess." He grumbled. And with that, he disappeared into the shadows of the ship. 

You felt bad. You didn't mean to offend him, although you could completely understand how your comment came across. Ungrateful. You weren't ungrateful, it was just… bone broth was what you fed to the palace bluurgs. It wasn't something you ever voluntarily chose to consume. You looked back over at the steaming bowl of soup and sighed. Why did you even feel bad? You barely knew him. You were the literal princess of Mandalore and - no, you wouldn’t feel bad for a child of the watch. If anything he should feel bad for the actions of his people and what they had done to yours. What they had done to you. You slipped out of Din’s bed and picked up your bowl of broth before heading down the hull of the ship, wanting to find him and apologise. He’d given up his bed for you, he was making sure you were well fed, the least you could do was say sorry.

But he was nowhere in sight. You’d noticed the ramp of the ship had been lowered, and a stream of natural sunlight was blazing into the ship. You had landed. Were you on Nevarro? Had he… had he left you without saying anything? Surely not. You padded into the cockpit only to find Grogu sitting in the pilot seat, playing with a small steel ball. He threw it between his three clawed hands and giggled every time he caught it.

“Hey kid,” you sighed, slipping into the co-pilot seat. “Where did your dad go?”

Grogu garbled a long winded response and you listened closely. No way. He was a bounty hunter? Kriff… you’d somehow managed to tie yourself into a bounty hunter’s affairs. You cursed yourself but continued to listen to the child’s explanation. Din had gone out to earn some quick credits, goodness knows what for. And he’d left Grogu on the ship with strict instruction to watch over you. You couldn’t help but laugh incredulously. He’d asked his child to make sure you wouldn’t get into trouble.

“He can’t just leave me on the ship and not say anything,” you laughed to yourself in disbelief, letting your head fall in your hands. The birds outside the ship tweeted and for Din to have left the ramp open, you knew that Nevarro must have been a safe planet. At least for the most part. “Do you come here much?” You asked Grogu, who nodded his head in affirmation, You hummed, picking up the child and nursing him on your lap. “Does your father always expect people to follow his rules?” you asked slyly, and even Grogu giggled. “Come on. Take me around Nevarro little one. I wish to explore.”

It wasn’t like you gave Grogu a choice, but you learned that he was practically just as mischievous as you were, and Din was wrong to leave a child in command of you. He was wrong to leave anyone in command of you. You’d lived on Mandalore your whole life, not once ever leaving the planet. Now you were finally further into the outer-rim than ever before and Din just expected you to stay on the ship? Not a chance. You picked up the child and carried him outside and oh stars - it was beautiful. The golden sunlight radiated warmth and you overheard the happy sound of children excitedly chirping away. Din had parked the Crest dead centre in the middle of town, it seemed, with stalls and vendors on every corner, peppering the streets. You hummed in contentment, and sat down on the edge of the ramp with your bowl of broth and Grogu.

“Do you like this?” you asked, mixing the broth with the spoon Din had provided you. Grogu nodded his head happily and you laughed. “Does Din eat it?” Grogu nodded his head even more and his lips curled into a smile when he realised you were about to try the soup. If both Din and the child ate bone broth regularly, then it couldn’t be that bad…

And it wasn’t, not really. You could get used to the taste. The odorous smell was more off putting than anything else. So, without fuss, you ate the bubbling brown substance and discarded the finished bowl back inside the ship. You weren’t going to be gone too long, just long enough to meet the townsfolk and get a feeling off the planet. You hadn’t been this excited about anything in a long time. 

-----

This was never part of the plan, but in the 24 hours of knowing Din Djarin, you had softened him considerably; more so than what the Mandalorian would like to admit. He didn’t plan on being gone long. But he still wanted, no, he needed, to get on your good side if he planned on asking you to marry him. The thought of winning you over through a façade of lies didn’t sit right with him. He never had a strong moral compass but he believed that you should at least marry for love. But then again, love was a foreign concept to him. He’d seen it before, in his parents, but that was just a distant memory. It felt like a lifetime ago, and if the Armorer told him to marry you, he had to do it.

It wasn’t a choice. It was his duty as a Mandalorian. 

“I need a quick job.” Din announced, sliding into the booth opposite Karga.

“Mando! Good to see you. Kid not with you today?” Greef Karga, esteemed magistrate of Nevarro asked.

“He’s on the ship,” Din shrugged casually, knowing that the child’s safety - and yours - would be guaranteed as long as you just stayed put. “I need a quick job. Something simple and on Nevarro.”

Karga scrunched up his eyebrows in bewilderment. “Coming from the hunter who normally takes four pucks at a time, this is new,” he chuckled. “But I don’t have anything of the sort. What’s it for?”

Din hesitated, having no reason to be dishonest but yet not wanting to explain more than necessary. “Sourberries.”

This was a foolish plan, but if you wanted sourberries then Din would get you sourberries. He had this primal urge in him to appease you. To win you over.

Karga blinked before erupting into a fit of belly laughter. Din shuffled around in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.

“Sourberries? Let me guess, is that code for something? I get it Mando. Us men have needs!” Karga laughed. “I do have one puck on Nevarro. Brand new. High paid. Imperial bounty," Karga hissed once his laughter settled down, but a smirk still played upon his lips. "You could buy a whole sourberry forest with the credits from this bounty.”

“You’re doing Imperial work, after everything we’ve been through?” Din frowned, shaking his head in disappointment. “Does Cara know?”

“It doesn’t matter. The Imps are the only ones who will pay Guild rates. Besides… I really didn’t have a choice. The guy who came to see me was an ex-ISB officer. Said he’s looking for a runaway princess. Figured the guy she ran away with is a settler on Nevarro. Told me he has a very distinct look but didn’t provide much more information.”

Din swallowed, his heart sinking in his chest. It couldn’t be, could it?

“What other information do you have?” Din countered. He had to know. He had to know so he could return back to the Crest and warn you. Maybe Nevarro wasn’t as safe as he’d predicted after all.

“Will you accept the bounty?” Karga asked. “Otherwise I can’t-”

“Listen, I need to know all that you know.” Din said sternly. 

“Unless you’re willing to accept the puck, I can’t give you that information.”

Dank farrik. He couldn’t accept a bounty on you… he was your protector. What would he even tell you?

Once upon a time, he would’ve felt comfortable enough to explain his situation to Greef but if he was working with the Imperials again… maybe he wasn’t as trustworthy as Din once believed. He understood where Greef was coming from, to a degree. You were living during difficult times, but if he learned that you were the bounty and you were literally just a mile away, waiting on his ship, he’d have no choice but to notify this ex-ISB officer. If it meant Greef would earn his coin, Din wouldn’t put betrayal past him.

He needed the puck. He needed the puck because if he didn’t take it, another bounty hunter would. Of course Din wouldn’t let anyone even get near you, but if it was an Imperial bounty, he  knew they’d just keep coming and coming. The Imperials didn’t give up easily. They didn’t give up with the child and they wouldn’t give up on you.

“I’ll take it.” Din announced after a moment of contemplation.

“Excellent!” Karga grinned, fishing out for the puck. “What I can tell you is this. She’s the princess of once of the very few Empire ruled planets. Could be Lothal, Naboo, Dathomir, maybe even Mandalore…” and then Karga began to describe your appearance. Everything from your eye colour, hair colour, skin tone… he had you to a T. This was not good.

“Do you know why she ran away?” Din asked, trying to swallow away any fear for your safety.

“I don’t ask questions like that,” Greef responded, shooting the Mandalorian a strange look. Din should have known better. “But they’re almost certain she’s on Nevarro so hopefully you won’t have to look far. I have no doubt a man of your talents will be able to bring her back to the Guild before nightfall, right?”

“Right…” Din replied, a little too quietly. “Dead or alive?” 

“Alive only. No reward for a cold body,” Greef said strictly. “Good luck Mando,” Din was going to need more than just luck. He took the puck and stood up, Greef following from behind. “Hey, for your journey,” He smiled, handing the Mandalorian a bag of sourberries. “No charge. I’ve just… missed you.” 

Din made a small noise of gratitude although it wasn’t received through the modulator, before taking the berries from his friend and leaving the cantina. It really was warm outside, so much so, wearing the beskar was even more uncomfortable than usual. He had to go see Cara, but suddenly, it was very unsafe for you to be on the ship if Imps were roaming the town looking for you. Thankfully, Nevarro had the perfect hiding spot for you; the covert. Only Din didn’t know how much the other children of the watch would take a liking to you… or you them. But neither of you had any other choice. 

So when Din returned to the Crest, with sourberries and one hand and your bounty puck in another, he was mortified to see that neither you nor the child were there. His heart sank into his chest and his movements became erratic as he called your name and searched every crevice. Had they found you already? Had they taken the child? Oh no no no -

On impulse, Din fished into his armoury and grabbed more weapons, including explosives and detonators. He didn’t want this to get messy, but if the Imperials had taken both you and Grogu, there wasn’t a chance he’d go down without a fight. He’d have them begging for mercy. No one gets on the wrong side of Din Djarin.

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[elmaxlys]

How TSA 65 was translated in French

for @xchoco-mixturex  

so I’m just translating what’s said in the French version to English, no comment about how it differs from the Japanese or English because 1) I do not understand Japanese and 2) I do not own the official English tl, if there’s even one at the time I’m writing this

The pics are screenshots I took of magapoke when the chapter was free to read.

Page 1

Panel 1-  Senya is gonna die? Wait.. No... I don’t want... No.. It’s like with my father

Panel 2- Like... with my father?

Page 2- 

Pffff... [sighing/breathing out]

Page 3-

Panel 1- No... it’s not the same.. Senya’s situation is more enviable... It’s still better ! Way better !

Panel 2- He has companions ! [french puts emphasis on the “he” by repetition, saying “lui, il” which i have no idea how to put in English]

Hayabusa, Shika, big sister...

Panel 3- So Senya.. you mustn’t die! Please! Senya..

Page 4-

Panel 1- [sniper talking] Nanami... the one inhabiting your phone is named Kuon Shinzaki. She has too powerful a consciousness.. To protect you, she’s saving/keeping her strength... She even avoids talking.

Panel 2- [still sniper talking] If you get used to her.. You will gain strength and you will be able to hear her. So don’t be in a rush and wait for the right moment... Focus on staying/Just stay safe and sound.

Panel 3- The time.. has come.

Page 5-

Panel 1- I will do my best! I am ready to do anything to help Senya ! Kuon Shinzaki! I call on your powers ! 

Panel 2- I want to save Senya! Whatever it takes! So give me your strength!

[bold italic emphasis was in the French tl]

Page 6-

Panel 1- Alright!

Page 7- 

Panel 2- What?!

Page 8-

Panel 3- It wasn’t an illusion.. It’s just an emission of the superficial part of the cloud...

Panel 4- And the girl... is different.

Page 9-

Panel 1- Well done! You held up well, Nanami. Now, I’m taking over.

Panel 2- Ah..

Panel 3- Yes! Take care of Senya! [polite, formal you. nanami previously used “tu” but here she’s using the singular “vous”]

Page 10-

Panel 1- I wasn’t expecting her to call Kuon... Honestly, thank you, Nanami!

Panel 2- Senya.. I will give you some hope... Like I explained to you, Kuon Shinzaki lost her physical body during the previous battle...

Panel 4- Thanks to a very special power, her soul survived... A power that makes it possible to create a body close to that of a human... from informatic energy.. a pseudo-living being.

Page 11-

Panel 1- Kuon studied that power... She was wondering and wondering if that pseudo-being wouldn’t be able to create its own body. Unfortunately, it ended up impossible.. Because she didn’t have as much power as Taisei.. and because she didn’t have thoughts as deviant as his.

Panel 2- However, that doesn’t mean she wasted her time. The activation.. she couldn’t create from nothing.. but from an existing body, she could use the activation. She thought that this power would find utility someday... And here we are.

Panel 4- The activation should work... I can create blood.. I can do it... The only unknown factor is Matsuda’s will... If he already accepted the idea of his death, then he’s done for...

Page 12-

Panel 1- It’s gonna be alright ! I know it ! Even in this unconscious state, I’m sue Senya won’t give up !

Panel 2- Senya...

Page 13-

Panel 2- Creation needs a little more energy.. The power of will.. of thought.. Everyone here, listen to me carefully!

Panel 3- Huh?

Page 14- 

Panel 1- I want you to share your will with Matsuda and me! With all your strength, wish for him to heal!

Panel 2- Don’t argue! Hurry!

Panel 3- What a shameless one, that girl.. Still, I don’t want to contradict her...

Panel 4- Oh.. That’s awesome...

Page 16-

Panel 2- Foreign bodies need to be eliminated.. as well as defective models...  [i’m not sure whether ”model” is accurate in English but it’s the way the clones are refered to in French]

Panel 3- All according to Taisei’s wish.. For a world free of inequalities...

[antihero-writings]

Would it be possible for you to write some Dracula/Lisa pregnancy fluff?

Yes, yes it absolutely would!!!

....Though apparently not without time...

Me: I want to get better at writing shorter things faster. Like actually answering people’s prompts in decent time.

You: *Sends me this delightful prompt, when I was already contemplating writing some Draculisa pregnancy fluff*

Me: What a perfect opportunity!!

Me: *still takes absolutely forever to write it*

Needless to say, I’m so so sorry for the delay. But thank you so so much for sending me this, this prompt really was a delight!! 😘💕 I hope you like it!!

*

A bat soars above the moon kissed trees, dives down, swoops up to the sill of a castle window. Framed within it’s pane a woman with golden hair is laying on a couch, the tips of a book visible, her lips moving as she reads aloud. It would seem she’s reading to no one, but he knows better; she’s reading to the dream of a thing growing inside her belly. If one were to look in front of the couch they would see she was more than a few months pregnant.

His wife.

He half wonders if the scene is a snow globe; if he’ll have to shatter the world to touch anything within.

He still can’t quite believe this woman is his wife. That she’s carrying his child. This human woman. This mad, wonderful, beautiful human woman, who showed up at his door asking if he’d teach her how to be a doctor. He’s a king, yes, but not one women are particularly fond of courting, nor vice versa. All alone in his castle, he never had time or care for courtship. What vampire could be good enough for the king?

None indeed.

He clicks the window open, and upon entering in a puff of smoke he is a vampire; human in shape, but little else, incredibly tall and dark, and, sure, handsome to some, whose footsteps sound against the floorboards as he walks up beside her.

“Good evening, darling—or should I say morning?” Lisa twitters from the couch.

“Good evening.” Vlad steps by her head, leaning closer.

She reaches out her hand to take the edge of his cloak, looking at him upside down.

“Before you get settled, would you be a dear and get me some cheese? You know, one of those little platters?”

He stands back up to his full height, raising an eyebrow. “Let me guess, you want pickles on that platter too?”

She grins. “The baby asks for so little in life.”

He has a thought, maybe he ought to mention how he is a king, a vampire king no less, not to be ordered around to do petty things like run errands—for human food at that.

But she’s his wife. And running cheese errands is small price to pay for this scene to be more than glass.

He sighs. “Fine, I’ll get your pickle-cheese.”

“Thanks, Dearest.” She says overly sappily and blows him a kiss.

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves her off as he steps out of the room.

As Vlad leaves, Lisa’s grin fades into a satisfied smile. She runs her hand over her belly softly, thinking of the child, wondering, as she often does, just what kind of person they’ll be, what kind of life they’ll have.

“I know he looks scary, but your father’s always a sap like that.”

He comes back a few moments later—(smoke in his wake)—with a platter of cheese and crackers and pickles, all in neat little slices.

She props herself up with a pillow as he hands it to her, thanking him again.

He sits on the floor beside her head, and she lets one hand drape over his shoulder, and he reaches up to hold it.

“You should tell them a story.” Lisa says through cracker.

“Who?”

“Adrian.”

“Adrian?” He pauses, tastes the word on his tongue. “I thought we liked—”

“I like Adrian better.”

“Adrian.” He pauses again, seeing what kind of aftertaste it has. “…What kind of story?”

“Something nice. A fable maybe? Mustn’t scare the kid too early in life.”

He takes on a false voice. “Once upon a time a brave knight saved a princess trapped by an evil dragon, and they got married, the end.”

Lisa smacks him with the book. “Come on! I know you can do better than that. Has this giant library taught you nothing of how to tell a story?!”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Over half of them are scientific journals.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, don’t blame me when your child thinks of you as an old codger who doesn’t know how to have fun.”

“Alright,” he concedes, pauses, pondering where to begin. “Once…there was an old king.”

“Not bad.” Lisa reasons.

“Centuries old.”

“Better.”

“He was a fearsome creature, not quite human, made of blood and twilight. Once he ruled the world with a fist of iron and tongues of fire. Everyone knew his name, and everyone feared him…and he reveled in it.”

“But…once the world was his, sitting in his huge castle, he couldn’t help but feel like it was rather small and…lonely.”

Lisa raises an eyebrow.

“One day, after years—more—of sitting alone in the castle, a woman knocked on his door. She was brave, determined…beautiful.”

Lisa scoffs.

“She said she’d heard he had secret knowledge—foreign, forbidden. The instruments of healing, the ones that had to be kept secret, for fear from those who thought all the worlds answers were in the sky.”

“She asked the king—this terrible, sad, lonely, demon—to teach her how to heal people.

“Most fearsome creatures would have laughed in her face. Most of his kind would have turned her away, turned her into a meal, or turned her into one of them. Not this king. He could tell from the moment he met her she was different. He didn’t like most humans upon meeting them—long ago he had a nasty habit of putting them on stakes. But he was instantly taken with her, and he accepted her request.

“And…though he thought happily ever after only existed in the most ludicrous of fairy tales…together they lived in his castle…and, yes,” he leans his head back to look at her, “they were happy.”

She leans down to kiss his forehead, before the baby in her stomach kicks.

“And that’s where you come in.” Lisa continues for him. “You see this king isn’t just made up. This is the story of your mom and dad. And you…you are a product of this happiness. You are born from a rare collision of worlds, and that can only mean you are destined for great things. We believe in you…” she pauses, trying to think of a name to try out.

Vlad looks at Lisa, and says with confidence: “Adrian.”

When he says the name, for the first time in centuries, Vlad thinks he can taste sunlight.

[vivithefolle]

Hi Vivi, can you share some thoughts on the "Hermione deserves to be/should have married to XYZ because she is way too good for Ron" mentality of this fandom??

I’m gonna copy-paste a Quora answer of mine, because recycling is important!

Claiming that Ron is “out of Hermione’s league” is a statement rooted in sexism, classism and probably a bunch of other -isms.

It might seem like I’m just throwing buzz-words around but let me explain.

First off, the sexism.

Oh, the sexism.

As I’ve pointed it out in yet another one of my answers  (I’m so sorry for drowning you all in a plethora of links), Ron is very much a female-coded male character.

Ron is emotional, wears his heart on his sleeve, has anxieties and inadequacies, walks off in order to cool down, has a temper, puts other people before his needs, and pretty much adopts Harry when he rescues him in the second book. He’s the Heart of the Trio: he doesn’t rely on sole logic, he can believe something without proof, he is sensitive and thus is the easiest to hurt emotionally.

Whether you call it a “beta male”, a “wuss”, “defying gender roles” or a “soft boy” is your own business, but the core of it is that Ron doesn’t meet the standards for people’s vision of a “desirable” masculine figure.

The little things Ron quietly performs in the books - when he helps Harry into his pyjamas in Chamber of Secrets because Harry’s arm is bloop; when he’s worrying about Hermione’s whereabouts in Prisoner of Azkaban; when he helps Harry unwind after his visions in Goblet of Fire; when he puts food onto Harry’s plate and wakes him up from his nightmares in Order of the Phoenix; when he beams that Hermione was “perfect, obviously” when she passes her Apparition test - all those caring gestures don’t seem like much, but if you bother to think about it, they paint an enormous picture.

Who gets Hermione to stop overworking while making her feel good about her accomplishments? Who comforts Harry from his nightmares and cares for him in the dead of the night, when nobody is awake? Who makes sure his friends are healthy and happy? Who wards off the dark and depressing thoughts, be it with his fists or a joke?

It’s Ron.

When you think about it, “traditional masculinity” in Harry Potter is as much frowned upon as “traditional feminity” is - which sometimes bites Rowling in the butt when you remember how she obviously seems to consider that Hermione and Ginny are the only desirable kind of girls.

Vernon Dursley? The entrepreneur “king of the household” prejudiced suburbian middle-class Dad? Fits in the usual tropes of traditional masculinity.

Dudley Dursley? The typical “boys will be boys” spoiled middle-class only child who’s the apple of his parents’ eyes and even takes up boxing, as if he wasn’t traditionally masculine enough.

Draco Malfoy? See Dudley, but toss in “upper-class posh aristocrat bully who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty so he has henchmen do it for him because he’s too rich for this sh-t”, would remind you of a few Christian Greys or Gatsbys.

Dolores Umbridge? Oh no, cat pictures, decorative plates, talks to teens as if they’re babies and PINK, SO MUCH PINK!!! So disgustingly feminine!!

Rowling very much frowns upon traditional gender roles - with Molly Weasley being an exception because Rowling feels very strongly about being a mother, and relates to Molly a lot.

Right - so, being a beautiful mess of paradoxes and contradictions (a “soft boi” who also punches bullies in the face, a fussy mother-hen who swears like a sailor, a tall athlete with badass scars on his arms who’s nurturing and sweet; in short, a wonderfully human character), Ron is obviously going to be a polarizing character. You painfully relate to him and get defensive when he’s criticized, you feel his characterization hits a bit too close to home so you hate him, or you disregard him completely because you can’t see anything “special” about him…

Now, onto another very, very sexist point that is often made.

People say that Hermione “deserves better” than Ron, often claiming that they “aren’t intellectual equals”, then citing Harry (who is mistaken as being some sort of slumbering genius but honestly, the kid is really a bit daft) or Draco (since apparently, being rich must equal to being intelligent) or, god forbid, Snape (because he’s a teacher and teachers are meant to be clever).

Soooo, I could go the loooooong way and pull out all the receipts that prove that none of these characters are perfectly intellectually matched to Hermione…

Or I could go the long way and simply give you this: this obsession with finding an “intellectual equal” for Hermione reflects the mentality of “women are not allowed to be better at something than their husband”.

Yep.

A woman has to be all-around pretty good at everything, whereas a man has to be the absolute best in his area of greatest competence (surely better than any puny female!) with a help-meet there to compensate for his weaknesses. People are very, very uncomfortable when Ron and Hermione reverse this dynamic. Hermione is extremely intelligent and dedicated to intellectual pursuits, but is complete pants at things like self-care and people skills. Ron is bright enough to keep up with her and strong in her areas of weakness.

Even if Ron was as dumb as a sack of rocks (he’s not), his other virtues are more than enough to “justify” Hermione loving him. (Because she needs an excuse?) But no. A woman has to be with a man who outdoes her in her area of greatest strength. - credit to @lytefoot

People don’t want Hermione to be with a man who’s her “equal.” They want her to be with a man who can be The Man so she can know the contentment of being The Woman.

But, with this sexist line of thought, how do we justify how Ron is supposed to be such a bad match for Hermione? Because if it was just about mere sexism, Romione would surely be more popular. Imagine! Ron happily raising the children, being a house-husband and proud of it, while Hermione is out there fighting for justice in the wizarding world! What a power-couple, defying norms and gender roles and not being the least bit conscious of it, prime OTP material for sure! So why do people still want Hermione to put Harry, Draco, or god forbid², Snape in Ron’s place? Is this an irrational hatred of redheads? An Harmionian’s delirious wet dream? A failure to separate the actors from their characters?

It’s all this and, quite frankly, something more: the inherent classism that comes with Ron’s status as an explicitly working-class coded character.

I know, I know, “Vivian! Calm down with the buzzwords, you’re starting to sound like an online pretend-feminist magazine!”

Or “Come on, people who don’t ship Ron and Hermione together aren’t all sexist or classist!”

Of course, of course! I know that! I’m not implying that!

But some of the “reasons” why they claim that Ron and Hermione can’t work - are extremely classist in nature, that’s just it!

Come on, think about it! What are the Number Ones arguments people always pull against Ron? Or the most common Ron-bashing tropes (look at fanfics and watch the number of stories that use at least one of those)?

Ron is stupid/mediocre

Ron is lazy/useless

Ron resents his wife’s hard work/success

Ron is a homophobe

Ron is a drunkard

Ron (the big prude who at 16 had never kissed a girl and sees a first kiss as the prelude to a wedding) is massively oversexed and cheats on Hermione with anything that moves

Not only do these “reasons” completely ignore ALL OF RON’S CHARACTERIZATION - except for the “lazy” bit but come off it, all teenagers are lazy and Hermione’s the exception to the rule - but it matches perfectly with the negative stereotypes associated with working-class white men in fiction.

It’s also very funny to note how many (assumedly middle-class or financially secure) fans look down on Ron for being “whiny” or “greedy” when he expresses the desire to have money of his own, or blame his parents for “not knowing when to stop” or “being irresponsible”, or even look down on them for being “too proud to accept help”!! Also how shocked people are when Ron dares to stand up for himself when Hermione or Harry act badly towards him. How dare this country boy not listen to the wisdom of his social “betters”?

So, obviously, because our Heroine can’t go with a Nasty, Mediocre Working-Class Man, she must be paired off with someone of Proper Status: say, a Hero that was raised in a middle-class home and might be a bit psychologically damaged but it’s nothing all those gold coins in his vault can’t fix; or this Rich Posh Aristocrat who actively rooted for her death, he’s a little bit eccentric and has some exotic pet-names to call you, but I’m sure you’ll learn to love him and will unearth the gold coins in his bank account… I mean, the heart of gold that lies within the surface; oh, why not a Way Too Big An Age Difference Teacher if you’re looking for a “cultured man” who has zero things in common with you; we can also bring Convenient Plot Device Famous Rich Foreign Athlete if you want some diversity and you don’t feel original!

But we can’t - oh, we mustn’t let her be with this Terrible Working-Class Boy! His brothers are fine, they have money, they have jobs, so they’re obviously Not As Mediocre. But let our precious Hermione be with this Just-Got-Out-Of-School hooligan? She can’t possibly be in love with him! You’ll see darling, you’ll get bored eventually! He’s too mediocre for you, you deserve a man who outclasses you - I mean, who can provide for you! You’re a fragile little flower who scars people for life when she’s not happy with them, what makes you think that this boy can possibly handle you even though he’s done so for the past seven years?

You wanted it, you got it.

People are shallow, have misconceptions about Ron’s character that they are unwilling to correct or use classist and sexist arguments to try to make it so that either Ron is the Devil himself / Hermione is a higher kind of being that can only orgasm if sufficiently “intellectually stimulated” / what-have-you.

[cozycryptidcorner]

The Mad Prince, Chapter 11 (sfw)

Chapter 10

“Are you sure?” You ask, gaping, and Clementine glares at you in response. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of how she has dedicated her entire life to identifying, hunting down, and killing driders, all while on the bloodied front lines of a war, so she is currently an expert on such a topic.

“Am I sure that the front line footage that some soldiers died to send back to base is somehow fabricated?” She asks, testily.

Your brain is buzzing like a thousand fireflies have crawled into your ears. “But that doesn’t make any sense, Clem.” 

“You’re absolutely correct,” she still sounds vaguely pissed, but that’s her default tone. “Which means that there’s more than meets the eye, and we now have to figure out what.”

 The keias values honesty, Elias’ words come back, unbidden, if you ask, he will answer.

 “We can’t go prodding around now, though, because that will throw a lot of weird suspicion on you.” You bite at the skin around your thumb, trying to figure out how to go about this in the most delicate way possible. 

After a moment of hard silence where you are almost too aware of how loud your breathing is, Clementine prods, “you and the prince or whatever he actually is weren’t acting too couple-y.”

Annoyance starts dripping into the hollow of your chest, and you feel a build of angry pressure beginning to rise. “He- he didn’t tell me he was engaged.” 

For the first time since her bubbly mask fell off, she shows some semblance of human emotion by almost choking on her spit. Quickly, she gets herself under control and shakes her head as though she might have expected such, then sighs.

 “I mean, and his fiance was assassinated. Elias told me she died of sudden heart failure, but like she was a drow and-”

“A drow?” She turns to you again, her eyes narrowed until they were almost slits, “as in, two legs and walking upright? Are you sure?”

“Y-yes,” the indignancy of being lied to by omission is still thrumming through your chest, “and he apparently really loved her.” 

“Obviously so, because it would have been rather illegal for him to marry outside of his species.” Clem sits back up from her lounging position, plucking a flower that grew right in front of her legs.

You don’t like all this new information being rained down upon so quickly, but you suck in your breath and try to take this one in stride. There’s a dull thudding in your head, like a distant drumbeat. “So there are race-based marriage laws?”

 “Of course, didn’t you know?”

No, you’re suddenly acutely aware of how unprepared you are. “The matchmakers didn’t make me aware of that.” You suppose it does explains a lot, like how stressed the prince is at you meeting the rest of his family, or how he doesn’t seem to want you to go out and explore on your own, and such. 

Clementine lets out a gruff sigh, you suppose from frustration at having to hold your hand like a toddler throughout a warzone. You try to not let that bother you. It’s… not really your fault, is it? You didn’t want this to happen, if you could go back to your completely shitfaced self as you were about to enter all pertinent information to Starward Matchmakers™ glowing neon booth, you would bludgeon the back of your head with a bat.

“Okay, so someone is trying to kill you,” she holds up one finger, “and we know from that assistant guy that they are very capable of doing so,” she adds another finger, “and you aren’t even in the good graces of your princely other half, assuming that drider is who he says he is.”

You swallow thickly, feeling positively ill, pressing your fingertips into the pressure points on your temples in the hopes your brain might untangle. “Clementine?”

“Yeah.”

“The Starward Matchmakers™ did match me with the prince, right? This isn’t some kind of weird mistake? Or like… or like what they were trying to do with you?”

“Do you know anyone with the budget of a large government’s military that can handle a bribe of such proportions who might think it’s funny to pull such a dangerously cosmic prank?”

 “No.” You look down at your hands as the last bit of hope that this might all be a nightmarish misunderstanding slips through your fingers.

Clementine softens, though only slightly, letting out another sigh and very awkwardly giving you a pat on the back, which is about the most she’ll ever offer in the way of sympathy. “Tough it out. Paint a pretty smile on that face of yours and maybe make out with him a little.”

 “Clementine!” You raise your voice, then look self consciously back at your guards as they assess whether or not you need their aid. “That’s not how this works.” 

“This is exactly how this works, kid, even if he’s an alien spider, he’s still a male.” She rolls her eyes. “And stop acting like a prude.” 

“Yeah, but he is,” another wave of frustration razes through your blood and right to your fingertips. “One time I kissed him, he thought it was essentially a marriage proposal.”

 Her face wrinkles into a grimace, but she seems to take in marginal good humor. “Okay, so he’s a virgin. That makes things easier, maybe just show him your ankle or something, he’d drool all over it.”

You’re going to say something snippy in response, maybe tell her that she should do the ankle-showing, but the mental image of the fucking drider prince of Lolth freezing as he stares at a bare leg and foot does have a level of absurdity to it that makes you choke your words down into a wry laugh. “I don’t know, maybe it will give him brain damage.”

“All the better to finish this war finally,” Clem stretches out her arms, “Anything else you’d like to fill me in on?”

“Heikka Nisesh, you know, the famous war criminal? He was supposed to be my first physician, but I threw a big enough fit that I ended up with a basic drow doctor.” 

She immediately tenses, her entire body going into an alert that is unique to a trained soldier. “Tell me you’re joking. Now.”

“I’m not.” 

There’s another expression in her eyes, now, one that you’re not at all familiar with. Panic, of which she’s obviously trying to settle so the guards don’t become suspicious and approach to get within hearing range. With a shuddering, tense breath, she shakes her head and tries to orient herself back into reality. With no small amount of room in her tone to be anything more than a command, she says, “know that they and I mustn’t ever meet, do you understand? We can’t cross paths, or this whole thing is going to dissolve.”

“Do you want to talk-”

“No.” She stands, glancing over at the guards. “I’d like a tour now.” 

Shakily, you agree, getting up so fast you almost faint. There’s a brief dizziness rattling around in your skull, but you manage to get everything under control enough to show her around.

Whenever you aren’t in the gardens, you have to be very, very careful of dancing around talking normally and not revealing too much. Because ‘girl talk’ is supposed to be about boy troubles and gossip, but having a whole conversation about the crown prince monarch’s shortcomings when there are an indeterminate amount of people listening and reporting back to him doesn’t hold any appeal.

So the present conversation immediately drops as you give her your very restricted-access tour, the long hallways of the floor she is on, all the while she disguises her memorization of all exits and entrances as admiration for the architecture and ornate doors. There’s an odd kind of pinch throbbing between your eyes, and you have to stop for a moment to give yourself a moment to breathe. 

“Are you alright?” For once, Clementine drops a shred of her false personality, her hand grabbing onto your arm almost tightly to hold you up if you faint.

 “I just- I think I need to sit down.” The edges of your eyes blur somewhat, the top of your brain fuzzing over like someone poured a soft drink into your skull.

 “Can you walk?” She asks, glaring at the guards when one of them steps forward, probably to carry you.

 “Yeah,” you lie, hoping that you can just will yourself to keep from passing out, “I think your room is close enough.”

When you wobble just a bit, Clementine wraps her arm around your waist and props you up with her hip, then quickly gives up the strain of one arm and trades it in to pick you up like a baby.

You protest, of course you do, but there’s little you can do to actually wriggle out of her grip. Shockingly, it’s not the first time she’s had to carry you because of an almost skull-splitting headache, though the last time it was because she side-swiped your legs out from under you and your forehead was the thing to take the brunt of the fall. She also wasn’t so nice about it, either, dragging you to the side of the room by the arm like a ragdoll to await a medic.

Now, you suppose with the guards eying you, she can’t yank your limp body back to her room, and you’d honestly rather let her carry you than one of the drow guards. Once you get inside her apartment, she almost unkindly tosses you onto the couch, mumbling something about an ice pack or blanket.

“Did you call for someone?” She asks, and it takes your brain a muddled moment to realize that she isn’t talking to you.

Quiet mumbling, all things you can’t catch. 

Almost impatiently, she yells, “are you both fucking daft? Call the assistant, what’s his face. The one with the white hair! Yes I mean the prince’s first servant, who else did you think I’m talking about?” Her words shift into a language you don’t understand as she walks over to the kitchen, but you’ve heard enough foreign swear words to know that she’s probably cussing them out of a job.

 It doesn’t take too long for Elias to arrive, or maybe it took a long time, and your brain is just so fried you didn’t notice.

“Why isn’t there any ice in the foodkeep?” Clementine’s already pounced, and you’re not sure if this is her ‘worried best friend’ character or her actual self about to dress someone down for putting one of her soldiers in danger.

“For what, exactly?” Elias sounds slightly taken aback by the show of aggression, something rattling in his hands.

“For her head, stupid, she’s almost burning up!” Again, her language dissolves into something unintelligible, though her tone gets the message across. Maybe she’s showing a bit of both sides for your sake.

 “I have some pills,” he almost sounds defensive, now, “it will help with the pressure, her head should-”

”Give me that,” Clem snaps, and you hear even more rattling as she looks over whatever he was about to give you. “What the hell are these?”

“Painkillers,” Elias takes her fury in stride, probably having dealt with much more significant threats in his day, “the best and highest dose for her human body. They were just imported from one of your human pharmaceutical companies, Bionova™, it’s what the matchmaker files suggested we get her.”

There’s another round of rattling, but then footsteps as Clementine sits herself on the couch, just in front of where your legs tug under a blanket she absentmindedly threw onto you earlier, and hands you the bottle.

Now you manage to sit up, despite the angry tightening in your skull, like each individual blood vessel in your brain is squeezing the gray matter down a size. Holding the pill bottle in one hand while scratching your arm nervously in the other, you ask Elias one more time. “You say these were imported?”

“Straight over the border,” Elias promises, “no one would want anything to happen to you.”

 I beg to differ, you think, but pop the lid open anyway. The dull thrumming in your head has you almost desperate to do anything to get yourself rid of it, so you put one of the pills on your tongue and swallow it dry. Clementine, at least, is already rummaging through her cabinets until she finds a glass to fill with water.

“The keias has been notified of her condition, and will come as soon as he is able.”

You try not to roll your eyes, to be entirely honest, even shifting your irises sends a sharp nail through your head. “Tell him not to rush on my behalf.” 

Again, Clementine sits by your side, handing a glass of water over and watches you gulp it down like a dehydrated animal. Elias, also, seems to watch you with a nervous regard in his eyes and dismisses the soldiers with nothing more than a couple of words. When the extra ears are out of the suite, he turns back over to you.

 “This doesn’t leave this room,” he starts, glaring over at Clementine, “but I want you to be aware that he can’t seem to have any weaknesses for you, which is why he isn’t rushing as quickly as I’m sure you’d like.”

Letting out a breath, the pain of the headache getting to you, you ask, “why are you telling me this?”

Elias looks at you, not with anger, with disappointment, and that’s the thing that makes you feel almost ashamed with how you have been treating the prince as of late. “So you do not feel abandoned, your grace.”

Oh, right, it’s back with your grace, Elias’ own way of giving you a super polite cold shoulder. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Also, just as a precaution, the prince will want your doctor to look over your state, but I believe that it would be pertinent to have a so-called house call instead of going down to the clinic in person.”

“Probably, yeah.” The aching throbbing between your eyes has reduced your language usage down to the basics, and it takes you a hot minute to process anything anyone else says. Clementine had been missing for a moment, but she suddenly returns with a damp cloth she places over your eyes. 

There’s a tense, but calm conversation, and as much as you’d like to try paying attention, you can only focus on the dull throbbing in the rear of your head. More talking. You curl up into a ball, the couch large enough so that your knees don’t hand off the back, and you try to dig your fingers into any pressure points of your skull in the hopes it might ease the tension.

Suddenly, a hand comes to rub the side of your arm. “Hey, princess,” Clementine whispers almost soothingly, “you’re going to wait for the doctor and spend the night here, okay?”

You mumble something in affirmation.

 The doctor comes, you hear her voice and feel her prodding touches, but you don’t feel like you’re capable of even offering a meager greeting. There’s a pinch of something in the crook of your elbow, and the feelings cease, slowly. You don’t remember the point in which you fell asleep. Only that you wake up with Clementine conked out in the chair opposite of the furniture arrangement. 

When you wake back up, it’s because your head feels like someone took an ax to your skull, it almost causes you to faint from the pain itself. All you can do is lay on the couch, arms wrapped around your head. It feels like every bone in your body is bruised or fractured, but your head takes the brunt of the pain.

Someone is talking again. You don’t have the ability to focus on them. 

You’re not sure if you can fucking survive this, but gentle hands help you sit up, and there’s yet another sharp, pinching pain in your arm. After a moment, there’s a softness washing over you, like a manifestation of light and comfort flows through your veins and eases the suffering. 

You’ve felt this way before. 

When you open your eyes, the room is washed in a kaleidoscope of colors you hadn’t noticed until now, and you’re surrounded by a bunch of people that you know, you think you know, but your brain takes its sweet time putting names to faces. “Oh. Hello.”

The big one puts a hand on your head, running it down the side of your face. You don’t think you mind so much, but the smaller one is watching him with the eyes of a predator. “How are you feeling?”

“Very fucking high.” You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, just to make a noise.

“That’s completely normal, keias.” There’s a taller woman, her robes a pleasantly warm gray. “The drugs have overwhelmed her system, she will be more lucid in a few minutes.”

“Of course.” The big one turns to you again, and you look at his face. He’s… angular, alien, but beautiful nonetheless. You don’t think you’re afraid of him.

“What does that mean?” You ask, your lips heavy and difficult to move.

“What?” It’s the smaller one that speaks. 

“That word they just said. Keias.” You think you know what it means, but you want them to explain it to make sure. 

“It’s a royal title?” The big one stares at you, quizzically, as though trying to figure out a puzzle in front of him.

“A royal title?” You don’t think you’ve ever met actual royalty before, at least, you don’t think you have. There’s a lot you don’t remember about yourself. “Are you like a king?”

The smaller one snickers at this, then says, “babe, no. He’s a prince.”

“A prince?” You look at him again, your eyes wide. “You’re a prince?”

He doesn’t seem flattered, only oddly concerned. Turning to the female in robes, he says, “she didn’t possess memory loss when she was last dosed.”

“I gave her a different, faster-acting painkiller.” The woman taps on the screen of a datapad. “It works to block out different parts of the brain, but she is lucid enough to get on a starship, memories, or not.”

“So it’s not actually dulling the pain, it’s just telling the brain not to process it?” The smaller woman asks arms crossed over her chest. 

“Exactly, which is why it’s fast-acting and doesn’t lose effectiveness over time. The memories can be a side effect, but they should return when the drug filters out of her system.”

“You say ‘starship,’” the prince!!! observes, his many eyes narrowing slightly.

 “I did indeed, your grace.” The female is not intimidated. “I think it would be best if my patient spent some time in lower gravity conditions, which can be best produced in a starship while in space.”

 The prince stares at her for just a moment, as though he cannot believe she would suggest such a thing. “Nisesh says a drug can be produced to aid in here acclimation.”

 The female scoffs. “Nisesh believes they might become a god with enough drugs at their disposal. I mean no disrespect towards you, your grace, but sometimes the best cure is the most obvious one.”

 The prince is quiet for a long, tense moment, but the doctor doesn’t back down. It’s the smaller woman who speaks up, her voice almost laced with an underlying threat, “if that’s what’s best for her, then you need to get it done.”

 His eyes snap up, and he assesses the woman with a critical eye. Then he nods sharply, once. Turning back to the doctor, he says, “how long do you suggest she stay?”

 The doctor taps something onto her datapad. “I would have preferred she acclimate slowly, spending a longer time in orbit than she has, but since her body managed to stay together so well, I think you might find an improvement pain-wise within a day. So long as her body bounces back quickly, mind, because it might take longer for her to recover.”

 “You will join us, then, so you may monitor her condition.” It’s not a request, but an order.

 “Of course, keias,” the doctor bows at him, then steps away, tapping on the datapad.

 “I’m coming, too.” The way the smaller woman speaks leaves little room for arguments. There’s something almost… admirable, you think, about the way she stands up to the bigger one, even though he looks very capable of snapping her human body in half.

 “That is… acceptable,” the prince says.

 Without much thought, you reach over and touch the end of his hair nearest to where you sit, the strands soft and silky as you pull them closer. “Has anyone told you that you have really nice hair?”

 He stares. After a moment that consists of the woman snickering quietly, he says, “actually, yes. Yes, I have.”

 You must have blacked out again because when you wake up, you are not in Clementine’s room. In fact, you’re no longer on Lolth, because the sleek, brilliance of the space is nothing like the solid, ancient architecture that you had grown accustomed to. And just beyond the edge of the large bed you’ve been placed in is a window.

 There are no windows on Lolth, really, because there is nothing to gaze at when a society grows from the inside of their world, instead of the outside. As you sit up, you notice the echoes of a headache pulsing in the back of your skull, where the spine connects, and it feels like you had a rough fall. But when you place your feet onto the thickly threaded rug and stand, you find that you do it with some semblance of ease.

“You’re awake.”

 You almost jump out of your skin, because the prince is hiding so efficiently in the shadows of the room that you didn’t notice him until he spoke. “Y-yes.”

 A moment of awkward silence follows. You’re still wearing the same clothes as you were giving Clementine the tour- oh fuck, Clementine-

 “You were asleep for a day and a half.” His voice interrupts your hazy anxiety. “I was… concerned, but the doctor said your body was repairing itself.”

“I suppose so.” You wrinkle your forehead, realizing there is dryness choking your mouth, tongue something like sandpaper against the inside of your cheek. With little ceremony, you strip out of your outer shirt, your skin singing with no longer being suffocated by cloth, your camisole much more sheer and thin. “I need some water.”

 The prince rises to a stand, “allow me. Please.”

 You’re not sure what he means by that, but he opens one of the cabinets of what you’re now seeing is a starship cabin, then fills a glass to the brim with the tap. His movements are jerking, unfamiliar, as though he’s having his own issues with growing used to a different form of gravity. When he hands you the cup, you’re standing right by the window, staring out at the stars.

“God,” you say, after quietly thanking him, “I forgot how much I missed this view.”

 “They are beautiful,” he says, “it’s difficult to believe that they are each suns of magnificent strength from this distance. They all seem so… small. Insignificant.”

There’s a moment of quiet contemplation as you down the whole glass of water with minimal effort, then you remember what you wanted to ask him before. Looking at his reflection instead of actually making eye contact, you question, “where’s Clementine?”

 “In her own cabin, or perhaps roaming around.” He pauses, mulling something over in his head. “She is- has... character, isn’t she.”

 “You’ve got that right, believe me.” You let out a sigh, vaguely remembering her wordless glares, her face fuzzy in the more recent ones. Then, just for the purpose of watching his face flush dark, you say, “she thinks we should just fuck and make up.”

 “Is- is that how humans solve all their problems?” He asks, though you can see the question was a fight to release. There’s a tension in his shoulders when he talks about sex now, but thankfully, he is without the odd aversion he had before like he’s… like he’s trying.

 Still, the way he says it… you burst out laughing. “Oh, if sex could solve all your problems, then-” you abruptly stop yourself, realizing that this might have been a step too far outside of his comfort zone.

There’s an awkward moment of silence shared as the both of you stare out into the void, then the prince turns around and stares at you, hard, and you feel a trickle of fear thrumming up your spine. Finally, he says, “don’t. Don’t do that.”

You swallow thickly. “Don’t do what?”

“Pull away.” He stares back out to the stars, sharply, all eyes narrowing. “You show me the smallest part of yourself, and then you refuse to give me anything more. I don’t like it when you do that.”

You’re quiet for another moment, then, “well… you didn’t really approve, before.” 

“Didn’t… approve?” He echoes in the fashion of a question, glancing in your direction. “What do you mean?”

“You seemed uncomfortable when the subject of sex gets brought up.”

 “Ah.” He leans back slightly, his facial features relaxing slightly. “I see.”

“So I stopped.”

“There’s more than that, though.” He turns back to face you, his expression softer. “It was worse when that abomination was present. You would hide parts of yourself from me, especially when it was here.”

“The- oh.” You remember the Starward Matchmaker™ representative’s oppressive presence, and how you walked on eggshells around her. “Right. Yes. The company doesn’t want me to fuck anything up.” 

“A bit hypocritical of them, then,” the prince’s gaze goes back out towards the stars, “as their formula is supposedly infallible. If all parts of us are compatible with each other, then there should be no reason for you to keep some pieces of yourself hidden.”

You stop staring at his almost translucent reflection in the window and look at his face, his profile washed in the smattering of light easing in from billions of lightyears away. More to yourself than to him, you say, “I guess that’s true.”

“So you will stop trying to keep yourself from me?” He asks, firmly, looking over at you, too.

“I-” you swallow thickly, looking at the fingerprints you left on the otherwise flawless glass in your hands, “okay. Yes.”

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[symphonyofthewrite]

Happy in Between

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix | Castlevania Symphony of the Night

Summary: The prompt: "Would it be possible for you to write some Dracula/Lisa pregnancy fluff?" The answer? Yes. Yes it would.

Notes: I’ll put a link to the original post/ask in a reblog/the replies!! It’s on my writing blog @antihero-writings!!

As always, comments and/or reblogs are deeply appreciated!!

*

A bat soars above the moon kissed trees, dives down, swoops up to the sill of a castle window. Framed within it’s pane a woman with golden hair is laying on a couch, the tips of a book visible, her lips moving as she reads aloud. It would seem she’s reading to no one, but he knows better; she’s reading to the dream of a thing growing inside her belly. If one were to look in front of the couch they would see she was more than a few months pregnant.

His wife.

He half wonders if the scene is a snow globe; if he’ll have to shatter the world to touch anything within.

He still can’t quite believe this woman is his wife. That she’s carrying his child. This human woman. This mad, wonderful, beautiful human woman, who showed up at his door asking if he’d teach her how to be a doctor. He’s a king, yes, but not one women are particularly fond of courting, nor vice versa. All alone in his castle, he never had time or care for courtship. What vampire could be good enough for the king?

None indeed.

He clicks the window open, and upon entering in a puff of smoke he is a vampire; human in shape, but little else, incredibly tall and dark, and, sure, handsome to some, whose footsteps sound against the floorboards as he walks up beside her.

“Good evening, darling—or should I say morning?” Lisa twitters from the couch.

“Good evening.” Vlad steps by her head, leaning closer.

She reaches out her hand to take the edge of his cloak, looking at him upside down.

“Before you get settled, would you be a dear and get me some cheese? You know, one of those little platters?”

He stands back up to his full height, raising an eyebrow. “Let me guess, you want pickles on that platter too?”

She grins. “The baby asks for so little in life.”

He has a thought, maybe he ought to mention how he is a king, a vampire king no less, not to be ordered around to do petty things like run errands—for human food at that.

But she’s his wife. And running cheese errands is small price to pay for this scene to be more than glass.

He sighs. “Fine, I’ll get your pickle-cheese.”

“Thanks, Dearest.” She says overly sappily and blows him a kiss.

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves her off as he steps out of the room.

As Vlad leaves, Lisa’s grin fades into a satisfied smile. She runs her hand over her belly softly, thinking of the child, wondering, as she often does, just what kind of person they’ll be, what kind of life they’ll have.

“I know he looks scary, but your father’s always a sap like that.”

He comes back a few moments later—(smoke in his wake)—with a platter of cheese and crackers and pickles, all in neat little slices.

She props herself up with a pillow as he hands it to her, thanking him again.

He sits on the floor beside her head, and she lets one hand drape over his shoulder, and he reaches up to hold it.

“You should tell them a story.” Lisa says through cracker.

“Who?”

“Adrian.”

“Adrian?” He pauses, tastes the word on his tongue. “I thought we liked—”

“I like Adrian better.”

“Adrian.” He pauses again, seeing what kind of aftertaste it has. “…What kind of story?”

“Something nice. A fable maybe? Mustn’t scare the kid too early in life.”

He takes on a false voice. “Once upon a time a brave knight saved a princess trapped by an evil dragon, and they got married, the end.”

Lisa smacks him with the book. “Come on! I know you can do better than that. Has this giant library taught you nothing of how to tell a story?!”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Over half of them are scientific journals.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, don’t blame me when your child thinks of you as an old codger who doesn’t know how to have fun.”

“Alright,” he concedes, pauses, pondering where to begin. “Once…there was an old king.”

“Not bad.” Lisa reasons.

“Centuries old.”

“Better.”

“He was a fearsome creature, not quite human, made of blood and twilight. Once he ruled the world with a fist of iron and tongues of fire. Everyone knew his name, and everyone feared him…and he reveled in it.”

“But…once the world was his, sitting in his huge castle, he couldn’t help but feel like it was rather small and…lonely.”

Lisa raises an eyebrow.

“One day, after years—more—of sitting alone in the castle, a woman knocked on his door. She was brave, determined…beautiful.”

Lisa scoffs.

“She said she’d heard he had secret knowledge—foreign, forbidden. The instruments of healing, the ones that had to be kept secret, for fear from those who thought all the worlds answers were in the sky.”

“She asked the king—this terrible, sad, lonely, demon—to teach her how to heal people.

“Most fearsome creatures would have laughed in her face. Most of his kind would have turned her away, turned her into a meal, or turned her into one of them. Not this king. He could tell from the moment he met her she was different. He didn’t like most humans upon meeting them—long ago he had a nasty habit of putting them on stakes. But he was instantly taken with her, and he accepted her request.

“And…though he thought happily ever after only existed in the most ludicrous of fairy tales…together they lived in his castle…and, yes,” he leans his head back to look at her, “they were happy.”

She leans down to kiss his forehead, before the baby in her stomach kicks.

“And that’s where you come in.” Lisa continues for him. “You see this king isn’t just made up. This is the story of your mom and dad. And you…you are a product of this happiness. You are born from a rare collision of worlds, and that can only mean you are destined for great things. We believe in you…” she pauses, trying to think of a name to try out.

Vlad looks at Lisa, and says with confidence: “Adrian.”

When he says the name, for the first time in centuries, Vlad thinks he can taste sunlight.

[hiscyarika]

The Kings Who Are Gone

Word Count: 2.1k

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Reader

Summary: Reader visits the ruins of Sunspear after Dorne is conquered. Based on the song “Jenny of Oldstones” from Game of Thrones.

Warning(s): Heavy Angst, Hopelessness, Death

A/N: So this idea hit me at like one this morning and now it’s almost six. I can see the sun coming up but it’s worth it because I haven't been able to get my brain to write anything for at least two weeks, probably closer to three. Hopefully this is a worthwhile read while you guys wait for Landslide. There are a few different versions of this song. I listened to the score version and the episode version (Podrick singing it in 8x02) while I wrote. I definitely recommend the score version to play while you read, but I’d also listen to Pod singing it just so you have the lyrics. They’re pretty important to the plot.

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Gif by @bestintheparsec​ 

The sun has gone from Sunspear.

The crystal blue waters of the Summer Sea have turned black. Raging waves crash against the shore. There’s a violent wind whipping through the air, no longer the gentle, salty breeze that you had once known. Dark, ominous clouds swirl above you, split only by the lightning that threatens to tear apart the very sky. Thunder follows soon after, a deep cacophony that forms a wrathful symphony with the ocean.

The stories will tell of a light that was destroyed with Dorne, but you haven’t seen the sun since the day he died.

A shiver runs up your spine as your bare feet hit the cobblestone of the walkway up to the palace. What once stood as your home, full of love and warmth, now lies in ruins–devoid of all life. The only warmth you feel is from the tears that fall silently from your eyes, a stark contrast to the cold rain against your skin.

As you step inside, a deep ache swells within your chest. It’s an agony that has refused to leave you since the moment you watched the Mountain slaughter the man you loved. Though you suppose, in some sick, twisted way, you’re grateful for this anguish that has taken up permanent residence in your soul. It reminds you that he was real, that he lived a life just as vibrant as the sun and loved you with the same heated passion. And now, in the wake of his death, it serves as the only indication that you still live, that you still have the capacity to feel something.

You roam the halls with no particular destination, taking in the destruction that has befallen your home. Columns have been knocked down, allowing the rain to reach inside where the roof has caved in. Bodies of both Dornishmen and enemies alike lie on the floor, the stone painted red with blood. And banners, which once flew proudly with the sigil of House Martell, have been ripped apart and burned, the only relic that remains of a fallen bloodline.

You bring your hand to your mouth to stifle a sob. You’d never been given a chance to further the Martell line. After your marriage, he’d often told you about his wish to have a son. He assured you that he loved his daughters, and that they would be loved no less than any child you might bear, but you understood the significance of having a legitimate heir just as well as he did. You’d wanted so badly to give him a son, but he’d been taken from you before the gods could bless you with a child.

You continue on, finding yourself standing on a balcony overlooking the Water Gardens. The lush greenery has withered and died, losing all of its vibrant color. Your fingers wrap tightly around the railing, so tightly that your knuckles turn white. You close your eyes as memories of afternoon walks come flooding back to you: your arm linked with his as you moved amongst the fountains and the tall flowering plants. The sounds of children’s laughter floating in the background as you listened to his rich baritone, words of passion and poetry seeping from his lips like the sweetest honey.

You collapse to your knees as your desiderium reaches its peak. An ardent longing for that which you’ve lost. Your form shakes with violent sobs that tear from your very soul. As the storm continues to rage, you wish that it would split the palace in two, swallowing you into an abyss you could never escape. At least then you would be free of such profound torment.

But something breaks you from your cathartic release. A soft call so foreign to the tempest. A gentle whisper of your name carried in the screaming wind.

You pull yourself to your feet, turning back to the desecrated halls. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as you search the darkness for whoever had dared to disturb you. And in the shadows you find your answer, the dark silhouette of a man looming in the doorway like some omen of death.

“Who are you? Why have you come here?,” you call to him, somehow finding a tone firm and strong enough to carry over the storm. It occurs to you that he could very well pose a threat, but somehow you find peace in knowing that your life will end here if that is what he’s come to ensure.

He gives no answer and instead steps forward, though not close enough for you to truly see him. Lightning cracks across the sky, illuminating the room for just a fraction of a second. A sharp gasp escapes your lips as you catch a glimpse of him in the momentary light.

“Oberyn?,” you call, tears forming in your eyes again as he comes closer. He steps out of the shadows, revealing himself fully to you. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth again and you shake your head in disbelief.

“Come to me, my love,” he beckons, opening his arms. The sound of his voice nearly has you falling to your knees once more.

You step tentatively towards him, reaching out hesitantly to touch him. Once you’re close enough, he takes your hand in both of his, pressing his warm, soft lips to your knuckles.

You collapse into his embrace, your fists locking around the fabric of the golden robe he wears. His arms wrap around you, securing you to his chest. And you bury your face in his shoulder, crying with the same force of the storm.

But you don’t allow yourself to remain hidden from him for long. You lift your head after a few moments, cradling his face in your hands. Your thumbs rub gently over the stubble there, and through the blur of your tears you try to commit every detail of him to memory. His soft, dark eyes. The curve of his nose. The dimple in his right cheek. The bow of his lips. Everything you thought that you would never see again.

You take in a sharp breath, still trying to make sense of it all in your head. He’s gone. You watched him die. It was a sight that you’ll never forget, one that still haunts you every time you close your eyes to sleep. “Either I am dreaming or I am dead. No matter which, I wish to never wake again,” you murmur.

“I have missed you, my love,” Oberyn replies softly. He leans down closer to you, pressing his forehead lightly to yours. You inhale deeply, breathing in his scent and letting it fill you with a sense of peace that you have not felt since the last time you held him this close.

He inches closer, his lips finally capturing yours in a deep, passionate kiss. The salt of your longing tears mixes with saccharine berry wine, the taste of him that had become such a distant memory, you had almost forgotten. His kiss brings back the warmth that you have lived so long without, and by the beating of your heart and the renewed vitality of your soul, you know that you are alive. You can feel the sun again.

Though you wish to never part from him again, Oberyn pulls away after a few long moments, gazing softly down into your eyes again. He brushes a few damp strands of hair from your face, then presses a softer kiss to your forehead. “What magic has brought you back to me?,” you ask him, but his brows furrow and he shakes his head.

“Shhh, little dove. You mustn’t worry about such things. Just allow me to keep you this close for as long as I am able,” he asks of you. Fear strikes your heart at his words, quick and sharp and painful.

“Please don’t leave me again, Oberyn. I couldn’t bear it. Living without you has been a fate worse than death,” you tell him, your words rushed and panicked. Your hands fall to his chest as you plead with him.

He shifts, moving to cup your cheek and wipe away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb. “I will not leave you any sooner than I must, but the time will come eventually, my love,” he laments.

You release a shaking sigh, pressing yourself impossibly closer to him. You rest your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes for just a few moments. Oberyn slowly wraps an arm around your waist, his other hand coming to cradle the back of your head. He begins to sway then, a soothing, rhythmic movement, and leans down to let his temple rest against the crown of your head.

As you stand there with Oberyn, dancing with the thunder and waves as your only music, you find your sorrows melting away until they feel like nothing but a distant memory. You can breathe easier. There’s no deep ache settled in your chest. You feel whole and alive in the arms of your prince, and you try your hardest not to dwell on how long this feeling will last. All you know is that if you could, you would never leave this place. You would stay here with Oberyn forever even if it meant your death.

“I love you, Oberyn,” you whisper, unable to keep the words to yourself after so many years. You wrap your arms tightly around him then. Somehow, you know that your time is running out. It’s slipping away from you like sand in an hourglass. But this one cannot be turned on its head to start over.

Oberyn lifts his head, and you do the same, meeting his soft gaze once more. “As I love you. Always,” he tells you.

Something in the wind changes. It’s tangible, and Oberyn looks up, studying the air around the two of you. Your heart begins to pound in your chest as you realize what it means. “Stay with me, Oberyn,” you beg, your voice quivering in panic.

“I cannot, my love. I’m so sorry,” he says, hanging his head in defeat.

“Then take me with you!,” you cry, though you know what that would mean for you.

He shakes his head, looking back up at you with a hardened expression. “I will not take you before it is your time,” he states firmly, “You have a life to live, little dove.”

“There is no life left for me, Oberyn. You’re gone. Dorne is in ruins. Our people are dead. What life do I have to live in this place?,” you plead with him. Your words are punctuated by a sharp gasp, and tears stain your cheeks once more.

He slowly begins to release you, and despite your efforts to hold onto him, he removes himself from your grasp. “I’m sorry, my love,” he murmurs, a deep sadness in his eyes as he takes your hand, pressing a final kiss to the underside of your wrist.

“Oberyn, please,” you beg, but you can feel the warmth of his lips leaving you. You close your eyes for just a moment, and when you open them again, you’re forced to watch as he fades from your sight. You step forward, trying to hold onto him, but your hands never find purchase. Like a mirage in the heat of the desert, everything your survival depends on disappears like it was never there in the first place.

Just like that, your sun is gone again.

You crumble to the floor, sobs wracking your body. You don’t try to silence them. You cry. You scream. You curse the gods for taunting you this way. To see your love again, only to have him taken from you once more is the worst torment you’ve ever had to endure, even worse than his death at the hands of the Lannisters. You imagine that this is what hell is like, and you wonder if maybe that’s where you’ve ended up.

You lie there on the floor, too weak to force yourself to move. There’s nothing in the world worth the effort. Instead, you watch as the storm continues to rage, tearing at the weakened structure of the palace. You close your eyes as the roof above you begins to give away, making peace with the fact that you will never leave these ruins. You hope that this will bring you home to Oberyn.

And soon enough, those ruins become your tomb.

-

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