#some of this is based off their replies!!

[einawnimie]

𝗟𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗕𝗢𝗔𝗥𝗗 - sylus qin oneshot

summary — She was just the kindergarden teacher—until the twins’ father started showing up unexpectedly, his intentions either unclear or EXTREMELY obvious When an accident shakes them all, hidden feelings surface, and nothing will ever be the same.

pairings — singledad!sylus x fem!reader

content / tags — afab!reader, sylus adopted luke&kieran (4 y.o), kindergarden, non story-based timeline, fluff!, there’s an accident, cute kids antics + more

warnings — mentions of blood, cuts, stitches, fully sfw!!

words — 1.7k

———

You didn’t notice anything until the second week.

The father of the twins seemed to linger by the entrance a little longer each day, asking about their behavior or whether they’d slept well during naptime—even though your answer always remained the same:

“Yes, sir. They both behaved well.”

At first, you thought he was just a very anxious parent, concerned about his children’s well-being.

But the more he stayed, the more he asked, the longer he held eye contact—and the more often he handed you iced coffee when dropping off the twins—you couldn’t help but feel a little… off.

Sometimes, you’d sneak a glance at his fingers, quietly noting the absence of a wedding ring. Was that why he was extra worried for his kids? Because he was single?

You mentally kicked yourself for the rude assumption. But eventually, you found out—straight from the twins themselves—that their father, Sylus, was indeed single.

“Dad is alone. He has no wife,” Kieran would mention casually.

“Yeah, we have no mom either,” Luke added without hesitation.

You sat beside them, gently helping them color a drawing—one of them in shining armor, the other just as valiant. Their father was included too, drawn as a sort of horse (?) beneath them, as they excitedly talked about their little family.

“Oh, I see,” you’d reply every now and then, laughing at their stories of their dad’s odd habits.

“Your dad has a pet crow?” you asked, genuinely bewildered.

“Mephisto is, uhm… what’s that word? Oh yeah, mechanical! Dad made him to watch us while he works!” Kieran proudly explained.

You nodded. “Ah…”

“We should draw teacher too!” Luke suddenly said. Your eyes lit up. “Why do you think so?” you asked, smiling.

“Oh! I get it,” Kieran chimed in immediately. “It’s because Dad likes you! We should draw you on a tower and Dad and us will rescue you!”

If the crow didn’t shock you enough, this certainly did.

“What?” you asked softly, but before they could respond, the entrance door slid open.

Sylus stood there, his usual smirk in place. “Time to go home, kiddos.” He chuckled.

You practically jumped to your toes, still processing the bombshell the kids had just dropped. Though still unconfirmed, your five years of kindergarden experience had taught you one thing:

Kids don’t lie. Even if they attempted to.

You quickly helped the twins into their puffer jackets, shielding them from the freezing weather. Sylus watched as you moved around them with ease, a softness in his gaze.

“Miss, here’s some cake I picked up on the way,” he said once the three of you approached him. You helped the kids with their shoes before accepting the box.

“Oh my, thank you. You didn’t have to—”

“Please. I wanted to treat you,” he smiled.

You stared at the cake for a moment before nodding your thanks again.

“So, Miss? How were the both of them today? Any troublemakers?” he asked, effortlessly picking them both up as they giggled in his arms.

“They were well-behaved, as usual, sir,” you replied. The same line you always gave. It felt automatic now—almost rehearsed.

Usually, he would just nod or thank you. But this time, his gaze lingered a second longer.

“Uhm… they didn’t say anything… embarrassing, did they?” he asked suddenly, making your eyes widen slightly.

“Huh? What do you mean?” you asked, feigning confusion. He let out a soft laugh.

“It’s just— you’re blushing harder than I’ve ever seen. They told you, didn’t they?”

Luke and Kieran snickered, their hands covering their mouths.

“I don’t understand—“

“About my genuine interest in you,” he smirked.

You could’ve melted into the floor. You’d never felt anything quite like it—not even after nearly a decade of chasing your passion in early childhood education.

Your goals had always been different from your friends. Over time, your relationships with them faded.

Most of your blind dates fizzled the moment you mentioned being a daycare teacher. The men would hesitate, then apologize—saying you seemed too gentle, too grounded, too… permanent.

But this man, Sylus—who knew exactly what you did, had seen you with kids, and still showed genuine interest—he was a different story.

“Would you like to join us for dinner, Miss?” Sylus asked, his voice calm, edged with something unreadable.

You hesitated. Your eyes flicked between his face and the twins. You weren’t dressed for an evening out, and you hadn’t planned to stay long. But the warmth in his voice, and the sincerity in his eyes, made it hard to refuse.

“I wouldn’t want to impose…” you started softly.

“You wouldn’t be,” Sylus said gently, pulling out a chair. “We’d love your company.”

You thought of making another excuse, but your stomach growled at the worst moment, betraying you completely.

“…Alright,” you said finally, with a small smile. “Just for a little while.”

The twins cheered as you stepped inside to remove your apron, tidy your hair, and slip on your shoes.

“Shall we?” he asked.

You nodded.

As the days passed, dinner with Sylus and the twins became a routine. Sometimes at cozy restaurants, sometimes at their home where Sylus would cook.

You met Mephisto. And… you’re still unsure how to feel about him.

He’s unnerving—more than a machine, less than alive. His eyes glint like rubies, sharp and too aware. His wings rustle with every movement, their feathers like steel threads. When he screeches, it’s not a sound you hear—it’s one you feel, metallic and raw, deep in your bones.

At first, you flinched when he turned toward you, convinced he saw too much. Now, you meet his gaze and nod. He nods back. Sometimes.

Sylus says he only responds to commands. You’re beginning to think he understands far more than that.

The twins have grown more comfortable with you—so comfortable they ask to hold your hand while walking, so comfortable they nod along when strangers call you a beautiful little family.

You’re in the middle of reading a dragon book with Luke, who is far too immersed and animated for his own good. You had zero knowledge of dragons before today, but now, thanks to him, you’ve learned more than you ever thought you would.

That is, until a sharp cry pierced the air.

It came from the playground—where your co-worker had been watching the other kids.

You immediately stood and ran outside.

And the sight that greeted you nearly made you scream.

Kieran was on the ground, clearly having fallen from the top of the slide. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, sharp against his pale skin.

Of everything that could happen at a daycare, this—kids getting hurt—was your greatest nightmare.

Even a simple fever had you fluttering around like a helpless damsel, desperate to make things better. And now, blood? Stitches?

Your co-worker was already tending to him as you called the ambulance.

Later, at the ER, you sat on the bed beside a sniffly Kieran—his forehead now bandaged from the three stitches—and Luke curled up at your other side. The two of them held hands tightly, drawing comfort from each other.

Suddenly, footsteps pounded down the hallway.

“Kieran! Luke!” Sylus’s voice broke through the sterile hum, tight with worry. He came after your panic call to him.

Kieran looked up and immediately reached for him. Sylus rushed forward, lifting him gently, his hand stroking the boy’s back.

“Are you okay, buddy?” he asked, panicked.

Kieran whimpered and hugged him tighter. Luke clung to Sylus’s leg.

“I’m sorry, Dad…” he mumbled. “I wasn’t with Kieran to make sure he was okay…”

Sylus crouched down, hand on Luke’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he said gently. “It’s alright, bud. You’re not supposed to carry that alone. Accidents happen. What matters is that he’s okay—and that you’re both safe now.”

Kieran reached out toward his brother.

“It wasn’t your fault, Luke. I slipped. You didn’t even see it.”

Eventually, Luke let himself be pulled into his father’s arms, the three of them tangled in one quiet, warm moment. Sylus glanced up at you and mouthed, thank you.

The drive home was quiet. You sat in the passenger seat while Sylus drove, the twins asleep in their car seats.

“Thank you, [Name],” he said softly.

“No, don’t—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let them play outside so long. I was distracted—”

“You still made sure Kieran got to the hospital safely. I appreciate that. I really do.”

As if sensing your lingering guilt, he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours while still steering with the other.

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your skin. “Ease up, Miss Teacher.” He chuckled.

“They’re boys. At their age, that cut won’t even leave a scar.”

“But what if Kieran hates me? What if he’s too scared to come back—”

He laughed—a little tol loudly.

“Hates you? When they beg me every day to make you their mom?”

You turned to him, eyes wide. “Wha—”

“You heard me. Hate you? When I’m clearly so in love with you?” He brought your hand to his lips “Or are you still in denial?”

You leaned back with a soft laugh.

“Is that so?” you asked.

He nodded, making a turn toward your apartment complex.

“And how you saved my son today? That’s another point for my imaginary lover scorecard.”

You laughed as the car came to a stop.

“We’re here, Sweetheart. Don’t worry—”

His words barely left his mouth before you leaned in, silencing him with a kiss.

Your fingers brushed his jaw. The rest of the world melted away.

It was a kiss slow and full of unspoken things. When you pulled back, your foreheads stayed together, his eyes dark with something unreadable.

“Thank you for the ride,” you whispered.

You turned toward the twins.

“That’s going to be tough—waking them up and carrying them in?”

“You know it,” he groaned playfully.

“If only you were my lover, we’d each carry one of them, laugh at their sleepy antics, walk inside the house together…”

“That’s some imagination you’ve got,” you teased.

“…I’m manifesting,” he said, stealing one last kiss before you stepped out.

He didn’t drive off until you disappeared from view. A moment later, his phone buzzed.

You: Careful what you picture—I might just bring it to life.

-fin-

a/n: guess who’s my main in lads 😞 i love sylus & the twins!! fanart credits : （@soro_kichi） on X

[buckysleftbicep]

lined up 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, sexual tension, dry humping, dominant!bucky, teasing, rough flirting, dirty talk

summary: bucky teaches you how to play pool. based on this request

word count: 995

author's note: pool is such a hot game, i love it, though i honestly suck at it.

The recreational room was quiet for once. No Alexei bellowing about rematches, no Yelena complaining about the vending machine, no sarcastic commentary from John. Just dim, flickering lights above, the low hum of some old speaker system, and the pool table that sat dead center like an unspoken challenge.

You shouldn’t have lingered. Should’ve kept walking when you saw him there, Bucky in a tactical tee with the sleeves pushed up, his forearms flexing as he chalked the cue with quiet focus.

But you didn’t walk away. Not when his rare good mood hung in the air like smoke. Not when his smirk was already loaded with trouble.

“Ever played before?” he asked, twirling the cue between his fingers so effortlessly it made your pulse skip.

“Once,” you replied, breath catching. “I sucked.”

His smile was slow, knowing. “I’ll teach you.”

Now you were bent over the edge of the table, cue in hand, trying not to squirm under the heat of his stare. You focused on the balls as hard as it was, instead of the way his shirt clung to his chest or how that muscle ticked in his jaw every time you shifted.

“Widen your stance,” Bucky murmured behind you, the sudden closeness making your breath hitch. “You’re too stiff.”

You obeyed before your brain even caught up, spreading your legs just slightly, only for him to step in behind you, boots heavy on the floor, presence unmistakable. His hands landed on your hips, strong and certain, the kind of grip that made your stomach twist with want.

“Here,” he said roughly, “let me help.”

He guided you forward until your body touched the table, the cool felt brushing your forearms as his front pressed against your back. You could feel him, heat and muscle, that dense, coiled strength that made him lethal on the field and devastating off it. The brush of his cock against your ass was unmistakable, and he didn’t even try to hide it.

“Bucky,” you breathed, voice catching.

“Shh,” he said, mouth near your ear, voice barely restrained. “Just showing you how it’s done.”

His metal hand slid down your side, cold against the heat of your skin, until it reached your hand on the cue. He adjusted your grip with slow, practiced movements, but his hips never moved away, if anything, he pressed in harder, grinding just enough to make your pulse stutter.

“Now bend over a little more.”

You obeyed, and that earned you a low, guttural sound. It wasn’t a word, it was need.

“You gotta stop doing that,” he murmured, grinding against you in a slow, filthy motion that made your thighs clench. “You’re making it real hard to focus.”

“I thought you were supposed to be teaching me,” you said with a faint, teasing lilt.

“Oh, I am,” he whispered, hips dragging against you again. “Lesson one: let me fuckin’ focus.”

Your smirk faltered when he pushed forward again, cock thick and hard through his jeans, grinding against your ass with agonising control. You gasped, hands tightening on the table.

“That part of the game?” you managed, voice shaking.

He chuckled darkly. “Only when you bend over the table like that, sweetheart.”

The cue was taken from your hand and dropped behind you without care. His flesh hand ran up your spine, then pushed gently between your shoulder blades until your cheek nearly touched the felt.

“Bucky-" you started, but he cut you off with a quiet growl.

“I’m not gonna fuck you here,” he said, grinding into you harder, his cock sliding exactly where you needed him. “Not yet. Just wanna feel you like this.”

You whimpered as he rocked against you again, the friction obscene. He was fully hard now, thick and heavy, and you could feel every inch of him through both layers of fabric. Your body arched instinctively into him, and he let out a dark, broken groan.

“You like teasing me?” he growled. “Wearing those tight little pants? Bending over like this? Think I haven’t noticed how you look at me during training?”

Your thighs pressed together without thinking, your whole body burning. Then his hand slid between your legs and pressed against your core. Even through your jeans, you knew he could feel how wet you were.

“Fucking soaked,” he muttered, his fingers pressing harder. “And I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“You’re insane,” you choked out, barely holding on.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m patient. If I wasn’t, your pants would already be around your ankles and this table would be shaking.”

The words made you clench, dizzy from the arousal pulsing through your body. His lips found your neck then, hot, rough, biting, the kind of messy affection that left no question about what he wanted. His metal hand squeezed your ass, fingers digging into the flesh with a possessiveness that made you moan.

“You think I’m not dying to fuck you right here?” he rasped. “Right now? But I’m not gonna. Not until you beg.”

You arched against him with a sound that was half whimper, half plea.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say please.”

You shook your head, panting, defiant even as your body screamed for him.

He froze behind you. Then, again, voice edged with steel.

“Say. It.”

Your voice trembled. “Please… Bucky. Please.”

The growl that rumbled from his chest was primal. His hips gave one more brutal grind into you, enough to make your knees buckle. And then, he stepped back.

The loss of contact was immediate and devastating. You spun to face him, trembling, wide-eyed, flushed with need.

“Why-?”

“You’re not ready,” he said smoothly, retrieving the cue like nothing had happened. “Not yet.”

“You bastard,” you muttered, voice wrecked.

He leaned in again, lips brushing your ear like a promise you’d never forget.

“Lesson two’s gonna be about patience, sweetheart.”

And then he lined up his shot, cue tapping the ball like he hadn’t just left you soaked and shaking.

a/n: also after writing this, i asked my boyfriend to teach me how to play pool properly ;)

[sunday-bug]

I'm With The Band Bucky

Pairing: Grumpy!Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Girlfriend!Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Content: age gap (reader is 15 years younger than Bucky), jealousy, public sex, Bucky being possessive/marking his territory

18+ Minors DNI (NSFW)

Synopsis: After your bestie can’t come to a concert with you, your boyfriend reluctantly agrees to join you. Jealousy and good times ensue.

A/N: not beta’d // based off this request from an amazing anon - thank you for the inspo! Also thank you to the stunning, intelligent, hilarious @soelstress for the smutty inspo for this 🥵

You look down at your phone screen dejectedly. Bucky walks into the living room at that moment and sees your downcast expression.

“What’s wrong, baby girl?” He asks, taking a swig of water.

“Mel just called. She can’t come to the concert tonight. She got called into work.”

“Oh, love. I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to that. Can you call your sister and ask if she’d want to go tonight?” He suggests thoughtfully.

“I would, but she’s in San Diego for a work conference,” you say, tapping your fingers on the back of your phone. “Buck?” You look up at him with puppy dog eyes.

“No.”

“Bucky Barnes, please,” you beg, standing up from the couch and walking to him. 

“Absolutely not. I love you, but no, baby. I can’t sit through an entire concert of them.”

“Why?” You plead, fisting your hands into his shirt.

“Their music isn’t for me, honey. Please.”

“Bucky, I don’t have anyone else to go with me,” you say sincerely as your eyes start to well up with tears. Alex Xela was your absolute favorite boy band growing up. You had posters of them plastered around your bedroom as a tween. This was their last tour for maybe ever, and you and Mel had been planning to go for months. You had your outfits coordinated and planned. You even made a cheesy sign with glitter letters for your favorite band member. Bucky hugs you gently and you let a few tears escape and stain his shirt.

“Love? Are you crying?” He asks, bringing your head into his hands and searching your face. “Baby, is it that important to you?”

You nod, nuzzling into him further.

“Okay, I’ll go with you,” he whispers into your hair.

“You’ll go with me?!” You ask, jumping back from his embrace, feeling like you could rocket to the moon at that moment.

“Yes, if it’s that big of a deal to my girl, I’ll go with you.”

“Okay, but there’s something you should know about the tickets,” you start as Bucky’s brow furrows in confusion. “They are VIP tickets so we get to go backstage before the show to do a meet and greet with the band and take photos.”

“You’re meeting them?” He asks with an annoyed tone.

“I’ve always wanted to, and now is my chance.”

-

Bucky wears a black t-shirt and dark wash blue jeans with boots. You look ever his opposite in a sequined lilac dress and high top Chucks. Your concert look is complete with body glitter and space buns.

“You look very cute and sparkly, baby girl,” he says as you walk out in your fun outfit and space buns. “I like the glitter.”

“And you look as stoic and handsome as ever,” you reply with a giggle and kiss to his cheek.

The drive to the venue is quick and quiet. Bucky’s hand never leaves your bare thigh and he walks extra close to you through the concert crowd pouring into the arena. He’s outnumbered - countless Gen Z and millennial women are here tonight to see their favorite band and to hopefully get an up close look at their favorite band members. You don your VIP lanyard and hand Bucky his. Instead of wearing it, he shoves it in his back pocket. You walk by a concession stand and see his eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets.

“What?” You inquire.

“Beer is fourteen dollars?!” He huffs. “That’s highway robbery.” You giggle and pull him by the arm to the VIP line. You take out your phone and start checking your hair and makeup, taking some lip gloss out of your small purse and swiping it across your mouth. 

“Ah, don’t put that one on. So sticky,” he grumbles. You ignore him and keep fluffing your hair. 

“You look gorgeous, honey. What’s with all the fuss?” Bucky asks.

A woman in line next to you giggles and looks at Bucky, “She’s about to meet Alex Xela. That’s what all the fuss is about.”

Bucky swallows and looks confused. The line keeps moving up until you are up next. Your hands start to shake with excitement. 

“Baby girl, relax. Why are you so worked up?” He asks again, brushing his knuckles down your arm. 

“Next up, this way,” the guard ushers them through to a small back area before they are brought to a cozy room with three men that look only slightly younger than Bucky himself.

“Ohmygod,” you whisper under your breath, doing your best to stay cool and failing completely. 

“Hey there,” Alex says, “What’s your name?” 

You give him your name and feel a blush start to creep into your cheeks.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, opening his arm to wrap around you in a hug and posing for the photographer. “Thanks for coming out tonight.” You feel like you could pass out. It’s been your dream since age twelve to hug Alex Lordes,  and now it’s finally happening. You turn to look at Bucky and see a stern expression clouding his face. Another member of the band extends his hand to shake Bucky’s and he begrudgingly offers his, shaking it firmly. 

“Thanks for coming. I hope you enjoy the show,” he says to Bucky, trying to be friendly.

“Just along for the ride,” Bucky explains, nodding toward you.

“Hey, man, that’s great,” Jesse says with a smile. “I love seeing fathers bring their daughters to our shows. I hope I can do that with my little girl someday!” Your eyes widen and you snort, looking at Bucky’s pissed off expression that’s slowly turning into a smirk.

“That’s right. Gotta keep our little girls happy, don’t we? Good luck tonight,” he says as he shakes the other band members’ hands and walks out of the room behind you. You walk ahead of him a bit faster, nervous about the dark glint in his eye.

“Baby girl, where are you off to in such a hurry? Let your old man catch up.” He chuckles as he says the last part and you turn around. He opens his arms and picks you up, spinning you around. “You have a little crush on Alex, huh?”

“I did… when I was a teenager. I don’t anymore. I just wanted to meet them. I’ve always wanted to.” You swallow, looking up at him under your lashes. “I swear, Daddy.” You crack a smile at the last part. It wasn’t a nickname you’d ever used for him, but the earlier interaction made you both laugh. Bucky was a decade and some change older than you, but neither of you ever minded. Technically, he was several decades older than you, but on the outside no one had to know. 

“I don’t believe you, love.” He takes a step toward you so your chests are touching. The first chords of the opening act echo through the arena. “Let’s go find our seats.”

“Yes, sir,” you agree, taking his hand and letting him lead the way. He starts walking in what you think is the wrong direction. 

“Bucky, I think we’re actually supposed to go that way,” you say, turning around with his hand still in yours. 

“No, don’t think so, sweet pea,” he growls, dragging you behind him up a small side staircase. 

“Where are we-” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I upgraded us,” he says simply, leading you up the last few steps to a private room. It’s up high in the arena, but the view is still amazing. You walk into the small room and look around - there’s a bottle of champagne on ice, a TV screen that’s focused on the stage, a plush sofa, a mini fridge with snacks and water, and just the two of you.

“How did you manage this?” You ask, taking in the fancy private room.

“I’m a Congressman. Comes with certain perks.”

“Bucky, thank you,” you say, running across the tiny room and jumping into his arms. He catches you with a hmph and wraps his arms around you.

“You still have your seats in the crowd if you want to be among the people,” he jokes. “I’ll go with you. It’s just nice to have this space if it gets to be a bit much down there.” He looks at the mass of screaming fans - mostly women - and shudders.

The opening act - a band you’ve never heard of, but are vibing with - finishes up their last song. 

“Almost time for your boyfriend to go on,” Bucky grumbles from the couch, an overpriced beer in his hand. 

“Yep, you’re right,” you play into his grumpiness. “Do I look good for him?” His eyes darken as you ask the question and twirl in your dress. 

“For him, huh?” He huffs, rolling his eyes, taking a long swig of his beer.

“I’m just teasing you, bub. Jeez, lighten up,” you assure him as you offer your hand to him to get off the couch. He groans and stands up, walking over to the window to watch the main act start. He stands behind you, boxing you in against the bar table between his arms and kisses your neck, whispering softly.

“You look good… for me. No one else. Got it?” he growls with a nip to the hollow of your throat.

“Yes, sir,” you sigh contentedly, resting your head against his broad shoulder. His cologne fills your head and you feel your knees wobble. Your eyes catch three familiar figures walking across the stage and you gasp in excitement. “It’s time, babe! Can we go down to our floor seats for a little bit? Please?” You beg.

“Are you going to behave?” He whispers, bringing your face up to meet his stern gaze.

“Maybe,” you tease, rushing out of the private booth down the side stairs.

“You little-” you hear Bucky start to say, but can’t hear the rest as you run down the hallway to the arena stairs. He catches up to you quickly and heaves you over his shoulder, making sure your dress covers your butt. “Let’s go. You can sit on my shoulders for a better view, princess.”

-

The crowd is on their feet by the third song and every voice in the arena is singing along to one of their most beloved songs. Bucky envelopes you from behind, wrapping his arms around yours and swaying to the music with you as you shout out the lyrics you know by heart. You’re close to the stage and track Alex with your eyes as he struts up and down, microphone in hand.. He sings the bridge and makes eye contact with you and winks. Winks? Oh… fuck. He must have recognized you from the meet and greet, but you brush it off quickly. He’s simply working the crowd. Bucky tightens his grip around your arms and leans down to whisper in your ear so you can hear over the music. 

“Don’t think I didn’t see that. I’m not blind.” 

You turn around to face him and pull him out of the crowd to the side. “Take me to our booth. It’s getting hot and overwhelming down here.” He nods and takes your hand in his, leading the way back to your suite. The set of his shoulders is all you need to see how pissed off he is. That wink - yikes. 

“Baby?” You ask as you get up to the booth and he shuts the door behind you, clicking the lock that you didn’t notice before. “Uh, are you okay?” 

“M’Fine,” he grunts, uncorking the champagne and taking a sip directly from the bottle and avoiding your gaze.

“Bucky, you’re mad,” you breathe out, taking a step toward him. His eyes flit to yours and they are full of fire. “Don’t be upset. It was nothing. He’s just working the crowd.” 

“You liked it. I could feel your heart racing through your chest. Champagne?” He asks, setting a glass on the bartop with a clink. 

“Sure,” you whisper. “Thank you.” He pours the bubbly into a glass and hands it to you, looking out at the stage and not at you. 

“Are you jealous? Because there’s no-” you start, but stop when his dark eyes snap to yours.

“What if I am?” He asks suddenly.

“I’d tell you that there’s no reason to be,” you say as you walk softly to him. “That I’d never ever do anything to betray your trust. That I only have eyes for you. That everything I am… is yours… my heart, my soul, my mouth,” you stand on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “and my pussy.”

“Oh, I know you’re mine. All of you,” he assures you with a swat to your butt. Suddenly you hear the familiar chords of your favorite song begin and your eyes light up.

“This sounds familiar. You’ve played it around the house before. It’s your favorite, huh?” He asks, walking over to the window with you to watch the performance.

“Yeah, it is,” you say, bringing his arms around yours and swaying to the music again. He moves a hand down to rest over your ass, testing the waters. You press your backside into his hand and invite whatever he’s about to do into the booth with you both. He groans and bends you over the bartop, swiping your underwear to the side and teasing your entrance with his thumb. 

You sigh and arch your back, pressing his thumb inside you and rocking your hips. 

“Feels so good,” you mutter, eyelids fluttering as you watch the stage. You hear the sound of his belt unbuckling and your thighs tense as you feel the head of his cock against you. He pulls his thumb out and replaces it with his dick quickly with a grunt.

“Suck,” he instructs you, putting his slicked thumb in between your lips. You do as you’re told and bite gently, smiling. 

“Gonna fuck you to your favorite song, baby girl. Remind you who you belong to.”

“Yes, James, fuck,” you whimper, feeling his hands wrap around your hips. The song continues and you know this is going to be a quickie by the way Bucky is thrusting desperately. He whimpers into your neck and that noise alone is your undoing. You cum as the song crescendos into the final few lyrics.

“Fuck, baby girl. On your knees,” he yelps. You drop to kneel before him and open your mouth, sticking your tongue out. He holds the back of your head in one hand and finishes himself off with the other, tapping his tip onto your tongue twice to signal that he’s done. You close your mouth and swallow with a smile.

“We can go back down there for the rest of the concert,” he sighs, handing you a water bottle as he zips his pants back up. “That cheeky fuck can wink at you all he wants. We both know whose cum is in your tummy.”

Tag list: @ruexj283 @sebastianstan0813

[eclipixels]

hihihi !! i have request for a nagi fic, can you make one based off of miniskirt by aoa? i picked nagi for this one bc he js gives the vibes off of not noticing things.

summary, so basically reader is wearing a miniskirt. Nagi doesn’t notice because he’s too busy gaming (any game of ur choice !!) he then later notices when shes sulking and stuff. the rest is up to u whatever idea u get :3

Miniskirt

Seishiro Nagi x Reader

Content: "짧은 치마를 입고 근데 왜 하필 너만 날 몰라주는데?"

[1,571 words]

      The moment you spotted the miniskirt at the mall, you knew it had to be yours. And once you slipped it on in the dressing room, there was no doubt this was the one. You couldn’t stop picturing the look on Nagi’s face when he saw you in it. So, without a second thought, you bought it and texted him to see if you could come over.

      When he said yes, you thought that meant he’d pay you some attention once you got there.

      “Hey, Sei,” you called out softly as you stepped into his room.

      “Hey, Angel,” he murmured, not even glancing your way. His focus was locked onto the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard. His platinum hair was pushed back by his headset, and his hoodie hung loose on his lean frame like always.

      You lingered by the doorway, lips curving into a small pout. “Are you busy?”

      “Match is almost over. Just twenty more minutes,” he replied absently.

      He still hadn’t looked at you. Not even once.

      “Oh. I can come back later if now’s not good.”

      “No, baby, it’s fine. Promise. Just twenty more minutes.”

      “Alright,” you mumbled, dropping your gaze. You sighed, picking at a thread on his blanket. You hadn’t expected fireworks, but… maybe a second of eye contact? Guess the skirt wasn’t as powerful as you thought.

      You sat on his bed, legs crossed, letting the skirt ride up just a little more as you leaned back on your hands. It wasn’t subtle, but subtlety wasn’t the goal here. You weren’t wearing this just to sit in silence and listen to the click of his mechanical keyboard.

      Your fingers tapped lightly on your thigh. “You like my outfit?” you asked, pitching your voice just sweet enough.

      “Mmhm,” he said, eyes not leaving the screen for even a second. “Looks good on you, Angel.”

      You blinked. “You didn’t even look.”

      “Don’t have to look to know you’re always pretty,” he added, as if that settled it. His character on screen took out an enemy with inhuman precision. “Just lemme finish this match, yeah?”

      You grabbed a pillow and hugged it to your chest, staring at the back of his head. This wasn’t the attention you signed up for. This skirt was short. Strategically short. You even wore the nice lip gloss, the one he once said made you look ‘so kissable.’

      “Nagi,” you tried again, this time softer.

      “Mm?”

      You stood up, walked over, and leaned your elbows on his chair’s back, giving him a perfect view if he’d just tilt his head even slightly.

      Still nothing.

      “Is this game more interesting than me?” you asked, pouting.

      He finally glanced up, just for a second. “No way. You're the best part of my day,” he mumbled, then clicked his tongue when his character died.

      You sighed. “Then look at me.”

      “Wait, wait, wait, just… ten more minutes.” His eyes flicked back to the screen.

      Rolling your eyes, you grabbed his chin and made him face you. As soon as his eyes landed on you, specifically your legs, he paused. His fingers stopped mid-click.

      You stepped in front of the monitor. Now he looked. Really looked.

      “This what you’ve been wearing the whole time?” he murmured, voice low and a little rougher than usual.

      You arched a brow. “Finally noticed?”

      He hummed, his hand sliding just under the fabric now, like he was testing how much he could get away with. “Was trying to behave.”

      His eyes flicked up to yours, lazy smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “You wore this just for me?”

      “Obviously.”

      “Dangerous, Angel.”

      You leaned in, lips brushing his. “Wanna be reckless?”

      “If I leave this match, I’m gonna get penalized,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, voice low like he was trying to justify it. Like losing digital rank actually meant more than missing the way you shifted your weight in front of him, just waiting.

      So, he did the only rational thing his game-fried brain could come up with.

      His hand slid up your thigh in one lazy motion. Then your back. Then your waist. With zero hesitation, he pulled you into his lap, right over his warm hoodie, still not taking his eyes off the screen.

      You blinked down at him, caught between shock and… okay, a little impressed.

      “Ten more minutes,” he whispered like it was a promise, voice soft as your breath hitched. His arms stayed wrapped around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

      “This is not how I imagined this going,” you muttered, squirming a little.

      “Don’t move,” he said without missing a beat, fingers tightening slightly like he needed you to stay in place. “You’re warm.”

      “I’m trying to seduce you.”

      “I can tell,” he mumbled, jaw tight now as he tried to keep playing like you weren’t straddling him in that tiny skirt you picked out just for this. “You’re doing great, Angel.”

      Your lips parted in disbelief. “I am?”

      “Mhm. Too good. Can’t focus.”

      “Then maybe you should stop playing.”

      His eyes flicked up. Just once. Just long enough for you to see something shift in his expression.

      “I’ll lose points.”

      You leaned in closer. “You’re about to lose me.”

      You pouted, arms folded, still on his lap.

      He sighed. “You want my attention?”

      You nodded, clearly.

      “Fine.”

      Without warning, he shifted under you, adjusting his position so you slid forward slightly. Then he slipped the headset off his own head and placed it gently on yours, the cushions settling over your ears. Before you could even ask what he was doing, he leaned in, mouth brushing your neck as he reached forward to press the mic.

      “Hey guys,” he said, voice lazy and close, “I gotta go for a sec. My girlfriend’s gonna take over.”

      You blinked, caught between shock.

      “Wait, she any good?” one of the teammates asked.

      Nagi tilted his head toward you, lips right next to your ear now. “You gonna tell them or should I?”

      You rolled your eyes with a small smirk. “I’m diamond on my account.”

      There was a pause on the other end of the mic. Then a low whistle. “Damn. Carry us, queen.”

      You smirked, fingers already sliding onto the keyboard and mouse like second nature. Nagi leaned back slightly but didn’t let go of your waist. Instead, he rested his chin on your shoulder, all soft hair and quiet breath.

      “You know,” he murmured, voice only for you now, “I’ve waited through so many of your ranked matches.”

      You raised an eyebrow but kept your eyes on the screen. “That so?”

      “Mhm. You in your little headset, yelling at strangers, ignoring me for hours.” His voice dipped, smooth and close. “But I was patient.”

      “Patient?” you snorted.

      “Very.” His hand squeezed your hip gently. “You’re hot when you’re focused.”

      You started clicking faster, trying to keep up with the fight on screen, but his breath was warm on your neck and his hands weren’t exactly helping. Then his mouth moved closer to your ear again.

      “Don't start squirming now, Angel. Focus. Just five more minutes.”

      Your hands faltered slightly. “You’re distracting me.”

      “Good,” he whispered, voice thick with amusement. “That’s payback.”

      You elbowed him lightly. “Careful, I’m playing on your account. If I lose, it’s you who’s gonna suffer.”

      He chuckled. “Nah. You’re cracked, remember?”

      You locked back in, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you made a clean pick on the enemy midlaner. Cheers erupted in your headset. Finally, the match was over and you could log off.

      “Hey Nagi’s girlfriend, you gonna stay for another round?” They asked. You felt Nagi’s gentle squeeze on your thighs, warning you to choose your answer carefully.

      “I can’t right now but, you guys can add me for later.” You said, quickly giving out your gamertag before saying goodbye.

      You turned your head to look at him but Nagi wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t even looking at the screen anymore.

      He was staring at your legs, at the way your skirt had ridden up, barely covering anything now that you were still straddling him. His eyes followed the curve of your thighs like he was seeing them for the first time, mouth slightly parted.

      You felt his fingers tighten at your waist, thumbs brushing under the fabric now, testing how soft it was, how little of it there was. He leaned in, lips brushing your neck.

      “You know how hard it was not to touch you when you sat down like this?”

      You shivered. “Then why didn’t you?”

      “I was going to, I did for a little but you were in the zone,” he whispered, kissing just beneath your jaw. “And you looked so good. Like you didn’t even realize how distracting you were.”

      Your breath hitched, hands sliding into the front of his hoodie. “And now?”

      His lips hovered just over yours, eyes hooded.

      “Now?” he murmured.

      He leaned back slightly, his gaze dropping again. His palm smoothed down your thigh, over the edge of the skirt, like he was finally giving it the appreciation it deserved. He toyed with the hem, brushing it up higher, just enough to make you bite your lip. His lips trailed down your neck as he pushed the fabric underneath your skirt to the side and finally gave you the attention you were craving.

[lostinlovingrevery]

In The Shadow Of The Valley

Cowboy! Logan X GN! Reader blurb

The lone cowboy tells you about his dreams

A/N: This isn't the fic I was talking about earlier but a lil blurb i thought of to take a break from it. Based off one of my favorite songs in Fallout New Vegas LOL

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of getting married, slight angst but not really

The sunbeams peaked between the leaves and branches of the willow.

You sleepily open your eyes, looking at the quiet landscape around you. The beams of sunlight freckled over your face like soft kisses. Your eyes fell down to your lap, where you were greeted by a sleeping cowboy, hat tipped over his eyes. He was sprawled out, hands clasped over his chest, and used your thighs as a pillow.

You smiled at the pretty sight.

Carefully removing the hat from him, you admired the pretty cowboy. A lone man who comes and visits you for days spent much like this. He's never much for conversation. Lets you chatter on about books, and science, and complain about how Mrs. Fields lectures you about needing to get married. He'd just smile, occasionally share a witty remark as he bites into the sandwich you made him.

Today was no different, you both fell asleep underneath the old willow. Took a nice walk through the fields, hand in hand, and he picked you some flowers which laid by your side still, becoming slightly wilted.

You began to pet his hair gently, admiring the details of his face. Tired eyes, a cute nose, and a smile that makes you weak in the knees. You could see that smile slowly forming as you continue to pet him.

"I know you're awake." You teased. He cracked open an eye, then closed it again, adjusting himself on your lap.

"Only for a moment." He mutters.

"Mhm." You hummed, continuing to brush through his hair. You looked at the way his brows concentrate together and think back to your nap, where you were dreaming of him.

He lets out a deep content sigh, his body relaxing back into the grass and the comfort of you.

"Logan?"

"Yes darling?"

"What do you dream about?"

He was silent for a moment, before opening his eyes and staring up at the leaves of the willow. You could see him thinking, before closing his eyes again.

"You don't want to know the dreams of a cowboy." He finally replies.

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't." You retort. "Pretty please?"

A small scoff, and he sighs. "It's silly."

"I'm sure it's not."

A heartbeat passed. " A home."

Your heart stopped for a minute, as you paused from your stroking. He opened his eyes again to look at you- expecting you to make a joke or taunt him for his words. You didn't, a soft expression on your face- your eyes bright and curious.

"Really?" You asked.

"Not just any home." He closed his eyes again. "One that's deep in a valley. Surrounded by open plains and spruces. Place I could call my own, something different- but familiar."

You were a bit taken back by his answer. Not a man of many words, you could always see he held a certain sadness in his eyes. Sometimes it disappears when he's with you, but always returns- and you wish you could take that sadness away permanent. Not when a man like him has brought joy to your life- something to look forward too during the mundane.

You now wonder if that's why you both are attracted to each other. You crave the adventure he lives in, while he craves the comfort you have. Maybe somehow, you could be each others peace.

A soft wind blew, blowing the cascading branches that sheltered you and Logan from the world. The leaves whispered in the wind, and you wondered if they were talking about you and him.

"Would you...Want anyone to be with you?" You ask softly. He opened his eyes. He looked up at you, and in his silence sat up and turned to his side, lying across your lap and using his elbow to keep himself propped up.

He grabbed his hat, placing it atop your head. A smile grew on your face, as a small groan escaped him as he stretched.

"If you'll have me." He says. "Darling."

You leaned forward, hand on his cheek, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, that he eagerly returned. "Always." You whisper.

[aryaryxoxo]

Almost Died… but Still Flirting #soshiro hoshina x reader. ⤷ @drratiosgaybathtub OMG YOU DID THE LAST ONE JUSTICE!! It was so good omg if you have time or want another idea I have another… :3 so Hoshina x defense force officer y/n BUT except they are really flexible but a hard hitter on the battle field and Hoshina finds out by seeing them train one night 🙏

A powerful blast tore through the air like a thunderclap.

The Kaiju that had been terrorizing the city didn’t even have time to react. One second it was roaring, towering over the shattered skyline—and the next, it was split clean down the middle. Its massive body crashed to the ground in two smoldering halves, the earth trembling beneath the weight of its fall.

“Kaiju has been eliminated,” came your voice through Soshiro’s earpiece—steady, clear, and completely unshaken.

But he had already seen it for himself. How you stood tall atop a nearby building, the wind whipping at you. Your arms were still extended forward, gauntlets glowing faintly from the energy discharge, smoke hissing from the vents. The ground where you stood was cracked from the recoil.

That hit—it wasn’t just powerful. It was brutal, precise, and final. The kind of strike that left no room for retaliation.

Soshiro didn’t say anything, but in the silence of his thoughts, he acknowledged it: you didn’t just eliminate the Kaiju. You ended it.

“Alright, let’s wrap it up,” Captain Mina’s voice broke the moment, clear through the earpiece. “Great work, team.”

This mission had been a joint operation between the 3rd and 5th Divisions. “Let’s meet at the base,” the 5th Division’s captain added, already giving further orders.

After coordinating with the remaining Defense Force officers on how to recover and quarantine the Kaiju’s remains, Soshiro made his way to the temporary base—a converted mobile command center in the mall’s parking lot.

As he entered, the smell of gunpowder and ozone still hung in the air. The division captains were already there, discussing post-op reports around a flickering digital map.

And just a few steps away, leaning against a support beam, arms crossed, and still wearing those scorched gauntlets—stood the 5th Division’s vice captain.

You.

The one who hit like a cannon. The one who didn’t just fight Kaiju—flattened them.

“Now that was a showstopper,” Soshiro said as he approached you, his tone laced with impressed amusement.

You turned to him, the faintest smirk tugging at your lips. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it,” he replied without missing a beat, eyes lingering on the still-smoking gauntlets strapped to your arms.

Before either of you could say more, Captain Mina said, “Thank you for coming all the way out here,” to your superior.

“Ah, it’s no biggie,” your captain waved it off casually. “We’ve been chasing that monster for weeks. Still puzzles me, though—why it came all the way out here.”

Soshiro folded his arms, gaze narrowing slightly. “Yeah. That part doesn’t sit right with me either. Kaiju don’t usually wander without a reason.”

“Then maybe it’s time we start asking the right questions,” your captain muttered, eyes scanning the remnants of the battlefield. “We’ll be taking the body to our base by tomorrow. Hopefully the lab techs can make sense of it.”

Before the conversation turned too grim, Soshiro spoke up again. “How about you stay one more day? We’re hosting a dinner tonight—fancy place, decent food.”

Your captain glanced sideways at you, one brow raised in question.

You just shrugged, giving a small grin. “Sure, why not. Let’s give them a treat. They’ve earned it.”

…

Soshiro was supposed to be getting ready for dinner. But his feet carried him somewhere else.

The training room.

He passed a few soldiers along the way—some from the 3rd Division, others from the visiting 5th. The base was packed, but it was quiet enough that he expected the training hall to be empty.

He pushed open the doors without a second thought—and froze.

There you were. In the center of the mat, bathed in the soft light of the overhead panels. Your back arched, arms stretched behind you in a deep bend that looked more like a yoga pose than combat prep. Your body formed a perfect curve, spine bowed like a drawn bowstring, eyes closed in focus.

For half a second, Soshiro genuinely thought you were meditating.

Then—snap—your body coiled like a spring, faster than his eyes could track. In a single fluid motion, your heel kicked off the ground, twisting you midair as you reached behind your back and pulled—a gleam of silver flashing in your hand.

A blade flew.

It cut through the air with deadly precision and whistled past Soshiro’s cheek—close enough that he felt the sting of displaced wind against his skin. The blade embedded itself into the wall behind him with a solid, final thunk.

He didn’t even flinch. Just stared.

You landed in a crouch, one hand braced on the mat, the other raised slightly in balance. Breathing steady. Eyes finally opening to meet his.

“…I thought this room would be empty,” you said, voice casual, but there was the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at your lips.

Soshiro blinked, still processing what he just saw. “Were you doing… yoga? Or trying to kill me?”

You stood and rolled your shoulder like it was nothing. “Stretching. And also practicing. Can't waste flexibility like this.”

Soshiro looked from you, to the blade stuck in the wall, then back to you. “Remind me never to spar with you on an empty stomach.”

You gave a little bow. “Noted. But no promises.”

You grabbed your water bottle from the corner and made your way toward him, footsteps light and casual despite what just happened.

“But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t spar with you,” Soshiro replied, arms crossed, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

You raised a brow, playful. “Is that a threat, Vice Captain?”

“More like an invitation.”

You blinked—then grinned. “So… a date, then?”

“If it involves you teaching me how to bend like that,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward where you’d twisted your body like it had no bones, “then yes. I’d love to ask you on a date.”

You gave him a look. “Vice Captain Soshiro’s idea of a date is sparring. Why am I not surprised?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Well, if you’re good enough to almost kill me in a training room, I think you’re good enough to keep up with me over dinner.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you brushed past him toward the door. “Careful, Soshiro. Keep talking like that and I might just fall for you.”

“Then I’ll keep talking,” he said, following after you.

...

A/N: IM SO SORRY FOR THE LATE REPLY IM SO SORRY AJKSDNJADA SO MANY SHIT IS GOING AJSDNJADS FANFIC CURSE IS REAL!??!?!? and also new layout hihi

[lost-st4rs]

Debt Collector AU >:)

Doodles based off of some scenes in the fic

Chapter 1

~2,461 words

Cuphead tosses and turns, trying so desperately to lull himself to sleep but it’s useless. With all of Porkrind’s snoring and his mind running a mile a minute, there’s no way he can get a good night’s rest. So, the teen sits up from his sleeping bag and carefully crawls out, being sure to stay quiet so as to not wake up the grumpy pig from his slumber. Cuphead grabs his shoes from the side of his sleeping bag and slips them on, then he leaves the small shop as quietly as he can.

He just needs to clear his head, he’ll be back in a bit to take a quick nap to replenish his energy.

“An’ where do you think yer’ goin’?” Cuphead stops dead in his tracks, frozen. After a second he then turns to face the pig standing at the door of his shop with his usual arms crossed and an unimpressed look on his face.

“I’m just goin’ on a walk.” Cuphead replies, but he supposes Porkrind didn’t like his tone because after he said that he got a mean glare.

“No yer’ not. Get back in ‘ere.” Cuphead looked off to the side and rolled his eyes, but the teen does as he’s told anyway and drags himself back inside the tiny shop. He’s seen Porkrind angrier than this before, and it ain’t pretty. Porkrind points at the back room as a silent demand telling Cuphead to go back to bed.

He knows that the older toon is only looking out for him since Cuphead lost everyone he loves in the span of one night, but he doesn’t have to act like his dang dad.

Cuphead takes off his shoes before tucking himself back into his sleeping bag. Great, now he’s alone with his thoughts again. But maybe he would’ve been either way, he just didn’t want Porkrind to see him when he’s most vulnerable… That’d be bad for his ego.

Porkrind walks into the back room, sitting down at his own sleeping bag. The pig lets out a grumbly sigh and Cuphead has the itching feeling that he’s about to have a serious talk with him.

“Alright, Cup. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m alright.”

“I don’t believe that. Tell me ‘r else I won’t stop buggin’ you ‘bout it.” Cuphead groans quietly and he proceeds to turn his back on the pig and pull the blanket over his head.

Porkrind sighs again and rubs the back of his neck almost sheepishly. “Okay, I get it. ‘M sorry for bein’ nosy.” Cuphead stays quiet, Porkrind continues, “But you bein’ all… sad ‘n shit is… it’s worryin’ me.” Cuphead slowly pulls the blanket down a bit, just enough so that his eyes are peeking out and he listens intently. “So what I’m tryna’ say is… ugh, I’m tryna’ comfort you dammit.” Cuphead snickers softly and comes out from under the blanket and faces the older toon.

“Yer’ really bad at this.” He jokes with a small grin. Porkrind rolls his eyes and huffs out through his nose.

“Yeah, yeah, ya’ don’t need’a rub it in.” Cuphead chuckles dryly, Porkrind manages a smile at that. “But seriously, kid. What’s got ya’ all pent up?” Cuphead sighs heavily and holds his face in his hands.

“…Everything. I just- I’m such an idiot…”

Porkrind gets up from his spot across from Cuphead and goes to sit down beside the teenager. He pats his back lightly, and a bit awkwardly, but it doesn’t go unappreciated by the red cup.

“I…” Cuphead starts to fidget with the hem of his yellow gloves, trying to find the right words. “I was bein’ dumb an’ sold off my soul at the Dev’s casino. Again. And somehow I sold off Mugsy’s soul as well. But I just wanted to help! I- I really did..! I needed the money to help Elder Kettle with his illness…” The teen tries to compose himself, already feeling himself getting worked up just talking about the mess he’d made.

Porkrind hums thoughtfully, Cuphead continues, his voice getting a bit quieter and quieter the more he confides in the pig. He tries to hide the way his eyes start to swell and the way his voice croaks ever slightly the more he talks.

“When I had to fight all of those debtors back in the isles… I- I dunno… I wasn’t the same, I guess… I started havin’ nightmares about the Devil and fight’n my friends… And now I’m- I’m going through it all over again!” Cuphead shudders, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. You can’t cry, you can’t cry, he repeated to himself in his head.

“Sounds rough. How’ve you been handling it?” Porkrind doesn’t point out how Cuphead turned away from him to compose himself.

The red cup sniffles and wipes his nose with his sleeve. “I dunno… I’ve just kinda been- tryna’ not think ‘bout it and focus on getting contracts as fast as I can.” The pig hums again.

“Yeah, ya’ see, stop doin’ that, none of that anymore. Look, I know I’m no expert but I know enough to understand that ignorin’ serious issues like that isn’t the best way to solve ‘em.”

“Okay, wise guy. What should I do then?” Porkrind flicks Cuphead’s forehead. “AH- hey!”

“Don’t give me sass, kid.” Cuphead sticks his tongue out, blowing a raspberry. The older just rolls his eyes and lightly shoves him, to which earns a chuckle from the teen. He knows Porkrind isn’t actually mad or annoyed at him, that endeared grin on the pig’s face tells it all.

“It’s all ‘bout what works fer’ you. An’ clearly we’re two different people, so whatever I do might not work out fer’ you.” Cuphead nods, not really getting it but he’s willing to listen in order to understand the best he can. “Hmm… ‘kay, how ‘bout this? You try ta’ confront yer’ feelings and trauma, understand ‘em and accept that, yeah, it sucked, but what matters is how you’ll react to it. Will ya’ keep sulking like a baby or do something ‘bout it?”

Cuphead ponders on this, looking down at his hands. His mouth thins into a straight line and his brows furrowed as he thinks long and hard about the advice. It seems a bit impossible, Cuphead never was great at confronting his emotions, so this seemed like a rather daunting and intimidating task to overcome.

The pig pats the teen���s head, effectively breaking him out of his thoughts. “You can think ‘bout it in the morning. Go to bed, yer’ gonna need it.” Porkrind stands up, doing that old man groan that old guys always seem to do whenever they sit up and he walks over to his sleeping bag and lays down. Cuphead does the same, fluffing out his pillow before resting his head down.

It’s a lot to take in, but tomorrow is another day, so he’ll have plenty of time to think about it. Porkrind is right though, he needs to get as much rest as he can so he’ll be able to take on those debtors.

It isn’t long before Cuphead’s eyes are fluttering close and sleep pulls him in it’s comforting embrace. He feels like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders, and he can finally be at peace, if only for a little while.

—

The Devil said Cuphead had a month to collect all of the contracts, which was awfully generous of him considering the last time Cups worked for him he’d only given him a day. Cuphead wasn’t complaining though. He’s already collected six contracts out of the twenty-eight needed, he’d lost the seventh one from that annoying demon (Bendy he said his name was?) the other day, and he plans on getting it back and figuring out WHY they are stealing the other ones and if he’s another debt collector like him. Which would be a big problem for competition.

Walking on a dirt trail beside some green pastures with trees to his right shading him from the sun, Cuphead looks over his list, his eyes quickly skimming through all the names. Already defeated that guy… those guys too… her as well… He’s got six contracts right now out of all twenty-eight so that means he just needs twenty-two more. But if you count the ones that the stupid Ink Demon already took then that would be… sixteen. Good, okay so that demon has only collected six so far, which was already pretty bad but it could be worse. Cuphead will just have to steal them back from him. He doesn’t know how strong this guy is but he’ll take him on anyway, he’s fought the literal Devil (and won, mind you), so surely some imp or whatever should be a walk in the park.

Cuphead spots a crow up ahead on the old wood fence beside the dirt trail. Its eyes follow Cuphead as he approaches. The teen then stops in front of it, eyeing it curiously while tilting his head to the side, with the crow mimicking his movements. Cuphead reaches into his sweater’s pocket, fishing out some sunflower seeds and carefully offering them to the ebony bird. The crow looks down at the seeds then at Cuphead with interest. After a moment it eats the offering from the teen’s hand.

He didn’t think it would actually eat straight from his hand, but he’s a big animal lover so he doesn’t mind at all and he lets out a small smile. Once the crow is finished eating the sunflower seeds it caws at the red cup and flies away into the forest, Cuphead watching intently as it does so.

“Didn’t really take ya’ for someone who likes crows.” Cuphead whips his body around to see the ever annoying Ink Demon behind him wearing that stupid grin on his face. Cuphead glares daggers at the other and ignites a blue flame on his fingertip, just in case the other tries anything. “Whoa, whoa, calm down, sweet cakes. I only wanna talk.” The demon puts his hands up as a sign he was friendly. For now. Cuphead gives a look to Bendy at the strangely affectionate nickname, who in turn just grins wider at the red cup’s expression.

Cuphead untenses ever slightly, furrowing his brows he studies the demon for any signs of deceit, but he can’t really tell anyways so he just opts to hear what the other has to say for now.

“What is it you wanna talk about?” Cuphead asks finally.

“I just wanted to get some things straight that’ve been buggin’ me ever since I heard about a cup stealin’ my contracts.” The demon explains and Cuphead frowns at that.

“YOUR contracts?? No, no, those are MINE. I dunno know who ya’ think you are but I need all those damn contracts ta’ get rid of my own debt.” Bendy puts a hand to his mouth, thinking silently with his tail swishing lazily behind him.

“Wait, so… the Devil sent ya’ here too?” Cuphead hesitantly nods, but then it clicks, his eyes going wide. “Well, that sure is weird. You said ya’ needed all of the contracts but ya’ see, I need all of ‘em too.” Cuphead shifts his gaze down at the rocky ground, trying to wrap his mind around this- predicament that they’re both in.

“Only one of us can get them all.” He says after a quiet moment of silence and meets the Ink Demon’s gaze.

“And so it seems. Welp, I reallyy need those contracts so I’ll give you the chance to hand them over peacefully,” Bendy grins and outstretches his hand for the papers but Cuphead glares at him, going into a defensive stance.

“Last chance, Cupsy.” Something inside Cuphead snaps upon hearing that absolutely idiotic nickname and the next thing he knows he’s rapidly firing his finger gun at the sly demon who in turn just dodges all the bullets with swift ease. Bendy is light on his feet and Cuphead just can’t seem to land a hit and it angers him to no end. Then in the blink of an eye Bendy has disappeared from sight.

“Look-“ Cuphead shrieks and shoots at the demon who appeared beside him from an ink puddle below, but the bullet goes right through Bendy and the colour from Cuphead’s face drains. The demon merely snickers and melts into a mush of ink before Cuphead’s very eyes then TWO Bendy’s appear beside Cuphead.

“You can’t shoot ink, silly!” Cuphead punches one of the clones and they too melt, little bits of the black liquid stains his glove. It’s a little inconvenience really, but it still does the job at getting him angrier by the second. “I really like you, cupface,” Cuphead growls in frustration and punches the other clone, it splatters like a tiny ink explosion, the black liquid staining his sweater. OH JUST GREAT! How’s he gonna wash that out?!

Cuphead is clearly outnumbered and at a disadvantage, who knows what other tricks this demon has up his sleeve? Heck, with an ability like that he can probably do a bunch of different terrible things! And to top it all off it seems like his powers don’t even work on the guy!

Cuphead darts his eyes around, trying to search for the real Bendy.

“We can come to a compromise, yeah? You give me the contracts and I let you go alive, how ‘bout that?” Cuphead twists around and there the demon stands with his stupid smile and his hand outstretched once more. Cuphead stares at the other teen’s hand then his face then his hand again, contemplating. No, he can’t accept a deal like that! He has his brother Mugman and Elder Kettle to save! Cuphead glares at the other and slaps his hand away.

“No.” He simply says, but it for some reason just makes the other’s grin grow wider. As if this was all just some game. “You may have your reasons for dealing with the Devil, but I also have mine.” Bendy stares for a second, quiet. Then he snickers. And all Cuphead can think is how horrible that sound is.

“Okay, then so be it. But I'll be taking this one fer’ now. Try taking it back if ya can.” Bendy waves a contract in his hand and Cuphead takes a moment to process but then it finally does and in the next moment he’s frantically searching all of his pockets. Cuphead looks up glaring at the sneaky demon and Bendy only grins a cheeky smile before disappearing into a puddle of ink. Cuphead is left there fuming with his fists clenched and his head boiling.

He really hates that demon.

—

Bendy jumps up from an inky puddle in the grassy forest ground. He dusts himself off a bit then climbs up a decently sized tree, his movements resembling that of a cat. He leans his back against the trunk and crosses his legs onto each other with his arms resting on the back of his head.

He’s having way too much fun teasing that cup, isn’t he? The way Cuphead gets easily angered is truly a funny sight to the demon, and just thinking of the other teen’s reactions at the nicknames Bendy calls him makes the Ink Demon let out a satisfied grin.

Okay, okay, that’s enough fun though. He needs to focus on business. Bendy sits up straight and takes out the yellowed papers from his suit If his math is correct, (it rarely ever is) he currently has seven contracts, meaning that Cuphead now has five. Bendy thinks back on his visit with the hot headed cup. He honestly could have taken all of the contracts easily. But he didn’t. Hm. No, no, it doesn't mean anything. He’s just been super bored lately and Cuphead just happened to be the most interesting thing to cure the demon’s boredom.

Bendy is pulled away from his thoughts when he senses something coming. It isn’t anything dangerous, no, it’s actually a friendly crow. Bendy holds out his arm and the crow lands on it and caws. Bendy giggles and pets the crow gently on its tiny head.

“Got anythin’ good fer me, buddy?” The crow caws and Bendy’s grin grows wider. “Really?” It caws again. “Alright, alright. Thanks for yer service.” The crow bows its head politely then proceeds to melt into a jumble of ink, to which Bendy absorbs through the fabric of his clothes. “Maybe fooling around for a bit wouldn’t hurt, right? I’ve got a whole dang month to get these contracts. I’ve got time.” The Ink demon says to himself then jumps off of the tree and walks off through the woods.

( A/N: I LIVE!!! Yah sorry for taking super long for ch.2 😓 the people back on ao3 yearned for more BUT I GOT BUSY AGAIN AGHH. Anyways yah, take ye scraps. This was a bit of a short chapter, my usual word count goal is like 3-4k but we ball. ‘TILL NEXT TIME FOLKS! )

[jamieroyjamieroy]

I was tagged by @astoopidfool @bidisasterevankinard and @chococara25 (thanks for thinking of me 💜) for a few different things but I haven't been online lately. So here is my WIP wednesday or sentence sunday or whatever day I'm supposed to be doing 😂

More of my Tommy and Ravi friendship with Bucktommy endgame story.

Tommy wakes with a start wondering why he feels so sore and cold. He never sleeps with the windows open how did his place get so cold? The dank smell and clattering of chains has Tommy’s eyes popping open but the darkness envelops him completely and the memory of waking up here earlier returns. The unknown of where and how rattles around his aching head, the crunch of the empty plastic water bottle is deafening in the silence as Tommy tries to sit up. The water is drugged. Don’t drink the water Tommy thinks to himself, throwing the bottle far from him straining to listen to it hit something. Anything. A weakened Tommy slumps against the cold, rough wall when he doesn’t hear it land. Curling into himself to find some warmth and reduce his shuddering and shivering Tommy sends up a prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in that Ravi has noticed his absence. 

“I know we have had a tough shift and there are only a few more hours left but I want the engine inventories completed and the ambulance restocked before we go off shift.” Bobby announces to the team slumped around the loft. “Oh and Ravi, I put in a call to Harbor and there is nothing unusual that happened on that last shift. Sorry.” Bobby claps Ravi on the shoulder and makes his way to the coffee pot. 

“What, what was that about Harbor?” Buck asks following Ravi down the stairs. 

“Oh, I ah, I asked Bobby to check something for me.” Ravi replies wondering how much to say to Buck. Ravi knows Tommy is still hung up on the guy and he is certain Buck feels the same but Ravi doesn’t know if he should get Buck involved. What if Tommy simply is with someone else? The fallout from that would place Ravi in the middle. But what if Tommy was really in trouble? The rational voice in Ravi’s head counters. Buck is stubborn and determined enough to help Ravi find out what is going on. “Tommy was supposed to let me know about a time for us to have dinner and I haven’t heard from him. I’m, I feel like something is wrong. It hasn’t been that long but it’s not like him to ignore my texts and calls. Bobby reached out to his captain to see if something happened on his shift but there wasn’t anything. I. I don’t know what to do.” Ravi sags in defeat and looks hopefully at Buck. 

“You and Tommy hang out?” Buck asks looking equally surprised and jealous. 

“Buck!” Ravi exclaims “that’s seriously all you took from what I just said?” 

“No. Sorry. I was just surprised. I didn’t. I didn’t know you guys were friends.” Buck rubs a hand across his face looking somewhat chastised. “Have you asked Chim or Eddie if they have heard from him? They are friends with him too.”

“Who are we friends with?” Chim asks approaching Ravi and Buck at the base of the stairs. 

“Tommy. He hasn’t replied to my texts or calls.” Ravi states knowing he doesn’t need to ask if Chim or Eddie or even Hen if they have heard from Tommy. Ravi knows that none of them have reached out to Tommy since the break up. 

“Oh. Ah. Well, see.” Chim starts looking at his boots and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. 

“Why would we talk to him after he dumped Buck?” Eddie scoffs leaning his arm on Chim’s shoulder, looking annoyed to even be asked about Tommy. 

“Maybe because he was your friend before he was Buck’s boyfriend and has tried to catch up with you Eddie. Maybe because he comes through for you all whenever you ask without so much as a thank you.” Ravi points first at Eddie and then Chim, feeling vindicated when they look ashamed. 

“You guys haven’t been checking on him since we broke up?” Buck asks his tone full of reproach. “He doesn’t have any family, why would you guys ignore him like that? At least he has had you Ravi. Thanks for looking out for him. I’ll deal with you two later.” Buck says turning his back on the two men and guiding Ravi outside their station into the sunlight. 

“I know if Tommy says he is going to be somewhere he will be there. If something prevents him from keeping his word he always, always lets you know. So if he hasn’t replied to any texts or calls then something is wrong. Oh god. Something’s happened to him hasn’t it?” Buck looks as worried as Ravi feels. He begins pacing and folds his arms in front of his body as if he was cold despite the sun shining down on him. 

[mvst4far]

SUNSHINE GIRL IS SLEEPING

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 ─ Falling back into bad habits.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ─ angst. mentions of sh, bad relationship with food, cursing, mentions of throwing up, and slight fluff at the end. please read at your own risks, due to there being a lot of sensitive subjects implied.

a/n ─ this is purely based on my own experiences, which was extremely difficult to write about. remember, opening up about your own personal life experiences doesn't make you appear weak or any less. caging things in is unhealthy, and this post is to spread awareness. you are loved.

divider creds: @enchanthings

── .✦ Endless weeks of being at Mount Horizon turned into months. The doubt of hopefully getting better only got worse as you continued to fall back into your bad habits just as you believed you were healing.

The constant reminders of your past and what you did just to be loved replaying in your mind like world war three. It haunted you. These thoughts led to bad dreams, trust issues with anyone who attempts to get close to you, and self sabotage.

But, there was one person who never gave up on you.

Scott.

Though he was dealing with his own problems, you mattered more. The troubles you went through, and the bullshit you dealt with, all he wanted to do was go back in time and make sure none of that ever occurred. He'd much rather have it happen to him.

Stuck within your own thoughts during English class, your pen tapping against your notebook, Scott took notice of your zoning out.

"Hey," He whispers and nudges you with his elbow, bringing you back to reality. "Everythin' okay?"

You clear your throat and nod, adjusting in your seat. "Yeah, I'm fine.." You murmur out a lie.

Scott was smart enough to see through your nonchalant brushing off, but he didn't dare to inquire. So, he just gave you one last glance over before returning his gaze to the teacher.

If you were being honest, you definitely weren't fine. The sudden change of wearing long sleeves after wearing tank-tops and short sleeves all week? Yeah, that wasn't normal. It wasn't even cold outside, either.

Last night, you relapsed.

To you, using a hair-tie to slap against your skin wasn't helping one bit. Though you knew it was bad to slit your wrists, it was a way of coping with what happened. Something you would never dare to speak about.

Scott knew that you weren't comfortable with sharing, so he never pressured you. That was something you didn't like. Sure, you should feel comfortable and at ease knowing that he wasn't going to force you, but, being peer pressured was all you knew.

How your entire family would make fun of you for eating or even stepping foot into the kitchen. Those constant insults and words replying over and over until you couldn't think straight anymore.

"Eating again?"

"Go barf some more, skank."

"Didn't you just have dinner?"

All of this led to cutting back on any form of junk food. Checking the back of the packets to see the fat totals, sugars, and calories. Constantly checking your weight, and having your head buried in the toilet bowl.

It was like you were stuck. Stuck in this cycle forever and never getting better.

The fireplaces' flames danced powerfully within the sight of your eyes, finding a small comfort and fondness of the calming ribbons of light.

Everyone had headed back to their cabins by now, but you couldn't help but get a few moments of peace and quiet before heading off to bed as well.

"Y/n?" That raspy, quiet voice snaps you out of your trance.

You look over your shoulder, eyes glassy. One singular tear fell onto your cheek, the feeling all too familiar.

"Y/n, what's wrong?" Scott's voice came out a little more panicked, rushing down to your side on the floor.

You shake your head, pursing your lips together, and shifting away from him. "Nothing, I'm okay."

"No, you aren't." His voice was firm.

"Scott, I'm─" Another tear fell. "Fuck. I'm fine."

Just as you attempted to stand up from your spot on the floor, Scott's fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you, causing you to let out a cry in pain. He blinks. Eyes flashing with fear as he lets you go, realizing what this meant.

"You─you relapsed?" He couldn't even get the words out without choking on his own spit.

You sniff, nodding. It was obvious you were ashamed. Everyone thought you were getting better, but clearly, they thought wrong.

Scott gulped, standing up as well. He looks down at your vulnerable state, watching your body tremble, cheeks puffy and tinted pink, your eyes red, and bottom lip quivering.

"I thought you were getting better," He whispers, sounding disappointed. Not at you, but at himself. He should've known. He should've looked through all the signs. He felt completely at failure.

You couldn't even bring yourself to respond. There was nothing left to say. Silence filled the room for a few moments, letting you both sink in everything.

Then, Scott's fingers slipped over your waist, pulling you into a tight embrace. His face nuzzles into your hair, pressing a kiss there. "I'm so sorry," He mumbles, "I should've known."

Your face buries into his clothed chest, feeling content with the warmth of his body as you completely broke down into violent tears.

He continues to whisper gentle words to you, hoping to get you to calm down a little. And when your tears eased a little, he pulled back and cupped your cheeks with his hands.

"I'm not leaving you, okay? We'll go through this together. No matter how long it takes." He reassures, icy blue eyes flickering between yours.

"Everything's going to be okay."

not proofread 😓

taglist: @alealuvshayden @anakinstwinklebunny @divineani @estranged-girl @fredswrite @aritcfsr @amiratheangel { lmk if you would like to be added or removed }

[obxcc]

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ the same night you met john b , you end up at his place for an after party. only to be the only one in attendance.

author’s note . . . based off of this daydream bc @stinkinfist in the replies convinced me and i didn’t forget about him just bc i had the worst writer’s block ever

warnings . . . underage drinking , john b is a boob guy what can i say? , smut 18+ ( drunk pinv , unprotected pinv but he pulls out! , kinda? size kink , marking )

you knew the moment john b started fiddling absentmindedly with your fingers and you let him , you were going home with him. no matter how mad your dad would be when you got back , though that usually didn’t deter you anyway. no matter how desperate you may look. you were going home with him.

and it seemed he was just as determined for that outcome as you were. “party’s kinda dyin’ out here , huh?” he observes , running his smooth hand over the expanse over your lower back. left , right , left , right. the touch alone making you more intoxicated than the several drinks you had earlier throughout the night. his voice however , that makes your brain buzz.

“yeah,” you agree , beaming up at the puppy dog-eyed man next to you as your eyes fail you and fall to his lips.

“yeah?” john b simply repeats , nodding closer to you to finally make a move. he’s been twitching with his hands all night , touching you as much as he could to make up for the fact that his tongue wasn’t down your throat yet.

to be honest , he’s impressed that you’ve lasted as long as you have without giving him a go ahead , but his eyes were watching yours all night. waiting for the exact moment they move to his lips. john b is a patient man— he fishes. there’s no problem on his end to wait as long as need be to get a bite.

your fate was sealed as soon as you told him about your father’s no dating rule. of course , you only challenged him more— albeit unknowingly , as your conversation went on and you complained about how strict your father was.

“john b…” you tut , still smiling as you pull away from the kiss.

and he physically deflates when you break away. “what , baby?” he croons , kissing at your jaw instead as you giggle. the sweet noise getting him to let out his own drunken chuckle.

“i don’t like pda,” you tell him in a hushed tone like it was some secret , leaning your forehead against his, “even if the party’s dying down.”

“no?” his eyebrows quirk up in question, “you’ve been lettin’ me touch ya all night though.” john b’s hands shift from your hips , migrating lower until he could very firmly grab at your ass. you let out a squeal at the action , head thrown back in a laugh right after. “only things i haven’t gotten my hands on yet are right here,” he starts , leaning down to kiss the tops of your breast that spill out of your neckline, “and…”

before his hands can move lower you push them to his sides and stepped back. “take me home , john b?” you ask , catching your breath. seeing you all flustered only makes his fingertips tingle , eyes watching your chest rise and fall.

“yeah , let’s getcha home,” he decides , clasping your outstretched hand and leading you away from the dwindling party.

after stumbling your ways to john b’s van he named the twinkie , and driving to the chateau , you were pushed up against the sliding door. “thought we were getting me home? yet we’re outside,” you tease him , hands coming to his hair as he sucks down your neck , leaving marks in his wake.

“needed to get in on these real quick,” john b mumbles , kissing at your tits he had pushed up out of your shirt even more, “just a second. then we’ll head in.”

now that you’re at john b’s house , you don’t have any worries about anyone seeing him latched onto your now fully exposed breasts , you can’t help but let your head fall back as you moan. “just a second,” you echo lazily , holding him close as he mouths at you.

it’s several more minutes of john b leaving hickeys on your exposed skin before he readjusts your top and pulls away. “couldn’t help myself,” he grins , brushing some of your hair out of your face before pecking your lips quickly, “c’mon!”

you’re both giggling as you make out on the way up the front porch. john b silently thanks the gods that jj hadn’t come here after the party. because the moment you make it through the door , you’re pushing him down on the couch and straddling him.

your hands are everywhere. john b’s hair , his arms , his chest , the raging boner he sports under his shorts. you can’t get enough of him. while john b got to feel you up all night at the boneyard , you wanted to wait until you could truly feel all of him in the privacy of his own home.

“someone’s excited,” john b points out as you practically rip the buttons off his shirt to open it before a quiet , low moan leaves his mouth when your nails rake down his chest.

your ears burn at his comment and how unfair it is that he’s acting so nonchalant now. his hands only slowly run up and down your thighs while you put your soul into grinding down onto his dick for some sort of relief.

and maybe it’s a little douchey to poke fun at you , but john b has an empty house , a horny you , and all night long. he isn’t worried about rushing it. he had his quick fun by the van. he can wait longer , wear you down. though , you’re less than patient as your hands fumble with his belt.

“hey , hey,” john b’s smooth voice cuts through your horny haze.

“want you so bad right now,” you mewl , meeting his eye as his hands distracted you , bobbing them at your sides— fingers intertwined.

“i want you too,” he assures you , dropping your hands to bring his own up to your cheeks, “y’so fucking sexy , baby. i wanna devour you,” he growls , grip tightening on your head a little. it’s almost possessive. you whine , eyes fluttering shut at his admission. “but we got allll night,” he smiles up at you.

after what felt like eons , john b drags you to his room. and he swears seeing you laid up in his bed with his bite marks covering your neck and breasts and lower stomach is the best sight on earth. especially when he notices how fast they were bruising.

“gorgeous girl,” he coos , running his hand up your stomach to push the material of your shirt over the curve of your tits, “m’so done being patient,” he adds , crawling over you on the bed.

“really?” you perk up, “me too.” you roll your eyes playfully , pulling john b lower to wrap your legs around his waist , securing his proximity for the moment before kissing him again.

he groans into the kiss , hands tightening on the fat of your hips. “i want you so bad,” he breathes out with a laugh , moving his lips to your neck and sucking at your skin before sinking his teeth into the same spot.

you wince at the sting , but it feels good right after. “you have me right here,” you whisper , hands coming down to push at your waistband, “so what are you waiting for?”

john b pulls back at the remark , smile widening as he watches you hook your fingers into your panties too. “straight to business,” he nods , licking his lips.

“any complaints?” you ask with a raised brow and big smile as you kick your shorts and thong to the floor.

he lets out a whistle , scratching at the back of his neck while he gets a good look at you. “no , ma’am,” he answers before shuffling to get his pants off while you rip your top the rest of the way off.

and all you can think when john b hovers over you , shrugging his hawaiian shirt all the way off is ‘sarah cameron is batshit crazy for leaving him,’ just from your experience tonight alone. you know for a fact , anyone that ever got a taste of john b routledge and let him go is clinically insane. when your eyes trail down his body and focus on his hand stroking his cock in front of your spread legs , your mind goes blank.

“it’ll fit , baby,” he replies before you can say anything , seeing the way your jaw drops a little, “jus’ trust me,” he adds with a hiss as he guides his tip up and down your folds slowly.

“john b—“ you breathe out , pushing up on your elbows to watch. he simply hums , free hand cradling your cheek as he focuses on where you connect. “put it in then!” you whine , head leaning into his hand as you watch in anticipation.

john b’s big , brown eyes flicker up to you for a second , and you swear there’s a genuine sparkle in them. “put it in?” he mocks you , thumb pushing down on his length to catch his tip in your tight , clenching entrance.

the girth alone stretches your walls. “oh , fuck!” you pant , head falling back. just as your eyes close , he shifts forward more , rough hands pushing your thighs up to your chest before he presses into you completely. it’s slow and painful and mind numbing , but god , you’re in heaven. you feel so full , you can hardly even clench around him. it’s like you can’t breathe.

“shit— y’re not a virgin , are you?” john b jokes as he sucks a sharp breath in at the feel of just how tight you are around his length. it sends a shiver down his spine.

“shut up,” you giggle through a moan when he pulls back a bit to thrust into you again. he chuckles with you , drunken smile gracing his lips. it’s a soft moment that’s destroyed as soon as he looks back down at where you’re sucking him in.

“yeah , i’ll shut up,” he nods , bringing his hips back to slam into you all over again. his trusts are harsh and fast— you can hardly keep up , hands holding onto his navy blue sheets.

your mouths drops open in a gasp after a particularly hard thrust , moans filling the air in his room. “oh , fuck,” you cry as your hands try to push at his hips, “shit— john b!”

“who can’t shut up now?” he smirks, hips never slowing as he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. his lips move down your neck as you cling to him , moaning with every movement he makes.

you feel his teeth sink into the curve of your breast , wincing at the sting before moaning when john b soothes the bite with his tongue. “they’re sore,” you whimper , pulling at his hair.

“i know,” john b grins back , shifting up and gripping at both of your tits, “i want them that way,” he assures you with a grunt as he slams into you. he groans when you yelp at the force. “shit— take it just like that,” he moans , dropping one hand from your chest to rub at your puffy clit.

“john b!” you moan , trying to scoot up and away from his hips , but his rough hands grip your tits harder, pressing your deeper into the mattress so you can’t run.

“what?” he coos in faux sympathy , looking down at where you connect, “you’re taking it just fine, baby. you’re all stretched out for me,” he points out with a moan as his hips slow to focus on the sight. his grip on your chest loosens , now free hand lowering to spread your folds. he leans forward a bit, letting his spit drop onto your clit before his thumb rubs it in.

“oh , my god,” you hiccup, eyes screwing shut as he keeps his slow, deliberate pace, “jombee,” you whimper, thighs trembling as you feel yourself unravel.

“uh uh,” he shakes his head, fucking into you harder, “just a second, baby,” he grunts out, hips stuttering while he tries to finish too.

you smack at his wrists urgently , eyes screwing shut in pleasure. “fuck— pull out!” you gasp , hips still rolling down to meet his as much as possible.

“oh , shit,” john b practically growls as he does as told. he shifts to straddle your waist , fervently fisting his cock until he comes in thick, white ropes onto your chest with a broken grunt.

instinctively, your mouth opens in hopes preparation. your heart sinks a little when he finishes on your tits , wanting to get your mouth on him too. john b notices— not too busy rubbing his cum into your skin with his tip. “suck it then , baby,” he breathes out lowly, hand coming to the back of your head to push you forward enough.

you choke a little when he shoves into your mouth , but as soon as you realize you’re getting what you want , your eyes flutter shut. you suck on his tip like a lollipop , moaning as you taste him dripping on your tongue.

“you’re such a little freak,” he nearly whines , cock twitching in your mouth as he brings a hand back to your folds and taps your clit.

your hips stutter at the sting , pulling off of his length with a gasp. “sensitive,” you tell him hoarsely , smile still on your spit covered lips.

“i bet,” john b coos with a light chuckle , moving off of you and grabbing a shirt from the floor, “took it like a champ though,” he adds with a grin , knuckles gently knocking at your jaw as his other hand cleans your chest.

“i’m never fucking anybody else again,” you tell him , catching your breath. your eyes trail over him as he chuckles breathily in response. “seriously,” you add , pulling your eyes from his bobbing cock to meet his.

“you , missy , are gonna get me in trouble,” john b hums , tapping your nose affectionately before hopping into the bed again and yanking you into his side.

[elliemulate]

i saw your reply on a post about ellie being unlikable and i agree fully. the way people talk about ellie’s character genuinely baffles me. i think a lot of people just fundamentally misunderstand ellie both in the game and show. in s1 there were a lot of complaints that ellie was “too psycho” and a “brat” (which is crazy bc she’s literally a feral child orphan how do u expect her to behave). now in s2 I’ve seen people say that they’ve somehow made ellie “unlikable” by making her stupid(?) while simultaneously being too scared to make ellie unlikable lmao what? like we can’t have both you guys. it just feels like people are being contrarian for the sake of it. she is doing shitty things in order to find abby, thats the point. they complain that ellie didn’t call dina a burden because its supposed to show her dark headspace but then they also complain when ellie is exhibiting self destructive behaviors because she’s not doing it in the “correct” way. in both the game and the show she doesn’t get satisfaction from killing abby’s friends, it just breaks her down more every time, but she still can’t let it go. we literally have a character explicitly telling ellie that her behavior is selfish, but then they also complain about that because he’s being too “mean” to her. like what do these people want 😭

most of the complaints about this season can either be boiled down to: the show destroying the god-awful mischaracterizations people have built of these characters in their heads, the overall refusal to read into any subtext and take everything as is from the characters (despite complaining that this season has been too ‘on the nose’ for the audience), and the inability to follow and understand (slightly different) character decisions based on different circumstances.

ellie does go to absolutely awful lengths and jeopardizes the people she loves and wants to protect (and is outright unlikeable to them), as well as her own well-being, to find abby but she’s not some ruthless, revenge-driven monster who mows down people just for the fucks of it.

ellie doesn’t get a kick out of slaughtering her way through seattle with explosives and molotovs just because the player does. like with jordan, whitney, owen and mel, her violent responses are almost always reactive rather than second-natured. in the time we do see ellie go the nth degree and deliberately torture someone we also see how depersonalized she is afterward and it completely fractures the humanity she desperately tries to cling to. ellie doesn’t almost throw up after killing mel just because she’s pissed at sourcing nothing from her—she’s horrified at what she’s done. bellie might’ve been ‘walking on the same path’ as joel but she’s three-paces away because unlike joel, she’s unable to detach herself and absorb the brutality she displays (and is ultimately guilt-ridden at finding out she’s capable of.)

one of the biggest points i’ve heard is that bellie’s characterization is “wishy washy” and hard-to-folllow because she ‘contradicts herself’ when really it just goes to show how much they haven’t paid attention to either the show or the game 😭 her anger and grief isn’t black and white nor is it constant. ellie’s descent might seem to web so linearly in the game because we’re given the ability to read into her journal to see her active thoughts and mania throughout the days. meanwhile it has been established since s1 that bellie does nothing but mask her feelings to the point of self destruction until she’s finally splitting at the seams by day three.

people complain that the writers are “sanitizing” the characters yet can barely handle when she lashes out at joel + jesse AND get mad when characters like jesse and dina are given more depth in the same breath. they’re upset that dina was given her own motivators to go to seattle other than her loyalty to bellie. they’re pissed off that jesse, a character who we know next to nothing about in the game except for the fact that he is selflessly loyal to his community and leads with his moral compass, conflicts with bellie’s revenge journey and doesn’t choose to support her blindly.

it sucks because i think there are critiques to be made of this season (certain tonal imbalances, overall structural/pacing issues, the occasionally clunky dialogue) but everything i DO see instead is contradictory, regurgitated takes and blatant admittances of their own misinterpretations from the game.

[aventurineswife]

Sampo, Gepard, Phainon and Mr Reca react that reader has a chaotic little sister like Klee from genshin impact

Chaos is a Ladder

Tags: Sampo x Reader, Gepard x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Mr. Reca x Reader, Klee based Little Sister, Chaos, Sibling Dynamics, Mischief, Humor, Fluff, Lighthearted, Action/Adventure, Sibling Care.

Warnings: Minor Destruction/Explosions, Implied Danger, Mild Language/Swearing, Light Violence, Over-the-top Humor.

Sampo leans against a wall, his trademark grin widening as he watches your little sister’s antics. She’s busy blowing things up with her homemade firecrackers, and the resulting chaos is causing a small stampede of frightened people. You look at him helplessly, knowing exactly what’s going through his mind.

“Well, well,” Sampo muses, his tone smooth as ever. “It seems your little sister is quite the bundle of excitement. Reminds me of the old days when my schemes didn’t just get me into trouble… but make me a fortune.”

You groan, dashing forward to stop her before things escalate further. But Sampo, ever the opportunist, flashes a wink. “Don’t worry. You’re not alone. I’ll make sure nobody gets too hurt.”

The moment you turn away to manage the mess she’s caused, Sampo’s already starting to haggle with some of the bystanders who were unlucky enough to witness the explosion, offering "discounts" on goods to ease their 'frustration'.

“Ah, the power of chaos,” he says. “Quite profitable if you know how to work it."

Gepard stands at attention as he watches your little sister, a tiny ball of chaos wreaking havoc in the middle of a perfectly serene courtyard. His eyes narrow, but it’s not with anger. No, it’s a sense of duty.

“Is this how she spends her free time?” he asks, his voice calm but betraying a slight hint of disbelief.

“She’s just—well, she’s energetic," you try to explain, chasing after her as she ducks and dodges your attempts to get her under control. A little fountain of water has erupted from one of her contraptions, and it's now quickly flooding a nearby garden.

Gepard crosses his arms, his gaze remaining composed even as your sister’s antics go from bad to worse. “I understand the need for adventure, but I cannot allow disorder like this. She is… certainly a handful.”

When your little sister playfully tosses a flower at his face, he pauses, blinking at the gesture. His gaze softens slightly. “You know,” he mutters, “perhaps a little chaos can be a good thing. Keeps us vigilant, reminds us to expect the unexpected.”

Despite his stern demeanor, there’s a warmth in his eyes as he observes her mischievous grin. After all, what’s life without a little unpredictability?

Phainon, ever the composed warrior, watches your younger sister with a mix of bewilderment and fascination. She’s jumping around, firing off small bursts of energy from a toy gun and accidentally knocking over a stack of supplies.

His hand moves to the hilt of his weapon instinctively as a loud explosion echoes from her direction, but it’s just a small pop from a confetti bomb she set off.

“Is she always like this?” Phainon asks, trying to keep a straight face, though it’s evident he’s struggling not to laugh.

“I’m afraid so,” you reply sheepishly, stepping forward to try and corral her before things get too chaotic.

Phainon watches your attempt, a small smile tugging at his lips. “She has… much energy.” He pauses. “It is both admirable and terrifying.”

When your sister starts running circles around him, Phainon takes a deep breath, preparing for whatever might come next. But then, to your surprise, he kneels down to her level. “You know,” he says with a soft chuckle, “I think I would enjoy a race. But only if you promise not to set anything on fire.”

Your little sister giggles in response, and suddenly the warrior finds himself caught up in a race he didn’t expect to be a part of. Phainon’s composure remains, but there’s a twinkle of enjoyment in his eyes as your sister leads him around, full of chaotic energy.

Mr. Reca sits back in his chair, watching your little sister with a critical eye. She’s throwing something—he’s not even sure what—into the air, and the resulting explosion leaves a trail of smoke and a few startled citizens behind.

“Another act of meaningless chaos…” he mutters, tapping his fingers on the armrest. “I could’ve filmed that, but it lacks substance. No depth.”

You rush to calm her down, your face a mix of embarrassment and exasperation. “She’s just… being herself.”

Reca glances over, his normally cynical expression softening as he watches the mischief unfold. “I suppose she does have a certain… authenticity to her,” he concedes. “But let’s see if she can manage something with more depth than mere explosions.”

Before you can respond, your sister sets off another round of firecrackers, and this time, Reca rises, walking toward her with a thoughtful look in his eyes. “If you’re going to make a mess, at least make it one that has a story. I don’t want to see just destruction. Show me the meaning behind it.”

As your sister throws another wild concoction into the air, he tilts his head, almost impressed. “Perhaps you do have a spark of potential.”

You can only sigh, knowing that this time, your little sister's chaotic nature might just inspire something worthwhile for Reca—though whether it’s the film he’s hoping for or just another headache remains to be seen.

[dastardly-imbecile]

Among the Roots and Baby's Breath

AO3 HERE

You have a bit of a hard time comparing, pushing the image of König before you, smaller than he really is, consoling you and being consoled in turn, with what else you know he is. Contrasting it against the King of the forest, ostensibly, tall as an oak and broad as a mountainside, predator of some order and cunning of another, ripping open a deer’s stomach with his bare hands. Trailing after you, you, for some reason that you still haven’t been able to pin down. 

—

You’re a witch, summoning a guide to lead you through the forest. Unbeknownst to you, he knows you a bit better than you know him. 

OR

Stalker!konig, but make it fantasy. Also, Graves is an asshole 

---

Wordcount: ~18k

title is based on wine red by the Hush Sound

By the time you’re lighting the first stick of incense, dawn is kissing its way up the horizon, long fingers of cirrostratus clouds running through the sea of vermilion and coral, dipping into the pale cerulean pooling in the center of sky. Good. Preparation for the binding took all night, but it’s always better for the ceremony itself to be under the light of day—gives you a good idea of what you’re about to deal with, a better send-off into the forest. 

At the moment, you stand near the edge of a large, grassy clearing, a little ways into the forest. Many paths branch off of it at seemingly random intervals, made of everything from dirt to mushrooms to stone. Behind you is the camp, still headily asleep under the burgeoning Autumn dawn—a group of ten or so; the Lord Graves, two of his soldiers, and the crew of two merchant caravans. And four horses, though you count them a measure above the humans. 

The air is wreathed in smoke, in the scents that have grown familiar after dozens of bindings—the musk of ginger and basil, the heavy sting of citrus. Other things, too, as the forest and your magic coalesce into one—things that don’t necessarily have a real smell besides the one you can know. 

Salt and copper; a fawn’s first blood, stained upon the teeth of the wolf that killed it. Petrichor and rot; a corpse polluting clear riverwater, glass-black eyes staring at the full moon overhead. Smoke and roses; the first flower after a wildfire, pushing up through a layer of ash and charcoal. A thousand other things, identifiable only from experience—and a touch of magic—and you pause for a long moment to take it all in, let your chest expand and inhale the comfort of the woods. 

Lasts only a moment—the silence is broken all too soon by the clearing of a throat, the shuffle of footsteps. You half-turn to regard, from the corner of your eye, Lord Graves, standing a healthy distance away from your circle. He is tall and strong-featured, blonde hair slicked back, the picture of sinister aristocracy. Deceptively patrician, especially when you know that his family is hardly more than landed gentry—then again, that’s the very reason he’s here. Inferiority, the biting desire to rise above his station. The very reason he came to you, Witch of the Dyrewood, to lead him and his business venture safely through, past the grasp of the trees to the lands beyond. 

“Are you ready?” He asks lightly. His accent is rougher than that of the old families—more evidence towards his family’s recent ascension to wealth—but it has a pleasant sort of drag to it. Or, it would, if you had any sort of patience for him. You shake your head. 

“Not quite. I’d advise you keep your distance. I will notify you.” The words are sharp. You try to soften the blow with a half-smile, but it comes serrated and taut despite your best efforts. Ah, well. If it teaches him not to interrupt a ritual, then all the better. 

“By all means,” he replies, taking a step back. You don’t miss the thinly-veiled curiosity in his gaze, the hesitation before he finally turns and treks back to camp. Not brave enough to ask to stay, which is good, because you would not let him if he did. Magic of your breed is a sacred type, more than lordlings and casual passers-by deserve. Something for you, you and the soul within the woods, She who you have never seen, but perhaps will someday—when your final breath scrapes from your throat, and you give yourself back in the ways of decay and dirt. 

You circle around the ring, lighting all thirteen sticks of incense, examining the lines you drew in the dirt—they stretch across the ring, connecting the thirteen points to each other in an increasingly complex pattern. Built on the back of a web of straight lines, ascending each level with the addition of curls and dots and small, complex runes, until it looks like nothing but a mess of random scratches to the untrained eye. You, though, you can trace the contour of a stroke, how it weaves around its siblings as if dancing. The veil of smoke in the air gives them a sense of movement that echoes the organic—desire trails made by animals in the deep wood, the pattern of a bird’s wings and ants patrolling in a pattern of calculated randomness. 

You take a deep breath and, without further ado, begin to speak. The language that spills from your mouth as slickly as oil is not one that you understand, not without concentration. Moreover, it’s not the sort of language you necessarily want to understand—you know the gist of the words, as your Mother taught you, something along the lines of, help me, and don’t lead us astray, and, a gift from your mouth to ours.

It’s a prayer, ultimately, it’s the same beseechment that humans have asked of their Gods from the beginning of time, and it’s best not to think you can withstand the sanctity of a Deity’s tongue. That’s the kind of hubris that ends in gray matter upon the forest floor and bones twisted into the roots of a tree. 

So, you let it pass, and focus instead on the lone hawk wheeling through the sky overhead, mouth forming the syllables as familiarly as a lover’s kiss. Despite your efforts, as the chant goes on—one minute passes, then two, more and more of your attention is drawn to the movement of your mouth. To the pressure that builds in your sternum. Holding your breath, but in reverse—instead of the desire to intake a gulp of air, you want to expel the words, spit them out so fast that it burns. By the third minute, your eyes begin to tear up, throat hollow and scratchy from the rising of your voice. You dig the fingernails of your left hand into the arm of your right, drawing crescents of blood—anything to keep you grounded, anything to distract you from the words, to stop you from focusing on their meaning.

Fourth minute. You can tell, in some vague world, that you’re screaming them out, nails scratching thin lines through your skin, pain insignificant enough as to be ignored. Fifth, and finally, the pressure lessens. The last few syllables bleed out of you with a slow, quiet timbre that’s as much forced by the condition of your throat as they are a part of the spell, and when the last phrase falls from your lips, the change is already evident in the natural world. Around you, the thick cloud of incense smoke coalesces into thin lines. They shine a muted gold in the sunlight, long gossamer strands of hardened smoke that twist and intertwine into delicate knots. Soon, the strands of filament begin to dart into the forest, swiftly losing themselves in the darkness between trees. 

When you turn, you are almost nose-to-nose with Lord Graves. Must steel yourself not to take a step back, but you do dip into a respectful bow. As much for the decorum as to hide your face, give yourself a moment to sheath your annoyance. You told him to stay away. 

Then again, you were yelling. Maybe he was curious. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Still should’ve heeded your instructions. You bite back the vitriol. When you rise back up, your expression is carefully neutral. 

“It is done,” you say, coughing once. He raises a single eyebrow. 

“Water?”

You nod reluctantly. He turns around, to the caravaners packing up behind him, and calls, “a waterskin for the lady!” When he turns back to you, he adds, quieter, “complicated ritual, huh? Is it this hard to undo, too?”

“Magic’s always hard,” you reply, which isn’t the real answer—which is that, though binding is complex, unbinding is easy as a few words. The truth, though, usually doesn’t go over well with your patrons—they don’t tend to feel safe, knowing that a monster can be released so easily—and so you lie for the sake of it.

“How long will it take for it to… arrive?”

“Perhaps an hour. Maybe two, three. I cannot tell.”

He furrows his brow. Opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by a young girl running up—she’s hardly more than ten, dark-skinned and red-haired, likely one of the drivers’ daughters—with a water satchel clutched in her hands. You take it with a muttered thank you, and she smiles at you brightly before sprinting away. When you return your gaze to the Lord, irritation has splashed across his face, and his next words have a curt snap to them. 

“We don’t have much time to waste.”

“It’s the forest’s decision,” you reply. Only when his brow furrows a touch deeper do you add a belated, “milord. My apologies.”

The formality, at least, seems to satisfy him. Some human equivalent of rolling over, showing him the softness of your stomach and thin skin around your throat, submitting with a word and a bashful look. He leaves you with nothing but a harsh glare, which is more than you can say for some of your other customers. The ones who hit you, you do not abide—that is a surefire way to get left behind, stranded in the woods—but acerbic words, you’re used to. 

Not all of them are like this, the aristocracy that you serve, of course. It’s a varied group. Some of them are relaxed enough that you can fall into easy banter; good company for the trip. You remember a quite pleasant Lady Laswell, who tipped you generously and gave you small pouches of saffron and vanilla. Some are nauseatingly scared of the woods, others are blasé to the point of hubris. 

Most, though, are Graves’s type—second sons of second sons, looking to prove their worth in the world through you. Ship their goods through the Dyrewood, instead of braving the ocean trip of months, and reap the rewards that come with such efficiency. Funny that, even with that, most don’t think to toss a bit of respect to the woman who enables their trip. 

Ah, well. You’ve been through this tired train of thought a thousand times. Now, all there’s left is to wait—you take a grateful sip of the waterskin, letting the lukewarm liquid soothe your throat, and collapse to the ground. 

You’ve done at least six dozen bindings, by now, probably more, and you still cannot predict what the trees will give you—not one time, have they given you an identical creature. You think you could do a binding a day for a thousand years, and still, there would be more beasts yet that you would never lay eyes on. The monsters you bind are just as varied as the monsters you serve—good, bad, ugly. 

One of the best you can remember is a small fae sprite, who told jokes on the road and traded you a kiss for a pound of gold. Others are agreeable, but nothing remarkable—a bear shiftling who led you through the trees with the steady competence of a seasoned warhorse. Some are uncanny, like the being who took the form of a human man, dark-skinned and handsome, and who watched you at all times with a gaze you could not tell was malevolent or not.

It’s not often that there’s something bad, but you can recall, many months ago, a skeletal wraith with a skull for a face, who you had to rebind thrice, lest he escape. At the end of the journey, when you unbound him, he told you in no uncertain terms that if you ever roped him again, he would pry the jelly from your eyes and make your teeth into a necklace. 

So, you quite hope that the forest does not give you him, but you simply watch the trees with idle curiosity. Eventually—you do not know the exact time, but it’s long enough that the camp has awoken—you dig a small, leather-bound journal from your satchel and begin to thumb through the pages. You’d have a more exact measurement of time, usually, but you’d lost your sole pocketwatch only days before. 

Strange, especially because it’s valuable enough that you only ever take it from your cottage on expeditions. You cannot imagine misplacing it, but it’s one of an escalating series of strange happenings back home—things you swear are inches away from where you left them, faint smells in the air that you do not know are imaginary or not. The loss—or theft—of your watch is only the cap to a long line of oddness that you cannot explain, not with magic nor convention. 

Ah, well. Maybe you’ll return home to find your cabin entirely ransacked; maybe there’s some malady of insanity in the air and the forest will clear your head. 

You flip through your journal with idle curiosity—it’s nothing new. You have pored over these sheets a thousand times. The first half of the book is in your Mother’s handwriting: long, looping scrawls of spellwords, annotated in spots by yourself—small corrections on pronunciation, clarifications on certain phrases. She’d been the one to teach you magic, but after her death, you’d depended on the book for much of the lessons that’d been beyond you at the time. The latter half is, consequently, your own notes on spellwork, experimental sketches of runic circles, incense recipes and half-developed spells. You grab a small stick of charcoal and flip to the most recent page, which contains a single line of what is supposed to be a rain-summoning charm. 

Much to Graves’s dismay, the sun is at its zenith by the time you begin to see flickers of gold once again—small motes of honeyed light that vanish like slips of flame. You stand, brushing down your trousers, and tuck both book and charcoal away. In all that time, you managed to divine a grand total of two new words, which is more progress than it sounds like—sometimes, you spend an entire day with your hands clutching your head, and only manage a single letter. The language of the earth is a hard one for human cells to comprehend. 

Foolish of you, to think that the forest could not surprise you, after all you’ve seen—that’s the first lesson of witchcraft , the last thing your Mother told you, before your neighbors dragged her into the town square. Never be complacent. 

It’s the movement of the trees that clues you in first. They rustle, and birds of many colors flee into the sky. Then, it is parting the treeline, stepping into the clearing—you must take a step back to take it in. Him in. Tall enough to match the boughs of the nearest trees, bipedal like a man. In seemingly random places, his tanned skin gives way to auburn fur, the color of mahogany, and despite his human frame, there is something savage to the way he carries himself. His face is covered in a shaggy overhang of vine and moss, but two horns protrude from the greenery, curling back upon themself like a ram’s. 

He is the largest creature you have ever seen. Made moreso by the thin lines of gold chain around his wrists and legs, deceptively dainty. 

Your heart jumps into your throat when he turns to you. There is a moment of stillness—you wish you could see his face, if he has a face—and then, he walks towards you, as casual as anything. Most wait for you to come to them. Others fight the bindings, struggle until you talk, until you find something to bargain for their cooperation. 

He, though, he walks towards you, coming to a stop at the opposite end of the now-garbled circle. All the magic has dissipated to nothing, by now—incense sticks burnt black and carefully-carved lines smudged to nothing in the dirt. Still, he tilts his head down, examining it like he can glean some detail from it. Looking for a way to escape his binding? The rules technically prohibit him from harming you, but you’re still cautious as you make your way around the circle, coming to a stop directly before him.

Swallow. Remember the procedure—you have done this a thousand times before. Routine. 

“Hello,” you say cautiously, “I am the one who summoned you. You may call me the Witch.” Not your name, clearly, but you don’t give it to the ones you summon. The binding is the sort of bond that lingers, even after it’s no longer in use, and if he had your true name, he could use it to turn the spell back upon you, to curse you in turn. 

“Kleine Spinne?” he replies, cocking his head the other way. His voice is higher than you’d expect of a creature of his size, the end lilting up in a question. 

So he doesn’t speak the common tongue. Not a problem—it’s more unusual when a creature does—but you simply push the meaning of your words through the bond. It is stranger that he has a language of his own, but you can content yourself with not knowing what he’s saying. That’s how you’ve lived your entire life, after all. 

“I apologize,” you continue, “if this is detrimental to you. In exchange for guiding us to the other side of the wood, I can provide you with much. Food, or gold, or a small spell.”

He tilts his head the other way, still examining you. You wait a long moment, but he still does not respond. 

It’s only when you repeat your words, pulsing the meaning down the golden conduit between you, that he says, quietly, “nein.” 

“Hm?” you ask. He hesitates for a long moment, before shaking his head. 

“No? To the bargain, or to guiding us?”

“Nein,” he repeats, “ich werde dir helfen, Spinne. Ah, help. Guide?”

Your eyes widen at the sound of your language on his lips. So he’s smart, or perhaps he’s gleaning more from the bond than you’d imagined. Interesting. Still, you only allow the shock to last for a fleeting moment, before returning to aloof neutrality, a controlled smile splitting your face. 

“Thank you. Do you have a name I could call you?”

Again, he hesitates, before saying, eventually, “König.”

“König,” you repeat. It does not have the tang of power that real names do, so you suppose he’s giving you a pseudonym as well. More evidence pointing towards intelligence. 

You can’t tell how this bodes for the journey. The smart ones are, sometimes, funner to travel with—always nice, to be able to talk, to find a companion—but they also tend to give you the most trouble. 

—

The Lord rides in the frontmost caravan, of course, but you take to the ground—both to have a stronger connection with your newfound guide, and because you simply like it. To have your feet planted upon the loamy forest floor, to look at the canopy overhead and have all the glory of the world at your eye level. König plods at the front of the group—he chose a seemingly-random direction to leave the clearing, down one of the many branching paths that came off its edges, but you trust him as implicitly as you’ve trusted all your dozens of other guides: which is to say, enough that he’ll get you out on the other side. 

You’re thankful you have him, too. The Dyrewood is no slave to traditional cartography, as evidenced in the first minute of the journey: you leave the clearing, soon enclosed by trees, and then König makes a turnaround, and begins to walk back down the road in the way you came from. At the movement, one of the caravans stops, and the driver shouts down, “wrong way!” 

You half-turn, regarding him calmly. “No. Follow us.”

There is plenty of grumbling, of shared glances between the two drivers—no doubt silently speaking of your insanity—but then ten minutes of walking passes, an hour, and you still have not broken back into the clearing. After that, to your satisfaction, there’s no more complaints as to König’s choice of direction. You’re not sure by what mechanism the forest’s natives use to navigate—and, you would dearly love to know—but, when faced with the peculiarities of the path, such as ten-way branches and nonsensical roundabouts, he is unfazed. 

You must wonder how he would walk when there’s no path. How all the inhabitants of this thicket burrow through the undergrowth and swing through the canopy, a thousand chittering creatures, of feathers and fur and notched scale. Eating and killing and fucking, life so bright and vivid that you can almost taste it. For a moment, you ache for it, to know this land more intimately than you know yourself. 

The brewing want is interrupted by a timid, “Madam Witch?”

You turn. Seeing nothing behind you, it takes a moment to think to look down—down, towards the young girl by your side. You recognize her as the same one who brought you water. Seems more than a tad negligent to bring a child on a journey like this, but you try to have sympathy for her father—perhaps he has nobody to watch her, perhaps he’s hoping to eke out a life on the other side of the woods, bringing his family along in his wake. 

“Yes?” You ask, stooping slightly. She tilts her head, tucking her hands behind her back like a proper Lady. Must’ve been taught by her father, perhaps to ensure she did not do anything uncouth to draw Lord Graves’s wrath. 

“Did you make these trails?” She asks. You shake your head. 

“No.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully. Someone of great magic and might had to carve these paths into the forest, twist the brutality of the natural world into something just a little more human. Not human enough, of course, for any two paths to ever lead the same way, for their loops and twists to make any logical sort of sense, but maybe that’s precisely why they work—nothing so stolid as brick houses and stone castles could survive in this wild. “Someone long before our time.”

“Okay.” She frowns for a moment, biting on her bottom lip, and then nods at König, leading the way up ahead. “Could you… could he… find a better path?” She hesitates, before adding, “it’s rocky. Hard for Trillie and Ajam.” 

It takes you a beat to realize that Trillie and Ajam must refer to the two horses chained to her father’s caravan. Another to assess the path, notice that it has grown rather rocky, and a pang of sympathy shoots through you, more for the animals than anything else. It endears you, as well, that the girl came to you not out of concern for the cargo, or with a complaint about the bumpy ride, but as an act of care. 

“I’ll ask him,” you say. Must curtail the joy that lights up her face with a measured, “I cannot assure that there is another path.” 

She stares for a moment, before nodding cheerfully, and racing back to the caravan at the back of the line, swinging herself onto the base with a practiced ease. You take a quick breath, peering at the hunch of König’s vast back, before speeding up your pace to fall in line with him. 

He does not turn to look at you, as you step up beside him, but he does slow fractionally. Which doesn’t say much, when each stride of his is still twice that of yours. 

“König?” You ask. At this, he does turn down, piercing you with a gaze you cannot see. He is by far not the strangest beast you have ever met, nor is he the most unfriendly, but something about him still sends a tremor down your spine. That impenetrable curtain of green that shields his face from you, his sheer size—your head comes up only to his mid-chest, and you are tall for one of the fairer sex. “I do not know if you heard-”

“Ja,” he replies immediately. You can surmise enough, when paired with his nod, that that means yes. 

“Is it possible?” 

Again, he repeats a curt, “Ja.” 

“Good,” you reply. He nods sharply, looking back up, towards the road. You follow the line of his gaze. Ahead, the path branches into three—one makes a turn back towards the way you came, and another continues forwards, and the third splits off at a rightward diagonal. He does not even pause to think, stepping directly onto the diagonal one. It does not escape your notice, as the next hour passes, that the road gradually grows less rocky, melting into packed dirt. 

“Thank you,” you voice aloud. 

“Natürlich, Spinne.”

Your attention catches upon that last word—Spinne. He’s said it thrice, now, all in relation to you, so you can only infer that it’s some sort of nickname. Witch in his language, perhaps?

Doesn’t hurt to ask. And you are quite starved for conversation, at this point. “What does that mean?”

“Hm?”

“Spinne. Is it Witch?”

He hesitates for a long moment. You’re on the verge of thinking it must be some insult, when he finally says, “ah, nein. No.” 

Perhaps you’re imagining it, but his voice is a touch higher than before. 

You nod, thinking that perhaps that’s all you’re going to get, when he starts looking around. Actually stops, after a moment, which is so unexpected that you’re three steps ahead by the time you realize. The caravan is still a ways behind you, but he only lingers for a moment to point to a tree. 

Not a tree, you realize. The space between two branches, in which a spider’s web stretches. Small baubles of dew stretch down each gossamer line of silk, and the sun suspends small rainbows in the middle of every sphere. 

“Spider?” You ask, and he nods quickly, resuming his stride. 

“Ja.”

“Why?”

Again, there’s a pause—gathering the words, maybe—and he says, eventually, “hast du mich gefangen. In deinem Netz. Web. Trapped me.” 

Ah. The golden bands around his limbs shine a touch brighter if you look at them. You give him an uncertain sort of shrug. 

“Sorry about that.”

“Nein,” he replies. Whether that’s a negation of your apology, or of the harm caused in the first place, you’re unsure, but don’t think to ask. Eventually, you drift away—tired, after keeping up with even his slowed stride—and the bubble of silence envelops you once more. 

—

König gets another point for finding a camping spot without needing to be asked—by the time dusk paints the world in dark, muted hues, you’re standing in a large, grassy clearing, not dissimilar to the one you started this journey in. The camp bustles about, lighting fires and watering the horses, though the Lord is of course sequestered in his own caravan already. You don’t quite mind it—though, at the moment, you’re distracted by the girl. 

Evidently, asking König to alter the path has made you nothing short of a hero in her eyes, and now, she flutters around you with all the excitement of a leaf in high winds. Her name is Lore, apparently, and she loves horses, and her mother is dead, all of which was delivered with about the same degree of levity. You pick over a bowl of stew and crusty bread while she interrogates you. 

“How are you a witch?” she asks, leaning back against the fallen log you sit on. König is nestled away in the far corner of the clearing, away from the main camp, and you keep half an eye upon him while you eat. You’d asked him earlier if he needed food—not all do, especially not conventional nutrition, when some can survive upon sunlight or entropy or human joy—and he’d given you a simple shake of his head. He had asked for permission to hunt, which you’d granted, but as of yet, he has not moved from his spot. If you look at him closely, he seems to be fiddling with the long strands of grass upon the ground—braiding them into some thin rope—which is strange, but it seems harmless enough. 

“My Mother taught me,” you say. She stares at you with wide eyes. 

“Can you teach me? Can I be a witch?”

“It’s much work,” you reply lightly, keeping in mind both that her father would likely not be happy with this conversation. 

“I can do work,” she declares proudly, “I fed Trillie and Ajam and I helped load the boxes—they weren’t heavy at all—and I’ll study.”

“More work than that,” you reply. Perhaps she hears the impenetrable steel in your words, because she falls silent after that, though the disappointment is clear upon her face. A pang of remorse, but it’s nothing personal—you’ve been asked many times over, by nobles and commoners both, to take their children in. Witchcraft is not exactly the most revered of professions, but they also see the bags of gold you carry after each mission, see the way your garden blooms lush and the yearly wildfires somehow perfectly avoid your cabin. But you cannot simply pass on this conduit to the wild to any one person—not to someone who does not know it enough to fear and love it in equal measure. 

You have only agreed once: to teach a duke’s son, a handful of years ago. Not for the sum of money he offered, nor for the prestige of it, but because their son had been lost in the Dyrewood for a year and a half. Walked in as a lad of thirteen, all gold and finery, walked out a year after his funeral, naked as the day he was born, with flowers woven in his hair and a different language stuck upon his tongue. 

Pity you’d only gotten two months with him, before his parents declared your teachings barbarous and arcane. The boy’d taken to magic like a fish to water, like a wolf to the throat. It requires that—a year and a half alone among the trees, so embedded into their being that it takes a scalpel to separate yourself—before you can truly scribe the magic of the Dyrewood. That, of course, is too much to explain to Lore, so you simply let her stew in her disappointment. 

It doesn’t last long, of course. She regains her cheer as you’re sopping up the last of your meal with the bread, asks, “did you grow up in here?”

“No,” you reply, “close.”

On the outskirts of the woods, where there was enough room to wander and not be immediately lost. You remember it as fondly as you think most would remember good times long past: all soaked in layers of honey and lavender; the sharp edges of the thicket smoothed away to waxy leaves and soft, new shoots. 

“Pa doesn’t let me go near the wood alone,” she says, “but I sneak out and pick blackberries, sometimes.”

“He’s wise to do that,” you counsel gently, “you shouldn’t go into the forest alone.” A moment of silence, in which she looks suddenly stricken—as if your advice was all she needed to learn the virtue of caution—and then, you perhaps undermine your message by adding, “I snuck off to pick blackberries as well, when I was young.”

“Really?”

You shrug. “Quite often. Would eat them hunched in the thicket so Mother didn’t see I’d broken the rules. I didn’t realize until later that she was always the one to wash their juice out of my clothes.”

Lore laughs, and you smile along with her. By now, the moon has bathed the world in silver syrup, and her father calls to her from the light of the fire—she whispers a quick goodbye, before leaping from the bench and racing towards him. 

There’s not much to the blackberry story that you didn’t tell her. It is, in entirety, one of the few truly happy memories you have from childhood. 

One thing, though, one twist to sour the batch, as also seems all too common when you think back to your youth. You’d continued your illicit blackberry-picking until, one day, there’d been a great rustling in the bushes, the movement of some vast creature in the weeds. Scared you enough that you ran back home. Maybe you would’ve gone back, if not for the fact that, two days later, they took your Mother away. 

Right. You swallow once, staring up at the moon. Nighttime always makes you macabre—maybe it’s time to retire. You stand, leaning back to stretch the tired muscles of your back, and cast one final glance at König’s corner. Hard to tell in the dark, but there is a blur of movement, the quick turn of his head, as if he had been watching you. Interesting, maybe, but you don’t particularly mind. 

Being watched is nothing new, not with the company you tend to court. Some find humans a wee curiosity, others are no doubt imagining turning you into a nice meal, and yet more are simply bored, trying to puzzle their way into your mind. While you dearly hope he does not wish to eat you, it’s no great concern if he does. 

What a life you live. 

By the time you reach your tent, on the outskirts of the campfire’s light, the shadow of his form is gone. Off to that aforementioned hunting, maybe, or perhaps he found some shuffle of undergrowth to curl up in. The thought of that, of him slumbering among leafy detritus and small insects, is strangely endearing, and you carry that thought with you until you drift off into darkness and dreams. 

—

When you awake, you almost step on the gift outside your tent. Barely manage to avoid it by skidding your foot to the right, steadying yourself with whirling arms. It has, at least, the side-effect of waking you completely, and you bend down to examine it. 

Upon a small, flat plate of bark is a stack of blackberries and, beside them, a carefully-woven bracelet of long grass and small white flowers. You stare at it for a second, and then look around—it’s early enough that there are only faint, sleepy stirrings from the camp, and you doubt any of them would’ve done this, either way. 

Perhaps you would have suspected Lore, if not for the fact that you doubt she’d even be able to find blackberries. And, of course, the bracelet. You remember König, last night, picking at the grasses of the glade, and wonder if this is what he was doing. If he was listening to your tale about the blackberries, how far he wandered until he found a bush. 

He himself is standing where the flat ground begins to bleed into trees, staring straight into the darkness of the woods. You eye him for a moment longer, before returning your attention to the small tribute. Just in case, you whisper a few spellwords, cast a small geas of detection over the offering—but it comes back blank, no record of either poison or magic or any other nasty sort of thing. Not that you thought he would try to harm you in such a way, not really, but you didn’t get this far as a Witch by being complacent. 

Safety satisfied, you spend the dawn watching the camp awake and popping blackberries in your mouth. They’re warm, bursting upon your tongue in seedy drops of sour-sweet. The bracelet is, sadly, far too large for you—almost twice the size of your wrist—and you can’t help but think that must be because König used his own hand as a reference. 

When you finally approach him, it’s at first to notify him that you’re ready to leave—the caravans are packed, horses pawing at the ground, and Lord Graves has sent you more than a few pointed glares. 

“Gut,” he replies to your gentle reminder. Raises his arms up above your head in a languid stretch, which has the side effect of allowing you an unfettered view of his rippling muscles, of the thick cords that wrap around his biceps and forearms. When he brings them down, it’s with a quick, almost shy glance at you—at least you think, given the fact you cannot see his eyes—which is immediately averted to the ground. Shyness, or shiftiness, one of the two—checking to see if you’re watching him do some version of preen, or trying to gauge how easy you’d be to kill. It disturbs you less than it should that you can’t tell the difference. 

You give it a bit before you bring up the topic at the front of the mind. Spend that hour-or-so padding along behind him, taking in the majesty of the wild. Looking at the trees that germinated aeons before your ancestors drew breath, that will stand proud and tall even when your bones are naught but ash. Watch a small, iridescent beetle slip into the hole of a tree trunk, see a three-winged bird leap from a tall branch and shoot through the canopy, leaving nothing but falling leaves in its wake. You wish you could speak every one of their languages, call them to you upon wispy breezes and an outstretched finger, lay the forest out before you and lay yourself out in turn. 

You dream, sometimes, of being half-buried in the earth, thighs encased in cool moisture and grass kissing your breasts. Of tilting your head back and letting the roots of a tree intertwine with your hair until the bark grows into your scalp. Perhaps, eventually, you rot open, two sides of your body falling apart like a book, and birds land upon your ribcage to pick through your offal, small mice make their home in your clavicle and you are there, unfeeling, as peaceful as the land has ever been and always will be. 

So that’s what consumes most of your thoughts, as König winds your group through the forest, until enough time has passed that you think you can suitably approach him. The path has changed from dirt to brick, small shoots peering out from the cracks in the stonework. On some bricks, there are small words or runes scribbled down, unintelligible after so long exposure to dirt and wind and wild. 

Once again, you must speed up to fall into step beside him. This time, he does turn to look at you, and you offer him a small smile in greeting. In the same motion, you hold up the woven bracelet—which, by now, is looking more than a bit worse for wear, the small flowers darkening and wilting, the strands of grass unraveling from each other—and say, “thank you, by the way.”

You swear he almost stops then-and-there, in the middle of the road. Freezes, at the very least, though he still manages to take a step. Regains his composure by the next, dips his head down and murmurs, “Woher wussten Sie das? How..?”

“Who else could it be?” You ask, and his shoulders slump slightly. The strangest thing about this is that he seems to be embarrassed about the fact you figured it out, this puzzle that’s not really a puzzle—and, consequently, asked him about it. Did he want you to keep it under wraps, to maintain some image of a secret gift? Was it meant to be a gift at all? Or, in whichever neck of the woods he hails from, does a gift of blackberries and bracelet signify want for death? “It was very sweet,” you add, just in case it’s the former, “I suppose you overheard us?”

“Ich habe nicht… I wasn’t… gelauscht,” he says, “wasn’t listening in.”

“I don’t mind if you were,” you say, shrugging, and truly, you don’t. It’s not like you’re divulging any sensitive sort of information, and even if you were, you can’t exactly fault him for curiosity. If you had the ability to understand his language, to listen to him speak of the forest and all its wiles, you would snatch that opportunity up in a heartbeat. 

He doesn’t respond for a long moment, so you prod at him with another question. 

“How far did you go, to find the berries?”

“Sehr,” he replies. When accompanied with a wave of his hands, with the way he splays his taloned fingers outwards—indicating the vastness of the forest—you take that to mean, far. Another beat of silence, which you’re preparing to fill, before he adds, “it was no trouble. No…. no, ah, rascheln, rustling, could frighten me. Ja?”

“Certainly not,” you reply, stifling the smallest giggle. He’s charming in a strange, disarming way, such a disparity—he carries himself as well as any lord of the forest, chest high and back straight, but there is a cowed sort of timbre to his words, to the containment of his gestures. He knows how large he is, how overwhelming, and all his grace is an attempt to curb that impression. 

You slip into silence, once again regarding the forest, but from the corner of your eye, you see him taking frequent, quick glances at you. Turning his head a fraction of the way, darting away like a frightened fish a moment later. You make a sort of game out of it, seeing how long you can play at not noticing, turning towards him at innocent intervals to watch him hastily turn his gaze towards the ground. It keeps you amused, at least until the sun is high and the line stops, allowing the horses a moment to rest. The workers dart around, preparing some light lunch of crackers and cured meat, and König vanishes from sight. One moment, you are beside him, and the next, Lore is running up to you to show you a pretty rock she found on the ground. When you turn back around, ushering her back to her father, he’s gone. 

He’s not hard to track. It’s more out of curiosity than anything—and the fact that you frankly have nothing to do, among the workers and the caravaners—that you follow the trail he makes in the woods, the line of crushed plants, of broken branches. You’re almost about to turn back to the path, give up, assume that he’s gone hunting or something of the sort, when you break into a small clearing. It’s far wilder than the one you spent the night in—small saplings push through the ground, and the grass is tall and burred, catching on your shoes and pants. 

He sits hunched upon a tall stump, back curved. Before him, marring the expanse of green, is a deer, stomach flayed open, eyes wide and white in dead panic. His hands dig into its viscera, and as you watch, he pulls a long strand of intestine up to his face, where he parts the curtain of vines to deliver it into his mouth. Crusted in the fur at his wrists is blood, chunks of what must be meat, and it drips from his arms to patter upon the log. 

You stop at the edge of the glade, hand poised upon a tree, frozen in fascination. Less fear—it’s a deer, not a human, this is the natural cycle of predator-prey—but there’s a touch of that, too. Because of the blood, because of the confidence with which he moves. Gone is that half-cowed monster from earlier, and in its place, is a savage sort of grace. The rippling of his muscles as he tears a bone free from the deer’s ribcage, the fact that he must have killed it, torn into it, with bare hands alone. 

Just as you make the decision to leave, depart in peace and leave him to his meal, his head shoots up, presumably-eyes locking with yours. In an instant, he stands, and another has him halfway across the clearing. He’s got both size and speed on his side, and for a moment, you feel like the deer, like you are watching a predator beyond any comprehension approach. 

You can run, but you will not survive. That is a promise of the woods, whispered into the ear of every wailing, blood-slicked babe. 

You can see the moment that he shutters, that the predator sheathes its fangs, retreats behind its disguise. He stops at the treeline, spine stiff, one hand digging into the bark of the nearest tree, as if that is the only thing holding him back from lunging forwards. A moment of stillness, before he hunches slightly, all the tension bleeding from his muscles. He reaches his left hand towards his right, brushing it through the fur, as if trying to clean himself back up. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, “for interrupting your meal. I was just leaving.”

“I- I did not mean to be seen this way,” he stammers, still tugging at that bloodsoaked fur. You almost smile at the statement—it sounds a shade past embarrassed, edging into the realm of panicked shame. 

“It’s nothing. You asked for permission to hunt. I did not think you would be… what, petting the animals you ate? Hand-feeding them?” Your smile widens, trying to dull whatever emotions he must be feeling, and his shoulders lessen a bit. 

“Still. I am… apologetic. What did you..?” He shifts on his feet, still nervous, as if unsure what to do with his bulk. You step forwards one cautious step, proffering the tattered bracelet before you. 

“It was a bit too large,” you say, “but I’d like to wear it. If that was the intention. And, if it’s no trouble.”

A moment of stillness. Enough that you get the faint notion that you may have offended him—interrupted his meal, asked to alter your gift. At least, until he beckons you closer, shifting backwards, back towards the stump in the center of the clearing. He kneels before it, on the opposite side from the deer, where the grass is still clear and green. You take the invitation for what it is, sitting delicately upon the gnarled wood. He reaches out a hand, but when you place the bracelet in his palm, he gestures towards you. 

“Your hand,” he says. “Ah, there is blood-”

Before he can continue, you oblige, reaching out your right, turning it so the palm faces the sky. His large hands dwarf yours by a factor of two, and when he hovers them over your wrist, as if afraid to touch you, you can feel the warmth they emanate. Most of the blood upon them is dried, or half-dried, darkening to flakes of rust that fall to sprinkle in the center of your palm. 

You look up, trying to meet his eyes, and give a miniscule nod. His hands fall upon yours, wrapping the bracelet securely, just snug enough that it sits; not enough to strangle. For how large his fingers are, and the sharp-tipped talons upon them that scrape across your skin, they’re surprisingly dextrous, tying the knot in a quick, looping movement that your eyes can’t follow. When they fall away like leaves, they reveal a perfectly-tied band. You look up, smiling, but he is not looking at you—instead, his head is turned towards the forest at an angle that feels purposefully avoidant. 

König takes one step back, and then another, towards the darkened treeline. You reach for some combination of words to draw him back, draw him back to this moment under the sunlight and with his hands ghosting over the veins under your skin, but all you can muster is a, “thank you.”

“Wenn wir nur,” he replies, which you take as some variable of you’re welcome, before he turns and ducks into the forest, more smoothly than his frame would suggest. You stand, and it’s only when you turn that you remember the deer, still dead upon the ground, half-eaten. Abandoned—or maybe he’s waiting for you to leave before he returns to his feasting. You make a wide circle around it, dipping your head towards its flat eyes in a mock solute. 

By the time you return to the resting place, pushing free from the thickets around the path, they are preparing to leave again. You take your place at the head of the convoy, waiting until you spot König emerging from the trees. Must’ve found some river to wash up in, because though his hands are wet, they are no longer red. You nod in a greeting, debating if you should say hello, but before you can decide, you hear from behind you, “Witch!” 

It’s not a call with any sort of urgency to it—that, and you recognize the accent as that of Lord Graves—so you take your free time in turning and padding to his covered cart. One pale hand extends into the open air and beckons you inside, so that you do, climbing the wooden ladder and navigating around stacks of crates to duck through the doorway. His two soldiers, both dressed in full black, are stationed outside, and neither look at you, eyes fixed steadfastly upon the forest. 

Inside, the air smells faintly of cigar smoke, and more of some sort of flowery perfume, so far and artificially removed from the blooms of the forest. The Lord himself is lounged upon a pile of pillows, a gold-embossed book to one side and a small table of tea and cookies to the other. 

“What?” You ask, which is perhaps too abrupt than he should be addressed, as evidenced by the miniscule darkening of his eyes. 

“I simply thought to invite you in. It must be tiring to walk, no?”

“I enjoy it,” you say, but that’s immediately the wrong thing to say. A wrinkling in his perfect brow, the same tick that you imagine comes about when his maid tucks his sheets in wrong, or whatever it is that people rich as him must deal with. 

Rich as him, and still with desire to be richer, to rise higher—claw some edge over his competition through a foray in the woods, come out on the other side without the saltcrust and scurvy that plagues the ocean voyages. 

Not that you have much to say about it, given you’re profiting off of this all. Your mother would never have dreamed of twisting her witchcraft in this manner, of summoning the forest’s treasures to guide, but it is a different world, and your love for the land alone will not keep you in health and standing. 

There’s a different angle to your work too, one beyond the constraints of money. Through this, your summoning and your servitude, you carve out a niche—make yourself useful. Enough that maybe the next time the tide of public opinion turns against your craft, you’ll be able to find some sort of shelter in the hollow you’ve inhabited, in the turn of gold-flecked eyes and the desire for convenience. All your Mother ever got from abstaining in usefulness was a stake and a logfire, and that’s a thought grim enough that it snaps you back to reality, back to the rattling caravan and the expectant eyes of the Lord. 

Remember. Make yourself useful, not annoying. Acquiesce, don’t argue. 

“...But I appreciate the courtesy.”

The irritation fades away in a blink. Satisfaction burns in your chest, the contentment that comes with the knowledge that you’re still able to play him like a fiddle. Give a dog a bone, let him chew himself to fulfillment. Give a Lord a bow and a humble acknowledgement of betterment, and it’s the same thing. 

He shifts slightly, affixing you with an expression that you cannot quite tell the nature of. “Remind me, how many days do we have left?”

“Four. Maybe three, give or take.” 

He nods. At least there’s none of that rash impatience you’ve glimpsed in him before—he seems to understand that this, at least, you cannot change. Seems happy about it, even. 

“And what will you do, once we’re over?”

You give a loose shrug. “Allow the forest to guide me back home.”

“Dangerous journey, for a sole traveler.”

“Not for me.”

He lets out a low chuckle that, though it doesn’t ring your bell for falsehood, you think is some degree of forced anyway. False laughter comes as easily to those of the higher echelons as breathing. 

“Useful little power.”

You nod. By now, the caravan is moving at a fast clip. You cannot see anything of the land—the windows are covered by beaded curtains, immaculately draped sheets of patterned fabric, fine as gold—but you can surmise enough to know that you’ll be unable to get off. 

Gingerly, you sit down upon one of the far cushions, distant enough that there’s space between you, close enough that it’s not an obvious avoidance. He raises a single eyebrow at you, but speaks no more, turning and picking up his book with a delicate hand. With the other, he reaches into a small wooden box, and withdraws a fine cigar. Considers it for a second, then nods at you. 

“If you’d oblige. I forgot my lighter.”

You stare at him for a long second before, eventually, whispering the spell for igniting a flame. Half-consider ‘missing’, igniting a blaze upon his blonde head, or maybe under his silk tunic, but the consequences of that aren’t worth the brief amusement. It’s a small, simple spell, only three words, and you subvocalize quietly enough that there is no chance for him to catch them. Not that he’d be able to use them either way, of course, but it’s the principal of the matter. 

The air, as can be predicted, quickly fills up with the smell of smoke, but it’s not nearly so bad as it should be. Of course, his cigar is likely some fancy concoction of minimized smoke and maximized drug, made of carefully-bred capital plants. 

In any case, it’s not entirely unpleasant—clove and leather and some warm, bitter note, like coffee or too-old blood. Lord Graves seems entirely engrossed in his book, which you gather is some sort of merchant treatise, and you are utterly engrossed—which is to say, bored out of your mind—counting every glass bead in the caravan. 

Of course, you have your own book, but you’re not about to pull that out before him, not when there’s the large risk that he will ask what you’re doing, and the smaller—but just as pertinent—risk that he will try to see it, perhaps forcefully after your denial. So you while the time away with boredom, and boredom whiles your mind away via sheer ennui, and it is only when the caravan creaks to a stop that you are finally free from this prison of wood and fabric and gold. You only manage a hasty, curt nod at the Lord, before you’re springing free into the open air. Past the driver, hopping to the ground before the ladder even extends fully and relishing in the feeling of grass and solid earth. 

So long spent in the smallest areas gives the night a new dimension: it is darker than you remember, and more colorful at the same time, and it smells of wet moss and the sweetness of overripe figs and the cold, clear air of a thousand animals’ last breaths. 

This night goes much the same as the last one—meaning, you’re seated outside the fire, with Lore chattering next to you. The stew is something different, a harsher, gamier meat, and the bread is a touch staler, but there’s no difference that matters. 

At least, until you do a perfunctory scan for König’s form and find him nowhere to be seen. Which, you suppose, is not the most unusual thing—he asked permission to go hunting, after all—but some shiver of premonition dances up your spine. You must blink harshly, shake your head once, and refocus on Lore’s questions. 

“How do you do it?” She asks, “how does magic work?”

You give her a half-amused, half-warning look. “I told you, Lore. I’m not teaching you.”

“I’m not asking for that,” she says, “I’m just wondering.”

You consider her for a moment before internally shrugging. You’ll skate over the finer details of the craft. Unlikely that she’d be able to remember it all, reinterpret and reuse it, even if you didn’t. 

“All the ritual,” you say, “the incense, the lines, is just to open a… a conduit. From me, to the forest. Then, I speak her tongue, and she answers by binding me a guide. A companion.”

“Does she tell the guides?” 

Again, your eyes skate about the clearing. König is yet nowhere to be seen. You don’t know why you’re so intent on finding him—something about him gnaws at you, some pest crossing the wires in your brain. 

“No,” you reply, “I don’t think so.”

She frowns. In the uncertain firelight, the expression is reduced to a mess of lines and vague shapes, some ghoulish twist of unhappiness upon her young face. 

“How do they know, then? That they’ll be bound? What if they’re… busy? Or don’t want to?”

You cock your head. It’s a surprisingly adroit question. One that you’ve considered yourself, plenty of times. You give her the same answer that you’ve settled upon yourself, after so many countless hours of thinking. 

“I ask the forest for a guide, and she gives me one that best suits the journey. If she didn’t want to give me one, she wouldn’t. The guiding beings, and me, and the thicket, all share some sort of…” you hesitate, trying to settle upon a word, “symbiosis. We work for each other in all ways.”

Indeed, every creature you’ve bound has had some sort of significance. Even the worst, the ones that did not seem such like a boon at the time. The skull-faced wraith, for example, acerbic though he was—during that journey, your convoy had been attacked by a pack of direwolves, and you doubt you would have made it out alive if not for the ferocity of your guide, for the power he dealt. 

It’s a give, and a take. You indulge in the wild’s gifts for now, with the implicit understanding that you will return the favor. In life, by granting boons, by using magic to shore up the plants and to bring rain, fire, wind. In death, by giving yourself to the roots and the undergrowth, letting all the earthly beasts consume your bones and scraps of viscera.

That, you think, might be a bit too mature for Lore, so you leave it at that. 

She leaves soon after, called to sleep by her father, and so you pad to your own tent. It comes with a bit of a start to note that König is back—you spot his shape padding about the edge of the clearing. He is doing something with his hands—wrings them together, brings them up to his face. Smelling something? Eating? You cannot tell, in the darkness, and before you can pick apart the motion further, he turns, gaze catching on yours. 

Immediately, he turns away again, in a quick, tight movement, as if he were the one caught staring, not you. Again, there is that niggling feeling, that notion that you have some unknown question to ask him. You dig deep into your mind, try to pry it out, but nothing comes. A moment of consideration, and then you raise a hand in a wave. He doesn’t reciprocate. Freezes, yes, stares at you for a moment longer, and then his dark shape lumbers into the trees. 

More than a bit perplexed—perhaps a dash embarrassed, too—you duck into your tent. Sleep is yet beyond you—you got a few hours of somewhat-equivalent, back in Lord Graves’s caravan—so, instead, you cross over to your satchel, pull your journal free. Root around further for your charcoal stick, hand skating along the bottom of the bag, but there is nothing. 

Puzzled, you set the book down, pry the mouth of the bag wide open to peer inside. There is everything you remember—nearly-folded clothes, a waterskin, a matchbox and small knife and various other things. Theoretically, as one of the things you use most often, the charcoal stick should be at the top. 

But no. 

Perhaps it fell, somehow, past the layers of clothes? You carefully extract every little thing from the badge, laying it neatly out upon the ground, and there is still no sign of it. As a last-ditch attempt, turn it upside-down and shake, but nothing but dust and crumbs falls free from the opening. 

You stare at the bag, at the absence of the stick, and think of your missing pocketwatch. Of the fact that either you’re insane, or something is stealing from you. You have kept your bag pinned to your side all through the day—the closest anyone has gotten is Lord Graves, but there is no earthly way he could have spirited something from it, those hours in the caravan. You did not see anyone cross over to your tent, and you cannot imagine you would miss it—to see someone walking from the nexus of the camp, from the brightness of the fire, and entering your shelter on the outskirts. 

Yes, everyone clustered near the light and the heat, utterly noticeable, except…

Except for König. 

With that thought comes the snap of a puzzle piece, comes the notion that’s been avoiding you, comes the answer to that gnawing sense that you’re missing something. 

Earlier. König’d all but admitted to eavesdropping on you and Lore, which you’d paid little mind, but he’d said something else. 

Something about rustling, something about being scared away. A little joke. 

Except, you never said anything to Lore about that part of the story. 

You fall back against your bedroll, the weight of this revelation bowing you down. Cannot be, unless it can be, but then, what does that mean? König has been stealing into your quarters, not only here, on the road, but before? That this stretches somehow back to the yawning days of your childhood, that he was there for the rustle in the blackberry bushes—that perhaps he was the rustle? 

Maybe not. You reach for other explanations. Maybe his type are mindreaders, maybe he dredged that memory from some dusty corner of your mind. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. Numbly, you begin packing your belongings back into your bag, more haphazardly going in than they came out—because, there’s no point in being neat, is there, if some nebulous being is stealing your things, right?

Strange that this disturbs you more than the idea of being torn, eaten, killed. Perhaps it’s the premeditated nature in it—savagery is savagery, natural in its own brutal way, and if you do not like it, then at least you cannot deny nature her course. Nature, however, does not creep and steal and follow, not with motivations outside of that of the hunt, of the chase. 

Man, though. Man does. 

The thoughts chase you to a fitful sleep and strange, contorted dreams that you cannot make heads nor tails of. If the morning light does bring one thing, then it is a modicum of calmness, of reason to your being. 

Say König is… say you’re running on the base level of assumptions. Best thing to do, then, is to act normal. He cannot technically harm you, while the binding is active, and at the edge of the woods, you will release him, rebind some other being to see your way back to homeland. 

Say he can reach you outside of the woods. Say he’s been in your cottage. 

So perhaps that newfound calm is dissipating. You think briefly about moving, about finding some hovel in the crowded city center, of setting foot on flagstones and letting your lungs fill with the smell of smoke and shit, and dispose of that idea almost immediately. You’ll cross that bridge when you come to it—maybe whip up some new barrier spell, find a way to protect yourself. 

You take a deep breath before proceeding into the open air. Same morning as every morning, in the camp, the sleepy bustle of those packing, the putting out of the embers and the harnessing of the horses. 

At the door of your tent is a small pile of blackberries. You stare at it for a long moment, a lump rising in your throat. Pick one up, turn it about in your hand, and note the dried bracelet still clinging to your wrist. 

In one motion, you tear it off. In another you drop the berry to the ground, skirt around the pile. 

So much for normal. 

—

The walk helps, somewhat, insofar as ‘help’ means distracts you. You walk a careful distance behind König, staring at the way the sun glints off the gold bands entwined around his wrists. He glanced back at you once, at the beginning of this trip, and again, when two hours passed and you still had not taken to walking by his side. Quick, furtive. 

You stare at his hands. Try to spot any telltale stains of black, for charcoal marks. Even though any thief with half a brain would’ve thought to wash their hands, you’re banking on the fact that perhaps he’s brainless. 

No such luck. You had known, from the very beginning, that he was one of the smart ones. 

More quick glances as you settle for a midday meal, from across the clearing. You ignore him steadfastly, focused on Lore and her many questions. The topic of the day seems to be the Lord Graves—she talks endlessly about his clothing, his soldiers, his business. 

“He’s rich,” she says at one point, “and he uses all his money to go through the forest.”

It’s a unique enough statement to draw your attention, and you cock your head. “I think it’s less about the forest and more about the transport.”

“I would pay for the forest,” she says, “I like it here.”

“You don’t need to pay. Just give yourself to it, and it will give itself back. When you’re older, I mean,” you hastily add. Probably not a good idea, encouraging a child to run away into the forest. Blame it on your addled mind. 

Reset. Walk. Avoid. Routine, at least until König begins to slow—you slow as well, on instinct, until it comes to the point that you cannot convincingly measure your pace any further, at least not without coming to a crawl in the road, and you are forced into step with him. 

Despite his initiation of the side-by-side, he does not talk for a long moment. It’s only your continued silence that pushes the words out of him. 

“Hallo, Spinne. Did you… ah, schlafen? Sleep well?” 

It’s a painfully awkward statement. You can’t help but wonder why he’s wasting human breath on small talk like this, why he seems so eager to get a word out of you. 

“Fairly,” you reply, which, despite the restraint, is still a misrepresentation of the strength of your slumber—which would be, truthfully, badly. “You?”

“Gut,” he replies, “Ich träumte von…”

He trails off. You have no earthly idea what he was saying, so you let it rest. On another day, perhaps you would have picked at it, but you’re—understandably—less willing, now. 

Silence again. No jump from you to initiate, and he seems to have exhausted his pool for the day. You half-wish you could recapture the wonder of a new guide, of studying him, of finding amusement in all his small mannerisms, but all that’s been drained away by the thoughts that pound through your head. Thief, sneak, stalker. 

“You are not,” he says eventually, “riding, today? With, ah, the Schwächling?”

You stare up at him. The question comes with an almost endearing touch of nervousness, of thinly-veiled anxiety, that itself veils the largeness of his being, the power in every step. Makes him smaller, in some ways, less threatening, as you’re sure he’s trying to be. For whatever reason. You can’t help but remember you and Lore’s conversation last night—something about the forest, something about how she knows, how she gives what you need. 

It’s not always as clear-cut as the time with the skull-faced one. Sometimes, you see no message in the choice of guide at all. But she has never necessarily steered you wrong, and so that begs the question, what is it about König that you need, this time? 

“With the lord?” 

He stares at you for a moment. Nods. “Ja. Schwächling. The Lord.”

No,” you settle on, “no, I’m not riding with him. I prefer walking.”

“Ah. I… I as well.” He looks down at his feet, as if ensuring that he is, in fact, walking, and then back up at you. Not at you, but at a place somewhere beyond your shoulder, only regarding you through the diagonal. 

“You do that a lot?” You ask. It’s half a dry joke, half an idle comment. 

“Ja,” he replies, “back in my domain.”

“You have a domain?” You ask. It’s less the idea of him lording over some section of the forest that startles you, more the word he used. Domain, not territory, not land. Gives the concept a regal sort of lens. 

He ducks a bit lower, back hunching, presumably-chin digging into his broad chest. It’s easier to ask questions of him than to answer—makes you feel like you’re regaining a bit of control, collecting a few crumbs of whatever life he must lead. When he already must know so much about you, it’s only fair. 

“König means King, ja? From my tongue to yours. My kingdom is not stone und Dreck, like one of men, but it is one.”

“Are all of you kings, then?” You ask, “your kind?”

He shakes his head. You wince before he answers, already sensing what’s coming. 

“Nein. There is no… Ich bin allein. No others, of my species.” A moment of silence, before he rushes to add, “that I know. Know of.”

Insensitive, maybe, but blame you for being curious and uncharitable, which is always a deadly sort of combination. “No mother? Father?”

“Mutter, I did not know. Vater…” he hesitates for a long moment, before saying, “did not know. As well.”

The sheer sadness in his voice, in his demeanor, melts your walls a bit, inspires a small pang of regret that you asked when you already, presumably, knew the answer. Maybe this is a bit of a better outcome than them being dead, but you have one of both in spades, and while the death of your Mother stings more than the absence of your Father, you cannot say it’s ever pleasant to talk about. 

“I did not know him either,” you say, “he… he was fine being a witch’s lover, but not her husband, not a witch’s father. No great loss.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, “about him. And her.”

You don’t need to think to know who her is. Don’t need to wonder how he knows, either—even without the record of following and all that, it wouldn’t be too hard to guess. 

“Magic was less accepted,” you say, “when I was young. They tolerate me now, though, because I’m useful, and I make money.”

“What will you do,” he asks, “if that is not the case? Stop practicing?”

Briefly, you imagine that—never letting the power of the world sweep through your fingertips. Never walking down this twisting, unconstrained path, never conversing with a creature of the woods. Burning your journal. Surviving on scraps of reality, none of the ephemeral to usher life along. 

“No,” you reply, “I couldn’t do that. I suppose I’d just… let history repeat itself.”

He nods, and you slip back into silence. It would be easy to ask, ask about all that’s roiling in your mind. Less intimidating now, too, looking at him—you have a bit of a hard time comparing, pushing the image of König before you, smaller than he really is, consoling you and being consoled in turn, with what else you know he is. Contrasting it against the King of the forest, ostensibly, tall as an oak and broad as a mountainside, predator of some order and cunning of another, ripping open a deer’s stomach with his bare hands. Trailing after you, you, for some reason that you still haven’t been able to pin down. 

You don’t even know what his face looks like. You try to imagine it, but the two images of him conflict, and you cannot decide whether he would look like a man or like a beast, whether he would have molars or fangs, whether he smiles or frowns or furrows his brow in a growl, furrows his brow in confusion. 

—

That night, in your tent, as the third day of travel winds to a close, you try to plot out the rest of the journey in your head. Two more days—one, if you’re lucky—before you will break free from the woods. Unbind König. Receive your payment from Lord Graves. Spend a night in the city, at the quietest inn you can find, before you make the return journey with a new, hopefully less confusing guide. 

And then, home. Tantalizingly close, but you cannot let yourself get swept away in that knowledge. König is endearing, he has a sad past and a knack for getting under your skin, but you have to remember your greatest lesson of the woods: to not grow complacent. Always on-guard, eyes to ensure he does not find some way to slip the binding. 

The next morning, you wake with the camp, make your way outside as dawn paints the sky. Instinctively, your eyes find König at the edge of the clearing—he is already staring at you, when you see him, though, as is the pattern, he looks away immediately. You’re so fixated on that that you do not notice the soldier approaching you—he taps you on the shoulder, rougher than a normal tap would have been. 

“The Lord requests you,” he says, “at his caravan.”

König’s head shoots back up, looking at you like he’d heard the soldier’s words. Which, you would not be surprised, given the range of his hearing. You keep half an eye on him as you proceed into the camp. You spot Lore, helping her father hitch up the horses, and she shoots you a grin that you wanly return. 

The Lord stands on the platform of his caravan, leaning over the railing, a cigar in his hand, trailing a thin line of smoke. His other soldier stands behind him, and when you climb up, the one who ushered you takes his spot on the other side. 

“Good morning,” he says, as you come up next to him—next, meaning a fair distance away. 

From this angle, you can barely see König. You keep your eyes on him as you answer absently. “Morning.”

“I know,” he drawls, “I am looking forward to civilization. You, Witch? You have any plans for the city?”

You shake your head. “No. I’ll be going back home. Milord.” The last part is tacked on, an idle bit of respect, as you track König’s movements. You made sure he wasn’t in your tent last night by sitting right next to it with Lore, but you didn’t get the chance to take it down before the soldier summoned you. You don’t think he’d dare to go in now, in broad daylight with all the camp bustling about, but best to stay on guard…

“Right. And I’ll have to find another witch for the way back, will I?”

There’s a bit of an edge to his voice. You raise an eyebrow, puzzled. 

“You did not hire me to guide you back.”

“Right,” he repeats. “I did not. Ah, well. I’ll be glad to see how another one of your kind works. Binding is such a marvel, is it not?”

“It’s magic,” you reply evenly. You do not like talk of the arcane falling from his lips—do not like the fact that he’s considering it in any way, this art that is far beyond his fine hands. 

“Think about it,” he continues, “all these monsters, tied. Can’t harm anyone, but they’ve still got all that power. Makes you wonder… wish I could do it myself, I’d find good use, but never got the art, you could say.”

You murmur some vague assent, still distracted. He turns, eyes fixing upon you. You don’t return the stare—still watching König. “

Remind me, how many days are left on this journey?”

“Two days. Maybe one.”

“As good a time as any,” he says, and perhaps it’s something in the way he says it, or perhaps it’s the movement of the soldiers in your peripheral that finally triggers your attention. 

You barely have time to speak before a hand locks around your throat, dragging you back into the confines of the caravan. You kick, flailing out, but you miss most of your hits, and the ones that do land, do not faze your attackers. When you try to choke out a spellword—one for fire, one for wind, anything—the grip around your neck tightens, strangling the words before a single syllable can be uttered. 

Slowly, your vision darkens, the edges blurring and warping like waterlogged paper, and you do not know you have fainted until you awake, arms tied behind your back and legs bound similarly. There is a ball of fabric shoved into your mouth, which has the doubling effect of drying it out and muffling you. 

The Lord stands in front of you, suddenly tall when you are seated upon the ground before him. 

“I am dearly sorry,” he says slowly, “but it’s a harsh world, Witch. Don’t worry. If you behave yourself, I’ll let you go. Later. Later!” The last word comes with the uptick of a chuckle as he spins around, begins to pace. 

“Nobody’s ever captured one of ‘em before,” he says, back to you, now—maybe better, so he cannot see the way your brow contorts at his words—“good thing you bound the strongest for me, huh? Can’t even hurt us. Wonder how much money it’ll fetch?”

You start a new round of writhing, but the knots are tied expertly tight. He whirls around just as quickly, kneels so you are face-to-face. Puts a single hand upon your shoulder, all signs of mirth dropping away as quickly as a summer storm. 

“Look, here’s our deal. You stay good, quiet. We get to the forest. I take the beast. One of my boys will stay back with you, until we’re a good distance away, and then…” he steps back, both hands splaying out in front of him like he’s presenting a prize, “you’re free.”

Another grin. The worst thing about it is that it seems real, this joy, this satisfaction. 

“Are we clear?” He asks. You stare at him. When a long moment passes without movement, he leans down. Places a hand upon your chin, slowly nods your head up and down. 

“Yes,” he adds, in a high falsetto, “we’re clear!” 

You’re so blinded by rage that you can’t even comprehend his absence until he’s already out, one of the soldiers following along. The other stays in the room, watching you with an intentness that makes it clear what disobedience, attempts to escape, will bring. 

Outside, there is the sound of the Lord’s voice, followed swiftly by a clamor that’s quickly quieted. Informing the rest of the caravan about the new status quo, assumedly. It comforts you a bit to know that not all of the people surrounding you for the past three days have been plotting, but that doesn’t do much to improve your situation in the moment. 

Sitting there, in the half-dark, alone with the movement of the wagon and the gaze of the lone soldier, you’re forced to confront the fact that you have been complacent. Not regarding König -no, you have been perfectly vigilant—but instead Lord Graves. Depended too much on the fickle selflessness of man, on the idea that the forest held danger, not the carts trailing you. 

And now, so many will suffer for that. König, chained, Lore, pushed along in this scheme. 

The day passes, not without a bit of desperation. You try to mutter out a spell through your gag, but the moment your guard hears a noise, he cuffs you across the head, hard enough that it makes you dizzy. A subtle attempt to untie the knots binding you goes much the same way, and this time, he draws his sword. Eventually, you settle on agonizing over the coming days, alternating that with trying to think of a new plan that will not get you killed. At set intervals, the guard kneels down, withdraws the gag from your mouth and pours a carefully-measured amount of water in, with the implicit threat that a single word, and it will be your head rolling with the wheels. 

Is this how König feels, you wonder? Bound, tied, unable to do anything of his nature? Is this what you have been doing, all this time? You cannot bring yourself to hate him, or even fear him, not with this new revelation coursing through your mind. 

At some point, the carriage stops. Lord Graves returns, gives a satisfied sort of smile at your bound presence. 

“My apologies,” he says, “but you’ll have to deal with hunger, the next few days. Your little mouth is too dangerous, hm?”

You do nothing but glare. It doesn’t seem to faze him. The other guard comes in, switches out with the one who’d been guarding you. Doesn’t really matter—you don’t think you could’ve told the difference between them if there was a sword to your throat. Indistinguishable figures of black and metal. 

When he gives you water, you try another spell—perhaps this one is a bit slower on the uptake—but the guttural beginning of the word is staunched by the shoving of the gag back into your mouth, a strike for your trouble, and further thirst. 

At some point, it begins to rain. Only makes your predicament worse—your mouth is chalky now, even with the gag, and your stomach pangs in hunger. A strike of thunder, a flash of lightning, bright enough that the curtains don’t entirely shield it. The rain increases steadily, falling faster and faster, and it’s only when the carriage begins to shake that you realize something may be wrong. The thunder comes so fast, now, that it is like it never ends, and the world is a strobe of ozone-white. 

The other soldier bursts into the carriage. Not for you, but to address your guard—“Come, secure the camp! Flood!” 

He races out, and then, you are mercifully alone. Your chance. Just as you start to try and spit out a few words, however, the door opens.

Not a guard. Not the Lord. Not König, even, but Lore, sopping wet. She does not waste a moment running to you, skidding to a half-kneel. In the darkness, you cannot make out what she’s fiddling with, but when lightning illuminates the room, you see. From the bag at her side, from your bag, she withdraws a knife, begins to clumsily saw at the ropes binding you. They fall away after only a moment, cut to the quick, and as she moves to your legs, you withdraw the gag binding your mouth. 

“Lore,” you say, “how is- thank you, how did you..?” 

She looks up as the last fibres binding your feet give out. “I was packing up your tent,” she says, voice quiet and faintly quivering, “when the Lord… I grabbed your bag. I couldn’t- he hurt him, hurt my Pa, I looked for your witchcraft and I spoke the words in the book and the storm started-” she takes a deep breath, cutting herself off, and you realize that not all the water on her face is of the rain. You hover, unsure whether to embrace her, half-caught on her story of the book. 

The spell you’ve been working on, the one half-made, intended to summon the rain. Completed, twisted, in some way, to this storm of olden days. 

“You have to help,” she says, regaining a touch of composure. It’s the jolt you need, the one that reminds you you have little time left—already, it seems like the rain is letting up, like the thunder and lightning are ringing at further and further intervals. You stagger to your feet, legs dead after so much time in stasis, manage to hobble to the door. Out, into the open air, but you get only a moment to savor the taste of freedom. 

The camp, the clearing they must have found, is a mess of churned mud and puddles that approach the status of ponds. Crates are scattered across the space, some cracked open, and there is a mess of collapsed tents, peppered with moving brown shapes that you release, belatedly, are mudstained people. 

You spot König immediately, standing in the center beside the other caravan,w hich you only now realize has completely tipped over. And, beside him, Graves, who screams some order for him to lift it. He obeys, tugged along by those golden strands, but his head twists, latching onto you as easily as you latched onto him. 

The motion draws the attention of Graves, who whirls around. His face splits into an expression somewhere on the spectrum between smile and growl, manic either way. 

“I was wondering,” he says, “if you had a hand in this.”

You spot a black shape moving towards you, another on the opposite side. Not much time. 

“Guess you’re not being good. Pity that’s all this little escape’s gotten you. Just give up, ‘kay? It’ll be easier. ”

He’s so confident, beyond even the point of arrogance, that it takes a moment to realize why. He does not believe you pose any danger to his plans. 

Because of a conversation. Because of a lie, the same lie you tell all of your patrons—that it takes a ceremony to unbind a creature. He believes you cannot simply open your mouth, cannot release him as easily as a man with a hunting dog. When he asked that, three days ago, he must already have been putting his feelers out, trying to gauge his plan, and your answer fit neatly into that. 

The closer guard begins to sprint. There is a boom of thunder, and you stare at him, at his smile. Open your mouth, turn your head to the sky, try to comprehend the clouds burled overhead and the relentless downpour of rain, push all your magic into the words you scream—“I unbind you! I release you, König!”

It is a quicker process than the binding—in a blink of an instant, the gold around his limbs snaps. He wastes no time, turning on a heel, slashing a single hand across the Lord’s torso and slicing his clothes into ribbons of skin and blood and rotted finery. He does not have time to scream, before the other comes around, slams his skull against the collapsed caravan, and he collapses to the ground. 

The first soldier scales your caravan, already drawing his sword, but before he can touch you, you throw yourself from the rails, rolling in the mud, slipping only once as you rise to your feet. By the time you do, König has already made quick work of the further man, who is nothing but a lump of black upon the ground. 

The last of them, the soldier upon the caravan, hardly touches the earth, hardly has time to turn, before König leaps, a pounce to rival some great feline, barreling him down with a dull thud. 

And just like that, it’s over. You stand still, staring at his hunched form, bloodsoaked and rising. The rain does little to clean him—it is lessening by the second, and besides there is so much blood that you doubt a river could do the job. He stands as stiffly as he did days ago, when you’d seen him after the deer. All his trappings of timidness, the skin of man shed for the body of the beast. 

“I lied,” he says, voice high and accent heavy, “Spinne, about mein Vater. I knew him. I killed him, when I came of age, and took his kingdom. König! King of the forest, of it all!”

The last words, he screams to the heavens, which answers him with a great peal of thunder, some divine commiseration of his claim. You do not disbelieve for a second that he is what he says—him, before you, tall enough that you must crane your head back, blood mixing with mud at his feet, could be the king of the world for all you’re concerned. You take a step back and he advances an equal distance, leaving the body behind him. 

“You’ve been following me,” you say, “you were there, when I was picking blackberries. You were in my cottage. In my tent.” Your voice doesn’t quite sound like your own—it feels like the words do not come in-sync with the movement of your lips, like you are disconnected from your body. 

“Ja,” he says, the word half-growl, half brag, “I am König der Wälder, so you, Waldhexe, are mine as well, no? I have felt your… your strands, ihre Saiten. For so long, until they came to me.” 

It is both less climactic and more climactic a confession than you would’ve thought. 

He takes another step forwards, still tall and taut, strength personified. On the precipice of something—you could speak. You could shake him out of this, return him back to the König you’ve shared most of this journey with. 

He cocks his head. You have never been able to imagine his face, still cannot, but you know he’s smiling. Another step. He reaches out a bloodsoaked hand, viscera coated under his taloned fingernails. 

You turn tail and run. 

Even as the forest comes up to swallow you, you know that he’ll catch you. It’s not about escaping, it’s not about fear, it’s about the adrenaline that courses through your veins as easily as air, it’s about giving yourself to the wild. It’s about letting him luxuriate in his nature, it’s about the chase, the ritual that every creature of the world has performed since the beginning of time. 

Wet leaves slap at your sides as you dodge through the trees. Behind you, there is the heavy thud of footfalls, the cracking of branches. It’s all you can do to focus on not tripping, to modulate the intake of your breath, let alone check to see how far he is behind you. 

For what seems like a slow, liquid eternity, all you do is duck and sprint and pull your feet from the muddy ground, push them back in, as the noise behind grows ever closer. 

A final crash, and then, there is a hand upon your shoulder, digging in so hard that you’d swear blood wells up. You turn before he must turn you, face-to-face—or, perhaps somewhere along the lines of face-to-chest—with your pursuer. 

“Got you,” he rasps, voice low enough that you can feel the rumble through the air. 

You barely manage to nod, panting. 

“Did you want me to, Spinne? Snatch you up, take you as meine Königin?” His hand moves down, claws still dragging lines through your clothes, barely touching your skin. It settles around your waist, and his other comes around to hold it as well. It’s a special sort of exhilaration, here—to know that the softness of your stomach is so close to him, so accessible. You think, briefly, of the deer and its intestines, and a shiver wracks your spine. 

He drags you closer. You don’t exist. Bends down, close enough that you can almost see through the vein of greenery over his face, and whispers, “Ich habe so lange darauf gewartet.”

You have no idea what that means, but you’re sure you can get the gist. With shaking hands, you reach down, begin to shuck off your wet pants, and undergarments beneath them. With that, you look down, and get an eyeful of his own arousal—his cock must have been hidden in the thick tufts of fur around his nether area, but now, erect, it’s so large that you cannot imagine it having been hidden. 

König takes a step forwards, backing you up against the tree behind you, close enough that, without the shirt, the bark would be kissing the plane of your back. For a moment, you stand there, caught in the uncertainty of inaction, and then you fall to your knees. Because you already know you need more than a bit of time before you’re ready for him, and for your own selfish need to get a good look at what he sports. 

In front of you, it is even larger than your initial look—which makes sense, it’s no doubt proportional, but it’s larger than any man you have ever been with. You bring your hands up for a start, running light fingers across the length of the shaft. 

Even that light touch brings him low immediately—he hunches, hand coming up over your head to steady himself against the tree, a low groan winding through the air. Experimentally, you try again, with more force this time—wrapping your hands around the length, bringing them up to swirl at the liquid upon the tip and using the slickness to pump—and this time, the moan he lets out is loud and high. 

“Have you done this before?” You ask, caught off-guard by his sensitivity—another angle revealed of the König you know. 

“Don’t stop,” he groans, and so you pick your pace back up, repeating the question. 

He takes a long moment to answer, and when he does, it’s stuttered and breathy. Comes with an exhalation of what you think might be laughter. “Nein. Nobody to- to…” the phrase devolves into a gasp, as you lean forward, and carefully wrap your mouth around the tip. Swirl it with your tongue, and slowly, lean forwards, taking more in. 

His other hand, the one not upon the tree, comes down to your head, claws digging into your hair in a way that feels almost pleasurable, the sting dulled by adrenaline and the rapid beating of your heart. It is a hint of that strength, and you’re too hopped up on imagining the bare restraint of his muscles to worry about the fact that there must be blood in your hair. By the time his cock is hitting the back of your throat, there is still a good amount left. You draw back, then forwards again, playing at it with your tongue, using your hands to stroke the part you cannot reach. 

It’s only when you see the muscles in his abdomen tense that you draw back, letting it fall limply from your mouth. He lets out an anguished cry, instinctively canting forwards, but you drag yourself to your feet. 

“Not yet,” you chide, and his grip upon your head tightens a fractional. Not out of malice, you think, simply an instinctive reaction, a display of strength. You reach down, placing a hand upon his cock and arch up, guiding it to the heat between your legs. By now, you’re ready—or at least, as ready as you’re ever going to be for someone of his size—and he must sense that, because both his hands come down to once again wrap around your waist. As easily as if you weigh nothing, he lifts you. A bit roughly, back scraping against the roughness of the tree, but you can’t bring yourself to mind. 

A moment as he slots himself into the space, tantalizingly close, and then he keens forwards, pushing his way into your hole. It comes with a sting that soon gives out to pleasure, and your hands go around to his back, to tug at the hair there in a vain effort to keep yourself grounded. They come back red, nature distilled to purity of cell and copper. 

The pleasure slowly seeps into pain again as he reaches the base, bottoming out within you, and you bow your head down, letting it fall against his chest. He smells of blood and leather, of some aspect of nature—some combination of the thousand smells you know of the forest, all conjoined into some new arrangement of parts. 

When he bucks back and thrusts in, it comes almost as an electric shock—so quickly empty, then full again to the point of overflow. Once more, as you acclimate to the newfound rhythm, rocking along with him. He’s a mess of sounds and grunts, sometimes coherent, sometimes not—again, some twisting edge between man and beast, and perhaps the line is not distinct as you have always thought. The finest, most uppity of Lords can be as savage as any predator, and the kings of the forest can give you blackberries and weave bracelets around your wrist. 

You bring a hand down to your clit, rubbing at the bud, sending shocks of pleasure in time with his thrusts. It’s easy to linger on the edge of the precipice, pulling back only when the pleasure begins to crash down, waiting. 

Only a moment longer before he stills, twitching within you, and you allow yourself to fall in time, contracting with waves of pleasure, as strong as the thunder that shook the sky. His cum inside you, burns with a rapturous sort of warmth, and when he pulls back, you can feel it trickle down your leg. 

“Ich liebe dich,” he groans, all concept of the common tongue gone, “meine Spinne, meine wunderbare... du bist die einzige…”

You collapse to the ground, legs giving out with the force of what just happened, and he follows, albeit far less limply. 

“You took the bracelet off,” he says quietly, and suddenly, all that bloodsoaked brashness is gone—he is the same König who snuck glances at you, soft and low. But they are all the same, in the end, no? Just as the forest that brought down thunder and torrents of rain is the same one now, who peers at you with a clear blue sky and the faint arc of a rainbow, calm as any spring day. 

“I was a bit perturbed,” you reply, “when I realized I had a follower.”

He looks down at the ground, gracing a single finger through the dirt. “I… I was young, you see? And my father, he was not… not a good king, or soul. He ruled all the Wald, so I would wander out, and I found you, Waldhexe, human and not, connected and not.” 

He looks up at you, and, with a bit of startlement, you realize you can see his face—the storm and subsequent romp has torn the greenery free, and the face it reveals is not one of any bestial storybook monster, nor the finecrafted features of a human prince. He is handsome as a mountain is, with a strong nose and solid expression, fine auburn hairs running down the sides of his cheeks and chin, leading up to where his head meets his curling horns. Scarred in some places, from fights before you knew him, and his mouth is stilted open by a row of long fangs. 

More than anything, it’s his eyes that capture you—blue like the sky cracking overhead, they stare into yours with such an ardent sort of fixation that it makes you shiver, to imagine them boring into you upon you all this journey. 

“You hypnotized me,” he says, “Spinne, from the start, from the day I met you. I could not wean myself away. It was the best day of my life, when I saw your little golden cords.”

You remember the feeling when he walked out of the forest, remember your initial fascination—which has only bloomed as a flower does, only grown and turned. 

“Me too,” you reply. 

The moment, as most moments, cannot last forever—by the time the clouds clear enough to allow sunlight down, you’re standing stretching out your aching legs, tugging your wet clothes back on. His gaze follows you, a silent question in them. 

“We should get back,” you say, “the others… Lore, we have to go back.”

He stands as well. “It was she who started der Sturm.” With one hand, he points in a seemingly-random direction, but you take it in stride and begin to walk. If anyone knows the way back, it would be him. 

“She’s talented,” you say, “maybe… she asked me to teach her. I said no, but maybe that’s changed.”

The sound of footsteps has changed. Stopped. You pause, turning around, see him rooted in the earth. 

“You’re going to teach her?” He asks, something shakingly vulnerable in his voice. You tilt your head, confused. 

“She summoned a storm with a half-completed spell. She’s shown more than enough care for the forest, for the animals. I think-”

“You’re going back,” he interrupts, and then it all makes sense. You stare at him, uncertain how to proceed. 

“I.. have to. It’s my life.”

“What life?” He asks, “a… another Raubritter, another trip, another web? More? You are not happy there, Spinne, I see it. Is this-” he makes a wide, sweeping gesture to encompass the forest, “not enough? Am I not enough?”

The last part of the phrase lilts up in tender uncertainty, effectively puncturing any anger from his prior words. Moreso, when you consider them, when you see the sense. How much longer can you thrive on only bare slivers of the woods, on acquiescing to the cruelest of the human world? 

Besides, after that day of being tied, you do not know if you can stomach binding another being, justifications or not. 

“We’ll go back,” you say, “meet with the people.” You watch his face fall fractionally before you say the rest. “And then… you’re right. I can’t go back to the city, to what’s not the thicket. I’m… I’ll be your Queen, König. If you’ll take me.”

All the shutters around his face fall in an instant, leaving his sheer joy open. In a moment of impulse, you rush forwards, stretching up with the help of leverage upon his shoulders, and plant a kiss upon his mouth. It is clumsy and he does not seem to know how to reciprocate—funny, how you have not even kissed yet, but you suppose that’s another human thing—but only a moment, before he’s leaning forwards, trying to recapture it. 

Bliss in the drizzle that mists your lashes, in the warmth of him beneath you, in the feeling of his lips and the prospect of staying. Of never having to look a noble in the eye and pretend to respect them, of living the life you have always ached for, among the silver leaves and roots of a thousand years. 

—

The clearing is empty. It is not until you follow the road for another hour, lead by König’s hand, that you find them—the group of seven people, horses plodding along at the back, led not by one of the drivers, the adults, but by Lore. As you watch, they reach a fork in the path, and she points definitively down one without stopping. 

You look up at König in silent question, and he nods in response. She’s picking the right paths. If you had any doubt about passing your craft down to her, they are gone now. 

You do not know what you look like, walking out of the trees—bloodstained, soaked, hair mussed and a glow of another type tied to your limbs. Still, with all that said, you would not expect Lore's first reaction to be rushing forwards, wrapping you tightly in an embrace. 

“I thought you were dead,” she whispers into your torso, “I thought he killed you. I’ve been… I’ve been trying to guide us, and it feels like the trees are telling me where to go, but I don’t…”

“You’re guiding right,” you say, dragging a hand over her hair, trying to console her—trying to dull the impact of your next words. “Lore, do you have my book?”

She nods, pulling back to fumble at your satchel, which has been wrapped twice around her body and is still a touch too large. “I have-”

“Keep it,” you say, before she can pull it out, “I’m not… I’m not coming back. The book has everything you need to get started.”

She blinks at you, uncomprehending. 

“If you don’t want to learn the craft,” you continue, “find a way to give the book to… to Lord Hong-Jin’s son, Kim.” The boy who’d been lost in the forest, so long ago, the only other pupil you’ve ever considered teaching. “Only him. But I don’t think that will be a problem.”

No, you don’t think it will. She has seen some of the worst of the forest, some of the harshest, but that is the sort of trial that intensifies the call of power, the hunger to know the world. 

“Why are you leaving?” She asks. You hunch slightly to look her in the eyes, summoning a smile. 

“I’ve found a… found a place for myself.” 

Unbidden, the conversation from nights ago rises to the front of your mind. Paying for the forest, the idea of giving yourself and having it return itself in equal measure. 

You are offering all you have, after a lifetime of taking, in body and mind both. 

She nods in solemn understanding. Steps forwards to hug you once again, and when this embrace breaks, it’s without a goodbye that you turn, walk into the trees. König greets you from behind a thicket of bush with a simple nod of his head, the proffering of his hand. 

You take it, and he guides you fully into his demesne. 

—

One last thing. 

There is no marriage out here, of course—no priest, and besides, the ties of men hold no court here, in the heart of the thicket, where even that twisting road does not dare touch. 

Instead, there is a quiet night, with a wood cottage and a small platter of blackberries and the thin rumble of a dawning storm outside. You lean forwards and whisper to him your true name, and he does the same, allowing them both to hang in the air for a second. Tied first by bonds of the flesh, and now, with that of the soul. 

It begins to rain. You feed him a blackberry, allow his fangs to graze your fingers. 

When he kisses you, you can still taste it upon his tongue.

[facewithoutheart]

Thanks for the tag @prettygoododds! I totally agree the 10 to 1k challenge is way more about editing than it is writing, which I’m really loving even if omg it’s so hard.

I’m off traveling with my husband for our 12th anniversary. I spend most days alternating between being so full of love for him that it feels like my heart can’t bear it, and wanting to push him into the nearest lake. Marriage, am I right?

See below for writing updates and photos from my trip, plus a small cursed snippet.

I’ve also been doing a ton of writing while traveling and none of it on things I should be working on 🤣

Some updates:

I’ve been really loving the 10 to 1k challenge which I wasn’t planning on entering, but got an idea the night before flying out and so I guess when else do you start a new WIP? Check mine out here if you want … it’s a buddie fic where Eddie will kiss Buck … but only for five minutes at a time. Featuring lots of mutual pining and self-hatred. These boys are really good at hurting themselves. This whole fic has really helped hone my short game. I’m having a great time.

I also started posting more silly adventures of Buck the robot. It’s dumb it’s sweet. At some point there will be porn.

To the excitement of none of y’all but a lot of buddie fans, I finally started tackling my sequel to We Are Like Frogs Oblivious. It’s basically just gonna be mpreg smut interspersed with some sweeter moments. If you’re hoping for angst resolution, you’re in good luck.

I started plotting but haven’t written much of my FTH fic for @thewholelemon. I’m kind of annoyed I got a wave of juice that dissipated in favor of buddie, but it’s based on a tv show I can’t currently watch, so fingers crossed motivation comes back when I’m home.

And then for my most cursed fic, I wrote, like, 6k of RPF on my flight to Zurich. It’s ringing too melancholy now (I was so anxious while flying I feel like that colored my creativity), but I’m gonna share some of it below because I need a reason to dive back into the google doc and convince myself it’s not as bad as I remember:

The worst part is Oliver’s not even frustrated that what comes hard-won to Oliver comes so naturally to Ryan because on their first joint interview together he finds himself equally as charmed.

“I loved you in Into the Badlands,” Ryan says shortly before the cameras start rolling.

Oliver, who prides himself on never being caught off guard, is surprised by this. “I wasn’t aware that show had much of a following.”

“Well, no,” Ryan admits, his aw shucks in full force, “but I tried to watch at least one film or show for each of the cast when prepping for the job. Did you know Chimney was in Halloweentown?”

There’s a moment where Oliver could feign shock; it’s clearly the reaction Ryan expects. Because that’s the normal response one has when one of your co-workers boasts the prestigiously credited role of “hip-sales-creature” in a Disney Channel Original movie.

Instead, Oliver finds himself confessing, “I did, actually.”

When Ryan doesn’t seem thrown by Oliver’s reply, simply sits there, full eye contact, his shoulders angled toward Oliver and one hand on his chin like Ryan couldn’t imagine anything more interesting than the drivel Oliver’s about to spout, Oliver adds, “When I got cast as Buck, I actually watched every project Angela, Peter, Connie, Aisha and Kenny ever made.”

This makes Ryan react, his brows flying upward to that lush hairline of his. “Every … every project? Phew,” he whistles, “that had to have taken …”

“Way too long,” Oliver finishes for him. “I can be …” Oliver bites his lip, thinking about how to phrase this, and doesn’t miss when Ryan’s eyes track the movement “… intense,” he lands, a bit breathless.

“Mmm. I’ll say.” Ryan’s smiling placidly, like he didn’t just reveal a tell that would send Oliver in a full panic if he’d allowed it.

If you’ve made it this far, here’s some photos:

& tags for people who I don’t think will be annoyed at the lengthy update lol @sillyunicorn @martsonmars @raenestee @thewholelemon @bookish-bogwitch @cutestkilla @stitchyqueer @forabeatofadrum @fiend-for-culture @artsyunderstudy @aristocratic-otter @ic3que3n @run-for-chamo-miles @monbons @roomwithanopenfire @whatevertheweather @ileadacharmedlife @skeedelvee

[whatifieatedpaperlol15]

Hey can you explain the will wood hair war for me. I'm confused. Why are there ocs. I wasn't a part of it please explain it. Please

(to answer the other ask- dont worry rhis isnt rude at all! Also sorry for late reply- I was a sleepn’)

okay- so basically the whole will war thing started when bald will wood and his roommate created hair will wood (gimmick accounts who would post bald/hair pictures of will wood daily) and decided it would be funny to jokingly start a feud. Well it worked- so alot of people wanted to join in! What they would do was create a side blog, grab a random feature or object and slap will wood at the end of it.(ex: nose will wood)

so anyways at first when it was still kind of small, it was mainly memes and jokes for shits and giggles. Making comical things happen, usually our actions centered around our gimmick.

Like say paper will wood for instance (dispite the fact I didnt make a side blog, I low-key was just kind of lazy - but with the resurgence i finally did yay) they at first would “cast” things on the enemy balds “origami-magic-style - insert something random and quirky here”

I think when meow will wood and woof will wood came into the picture, writing very detailed prose it being technically a joke, with the punchline being the entire point of the war- things took a shift.

more and more people started to join- and it started to become a comical role play. For me it became that when I interacted with eyebrows and liminal (love you guys!!! /p) another defining thing was when liminal started to make the updated charts, showing the relations in the war between the characters (who’s a general, whos on hair/balds side, are Chris and will (I will explain thst soon) still captured by the balds etc.)

and also when people started to become more creative with their woodlings (I’ll explain that in a moment too) or building off from their silly wacky one, giving them lore and backstories as more and more people shifted to role playing. as February became march, it really was that, people even began to talk to the characters they would interact with most, elaborating where they were gonna go next with their plot (still do!).

And coincidentally, the ides of march was coming up. That was to be the “final act” of the will wood hair wars. Basically setting bald and hair free (the admins didnt want to participate anymore- which is always fine. If you joined and had to leave there is absolutely nothing wrong with that)

anyways we classify that as era 1. Usually pretending it was the most violent and war torn era (even though it was so fucking funny brooooo)

Some people still wanted to participate in the will wars, so we cooked up the elections, era 2. And it was going great! Until it wasn’t. One day this guy pretending to be Chonny jash or something started to harass alot of people, even joined the will wars community thingy (those tumblr community things) spammed some awful shit, we got rid of him- but it just tired alot of people.

It also opened a Pandora’s box of people not in the hair war telling us to end it, it was becoming annoying and obnoxious, were flooding the will wood tag (which thst last one was a serious problem during era 1, but we fixed it and made sure to avoid that tag, but it was so long ago- I have to admit it annoyed me thst they were saying that as we have been so careful, monitoring ourselves and making sure to not inconvenience anyone. Ruined by trolls. But I digress.) so anyways we kind of got a deadline to “wrap things up” by a certain date, and we did. Thus ending era 2.

and also people we’re essentially saying that what we were doing was inappropriate and disrespectful towards will wood- saying that it’s rude to roleplay as a real person

that one made me realize that this is so much a role play that these characters aren’t even will wood anymore, theyre our own oc’s who are based off of certain will wood aspects and references mainly for comidic relief, but at the same time will woods dicography and aspects was like the basis of the whole logic system of the wood verse- and it was probably important to define that with how far in we were - so thats why we were now called “woodlings” as a species in the world (or willworld as liminal like s to call it) and the Chris and will being trapped, not being rp'd by anyone, we’re pretended to be “Gods incarnate” to those who were religious in game (some people think theyre the real will and Chris, some think theure con men, either way it was an immense political decision in game to kidnap them - but it’s okay because they were just playing dti style showdown in their cage at the balds barracks)

so anyways, browses admin and I had been kind of elaborating on the entire thing, establishing certain things thst solidified the fact that this is a world on its own- heavily referenced to will wood and other brainrot. We even created a geographical system to whereas different albums were regions, different songs were cities and landmarks, also elaborated on which album is next to which, not in a chronological way but mainly based on vibes and sound (it’s still very conceptual) aswell as elaborating on our own characters and their relationships with eachother (so much lore man)

so anyways, last week or a week before last idk, with summer coming up, alot of people decided “hey remember that? Thst was fun we should do it again” so ever since that, era 3 began. And now that things are more clearly established, it’s alot easier for people to join or roleplay and overall have fun. I also am glad that this one is going alot slower than the other two eras, mainly because of the mutual understanding that alot of us are either busy, or in different time zones and whatnot- respecting that we all have a life outside of this

Anyways this is all my own perception- so there may be some inaccuracies. and I have no idea if this helped in anyway or was coherent- and if anyone wishes to add on or correct me with anything feel free to! and thank you for asking!!!

[the-stranger-of-the-hidden-world]

Feeling Lyra relax against him made Streak more vigilant of her. He didn't want her to fall off of him, after all, so he tried to be careful her to make sure that she wouldn't. Her answer to Stranger's question made him croon in response, waiting for land to peek over the horizon and see where Lyra was leading them. "It feels sort of the same, I think." Streak replied as they continued to fly, his ears twitching so that he could continue to listen for his siblings flying close beside them. "There's some sort of hum and buzz... it's not obvious, but it's there. It's natural. It's just... part of things, like smells and sounds. We always know where north is because we can feel it, so we can navigate based on where 'north' feels like. Wherever we need to go we remember based on how far it is from 'north' and what direction 'north' is from somewhere. If we were to try to find the Mothermouth again, that's how we would find it."

That was as far as their innate sense went, however. They could only know how to navigate intuitively, but otherwise what Lyra was describing was foreign to him. There was no 'sense of danger' or 'sense of others like him' like he had a sense of where 'north' was.

Stranger didn't even have that. She didn't have the sense that Streak or her brothers had, which was another reason why she relied on them. She couldn't 'feel' where north was nor how far away it was, she could only rely on where the sun rose and set. She was able to figure out on her own that the sun rose in the east and set in the west, but she still had to mentally check herself and figure out where north was based on that. She had a better sense for east and west than north or south.

And she certainly had no sense for how far away things were... so that was another disadvantage being human had for Stranger compared to her brothers. Another reason why she wouldn't be able to survive on her own without them...

As they continued to fly, something began to slowly creep on the horizon. Streak didn't have to squint thanks to the darker scales on the sides of their eyes helping to absorb and reduce the glare of the sun and allow them better vision during the day. "Is that what you're looking for over there?"

Lyra felt like they were dancing. How gracefully they flew around one another. How smooth their movements were. It was like when fae flew together in celebration. Not many flew great distances like this. The amount of power and strength the dragons held.

The fae found herself laying atop Streak. Still holding on but much more relaxed. Her trust in her new clan growing. The feeling of being protected. The fact they still cooed to her to let her know she wasn’t alone. Her heart ached in a good way.

With her eyes closed she could feel the pull even stronger. Forests. They were getting closer to land with lots of forests to rest in. When Stranger spoke, Lyra opened her eyes. Looking in the direction the voice came from.

“Well. When close to home or other fae. Feeling is buzzing. Tingles the neck and arms. But when looking for good land. For land with forests and green, feeling is… like song. Like humming. Welcoming. Soft pull like water in river pulling you.”

The first thing Lyra was going to do when her magic finally replenished was strengthen her translation magic. There was so much she wanted to say. To explain the pull of the magic in her soul. And just didn’t have the words. Didn’t know how to say it in the dragain’s tongue.

“I close eyes, feel it stronger. Feel it in heart. Pulls body right way.” Lyra’s brow furrows.

“But if getting close to bad… close to danger. Feels like rock on chest. Like being squeezed and can’t breathe. Feeling says to get away. Not go that way. So far, no bad feeling. Only good. Find land soon. Next one we see is right land.” She was sure of it. It felt so close now.