#the first one was too solid and prone to riding up

[stonebutchooze]

ordered my first actual packer :)

[ddarker-dreams]

Scarlet Ribbons accidental kisses with the gang? (I love your writing so much! You're one of the best fanfic writers <3 <3 I reread your works so often, they make my day : D)

wahhh thank you so much, i'm happy to know my writing can bring you some joy!!! 💖

i'm going to assume that this request takes place before SR reader is in a relationship with anyone, hopefully that's what you had in mind hkjetgrmw maybe something like she started to trip and x guy went to catch her? some traditional shoujo exploits ...

[Scarlet Ribbons index]

Giorno

There's a 99% chance Giorno's sentient Stand, GER, had a hand in this. The Stand shares Giorno's affection for you and wishes his user would hurry up in courting you already. Giorno catches onto the shenanigans at play but it's too late — while catching you, your lips make contact. His face has never felt so warm. He tries portraying himself in this suave, calm manner, but when you're in his general vicinity, it's a challenge to maintain this balanced state. His voice is a few pitches higher when he rushes through an apology. The Don of Passione would feel less nervous starting down the barrel of a gun. Later, he chastises his conniving Stand, but deep down… he's secretly grateful.

Bruno

Bruno doesn't immediately pull away and thinks less of himself because of it. He's straining himself to the degree that veins start protruding from his forehead. Your comfort matters far more to him than satisfying any carnal needs. After he ensures you're steady, he puts an appropriate amount of distance between you, then starts apologizing for the mishap. If you're feeling particularly mischievous, now would be the most opportune time to tease him. He's usually immune to being flustered, even from you, but the emotions running rampant through his system momentarily lower his defenses. There'll be a slight blush on his sunkissed skin. He's quick to excuse himself so he can get his heart under control.

Fugo

Fugo struggles to make eye contact with you for a solid week. Once he gets past the initial slew of positive hormones that make him feel like he's on cloud nine, reality settles in, and he's mortified. What if you think he's a creep who did it on purpose? The thought alone leads to sleepless nights where he gnaws on his nails. He berates himself and is extra prone to explode with anger at the slightest provocation. You need to reassure him before there's collateral damage. He's still stiff around you for a while, but that's because his eyes start wandering to your lips if he isn't careful. His own start tingling, as if remembering the soft sensation and longing to experience it again.

Mista

Mista knew the lord was on his side. The last time he attended mass, he prayed for something like this to happen. The main objective henceforth is to maintain his cool. Ride out the waves of coincidence and try not to come off too strong, lest he scare you away. Once he's certain you aren't going to unleash your wrath upon him, the cogs in his brain begin turning. What can he say to sweeten the moment? Win you over with his charisma and charm? There's got to be a perfect combination of words that'll have you weak to your knees. Eventually, he settles on complimenting your chapstick flavor. He later bemoans himself for not saying something cooler.

Narancia

It's like raw caffeine was injected into his veins. He's absolutely ecstatic, ready to bounce from wall to wall, even though he recognizes it was an accident. Who cares? This has got to be fate, or whatever it's called, he thinks he heard the term in a movie once. Narancia is bragging about it to absolutely everyone, much to their chagrin (especially Fugo's). Abbacchio pours salt into Narancia's drink when he isn't looking as a silent form of vengeance. You come into the room and everyone aside from Narancia is grumpy. You're absolutely his first kiss, a fact he takes great pride in. That is, until he wonders if he's your first kiss… then his mood is slightly pampered… for all of ten minutes. Then he's back to beaming, uncaring of anything besides the fact your lips made contact.

Abbacchio

Abbacchio cannot remember the last time his heart pounded this hard — if ever. Still, he doesn't linger in the moment. He may be harsh around the edges, but he still cares for you greatly, the last thing he wants is to make you uncomfortable. When he parts and sees his purple lipstick smudged onto your pretty, parted lips… it is a divine test of his self-control. That mental image has never left him. He's stuck between not feeling worthy of your affection and wanting to kiss you until the pigment stains your lips a deeper color. It's a dilemma. If he isn't constantly distracting himself, his mind runs off to fantasize.

[meadowlarksabove]

Second appointment with @aamusedly (Odelia)

What did it mean to betray someone? 

Back in the still darkness of the Flesh, surrounded by fabulous blood-warmth, there were no sides to pick from. Objects outside of the whole were an abstraction, an inevitable addition to the great mass passing through the void. The existence of an ‘other’ stretched as far as the space between solids, and only lasted however long it took for them to crash. So there had never been a ‘them’, but an ‘us’, forever and always. 

Still, when he saw their faces, pale with fright, he’d understood what it meant to draw a wedge between bodies. Theirs were a line of ghastly, horrified expressions, which faded in the quick passing of the bus, left behind on a crowded sidewalk. They must have been terrified beyond reason, and surprised that he had so deftly escaped their supervision. Most of all, they must have wondered why he was so prone to fleeing. 

The creature liked them, they knew, since without the Followers of the Flesh he’d be left entirely alone on Earth. But they’d seen him smile through the glass, tickled by his own trick, or rather by a growing sense of mischief. Had the god they birthed into this world become a prankster? Or was he amusing himself in some other way? They scrambled to keep up with him, but just as soon as they’d seen the white flash of his teeth, the bus was gone… 

Gabban pulled the city map out from his pocket and counted the stops. The address written on Odelia’s note led him to the opposite side of town, far away from their sacred Temple. Good, he wanted to get as far away from the place as possible. After what had happened on the night of Asunción, after what they had made him do, he couldn’t stand to be cooped up for much longer. He desperately needed someone to talk to again, and the woman made of dead meat was his only choice. Everyone else was too simple, too grounded to the soil with mortality. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to struggle against human ignorance. 

Though she wasn’t exactly like him, she was touched with a similar peculiarity, a taste that kept her from fully ‘belonging’ anywhere. He remembered the darkness that enveloped them at the park, the uncanny gloss of her eyes, the slow tilting of her head, and hoped she would sympathize with what he had to say. 

The trip to her library was long but just scenic enough to be enjoyable, and to someone as fresh faced to the world as he was, it was mesmerizing. Two buses, a subway ride and a fifteen minute walk later, he was finally on the street she’d put down for him.

Gabban had wondered how he would know for sure which building was hers, until he set his eyes upon it. The place was beautifully crafted, in some kind of quiet, foreboding manner. Simple, but ornate where it mattered, with windows and pillars that spoke of old age. He looked around the front entrance to see if anyone else was around, but most of the people walking across the street seemed oblivious, maybe disinterested with the place and never made attempts to set foot inside. 

Gabban looked up to the sky and noted the first signs of a sunset happening on an obscured horizon. He was early, but better that than wasting more time with his chaperones. 

Carefully, he settled on a spot beside the main door and waited where no one could see him from the street. 

[animxpossessed]

My Experience with Psychedelic Mushrooms as a Man with ASD and SZA: Part 1

I first started experimenting with psilocybin at the age of 17, during the summer following my Junior year of High School and preceding my Senior Year, in early July of 2021. My psychosis had yet to take hold. But I was experiencing strange muscle twitches that I thought to be transmissions from an unconscious, mute part of myself, responding to my every thought. And a strange sound that would seem to emerge from background noise, it sounded like Morse Code, or server room transmissions. Electrical noise seemed to make it worse. The sound would emerge from anything from crickets to fans to any generalized white noise in my environment.

I began to notice these frequently about a week before my first trip, they were preceded by roughly a year of prescription D-Amphetamine Sulphate abuse, and I had recently started experimenting with vaping high quantities of THC near constantly.

A 7g heroic dose of a strain of cubensis known among many as "Jedi Mind Fuck", and some Penis Envy, another strain of cube. This all equated to roughly 7 dried grams, and I had a THC edible of unknown strength, that was believed to be somewhere in the ballpark of 400mg.

The trip was spread out into a 2-2.5g starting dose, and a 4.5-5g redose 2-3 hours following the initial dosing. So not a solid simultaneous 7g to the dome.

Once it began to kick in after the initial dose we bought some supplies, most notably high Vitamin C Orange Juice, from the market. We then drove down to the local creek, I emptied my pockets of anything prone to water damage and dove into the water head first, running my hands through the rocks and basking in the vivid beauty and vibrancy of nature. It was as if viewing life through an 8k TV with extremely defined colors and a slight sharpness filter.

After we spent some time at the creek we decided to head back to our friends house. That's where it hit me. "I'm not tripping hard enough", so I ate the rest of the quarter hastily after a lot of heavy discouragement from my friends. One of which was a very experienced tripper.

After the redose begin to kick-in I began getting anxious and weary of my friends dog, and the potential to lose control. At one point the dog barked at me while I was zoning out and losing focus, just sort of blanking out, this startled me. A rush of Adrenaline surged through my blood and the painting on the wall in front of me began to expel and give off these waves of flowing psychedelic color coming from the edges of the frame and morphing into the wall it was fixed on.

After some heavily intoxicated thought, I asked my friends if it was alright for me to go home, as I wanted to just lay down in a dark room and limit the over-stimulation. After some consideration, they determined that I was handling it like a champ and let me go on my way. I grabbed my bike and realized I was too fucked up to ride a bike. So I then tried to walk it home, passing through our friends next door neighbors front yard. Before I could reach the other end of the yard a sudden feeling overtook me "I can't continue, because I don't know what to do or for that matter know anything". It was strange. I still had access to my ability to reason, and my memories, but they seemed distant and unreal, and my new sense of real was replaced by this utter sense of bewilderment. I let my bike fall, and laid down in the lawn.

After some time the residents in the house of said lawn, came out to question, "Why is a confused, disheveled and bearded boy of 17 dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket, and bearing an uncanny resemblance to the stereotypical whitewashed conception of Jesus of Nazareth in my front lawn? ". They asked me what I was doing in their lawn and all I could muster was "TRIPPING, I'm TRIPPING BALLSSSSS I tooooOK AllAAT of MUSHROOOMS". I then began to repeat the name of my mother, and the current name (presently her deadname) of my love interest at the time, conveniently both names began with the same letter, making my extremely bewildering life a lot easier.

From there the first responders came. I was first questioned by cops who confiscated my THC Oil Pen. Followed by paramedics asking me what went wrong. I remember worrying the cops were going to assault, grope, or harm me in some way as they stood over piss soaked me (during the trip, I couldn't find the restroom but my tripped out self was too paranoid and anxious to ask for specific directions and guidance, so when I gave in to defeat in the neighbors front lawn, I also let my self succumb to my bladders desires.)

I remember being loaded onto the gurney, and thinking "what if they're taking me to their dungeon". And continuing to think so as I rode in the ambulance. At some point I blacked out in the ambulance, and sometimes I can still feel the feeling of the clammy, earthy, mushroom scented sweat that I felt, and I've had disembodied voices claiming to be paramedics tell me that they need to put an IV in my arm because I'm bleeding out from my head. Insisting that they are trying to help me. Accompanied by the tactile hallucination of a paramedic raising my arm, accompanied by my arm mysteriously raising itself without my intent. This "flashback-esque incident" occurred about 1.5-2 years after the trip, after smoking 2-3 bowls of ~47% THC Infused Bud/Moon Rocks. At the time I was going through about an 8th of moonrocks a day.

In the hospital, I began believing I was in some metaphorical dream world meant to represent purgatory, or something akin to a bardo. I began to believe nothing I did or said mattered or had consequence. So I began screaming whatever came to my mind. Asking the male nurses to, I paraphrase, "Fuck me like the little slut I am daddy make me your bitch". I also began to yell things I cannot even remember, but I remember saying "I love you baby" a lot, and according to my dad, who was alerted to my location in the hospital and arrived about 1-3 hours into my hospitalization, I could not shut up about my current love interest, (who still has left the biggest mark on my psyche as compared to anyone else I've met to this day). He stated that I was proclaiming my phallus to be 9 inches and that it fit perfectly into her (different pronouns at the time, using present day out of respect) asshole, and how apparently she was a red hot lover. During my trip I also experienced the solipsistic fear that the only beings to ever exist were me and the sadistic god that created my reality, and showed me relative normality just so I'd miss it when he plunged me into a life of suffering and surreal chaos. The song "Movember" by Mom Jeans occurred to me as I mentioned this fear. Specifically the line "The doctors said you would be fine".

When I finally came down (enough) to be discharged from my hospital bed, I realized that everything I had just experienced was indeed real, or at least seemingly real in my current state. I proclaimed "I have never felt so alive" after the horror and embarrassment quickly faded and gave way to exhilaration and amazement, and gratitude that I'd finally be let go from the cold, sterile environment full of alarming and foreboding bleeps and bloops that is the hospital.

My dad drove me back to his place, as my mom was pissed and didn't know much about shrooms aside from what she had learned from growing up in the 60s and occasionally listening to psychedelic rock.

On the drive back the stars twinkled intensely seemingly blinking rapidly. Everything looked sublime, vivid, vibrant, and sharp. I felt this sense of positivity and excitement, I kept going on about this "Light that runs through everything and everyone" that I first began to mention in my love interests at the time soon to be S.O and present day ex's car during the first part of my trip, right before I redosed. Only me and my love interest were tripping but a majority of us were stoned. She never redosed and stuck with the initial dose.

The next post in this series will cover the experience the following days during the afterglow, quitting Dexedrine, and the like. I may also make a albeit much shorter post solely dedicated to my experience with Dexedrine (the aforementioned prescription grade D-Amphetamine Sulphate Instant Release pills). As they are also a massive part of my lore. That concludes this post. Thank you for reading and sticking with it.

[sunbecms]

(   SOBHITA DHULIPALA.  CIS WOMAN.  SHE/HER.   )   ⸺   Ꮺ  ⋆   greetings , buffalos !  walking around campus , sporting her FATHER’S POCKETKNIFE we’ve spotted ANIKA SETTY ,  a thirty year old who contributes to our thriving community as an ARMORER . according to our intel , they’ve been around the sanctuary for TWO YEARS and they DO agree with the decision to close the gates .

trigger warnings : weapons , firearms / guns , illness , death 

anika setty grew up a military brat , shuffled from strict community to strict community year after year .  she grew up very close with her father who taught her to be an independent , strong-willed woman who could take care of herself .  it wasn’t your typical father-daughter doting relationship ; he was a high ranking military official and the line between child and solider was sometime blurred ; anika was expected to behave , be self-sufficient , and not let emotions overtake her .  luckily , anika’s father’s harshness suited her , as the same roughness was woven in her dna and she was naturally prone to it .  they remained close until she entered her own military training as a young adult .  that is when the outbreak began . 

used to wielding weapons from a young age , anika was no stranger to knives , firearms , and whatever else she could get her hands on to survive .  she was a natural born leader and kept a small group of survivors alive and well under her command .  during her travels , anika met a man much different from herself .  he was an artist , a songwriter , a poet . 

at first she scoffed at this man and fought to keep her group’s limited resources away from him .  he did not serve much utility in her mind and was only brought along because he knew one of her friends .  as time went on and friends were lost , the man became a source of comfort to anika .  he showed her what it mean to express grief , soul , love .  slowly she warmed to him despite herself , and they fell for one another .  they grew to be engaged , though anika tried to tell him it was silly to want marriage in such a destructive world , and yet she found herself longing for it too . 

after a year , anika’s fiance fell ill .  at first she thought it would be temporary , but it only worsened .  in a blow that broke anika’s heart permanently , her finace died .  completely torn apart , anika withdrew from her self-created society and exiled herself .  it was only her toughness and sheer will that kept her alive from there until she ended up at the sanctuary .  there , she found simple life as an armorer easy and focused and she fell into a mindless routine quickly . 

anika can be rough and difficult with a seemingly impenetrable guard , but she is openly personable , charismatic , and fervently committed to the others at the sanctuary .  those close to her affectionally call her ‘nika’ or simply ‘nik’ , and they know that she would do anything to ensure their survival .  though she cannot always accept care herself , she is typically open to caring for others as they need .  her former lover opened her mind ever slightly , and his impression will always be with her . 

wanted connections ?? 

➤ ride or die , anika would do anything for this person and vice versa .  whether or not their personalities match , they are on the same wavelength .  

➤ roommate ( s ) , people anika lives with , those she trusts enough to have near when she’s unconscious at least . 

➤ flings / fwb , they use each other’s wittiness and bodies for some fun with things get tough ; it doesn’t mean anything .  ( any gender )  

➤ former ( ? ) romantic interest , whether it stays 100% former or not will depend on chemistry , but maybe someone who anika had interest in when she arrived at the sanctuary , or vice versa , before anika shut down when things became too real .  ( any gender ) 

➤ confidants , maybe they’re not close during the daylight hours , but when night falls and insecurities and fears arise , they seek out comfort and honesty with one another .  

➤ sibling-like dynamic , they annoy each other , they bicker , they confuse outsiders , but they have each other’s back .  

➤  etc , i’m very open to wcs you want for your own muses or ideas you think may work ! 

[burning-omen]

Mutations and pleasure headcanons

Characters: Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Warren Worthington III, Peter Maximoff

Warning ⚠️: N*fw

Kurt Wagner:

It’s not part of his mutation but it’s worth mentioning, he’s flexible. To the point that it might be unreasonable.

He can fold himself into so many goddamn position and he’s strong enough to hold them for however long he needs to

Anyways, he has 100% just disappeared durning sex.

One moment your railing him into the mattress the next the entire room is covered in blue smoke and Kurt is nowhere to be seen.

About 10 seconds later he’s back with an extremely flustered look in his face.

Before you could question him about where he went he told you he was going to bed. He climbed in next to you and faced the wall for the rest of the night

The next morning he practically begged you to forget that it happened but to also say away from Logan for a few days.

And that’s how you figured out where he landed.

Your avoidance didn’t last long because at some point the next day you ran into Logan, who just let out a long sigh before patting you on the shoulder and walking away.

A few days later Kurt’s over it, just a freak accident, right?

Nope, happened again the next time you had sex with him.

After this kept happening he, begrudgingly, went and asked for help from no other than Logan!

The conversation was basically “hey Logan you fuck a lot right? Can you help me with my sex-teleporting problem?”

And he did, pretty much told him he just needed to be more in the moment mentally so his body wouldn’t take him out of it physically. (whatever that fuck that mean)

After he re-figured out how to stop teleporting spontaneously he decided to use this to his advantage.

I would like to introduce you all to a concept that I like to call “teleportation as a form a teasing”

Intentional teasing wasn’t one of Kurt’s strong suits so he figured that it might help

The first time it happened you were not prepared at all.

You were watching tv, as one does, your mind wandering off as some show played.

Then BOOM

There’s Kurt, looking determined but you could see he was nervous.

Carefully he climbed into your lap, staring down at you for a moment then leaning down, pressing a quick kiss on your lips, he kept going, kissing you over and over again.

He grinds himself against your thigh, groaning softly as sped up. The fabric of his underwear somehow hits every nerve just right.

You watched him as you gently kissing his neck and the bit of exposed chest just above the collar of his shirt.

“You’re bold today, sweetheart.”

“I-i know.”

And just like that, he was gone. A cloud of blue smoke left behind.

You knew this was different from the other times he’d disappeared, then he’d been so absorbed in pleasure that he just POOFED away. This was different, you barely even started, you hardly even touched him and he was gone. And even if it was an accident, he told you he had that under control now.

You just hoped that he hadn’t lied to you.

A few minutes later you wandered into Kurt's room, watching him from the doorway as he frantically arranged and rearranged the things on his desk. A nervous habit of his.

He tries his hardest not to look over at you, focusing incredibly hard on all the stuff on his desk.

He refused to look up even when he heard you close and lock the door, or when you walked up behind him, pressing your body against his as you wrapped your arms around him.

“Kurt..”

“...”

“I know you can hear me sweetheart, you wanna tell me what happened earlier?”

“Nothing..”

“Really? Nothing? Didn’t feel like nothing..”

Feel a little bad for him, he doesn’t know how to tease correctly.

You’re going to have to make him admit to attempting to tease you through the ultimate means of fucking him into the mattress until he’s seeing stars.

Scott Summers:

And now, a list of things you couldn’t do with Scott before he got some semi-permanent glasses:

Roughly fuck his face, because if you did and you knocked his glasses off you’d, at the very, very least, have your entire dick cut off.

Fucking him too hard. Period. It sounds fun but who’s going to pay for the holes in the ceiling or continuously replace your mattress when giant holes are inevitably burned into him?

So if he doesn’t have some semi-permanent glasses by the time you two start having sex everything’s going to be extremely soft and gentle

But the moment he shows you the new glasses it’s over for him.

He’s getting railed on/in/against everything you could think of, because you can do that now without bodily harm or thousands of dollars worth of property damage.

Have y’all been caught having sex in a place y’all shouldn’t be? Yes.

Do you give a flying fuck? No!

No Scott can’t do anything on his own the next day because moving hurts but hey, he had fun.

Warren Worthington III:

Hey Siri, define wing kink

For y’all’s that don’t know “Wing Kink is a related trope which often appears in wingfic (or in fanworks where a canonical character has wings), in which the character's wings are an erogenous zone and caressing them produces pleasurable feelings.” - the fanlore wiki

His wings, when you first started having sex with him, were completely off limits.

He made that undeniably clear to you.

Not because he didn’t like having them touched, but more because he didn’t think you’d like touching them.

All of that went straight out the window a few months later.

He was drunk, which had recently stopped being a normal occurrence for him. He tries to break out of his alcoholism, but it’s a slow and painful process. Instead of just outright stopping all at once he decided it would be better for him to just slow down. It works, he’s not drunk every minute of every day anymore so that’s better. He’ll drink on the weekends, and maybe take a shot before bed but other than that he won’t drink too much. But tonight he was drinking with Logan and in his attempts to keep up with him he’d ended up drunk out of his mind.

He cut himself off, he knew that if he drank more he’d blackout and he didn’t know what he’d do if he did.

So he stumbled all the way back to your room and tripped on literal air.

The sound of him hitting the floor woke you up.

Sitting up you saw Warren laying face down on the floor, giggling like a fool as he made multiple attempts to get up only to end up right back on the floor.

“Warren, it’s 3 in the morning, come lay down.”

You wanted to go over and pick him up. But you knew how he was about his wings and being touched in general.

After a few minutes of coaxing and encouraging him to get into bed he finally did.

Basically plopping down on top of you with a tired grin spread across his face

Burying his face in your chest, he closed his eyes.

After a few minutes you thought he was asleep, but you were proven wrong when he let out a long sigh and looked up at you.

“Fucking hold me..”

No, he doesn’t know how to ask for things nicely he’s a little bastard

You try and avoid his wings at first, gently draping your arms around his shoulders.

But that very quickly frustrated Warren, causing him to grab your arms and forces them around him and his wings.

Before you could try and say anything about it you could hear him snoring.

You sighed, deciding to deal with the breakage of limits could be talked about in the morning.

When you woke up Warren was already awake, still laying on your chest, just staring at you. His cheeks turned a light pinkish color when you looked down at him.

He wouldn’t say anything. He just stared at you for a solid 10 minutes before rolling over onto the other side of the bed.

He’s afraid that in his drunken state he’d made you uncomfortable, which led him to the never ending spiral of anxiety that made him say his wings were off limits in the first place.

Asking him what was wrong just led to him apologizing without actually saying what for.

Throughout the rest of the day he avoided the subject which made him ultimately avoid you.

You see? This is why you should talk to your partners, guys.

It took him awhile but he eventually said what he needed to say.

NOW ONTO THE SEXY BITS

Lightly running your finger through his lower feathers can be a way to get him in The Mood or to calm him down after a particularly rough sex (it helps with his sub drop)

This ones a bit more romantic but kiss his wings, especially the little part where they connect to his back.

He’ll melt, just straight up die on the spot because it’s just so nice and soft and feels so good.

Try not to be to rough with them, it hurts a fuck ton.

His wings are still off limits in certain aspects.

No using them to overstimulate him, he doesn’t like it. No pulling on his feathers, it hurts in the Not Good way.

But do kiss, massage, pet, and run your fingers through them.

He was very nervous when he first let you touch them, unintentionally flinching away when you reached for them.

Run your hands through his feathers while he rides you, he won’t last very long if you do.

praise him and call them beautiful, it took him a long time for him to learn to love himself and his mutation and he needs to be reassured sometimes

STILL BE CAREFUL

HIS WINGS ARE PRECIOUS AND MORE PRONE TO BAD PAIN THAN ANY OTHER PART OF HIS BODY

Just be careful with him stg I love him so much

Peter Maximoff:

Zoom zoom bitch

He fast

He has the nicest ass because of how much he runs

He can and will grab you and take you back to his room if he’s feeling especially needy.

And then he’ll act extremely bratty despite the fact that he brought you there.

He vibrates.

Most of the time unintentionally.

It’s his version of shaking, so he definitely does it when he cums

“Peter, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Just...give me a moment..”

He’s gotten too eager before and fallen off the bed while trying to change position.

When I say this man gives the best blowjobs in the history of blowjobs I mean it

His tongue vibrates too. That added with the fact that he has no gag reflex AND no shame? Rip

Quickies, anywhere anytime.

Cameras can be covered in less than a second and he can have both of you looking relatively decent before anyone comes in.

You have to guide him while he rides/fucks himself onto you because he might hurt you or himself by going too fast.

He’s not aloud to use his speed when given sexual orders

Usually after being punished he’s much more shy and nervous.

Making him do things slowly only adds to that.

Make him get on his knees in front of you? Gone, he’s so blushy and embarrassed at just being in that position.

Make him strip and prep himself while you watch? Ceases to exist

Will beg and cry for you to let him speed up, but he’s just putting on a show.

Grinding against pillows or folded blankets with some kind of plug up his ass is his preferred method of masturbation because he can go as fast as he wants without worry.

He’s ripped holes in a few blankets and pillows and has very unsuccessfully hidden.

“So are we not going to talk about the hole in my brand new blank?”

“No we are not.”

[mxvladdy]

I have a prompt idea! The Brothers reacting to an MC that can regenerate after they die. Someone stabbed them? The wound will close in a bit. Did they fall from a high place and their body shattered? It’s all good, they’re body’ll just snap everything back into place as they’re conscious. We’re they poisoned? They’ll treat it like a stomach bug and be fine the next day. Funny part is MC could tell them the worst ways they died during their childhood in a lighthearted way which makes things more disturbing, especially since demon threats against them won’t work.

Ok first time I read this prompt I had a good laugh bc all I could think about was an MC that made that little squeaking noise those rubber chickens make when they inflate every time they regenerated lmaoooo. Could you imagine the pavlovian response all the brothers get if they hear a squeak? Like Lucifer would be trying to sleep and Cerberus finds one of his old chew toys and the fear it brings is legendary.

TW: Death, Blood, Injuries

Lucifer

When you first tell him he has no idea if it was a crude joke or not. You are so blasé about something that should traumatize you. He hates how you snort at his every threat. What good is blackmail if you don’t go for it?

He does not believe you at first. Just another little human talking big trying to impress him. He would keep a keen eye on you too, making sure they have no reason to get even so much of a scrape on their knee. Believe you or not he doesn’t need this program to fail. Then Belphie happened. Seeing your lifeless body made so many things happen in his mind he felt physically ill. He hadn’t felt like crying so hard since Lilith…

And then you sit up and crack your spine, like you were waking up from a nap instead of getting up after being thrown from the second story.

He-is relieved, and terrified. Were humans supposed to do that? He doesn't remember reading this particular ability in his father’s schematics. He believes you now nonetheless.

But he still doesn’t let you just go getting hurt whenever you feel like it.

“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head firmly. He is unfazed by your cute little pout and huffing.

“Lotan is friendly!” You try again pushing the form back at him defiantly. Lucifer picks it up again against his better judgment and scoffs. Friendly, if Lotan is friendly then Cerberus was a saint. “Come on what’s the worst that can happen? I’m out of school for a day or two if things get dicey.” You plead leaning up and over his desk. Ugh. He rubs at his temple in annoyance.

“The fact that you think skipping a few days of school because you became fish food as a minor hindrance terrifies me.” He drolls but picks up his feathered quill irregardless. You squeal in delight and hug him fiercely, managing to pull a smile out of him. They grab the liability agreement and run out the door already shouting for Levi to hurry up before Lucifer changes his mind. He chuckles leaning back in his chair. Fine, if they are happy… let it be on their head if it severs. Wait- could they regenerate from that? “Shit.”

Mammon

He believes you. Not because he takes their word for it but the first night on duty as your caretaker you fall out of his balcony window.

One minute they are having a heated argument about his unwanted duties, him hovering over you while you lean up against the railing refusing to break eye contact. Next thing he knows the old stone gives and you both tumble.

He has wings and catches himself. You- not so much. He can still hear the sickening crunch of bone meeting stone when he lays awake at night. The first thing he worries about is how much trouble he would be in with Lucifer that he failed again. He's a blubbering mess over your body swearing he would do better if they would just get up. Whatever you want it’s theirs if you just open their eyes.

And of course, you do. He won’t admit to the scream that erupts from his mouth when you ask him to swear on that deal or they are going to Lucifer as soon as they can feel their legs. He agrees readily, glad his hide is saved for now.

When you two become closer he figures why not make some money off of this little quirk. Enter the troublesome duo of grifters.

You whimper, hamming it up for the terrified looking demon glazing between your broken leg and Mammon wiggling his ring heavy fingers at them. “Look what ya did to my human.” He tuts. “What, ya don’t look both ways when riding.” He kicks at the upended bike by his feet. The demon sputters swearing that they did and neither of them had been in the way.

“Mammon~” His human sniffles flashing him a teary eyed pout. To the other lesser demon it looked like a plea, but Mammon knew it was a warning that your leg would start mending soon.

“Who do you think is gonna pay for this?” He goes in for the kill waving his free arm down at his human’s prone form. “You want Lucifer or Diavolo ta hear about this? Ya know this human is special to us.” The demon blanches and shakes its head. Terrified it threw its wallet at the avatar of greed and bolted leaving their bike and bag behind. Waiting for the demon to be completely out of earshot Mammon turns with a dazzling smile. “Damn,” He whistles, helping his human back to their feet. Already the bone and skin had mended leaving only an ugly red stain on the fabric of their uniform. “I think you just moved up the ranks of my most favorite things. Gonna rival Goldie soon if this picks up...” He opens the wallet and pockets the handful of cash in it, tossing the worn fabric to the street floor.

“Hey.” Mammon looks down at you. You were now scowling eying his pant pocket. “Don’t forget your side of the bargain.” He chuckles raising his hands in defeat.

“Alright- Alright. One stupidly expensive ice cream coming up.” He can't hide his blush when you hug his arm close to your chest, excitedly leading him back to the main street.  

Leviathan

Oh like in that one anime???

But really, he is the first to take your word for it. Finds it kinda neat. Not that he is going to test it. Who would he have to play with if you were just yanking his chain?

He listens to absolutely spine chilling tales of your little “mishaps” as a child. But you brush off his concern. Don’t worry about it! Makes for great stories. To tell right?

Of course, when he sees it first hand he forgets for a moment that you would eventually feel better. He left his tank open one night to clean out some debris gunking up the water pump. Damn things get stalled so frequently now. He turns his back for a moment to get a tool and the next he smells human blood in the water!

He scoops you out of the water before whatever fiendish creatures he holds in his aquarium can take a bite and gets you to solid ground. He is panicking hardcore, he doesn’t feel a pulse. He sees that they smashed their head, blood pooling sluggishly down your temple. You must have slipped on the wet tank edge and hit their head.

Just when he is about to name another Henry in your honor you pop up spitting out whatever water that had gotten into their lungs. They flash him a knowing smirk at his red-rimmed eyes and joke that they have a killer headache.

Nurse Levi to the rescue!

Levi checks in on you again, leaning over the edge of his tank. “D-don’t you move a muscle!” He shouts down to you. Squinting he sees a hand emerging from the mound of pillows and blankets inside his tub-bed. you shoot him a quick thumbs up before turning your attention back to his giant flat screen. “You sure you don’t need Barbatos or some pain meds?” He frets. He was close to just giving up on the pump and coming to take care of his miraculously healed guest.

“Levi I’m fine! Not even sleepy.” Your muffled reply wafts up to him. You push down some of the blankets to give him a relaxed smile. “See not even a scar.” You show him the side of their head that had been cut. Sure enough, nothing was there but a smoothed patch of skin. It lessens some of his panic, but barely. He knew internal damage was still a thing to humans.

Finishing up quickly with the pump he slithers back down to your side sheepishly. He had apologized what felt like a thousand times, but he was ready to drop a couple thousand more if need be. His looming causes you to look up from the anime you were watching. The flashing blue and yellow lights illuminate their calm gaze. None of the panic he felt seemed to transfer to you. “Want to join me?” You pat at the covers. “Waters warm.” You chuckle at their own joke pulling the blue covers down and away to give him room to join them.

“I-if you’re sure.” He stammers wiping at his face to hide his flush. You nod, patting the empty side again. He joins you snuggling close, he runs a hand where a gruesome scar had been not even an hour again. You nuzzle in close. His slightly cool fingers felt great on your skin before turning back to the screen completely nonplussed.

What a weird human...

Satan

Much like Lucifer doesn’t believe you. He has never heard or read about humans being able to do that. Will not believe them and gets annoyed by the “fake” stories you kept insisting were real.

The fact that a single human has such a vividly morbid imagination fascinates him, but he won’t divulge in your little fantasy. There is only so much foolishness he can deal with.

He forgets about it after a while and you stop bringing it up. If he doesn’t believe you so be it, he’ll find out one day surely, you aren’t exactly the most careful with your body. When he does find out it about does him in.

He had warned them of climbing on his bookshelves. He doesn’t have them tethered down or stable. He doesn’t need them to be. His shelves would never even dare to topple on him. But this weak little human takes his room as a personal jungle gym, climbing up him and his things for a book. They could just ask but Devil’s forbid they did something halfway intelligent.

You hear him fretting through the fog coating your senses. His fingers shakily poking at your crushed abdomen and legs all bent akimbo clearing broken. “Don’t be dead-please don’t do this.” He hisses about ready to use magic to put you back together again. You pull your strength and grab his hand before he can interfere with your natural healing ability.

He starts, green eyes looking down relieved and amazed at you. “Don’t.” You croak, already feeling your lungs and rib cage healing. “I’m good.”  

“You’re good!” He shouts voice cracking in exasperation. “I’ve seen the aftermath of Beel’s feeding rampages that have looked better!” You snort pushing his hands away to rest up on your elbows. Eh- he wasn’t exactly wrong.

“I look like a chewed-up burger huh?” You joke laughing at his stunted and slightly disgusted look. “I’ll be ok, just help me up? My legs are always tingly after healing.” Wordlessly he follows your instructions amazed at how well you are handling all of this. Were you actually human? You stand on wobbly legs bending and popping your joints. You give yourself a quick check over “Tada!” You give him two very bloody thumbs ups once you see that you are back to normal. “It’s all good!”

He shakes his head bewildered. “I-if you say so.” Satan wrinkles his nose looking at the mess of your clothes and his room. “Go wash up. I’ll get you a new set of clothes and work on this mess.” You nod already heading to his slightly cleaning bathroom. His warm hand wraps around your wrist catching you mid stride. “Don’t tell anyone about this ok?” He pleads. If anyone knew that he had been so foolish, he would never live it down.

You nod miming zipping your lips. “Betcha believe me know huh?”

He rolls his eyes turning to the task at hand. “Don’t push your luck, or next time I’ll leave you under a shelf.”    

Asmodeus

Believes you. You have never lied before so why do it now over something so trivial. Humans die all the time and if you say you can't then ok. He asks tons of questions about how you found out about this.

He doesn't like the stories you tell but doesn't find it off-putting how easily you talk about it. He's been around the block with mortals and they cope in all sorts of ways.

He cuddles you and coos over every story you tell then shoots off hundreds of compliments about your complexion. It's amazing how well your skin holds up to all the foolish actions of your past.

Even though he trusts you and your stories he still is super careful with you. You are not going to get hurt on his watch, absolutely not! Will patch you up if you need it all while gripping about your foolishness.

But accidents happen, and even the most watchful demon trips up sometimes.

Asmo tuts over you rubbing at the potion burning away at your flesh. "I told you the maroon bottle love." You hiss as the antiseptic hits muscle.

"Maroon and burgundy look the same, bite me!" He clicks his tongue and bites off the argument brewing within him. How can you not see how different the two colors are. You grouch some more while he works on getting the rest of his potion off your cheek. You had just wanted to use one of his acne toner, the one that smelled like cucumber and rose. He was preoccupied with his eyeliner but told you to just grab it from his shelf. He had a lot of bottles and a lot of them were definitely not for human use. 

You unfortunately just happened to pick one of them. The one you nabbed was a toner built for his stronger skin. It ate away at your cheeks and flesh of your palm on contact. It's burning and tingling making you yelp in surprise. Luckily for you, Asmo acted fast coming up from behind and knocking the toner-soaked cotton pad from your reddening fingers. He curses at you the whole way to his bathroom. Done with your right cheek and hand he nods in approval, seeing your flesh already knitting back together. "At least you have lovely bone structure. Ahhh~ I'm jealous!" He pokes a nail at the exposed bone of your cheekbone. The mending muscles and nerves almost growing over his nail before he could pull away. You quirk a brow.

"Want them? I'm pretty sure I could regrow my jawline before anybody would notice. " You shrug taking the washcloth from him to dap at your left cheek. Asmo laughs, it was a ridiculously tempting offer after all.

"Could you?" He taps at his own chin in thought. You glance back at him and sits on the toilet. In theory, you probably could. Hadn't happened...yet.  

"Ye- just give me a heads up first? And maybe some good booze to knock me out." You say only half-joking. Asmo nods eagerly, twirling a lock of soft tawny hair. He might take you up on the offer.  

Beelzebub

He doesn't want to know and he never wants to find out. He just likes you too much to see you get hurt :(. It gets to the point where you cannot bring any past stories of incidents (no matter how funny you think they are). If a story comes out be prepared to be carried everywhere by this gentle giant. If you won't cease your foolishness then he will.

Though he probably should have heard a few of the stories. Mostly the ones about poisons and inedible things you use to eat. A lot of his world revolves around food and he loves to share it with you.

He never heard you complain about the foods he had you try with him. It wasn't until Simeon and Luke tagged along did he learn the awful truth that he had been poisoning you almost every time you two went out.  

Takes him forever to get out of his head about it. You are clearly fine and never brought it up because you just loved spending time bonding with him.

You find him in the ally behind the restaurant. His massive form curled in on itself from where he sat. "Why didn't you tell me?" He rumbles hearing you approach to stand next to him. "I could have killed you." You sit squat next to him resting your arms on your knees.

"I mean...if we are keeping count it would be dead about eight times over by this point." You meant it to be funny but he groans in anguish pulling at his hair. You grab his fists and pry them from his scalp. "Hey! Hey!" You pat his knuckles, eyes filled with concern. "I'm still here right, still kicking and eating all these awesome foods, don't worry. Please?"  You can tell your words do not calm him but he doesn't pull from your grasp either. "If you are curious, all the foods that would have done me dirty just gave me some bad cramps and gas for the evening. Nothing a tum and hot tea couldn't fix." You fill the air with useless chatter, all while stroking his knuckles.

You really wish that Luke hadn't said anything. Simeon had read the room, his neat brown brows raising in astonishment as you sank into the meal Beel bought for you. But he otherwise stayed silent tucking into his own meal without a fuss. You couldn't completely blame Luke though. He was young and just looking out for you. Though, he-well- both of you could have handled it better. With him screaming and you screaming, it was a recipe for disaster.

Beel rises a few minutes later rubbing at his burning eyes. "Are you sure you are ok?" He checks in with you once more. You nod perking up as you see him grunt in acceptance. "Just let me know next time you can't eat something."

"But it tastes good!" You pout. He frowns not budging from his spot until he sees you sigh in defeat and agree. No more purposely poisoning yourself just for munchies. "Fine-but you are just saying that to get extra portions."  

Belphegor

He finds out when he kills your dumbass for believing him. It totally harshed his vibe.

Here he was getting an amazing monologue, reveling in his eldest's brothers' anguish and look of anger from the prince. He was ready to give his final performance and hopefully wipe the floor with that red-headed bastard plans to "commingle"

He tossed your "lifeless" body from him, taking a sick amount of pleasure in the way your body flopped down the stairs. He notices how the other brothers seem completely unfazed by your corpse at their feet.

Huh? Perhaps they didn't understand the actions he did. Or maybe they truly have given into the demons they had become. He stops his tirade only when he watches Asmo bend down and poke at your cheek. He didn't look sad, just merely annoyed. Like you were taking too long to get up.

But that is impossible. You would never get up again... 

Mammon rolls his eyes at his youngest brother's actions. Honestly, he loved the little edge lord, but this was ridiculous. He had a racket to go check on. His hand drifts down slowly to his pocket. If he just angled it right he could probably check his phone without looking rude. He makes eye contact with Satan and jerks his head exasperatedly at Lucifer and Belphegor going at it. The blonde shakes his head and shrugs. Slowly he inches closer so Mammon can go on his phone without getting caught. Covering for Mammon Satan looks around the room feigning interest.

Beelzebub and Leviathan seemed mildly more attentive to what was going on than him. The latter of the two eating it up like an arch in an anime, while the former was trying desperately to placate his twin. Asmodeus on the other hand was having none of this. He plops down next to your body turning your head to face him. He checks you over quietly ignoring the storm exploding out of his elder brother and the rest of the gang. "Honestly darling," He strokes the bridge of your nose, feeling the bone and cartilage shifting back into place beneath his finger. "is this a good time to ask if I can have your jawline?" He sees the corner of your lips twitch.  He leans in and whispers in your ear. "How long are you going to play dead?"

"Am I boring you, brother?" Asmo glances up from his position over your head. Belphegor looks down at his face apoplectic with rage at being ignored. "And I see you on your phone Mammon!"

"Shove it! I got shit to do!"

Asmo gets to his feet dusting off his pants and ruffles. He shrugs up at Belphie who was doing a great interpretation of Lucifer when angry. He was so much like Lucifer it was scary sometimes. "Sorry honey! Just check on my bestie."

Belphie snorts making his way down to the first floor. "Just checking I killed-"

You pop up grunting loudly as your spine reconnects. "Help your bestie up?" You raise a hand for Asmo who happily takes it. You turn your back to a dumbfounded Belphie and Lucifer, both not understanding what just happened.

"About time." Mammon sighs pocketing his phone. "I got some idiots we can swindle out of some grimm."

"Oi!" Satan butts in cutting Mammon off. "You had your turn! I have some spells they said they would help me test out."

You grin, not fighting it as the two tug at you like a toy between toddlers.

"Enough!" The two jump away from you at Lucifer's roar. You squeak in surprise when a firm leather-gloved hand spins you around so you could stand face to face with a fully shifted Lucifer. "You!" He runs his hands over you in disbelief. "How..." Your first conversation with him comes back to mind.

I can't die so try to threaten me with something else next time K?

"Would someone tell me WHAT is going on and why they are still breathing!" Belphie pushes through to you and Lucifer.

Beel grabs him up before he could get his claws into you again, stroking his dark hair like you would an angry cat. "It's a long story..."

[whimsicallyreading]

Part Four~

(Part Three)

Aelin loved Elide. She did. The tiny brunette was like a little sister to her.

But if she said Lorcan Salvaterre’s name one more time she was going to throttle her.

Aelin smiled through her annoyance, as Elide filled her in on her new boyfriend. They organized shelves, set up displays, cleaned couches, as she gushed on and on.

If it was anyone besides that walking, talking, ass, she would be thrilled for Elide. She didn’t go on dates often. After the car wreck when she’d lost her left leg, Elide became shy and timid with people she was unfamiliar with.

Aelin wanted to fill her in on what happened the night before. Tell her that exactly how her new boyfriend treated women when she wasn’t around, and the crowd he hung out with. She just- Aelin frowns and rubs the space between her eyebrows. She didn’t want to damper Elide’s happiness.

“He took me to this little restaurant on the Avery River last weekend. It was adorable,” Elide babbled as she rearranged the new releases. “He didn’t even blink when I told him I don’t drink and ordered a Shirley Temple.”

Aelin laughs. “Your ordered a Shirley Temple on a date?”

Elide blushes, “they look fancier than a soda.”

That was a lie. Elide just loved everything cherry flavored.

“Enough about me,” Aelin startled as the tiny girl turned on her. “Tell me how your night went!” Elide beamed. “You went to the rodeo with Aedion, right?”

She gasps as the realization strikes her. “Did you see Lorcan ride? I haven’t even seen him compete, yet! I’m so jealous.”

“Yeah, I saw him.” Aelin answers vaguely, hoping Elide would take the vague answer and carry on.

“He told me he came in second last night.” Elide frowns. “He was really unhappy about it, and I told him that second was great. I don’t think he believed me. Lorcan is such a perfectionist.”

Yeah. So perfect he does drugs with his crappy, friends in a dimly lit bar. Aelin shoves a book onto the shelf a little too aggressively.

“I wish he wasn’t so hard on himself. It’s such a competitive sport, though. His buddies ride as well, and I think that makes it worse. He wants to impress them.”

Aelin looks back, realizing she’d stacked over half the shelf by herself, and sees Elide sitting on the floor behind her. She had a far off look on her face, and her chin was rested on one knee while her prosthetic leg was stretched in front of her.

Taking a deep breath, she tries to swallow back the annoyance creeping up on her. “Elide.”

“It’s just, a lot of peer pressure you know?” Elide continues talking as if she hasn’t heard her. “Despite all of that and the drama, he still makes time for me. It’s honestly really sweet and-“

“Elide,” Aelin tries to catch her attention gently.

“I still haven’t met his friends yet. I’m not sure if it’s just too soon for that, but his best friend Rowan is coming over tomorrow and-“

“Elide,” Aelin bites our sharply, cutting the girl off mid sentence. “I’m glad to hear you are happy, and that your boyfriend gives a shit but can you please help me do the shelving like I pay you to do?”

Guilt. Instantaneous guilt as the younger girl wilts like a flower under a gale-force wind. “Sorry, Lin.” Elide whispers and scurries away, her cheeks reddening.

Shit. Aelin taps her head against the shelf in front of her. She felt like a piece of shit.

Aelin has been dealing with her issues for years, going to therapist after therapist, but she was still prone to bouts of anger and depression. She had it mostly under control, but sometimes it slipped from her. Being tired and skipping lunch hadn’t helped.

As Yrene always told her- “The first step in better mental health is taking care of your body” Something Aelin had never been good about.

Elide hadn’t deserved her ire, she would have to figure out a way to make it up to her. Aelin sighs in resignation, already knowing what she’d have to do.

Aelin finishes the shelves first, figuring Elide would need a minute to compose herself. Her phone dings with the reply to her text message.

Lysandra- Tonight at 6:00

“Elide?” she searches around the shop for her and finds her sitting behind the computer at the front desk.

“Yeah?” Elide replies, her voice is a little gravely and she refuses to meet Aelin’s eyes.

Aelin slinks behind the desk and wraps an arm around Elide’s shoulders. “I’m sorry I wasn’t kind.” She wouldn’t lie, she felt a bit like a toddler having to apologize for her short temper. A little embarrassment was better than an unhappy friend.

“It’s fine, Lin. I know I’m a little much to handle,” Elide still doesn’t look at her.

“No, it’s not okay, but I’m going to make it up to you,” Aelin smiles even if inside she’s cringing.

“Yeah?” Elide finally looks her in the eye, curiosity sparkling there.

“I texted Lys about the party she’s having tonight,” Aelin starts and Elide’s grow wide. “Would you want to go with me?”

“To a party? You hate parties,” she questions but Elide is already thrumming with excitement.

Aelin grabs Elide’s hand and squeezes. She doesn’t hate parties. Contrary, Aelin loves night out a little too much. That was her downfall. Now she was wary of them, but it didn’t mean she hated them.

“Really? You will go?” Elide smiles and stands up. “I’m so excited. Wow. Okay. I’ll go do with you.”

“Great, we can walk over together at five-thirty?” They lived the in the same apartment complex, it was easy for them to meet up and go places after work.

Elide is grinning ear to ear now as she hustles to finish up her chores for the day. “Sounds great. I’m so excited!”

Aelin is feeling a little upbeat herself. Even if parties weren’t really her scene anymore, attending would be fun. Elide being there would keep her from getting into any trouble, so what’s the harm?

She should know that’s the question that always goes before the fall.

~~~

Aeljn was feeling good.

She pulled on her slinky, green-velvet dress, and braided her hair into a crown like Aunt Marion used to do for her. Dressing up felt like armor to Aelin and she was a warrior who would turn heads tonight.

Elide has also done a great job dressing up. Billowing black pants and a silver singlet. She didn’t enjoy dressing up as much as Aelin, being the center of attention made her anxious, but she didn’t give herself enough credit. Elide was beautiful and Aelin would make sure her friend new that this evening.

Lysandra lived in a loft in downtown Rifthold. She was old money and Aelin was a frequent of her outrageous parties in highschool. Some of her most iconic teenage memories happened in Lysandra’s family home.

Not her proudest, but memorable for sure.

It was already in full swing when they arrived. Music played over Bluetooth speakers, various concoctions were passed around in red cups and people mingles and moved against one another in every open space.

Elide looked a little overwhelmed, but Aelin smiled at her reassuringly.

“Lin!” Lysandra appears from the crowd like a leopard from a jungle. She filings her arms around Aelin’s neck and kisses her cheek. “I’m so glad you are here!”

“It’s been too long since I’ve been to one of your get together,” Aelin wrapped her arms tightly around Lysandra.

“This is my friend Elide,” she gestures to the girl standing stiffly behind her. “Elide this is one of my oldest friends Lysandra. Possibly my soon to be sister-in-law.”

Aelin throws and wink at Lys who immediately retaliates with a pinch to her arm. “I love you and Aedion but I’m too young for that,” she scolds.

“Sure you are,” Aelin teases sliding back to Elide’s side and wrapping a comforting arm around her waist. “Those two are stupid in love don’t let her fool you,” she wiggles her fingers and Elide laughs.

“Stay right here, I’ll go get us some drinks.” Lysandra smiles and disappears into the crowd.

Almost as soon as she’s gone, there’s a tap on her shoulder. Turning around, absolute dread fills her gut. “I swear you all are stalking me,” Aelin moans.

Rowan Whitethorn is standing behind them, drink in hand and a scowl on his face. “What do you mean? This is the first time I’ve seen you since you ran out on me.” There’s an edge in his voice and Aelin knows he’s there for trouble. “I just thought I’d say hello and ask what the hell is wrong with you?”

“What the hell is wrong with me?” Aelin is indignant. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Um,” Elide stammers. “Should I give you two space?”

“I really liked you, and you stormed out on me.” Rowan growls lowly. “I don’t know what I did wrong? You humiliated me in front of my friends.”

Aelin throws her head back and laughs. A sense of satisfaction brews in her chest when she sees the forest fire beginning in his eyes. “I embarrassed you? Your friends treated me like shit.” She hisses between her teeth.

Rowan’s frown deepens into a near snarl, “I’m not responsible for what those idiots say.”

“You-“ she jabs a finger into his chest. “Stood bye and let them say it, that makes you implicit. If you respected me in the slightest my comfort and dignity would have mattered to you.”

Aelin makes to jab him again but his hand catches her wrist and she can’t control the flinch.

His eyes widen, but a body appears in between them. Elide Lochan stands like a solider in front of the man who is twice her size. “You don’t touch her.”

Rowan backed off a step, his voice raising. “She was prodding me-“ he stops himself and takes a breath, a crease forming in his forehead. “I’m sorry. I’ll back off.”

“What’s going on over here?” Lysandra’s voice cuts through the noise of the party. She doesn’t look happy.

“He put his hands on her,” Elide hisses and Rowan’s eyes go from anger to shock.

He holds up his hands and looks to Lysandra. “I didn’t. I swear.”

Lysandra stands next to Elide forming a wall between him and Aelin. As one of the few people who knew about Aelin’s drama of the last couple of years, the look of this situation boiled her blood.

“Lys, he didn’t-“ Aelin tries to douse the scene they were about to create.

Lysandra gives her a look that makes Aelin quiet. “I love you Lin, but I don’t trust your excuses.”

That hurt. Her heart feels like it was wrung in her chest. Aelin crosses her arms in front of her, suddenly feeling withdrawn from the situation.

Elide hasn’t broken her stare from Rowan. “You should probably leave.”

“What?” He flounders looking equal parts shocked and horrified. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare her. We know each other.”

“I agree,” Lysandra tilts her chin to the door. “You aren’t welcome here any longer.”

Rowan looks at her for help, and she feels bad for him. Aelin knows she touched him first, but Lysandra’s comment was like a cold knife in her side and she was still bleeding. She didn’t know what to do or say.

“Rowan? What’s going on?” Lorcan appears behind Rowan, placing a hand on his shoulder. Aelin knows the moment he sees Elide standing in front of her, because his face deflated.

“You know him?” Elide’s voice is cold.

Lorcan, a beast of a male, cowers in front of little Elide. His mouth gapes like a fish. He can’t deny her question, but affirming it seemed worse. “Ellie,” her name comes out strangled.

“These are your friends, Lorcan? The people you seem to be keeping me from?” Elide darkens further as she looks at Rowan. “I guess I understand why.”

“Both of you can leave, then.” Lysandra smiles maliciously.

“I’m sorry, Aelin.” Rowan rubs both of his hands across his face then through his hair. “Damn it, I didn’t mean for this to go like it did. I wanted to apologize.” He says mostly to himself.

“Elide. He’s my friend. I don’t know what’s going on-“ Lorcan scrambles to cover his ass, but Elide isn’t having it.

“This is Lysandra’s house.” Elide says so calmly it would have been kinder if she yelled. “She asked you to leave.”

Lorcan looks at her, absolutely fuming and Aelin knows he’s beyond pissed. “I don’t know what this lying bitch-“

A slap broke like thunder between them.

Lorcan holds his cheek as Aelin gapes at Elide in shock. There are no tears to be seen in the younger girls expression. Her shoulders are trembling, not with fear but anger.

“Let’s go.” Rowan chokes out. He grabs Lorcan’s shoulder and pulls him away from the trio of women.

Lysandra watches them like a predator until they clear her front door. Her tense shoulders only relax when they leave. She releases a breath and looks at Elide.

“You are hella cool, Ellie. You deserve something better than that piss-poor beer I brought.” She nods to the solo cups that had been abandoned on the table. “I’ve got better shit in my room. Let’s go.”

Elide looks follows Lysandra with an elated look on her face. Aelin smiles dimly, she could see them becoming fast friends. Elide would be a good addition to the group.

They pushed through the crowd, and up the stairs. Aelin wasn’t in the partying mood anymore, which was disappointing. She’d been looking forward to it, and so had Elide.

Shaking her head, Aelin decides she will take a small reprieve in Lysandra’s room then suggest they go back downstairs. Elide was only comfortable coming to a party because she was going to be with her. Now not only was her night ruined, but she was on the outs with Lorcan because of her.

The very least she could do was make sure the night ended on a good note for Elide. Lysandra would be totally willing to help Aelin get her to let loose.

When they reach the bedroom Lysandra stops the outside the door. “You can go in, Ellie. I need to talk to Aelin for just a second.”

Elide nods happily and shuffles inside.

“Lys,” Aelin starts before Lysandra can. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“You promised me before,” her voice is hard but not unloving. “Who was that Aelin?”

She doesn’t miss the use of her full name. “Just some guy I went out for drinks with one time. I honestly don’t even know him.” Aelin assures.

“Has he been bothering you? If he is I will castrate him and feed his own-“ Aelin covers her ears.

“No, no. We just bumped into each other, it was a misunderstanding,” Aelin swears. “Honestly, you didn’t need to kick him out.”

“Yes,” Lysandra hisses. “I did. You aren’t going through that again, Aelin. Not over my dead body.”

“I appreciate that you love me so much,” Aelin whispers, not wanting Elide to pick up on their conversation. “But I can take care of myself. I’m not broken, Lys. Just hurt.”

Lysandra groans sadly, her dark lashes fan against her cheeks as if she’s fighting tears back. Suddenly Lys is hugging her again, and Aelin sinks into her embrace like always.

“I know you aren’t broken. I’m sorry that I’m so fussy.” Aelin let’s her tuck itself into Lys shoulder, aware that she was a safe person to be open with.

After a moment they pull apart. “Please. Just be careful,” Lysandra pleads.

“Of course,” Aelin promises. “Thank you for always having my back.”

“Never again,” Lysandra reiterates, reaching out to grab her hand.

“Never again.” Aeljn squeezes it.

“Lysandra! Your cat is so cute!” Elide coos from behind the door. The tension is broken and the two of them look at the other and laugh.

“Let’s go.” Aelin says, and Lysandra holds the door for the both of them.

Never again would Aelin submit to a cruel man’s will.

Not even for a man like Rowan Whitethorn.

Part Two of the birthday mass update! Thank you guys so much for reading 💚

(Tag list- let me know if you would like to be added or removed? :D)

@charincharge

@westofmoon

@jorjy-jo

@classyclodranchparty

@morganofthewildfire

@ashleymariegriffin

@wordsxstars

@sjmships

@rolltide7

@surielandiareendgame

@jlinez

@rowaelinismyotp

@mariamuses

@swankii-art-teacher

@highladyof-erilea

@untoldstuff

@superspiritfestival

@tillyrubes10

@ghostlyrose2

@live-the-fangirl-life

[pillage-and-lute]

An Ever Fixed Mark (Part 11)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, (here)

Read it on Ao3 HERE

                                                     🐺 🌼 🐺

Geralt didn’t even make it a day.

He left Oxenfurt behind at dawn, riding Roach, alone, just like he always was. There was water here, a river, and trees. They were willow trees, weeping over the sludgy river, bending to sweep the water and Geralt thought of Jaskier’s mother, of the flash of an opal ring on Jaskier’s hand. The Pontar was wide and slow here, and Geralt thought of a hidden pool, far in a forest, and Jaskier talking about his mother. 

Maybe he wasn’t half dryad, maybe he was. Maybe it wouldn’t mean anything but...but what if his life was longer than a human’s? Geralt didn’t want to have to lose him anytime soon, but what if he wouldn’t have to? 

Geralt realized he’d already lost Jaskier. He’d betrayed his husband’s trust, kissing a witch and leaving him. He was still injured. Melitele’s tits, Geralt was an asshole. He’d hurt Jaskier. On purpose. 

A clean break, what the hell was he thinking? They were married, there was no ‘clean break’. They’d have to see eachother eventually. He’d look into beautiful eyes and they’d be full of hatred. He’d see his husbands solid frame and watch the posture become closed and standoffish. Perhaps Jaskier’s words would even turn cold. Toss A Coin would never be heard in taverns again, instead something else. Witchers Are Selfish Bastards could become the next hit. 

He couldn’t protect Jaskier though. The doublet was just that, a doublet. It was a pretty thing, not armor. Geralt could wrap the entire bard in basilisk leather and he still might never be safe. 

But at least you’d be there to fight for him, whispered a treacherous part of Geralt’s mind. He spurred Roach faster, as if he could outrun the thought.

What if there was a barfight? Sure, Jaskier could take care of himself, but if there were no knives around? No weapons? What if he got jumped in an alleyway, or fell ill and he was too sick to find a healer?

Surely having Geralt there was better than nothing. 

Jaskier might not even want Geralt back, not after he’d run like a coward and a fool. 

Without his permission, Geralt’s hands had turned Roach’s reins back towards Oxenfurt. It was dusk, they’d ridden without stopping for food to escape Geralt’s wretched thoughts, and he felt bad for riding her so hard. 

“Treats for you,” he said. “And the finest stable in Oxenfurt, I swear it. Just get me there.”

Roach didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t even need Geralt to nudge her into a gallop, she turned and ran, bolting across the damp earth like a streak of lighting. Jaskier surely would have called her a heroic steed. Geralt would be sure to tell him, just as soon as he was at Oxenfurt. 

Geralt’s heart felt lighter already. He was racing, the wind in his hair, rippling across his face. He wasn’t leaving Jaskier, he’d never leave him again, not ever. He’d bundle him in all the finest things, armor him with dragon scale if he had to. 

Jaskier would sit by the fire in Kaer Morhen and Vesemir would teach him the old songs. Geralt would hunt for him, buy him baked goods, make him fat and happy and shining through and through with joy. And if he got old Geralt would love him. If Jaskier grew too old to travel, Geralt would stay in Kaer Morhen year-round. He’d carry Jaskier up stairs if he had to. He’d learn to play music if Jaskier ever couldn’t play anymore, he’d tap out rhythms if his husband ever went deaf.

His husband. Geralt loved him. He loved him so much and his eyes were streaming. It was so rare that a witcher could cry but he was. He loved his husband so much that this one day without him had been the worst of his life. He’d thought it had been seeing Jaskier hurt, fearing him dying. That had been awful, but if death took Jaskier from him, Geralt would fight death itself. 

There was a story, he knew, of a bard who took his love back from death, leading her from the underworld. He’d looked back, so the story said, to make sure his love was still with him. Geralt was a witcher, though, he wouldn’t need to look to know Jaskier was there. 

Jaskier being gone from his life was an almost unbearable thought, but Geralt could live with it. If Jaskier died or left of his own accord, Geralt would survive. To push him away, however, to be the reason Jaskier left him, that was unbearable. 

Roach’s legs moved like a landslide under her, hoofbeats so fast they merged into one. Geralt’s slow heart matched pace. He would go, he would lay himself prone on the floor of wherever Jaskier stayed, and he would beg forgiveness.

He would earn his forgiveness. 

And if Jaskier ever forgave him, and if he ever returned Geralt’s feelings, Geralt would kiss him. 

The thought gave him wings. 

He would kiss Jaskier. He’d wind his hand in that thick, dark hair, loop the other arm around his waist, and dip him back, the way fancy gentlemen did. He’d kiss him the way he should have kissed him on their wedding day. He’d kiss Jaskier so that there could be no doubt in his husband’s mind that he was the most important person in Geralt’s life. And then he’d kiss him again, and again, and again. 

Geralt would learn about poetry and art and music so that Jaskier had someone to discuss it with. He’d teach him witcher lore and monster zoology, so that they had the knowledge in common. He’d teach Jaskier to fight, not just bar fighting, he’d be able to defend himself if Geralt ever failed him.

Geralt was never going to fail him again. 

The lights of Oxenfurt were visible. When Geralt had last raced to the city Jaskier had been wounded by bandits. Now, his heart had been wounded by Geralt’s own hand. 

He pulled out his xenovox, pressing it desperately. 

“What?” she snapped. “It’s almost midnight, can’t you go a day without bothering me?”

“Where is he?” Geralt asked. “Where is he staying?”

“You just got rid of him, now you want him back?” 

“Yes, Yennefer it was a mistake, I can’t lose him where is he? Tell me!”

“Essi Daven has a placement at the university, she may have quarters there, ask her.”

Geralt didn’t even thank Yennefer, just stuffed the xenovox in his bag and turned Roach, her ironshod hooves ringing against the cobbles. 

The bulk of the university lay across the city like an old dog lying on a rug. Geralt headed for the living quarters, dodging Roach around drunken students and midnight revellers, sometimes the same people. 

A man was sweeping in a quiet courtyard. 

“You,” Geralt called, almost falling off Roach in his haste. “Essi Daven, where can I find her?” 

The man looked up, eyed Geralt with distaste, and pointed toward a wing of the building. Here, there were doors, facing the coutyard, each door marked with a name. 

Yes, dormitories. 

Geralt ran up the row. They were organized by name, two on each door. He’d started at the wrong end. He passed Willow and Worthington, Umber and Urdock, Smith and Silverly. He sped up. Marx and Mannock, Lee and Lorntin...

He skidded to a stop.

Davidson and Daven. He hammered on the door, shaking it on it’s hinges until it was swung open. 

There was a small woman there, glaring at him behind a mane of golden hair. Only one eye was visible. 

“What do you want?”

“Essi Daven?”

Like a snake, she stepped forward, into Geralt’s space, putting a long knife to his throat. 

“You’re here for Jaskier,” she said. 

“I made a mistake,” Geralt said. “I need to see him.”

“You don’t need to do anything but leave him alone,” she hissed. “I ought to slice you open like a pig.”

“I want to make it up to him,” Geralt begged. “I have to, please, I love him.”

“You abandoned him,” she said like poison. 

“And if I do it again I swear I will deliver myself to your door so you can gut me with your knife but please,” Geralt reached up a hand and lowered her knife, which she allowed him to do without stabbing him. “Please, if I lose him because I was stupid and drove him away, I think I’ll just have to lay down and die.”

“He’s crazy about you,” Essi said, eyes narrowed. 

“I’m crazier for him, I promise,” Geralt said. His heart was soaring. Jaskier was crazy about him.

“He cried his eyes out all day,” Essi said. Geralt’s heart landed with a thud. 

“Let me make it up to him,” Geralt said. “Please.”

“You’re going to need more than a pretty face.”

“I’ll do anything.”

Essi snorted. “He’s not here, he’s at the Fiddler’s Bow inn. If he wants to see you, go ahead, if he doesn’t leave him the fuck alone.”

Geralt nodded solemnly. 

He had to find something that would show Jaskier how he felt. Something perfect. He mounted Roach again and she nickered questioningly. 

“What do you get someone you love?” Geralt asked her quietly. 

She whinnied. “Oats,” she was probably saying. “And a nice stable.”

Geralt rode her down streets, ambling rather than searching for the inn. He’d find it, but he needed the perfect gift first.

He’d know what he needed when he saw it. 

Oxenfurt never slept, but many of the shops had closed for the night. Geralt trotted Roach past them, until he saw one. It had a large, paned glass display window, an expensive luxury. Inside were weapons of all makes and sizes. 

Geralt thought about purchasing a dagger for Jaskier, but daggers weren’t special enough. They were a good gift, not a great one. Geralt dismounted and peered through the glass. A light was on in the back, and he knocked at the door. 

There were shields and axes in the shop, but the lacked the grace that Geralt wanted. There were swords, some covered in jewels, which were certainly beautiful enough, but the decoration would throw off the balance. 

Geralt heard clattering from inside.

A little old man opened up the shop door, peering up at Geralt.

“You’re a mighty big fella,” he said. “Witcher are ya? I’m closed you know.”

“I know, sir,” Geralt said. “I apologize, but it’s a matter of the utmost importance.”

“Ah, broken a sword have you?” Said the old man, sticking his hand out to shake. His grip was like iron, despite his age. He was definitely the swordsmith, then. 

“No sir, I need a gift, true love is on the line,” it was a horribly florid thing to say, but Geralt couldn’t bear to lie to the old man, who reminded him oddly of Vesemir, despite his bent posture and small size.

“Ah, dueling for her honor?” asked the smith, hobbling to one of the display stands.

“No, sir. Begging his forgiveness.”

“Do you deserve to be forgiven?”

“...maybe,” Geralt said, reluctantly. 

“Aha!” Said the shopkeeper. “Slept with someone else have you?”

“No!”

“Lied to him?”

“Not that I can think of.”

The man leaned close, strangely pale eyes searching. “Killed someone he cares for?”

“Never, I...I abandoned him. I left him alone, I shouldn’t have,” Geralt admitted.

The old man tutted. “Not the easiest mistake to remedy, young man.” 

Geralt realized that he and the man were probably fairly close in age. 

“But,” the man said. “Not without hope, I think. And you want to give him a weapon?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, mouth dry. “Something that can keep him safe.”

“In case you can’t?” 

Geralt flinched. “Yes.”

“Is he a warrior like yourself, your young man?”

“A poet and bard, but he can fight as well.”

“Mhhm,” said the old man, running his hands over his stock. “He likes fine things?”

“Yes, but not at the expense of practicality.”

“Indeed,” said the man. “And he is right handed?”

“Left handed,” Geralt said. 

“Aha,” said the man, softly. “I have just the sword.” He lifted a long, thin blade from a rack. 

“It’s an unusual style,” he said, holding it out in both hands. “A rapier, it’s called. They’re thin and light, and this,” he held the sword by it’s handle, a strange, twisting cage of metal protecting his hand. “This crosspiece will keep his poet’s fingers from damage.”

“I’ve never seen it’s like,” Geralt said, carefully taking the proffered sword. “It’s so thin, will it break if he parries?”

“It is unlikely, the blade is damascarine steel, the blow will merely deflect down to the crosspiece.”

Geralt observed the blade, witcher eyes letting inn all the light from the dim shop so he could see the wavy pattern in the thin blade where the steel had been twisted and folded back on itself. 

He turned from the shopkeeper and raised the sword, feeling it’s balance. Much too light for him, but for Jaskier...Geralt turned the sword tip-down and measured the height of the crosspiece. Yes, it would be about at Jaskier’s belly button, the right length. 

“It’s perfect,” Geralt said. The sword looked like a line of moonlight, the handle was elegant with it’s swooping, twisting lines, and it was deadly. It was Jaskier, through and through.

The moonlight coming in through the windows glinted off the sword as the man took it back, gently, sheathing it in a smooth, black leather sheath. 

Geralt paid the asking price without haggle. For the craftsmanship, and opening his shop in the middle of the night, the price was more than fair. He would have gladly paid double, he’d never seen an equal to the sword he carried now.

Geralt didn’t hold it like a sword as he remounted Roach. He held the rapier flat across his knees like an offering to the gods. 

He stayed there a moment, astride his horse, and closed his eyes. He breathed in. He breathed out. He was about to open his eyes but...there, chamomile and sun-dried grass. 

He opened his eyes, afraid the action would dissipate the scent, but it was still there. Jaskier had been nearby. 

He trotted Roach forward, seeing with his nose. He lost the scent by an irreputable ale house that smelled of sick and stale beer, so he turned and looked around. There was another tavern down the street and he rode towards it slowly. Music poured from it, even at this late hour. Jaskier would have come here, instead of the other alehouse. 

Up alongside the tavern he could smell dry grass again, mixed with salt. Jaskier had cried here, but the salt-scent left, trailing down the street. 

Geralt’s heart was heavy as he followed the smell of his husband’s tears. He’d done this, he had to fix it, and he had just the one chance. It couldn’t wait until morning. If the sun dawned and this wasn’t fixed, Geralt just knew he’d have lost his chance, Jaskier would be lost to him forever. 

The tears stopped. 

Geralt loked up. 

The Fiddler’s Bow. He didn’t even speak to the innkeeper as he walked up the stairs and gently knocked on the door. 

He could hear the familiar beat of Jaskier’s heart behind it. His own tried to match time. 

A bedraggled and red eyed Jaskier opened the door. Geralt knelt and took one of Jaskier’s hand’s in both of his. 

For a second that was all there was. 

Then Geralt spoke. 

“I was a fool,” he said. “I saw you, hurt, and I was frightened, because I hadn’t been able to protect you.”

Jaskier tried to pull his hand from Geralt’s grasp, but Geralt didn’t let go. “Please, Jaskier,” he said, gold eyes meeting blue. “Hear me out, and then if you never wish to see me again I swear on the medallion at my throat you will never have to.”

Words weren’t easy for Geralt, but he prayed he’d be granted just a sliver of the power Jaskier had over them. This was more than life or death, this was love or loss, and Geralt couldn’t bear to lose this.

“I am in love with you,” Geralt said, looking Jaskier straight in the eyes. “The thought of losing you scared me so badly that I turned like a coward and ran, but,” Geralt swallowed around the lump in his throat. “The thought of losing you,” a sob, “Because I pushed you away, Jaskier, it’s so much worse.”

He pulled out the sword in it’s scabbard, placing it tip down on the floor and holding it like a cross. “I want to teach you to fight, so that you can’t be taken from me, and I want you to teach me to sing, so that you won’t grow bored of me.”

“Please,” Jaskier,” he said, shoulders trembling. “I swear on my soul, I swear on the soulds of the men who raised me, I will never abandon you again.”

Jaskier was crying, rivers of saltwater, silver in the moonlight, trailing down his cheeks. A drop fell on Geralt’s hand as he proffered the sword. 

“I love you,” Geralt said simply. 

Jaskier stood there and cried, chest wracked with sobs. Then he took the sword in both hands. His fingertips brushed across the back of Geralt’s hand and the witcher shivered. 

“You kissed her.”

“The Law of Surprise,” Geralt said. “I had just pledged my devotion and care to you, it was your great windfall. We thought it meant I love her, but I don’t.” Geralt stood, reaching forward one large and travel-stained hand to brush the tears from Jaskier’s cheeks. 

“The kiss just made me realize how much I never want to kiss anyone but you, ever again.”

Jaskier leaned his cheek into the cradle of Geralt’s hand. “I forgive you,” he said. 

Geralt stepped forward, taking Jaskier’s sword and setting it aside, then he wrapped his arms around Jaskier, admiring how they were of a height. 

Jaskier leaned his forhead against Geralt’s, and the pair just stood, breathing the same air. 

“I love you too.”

It was whispered, but it shook Geralt’s world. 

Jaskier’s arms came up and twined around Geralt’s neck, drawing him even close. 

“Please,” Geralt begged. “May I kiss you?”

He felt Jaskier nod. 

Geralt had imagined a kiss on his desperate return. He’d imagined how Jaskier’s hair would be so soft under his hand, how Jaskier’s arms would feel so warm around him, he’d been right. 

He could never have imagined the wonder of kissing Jaskier, though, not truly. Joy flared in Geralt’s heart like a wildfire, consuming him. The world burned around them and Geralt didn’t care because having Jaskier in his arms, kissing him like this, this was the only thing he could ever want. 

This was everything the kiss on their wedding day wasn’t and should have been. All the sounds of the city rushed in Geralt’s ears and he didn’t hear any of them, because Jaskier’s lips were sweet and warm and slightly chapped, and Jaskier’s hand was digging oddly into his ribs, and it was perfection. 

                                                   🐺 🌼 🐺

Almost done! I think there will maybe be one more chapter to tie up all the loose ends. Although I suspect at some point I’ll be unable to resist writing some husbands-in-Kaer-Morhen fluff. 

Tag List!

@llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @aziz-the-fangirl  @mordoriscalling @bastardofmothman @negativenuggetz @morte-mistrata  @ailorian @hayleynzlive @filledepluie @bygodstillam @sociowithatardisachevyandawand @faery-god  @honeysuckletook @theflurtifly @saibowtie  @werevampiwolf    @frywen-babbles @the-kewlest  @innocentbi-stander @1stbonesfan   @aqueenrisesintheeast @toothhurtyam @marauders-fan-account @ineffable-lasagna @limevodka @rocknrollphanda @seralyra  @permanently-exhausted-witcher  @aj-itated   @watchthewolvesfall  @00qtea  @the-blondey @birds-of-forgiveness @westmoor  @abstractartwithoutpaint @darkonesdagger7437    @onwardsandfourwords  @underwaterattribute @whenrainbowsend @goldbvtton @little-piece-of-tamlin @in-love-with-writing002 @flustratedcas   @fontegagrilledcheese @so--many-fandoms @kirk-spock-in-the-impala @oniongrass @flowercrown-bard @maya-the-yellow-bee   @comfyswitcherblanketfort @wellthisstinks  @thenameislion-dandelion  @flowercrown-bard @obsessedchildsworld @debellatis @zotinha456 @tumbleweedtech @goblin-loves-shiny-things @birdsflyhome @holymotherwolf @the-shenny-of-azkaban  @darkangel91939  @enkelikauneus    @saphiramalbec  @silvermirror1997  @just-a-himbo-and-his-feral-bard   @iamaqt314  @itsthelittlethingsnlife @oneshots-galore @inikokoru @gryffinqueen @anythinggoesfandoms @artemisthehuntress @pomegranatebitch @nuitarius @ub-sessed @tookarma  @spearmint-honk  @nicelytousled @wingirl2015 @live-long-and-trek-on   @kingcitywitch  @flowrhippieprincess @oneshots-galore @laughingatlivedragons @nanamis-trophy-wife   @annafortoday @dapperanachronism  @jaybeefoxy @gods-no-longer-tread-here @flustratedcas @nbspaceboy   @comorbid-corvid  @ellwren @red-wasabi89   @ouradarablelove  @chanonce

[bertrumstrousers]

How much has JDS and ink hell changed Bertrum in your AU? Is it mostly the physical changes of being a weird monster now, or is his personality different in any big ways?

CAN OF WORMS CAN OF WORMS CAN OF WO—his personality swaps around TREMENDOUSLY (colossally, if you will).

I START BABBLING A LOT HERE IS A PAGE BREAK

Prior to the Ink Hell and during his tenure at JDS, it was incredibly clear to those around him that Joey was causing his usual polite, patient, professional demeanor to slowly crumble and give way to his less agreeable personality traits. He’s normally half-decent at toning down his self-importance when he knows he needs to--unless of course someone asks about his legacy--but towards the end of his stay at the studio he’s impatient, irritable and that nasty ego of his almost seems hard to control now that he’s put up a front of “I know what I’m doing, don’t bloody get in my way”. It’s not something he’s aware of, but had he been, he would be quite disappointed in himself for being so openly hostile.

Aaaannd monster Bertrum is where all of those extremely unpleasant parts of his behavior just boil to the surface and do not go away. Completely unconcerned and almost amused by the “paltry, petty little plights” of other monsters (though an argument could be made for Lacie), horrible temper, prone to violence and very, very little sense of humanity. At first he finds his entrapment in the Whipper to be a hindrance but once he figures out how to operate the thing and use it as a weapon, he gets quite comfortable in his newfound “power” and will happily use it to make his points when confronted by anyone who dares disagree with him, monster or otherwise. Joey took everything, EVERYTHING from him, he is PISSED. OFF. about it, has nothing to lose now and EVERYONE. WILL. KNOW.

But oh, then the escape.

A lot of things go into the way he manages to escape the ride, but none of them really carry over into his escaped form. At least, not outwardly. His first few days following his escape were spent in an inconsolable, livid haze in which it was nearly impossible to speak to him without him launching the nearest solid object directly at anyone who dared try to get his attention. As the last few bits of influence from the ink start to dissipate and clarity returns to him for the first time, the gravity of the evils he did in the Ink Hell hit him like a train and he falls into something Lacie can only describe as “that mood a guy gets when he’s got more on his mind than he can handle”. He speaks softly and has little to say, isolates himself to be with his own thoughts and seeks company and comfort from Lacie, and Lacie alone.

One side effect of his time in the studio remains--Bertrum becomes incredibly prone to vertigo. Turning his head the wrong way, looking up for too long, turning around in his chair, even getting out of bed too fast will send him into a bout of dizziness that only becomes somewhat bearable if he lays directly on the floor, head in his hands and in near-complete darkness (not pitch black--he needs to be able to see a horizon to orient himself) until it passes. This does not mesh well at all with his new habit of pacing in circles when in distress of any sort and he carries a cane most of the time, just in case he needs to steady himself on the off chance he makes himself dizzy. Lacie is by no means capable of catching him if he loses his balance.

He does eventually regain most of his sunny disposition that he had pre-JDS, but it’s easy to see that there’s something on his mind and he’s not too keen on talking about it. The hard-wired ego is still there, but it manifests differently, especially given that he never wants to see another amusement park as long as he lives. Now, he’ll go on about how proud he is of surviving the ink, conquering the ink, defeating the ink. Escaping the studio. Escaping Joey. Lacie honestly preferred when he talked about his parks, but she isn’t about to tell him--she’s just glad to hear that proud voice of his again after such a long period of meek near-silence. He regains a great deal of empathy, and the paternal “let me comfort you and tuck you into bed and make sure you’re safe” instinct comes back far, far stronger than it had been prior to the Ink Hell--look even vaguely upset and he’s going to find out what’s wrong, and if you’re not keen on sharing, he’ll quite gladly just sit and keep you company.

[grailfinders]

Fate and Phantasms #174

Y’know what? It’s the america anniversary, and it’s FGO’s anniversary too. Let’s celebrate a bit. Here’s a build early, we’ll be back on schedule on the sixth.

Today on Fate and Phantasms we’re making the precious cinnamon bun who just wants to ruin the environment, Berserker of Learning with Manga! For this build, we’ve got three goals; grow big, grow bigger, and grow biggest. Expect spoilers with her build breakdown below the cut, and slightly fewer spoilers in her character sheet over here!

Next up: Give me a sign~ Build me Nero one more time!

Paul Bunyan is a Rune Knight fighter to grow bigger while helping her friends, a Giant Soul Sorcerer to grow bigger while stepping on stuff, and a Totem Warrior Barbarian to smash things good with Babe’s help.

Race and Background

Pauly B was made out of Udon dough, and as a result she’s a Custom Lineage, giving her +2 Strength and a size of Small. She also get proficiency with Animal Handling, and the Magic Initiate feat to pick up some spells from the wizard spell list. Shape Water is just the beginning of your settling abilities, and Thunderclap is a single step for you. You also get Find Familiar to pick up Babes.

Aside from that, you are America’s pioneering spirit made manifest, so you’re an Outlander. This gives you proficiency with Athletics and Survival.

Ability Scores

You’re a glass cannon, so make sure your Strength is as high as you can get it. After that is Charisma- you’re only here because you were so popular in the book, after all. Your Dexterity comes next so you don’t die wearing denim armor. After that is Constitution. You might be a glass cannon, but a building-sized body is still pretty hard to take down. Your Intelligence isn’t amazing, but we’re dumping Wisdom. You’re a berserker anyway, but you also came from a comedy manga. That’s going to hurt your sense of reality.

Class Levels

1. Barbarian 1: Starting out here gets you as much health as we can, as well as proficiency with Strength and Constitution saves and two barbarian skills. Being nine hundred feet tall helps with Intimidation, and you gotta know a bit about Nature if you’re going to tear it down as effectively as you do.

You also get Unarmored Defense, making your AC 10 + your dexterity mod + your constitution mod when you’re just wearing denim. Your Rage transforms you for a minute as a bonus action. It gives you advantage on strength based saves & checks, extra damage on strength based attacks, and resistance to standard weapon damage. When you’re big enough to drink from a great lake, swords don’t do much.

2. Barbarian 2: Second level barbs can make Reckless Attacks, getting advantage now at the cost of giving other creatures advantage against you. Berserkers are not well known for their defensive power, but this will make up for you using such a heavy weapon while small.

That being said, Danger Sense gives you advantage on dexterity saves against effects you see coming. When you can step across the entire battle map in one go, fireballs are easy to avoid.

3. Fighter 1: First level fighters start things off right with a Fighting Style, and grabbing the superior technique style to make one Trip Attack per short rest is a great way to have enemies shouting timber.

You also get a Second Wind, letting you hang out and eat some beans as a bonus action, healing you 1d10+your fighter level HP.

4. Fighter 2: Second level fighters get an Action Surge to help you perform supernatural feats in a single turn. Now you can add on an extra action to your turn once per short rest.

5. Fighter 3: Our last level of fighter unlocks your martial archetype, the Rune Knight! The big reason we’re here is for Giant Might, spending a bonus action to grow Large, also giving you advantage on strength checks and saves, and you also deal extra damage once per turn while attacking. You can transform this way Proficiency times per long rest.

You can also carve Runes into weapons, armor, and jewelry. You get two runes, and can carve them into one item each at the end of a long rest. The Frost rune gives its wearer advantage on Animal Handling and Intimidation checks. The Fire rune doubles the wearer’s proficiency bonus with tools. Once per short rest per rune, they can also be invoked for extra power. The frost rune gives its wearer +2 on all strength and constitution saves and checks, while the fire rune forces a strength save against being restrained by fiery shackles, dealing damage each turn and restraining the target, when you hit it with a weapon attack. The DC for that save is 8 + proficiency + constitution.

6. Sorcerer 1: We might be done with fighter, but we’re not done multiclassing! First level sorcerers get Spells they can cast using their charisma. Thanks to an old unearthed arcana, you can be a Giant Soul sorcerer , granting you Jotun Resilience for slightly more HP; 1 extra per sorcerer level. The Mark of the Ordning also grants you extra low-level spells, like Heroism and Shillelagh. Neither of those are really useful to you, but they’re free, and not why we’re here.

For spells that are in character, grab Mold Earth, Create Bonfire, and Light to spruce up the wilderness and make it your own. You can also use True Strike to chop down trees, but that’s dumb, just make two attacks. For first level spells, Earth Tremor and Thunderwave are you stepping around. The former knocks people prone and makes the ground a big crater, the latter pushes them and objects away from you.

7. Sorcerer 2: This level isn’t that complicated, but you do become a Font of Magic for some Sorcery points that come in handy later. You can also cast Catapult to throw stuff around. Sadly, the maximum weight is only 5 pounds, but you can always just throw stuff yourself.

8. Sorcerer 3: Third level sorcerers get two Metamagic options to personalize your spells using sorcery points. Extended Spell will help out with a certain buff we’re getting this level, extending the length of the spell. You’re also big enough that your spell ranges should grow to match, so grab Distant Spell as well.

This level you can Hold Person, which you tend to take more literally than most casters. After the target fails a wisdom save, they’re paralyzed until they make one. While paralyzed, all attacks are made with advantage, and melee attacks are auto-crits.

Alternatively, you can use the Mark of the Ordning spell, Enlarge/Reduce to make yourself even bigger than usual. (Giant Might explicitly grows to large, so you have to start with that if you want to stack them.)

9. Barbarian 3: After spending half our build elsewhere, we can finally return to our starting class! Third level barbarians set down the Path of the Totem Warrior, letting you use your connection to Babe to pick up all sorts of goodies as we level up.

Immediately, you become a Spirit Seeker, letting you cast Beast Sense and Speak with Animals as rituals to really get into the Babe mindset.

Babe also becomes your Totem Spirit, so we’ll be taking the Elk options whenever possible. Right now, that gives you an extra 15′ of movement while raging. It’s not quite the whole nation in a step, but it’s a start.

10. Barbarian 4: At tenth level, we finally get our first Ability Score Improvement, so round up your Strength and Dexterity for better attacks and a better AC.

11. Barbarian 5: Fifth level barbarians finally get their Extra Attack each attack action, and your Fast Movement adds another 10′ to your movement speed, regardless of whether or not you’re raging.

12. Barbarian 6: Sixth level totem warriors get an Aspect of the Beast, doubling the travel pace for yourself and up to 10 companions. They can just ride on your shoulders, it’s fine.

13. Barbarian 7: Your Feral Instinct gives advantage on initiative rolls, and you can ignore being surprised if you rage at the start of the fight. Raging right away might not be the best option, but that’s for the casters to figure out. You’ve got land development to get to.

You can also use an Instinctive Pounce to move half your movement speed towards an enemy as part of your bonus action when you rage.

14. Barbarian 8: Use this ASI to bump up your Constitution for better runes and more health. You’re pretty squishy for a barbarian, but I guess that’s to be expected, considering what you’re made of.

15. Barbarian 9: Your first Brutal Critical adds an extra die to your critical damage rolls. Big kid, big axe, big damage. Simple math.

16. Barbarian 10: As a Spirit Walker, you can Commune with Nature as a ritual, summoning a cool spirit Babe to tell you stuff about the world around you.

17. Barbarian 11: Your Relentless Rage gives you a case of Guts, letting you make a DC 10 constitution save to avoid dropping to 0 HP, dropping to 1 instead if you succeed. Afterwards, the DC grows by 5, but it resets on short rests. You shouldn’t be getting guts at all, so be grateful.

18. Barbarian 12: Use your last ASI to bump up your Dexterity again for less getting hit. Healing’s nice, but avoiding the damage in the first place is way better.

19. Barbarian 13: You get another round of Brutal Criticals, for another extra die of damage on crits.

Not exactly rocket surgery, huh?

20. Barbarian 14: Your final level gives you your final barbarian goody! Your Totemic Attunement lets you move through a large or smaller creature’s space as a bonus action. It forces a strength save, or the creature is stepped on, knocking it prone and dealing damage.

Pros:

Thanks to your speed, size, and action surge, you can cover a lot of ground very quickly. With 55 feet of movement, two dashes, and an instinctive pounce, you can cover ~195 feet in a single round. Aside from that, your size gives you mobility options that aren’t available to others. Standing around 15′ tall will do that for ya.

You’ve got some solid swings with your axe, letting you deal plenty of damage in a single swing. Bring down the hammer on a natural 20 to blast through those doors. At your biggest you can deal 1d12+1d6+1d4+4 damage. That’s not a smite, but you can do this every turn while enlarge is up.

You get just enough spells to apply a lot of utility to your build, altering the landscape and messing with enemy movement to help out your team.

Cons:

Due to how we leveled up, your first ASI doesn’t come until level 10. If you roll poorly, that might be a problem.

I wouldn’t call you squishy by any means, but you do make for a big target, with your huge size and an AC of only 15 making you easy pickings even before you start getting reckless.

Most of your abilities are tied to your rage, but your biggest size is tied to your spells. They don’t play nice. Even worse, it’s a flavor fail- you can’t trample over people if you’re at your biggest size. (On a semi-related note: being big and being a barbarian have a lot of overlap. Both giant might and raging give you advantage on strength stuff, so having both up is sort of a waste.)

[crimson-dxwn]

Love So Alike (Jango Fett x F!OC)

Summary: Jango Fett takes the occasional bounty posting to keep things interesting. This time, his ship gets hit and he crash-lands far from Kamino. Fortunately, he is found.

Rating: Teen

Warnings: mentions of blood and injury, mild lustful thoughts

This is going to be multi-part! Also many apologies for the sh*ttiest pic collage ever. I tried. HMU if you want to be on the taglist!

-------------------------------------------------------- This day has been fucked to shit, officially. His latest bounty had friends. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but Slave I, Slave I had taken more damage than he was prepared for. One of said Klatoonian friends nailed a lucky shot. Right to the damn hyperdrive, and now he was stranded in the Outer Rim, parsecs from Kamino. Jango’s next priority was picking which skughole to crash-land on and try to fix the damage. 

His bones protested the bumpy ride to the surface of the green and blue marble enlarging rapidly before him. Ralltiir, the most hospitable-looking planet in this system. It was about as populated as Concord Dawn, which wasn’t saying much. Fortunately not Republic controlled or occupied. The navicomputer helpfully told him that it was an agricultural world - great - with a few mid-size urban centers. The best he could hope for was to try and aim for one of those. The choking whine coming from the backside of his ship was leading him to believe that it wasn’t just his hyperdrive that was damaged. Smoke started to fill the cockpit, acrid and hazy, as he struggled to keep the controls on course for a settlement. His helmet could only filter so much particulate - every breath burned and his head swam. 

He entered atmo at the same time as a great boom echoed from below him, shaking the ship as his stomach lurched uncomfortably. This wasn’t going to be pretty. His hands were numb now on the controls and he struggled to keep them gripped to the joystick. The details of the world below were rapidly coming into focus as Slave I careened toward the surface. His head spun from the lack of oxygen, and he ripped his helmet off to find even more acrid air. Boba...his thoughts ran toward his son, left on Kamino in the care of the aiwha-bait while he chased bounties. He should’ve stayed with his son; he was gonna die on this planet, covered in mud, far from Kamino. There was way too much water, more than he judged when he’d briefly studied the map. If he overjudged his landing, he’d drown in the middle of nowhere with nobody to come looking.

The joysticks protested his efforts to pull the ship up parallel with the ground as trees whipped by, filling his windscreen completely. Solid ground blessedly met the flat landing platform of his ship as the g-forces nearly robbed Jango of consciousness and his head cracked against the console. Boba. He’d make it back. Just another bumpy landing, he thinks, as he stripped out of his harness, coughing black soot from his lungs. There was a little blood left on the back on his hand when he wiped his mouth. Nothing to worry about. He’d had worse. As soon as he could breathe fresh air, he’d be able to think straight and get out of this. When the edges of his vision weren’t blackening and closing in. Finally he made it down the lowered ramp. And his vision blacked out completely.

Through her binocs, Roha watched the man faceplant into the mud. His ship crashing had nearly blown both eardrums to smithereens a few minutes ago and she couldn’t resist clambering up on an outcropping of rocks to watch the ship come down, barely a klik from the homestead. He wore strange armor, from what she could judge that wasn’t soot-blackened or  covered in churned soil from the crash. She couldn’t identify his ship, but Roha guessed it wasn’t common from its unusual shape. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen in her roughly thirty years here. Truly, the man must be a skilled pilot to be able to crash-land so delicately that his ramp could still open. From the look of the back end of the starship, he’d taken some heavy damage, probably from some less-than-legal outfits. The man cut quite a figure until he fell, face-first, towards the ground. Part of her hesitated to help, worried that it might be a ploy. But the way he’d gone slack led her to believe that his need was genuine. And so she wiped her dirty hands on her skirt and hurried to the smoking hulk. She prayed she wouldn’t need the small vibroblade hidden alongside her right leg. Roha’s breathing was coming fast by the time she reached the prone figure. Not that she had much to worry about - he hadn’t moved a muscle since passing out. 

Roha crouched next to him, watching his back rise and fall shallowly for a few seconds before getting her arms underneath his torso. Flipping him on his back was going to be difficult. The man wasn’t tall, but he was thicker than she anticipated, dense with muscle and weighed down by silver fox armor. Mud squelched as she dug her boots into the mire, searching for some leverage. Finally she got him on his back. Soot streaked his face - his very handsome face. Joining the old scars lining the man’s rugged features was a new gash over his left temple, still oozing blood. Two fingers on his neck revealed a strong, regular pulse, and despite being minimally conscious he seemed to be relatively intact. 

The ship had hidden itself relatively well, nestled in a copse of trees at the bottom of the valley, though others were likely to have seen the craft. It was fortunate he’d landed where he did. Half a klik farther east and he’d be at the bottom of the ocean. He groaned a bit - that was encouraging - but didn’t open his eyes. He needed medical attention, that much was obvious. And shelter, that too. No use worrying in who’s shot him down at the moment. That was a worry for later. Now that she’d determined he was alive, the next problem was how to lug his unconscious body back to her cabin. 

She knelt in the mud as rain started to mist down on the two of them, him unconscious in the mud and her knee deep in the mire. Eventually she trudged back to the homestead in her soggy boots and harnessed her single orbak and constructed a makeshift stretcher for him to haul. The man was blessedly still breathing when she led the animal back to the crash site. His eyes were still closed and the oozing from his cut had stopped. Was she really about to bring this stranger into her home? Maybe he’d recover and be on his way. Roha checked his breathing again. Still his chest rose and fell, rapid and shallow, dark brows furrowed. 

The orbak huffs, indignant at being roped into extra work for the day. The sun had set below the mountains in the west and her breath steamed out in from of her face. There wasn’t much time before it became too cold for him to be lying out in the open, wet and covered in icy steel. She sighed and made her decision as the orbak stamped his feet, impatient for a warm stall. 

“Me too, boy,” she murmured to the beast. Using her full weight, she heaved the man onto the stretcher. The mud soaked through her skirt, so cold that it numbed her skin from her thighs all the way to her ankles. She couldn’t wait to light a crackling fire...maybe heat up some water for a bath. Her skin crawled at the thought. Darkness was falling, and the rain falling harder with it. She clicked in the back of her throat to urge the pony back home. He carried the man easily and she thanked her lucky stars she’d traded for him six months ago, though she lamented not trimming his feathered fetlocks which were - to her dismay - now caked in dark fertile mud. Another worry for tomorrow.

She got him back to the homestead. It had been hers for years since her husband had died. Modest though it was, it was enough. Though a main pitfall, she now realized, was the single bed. Not that she’d be sleeping much anyway, with an unknown man in her home. But part of this felt...right. If she left him outside like, she’d never forgive himself if he died. Damn the consequences. Still wouldn’t sleep a wink. 

Her heart breaks for her bedding when she finally rolls his mud-covered body on it with a pained groan. Though fortunately he’d gained a bit of consciousness on the trip to the cabin so she didn’t have to lug his dead weight through the threshold. She on the other hand, was absolutely exhausted. It was all she could take to strip him down to his basics to look at his abdomen and extremities. Hideous bruises covered his chest and stomach. It looked incredibly painful. The man hadn’t done much in terms of movement besides thrash his head from side to side and moan softly. He needed a medical droid, but there wasn’t one for a long ways. The best she could do was cool compresses for the bruises and keep him warm and hydrated. And pray he lived. 

---

When Jango wakes it’s because someone is touching his face. It wasn’t something that happened often. And when it did it filled him with prickly discomfort. He greatly preferred the security and anonymity of his helmet. The desert that was the back of his throat distracted him for the moment. He tried to get his bearings. No helmet, but he vaguely remembered removing it in the ship. No comforting weight of beskar on his chest. An arm reaches up to inspect exactly why he was in his basics and how he was going to escape….wherever this was. Forcing his stinging eyes open, he registered a slatted wood ceiling, the smell of woodsmoke and an undercurrent of earthy sweetness he couldn’t quite identify. 

A hand stopped his own and Jango grasped the attached forearm, hard. Time to break out. 

His abdomen strongly protested his efforts to sit up. Pain struck him, so overwhelming he almost blacked out, and he let out a pathetic noise that normally he wouldn’t be caught dead making. Half groan, half sob. He’d really done it now. Jango settled for simply turning his head and a woman came into view, forearm still trapped in his grip. When her pleading eyes met his, he dropped his hand. She was maybe the least threatening thing that his mind could conjure up at this exact moment. 

“Don’t try to sit up,” she said, “you’re badly injured.” He’d established that already, thanks.

“Where..” even talking hurt. He tried again. “--where am I?” 

“Ralltiir,” the woman replied, “in the Outer Rim. You crash landed--”

“I know that,” he interrupted. She shut up, wariness in her soft brown eyes. 

“Where is my armor?” 

She pointed to the foot of the bed she’d laid him on, and there it was, neatly stacked in a wicker basket. “And my blasters?”

“Confiscated,” she replied. She was rubbing her forearm where he’d grabbed her. Jango could see the marks from his fingers marring her skin. He didn’t make a habit of hurting women, but sentiment about which parts enemies had between their legs didn’t prevent them from killing you. 

“Your ship went down about a klik north of here. You passed out from smoke inhalation and I couldn’t just leave you facedown in the mud-” her speech was getting faster and faster; it was obvious she was scared of him. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so gruff with her. After all, she could’ve just slotted his shebs outside Slave I. Jango reaches a hand up to his face. Quite the stubble growth. He had to have been lying here for almost a day. More than enough time for her to call any sort of scum - slavers, bounty hunters, or worse. He sighed as she babbled on, wringing her hands nervously. He decided to take pity on her and interrupt.

“-can I at least have my undersuit back?” She looked at him with a wide, embarrassed expression. Sheepishly, she went to the basket and pulled out his shirt and pants, neatly folded and suspiciously devoid of mud. 

“I’m Roha,” she offered, with a pregnant pause, obviously expecting him to return the favor. He supposed it was enough that she dragged him a klik back to what seemed to be her home and probably her own bed. 

“Jango,” he replied. Roha gave a small smile in response and started busying herself with rearranging the stacked armor and accessories in the basket. 

After his show earlier it was clear that he was going to need help sitting up. Frustration boiled deep in him - it wasn’t often he needed help. Especially from wilting female farmhands. From an upright vantage point he’d be able to get a better idea of his surroundings. Besides, being kept supine under heavy blankets was making his claustrophobia flare up. 

“Uh..” he started, “do you mind...” Maker, he hated feeling this helpless. Jango grit his teeth and tried again. “Can you help me sit up?” 

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She reached an arm out and he grasped her hand with his. It was still painful, but she was surprisingly strong. Soft brown curls fanned out from her face and there was a strand of something caught in it. Hay. A strange impulse to brush it away flashed across his mind, but he pushed it down. Roha stood back a few paces, still watching him carefully. It was good she was wary. 

Throwing off the woven blankets, he gingerly rose. Somehow his legs had survived mercifully intact, though now with his chest bare he could see the extent of the bruising that he could previously only feel with every breath. Moving was slow, and he needed to use the edge of the bed for support. Jango could feel the woman’s eyes still on him, skin prickling at the unwanted contact. It reminded him too much of his youth, stripped down to his basics, injured, helpless and trapped in an unfamiliar place. 

“Do you mind?” he snapped over his shoulder. He could practically feel her blush. It rose over her cheeks and down her neck, barely tinting her tanned skin. 

Her eyes snapped to the floorboards, looking chastened. “Sorry.” 

Jango got his bearings as he changed, taking in the little cottage. It was one spare room, likely with a fresher out the back, much like the ones he’d grown up in on Concord Dawn, except this one was made of light-colored wood. He imagined must have quite the concussion because all the sights and smells of such a humble place had begun dredging up memories he swore he’d forgotten forever. Maybe it was the osik’la jedi playing mind tricks - as they were wont to do - weaving a scene to get him to talk. Unbidden, his stomach rolled over and the room spun with it. He breathed hard through his nose, trying to steady himself. Blessedly, the nausea faded but he had to slow his movements to a crawl and focus on one point in front of him. He already felt less exposed with the flight suit on. It was something. 

“My ship?” he asked. 

“Besides the back end? Relatively unscathed,” she said, eyes still glued to the floor, “but I’m no mechanic.” 

No shock there. He made a noncommittal sound under his breath. Despite his suspicion of head trauma he did remember his hyperdrive getting shot to smithereens as well as the smoke pouring out the engine room and filling the cockpit. The question of where he was going to get parts to fix Slave I was a bit of an afterthought, as he currently could barely move. Plus, he’d been unconscious for hours and there were more pressing needs to take care of.

He cleared his throat. “Fresher?” 

“Out back,” she replied, and gestured at the heavy wooden door at the back of the homestead. “Can you walk?”

“I’ll manage.” He hoped he could keep his feet enough to manage a piss. Guess he was about to find out. 

When get returned, she was pulling something out of the ancient looking oven. It was a giant behemoth of cast iron with a chamber to feed in sticks of firewood. Whatever it was smelled...amazing. Jango was back on the bed, despite his best efforts to stay upright, and settled for simply watching her like a hawk from his perch, trying his best to ignore the ache that gnawed in his belly. 

“Why are you helping?” He’s a little shocked the phrase slipped out. But he wants to know. She should’ve just left him, called the cops or whatever passed for them in this backwater. He wasn’t used to blind kindness, to giving without some sort of transactional relationship. 

She was still fussing around the stove, conspicuously letting him have his privacy. He was more grateful than suspicious and so he fell silent, content to watch her work. Half her skirt was tucked into the thick leather belt wrapped around her waist. It was thick and worn, with a swirling tooled pattern, and much too big for her. It was fastened on its smallest setting, which happened to be a sloppily awled hole far from the rest of its counterparts.

“Is it just you all the way out here?” he asked, strength fading fast. 

Again, she eyed him warily, but replied, apparently dismissing him as a threat at present. “Yes, just me.” Without elaboration she went back to her cooking and Jango finally gave into his screaming midsection. Lying on the bed felt like such a relief. It had been a while since he’d been badly injured and he’d almost forgotten how much it took out of you. The clinking and shuffling from the other end of the room lulled him back under despite his best efforts, and he fell asleep wondering about Boba. 

———

That night Roha woke to Jango’s anguished murmuring, listening to him thrash from her nest of blankets in the corner. She’d wanted to get a little broth into him, but he’d fallen fast asleep after their brief, awkward conversation and she wasn’t keen on waking him again. He’d survive without broth for a night, at least. Now, though, he was fretful and she hoped it was a nightmare rather than his injury.  

Boba, he kept muttering, over and over. A name? His partner perhaps? A parent? A child?

Trying to get back to sleep was impossible. Roha settled back against the wall and willed him to calm. At first she thought it worked, until he started visibly shaking, large hands gripping the sheets. His muttering changed violently. He was almost yelling now, in a language she didn’t recognize - harsh and grating on her ears. She debating waking him once again. He was going to hurt himself. Tangled in the sheets, he kept shouting in the strange language. 

She was exhausted. Wary to wake him too suddenly, she kept her distance, though she knew he could barely sit and walk on his own. The moonlight spilled through the window to the bed, lighting his features in his half-sitting position, arm clutched over his midsection. 

And then he looked right at her. The eeriness of his wide open eyes struck her.

“Anade kyrayc...” 

“Jango?” she asked, her voice low and soft. She didn’t dare touch him. 

He hissed. “Ke’pare.” 

She started a little more strongly this time. “Jango.” He stilled and the absolute expression of anguish on his face broke her heart. 

“You’re safe,” she assured him. His dark eyes were glassy and stared less at her and more through her, still wandering in the land of nightmares. Though he calmed a little, breaths coming less harshly than a few minutes earlier. “Go back to sleep. You’re safe here.”

Relief weakened her knees as he paused and gingerly laid himself back down, still trembling ever so slightly. Noting his sweat-dampened head and soaked clothes, she rummaged in the storage space below the bed for a pair of Jet’s old pants and a tunic and set them at the end of the bed. She hoped they would fit, though right now she was too exhausted to care much. Curling up in her corner once again, she slept fitfully, chased by fretful dreams of her own and unable to get comfortable on the hard floor despite the cushioning of her quilts. 

Hours later, she was roused once again by the sound of someone foreign in her home. Jango was returning from the fresher, in his sleeping clothes. Deep purple circles ringed under his eyes. She felt the same - this cycle of waking the other was getting old. 

“‘Morning,” he said gruffly. 

“Good morning,” she replied. The warm orange sunrise was peeking through the window over the sink. As good a time as any to get up - the animals would be waiting to be fed. 

“I thought you might like a change of clothes,” she offered, nodding towards the tunic and pants. Jango squinted at them. “They were my husbands. If you’d like to bathe, the inlet out front is cold but clean...or I can bring water from the well for you?” 

“That won’t be necessary” 

“I’ll be at the barn, just yell if you need me.” 

He looked down, looking halfway bashful rather than stern. “Thank you,” he said finally. 

He glanced at the clothes again and Roha busied herself with the kitchen scraps for the roba, not wanting to pester him or reveal any more embarrassing details about herself. 

“There’s bread wrapped in the cloth on the counter,” she threw over her shoulder on her way out. Her own stomach was grumbling terribly, but it would have to wait. 

The barn was a ways from the house. Enough that any - unpleasant - smells wafted away in the wind, but close enough for a bearable walk when the snows fell. The chill of early spring was in the air and the breeze was clean and fresh, nipping at her cheeks and making her wish she’d thrown a shawl on over her thin top or under the quilts and furs on her bed. It was plenty warm in the house with a banked-low fire. The creamy white stones that lined the outside had been specially picked for their insulating properties. 

The chores whiled away mindlessly.  On her way to the pasture she heard the faintest creak of the front door back at the homestead. It shocked her that he’d refused her offer to heat him some bath water. Most men she knew would’ve jumped at the chance to be waited on hand and foot, all while denying that they liked it, or worse - expected it. 

Pouring the grain into the trough, she resisted the urge to look for him behind her. Though the tip of the inlet was a ways away, she still averted her eyes while she walked the path back to the barn. If he felt up to bathing, he was probably out of the woods for now. 

She heard the breath he sucked through his teeth when he realized how cold the water was and smiled. Maybe he’d changed his mind about that bath. She peeked just for a moment to the shore, just to make sure he was safe and not lying facedown on the pebble beach. The water was waist height, lapping at his lower back. His shoulders were tense, whether from cold or pain she couldn’t tell.

Roha couldn’t believe she’d mentioned Jet. She rarely spoke of him, let alone reveal to strange men staying in her home that she didn’t have a man of the house. Her mother would disapprove. What she  would also disapprove of his how long Roha has been staring at a naked and injured man’s heavily muscled back while he bathed. Heat rose to her face and for once she was glad she was alone out here. Insistent bleating of the gathered sheep in their shed finally drew her attention away from the very well-made man half-submerged in her little bay. 

She fed them their allotment of grain as usual, but something was off. Almost all her ewes were pregnant, and it was a little early for them to lamb, but the one with the cream fleece and black undercoat was nowhere to be seen. A little pit formed in her belly. It had frosted overnight, and if the ewe gave birth in the pasture, the lamb was vulnerable to hypothermia. Roha hopped the fence, leaving the rest of the flock to their breakfast and headed out into the pasture. Parts of the grass in the shade still crunch with frost under her boots. She’s lucky the ewe’s coat sticks out so much or she’d never have found her in the copse of trees at the far corner of the pasture complete with a tiny black lamb, curled up by its mother, barely moving. 

The mother was concerned, nudging the little creature with her nose, trying to get the little one to perk up. Crouching by the pair, she tries to rouse the lamb. It breathes fast, wet coat cool to the touch. She sighs. They’d need to be separated; the baby was too cold now to be kept in the shed. Roha prayed Jango was washed and dressed as she rushed back to the cottage. 

He was back in bed, dressed in Jet’s old clothes, breathing deep and even. The bath had taken a lot out of him, then. Oblivious, the tiny thing in her arms gave a weak cry. Jango opened an eye to assess and Roha busied herself making a nest out of a ratty old blanket and mixing formula she kept in the storage shed. 

When she glanced back at her guest, he was upright on the bed - a promising sign.

“What’s this, then?” he asked. 

“Little one came on an inopportune morning,” she replied, rubbing the lamb dry with the blanket and scooching herself closer to the fire for warmth. It took to the bottle well, fortunately, and drank its fill. Jango watched silently as she worked. She stroked the little whorls of wool on the lamb’s head absentmindedly. Jango didn’t look confused at why she had a farm animal indoors and she wondered if this wasn’t the first time he’d crash landed on a rural world and been taken in. She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. 

Sitting here, alone with him in the small house brought back the events of the previous night vividly. She’d never ask what he’d dreamed about. He likely wouldn’t remember, and the last thing Roha wanted was to dredge up any painful memories he might have. And by the amount of scars littering his body, he had many. What she couldn’t help beng curious about was the name he’d called out, distinct from the rest of his speech. 

She tried to be as nonchalant as possible.

“Who’s Boba?” 

One look at his expression told her that she’d made a wrong move. 

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

Mando’a Translations

anade kyrayc - everyone’s dead

Ke’pare - wait

[ddarker-dreams]

Puppet. Yan Charles Grey x Reader [COMM]

The phrase “your life” feels more like an oxymoron than an accurate description. 

Every task that you carry out -- from the moment the sun rises from the east, and sets in the west -- is not of your own autonomy. A marionettist pulls the strings from above, you but a mere puppet that concedes accordingly to its wishes.

You play the role of the perfect daughter, hours of tutoring and diligent planning from your parents ensuring your success. In your heart, there is little abhorrence for the distant yet prickly relationship you have with them. They mean no harm, you often have to remind yourself, when your thoughts gain a negative edge. It’s all for the greater good of the family. 

Pressing the cold glass you plucked from the buffet table against your lips, your eyes take in the sight before you. Inhabitants from high social standing cluster together, speaking of benign matters or hoping to further their position in some way. It’s a familiar scene, despite the significance of the event. 

The Queen, in all her normal benevolence, is hosting this ball in hopes of raising funds for a new orphanage in London. To turn down an invite to such an occurrence would be a kiss of death to your social standing. Your own family invested a hefty sum into the charity, a small hope of getting noticed you surmise. It’s a gamble, but nothing is gained without taking a few risks.

Your parents have an apparent agenda of their own tonight, centered around you. They’ve been introducing you to a variety of possible suitors, since you are now of the age to wed. Throughout the flood of faces you’ve met, none of them have seemed inclined to lead the conversation to taking your hand. The barrage of social interaction has sapped away at your strength, weariness settling in as the night progresses at a snail’s pace.

Being left to your own devices for what feels like the first time in hours, you lament the thought of when it’ll come to an end. Perhaps tonight simply isn’t your night? Your mother gave you a stern look when you spoke those words, critiquing every little nuance of your prior interactions. It isn’t your fault the men simply haven’t been interested in marriage, you did what was expected of you. That leaves no room for fault of your own. 

One common string of actions you picked up on, was their hesitation in initially speaking to you. It could only have been your imagination, however, they spoke to you with rigidity. Polite, yes, but they seemed eager to leave your side. Almost as if they were hesitant to even speak with you in the first place, though any reason for this is beyond you.

How peculiar. 

Your parents have left your side for a few minutes now, undoubtedly searching for another possible suitor to introduce you to. The string of bad luck isn’t enough to stop them from advancing their goals. Standing here for too long on your lonesome isn’t an option, the public eye judgmental and lips prone to entertain gossip. This night couldn’t come to a close any faster.

Adjusting your position, you consider the best course of action here. It’d be ideal to find a suitable person to speak to, but most of the people here are already in conversation with one another. Stopping a sigh that threatens to leave, you decide to get some fresh air. Distant laughter, chatter, and orchestral accompaniments go ignored as you walk to the doors of the balcony. 

Guards open the door for you, allowing you to step outside. The moon is shining brightly above, illuminating the various plants interwoven with the wood railing. Corset constricting you harshly, the ability to breathe without trouble feels like a distant luxury. Being introduced to a possible husband one after the other doesn’t help, the interactions a whirlwind of stress. 

“Not into events like this, huh? Not that I could blame you.” A male voice, light and whimsical, startles you from behind. 

Placing a gloved hand to your chest in surprise, you look back to see a young man around your age. With long, snow white hair, playful blue eyes, and wearing a white tailcoat with a black buttoned up shirt underneath. He flashes you a lazy grin, before taking his place by your side.

Your breath hitches at the unexpected advance. Whoever this is either ignorant to social rules, or cares little of them. As he takes a place by your side, you consider making an excuse to go back in. A light breeze caresses your warming skin, a few strands of hair tickling your face. 

“I wouldn’t phrase it like that,” you respond in earnest, unable to get a solid read on his aloof attitude. “Looking at the stars is a pleasant change of pace.” 

In saying so, the pair of you look up towards the sky. It’s a rarity tonight, the usual smog not as apparent. His attention returns to you soon enough, mouth set in a straight line. He considers your input, crossing his arms. 

“Hm… really? I’ve always found these events to be a drag.” he replies with a raised eyebrow, a hand pressed against his hip. You take note of the sheathed rapier, but think little else of it. The understanding the fashion choice of men has never been your strong suit. 

“At first glance, perhaps. Legends behind the constellations are what I take the most interest in. Take those five stars there, for example,” you point a finger for extra emphasis. “That one is named Cassiopeia. In Greek mythology, Cassiopeia was punished by the gods for her vanity; forced to forever be imprinted in the sky.” 

Biting your lip for a moment, you manage to collect yourself. When it came to topics you found compelling, rambling came naturally. If your mother were here she’d scold you, stern eyes saying more than words ever could.

“Seems over the top, if you ask me.” he concludes pointedly, pushing his lips to the side in thought. It almost comes as a relief that he isn’t irate with your passionate speaking, the window to criticize you for it now gone. 

A light laugh leaves your lips, skin around your eyes tightening in amusement at his blunt assessment. “Yes, well, Greek gods were not known for their compassion.” 

Mimicking your earlier action, he points to a cluster of stars in the sky with childlike enthusiasm. “And? What about this one?” 

“Ah… I don’t believe that is a constellation. It has a similar appearance, however.” you speculate with a frown, silently hoping the answer isn’t too disappointing. His shoulders droop at your lackluster response, leading you to attempt and patch it over.

“You could always make a constellation of your own. I recall doing that as a child, it’s a fun game to play with yourself.” Memories come flooding back to you of your childhood, the nights you spent creating impossible yet fun scenarios to go along with the night sky. 

Turning on his heels, he bends his face down ever so slightly to get a better look at you. Tilting his head to the side, an unidentifiable emotion flashes through his light sky blue eyes, before he returns to his former position. You feel your pulse quicken, concern over saying the wrong thing rearing its ugly head once again. 

Instead of admonishing your thoughts, he encourages them. “Humor me. What story would you give this then?” 

That isn’t what you were expecting. It’s an entertaining request, different from the dreary talk you’ve slugged through earlier. A topic that you’re well endowed in. Childlike wonder returns to you, flashes of memories from your youth returning. 

“I can’t think of anything.” you confess with a sheepish frown. “I fear my interpretations would leave much to be desired, anyhow. The original stories are too timeless to compete with.” 

Before he can offer a rebuttal, the sound of doors opening hurriedly behind you gains your attention. Your mother, eyes darting around before landing on your form, strides over to you with practiced ease. She freezes her movements when she looks over at your eccentric conversation partner, gulping at the sight. 

“Earl Grey, I take it you have met my daughter?” she guardedly inquires, showcasing a tight lipped smile. 

His title and name registers instantly, and you instantly feel an ocean of regret collapsing over you. Not only did you lose yourself in conversation with someone, it happened to be such an important individual? He could have you socially ostracized if he felt inclined to do so, being a guard of the Queen herself. 

In a desire to save face, you mirror your mother’s stoic visage; praying she didn’t catch anything you said earlier. You gulp as he holds off on a response, her eyes narrowing briefly at you in the silence.

His own relaxed demeanor doesn’t change in the slightest at the new company, finally breaking the tense silence. “Indeed I have. We were having an exciting conversation.” 

She shoots you a look that makes your blood go cold, fingers twitching by your side. The carriage ride home will be a harrowing event. You can already picture the chastising comments she’ll make at your expense, critiquing you from head to toe. 

“Ah, I’m pleased to hear she was good company for you then. Please forgive her for any slips of the tongue, she’s always been an imaginative child.” she offers a timed laugh, one that you know well. Another sign of how you’ve surely upset her with your antics.

Your mother doesn’t need to say anything else, you more than capable of reading in between the lines of her strained gaze. She’s smoothed over any possible grievances to the best of her abilities, and wants you to dismiss yourself. 

Earl Grey has kept his attention on you, paying little mind to her. You silently inhale, praying that your face doesn’t waver at your next words. Face burning in defiance of your wishes, you excuse yourself. 

“It’s been a pleasure, Earl Grey. I thank you kindly for your time.” 

---

When your father called you to his study this afternoon, you knew it would be grim news. 

The past month has been a tense one, misfortunes piling up one after the other. It all started when one of his companies main investors pulled for no understandable reason, not even offering an explanation. 

Matters only grew worse as rumors of scandal plagued him from an anonymous source, further discrediting the company's name. The staff of your house whispers that perhaps he’s been cursed by a malevolent spirit. While you initially scoffed at such an unfounded notion, you can’t help but begin to wonder if it holds some truth.

Weariness was apparent in his gaze, skin tight to the bone and dark circles underneath his eyes. Money is running out, he told you with a shameful sigh. There will be lifestyle changes in the near future, such as cutting a significant amount of staff at the estate; and even having to lay off employees under his company. 

He wanted so desperately to shield you from this frightful information, but the times are growing dire. It’s frustrating -- how all of this could happen from out of seemingly nowhere -- leaving you at the mercy of the law. There must be something you can do, but what? 

It’s the question that has led you to the gardens outside. Birds chirp contentedly, leaves rustling about in the wind. Nature always brings with it a taste of sweet solace, but today, even it fails to mitigate your anxiety. Negotiations for any possible engagements have also led nowhere, to make matters worse.

‘I could offer to sell some of my wardrobe… would that even do anything, though? It’s surely couldn’t hurt.’

Delicately wrapping your fingers around the teacup handle, you take a sip. Could it be you were not a desirable enough wife? With all the problems your family has had of late, suitors must be too cautious to approach you. As unfair as it may be, it frustrates you further. 

“I was told I’d find you out here.” 

Whipping your head around, you’re met with a sight that brings back pleasant memories. Earl Grey walks from behind a hedge, inviting himself into your presence without any hesitation. There’s a light spring to his step, like something had put him in a good mood.

This melts away instantly when he sees your downcast gaze, frowning deeply at the pitiful sight. 

“Earl Grey,” you greet with a strained smile. “If you’re looking for my father, I can show you his study.” 

Grey waves off your offer with disinterest, plopping himself down next to you. “There’s no need, I just finished speaking with him.”

You cross your legs at the information, muscles taut and frown deepening further. The investigation into possible racketeering brings a sense of shame, knowing in the depths of your heart your father would never do that. He’s been a lawful man his entire life, instilling in you good morals and reverence of the law.  

It would be impolite to ask for the state of the investigation from Grey, who was assigned to look into the rumors by the Queen. It is still a tempting prospect, but you bite your tongue nonetheless. 

‘How embarrassing… The Earl has only ever seen me in compromising situations such as this.’  

“I wanted to speak to you before I left,” Grey explains, leaning closer to your person. “Not as an interrogation or anything relating to the recent allegations. I’ve been curious about you.” 

Even at his insistence that this is off the record, it does little to help you. In the short time you’ve spoken to him, you’ve found his laid back personality to be off putting. Grey speaks whatever comes to his mind without caring how others might interpret it. This foreign confidence must come as a right to those in high power. 

“About... me?” you repeat back for further clarification, blinking rapidly and tilting your head. 

“We didn’t get to talk as much as I wanted to,” he explains, finding amusement in your wide eyes. Maintaining eye contact never felt so difficult. “And I just so happened to be here. It’s worth taking advantage of.” 

Shifting in your seat, you respond. “I’m all yours then.” 

He picks up on your poorly hidden discomfort with a frown, resting his chin on his hand. 

“Don’t feel the need to be so tense around me,” he chastises, thin eyebrows furrowing together with displeasure. “I liked how you were before more. So open and honest! It’s a breath of fresh air, really. Everyone can be so stiff and boring... it drives me mad.” 

“You must be worried about the ongoing investigation. It’ll be fine, really. There’s been no hard evidence found -- only rumors -- which is a different kind of damaging. But in the eyes of the law, it’s ultimately useless.

He winks, causing your face to flush. “Just a little secret between us.” 

You feel yourself eased by his spontaneously serious words, the affirmation much needed. Offering him a natural smile, you express your heartfelt appreciation.

“Hearing you say that makes all the difference,” you fumble over your words, incapable of hiding the well of emotion within any longer. Putting a gloved hand to your mouth, you continue. “You’ve offered me such kindness.” 

Grey perks up at your gratitude, leaning in closer. “I’m only being honest. I’ve seen the worst humanity has had to offer, but your father is nothing of the sort. And neither are you.” 

Guilt over your previous assessment of the Earl sprouts like a weed within your mind. You thought little of him at first, believing him nothing more than a soul too lighthearted for their own good. But here he is, offering you comfort in one of the darkest seasons in your life despite having nothing to gain from it. If anything, it could be a risk to his own character to associate with you.

Yet he’s here nonetheless. 

“There actually is another reason I wanted to speak to you,” he interrupts your thoughts with an excited hum. “Seeing as your father is almost entirely cleared of suspicion, we had discussed arrangements relating to you. I asked for your hand, and he enthusiastically accepted. Wonderful, right?” 

“W-wait, what?” you sputter in utter disbelief, uncertain of whether or not you’re dreaming. Is Grey being honest with you, or is this a practical joke in the works? Men from lesser standing than him looked over you as a possible wife, what does he stand to gain from this arrangement? 

He seems happy enough to repeat himself. “We’re engaged. There are some little details that still need to be ironed out, but, other than that...” 

You never were expecting to receive news of an engagement like this, your thoughts incoherent. It’ll do little for your image to so clearly reflect your inner feelings, prompting you to gain any semblance of control of your outward reactions.

This is a good thing, after all, perplexing as it is. With his connections and influence, no one would dare question your father’s integrity again. Doing so would be questioning the Queen’s own bodyguards, an extension of herself in many ways. 

Grey looks at you expectantly, unusually silent while giving you a moment to process. From his upbeat, almost sing song tone, you get the feeling he wants this engagement himself. 

“So don’t worry about those things anymore. I’ll be taking care of you from now on, after all,” he hums, looking down at you. Lithe fingers grab hold of a strand of your hair, playing with it. He’s close -- closer than a man has ever been to you -- warm breath hitting your face. “My only request is that you be yourself around me. That’s what drew me to you, and all I care for.” 

Giving you a moment of respite, he tucks your hair back into place. Grey takes in the sight of you. Afternoon sun shining upon your face, highlighting your flushed cheeks, and soft lips. Smiling with contentment, he leans back into his chair, closing his eyes. 

“Do that for me, and we’ll have no problems. A win-win situation.” 

[goldenkamuyhunting]

The sad news of Kentaro Miura's death have shaken the world of manga (and I dare say of comic books or even pop culture). I was wondering how do you think his masterpiece, Berserk, compares to Golden Kamuy and if an influence of sorts of the former can somehow be found in the latter. The theme of ambition is certainly there, as the topos of the tough and scary main character briken by trauma but with a heart of gold. What do you think?

Well...

I honestly wouldn't compare the two because to me they're two very different works although both are seinen who won the Tezuka Osamu Cultural Prize.

"Berserk" was monthly first then semimonthly, "Golden Kamuy" is weekly, which might seems irrelevant but the release date affect the pacing of the story greatly.

"Berserk" belongs to the Dark Fantasy genre while "Golden Kamuy" is an Historical manga, which means the authors have to worry about completely different things when crafting their story which allows them to pursue their themes in different ways.

Even the way the manga are structured is different, although both have many characters, "Berserk" for a long time has tended to focus the most on Guts, while GK shows itself to be a coral work from very early on.

There are some things that are similar, war, ambition, wish for a place to belong, trauma, but exactly because one is a dark fantasy while the other is historical, they're handled very differently.

In a dark fantasy you can view situations as metaphorical, in real life no one can experience "the eclipse" the way Guts and Caska do or sacrifice people to the God Hand's "apostles" the way Griffith does, but such situations can stand for real life experiences if you're willing to engage in the text as such, you might even enjoy how it's tinged in themes that reminds Nietzsche's ideas... or you can keep distance from it and just view it as a dark fantasy in which there are monsters that do terrible things to the humans and that need to be destroyed but none of this will happen in the real world so you can just enjoy the ride.

In an historical manga the experiences of the characters are things many people experience in real life. The Russo-Japanese war happened and, while now wars are more 'modern', there are things that still are the same. Sugimoto's experiences during the war, his coming back from it psychologically scarred are things that happened to tons of men, an experience that will continue being done as long as war exist. It's more difficult to keep distance, because even if the characters are fictionals most of what is mentioned is so very real it's easier it pushes you to think.

Mind you, I'm not saying this to say one is better than the other, just to say the two are so very different it doesn't seem fair to compare them.

In their genres I think they're both very good works, very solid and well studied, which tackle strong themes but in different ways and that the reader of one might not necessarily like the other but that they both deserve to be read.

"Berserk" is what I consider to be a classic in the manga world, "Golden Kamuy" is too new to be considered a classic but I expect it to become one.

Did "Berserk" get to influence "Golden Kamuy"?

Berserk started in 1989 (LOL, I've been reading it from 1996, it was a lifetime ago... I even watched the first anime series and brought the cd... "Forces" is still one of the songs I love the most), which places it close to "Hokuto no Ken" (which started in 1983) and "JoJo no Kimyō na Bōken" (which started in 1987) while GK is comparatively a newborn, as it started in 2014. We know Noda referenced both "Hokuto no Ken" and "JoJo". Right now I can't remember him mentioning "Berserk" (but it can be he did) and we don't know how old Noda is but I think there's a chance those are works he grew up with and if you grow up with something that's on this level of good, chances are it will directly or indirectly influence you.

So yes, it's definitely possible Miura's work influenced Noda, but as we can't know for sure it's hard to say.

The tough and scary main character briken by trauma but with a heart of gold is a common trope in storyteling but honestly, although Guts and Sugimoto live some similar experiences, to me they look as very different characters.

Guts had a tragic birth, as his mother was hung while she was pregnant and he was found by a slightly insane woman under her hanging body. His adoptive mother loves him but dies of illness, his adoptive father is a monster who mistreates him and sells him out to another man while Guts is desperate for his love. After he kils his adoptive father he continues to live alone as a mercenary untill he'll stumble into Griffith who'll force him to join him.

Sugimoto is instead for most of his youth a normal boy who lives a normal life with his beloved family and his friends and would have continued to live a normal life hadn't his family died due to sickness whcih caused him too to be ostracized. As a result Sugimoto does a couple of bad but understandable choices which lead him to lose Umeko to Toraji. He ends up in Tokyo, accepts to work for Kikuta and ultimately decides to join the army.

Of course the stories of both characters progress but they'll keep on progressing in different ways.

Sugimoto's life isn't a bowl of cherries but, compared to Guts' is litterally heaven on earth.

After the Eclipse Guts will become bitter, when Guts met Puck he cares little about how the citizens will be killed, all he wants is to deal with the Snake Lord. He doesn't want companions, he doesn't want to be touched, he's a ball of rage and desperation.

Sugimoto will never reach this level of bitterness, rage or desperation. Although he becomes more murder prone he never deliberately sacrifices innocents for his goal, he remains friendly and when he keeps other away is to protect them.

Again this is not about who of the two is better.

As main characters they're both awesome and they both will make you suffer a lot for them... but in very different ways.

So, long story short, I think both Miura and Noda did an awesome work with their masterpieces but that "Berserk" and "Golden Kamuy" are ultimately very different and wouldn't do justice to neither to compare them.

To who has gotten curious about it, "Berserk" is one of the manga I find is a MUST READ, however it comes with some warning as not only it's a seinen, therefore a work for adults, but it's very explicit in showing sex and violence RIGHT FROM THE FIRST PAGE, and that includes scenes of rape, monsters and situations worth of a horror story and other terrible things, so it's definitely not for soft hearted.

The art is beautiful and detailed, albeith dark but this fits with how "Berserk" has often a dark atmosphere (lighter scenes often have lighter art), the characters are well studied and there are strong themes. As said before you can find in it references to Nietzsche and his philosophy which makes for interesting points to ponder.

For me the story started to get really cool around the end of Vol 3, with the beginning of the Golden Age but there's who loved it from the start.

So... hum... sorry, this isn't exactly the analysis you wanted but I still hope it can be of some interest to read it.

Thank you for your ask!

[doctors-star]

16 for cowboys??

“Look, I care about you, alright? Quite a bit, I’m afraid.”

Johnny flops on his back, head slightly downhill of his feet in a way which makes the blood in his skull rush and whirl bewilderingly and his eyes pressed closed against the burning-bright sun, as yet undimmed by the afternoon. Someone drops a hat on his stomach and he flinches as though it had been a cannonball, sticking his tongue out and playing at being injured like the hognose snake Will had found in the shade under the general store’s porch - he’d rescued it from being killed as a copperhead, scooped it up in his hat, and brought it round to Ainsel’s back window to show the kids, thoroughly derailing all schooling for the day, as they all crowded around the hat to watch the creature resolutely turn on its back and stick its tongue out in repeatedly feigned death.

He stretches massively on the grass, smiling at the gentle laughter and the feeling of someone sitting near him and reaching across to give him two firm pats on the flank like a well-behaved horse. It’s been a long day, and it started early, but Johnny does like the big drives and hay harvests - all Danser collected together for one purpose, to help their neighbours and be rewarded in turn. Before dawn, he’d been drummed awake by fists on his door and had dressed quickly in the dark to stumble out into the street and go about mustering up others in turn. Of their little gang, he’d been first out of doors, followed by Will - looking bleary but drawn out by the other men staying in the saloon - then Ainsel, who seems to think they might be more use in bed than on horseback every time they see their own horse, then Tommy and Finn looking respectively disgustingly bright and alert, and still mostly asleep. Will, with his extremely biddable broad-chested nearly-a-draught horse, is quickly co-opted into driving one of the carts out of town and along the dusty prairie roads, uphill to the Wilder ranch to deliver tin pails of food and heavy stoneware bottles of drink and the very young and the very old, so that all of Danser may equally participate in the drive. Johnny, Finn, Ainsel and Tommy saddle up and cut north through the prairie, up the steeper side of the hill where the road can’t run; there, Diaz, Wilder, and Wilder’s eldest lad are calling instructions over the heads of the crowd and pointing in disparate directions to where the cows oughtta be, and where the cows oughtta go. A further crowd of skirts and fine hats - for today the town congregates, and it had better be in full finery and Sunday best - has collected around Mrs Wilder and Mrs Diaz to make tea and grits and beans cooked with salt pork in molasses, the scent sticky and inviting on the air even now, with hours of cooking left. Johnny tilts his nose into the air and breathes deeply, shooting a wink at Jody Masham when she passes near and earning a delightfully saucy grin for it. Her ma notices, of course, and gives him the evil eye, but Jody lets her fingers trail down his thigh from hip to knee on the pretense of admiring his horse and looks up at him through her lashes and he could perish on the spot for love of her, so what does he care anyhow.

She passes up chunks of soda bread, steaming in the dawning light and golden with butter, and he tosses them to his fellow riders - dinner will be late today, what with the distance the herd might have gone. And then they’re away, riding nearly the full complement of the town’s horses across the plains to where the herd stands, sedate and well-fed on the last of their summer grazing and ready to be collected up, split once more between Wilder and Diaz, and stowed in smaller paddocks with good solid barns over winter.

There ain’t no point in racing, really. There’s no advantage to getting there ahead of any other person. Johnny grins up at the sky, remembering the wind in his hair, hat brim in his teeth, crouching low over his horse to eke out those crucial inches that keep his horse’s nose ahead of Finn’s as they hoot and holler with the freedom of the run.

“Aww,” Finn says in a tone of very mocking gentleness as he nudges Johnny’s knee with the toe of his boot. Johnny cracks an eye open in preparation to glare at him for the inevitable teasing; against the bright and sunny sky, Finn’s hat is like a halo though his face is dark in the shade. “Didya go too fast today? You ain’t got no endurance, Johnny.”

Johnny allows the glare to settle, but before he can retort, someone on his blind side snorts. “No endurance - how many girlfriends has he got, again?”

Johnny chokes on startled laughter. Finn is wide-eyed in delight as he stares across Johnny’s prone form. “William,” he says, sounding scandalised.

Johnny props himself up on his elbows and sticks his hat back on his head so’s he can watch Will spread his hands defensively. “What,” he says, “I can’t be crude sometimes?”

Finn gestures at his own cheeks. “Naw, sure ya can, only it makes your face go so red that I get worried about ya.”

“That’s just the sunburn,” Tommy says cheerfully, clapping Will on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway and dropping to the grass next to Johnny. As promised, Will’s fair skin is flushed with embarrassment and striped with an angry red across his angular nose and cheekbones, the skin already starting to peel from a day under the sun. He huffs and folds to the floor, knees up to his chest and sleeves shoved up to his elbows to display a bar of red down his forearms too.

“I hope you weren’t teachin’ my kids that kind of joke,” Ainsel says, an enormous black umbrella hooked under forearm and over shoulder to shield them from the sun as they carry a wicker basket in two hands packed with tin pails, bread, biscuits, and bottles over to their little circle. The rest of the town is ranged likewise on the hill overlooking the town and, beyond that, the desert; the horses are tacked out near the farmhouse; the kids themselves are enjoying the freedom and sunshine having been released from hay harvest duties and are tearing up and down the hill, weaving in between groups and only occasionally stopping by their families to grab more food before haring off again.

“I have done no such thing,” Will objects crossly, but Ainsel gives him first choice from the basket and tucks him under the umbrella and out of the sun when they sit beside him so it’s quickly forgiven.

“He was exceeding useful,” Noel pronounces, kneeling by the big enamel dish which represents their share of the molasses and beans and salt pork, and wielding a large spoon like a sword. Johnny gathers that she had appeared some time after dawn, to the disparaging muttering of many of the elder town ladies, but had done so with such a quantity of fine bread and pickles and preserves that her critics had been forced to quiet down to faces of pinched displeasure while Noel held court, knowing that it was not a competition and that she had, regardless, won. She had then gone about supervising the hay harvest, keeping the younger kids in line and occupied while those trusted with scythes cut the hay and Will, on horseback, ran the new hay tedder up and down the field, and then releasing them to stack the hay under her exacting eye. Jody and Peggy had been amongst the scythers and had told Johnny with mouths full of giggles how Will had been left “in charge,” and then done every single thing Noel told him to without complaint or thought of defiance - but the harvest had been done, and Danser is too fond of Will to mock him for being hen-pecked by a woman he hasn’t even married.

Johnny reaches across to ruffle Will’s hair, but he ducks away like a feral cat. “Aww,” he laughs, “you’re useful.”

“Wish the rest of you were,” Will grouses, folding sulkily around his plate.

Tommy catches Johnny’s eye and grins wickedly. He beams in reply; Noel sighs in advance. “It’s true,” Johnny says, assuming a woebegone expression and trying not to snigger when Tommy looks similarly sorry for himself. “We ain’t good for anything whatever. Wholly useless, and you don’t love us.”

Will sniffs, mouth turned down comically in disdain. “You’d be mad to do otherwise,” he tells them sternly, in his finest clipped tones - brought out for special occasions, and their amusement.

“Why, Mister Williams, that don’t reflect very well on me at all,” comes a voice behind Johnny’s left shoulder, light and familiar fingers coming to rest there in accompaniment. Distantly, Johnny is aware of Finn choking on laughter and cornbread, and of Will straightening awkwardly with an air of panic, and of Tommy smirking and kicking at the sole of Johnny’s boot in a teasing, vaguely encouraging fashion - but mostly Johnny is aware of those five delicate points of gentle contact over the ball of his shoulder, and the swishing press of skirts against his side, and how if he tilts his head right back and left he can see all up the willowy line of Jody Masham, hip to hair, her blue eyes and golden curls like a field of cornflowers. There’s a little compressed mischief at Will’s expense tucked into her smile, and Johnny wants to kiss at it until she shares it with him; and there’s a loose, frizzy loop of hair that has escaped from the large bonnet that keeps her pale skin free of the sun, and become darkened with sweat and flyaway in the heat, and Johnny wants to press his nose to it, smooth it between his fingers, tuck it carefully away with pins so that she needn’t mind it - he could do that, he thinks, could give up on all other professions but following Jody around to tidy her hair and carry her basket on one arm, shielding her with a parasol with the other hand.

“Um,” Will says guiltily. “I - well-”

“Don’t you dare say you didn’t mean it,” Ainsel says sternly. Jody is smiling fully now; she is so beautiful Johnny could burst.

“I’m not going to lie to the lady,” Will replies, relaxing out of his tense, guilty stance to be indignant at the idea that he might. She is rubbing little circles into his upper arm with her thumb now: Johnny could not tell you for love nor money what Will just said.

“Well,” Jody says, a laugh bubbling in her voice, “how ‘bout you lend me this young man in recompense an’ we’ll call it quits? I’d like a word.”

Johnny is already scrambling to his feet, pressed up on his toes in eagerness to follow her away. Her hand slides down his arm, shoulder to elbow, and the press of it leaves hot lines in its wake that make him shiver. “Ma’am,” Finn says politely, not without amusement, “you keep him.”

Jody curls her fingers around his elbow joint and guides him gently a ways away from everyone else. Once done, he scoops her hands up in his own and holds them carefully like something immeasurably precious. She smiles indulgently and nods at the basket on her other arm, which he’d barely noticed. “Present for you,” she says.

Johnny juggles her fingers into just one hand, freeing up the other to push aside the flannel cover and fetch out a thin, steaming disk of fried batter. “Johnny-cakes,” he says, delighted.

“Couldn’t resist.” He takes a bite, savouring the salty cornmeal cut through with sticky maple syrup, and grins broadly at Jody. She laughs at his enthusiasm and allows him to feed her the other half without letting her hands go, chasing the syrup from his sticky fingers with her tongue until he can barely breathe.

“So, what’s the word?” he manages, biting the tip of his thumb to keep from kissing her, here where her ma is almost certainly watching.

“The word.” Jody bites her lip, huffs a big breath, and looks away - and a solid feeling of dread settles in his stomach. He’s had it good for so long - with Jody, and Cathy, and even Peggy and Anne-Marie, in a way - and he’s always known it wouldn’t last, and that it would ruin him, and-

“The word is baby,” Jody says eventually, tilting her head to one side and pinning him with her gaze, eyes narrowed in consideration. All thoughts leave Johnny’s head in a moment, to be replaced with vague, foggy panic. “Not-” she squeezes his hand until it relaxes a little and ceases crushing hers, “not right now, Johnny, jesus. Come back.”

The fog recedes and he musters up a gentle pat of her fingers in apology for squashing them in his paw. His hands are so much bigger and stronger than hers, tanned and weatherbeaten where hers are pale and delicate with flour worked into the nailbeds, and he oughtta be more careful with them. With her, and with - with the word, if there is to be one.

He can’t tell how he feels about that, in the moment.

“Sorry,” he says ruefully, offering her a clumsy, lopsided smile. “I weren’t - anyway. You go on.”

Jody takes a deep breath and nods firmly, gaze fixed at some point on his left shoulder. “Alright, I will. Johnny, I’ve spent the day cutting hay with a whole herd of the town’s kids, an’ it’s occurred to me, I want one.”

“I’ll get you one,” Johnny says on instinct, like he does with everything Jody says she wants however unrealistic, from hair ribbons to haywains to the entire Union Pacific Railroad. And then she raises an eyebrow at him, and he remembers how that’s what they’re talking about, actually, and to deflect from this he nods his head at one of the kids pelting past on little chubby legs. “That one’ll do - will he suit ya?”

Jody’s face relaxes into amusement and she huffs, leaning forward to press her forehead into his sternum. He must stink of sweat, and wants to tell her to shift in case he does, but he doesn’t want her to move like he doesn’t want to lose his right arm and she doesn’t seem to care. “Sweetheart,” she says into his shirt, “you ain’t never gonna be friends with my ma if you go about giving her grandchildren by stealin’ em.”

“Not even a little one?” Johnny says, tilting his head to catch her eye and watch her giggle. “‘Sides,” he says, considering it with a slight frown, “not sure she’s over fond on my givin’ her grandkids the other way, neither.”

Jody leans back, smiling. “Only ‘cause we ain’t married,” she corrects brightly, and then falters back into seriousness, biting her lip. Johnny squeezes her hands in careful encouragement, for he feels (fears) they have reached the crux of the matter. “Johnny, I - I wanna have kids. Not today, or tomorrow, or maybe even a year or two yet, but I want ‘em. An’ - I know we’ve not ever been traditional, but my ma - my ma really is gonna disown me if I ain’t married when I have ‘em, so.” She shrugs, fingers tapping in agitation against his palm and her gaze fixed back over his shoulder. “I’m not saying now, but I am sayin’ someday, and if that don’t fit with you someday then - I gotta find someone else. An’ I don’t know how that someday fits with you and Cathy, or Peggy and Anne-Marie, or - or I guess just with you, but I’m sayin’... I don’t mind, I guess, so long as you do right by the kids, and we’re…” She trails off.

“Miss Jody Masham,” Johnny says solemnly, raising her hands between his own, “are you askin’ me to marry you someday?”

She meets his gaze at last, frowning shrewdly at him. “Depends,” she says shortly. “Are you gonna say yes?”

Jody hasn’t never said she loves him. Johnny doesn’t need her to: he knows she does, on account of how she smiles at him and teases him and trounces him at cards to win kisses five nights in seven on lamplit nights where her ma can’t see them. And he bandies about words of love to everyone and everything, enough for the both of them, and they’re well-settled into the kind of long-standing devotion that doesn’t need professing very much. She’s told him before that she’s no good at romancing others (though personally Johnny reckons she’s not bad) ‘cause of how she can’t be sentimental with them; she loves them, and they gotta figure that out, or they ain’t trying hard enough.

Johnny told her he loved her on their second meeting, but then, he’s like that. Always has been. And it doesn’t mean he loves her any less, or any more, than she does him; he’s just got an awful lot of love to share, and she doesn’t mind him sharing it.

He could be married, he thinks. He and Jody could do it, and do it well, and marriage was always waiting for him somewhere - now that he’s not looking at it down the barrel of some angry pa’s shotgun, and without the threat of that too, it looks mighty appealing. They’ll have to get a house, of course; somehow stop renting, and own outright, but how hard can that be? He’ll get her fine printed calico, and build a table for her sewing machine, and Ainsel will school the kids. Finn and Tommy can teach them to ride and make great pets of them, and this time years from now Noel will have them harvesting hay neatly under her stern eye, and Will can bring them hognoses cradled gently in a hat.

He could live in that future, and live long and well.

Johnny pretends to think about it, but lets his grin slip through so’s she knows he’s teasing. “Well, you ain’t hardly romancin’ me.”

She purses her lips against a real smile and uses their hand grip to punch him gently in the chest. “I brought you johnny-cakes, special,” she objects, and he laughs. “Look,” she says firmly, “I - care about you, alright? Quite a bit, actually, and so you’re just - gonna have to deal with that.”

Johnny ducks in close and presses his forehead to hers, beaming. “An’ I love you too,” he croons to make her blush, and then ducks under her bonnet and kisses her softly. He can do that, now - here before the town, on the day of the hay harvest and cattle drive, for they are, someday, to be married.

Jody pulls back, smiling secretly in the corners of her eyes, and strokes a hand through his hair. “I always forget,” she says absently, eyes on her fingers as they comb and tangle in his curls, “how nice your hair is without your hat on.”

Johnny frowns, puts a hand up to his own head. “Where is my hat?”

“It fell off when you leaned back to see me,” Jody supplies. “You didn’t seem to notice.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t remember that.

Jody smiles with resigned amusement. “Lord help me,” she sighs, “for I’m marryin’ a moron.”

Johnny puffs up in indignation. “You don’t have to.” Of course she doesn’t - Jody Masham is the prettiest girl in the county - the west - the world - and could have any man she pleases.

“Naw,” she says, rubbing her thumb along his chin. “I’m gonna.”

[mxvladdy]

True Form- Belphegor

*collapses dramatically* Oh Gods its done! Sorry for the break! I hope my edits are good! 

More to come in this series soon :) 

Hope y’all enjoy!

True Form- Belphegor

Keeping a defined for is hard. Too hard for him anyway.

His true form is inconspicuous. He just naturally doesn’t take up much space in the physical realm. He likes it this way though.

An overlooked predator is a dangerous one.

If he is ever seen in this form it looks like a thin film. He drapes over everything, like dust in an unopened room, or the cling of fresh dew in the morning in the rose garden.

He never uses it when awake. His human form is more palatable and functional in all honesty. Don’t get me wrong though, he doesn’t hate it. It used to be really useful when he wanted to nap and Lucifer was on the prowl. But, such good things can only last for so long. Now Lucifer can sniff him out from a mile away incorporeal or no after centuries of practice.

His real form is best implemented in the minds of his slumbering victims. He can cultivate himself there, using his form to feel out the needs and desires of his unsuspecting host.

He is a manipulator, tried and true. His cunning and wile gets him pacts more than a promise of power or wealth.

Belphegor draws them in with promises of grandeur and unexplored inventions. Limitless discoveries all at the very tips of their fingers, if only they take one more step further. One more little slip deeper into the abyss. Then they can stay sleeping forever with him.

Even as an angel he was known as a dreamer. More often then not he could be found in the inner sanctums sleeping with Beel and Lilith during lessons or being carried around by Lucifer. Back then he always had pleasant dreams or innovative ideas that the other angels made use of. The little inventor.

Now that he has fallen, nightmares come to him more often than not, uncontrollable flashes of The War, his sister’s death, and the pain of betrayal. Perhaps that was his punishment, always drowsy with no control over when he sleeps, with nothing but nightmares to accompany him.

When he has control over himself in his slumber he likes to flit around into other’s dreams. Most of the time he goes to Beel’s as they are very pleasant and help distract him from the night terrors he had just escaped from.

Sometimes when bored or pissy he jumps to Lucifer’s dreams. It’s a rare occurrence when they are asleep at the same time, but he takes absolute delight in fucking with his oldest brother’s dreams or looking for secrets to lord over him.

He doesn’t come into your dreams uninvited though. Not after you freed him. You have given him permission to. But he uses it sparingly. When he needs a break from his own head he might control when you are tired. Just so he can have some time out of his head.

He is very controlling in that retrospect. He will form the shape of your dreams at first. But, you ween him out of it. Now he trains you to lucid dream. He lets you shape your reality around you both. You don’t know it, but he is allowing you to shape him as well.  

Mini Fic

He watches you from a distance. The grassy knoll you built was bright and airy. Pink and purple flowers sway in the light breeze you created, winking at him as they move. The large willow draping over you pulls a happy little hum from your chest. The swinging branches tickling your sun kissed cheeks. You lounge sprawled out on the ground staring up at the false sun with the largest grin on your face. The rays of sunshine illuminate your prone form, casting stark shadows in its wake. They travel down the hill searching and coiling for shelter from the strong lighting. They find him, latching on to his bare feet and merge with his own disjointed outline. How apropos.

"You can come up here Belphie. Promise I won't bite." You call out into the sky. Your eyes were still closed, but you tilt your head in his direction none the less. The smile you throw down at him is more blinding than the sun you dreamt up.

“I don’t want to intrude.” He steps out from the tree line blinking owlishly. Being welcomed in a dream had been unheard of before you. The mindscape was an intimate and private space. He was meant to be an invader, a taint. Before this he had been nothing but a rogue clinging to the edges. A whisper of temptation carried on the wind, or the hollow thud of a heel echoing down an empty street. It’s different here, with you. You expected to see him or sense him in whatever form he chooses. It was-nice.

“You're never an intrusion.” Your raw honesty floors him still, even after all this time together. “Had a rough night?” You ask patting the space beside you.

“Something like that.” He murmurs dropping down next to you. He is distracted momentarily by the heat radiating off your body. “You’ve been practicing.” You beam, proud that he noticed so quickly. His lessons on dream walking and lucid dreaming were hard, but looks like they were finally paying off.

It had been difficult at first, keeping a solid detailed form while knowing you were asleep. Then trying to stay asleep while doing it. You had to fight against the instinct to wake up constantly. It was like somewhere deep inside your psyche was trying to protect you, like it knew what happened when a human ventures too far into this place. Almost like it knew that a cunning little demon was lurking somewhere down here.  

“How’d you guess?” You ask rolling onto your side. He answers by reaching out to you and dragging a soft finger down your bare arm. You shiver at the cool touch, little goosebumps awakening under his touch. Your picturesque scene wavers at the corners from his touch. The caress breaking your concentration for a moment. Belphegor smirks. “I’m still working on it!” You blush.

“I don’t mind, as long as I’m the only one that that can shake you so.” He pulls away to summon a large pillow for himself. You watch him try to get comfortable. He punches and rolls around the poof for a moment trying to get comfortable. You could tell something was troubling him. The energy in his gaze was borderline manic. His usually relaxed stature was strung taut, right on the border of snapping. He would murder you again if you said it; but he looked so much like Lucifer right now. Tight, cold, and rigid. A clear signal of distress.

“You want to take the helm?” You wave around the small scene offering him a distraction. He could expand the scene far further than you could, probably ever could. “Or do you want to let your hair down?” You wiggle your eyebrows at him. You smile at his little snort, that human saying always got him to laugh.

“Sure you don’t mind?” You shake your head and sit up. Truth be told, you liked his weird demon form. You could never entirely place where he was when he was in it, but you just knew he was there and close. It was reassuring.

He breathes a sigh of relief before flopping backward. He disappears on impact with the soft ground. The grass and flowers coming up to engulf him as he takes over.  He flows around you into every corner of your mind, stretching himself to the furthest corners of your dream. He weaves himself in your fantasy. You get swept up in it for a moment. The raw force of him pulling at your center. It is suffocating for a moment, the oppressive weight of his magic. It brings out a bone-deep weariness in you without meaning to. You feel the growing need to just rest. Just a moment.

“Back with me?” You open your eyes. When had you closed them?

“Ye, sorry.” You lean up onto your elbow and shake your head to clear the fog that still clung to it. It was always a head rush when he did that. Blinking the rest of his magic away you take in your now joint dream. The sun was gone, replaced with twin moons and awash with multicolored stars. His sky bled colors, dripping purples and blues onto the green grass around the edges of your vision. The more you focus the more the field grows and stretches. Off in the distances, tiny tents emerge, sprouting up like shoots from the blackness. “Really?” You eye the tents with a wry smile. If you strained your ear you could hear faint carnival music.

A low rumble bounces around you. “You suddenly have an issue with the circus?”

“Absolutely not!” You raise, calling out into the vastness around you. “You better make a carousel!” You could feel him chuckle around you as you began your trek down the hill.

Belphegor is quiet while you navigate the forest. He’s whole being hyper focused on building the world around your quick steps. His was divided and working overtime in an attempt to distract himself. Part of him was busy building the carnival, another working on making sure you don’t stir from your slumber, and the other awake and aware. He hasn’t done this in a while, splitting his consciousness so thin like this. His human body lumbering along in the physical world while his mind was busy in the subconscious one. Hopefully, none of his brothers were awake and would try to intervene. He wanted to be close to you, in both body and mind tonight. You reach the edge of the woods and he turns his full attention back to you.

He had gone all out for you. Bright lights and the echoing laughter of imaginary guests assault your senses. You could even taste buttered popcorn and caramel on the tip of your tongue. A warm hand takes yours causing you to jump. Belphie gives you an apologetic grin for startling you before dragging you off into the park without a word. Who knows how long the two of you spent. Time, as you understood it, worked differently here. Faster or slower you had no idea. But, right now you didn’t care. He needs you here in the present.

“So-” You start hesitantly much later in the evening. You lick at some cotton candy that had gotten stuck on your fingers. “Want to talk about it?” Belphegor shoots you a look from where he perched. His feet dangling from a study steel fence. He watches you ride the slow-moving carousel as it goes round and round in lazy circles. He mulls over what to say as you make a rotation.  

“I dreamt of Lilith again.” He admits. He comes to sit on the metal animal beside you, disappearing and reappearing in a puff of smoke at your side.

“I’m sorry.”

“Ye. Me too.” He pats the kelpie he sits on. Its listless eyes bore into his. His old nightmares reflecting in their ruby gaze. He wanted to be over this. Why wasn’t he over this? The longer he stares into the horses dead eyes the more his nightmares creep back onto him.The dream shifts around you. The air dropping in temperature drastically. The merry background noises choked off and replace with a buzzing that made your head hurt. The sound of metal striking metal and shouts start to grow at the base of your neck.  

“Belphie-” You reach out for him, cupping his face. He doesn’t notice you anymore. His mind going somewhere you shouldn’t venture. His expression turns stormy, closing off to you completely. Fear begins to build up inside of you. Something uncontrollable riding in on the fast building winds. The night sky he built changes. Stars blinking out one after another like blown bulbs. The moons swelling in size, crashing into each other as your dream begins to crumble. “Shit.” You had to wake up, and fast.

You awake with a start back in your bed. Eyes snapping open while your body lays motionless. An odd sensation of sleep paralysis locking your joints. Something radiates behind you, a lanky body drawn close to yours. Sweet breath tickles the nape of your neck. Fighting the paralysis that held you, you turn to greet your bed guest.

Belphie’s half-lidded eyes seem to look through you. His body was icy, a ghostly vapor wafted over of his pale skin. You tried to wake him but your tongue was stuck. All you could do was stare wide-eyed as he dreamt. He comes back to you slowly. His eyes twitch and roll sporadically until he blinks, drawing in a ragged breath as he comes to. His skin warms with each passing tick of your alarm clock. As your drowsy demon stirs the stiffness in your body begins to ebbs. His chokehold on your mind weakening. After what seemed like an eternity he awakens. He takes you in for a moment and then he’s on you, lurches forward to drag your pliant body to his. “Scared me for a second there Belphie.” You mutter into his soft hair.

He sighs, breathing in your scent and focusing on your strong pulse. It had been a while since he had lost control of himself like that. Building up a world was easy. Tearing it down was even easier. The thread that kept people under was thin, like a single strand of silk. To lose himself to a nightmare in another being’s head? It was unheard of. It terrified him. “Did I hurt you?” He rasps.

“No,” You reassure him, pressing a kiss to his sweaty brow. “I woke up in time.” He goes quiet again trying to keep his breathing steady. “Hey.” You stroke a few strands of hair from his face. “You’re thinking pretty hard there, can I help?”

Could you help? If he was losing control of his dreamscape again… He would have to tell Lucifer. A shudder runs up his spine at the thought of retraining. No, he was still strong enough to keep it under control “Just keep stroking my hair, please?” He yawns widely, lethargy hitting him hard. He drifts off to the feel of your fingers flowing smoothly through his hair. The lingering fears slip further and further from his mind with each soft caress.