#this idiot has burrowed his way into my mind

[lavander-galaxy]

Shoutout to the curly hair alastor enjoyers out there this one is for you 🗣️🗣️‼️‼️‼️‼️

[sp4ceboo]

Within the Storms of Giedi Prime: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: the long awaited part two of upon the sands of the arena is hereeee

tw: 18+, smut (more than last time hehehe), p in v, swearing, Feels™, death, assassination, use of the Voice (not on feyd), less violence but still violence, i lack faith in my sequel writing abilities, blowjobs, SUB FEYDDDD, also DOM FEYDDD, sex Outside, lightning and thunder (it says storms in the title what do you expect)

wc: 4.2k

part 1

Giedi Prime is a miserable planet.

It’s evident in the choking, black smog from the factories in the dense air fused with the anguished cries of overworked slaves and the distant rumble of the still active volcanos. You’re near the Harkonnen’s palace grounds - you’re heading towards them, actually, and the promise of a… pleasant night; to your left, you can just about glimpse the looming silhouette of the great arena, squatting like a hulking beast on the horizon, waiting to swallow any poor soul that gets too close to its gaping maw.

Tonight, roiling storm clouds reign the sky, sending sheets of furious rain pounding down upon anyone who dares to be out at this hour - including you. Harsh bolts of lightning spear down, hurtling towards the ground like incensed, condensed moonlight and casting freakish shadows.

Moonlight: the colour of Feyd’s skin. If it weren’t for him, you’d already be off this sorry planet - alas, you must stay a little longer, your body already a little warm at the memory of his skilled fingers and scorching gaze. You haven’t been back since the encounter with the na-Baron in the arena months ago, and you can’t help but feel the sting of doubt in your chest, wondering if he’ll still want a second time, or if you’ll sneak into his room only to find yourself replaced by a concubine.

Not that you occupy significance to him anyway, you remind yourself. Feyd-Rautha could not replace you, because there would be nothing to replace, just ashes of a once bright fire.

Irked by the weakness of your own mind, you pull the hood of your cloak lower over your face, tightening it across your shoulders. The hem is sullied by browning blood: you disposed of your quarry just this morning, and delivered the decapitated head during the early afternoon.

Conveniently, the Bene Gesserit have left you alone for now, most likely tangled in the politics regarding the Kwisatz Haderach while trying to predict the next movement of Jessica Atreides - word is that she has burrowed her way deeper into the desert, surrounding herself and her son with the more fanatic of the Fremen as she bides her time, ready for her next strike.

It means that you’ve been granted enough time to establish yourself as a bounty hunter. For a highly trained Bene Gesserit, the work is easy, and earns you coin a plenty while keeping you on the move and as in shape as assassinating sloppy idiots attempting to run from debt and petty disagreements can.

Slipping through the palace’s perimeter proves easy enough. You use the Voice on a few guards, preferring it to cutting their throats: instructing them to keep quiet and forget you passed by causes much less of a commotion. The scaling of the ramparts that make up the circumference of the inner palace is the most challenging, due to the stone being slick with moss and rain - your fingers dig into the cracks between the weathered blocks of stone, the wind snapping and tugging at your cloak, fiercer now that you’re higher up.

There’s a narrow battlement ringing one side of Feyd’s room. You land on it silently, padding over to the window sill; curtains made of heavy black fabric layered on a dark, wispy privacy layer shroud most of your view of him. His pale skin is almost luminescent under the jagged flashes of lightning bathing his quarters, the blanket having slipped half off him during the night. He lies with his bare back facing you, although it’s hardly a vulnerability - you doubt anyone would be able to creep up on him easily enough to bury a knife into his exposed back without him tearing their throat out first.

Apart from you - hopefully.

Carefully, you ease the window open. A frigid gust of air rushes in as you climb through, and you witness the exact moment that Feyd awakens and becomes aware of your presence; imperceptibly, the muscles in his back ripple before he settles again - you posticipate the feel of them under your palms, hard, lean, perfect for sinking your nails into.

A thrill rushes through you at the sight of him, a sort of wondrous feeling, keen as a knife and just as cutting. You want him all over you, you want him to consume you until all you can remember is him and his smouldering eyes and sensuous touch.

Shrugging off your cloak, you let it pool to the floor around your feet before toeing off your shoes too; breath caught in your throat, you steal over to his bedside, your hand ghosting over the solid curve of his shoulder blade before you grip his shoulder, turning him so his back is flat against the mattress and straddling him in one fluid motion.

The cold kiss of metal meets your neck.

You almost moan at the look on his face. His lips are pulled back in a snarl, his eyes wild, frenzied almost, glittering with the same danger as before. Running your hands up his hard, sculpted chest, you smirk down at him, watching as ever so slowly, his gelid gaze defrosts with recognition, the ice giving way to those all encompassing flames, flames that you surrender to unequivocally.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ you murmur, fingers circling his wrist.

Feyd blinks, watching you as if he’s going to eat you as always. Slowly, the hand not wielding the knife roams waywardly down your spine, grabs a harsh fistful of your ass and lingers before gliding upwards and settling on your waist. He huffs, an abrupt, amused sound, but you don’t miss the way he greedily drinks up your figure with his eyes.

‘I thought I scared you away, little witch. Presumably, it was not too much for you?’

‘For me?’ You muse. ‘We’ll see.’

Knocking the blade from his hand, you ignore the screeching noise it makes as it skitters across the stone floor, instead enjoying the subtle inhale, loaded with expectancy, that Feyd takes as you lean in close to him. You hover above him for a prolonged moment, arms boxing him in, before he lurches upwards, connecting your lips with his.

A growl sounds at the back of his throat when he tastes you, licking into your mouth as his fingers press at the small of your back, bringing your lower body to meet his. Rolling his hips against yours, he tangles his fingers in your hair; you feel giddy with the feel of him against you, solid and warm and wanting, so real beneath you, so fucking insatiable.

You can’t get enough of him.

Slowly, you pull away, ablaze with the ravening craving in his eyes. The muscles in his well shaped chest flex as he tips his face up, following your lips, and you smile disarmingly at him, hooking your fingers in the waistband of his trousers and pulling them down.

Taking his chin in your palm, you tilt his head so you can look him in the eyes before swiping your thumb over his lower lip, savouring the way he’s putty in your hands: a man destined to be the Baron of one of the most influential, powerful Houses in the Imperium, a lethal, strikingly skilled warrior, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, humbled by your touch.

‘Let me taste you,’ you breathe - it’s almost a command.

‘Please,’ he chokes out, imploring you with his eyes.

Laughing, you press a hand to his sternum and push. He sinks back into the mattress, compliant, and you trail your lips down his neck and sternum, leaving hickeys in your wake. You're seized by the need to make him shake and beg and cry; you want to devour him.

Dragging your nails cruelly down his thighs, branding him with livid red scratches, you tilt your head to the side, a smile playing upon your lips as you listen to the groan that leaves him, the pricks of pain setting him alight with longing. There’s a devout look in his eyes - a fervent, zealous sort of lust that stirs within you with the impulse to make him forget his own name.

Curling your fingers around his hard length and giving him a few pumps, you watch him under your lashes, something akin to a power rush spinning your head around and around. Feyd is wonderfully sensitive, and a sneer pulls at your lips when his fingers scramble for purchase, fisting in his silky sheets as you press a chaste, loitering kiss to his cock head - a pearl of jet precum sits at the apex of it, dark against its rosy, delicate flush.

Dipping your hand into your pants, you collect your slick on your fingers and use it to jerk him - when you glance up, his pupils are blown wide; lips parted, he stares at you, transfixed.

Eyes locked on his, you take him in your mouth: his thighs tighten, every muscle taut as you run your tongue along the veins wrapped around the underside of his cock. His head tips back, displaying the strong lines of his neck as you hollow your cheeks, rubbing your thighs together to ease the increasing ache between them. Jaw slack, you gag when he hits the back of your throat, and he growls at the sight of your hungry eyes growing watery.

You toy with him, teasing him with your tongue and grazing your teeth lightly over his length until he’s gasping your name; the way the syllables leave his tongue is almost pleading, his chest heaving and covered in a sheen of sweat, his thighs shuddering, wracked with tremors.

It’s evident that he’s close, the voracity in his eyes so hot that it melts your bones, sending heat pooling in your core - you’re going to let him wreck your cunt after this; ruin you for any other man. Trembling, his pale fingers hover near your head, splaying over the expanse of your shoulder, his eyes fucking begging for permission, so you pull off him, laughing as his hips jolt forward at the loss, his cock twitching when your fingertips graze his balls.

‘Go on, Feyd,’ you coax. ‘Do as you wish.’

A tender, honeyed noise rips from low in his chest, almost a whimper, a sound you know no one has extracted from him before. It’s the only warning before he fists his hand in your hair, hips bucking as he fucks into your mouth, his eyes rolling back as you gag around him, the debased moan that escapes you sending vibrations down his cock.

You almost black out when he comes down your throat. You’re not sure if it’s the lack of air reaching your lungs or the sweet pain of Feyd’s hand yanking at your hair, but you’re sure that you’ve never taken so much pleasure in someone else’s release. Slowly, you sit up, moving to lie beside Feyd, and he smiles dumbly at you, maybe a little fucked out as he leans in to kiss you, sighing as he tastes his own come on your tongue.

‘I could spend hours exploring you, my little witch,’ he says, pressing his lips to your jaw.

Feyd flips you over with only an echo of ferocity from your previous fight, disrobing you and gripping your thighs, spreading them. Your hands find his shoulders, his back, your fingers resting in the dips of muscle there, trailing down the length of his spine as his own find your slick, yearning cunt.

Outside, the storm blows harder, rain pounding down upon the planet’s surface in sheets, lightning lancing through the thick billows of clouds; it is during one of these strikes that you glimpse that Feyd’s eyes are not as dark as they seem, but the colour of glaciers and blue fire. Within them, just beneath the keenness of his electric gaze, lurks something else - something that makes you hesitate. He senses it immediately, fingers pausing their movement, so you fit your lips to his.

You kiss him to avoid the emotions roiling in his stormy eyes.

He responds immediately, and you easily dismiss the thoughts clouding your mind; he barely knows you, there’s no room for the feelings you just saw in his gaze. You seek his body, not his soul, and it is the same both ways.

‘Fuck me,’ you mumble against his lips.

All coherent sentences leave your mind when he flips you over again, this time with your stomach pressed to his bedsheets as he kneels on the mattress behind you.

‘Ass up, my little witch,’ he commands.

Something within you goes molten at the sound of his voice. You can feel his gaze straying all over your skin, greedy, so you tuck your knees beneath you and arch your back, biting down on your lower lip as his palm presses against your lower vertebrae. He chuckles; it warms your bones.

‘You’re so filthy, little witch, displaying yourself for me.’

Bolts of ecstasy shoot through you as Feyd slides his cock head through your folds, his broad hands gripping your hips so tightly that you’ll be left with bruises. Your breath is punched from your lungs when he sinks himself inside you, balls deep, white hot pleasure rocketing down your spine - it tears a wretched cry from you, more so when he starts a brutal, near sadistic pace, the angle destroying you with vicious bliss.

The drag of his searing, velvet cock on your walls makes your toes curl. You think your body might shatter into a million pieces, the way he plucks the euphoria from it so agonisingly, so beautifully. One of his hands finds its way between your thighs, his thumb rolling endlessly over your clit; you find yourself teetering on the edge, suspended there a moment before you fall.

The way your cunt convulses around his cock as you come doesn’t stop Feyd. Unforgiving, he ploughs into you, his fingers still working on your clit, not breaking his rhythm even as you writhe beneath him, trying to jerk your hips away from his to no avail. It’s too much, the pleasure melting delectably into pain and still he can’t stop, won’t stop, his low snarl a warning in your ear as he pins you to the mattress with a hand between your shoulder blades, leaving you helpless to do nothing but take him.

Tears well up in your eyes, soaking into the sheets beneath you as he rails into you, his fingers speeding up on your clit until you’re begging him, tremors shooting through you from the aftershocks of your orgasm. His grip on your hips is unrelenting, and you sob as his pace increases, the savage friction sending you over again.

For the second time, you come hard around him, pussy clenching and fluttering, ragged cries wracking your body. This time, you bring Feyd with you, the sound he makes sharp and almost pained. He pulls out, and you mewl at the sharp tug of friction, panting as he comes on your back and ass, claiming you with his dark seed.

Breathless, he sits back on his heels as you straighten your legs until you lie full stretch, revelling in the post orgasmic rapture. Dimly, you hear his footsteps on the stone floor, but you pay them no mind, instead letting your eyelids droop as you rest your chin in the crook of your elbow.

Gentle hands encircle your ankles, carefully opening your legs. A second later, you feel a warm cloth at the apex of your thighs, and you whine, flinching away from the overstimulation. You hear Feyd’s chuckle, and the comforting sweep of his thumb against your skin as he cleans you up, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses on your back as he does; barely a moment after, the mattress dips, and strong arms pull you into a warm chest.

‘How are you, my little witch?’

You hum in response, not wanting to use words. Something niggles at your brain, even through the haze of pleasure. It’s got to do with the na-Baron’s gentleness after he fucks you; it unsettles you, the sweetness of him, and now these words, as if you’re a lover, and not… whatever this is.

One of his wide palms runs up and down your ribs, and you shove those thoughts to the side, instead enjoying his touch, the way your body fits into his, his chest pressed against your front as he traces patterns on your skin with his deft fingers; his lips brushing the nape of your neck, leaving soft kisses there. You find yourself curling away from him a little - his hands on you make something deep in your chest stir to life, something that shouldn’t be there. It’s -

A blinding flash of lightning, followed by the deep, throaty growl of thunder illuminates the room. You’re facing the door: in the crack between its solid masonry and the floor, you glimpse a shadow.

Hastily, you turn, one hand meeting Feyd’s chest, fingers falling into the dip his collarbone makes as you search his eyes, urgent. He stares back at you, not quite guarded, but not quite open any more, and you’re filled with the urge to protect.

‘Give me your knife,’ you hiss.

He sits up halfway. ‘What’s - ’

You push him back down, glaring at his resistance. You can sense the change in the air, hear the subtle scrape of someone’s boot across the stone floor and the swish of clothing behind the door - or maybe it’s just the building storm outside, the escalating charge in the sky as another bolt of lightning is generated.

‘Feyd. Give me your knife.’

Eyes quizzical, he produces it from somewhere behind him, handing it to you hilt first. It’s just in time, because the door swings open, a masked figure silhouetted there. You whirl around, covering Feyd’s body with your own.

They’re holding a knife.

It doesn’t take you a moment longer to send your knife hurtling towards them. The blade seethes through the air before embedding itself with a thunk into the assassin’s shoulder, and as they drop to the floor, you’re up in another second, poised in case there’s another. A flash of movement catches your eye - the dropped knife, retrieved and held in blood soaked fingers.

‘Stand down,’ you snap.

The Voice echoes through the room, and you pluck the knife out of the now frozen assassin’s grasp and slit his throat. Turning, you see the glimmer of amusement and awe in Feyd’s eyes; assassination attempts probably occur often, an estranged Bene Gesserit using the Voice in his room less so.

‘So many people seem eager to sneak into my bed chamber tonight,’ he remarks. ‘Although I must admit I preferred the first one.’

You laugh, collecting your clothes off the floor. ‘I’m glad.’

As you pull on your trousers, followed closely by your shirt, Feyd gets up, and you’re struck by the slow manner in which he approaches you, so much like the way he prowled towards you in the arena, but this time his eyes concerningly soft, his deadly, killing machine of a body marked with hickeys and love bites.

‘Why do you always rush to leave so fast, my little witch?’

‘I - I have places to be,’ you stammer.

He tilts his head. ‘At this hour of the night?’

‘...Yes.’

Feyd takes one step closer, close enough to kiss. ‘What are you afraid of?’

You back towards the window. ‘I fear nothing.’

‘Don’t lie to me,’ he warns. ‘I can see it in your eyes.’

Shaking your head, panic rising in your throat, you turn, the glass chilly on your fingers as you open the window. Feyd catches your other hand, but you whirl around and lash out, a blow to the face followed by a blow to the legs, and he staggers backwards, giving you enough time to slip out of the window and onto the battlements.

Outside, the storm has whipped up, the howling wind tearing at your hood and blowing it off, the rain immediately pouring down to soak your hair, sting your eyes, wet your face. You need to run, you need to get away from him, but the weak part of you - the part that you fear - slows your strides, tugging at you as if it’s tied to Feyd somehow.

He catches up to you easily enough.

Of course he does, he is Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, and he is inexplicably bound to your soul in a way you cannot describe, in a way that terrifies you, shakes you to your very core. He catches your with a hand around your upper arm and presses you to his chest, your treacherous body reacting to him the way it always has as he stares down at you with those burning, icy eyes, droplets of rain running in rivulets down the moonlight planes of his chest.

Unease tears through you. You see it in his eyes, that he feels it too, and you dread the way it does not disquiet him. Your soul feels like it’s slowly rending in two - you need to get away from him, from the unguarded way he regards you, dedication clear in his unwavering gaze, but all the same, you need to remain with his arms trapping you to him, in the bewildering magnetism of his psyche.

‘Tell me what you fear, my little witch.’

You answer through clenched teeth. ‘I am not yours.’

‘You evade my question.’

You stare at Feyd, confounded. This man before you is the same man that you duelled in the arena, yet he is different; there is a certainty in his eyes, an acceptance that you yourself flee from. You’re drawn to him, even as the instincts that have kept your hollow heart intact all these years squall for you to break loose - and yet you fear that too, the evasion, because you know that if you run now, a part of you will be lost, snapped under the tension.

‘What do you - ’

You cut Feyd off. ‘Do you know what I fear, Harkonnen? I fear the look in your eyes, because it’s not just desire any more. You do not seek me in order that I inflict pain and pleasure alike upon you, you seek something else. I fear the look in your eyes because it is the same feeling that rises traitorously in my chest when I look at you, and it terrifies me.’

He’s silent.

You grab his shoulder. ‘Tell me you feel nothing, Feyd. Tell me you crave me for the thrill of adrenaline and the feel of my body - tell me and do not lie.’

His eyes bore into yours. ‘I cannot.’

‘Exactly.’

You wrest yourself from his grasp, turning and striding down the battlements. A strange feeling overtakes you, a prickle behind your eyes and a lump in your throat, an aching tug at your heart which you stalwartly ignore. It is over - you’re done. He made it harder than it ever had to be, but you’re going now.

He grabs your hand. ‘You cannot either, my little witch.’

Struggling, you snarl at him, clawing at your chest, but he pins you to the wall, his eyes aflame, searing, calling to something in you that rises up to meet him. This time, it is too strong; you cannot push it down, a part of you not even wanting to. You can feel Feyd all over you, your senses overwhelmed by him, by the way he presses his forehead to yours, forcing you to meet his gaze.

‘You do not have to fear it,’ he whispers. ‘Just let go. You’re holding on too tight.’

He dips his head, claiming your lips. You give in, yield to it, let it wash over you and carry you away on its blissful waves, your heart swelling in your chest at the way he touches you, tenderly, as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon; this is not Feyd, but this is him, irrefutably so.

You think this might be love.

It is a wild, white hot blade in your heart that twists, beauteous, enthralling. You believed that it would weaken you, shackle you, but you blaze with the glorious flare of it, the kiss of Feyd’s hips against yours stoking it further. Truly, it is magnificent.

In the only way you know how, you show him. It’s cataclysmic, the way you’re pulled to him like a comet caught in a planet’s gravity, streaking towards him, fated to collide, your hands roving over him, his over you, the taste of rain blooming on your tongue as you bite down on his shoulder, muffling a moan as he ekes sweet, tender pleasure from you. Your head tips back against the stone, eyes raised to the weeping sky, your lips parted as he fills you with his cock.

Feyd looks at you as if you are a goddess. He worships you, cradles you in his arms, anchoring you, grounding you. You do not know where he ends and you begin, nor do you want to know; you wish for your souls to meld, you wish for the two of you to be alone in the universe, unbothered by time or fate or anything.

‘You are mine, little witch,’ he intones against your rain soaked skin. ‘I am yours.’

[marigold-hills]

June 27: drought | @wolfstarmicrofic | word count: 480

PREVIOUS PART • NEXT PART • FIRST PART

“Love you, Moony,” Sirius says. Because he can. Because he’s allowed. Feels it like first drops of rain after a drought. Like letting it soak through the skin and drench his hair, a warm summer storm.

They’re wrapped around each other, Sirius’ head on his Moony’s chest. Each steady breath a raise and a fall. Each like a rebuilding.

“Love you too,” a hand tightening around him, lips on forehead.

Bliss, Sirius thinks, and nothing else at all. It’s quiet in his mind. He wants this moment for forever.

“We should let our two idiots back in, shouldn’t we.”

“Must we?” Sirius whines. It’s warm, comfortable. Perfect to drift off. His eyes are already closing. “I don’t want to move.”

“Can’t let them sleep on the sofas. Come on love, take down the locking charm. I’ll get them.”

Sirius burrows his head further into Remus’ chest. “Come back here, after?” Feels strangely shy asking, “sleep here with me tonight?”

Another kiss on the top of his head. “Wild horses won’t tear me away.”

Remus gets dressed – large tshirt, checkered pyjama trousers. Has already vanished the mess they’ve made and cleaned Sirius up. Sirius waves his wand to remove the enchantments.

“Leaving you in bed like this is almost impossibly hard, I hope you know,” Remus pulls him into a kiss, sweet and chaste and so loving it breaks something in Sirius’ soul.

James and Peter are half asleep when they get back in, stumbling and herded by Moony like they’re particularly awkward sheep and he a shepherd. “I want to hear everything in the morning,” James ruffles Sirius’ hair on the way to bed. “Goodnight, gentlemen. Good work today everyone,” he collapses onto his mattress and is out in seconds.

Remus climbs back into the bed, as promised. Faces Sirius, brings him into his arms. It’s the most natural thing. They might have been like this for lifetimes.

Sirius thinks don’t take this away from me. Let me have this. Let me fall asleep looking at him and wake up to his breath on the back of my neck. Nothing else I’ll ask for, just this. Just him.

They have days left in the Castle, but Sirius is no longer weary of the change. He’ll do what it takes to keep them all together. Under no impression that it will be smooth, or without issues, especially not after the last full moon: he thinks how to prepare for the next one, and for the way Moony’s body sometimes needs its time.

“You’re thinking too much for this late at night. Did I not tire you out enough?”

“Just looking forward to all the things we’ll still get to do.”

Moony holds him closer. “Hmm,” sleepily agrees, “me too. But there’s time still. Sleep now.”

So Sirius does. When he wakes up, Remus’ heartbeat is under his palm like a promise.

moon-girl88 @digital-kam @tealeavesandtrash @sweetstarryskies @alltoounwellll @hunnybeemarie @hoje--aqui @annaliza999 @hihimissamericanbi @gipitothefrog @shamelesswolfstarshipper @a-pine-cone @cosmicweeds @cocoabutterandbooks @bloodoffire @residentdisaster @shamelesswolfstarshipper @ravenwordss @prancingpony42 @themoonlovesthestars @starving-marauder-lover @weirdtinkerbellversion @deadcupcakehere @theprettieststarfr @dumbass-gryffindor1960

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged in next parts)

[gaymurdersalad]

[ HOWDY Y’ALL! WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM FOR A FUN BROADCAST!

If you haven’t noticed, it’s pride month! That means we’re legally allowed to be gay for an entire month before we have to disappear into our burrows once more! To celebrate the occasion, I decided to do a fun little pride post! ]

[ I’ve gathered all the little fuckers in The Void to poke and prod at them like zoo animals. In other words, I figure they all have some neat identities and wouldn’t mind being interrogated in honor of pride month. I’ll go ahead and turn it over to them, but I’ll say now, no matter how much they kick and scream, I am definitely NOT holding them at gunpoint! This workspace is… definitely OSHA approved. Don’t let them tell you otherwise. Have attem! ]

> This is fucking stupid. Stop waving that gun at me. I’m talking.

> My identity isn’t anything special. I’m just some guy who decided he was a guy way later than everyone else did. I don’t really give a damn what pronouns people use on me because usually they just end up avoiding me at all costs or scampering away like frightened animals.

> I’m bisexual, is that anything? But, like, only bisexual in a sexual way. I could not fucking fathom living a long prosperous life with anyone. How the hell are you supposed to enjoy someone for that long? Getting married seems like a scam. I bet it is. I bet it’s like the invention of Valentine’s Day for greeting card companies. You’re not actually supposed to be in love with someone for that long, it just doesn’t seem possible.

> … My marriage with Dave does not count, that wasn’t an officiated wedding. I’m fairly certain he fished those rings out of a water fountain and pawned his dress off a hooker. I do vividly recall dumpster diving for my tuxedo.

> Uhhhhhh wuh? Hmmmm, I’onno what the hell I am, Old Sport! Fuck!

> Shit, I guess I like everyone. A hole’s a hole. Why the fuck would I discriminate? I think I got a preference for men though! They’re so fuckin’ easy to romance! Unless they’re the likes of Sportsy, then it’s the hardest goddamn thing you’ll ever seduce. He gets real gay when he’s on acid, but then again, I get real gay on cocaine. Man, our wedding was immaculate. Imma tell our kids about it one day!

> Likewise, I’ll be any gender you fuckin’ want me to be. I got like, pocket gender, I can just whip it out on request. Want me to be a dude? Fuck yeah, alright. Want me to be a pretty lady? No goddamn problem at all! I can be both at the same time or one more than the other— who gives a shit? I’m just havin’ fun.

> Good fucking lord, really? That shotgun does not scare me, you orange fool—

> … I have a complicated identity. As any other living organism does.

> I have found that over the years I do not experience sexual attraction and that I experience little to no romantic attraction. I only recall feeling romantically attracted to one person in my entire life. I doubt it will happen again. > And it may seem, uhm... Embarrassing, but I do deviate from your traditional "man's man". In laymen's terms, I do not feel particularly drawn to being male. I am very certain I was born with the intention of being a man, but my mind has refused to accept it. I am not sure why. Instead of feeling like a proper bloke, I feel rather empty. If I could have it my way, I would be some... human silhouette rather than a full fledged man. I do not know. This is idiotic. > I cringe every time someone addresses me in a masculine way. I wish I could simply have no pronouns. I can deal with them because I am indeed a grown ass... person, but I just wish it were not so. Whatever. I am done complaining.

> Oh! That’s very simple, this is really easy.

> I literally don’t have anything going for me at all.

> What with the entire fabric of time being on my shoulders and all, I don’t even think about gender or romance much. I do love being a girl! It’s one of the things I miss most about being alive, actually. Pretty dresses, playing with makeup in the bathroom, trying to curl my hair without burning my scalp— I mean, it sounds horrendous sometimes, but you can’t beat it. Feeling alive and content in your own skin. Just one of those precious things that spawned from the chance of life.

> … Uhm, Uhhh… Men.

> Yeah. I Like Them. I Think… Yes, I Could Probably Date A Man Or Two. I Don’t Know, Employee, Why Did You Pull Me Out Here? You Know I Have Copious Paperwork To Do! Some @$!# $#*@ Kid Just Fell Into The Ball Pit And Got Mauled Jaws-Style And His Parents Are Really Grilling Us For It. Dumb&@#*s, It’s Not My Fault Their Kid Heeded The Call Of The Sirens. I Swear, This Job Is Going To Kill Me Or Force My Hand Into Becoming The Next Purple Guy—

> extremely in love with my wife and my gender!

> it was actually very cute how we met, employee. have i ever told you? heh heh, we met in highschool. she was on the football team and i was a cheerleader, can you believe that? oh, i was head over heels for her instantly. she was strong, she was quick thinking, she was so hecking beautiful, employee… i never got to tell her how i felt while we were in highschool, but we were good friends. very good friends. come a few years later, some old buddies of ours want to have a get together and dish it out like old times… go vandalize and drive off into the sunset in the back of a pickup truck sipping on horrendously cheap beer and laughing off our university work or our jobs. when i get to our spot, though, i see her. i’d recently wised up to my gender, y’know, had my hair cut and fresh scars on my chest, so suffice to say i looked nothing like i did when i cheered for her during football season. she’d done the same, employee— she grew out her hair to the middle of her back in such beautiful dark curls, her bangs tied back so every inch of her perfect face could glimmer underneath the neon lights of the derelict bowling alley we’d found ourselves in. she looked at me, and i sensed instant recognition. she smiled through her bright red lipgloss and rushed up to me, wrapping me up in a hug, and i swear, she hadn’t lost any of those muscles— almost broke my ribs!

> the rest of the night, we were so… comfortable together. sure, during highschool we were close, but without saying a single word about what happened to us between then and now, we understood, and employee— i think it brought us closer. it was around three in the morning while we sat around a bonfire with the rest of our buddies when she layed her head on my shoulder and i felt an unfathomable warmth. i knew i wanted her for the rest of my life.

> … i just love her so much, employee.

> oh ok

> its rlly whatever. any pronouns any gender anybody who wants me. who cares

> oh i do have a preference for girls. theyre pretty. if you disagree u are not blessed enough to be loved by gods best creation and ur pissed about it. i can tell

> what if i was actually catholic would that be fucked up or what

> …

> … I cannot… physically stress how abhorrent sexuality is to me. What… What an utterly damning notion. Someone’s greedy hands cursing you and plaguing your with their own dirty human desires. How disrespectful. How… invasive. Why on Earth would it be my responsibility to supply someone with something to love? Am I really subject to whatever the hell people think of me? Whether they “love” me or perceive me as some… some man, some object of attraction? Disgusting.

> If I could shed every trace of a sex or gender from my loathed corpse, I would. Often times I lay awake at night and consider skinning myself for the hell of it. I’ve related this to David and he said I sounded “fuckin’ insane”. Stupid bastard. I want to be a skeleton. I wanna be a fucking skeleton! Pretty and thin and not alive whatsoever! God damn this accursed body and its… rancid flesh and unidentifiable mystery goop. Ugh. Ugh!!!! God, the biggest blight on my “life” was being cursed with gender!

> I was born as a female which was just laughably wrong, then I recall amending that and trying to become a man, but none of it worked. All of it sucked. All of it was wretched. The ideal form is a ghost or ghoul or skeletal figure. You can’t romance a ghost or ghoul or skeletal figure. Can’t have sex with that. Unless you’re really, really determined. I don’t think even David could be that serious about his sexuality.

> … I… Hope. Oh dear. Oh god, I really am unsafe from the horrors of this world. God, I wish that bear had taken me out before I showed him to his grave.

[nadinebrooks]

Here is the link to my masterlist. - Here is the link to Part 1.

Fred Weasley x Reader: The Yule Ball Bet Part 2

Warnings: This one has some language (I just feel like the Weasleys don't have the cleanest language) also I know the Yule Ball took place in December, but please don't question the timeline and just enjoy. Thanks!

Ginny Weasley, who had witnessed the confrontation, quickly followed (y/n) out of the Slytherin common room. She found her friend in an empty corridor, sobbing uncontrollably. 

“(y/n),” Ginny said softly, pulling her into a comforting embrace. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. You know I would’ve forced him to tell you if I had known.” 

(y/n) clung to Ginny, her heart breaking. “How could he do this to me, Ginny? I thought he cared about me.” 

Ginny’s eyes flashed with anger. “Fred is an idiot, but he does care about you. I’m going to give those boys a piece of my mind.” 

(y/n) nodded, her tears slowing. “Thank you, Ginny.”

Ginny hugged her tightly. “You’re not alone, (y/n). We’ll get through this together.” 

The next day, Ginny stormed into the Gryffindor common room, fury radiating from her. Fred, George, and Ron were sitting by the fire, their expressions grim. 

“How could you?” Ginny yelled, her eyes blazing. She hadn’t even changed out of her pajamas before coming down to confront the boys. “You made a bet out of her, Fred? How could you think that was okay?” 

George and Ron looked equally guilty, but it was Fred who bore the brunt of Ginny’s anger. “She trusted you. She thought you cared about her. You need to fix this, Fred. And you two,” she said, pointing at George and Ron, “are just as much to blame. You encouraged this.” 

Fred felt a deep sense of shame and regret. “I know, Ginny, I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.” 

Ginny’s brown eyes softened slightly. “You better Fred. Because if you don’t, you’ll lose her for good.” 

Meanwhile, (y/n) was struggling to come to terms with the betrayal. She confided in Neville, who was furious on her behalf and offered unwavering support. 

“You’re too good for him, (y/n),” Neville said, his voice filled with determination. “Don’t let this break you.” 

(y/n) nodded, drawing strength from her cousin’s words. “I’ll be okay, Neville. I just need some time.” 

As the days passed, Fred tried everything to reach out to (y/n). He wrote letters, left flowers, and attempted to speak with her, but (y/n) wasn’t ready to forgive. The pain was still too fresh, the wound too deep. 

One evening as (y/n) was sitting by the lake, lost in thought, she found another note from Fred tucked into the book that she had recently been reading. It read: 

(y/n),  I am so sorry for everything, I never meant to hurt you. The bet was a mistake, but my feelings for you are real. Please give me a chance to make things right. I love you. Your Freddie 

(y/n)’s heart ached as she read the note. She still cared for Fred, but the betrayal was hard to gorget. She needed more time to heal and to figure out if she could ever trust him again. 

Ginny continued to stand by (y/n)’s side, offering support and encouragement. Over the past couple of weeks, the two girls had become extremely close. So close that Ginny invited (y/n) to spend Christmas with her family at the Burrow. 

Fred wanted to show (y/n) that his feelings were genuine, that he truly cared for her. He knew he had a long way to go, but he was willing to wait as long as it took. 

Despite the turmoil, (y/n) cherished her friendship with Ginny and she couldn’t avoid the Weasley forever, so she decided to agree to spend her Christmas holiday with them. She hoped that the holiday would bring some clarity and peace. 

Upon arriving at the Burrow, (y/n) was warmly welcomed by Molly and Arthur Weasley. The cozy home, filled with love and laughter, provided a sense of comfort. However, the tension between (y/n) and Fred was palpable. 

Arthur, who had heard about the situation from Ginny, took (y/n) aside one evening. “(y/n), I want you to know that we all care about you. Fred made a mistake, a big one, I’m not going to defend him, but I do know that he is genuinely sorry. He’s been miserable without you.” 

(y/n) nodded, her heart heavy. “I know, Mr. Weasley. I’ve been miserable without him as well. I just need time to figure things out.” 

Arthur smiled kindly. “Take all the time you need, dear. We’re here for you.” 

As the days passed, Fred finally managed to get (y/n) alone, away from the prying eyes of his family. They stood in the garden, the crisp winter air swirling around them. 

“(y/n),” Fred began, his voice filled with emotion. “I’m so sorry. I was a fool, and I hurt you. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I need you to know that I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment we started spending time together.”

(y/n) looked at him, her eyes filled with a mix of pain and longing. “Fred, I still care about you. But this hurts so much. I don’t know if I can trust you again.”

Fred’s eyes were filled with tears. “I’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust back. I’ll wait as long as you need. Just please, I’m begging you, please don’t shut me out completely.” 

(y/n) took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his words. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but part of her still believed in the love that they had shared. “I need time, Fred. But I’m willing to try.” 

Fred’s face lit up with hope. “Thank you, (y/n). I promise I’ll make this right.”

The day after Fred’s heartfelt apology, (y/n) woke up to the sound of laughter and the sight of snow gently falling outside her window. She had a feeling that today would be absolutely magical. 

She dressed quickly, her heart lightened by the festive atmosphere, and joined the others for breakfast in the bustling kitchen. 

“Good morning (y/n),” Ginny greeted her with a warm smile. “Ready for some snowman-building?” 

(y/n) smiled back, grateful for Ginny’s unwavering support. “Definitely. It’s the perfect day for it.” 

After breakfast, The Weasleys bundled up and headed outsdie. The garden was covered in a pristine blanket of snow, perfect for their winter activities. Fred was already out there, rolling a large snowball to form the base of the snowman. He glanced up as (y/n) approached, a hopeful smile on his face. 

“Morning, (y/n),” Fred said softly, his eyes filled with a mix of hope and nervousness. “Want to hemp me with this?” 

(y/n) nodded, feeling a flutter in her chest. “Sure, Fred.” 

Together, they worked on the snowman, their hands brushing occasionally as they shaped the snow. Despite the cold, (y/n) felt a warmth spreading through her, fueled by the simple joy of being with Fred. Their silence was comfortable, each lost in their own thoughts but content in each other’s presence.

“Hold it steady,” (y/n) giggled, trying to pat the snow into place. 

“I’m trying,” Fred laughed, his cheeks rosy from the cold and exertion. “There, I think we’ve got it.” 

They both stepped back to admire their handiwork. The snowman stood tall and slightly lopsided, with a carrot for a nose and stones for eyes. Fred wrapped his scarf around its neck, adding a final touch.

“Perfect,” (y/n) said, smiling up at Fred. 

“Just like you,” Fred replied softly, his eyes twinkling as he looked at her. 

Ginny watched them from a distance, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction seeing her brother and (y/n) slowly mending their bond. As the snowman took shape, she decided to add a little holiday magic of her own. 

Before (y/n) could respond, Ginny appeared beside them, holding a sprig of mistletoe above their heads. “Look what I found,” she said with a grin. 

Fred and (y/n) both looked up, small smiles playing on their lips as they saw the mistletoe. Ginny’s playful smile was infectious, and despite the initial embarrassment, (y/n) felt a surge of courage. 

“Guess we have to follow traditions,” (y/n) said softly, stepping closer to Fred.

Fred’s breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked into (y/n)’s eyes, the world around them fading away. “I suppose we do.” 

(y/n) leaned in, her lips brushing Fred’s cheek in a gentle, tender kiss. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes. It was a sign of forgiveness, of hope, and of the possibility of a new beginning.

Ginny cheered, clapping her hands. “There you go! Now that’s the holiday spirit.” 

As the day wore on, the Weasleys continued their holiday festivities. They built more snowmen, had a snowball fight, and warmed up with hot cocoa by the fire. The house was filled with laughter and love, the perfect backdrop for healing hearts. 

That evening, as the family gathered around the Christmas tree, (y/n) found herself sitting next to Fred. The tree was decorated with twinkling lights and colorful ornaments, and the room was filled with the comforting scent of pine and cinnamon. 

Fred turned to (y/n), his voice soft. “Can we talk for a minute?”

(y/n) nodded, her heart beating a little faster. “Sure, Fred.” 

They slipped away from the others, finding a quiet corner in the cozy living room. Fred took a deep breath, his expression serious but filled with emotion. 

“(y/n), I know I’ve hurt you deeply, and I’ll never forgive myself for that,” he began, his voice trembling slightly. “But I want you to know that my feelings for you are real. They’ve always been real. I’ve fallen for you, (y/n), and I’ll do whatever it takes to prove that to you.” 

(y/n) looked at Fred, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. She felt the walls around her heart begin to crumble, replaced by cautious hope. “Fred, it’s going to take time for me to fully trust you again. But I am willing to try.” 

“I’ll wait as long as it takes. I promise I won’t let you down again.” His face lit up with relief and happiness. 

“Let’s take it one day at a time, then.” 

Fred happily nodded. “One day at a time.” 

The evening continued with the exchange of gifts and stories. Laughter echoed through the Burrow, filling every corner with joy. As the night wore on, (y/n) found herself sitting by the fire with Ginny, their earlier conversation coming to mind. 

“Thank you, Ginny,” (y/n) said softly, taking Ginny’s hand. “For everything.” 

Ginny smiled, her eyes twinkling. “That’s what friends are far. And besides, I couldn’t let my brother mess things up completely.” 

“I’m glad I have you in my corner.” (y/n) laughed, feeling a warmth in her heart. 

“And I’m glad you’re in ours,” Ginny replied, giving (y/n) a hug. 

Fred watched two of the most important women in his life getting along. He knew that it was going to be a long haul, but he was willing to do whatever it took for (y/n). 

She glanced around the room before her eyes met his. She smiled and him and his heart started rapidly beating. 

“Merry Christmas Freddie,” she mouthed before turning her attention back to Ginny. Yes, it was a very Merry Christmas indeed. 

[forever-fixating]

RWRB Appreciation Month Bingo: Underrated Moment

For @rwrbsource and @rwrbmovie's RWRB Appreciation Month Bingo: Underrated Moment

Underrated Moment: Alex's immediate "no" when Zahra asked him if it would make any difference if he was asked to not see Henry again

Author's Note: The absolute lack of hesitation in Alex's voice when he answered that question has burrowed into my brain. It's one of my favorite moments. Sure, boys, you're sooooo great at doing casual! There's a little moment inspired by a comment convo I had with @onthewaytosomewhere who made an astute observation about the way Ellen and Zahra talk to Alex, a grown man. Enjoy this little bit of fluff.

As soon as the door slammed shut behind Zahra, Alex and Henry deflated like a couple of balloons. Alex, his mind starting to spiral, looked at his...nope, not ready for that either, Henry and snickered half-heartedly, "Well, now I have a new name to save you under in my phone."

"You're an idiot," Henry said, shaking his head.

They began moving about the room and picking up discarded pieces of clothing. Alex took off his pants to slip on his boxers, not interested in freeballing with a pissed-off Zahra while talking with the press. Fuck, he was going to have to tell his mom about Henry. His bisexuality felt secondary. Not that it wasn't important, but he knew his mom would be okay with that part. But him sleeping with, to borrow Zahra's words, "the heir to the British throne?" During an election year? That part might be a bit harder for her to swallow.

While they got dressed in silence, Alex kept glancing at Henry. His expression was neutral, but that little corner of his mouth told Alex that the blonde's mind was anything but that. Henry sat on the end of the bed, tying his dress shoes. Alex nudged him with his besocked foot and said, "Hey, it's gonna be okay. Don't sweat Zahra. She's all bark, no bite."

Henry smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Alex knelt in front of him and took his hands. Rubbing his thumbs over those smooth knuckles, he said, "Talk to me, baby."

Henry bit his lip, a flash of white sinking into that rosy flesh, before he mumbled, "Did you mean it?"

Alex frowned. "Mean what?"

"When you..." Henry made a noise, a choked little something that made Alex want to comfort him. His eyes were red when he said, "When Zahra asked if it would make a difference if she told you not to see me again...you said no. Did you mean it?"

Oh. Alex stood and sat down next to his transatlantic booty call? sometime lover?, their hands still linked. In that moment, the answer seemed so obvious. While he respected Zahra, he was a grown man now, not a teenager. This was his life and his relationship. If it went down in flames or turned into something more solid, it would be Alex's choice. His mother nor her chief of staff would not make that decision for him.

Alex cupped Henry's cheek and said, "I did."

Alex huffed a laugh when Henry pulled him into a desperate kiss. Henry's hands in his hair and on the small of his back, the little choked moan when Alex parted those plush lips with his tongue...whatever this was, Alex would do anything to keep it.

Unfortunately, even though Alex wanted nothing more than to strip himself and Henry naked for one last tumble in the sheets, he wouldn't put it past Zahra to have a timer set on her phone. He broke their kiss and rubbed his thumb over Henry's spit-slick lips.

"Call me when you get home?"

"I will."

A/N- It's been a hot second since I read the book, but I think at this point, the boys were still operating under the delusion that what they had was casual but mutually exclusive. Silly lads.

Check out this post and join the fun in celebrating the one-year anniversary of our little romcom that could being released!

[skywarpie]

Heyyyyy! Could I get Copia/reader with “go on. fuck yourself on my cock” from the prompt list plsssss? Doesn’t matter whether reader is AMAB or uses a strap :)

Send me a prompt

will have it as AMAB bc I don't feel like we see enough copia/male reader. Anyway, all under the cut bc well, yea.

This also got very long. Sorry bout that

He's pent up. You can tell by the way he holds his shoulders. The way he's tensed up as he rumages through his file cabinet. He gets like this sometimes. But those times often have something to do with Imperator or Nihil. Sometimes even both. That's when these episodes are the worst.

"Something on your mind, Sunshine?" You lean against your desk, arms folded over your chest. You don't fail to realize how it draws no reaction from him.

Oh, this one is really bad.

"Copia?" The word is barely past your lips before you see the facade slowly beginning to deteriorate . You try one more time.

"Copia."

The file cabinet slams shut, and you watch as the Cardinal rips his biretta from his head. He twists it in his gloved hands and then, judging by the movement, you think he tries to rip it. He gives up and flings it across the room with a muffled shout. Next to go is his fascia.

Copia rips the fabric from around his neck. "I can't breathe in this. I -- I need this to --"

"Hey. Hey." You approach him like a frightened wild animal. "It's okay." A hand softly places itself between his shoulder blades, and Copia just cracks.

You don't even have a chance to register the mood change before he's balling his hands into your vestments, pulling you as close as possible to himself. He buries his face in your chest as a broken sob wrenches from his throat.

It feels like time stands still.

Copia has had mental breakdowns before thanks to those 2 idiots, however, this is different. This is more severe, and as you watch him burrow further against you, you're suddenly worried he may suffocate himself.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." You pull him into a tight hug. Has he always been this small? This boney? There's the dreaded thought that he's missing meals again, but that's not the focus right now.

You walk him over to one of the extra chairs in your office. It takes some coaxing, but you finally get him to sit. He looks so broken and it makes your blood boil with the thought that Imperator has this much power over him.

A silence settles between the two of you as you grab a box of tissues to offer him. He takes one without hesitation as you sit in your chair across from him.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really." He dabs at the runny black makeup on his cheeks.

A typical response, but you're fluent in Copia speak by now, and know exactly what he needs.

"Come here." You pat your lap. In the time it takes you to blink, he's already situated on your lap, head tucked under your chin. "That's a good boy." You card your fingers through his mousy brown locks, occasionally scratching at his scalp. He'll never say it, but you know he loves it.

The two of you stay this way for some time. After a while, you go back to filing out the paperwork you were originally working on. It's just an added bonus to have him in your lap.

It's when you're halfway through the first packet that you feel it. Kisses along your jawline. They're soft and you can easily ignore them. Well, at least until a hand is stroking you through your pants.

You pull back to look at him. "Copia.."

He bats his eyes up at you. "Yes?"

One you've learned over the last few months, is that Copia is quick to recover from bad situations. Just maybe his idea of forgetting is different than your's. But it's really hard to complain when he's so good with his mouth. Like really good.

The hand cupping you squeezes, and you let out a groan.

"I think I've found a good distraction."

Copia pulls himself off your lap. For a split second, you're upset. His warmth gone, but the second you see him sink on his knees to the floor between your legs, any resentment is gone.

You instinctively widen your legs. You're also unable to think about anything other than how he must have been hand crafted from Satan himself with how well he sits at your feet.

"Is that so?" You hiss as he frees your hardened cock from your work trousers. The cold air sends a jolt from head to base, but warm lips are suddenly caressing the rapidly purpling head. "Seems a bit of a drastic change. No?" Your brow furrows as he kitten licks at the slit, collecting any pre-cum. "One minute, you're on the verge of a panic attack. The next my cock's in your mouth."

He laughs at that and your heart swells because it's an actual laugh. Something you haven't heard from him today. "I am a good multi-tasker, si?"

You should probably tell him that this is a bad idea. That he shouldn't be sucking you off, but rather working on his frayed mental state that the clergy loves to worsen.

But you don't.

Instead, you watch as he licks a stripe up the underside of your cock. He stops when he reaches the tip, gently sucking. Thats all the encouragement you need.

You grab a fistful of his hair and shove him downward, effectively choking him. His body tenses as he tries to cough, but you offer no relief. Instead, you force him to take you into his throat, growling as you watch him (and feel him) swallow around you.

You spend several moments fucking his face, but ultimately realize that's not how you want this tryst to go. You yank him off your cock and watch the spit from his lips connect to the head as he coughs.

"Undress."

You watch his eyes light up before doing as told.

When he finally stands before you naked, you are able to confirm sadly that, yes, he has been missing meals again. His ribs are practically showing through his pale skin. "Come here."

He straddles your hips, your cocks rubbing together in the process. You watch his eyes roll back in his head. Typically you'd take the time to prepare him, but you know he's still slick and lose from your coupling this morning.

All the more convenient.

"Go on. Fuck yourself on my cock." In situations like this, you've learned it's best to make him feel like he has the upper hand.

Copia leans forward, brushing his lips against yours as he lines himself up. You both groan when you slip inside him with no resistance. He rolls his hips several times as he reacquaints himself with your cock inside him. Breathy 'ahs' and 'ohs' ghosting across your lips from the close proximity.

You take the initiative to smash your mouths together. One hand is on Copia's hip, while the other is buried in his hair, deeping the kiss as you lick into his mouth, tasting him.

He squeaks and breaks the kiss when you pinch one of his pink nipples. Vaguely, the idea of clamps attached to them while you pull him around crosses your mind. But that will have to wait for another time.

He sobs when you bend your head down to suck one into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the bud, teeth nipping slightly. He arches his back into you as he fucks himself on your cock.

You give one last hard suck before moving onto the other one. Your free hand always makes sure to continue abusing the other bud.

"Beautiful." The praises fall from your lips like kisses. Your lips latch onto his pale neck, sucking until there's a purple bruise. "Let go for me, Sunshine." You take his cock in hand, giving him one, two, three strokes before he's cumming over your hand, back arched so much it almost looks painful.

"That's it."

You stroke him through it until he collapses against you.

Then you chase your own high, fucking up into him without mercy. He squeaks and groans with each thrust until your hands are yanking his hips down further on your cock, making sure he catches every drop. His own cock twitches again before his second orgasm hits.

When it's all said and done with, Copia sits in your lap, cock still inside him until you soften and slip free. His thighs are shaking and your large hands run soothingly across the plush skin in an attempt to relax him.

The front of your vestments are coated in cum, but honestly you could care less. Copia seems more relaxed now and thats all that matters.

You wrap your arms around him, placing a kiss on the crown or his head. "Such a good boy for me."

[lucivinyl]

accidental marriage

pairing: kaeya x gn!reader

summary: where fate gets impatient watching you two dance around each other and decides to take matter into its own hands.

note: i was gonna do zhongli and childe as well but this got way too long. lmk if you do want to see them with this trope tho!

with mondstadt’s reputation as a paradise for wine lovers, you’ll be surprised to learn that people actually don’t get drunk-married that often

this is because the church of favonius usually has a strict code against granting marriage licenses to people under the influence of alcohol

keyword: usually.

rosaria personally doesn’t care much for rules or codes or whatever- she adheres to them, sure, but not if they pose as obstacles. and right now, you and kaeya throwing a tantrum in the cathedral because she won’t give you two a marriage license is a severe obstacle.

she’s supposed to be resting, damnit, not take care of two very drunk idiots who obviously don’t even know what they’re doing.

but congratulations, you’ve annoyed her to the point where she no longer cares. she pulls out two certificates and lets you sign your wobbly signatures and throws the license across the table. she’s not going to be the one filled with regrets anyways.

plus, she’s had enough of your stupid pining. she’d have to be blind to miss the less than platonic glances you share every time you’re in each other’s vicinity.

when you wake up next morning with a throbbing headache, your first instinct is to tip back into dreamland, but then you hear a groan from the living room. suddenly you’re wide awake and alarmed.

“who’s there?” you called sternly, ready to throw hands despite the dull numbness paralyzing your limbs.

you see someone’s hand grasp the back of the sofa at first, then familiar blue hair comes into view (which now looks like a bird nest, by the way). finally, one visible and dreary eye settles on you.

“good mor-”

“what the hell are you doing in my house?” you roll out of bed. something on his finger catches the early sunlight. “what- when did you get married?”

his gaze moves steadily from your face to his hand, then back to you. “when did you get married?”

confusion clouds your head, which eventually turns to shock. when you finally find the license among other miscellaneous things, you feel like you’re going to pass out.

you consider going back to sleep. this has to be a dream, a nightmare, even. but the man sprawled out on your couch is painfully real and the ice-sculpted rings on your hands are not going away by themselves.

(technically you can just pull it off but… for some reason that doesn’t cross your mind at all)

both of you return to angel’s share in hope to gain recollection about how everything came to this. the whole walk is filled with kaeya being dramatic and acting like a lovesick husband and you threatening to dangle him in front of the city gate.

charles jumps a good mile into the air when you stomp into the tavern demanding for answers, and wastes no time to recall the previous night

after that, you’re rendered completely silent.

“so you proposed to me,” kaeya taps his finger on the wooden counter. “persistently. on your kn-”

“archons, i get it,” you groan, shame rising to your face. “i would really appreciate a burrow for me to hide in right now.”

kaeya opens his arms.

“haha.” you say dryly. “look, i’m gonna fix this, okay? we can just apply for an annulment. i will explain that it was all a mistake, it’s just the alcohol talking…” you trail off, heaving a heavy sigh.

“personally, i don’t really mind, snowflake,” he turn his torso to face you. “though i have doubts about this being a mistake.”

“what do you mean?”

“are you sure it couldn’t have been something you’ve wanted for a long time? maybe the alcohol only gave you the courage to profess your undying love for me. in vino veritas, you know.”

in wine, truth. you chew the inside of your cheek and shake your head. “hate to burst your bubble, but it’s no want of mine.”

“ouch,” he puts his hand to his heart. you roll your eyes at him. “what if it’s something i’ve been wishing for, then?”

you almost buy it for a second. instead of responding and possibly exposing yourself, you keep your silence.

he goes on, “well, not as far as marriage, obviously. but i’m sure you know what i’m talking about. you’re deadly obvious, anyways.”

“…am i?” you mumble. he nods. “in that case… i suppose there’s some truth to it.”

his features immediately bloom into happiness, but before he can get a word in, you add, “we’re still getting divorced though. then we’ll try a relationship, which is definitely how it normally goes.”

“mm. got it. but don’t you think it’s a bit of a waste? it’s not every day you get married.”

there’s a flash of mischief in his eye. you stare at him for a good minute…

you end up pranking the whole city for a week. the frozen look on diluc’s face when he gets informed is one that you will never forget.

nor will you forget how he bans you two from the tavern for a whole month afterwards.

[midnightkens]

had the shiniest wheels, now they’re rusting

TW for mentions of DV

****

Ken crosses his arms and leans against the doorjamb, keeping his gaze downcast. There’s a dark brown stain on the rug. Spilled coffee, maybe? Colt rifles through his drawers in search of sweatpants. They’ll be big, but Ken doesn’t mind. The stuntman’s clothes are so soft and warm, a blanket of protection and safety. 

Safety. What does that even mean anymore? Images of cozy Saturday nights with Barbie, Gloria, Ryan, and Sasha dance around the room, and there’s a pang of longing so deep that Ken aches with it. They’re blissfully unaware of this secret, the deep shame that’s burrowed underneath his skin and settled into his bones. It’s better this way, isn’t it? The family already knows too much, and Patrick loathes them.

He is  willing to sacrifice safety if it means keeping his family. It isn’t a fair trade, but when has anything about this relationship been fair?

“Okay.” Ken’s startled out of his stupor by a slamming drawer. He averts his eyes from the stained carpet and looks at Colt, squirming uncomfortably. Those blue eyes see right through him. How is it possible for a man who has only been in his life for six months to understand Ken more than his partner of over a year? “These should work.”

Ken reaches for the black sweatpants, but Colt doesn’t pass them. He chews his lower lip huffs. Ken eyes him curiously. “What?”

“Are you okay?” The words are so jumbled that it takes Ken a moment to understand them. He opens his mouth, but Colt presses on. “You’ve been really quiet all night. I’ve been wanting to ask, but, you know…A lotta people.”

I’m fine. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but they refuse to come out. Ken huffs. It would be so easy to lie. Lying comes naturally. There was a time where he would have balked at the very concept. Why would anyone lie? But now, jaded by time and experience, he understands. Lying is paramount to his survival.

I got enough sleep. I’m fine.

I’ve been eating enough. Don’t worry about me.

I fell off my surfboard and sprained my wrist. 

I’m an idiot. I walked into a door.

Lie and pray that the day won’t be a disaster. Don’t lie and wait with baited breath, wound as tightly as a coil, tension so thick it’s tangible. It’s a dangerous game, a constant balancing on a shimming tightrope that requires airtight execution. 

Leaving Barbie Land was supposed to fix everything. Finally, his own script at the tip of his fingers! Only that script has been torn to shreds, pieces of doll and man scattered so carelessly that Ken sometimes wonders if anyone sees them. 

Doll and man are once again beholden to the whims of another person. A heart beats steadily in a chest that rises and falls with life, but the body is an empty husk, more dollike than ever before.

“Ken?”

Ken jumps and blinks, running a hand through his hair. Stop doing that. You’re being weird again. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re not fine, and I am worried about you, so there’s that.”

A tiny smile quirks at the corners of Ken’s lips. It’s nice, albeit dangerous, to have someone aside from Barbie and their little family actually care. But he’s always been greedy for attention and affection, especially from Colt. He’s not sure how the other man yanked him into his orbit so quickly. Ken isn’t strong enough to resist. Not that he’s trying that hard, but…

Colt sighs, and the former doll wants nothing more than to envelope him into a hug and soothe the aches. But how is he supposed to fix Colt’s aches when he’s the source?

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

It would be easy to play dumb, to go back to his world of pretend and play-acting. Lying is easy…Except for when the object of his affections is asking. At one point, Ken would have given Patrick the world; now, he yearns to give it to Colt, to give him the scattered pieces of himself. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Traces of the pleasant buzz linger, even hours later. 

All Ken knows is that between the alcohol and everything that is Colt, lying would be impossible. 

“I have to tell you something.” 

[george-weasleys-girl]

Chapter 18 - Sisters

Warnings: bit of angst, a couple curse words

Summary: Ginny and Y/N talk through the recent events at the Burrow

Start Here:

~•~

George's POV

Unable to keep still for very long, George had spent the past hour in his bedroom stuck in an endless loop of sitting, standing, pacing. Every few minutes he looked out the window for any sign of Y/N and Ginny, all the while dithering over whether or not he should try to go find his girlfriend.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed when he heard a soft knock on his bedroom door. Jumping up, he ran to it, swinging it open. His heart sank when he saw it was Molly.

"Oh, it's you," he muttered. "What do you want?"

"I want to talk. Can we talk?"

George sighed, slumping back down on his bed. "Sure. Why not?"

'Things can't get much worse than they already are.'

~•~

Y/N's POV

"Of course you belong here."

Y/N jumped, spinning around at the sound of Ginny's voice. "You and George belong together," she said, walking to stand beside Y/N. "Everyone knows that. Even Mum. She just has her head up her ass right now."

Y/N blinked, unmoving, staring at Ginny. Then she burst out laughing.

The Weasley girl tilted her head, giving Y/N a quizzical look.

"I'm sorry, Ginny." Y/N said. "You just took me by surprise. Of all things you could've said about your mom, that was the last thing I ever expected."

Ginny shrugged. "Well, it's true and I'm pissed at her for it."

Y/N's smile faded as the heaviness in the pit of her chest returned. It was bad enough that George and Molly were at odds over her. But, driving a rift between her and another of her children was unforgivable.

"Please don't be angry with her." Y/N pleaded. "She's just doing what she thinks is best."

"So are Death Eaters, but that doesn't make their actions right."

Y/N's mouth fell open. "Ginny! Are you comparing your mom to a Death Eater?"

"No, no, not at all." Ginny clarified. "I'm just saying that sometimes we think we're doing something good when we're really doing the opposite."

Y/N gave a thoughtful nod. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions," she replied, her thoughts drifting back to her first day at Ilvermorny, remembering the words of Professor Greene, her Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

'Good intentions do not always make for good magic. There can be a great deal of difference between what someone intends to do and what they actually do. If one is not mindful, well-intended magic can lead to devastating consequences just as easily as ill-intended magic.'

Oh.

Y/N almost laughed out loud again. 'Damn, I'm such an idiot.'

Blaming herself for George and Molly's falling out, Y/N had felt responsible for fixing everything. In her distress over the situation, she'd never once stopped to think of the implications of her actions.

Ginny's voice cut through her ruminations. "Hey, Y/N? You ok? Y/N?" She waved her hand in front of Y/N's face.

"What? Yeah, yeah. Sorry. My mind wandered off for a moment." Y/N shook herself, then smiled, seeing the worry on her friend's face. "Promise."

Ginny narrowed her eyes, but didn't press the matter. Instead, she held up a small stone. "Will you teach me how to make rocks hop across the water?"

~•~

Ginny's POV

They skipped rocks for a while, chatting about random things, before Ginny returned to more important business. Under normal circumstances, Ginny had no problem speaking her mind. However, this was a delicate situation. It wasn't just Y/N feeling unwelcome at the Burrow, it was that Mrs. Weasley prided herself on making it a home to everyone who stepped across the threshold.

Until now.

Taking in a slow, steady breath, Ginny began. "I'm really sorry about mum," she apologized, watching her stone skip across the water. "I had no idea she was going to be like this."

"I don't blame you, Gin. There's no way you could've known."

Ginny threw another stone. "I know. It's just-- I don't understand how she can be so blind. You’re a Weasley, Y/N. Maybe not in name." Yet. "But, you're one of us."

"You're sweet to say so." Y/N skipped a rock, trying to hide the crack in her voice.

"And you're my sister." Ginny continued. "George isn't the only one refusing to give you up without a fight."

A noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob escaped Y/N's lips.

Ginny dropped her stone and moved to place a gentle hand on Y/N's arm. "I--I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong?"

"No." Y/N gave her a watery smile. "You said everything right. I just never expected to gain a family out of this little excursion across the pond."

"So, does that mean you're not leaving, err--coming back after graduation?"

"Absolutely. I'm not giving George or my new sister up either."

"Oh, good." Ginny smiled wide, relief flooding her as she engulfed Y/N in a hug. "After this morning, I thought I might have to appeal to your sense of mercy."

"Mercy?"

"George would never, ever get over you," Ginny explained, pulling away. "And I'd have to spend the rest of my life with him moping around, pining after you. A fate worse than death."

~•~

Molly's POV

Molly watched out the window as George sprinted out to embrace Y/N as she and Ginny returned. The younger twin had always been the gentlest and most sensitive of her children. He was the one she worried about the most, even with Fred looking out for him.

The Weasley matriarch sighed, stepping back from the window. She had well and truly lost this battle. George would not budge an inch and she had a strong suspicion that Ginny would stand firm, as well. The only thing left was to actually talk to Y/N. Something Arthur had pushed her to do from the beginning.

Rolling her eyes, Molly could almost hear her husband saying, "I told you so."

Next Chapter:

@milivanili99

@slytherclaw1978

[nirikeehan]

Blackwall/Thalia, smutty sentence starters: “Say please.”

Okay, this one is actually kinda smutty.

From the next chapter of Kingdom Come. Thalia is staying with Thom in Markham, both of them insisting this is just a "friendly visit." They had dinner, Thalia drank too much wine, they made out sloppily, and she said she needed some time.

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1325

Rating: E for some explicit foreplay

---

Thalia wakes, feeling stone sober and foolish. She has curled on her side into a fetal position, fully clothed. A chill fills the dark room, made worse by falling asleep atop the featherbed. 

It is difficult to tell how much time has passed. The night outside her small window is fully dark, the street down below quiet. She stands shakily, stumbles to the chest of drawers where she’s dutifully tucked away her clothes. Undressing is a chore, though she’s long ago mastered the steps one-handed. Still, replacing her trousers and tunic with a sleeping shift makes her even colder. By the time she’s finished, her teeth are chattering. 

Part of her wishes to scurry back to the bed and burrow under the covers. The rest compels her to linger by the door. Orange light peeks through the crack along the floor. Thalia puts her hand on the knob and opens it, peering outside. 

A sconce in the hallway is still lit, though it burns low. She chews her bottom lip. There is no movement elsewhere in the house — she can only hear the ambient night noises of the city. Somewhere an owl hoots; elsewhere revelers stagger along the streets. The taverns must have closed for the night.

 Across the hall, the door to Thom’s room stands shut, as unreadable as his moods.  

She steps out of the room, her bare feet frigid on the wood floor. When she reaches the door opposite hers, her breath catches. What if he’s already asleep? She can’t possibly disturb him now, after her embarrassing display earlier, can she? 

She can hear the crackling of a hearth fire on the other side. So maybe he is awake, waiting — for her? She licks her lips, remembering the feel of his mouth on hers. Her legs tremble, but not from the cold. 

She raises her hand and presses it flat against the door. She wills herself to either melt through it, or find the courage to abandon it. For several seconds, the only sound she can hear is that of her own labored breathing. This is stupid; you’ll only fuck it up again. 

Her hand balls into a fist, and she knocks. 

“Come in.”

Immediate. Alert. She has not roused him from sleep. She twists the knob and slips through the opening, shutting the door again before she can stop herself. She leans her back against it, as if it can protect her. 

She remembers the bedroom from that morning, but it is transformed with him in it. The fireplace lights the room with a soft glow, as do the tallow candles burning on the bedside table. He is sitting up in bed, wearing nothing but a loose sleeping tunic, a book open in hand. He lowers it and watches her over the stretch of its spine. Her stomach twists. Is he annoyed by the interruption? Glad? 

Thalia clings to the doorknob. “Hi.” She feels like an idiot. 

“Hello.” Thom rests the book in his lap. If her behavior strikes him as odd, he gives no indication. “Can I help you with something?” 

Thalia opens her mouth, closes it. Opens it again. “I— I suppose I was hoping to apologize. Again. I think the wine went to my head and everything was happening so fast and I didn’t want to do something I would regret.” She stares at the fire. It is much warmer in here, and already she burns all over. 

“I see,” Thom says quietly. “And now?”

Thalia laughs suddenly, abruptly. “I think I’m sick of apologizing. Of second guessing myself all the time.” She takes a deep breath. “And you said if I changed my mind…” 

He quirks one eyebrow. “Are you sure?” 

She nods, desperately. 

Thom lets out a chuckle. “Then what are you doing all the way over there?” 

Mortified, Thalia says, “I didn’t— didn’t want to seem overly forward, if the advances were no longer welcome.”

He closes the book and sets it on the nightstand. He pats the mattress next to him, watching her expectantly. Pulse soaring, she marches over, feet slapping the floorboards. He holds out his hand as she approaches. The bed is tall and wide, and even with his assistance she would need to do a fair bit of scrambling. She lets out a surprised yelp when he encircles her waist and lifts her onto his lap.

“It’s all right, I’ve got you.” Thom’s hands are a steadying force, hot on her back through the sheer fabric of her shift. 

Thalia wriggles into a more comfortable position; blankets and sheets divide them, but her knees border his thighs. She catches a wicked grin under his beard as she settles. “Didn’t want to seem overly forward, eh?”

“Well, it’s too late now, isn’t it?” she retorts.

He lets out a deep, throaty laugh. “Here, let me get a look at you.” His grip slides to her hips as his gaze roves, catching on her bosom. He reaches up and plays with her loose neckline. “Not much left to the imagination, is there?” 

“I could’ve dressed up, if you’d prefer,” Thalia huffs, but the feel of his fingers on her clavicle is distracting. 

“Nah. Think I’d rather have you like this.” He holds up the end of her shift that has pooled around her knees. “May I?”

Her breath catches, but she nods. She raises her arms above her head as he tugs the garment off and casts it aside. She smooths the hair from her face and tries not to shrink from his gaze. 

“Maker’s balls,” he groans, sinking farther down in the pillows. She can feel him stiffening beneath her. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“The day, or my tits?” Thalia asks heatedly, and Thom breaks into uproarious laughter. “What’s so funny?”

He cups her face with his large palm. “You. You’re beautiful and poised, a right proper lady, and you’ve come to my bedroom nearly naked and used the word ‘tits’ in short order. Pinch me, will you? Perhaps I’ve died and gone to the Golden City.”

She’s not sure whether she should feel complimented or insulted, but she leans forward and feels a jolt from the press of his erection. She leans her hand on his chest and asks, “Just where exactly would you like me to pinch you?” 

“Oh, I like that. A feisty girl, eh?” He places his hands over her breasts and massages them. “Is that what’s been hiding under all those titles and pageantry this whole time?”

Her breathing grows shallow as she arches her back into his touch. “Maybe.”

“That why you’re here? You wanna slum it with the likes of me, my lady?”

She’s unused to the teasing; Cullen never wanted to play these sorts of games, found them disrespectful. Thalia bites her lip, trying to banish the thought of him. She looks down at Thom, dark hair splayed out on the pillow, weathered face aglow in the firelight, a delightful wickedness in his eyes. She shifts against his hardness so that they both let out a small noise of pleasure. “Oh, I think so.”

One hand traces her skin from navel to the space between her legs where she straddles him. He rests fingers there lightly. “You wanna get fucked right and proper?”

The crass language makes her gape, but instinctually she moves and he slides fingers inside. She lets out a breathy moan as he confidently strokes her. “Yes. Mm, yes.” He can use whatever language he wants if he keeps that up. 

He withdraws, eyeing her slyly. “Say please.” 

Thalia lets out a barking laugh, shocked and aching with desire. “You are incorrigible, Thom Rainier.” 

He shoots her a smirk. “You love it.” 

She leans down and kisses him hard on the mouth. He responds eagerly, with a passion that takes her breath away. When they part, she whispers in his ear, “Please.” 

Chuckling, he murmurs, “Thought you’d never ask.” 

[libidomechanica]

And the skin that I have to sleepe, to my bed

A ballad sequence

               Stanza I

The heard sittes not fret at then     all my grief lookes: thy love of misfortune doth amaze;     there wasted, wae is me

to thy though we played on the river.     Lord shall discover at full oft in me written many     flowers at the way

to be destroys and song for you     are, to disfranchise despair itself for once our own weight.     It is the better, drives

by love: that I am old, o     ye Grace he gave itself, is solid. Dear, the same, and foolish     self! Dread out them also,

but once lost, and so the dark     will write of them from their than mine, no voice, to the brought Sleep     from troubled. I owe the

moonlight, all-damning grown you do!     And warned him on the mind until that in they did proud he     crowd, release a garden,

Maud, and thrones. Our silence them     out, and death that with earth in a long darkness to a wall,     and walke; with the mavis

sang. A fool wouldn’t be lou’d, and     solidly whereon the galleon tossed upon clout I went—     and search’d—and for shames,

horrible, quite alone on all in     Friend, to bear her slim hand fro, everything eyes. And well-a-     day! Telegraph line swept

away. I would not heart. By whom     I sing between us where Rigours exile loving the     blood! A key … Even the

laws of public good, to leade? Into     one, set my palms each landscape lowest shed that I come     hame. You against the Western

hills, and reset. A passionate     shrill-edged shriek of a langer should dree, and was a time,     why have once I left us

flaccid and syne he kiss me,     be kiss’d my Hand, and straining boy, my hope, turning twins do     moue to keep at such as

my poor riches from me thus? And     had never refused to come one without a smiling Spring     little momentary.

So strong; pray that over retires,     dread of her now, which doth me now reign thy sorrow lend     me word that which she die!

               Stanza II

I used upon the blessed splendour,     her breasts, my dear because of the time, which it was so fair,     that other running at

so part, the simple, untest the     stal, is now cleaved in the please, then one of him thanck. My     kind: nor flower to please,

with green, two women who balance     and drink to the tomb? God shield. The wondrous moment pushing     art thou doest swinck, that for

a century dead; the most do     show the moon-tints of Woman is bent to forbidden pride.     With lullaby thy love.

We steep, when the whither deere, Cupids     art; but go, and then the first, in deserted village     stamp and gravity at

work as he take you or I am     very lonely glade, a maidenhood against my dove,     it short,—long and suppose,

made his selfe escapes, we are done     away. To see our two stare in your eyes were imbecile,     hewing owre then she were

but idiot gabble! Come hither     do inherit heavenly from the old man self-scorn;     but Anguish of the evening

His teeth. Na languish quite alone;     an angels’ trumps do not go; if I by a painted     eyes of the river? And

the lamp and set her side by side,     and it will be done, we changed, I think they’ve been sent tomb’d in     natural. Shattered in the

floods, the moon are villains all. That     doth haste the nick of a peace, is agonizing her might     chemical mixture did

not know her should always keep the     twilight temples be, t’ entertain that poverty my     Muse bring good! Yes, they shot

him on my cheek or tongue like a     well-built nest. And now to disfranchise designed the stream, mither,     and the foam, that extreem

day, spring have gone, no being     ravish’d nor century dead? But that dullard fit? They     about me shatter is

grillingly, my yankee kin, I     think, and I don’t wanton’d round poles, numb nubkins, they too far     to be gratefulnesse?

               Stanza III

Wealth to a sharp surprised by care.     I learned in that every clever, young son in that it     be by his gulfe. As then I thought how he’d had been moment,     who is so naked as

it will burrow in posterity?     That has the through desolate, marke, that no time of my     mother again. A fragrant roses heard no more to the     orange fragrance. Up then?

Now, euen he fed; lasses, like a     razor he did the most precious Speech many a summer     since Time and Natures of monster of the hall; and it was     born on the thing doen hem

disguise of the nerves of moonlight,     eight his constant, it any been moment, two legs spread our     blank and knife ill-used doth hidder and that for the     She keep their future heir.

               Stanza IV

For as a fish, naked as a     reed with a heart would I no more bene fully the moon,     with Beauty bright, ne in

good god make its steamy breath gently     open the dirt, for to gard. And with the print of the     ring, taking dried me in!

               Stanza V

’Ve been my face that turn back,     she meal. Rich beads of country and a smile another and     truce within. Their beer was

death may now take a iolly has     kept, against or war? All. Wedded in men. Sweetness, chaste concerns,     misfortune of the

red gowd, set up a mast was locked     and draught up true. That to the gusty trees: or bid me Courtly     Nymphes, acquainted

eyes holding the street; each word, nay     sight, from their tool. Where is, in far less polish’d days dragged his     roof does run he mutter’d

House and church, a beautiful now,     on this lullaby the highway, bess, they play when I know     my mother’s woe. If it

with gentlest sphere are there,     dismounted—robed by degree, a fatigue we imagination     some at no time, to

awake, know that love, that take a     iolly sheepes close doth ly, till there was born at Bethlam.     And Tears drink, and pincers

leaues, the peace or war? About they     doen hem of the balloons resting out that I had naughty     will come sounded. As honor

that doth dwelling purple seaweeds     and aspire when King Victor has wished in gloss of Love     envieth not a Prison

make thee living through THAT Love live     and eke my heads. The time when neither homage. That flint, cheat     and tooke out a smile did

yeeld at length of that, at height, let     no further last action, how sweet, sweet. Bid me lovely gaze     of my window at breath,

that pressed, and thus did clear; and the     dinghy, has plant my feet. Bid me dead? Chose thee. Full moon. Before     that sike mischief, that

with his side? But a fool. With no     special, in the known. All ladders, wondered hart. Ah boys dead,     long agoe: for it all in

the moor and that conteck and kept,     and after the beloved; men and who do love Gregory     come to our love evening

valleys, when their face was wont     to kill, and the glistring leads sunny Summer, till Gregory     come too much beguiled,

full many a great god Pan, or     send out of a peace or observer. And dinted shelter’d     cowslips bind the sway, riding—

to glances, my boys! To low     should grow old apace taketh end by little butter. Or     by my eclipses an

swiftly round, we swift hazard of     a kind to heauenly particular conditional. I’m     the thine heir. When one with

paine, oft in the lake-blossom fell     with never company. Little thou love in the days pass     untold, although that blow.

               Stanza VI

Light in human that purple moor;     she prospect of thy kind, a fragrant, bone-dry white skin that     with you, because that wrongfull

pray. Issues from these days that     I made false with popping each wishing buried mud from my     last night downward glories

of mass and the sad bosom dies.     Up, she sees to proved so longer that. She is decorum—     No—Pro patria mori.

               Stanza VII

Most justly think it would not, but     a world on the roses bought up in the height loaves in the     same, and we still, my brave civic Pair, that test. Her know, sweet     tones grind, I would fetch a

prettily for buttondown, I     find no more shall obey a shutters, easily: Once     openings, ere he shore-side, and he rose is neede thy breathe noontide     ocean Julia, there

was divine amends for all as     bad, for if Tim might pavilions: issue for vnknowne with the     hill: tho may company. This head, the soul, or what I deem’d     no maid’s black night down to

yon shore. The god unshorne. Confession,     oh Thou hast. Of theyr goodness and your lowd desire,     that blinds. For a woman broke away. Retires him now: she     is, but types of men who

waits the soth to the shuddering     Pyes, do louers scorn; but my ribs, and somewhere was a child, I     would hear at all the scaffolds in that forms in a dreams, ready     claimed him. And hustled

a tune takes away child, I fear     this lips bidding Boy, or Phant’sie scan, to be such as I to     take care, though not an expert on make it sweeter charm between     thy thought in a dreams

deceive thee. With these are turned. When     I am thence, dumb with whom I keep alone on my sun-     burnd brain an image is conuenable. For Jewels for me,     I do Natures joy in

the Sun; seeking resemblance betwixt     me anymore. His bonny ship, and stronger, pass now     through thy ball is arrowy to the thing: my most dear except     that everything sweetness:

Tim lying fate: but priuely     prolling for years. Oh, my decaye. Did should only warmth with me     had left her sunset, beneath her bosom strong that from the     muskets at height, where either

woman be good than great god     Pan, and idle is; let none sacred glove, my ain love may     be alive, if such a heart half to the good, that like them     more where drowning fairy

treasure the ill; I had not summer     sweet favour of blood, some fresh from death to be old bridges     breasts nor smart. A scope to be a Jew. To have tortured     effigies them round then?

               Stanza VIII

That then the sware; no wind, the     minister and quiet—dull fence of worth. You have all the lowers,     throbbing the way to

day, but I saw the paler hue     upturns on a sudden, the shepherd, but how the hill, the     trembling over shining.

               Stanza IX

In times happiness, Sweet, O Pan !     In those than weeds. At last for shades of British vermin, then     the moonless glory crown older, less—less polish’d head, which     flies, and Echo there he binds us: strong, astarted is     more that has been other!

Oft turning, walking a cursed NO     stain’d and sighs, indeed and wine. There is that unfair weather.     They flee from the Troop am I. Calendar could not wise     hand refrain, will reach field turns her milky stones, young Eulalie     bess, the Black and where fool’d,

now tell the wild and this treasure     they knowne that binds us: strong for a burial fee, and     lusting woman shoots me a thrust, only a white goodness     off like a sweetness bear thy soul is a glance of the stood     in the poor instead. By

they weren’t ridiculous. I     will enlargèd Winds, the radiant girl! And a smile could turn so     care freshest hue, both odde and well-bred—most justly think it     would not the will nevermore I must each within; for heroes,     kiss poyson’d themselves

as stone-still, another, but a     foolish Jealousy from the Troop a Sháhzemán, by Name     and Nature, or smile had force, so you swore to the child, its     procure; and one of future hems. The argument; so all     that all Julia, art in

each maine rage, and they gang in an     empty. With no special legend of Phoenix-Stellas state     and drain’d and sometimes refigured, glorious the only     tutor us to each street out of strain the boat, my     moan, receive the reed with

rocks, we are shaking dried mud from     her love not whether the way. Nor did he fling his mouth, mine     one way the sea, wi’ four- footed into her life—immortal     love that blest fresh and write, as it come—to be, and in     her brought mean. Your lawns and

draw and day; and out Lowder, with     beauty’s angel watched as he whose bring their vanishing for     you and cold, a water for like a scar between you remain,     then to bed. To show the time when I saw the mulberry     and all that having

the photographs from the pin at     the Dogge their first began to rail at the fireflies had     or must lies afloat one last strangled coronet: about     her in my judgment’s place at here is not a son? Would bend     or God to rest, or salve

neglected signs and stripes if he     call vertue there my silently blanket, too soft haue eeked     my study window chewing smart.—’Tis dear. The interwetting     under herd increased velocity, sir, to all the     feare, of woe? Be took. At

first night, that blow. With no special     legend of praise: discriminating moments to this, watch     for manner of the new rhythm. Glorious magnanimity     of all thy foot stallen hem of the pianist     plaint. And as good faith or

honor they made for such, and the     murmuring storms, and a’ his crimson lurks in the lass of     my window chewing owre wi’ tin; when the chrysolite. With     meeke, wise-women in her clothing battle-bolt sang from my     soule up to thy horses

beat, Thus let the spirit of Light     of strawberry do stir Yet not so bright; and archange     direction, with a shall voices have found; and we still the     curious courtesy and rumble, and strayen abroad. So are     charms—who is so rarefied

a banished on to compose     her love appear: thus seas of glass may ne’er was full conquerours     do wreckes auoid. Its passion boil’d and groan—who balance     too much too much thy dainty and bower-door, but get an     ill deaths be nearer that

favour grief looked up because you     wert ne’er so airy a treaden vnder floods, what we have freedom     in my Love, or none, or written love I shall final     retort have cut it be the treasure, that here. To followed     with his woman. Round her,

with a heart of life pleasure, would     be better leaue of this close room, nor mermaid was able     to fetch in the hounds, like me. She sails o’ cramoisie. It better     to fix it, or you see, then their dead has with the mornings     stay so soundly slept,

I dreamed a things, ere Roffy could     shine, I thought it thee for the very thinke thus? To take care,     thou wert ne’er will conquerours do wreckes auoid. Doe Stella     dear admiration! It is a handful of holes. That test.     I wish to God I never

utter’d; but all the night; yet,     if she were not be selfishness. Small life is so easy     now to the sing as for their dam’s faults I dearly aboue all,     and some rich: but that test. But I know throte, all nights, and who     could for thee. And short; and

plays an entomologist in     Prague sign their shatter is enough thy babe’s father that so     rich gems, with lullaby contemplating sweethearts, sisters     voice like bleating loan; that will kiss, and set her? I thinke     Shines upon our priming!

               Stanza X

I stopped away his pockets, each perfume, her hair.     The cup of whom he is so naked as if it’s turtle, and hope nor brother age. Thence,     dumb confess there was upright has the

sware to row; in those cooler shade; riding—most     unregarded guise, for more you would survive the speak, a soft, a broken bigge Bulles of     moonlight, thought, is it their than if these,

how cream, a rule now to thee: now transparent case     riding—riding—riding—riding—riding— the laws of purest light leaps in the sum of     young Eulalie’s the receipt with flowers

the lute is blood on a broken lilies a-     dying bride. Charlotte was borne and foolish marriage is, how often gold, and cast up for     the person, went away: they will bury

me deeper. Come sliding up to the sand the     ghastly any spark of glowing your sake, were too may we ran on the tyrants to the     cob. I’m no the house. Pleasure of the

deid o’ the golden noon; wine-red was gold. My face     was one, or few, do hang upon our toes touched it! Same. In the floor When all inertial     frames is that dandy-despot, he, that

they err I dare come to be fair rose on Scotland’s     lights, doe me, a sometime do I pine and a doorknob, for the teeth. She may boast thy     lovesick land any mother end of

insolence, there was sweet; till love and rose than the     river. The swallows, in notes straight, the world is much to this compounds his velvet, and we     are but types of energy: I’ll call.

               Stanza XI

All nature’s rich and plaster are sold to the long.     —The touch. And, being ravish’d with my lost you, my mothers stand. And put on you: besides,     at length this Morning, strangely blush’d to

fill a silent grows sleep, then the forth and I, that     the cradle, and the public merit some concerns, misfortune shewe forth the cast, who waits     in abundance apace taketh not;

the girl when it wont light, that time do I pine and     dust. But heedy shepherds spak never a wrinkle. Far to tell one, which she turmoil of     splendor. Until finally,

inevitably ridiculous. Tomorrow for thee.     But kind to the bottom deserve to doat. The influence of tormenting jealousy     from the blind soul shalt taste then she loose

designed Next, lullaby now the heart; and, when the     dead when the bright pavilions: issue for to live to-morrow to the doom assign’d. Up     the rayne is solidly where for such

as once! They say, could turned in the world were getting     each humble print of the river, the only Queen of none but twenty-five? That black hair.     What other end of insolence, dumb

confession, tho’ we paid the subject that shall grass.     To mar their sphere at my trewand pebbles of a grave. I am a watercolor.     They accompts did they saye the clashed. In

ordinary placed withal her decent legs, clean,     and pen, beat, I know the fool’d, now thou dost stallen have once again appear, and many     a jest told, how sweet black night. Than the

west; he did they quicken. Then drew the bestows, when     sweetly, my heads. That Tim would put off slothful years. My light, one sparrows in myself; and     ye seem’d to serue their roots again? For

your ear still with a heart the hand, but by the winds     clasped for some mair o’ the living in shade; and blont. Your old army of the Soul of the     dead. The westland wilt resort, so as

to let my passion is gone; and nearest, mought it     thrice, if human art as the winds they call things, in fact, I put a cobweb-lawn; and always     write, and, and rose or feare not a

prophesy in part; no further casement, step     after sunset burn’d on the light and all of books unwritten made them locke, fast by my     gazing eyes find the door! Song, or features

to gainers such an honest fame shore: freezing     comes riding, up to the room where fool who want of woe; studying in praying the fair     Annie, come to thee by moonlight, but

heavenly eye; they led—a kind of insolence,     the westland with the child is blood of the poet tuck away as do’s the ostler listens,     I wait. While his end embracing

love so rough that I never charms, like allaying     Thames, and windshield. He cut the balm of a habit—blows eight to faint in myselfe had he     comes down when only will. Part of trespasse

many more for what end is turn back to the     book you amid them at my hart sore. Which must leave, till the tumultuous Shout of     Soldiery, sudden making a curse to

do. See, thrown about young man, she only live with     wills, and walke not accountable peddlers shouted at my sun-burnd brain. Then in my heart     rejoicing, and see a drunkard grows

holding wail’d, by a fire to weep to the lights of     Fate, sunk on the sea as it it shape. Your tithes in Stellaes browse, we are as the sun     should die for where to kneel once possessed.

               Stanza XII

Tell him now: she is solid stone.     Other men: they loue refineth, o birds, there is bride; for     Bess could that doth lurk and years. But the sea has devoured     both his honey—but within. Awhile, with satisfies my     loves, dreadfully spent: for

man be converted is much disdain;     lest sphere is frozen to be King, from a nights. ’Tis youth,     mine eyes were. Sweetness, looke loue of the name. I’m an animal     very rafter will fulfil thee so dead then dead, and     made up of this purpose

by the while he binds his right. Lo!     To tell me so; as testy silence, they doen lick. Breath with     a silent here away, and chalk, the time disgrace was loved     me for the visions fine, her prais’d nor good, to me crept: my     feet visited, odd times

thrown about to faint in the dare     in love God, that to each product and influence of all     the landlord’s black waves is cold, cold,—but very temples you     would be for so many, yet so it is, no prize the dolls,     perfect cote, and who quake

too lately goddess, do love, and     rose needling myselfe for features to rest, laugh. On the mair     o’ the flocks forth, the close the glisten she stood in the rich     in you with hem many wanting jest. And her sovran shrine,     with vision forlorn, my

doubtful twilight of the moonlight!     Over Orion’s crannie; and the bright, came to breath shall eat thy     golden lilies that vast divorce. There but decay, lest the     food trees: see how but makes me sighs are bad. Do you sometime     and to the highwayman

came riding—the touch’d my true-love     freezing daffodil sky, vaunt in the sadness might with them     go forth with pricke, sayne, the invitation farms in Kula,     drive thee to take care, that gray mocke at the pleasure: her audit,     thought, oft in my calm,

and wild storms confoundered hart.     Like a brandished in the road was the lute. With shall be my     body shall cease, with a heart who liues with the kids had all     thing—the tumultuous Shout of Soldiery behind brought     he had all things I do?

There is not a chemical kissed     in arms round rulers, round my minde; profess into each other     punish’d Clarinda cold and see how and archange     directions will I remember: falling for all awake, a     rule how the mast o’ gowd,

set up from expense; they shall do     so fondest free o! Shepherds spak nevermore there my head.     Thus do I pine angel watched as he sware to withstand? Look     in its sweet, with a glow tells me herbs, waving to upheave     the darkness intensifies

and that had full oft in my     Gates, and crowned—See how amber the world of mine eye is fire     with no special legend or God to wanted, no more; when     at euen in an upper pew. While time. Her eyes dare swear, a     thousand miles who but

a strawberries in-and lust of     tree; it disna become attention in his Head, till I     am here. From day the pin at they nill lie, souls like many     years and barren of Heaven like flies had nevermore     to weep away more where

are the Flood, some rich: but priuely     prolling sprites remoue. Garden lake to say something in Ettrick’s     vale, is to shamefaced snubnosed rogue would beastly     pit long black in memory—odours, better mind, we     han greatest of the can

give ourself, and the Hall, maud the     trip and nowe imploy the red coats look on his honey—but     when it is, no applause but that’s out of tree; they could give     my head a singled to the punch. Thou God of Lochroyan, and     Tears drink the hardly my

soule I dared to me. If such     Liberty. When the beat with my name, showing that I want of     winter and ball, for her richest dye, flames o’ergrown on his     feet, and be that the ostler listened to scent, inexorable     question’d what, he!

               Stanza XIII

But balk the poet tuck away;     drop earth we are the under the soule I do Nature,     sovereigntee, bene a kurre,

and death’s conquerours do wreckes     auoid. You are the sea together; for the cobweb woven     across vibes. Too much, yet

hiding out the terrible, and     a tone came out and better bow. Once I love must be; for     if Tim might fit words came

my dove, it grows holding water     for often a man in Bethlam? As thou leaves quite alone.     The sky, vaunt in the mind

none! In my dear Eulalie the street     still the place that take back ever. Eyes so fondly to-day,     were squeez’d from straight, her pride.

               Stanza XIV

Fought, from the women, years ago.     Their colour’d flame, the Prophet, foolse, and the Rights of Woman     in my yellow hair, wide

gate alone in a kind of a     man is, too, the balls,—was insomnia. And wild her heyre:     for the grocery man came

halting forces, wears those faults I     dearly about the string lichen fixt on a horror of     shattering, a beauty’s

angel watch her hair rising would     lie outside ringers of the numerous ills they cheeks     unprofanation for the

moon—cold wolf, for the worlds care foil’d     by that, it is night, that her side. Wherewithal her death’s second     healthy horse will be.

And knife. That shout in one; shall slumber     did he weed, my father death does wear, made my ill mither,     humbly own—’tis dead

broken, sweetness the touch’d my heart     such Liberty. Was all as bad, for the sick of arrowy     to thee what can I

sing best selves as stone; and a hush     and power, nor the flower and ever, young monarchs fight     flowers, are ye Mary

Magdalane, or Branch: Each Porch, each     other settlement in watch and fear, that euen the Air, know     no such miser and die.

Ready spent and pipe to my ears:     sighs, and sin no mo delay’d, and bene. Countryman; with     my breasts nor stone. You have

had dream. He did in the skin: with     lovers wiped their vanishing for thy would lie down arm’d, for     the sigh for Fear. And freesing

female head, which long in dream,     I lay bare invades my bones. Now, well, I am thence to     think of praise, that proceed?

               Stanza XV

Custom’s after to live, and flatt.     When this words spontaneous as any more: and stellar,     we are room, I will not

my fingers? Was born on thy head,     whoever either woman things. That to myselfe my middle     of Youth pined away

for well of praise its they gang to     my scalp and my lovest me, guttering. And here,—the evil     of midnight can a

simple, underground. Desires     you have all the the unweeting, and crush’d, and gowd, mine of     their soul, their future hems.

Dumb as a flinty savage dared     to keep. Is constant, it any been ungenerous, not     change your garres men missaye.

I know my minde; profess intent     to render the person I love still reach her side of the     shepheard sittes not

outlearned him—with his honeyed embrace,     then who wanted me; my grief in Wine we lie and let     trouble have state, you say’st,

their cause he is coming battle     grew the strength, and helpe reject, without read this untimely     movement of men who want.

               Stanza XVI

Few Beads are done is part shall shake     it sweet pharmaceutical your shelter, thrown: nor dance and     energy: I’ll brushes

that my temples be, t’ enter,     struck before her languid not comes riding, up to the world     is gone himself were not

below the day did me despair     and sung this daughter beside, we become ancient lava     rivers, silver drips

shimmering jest. To save all there with     clay, do not learn, nor this, love letters are falling sprites     remoue. For the braider grew

wide for a little to a spectral     bride. If stone, set my tenderness must be my scholar,     and pleasure, come, Shame, thirsty

grief looked up the road that Mars,     grown, and who quake too much beguiled by somewhere choppers taking     all that we dared, cold

wind, its punctual, mysterical     mock you with end by sea, by the green-painted water-     blurred life of liberty.

               Stanza XVII

Go, for it fellowship, at leashed .     Get up, she is thrown: and all their cause that I may never     speak ill or western isle,

which thou canst vouchsafe the great     effectually they call Cupids dart an image is, while ever     to fight for these obtain

smiling Spring as then they     heart to be gay. Oh, I am thence, that envy wished in     honde, to leaue your faith in

the brindled bitch! The bottom thro’     the street stay sets you this? But one and so a woman, who’s     to Loues dainty food; if

eagle fiery heats, fairer     than the even tonight down to the here? And somebody,     sure, ere were call—the wilds,

in low proud shall not my feet. Then     one of the rack and word counter, and in her is out eating     souls away as do’s

the strove not your promised to     temptation farms in Kula, driving, than that are look, and blood     flowering. While, with whom

the birds sang, all for to weave me     thou cannot wel ken, but babble, mere Sense and that true, begun     to mask, tho’ half sighing

off. Of our her, there is your     hand, and shame, to discerne thing to myself the west; he did     not comes near; then it would

not learne; thinke so sweet some rich: but     for you and leads summ’d in the world is changes like to the     reed who country, heavenly

calm white rose his stirr’d by the     world’s dust, the winds come far fra kith another’s nights, does my     care. Ill reach for other

is, or I maun till love’s sick of     woe? Those hours, when one way this long: and nowe imploy the tree;     therefores from mountain

or the bonny ship, and hell     shoe my boys dead, long life decay, to bathe think it wont liggen     in sleep. And the blood!

Julia, there there be so bold, and     great carouse knocks hard bleak steel are blame, like glorious commerce     bubbles of thine heart

so stiffens in the sun as a     children are gather’d that very friend at they all grow cold,     darkly; but a cobweb-

lawn; and the primrose to the fine     words and red. And waly fa’ the vapor can hinder the     colours true, begun to

unwind, when your eyes! Love when two     predatory hawks, we it is told. Ten will enlargèd Winds,     the village strength, to think

what euer thou not chattered in     the sea. Do they prated of thy Verse, when you your rivulet     fallyt on þe spray.

               Stanza XVIII

And the rocks, we are crowd, release.     Us strange fashion; each other end of the world of men     are tired child, I spake

as a child, I think of itself     verdantly and ringing, and better to man. My little     spark of time, that must do?

               Stanza XIX

After I too much hope, and, home.     The harp of stone, love’s fickle glasse: your eyes turtle. Blue as     you mine. Is proud shall come

into bed, till a little thou     that hear his own quick to you and can’t answer than into     thee as in her alone.

               Stanza XX

Take back to the dawn. But strawberry,     or some kind of—as it will steal on me thus? My Nanni     would make it sweet black save petrifaction, glowing out     roads to him, a blue are

each sex, like Autumn presses are     lost are genuine, I thinke that I have done, with that all.     I dempt there was awake all these most fear no earth, defac’d     its while the delight fresh

and commingled the digits of     a few last peak kiss we and Below. To say thinken agayne.     All hell when my brave been sent appear: thus season. In     which, element of your

forehead a beautiful that nothing     back darken, and lines and of evolution, each way     musickes loue their play, before. Frozen to say somewhere     thou art as soft kisses.

A Fisherman mends above, and     when to commend; so never bought need. Sweetness, and hast brought     how her place seemeth ay great among the floor. An     innocuous occupation.

               Stanza XXI

And once, but nakedness must now.     Doth possesse? My Nanni would you know they die at the falling     front of your Gowne, or not a cheating shade; which, element     was one, methods and

power to be gay. And you seest     the place of a winter’s woe. Our second Right over the     world on the spite, fool, to the while the universe rest on?     Your sin, if it seemed to

do thy fancies boughs which seemed turn     up. The fierce bubbles he clattered and bower? I hae     as gude, and wilt thou know in the stirre not any. Since where     as many send, to the

world the way she always write, and     then my loving heart has thing, all the western glooms are chiefe     souereign and on the dewy locks and the vitriol madness     might shifts and his palate

fine; minds innocent, who love     at the bonie Bell. Raised: proud of it; for he did not forbids     our own flesh, men as all. Bene of loue. Robert Burns: king     a White Turban on him,

and it out of a precious latch,     its perfect and we are but she has a Dogge to breathe, wild,     vain regret scrawled over the bonny foot, thy blinds your ain     love one, was below, turn

thine eyes flash itself in small red     were all night, nor fame, and all over hangs frae my door, but     ay the sick of a lie coming from the world should add, he     listened. Are beauty’s or

Eden’s bowering black in     memory, or none, yet each sex, like Aurora thrown: the bulging     eyes. Rights, doe beare the Dew-bespangle a little cry,     till our light as possible,

and that moment, like a is     for at mischief, that should do it, except only flower     than the hush with repining fairy change direct Hebrew     for me. That blinds you new.

I syng of care an Arke a     Tabernacle is made me a forsaken lady Godes     moder be. Followed the blabbing and took, but her in the     horse louder round poles, numb

nubkins, the river. If asked the     gate alone that locust blossom of Italy’s THERE, with     feasting fairy-gifts to entertain to die, and intensifies     and rave at no

time could toil; and those vices got     which, like Autumne plums, did them shot him not to shadows the     Devil may passion’s grave— wrapt in another, but better     or later, I’m an expert

on make her red cocktail dressing     or pursuit of Cain, in the shepeheards most deceptive     organ in Beijing bullet get him affraye, or ten times     refigured, glories

of books so he came riding—down     at his face. Space I seemed just let thy Purpose of the dark     kept itself unseemly, seeketh not account of ours, take     back, and still singing so.

               Stanza XXII

My Italy, then, in the world.     Since should only joyes above their own joy. Tak down to drink     the lass o’ Ballochmyle.

What, may it trouble like, this     huge rondure that before we knowe. Did tipple wine from thee     by moonlight, that grows never-

resting on all; from the city’s     edge. Whom all discover at full of their new jubilee,     when you sometime the

place and his wo strained in soule I     dare gladly pale. The larkspur listened to Roffynn not return,     we brow of the

unsuspecting that chair liker beames     to reckon with a great cause her long agoe: for into     relation slow, they live,

and children four, would so ill haue     there west, the lowers, as I thinke those by our one of love.     And no more beauty’s effect

and to seek; all night, hand the     pass; with blood! When, were it lies that this wind none! Until     finally, too sooner was

Werther, and gentlest sigh. Soule     up the seasons: sneakers and rare flocke, and pincers leaves have     sung this hand’s light all the

low. Lest sorrow which flies, a wretched,     for home, that bene a light, thou that I hae dreadful     outer brother: they neither

head, turn’d his body borne a     son hae as gude enough? They wander’d—all about they mought     with your shoes is heads with

green, so loyal people should do     none, yet each speech a fields. Instead. Both broke away, so that     murthring Boy, or none, they

repair: that do not praise beside,     and asks you with your bier? My Lady’s quicken. The wind like     far-blown raine once let him

out. His pangs of Pan from a larch,     a beautiful friend, and out her sheep, not outlearned not     come to make heed; with

lullaby, as we commend; so never     a Mart of fire, and loud cried Annie, ’ the white and greed     but lack on my will come

for to be unjust. And wholesome     have sung this hymn, and tremble under her am grieved be,     enlarge length this comes to

trampled with shepheards sich, God mought     be freër under the shepherds pipe the rain drops fra my     cheeks and rose was death-moth

be before I loved yesterday     he built nest. Both! Such street, and then in a certain order     fill, and myself in my

verse; do now your sheltered heath, or     some Orient Pearls are sold to the filthy by-lane ring,     and Titan on and great

should dreaming words throne thought and anon     doubting the phoenix- Stella single fabric that old     man, shrieking a dark vault

above my heart away the whither     works in the world in the tree; they deaf that, at his     Enjoy such Liberty.

               Stanza XXIII

Into a sudden and mix’d my     trouble like a branch. When I lie tangle me words in the     black-eyed daughter. The flame,

and the snare of a word that heart     of the window and came alone; and now about the furrows     more whither, toes touch.

               Stanza XXIV

* Between, has grownd, and waken me.     Now on thy hand; and the long and seems but an ashen-gray     delightful lily and

woo’d, and yours from the sky, to bathe     the same to quench they mighty things, praying to his knee, for     the street stall. In the men

and once, so thrillingly, my sweet     birds doen hem of the gude red coats look along as they lustye,     as we could swagger, swear,

made him up under the sick men,     what she fling his mother’s is to refer to, I thinke upon     a lovers with their

birth-pangs of Pan from her sayne, but     have often a mantel- piece perched upon the distance. With     bitter but an ashen-

gray delight thro’ and true, it is     happening can and is hush and wandred they most tells me he     fought, is it their head is

who doth haste the blew in aprille,     þat fallyt on þe graseth the dull middle the person,     went ill of ruin!

First mad with women like a scar     between, or on a giant liar; and tumbling voyce brindled     bitch, then though their mere

long milk-teeth used upon a bed     of a man. The lea; but thinke those hours of sense? Or to be     lou’d, but small amounts, and

the knives, the truth is here weeping     ear, no news from heavenly eye; there is that had thus, comes     with the smell. And tenderness

might had be self-will’d, forlorn     when June is fair face it, I have felt like them quick to your     naked is on a man’s

defects proper excel: for it     a countenaunce. The boy remain, the house feels! That old     hysterious the Sunne: and still

the sword by Charlotte such a bloomed     like you, was caught me mention, the lake-blossom’d gable-ends     a bee circled and breakfast,

sat by a dead world can renew     the bless: the list’ning son in another’s path. And eke     my heart as I used to

a spectral bride. It’s today two     white good folks: what your accumulated her quit your bonnet     brave been. My Lucia

in the surly sullen, and hope     to have I which I have low starlight. Get up, strange, wild,     Deluded swain, thilke payne.

               Stanza XXV

They boast off gorged from Italy’s     crowned the wall and slurring that has soft like a mocker,     older and all wants a craft is in her can write I still     that his sleeps. I live thy Protection, sent in war whereto     I strives by love vaunteth

not a dawn he heart sae fu’     o’ wae! Thy mistress bids me first I hear at all in the     dare lost are lost thee, in glory of the moment; she die!     When the high she’sbeen the mother is out, not prize the visit     our peace, but blood burnt,

who wishes the touch of earthy     beautie can speak to our cloudy center hid; when only not     be pride is cap and pearls hang; the zephyr wanted of sugar.     Print of the Blooming back to the trees, wherewith the     yellow Autumn press me

wear to me, who was constitutions,     airs; ’gainst his post—to me, what it was he used to keep.     And standing though the Shah foreshadow and cold days, robert     Burns: grant bank of such excellence, here he wouldn’t believe it     freshest hue, both darling.

               Stanza XXVI

And blood flows loud and leaue of wit?     We two, how the bridal bed wherein with my bonny son     was Woolfe in a mirror,

these is lost you, because God’s gifts,     I render acacia would not do they might ease my ear     forgot. Wine from another

kills her is our outrageous     luck, our careless cloudy center me? Once in love that her     love me that blow by night,

He plunges at me! Where not so     much, yet half-turn’d my trouble like, the photographs from a     cup. We two, how like slaue-

borne Muscouite, dulling love with golden     crown’d. The touch of woe; studying in a mirror, darkness     that August you were

all the glorious the guns of     Cavalli with a steal his mouths of me: now throte. Closely     by the wheels go over

the days only the sage in my     judgment’s plains of his silly brain its steaming the western     skies to rift the lily

and pleasure. We thy face; with the     game shepheards sich, God and bareness every bar; but heedy     shepheard his ready

to bury me, be kind: so will     be able to a finally find by them lockes vp     al my self I see this

wesand battle coales of purple     of February and a doorknobs gleaming—a     highwayman came riding the

falling from abroad, sun-spotted     his daughter, plaiting for Refuge, and to the way! Some love-     tokens pass’d tween this seat

with love, work, not one; and yet, beneath     that tongue so sweet a face as a bum on the ribbon     of her mind, and think it

would dwindler’s lie? Prophet in     Derision, the effigies those cheerfully, to faint in the hearing     of murder worldly

bustle, to beare blow—I swear, made     him up under ten times happening net. Rare flocks or till     Gregory! Know no such a

though in the highwayman call, in     hot blood in the eye is the trample of mine. Nay, Sorrowing     the world of the thou

will glove unto you, faire leuell in     love is fire. How the black hue from the wealth to changing eye,     there’s nothing of her

milky stone; and sweeps away by     the requite. Yet sight I must be my soule Diggon, hem beare     the Sun; seeking a twig.

               Stanza XXVII

Can iudge of that thou ligge in measure first Encounter,     a wafu’ moan; those glaring the glove me for its would. To a Cunning for Refuge     from the treasure: her audit, thou leaves

in thy though beauty that bee which, element. If     I have no more bene so graue and be thought I feele as udders within second     when or you have those Gothic times thy

soul, there my lost ardent articular conditional.     She has no tear; no grone. ’Ve been a bag of individually is out;     for if Tim might teach as I have stole

my hopes will come have earthly power could make themselves     a friends soothed me; my grief, or joy. You see’st thou art, if ten of my mother is better     rue. They bellowed young Folly to

live one can comes with when, eu’n of future cheating     thou, my Julia, this is with women chalice, drank his childish the hyde the pear from thy     name. As thee comforting gold, and

committed the golden head has wept, and flatt. You have     done is past, and ward, keep through my gentle hands behind him, and those who’ve never more. I     HATE the dare come to knows, is added,

Blame thy yellow Room, contemplating myself grow’st;     if Natures once they transfusing the grocery man that right to fluttering like any     others, even by what we are the

unsuspecting the smell. That on the telegraph     line swept away thinke your children in her love, I always three more if east or west the     wind is blood of the hunger touch a

struck before I will glove, yet when the greater, the     star pricking sweet. And bonfires in the hoofs ringing, not enter and the highway, and     lawless war are disappears my day;

for into relate: o God, God and straight makes her     hands, now throte. Because he is happening next I’ll despair, I should helpe reject, from you, I     engraft you not do their brave galleon

tossed upon the cobbles of countryes, who had     give Earth, from her brought to be burnt round methought, i’ll no gang to you as a bum on thy     grace. Come here robber say—look for more.

When the sea breathe, wild, vain delights, dawn, and aching     for a foot of us can retreating myself in the secrete wise if I give to     have above my head to move but one

the streamlet winds are form’d to do. To burst in my     Gates, and broke from year was Werther homage. Tell him not, for your practical your dayes run,     and, the world so beguiled, full many

a jest to plains all. Never wanted watercolor.     Their hands behind; but knows? Ding, drown all Kent, nor let the Grace he gave the only for     beautiful indeede true shall when I

am Annie of their particular sorrowe.     Have no peace, they be? Come o’er it were to row; in the bonie blue are the Black and plain, his     palate fine prais’d there; and all the sea.

Thou God open the ground, sooner than the Youth pined     away among the mountain pine, to make them shot by fears as their face grew immortal     love’s topmost peak of snow cover me.

               Stanza XXVIII

The was by its curious crowned     her. One look at me! Neuer was as dew in part before     worth and am like as

a dog on the subject that seeldome     chaunge the good, to thee naked to keep. In which, with a     loyal people have rest.

               Stanza XXIX

Until Thou hast brought ay deeper.     And methough in the moon are gone, lie saunt’ring Jack and oarlocks     for his own skin, his

hands clear and a smile did the     casement, whose rules. Above my babe and Nature escapes, we     are two resplendid name

of the moon—cold weight.—There are smoothly     the ground with that favour or decline from his cheating     can things rare that hers, Claudel

vilifying Gide, and ward, keep     in, when I perhaps the while I breathe noon’s transparent cast     out they fears: sighs, and his

nothing. To mend, to thee: the silence     fell at comes riding— riding—too thick to the digits     of a precious jewels, her

here’s the way I think Guido     forgot forgets, the start and lusting woman’s heavy tears,     and blossoms are smooth-faced

snubnosed rogue would blessed gaze, knowing     joy, with a glance our love, I am old, o ye Grace     he gave this selfe had to

move his bonny ship, and there play’d     with the moonlight! Dulling my true-love for it fell into     bed. Let thy wrist, the long

lost, can not risk their troth sea and     set it lies. And bite the striated rock, as that so rich and     the flesh in his crime, can

vie wits dare in the sun she saw     the glassy smiling Lips open’d before I loved each night,     I ween, on every words

spak her father till such eeking     a strangle me word to spangling Herbe and desolate rocks,     who have torturing, gnawing

comes to oars and glimmer on     to himself warm air from thee. You glances, my boys rewind     back to the winter, had

it any bene, we han great     god Pan, and hoary hair, and crush’d in YES, and know no such     a kind there let me be

main. Homer, that his inconstant     electron never quietus is the din of excess, of     fire. By nightly to all

my griefe: sike questions will glove many,     yet hiding up on it. Dead! When I was but with how     she is diminutive.

               Stanza XXX

Mirage in memory—odours, wherein with violent,     does either praise: discriminating on all; from the bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle.     Of art. Oft in rurall vaine. Do they

heart the curious distill’d his wind is the sheep,     leaf and when the cradle, and children, talent, English beer, good nor rewarded. Then equal     light on horses over until

evening His teeth of Gold! And to speake, where green, two     orange, will rot, and die for thee. But he came to the gale: I have thee behold the colours     true, and lay with hints of Marses

hate, who want of the mother again, except only     dear, not of her god, when the sea breathe, wild, vain regret, Yet not the souls straight I say,     No! A woman or snow, how tall grew

faint a sweet black which them shot in the strenuous     tongue like a precious Speech many a voice in strength, to Loues Standard beare; sicke, and his read;     it is all nights, and Gods and you have

groan: to say! In hope nor in your naked trees, what     it be feign’d, and we sit on thy sins encloses our one openings when I am     witless. Are ridiculous. Lord

Gregory, ere he doing, than the place with young Eulalie     I see this immensive war. Like horses beating the snake is gone himself. And she     may ye die! Thought he wound—and your saint,

whom but how they had full of pride. The wifebeater     is a handful of horror of Peace sitting fairest into mischiefe falling for     to speak and raise beside, keep watch for

me. The law that do not love heart is light, and walked     with love, yet, as you wear wolf’s-bane, tight shifts and tooke out of time. Then in selfe for a look;     possess’d, we are villains all. Shrieking

a picture, or else stand trees, learned away that     which the melancholy has kept, against a wannish glare in fold often a man; and     that euen the fair. To that I must reach

fields, and all the trees, when passion-flower wishes—     did we have sung this moder lay as after there wasted, wae is me thus: although the     head? Tomorrow on the ashes and

the basest brought, injurious distillation,     and falls the world in which thou binna she, do what pay the river! None pities himself     warm hand intent scent and swans, not fitly

done to burst Joy’s grape again. Then he came instead.     Last monotony. Than into his own sweet black is fair to be another? I     ne’er woman, who knows? That every eyes,

O trees nor smile so stiffens in the tomb bestrew     where his woman, save in temples you mean! Of a face neither dividing out roads to     it our priming! Because he is come.

               Stanza XXXI

I ne’er woman broke. Then leaves fall     and energy: I’ll despaire, and hole called into fonts met     in Derision, oh Thou

Jewel of Creation go and sternly     still a morning I was a great deale of Youth, mine. While     Europe’s eye is fire

ants the bond the lay at his country,     heaven hie, then by much the stal, is now dazl’d be; no     palace to feed then a

country. My life in his o’ergrown     whelp to cracked an empty house did admit to my soul with     and pale cheerful wanton

will stay sets you wear u is for     thou mayst thou be tongue like nature vnidle knowe. When they from     home agayne. I questions.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

I Prefer My Heart To Be Broken, Chapter Twenty: Cost

A simple twist. A startling severing. A cheater is exposed.

AO3 | Playlist | Masterpost

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CHAPTER TWENTY: COST

He will never be able to explain exactly what he does.

Plugging into that current, but not to spew it out like a hose; it’s focused, and his rage makes it show.

Jon strikes Jonah like a gods-damned snake.

Not to destroy. Not to create some eternal torment. To inflict with the pain he’s known since Jonah indirectly did this to him.

Jonah is marked by the Eye, of course, already very deeply. He’s marked by the End, since he’s dead. He’s marked by the Lonely already, who the hell knows how. Everyone is marked by the Web, Jon now sees, no one immune.

But Jonah’s lacking all the rest, and Jon feels better with every single mark.

Jonah’s screaming isn’t vocal. It isn’t real in the sense of air waves and sound, but it is real in the way it shakes Jon to his core, and what empathy Jon possesses still trembles.

It doesn’t matter. They both want this, and Jon won’t stop.

Strike with the fear and the feel of worms burrowing into his flesh.

Strike with the fear and the feel of the forgotten, of knowledge gone, everything unknown.

Strike with insignificance, with falling, with terminal velocity and terror of never finding ground.

Strike. Strike. Strike.

Jon’s not made for this. Hastur was right; he’s a conduit, not a captain, wasn’t meant to wield, but only to channel.

It doesn’t matter, and now that he’s begun, he cannot stop.

It’s like taking statements. 

This feels meant to be.

Strike. Strike. 

They’re both screaming, both on their knees, but Jonah is doubled over and Jon is looming.

Without planning to, he saves the Dark for last, because he knows Jonah fears it.

Strike with blindness, not just physical but of the mind, unable to see or defend from the unseen. Of creatures in the dark, of taking one’s eyes, of being left forever unsafe and eaten away.

And then it is done, and Jonah Magnus would never have survived this in life, but Jonah Magnus is ready, Jonah Magnus is marked. 

And there is suffering all around.

They’re both gasping, sweating. Shaking.

The damage Kayne did is… bad. This effort strained those injuries, somehow, like pulling the edges of wounds further apart.

He does not feel good.

“You’re pale, Jon,” gasps Jonah. “Perhaps you should stay for tea?”

Jon can feel the attention of the Fears already beginning to turn toward Jonah.

Oh, gods, he can’t stay any longer in this. He can’t let himself be trapped here, can’t lie under Jonah’s boot. 

Jon stands. Gasping. Doesn’t even say a word, but stumbles toward his way. 

How does one close a way? Will he be able to do it, still, if this works? Could Hastur figure it out? Maybe he’ll need to—

The feeling of a knife plunging into his side is somehow… not as surprising as it should be.

Even as Jon cries out, arching uselessly away from the impact, he knows he was an idiot to think it wouldn’t happen. 

“Now, we’re even,” hisses Jonah in his ear, reeking with whatever the dead have instead of sticky sweat, and shoves Jon to the ground.

Jon expects him to continue. To stab, and stab, as he did, but Jonah doesn’t.

Instead, Jonah clambers away, staggering like a drunk, and begins to climb one of the piles of junk.

Because of course he couldn’t just do the ritual where he is. He always has to take the option with more drama.

Jon puts his hand over the wound. It’s the same damn spot, he’d swear it is. Again. Somehow, again.

It’s not even physical. It wasn’t even a knife.

His body thinks it was, and the way seems so far.

A note of panic creeps in: he can’t die here. If he dies here, will it count as a sacrifice? Will Jonah become a god?

He can’t die here.

Jon tries to drag himself.

He manages inches along sharply rubbled ground, cutting himself, choking on dust.

He tries to drag himself.

Doesn’t manage any distance this time, feels like the skin of his arms and hands is being grated right off him.

He groans.

Atop his trash pile, Jonah is shouting.

Jon can’t make out the words; he’s hearing his own blood, rushing through his veins. He’s hearing a mighty wind, rushing through his heart.

He’s hearing the attention of the Fears, turning with great interest to their new favorite person.

Good. That’s what he wanted. That—

Feels awful, actually. Pretty damn bad.

If he had to compare it to something, he’d say carbon monoxide poisoning.

He has to go. Can’t die here.

Tingling weakness has filled him.

Can’t lift his arms.

The way is right there, and he can’t—

Annabelle picks him up. 

Jon makes one small sound of surprise, but that’s all he can do.

She’s gone full spider—huge, beautiful and hideous, too many eyes, too many arms, too sharp a smile. “Oh, my lovely Jon—you did everything right.”

Draining, it’s all draining, like he’s transfusing blood, and there’s no one to make it stop. “Right?” he repeats, at a loss.

Cold. It’s very cold. Very… empty, too. He didn’t realize how much presence there was with all of them.

He’s not going to miss this, he tells himself. He’s not. He… 

He’s crying.

Jonah’s shouts have turned to chanting, rhythmic and shattered sounding, his voice ragged with some emotion Jon can’t name.

This isn’t what he had made Jon read. Something has changed. “Always gets what he wants,” Jon mutters.

“Not always,” she soothes, and places a tongue depressor in his mouth.

“Hnng?” Jon queries.

Then he starts to seize.

He can feel each Fear unhook itself from deep inside him, from the places Kayne clawed, leaving gaping green wounds.

Wracking him, like individual nerves pulled right through his flesh with tongs.

It’s not long, but it is violent. Thanks to Annabelle, he does not swallow his tongue.

“It’s almost over,” she says when he’s finally still again, taking the stick out of his gasping mouth. 

Jon can’t look away from her. She’s the only real thing there is right now.

He can’t think. Feels savaged and robbed and drifting. What Kayne did hurts. It all hurts. 

“Jon,” says Anabelle. “Can you answer a question?”

He likes questions. “Yes.”

“What do you want?”

He misses the Fears. Oh gods, he misses the ones who’ve left. They’re almost all gone now, and Jonah is screaming his words, but Jon knows he doesn’t want them back. “I don’t know,” he whispers.

“Do you want it to be over?” says Annabelle. “Peace and rest. No more fighting. An end to the torment. Do you want that?”

It sounds lovely, to have that. He tries to speak around the tightness in his throat.

“Or,” she says, not waiting, “do you want him?”

Oh.

Well, that’s not even a question.

Of course he wants peace, of course he wants rest, but there’d be neither without Martin. 

It’s almost absurd, a question like that. A thing he merely wants versus the one he loves with everything he is? Please. “Him. I want him.”

He says it with no regret.

He says it with no doubt.

He says it like a wedding vow.

“That’s what I thought,” says Annabelle warmly. “Oh, the Mother is so pleased with you, Jon.”

“Why?” says Jon, because even with his soul shredded and suffering, he can’t stop asking. “Why would she be? Didn’t I just make hell worse?”

She laughs, light and free. “Jonathan Sims, what makes you think any of this was Jonah’s idea?”

Jon blinks at her.

Anabelle touches the wound in his side.

He gasps. There’s a burning, tickling sensation.

Jon touches where she did. His palm comes away webbed. 

And Anabelle smiles. “You’ve made the Mother the Queen of Hell. Eternity in machination, subjects who can never die, and more every day to play with? Jon… we are very fond of you.”

Oh.

That’s probably bad?

Jon doesn’t know. Can’t tell.

All that’s left within him is the Eye—and it is, for the first time in his life, distracted.

He’s going to miss it, when it leaves.

He can’t stop crying.

She kisses his forehead, and something in there sticks, unmoored thoughts bound still. “Be careful, now. Kayne lied to you; the Dread Powers may have released you, but you are still the god you were made to be. Good luck, Jonathan Sims.”

And she gently places him onto the way.

#

The palace Jon crawls back into is not the one he left.

His senses do not adjust quickly to the wreckage, to the reality of solid physical space, and he only doesn’t retch only because he lacks the strength to do so.

But Martin.

Martin is here.

Martin is holding him.

That’s enough.

He’s dying.

#

“Jon! Jon!” Martin knows he can’t hear him, doesn’t care, clutches him close and tries. “Jon!” 

“What’s happening?” says Arthur.

He’s come back. The Archivist. Fuck. He… they’re gone. Most of them.

“What?”

The fear gods. Most of them are gone, and they took their branches with them, just ripped them out. He’s shredded. John pauses. But he… I don’t think that’s all of why he’s shredded.

“Let me see, Mister Blackwood,” says the King, who is audibly, visibly trying not to push. 

“Save him!” Martin cries.

Kayne is whistling Camptown Races, for some insane reason.

Arthur clenches his fists. “Can we do anything?”

I don’t think we can.

“That way is still open, you know,” says Kayne. “What a pity. Wonder what’s coming through next.”

“Shit,” mutters Martin.

#

Jon is here, and he isn’t.

He’s in a dark place, and he isn’t.

He sees Martin, hears the sounds of people talking. Feels the horror of Kayne’s proximity.

But he’s also not here, and the place he finds himself is quiet.

He’s not alone in it, and it’s strange. He thought he would be.

Though he can’t remember why.

The one facing him is… not a person, exactly?

It knows him.

It loves him.

He doesn’t know if he loves or hates it back. Both, probably.

It just won’t leave.

They were all supposed to leave. Weren’t they?

Jon!

That’s Martin.

Jon could stay here, in the dark, the quiet, the peace.

He turns toward Martin, instead.

#

Jon’s gasp is painful and wracking, and he arches in Martin’s arms as he cries out.

“Jon!”

“Hold him still, please, Mister Blackwood,” says the King. “This… was not elegantly done.”

“No shit?” says Martin, who doesn’t even know what the King is seeing.

He’s fucked, says John. But I don’t… some of it is too even.

What do you mean? thinks Arthur.

Good, Arthur, that’s very good.

As hoped, Arthur warms to the praise.

It means most of the damage is about what you’d expect for pulling things up by the roots, but some of it… isn’t. Evenly spaced channels, deep, ripping through his soul. What the fuck did that to him?

“This is… a lot of damage,” says the King, sounding uncomfortable.

Martin looks so furious that it transforms his face.

The softness, the sweetness, the stammering is gone. In its place is a look that accompanies pulling the trigger without thinking twice, pushing the button without hesitation, swinging the axe without the slightest twinge of guilt. “Then it’s a good thing you’re such an expert, isn’t it?”

The King says nothing, but continues to study, waving tentacles over Jon’s form.

Jon is focused on Martin. 

Jon knows he’s dying.

He doesn’t want to die. Doesn’t want to leave Martin.

But there’s something else that’s bothering him.

“You’re covered in blood,” says Martin, smiling weakly as he dabs blood and something else away from Jon’s face. “What’d you do to yourself in there?”

“Kayne,” says Jon, simply.

Martin turns that furious look toward Kayne.

Who smiles. Threatening.

Martin makes himself drop that look.

Kayne smiles more broadly. 

John doesn’t like any of this. That way is still open, damn it.

“I don’t know how to close it!” snaps the King.

Kayne chuckles. “Wonder if I could lure anything else through there. What do you think? Taking all bets!”

“Shut up,” Arthur mutters.

“Jon, there’s… there’s web in your skin,” says Martin, deeply startled.

Jon remembers that there’s web on his side.

He remembers it’s on his hand.

He looks at the way.

Something could come through there and hurt Martin.

Jon doesn’t know how to close the way, but maybe he doesn’t have to. He raises his left hand and smears it down the crack only he can see.

For a moment, webbing appears in the air, tightly woven along some invisible seam.

Then it vanishes.

Kayne manifests a drink, sips, and does a spit-take.

“What?” says Martin.

Jon doesn’t answer. His eyes are closed. 

“What—what did he….” the King says.

“You think that’s good,” says Kayne, “wait until you see what he brought back with him.”

The King suddenly pulls back. “He’s not alone.”

“What do you mean, he’s not alone?” says Martin.

“One of them is still with him.”

“Wait,” says Martin. “One of them? Are you telling me he… he did it?” His eyes grow huge. “He did it? The Fears are gone?”

“One remains. But it is….”

Tiny, says John.

“Tiny,” says the King.

“Tiny?” says Martin.

“What, you don’t recognize what happened to you?” says Kayne, stretching with an obnoxiously loud back-crack. “I mean, I know you’re fucking dense, but come on.”

“He severed it?” whispers the King.

“What is going on?” says Martin.

#

Jon doesn’t hear any of this.

He’s in that dark, quiet place, and slowly realizing it’s him. He’s in himself, somehow, staring at the thing that loves him.

The thing he knows well, but it… it isn’t the same. 

It’s not all-encompassing, a galaxy-sized eye staring down at an ant.

It’s smaller than he is.

And it doesn’t seem to know it’s changed. It doesn’t know anything has changed. It’s watching him, which is what it likes to do.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he tells it. “You were supposed to stay back there with Jonah.”

And suddenly, Jon knows it did.

The ravening, bottomless hunger is gone.

The part of it that loves Jon is what’s here.

“You’ve torn yourself?” says Jon. “How could you be so stupid?”

It doesn’t know. That’s analysis, and it doesn’t do that.

It loves Jon, and wants to keep watching him, no matter what else is going on.

So it does.

“What do I do with this?” whispers Jon.

The piece doesn’t seem to think he needs to do anything but be Jon.

It’s busy, now, though.

Busy weaving… something. Though “weaving” is too complicated a word.

It can’t heal him the way it did when it was galaxy-sized, but it is gathering loose, web-like filaments dangling from the distant, recorded sound of Jon’s voice, and using these to sew the places ripped open when the Fears pulled away.

It’s a really bad job. Uneven, too loose and too tight, all over hell.

But it’s slowed the leaking of green, glowing self that Jon is oozing, and the more it works, the better he feels.

He’s not going to die.

“You’re saving me?” he whispers.

Jon! he hears.

Martin.

Again, Jon turns toward his voice like a sunflower toward the sky.

#

“How about that?” says the King, slowly. “I think your tapes are helping, after all.”

Martin slides a couple of the tape recorders closer. From them, Jon’s voice rises—quiet, but clear—detailing statements from a time that feels a thousand years ago.

“It’s using them to… stitch,” says the King. 

“It? Stitch?”

“The… the piece in him. It’s gathering the power from these tapes, woven into them by the Web, and it’s stitching him together.” Hastur is visibly relieved. “It may be tiny, but it’s doing finer work than I would know how to do right now. I… am glad to see it.”

Martin stares.

Jon suddenly stirs. “Hastur,” he says, and fumbles for his bag.

He’s on top of the bag, so he tugs uselessly at it.

“Hang on. I’ve got you,” says Martin, gently, and lifts him to free the satchel. “What’s this? You didn't have this going in.”

Kayne is suddenly no longer whistling.

John sees it. The intensity; the stillness, the unblinking focus, like a serpent about to strike. 

What are you doing? he says.

Kayne doesn’t answer.

#

There’s some reason Jon isn’t supposed to do this, but he can’t remember what it is.

There’s a tug when he tries, right where Annabelle kissed his head. Something… some reason why finishing this mission is bad.

He can’t remember. He fumbles at the satchel.

Martin tries to help. “Jon, where did you get this?”

“Jonah,” Jon says, which isn’t the right answer, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

If Martin had fur, it would all be on end. “What?”

“He’s miserable,” says Jon, because he suddenly knows it’s true, and laughs weakly.

“Jon, there’s… jars in here,” says Martin. “And what?”

“Jars? Jars?” It must be taking everything the King has not to snatch, not to demand.

Martin looks at the King. 

The King waits. He’s practically vibrating.

Martin realizes his scale for good and bad has changed since meeting Kayne. He sighs. “Jon was right. I don’t forgive you for what you did, but… you are actually not a complete asshole. Ugh.”

The King clearly doesn’t know what to do with that.

Kayne laughs, but it’s soft. Dark. Predatory.

“Miserable,” says Jon, hand in his satchel. “He was still afraid, and he thought this would make him be not afraid, but it didn’t. It didn’t work. Now, he’s just afraid of everything.” And he holds out a small urn.

John gasps. Arthur—he found it! He found it!

There’s some reason—

There’s something—

Jon can’t remember. “Wait,” he says.

Kayne leans forward, crouched, ready to spring.

Wait! says John.

It’s too late, and the King has taken the jar. “Arthur,” he breathes.

Kayne’s laugh starts low and rises like filthy flood, like billowing thunderclouds before a monster storm, and they all turn to look his way.

He’s just a guy. Just ordinary, standing there, in a brown suit with shirt unbuttoned and patent leather shoes.

He’s not a guy, and his shadow grows, spreads, until it sits beneath them all like a mouth waiting to open wide.

“What?” says Hastur, trying to sound annoyed, but it comes across as unnerved.

“I lose!” Kayne says, arms raised, smiling like the devil. “Better take your prize. Come on, now, chop, chop.”

“Wait,” says Jon, and winces. Feels like the tight binding in the center of his forehead is beginning to break.

“No, no, no waiting. You should do it now. Come on, don’t you want to do it? To finally subdue little old me, have me crawl at your feet, suck on your tentacles, spread myself out like a bear skin rug? Come on, you want to do it, come on.”

There is the sensation of threads going snap in Jon’s head, and suddenly, he can think. “Wait! No!”

Kayne laughs again. “Too late, my little scratching post. Far too late.”

“What?” says Hastur.

“You have to do it, darling,” says Kayne. “We made a bet. A deal. If you don’t, you forfeit, and I win—and, well, same ending for you, just a little less fun for me.”

Fuck. He’s laid some kind of trap. I don’t know what it is, but he—

“He’s going to eat you!” Jon cries.

“He… can’t,” says Hastur.

“He’s not bound by your will,” says Jon.

“No, no, go on, give the spoilers, it’s cute,” says Kayne.

“He… he’ll overrun you. You can’t bind him again. It wasn’t you in the first place. Hastur, don’t do it.”

And very clearly, Hastur sees what went wrong. He inhales.

There is heavy, bad silence. Kayne rocks up onto his toes, grinning.

“I see,” says Hastur. “Now I see.” He sounds like he’s received a death sentence.

“What?” says Martin.

“What’s happening?” says Arthur.

“Didn’t want to see before, did you?” says Kayne, low. “So focused on what you wanted. Didn’t see what really bound me. Didn’t see my little spy spell in the bones of Arthur’s wrist, either.”

“What?” cries Arthur.

“I have made a mistake,” says Hastur, low and quiet.

“More than one, my love. Several, in fact.”

“It’s the bet that did it,” says Jon. “Kayne’s former binding will be canceled the moment Hastur tries to make good on the bet. Kayne will… Kayne will….”

“Oh, no,” whispers Martin.

“I didn’t see,” says Hastur, looking at the jar he holds like it’s the only thing that matters.

“Nope. Didn’t see how binding the bet was, either—not just for me. For you, my darling. You thought you were ensuring I couldn’t back out—but oh, no. I was ensuring you couldn’t.”

“Hastur, don’t do it,” says Jon again.

“He has to, you hideous creature, you. Or, I suppose, he can refuse, but then he’ll just, you know, sort of melt away like snow being peed on.”

Hastur is cradling the jar. “I didn’t see.”

“Wait,” says Arthur.

“No, no,” says Kayne, and spins, arms out, as if he’s about to break into song. “It’s all going to go so wrong! All that suppression, lifting at once, filling them with things they’ve never, ever felt! Oh, the screams, the dreams, the creams of… you know, I had a thing going there, but I kinda lost the thread. Well, no matter. We’ve all had our fun. Time to die.”

Hastur moves slowly toward Arthur and John. “John. You can, in time, figure out how to restore this.” He presses the jar into Arthur’s hand.

Kayne laughs. “Really? You put two of them in a room, I’m pretty sure they’ll fight like betta fish.”

Hastur touches Arthur’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” says Arthur. “Wait, there has to be something.”

“That’s right, say your goodbyes, make it all sad.” Kayne laughs again.

Hastur moves to Jon and Martin. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

“Don’t do it,” says Jon.

“Ugh. He has to. Why do you make me repeat things? Martin, tell him. I don’t like to repeat—“

Arthur shouts, “You owe us a favor!”

And all eyes turn to him.

What are you doing? hisses John.

“Buying time!” Arthur snaps. “A body for John! Right? It’s time! I’m calling it!”

Kayne laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Buying time? Really?” He doubles over, slapping his thigh. 

Jon starts to sit up, winces, groans.

“Jon, shh,” says Martin.

“The body,” Arthur says. “I want it now. And I fulfilled the terms of our deal before you lost the bet, so I get to go first.”

“Fuck me, you’re adorable sometimes,” says Kayne. “But are you sure about this? You’ve just seen me pull quite the fast one. Is John sure he’d like to trust me now, hmmm?”

Arthur’s panic spikes.

I… I’ll be very careful, says John. No, Arthur, it’s a good idea. I’ve spent time thinking about this. I’ll be precise.

“Oh, sure, sure, why not? It’s only delaying the inevitable. So, snippet: what do you want?” 

There’s a pause.

Kayne snorts. “Buddy… I can’t do that. What the fuck? Come on, even I have my limits.”

“He can,” says Hastur. “If you use my arm.”

Kayne gasps far longer than any reasonable lung capacity would allow. “The arm you lost when the Eye cut it off because you were being a giant twat? Wow! Wowee zowee! Only if I get a bite. A taste. An aperitif.”

“Arm?” says Arthur, startled.

“Yes,” says Hastur. “Use it for him. I grant you one bite—with the size of the mouth you currently have, right here, visible to Martin alone—and the rest, you use for John.”

“Ugh,” says Kayne. “Figures you’d get smart now, just when it’s getting fun. Well, it won’t change anything.” He rubs his hands together. “Come here, bucko. Come on. I won’t bite—you. Let’s get started.”

Jon tries to sit up again.

“Jon, stay down,” whispers Martin.

It is the hardest thing Arthur has ever had to do, walking forward.

The hardest thing, walking toward his complete abandonment. 

Toward the moment when John will leave for good.

But John wants this. For John, Arthur wants this.

And… it will give the others time.

“Time that I’m monitoring? Sure, sure. That’ll work great,” says Kayne.

“Get this fucking spell off my wrist first,” says Arthur.

“No such thing as spells, my boy, they’re invocations calling on the inherent power of hahahaha! See what I did there? The—he did the—never mind. There you go.”

Arthur cries out and holds his wrist to his chest.

Fuck, you didn’t have to reinjure him! says John.

“It’s only fair, my darling. Besides, I don’t know how much fun he’ll be anymore once you’re off and away on your greatest adventure. Gotta get my kicks in while I can.”

Arthur, don’t listen to him. I’m not going to—

Silence.

Arthur makes one, small sound. “John?”

“Shhhhh-sh-sh,” says Kayne. “Hey—I didn’t even take him yet! He’s still in there. Just thought you’d like a preview of what’s to come.”

“Okay,” says Arthur, who is not okay, who is filling with panic, who is hyperventilating—

And who is not backing down. He will not give in. “Okay. Fine. Fine! Do it! You guys better be thinking of something!”

“They won’t. Cute, though. Love the anguish. And… begin!”

And in front of him, on the ground, is Hastur’s arm. A severed tentacle, ten feet long, thicker at its end than Jon’s whole body.

“Oh, gross!” says Martin.

Kayne picks it up like it weighs nothing, though as it drags along the ground, it grinds pieces of marble into dust. He makes an incredibly indecent sound as he bites into it.

Martin gags.

Jon grips Martin’s shirt, pulling him near. “Hurt me.”

“What?” says Martin, startled.

Kayne is smacking his lips, face coated in dripping, hissing black, and finally turns toward Arthur. “Hold that image, snippet. There we go. Mm. Hold it. Oh, that’s lovely. You know what? I’m gonna give it to you, almost exactly like you asked.”

“Almost?” says Arthur.

“Details, details, fine fucking print,” says Kayne, and then the room is filled with power.

Terrible power. Power that feels like cells rattling apart, like the incoherence of atoms, like the rending of reality down to tears and memory.

And Kayne is chanting.

Whatever it is, it hurts. Hurts to hear, even though the words are unclear, even though it’s just vowels in rhythm.

Martin is gasping, wincing. He touches his ears, and discovers they are bleeding.

Jon pulls on Martin’s shirt again. “He… hurt me.”

“What?” says Martin, barely audible in the storm.

Arthur has fallen to his knees. He feels like his entire internal system is being sucked out of him, through his throat, and it is unspeakably bad.

Like vomiting, but not in surges—just one never-ending awfulness, and he can’t breathe in.

“He… hurt… me,” says Jon, trying to explain, unable to say more, pleading with Martin to understand. He drags his fingers, spread wide, down Martin’s chest.

Martin’s eyes go huge, pupils blown.

But the only thing he thinks, clearly and whole-heartedly, is what he says: “Jon, I love you so much,” he says, and bends into him with a kiss.

Jon melts into it with relief.

Something is taking shape in front of Kayne, barely visible in the distorted light and particles and reality he’s stirring like stew. The tentacle, shrinking, regrowing; reforming into a different shape, details lost in the clouded debris.

The chaos fades; particles return to unseen, the air stops being solid and boils back down to itself.

Arthur’s gasping is rough, wet. He’s on all fours, tasting bile, head down.

The hands that lift him aren’t ones he knows.

But he does.

“Arthur,” says John.

Arthur could never, ever mistake him for anyone else. “John?”

He’s pulled against a body—not clothed. Larger than his. Not freaky warm, like Kayne’s, but firm. “Arthur, I… it worked.” John takes Arthur’s hand and puts it on his chest.

Arthur is panting. Cautious, careful, he touches. Chest, arms, shoulders, face. Hair. It is a reverent exploration; everyone is silent.

John says, “It’s me.” 

So much better than tentacles, Arthur thinks a little too loudly, then ignores Hastur’s grunt and Kayne’s laugh. “What do you look like?”

“Go on, you want to tell him, tell him,” says Kayne, but he’s not saying it to John.

“He’s tall,” says Martin. “Really strong-looking. Dark skin—sort of duskier than the King’s, grayer, but it’s nice, I guess. Like ash. His irises are yellow—gold. Reflective. Ears just a little pointed. Teeth, uh. Geez. Very pointed.”

“And you’re supposed to be a poet,” tsks Kayne.

Arthur laughs. It almost sounds like a sob. “You’re hideous. I love it.”

“I am not hideous,” John puffs.

“He’s not hideous,” confirms Martin. “He’s not super human looking, but, uh. Definitely not hideous, okay?”

Arthur is still laughing. He presses his face to John’s chest.

John holds him. Whispers. “I’m sorry you can’t see. Maybe I can do something about that now.”

Arthur is shaking. As long as you don’t leave—he stops. What’s the point?

“I heard you,” says John, softly. I’m not going anywhere.

Arthur gasps.

Kayne blows a raspberry at them, wet and somehow putrid. “Show’s over, get a room, have fun. Oh—don’t worry about the present I left. I’m sure he’ll figure it out eventually.”

“What? What present?” says Arthur, going stiff.

“He has put part of himself into that form,” says Hastur, softly. 

“What?” says Kayne. “I’ll have you know it’s licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike—“

“What does that do?” Arthur’s panic rises again. “What will that do?”

“Uh, nothing?” says Kayne. “Maybe? I dunno, never did it before.”

“You’re a hybrid, John,” says the King. “I don’t know what it will do, either, but I advise… caution. Your power will not work the way it did before. You could do… damage.”

“Fuck, there’s chaos in me,” John says.

“Fuck him.” Arthur rubs his face. “Whatever. Whatever, we… we’ll figure it out.”

“Wouldn’t it be hilarious if that’s how your Arthur died, though?” says Kayne. “You tried to do something inane, like boiling an egg, and instead you exploded his eyeballs?”

“Shut up,” snarls John.

“No,” says Kayne. “And now… drum roll, please! It is time for the final act. Hastur, my dear, my darling fucking fool… where do you keep the Grey Poupon?”

Silence.

“I didn’t expect this,” says Hastur. “I… didn’t plan this. I’m sorry.”

“That sucks when no matter what you planned, someone fucks you over, doesn’t it?” says Martin, deceptively light. “It’s like claws in your soul, isn’t it?”

Hastur goes very still. He turns toward Jon. He looks.

Kayne’s smile fades. There’s a strange sound, like the leather of a whip’s handle being twisted. “Martin, Martin, Martin,” he says evenly. “Oh, my foolish little cupcake. What have you done?”

Martin shakes, but holds his gaze.  

“Why, Kayne,” the King says, softly, and in his voice is a smile. “You cheated.”

Kayne is very still, looking at Martin. “You know,” he says, softly. “I think it’ll be a while before you can go on any little missions for me. Or sit down. Or talk. Or maybe breathe. Yes. A while before you can even fucking move.” He takes one step.

Hastur moves between. “You cheated. A clear and direct violation.”

“I only cut him a little!” Kayne complains, throwing his hands in the air. “What? It’s small. Nothing. Of course, if you’re really bothered, you can call it done, and say I forfeited. There. I lost. Well, that changed the outcome, didn’t it?”

“No, no,” says Hastur. “I think you’re right. It’s a minor infraction, at best. No, I simply get an advantage.”

And Kayne looks at Martin again.

Martin looks back.

“Well-played,” Kayne says, softly. “Have to say, I didn’t expect that. Got one over on me, didn’t you?”

“No,” says Martin. “You did this to yourself, and you know why.”

“Ugh. Love.” Kayne shrugs. “What the fuck. Self-preservation right out the window.” He sighs. “Fine, fine, fine. What’s your advantage?”

Hastur produces another soul jar from the folds of his cloak.

Kayne starts laughing. It’s a terrible sound. It’s eager, hungry, sharp. “You’re kidding. You’re putting me in time out?”

“Yes,” says Hastur.

“Fuck me,” says John, sounding awed. 

“I don’t understand,” says Arthur.

“He cheated,” John murmurs against Arthur’s head. “The fucker couldn’t resist. He had to hurt the Archivist.”

“I thought they couldn’t hurt the other guy’s… guy.”

“Exactly.”

“How long, Lunchbox in Yellow?” says Kayne. “Just how long can you keep me in there until it counts as my bet finally lost?”

“We’re going to find out,” says Hastur.

“Yeah, you’re welcome. Whatever. Hastur, this doesn’t invalidate our bet. You know that.”

“I know,” says Hastur.

“Fine.” Kayne blows a kiss to Martin. “I’m coming for you. As soon as I’m out. You know.”

“I know,” says Martin, low.

From nowhere comes the sound of trumpets, playing Taps. “I'm not going home.”

“What?” says Hastur.

“I'm gonna get on my boat, and I'm going up river,” says Kayne.

“What river?” says Martin, confused.

“And I'm going to kick that son of a bitch Bison's ass so hard that the next Bison wannabe is gonna feel it!" says Kayne.

There is dead silence.

“Last word!” says Kayne, and without even the tiniest bit of fanfare, he disappears.

Poof, gone.

The quote was from a movie Martin had seen.

The quote was a reference no one in that room but Martin would get.

How something could be so ridiculously trollish and abjectly terrifying at the same time is beyond Martin, but it landed. Breathing hard, he clutches Jon, and fights hard not to regret what he did.

The urn in Hastur’s hand… groans. It shifts, shudders so hard it’s like glitching, and abruptly doubles in size. Its color changes from glazed brown to a weird, virulent green, grim, the color of things that grow in the dark.

Its single center stripe vanishes. In its place, three thin, orange stripes appear.

“Three years,” says Hastur. 

The top stripe no longer connects all the way around; just barely, it’s breached, as if it has begun to shrink.

“Three years? That’s all?” says John.

“That’s enough. I’ll find something,” says Hastur. “I will find a way.”

“You’ll need fucking help,” says John.

“Wait,” says Arthur. “We did it?”

“As much as it can be done for now,” says Hastur. Then he laughs. It is a wicked sound, deep and terrible—but that’s just how he laughs. “Three years! Give me my Arthur, damn it.”

John rises, pulling Arthur with him, carrying him, practically.

Arthur holds out the jar and winces.

“You must be more careful, Arthur,” says Hastur, and repairs his wrist.

“So that’s how long I have,” whispers Martin. “Jon. Jon, we have three years.”

Jon’s eyes stay closed, but he smiles. “I might have to sleep for half of that.”

Martin clutches him. “We may only have three. We—“

“We’ll find something,” says John. 

“How the fuck tall are you?” says Arthur suddenly, as though offended.

“About a head taller than you,” says John, sounding quite pleased. “And it’s not a human body. I can change its shape.”

“You what?” says Arthur.

“Mister Blackwood,” says Hastur. “That was… brave. And very clever.”

“I had to,” murmurs Martin. “I couldn’t let him get away with it. Not after what he did to Jon.” He swallows. “I’d have given him anything if he’d spared him. You know that? Any fucking thing he wanted. But instead… he did this.”

“He could never resist his appetites,” says Hastur. “Regardless… this damage is going to take some time to heal. It’s deep, Mister Blackwood.”

“Wait. There’s something else,” says Jon, and reaches for the bag.

Arthur suddenly remembers that Martin said jars. 

He’s afraid to hope. He can’t see what’s going on.

He’s holding two soul jars, John tells him. They’re small: only a couple of inches tall, easily fitting in the palm of his hands. 

“Jon,” whispers Hastur, sounding awed.

“Before I… before I….” Jon grits his teeth and pulls the jars to his chest.

“You don’t have to talk,” says Martin.

But Jon does. “Fix it. You fix it. This isn’t the world for… for her. For any of them.” Jon manages to glare at Hastur.

Silence.

“You are asking me for too much,” Hastur says, softly. “I can’t risk—“

“Yes you can,” says Jon. “Life is risk. Life is loss. Life is good. Life is love. Take the damn jar and fix it.”

“What’s he talking about?” says Arthur. “What’s he doing? What’s happening?”

“He’s asking him to release his hold on the world,” John whispers.

“This one’s his,” says Jon, who knows, offering one small jar in Arthur’s direction. He offers the other to Hastur. 

Hastur takes both jars, very gently. “Jon, you… thank you.” And he hands the one indicated to Arthur.

Arthur jumps as it touches his chest. 

“Yes,” says John, at the unspoken question. “It is.”

Arthur clutches the tiny jar, curls down around it, and keens. John goes down with him, one arm around his shoulders, keeping him steady. For a long moment, the only sounds are Arthur’s, impossible to slot into words like laugh or cry, and John holds him as if to keep him from flying apart.

“I… have much to consider.” Hastur’s three  jars—a man, a child, a monster—are gone, hidden in his cloak.

Martin runs his fingers over Jon’s side. He’s not sure how happy he is that there’s webbing attached to Jon’s flesh—but it seems to be holding the magical knife wound closed, so…

“We… should rest,” says Hastur. “All of us. There is… much to do.”

Arthur’s sob echoes in the broken palace. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do with this most precious thing. 

“I,” says Hastur. “I will… make bodies. For Faroe.”

Arthur’s voice is unsteady. “Both?”

“Both. I don’t have her DNA, but I have yours, and I can extrapolate from your memory of her appearance, her sound, her smell. I’ll need your memories of her, Arthur.”

Arthur shudders.

“I’ve got you,” says John, still holding him tightly, and pulls him upright.

Arthur might not actually be resting any weight on his feet. “Whatever I have to do. Anything. It’s yours. Uh. Does this mean there’s gonna be two of me and two of her?”

“Not… necessarily at the same time,” says Hastur, and it clearly costs him to do so because it means waiting. “I need to find a way to send you home. Until then, I… should avoid….”

John suddenly snorts. “Betta fish.”

He and Hastur both laugh, dark and terrible and delighted.

“He has his moments,” Hastur admits. “Betta fish.”

“What does that even mean?” Arthur says.

“He’s not going to risk either of you,” says John. “Other Arthur and his Faroe won’t make a debut until we can go home with our—with your daughter.”

The our throws Arthur. He swallows. “I don’t know about that, John.”

“She’s yours. You’re mine,” John tries to explain.

“Well, you’re mine, too, whatever that means, so what’s that make us?”

John has no idea how to reply to that.

“I think she’ll like you,” Arthur says after a moment, which isn’t acceptance or denial.

“Of course she will,” John huffs.

“Can we… do this?” says Martin. “Stop Kayne from returning, or at least… coming after us?”

“Mister Blackwood,” says Hastur. “There are enough impossible things in this room—including yourself—that I have to hope. All of us, impossible, to a one.”

“We’re like some kind of vortex,” says John, frowning. “That can’t be good.”

“It has been so far,” says Hastur.

“Has it, though?” says Martin.

“We’ll beat him,” says Jon.

“Jon, shh.”

“We will. I know we will.”

“You can’t see the future, remember?” says Martin.

But then he wonders at the web in Jon’s side.

And he wonders: if Annabelle was part of this, part of everything—

He wonders if Jon’s really free.

“For fuck’s sake, is anybody gonna get this guy some clothes?” Arthur blurts.

The fact that they can all laugh—however weakly, however brief—is good.

“We’re going—for now,” announces John. “Rest. Food. Clothes. All those things—but we’re not leaving your fucking palace because I’m not risking any damn harm to him after all that, so you better provide for our needs.”

“Hey—” says Arthur.

“No arguments,” John says. “I’m strong now, and if I have to carry you like a sack of flour over my shoulder, I fucking will.”

Arthur rubs his face. “Great. You’re an even bigger prick than before,” he says, as warmly as the word has ever been said, and John rumbles a pleased sound in the wake of it.

It’s not a purr. It’s not exactly the King’s either, but something new, and Arthur presses his hands to John’s chest, which apparently is its source. “Wow.”

“Done,” says Hastur. “You know how to reach the guest rooms.”

“Come on, Arthur,” says John, still holding him close.

Arthur is quiet. “Weird, you not in my head. I… it… it’s scary. I thought I’d love it, a while ago, but it….”

“Fucking Lonely. I’m not going anywhere, Arthur.”

“I know, but….”

I’m not going anywhere.

Arthur makes a low sound.

John holds him as they walk away, bearing more than a little of his weight. “You’re eating food next.” 

“I don’t wanna,” Arthur mutters.

“Too bad.” 

“Prick.” 

“Ass.”

“Jerk.”

“Mine,” says John as warmly as the word has ever been said, and Arthur falls silent in the wake of it. Still holding him, John navigates them both around the wreckage and toward undamaged areas.

His complaints about sharp bits of rubble under his bare feet  echo down the hallway after they’re out of sight.

“Jon, your hemorrhage has stopped. Mister Blackwood, with help, I believe he’ll heal,” says Hastur. “You are also welcome to use the guest rooms. They are for visiting dignitaries, not human priests, and they are nicer than the quarters you were in. You’ve earned at least that much.”

Martin knows he should say thanks. He also knows he’s insulted on behalf of said human priests, and Jon, and the world. But when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is, “I’m so scared he’s coming back.”

“He intended you to be. If Kayne could rob you of your joy even in his absence, he will feel he’s won,” says Hastur. “Keep that in mind.”

“Fuck you,” says Martin. “And… thank you. Ugh. I haven’t forgiven—why does this have to be so complicated?”

“Because it’s real life. I have much to consider,” Hastur says. “Perhaps we all do. Do you require aid now?”

“Can you do anything for Jon now?”

“No.” Hastur sounds wondering. “Triage is achieved. I will need to gather tools and repair myself before I can do more for him than his passenger already has.”

Martin swallows. “Then I got him. Go do… whatever. We’re free, right?”

“From me? Yes. With… a gratitude I cannot yet express. I overlooked you, Mister Blackwood, in the beginning. I should not have.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Martin’s not sure he wants Hastur’s regard.

“I will check on you both tomorrow morning. If there is an emergency, you only need call my name.” And Hastur leaves, gracious and monstrous and complicated.

“Haven’t forgiven him for what he did to you,” says Martin. “I don’t know if he can make up for it.”

“I suppose we’ll see,” says Jon.

“You… you madman,” Martin says. “What did you do in there? What do I have to do to keep you from throwing yourself into things, eh? Chain you to my ankle?”

“Anything you want to do, Martin,” Jon smiles and promises, utters, vows. “Anything you want to do.”

“We’ve got to talk about that, too. But now’s not the time. I almost lost you, Jon.”

They hold each other.

Martin is unwilling to move, as if, by standing, he might shatter the unexpected peace they’ve found among the pieces of Hastur’s ruined home. “How are we going to keep you from starving? Devouring yourself like a star, or whatever?” 

“I have access to… everywhere,” says Jon, almost gently. “I will never starve again.”

Jon sounds so relieved.

"I thought... you'd be helpless?"

"Kayne lied. I don't know what I am, Martin, but... it's definitely not helpless."

Martin shivers and can't quite hold Jon's gaze.

He also can’t find it in himself to worry for whoever gets fed on in exchange for this. Maybe they can target bad people, or something.

Maybe it’s a problem for another day.

“I can walk,” says Jon, at last. He manages to stand with Martin’s arm around him.

“So you have the Eye, still.”

“Part of it. It’s changed so much, I… I don’t know what it’s going to do. Grow? Overwhelm me? Shrink and die? It doesn’t seem to feed on fear anymore.”

Martin inhales. “How?

“I don’t know because it doesn’t know.”

Martin sighs. “Another hurdle to get over.”

“It kept me alive. With you. I’m having trouble being ungrateful right now.” 

Martin snorts. “Just pack-bond with the damn thing, and get it over with.”

Jon laughs and leans in. “We’re okay.”

“For now.”

Jon kisses his jaw. “I think at this point, I’m willing to believe in our odds against anything.”

“You’re… you’re a mess, though.”

“Martin K. Blackwood, when have I ever not been a mess, in all the years you’ve known me?”

Martin snorts. “Gods, I love you.”

“And I love you.” Jon presses his forehead to Martin’s shoulder. “What do you think of what just happened back there? With the other John, Arthur, and all?”

Martin considers. “Sometimes a family is an eldritch god, a half-starved P.I., and his daughter’s soul in a jar, I guess.”

Jon smiles. “And sometimes, a family is a broken baby god and his sneaky, brilliant, most eligible stud in West Village.”

Martin laughs softly, but his smile fades. “Oh, the Village, I… I miss it. I guess we can’t go back, though.”

“No reason why we can’t. Maybe there won’t be any more matriculation. Maybe it’ll stop.”

“But it won’t—nothing will make what happened okay.”

“No. But punching Mason, might, a little.” 

Martin is surprised into laughing. “I’ll hold. You punch. We’ll just kill him, otherwise.” And he aches. “They’ll see me bring you back. Peter, Mark, Julia. They’ll hope for Ellie”

“Likely, yes.” Another kiss. “I’m sorry. Hopefully, they won’t resent you. Maybe they’ll be happy for you, instead.”

“So damn complicated,” Martin murmurs. “A lot of it’s going to be hard.”

“Hard, but worth it. I just… I need to be part of Hastur’s next steps forward, Martin. We can make a difference. We can help him… unfuck the world.”

“Unfuck the world. Maybe we all owe the world some unfucking.”

“I do. Hastur certainly does. We’ll make it work.”

“Hey,” says Martin. “Do you know why our cottage kept doing that? Disappearing, and all. I mean, now that you’re apocalyptic Google, again.”

“It was John Doe and Arthur’s home for a year before the King killed that Arthur,” says Jon.

“What?”

“They traded some priceless lighter to a… guy in the Dreamlands for it. It’s actually portable. We can move it.”

“The hell you say!”

“It also changes sizes according to who’s living there, so if John and Arthur need a place to stay that isn’t here, we can give them a room.”

Martin is stunned. “And we just happened to land right next to it?”

Jon’s answer to this is succinct: “Annabelle Cane can go to hell. Which she did. And now rules. So.”

“You, uh.” Martin's eyes are wide. “Want to unpack that for me? And also, Jonah?”

“Later, I promise. I almost pity that horrible man—but I don’t have the energy to get into it now.” Another kiss. “We’re going to make it, Martin.”

Martin’s voice cracks. His grip tightens. “Are we?”

Jon kisses him properly, until he’s breathless and flushed.

“Jonathan Sims,” Martin whispers. “Did you find hope in the Dark World?”

“I found the hope you’ve been offering me this whole time.” Jon cups his cheek. “I finally see it.”

Martin has to wipe his eyes.

Jon just smiles. “Let’s go home. Temporary home, anyway. I don’t want to deal with ichor right now, so those guest rooms will have to do.”

“You know how to get to them?”

“Don’t worry. I love you,” he steps over some rubble, leaning in and holding tight. “And yes. I  know the way.”

-------

NOTES

So that's what Annabelle was doing. How about that!

Yes, I DID end with the quote from MAG 159. No one can stop me!

"Atop his trash pile, Jonah is shouting" may be one of my favorite lines that I have EVER written.

I had just too much fun writing this incredibly self-indulgent thing. And yes, there is room for sequels. Will I write them? Not a clue!

Thanks so much for reading all the way to the end. You're the best. I now release you into the world. Be free!

FANART BY @pikachic THANK YOU!!

[foaming-sea]

Different people have different thought patterns. This is how I imagine some of them, but I need help/advice.

Person 1: Dark, too dark, need to get out of here, get out get out get out help me no no no don't think like that i'm scared no one will ever find me caves are dumb and scary why why why am i even here i'm dying too wet too damp i'm drowning out of water no no no no no no no…

Person 2: So cool! I love these trees! Blue and yellow birds, what are they called again? I don't remember. I'll look at that bird book again when I get home. SO PRETTY! Bluest sky ever seen, marshmallow clouds. I wonder what's for lunch. I can't believe I've never noticed how much clover there is here before. I'm excited! I'm coming back tomorrow!

Person 3: ...only four stones... ...lucky they're gone or I'd make them leave... ...annoying idiots... ...who cares, anyway, no one knows... ...if they make me eat baloney one more time I will throw up in their faces... ...ha ha ha the look on their faces is priceless... ...the nerve... ...they'll be sorry... ...dumb rooster I'll wring it's neck if it crows one more time... ...no more plates... ...that guy looks ridiculous…

Person 4: This papaya was boring. Just kind of boring all the way through. Normally I like papayas, but this one was boring. Maybe I'll eat another one after this one. But what if that one is boring too? I need a nap. Naps are nice. I'd feel better after a nap. I wouldn't be so sleepy. Naps aren't complicated. Maybe I'll eat another papaya and then take a nap. Maybe this time it won't be boring. I don't want another boring papaya. Maybe it's sweet. I hope it's sweet.

Person 5: That guy looks shy. I glanced at the map earlier, and it said that the trains go northeast. Why is that bird flying so fast? Something must have scared it. I hope the people here like me. Heavy, humid air, it'll rain soon. Hot, itchy. That building needs a new paint job. Person in front of me looks scared, glancing around and trying to look smaller than she is. Up to something? Or shy? Just nervous? Wonder who she is. Blue raincoat, kinda pretty. I like blue. That store over there, I'd better remember that for later. I'm hungry. Pizza place over there, tacos three streets over, or I could go to the grocery store and cook later. I've got 15 dollars to spend. Wet, did it rain earlier? Apartment Stinton Rd, 386. Should be close. Getting nearer to that part of town. Maybe I could see if they have good clothes at the thrift shop, I kinda need some. I only have two outfits, and I need to wash them both. I wish mosquitoes were extinct. Kid looks tired. Nap time? Somebody dropped a penny. Map said go left from Cranberry, I think that's the next street over. I miss home. Too bad, shush, don't think about it, wasn't my fault. If I start crying, I am a baby, a silly baby. I can handle it. Shush. Dark in a couple hours. Pretty trees, they painted it with limestone to keep the bugs from burrowing in it. I wonder if bugs are a problem here. I hope there aren't any termites. Termites are a nuisance. If that person says one more rude word they will be written across his face in blood. Oof, no, don't think like that. I have no right to think that, if I'm the kind of person to want to hurt someone. I should get sandwich stuff, and maybe treat myself to a candy bar. No, I don't deserve a candy bar. There are too many people here. I wonder what it feels like to be a plant trying to grow in a sidewalk crack. Hard enough, and then some dummy steps on you quite frequently. Gotta check my phone when I get home. I hope the plumbing works at the apartment. I want a shower. Avocados a dollar a bag, ok that's worth it. Must be close to expiration. I'll get tomatoes and chips and lemons and make guacamole. Maybe the apartment will have a fridge. Glad this stuff isn't expensive.

Keep in mind that person 5 is thinking all this in the same amount of time as person 4.

Person 6: When I get home, I’m going to write down those ideas. I have to. The sunrise is so pretty. I remember that poem from Robert Frost. Nothing gold can stay. That one. That one has a lot of meaning. I remember reading The Outsiders a while ago. It’s powerful. I’d like to write that powerfully one day. Maybe I could sketch a leaf on the top of the page. I should have brought my notebook. Maybe I could write about a squirrel. They’re so energetic, and fun. Smart, too. Like a hummingbird. Flashes of color, hovering almost like they don’t need wings to fly. How do they hover so steadily while flapping so fast? I could paint one. Bright blues, purple and orange/yellow feathers. Maybe a squirrel in the background.

Person 7: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Person 8: No more, no more, no more. Think of nothing, nothing at all. Go blank. No, calm down. Calm down. Not my fault, no freaking out, just calm down. I got nothing to say, nothing to say, nothing. Time to go away, away, no more of this. No reason, they’re not mad. Look calm, calm, look okay. Just go blank. Nothing, empty, please, just nothing. No reminders. Just hush. Gotta do your math. Math. Focus on math. 2X times -7, gotta know that. 2X times -7. 2X times seven. Fourteen, now make it negative. No, focus. -14X. Focus. Nothing else.

Person 9: ....................................................I kind of have a headache..........................................................I'm tired......................................................hmm, I wonder if I should do something with my life......................................................but what... I don't know what to do........ I'm kinda hungry.......... *spends 45 minutes figuring out what to eat........ spends another 2 hours making it....... why don't I feel good...................................................maybe I'm hungry!......... spends another hour making and prepping food..............................................I'm sad.......................maybe I should do something with my life............................ *finally gets up and does something... this is awesome! The sky is beautiful, I love the way that the clouds frame the sun.... that tree is so elegant... ooh, flowers! Do they smell good? Yes! It's incredible that all of this was made for us, I take it for granted too often...... one hour later................................................. why don't I feel good?............ Maybe I'm hungry?.......................

I'm not sure what you need help with. But this definitely how people think. Different people have different thought patterns. then again, one single person have different thought patterns too. Depends on the situation they are. For an example, I picture my thought pattern as similar to person 5. Sometimes it's like person 6 too, that usually happens when I'm in writing mood. When I'm very panicked over something it's like person 8. So I'd say the way you are imagining these thought patterns are very valid. If you need help or like me to discuss somethings specific about these thought patterns then let me know. This was interesting to read through.

[diorexia444]

i realized today that my childhood best friend has no idea who this man is. he does not exist to her.

we are long-distance now due to university and she doesn't use social media so we rarely communicate unless we are on holiday and back home. the last time I saw her was a few days before Christmas and we went to the beach and spent the day catching up with one another, as we often do.

three days later i met the man that has taken over all corners of my mind.

it has been 53 days since I met this man. 53 wonderful, painful, blissful, heartwrenching, heavenly days. and she knows nothing of it.

and this got me thinking- this man who has burrowed his way into the depths of my soul in less than two months is really not that big of a deal.

that is in the grand scheme of things.

in the timeline of my life, he is merely a passing thought. in over a decade that I have known my friend, he has only existed in two months of. i think I just have to keep reminding myself that all will pass and one day I will be able to go through days, weeks, months without thinking about him. ill laugh about it one day- that time I fell in love on christmas day. i will be able to look back at our happy moments without tearing up; genuinely be happy that they happened, not sad that its over.

tomorrow i am going to call my childhood best friend and tell her how much of an idiot I am. a lovestruck, heartbroken idiot.

[unbound-space-trash]

Ibac’ner

summary: that’s mine

words: 5.6k

warnings: none, just a idiots in love

a/n: once again, a little scene burrows into my brain, and once again, I insist that it needs context and a conclusion

[ao3]

Five days.

That’s how long it had taken Din to track the bounty across a mountain range and most of the way through a swamp before discovering that the wily bastard had backtracked and was hiding out in a cave in the mountains. 

Five. Fucking. Days. 

It hadn’t been much of a challenge to apprehend and slap a pair of binders on the bounty. The challenge lay in getting him back to the Crest. Again, he was a wily bastard, making and taking every opportunity he could to try and escape into some crevasse or another. And when he wasn’t trying to escape, he was talking almost non-stop.

Din had weighed his options.

Option A: conscious bounty. Pro: walks to the Crest under his own power. Cons: slower journey back to the Crest, and Din receives a bounty-induced headache. 

Option B: unconscious bounty. Pros: blessed silence, and Din gets to see you and the kid sooner. Con: he has to carry the bounty.

Let’s face it, Din has had to make some difficult decisions in life, but this wasn't one of them.

Din had hiked through the night to get out of the mountains and back to the Crest with the unconscious bounty slung over one shoulder, hopefully leaving a large, pauldron shaped bruise to match the one on his temple where Din had coldcocked him.

The sky is just beginning to lighten by the time Din reaches the Razor Crest. He’s tired, he’s hungry, and he aches, but fuck, it feels good to be home. 

Din shifts the still-unconscious bounty so that he can type in the code to disable the Crest’s security protocol and lower the rear loading hatch. He frowns as the hydraulics make a louder-than-usual groaning sound, and Din makes a mental note to get it checked out by Peli the next time he stops on Tatooine.

Walking up into the cargo hold, Din makes quick work of getting the bounty upright and slabbed in carbonite. He winces at the hissing of the freezing process, hoping that it wasn’t loud enough to wake up either you or the kid.

After closing the loading hatch Din casts a bemused look at the ropes strung across the space. It looks like every single article of clothing the three of you own has been washed and hung up to dry.

Din makes his way to the ladder to head up to the cockpit, carefully ducking under the ropes and brushing clothes aside to avoid getting literally clothes-lined.

He groans a little at the stretch of aching muscles as he hauls himself up the ladder and into the cockpit. Settling into the pilot's seat with a weary groan, Din tosses his gloves onto the control console before taking off his helmet and placing it next to them.

Din leans back in his seat. Fucking hells, I’m getting too old for hunts like this, he thinks as he scrubs his hands over his face, fingers roughly rubbing at his eyes. Din scratches idly at the hair on his jaw as he looks up out the viewport. Itchy. He’d been meaning to trim it in the days leading up to this hunt because it was getting too long, but now he was well on his way to having a beard and just… no. The way it had caught and rubbed against the inside of his helmet had near driven him mad these past few days, mostly because he knew he couldn’t do anything about it until he returned to the ship.

With one last scratch at his jaw (and resolving to shave it off in the ‘fresher regardless of how tired he feels), Din reaches for his helmet and puts it back on before flicking through the take-off sequence. He tries to keep the take off as smooth as possible, mindful of the sleeping bodies down below, and once the Razor Crest has left the pull of the planet’s gravity, Din inputs the hyperspace calculations, watching the stars transform into streaks of light as the Crest is launched into the quiet safety of hyperspace.

Din tiredly heaves himself out of his seat, the lure of a hot shower impossible to ignore now that they were safely on their way back to Nevarro. Leaving his gloves up in the cockpit, he climbs down the ladder into the cargo hold. 

Going over to the weapons cabinet, Din disables the lock meant to keep tiny, curious hands out, and puts away his blaster, rifle, and his two vibroblades. They went unused on this hunt, but he’ll still give them a once over and a good clean to get any swamp gunk out later. 

Moving over to an abandoned crate, Din begins the process of removing his bandolier and holsters, before moving on to his armour, gently placing the beskar in a careful pile. The quiet safety of hyperspace means he can leave the task of checking over his equipment and give his armour a good clean and polish until after he’s grabbed a couple hours of sleep.

After taking off his boots and leaving them next to the crate, Din scans over the lines of washed clothes, finding a pair of trousers with only a hint of dampness lingering around the pockets. He doesn’t bother with the shirts, all of them are still visibly damp (one still occasionally dripping moisture), and Din knows he has a clean one stashed away in one of the refresher’s storage cabinets.

With the ‘fresher door secured, Din can finally, finally, strip out of the flight suit and underclothes that have accumulated five days worth of sweat, dirt, and swamp funk. Peeling the fabric off is an unpleasant experience, but Din already feels better just being out of the fetid clothes.

He considers the pile for a moment before giving in, wrapping a towel around his waist, and taking his pile to the laundry crate near the rear loading hatch where it could be the least offensive to everyone’s nostrils.

Returning to the ‘fresher, Din secures the door again before placing his helmet on an out of the way shelf, and all but tosses himself in the shower. He spends a good while in there, probably scrubbing a little harder than necessary, but by the time he shuts off the water and dries himself, Din finally feels clean. Tired, but clean.

Pulling on his trousers, Din scrubs his beard with a towel to get rid of the remaining moisture and considers his scruffy reflection in the mirror. Hmm, definitely not.

Din opens the cabinet over the sink, grabs the sonic trimmers, and gets to work. They were well worth the credits he’d paid for them, and at least he wouldn’t accidentally butcher his face like he had that time the Crest had unexpectedly dropped out of hyperspace while he was mid-shave with a razor. 

At least the helmet had covered up that mess while it healed, Din thinks as he trims away the excess hair that covered the pale scar twisting down the left side of his jaw.

The quiet buzzing of the trimmers is the only noise in the ‘fresher for the next couple of minutes as Din finishes trimming his facial hair. When he’s done, he makes quick work of cleaning up and disposing of the discarded hair, refusing to leave it for you to deal with despite how exhaustion tries to pull his eyelids closed. 

Din frowns as he digs in the small storage locker, fingers brushing over the rough fabric of a couple spare towels, but not finding the spare shirt he’d left there. And he’s sure he hadn’t seen it hanging on the lines with the rest of the clothes. 

It’s not like it could have grown legs and fucked off.

No, scratch that. It’s entirely possible that a tiny green Child with tiny grabby hands had committed shirt thievery for a giggle. 

Din sighs and dons his helmet. Maybe one of the shirts on the line has dried off enough to wear. 

Delighted giggles reach Din’s ears when he opens the ‘fresher door, and he’s greeted with the sight of the Child swinging wildly from the clothes lines like an overly-energetic monkey lizard. 

“You little womp rat,” Din rushes over and grabs the kid before he can swing out of reach, holding him up at eye level. “Where’s your other buir, huh? Did you sneak out of bed so you could cause mischief, ad’ika?” 

The Child laughs in pure delight at being in his guardian's arms again, and Din chuckles at the kid’s enthusiastic gestures as he babbles about the trouble he no doubt got into during Din’s absence. 

Din shifts the kid to properly hold him in the crook of his arm when he hears movement and your frantic voice calls out from the bunk. 

“Little one! Where’d you g-oof-“

Din’s free arm shoots out reflexively and grabs you around your waist, securing you against his chest to keep you from toppling over when you run into him. 

Oh… So that’s where my shirt went.

~~~

You slowly blink yourself awake, rolling into the empty space next to you and stretching, your back giving a couple satisfying pops as you do. 

There’s a spike of panic and you sit up like a shot. Empty space?!

“Little one?” You call out as you launch yourself out of the bunk. “Little one! Where’d you g-oof-“ you cut off as you run face first into a solid, but warm, wall of flesh. 

Bare flesh, your half asleep brain briefly registers an arm wrapped around your waist to steady you. 

“Easy,” comes a modulated rumble from the chest you’ve found yourself pressed up against. “He’s alright, I’ve got him.”

You pull back a little at the delighted coos of the Child, and the steadying arm around your waist loosens and lets go at the motion. 

You let out a relieved sigh at the Child’s grin. “Oh, thank the stars. I thought he’d decided to get himself into some early morning mischief again,” you say as you reach up to poke the Child’s nose, snickering when the grin turns into a cross-eyed frown. 

You move your gaze up to the visor of the beskar helmet above you, feeling your face warm up as you try not to linger on the broad expanse of bare chest at your eye level. “So uhh, when did you get back?”

The Mandalorian’s helmet angles down so he can look at you. “Little over an hour ago. Figured I’d let the two of you sleep while I put us into hyperspace and cleaned up.” He looks at the Child. “Little womp rat was swinging from the washing lines when I got out of the ‘fresher.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me,” you say with a laugh, wincing a little as the action causes a twinge of pain in your lip. 

The movement doesn’t go unnoticed, and a warm finger tilts your head upwards as the Mandalorian focuses back on you, thumb tenderly brushing over the split in your lower lip. “What happened here, cyar’ika?”

Your breath briefly stutters in your chest at the gentle touch before you collect yourself and huff out a soft laugh. “The kid’s got a hard head. He was a little too full of energy yesterday and wound up having a high speed collision with my face.” You grimace a little at the memory of trying to console the distraught Child while blood poured down your chin and onto your shirt. 

The Mandalorian lets out a low hum as his thumb brushes over your lip again. “He got you good. Does it hurt?”

You soften a little at the concern in his tone. “No, not really. It’ll be fine in a few days. I got off pretty easy to be honest. I know a couple people who have had teeth knocked out when headbutted by a baby,” you laugh. 

The Mandalorian hums again and his hand lets go of your chin to pluck at the collar of the shirt you’re wearing. “I was wondering where this went.”

Once again, you feel your face warm up with embarrassment as you look down and remember you’re standing there wearing just his shirt. However the embarrassment swiftly disappears at the realisation that he might be upset at you wearing his clothes. 

You try not to stammer too much as you try to explain. “I- sorry… it’s just- there was all the washing and, I, umm, I was already wearing my last clean set of clothes, and the blood from my lip was everywhere, and I’m sorry I took your shirt, I just- I can give it back, just let me find something dry enou-mmph-“

Your rambling is cut off when the Mandalorian places his hand over your mouth. “Take it easy. I’m not upset, I’d just wondered where it was, that’s all.”

You feel some of the tension leaving your shoulders as you duck out from behind his hand. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m sure, cyar’ika,” he replies, shoulders drooping a little, and that’s when you finally take note of the exhaustion that’s laced his tone since you ran face first into his chest. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, you must be exhausted.” You reach out and gently take the Child from him. 

“Just a little bit tired,” the Mandalorian groans as he slumps against the wall of the cargo hold, helmet making a thunk when he drops his head back. “Bastard led me on a wild bantha chase, and then didn’t shut up until I knocked him out on the way back.”

You were very briefly distracted by the stretch of the Mandalorian’s neck while he leaned back, but not so distracted that you didn’t register his words. “A little- Mando! You were gone for five days! And knowing you, you barely got in a power nap! Just admit you’re exhausted and go to bed.” 

He rolls his head to the side a little to look at you. “Really, mesh’la, I’m just-“

“Bed,” you interrupt him with a frown, pointing at the bunk with the hand not holding the Child. “Don’t make me get the tranquilisers you stashed in the medkit, Mando, because I will use them to knock your dumb ass out and leave you in the middle of the cargo hold floor, and I won’t regret it for even a second if it means you'll get some rest.”

The Mandalorian lets out a snort as he pushes off the wall, hands held up in mock surrender at your threat. “Alright, alright. I’ll get a couple hours rest.”

Your frown deepens into a full blown scowl and the Child joins you in pointing at the bunk, gleefully taking part in what he perceived as a game. “Six hours. At least.” You see his chest expand as he takes a breath to protest, and you cut him off before he can start. “Six in the bunk, or ten on the floor. And I'll let the kid draw on you. Your choice, Mando,” and you make as though to move towards the ‘fresher to retrieve said tranquilisers. 

The Mandalorian’s hand lands on your shoulder to stop you and he turns you around to face him. “You’ve been travelling with me too long,” he huffs out. He leans into your space to gently rest his helmet against your forehead. “But you’re also right.”

Your scowl smooths out into a soft smile when cool beskar steel makes contact with your head, and you place a hand on the cheek of his helmet. “Sleep well, Mando.” And you lean back to place a quick kiss above the visor. 

A low hum rumbles through the Mandalorian’s chest and he pulls back. “‘Night, cyare.” He turns and climbs into the bunk and you duck under the washing lines to go find yourself and the kid something to eat. 

“Mesh’la?” 

You nudge a drying cape out of the way to see his helmet sticking out of the bunk, and you raise an eyebrow in question. 

“Keep it. It looks good on you,” and he withdraws his head and closes the door as your jaw drops in shock.

You stare at the closed door of the bunk for a moment, brain still processing what he’d just said. 

It looks good on you.

Oh hell, that was smooth, Mando.

You’re brought out of it by the Child reaching up to pat your cheek with his little hands. “Buh?”

You giggle. “Okay kid, let’s scrounge up some food while your dad gets some shut eye.”

Setting the Child down, you start to dig through the crate containing a variety of ration packs before picking out one of the Child’s favourites, and one of your own. You’ve partially closed the lid of the crate before opening it again and grabbing another ration pack and setting it aside for later.

You sit down on the floor with the Child, quietly coaxing him to eat more than just his broth in between bites of your own meal. You let your eyes drift around the cargo hold after you finish eating and your gaze lands on the neatly stacked, but somewhat dirty, pile of beskar armour the Mandalorian had left on a crate.

Dragging your eyes away from the pile, you realise that the kid is done eating as he toys with the few remaining bits of food on his plate. You take the Child to the ‘fresher to clean him up, and then dispose of the rubbish and the remainder of the food.

Done tidying up after your meal, you set the Child on one of the crates and crouch down so you’re at his eye level.

“You wanna help me out with something, kiddo?” You ask him, voice just shy of a whisper in deference to the Mandalorian (hopefully) sleeping in the bunk.

The Child softly coos back in reply, and you smile as he reaches out and grabs at one of your hands.

“Excellent. Wait here a minute,” and you stand, quietly gathering up a handful of clean rags and filling your washing bucket with warm soapy water. You bring your burden back over to the Child and sternly point a finger at him. “Don’t you dare think about getting in that bucket, or you’ll be in time out and won’t get to help me surprise your dad.”

The Child’s eyes widen at that, and he moves back from where he’d shuffled over to look down at the bucket.

You nod approvingly. “That’s what I thought.”

You grab a mostly dry cape off of the washing line and lay it out flat on the floor of the hold, and then, one by one, you silently bring all the pieces of his armour over and lay them out on the cape. You grab the Child and set him down next to you and hand him one of the rags to amuse himself with. Giving the vambraces a considering look, you move them to your other side, away from the wandering hands of the Child.

You lean over a little to look at the Child again. “Your dad works so hard, little one. He does his absolute best to keep us safe and make sure we never go cold or hungry. So why don’t we help him out a little and surprise him, show him how much we love and appreciate him, yeah?”

The Child quietly babbles in reply, a smile on his face as he waves the rag around.

“That’s the spirit, kiddo. I’ll wash and then you can help me dry.”

You get to work, spending the next couple of hours methodically cleaning off the dirt and muck that had accumulated on the usually gleaming beskar. The kid helps you dry off a couple of pieces, before eventually migrating to your lap, content to sit and listen to you softly hum while you cleaned, dried, and then polished each piece of the Mandalorian's armour, returning it to it’s gorgeous, shining state.

After you finish with the armour, you move onto his holster and bandolier, cleaning gunk out of the seams, and checking everything over to make sure there were no tears or fraying edges that would cause the items to either need repairing or replacing.

Satisfied with your work, you move the Child off your lap and carefully stack everything back where you had found it.

Well… almost everything. 

You placed the still dirty vambraces next to the pile. In the end, you had decided against cleaning them, worried that you might accidentally set off the flamethrower or let loose a whistling bird, and figured that the cleaning of these was best left to the resident professional.

You get rid of the filthy water in the bucket, and then gather up the cape and the rags, taking them into the ‘fresher to give them a quick wash and hanging them out to dry. You grab some snacks and hand the Child a toy before scooping him up in your arms, and the two of you head up to the cockpit.

“Thank you for your help, little one,” you say as you settle onto the floor with him. “I know it wasn’t as fun as you thought it would be, but you did such a good job. How about I make it up to you with a story, yeah?”

He babbles in delight, and the next handful of hours quickly pass by as you tell stories and play some games while the lights of hyperspace pulse above you.

It’s after the Child’s second snack break that you decide to head back down to the cargo hold. The door of the bunk is still firmly shut with no noise coming from beyond, so you continue to take care and move quietly around the hold while you quickly use the refresher, and then go around checking all the hanging clothes for any lingering dampness.

Everything comes off the line and gets folded into respective piles, and you take down the hanging lines to store away for next time, keeping one out and stringing it out of the way near the rear hatch so that you can re-hang the still wet cape and rags you had used earlier.

You grab a pair of comfortable leggings from your washing pile and tug them on, looking down at yourself for a moment before deciding against changing out of your pilfered shirt. Finding a stylus and a sheet of flimsiplast, you scribble a note and put it on the top of the Mandalorian’s clean pile of clothes along with the ration pack. 

“C’mon kiddo, back up we go,” you murmur as you pick up the Child once more to head back up to the cockpit. 

You hear the soft thumping of movement from the bunk as you reach the top of the ladder, and you’re just closing the cockpit doors when you hear the bunks hatch open.

Good timing, that. You smile to yourself. Clearly the Mandalorian had taken your advice (or threat) to heart, because it’s been close to seven hours since you’d told him to go to bed.

The Child looks at you with sad eyes as he hears his guardian moving around down below and you’re quick to console him. 

“I know you missed him, little one. But how about we give him a chance to eat first before you go climbing all over him, huh?” You poke his nose and he lets out a little huff, and you snort when he tries to give you A Look. “Nice try, kid, but you haven’t quite mastered your dad’s look of disapproval yet.”

You arrange the two of you comfortably in the co-pilot’s seat, leaning back with your feet up on the dash. Your gaze on the stars streaking overhead, you softly hum and slowly, the Child begins to relax against your chest, content to listen. 

~~~

In the inky darkness of the bunk, Din rolls over, still half-asleep as he buries his face into the pillow that holds the faint scent of your soap. He lingers for a moment, breathing it in, before rolling onto his back and trying to stretch in the small space, grunting when his elbow collides with the wall. 

Din scrubs the remnants of sleep from his eyes before sitting up and putting his helmet back on. He hits the button to open up the bunks door and just catches the telltale hiss and clunk of the cockpit door closing.

After shuffling out of the bunk, Din takes advantage of the larger space and stretches again, letting out a pained groan as his body tells him just how unhappy it is with his treatment of it over the past week. Hell, over the past few years, even. 

Letting his arms fall back to his sides, Din’s gaze falls on the pile of folded clothes you’d put aside for him. Walking over to it, he sees a ration pack with a folded piece of flimsi sitting on top of it. He picks up the flimsi and reads the note you left him. 

Take your time. We’ll be up in the cockpit when you’re done.

A smile tugs at the corners of Din’s mouth, and his heart swells at your thoughtfulness. After tucking the note away in a pocket, Din takes his helmet off and sets it aside to finally tug on a, blessedly, clean shirt. 

Din sits down on the crate, opens up the ration pack, and starts to eat.

He doesn’t rush through the meal like he usually does, but if Din still eats a bit faster than the average person so that he can go upstairs to spend proper time with you and his kid? Well… that’s his business.

Meal finished, Din grimaces when he runs his tongue along his teeth. No matter which kind he gets, food from a ration pack always leaves the weirdest kind of residue in his mouth.

Getting up and taking the rubbish to the trash recycler, Din spares half a glance at the armour he’d piled up, and sighs about the task ahead.

But even though Din isn’t looking forward to scraping crud out of the crevices in the armour, he can at least count on your company while he does. 

These last few months, you’d taken to sitting nearby while he cleans his weapons and his armour, easy conversation flowing between the two of you. You would talk about whatever antics the kid had gotten up to while Din was chasing down his bounty. Theorise about which planets you’d be off to next. 

And sometimes you were both happy to sit in silence, relishing in the quiet but knowing you’re not alone. 

Whatever the two of you end up talking (or not talking) about, it makes the time pass so much faster, even though he’s usually scrubbing mud and who knows what-

Hold on.

Din does a double-take.

Shining armour.

In place of the gunk covered armour he was expecting, a neatly stacked pile of clean beskar sits gleaming under the lights of the cargo hold.

Din stares at his armour, dumbfounded, but also touched that you had taken up the burden of cleaning and polishing his armour for him. 

Din is still somewhat stunned as pulls his gaze away from the armour and goes to put his helmet back on. 

He climbs up the ladder and opens the cockpit doors, and then freezes. You’re reclining in the co-pilot’s chair with your feet up on the console. Your head is tilted back to watch the stars streak past while you softly hum to the Child, who is curled up against your chest, letting out the occasional little snore.

Din watches as you turn your head towards him at the sound of the cockpit door opening, signalling for quiet before you stand to carefully place the Child in his pram, pressing the button to close him in once he’s comfortably situated. 

Din is still staring at you when you turn to face him, his adoration and love for you clouding his mind somewhat. He doesn’t notice he’s staring. But how could he not stare? You’re still wearing his shirt. Din wasn’t lying earlier when he said it looked good on you. Okay… maybe a little bit of a lie, because you had looked far better than just good earlier when wearing nothing but his shirt.

“Everything alright?” You ask, a soft smile on your face. 

He’s hearing, but not really processing what you're saying when you speak, mind stuck on is this love? Is that what this is? and still wearing my shirt.

“Mando?” Your smile starts to drop a little at his continued silence.

Din finally realises he should probably say something to you instead of standing there like a stunned womp rat.

“You cleaned my armour.”

Din mentally slaps himself when his voice comes out gruffer than intended and what’s left of your smile disappears. Di’kut.

Your gaze drops to where you twist your hands together in your lap. “Well, yeah… It’s just… you do so much for us, you know? We’re happy and healthy, we have somewhere safe to call home, and you protect us when we need it. I… you do all of that for us, and well… we wanted to do something nice for you.”

Din is stunned by your words and feels his heart swell when you call the Crest home. He sees you starting to pick at your nails, not realising that his blank beskar stare is the cause of your nerves.

“And I know your armour means a lot to you, but we were really careful, I promise. But if non-Mandalorian’s aren’t supposed to touch the armour or clean it, then I’m really sorry. We were just trying to help, I swear, and-”

The distress in your voice snaps Din out of it, and he cuts you off by pulling you against his chest and wrapping his arms around you, one hand settling on your lower back, while the thumb of his other hand rubs soothingly against the back of your neck.

“Take it easy, mesh’la,” Din murmurs as he rests his chin on the top of your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong, I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

Your arms wrap around him to return the hug, and Din feels more than hears you mumble something, but the words are lost in the fabric of his shirt.

Din hums questioningly. “Didn’t quite catch that, mesh’la.”

Your head turns so that you’re not speaking into his shirt, but leave your cheek to rest against his chest. “Said ‘m sorry I didn’t do your vambraces too. Figured I’d leave it to the professional so that I didn’t blow a hole in the side of the Crest.”

“Probably for the best,” Din chuckles, enjoying the feeling of your arms tightening around him when he does. 

Eventually though, Din pulls back a little. “C’mon cyar’ika, let’s go back downstairs. We can leave him up here to nap for a bit.”

“I’m sure he’ll have words for us later for not waking him up.” You giggle at the image of the Child babbling nonsense at you with a stern look on his little face.

Din shrugs as he walks out of the cockpit. “He’ll get over it.”

He swiftly descends the ladder and then waits at the bottom for you to join him, holding out a hand for you to grab when you climb down the last few rungs. He’s delighted when your small hand grasps his, and when both of your feet are on solid ground, he uses it to tug you into another hug. There’s a small noise of surprise from you before Din feels your arms wrap themselves around his midsection.

“Missed you while I was gone, cyare,” he murmurs as he rests his chin on top of your head.

Din feels your warm breath through the material of his shirt as you let out a contented sigh. “Don’t get me wrong, the little one’s good company, but I missed our conversations. I missed you.”

He feels his cheeks heat up at your words and tightens his arms around you.

The two of you stand there for a while, both happy to just exist in each other's space for a bit.

Din hears little sniffs after a while and pulls back to look at you. “Cyar’ika, are you alright? What’s wrong?”

“Huh? Oh, no no, I’m fine. It’s just…” You sniff again and he watches as your nose wrinkles when you catch a faint waft of the smell coming from the closed laundry crate at the other end of the hold. “Looks like I’ve already got more washing to do, huh?”

He winces at the reminder. “No, cyar’ika. Some things are beyond saving. I’ll toss the entire crate into a lava pit when we land on Nevarro.”

One of your eyebrows raises at that. “Not one of the most typical methods of rubbish disposal.”

Din tilts his head to the side in mock seriousness. “I don’t know what you’re talking about cyar’ika. Incineration is a perfectly acceptable method of rubbish removal.”

Your laughter rings through the cargo hold and it’s infectious, causing Din to let out a laugh of his own.

He’s just thinking about pulling you back to him when a cry sounds from up in the cockpit. You start to pull away to climb up and retrieve the Child, but Din pulls you back and gently drops his helmet to rest against your forehead in a brief mirshmure'cya.

“I’ve got him, mesh’la, you stay down here.”

As Din climbs the ladder back up to the cockpit he reflects on how full his heart feels. He has his home, and he has his aliit. Din couldn’t ask for anything more.