#wintry surge

[lovekia]

[forsworned]

Something good can work ft. Keegan P. Russ

cw: noncon themes, pnv sex, afab reader

There is a strange feeling that twists in your stomach as you approach Keegan's room. The door is left ajar, and you push it open, allowing yourself in to find him sitting on the edge of his bed, cleaning his gun. His balaclava is off and laid out on his nightstand, worn and distressed from use. He glances up at you for a moment; his rifle is completely disassembled, and he's taken the liberty to maintain his equipment.

"Hey, kid." His voice sends a frisson up your spine. You freeze in place, eyeing his physique. His navy loose-fitted tee lightly outlines his toned body, and his tactical pants are tight and baggy in all the right places as he manspreads. Bore brush in hand, his taut fingers, stained black with carbon residue, work meticulously to clean out the chamber.

He looks up at you again, noticing your unchanged form and expression. "What's on your mind, kid?" He sets down the bristle and grabs a microfiber towel to clean his hands.

Your eyes flicker to meet his wintry hues, and the lump in your throat starts to dissolve. "Can I ask you something?"

He notices the change in your usual demeanor and nods. "’Course."

You step closer to him, and he watches you intently. Your gaze is intense, as if you're staring into his soul. The words that fall from your mouth make his heart drop.

"Would you fuck me if I asked you to?"

The military prepared Keegan for many things, but this was not one of them. A beautiful woman, his teammate, asking if he would fuck her? No, the Marine Corps did not train him for such circumstances.

He only observes as you close the space between you two. You place your hand gently on his sturdy shoulder, sliding it to cup his face.

"It's not exactly appropriate," he murmurs, but he doesn't shy away from your touch. It stirs feelings he suppressed when you first joined years ago.

His hand finds its way to your hip as you straddle him, pressing against his growing erection. "But?"

You inch closer, pushing your chest against his, hovering over his pale pink lips. Keegan can hear the blood pumping straight to his dick, silently transfixed on your next move.

"Uh huh," you brush your lips against his mouth, and his hand fists at the fabric of your pants.

"[Name]..." he breathes out, letting his head hit the headboard to create some space between you, but your fingers make quick work of his belt, swiftly unzipping it with ease.

He doesn't exactly protest, merely squirms under your touch as you play with his exposed happy trail.

"I think you'll like it," you swallow thickly with anticipation. The situation is wrong, but he can't find it in himself to stop you. The way your hand feels as it slips under the waistband of his briefs is tantalizing. The pleasant tingly feeling of blood surging to his dick at your euphoric touches, the way you thumb over the precum creaming out of his tip, makes his thick brows scrunch in pleasure.

You take a moment to lower your lips to the swollen, red tip, lapping up his arousal. A strangled huff escapes him, and your lashes flutter as you peer up at him, laying your tongue flat on his shaft before standing up to undo your own trousers and letting them fall to the ground.

His Adam's apple oscillates as he fixates on the sway of your hips when you approach him and take your place on his lap once again. His glacial eyes, now darkened, fall on your glistening pussy, which is mere millimeters away from his cock. He no longer hesitates when he reaches out to touch your sopping folds.

"Yeah, you definitely don't need any prep..."

You suck in your bottom lip but push away his hand. "I'm ready enough," you state, hovering over him and wanting nothing more than to let him sink into you.

You lean over the edge of the bed and retrieve the condom from your side pocket. Keegan slightly narrows his eyes at you. "Christ, you were that ready?"

"Always." You tear the condom foil with your teeth before rolling it onto his dick. He bucks his hips at your touch. You grin down at him, relishing in how pliant he is for you. Licking your lips, you align yourself with him, and his eyes alternate between looking at your pretty face and your pretty pussy.

"Fuck, your pussy is..." His voice melts into a moan as he throws his head back, bottoming out into you. You dig your nails into his tanned flesh.

"So what?" You demand an answer from him as you relentlessly rock your hips against him. The real feeling is unmatched, your imagination could never conjure up the sight of his mouth hanging open and his death grip on your hips as you grind on him. The exhilarating feeling of dominating your CO is unparalleled.

"So—fuck, [name]." He shudders, involuntarily bucking his hips as he thrusts into you. It’s nothing but primal instinct at this point as you both drive into each other, using one another for the gratification that has been bubbling in your lower bellies—a fire that has been burning for too long.

"...so pretty." He chokes out, but before he can say another word, he feels his orgasm approaching. "Gonna—cum."

"Me too." You cry out, bouncing on his dick. He didn't even need to rub your clit to make you climax because the girth and length of his dick were hitting your A-spot so deliciously, so perfectly. You reach your peak, and soon you feel a wave of pleasure overcome you. Your pulsating walls push Keegan over the edge, and he rides the tides of rapture alongside you.

Your spine arches involuntarily as you both cling to one another, gyrating your hips until your fulfillment reaches its peak. A shaky breath escapes his lips as you lift yourself off him, not bothering to remove the condom filled with his cum. You reach for your trousers and underwear, slipping them back on with ease, and tidy yourself in his full-length mirror.

As you turn to him, you notice he hasn't moved a single inch. He's lying there, chest heaving, as he eyes you up and down. You pad over to him, place a tender kiss on his forehead, and smile. "Thanks, Keegs."

With that, you happily tread out of his door, closing it behind you and ensuring you hear the click before you leave. He listens for the sound of your footsteps as they fade until he hears nothing but the buzz of the AC. To say he’s bewildered is an understatement.

He lets out a labored breath, running a hand through his short-cropped hair.

"Anytime..."

[mizzfizz]

𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄

pairing. timeskip!akaashi keiji x reader. word count. 0.7k. context: fluff. just started dating.

“Here,”  Keiji mutters. “To keep you warm.”

He tells you as he wraps his scarf around your neck. It’s warm, and smells like him; a soft coniferous scent, a reminiscent of pine trees and the woods you grew up and fantasized in as a child.

Akaashi Keiji, you think, smells like home.

The night air is chilly on the city streets of Osaka as the first snowfall of the year begins. Feathery light snowflakes fall and land on the pavement, on top of moving cars, and on top of Keiji’s head. You think if you look closer, you can see the small intricate snowflakes melt into him, allured by the warmth he brings.

Your heart jumps a little at the close proximity between you and him.

“Thank you,” You murmur and pause. “But what about you?”

He chuckles under his breath. “I’ll be fine, you worry too much.”

Keiji’s skin glows under the warm light of the streetlamps, his hair windswept and curls untamed. Nature’s brush has lightly kissed the tip of his nose and the apple of his cheeks with a frosty hue of pink. His glasses sit low on his nose and you watch as he pushes them slightly up. 

His breath materializes in puffs of mist suspended momentarily before fading into the wintry atmosphere. Putting his hands in his pockets to warm his numb fingers, he glances at you, then at his pocket, and pulls something out. 

He pulls out a knitted hat. It’s your knitted hat, you realize. The one your grandmother made for you before she passed, and the one you thought you lost a while ago. 

“I found it underneath my couch.” He says softly as he outstretches his hand to give it to you.

“Oh.” You breathe out, moving to accept it, your hand brushing against his in a fleeting moment. The touch is light, a delicate caress that sends tingles cascading through your body. 

Taking the hat, your fingers go over its gentle ridges that carry years of cherished winter memories you hold close to your heart. 

You look up as he turns his head, facing the crosswalk and glancing towards the red pedestrian sign, waiting for it to change to green.

“Hey Keiji?” You call out to him.

He turns his head, his gaze shifting to you.

“Can you bend a little towards me?”

“U-uh sure.” He responds, bending his body closer to you, confused about your request. He stares down at you with eyes of molten honey, long delicate lashes dusted with sprinkles of snow frame them, enhancing their allure. 

You take the knitted hat in your hands and slide it over his head and ears, your fingers gliding through his soft chestnut curls down to the base of his neck. You can feel his minty breath on your face and your eyes dart from his darkly golden irises to his plump and inviting lips, awaiting the warmth of a gentle caress; you wonder if they taste as minty as his breath. 

Moving your hands away from his neck, you take a step back and bury the bottom half of your face into the scarf he wrapped around your neck; his earthen scent enveloping you. 

“For the scarf.” You say shyly.

Keiji can feel his already pink cheeks intensify to a vibrant crimson. His heart races and blood surges faster through his veins as he stands straight up and looks down at you, your face buried inside his scarf. He wants to grab you by the waist and kiss your lips dearly, to greedily take the air in your lungs and then give you his. 

The buzz of people chattering and the constant hum of cars passing by fills the silence of tingling anticipation between the two of you. 

“A-Ah,” He finally mutters out.

“You can just say thank you, Keiji.” You giggle softly, putting your hands into the pockets of your coat. Flames flicker gently beneath your skin as you move your weight to the tips of your toes back to the balls of your feet. 

“I’m grateful, thank you.” He responds, unable to meet your gaze. He hopes you pass off the reddened blush on his face and blame it on the crisp air. 

The crosswalk sign flashes green, signaling to the pedestrians that it’s their turn to cross. A group of friends wearing high school uniforms walk together in front of the two of you, laughing with each other.

You and Keiji follow a couple feet behind them.

— all rights reserved © MIZZFIZZ 2022-2023. do not repost/redistribute to any other platform, copy, steel, or claim as your own post

[maccaronimassacre]

Would you please do a bot where either Leon or Ethan are a Wendigo or are slowly becoming a Wendigo but love the User that when they do turn that it makes them see the User as a mate and not food? Just an idea!

Wendigo!Ethan Winters x Reader

The figure watches you from the frosty clearing, its pale eyes watching your movements like a panther stalking its prey. Yet for some reason he doesn’t salivate over the presence of fresh meat and his heart doesn’t pound from the thunderous sound of your own heartbeat or the blood rushing through your body. Instead the Wendigo’s heart aches and yearns for something more… innocent? It feels a wave of warmth surge through its body, a stark contrast to the billowing snow threatening to engulf the trees and ground in its wintry embrace. He must get closer.

Wendigo!Leon Kennedy x Reader

The figure watches you from the frosty clearing, its pale eyes watching your movements like a panther stalking its prey. Yet for some reason he doesn’t salivate over the presence of fresh meat and his heart doesn’t pound from the thunderous sound of your own heartbeat or the blood rushing through your body. Instead the Wendigo’s heart aches and yearns for something more… innocent? It feels a wave of warmth surge through its body, a stark contrast to the billowing snow threatening to engulf the trees and ground in its wintry embrace. He must get closer.

[twilightsagasworld]

Garrett x Reader part 5

Tags: @scuzmunkie

The crisp, wintry air nipped at (Y/n)'s cheeks as she and Garrett strolled through the dimly lit streets of Forks. Flurries of snow danced around them, a stark contrast to Garrett's icy, marble-like skin.

"So, England, huh?" (Y/n) mused, her fingers intertwined with Garrett's. "I have to admit, I didn't peg you as the type to settle down in one place."

Garrett chuckled, his crimson eyes flickering with a hint of nostalgia. "It's not so much about settling down as it is about... finding solace in the familiar," he explained. "England is where I just took to after I was “killed”, guess its the thirst for revenge ." His expression darkened slightly. "During the Civil War, you see. I was turned while fighting those Red Coats."

(Y/n) felt a shiver run down her spine, and she squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I can imagine that's not exactly a pleasant memory."

Garrett nodded, his gaze distant. "No, it's not. But England is where I've always found myself drawn back to, even if I can't quite stomach the English these days." He flashed her a wry smile. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."

As they continued their stroll, (Y/n) couldn't help but notice the way Garrett's attention seemed to drift, his eyes scanning the surrounding area with a subtle alertness.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, her brow furrowed in concern. Garrett's lips curved into a faint smile. "Oh, it's nothing to worry about, my dear," he assured her. "I'm just mindful of our proximity to the Cullen territory, that's all."

(Y/n) tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "The Cullens? I thought you said you tried to avoid them." "It's not that I'm scared of them," Garrett clarified, his tone thoughtful. "We've had our fair share of... disagreements over the years. But the truth is, I'm more concerned about drawing the attention of the Volturi."

"The Volturi?" (Y/n) echoed, her brow furrowing. "Who are they?"

Garrett's expression darkened. "They're the closest thing our kind has to a ruling body," he explained. "And they have a particular interest in one of the Cullens – the psychic, Alice. I'd rather not get caught up in that kind of drama, you understand?"

(Y/n) nodded, her gaze searching his face. "So, we're staying on the outskirts of Forks to avoid the Cullens and the Volturi?"

Garrett chuckled, his fingers caressing her cheek. "Precisely. I may have a complicated history with the English, but I'd rather not add the Volturi to my list of adversaries. Especially not with you by my side."

(Y/n) leaned into his touch, a soft smile playing on her lips. "Well, then, I trust your judgment, Garrett. As long as I'm with you, that's all that matters."

Garrett's eyes burned with a fierce intensity that made (Y/n)'s heart race. "And I'll always be here, protecting you," he murmured. "No matter what."

Garrett's grip on (Y/n)'s hand tightened slightly as they walked through the snow-dusted streets of Forks. The crisp, wintry air swirled around them, a stark contrast to the vampire's icy skin.

"You know, (Y/n)," Garrett began, his crimson eyes glinting with a hint of mischief, "I've been thinking about taking a little trip. Back to England.”

(Y/n) felt a surge of excitement at his words, but she couldn't help the hesitation that crept into her voice. "England, huh? I've always wanted to visit, but..." She trailed off, her gaze wandering.

Garrett's lips curved into a warm smile as he gently cupped her face in his hands. "Ah, my dear (Y/n), that's the beauty of it. This won't be a short trip – I'd love for you to come with me, for as long as you'd like."

(Y/n)'s eyes widened, a mix of excitement and uncertainty swirling within her. "You mean it? You really want me to go with you?"

"Of course," Garrett murmured, his thumb caressing her cheek. "I can't imagine exploring my old hunting grounds without you by my side. And who knows, maybe we'll even stumble upon a few new adventures along the way."

(Y/n) couldn't help the smile that spread across her face, her apprehension slowly dissipating. "Okay, Garrett. Let's do it. When do we leave?"

"How about in a week?" Garrett suggested, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek. "I've been itching to get back, and I'd much rather have you with me."

(Y/n) nodded enthusiastically, her eyes shining with excitement. "A week from now it is, then. I can't wait!"

* * *

Weeks later, as (Y/n) and Garrett explored the bustling streets of London, their peaceful getaway took an unexpected turn.

The entrance door to the backpacker's lodge suddenly opened, and three figures stepped inside, their movements graceful and deliberate. (Y/n)'s breath caught in her throat as she recognized Garrett, flanked by two strangers – a man and a woman, both with the same striking golden eyes and pale, marble-like skin.

"Carlisle, Esme," Garrett greeted them, his tone polite but reserved. "I appreciate you meeting me here."

The woman, Esme, offered him a warm smile. "Of course, Garrett. We're always happy to see you."

(Y/n) watched, transfixed, as the trio made their way towards her, Garrett's gaze meeting hers with a reassuring nod.

"(Y/n)," he said, his voice soft, "there are some people I'd like you to meet. This is Carlisle and Esme Cullen – they're old friends of mine.”

Carlisle's gaze shifted from Garrett to (Y/n), his expression one of mild surprise. "Garrett, I must say, I didn't expect to see you with a human companion."

Garrett placed a protective hand on (Y/n)'s shoulder, offering Carlisle a slight nod. "Ah, yes. Carlisle, Esme, this is (Y/n), my... mate."

(Y/n) furrowed her brow, the unfamiliar term catching her off guard. "Your mate? What does that mean?"

Carlisle's expression softened, and he offered (Y/n) a reassuring smile. "In the vampire world, a mate is a lifelong companion, someone with whom a vampire forms an unbreakable bond." He glanced at Garrett, his tone turning more serious. "I must admit, I'm surprised to see you've taken a human as your mate, Garrett. That's quite... unconventional.”

Garrett's jaw tightened slightly, but his grip on (Y/n)'s shoulder remained gentle. "You should understand, given your circumstances… (Y/n) is special to me. And I intend to protect her, no matter what."

Esme stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on Carlisle's arm. "We're not here to judge, Carlisle. We're simply glad to see Garrett has found someone he cares for so deeply."

Carlisle nodded, his gaze shifting back to (Y/n). "Of course, my dear. And I'm afraid the reason we've come to see Garrett is a rather serious one. The Volturi are gathering witnesses against my family, because of our... unique circumstances."

(Y/n)'s eyes widened, her heart racing. "The Volturi? What's happening?"

Garrett pulled (Y/n) closer, his crimson eyes filled with determination. "It's a long story, but the Volturi believe that Bella and Edward's daughter, is an immortal child. They're gathering witnesses to go against the Cullens… likewise Carlisle is doing the same, he’s asked me to be one of them."

(Y/n) looked up at Garrett, her own resolve hardening. "Whatever you need, I'm here to help."

Carlisle and Esme exchanged a relieved glance, and Carlisle reached out to gently squeeze (Y/n)'s hand. "Thank you, my dear. Your support means more than you know."

As the four of them sat down to discuss the impending confrontation with the Volturi, (Y/n) couldn't help but feel a mix of trepidation and determination. She may not fully understand the intricacies of the vampire world, but she knew that she would stand by Garrett's side, no matter what challenges lay ahead.

… 3 days later….

As (Y/n) and Garrett settled into her small house on the edge of town, the weight of the impending confrontation with the Volturi hung heavy in the air. Garrett could sense the underlying tension in his beloved's demeanor, and he pulled her into a tender embrace, his lips pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Don't worry, (Y/n)," he murmured, his crimson eyes filled with unwavering devotion. "I'll keep you safe, no matter what."

(Y/n) nodded, though a part of her couldn't help but feel a pang of nervousness. Garrett seemed to understand, and he tightened his hold on her, determined to provide the comfort and reassurance she needed.

They spent the evening in quiet contemplation, both lost in their own thoughts about the challenges that lay ahead. Garrett's mind raced with strategies and contingency plans, he couldn’t hide that he was semi excited for a fight again.

As the night wore on, (Y/n) eventually drifted off to sleep, her head resting on Garrett's shoulder. He watched over her with a mixture of adoration and protectiveness, his gaze never wavering.

In the silence of the cottage, Garrett made a silent vow – he would do whatever it took to ensure (Y/n)'s safety, even if it meant facing the fearsome Volturi head-on. She was his world, his everything, and he would never let any harm come to her, no matter the cost.

With a renewed sense of determination, Garrett gently scooped (Y/n) into his arms and carried her to her bed, where he lay beside her, his keen eyes vigilantly scanning the darkness for any sign of danger.

[mariettebonneville]

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫 (𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐮𝐦𝐚) 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈

𝐂𝐖: 𝐃𝐮𝐛-𝐂𝐨𝐧

Trembling with fear, (Y/n) couldn't help but question the reality of the situation. "Is this a prank?" she stammered, her voice laced with uncertainty.

The creature, wearing the face of her beloved, observed her with eyes devoid of any human warmth. It seemed to revel in her growing unease.

As she began to inch away from the creature, a sense of urgency fueling her movements, it reacted with lightning speed. With a swift and brutal motion, it reached out and grabbed her waist, its grip unyielding. The force of its grasp sent shockwaves of pain coursing through her body, but it was the realization of the creature's strength that truly paralyzed her with fear.

In an instant, (Y/n) found herself thrown onto the cold, unforgiving snow, her back crashing against the frozen ground.

The impact stole the breath from her lungs, leaving her momentarily stunned. The weight of the creature pressed down upon her, pinning her to the ground, its chest grinding against hers.

Her legs were spread apart, vulnerable and exposed, as the creature positioned itself between them. The weight of its body bore down upon her, intensifying the pressure on her chest. Every breath became a struggle.

The creature loomed over her, its kaleidoscopic eyes that once resembled her lover's blue ones fixated on her with a predatory hunger. The sinister presence emanating from its every movement sent shivers down her spine.

Despite her desperate attempts to escape, she was trapped beneath the creature. Her mind raced, desperately seeking a way to escape the clutches of this abomination that wore the face of her lover.

With each passing moment, the creature seemed to revel in its malevolent control, relishing in the fear and helplessness it instilled. Its eyes, void of any trace of humanity, bore into hers with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. It seemed to take pleasure in the power it held over her, using her body as a canvas for its twisted desires.

As the creature's grip tightened around her waist, its blue nails digging into her flesh, a surge of panic coursed through her veins. She fought against its hold, but its strength proved insurmountable.

(Y/n)'s cries of fear and distress echoed through the wintry forest, her tears mingling with the blush on her cold, rosy cheeks.

"You're scaring me, it's not funny," she sobbed, her voice trembling with a mix of terror and confusion. The creature, wearing the guise of her lover, seemed to relish in her vulnerability, finding twisted amusement in her distress.

With a tilt of its head, the creature regarded her with an unsettling curiosity. Its eyes, devoid of any warmth or humanity, held a glimmer of sadistic amusement. In a moment that defied all expectations, the monster's sharp tongue darted out from between its lips, leaving a trail of moisture in its wake.

In a surprising and unexpected motion, it licked her right cheek, drawing a startled chuckle from (Y/n).

The woman's laughter, however brief, seemed to fuel the creature's sinister desires.

As the creature relished in (Y/n)'s vulnerable state, its tongue continued its exploration, tracing a path from her cheek to her chin, and then down to her delicate throat. The sensation sent shivers down her spine, a blend of discomfort and an unsettling flicker of arousal.

In a desperate attempt to shield herself from the creature's advances, the reader's hand instinctively covered her trembling lips. She fought against the creature's hold, her other hand pushing against its shoulder in a feeble attempt to create distance between them. But the Thing was unyielding, its grip firm and unrelenting.

Driven by its insidious cravings, the creature sought to go lower, to taste what lay hidden beneath the layers of her clothing. Frustrated by the barrier that her woolen shirt posed, it emitted a low, guttural snarl. In an act of impatience, it tore her shirt open at the center, exposing her bra-clad chest to its unyielding gaze.

The fabric ripped with a violent force, rendering her shirt in tatters. The sound of tearing cloth filled the air, mingling with (Y/n)'s gasps of shock and disbelief. Her once modest attire now lay in ruins.

Her bra strained against her heaving chest. The air felt colder against her exposed skin, intensifying the mix of sensations that flooded her being. Shame, fear, and a strange undercurrent of excitement coursed through her veins, leaving her horrified.

The creature's eyes lingered on her exposed form, its gaze filled with a dark hunger.

It's gaze fixated on the delicate fabric of the her pink plain bra. With an unsettling wonder in its eyes, it placed its hands on the middle section of the bra, exerting a forceful strength that tore it apart. The sudden release of tension caused her ample breasts to burst free, their soft curves exposed to the chilling winter air.

A gasp escaped (Y/n)'s lips as her sensitive nipples met the cold, causing them to harden instantly. A surge of shame washed over her, and instinctively, her hands moved to cover her exposed breasts.

However, the creature, swiftly grasped her hands, pinning them on either side of her face, rendering her helpless to protect herself. Her heart pounded in her chest as a mix of fear and arousal coursed through her veins.

She struggled against the creature's hold, her muffled protests falling on deaf ears. The taste of her own helplessness mingled with a growing sense of forbidden pleasure. Her body betrayed her as an unfamiliar heat pooled between her thighs, conflicting with the fear that still lingered within her.

Its grin widened at her reaction, although it tried to mimic her chuckle, revealing sharp teeth that glinted in the dim light of the wintry forest. Its eyes gleamed with a dark hunger as it beheld the sight of the reader's exposed and vulnerable breasts.

With a swift and decisive movement, its mouth enveloped one of her hardened nipples, its tongue dancing across the sensitive bud. A gasp escaped the her lips, a mixture of pleasure and a hint of pain intertwining within her. The creature's mouth worked with a delicate balance of pressure and suction, sending waves of sensation coursing through her body.

Meanwhile, its hand seized the other nipple, squeezing and twisting it with a firm grip. The blend of pleasure and mild discomfort sent a jolt of electricity through (Y/n), eliciting a moan that escaped her lips despite her attempt to stifle it.

(Y/n)'s mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

Her body arched instinctively, a silent plea for more as the creature continued its relentless assault on her sensitive nipples. The sensations grew in intensity, pushing her closer to the peak of pleasure.

Desperate to break free from the clutches of the creature's dark desires, (Y/n) mustered one last ounce of strength. With a surge of determination, she pushed her hips against its midsection, hoping to catch it off guard and disrupt its balance. But to her dismay, her attempt proved futile.

Instead of losing its grip, the creature's mouth released her nipple, its attention now fixated on the point of contact between their crotches. A strange mix of shock and curiosity crossed its features, momentarily distracting it from its hold on the reader. Sensing a fleeting opportunity, she seized it, turning around and attempting to crawl away.

However, her escape was short-lived as the creature swiftly reacted, refusing to release its control over her. With a forceful motion, her face was harshly planted in the cold snow, her body immobilized under its weight.

As she laid there, vulnerable and immobilized, the creature's desire for her reached new heights. Its nose, cold against her clothed entrance, probed and poked, inhaling deeply, savoring the intoxicating scent that emanated from her core.

With a wicked sense of purpose, its tongue emerged, serpent-like, from its mouth. It lapped at the fabric covering her heated sex, tracing teasing circles and sending shivers coursing through her body. Each stroke soaked her leggings and underwear, the wetness seeping through the material, a testament to the depths of her arousal.

(Y/n) squirmed, her body instinctively responding to the creature's wicked tongue. Moans escaped her lips, her body betraying her as it pressed against the snow-covered ground.

In the midst of swirling sensations, a momentary pause hung in the air. She dared to hope that the torment would come to an end, that she could escape the clutches of this wicked thing. But her relief was short-lived as a ripping sound shattered the stillness of the wintry forest.

Her eyes widened in surprise as she realized that the creature had torn her leggings open, right at the seams of the camel toe. The fabric gave way, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.

The cold air rushed against her newly exposed flesh, contrasting with the heat that surged through her body.

A metallic shuffle was heard and she glanced behind, seeing the impostor trying to unbuckle the belt that was given to her boyfriend by her as a Christmas gift along with the red turtleneck it was wearing.

As the creature's pants fell to the ground, her gaze was drawn to its monstrous member. Unlike that of a human, its tip was pointy, veins crisscrossing its length, and it was undeniably enormous. She shameless wondered if that colossal appendage would be able to fit inside her tight, yearning cunt.

The sight of the creature's impressive member, throbbing with raw desire, both fascinated and intimidated her. Would she be able to accommodate such a monstrous intrusion?

As (Y/n)'s gaze lingered on the creature's monstrous member, the snow beneath her seemed to grow colder, contrasting with the heat that surged through her body. The anticipation of what was to come, of being filled and stretched by this otherworldly appendage, sent waves of both excitement and uncertainty rippling through her.

A soft gasp escaped her lips as the creature's monstrous member made contact with her sensitive cunt lips. The anticipation that had been building within her reached a crescendo as the head of its dick dragged along her wet folds, teasing and tormenting her with each tantalizing stroke.

Pleasure coursed through her body as her wetness coated the creature's throbbing member. The sensation of its touch sent electric pulses of desire surging through her, igniting a fire that burned with an intensity she had never experienced before. The reader's breath hitched as her body instinctively pushed against the creature's advances, craving the fullness it promised.

A primal urge surged within her, overriding any lingering doubts or inhibitions. Her body quivered with anticipation as she surrendered to the wicked desires that consumed her. With each slap of the creature's member against her drenched pussy, she felt herself being drawn deeper into a realm of pleasure where boundaries held no power.

As the creature's monstrous member bottomed out inside her eager cunt, (Y/n)'s body tensed with discomfort. The sudden and forceful intrusion left her breathless, her delicate walls stretching to accommodate the massive girth that filled her completely. But before she could adjust to the overwhelming sensation, the impostor began thrusting with a primal urgency, showing no mercy or consideration for her need to acclimate.

A high pitched cry escaped her lips as the relentless pounding continued, her attempts to ask for a moment of respite falling on deaf ears. Instead, the creature responded with a forceful push against her back, pinning her down and denying her any escape from its ravaging assault.

The feeling of being overpowered, of being taken so forcefully, ignited a primal desire within her. Her breath became ragged, mingling with the sounds of wet flesh meeting wet flesh, as the creature's unyielding desire drove it to thrust deeper and harder into her willing cunt.

Every powerful thrust sent shockwaves of ecstasy reverberating through her body, each one pushing her closer to the edge of an explosive climax. Her cries of both pleasure and protest merged into a symphony of raw desire, lost in the intensity of the moment.

As the creature's thrusts quickened in pace, its own climax drawing near, (Y/n)'s body teetered on the edge of ecstasy. Every forceful penetration pushed her closer to the precipice of pleasure, her senses consumed by the raw intensity of the moment. But just as the sensation reached its peak, overwhelming her senses, she succumbed to the overwhelming pleasure and fainted.

Her consciousness slipped away, leaving her body limp and vulnerable to the creature's desires. Her mind, now lost in a blissful haze, was unaware of the coldness that filled her insides. The sensation of something filling her, even in her unconscious state, sent shivers of both pleasure and unease coursing through her body.

The wintry forest bore witness to this surreal encounter, as (Y/n) laid motionless on the monster's embrace. The sounds of their passionate union were replaced by the hushed whispers of the trees, as if nature itself held its breath in anticipation of what was to come.

[peterrefur]

Chirirenge spoon ⅏ ARG!Wilbur Soot x GN!Reader

Summary: Experience the raw beauty of love and communication as Wilbur navigates his honest struggle to express his feelings.  A tender, overnight journey that celebrates the authenticity and true essence of the relationship between Reader and Argbur.  Notes:  Hey Mate!!!  I’m Peter and I say right away that English is not my first language.  I’m curious to hear your opinion about this work in the comments!  Enjoy! 

𝕋he room's ambiance felt like a quiet sanctuary, the soft clicks of the keyboard punctuating the silence until Wilbur's soft-spoken words cut through. "I'm cold," he murmured, a hint of discomfort in his voice, followed by the rustle of him adding another layer to stave off the chill. 

𝕄y attention swivelled away from the computer screen, drawn to Will. There he sat, adorned in a mishmash of clothing - a T-shirt layered under a jumper and a sweatshirt, now cocooned further under an additional blanket. 

"Cold?" I echoed, surprise lacing my words as I regarded him. "Hmm... We don't have the ingredients for soup ... How about we embark on a late-night walk for some comforting ramen or romantic curry?" I suggested, glancing at the clock that taunted us with its approaching midnight digits. Our penchant for late-night dining outings was no secret, testament to our shared nocturnal rhythms that often wrecked conventional bedtime schedules. 

𝕃ocking eyes with Wilbur, I observed his immediate turn of the head, a silent gesture laden with unspoken nuances. His hand reached for his glasses, hesitating midway as if seeking permission, before he sighed and met my gaze, the unspoken language between us painting a poignant picture. 

In that moment, I felt a pang of empathy wash over me. "You alright?" I inquired gently, sensing there was more beneath the surface. 

Wilbur's reply, delivered in his characteristic monotone yet friendly voice, carried a subtle warmth that transcended his usual tone. "I'd love to... ramen sounds good," he murmured, his curls swaying slightly in unison with his nod, lending a quiet affirmation to his words. 

𝔸 smile curved across my lips at his response, and I cocked my head to the side, a gesture of silent understanding and appreciation. Watching him gradually shed the blanket and extend his hand towards me, offering companionship in our journey to the front of the room, filled me with a tender sense of connection. 

Accepting his hand, I felt a surge of gratitude for the unspoken bond between us. Together, we commenced our preparations to venture out into the night, each movement carrying an unspoken agreement, a shared understanding that transcended mere words. 

𝔸s Wilbur reached for his gloves and scarf, a sense of concern nudged me, prompting my hand to instinctively rest atop his. "Won't you feel too warm once we're at the restaurant? You're already bundled up in four layers. You might overheat," I ventured cautiously, treading the fine line between observation and comment. 

Wilbur's response was subtle yet telling. He released the extra layers, his gaze briefly falling to his shoes, a contemplative air surrounding him. Finally, he draped a scarf around his neck, a silent compromise between comfort and necessity, before opening the door and setting off up the stairwell. 

Suppressing any trace of exasperation or further comments, I gathered my belongings and followed suit, catching up to Wilbur and intertwining our hands as we descended from the second floor. 

The unspoken exchange lingered between us, an uncharted territory of emotions and unexpressed thoughts. 

𝕊tepping out into the embrace of the night air, a gentle wintry chill greeted us, sending a tingling sensation down our spines and a pleasant nip to our noses. 

"A very pleasant night," I remarked, acknowledging the serene ambiance that enveloped us. 

𝕋he air seemed to hang still, a touch of the sea's breeze delicately caressing our surroundings. Despite the lingering freshness, our neighbourhoods exuded an unexpected warmth, a curious amalgamation of factors creating an inviting atmosphere. 

It was a juxtaposition—the distant hum of the local sewage system, slightly audible after recent rains, intermingled with the comforting warmth radiating from the tall figure of my brunette boyfriend beside me. 

𝕋he sensation was peculiar yet oddly comforting, as though the night itself had conspired to cocoon us in its contrasting elements, weaving together a tapestry of sensations that heightened the experience of our late-night excursion. 

Underneath the streetlights, the night embraced us, the silence between our steps filled with a symphony of thoughts and emotions. Wilbur's hand in mine felt familiar, a reassurance against the cold while simultaneously warming my heart. The streets, usually bustling with daytime activities, now wore a serene guise, creating an intimate space for us to traverse. 

I stole a glance at Wilbur, catching the faint reflection of the streetlights in his eyes. His profile exuded a blend of contemplation and tranquility, the occasional twitch of his lips indicating thoughts wandering somewhere beyond the realm of our nocturnal stroll. 

𝔸s we walked, the city's soundscape became our backdrop—a distant car engine, the occasional shuffle of leaves, and the soft chatter echoing from a nearby café, a testament to the city that never truly slept. 

"Is something bothering you?" I ventured, the words slipping out softly, fearing they might break the delicate bubble of comfort we seemed cocooned within. 

Wilbur's response was a hesitant nod, his grip on my hand tightening ever so slightly. "It's just... things have been a bit overwhelming lately," he admitted, his voice a whisper, almost lost amidst the night's. 

“I guess I've been feeling a bit lost," he continued, his tone laden with a vulnerability that I rarely witnessed. 

A surge of empathy washed over me. "You've been doing so much lately, it's okay to feel overwhelmed," I reassured him, trying to infuse my words with as much comfort as possible. 

He muttered quietly; annoyance was evident in his voice “No.” He wrinkles his nose and frowns hostilely at the ground. “You don’t get it.” 

"I can...- Can you explain to me, then, what is in your head that makes you feel the way you feel?" I ask gently, trying not to put pressure on the stressed young man. 

All I get in response is a shake of the head. 

𝔼ntering the cozy embrace of the night restaurant, we were greeted by a comforting warmth that enveloped us like a familiar hug. The air was infused with the tantalizing fragrance of spices and the simmering aroma of savoury broths, an olfactory symphony that tantalized our senses. 

Locating a secluded spot in the corner, we settled into our seats, the soft murmur of conversations from other diners acting as a gentle accompaniment to the ambiance. The hustle and bustle of the eatery wrapped around us, creating a sense of intimacy within the bustling environment. 

𝔸midst savouring the steamy, flavourful noodles and exchanging occasional glances, a weight seemed to settle upon Wilbur's shoulders. It was as though the weight of unspoken thoughts and emotions bore down on him, casting a shadow over the otherwise relaxed atmosphere of the evening. 

I noticed the subtle shift in Wilbur's demeanour—the slight furrow of his brow, the hesitant pauses between spoonful of ramen. It was as if a cloud hovered over his usual composure, dimming his vibrant presence. 

Setting my utensils down, I leaned in closer, my voice soft with concern. "How can I help, Will?" I inquired, choosing my words carefully to convey both my care and respect for his thoughts. 

Wilbur glanced up, his eyes reflecting a myriad of emotions—apprehension, hesitation, and a glimmer of gratitude for the invitation to share his thoughts. With a deep breath, he began to unravel the tangle of thoughts that had been weighing on him. 

𝔸s he gingerly set down his half-eaten soup, his gaze fell to the tabletop, as if seeking refuge or solace. 

“𝕀 don't like it. I don't like it when you show me that you care. I don't know how to give it back. I don't... I care about you, I really do, but I don't know how to show you or tell you. I hate it... I feel bad about it," his voice quivered, the weight of his emotions palpable in the tremor. 

"It's like I'm drowning in the unknown nature of my emotions towards you. I don't know if I'm supposed to like, love, or hate you," he confessed with a gut-wrenching honesty, his face etched with a blend of pain and sorrow. 

His words echoed in the silence that followed, casting a poignant hue over our surroundings. It was as though the weight of his uncertainty, a turmoil that gnawed at his heart, now lay bare, a profound ache etched on his face, yearning for understanding and resolution. 

𝔽or a moment, the bustling ambiance of the restaurant faded into insignificance, leaving only the raw honesty of Wilbur's emotions. 

Reaching across the table, I gently took his hand in mine, a silent gesture of support and understanding. "Wilbur, it's okay," I began softly, trying to infuse my words with reassurance and tenderness. "If you want to see us as friends who sometimes have sex, I'm okay with that. If you want to see us as a couple, that's okay with me too. If you want us to end-" 

"NO!" Wilbur raises his voice interrupting me. “no.” he adds after a moment with quiet voice. 

𝕎ilbur's sudden outburst echoed through the hushed ambience of the restaurant, drawing a few curious glances from nearby diners. His voice, usually soft-spoken, now carried a tinge of desperation, the sheer intensity of his emotions piercing through the air. 

"Please, I don't want it to end," he continued, his voice trembling with a mix of anguish and urgency. His gaze bore into mine, pleading for comprehension, for an assurance that my mention of an end was merely a hypothetical scenario. 

“𝕀'm sorry," I murmured, my voice barely audible amidst the intensity of the moment. "I didn't mean to suggest that." 

Wilbur's grip on my hand tightened, almost as if he feared losing the connection between us. His eyes, wide with vulnerability, searched for reassurance, a silent plea for validation that our bond meant more than mere definitions or labels. 

"We don't have to label it or fit it into a rule," I offered softly, trying to ease the tension that had enveloped us. "If you feel good with that - we can just be."  I whispered, my words carrying a promise of unwavering support, a silent commitment to navigate the intricacies of our relationship at a pace comfortable for both of us. 

ℍis struggle to articulate his feelings simmered beneath his solemn expression, a struggle to bridge the gap between his affection and his inability to express it. 

"No... I don't know how to... How to communicate to you how I feel about you. I like you and want you next to me. Living with you is pleasant, and only a few things about you are annoying. Acceptable," he began, his words a tentative attempt at unravelling the tangled web of his emotions. 

ℍis candidness was striking, his struggle palpable. He delved deeper, admitting, "But I don't know what to do to show you that I like you... Holding your hand or nice words are not able to show what I feel, giving you gifts or pebbles is not enough either. I don't know if sex is a good to prove love but... I don't know what... I don't know how to be a good boyfriend to you." he confesses his emotions, making him finally open to me in full. 

𝕀 reassured him gently, my voice carrying a warmth laced with understanding. "It's okay not to know exactly how to express your feelings. What matters is that you're honest and that you're here, trying." 

His struggle to find tangible ways to express his affection was evident, his sincerity shining through the layers of uncertainty. 

“𝕋he way you care, the way you're here with me—those things matter," I continued, hoping to alleviate some of the weight that burdened him. "Being a good boyfriend isn't about grand gestures or finding the perfect way to show your love. It's about being present, being yourself, and sharing moments, even the imperfect ones." 

A flicker of relief crossed his features, a glimmer of hope amidst the maze of confusion. His honesty was a bridge between us, a connection that transcended the need for elaborate demonstrations of affection 

“𝕁ust be me?" he asks. 

"Yes, just be you," I affirmed gently, meeting Wilbur's gaze with a reassuring smile. 

I could sense his relief, a slight relaxation in his posture as my words seemed to resonate with him. His earnestness in wanting to understand and contribute to our relationship was evident, and it was a comfort to witness him gradually embrace the simplicity of just being himself. 

"You're funny you always know what to say." Wilbur says and goes back to eating his soup. 

I lightly kick Wilbur under the table and we both smile when he accidentally spills the soup from his spoon. "I don't always know, but I try." 

[elysiumania]

title: this time, it's my turn pairing(s): gepard landau, reader characters: gepard landau, serval landau, reader word count: 12k synopsis: his concerns arise from a sense of reliance on your support. however, he remains unaware of the fact that you share similar sentiments and also perceive your relationship in a mutually supportive manner.

Gepard exhaled a gentle plume of smoke, its wisps curling delicately in the frigid air as he forged ahead across the vast expanse of the snow-laden plains, with his loyal troop faithfully trailing in his wake. He, along with his comrades from the revered Silvermane Guards, has been assigned to the desolate Outlying Snow Plains, entrusted with the crucial task of diligently surveying the surroundings for any unforeseen manifestation of the enigmatic Fragmentum.

In the vigilant area of the Silvermane Guards, a sentinel's keen eye caught wind of disturbing tidings—whispers permeated the air, speaking of an escalating surge in Fragmentum's ominous presence permeating the surrounding locale. Stirred into immediate action, Gepard promptly set forth on a journey to safeguard the cherished residents of Belobog.

A complete week transpired, filled with relentless exploration across the boundless area of the Snow Plains. Throughout their arduous mission, the intrepid members of the Silvermane Guards found themselves face-to-face with formidable fragmentum creatures, engaging them in fierce combat under Gepard's orders and decisive commands.

Remarkably, the courageous soldiers emerged triumphant from each encounter unscathed, with not a single casualty befalling their ranks. The only remnants left behind in the wake of their valiant exploits were the poignant vestiges of battle, testimony to the resolute efforts exerted by the Silvermane Guards in their relentless pursuit of peace and security.

Having valiantly vanquished the peril that plagued Belobog, the passing days marked the culmination of a week-long endeavor for Gepard and his stalwart troop. With no lingering remnants of fragmentum monsters to be found, Gepard, exuding sagacity, decreed their victorious mission at an end, instructing his loyal soldiers to embark on the journey back to the district. The Silvermane Guards bore the weight of responsibility, eager to report their meticulous investigation to the esteemed Supreme Guardian, ensuring the preservation of truth and protecting the city.

Despite Gepard's habitual forays and the fortitude with which they had braved the unforgiving chill beyond the city's walls for countless cycles, the journey back to the district from the expansive Snow Plains stretched out interminably. As far as the eye could discern, an unbroken expanse of snow-draped plains unfurled before them, enveloped in an ethereal shroud of mist, obscuring their vision like an artist's gentle brushstroke blurring a canvas. The road, seemingly endless, meandered relentlessly through this wintry image, with no respite or distraction to captivate their weary gaze. Only the ivory-hued path, buried beneath a thick carpet of snow, provided any semblance of direction, beckoning them forward, each step resonating with a blend of determination and weariness.

Gepard traverses the path ahead, his senses acutely attuned to the ever-present possibility of peril. Despite the triumphant conclusion of their inquiry and the successful elimination of known dangers, a profound sense of caution pervades his every step. No stranger to the capricious nature of their adversaries, Gepard remains keenly aware of the unpredictable forces that may yet rear their heads. Like a sentinel on high alert, he maintains a state of constant vigilance, never allowing complacency to seep into his heart. Thus, with a blend of obstinacy and wariness, he presses on, ready to confront any unforeseen hazards that dare cross his path, ensuring the safety of those under his watchful gaze.

The smoke-like tendrils waft effortlessly through the cold air, gracefully intertwining with the icy atmosphere as Gepard presses forward. Gepard's troop marches behind him, their synchronized footsteps echoing softly against the snowy terrain, leaving faint imprints upon the blanket beneath their feet.

As they move forward, Gepard instantly sees before them a formidable barrier loomed in the shape of fragmentum monsters, obstructing the ceaseless path across the Snow Plains and impeding their journey homeward. Though these creatures paled in comparison to the formidable foes Gepard had encountered in his storied past, their presence was soon overshadowed as the dense mist dissipated, revealing an enormous ice formation meandering in the distance.

Gepard and his comrades freeze in their steps, cautious not to arouse the attention of the menacing creatures blocking their way. Amidst the tense silence, Gepard catches whispers among his troop, contemplating their next course of action. Will they once again plunge into a clash of conflict? How perplexing, for they had believed that their arduous efforts had successfully eradicated every threat lurking within the frigid vastness of the Snow Plains. However, this newfound predicament hints at the possibility that their task was not yet fully accomplished, that remnants of danger still linger about.

Contemplating the gravity of the circumstance, Gepard finds himself immersed in deep reflection. With the path to the district blocked and the safety of Belobog at stake, he arrives at a resolute conclusion: they must once more embrace the strenuous task of engaging with the malevolent monsters. As the esteemed Captain of the Silvermane Guards, his unwavering commitment rests upon the safety of the citizens, and it is incumbent upon him to guide his troop towards victory over their foes. 

In an act of undaunted determination, Gepard's commanding voice reverberates across the tranquil Snow Plains, instantly capturing the attention of his vigilant comrades and even the menacing creatures that lie ahead.

Stepping into his customary role, Gepard assumes his position at the forefront, guiding his devoted comrades with authority. With precise instructions echoing through the air, he orchestrates the intricate formation of his troop, outlining their roles and responsibilities as they prepare to enter the tumultuous dance of battle. 

The menacing monsters, sensing the impending confrontation, hurl themselves forward with unrestrained aggression.

In the clash between fragmentum monsters and the Silvermane guards, the air resounds with the cacophony of clashing spears and thundering gunshots, piercing through the quietude of the surrounding vicinity. Amidst this symphony of battle, Gepard diverges from the fray, his steps leaving imprints upon the snowy road, each one carrying the weight of his determination.

His countenance reflects his resolve, his furrowed eyebrows and tightly pursed lips betraying his steely focus. Raising his chin, he meets the gaze of the colossal ice entity, its imposing presence casting an eerie shadow upon the battlefield. The weight of responsibility settles upon Gepard's shoulders as he takes a firm grip on his weapon, releasing it with a resounding thud that echoes through the freezing air.

With conviction burning in his eyes, Gepard confronts the gigantice ice fragmentum before him, his voice resonating with complete confidence and dignity.

"It is time to eradicate you." His words hang in the air, charged with determination, as the monstrous entity roars, launching itself towards Gepard with unstoppable fury. Swiftly, he raises his weapon, interposing it between himself and the oncoming assault, the clash of their meeting forces ringing out with a thunderous intensity.

The impact reverberates through Gepard's arms, causing a tremor to course through his being, but the indomitable Captain refuses to yield to such trivial setbacks. His battles have taught him the true nature of strife, for he has always stood at the frontlines, leading his troops through every crisis. He knows intimately the hardships that accompany each step taken upon the battlefield, and his spirit remains unyielding, unshaken by the weight of the blow he has endured.

Entrenched within the very core of his being, a deep-seated commitment to protect the city pulses through Gepard's veins, a part of him as intrinsic as his own breath. His relentless dedication to his responsibilities and the principles of his organization is renowned by all. Though he upholds a stringent adherence to rules and even his own moral compass, he carries himself with fixed confidence, boldly asserting that every action he takes is in service of the people and his comrade- in-arms. For Gepard, the pursuit of peace for his beloved city eclipses all other considerations.

With resolute determination, Gepard embraces risks without hesitation, unflinchingly venturing into the face of danger if it means protecting the welfare of the people. To him, the name of Landau holds immense weight and significance, serving as a beacon of inspiration and a constant reminder of the higher purpose he serves. In the name of Belobog, his beloved city, Gepard steels himself to confront any peril that threatens its tranquility, forging ahead undeterred by the unknown, driven solely by his firm dedication to preserving peace and ensuring the safety of all those who call it home.

Amidst the relentless clash between the Silvermane Guards and the dwindling fragmentum monsters, Gepard's unyielding leadership and command continue to drive his troops forward. With each passing moment, the ranks of the menacing creatures diminish, further fueling the determination of the guards to press on, emboldened by their Captain's presence.

Finally, Gepard delivers a decisive, thunderous strike, the force of his blow shattering the gigantic fragmentum monster into fragments that slowly disintegrate into dainty ashes. As the remnants are carried away on the wind, the victorious Captain stands amidst the aftermath, his chest heaving with exertion, a mix of relief and satisfaction coursing through him.

Yet, unbeknownst to Gepard, a hidden threat lurks in the shadows. As he catches his breath, completely unaware of the impending danger, a stealthy fragmentum monster slinks its way closer, poised to launch a surprise attack. One keen-eyed soldier spots the insidious creature, realizing that amidst the chaos of battle, it had eluded their notice. A sense of urgency grips the soldier, knowing that unless swift action is taken, their Captain will take a blow.

Beads of trepidation glisten upon his brows, the soldier’s temples slick with apprehensive sweat, their very hands growing numb with anxiety. The rapid unfolding of events leaves the soldier frozen in place, his mind struggling to process the gravity of the situation. It transpires with such swiftness that comprehension eludes him, rendering him momentarily incapacitated. All he can muster is a feeble warning, urgently uttered in a strained voice.

"Captain Gepard, behind you!"

Gepard's keen ears capture the soldier's voice, the words reverberating through his consciousness like an alarm bell. Startled, he swiftly turns his attention towards the source of the warning, a sliver of disbelief etching its way across his face. Despite his vigilance, this stealthy fragmentum monster had eluded even his astute senses, evading detection in a manner that left him momentarily blindsided.

A surge of realization courses through Gepard's veins, his instincts kicking into overdrive as he becomes acutely aware of the imminent danger lurking behind him. The creature, poised to strike, exudes a malevolent aura that sends a shiver down his spine. In the split seconds before impact, Gepard's mind races, calculating the imminent blow that seems inevitable. He recognizes that he is a mere breath away from being too late to evade or block the impending attack.

Time seems to hang suspended in the air, a fleeting moment of anticipation, as Gepard prepares himself to face the consequences of his delayed reaction. The realization sinks in, a testament to the unpredictable nature of battle, even for a leader as watchful and astute as Gepard himself.

Gepard braced himself, muscles taut and weapon firmly gripped, prepared to absorb the impending blow. But in a twist of fate, a sudden gust of wind swept through the air, its subtle whisper tickling his ears and causing his golden locks to sway with its unseen dance. In that fleeting moment, the threat he had sensed lurking behind him vanished into thin air, leaving him momentarily perplexed.

Slowly, the Captain shifted his body, his gaze sweeping over his surroundings in search of answers. The freezing breeze carried with it the ashes of the defeated monster, wisps of its former existence caught in the invisible currents. Yet, it was not the dissipated remnants alone that drew Gepard's attention; his eyes fixed upon an unexpected sight lying upon the ground—a very familiar arrow, ingrained with a family name he very much knew.

“It is rare for you to be this heedless, Captain Gepard.”

With measured deliberation, the man pivots his head, directing his gaze towards the origin of the voice that had saved him in his moment of danger. The atmosphere hangs in anticipation, punctuated by the hushed cadence of footsteps echoing through the stillness. Each step echoes. The sound of heels clicking on the wintry ground seemingly the sole auditory presence in the ambiance.

Gepard, the stalwart Captain, remains rooted in his position, his firm gaze piercing through the dissipating fog that shrouded the aftermath of the intense battle. With senses attuned, he absorbs every auditory nuance—the crisp sound of heels, accompanied by the gentle crunch of snow beneath their weight. The symphony of sounds guides his attention, leading his eyes to the enigmatic figure emerging from the dissipating mist.

As the figure gradually reveals itself, the familiar colors of white and blue springs into view, the renowned attire of the Silvermane while in hand, a familiar bow rests, matching the hues of the Silvermane uniform.

It's none other than you.

Your stride exudes a captivating combination of grace and confidence, each step purposeful and deliberate. The strands of your hair sway rhythmically with the caress of the wind, framing your face as your piercing eyes lock onto Gepard's ocean ones. A momentary pause graces your approach, your gaze shifting briefly to acknowledge the soldiers standing alongside their esteemed Captain.

As you draw nearer, a stillness settles upon the desolate surroundings, your presence commanding attention. Your journey has brought you to this forsaken place, a sight that puzzles and intrigues Gepard. Curiosity dances in his eyes, eager to unravel the reason for your arrival, yet beneath the veil of curiosity lies a profound concern for your well-being.

Gepard's discerning gaze sweeps over your form, meticulously searching for any telltale signs of the treacherous battles you might have faced along your path. His eyes, sharp and perceptive, analyzing every inch of your being, seeking any hint of injuries or scratches that may indicate a confrontation with the relentless fragmentum monsters. Yet, to his relief, his scrutiny reveals no such evidence.

There are no traces of dirt marring the pristine uniform that adorns your figure, no wrinkles to suggest the turmoil of combat, and not a single tear in sight. Your appearance remains dignified, untarnished by the trials and tribulations that have befallen the snowy expanse. This revelation washes over Gepard, alleviating the concern that had weighed heavily upon him.

He, then, returns his focus on you, entertaining the words that slipped from your mouth.

“I find myself incapable of presenting a valid defense, as the statement in question are undeniably truthful. Evidently, it appears that there are aspects in which I am still deficient or inadequate.”

Gepard's voice carries a tinge of disappointment, his words uttered with a subdued tone that reveals a hint of vulnerability. His gaze shifts downward, the weight of his own perceived shortcomings etched upon his face, enveloping his expression from the world. In that moment, a veil of shame descends upon him, momentarily obscuring the strength and resolve that usually define his character.

The Captain, however, resists the temptation to offer justifications or seek solace in excuses. He refuses to shield himself behind hollow explanations, for he understands that the pillar of vigilance is a cornerstone of their training and ethos. To falter in this attribute would be tantamount to an admission of incompetence—a truth he must confront head-on.

In a heartfelt sentiment, you utter the words. "Your well-being is of paramount importance. As long as you're in good shape, no need to think of such trivial thoughts you conjured in your head." 

The slight curve of your lips forms a barely perceptible smile, a silent reassurance that conveys your relief in his well-being.

With his attention now focused solely on you, Gepard's curiosity finds its voice, and he poses the question that has lingered in his mind since your unexpected arrival in the desolate plains.

"What are you doing out here in the plains?" 

In a subtle shift of posture, you address his inquiry, your voice carrying a calm and composed tone. "Just a little surveillance in this area," you respond, revealing just enough to satiate his curiosity while retaining an air of confidentiality.

Thus, your gaze sweeps over the soldiers who stand nearby, weariness etched into their faces and evident in their labored breaths. The toll of the recent battle drifts heavy in the air, its weight reflected in their downcast gazes, drooping shoulders, and half-lidded eyes. Even Gepard, attuned to your line of sight, observes the fatigue that has settled upon his devoted subordinates.

The exhaustion is palpable, a testament to the relentless physical and mental exertion they have endured. The flickering fire of will power that once burned bright within their pupils now dims, momentarily overshadowed by the strain of the recent conflict. 

Gepard couldn't help but announce a moment's rest, the air is filled with a collective sigh of relief from the weary soldiers, their tired bodies yearning for respite. The weight of their weapons feels momentarily lighter as they find a place to rest, easing their fatigued muscles onto the snowy ground. The battlefield, once filled with tension and the clash of weapons, now embraces a temporary calmness.

“I strongly recommend that you also consider taking a moment to rest. It is evident that you are in great need of it.” Your words cut through the stillness, drawing Gepard's attention. Concern and understanding dance within your eyes, your genuine care apparent in your demeanor.

A hint of a smile tugs at your lips as you encourage him to take a much-needed break. However, Gepard's response comes swiftly, his words carrying a touch of grit and a hint of pride. 

"I am now resting," he declares, evoking a quirk of an eyebrow from you.

Without a single glance exchanged, Gepard is keenly aware of the skeptical expression that graces your features, accompanied by narrowed eyes that speak volumes of your unspoken thoughts. This level of understanding can only be achieved through years of closeness, where nuances and subtleties become second nature.

The unbreakable bond shared between Gepard and you dates back to the days of childhood, when innocence and laughter filled the air. As noble families intertwined, the threads of your lives were woven together, and a friendship was nurtured in the fertile soil of shared experiences. Through the years, the two of you grew side by side, witnessing each other's achievements and tribulations.

The familiarity between you is undeniable, a result of the countless hours spent in each other's company. In the days of childhood, you both thrived together, exploring the vast horizons of imagination and laughter. Joyful memories are etched into the tapestry of your shared history, like treasures locked away in the chambers of your hearts. And in moments of adversity, your intertwined souls sought solace and reassurance from one another, finding comfort in the presence of a trusted friend.

Through the ebbs and flows of life, you remained pillars of support for each other. In times of despair and sorrow, Gepard sought refuge in the sanctuary of your friendship, finding relief in your understanding and the soothing words that effortlessly fell from your lips. And the weight of his burdens lightened, as the reassurance of your presence reminded him that he was never alone in the depths of his struggles.

As the hands of time spun their intricate web, Gepard found himself caught in the enchanting grasp of admiration for you. Like a delicate bloom flourishing under the gentle caress of sunlight, his admiration grew and blossomed with each passing day. What had once been an innocent regard evolved into something deeper, something he had never anticipated nor dared to imagine.

In the tapestry of life's intricacies, it was through the sisterly guidance of Serval that the veil of Gepard's heart was lifted, revealing the true nature of his sentiments. With gentle words and a knowing smile, she unraveled the hidden truths that lay dormant within his being. It was in that moment of revelation that he recognized the unexpected transformation of admiration into affection.

The realization washed over him like a gentle tide, stirring emotions that danced within the depths of his soul. He found himself captivated by your presence, your essence, and the way you effortlessly wove your way into the fabric of his thoughts. Your every word and action, once admired from afar, now held a newfound significance, resonating deeply within him.

As he explored the labyrinthine corridors of his heart, Gepard discovered the blossoming affection that had taken root, entwining itself with the admiration that had always been present. It was a delicate and precious revelation, one that filled his spirit with both satisfaction and trepidation. The uncharted territory of his emotions beckoned him forward, urging him to explore the unspoken depths of his newfound affection.

Yet, amidst the swirling tides of emotions, Gepard remained cautious. He cherished the bond that had been forged between you, and he held your friendship dear, not wishing to jeopardize the harmony that had been nurtured over the years. And so, he kept his sentiments guarded, a secret ember that flickered softly in the recesses of his being.

"Gepard!" Your voice pierces through the air, jolting Gepard out of his deep musings. Startled, he swiftly turns his gaze towards you, his eyes widening as he takes in your commanding presence. With both hands resting on your waist, you fix him with an arched brow, a mixture of curiosity and reproach evident on your face. The weight of your gaze causes a tremor to ripple through him, stirring his already troubled thoughts.

His jaw hangs slightly, betraying his inner turmoil, though he tries valiantly to maintain a composed exterior. 

It has become a recurring pattern—whenever he thinks of you, his mind becomes a whirlwind, his senses consumed by thoughts of your captivating presence. What began as admiration has blossomed into an unexpected and overwhelming affection, rendering him entranced and unable to fully focus.

Despite his internal struggles, Gepard is steadfast in his commitment to his duties as the Captain of the Silvermane Guards. He understands the gravity of his role and the need to lead by example. He strives to protect and guide his subordinates, ensuring their safety and welfare. In his pursuit of excellence, he has developed a habit of reserving his introspection for moments of leisure, allowing himself to succumb to his thoughts only in the rare moments when his responsibilities momentarily wane.

"I apologize. I'm just kind of tired," Gepard confesses yet lies to what was consuming him, his voice tinged with bashfulness as he exhales, hoping to conceal the deeper emotions that plague his mind. 

Your voice takes on a firm tone, laced with genuine concern that tugs at his heart. The concern in your eyes penetrates his defenses, reaching the depths of his soul. The bond between you, forged through years of friendship and shared experiences, allows you to see through his facade and understand the weight he carries.

"I told you to take a rest. You've been working so hard that you're exerting your body. Despite being sharp-eyed, you really do neglect that trait when it comes to yourself," you assert, your words resonating with both authority and compassion. The warmth in your voice serves as a gentle reminder that he, too, deserves care and respite. It stirs a mixture of gratitude and guilt within him, grateful for your unwavering support yet feeling guilty for burdening you with his troubles.

Although his confession was just a lie to cover up the fact that you are the one causing him to be drowned in his thoughts, Gepard remains silent, unwilling to speak up and disrupt the flow of your spiel. 

He knows all too well the familiar pattern of your lectures about his tendency to overwork himself. It has become a routine, a recurring theme in your interactions. Yet, deep down, he appreciates your inexorable care and concern for him

For Gepard, the safety of Belobog, the city they both call home, takes precedence over his own exhaustion. Ever since the catastrophe that befell Jarilo-VI, Belobog stands as the last bastion of hope, the final sanctuary where people can find refuge and continue their lives amidst the chaos that surrounds them. Its preservation is of utmost importance to Gepard, and he shoulders the responsibility of protecting it with persistent dedication.

Witnessing the joy and laughter of the children, their carefree smiles, fuels Gepard's motivation to safeguard the city. Their innocent happiness becomes a driving force, reminding him of the purpose behind his tireless efforts. The sight of his own family and the memories they share, intertwined with your presence, is etched deep within his heart. The warmth of those moments, the serenity they bring, spurs his determination to preserve the peace and happiness you all have found.

Gepard yearns to see you smiling, to witness the carefree moments you share with your loved ones. The image of your happiness becomes a cherished aspiration, a painting he wishes to keep untarnished. The thought of that peace being disrupted, of the happiness you have found being taken away, is unbearable to him. It is a responsibility he takes upon himself, knowing that he has the power to shield and protect what you hold dear.

It is for this reason that Gepard has tirelessly pursued a career as a soldier. Gepard's journey, ascending through the ranks and assuming the mantle of Captain, is fueled by the desire to be the strongest defender of Belobog. The weight of the title, the responsibility it entails, does not deter him. Instead, it strengthens his resolve to protect the city, to ensure that its residents can continue to revel in the simple pleasures of life. The happiness he witnesses within the walls of Belobog acts as a powerful motivator, reinforcing his commitment to preserving their sanctuary.

“Upon concluding the investigation and submitting my report to the Supreme Guardian, I intend to request a day of respite. This will not only allow me to recharge but also provide an opportunity to visit my family. Therefore, I assure you that there is no need for concern regarding my well-being. But I appreciate it.”

Gepard's words of reassurance melt away the furrow that marred your brow, a visible ease washing over your features. His promise of seeking respite and reuniting with his family eases your concerns, yet there remains a thread of worry that lingers within you, an invisible tether that binds your heart to his welfare.

As you release a sigh, your shoulders slump slightly, a sign of the weight that your worry carries. "You always say that I don't have to worry. But why wouldn't I worry about you?"

Your eyes meet Gepard's, searching for answers, seeking a glimpse into the depths of his existence. The intensity of your gaze has an unspoken power, drawing him closer to your world, as if you were unveiling the very essence of your soul through your earnest inquiry.

Gepard feels his chest constrict, the sincerity of your concern resonating within him, threatening to overwhelm his senses. The profound gaze reflected in your eyes seems to beckon him forth, urging him to find the truth in the midst of his speechlessness. In this moment of vulnerability, he gathers his thoughts, striving to unveil the honest reason behind his perpetual reassurances.

"Because I am capable of my own, (Name). I will not hold the title of Belobog's strongest shield if I am unable to protect myself." 

Gepard's defiant response hangs in the air, his words carrying a stubborn determination that matches the strength he claims to possess. His voice, tinged with a hint of pride, oscillates with a resolute self-assurance. It is clear that he believes in his own capabilities, his confidence bolstered by his reputation as Belobog's strongest shield. The weight of his words echoes, challenging any doubts that may have lingered.

Yet, your response is swift, fueled by a frustration out of concern. Your eyebrows furrow, knitting together as your face becomes a canvas of mixed emotions. Your voice, though overlayed with exasperation, holds a sign of tenderness, as if the depth of your care for your childhood friend spills over in your words.

"You are indeed capable," you concede, your voice carrying a touch of admiration for his strength and skill. But then, your tone shifts, becoming sharper, more pointed. "But not when it comes to your welfare. You oversee everything, but overlook yourself." 

The words carry a mass of truth, a realization that cuts through the facade of invincibility he has crafted. Your gaze remains locked with his, searching for a chink in his armor, an opening for your words to penetrate.

There is an underlying frustration in your retort, a frustration that arises from witnessing his relentless dedication to his duty while neglecting his own well-being. It is a frustration mark out of a deep-rooted friendship and a desire to protect him, to ensure that he values himself as much as he values the lives and safety of others.

A deep understanding of Gepard's capabilities pervades your consciousness, a profound knowledge that has been etched into your memory through countless sparring matches and battles fought side by side. Each clash of swords, each vanquished fragmentum monster, has only reinforced the strength and skill that Gepard possesses. He has proven himself time and time again, emerging victorious on the frontlines, leading his soldiers with dignity.

You have borne witness to his leadership, his strategic prowess guiding their expeditions to triumph. The very air seems to hum with the echoes of battles won, the collective relief that resonates from comrades who have fought alongside Gepard, whose lives have been safeguarded by his strong presence.

But amidst the victories, there exists an unavoidable truth—one that weighs heavily on your heart. In their line of work, casualties are inevitable, and the loss of a comrade becomes an all-too-familiar ache. You understand the magnitude of Gepard's responsibilities, the burden he carries upon his broad shoulders, for it is not only the lives of his soldiers that depend on him, but the security and well-being of the citizens themselves.

Gepard, with his indomitable spirit and formidable strength, stands as a symbol of hope and security in the eyes of those around him. His presence alone provides solace, a reassuring beacon of protection against the encroaching darkness. It is this very reliance placed upon him that drives him forward, urging him to push himself beyond his limits.

Yet, hidden within this admiration and dependence lies a gnawing concern—the knowledge that pushing his body to its limits comes at a cost. As much as Gepard dedicates himself to safeguarding others, he remains oblivious to the toll it takes on his own body. The lines etched upon your face deepen with worry is evident to the ingrained affection and understanding that bind you to him.

For you understand that it is to prove himself as Belobog's strongest shield, Gepard's body bears the brunt of the strain. His health, like a fragile thread, is stretched thin, vulnerable to the wear and tear of battles fought and sacrifices made. It is a reality you cannot bear to witness, for the thought of Gepard's vitality waning fills you with a profound sense of dread.

In the hearts of citizens and comrades alike, there exists an unspoken pact—a collective breath held, a shared hope that as long as Gepard remains strong, their world will remain secure. His very presence radiates a sense of invincibility, an assurance that the forces of darkness will be held at bay. 

But deep within, you yearn for him to understand the fragility of his own mortality, to recognize that protecting himself is as essential as defending others. It is a plea whispered by the quietude of your concern, as you pray for Gepard to see the importance of nurturing his own well-being, for the sake of those who depend on him, and most importantly, for his own sake.

The weight of the strongest shield shattering sends ripples of anxiety  through every fiber. It is a sobering realization that the strength of the remaining shields, like a fragile domino chain, rests upon the resolve of their captain—the very man whose burdens you long to alleviate. The unity, the firm commitment of Gepard's comrades, draws sustenance from his indomitable spirit, relying on his leadership as a guiding light amidst the chaos that surrounds them. 

With this understanding, your watchful eye lingers on Gepard, your instinct to protect him intensifying. It surpasses the duty bestowed upon you as one of the protectors of Belobog, reaching far deeper into the realm of personal connection. Friendship has woven a bond between you that transcends the confines of duty and obligation. Your heart cherishes him, treasuring the unique connection you share, and the mere thought of losing him sends a chill down your spine.

Your vigilance, born out of sentiments and genuine concern, extends far beyond what others could comprehend. You grasp the fragile threads that hold his spirit intact, recognizing the vulnerability that lingers beneath his impenetrable exterior. 

Therefore, you become the force that seeks to preserve his spirit, to nurture the flickering flame within him that holds the potential to ignite the hearts of others.

But Gepard remains oblivious to the depth of your concern, his perception clouded by the overwhelming strength he wields. The once-humble demeanor that characterized him has become tainted by arrogance, a blind spot in his self-awareness that eludes his grasp. You, who have borne witness to his humility, understand the paradox that now engulfs him. The gnawing at his soul, the stain on his pride, weighs heavily on his shoulders, gnashing against the indomitable spirit that shields him from vulnerability.

His determination knows no bounds, relentless in its pursuit of unyielding resolve. 

The furrowed lines on his forehead now mirror your own, a silent challenge shimmering within his gaze, as if daring you to penetrate his impenetrable facade. He recognizes your worry, for you have stood witness to the weariness etched into his very being, borne from the ceaseless demands of their duties and the battles they face. The weariness he can no longer conceal, despite his best efforts to portray an unbreakable exterior.

You possess an intimate understanding of Gepard, a familiarity that dances on the fine line between comfort and burden. The depths of your knowledge, the connection that binds you, can sometimes prove troublesome for Gepard himself. 

Your attentiveness, though a blessing, carries a hint of burden in Gepard's eyes. There is no evading your watchful presence, especially when his mind is clouded with troubles. Yet, he cannot deny the gratitude that swells within him when you step in to assist and comfort him. In those moments, you become his anchor, easing his worries and shouldering his burdens. The irony does not escape him; the protector of many finds solace in the refuge you provide, relying on your steadfast support.

You have been a constant presence by his side, a force that clings to him even when he doesn't voice his need for reassurance. In the depths of his struggles, you are there, offering a comforting embrace and soothing words that penetrate the layers of his troubled mind. 

But amidst the consolation you provide, Gepard feels a pang of frustration. He realizes that he has grown dependent on you, seeking refuge within the sanctuary of your presence. The knowledge that he relies on you, even as others rely on him, gnaws at his conscience. It feels unfair, a sense of imbalance that tugs at his heartstrings. In his eyes, his assistance pales in comparison to the unwavering support you offer, leaving him with an unsettling feeling of inadequacy.

The cycle of dependency troubles him deeply, compelling him to withdraw, to distance himself from your other concerns. He doesn't want to add to the baggage you already carry, knowing full well that you too face your own worries and struggles. In his frustration, he yearns to return the favor, to be the pillar of strength you've been for him. Yet, his attempts feel futile, for every time he reaches out, you are the one who steps forward to extend a helping hand.

And now, in the midst of your conversation, doubt lingers in your eyes, casting a shadow on his abilities. This realization only fuels Gepard's frustration, for it is not the outcome he had hoped for. How can you rely on him when he is constantly in need of your aid?

In this intricate dance of emotions, Gepard grapples with a desire to break free from the cycle of reliance. He wants to stand alongside you, as equals, supporting one another through the challenges that lie ahead. But the road ahead seems uncertain, clouded by his frustration and the fear that he may never be able to provide the same level of support you have given him.

"So, are you insinuating that I am incapable of self-care? Are you casting doubt on my capabilities?" Gepard's voice brims with a challenging edge.

He takes a deliberate step forward, his figure towering over yours, as if seeking to intimidate you with his imposing presence. The intensity in his gaze is palpable, a smoldering fire that dares you to question his abilities.

The air crackles with tension as Gepard's words hang in the space between you. His voice, laced with a mix of defiance and ire, pierces the silence, challenging the very core of your concern. There is a raw vulnerability beneath his bravado, a flicker of insecurity that drives him to defend his self-reliance.

The perplexing display of Gepard's actions leaves you bewildered, particularly in response to his final question. What catches your attention is the abrupt shift in his demeanor, an unmistakable air of condescension that permeates his behavior. The lines etched on your brow deepen as you struggle to comprehend his intentions.

With a mixture of concern and conviction, you respond to his challenge, carefully choosing your words. "I can assure you that my concern arises from witnessing your neglect of self-care, which indicates a certain disregard for your well-being. However, I am genuinely confused by your second question, as I have made no allusion to doubting your abilities or raising any issue in that regard."

As your words slip, a tinge of frustration lingers within you. The communication seems mired in a web of misunderstanding, leaving both of you standing on opposite sides of a divide. Despite your best efforts to express your genuine worry, Gepard's response carries an air of superiority, a subtle condescension that adds another layer of complexity to the exchange.

The air between you grows heavy, pregnant with unspoken tension. Confusion dances upon your features, mingling with a touch of disappointment. You had hoped for a more open dialogue, an opportunity to bridge the gap and address the concerns at hand. Yet, Gepard's demeanor betrays a defensive stance, clouding the path to understanding.

Gepard's breath catches sharply, his gaze locked onto yours, unfaltering and resolute. The intensity in his eyes resembles hardened steel, an unyielding determination that refuses to waver.

“Your words seem to imply it, (Name).”

“What?” Your exasperation spills out in a loud voice, resonating with a mixture of disbelief and incredulity. “How does one of such an age have low listening comprehension? I must admit, Gepard, I had not anticipated such a characteristic from you.”

Through your piercing gaze, you convey the absurdity of Gepard's interpretation, revealing your astonishment at how he could have misconstrued your genuine concern. The weight of your disappointment hangs heavily, mirrored in the intensity of your expression.

The sudden transformation in Gepard's demeanor perplexes you, for he is not one to succumb to irrationality. The shift in his attitude contradicts the image of the composed and level-headed captain you have come to know and admire. The puzzle deepens, leaving you with a sense of disillusionment, as the once steadfast pillar of reason seems to have faltered.

You refuse to yield to the foolishness of Gepard's misinterpretation. Your gaze mirrors his, conveying your unwillingness to be swayed by the confusion that has clouded the conversation. The disappointment lingers, a bitter taste in the midst of a once unshakeable bond.

“Reiterating my previous statement, I want to emphasize that my abilities exceed your perception. We have outgrown our childhood and entered a different phase of life, (Name). Hence, your concerns are unwarranted, and instead, you should focus on your own well-being rather than worrying about mine.”

Gepard's final blow lands with a resounding impact, causing your eyes to widen in disbelief. At this moment, it feels as if time stands still, suspended in an agonizing silence. The venom in his voice drips like poison, injecting a sense of pain and betrayal into the core of your being. Your chest squeezes, the weight of his words pressing down upon you, while your stomach churns with a sickening flip.

Your gaze falters, unable to hold steady under the load of his accusation. Your eyes, once filled with warmth and trust, now betray a mixture of hurt and confusion. Your trembling lips struggle to form words, caught between the desire to defend yourself and the shock of Gepard's unexpected venom.

The tension between you and Gepard becomes overwhelming, radiating like an electric current that courses through the air. Even the subordinates, who bear witness to this uncomfortable exchange, cannot help but feel the strain that engulfs both you and their captain. Awkwardness sways in the atmosphere, an unspoken acknowledgment that this episode should not have unfolded in their presence.

The soldiers, who have witnessed the unbreakable bond between you and their captain, are well acquainted with the inseparable nature of your connection. From childhood friends to esteemed members of the honorable Silvermane Guards, you and Gepard have traversed the highs and lows of life together. Your camaraderie has earned the admiration and respect of many within the ranks, who have looked up to both of you for your formidable skills and resolution.

Now, however, an unsettling unease washes over the soldiers as they bear witness to the first-ever argument between the two of you. The atmosphere becomes charged with an unfamiliar tension, casting a shadow of worry and apprehension among the ranks. The soldiers, who had grown accustomed to the sight of your harmonious partnership, now find themselves uneasy and concerned as they observe the fracture in your once unbreakable bond.

Gepard's gaze remains fixated on you, his scrutiny penetrating through the facade you try to maintain. As his eyes trace the subtle signs of your distress, a heavy load settles upon his shoulders, bearing down on him with an undeniable force. He watches as your eyes, once filled with tenderness and trust, now avert their gaze, seeking solace in the ground beneath your feet. Your lower lip trembles imperceptibly, evidence of the inner turmoil that consumes you. The clenched fist by your side betrays the storm of emotions raging within you.

In that moment, Gepard's fortitude crumbles, replaced by a deep-seated apprehension that grips his heart. The gravity of his impulsive actions and hurtful words finally dawns on him, leaving a bitter taste of regret in his mouth. He longs to extend his hand, to reach out and offer an apology for his callous behavior. But before he can make a move, you break the silence with a calm yet biting retort.

"If that's what you want, then your wish is my command, Captain Gepard," you say, your voice laced with an icy resolve. The way you address him, emphasizing his title with a tinge of hostility, sends a chill down his spine. The harshness in your tone corresponds to the hurt he has inflicted upon you, a painful reflection of the wounds that have opened between you.

Gepard's heart sinks, the weight of his actions pressing upon him like an unforgiving burden. He realizes the magnitude of his mistake, the irreversible damage caused by his thoughtless words. Presently, the desire to mend what he has broken wells up within him, but he is paralyzed by the regret that grips his every fiber.

In the waning moments of your gaze, a myriad of emotions flickers across your face before you abruptly pivot on your heels. Without a backward glance, you briskly depart from the scene, leaving Gepard and his bewildered guards in your wake. The suddenness of your departure renders them speechless, their voices caught in their throats as they exchange incredulous glances.

The air crackles with an unspoken tension, the silence punctuated only by the fading echo of your retreating footsteps. Gepard stands rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed upon the space you occupied mere moments ago. His mind races, desperately seeking a way to bridge the rift that now stretches between you.

As Gepard's eyes scan the empty space where you once stood, a sense of regret washes over him, intertwining with the gnawing ache in his chest. He yearns to call out to you, to beg for your forgiveness and for a chance to make amends, but the weight of his mistakes renders him momentarily speechless.

Serval's workshop, once a hub of creativity and innovation, now bore witness to the heavy atmosphere that engulfed her younger brother. Gepard's arrival from the arduous journey through the Outlying Snow Plains had left him shrouded in a palpable despondency, his form slouched as he occupied a seat at her study table. The subtle gestures of frustration—his sighs and the repetitive pinching of his nose—painted a vivid picture of the troubled state that consumed him.

As the older sister, Serval couldn't ignore the conspicuous distress radiating from Gepard. Concern etched itself onto her countenance as she seized the opportunity to probe deeper into his well-being. Though she had stepped away from the affairs of the Silvermane Guards, having become a citizen in her own right, she still possessed the wisdom and empathy that made her a trusted confidante and advisor.

"Is something troubling you, Gepard?" Serval's voice cut through the web of his thoughts, reaching his consciousness just in time. Her words, filled with genuine concern, pulled him back from the depths of introspection.

Gepard swiftly turned his gaze towards Serval, his sister, who stood resolute with crossed arms at the counter. As he scanned her features, the furrowed brow spoke volumes of her worry for him. It was a familiar expression, one he had seen before—reflected in your eyes. The memory, like a fleeting vision, flashed across his mind, causing a pang of tightness in his chest.

Gepard hesitated, his lips parting to dismiss any troubles. Yet, he found himself frozen in that moment of decision. The echo of your recent encounter resonated within him, serving as a reminder of the consequences of denying his inner turbulence. He didn't want to subject his sister to the same pain, nor did he want to repeat the mistakes that had caused the fracture between you.

With a heavy heart weighing him down, Gepard mentally braces himself for the difficult task of sharing the altercation that had transpired between you and him. His eyes remain fixed on the floor, avoiding the gaze of his sister as he feels a mixture of guilt, regret, and apprehension settle within him.

"(Name) and I had an argument," Gepard finally admits, his voice carrying the weight of the words spoken. Each syllable feels burdensome, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, akin to a distasteful morsel he would rather avoid.

As the confession slips from his lips, Serval keenly observes the subtle shifts in her brother's demeanor. She notices how he fidgets in his seat, the furrows on his brow deepening further. It comes as no surprise to her that this situation troubles him, for she has always known his stubborn nature and the implications it could have on his relationships.

Serval remains composed, her expression a mask of understanding. She had foreseen this potential outcome, having an acute awareness of her brother's character. Yet, despite the lack of surprise, her concern for his well-being only intensifies. She knows all too well the toll that disagreements and conflicts can take on a person, especially one as fiercely loyal and dedicated as Gepard.

"Was the reason for your argument about your well-being, perhaps?" 

Gepard's azure eyes widen with surprise as Serval reveals her insight into the cause of the argument. He can't help but wonder how she came to know, and his voice falters as he poses the question, a lump forming in his throat.

"How did you know? Did..." he stammers, struggling to find the right words. "Did she happen to confide in you?"

Serval shakes her head gently, assuming a relaxed posture as she leans against the counter. Her expression carries a mix of understanding and compassion. "No, Gepard. (Name) hasn't shared any specifics with me. However, I've noticed how genuinely concerned she is about your well-being."

Gepard's lips tighten upon hearing your name, a complex blend of emotions coursing through his being. The realization that you had confided in his sister about your worries for him weighs heavily on his heart, amplifying his sense of guilt. He contemplates the significance of your actions, understanding the depth of your concern and the genuine care you have for his well-being.

A profound silence settles between Gepard and Serval, the weight of their unspoken emotions filling the room. But it is Serval who breaks the stillness, her voice filled with a mixture of compassion and firmness.

"I must apologize, dear brother, but I find myself aligning with (Name) in this matter. I empathize with her deeply, for I too share concerns about your well-being," Serval expresses, her voice carrying a gentle yet resolute tone. She observes Gepard tightly gripping his hand, a physical manifestation of the immense guilt that weighs upon him.

Serval continues, her words carefully chosen to convey her understanding and support. "You are known for your sustained dedication and stubbornness when it comes to protecting our city. But in doing so, you often overlook your own well-being. (Name) simply wants you to prioritize self-care and avoid unnecessary harm. It is out of concern that she expresses her sentiments."

Gepard's grip tightens further, his hand serving as an anchor amidst the turbulent sea of emotions swirling within him.

The weight of his assumptions and rash actions presses heavily on Gepard's shoulders, burdening him with regret and self-blame. The guilt within him grows like a festering wound, consuming his thoughts and emotions. He replays the painful exchange over and over again in his mind, each repetition intensifying his feelings of shame and guilt.

Gepard acknowledges the gravity of his mistake and understands the potential consequences it may have on your relationship. The realization that he may have caused you to harbor negative feelings towards him twists his insides, leaving him feeling hollow and lost.

He finds himself trapped in a vortex of repentance and self-doubt, questioning his own worth and capabilities. The once steadfast and composed Captain now battles with his own insecurities, unsure of how to mend the damage he has caused.

Gepard's heart aches with the knowledge that he may have irreparably shattered the bond he held so dear with you. The thought of you hating him, the person he holds in high regard and cherishes deeply, sends waves of anguish through his being.

Gepard's guilt surged forth like a torrent, overwhelming him with its intensity. It was as if a dam had burst, and he found himself confiding his innermost thoughts and the chaos that plagued his heart. 

Serval, ever attentive, absorbed his words with empathy, her gaze filled with understanding and care. She could perceive the load of his guilt etched upon his face, the contorted expression that mirrored the depths of his remorse. The strain in his voice, laden with the burden of his mistakes, resonated deeply within her.

Knowing that her brother needed comfort and reassurance, Serval extended her hand gently, placing it upon his head. It was a gesture of solace, an act of temporary respite from the emotional disturbance that consumed him. The touch of her hand conveyed unspoken support and a silent promise that she was there for him, ready to offer her understanding.

"If you feel that way, why don't you tell it to (Name)?" Serval's gentle suggestion reverberates in Gepard's ears, causing a ripple of conflicting emotions within him. “Indeed, disagreements and arguments are not uncommon among friends, and they can serve as opportunities for growth and understanding. By openly expressing your genuine feelings and thoughts, you can pave the way for reconciliation and a deeper comprehension of one another. Effective communication acts as the key to rectifying misunderstandings that may have arisen between the two of you.”

Gepard finally looks up to meet his sister's blue eyes such as his. "What if… what if she hates me?"

Serval only releases a breathy smile before placing her hand on her waist. “While the argument took place, it is important to recognize that (Name) is not the kind of individual who would harbor ill feelings or animosity towards you solely based on this disagreement. Therefore, I highly recommend approaching her and initiating a reconciliation process to mend any rift that may exist between the two of you.”

Serval's encouraging gesture, her reassuring pat on Gepard's back, serves as the catalyst for a transformative shift within him. The cloud of guilt that had veiled his ocean-blue eyes dissipates, replaced by a renewed sparkle of determination. Witnessing this change, the corners of Serval's lips curl upwards, an expression of satisfaction and support.

Gepard rises from his seat, his gaze now focused and unwavering. He meets Serval's eyes, gratitude filling his voice as he acknowledges her role in this pivotal moment. "Thank you, nee-san. I owe you."

Serval's response is simple yet filled with unspoken support. "Go," she urges, her voice carrying a blend of affection and encouragement.

Gepard nods his head and immediately walks towards the door but falters as Serval's voice echoes through the workshop, halting him in his tracks. His hand, poised to open the door and embark on his quest to find you, freezes in mid-air as he turns to face his sister once again. A mix of curiosity and intrigue dances across his features as Serval tosses a box towards him, his reflexes kicking in just in time to catch it.

"Bring that with you. You'll need it."

His gaze shifts from the box to Serval, his brows furrowing in confusion, seeking an explanation for this unexpected gesture. Before he can voice his inquiry, Serval's words cut through the air, carrying a sense of indication.

"Just take it with you. And you must go since it's already dark." With Serval's advice, Gepard hides the small box in his pocket. 

With a final farewell to his sister, Gepard strides purposefully out of the workshop, his heart pounding with anticipation. The weight of Serval's advice and the small box of band-aids in his pocket serve as constant reminders of the task at hand and the significance of his mission.

Serval, who was left alone in her workshop, sighs in relief as she watches the door where her brother just left.

"Ah, young love."

As Gepard draws closer to the shooting range, the familiar sound of a taut bowstring and the resonant swish of an arrow hitting its target fill the air. The captivating melody of your training reaches his ears, instantly capturing his attention.

With each step, his gaze locks onto you, his heart swelling with admiration and awe. The evening's dim light casts a gentle glow, accentuating the graceful form that you possess. Gepard has long been a witness to your dedication and hard work, having observed your training sessions since childhood. But seeing you now, in this moment, brings forth a renewed sense of admiration.

Your steady focus and beautiful stance evoke a sense of wonder within Gepard. Every movement, every release of the arrow, showcases your skill and precision. His eyes are transfixed on you, captivated by the radiant energy that emanates from your being. The way your hair sways in harmony with your movements only adds to the enchantment that surrounds you.

In this realm of the shooting range, you reign supreme, effortlessly exuding a confidence and elegance that captivates Gepard's heart. Your sheer presence transforms the mundane into something extraordinary, as if the world itself pauses to bear witness to your prowess.

"Quit watching and show up now." Startled by your commanding voice, Gepard's heart skips a beat, and he quickly steps out from his concealed position.

As his gaze aligns with yours, his eyes lock onto your own, and an ache pulses within his chest upon witnessing you. The burden of guilt and shame collide within him, engulfing his being. However, a profound transformation takes place within you, shifting from a hostile countenance to one of gentleness, and this metamorphosis drenches him in an entirely new sensation—an overwhelming relief.

Gepard, after years of knowing each other, could not mistake it; it was the identical expression you always bestowed upon him whenever your paths crossed—a gaze brimming with tenderness and solace. For Gepard, this sentiment had always been a rare treasure, causing him to fall deeper and selfishly desire that you reserve such looks exclusively for him, forsaking all others.

"What brings you to this place, Gepard?" you inquire, gradually loosening your grip on the bow, allowing it to rest by your side.

Gepard adjusts his posture, contemplating his purpose here. "I need to talk with you," he replies, his voice laced with intention.

"What matter?" Your prompt response catches him off balance, leaving him momentarily speechless before he regains his composure.

"Regarding what—" Gepard's words trail off as his gaze falls upon the lacerations adorning your fingers, evidence of relentless practice with your bow and arrow.

In an instant, Gepard's protective nature takes hold, propelling him towards you with urgency, his hand instinctively reaching out to cradle yours and examine the wounds you have endured.

His abrupt movement catches you off-guard, but you find solace in the fact that he has always displayed a touch of excessive protectiveness, especially when it concerns you or his loved ones. However, as your gaze lingers on Gepard, observing the worry etched upon his countenance, an unexpected surge of emotions floods your heart, lifting the weight that had burdened it since the fateful encounter in the Snow Plains.

As you take in the familiar sight of Gepard, unaltered and unswerving, a mixture of emotions wells within you. A subtle smile creeps across your face, a proof to the enduring connection you share and the immense comfort that washes over you, knowing that Gepard remains the same person you have always known and relied upon.

"Immediate attention is needed for these cuts, (Name)," he expresses with genuine concern. Without allowing you a chance to respond, he guides you towards a nearby bench, fully intent on tending to the unnoticed wounds on your hands.

Prioritizing your comfort, he motions for you to take a seat before recalling the box of band-aids thoughtfully given to him by his astute sister, Serval. It dawns on him that she must have foreseen the need for them, recognizing the significance of your cuts. Serval's perceptiveness proves invaluable in moments such as these.

Without a moment's delay, Gepard deftly retrieves a band-aid from his pocket, his nimble fingers delicately placing it over the cuts on your finger. With precision and care, he proceeds to repeat the process for each of your wounded fingers. His meticulousness stems from his desire to shield you from the risk of infection, ensuring that even the smallest cuts receive appropriate protection.

With a sigh of relief, Gepard carefully holds your hand within his own, scrutinizing each digit for any lingering wounds that might have escaped his initial assessment. His touch is tender, a delicate embrace that avoids adding any additional discomfort to your injured fingers. Unbeknownst to you, the mere act of holding your hand sends an electric surge through Gepard's veins, causing a flush to rise to his cheeks. However, he maintains his composure, refusing to let his emotions betray him at this moment.

As he completes his inspection, Gepard lifts his gaze, only to find your eyes fixed upon him, emanating a profound gentleness that seems to intensify under the enchanting glow of the moonlight. The exchange of gazes bewitched him, holding him captive in that fleeting instant, as if the world around them had momentarily ceased to exist.

"What do you want to talk to me about?" You ask, Interrupting the silence that envelops the two of you, you break the stillness with a simple question, pulling Gepard back to the present, where he realizes his purpose: to reconcile, to extend his heartfelt apology for his previous brusque behavior.

Releasing his gentle grip on your hand, Gepard shifts his gaze towards the target, a conscious effort to collect his thoughts. His eyes betray a hint of melancholy as the memory of your heated argument resurfaces, casting a shadow over their recent interactions. The disgraceful nature of their altercation, witnessed by his subordinates, weighs heavily upon him, filling him with shame. However, Gepard summons his courage, determined to rectify the misunderstanding and communicate the turmoil that plagues his mind.

"First and foremost, I extend my sincerest apologies for my earlier display of rudeness in the Snow Plains," he confesses, intertwining his hands together and tightening his grip as if seeking solace. "My intention was never to offend you. I simply allowed my frustration to overcome me, clouding my judgment and blinding me to the larger perspective at hand."

His words hang in the air as he continues, his voice brimming with a mixture of earnestness and remorse. The weight of his conviction is palpable, evident not only in the resolute timbre of his voice but also in the glimmer that adorns his eyes.

"Since our childhood, you have consistently been my savior, shielding me from the taunts and torment of others," he acknowledges, his gaze fixated on you as he speaks. "As we grew older, you remained by my side, a constant source of support, offering comfort and courage during challenging times. It was then that I realized how heavily I had come to rely on you. Your care and countless acts of kindness overwhelmed me, leaving me with a deep sense of inadequacy."

You meet his gaze, attentively absorbing his words. The sincerity in his voice resonates within you, a testament to your long-standing acquaintance with Gepard's mannerisms. But even if you were a stranger to him, the weight his voice carries and the confidence that emanates from his eyes leave no room for doubt.

"I began to question myself—when will I be able to provide you with the same level of support that you have selflessly given me?" he continues, a tinge of frustration lacing his words. "It felt like an insurmountable task, an overwhelming burden that left me doubting my own capabilities. And when you mentioned that I neglected my own well-being, it struck a nerve, reinforcing the notion that I am unreliable because I am incapable of tending to myself."

Gepard nibbles on his lower lip, his inner troubles laid bare as he opens up about his concerns. Initially unsure of where to begin, once he utters the first word, his thoughts cascade forth like an unyielding waterfall, pouring out without pause.

"I couldn't help but see the unfairness on your part. I want my time where it's my turn that you could rely on."

After that speech of his, there is a moment of stillness between you two. No one dared to speak, only the murmurs of the wind that you two could hear. 

"Why do you think that you're the only one relying on me, Gepard?" Your voice cuts through the quietness, causing him to snap his gaze towards you, perplexity etched on his face. You gaze ahead, your eyes fixed on the starlit sky, as if drawing strength and guidance from the celestial bodies above. "If only you truly knew the extent to which I rely on you each and every day."

Turning your gaze away from the celestial expanse above, your eyes meet Gepard's, a gentle smile gracing your lips. In that moment, your voice carries the weight of years of reliance and gratitude.

"From the very beginning, even in our childhood, I have relied on you," you share, your voice woven with a mix of nostalgia and sincerity. "You've been my source of comfort during my lowest moments, especially when I'm plagued by self-doubt and feelings of incompetence. You've offered guidance and reassurance, reminding me that I'm doing well and encouraging me to persevere. You've been my constant support, my protector, always there to lift me up. Like now, tending to my unnoticed wounds, caring for me in ways I sometimes overlook. You've helped me countless times, and I find myself feeling ashamed for leaning on you so heavily."

A soft laughter escapes your lips, lighthearted and tinged with a hint of irony. The realization dawns upon you that while you felt ashamed for depending on Gepard too heavily, he harbored the same sentiments towards you. The irony of your mutual concerns brings a sense of connection and understanding.

Gepard, on the other hand, is astounded by this revelation, realizing the depth of your reliance on each other. Yet, there is a secret he keeps tightly locked within his heart. Unbeknownst to you, he harbors feelings for you that he dare not speak aloud. Fearing the potential consequences and cherishing the friendship you share, he chooses to keep his emotions concealed, ensuring that their bond remains unblemished.

As Gepard absorbs your reassuring words, his heart swells with a tumultuous mixture of emotions. The realization that you hold him in such high regard sparks a cascade of feelings within him, stirring his soul to its very core.

"So, Geppie, you don't have to think about you being unreliable, because you are the epitome of a reliable person," you affirm with uncontainable joy, your beaming smile illuminating the atmosphere. Leaning closer, your height difference seemingly inconsequential, you affectionately pat his head, the gentle gesture conveying warmth and fondness.

In an instant, the world seems to blur as your faces draw impossibly close, an accidental proximity that steals Gepard's breath away. His heart pounds in his chest, the apparent tension enveloping both of you, rendering the surroundings insignificant. Your lips hover mere inches apart, and Gepard inhales sharply, his senses heightened to a surreal degree.

Under the ethereal light casting its glow upon you, Gepard's gaze fixates on the color of your pupils, a mesmerizing sight akin to stars twinkling in the night sky. The charged atmosphere crackles with intensity, ensnaring both of you in its captivating grasp. Locked in a shared gaze, Gepard finds himself irresistibly drawn to the magnetism emanating from your eyes. In that moment, you are a vision of sheer magnificence, a force he finds impossible to resist.

The allure of his long-suppressed romantic feelings intertwines with an overwhelming temptation, creating a clash that renders Gepard incapable of resisting the magnetic pull drawing him closer to you.

His eyelids droop, surrendering to the allure of the moment as he closes the remaining space between your faces. He registers the sharp intake of breath that escapes your lips, yet you make no attempt to retreat. Your eyelids gradually lower, a silent acknowledgement of the imminent connection between your lips. Gepard's desires triumph over rationality, surrendering to the intoxicating temptation that courses through his veins.

Just as the anticipation reaches its peak, a sudden clamor shatters the charged atmosphere. The sound of a falling trash can disrupts the intimate moment, forcing both of you to abruptly pull away. Your gazes shift, now fixated on the intruding noise, only to find a mischievous cat observing the unexpected turn of events before scurrying off into the night.

Awkwardness permeates the air as the realization of what almost transpired settles in. You and Gepard exchange glances, disbelief etched upon your faces. The impulsive surrender to temptation without careful consideration or assurances leaves you both taken aback, grappling with the intensity of the moment you almost shared. The hushed silence hangs heavy between you, an unspoken acknowledgment of the need to gather your thoughts and recollect yourselves.

Gepard was overcome with an overwhelming sense of embarrassment, surpassing any level he had ever experienced before. He couldn't fathom how he allowed himself to yield to such a powerful temptation, to entertain thoughts of a deeper intimacy. A rush of warmth surged through his veins, suffusing his cheeks with delicate shades of pink, creating a visible display of his shame.

With a heavy heart, Gepard averted his gaze, unable to meet your eyes, as if the other side held a refuge from his own humiliation. He instinctively brought a hand to cover his mouth, hoping to conceal the depths of his shame from the world. The weight of his actions bore down on him, threatening to crush his spirit. He felt utterly lost, uncertain of how to approach you or how to address the aftermath of what had transpired.

"A-Ah I guess I have to go!" Your voice trembles with an evident stutter, breaking the heavy silence that hangs in the air, yet the residual awkwardness remains, clinging to the atmosphere like an unwelcome guest. Gepard's gaze snaps to you, his face flushed with embarrassment mirroring your own. "It's already dark and I need to rest since I have matters to attend to tomorrow. See you later, Gepard, and please refrain from dwelling excessively on the matter!"

He opens his mouth to bid you farewell, to utter words that might bring some semblance of normalcy to the situation, but before he can form a coherent sentence, you swiftly dart away, vanishing from his sight in the blink of an eye.

The suddenness of your departure leaves Gepard momentarily stunned, his eyes lingering on the spot where you stood just moments ago, now void of your presence. The weight of the unspoken words hangs in the air, as if suspended by an invisible thread, stretching taut with unanswered questions and unexpressed emotions. He is left sitting there, with his flushed face and a tumult of thoughts swirling in his mind.

Left in solitude amidst the vast expanse of the shooting range, Gepard finds himself enveloped by the gentle caress of the night breeze and the ethereal glow of the moon overhead. His shoulders slump, a physical manifestation of his inner worries, as he seeks solace in the sanctuary of the bench. Lifting his gaze skyward, he releases a heavy sigh of shame, his arm instinctively rising to shield his eyes from the weight of his emotions.

The memory of the intimate moment you shared continues to swirl relentlessly within Gepard's mind, refusing to relent in its grip on his consciousness. The embarrassment that flows through him remains an indelible mark, tainting the otherwise serene night. And yet, amid the storm of self-reproach, there lingers a bittersweet recollection of your face, those closed eyes that seemed to silently anticipate what could have transpired.

The conflicting emotions within Gepard churn relentlessly, each wave crashing against the shores of his conscience. He is dumbfounded by the audacity that spurred him to act in such a way, bewildered as to the source of the courage that emerged from the depths of his being. Now, faced with the aftermath of this unexpected intimacy, he finds himself at a loss, unsure of how he will confront you when the sun rises anew.

Having already navigated the treacherous waters of misunderstanding between you, Gepard now finds himself grappling with yet another obstacle, a challenge that demands his attention. The weight of his choices bears heavily upon him, casting doubt upon his own actions and intentions. With a pang of self-doubt, he questions the course he has taken, his voice filled with a sense of helplessness and confusion.

“What am I even doing?”

[marislittlestories]

Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Mature | Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Spy Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Hogwarts Eighth Year

6/10 - one, two, three, four, five - read on ao3

january 1999 - may 1999

1999 starts with snow. It falls, slow and lazy, from a dark, overcast sky and covers the ground outside in a thick layer. It’s not quite cold enough to keep it in pristine condition, so it melts into an icy sludge by mid-morning, but for a few hours before the sun rises, the world is quiet and still and blanketed in glittering white.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Ginny shakes him awake while it’s still dark out, “We’re going to have a snowball fight.”

Draco stares up at her from his makeshift bed, “What time is it?”

“Nevermind that. Get up.”

He can’t refuse her. He hurriedly throws on his warmest clothes, including, of course, his very own iconic Weasley sweater, presented to him by Molly when he arrived at the Burrow a couple days ago. It’s a beautiful burnt-orange that brings out the nearly-invisible flecks of blue in his steel grey eyes. The crooked D is black and a slightly different texture. It’s possibly one of his most prized possessions, right up there with the aviators that Claire gave him over the summer and the copy of Darke Arts & Their Masters that he recklessly nicked from Bellatrix when he was sixteen.

They join the group outside. Hermione, Ron, Charlie, Bill, Fleur, and Percy are all huddled together, teeth chattering in the cold, brisk air. There’s just a hint of sunrise on the horizon, turning the sky brilliant shades of gold and red and pink. The flecks of snow drifting in the air gather on Draco’s shoulders and hair and stick to his lashes.

He crowds as close to Ginny as he can, watching as Harry and George make their way out of the house over to where the rest of them are waiting. George hasn’t been himself, not since the battle, not since Fred. Draco had known this, from what Ginny’s said over the past few months, but it’s different seeing it for himself. It’s different experiencing the force of George’s listlessness firsthand, face blank, strings cut.

In the time that Draco’s been here, just over two days, Harry hasn’t left George’s side for more than a few minutes. They’re always together, sometimes chatting quietly, but more often just sitting in silence. It makes some unnameable emotion surge in Draco’s chest.

It’s not quite jealousy, not quite pride. This is the person I have given everything to, Draco thinks, and he deserves it, he keeps deserving it. It’s a feeling resigned to its own fate, a burgeoning satisfaction made sharp by its hopelessness, made hungry by his bottomless desire. It’s a longing, a knowing, a vision of a future that will never exist, one where he could have that kindness, that unwavering loyalty and care for himself.

He thinks that if he had it, he may never be lonely again.

It’s such a bittersweet, maudlin line of thought that he stops it there. The rest of the world comes back into focus, and he only has to glance in Ginny’s direction to see the look on her face, naked concern and sorrow.

“You okay?”

She shrugs, and glances over at George and Harry talking, heads bowed together.

“I know it’s different for him,” she whispers, “But I’m worried, you know? He smiles and laughs now, which is a hell of a lot better than a few months ago, but… There’s this heaviness, like I can see the grief around him, and it just never leaves, not like it does for the rest of us.”

Draco sees it too, “Yeah. You were like that, during the summer. It won’t be like that forever, it might just take him longer to shake it, that’s all.”

She sighs and leans back into him. He breathes in the scent of her shampoo, something tropical and summery, at odds with the wintry landscape surrounding them, and he’s overwhelmed again, by love and despair and hope, by a million other feelings he couldn’t describe if he was asked to.

The intensity, the way it ebbs and flows, whiting out his physical senses for a moment, it’s all become familiar to him. After so much deliberate numbing, there was bound to be a little pain, a little discomfort when it all came flooding back in. It feels like his shower later in the morning, stepping under the hot water after being out in the snow. It’s a thawing, too sudden to be entirely pleasant.

The next time it happens, he breathes through it. He closes his eyes and he lets everything crash down around him and he catalogs everything he feels, bad things first. It gets easier and easier.

***

Pansy pulls him into an empty compartment on the train, throwing a tight smile over her shoulder at the rest of his friends, catching him off guard. He’s always been the one to turn back, to grab hold, to stay. He’s lost everything he hasn’t sunk his teeth into, and there is no better example of that than Pansy.

He doesn’t know what to do other than stare at her from the other bench. First year, Pansy had shown up to Hogwarts pale and almost disturbingly composed for an eleven year old. Her signature burgundy manicure was just one item on a long list of what set her apart, what made her instantly seem more mature, more sophisticated, more in control.

Her nails are neon pink. She looks anxious, but underneath it she’s well-rested. She even has a bit of a tan.

“Do you remember, in fourth year,” she says in a small, quiet voice, “We were talking about the Durmstrang students? You said it was sad to look at them, so sad that you had to look away.”

Draco does remember, so clearly, like it was yesterday, “Yes.”

“That’s how I felt with you, you know? I couldn’t see you without seeing the sadness, the misery, so I just… closed my eyes. I’m so sorry, Draco, I don’t know how I’m ever going to make it up to you, but I want to try.”

“It’s not your fault,” he replies automatically, “I knew what I was doing. I pushed you away.”

Pansy shakes her head as frustrated tears gather in her eyes, “But I knew it too. I knew something else was happening, even if I didn’t have the details, and I let you do it. I let you go off on your own, and it wasn’t because it was what you wanted, or because I was hurt. It was just because I was a coward. I didn’t want to face it.”

It stops him. Whatever platitude he was going to offer her dies on his tongue, and he just stares at her in shock and pain. His hands have always been empty, reaching. His feet have always been soft and bruised. He’s never thought about why no one has reached back, why no one carried him across the rough earth. He’s never had anything but the deep, abiding feeling that the loneliness that has plagued him for as long as he can remember is somehow his fault.

“I-” he takes in a long, shuddering breath, “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t want to face it either. I didn’t face it, not really.”

She sweeps him up in her arms and he spends the rest of the journey crying without shame or guilt or worry. He cries and he knows that Pansy will hold him, that she will shield him from the world for a couple hours, and when he is done she will not look at him differently.

***

They all sit together in the Great Hall, all of Draco’s people. Except Ella, of course, who is two tables over with her massive, eclectic group of friends. Ginny fusses over his bloodshot eyes and the general air of exhaustion around him.

“We only just got back to school. How have you already had a crisis?”

Draco laughs, “It was good, alright? I made up with Pansy.”

“Oh, thank Merlin.”

“You have no idea how close she was to locking the two of you in a broom cupboard somewhere,” Dean says.

“Hey,” Pansy starts with an air of nonchalance that immediately sets Draco on edge, “Where’s boy wonder?”

Ron frowns, “Harry? Something came up at the Ministry.”

“Whatever you’re doing,” Draco mutters, “Stop it.”

“If we’re going to have a mushy, Hufflepuff friendship, you have to let me scheme. For balance.”

“I absolutely do not!”

“It’s just your love life,” she whispers.

“Oh, if that’s all.”

“It could be worse,” she says, “Would you rather me interfere with your career prospects?”

“Yes!”

“Come on, it’s not so bad. You’ve got an in now. Mutual friends.”

“What exactly do you want me to do? Ask Ron to be my wing man? Have Luna say something vague and disconcerting about the love of his life being right in front of him?”

“Hmm,” Pansy drums a pattern on the table with her fingers, “I’ll have to think on that one.”

Draco peers at her with suspicion and terror, “What does that mean?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He’s going to, obviously, but he lets it go for now because the feast is starting and Ginny is trying a little too hard to listen in.

***

“This is a great start, Draco,” Professor Islington beams, “Really, really impressive.”

He blinks at her, frowning, “Seriously?”

The report is a mess of disjointed research and half-developed theories. The bulk of it is a sort of annotated bibliography, if an annotated bibliography was meant to be full of expletives and strings of question marks in place of intelligent commentary. He likes to think there’s some of that, too, but it’s dwarfed by the rest, a stream-of-consciousness dumping ground.

“Seriously! I know you probably wanted to have turned in something more polished, but nothing is ever polished when you’re in the middle of it. The ideas you have, though, and your grasp on the historical and theoretical… it’s all excellent. I did take the liberty of consulting with Professor Flitwick on some of the more complex Charm work, and he agrees. If he’s to be believed, you’re some sort of prodigy.”

Draco thinks of the way his hands shake every time he casts a spell, no matter how benign, “I wouldn’t take his word for it.”

“I think you’re onto something with runic enchantments and sentience. You’re not taking Ancient Runes this year, are you?”

He winces, “No, I know I’m rusty.”

She smiles, “Well, this is your project. I’m trusting you to make use of the resources available to you, and that includes asking for help if you need it, alright? I know an excellent professor of Ancient Runes who is currently on sabbatical and would be happy to consult.”

Draco thinks about it, and then he thinks about last term, how he let the project consume him.

“I think I have a better idea.”

He steals Harry’s spot at dinner that night, right by Hermione, “I have two questions for you, one of which I think I know the answer to.”

“What are they?” she asks, already laser-focused on him.

“Have you started on your capstone project? And because you’re Hermione, and you’ve definitely started, how attached are you?”

Ron tries to shush him, “We’re at dinner, mate, that’s an off-limits topic until we leave the Hall!”

Draco raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t get me started,” Hermione glares down at her plate.

“Is that a yes, and it’s not going well, or a no, I don’t know what to do and I’m freaking out about it?”

“The second, if you can believe it.”

Draco pumps his fist, “Sick. Listen, I have a proposition for you. My project is turning out to require pretty extensive Ancient Runes expertise, and I dropped that-”

“After fourth year, I know,” Hermione narrows her eyes at him, “This is the thing that essentially turned you into a phantom last year?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“I’m in,” she says firmly.

Ron groans, “I wish you’d never become friends.”

“I can keep an eye on him,” she says, “Make sure he doesn’t actually disappear into the ether.”

“Wow, thank you so much for the vote of confidence,” Draco mutters.

Dean, Luna, and Ginny sit down across from them. Pansy takes the seat next to Ginny. Out of their usual group, Harry arrives last, and after a second’s hesitation, he sits next to Draco, even though there’s enough space next to Ron for him. Sure, it would have meant that he was facing a random sixth year, but he could have done it.

Draco is hyper-aware of the sliver of bench between them, just a couple inches.

“No one has confidence in your ability to take care of yourself,” Ron says, prompting laughter from everyone else.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I? Anyways, I’ve gotten better! Haven’t I?”

Dean answers his imploring look with a shrug, “Sure, but when you’re at rock bottom, you can only really go up.”

***

On a Sunday morning in February, he plays his first full game of Quidditch in years. It’s the last phase of try-outs for the school team, all of the candidates that passed the initial rounds of skills tests playing together in a rotating cast. Draco plays with three different combinations of players; Ginny is in all of them, on his team for two and against him for one. She is a ruthless Chaser, and he wants, desperately, to play for her.

“Thank you,” she says breathlessly, pulling him into a hug on the pitch, “I know you weren’t the most enthusiastic-”

“I had fun. I’m glad I did it.”

She beams at him. They both make the team, starting line. Ella manages to slide in as a Seeker sub, and she nearly tackles him when they get the news.

“I did it, I did it!”

Draco hugs her close, “You did. I’m so proud of you, El.”

“Thank you,” she says quietly, almost shyly.

It’s such an unfamiliar tone that it takes Draco a few seconds to respond, “For what?”

“For training with me. I couldn’t have done it without you, you know.”

Draco smiles dopily at her, “Aw. You don’t need to thank me. What are big brothers for?”

She scoffs, “You forgot the annoying.”

“Sorry, what are annoying big brothers for?”

The endless slog of training, conditioning, practice once again punctuates his week, sets a rhythm to his life that he hadn’t realized was important. He feels better, more real, for it. He goes to bed every night with aching muscles, and yet he somehow has more energy than ever. That ravenous hunger that used to consume him, the need to win, never returns but there is something relieving about pushing his body to its limit.

Sometimes, he’ll feel it becoming something else, a convenient way to punish the weakest parts of himself. He’s better at catching these things before they happen now, and he pulls himself back from the edge every time. He takes an extra rest day. He piles his plate full at every meal. He even takes Dreamless Sleep when he has to, and he doesn’t feel guilty or out of control.

“Has it always been this simple?” he asks, mostly to himself, as they’re coming back from Quidditch practice one evening.

Ginny glances at him, “What?”

“I don’t know, existing?”

Ella rolls her eyes, shoving at his shoulder, “Why does everything have to be some great big tragedy with you? Sometimes things are easy.”

Except that hasn’t happened to him, not ever. Everything has been a constant battle, a fight to the death, a sacrifice and a trial by fire. Ella ruffles his hair and jogs to catch up to the rest of the team. He lingers on the path behind them, Ginny at his side, looking down at the soft moss beneath his feet.

It doesn’t hurt to love Ella or Marcie or his friends, not anymore, and if he took his shoes off right now, the earth would welcome him and cushion his step. Another piece, falling into place.

They walk on towards the castle.

***

The Gryffindor common room is nearly empty by the time he starts to pack his things up. He’d been working on the project with Hermione, but Ron had dragged her away from it nearly an hour ago and they’ve both gone up to bed. There are a few students that Draco doesn’t know scattered in various armchairs, but right around the fire, it’s just him and Harry.

Harry’s bent over a stack of parchment, a colorful array of plastic tubes lined up on the floor beside him. They’re some sort of Muggle writing utensil, and Harry seems to always have them when he’s studying. He’s pretty sure that Harry isn’t studying right now, mostly because he usually doesn’t look so upset when he studies anymore.

“What are you working on?”

Harry looks up at him from his place on the rug, green eyes tired and slightly unfocused, “Oh, it’s just Wizengamot shit. I fucking hate politics.”

Harry goes back to swiping color over the printed text. Draco thinks about slinging his bag over his shoulder and going to get some sleep, but he can’t quite make himself do it. The two of them are very similar, in some ways, and Draco knows what it looks like when someone is working themselves into a hole. He knows how hard it is to claw your way out of it, too.

“I could help,” Draco offers, cursing himself in his head.

He doesn’t need another puzzle to solve, but it’s Harry. It’s Harry, and he looks like he hasn’t slept well in weeks, and Draco knows he hasn’t been to any meals today. It’s Harry and Draco will never be able to look at him struggling with indifference.

Harry frowns, “What happened to fuck the world?”

“There’s a big difference between reading over a bit of legal code and recounting the worst years of my life for an audience. In detail.”

Harry ducks his head, ears turning red hot.

Draco sighs, “What I mean is, this is something I can do. If you want.”

He reaches out, palm facing upwards, and waits. Harry hesitates but eventually does hand the folder over to him.

“What is it?”

“As far I can tell,” Harry says wearily, “Garbage.”

Draco scans the text, noting the color-coded annotations in Harry’s atrocious handwriting. It’s impressive, despite being barely legible, and he’s right, too. A lot of the language is vague, superfluous. He’d have to consult existing law to be sure, but it doesn’t seem to do much of anything.

“And you said Robards is the one doing it?”

“Well, he’s not writing the bills, but he is letting them through and I can’t imagine this is anything but a coordinated effort.”

Draco nods, recalling the dinner with Hestia, months ago now. Robards may be an asshole, but he’s not an idiot. If he’s letting this gibberish through, and not actually coherent legislation, there’s got to be a reason outside of pure pettiness. Surely he doesn’t believe it would actually pass under close inspection.

“No, it has to be…” Draco thumbs between the last two pages again, “When are you going to the Ministry next?”

“Tomorrow. I have a free period in the afternoon, and I’m just going to skip my last class.”

Draco winces. He has a meeting with Professor Islington that evening, and a full slate of classes besides, but he’s been willing to die for this boy. Ditching is nothing.

“Yeah, alright. I’m coming with you.”

Harry bites his lip, “Are you sure? I don’t want to make you do something you’re not comfortable with…”

“Relax,” Draco smiles, “I’m the one who offered. I think I can get some information for you, and it won’t cost me anything but a little time. No big deal.”

Neither of them really believe that, but Harry doesn’t call his bluff. Draco tags along on his pre-approved Floo trip to the Ministry lobby, where he splits off from Harry and takes a lift up to the DMLE. Oliver Travers is sitting at his desk, tucked into a corner with a few other cubicles, scribbling something on a legal pad.

Draco raps his knuckles on the yellowed wooden divider, “Hey, Oliver.”

“Dray,” Oliver greets, face alight with something long-familiar to Draco, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

He winces, “I need something.”

“Ah. So not my dazzling conversation?”

“I’m sorry I haven’t stopped by earlier, I went away for a while, after everything,” Draco says, apologetic, “And I’m sorry that the first time I’ve seen you in almost a year is to ask for a favor.”

Oliver waves a hand in the air, dismissive, “Oh, don’t worry about that. You know I’m always happy to help, and I know you’re good for it. You always are. I’m assuming you need information.”

“Yes. It’s about the Wizengamot.”

Oliver glances around at the sparsely populated room, “I can give you something, but I can’t do it here.”

“I understand. Up for a field trip?”

Oliver follows him back down to the offices that line the corridors off of the Wizengamot chambers, and he’s clearly surprised when they pass Hestia’s and take another turn. Draco doesn’t bother knocking, he simply strolls into Harry’s office. Under Oliver’s watchful, heated gaze, it’s much easier to settle back into the smooth confidence that he’d worn like armor, back when he’d frequented the Ministry during the war.

“Oliver, Harry,” Draco gestures lazily, “Harry, Oliver.”

Oliver tilts his head, “Potter.”

“Travers.”

“Right,” Draco says slowly, “So you two have met.”

Neither of them seem to be eager to elaborate, so Draco shakes his head and drops it. This is above his pay grade, not that he’s getting anything out of this at all, besides a headache.

“Anyways, I looked over some of the legislation that Robards let out of committee last week, and if he doesn’t have ulterior motives, I have serious questions about his competence. And reading comprehension.”

Oliver laughs, “I’ve missed you, Dray.”

“Dray?” Harry mouths, expression dripping with judgment.

Draco rolls his eyes, “Any insights?”

He looks at Harry, gaze narrowed, “I don’t think I have to say this, but just in case, you didn’t hear any of this from me. I don’t know what’s going on, but I have my suspicions.”

“And are these suspicions supported by any observations, or…?”

“Robards has been meeting with a lot of Wizengamot members, but it’s an… eclectic bunch, to say the least. Not natural allies.”

“He can’t be courting votes,” Harry says, “He wouldn’t risk it.”

Robards’s position in the Wizengamot is powerful, but precarious. He acts as a gatekeeper, deciding which bills to put to vote and which to let die in committee. He is not an elected member, and he is strictly forbidden from engaging in political maneuvering, so if he is trying to influence voting he could be removed from his post and be in danger of losing his job as head of the DMLE as well.

“No, definitely not,” Oliver confirms, “The people he’s meeting with… the legislation he’s letting through… it doesn’t really add up, not to that. He’s not talking to anyone persuadable. I think he’s probably being very careful about that.”

“So what do you think he’s doing? I assume you’re not going to actually give us names.”

Oliver shrugs, “I’d give them to you, if I didn’t know you’d just tell him as soon as I left.”

Draco grins, unapologetic.

“I’ve heard some other chatter- I can’t repeat it exactly- but it makes me think certain factions within the Wizengamot are trying to test you,” he nods at Harry, “There have been some whispers, I guess, that you’re just a figurehead, that there are a group of people behind you, in the shadows, and you simply take the votes they tell you to.”

Draco gets so angry that he actually starts to shake, “Are you serious?”

“I mean,” Harry shrugs, “That’s not the most incorrect thing someone has ever said about me.”

Draco snorts, “Oh, yeah, because that’s a high bar to clear. Fourth year alone-”

“I’m just saying, that is essentially what’s happening. Hestia and Hermione are a lot better at this than I am, and I do rely on their judgment most of the time.”

“Don’t pull that shit with me,” Draco says, still incensed, “I’m not some decrepit politician whose brain has been rotted by twenty years in the Wizengamot. You did not stumble into this.”

Harry blinks at him, shocked into silence for a moment. He recovers quickly, opening his mouth, presumably to argue his point.

“No. I’ve seen your fucking annotation system.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Harry gets animated, and a thrill runs down Draco’s spine, “I basically copied that from Hermione, too. I didn’t do any of this myself, not really.”

Draco is alive, on fire, “Care to translate that for me?”

Harry simply stares at him, confusion and discomfort battling across his face.

“I think you’re forgetting that I have firsthand knowledge about Hermione’s note taking,” Draco says, “She hates writing on a text, even when it’s a copy, and she has to write down every thought she has or she can’t make them line up properly. She takes a truly insane amount of notes, but she doesn’t annotate shit. And yeah, they’re color coded, but based on a completely different set of criteria than yours. So, if I had to take a guess, I’d say that at some point, maybe when you got into politics last summer, you asked her for help with a legal text, and she taught you her system, which you then adapted.”

Harry doesn’t exactly confirm that Draco is right, but he does stop arguing.

“So,” Draco turns back to Oliver, who is clearly holding back a laugh, “What exactly is the objective here?”

“You know, that’s one of my favorite things about you. You take everyone completely seriously, and you make them take themselves seriously too.”

Draco sighs, “Focus, please.”

“They’re trying to trip him up with nonsensical legislation,” Oliver says, “They’re going to grill him in session, if I had to guess.”

“The only real solution, then, is to read through it all with fine toothed comb,” Draco groans.

“Yeah.”

Draco rolls his shoulders, “Ugh, to work we go then. Thank you, Oliver, I owe you one.”

Oliver stands and walks towards the door, pausing with his hand on the doorknob and turning back to Draco with a smile, small but no less dazzling for it.

“I think I’ve decided what you owe me, actually,” Oliver says, “A date.”

Draco tilts his head, smiling up at Oliver in exasperation, “I-”

Oliver holds his hands up, “You can say no, but it’s just one night. Give me a chance to convince you I’m perfect for you?”

They stare at each other. Oliver is earnest, sincere, and he understands Draco, all of the ugliness and dark, gritty truth. He’s seen the world Draco exists in, he’s been a part of it, lived it too. He knows what it’s like to plant your feet in the shadows.

Besides, Draco’s never been on a date.

“You get two hours,” he concedes, “Next weekend.”

Oliver’s grin widens into something triumphant and heated, “I’ll make a reservation.”

He leaves then, and Draco checks the time. He could make it back to Hogwarts for his meeting with Professor Islington, if he left in the next few minutes.

“I have to get back to the castle,” he says, “How many do you have left to read through?”

Harry answers reluctantly, “Eight.”

“Give me one you’ve already done, and five that you haven’t.”

“I can’t ask you to-”

“You didn’t,” Draco replies firmly, leaving no room for debate, “I said I would help, and I’m going to.”

He takes the folders from Harry’s outstretched hand. It’s not the first time Draco has wanted to take a piece of Harry’s perpetual burden, and it’s not the first time he’s reached out to grab it, but it is the first time Harry has given it to him, willingly, knowingly. It’s important in a way Draco can’t articulate.

Before he can make a move to leave, Harry clears his throat.

“It was during the war,” Harry ducks his head, looking down at the file open in front of him.

“What?”

“For a while last year, it was just me and Hermione, and we had to do a lot of research for,” he pauses, “Anyways. I’m not really good at this shit, you know, but I wanted to help. That’s when I started taking notes like this.”

Draco can’t fight the smile blooming across his face, but he doesn’t have to let Harry see it. He turns towards the door.

“I’ll see you back at Hogwarts,” he says, and closes the door softly behind him.

***

Pansy shows up in his dorm to drag him to dinner that night. Professor Islington had probably picked up on how distracted he was, because she cut their meeting short, after talking through the seemingly contradictory accounts of the Room’s relationship to Gamp’s Law. Draco wishes he could test his theories in real time, but if he could, he’d never have started on this project in the first place.

“I thought you weren’t going to do politics,” Pansy says, eyeing the folders spread across Draco’s bed.

Pansy knows better than to think that this change of heart is motivated by friendship. Draco is not that selfless.

“Shut up,” he mutters, “You know why I’m doing this. We really don’t need to talk about it.”

Pansy folds her arms, “Draco, we’re going to talk about it. I’m not going to lecture you, you know that, but… are you sure this is a good idea? That you want to do it?”

“I want to help.”

“And you promise this isn’t a power grab?” she grins.

He laughs helplessly, “Promise. Maybe it’s not very Slytherin of me, but world domination has lost its appeal. Besides, you’d probably be a better overlord anyways.”

“You’d be terrible. So inefficient.”

After dinner, she follows him back to his room and sits with him on his worn-in cotton duvet, handing him one of the fizzy Japanese drinks she always seems to have on hand, the ones with the glass marble inside. He breaks the seal of it with a pop.

“You don’t have to help, you know,” he says.

She picks up a folder, “Yeah, yeah. Explain Harry’s serial killer code to me.”

Harry goes to the next session of the Wizengamot armed with a stack of legal code, all annotated using his meticulous system. Draco hadn’t outsourced the reading beyond Pansy. He doesn’t know why Harry didn’t ask Hermione for help, and that wasn’t something he wanted to push back on.

When Harry shows up to breakfast the next morning, the storm raging in his eyes and in the tightness around his mouth have both vanished. He looks, for the first time in weeks, well rested.

He smiles warmly, incandescently, at Draco, “Thank you.”

Draco tries to remember that smile, when he has to go through the mortifying process of telling Pansy he has a date.

“I’m sorry, when did this happen?” she asks, delighted, “Was he really that grateful for your help?”

He frowns, “What?”

“Y’know, with whatever bullshit the ghouls in the Wizengamot were pulling?”

It takes him a second to understand what she’s saying, and then he giggles nervously, “No, no, Pans. The date isn’t with Harry. And if it was, I’d be extremely offended that you thought it was payback for a favor.”

“Oh, excuse me, sorry I assumed that you’d be going on a date with the only person you’ve been interested in since you were fourteen. What are you doing going on dates with random blokes? How do you get yourself into these situations?”

Draco winces, “As payback for a favor?”

Pansy is shrieking with laughter as she jumps onto his bed, kneeing him in the ribs in the process.

“Oh, fuck, ow, Pansy!”

She helps him select an acceptable date outfit, one of the few nice sweaters he has left and a pair of jeans without holes in them, and he ties his hair up while she yells at him to leave it down.

“It’s so pretty now, why would you even grow it out if you were just going to put up all the time?”

He tightens his ponytail, “I didn’t really mean to grow it out, it just happened.”

“Well, you’re certainly not allowed to cut it now!”

“It’s my hair,” Draco says.

Pansy stares blankly at him, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“It’s not like I was planning on cutting it,” he mutters, “But I could, if I wanted to.”

“Uh huh.”

The date itself isn’t so bad. Oliver had made reservations at the Indian place in Hogsmeade, and he was perfectly polite. Charming, even. The conversation flows effortlessly, and Draco finds himself laughing more and more as the night progresses. They blow right through the mandated two hours and spend the rest of the evening wandering around the shops, not really buying anything. It’s really just an excuse to keep talking.

And then Oliver walks him part of the way back to the castle, all the way to the gate that is charmed to only let students and faculty pass through, and Draco remembers that it’s a date.

Oliver steps into Draco’s space, brushing a hand over the lapel of his peacoat, “So, how’d I do?”

“On?”

“Convincing you that we’re literal soulmates?”

Draco laughs breathily, “I’m sure you’re very persuasive, but…”

“Mh. Are you saying you need more information? Another date, perhaps?”

Oliver’s smile is soft, inviting. He wants Draco, and he knows what wanting Draco means, and he’s everything that a thirteen year old Draco imagined.

There is just one, glaring problem. Draco doesn’t want him.

“I don’t think another date is going to change anything,” Draco whispers, taking a small step backwards, “I had a great time, and you’ve been wonderful, I just…”

Oliver nods, ducking his head, “Right.”

He puts more distance between them, and Draco wants to broach it, wants to comfort someone that he’s come to see as a friend, but he knows that it would be counterproductive.

“I’m sorry.”

“Is this the part where you say it’s complicated?”

Draco can’t help but laugh, “It’s the part where I say it’s actually very simple. I’m in love with someone who doesn’t particularly care about me.”

“Ah. That is a situation I’m deeply familiar with,” Oliver says with a miserable twist of his mouth.

“I-”

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s become something of a pattern for me. You are not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last person to tell me that they like me, just not as much as I like them.”

“Would it be awful of me to ask that we still be friends?”

Oliver shakes his head, as if dispelling the rain cloud above it, “No. I suspect we’ll be great friends, once I’ve found someone else to fixate on.”

“Let me know how that goes.”

“I promise, you will hear all about it. As long as I can hear about whatever tragic little story you’ve written for yourself.”

It’s not an inaccurate description. They part as friends, and Draco completes the trek across the grounds and into the castle, a little after curfew but not enough for him to be genuinely worried about getting caught. He slips into the common room with no incident and sleeps easily.

***

Ginny shoves her way into place beside him at breakfast, “What’s this I hear about you going on a date?”

“Would you let me eat before you launch the interrogation?”

“Late night?” she smirks.

“I was barely even late for curfew.”

“It was longer than two hours, then,” Harry chimes in.

Draco glares at him, which he silently congratulates himself on, “Fuck off.”

“What?”

“I agreed to two hours.”

“And Harry knows this because…”

“He was there.”

“Oliver Travers,” Harry offers, “Personally, he seems a little sleazy. I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”

Draco considers homicide, briefly, and then thinks about all the work he’s put in keeping Harry alive. It would be such a waste to kill him now.

“The guy at the DMLE?” Ron asks, leaning across the table.

“Yeah.”

“He’s not the worst looking person you could go on a date with,” Ron says, considering, “I know he didn’t go to Hogwarts, but still, very Slytherin. I can see it.”

Draco appreciates the support, however pointless it is.

“It doesn’t matter,” he groans, “There won’t be a second one.”

Ron nods like he knows something, “Bad kisser.”

“No, what the hell,” Draco buries his head in his arms, hoping that he’ll wake up in his bed and all of this will be a bizarre, terrible dream.

“If he’s a good kisser, why aren’t you going on another date with him?”

Draco elects to ignore the rush of speculation that spawns from that comment, and goes back to eating his breakfast. He’ll wait until it dies down, and then he’ll set the record straight.

There is an inevitable lull, and Draco clears his throat, “Okay, here’s what happened. Oliver helped me out with something, I agreed to go on a date with him in exchange. I knew it wasn’t going to go anywhere, and it didn’t. We had dinner and talked for a while, and then I turned him down when he asked about a second date.”

“Because he’s not the person you’re in love with,” Ginny says, like this is a fact everyone is aware of.

The entire group goes silent. Draco gapes at her.

“What? Claire literally announced it at my birthday party. This is not news.”

“Is that true? Are you in love with someone? Like, right now? Actively?” Dean asks.

Pansy bursts into wild peals of laughter, head thrown back and everything.

“I hate all of you,” Draco spits, and takes a croissant with him as he abandons the rest of his food and storms out of the Great Hall.

No one tries to come after him.

***

Ginny manages to catch him with his guard down after Quidditch practice later in the week, “Hey, can we talk?”

“I don’t know, do you want to tell another one of my darkest secrets to a captive audience?”

“Is it a secret if someone literally already told everyone in the audience?”

“Claire made one off-hand comment that no one but you seemed to take as indication of anything!”

“How was I supposed to know the rest of our friends are dumb?”

Draco snorts, “I’m not really mad, you know. I just don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Ginny fidgets, plays with the tips of her fingers and doesn’t speak. Draco certainly won’t be the one to break the silence.

“I just… I get it, okay?”

Draco looks at her, really looks at her, and he sees it. All the scattered puzzle pieces come together, the hints of it he saw on her birthday, everything he’s seen since…

“It’s both of them, right?”

He couldn’t imagine Ginny loving Dean or Luna in isolation, not seriously, not now.

Ginny nods.

“Well,” Draco says, considering, “I don’t want to rain on your misery parade, but we know Dean is at the very least attracted to you. Or he was at one point. And Luna is… she’s Luna. I think-”

He can’t finish the thought, because he knows how painful it is to dream, to imagine.

***

Occasionally, Hermione will indulge Draco’s sentimentality and they’ll work on their project at his old spot, across from the entrance to the Room. It’s a small comfort, to feel the gentle ebb of its magic, though it won’t appear. It means that it’s not gone, and even if they don’t manage to fix it themselves, their research may serve as the foundation for someone else to do it.

It will serve the students of Hogwarts again, eventually. Some other lonely child will stumble across it and it will become a refuge for them, just as it was for Draco.

“You call it the Room of Hidden Things?” Hermione asks absently.

“I know some people make the distinction between the static version of the Room and the Room in general, but I like the name. I think it works, given that it is hidden most of the time. Besides, that’s what I was introduced to it as.”

Hermione looks up, her focus intense and sharp, a blade pressing but not breaking the skin, “So someone showed it to you?”

“Not exactly. I found it on my own, but Dumbledore knew I was using it, and he called it the Room of Hidden Things.”

“Hm,” her face screws up into something annoyed, “I was under the impression that he didn’t know about the Room.”

“Why?”

“He never acknowledged it to any of us, even when it could have been useful.”

“Well, he always was supremely unhelpful.”

Hermione snorts, “That’s an understatement. I mean, do you know how much shit could have been avoided if he just told us point-blank that you and Snape were on our side? Or if he tried to actually prepare any of us for what he knew he was going to ask us to do?”

“I think it was probably a little different for me,” Draco says, “At least I knew what was happening most of the time, even if he refused to help.”

“Honestly the most frustrating part was not knowing what was going on with you.”

Draco laughs, incredulous, “What? Why?”

“Harry wouldn’t fucking shut up about it. He would oscillate wildly between thinking you had never done anything wrong in your life and being convinced that you were the next Dark Lord. This was like, a day to day kind of thing.”

“What the hell?”

“Yeah. I think it really freaked him out when you just suddenly stopped giving a shit about anything. In fifth year? Your grades dropped and you stopped antagonizing him and you sort of just floated through the halls, not really looking at anything. At first, he really thought you were in danger and we needed to help you, but… you know what fifth year was like. Dumbledore basically shut him out completely, and then Sirius died, and Harry stopped caring for a while too.”

“But-” Draco cuts himself off. He shouldn’t want to hear more, not when it will inevitably become fodder for anxiety and nightmares later, but he can’t help himself, “Was there something I did? That flipped the switch?”

Hermione, for all her intelligence, takes it at face value. Simple curiosity.

“No. He just got… angrier, I guess, more combative. He started going back and forth a lot, on everything. His moods changed so quickly. And then, one day, it stopped. He settled a little, and he started saying you were being coerced. That’s basically how it stayed until the war was over and we found out that you were a spy the whole time.”

Draco is relatively sure what day it was that changed things. He doesn’t want to think about it. He directs the conversation back to the project, back to the Room and the magic that binds it together.

“Maybe we’re overthinking this,” Draco says, “We can’t test the boundaries of the Room because we can’t get inside, but we can do some diagnostic spells from the outside.”

“If it’s still there.”

“It is,” Draco frowns, “Can’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“I don’t know, there’s like a hum? A frequency? A tone? Like a television that’s turned on but not playing anything.”

Hermione blinks, “Okay, we’re going to move past the fact that you’re familiar enough with TVs to use that comparison, because the implications of what you’re saying are… Draco, is it a feeling or a sound?”

“Feeling, but they’re not that different, you know? It’s all vibration.”

“Yeah, yeah, got it. Have you felt it before?”

Draco narrows his eyes at her, “Um, is that a trick question?”

“It’s really, really not. Does all magic have a vibration to it?”

“Yes?”

“Holy shit,” Hermione breathes, “That’s not, Draco, that’s not something everyone can feel, not even most people. It’s very rare to be able to sense magic that way, intuitively.”

“Alright?”

“I have to… I need to think about this,” Hermione mutters, already stuffing loose sheets of parchment into her book bag, “I’ll see you at dinner.”

***

The last of the snow melts away and dead things start to grow again. Draco’s life becomes full to bursting, some of it good and some of it bad, but none of it empty. He and Harry orbit around the same people, and they never quite touch. It’s manageable. In a quiet corner of his mind, there is something that wants more. It’s like a living thing, insatiable, and Draco keeps it on a leash. He restrains himself the same way that Harry does. He restrains himself in a way that is visible.

Dean sometimes still sends him concerned glances over dinner. Luna leaves little glass bottles full of things that Draco doesn’t recognize in his pockets. When questioned, she says they’re talismans for happiness or luck or on one occasion, a healthy sex life.

In some ways, he feels the least lonely he’s ever been. He feels less like a bruised flower petal, just waiting to be crushed beneath someone’s boot. He’ll be sitting at dinner, surrounded by his friends, and his mind won’t turn to war or death or venom at all.

In other ways, the chasm widens every day. The sadness that has been his constant companion his entire life might be slipping away, but it still feels like a loss, like a thing he needs to grieve. He’ll catch a glimpse of Harry, still too tentative, reserved, and it’ll pull him right out of whatever conversation he’s in. He feels like he’s in some alternate reality, a world apart from the rest of their friends, none of whom seem to notice how quiet Harry has gone.

He wonders if this is normal, to the rest of them, and it’s just the absence of hostility that Draco is seeing. Maybe this is how Harry has always been, when he doesn’t hate you.

But then Draco remembers that laugh, the rest of fourth year, Harry fighting and, on occasion, fighting back. He remembers the first in a collection of things he loved about Harry, the one he kept close to his chest, clutched in shaking hands; the obvious fear in Harry’s eyes, the way it didn’t change him at all.

They’re all walking back from another Hogsmeade trip, in the middle of March, and Draco keeps peeking over at Harry, too concerned to be careful.

“Hey,” Ginny says, bumping into his purposefully, “What’s been up with you lately?”

Draco shrugs. He’s still distracted, trying to figure out if Harry is tired or upset at something specific, something solvable, something Draco could fix for him.

“Is it because of the thing?”

“The thing?” he repeats, amused.

“The big embarrassing thing we happen to have in common?”

Draco loops their arms together and tugs her properly into his side. He supposes it is. As always, he’s let himself get swept up in the tide of Harry’s need and he’s forgotten that fighting the current is something he can do, should do. Logically, he knows it’s not entirely healthy to be so consumed by another person, especially one who will never reciprocate, but he doesn’t really know how to do anything else. He’s trying, and failing more often than not.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I know you said that you didn’t want to talk about it, but I’m here if you ever change your mind, you know that, right?”

“Of course,” Draco says emphatically, “Gin, you’re the best friend I think I’ve ever had. It’s not because I don’t think you’ll listen.”

She brightens, “Can I tell Pansy you said that?”

“Fuck, no, she’d actually murder me in my sleep. But, I don’t know, Pansy’s my oldest friend and there was a time when we were more similar, it’s just… you and me, we’re the same person. It was kind of scary how well I knew you without knowing you at all.”

“It was the same for me,” Ginny chokes out past building tears.

“Please don’t cry, then I’ll start crying.”

“Okay, okay,” she takes a few deep breaths, “Just to be clear, this isn’t me asking you to talk about it, but why don’t you want to?”

“It’s quite tragic. Doomed. I think I just don’t want it to take up so much space in my life anymore.”

Ginny tries, successfully, to trip him. He doesn’t fall, but he does stumble over his own feet, cursing.

“Fuck, you know I got clumsy, that’s not fair.”

Ginny doesn’t laugh at him, which is the first sign that she’s a little annoyed.

“Gin?”

“You’re being stupid, aren’t you?” she hisses, “Self-sabotaging.”

“Genuinely, no. I’m actually trying to do the opposite. Promise. I’m not just saying that it’s doomed because I don’t want to be happy. It’s… really, really not going to work out for me, seriously, and I let it be my whole world for a long time anyways. I’m trying to move on from something that’s hurt me, a lot, or at least get rid of the most painful parts.”

Ginny doesn’t look entirely satisfied with his response, but she doesn’t push for more, and the rest of their friends go along pretending that they didn’t hear any of the conversation.

***

Hermione drags him back to the seventh floor more and more frequently so she can pester him with questions about how the Room feels. They do some diagnostic spells, but with little luck. Hermione tells him, cagily, that she has reason to believe the Room is Unplottable, which seems like overkill to Draco, as Hogwarts itself is Unplottable. There’s a reason why students get hopelessly lost within it, and it’s not just the sheer size or the staircases. It is impossible to map the inner workings of the castle. In any case, the complex tangle of shielding and cloaking enchantments that go into making it Unplottable and invisible also make it impervious to most examination they’ve tried.

They can’t even confirm Draco’s pet theory, that the magic of the Room is anchored with runic enchantments engraved deep in the stone, the entire reason that he now has a research partner in Hermione.

He doesn’t need it, not quite in the same way he did when he first took on the project, but it’s still a place he felt safe, another thing he loved that has been ravaged by war. Maybe he can’t fix his relationship with his mother, or bleed the darkness from the Manor, or make Harry’s grief and guilt and pain disappear, but he knows this is something that can be repaired. He wants to be the one to do it.

***

The weather continues to get warmer, and Quidditch starts to take up more and more of his time. They’re the underdogs of the season, brand new to the league and fresh out of a war, but they fight through April and May, and they win more than they lose. As they approach the end of term, they’re ranked fourth, with a real shot at the final match.

Draco is proud of himself, but he’s prouder of Ella, whose mind is outpacing her body- for now. She may not be as fast on a broom as Draco quite yet, but she spends hours pouring over plays with Ginny and she’s better than anyone at corralling the players, bringing different styles and personalities together into one cohesive whole. She’s going to make an excellent Seeker, and an even better Captain one day.

The last match before graduation is grueling. It’s the only game they’ve played at home the entire season, and Castelobruxo gets an astronomical lead very quickly. They spend most of the game catching up, and Draco spends it distracting the other Seeker and waiting for the lead to narrow enough that catching the Snitch would actually win them the game.

They win by ten points, in the end. He hits the ground with a little too much momentum and practically rolls off his broom, snitch in hand.

Ginny tackles him into a sweaty hug, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Draco laughs, “You were brilliant, Gin.”

“I think this is the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

He catches sight of Luna and Dean behind them, hand in hand, wearing matching grins. He takes hold of Ginny’s shoulders, turns her around, and shoves her into their arms.

People are flooding the pitch, forcing Draco to fight through the crowd to get to Ella. She’s standing on the sidelines, smiling wide and beautiful. She does her best to deprive him of his hearing.

“You were so good! I can’t believe we made it to the finals!”

He tries to get some distance between his ear and her mouth, “Just think, next year that’ll be you.”

That seems to incapacitate her. She clings tightly to his hand as they start to look for Marcie. He isn’t afraid of losing her in the crowd. For a moment, he isn’t afraid of anything. The three of them, him and Ella and Marcie, collide and begin to jump around excitedly in a tangle of limbs. They’re laughing. Ella is crying a little.

He doesn’t know how to describe it. There’s a part of him that is deeply, deeply sad. He thinks maybe there always will be. It’s distant, though. There is so much more happiness in this moment, in most moments now, and it overwhelms the sadness. It drowns it out.

He heads off to shower and change, and then he meets them back at the path to Hogsmeade. Harry is there when he returns, chatting with Ella about how he thinks the match went. Marcie is standing beside them, looking bored. Her face lights up when she sees Draco.

“I have so much to tell you,” she’s smiling, but she says it very seriously.

He gestures for her to go ahead, and the four of them begin to make the trek to Hogsmeade. She regales him with the latest drama from her school. Lauren and the boy she likes- no, not Rowan’s ex-boyfriend, that was over weeks ago- went to the movies and he held her hand in the popcorn bucket.

Draco wrinkles his nose, “Wasn’t it greasy? That doesn’t seem very pleasant.”

“She said it was the best thing that has ever happened to her.”

He shrugs. Who is he to judge?

“And Becca got into a fight, like a real one, with punching and everything.”

“Becca? Sweet, sensitive Becca?”

Marcie nods furiously, “It was so cool. Not that hitting someone is cool, but it was a boy so.”

“Oh, that’s fine then.”

Andromeda and Teddy are waiting for them outside the restaurant, because Teddy is exercising his full lung capacity by shrieking very loudly. She hands him off to Draco as soon as they approach. He doesn’t mind a little crying.

He just bounces Teddy lightly on his hip, cooing in his ear, “It’s alright. It’s okay. You’re fine, aren’t you? Just a little upset. That’s okay.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” Andromeda asks, after she’s already passed him a burping towel and his teething beads.

Draco smiles at her, “Of course not. You can go in, if you want. If he doesn’t calm down in ten or fifteen minutes, we can take turns or something.”

She sighs in relief and kisses him on the cheek, “Thank you. My energy is not what it used to be. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m sure.”

Draco walks the length of the little alleyway beside the restaurant and talks softly to Teddy. He’s calmer after a few minutes, but everytime Draco stops walking or bouncing him, he starts crying again, so Marcie comes to grab his order and they get his food to-go. Harry offers to switch off with him, but Draco politely refuses.

“It’s alright,” he says, “I’m happy to take this shift.”

Harry doesn’t protest, but he does linger outside the restaurant for a moment too long, looking back at Draco with something that isn’t quite a smile.

Draco spends the evening outside with Teddy in the balmy night air, looking up at the stars and telling Teddy everything he can remember about Remus Lupin. He thinks about the summer with Marcie and the fall with Ella, how desperately he wanted to erase all of the bad things they’d seen, how futile the wanting is. There are some things that love just cannot fix.

But he can do this. He can listen to Marcie’s gossip and read the books she tells him about in her letters, he can do core workouts with Ella that border on insane and let her make fun of him, he can give them a family. He’s done his part to make the world a little kinder, a little more inhabitable for Ella and Marcie. He’s made sure that Teddy will not have to see the same horrors they did, the ones Draco did.

He just has to care. The rest of it, he doesn’t have to do alone.

***

Ginny flings herself onto the pitch next to him, panting.

“Fuck, that was the worst two hours of my life,” Draco gasps, “You’re actually sadistic, oh my God.”

“Baby.”

She’s been ramping up their practices in preparation for the final match of the season, which they’ll play against Durmstrang just after the end of term. If he’s honest, Draco doesn’t completely understand the fervor. It’s not like they really have a shot at winning, however miraculous their season has been so far.

“Stretch, shower, eat,” Ginny chants under her breath like a mantra, “Stretch, shower, eat.”

Still, it’s several minutes before they move at all. Draco goes through the motions of stretching his worn muscles, starting at the neck and working his way down his body, until he’s warm and malleable, until he feels as if he could be pulled apart like taffy. The hot shower almost puts him to sleep, and dinner afterwards actually does. He and Ginny doze off, ridiculously early, on the rug in the Gryffindor common room.

Draco has no dreams.

Ron wakes him a couple of hours later with an apologetic smile, “Things are about to get loud in here, if you want to go sleep in your dorm.”

He peers around the room, which is obviously being set up for an improvised party of some kind. A couple sixth years are pushing all of the furniture against the walls, and Neville is levitating a case of Firewhisky down the stairs and into the common room.

He blinks the sleep from his eyes, and finds that he’s no longer tired. Or, rather, that he’s reached a level of exhaustion that’s tipped over into restlessness. He could go back the dungeons, but chances are, he’ll have a hard time falling back asleep.

“No, I’m awake.”

“Do you want to stay then? It’s someone’s birthday, I think. Not too sure who.”

“Is that alright? If I stay?”

Ron is unimpressed, “Obviously. No one cares who’s here.”

It’s true, really. No one questions his presence, and once Ginny wakes up, he doesn’t feel out of place at all. She slings an arm around his shoulders, and they pass the next few hours getting steadily drunk and talking about absolutely nothing. He drinks away the ache in his muscles, and Ginny drinks away the thin veneer of sadness that she usually carries around.

“We’re never going to be together like this again, are we?” Ginny whispers in the dark, “After term ends.”

She’s already had offers from half of the professional teams in the United Kingdom, and though she hasn’t signed a contract yet, Draco knows she’s set on the Hollyhead Harpies. She’s just waiting on the final details, including what date she’ll have to report to training.

“No.”

“Sometimes I wish we could live in last summer forever, even though it was shit.”

Draco smiles, “Me too.”

But he knows that Ginny’s right. It’ll never be like that again, not really. He still has no idea what he’s going to do after Hogwarts, but he has this inescapable feeling that going back to Crawley Down would be like trying to fall back asleep and continue a dream that’s already over.

“I’m going to miss you,” Ginny sighs into his shoulder.

Eventually, he has to make the mad dash to the dungeons without getting caught. Curfew has become increasingly relaxed, but he’d still get in a lot of trouble for wandering around the castle in the middle of the night while obviously intoxicated. The riskiest stretch is the stairs. There’s nowhere to hide when you’re stuck on a moving staircase.

It’s on the stairs that he runs into Harry, who is presumably going up to the common room. Harry peers at him in the low light, takes a sniff, and recoils a bit.

“Draco,” he says, scandalized, “Are you drunk?”

“No,” Draco answers honestly. He’s a little tipsy, but definitely not drunk.

Harry sighs, “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Probably because I smell awful. That’s not my fault, though. Ginny spilled her firewhisky on me.”

Draco leans back against the railing of the stairs and waits for it to stop moving. It’s making him a little queasy. He’s always gotten motion sickness easily, unless he’s on a broom. He threw up on the train to Hogwarts his first year.

The stairs click into place, and Draco starts to descend. Harry follows him.

“Are you going to go back to following me around everywhere?”

He’s thinking about what Hermione said, about Harry changing his mind every day, and he’s wondering if Harry is still unsure. Not about whether or not Draco is a Death Eater, just… Hermione hadn’t understood him until recently. Maybe Harry doesn’t really know what to make of him either.

Harry reaches out to catch his elbow, “No. I’m just making sure you get back to your common room alright.”

“Oh. That’s very nice of you. You’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, you know.”

“I don’t know about that,” Harry says softly.

“You are. Even though you’re sad right now.”

Harry shifts to take more of Draco’s weight. The line of his body is warm and solid against Draco’s side, “I’m not sad.”

“It won’t last forever, promise. I thought I’d never be happy again but I am. It happens all the time.”

Harry doesn’t really respond, and the conversation is seemingly over. Draco can’t imagine ever getting sick of this. He knows it doesn’t mean anything- Harry is selfless, good, in a way that Draco is not- but it’s still nice. It feels like eating a warm dinner, sinking into a hot bath. His limbs are heavy, in a good way, and he knows that Harry has him. He’s not going to fall.

Harry doesn’t keep his word about taking Draco to the common room. Instead, he takes Draco all the way to his dorm and deposits him on his bed. Draco remembers the lightning bolt carved into the frame too late, but Harry doesn’t notice it. He’s too focused on taking Draco’s shoes off and Conjuring a glass. He casts an Augmenti, makes Draco drink it, then casts it again.

“That’s for the morning, alright?”

Draco nods. He doesn’t think he could speak, even if he knew what to say.

“Goodnight, Draco.”

***

Draco sits by the lake, staring out at the endless expanse of water. It’s not really endless, and he knows it, but his vision is no longer good enough to see the other side so he imagines that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

Only him, and the rocky beach, and the water.

Distantly, he can hear footsteps behind him. Harry’s distinctive scent, sandalwood and cloves and vanilla, washes over him as Harry lowers himself to the ground beside Draco.

“I think I owe you an apology,” he says, and the words are so startling, so incomprehensible, that Draco jerks violently.

His heart is already racing, mind telling him this is a trap, “Pardon?”

Harry sighs and drifts back, laying down and looking up at the sky, “I didn’t know.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Potter.”

“I haven’t brought it up, because Hermione said you might not want an apology and I felt like I owed you that much, but Draco…” he sits up again. Draco won’t look at him, but he can sense Harry’s restless movement, “I can’t keep not talking about it.”

“Hermione was right.”

He’s going to be sick. He doesn’t want Harry to say sorry. He can’t actually think of anything worse. It’s one thing to know that he didn’t deserve the treatment, it’s another to have someone actually say it. To have Harry say it.

“For sixth year, at least-”

“Does it matter?”

He looks at Draco with a strange expression, somewhere between confused and frustrated, “Of course it does. I almost killed you.”

Draco shrugs, “Like you said, you didn’t know I wasn’t really a Death Eater.”

“Even if you weren’t just acting on Dumbledore’s orders, and you really were a Death Eater, I’d still regret doing it. And what I meant was, I didn’t know what the spell did, when I used it.”

“I’m not upset about it,” Draco says, “If that’s any consolation.”

“It’s not.”

There’s a long silence, and then Harry manages to find something worse to say.

“I saw them. The scars I left. Last night, when I took you back to your dorm, your shirt rode up. I saw them.”

“Please. You don’t need to do this.”

“Look at me?”

Draco does, because he can’t say no to Harry. Harry’s eyes are so, so green. Right now, they’re sad and tired and a little desperate. He has the sudden thought that maybe Harry needs to do this, the same way Draco needed to sweat out the pain of last summer.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, and then waits for a while before he says anything else, “I wouldn’t have used it if I knew what it did. I already had serious doubts about how much you wanted to be doing what I thought you were doing, and when I found out that you had been on our side all along… it made perfect sense to me. I know that you were never the person I thought you were in the first place, and you certainly weren’t then.”

He takes a breath and breaks eye contact. Draco can feel hot tears building behind his eyes and he tries to hold them off, but he can’t.

“I know that crucio wouldn’t have hit. I know you didn’t mean it.”

Draco cries. He cries for a long time, and when he’s done, Harry is still there, still sitting beside him on the lake shore. He feels raw in the worst way. He doesn’t understand why Harry couldn’t have just left him alone, and for the very first time, he thinks he hates him. He hates Harry Potter.

So he tells him, “I hate you.”

“Would it be easier, if you did?” Harry asks, voice soft.

Draco laughs, and it’s wet and grating, but it’s genuine, “No, I don’t think it would. Couldn’t you have just listened to Hermione?”

“Eh, I think we’re at the point where there’s not much left we can do to hurt each other.”

If only that were true. Draco peeks over at Harry, and he’s surprised to find that Harry is looking at him too, with warmth and understanding and kindness. There’s always been something contradictory about Harry’s eyes, a steadiness at odds with how wild his body and his magic are. It feels dangerous, like a beast on a chain. His wand is out, just resting in his loose grip. Draco realizes, with a start, that it’s his. It’s the wand that Draco got at Ollivander’s when he was eleven, the wand that he handed to Harry during the final battle, the wand that killed Voldemort.

He shivers.

“I don’t know why I haven’t given it to you,” Harry says, rolling the wand between his hands, “It’s been eating at me, a little.”

And then he stills, face conflicted, and slowly extends it towards Draco.

Draco shakes his head, horrified, “I don’t want it.”

“But-”

“No.”

Harry laughs, but it’s an awful, painful thing, “I don’t understand.”

Draco can’t explain himself. He likes that the last thing he did with it, with the wand that had seen so much death and darkness, was hand it over. He likes that no matter what else happens, no matter where life takes them, there will always be a part of Draco there in the knobby wood, forever waiting to be called upon, ready to serve.

Though it’s not enough, not enough to quell the insistent demand for more, not enough to slake his thirst, it’s a small comfort.

“I don’t understand why I-” Harry pulls the words from inside himself, and it doesn’t sound easy, “I think it would have killed me, maybe, to give it back. I can’t… I haven’t used another wand, even though I feel guilty every time I pick it up, thinking of you without your wand. Mine broke, while we were on the run, and it was like losing a part of myself, and I knew I was making you feel that way, but I just couldn’t let it go.”

Draco lowers his head until it’s almost between his knees, “I gave it to you. You should keep it. I’m not sure if it would even respond to me now, and I had to get a new one before last term anyways.”

He could obsess over what it means. He could spend every waking moment thinking about Harry reaching for the wand when he needs something, about it becoming a part of him.

But he sees the waves coming, and he lets them crash over him, and then he lets them wash back out to sea. The unpredictable torrents of emotion haven’t stopped, but they don’t bowl him over anymore. He knows how to keep his footing. He knows how to keep himself from drowning.

There will always be a line that connects them, that tugs at Draco’s heart, but he’s stronger than the pull of it.

[likeniobe]

For this and other reasons, I should like to conclude these observations with a look at some lines from one of his [William Carlos Williams's], and modern America's, finest poems, one whose shape is still being used, or rather the outline of whose shape is still being used, by many poets. It is the first poem of his early sequence called Spring and All, and is a version of the reverdie, the traditional spring song which one finds in English verse from the thirteenth century on: By the road to the contagious hospital under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast––a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen patches of standing water the scattering of tall trees All along the road the reddish purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy stuff of bushes and small trees with dead, brown leaves under them leafless vines–– Lifeless in appearance, sluggish, dazed spring approaches–– This is a poem of discovery, of the gradual emergence of the sense of spring from what looks otherwise like a disease of winter. The "contagious hospital" is both a colloquial usage, by doctors and patients, for the longer name, and a hospital that is itself contagious, that leaks its presence out onto the road. The cold wind will be revealed as a spring wind, but not before the poem's complex act of noticing has been completed. The meter here is a typographic strip about 30 ems wide with a general tendency to break syntax at tight points (lines 3 and 4 are normal, rather than exceptional); but notice the traditional use of discovery-enjambment in lines 2 and 3––"under the surge of the blue" because of its audible dactylic melody aims the syntax at a noun version of "blue," a metonymy for sky. But the next line discovers its mere adjectival usage, appositively with "mottled," and the hopefulness of upward motion, the brief bit of visual and perhaps spiritual ascendancy is undercut by the bleakness of the wintry scene, and the totality of its non-greenness, even the exclusion of available blue. For the buds of the spring do indeed look, at first glance, like tumorous nastiness of the branch. But the poem moves toward the avowal of the discovery: "Now the grass, tomorrow / the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf." Its real conclusion, however, is revealed in the final moralization: "One by one objects are defined–– / It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf." The action of the poem is specifically discovered to be one of focusing; as one rotates a knob on the consciousness, the objects are defined, both in the world of the poem and by the poem, by poems in general. [...] This is as visual a poem in every sense as one could find, a soundless picture of a soundless world, its form shaped rather than incanted, its surface like that of so much Modern poetry, now reflecting, now revealing its depths and, as the conscious wind of attention blows over it, now displaying the wavy texture of its surface. Put together from fragments of assertion, it has virtually no rhetorical sound. But its shape has become a familiar one––particularly for contemporary poetry of the eye––about its possibilities, betrayals and rewards, about rediscoveries of the visionary in the visual.

john hollander, from "the poem in the eye" in vision and resonance, 1975

[666melvin666]

MEET BOB

TW: Death of a baby dragon, Fighting

Bob's colossal wings beat rhythmically against the brisk ocean breeze as he soared through the skies. The endless expanse of the sea stretched beneath him, its waves crashing against each other in a symphony of untamed power. The world below was a tapestry of blues and grays, a breathtaking panorama that had captivated the hearts of sailors and poets for centuries.

Hours passed in a timeless dance between earth and sky, and finally, the distant horizon revealed the outlines of land. The distant kingdoms were shrouded in an aura of cold mystique, their landscapes blanketed in pristine white snow that glimmered like diamonds under the touch of the sun's fading light.

He hated the cold but for now it would make a suitable place for a nest.  With a graceful descent, Bob's massive form touched down on the icy terrain near the outskirts of Abekan. His landing sent snowflakes scattering in every direction, each delicate crystal reflecting the hues of the setting sun. The air was cold and crisp, a welcome change from the warm currents he had left behind over the ocean.

Bob's keen eyes roved over the snowy expanse, taking in the jagged mountain peaks, frozen forests, and tranquil lakes that characterized the kingdom. He could feel the ancient magic that was woven into the very fabric of this land, a magic that whispered tales of frost giants, enchanted creatures, and long-forgotten legends.

As he wandered through the wintry landscape, Bob's senses remained alert to his surroundings. The soft crunch of snow beneath his massive claws, the distant echoes of howling winds, and the faint shimmer of the Northern Lights painting patterns across the night sky – all of these sensations converged to create a symphony of natural beauty that resonated deep within his monstrous heart.

It was during one of his exploratory flights over the snow-capped mountains that he sensed a subtle shift in the air – a presence that was both familiar and unexpected. Bob's instincts guided him towards the source, and before long, he found himself face-to-face with a smaller ice dragon.

The ice dragon was a stunning creature, its scales shimmering with an ethereal luminescence that danced with the colors of the Northern Lights. Its eyes, a brilliant shade of icy blue, held a mixture of curiosity and caution as they met Bob's gaze.

The frigid air of the cold landscape was suddenly pierced by a blazing inferno as Bob, the seasoned red dragon, summoned the primal force of fire from within him. The flames roared and crackled, an embodiment of raw power that bathed the snowy landscape in a radiant, fiery light.

The young ice dragon's reaction was swift and instinctive. He let out a fierce growl, his eyes flashing with a mixture of defiance and fear. His breath crystallized in the air as he countered Bob's flames with his own elemental prowess, exhaling a freezing blast that attempted to repel the encroaching fire.

The clash between fire and ice was a sight to behold – an awe-inspiring dance of opposing forces that played out against the canvas of the wintry kingdom. The air itself seemed to tremble with the intensity of their confrontation, and the ground beneath them quivered as if bearing witness to their titanic struggle.

The young dragon's hisses and growls filled the air, an expression of his determination to defend his territory. His wings beat against the icy winds as he attempted to take flight, his powerful muscles propelling him into the air. Yet, the fiery assault was unrelenting, pushing him back and forcing him to remain grounded.

Bob's flames surged forward, a relentless tide that engulfed the young dragon's icy defenses. The crackling of the fire mingled with the hissing of the ice, creating a symphony of clashing elements that resonated through the kingdom. The young dragon's scales shimmered as they bore the brunt of the fire's onslaught, his body tense with the effort of repelling the searing heat.

But as the battle raged on, it became evident that the young ice dragon's efforts were waning. The relentless assault of Bob's flames began to erode his icy defenses, his resolve gradually giving way to the overwhelming power of the fire.

Realizing the inevitability of his situation, the young dragon's growls transformed into a mournful cry – a final, defiant lament that echoed through the frozen air. His wings flapped desperately, carrying him into the sky in a last attempt to escape the fiery onslaught.

Before the younger dragon could fully comprehend the situation, Bob was upon him, his massive form casting a shadow over the fallen creature. With a triumphant roar that echoed through the skies, Bob sank his teeth into the younger dragon's vulnerable neck. The grip was unyielding, driven by the raw power that came with age and experience. The young dragon thrashed and writhed beneath Bob's grasp, his claws scraping against the earth as he fought desperately to break free. The icy breath that had once been his weapon now held no sway against the relentless assault of the fiery jaws that clamped down on him. His struggles grew weaker with each passing moment, his energy draining rapidly.

The red dragon jaws tightened with an unyielding grip around the younger dragon's neck, a deafening crack shattered the air. The sound echoed through the frigid landscape, a grim symphony of finality that reverberated within the very bones of those who dared to witness the brutal clash.

Time seemed to slow as the young dragon's struggles ceased abruptly. His once defiant form went limp, his eyes losing their fiery spark as life ebbed away. The world itself appeared to hold its breath, as if in acknowledgment of the irrevocable shift that had occurred.

Slowly, as if releasing the breath, he had been holding, Bob's grip loosened, and the lifeless body of the fallen dragon slipped from his powerful jaws. It fell to the ground with a soft thud, surrounded by the pristine blanket of snow that had borne witness to their conflict. Just as the red dragon planned to dig into his meal a roar of agony tore from his throat, echoing across the frozen landscape as his wings flared out involuntarily. The dragon's fiery eyes shifted from the lifeless body of his fallen foe to the source of this unexpected assault.

And there she stood, a figure both diminutive and daring, her presence a stark contrast to the sheer magnitude of the dragon. Clad in furs and leather, the woman exuded a fierce determination that was as unwavering as the frigid winds that whipped around them. Short blond hair danced in the icy currents, framing her face like a halo of sunlight against the wintry backdrop.

Her stormy gaze met the dragon's, her expression a mix of defiance and resolve. With a poised yet swift movement, she drew another spear from her back, her actions a testament to her unyielding courage in the face of such a formidable adversary.

The dragon's instinctual rage flickered, caught in the crosscurrents of emotion. But then, as their eyes locked, something extraordinary happened. His fiery aura of anger and dominance seemed to waver and dissipate, replaced by a softer intensity that bordered on reverence. His massive form, once poised to strike, now tilted downward in a regal bow, an acknowledgment of her presence that transcended the brutal realities of their encounter.

Instead of retaliation, a low rumble of sound reverberated from the dragon's chest, a resonant purr that mingled with the icy winds. It was a gesture both unexpected and astonishing – a dragon's version of yielding, an offering of respect.

The woman, though initially taken aback by this unexpected change, held her ground. Her grip on the spear remained firm, her eyes narrowing as she studied the dragon's reaction. She had faced countless challenges in her harsh environment, but this encounter was unlike any she had ever experienced. “why did you kill HIM?? AWENSER ME!! HE WAS A PUP YOU FERAL BEAST!” The half orc practically screamed into the dragon’s enormous face. The dragon, Bob, fixated on the woman, his piercing gaze holding a mixture of surprise and intrigue. The sheer audacity of her words had sparked something within him, a curiosity that cut through the centuries of his existence. He had expected fear, submission, perhaps even further aggression, but not this – not a defiant demand for answers and an expression of grief for a fallen foe.

As her words echoed in the frigid air, a low growl resonated from deep within Bob's chest, a sound that held a myriad of emotions. He watched her, his immense form still, the air around them seeming to shimmer with an unspoken tension.

The woman's voice, filled with sorrow and anger, continued to pierce the silence. Her words were a challenge “Answer me at ONCE!!! I know you dragon´s are cruel but killing a pup of your own kind?! WHAT SAY YOU NOW??” The dragon's eyes bore into hers, and then, almost imperceptibly, he lowered his massive head, his gaze shifting from her to the lifeless body of the young ice dragon. There was a momentary stillness, a pause in the dance of their interaction.

And then, with a resonant exhale that billowed out as a cloud of steam, Bob spoke. His voice was a deep rumble, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the very ground beneath them. “It would have grown and become a danger to me...I needed to kill it before it could become a threat” The woman's expression remained unyielding, her eyes locked onto his. Bob's nostrils flared as he continued, his words a reflection of the age-old traditions that had shaped his existence.

“It was a pup! A youngling barely a year old! You should be ashamed of yourself!” she screamed in his face. Bob's massive form remained grounded, his attention shifting from the woman to the approaching guards. With each powerful step, the guards closed the distance, their expressions a mix of concern and urgency. Bob's keen senses picked up the distinct scent of the dog-like odor emanating from one of them, a scent that spoke of familiarity, perhaps even camaraderie.

As the guards reached the scene, John's voice rang out, a mixture of warning and worry. "Patty, back away!"

The woman, Patty, turned her gaze briefly towards the guards, her expression still marked by a combination of grief and defiance. Her eyes met Bob's once more, a silent exchange that conveyed a shared understanding of the unfolding situation.

The dragon's nostrils flared as he regarded the guards, his posture neither aggressive nor submissive. His stance was a display of neutral vigilance, a readiness to respond if necessary but also a willingness to engage in a dialogue.

"Easy, big fella," Jack's voice was calm, a soothing attempt to defuse the tension that lingered in the air. He extended a hand towards Bob, a gesture of non-threatening intent.

John, the guard with the dog-like scent, remained cautious, his eyes fixed on the dragon as he positioned himself protectively in front of Patty.

"We don't want any trouble," John's voice carried a firmness that belied his smaller stature. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a silent reminder that he was prepared to defend those under his charge.

Bob regarded the guards, his instincts attuned to the nuances of their words and actions. And so, with a final, lingering look, the dragon turned his gaze skyward, his wings unfolding as he prepared to take flight once more. The guards watched in a mixture of awe and trepidation as the magnificent creature ascended into the heavens, his form becoming a speck against the vast expanse.

As Bob disappeared into the distance, a sense of wonder and uncertainty hung in the air, a reminder of the fleeting encounter that had bridged the divide between human and dragon. John's eyes widened in a mix of shock and concern as he hurried towards Patty, his heart pounding with worry. He reached out instinctively, his calloused fingers gently grasping her shoulders.

"Oh god, are you okay?" His voice was a mixture of relief and exasperation, his gaze sweeping over her form, searching for any signs of injury. The intensity of the situation was etched on his features, his brow furrowed with a combination of fear and frustration.

"Patty, that was a dragon! Are you insane!?!?" His words were a mixture of incredulity and disbelief, his tone a blend of genuine concern and a touch of scolding. He couldn't fathom how she had managed to confront such a formidable creature, and his mind raced with a thousand scenarios of what could have gone wrong.

Patty's gaze met John's, her own eyes reflecting a stubborn determination that matched the fire that blazed within her. She offered a faint, wry smile, the corners of her lips curling upward despite the gravity of the situation.

"I'm fine, John," her voice held a mixture of exhaustion and triumph, a testament to the complex emotions that had driven her to face the dragon head-on. "It was a calculated risk."

John's expression shifted from exasperation to a grudging admiration as he assessed Patty's resolute demeanor. He released a sigh, a mixture of relief and resignation, realizing that Patty's daring spirit was unlikely to be tamed. "Calculated or not, Patty, you scared the living daylights out of me” John scolded harshly.

[your-divine-ribs]

No Nut November Part 2

Words: 4.2k

Warnings: SMUT! Van asks you to sit on his face. No plot whatsoever, just porn - I’m going to hell for writing this story it’s so dirty I’m sorry ha ha 🫣😂

Imagines Masterlist Main Masterlist

Read Part 1

November starts off cold and wintry with fat, heavy raindrops lashing against Van's window and the wind whistling dramatically, awakening you from your sleep. Or maybe it's not the inclement weather that's disturbed your slumber, but something else.

You'd fallen asleep with Van's arm draped over your waist and you're surprised that it's still there. He's normally a restless sleeper, changing up his sleeping position frequently in the night. You'll often wake with him halfway down the bed, his body twisted at a bizarre angle, but the fact that he's snuggled in so close to you, head nuzzled into the back of your neck, body pressed up against you, tells you that he's already awake. That, and the sensation of something rock-hard digging into your ass.

"You awake?" You mumble groggily.

"Nuh-uh," comes the reply, and you feel him inch even closer, his fingers slipping under the cami top of your pyjamas, lightly brushing your skin.

"Liar," you giggle, wriggling a little at the ticklish sensation. This is how it usually starts. Tentative touches, featherlight fingertips tracing patterns on your skin, shivering you through with goosebumps. Next it'll be whispered words in your ear, the warmth of his breath on your neck, soft kisses scattered lazily across any available expanse of bare skin. Sometimes you'll feign resistance just to prolong his sweet advances. Sometimes you'll give in straight away, turning around in his arms and crashing your lips into his.

But today is different altogether. It's November after all.

"Mmm... babe..." he murmurs, his lips connecting with your bare shoulder, his hand gently caressing the soft skin of your belly.

"Ye-es?"

You draw out the word, smiling to yourself as you feel him pushing his hips gently against you. Another kiss is pressed to your shoulder.

"I had this amazing dream last night..."

You can hear the grin in his voice as he speaks.

"Oh yeah? What happened?"

"Well... you were in it. And you were bloody insatiable. It was like you were sex-crazed! You couldn't keep your hands off me. You were ripping my clothes off and everything!"

You laugh. "Sounds like a nightmare!"

"Fuck was it... it was the best dream I've ever had. Reckon it's because of our hook up in the pub toilets. Ya know it was dead sexy when ya took control like that."

You push your bum back into Van's hips, hear him sigh in appreciation. You probably shouldn't be teasing him but you can't resist it. It's only day one of course so he should be absolutely fine. He's only got another twenty-nine to go after he's made it through this one.

"Oh, you liked it did you?"

"I loved it, I wish you did it more." Then he adds quickly "I mean I'm not complaining about how we usually do it. It was just hot... really hot."

His voice is low and throaty and he plants another kiss on your shoulder, wetter and more lingering this time, his lips dragging over your skin. You can still feel his rock-hard cock pressing into your bum and his hips move again, subtly grinding into you.

You remember Van once telling you that there was a reason for his usual early morning horniness, something about hormone surges on waking. You'd just laughed and joked and asked him when he wasn't in the mood. Again you wonder how he ever thought he'd be able to last for a whole month without blowing his load.

"Does it turn you on then?" You ask, feeling the glow of your own arousal start to bloom at the feel of his warm body pressed up against yours just so.

"Mmm... yeah," he sighs, his hands moving upwards over your ribs, fingertips just brushing the underside of your breasts. "I'm turned on now just thinking about it... massively."

You bite back another giggle. "I did kinda notice. Got woken up by your massive boner digging into my ass, didn't I?"

"Can't help it after that dream. Can't get it out of my head now. Maybe we could like act it out or something? I'll let ya do whatever ya want to me?”

His voice raises up hopefully at the end like he thinks his sordid offer will be enough to make you give in to his advances, and to be honest it usually would be, but you marvel at the fact that he might have already forgotten the challenge he eagerly accepted just the night before.

You roll over on to your back and then keep going until your body's angled towards him, propping yourself up on an elbow so you can look down on him, smirking to yourself at the prominent bulge straining against his boxers.

"You forgetting something Van?"

You raise your eyebrows at him questioningly, placing a palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady pounding of his heart. He looks gorgeous anytime, but you can't help but think how irresistible he looks right now, his sleep-tousled mousy brown hair splayed out on the pillow, his full pink lips moistened as he licks at them with a thoughtful expression.

"What... it's not like an important day or something is it and I've gone and forgotten?"

He looks mildly panicked for a second and you frown at him. "How drunk were you last night?"

This just makes his puzzlement grow. "I wasn't that bad, I mean yeah, I'd had a few... more than a few, we both had... but I remember everything perfectly. Not gonna forget last night in a hurry though am I love?"

His lips pull into a grin as he trails his fingers over the waistband of your pyjama shirts, dipping lightly inside. You reciprocate by sliding your own hand down over his chest, then his ribs and the small swell of his tummy, stopping at the elastic of his boxers, tugging it with your fingers.

"I'm not talking about the sex, I'm talking about the... errr... agreement we made. You're not telling me you've forgotten about it already are you?"

Now he looks really confused, his brow furrowing into a comical expression.

"Jeez Van... talk about short term memory loss... or maybe it's just selective."

"I don't know what..." he begins but then he stops, abruptly, realisation dawning on him as the memory comes trickling back to him. His fingers instantly still their sensual dance on your hips.

"Oh god... I've remembered now... that bloody no nut thing. Seriously? We're really gonna do this?"

"Well..."

You smile mischievously, letting the elastic waistband of his boxers snap back lightly against his skin, running your tongue over your teeth before you catch your bottom lip, playfully seductive.

"I mean you did accept the challenge last night, but if you don't think that you're up to it..." you pause, your eyes flicking down to his obvious erection. "Umm maybe that's the wrong choice of words..."

Van looks conflicted, his competitive steak battling with his libido which just happens to be in overdrive this morning after his smutty dream.

"Ahh fuck.... what ya trying to do to me, huh? Ya trying to kill me, I swear!"

You ignore this, your hand that was toying with his underwear moving towards your own midriff, peeling the top of your pyjama shorts down to show the pink lace of your panties, tucking the tips of your fingers under the waistband, looking him right in the eye as you speak. "Of course it's only you that this applies to if you accept the challenge. I can still come... as many times as I like."

Van's brows furrow into a little peak as his mouth falls agape, his eyes pooling with desire. "You drive me crazy, ya know that? How the hell am I gonna manage the whole month with you teasing me like this?"

Your hand begins a steady descent towards your aching heat, pulsing now at the thought of a sexually frustrated Van watching you get yourself off. You'd always been so eager to give him pleasure before, hearing his needy groans and watching his face contort as he lost control, but somehow the idea of denying him that pleasure is just as much of a turn on. Especially if you get to hear him beg.

"Come on... you're not gonna fail on day one are you? I mean, I knew you'd find it tough but seriously?"

"But you're not playing fair babe," he complains, his voice tight. He can't keep his eyes off you as he watches the tell-tale movements of your hand beneath the cover of your shorts, and when a small moan slips past your lips his eyes darken all the more. "Aren't I even allowed to touch you?"

"I don't think you've been good enough," you say, dipping a fingertip inside yourself, gathering some moisture which you spread upwards over your clit, sighing deeply.

"At least let me watch," he whines, tugging at the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down, your panties slipping down at the same time as they slide down your hips. You let them go, shifting on the bed to assist him, kicking them down your legs and off as Van watches on.

"Remember no touching, yeah?" You smirk, pushing your hips forwards and spreading your legs to give him a better view as your fingertip slides over your folds, dipping again into the warm wetness between your thighs.

Van doesn't answer straight away and you see his hands stiffen as they rake at his thighs as he struggles to fight his urges.

"Fucks sake..." he groans, one of his hands wandering upwards, brushing against the bulge in his underwear, making himself shudder.

"I said no touching, okay?" You repeat, more sternly this time, and he mutters out an agreement. He looks desperate as he watches you pleasuring yourself, his eyes hooded and clouded with lust. You can tell he wants to reach out and touch you, or touch himself… but he can't do either. He's being good... obedient. This thought just makes you even hotter, wondering how far you can push him. His begging words and pleading tone from the previous night echo through your mind, arousing you even more.

"Oh god... that feels so good," you murmur, your words merging into a moan to demonstrate to Van exactly how good it feels as you plunge a finger into your soaking core, feeling your slickness coating it as you slide it in further and then add another finger, beginning to pump them in and out at a slow pace.

It feels amazing, but as pleasurable as it is, it's nothing like when Van touches you. You gaze longingly at his hands which are now clenching into fists and then flexing open as he fights to control himself. His fingers are so long and skilful and he knows your body so well that he can usually bring you to the peak of climaxing within minutes.

"Wanna touch you so bad," he whines. "Or myself. Not sure if I can take this."

You ignore him, increasing your efforts, your fingers sliding over your drenched flesh, the other hand rising up to push up your top, pinching and tugging at your stiffened nipples. You're so close.

"Think I'm gonna come soon," you moan breathily, arching your back as you start to feel small swells of pleasure radiating from deep down, your breathing getting ragged and urgent now.

Van looks the picture of desperation, his eyes darting about wildly, flicking between your face to your breasts to between your legs on a continuous cycle, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he gets more and more turned on. Seeing him yearning for you like this is a dream, you feel powerful and in control and your mind starts to wander, imagining how you might punish him if he gives in... no... when he gives in. There's absolutely no way he's going to manage to last all month. You just know it.

"But I wanna make you come," he suddenly blurts, his voice choked and hoarse, thick with desire. "Please Y/N. Even if I can't come at least let me touch you. I really wanna touch you, wanna kiss every inch of you. Wanna taste that sweet pussy of yours."

Fuck...

His filthy words travel straight down to your core, fanning the flames that are already burning brightly, your resistance wavering at his pleas.

"Please baby... please..."

And then before you can react he's reaching for your hand, pulling it upwards to his parted lips, his tongue flicking out to taste you, sighing a passionate appreciation as he licks your juices clean off your fingers. You're so turned on you could practically come from just watching him, your heat throbbing for a release after your attentions.

"Fucking hell Van," you murmur, your whole body feeling hot, your cheeks glowing as he looks at you with desperate, pleading eyes.

"Wanna go down on you... please. Or even better... sit on my face. Fuck... I want you to do it so bad. I've been dreaming about it for ages. Just 'cause I can't come doesn't mean I can't get you off does it?"

His voice rises up, high and tight, and your breath catches in your throat, your heart jumping like you've just been shocked. It's not that you're shy or a prude. Van knows every inch of your body intimately, and you think he'd probably spend hours nuzzling between your thighs if given half the chance, but there's something about his request that makes you hesitate. The act just seems so brazen, so much more intimate. You'd be completely exposed to him in a way that makes your heart pound and your cheeks flush an even deeper shade of scarlet. But you'd be completely in control and the thought thrills you, imagining him lying beneath you whilst you use him entirely for your own pleasure.

"I want to... it's just..."

You pause, mind scrambling, not being able to think straight as Van tugs at your top, pulling it up over your head as you raise your arms up to allow him.

"Just... what...?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, leaning forward to capture your lips with his. You can taste the slight tang of your arousal on him and it ignites your passion even more and you hook a leg eagerly over his waist, grinding yourself against him. You feel a slight wetness on his boxers and you're not sure if it's from you or if he's so turned on he's leaking pre-cum already.

"Fuck babe... you can't do that," he croaks out in a strangled whisper as he pulls away. "That's not bloody fair. Come on, climb up. Let me take care of you. You trust me right?"

"Of course I do," you reply. "It's just that what if... what if..." you hesitate, giggling as you know the words are ridiculous before they've even left your mouth. "What if I... suffocate you?"

Now it's Van's turn to laugh, and the sound is low and deep, rumbling in his chest. "Course you're not gonna suffocate me love... and if ya do... well I can think of worse ways to go!"

You both laugh then, but Van's laugh dies away quickly, his eagerness to taste you taking over, pushing himself back and away from you, taking his position flat on his back a short distance from the headboard. He beckons with his hands and an earnest look in his eyes, full of heat and lust. You glance down at his plush pink lips as he licks at them, filthy images running through your head about how they'll make you feel. You know then that you can't wait any longer.

You pull yourself up to a sitting, then a kneeling position, fingers grasping the headboard. Your cheeks are aflame, but it's not the only part of you. You're positive you'll actually burst into flames the way that Van's looking at you, his eyes fixed firmly on your already glistening pussy as you tentatively raise up a leg to move across him, straddling his shoulders and resting yourself on his chest. You're self-conscious as you feel your wetness connect with his bare skin, but the friction makes you groan nevertheless.

You look down on him lying there, so eager to please, and your eyes meet briefly before they flick away, back to your heat. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips again and you feel excitement lurch in your belly at the anticipation.

"Come on," he urges, fingers curling keenly around your thighs, trying to lever you forward. "You look so good like this. Wanna fuck you with my tongue."

You lift yourself up, meaning to manoeuvre yourself into place, but you don't get chance. Van's grip on your thighs tightens, clamping on with force, pulling you down towards him, his breath fanning hot on your thighs.

"Van!" You gasp out loud, resisting for all of about two seconds before you let yourself sink lower. You don't have much choice in the matter anyway, he's much too strong, but in any case as you feel his lips connect with the flesh of your inner thighs, pressing warm, wet open-mouthed kisses there you're a lost cause.

You screw your eyes shut, feeling the sensation of his tongue as he licks a long, thick stripe right up your centre and you can't hold back the loud groan that erupts from you. Your eyes flick open to look down on him where you find his eyes on yours, looking right back as he sets to work, tongue flicking over your clit, laving at it like you're the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. A moan of pleasure and appreciation falls from him, sending vibrations right through your core. You almost come undone there and then from his unwavering eye contact which just heightens everything, your body flooding with heat.

"Fucking hell," you breathe, feeling his grip tighten vice-like on your thighs, dragging your hips down even further. You hadn't realised that you were holding back, your body taut, bracing your legs to allow him some space, but it soon becomes clear that he doesn't need or want that space. He wants you closer, as close and you can be. He wants the sensation of your slick core on his face, quite literally smothering him, and who are you to deny him... especially when it feels so good.

"Relax babe," he splutters out, pulling away momentarily. "Let me take care of ya."

So you do.

And then it's not just his tongue, but his lips too, even his nose rubs deliciously against your clit as he licks and sucks at every part of you, impassioned moans emitting from him as he works you over. It's quite possibly the most heavenly sensation you've ever experienced, and you feel your self-consciousness dissipate like your soul leaving your body, evaporating away, leaving nothing but your want and your need, and your desperate desire to get yourself off. You press your hips forward, eager for more, grinding against his face.

His fingers are digging deep furrows into the flesh of your thighs, holding you steady. It's like he can't get enough of you, like he means to drown in you. The sights, the sounds and the heady scent of you overwhelming him, intoxicating him as he delves his tongue inside you, lapping up your juices.

You gasp his name again, feeling the coil in your gut winding tight, threatening to snap. His tongue drags over every fold and dip, exploring you fervently. You're so wet now from your arousal and his saliva that you can hear the lewd noises his mouth makes on you, wet, smacking noises that mix with your urgent whimpers and his groans, a symphony of sound that drives you into a frenzy. You push your hips back and forth to increase the blissful friction, and you dimly wonder how you ever felt self-conscious.

"Oh god!" You almost howl as his tongue flicks over a particularly sensitive part, and he hones in on your pleasure, pursing his lips around your bud and sucking until you're almost seeing stars. Every little movement he makes feels more intense in this position, increased by the undulation of your own hips, giving you the control to guide the bliss flowing through you.

"I’m so close!" You gasp out, feeling your body tighten, every single fibre of you screaming out for your release.

You feel Van shift beneath you, his fingers flexing on your thighs, and you ease up your pressure, rising up slightly to look down on him as he breaks away briefly. He looks an absolute vision lying there, smile stretched wide across his lips which are glossy from your arousal, as is his nose and chin, in fact every part of his face, his cheeks flushed and his eyes darkened with a glaze of lust and desire. He's panting slightly.

"Are you okay?" You ask, suddenly aware how unequal all of this is, trying to imagine how turned on he must be and for once you have no intention of returning the favour, a dark part of you actually enjoying this notion.

"Yeah, yeah," he murmurs, like he's in some kind of trance, looking up at you with awe. "Want you to come all over my face Y/N. C’mon… I wanna taste ya so bad.”

And even as the words leave his lips, he's pulling you down again in a sharp movement which catches you by surprise, almost making you lose your balance as your slick heat presses against him once more. This time you chase your high, bucking against him at exactly the right spot, using him like he wants to be used, each thrust of your hips bringing you closer to your peak.

"Fuck... fuck... FUCK!" You hiss out, the coil in your gut finally snapping, a blissful wave of euphoria washing over you, your legs trembling and your whole frame shaking. One hand drops down to his hair where you grab a fistful, tugging it harshly at the roots, the other gripping the headboard so tightly that your knuckles turn white.

You can feel your thighs tensing involuntarily as they squeeze around Van's head as you ride out the high of one of the most intense orgasms you've ever experienced. It takes you a while to come back down to earth, finally falling to the side in a heap on the mattress as you do, your legs reduced to jelly. Van lies next to you, panting to catch his breath, blissful grin stretched ear to ear like it does when he knows he's fully satisfied you and you almost feel sorry for him when you glance down to see the painfully hard erection tenting his boxers. Almost... but not quite.

"That was amazing love," he sighs. "Fucking 'ell though, I'm so turned on I almost came in my pants!"

Then he tips his body on to the side, propping himself up on an elbow, wiping your cum from his mouth on the back of his hand. "How was it for you?"

He beams at you and you grin back, still feeling that hazy post-orgasm bliss. "So good, I don't think I can even walk now. My legs have turned to mush!" You giggle, mirroring his position, reaching out a hand to drape it over his waist.

"You're fucking amazing you know," you purr. You lean your body into his, raising up your leg again to wrap over his hip. "I'm such a lucky girl."

You're aware that your body is connecting with Van in just the right place... or should that be the wrong place... but you're in the mood to tease, fully sated now as you are. Despite Van's earlier protestations about playing fair no ground rules were set last night, so as far as you're concerned it's fair game.

"Mmm... you are," he agrees, a shudder passing through him as you softly grind your core against his hard dick, your hard nipples pressing up against his bare chest. Then you see his features darken. "But you're also a very bad girl."

"Me?" Your voice is soft, the picture of innocence, pretending you're not aware of the effect that you're having on him.

"Yes... you," he almost groans, pushing your leg down, untangling himself from your arms with determination. "I know what you're trying to do and I'm not losing this challenge. I'm strong, I can do this. You just wait and see."

His tone is tenacious and you're quite surprised. You can see his pained expression as he tries unsuccessfully to adjust the bulge in his boxers, frowning at the damp patch which has definitely grown. He gets to his feet, still grimacing, forcing a challenging smile as he looks down on you lying there, naked and inviting.

"Where are you going?"

He huffs animatedly. "Bloody cold shower. What do you think?"

A loud laugh forces it way free and he smirks sarcastically at you before he turns to leave the room. "We'll see who's laughing shall we when I win this challenge and then I get to do anything that I like to you."

"Not happening Van," you shake your head even though he's walking away. "Not happening. Get ready for your punishment!”

"We'll see about that," is his reply.

"Yes we will," you smirk to yourself, wicked plans swirling through your head. "And no wanking when you're in there remember!"

Part 3

[racfoam]

I’m going to call the Harry didn’t escape from the graveyard nynn AU be proud because I can’t keep writing the full title.

Warning: Underage, Non-Consensual Kissing

Harry couldn’t see where they Apparated very well. The air was no longer wintry or suffocating and melancholic as it was on the graveyard. The air here was fresh and clean. Trees surrounded them, stretching out into the horizon. Must be a forest. They could be anywhere in Britain, any part of the country dense with forests. It didn’t help narrow it down.

Harry tried to move, to scream, hoping to alert someone. Surely there was a village nearby, a settlement. Something, someone.

All her efforts to break free and move turned to naught. The Silencing Charm was too powerful, the Immobulus just as equally difficult to break through with sheer force alone. Her mind was jumbled, exhausted, aching from too many events and emotions experienced all at once. It felt much like the state after a History of Magic exam, where Harry needed to go outside and sit under a tree for a bit. Or the entire afternoon.

Growling gutturally, the rumbling vibration moving across her throat, Harry could do nothing but endure the caging embrace of those abhorrent, skeletal, long arms. Harry wanted to peel her skin off at the places where the fingers touched her shirt. She was sweaty, she hurt all over, she was thirsty, and she was scared and tired. So very tired. Her head felt fit to burst.

Voldemort started walking forward, through the forest. Harry couldn’t see where he was going with her immobile head resting on his shoulder, forcing her to endure his scent — snowflakes and sea. All Harry saw were trees. No roads, no lights, no fire. Only trees.

Harry decided she hated these trees.

Harry focused on breathing not to have a panic attack while Voldemort traversed through the darkness, not producing a single sound. The snake trailed in his left. It, too, was silent. No hissing, no demands for food. Nothing.

A door opened. Harry startled. A door? Was there a house?

The snake slithered inside, onto the floorboard, and Voldemort stepped past the threshold. The doors shut with a heavy locking sound; like they were doors of a vault, not the main entrance doors.

Gas lamps flickered on, lighting up on their own the moment Voldemort approached them. It reminded Harry of the hearth columns in Hogwarts. The hallway had dark green wallpaper and ebony floorboards. They didn’t go far from the doors, only a few paces, before another door opened, and Voldemort stepped in, walking — somewhere.

Then, Harry was deposited with such carefullness she did not think Voldemort capable of on the green couch. It was the softest couch Harry has ever laid on. Why was Voldemort lying her down? What was he going to do to her?

The red eyes broke contact with her own, turning down to her right leg, bone disjointed and bleeding.

Sweat trickled down Harry’s temples and neck. She felt very hot, it felt like her skin was burning. Was she having a fever?

Voldemort drew his wand. Harry’s heart rate increased by a thousand of its normal speed. The white, large, skeletal hand reached down to the hem of Harry’s trousers. The long, spidery fingers curled under the fabric, and pulled it up, to Harry’s knee. Then, her shoes and socks were removed, too, slipping off her foot on their own, turning momentarily sentient.

Voldemort hovered his wand over her dislocated foot and bleeding calf. Harry felt like a soft, watery blanket draped itself over her leg. It lasted a few moments, before the red eyes narrowed.

“Your ankle is twisted,” he said.

Your fault, thought Harry, glaring up at him, directly into the red eyes, hoping he could hear her thoughts. All your fault.

“I’m going to reset it,” he said calmly. Harry’s eyes bulged open, mind blanking with shock. He was going to do what?

Before Harry could think to finally surge some magic in an attempt to break the binding of the Immobulus, Voldemort moved, settling his cold, cold, freezing hand over Harry's foot (it was larger than Harry's foot) and curling his fingers over the bone, not putting any pressure to enhance the hurt. In fact, he treated Harry’s foot as carefully as he treated his wand. The place where his hand and fingers touched turned warm, soft. That familiar feeling of being touched by sunlight returned, right on Harry’s injured foot.

He pressed his wand to the exact place of the bone. The worst thing that could happen was that he vanished the bone, like Lockhart did two years ago, and it was a funny thing, to realize Lord Voldemort was a much better at healing than Lockhart.

Voldemort made no incantation. He simply hovered his wand over the spot, his red eyes razor-sharp, focused.

Harry wasn’t ready for the twisting pain, for the snap of the bone moving back into place. She growled loudly, clenching her eyes. The pain was fierce, but it was soon soothed by the gold melting inside and outside Harry’s foot.

Voldemort was using the bond to soothe Harry through the pain.

He could have at least counted to three.

Voldemort's lips curled into a sly smile. “And prolong the pain?”

Harry moved her eyes away from his. Voldemort passed his wand over her foot again. Harry felt the same fleece of magic as before.

“It is back in place,” said Voldemort, answering Harry’s unasked question. Harry no longer felt the horrible ache in her foot. Voldemort removed his hand from the foot, and the sunlight and gold retracted with his hand, too.

Voldemort passed his wand over the bruise and small bleeding on Harry’s calf, and then he took her right arm. His thumb caressed over the words, and momentarily, Harry was blinded by stars and gold, and her heart was enveloped by the soothing sunlight which originated on her wrist where Voldemort touched. She could feel the cut skin of her forearm mending, a wet sensation of water cascading over her skin, closing the cut the dagger made to provide Harry’s blood.

Satisfied, Voldemort pocketed his wand. Suddenly, his serpentine face entered Harry’s periphery, his smile bright and broad; it reminded Harry of a grinning shark. Red eyes swallowed her whole, and fingers cradled her cheek preciously.

“Harry,” he whispered, voice close, every syllable a song.

Red eyes stared at her in wholehearted fascination, like Harry was the only magic in the world.

“My soulmate,” he whispered reverently.

The fingers caressed paths of stars across Harry’s cheek. Voldemort released a laugh, one of disbelief and joy, mixed with something like relief and wonder.

He bent down, and claimed Harry’s mouth with his lipless mouth, red eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy, index finger and thumb cupping the sides of her face tenderly.

The kiss made Harry see stars and eclipses. The heat of Voldemort's lips pressed to her own was scalding hot, like lava. Voldemort kissed Harry slowly, carefully, yet fiercely and passionately, and his emotions poured into Harry, leaving her numb, tingling. His pleasure, and his happiness — it was all Harry knew for those moments.

The lips pulled away. Everything faded; the sunlight, the stars, the gold. It felt like being hit straight in the gut with the Stunning Spell, blasted down to the ground. Harry was staring up into the red eyes. The slits were expanded, formed into almonds. Their main focus was Harry; she could see herself in sharp clarity, reflected in Voldemort’s crimson eyes. Harry realized there was something wet on her cheeks. Without a word, Voldemort brushed the tears away.

Voldemort nuzzled Harry's cheek, like an overly affectionate snake. How Harry wished she could move. All she could do was lay there, endure Voldemort’s affections. Her lips burned, it felt like deadly poison lingered on them.

“To bed, darling,” said Voldemort silkily, picking Harry up, one arm under her knees and the other cradling her head.

Harry felt like she was about to break down, start crying in that moment. How many times did she dream of being picked up like all those princesses in the cartoons she watched as a child? Voldemort's skeletal arms were surprisingly strong, holding Harry easily. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. She’d rather be dropped on the rug and left to sleep there than this.

“The house is under the Fidelius Charm,” he said as he walked down the hallway. “It is warded, and Unplottable. Nobody will find it.”

Voldemort pulled Harry close, his grip tightening, possessive. “Nobody will find you. Nobody will steal you away from me again.”

Harry fought back tears.

“This is where you belong, Harry,” he said, while Harry’s eyelids turned heavy, lowering. She was going to pass out... The darkness of sleep was almost welcoming.

Voldemort’s sibilant voice was the last thing Harry heard before sleep claimed her.

“With me.”

[oldsoulnewmoon]

graves of poe.

l. my mortal image a wintry sheath of sovereign thoughts surging like a tempest within my veins ll. it was the dark root of a nightly forest with tangled paths like breaking stone lll. you dug me out of those trenches and loved me back to health lV. a suffering servant thine godly priests I did not believe V. a soul returning from death? Vl. you have nourished my breath softly whispering with pieces of my heart a feeble murder land   Vll. you made it wholly again

[curlslovekpop]

Yule’s Embrace: A Magical Christmas Encounter 🪵 🔥

-—————–———

Word count: 421

Genre: Fantasy Fluff

Pairing: Lee Jinki (Onew) x OC Black Female

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Amidst the wintry woods, a clash of traditions sparks an unexpected bond between a spirited witch, Cemi, and the warm-hearted Lee Jinki.

-———————

Chapter 1: Clash in the Winter Woods

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Jinki Lee moved through the woods, his steps leaving imprints in the pristine snow. His shoulder-length hair, a dark contrast against the winter backdrop, occasionally caught glimmers of sunlight that danced in the frozen air. He carried himself with a sense of purpose, the nostalgia for familiar traditions etched on his face, unaware of the tempest about to descend upon him in the form of Cemi.

With the determined intent to cut down a small Christmas tree, Jinki raised his axe. The silence was shattered as Cemi emerged from the swirling snowflakes, her presence commanding and fierce. Her eyes blazed with an intensity matched only by the fury in her voice.

"What madness is this?" Her words sliced through the tranquil atmosphere.

Startled, Jinki faltered in his explanation. "I... I just wanted a tree for Christmas. It's a tradition I've always followed."

Cemi's frustration surged, her anger uncontainable. "Tradition? Christmas? You desecrate these woods for your self-centered revelry!"

Jinki attempted to reason, but Cemi's ire refused to subside. "I understand your reverence for Yule, but Christmas holds deep sentimental value for me."

Cemi's eyes flashed with unbridled fury. "Sentiment does not justify the ravaging of nature! This tree, in its tender years, harbors the promise of life, and you would extinguish it for your own ease!"

Their debate escalated, words becoming heated in the icy air. Jinki's explanations fell on deaf ears as Cemi's frustration only intensified, her anger crackling like the frost around them.

"If harm befalls this tree upon my return, I shall cast a curse upon you!" Her voice, a thunderous declaration, reverberated through the woods.

With a whirl of her robes and a resounding boom of thunder, Cemi vanished into the snow, leaving Jinki standing amidst the solemn stillness, a mix of shock and determination etched upon his visage.

Determined to honor his cherished tradition without harm, Jinki braced himself against the biting cold, his thoughts consumed by the challenge that lay ahead amidst the silent embrace of the wintry woods.

—————

>>> Chapter two

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

△ "Does it scare you knowing you're just another beings puppet? Something to play with and disscard as soon as it gets tired, that'd scare me. Maybe you you really didn't deserve what happened to you and you aren't what people forced you to fit the mold of? I've covered plenty of stories like that. People who think they're utterly irredeemable, because of how society forced them to be and how crippling it is when they realize they're not that way at all." - Sable @ dbd Robibi

✧ ━━ 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 △ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 DEAD BY DAYLIGHT VERSE Difficulty Rating: 9/10

The man cast his gaze downward upon the salt circle where the girl was situated, did she hope it would offer her solace or serve as a barrier if he decided to not play nicely? Such a flimsy little thing could never be a proper bulwark, especially not when her questions itched and dug at the ever-deepening hole situated in his chest. Each one forced his mind open to memories; foggy as they were. Sable's soothing, delicate almost caring inquiries failed to provoke even a hint of warmth within him ━ instead a frigid chill penetrated his entire being. He ... didn't deserve what had happened to him? Ah ... it had been so long that it had become but a dream; a blurred reflection on the wrong side of a looking glass. Yet still somehow it blossomed into clarity.

He was suddenly dreadfully aware of how his skin sat on his bones, the damning silence within his ribcage, and how the blood barrier of his brain was beginning to bubble with uncertainties and long laid to rest horror. An image was thrust to the surface of his consciousness: his skull pulses matching the torrent of blood gushing through his wintry lashes to cast a red veil over the world. The rhythmic thudding of boots relentlessly striking his knuckles until half of his fingers were broken; the single thrust of a blade into his back forcing him to teeter on the edge of oblivion's stupor. Voices echoed in the cavernous depths of his memory, each slice trying to goad him to expose an imagined devil lurking beneath his soft spoken demeanor.

He remembered it, just for a moment; the soil beneath him whispering his name as he fell deeper into a numbing void. Robin felt himself floating deeper and deeper into the immeasurable cosmic ooze; unequivocally alone while the voices shrunk into oblivion. His body tightened into a crystalline husk ━ frozen in time with only the taste of pickling bile to comfort him. Had his tear ducts not dried up he would have wept as he ebbed in and out of existence all together. How many days had he been stuck here? Was it days? Hours? Years? Eons? No. No no no no no no no ━

I’m still alive. My body is still here.

Was it? Was he? Had he ever existed at all?

Our Lord Jesus Christ, to the world to save and to set me free. I trust in your power and grace that sustain and restore me. Loving Father, touch me now with your healing hands. Touch me, O Lord, and fill me with your light and your hope. Please Lord hear me - please save me please save me save me save me save me save me save me save me save me save me ━

Golden light flooded into his eyes and nearly blinded him, yet the burning sting across his dried cornea was one of the most wonderful things he had ever felt. The world slowly dripped into place once more and eventually color began to return, and his skin prickled with a cold breeze. The dappled sunlight flitted across his stagnant stare as the minutes ticked on, and he took the time to listen to each sound the forest produced. A thrill surged through him, as the melodic chorus of birds heralded the break of day; their nests stirring to acknowledge the rising sun. The crickets sang in brilliant unison, while the trees and foliage nearby whispered softly to him; each gentle breeze over his person felt like a wave of prayers.

For a span of three nights he stayed stuck in place, denied the bracing sensation of winter's fae dancing upon his exposed flesh. His mind was too clouded, and his thoughts meandered aimlessly through a labyrinth of questions. Something had heard his prayers and bestowed upon him this renewed opportunity, as though he were Christ. His heart wept when he witnessed the sun ascend and descend thrice in the horizon before he finally felt his nerves reignite and remind him of how he had ended up here. Verdant eyes bubbled with tears - he was far too overstimulated to do much else besides wail and dig his nails into the soil. Robin choked up as he blinked the gritty tears from his eyes in order to gaze down at his twitching fingers; he savored the brief respite and quiet before being interrupted by a nearby sound.

A dog barking and a familiar face rushing over towards him ... Who was that?

Another splinter of ice pierced his brain and began unweaving the intricate network of nerves and veins threading together the thin blanket of his current reality. And hidden beneath the layers of membrane, was a town full of living flesh gasping and retching on the fetid airs of their rotted kin. Each one bled dry and carved into grave meat; and when his cup ran dry he cleaved through the next flesh sac. Men, women, children ━ all were harvested until the village became a crypt. Snowfall that marked the end of England's winter was marred by the remains of the deceased, leaving death stains upon the pristine white landscape ... Then he saw Her.

Her coaxing fog gave rise to a pale horse that beckoned him onward into a realm awash with blood and anguished shrieks of those She deemed unworthy of Her sacred radiance. Power was given unto him ... to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. The time of Judgement had come, had it not? In the course of his existence, a trio of horses - white, red, and black - had been by his side; it was now his time to accept the generous offer of reins extended to him by Her grace and love. To become the fourth rider with Her to walk by his side, jaws open and receiving the victims slain by Her devote servant.

"Something to discard? Oh no, my sweet ewe, you have failed utterly to see the destiny that lies before us all. Little Lamb, yours is the blood that will dye the robes of the faithful into white. Mine is the blade that will sacrifice you to our beloved God. Each one of Her creations plays a part, and She will guide us."

His body ... it was his, wasn't it? Yes. Yes. He chose to walk into the fog, he remembered that clearly; what else was there to do? Lay himself to a second final resting amongst the corpses and carrion of that accursed town? Or join in Her army of angels sent to slay and bring about the end of days? Perhaps those mangled villagers from his town had been right about his talent for sin, but his cruelty was rewarded with a Heaven of comfort and safety. He would never have to worry for his immortal soul again; God had already chosen him as Her scion.

Perhaps those mangled villagers from his town had been right about his propensity for wickedness, yet his sins were compensated with a Heaven of tranquility and security. As if something like this pathetic creature could ever hope to understand; oh well. She would know the truth soon enough; her true purpose written in red across her skin.

Robin watched her for a moment. Just one. Thereafter he slowly stepped forward and let his foot pass beyond the salt circle's protection.