#OR would you rather live a reality aware of all those things. seeking answers and sometimes finding them.

[butch-reidentified]

Your lack of self awareness about your own "dysphoria" is causing you to justify an extremely antifeminist industry and those profiting from selling marginalized women self-destruction. You have all the expected comorbidities (OCD/anorexia/body dysmorphia plus unresolved trauma from extreme homophobia) of someone in your position, shared with most female people who seek this surgery, and not someone with an implausible, never validated neurological disorder that coincidentally happens to map precisely onto misogynistic and homophobic ideas of the female body. Your "resolution" of symptoms is dependent on defending your decision and not the actual reality of the results. Your comorbid issues (especially OCD, which your wife is enabling) are obviously still raging through your life no matter what you say. It is a direct insult to every woman who feels violated by what happened to them to claim that not only are you one of the only people on the planet to truly need this surgery but that you read their stories of profoundly woman-hating trauma to convince yourself that you were a uniquely informed and more authentic candidate. P.S. I would "pull up" but I have a job instead of whatever grift you run. Good luck and hope you figure this out before too many other women see you as a role model.

LMAO this is so so amazing thank you. when I tell you this reads like TRA arguments... straight up making things up, projecting, absurdity, and ad hominem bs. delightful!

long post incoming but I am gonna break this down on a micro level bc I haven't talked about these topics in a minute + I'm high and it seems like fun, like a satisfying puzzle, kind of, to break this down into individual parts and address each part. Plus, asks like this provide opportunities to really dive into nuance and detail on several of one's ideas, experiences, and worldviews all in one place, which I've always enjoyed.

I am gonna preface by saying several parts of this are blatantly bad faith, and I am answering more for others to read than for anon. In particular, the claim that I said I am one of the few people who "truly NEED" this surgery. Given you clearly read at least some of my posts on dysphoria, certainly you saw that I repeatedly emphasized that I never have or will view this as a "need." It's also worth noting that most of my posts on this were written quite some time ago, and I don't remember everything I ever wrote on the topic off the top of my head, but I 150% do know myself and what thoughts and feelings I've had and which I've not had on the matter.

ok so first off, I have literally not ever ever even once encouraged anyone to pursue a single elective surgery & have very consistently done the opposite. just because I feel chill about my surgery personally does not mean that I support that industry, actually. in fact, if i knew everything i know about that industry now, I would not get the surgery... but that's a matter of choosing to boycott the industry, not a matter of how i feel personally about my individual experience. how I feel has literally nothing to do with my opinions/beliefs/values. I dont choose how I feel, but I fully choose my moral code.

in fact, my honesty about my story is not supporting that industry in a single way - it simply is not lying. people like you would have me lie to further a narrative rather than be genuine and candid, which puts us on the level with TRAs since that is precisely what they do. it comes down to this: you are asking me to either be silent about (lie by omission) or knowingly misrepresent (outright lie) my experiences because you lack the capacity for nuance to fit them into your narrative without harming the integrity of said narrative. But I don't under any circumstances do that, regardless of whether or not I agree with said narrative (and in this case, I very much do agree). If you cannot work the nuances of my lived experiences into your narrative about gender ideology and transition without it threatening the narrative that's on you; it's entirely possible to do. I'm not going to lie or censor myself just because you're limited in that way.

to be clear, my theory about neurological sex dysphoria is not "implausible;" it is also not something I'm insisting definitely is correct, or I would not call it a theory. And do you even have the qualifications to rule it such, knowing that I am a published neuro/neuropsych researcher (though now retired from that field because I recently found my truest passion)? However, it is not based on absolutely nothing. This answer is already waaay too long, bad habit of mine, but my #ntsd tag includes some posts that elaborate on this. The only thing I am going to specifically say on this matter is that having a processing disconnect (which has literally been visialized on fMRI) that caused my breasts to physically feel like a prosthetic attachment... is not "coincidentally mapping precisely onto misogynistic and homophobic ideas of the female body." This assertion doesn't even make sense in the context of everything I've said previously. I have never believed in the "body mapping" theory of dysphoria that you clearly are referring to by "mapping... onto the female body."

Additionally, I am not sure how you see logic in making this claim when misogynistic ideas of the female body are not known for being devoid of breasts. As I've said in practically every single post on this topic that I've made, I never went through a period of actually wanting to reject womanhood, be perceived socially as not-a-woman, or believing that womanhood and femininity were synonymous. That simply was not my motivation, and as I've said before, pain from chronic cysts was a large part of my decision. Lots of women on here have spoken about how they never went through those period either, yet I'm the only one I've seen get shit for it & get accused of thinking I'm better than other women for it. I never claimed or remotely implied that, and it has never in my life so much as occurred to me as even a hypothetical concept to feel superior about something like that. The only difference between me and most of the women on here who never went through those periods is that I had an elective mastectomy - but I did so while still entirely secure and at peace in my womanhood. Whether you find my truthful experience to be inconvenient or hurtful is entirely on you, not my responsibility to bury my own feelings and my own story for your comfort.

My lack of regret is not remotely "dependent on defending my decision." This is another statement that you would never make in a million years if you'd ever had one single irl conversation with me. I have no hesitation about admitting when I'm wrong. I do it /all/ the time. I don't have a pride issue, so "defending my decisions" is not something that matters to me. Again, you are projecting and you are assigning qualities to me without even the most basic knowledge of me as a person. I have not to date had a single human being on here miss quite this hard in an attempt to come at me. There's a lot about me, like anyone, that's ripe for completely justifiable criticism, and you've somehow managed to select some of the least applicable few assertions about me that you could find. Fact of the matter is I'm not prone to regret in the first place, and even factoring the dysphoria thing out of the conversation entirely, I genuinely like not having the inconvenience of large breasts and not having the pain of constant cysts, which i would still have if I'd gotten a reduction rather than mastectomy.

furthermore, you are making wildly unfounded claims. "lack of self awareness" lmfao this is pure gold. the people that hate me most in the entire world would laugh out loud if you tried to say that about me in front of them. I have plenty of flaws, plenty of areas I need to improve, but self-awareness is not one of those, not something I have ever in my entire life before this ask had a single soul give me constructive feedback about. so that was kinda trippy actually!

I literally do not have a single one of the mental health issues you're claiming I do, nor do I have any unhealed trauma at all (and have not in a long time), as I've spoken about in-depth more than once, especially since my first ever Neuropsych research publication was on PTSD and I previously worked as a trauma therapist for patients with comorbid substance use disorders. I have a number of genetic physical health conditions, but my mental health is honestly excellent. Not to say I've just been totally cheerful my entire life, but at this point in my life, I have been healed long enough that it's almost surreal to look back on a time when I wasn't, and I am deeply happy with my career, my marriage, my relationships with my family and friends, my home and my pets, my hobbies... all of it. And I'm incredibly excited for the plans my wife and I have for our future.

The body dysmorphia claim is especially funny to me because one literally cannot possibly be any more neutral and at ease in their relationship with their body than this. I have said it several times on here, but I place as much value on my appearance now as I did when I was 4. Pretty much the only time I consider my appearance at all is to make sure I look professional and sharp for something like a business meeting. I talk about true body neutrality being attainable fairly often specifically because I've experienced it firsthand, so I know it can be done. I have a strict rule against speaking on shit I don't actually know.

but if you think that by reading my tumblr blog, you know my mind better than I do and better than medical professionals, that's just blatantly delusional and peak chronically online behavior. ESPECIALLY as someone who does not know me in any capacity. the audacity to make claims about not only me but also my WIFE, who you know nearly nothing about and does not even use this site.... it's genuinely mind-boggling for you to be running your mouth about some "lack of self awareness" shit given the content and tone of this ask.

same thing with you deciding you are able to speak for "every woman who feels violated by what happened to them." that is lack of self awareness and it is projection. your assertion that I read those women's painful stories of woman-hating trauma before having my surgery "to convince myself that I was a uniquely informed and more authentic candidate" is SUCH bullshit even you have to know you're lying. that comment is so bad faith it's a bit impressive, but mostly just disgusting on your part. I read detrans stories freely shared by both sexes on public platforms, with the specific intention of canceling my planned surgery the second I encountered one single thing I might have in common with those stories in terms of motivation to get the surgery. There is such a massive difference between trying to learn from others' mistakes and using others' trauma to validate your choices. You are lying if you try to act like I wasn't very clear about which one I did. I waited 5 or 6 years from when I learned that this surgery was even a thing to move forward. I waited until my prefrontal cortex was "done cooking" as the internet likes to say. I pursued multiple other treatment options, not one of which was "gender affirming" bc I did not buy into gender ideology back then, either. And I educated myself on the experiences of those who regretted it with the purpose of minimizing my risk of regret by NOT moving forward if I found that I related to any of the motivations that led them to pursue surgery and ultimately regret it. I was not blindly stubbornly committed to surgery; I was always very much open to canceling if it felt right. Yes, having chosen that process of literally informing myself DID make me uniquely informed... that doesn't mean i'm better than anyone else, though. it's just the reality of putting a half decade of work and analysis and thought into a decision that absolutely nobody pressured me into, compared to the pretty common experience of being misled by trans ideology and/or rushing into this surgery. I am very much aware that I'm not special or superior just because I am flat out lucky enough to have not had anyone trying to manipulate, mislead, rush, or pressure me to get surgery, and insanely lucky to have not had pain or complications from it. And yes, despite my unconventional path to surgery, I also know I am very lucky to not regret it. All the more reasons I don't promote it.

you have constructed an image of me, my wife, and my daily life in your mind based on reading my blog and absolutely nothing more than that. even if you are engaging negatively with that image, criticizing it/me, etc., this is a parasocial engagement by definition.

The above is exactly what you have done. Parasocial interactions don't have to be positive. You are deluding yourself if you truly, genuinely believe you have the remotest understanding of who I am or how I live.

out of curiosity, did you intentionally fail to mention that I had medical reasons for my mastectomy in addition to dysphoria? or did you just conveniently forget about that despite how frequently I've talked about it?

as an afterthought: the implication that unlike you, I don't have a job is fucking golden given that you've clearly been reading a LOT of my posts and I don't believe for one second that you simply missed all the posts where I've talked about the fact that we bought our own home at 24, the fact that my wife and I own our own business, and the extra shit I do just because. but if you like, we can compare our records of how much time per day and week spent on social media 💀

thank you for this ❤️❤️❤️

#mine #ask #anon ask #anon #parasocial relationships #sex dysphoria

[cosmichighpriestess]

You could of chosen to observe earth's evolution in comfort from the other side.

You were evolved and knew that your higher resonating consciousness would serve to add Light to the earth's collective consciousness, a collective filled with error through mankind's dominant belief in two powers and separation from God, people, and all other life forms. Only through the increasing presence of oneness and the true nature life will the collective consciousness on earth be lifted beyond its present density which is the work you came to do.

Cease waiting for an event or looking to evolved beings, special ceremonies, prayers, mantras, or anything outside of yourselves to do this work. We are not saying that you cannot participate in ceremonies or prayers but we are saying that in and of themselves they have no power other than what you give them and are meant to be tools guiding within. Yes, some words and ceremonies do carry energy endowed through years of belief, but the reality is that God alone is power never given to some special word or action.

Collective consciousness is the world consciousness of earth which for eons has been fed only false concepts based in separation. The collective evolves as mankind evolves. As more and more awaken and begin feeding this collective consciousness with truth it automatically dissolves and replaces the false. Because it is a collective, each new insight, awareness, and integration of truth adds more Light to it, making these truths available to everyone. When Light becomes dominant in the collective, it will reach a tipping point at which the balance of true and false, Light and dark, will shift. 

The human mind draws from the collective for information which is why looking to the human mind for deeper answers, higher solutions, and creative ideas is fruitless for these things do not exist in the human mind. Deeper truths and creative ideas can only be accessed from within where they have always existed unconditioned by false concepts and beliefs, just awaiting recognition.

The world is awakening. Each day more begin to question, seek answers, and look for better and higher ways of living. At first they seek from the only place they presently know which is the human mind, but because increasingly more truth is being added to collective consciousness these individuals will have access to it and many will begin their journey of awakening. 

The chaos and struggle that you are seeing in the world at this time represents the dissolution of old energies that have been alive and well established in human consciousness for many centuries. Those who still consciously embrace these dense and false energies are feeling emboldened to act out as they experience the presence of energies now surfacing in order to clear. 

Many are experiencing a sense of panic as they observe the world's chaos. Because there is only One, many will feel it even if they are not prone to emotions like panic. If or when you experience fear, anxiety, or panic that seems to come out of nowhere remember that it is never yours unless you claim it as being yours. The only reality that is permanently yours is the fullness of Divine Source Consciousness. Do not resist if you experience these types of negative emotions, but rather rest in the realization of your true being knowing that God never formed ITself as them.

Be patient dear ones, for the energy is quickly changing even if it doesn't seem that way and you will soon see results. Not in their fullness, but through the collapse of many old structures and beliefs as increasingly more become fed up with the status quo. This of course will create conflict between those who stand to benefit from the status quo and those who see the need for change. The Light will always win because it is the only reality making anything else simply a conceptual image in the three dimensional mind.  

The human state of consciousness is conditioned to "do" because its sense of separation from good drives it to continually fix, heal, correct, invent, serve etc.. This has translated to spiritual living as well through the need of many for ceremonies, chants, rites and rituals etc. You reading these messages have evolved beyond this state of consciousness and are ready to stop spiritually doing and be. Just BE. The belief that spirituality is doing this or doing that is separation. Your work is to simply be the Light in every moment, as you go to work, as you do the dishes, as you live your ordinary lives. 

The higher frequencies of an evolved consciousness constitute a person's energy field which automatically radiates outwardly wherever they go. Many feel it and may be attracted while others are repelled. How others react to your energy is not your problem, what matters is that you hold the Light by being the Light. This is how you are helping to lift the energy of a world that has for so long been stuck in the density and pain of believing itself to be separate from God and all others.

#oneness of all #the arcturian council #the arcturians #messages

[reliving-elegy]

Clueless

"It is so often that mortals draw early conclusions about we Immortals that I have come to entirely dismiss their curiosity. Frankly their minds are enervated so thoroughly by the mere passage of time that asking them to figure the answers out on their own seems to insult a great many of them. 'Why not give the answer?' They'll ask, alongside whatever colorful commentary is in fashion for their maiden tongue."

"There's no real meaning to an answer without understanding how you get there. It's common knowledge- something they should've picked up on in elementary studies. I remind them of this, and still, they feel entitled to the end result. When I refuse, they seethe. Or riot. Or weep. Or whatever else you can think of- each has their own idiotic justification, and each idiotic justification has its catastrophic ending."

"There are, as anything, exceptions to this. Some who seek knowledge for the sake of knowledge; willing to waste their lives listening to what they would eventually conclude without my aid. To those few, who want for nothing more truly than to learn, I am sorry the rest of your kind are blatant fools as opposed to self-aware ones. I'll indulge them enough to satisfy or confuse- whichever comes first."

"Yet, clueless as the lessers are, what they ask always boil down to the same general array of banal queries: 'What does it mean to live?', 'Where do we go when we die?', 'What is your favorite color?', and on and on. The answers are simple enough to defeat their want of lore in short time; eager to forget what obvious things they now recognize."

"But a query stood out, if only one. It came from a girl little more than half my height, with verdant eyes that saw hate lingering beyond its moment. The bitter, burning gaze of one betrayed by their reality at every shift and change; that failed to glean hope from their own thoughts. Let it be clear that I am not easily unnerved."

"She, through that hateful perception of the world, saw me as the enemy, as most mortals tend to do. 'Bringer of the End', 'The Great Liar', something-something- none of that stuck, but she really wanted it to. So, running routine, I dismiss their raving, reiterate that I've no ill will toward humanity in spite of its many, many, maaany flaws, and bid her to find another fixation."

"Like any well-indoctrinated fanatic, this was ignored. What I did not account for was her... spirit, for lack of a better term. Rather than enforce her religiously-charged nonsense again, she sought to know why I was the enemy."

"Why must you love being cruel?"

"To which I was taken aback: so close, so close to the question she wanted to ask. I am, after all, a reflection of the world; distorted and cold and distractingly attractive and incredibly humble. In her frustration, she'd let a part of her own psyche slip, to question what could answer her own faults. Feeling generous... I corrected her."

"Why must I love cruel things?"

"The look she gave me... rather, the look she had through me- she was pierced. I counter my detractors by tricking them into asking the right questions of their own accord, letting them spiral into madness or begrudging acceptance of their own volition. But then, that moment, that instant could have been... she would have done something foolish."

"I, myself, am no stranger to cruelty. Being cruel is entertaining, true. Being an untouchable, unfathomable thing capable of cruelty- doubly so. But I do not love being cruel, only what comes of it."

"I do not love the cruelty that befalls others, but what it makes of them. Tragedy, misery and pain twist others from what they were to what they are. If I did not love cruel things, then I could not love what is left afterward. All reality would simply be a chill, morose void of utter insignificance; for nothing could ever be appreciated."

"If one cannot love cruel things, one would be incapable of love."

"She looked at me again, her once hateful gaze suffocating from the joint weight of guilt and revelation. So long had she been astray from herself that doctrine was her only direction. What must have become of her? To convince a mortal- a child- that because she wanted to understand evil, she- herself- was evil?"

"Of course, this collision of truth and memory was overwhelming for her, and she reached for a blade. Took my leave, but no offense- like any lesser, she would need time to understand. Wherever her travels took her then-onward, she would see the answer on the horizon as a dim torch within the mirror-fog of faith."

#omen #hallona #drabble #clueless

[f1united]

Ensemble - Chapter Two: The Girl and The Gift

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: Your Arthur Leclercs best friend. So why, after a random night in London, are you falling for his brother?

Chapter One: The Start

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol and sex.

Word Count: 5.8k

Note: This chapter begins in London and is marked where it switches to Mykonos. There are then some flashbacks mixed in so just watch out for those. Let me know your thoughts, enjoy!

*****

Chapter Two: The Girl and The Gift

Not long after Pierre had joined your table, Charles emerged from the toilets. Pierre had waved his hands to inform him of his updated location as he sat in the empty seat, unknowingly signing himself up for a night full of girly gossip and drama. The evening was spent reminiscing on childhood memories and sharing stories. It wasn't until Nat checked her phone that you realised how late it was getting.

"We better get going," She announced as she checked her phone. "The last train is in half an hour." You lived just outside of London which meant that most nights out were cut short by trains unless you had booked a hotel. You hummed in agreement as you finished your drink watching as Pierre began to whisper in Lucy's ear. They'd been flirting all night so her next sentence didn't come as much of a surprise.

"I'm going to chill with Pierre for a bit, I'll find my own way home tomorrow" The rest of the girls saw it coming too.

"Are you sure?" Katie asked. "I don't want you ending up in London on your own with no way home." She had a point. London could be quite daunting when it was late and dark, especially if you weren't a local.

"Well why don't you stay too?" Charles nodded his head towards you as he spoke. "That way you could leave together." Not one part of you questioned Charles' intentions as he spoke. He remained the responsible 'Arthur's older brother' that was being sensible and mature, making sure that everyone got home safely.

"If that's alright with you?" Your question was answered with a nod of his head. You all began to grab your things and headed outside, saying your goodbyes, telling them to text you when they were home safe as they encouraged you to do the same. By the time they'd headed for the station, Pierre and Lucy were already nowhere to be seen.

"I'm not sure about you but I'm in no rush to go back to the apartment just yet!" You spoke to Charles as you looked at the night sky above you.

"Where do you want to go in the meantime?"

“Have you ever explored London before?" You answered his question with one of your own. He shook his head. "So you haven't seen all beautiful sites it has to offer." The sarcasm was evident in your voice as you pointed down the alley way you were walking past full of black bins and plastic bags full of rubbish.

"I've only ever been here to celebrate races and I can't say I've seen much other than the inside of some bars and restaurants.”

"Well you're in for a long night Leclerc." Two hours ago Charles wanted nothing more than for him and Pierre to go back to the apartment. The lack of alcohol he'd consumed throughout the night was only adding to the tiredness he'd accumulated over the race weekend. However as you dragged him through the streets of London he realised there was no place he'd rather be.

You'd ridden Boris bikes alongside the River Thames, shown him your favourite restaurant in Covent Garden and taken him through Piccadilly Circus all the way to Oxford Street where closed shops lined the dark streets, pointing out your favourite ones as you cycled past. He never did things like this. As a F1 driver it was difficult for him to go almost anywhere without going unnoticed but tonight not one person had recognised him because for the night he was just a normal person with another normal person having a good time. 

After abandoning the Boris bikes at the nearest drop off point you both headed towards the apartment. It belonged to Charles' mother and was often used by you and Arthur whenever he'd come to visit and couldn't stay with you.

"You seem happier than when I last saw you." His comment made you smile. It was all he could think about as you wondered through the dark streets. The last time you'd seen him you'd just broken up with your ex. Your relationship had been on and off for years but you'd finally called it quits for good. It didn't take a genius to see the relationship was making you unhappy, the anxiety, tears and sleepless nights were picked up on by everyone albeit your efforts to hide it. Arthur was the only person who truly knew what was going on and it hurt him to see his best friend in so much pain when she thought she was in love.

"Thank you, I'm in a much better place now. I've had time to focus on myself." You'd completely lost yourself throughout the time you were together, focusing so much on what he'd wanted and expected rather than what made you happy. The situation had increased your maturity and for that reason you were grateful your first heartbreak had come at such a young age. You'd correctly assumed that Arthur had made Charles aware of your sensitiveness to the situation to some extent as he made no further comments. 

He had approached Arthur with concern after your last meeting. Despite a fun grand prix weekend you'd been blinking back tears and spent most of the time with a blank expression on your face. He hated it. He could see you trying to compose yourself, when he came to thank you for coming you'd done your best to smile, your voice was laced with excitement, but your eyes were empty, drained of emotion. He was grateful to see it had made its way back.

"Did you know I've never been to Harrods?" His random fact was a relief as he quickly changed the subject, allowing your mind to be brought back to the present rather than the dark times from the past.

"Even I've been to Harrods Charles. We should go tomorrow, you'd have a field day in the clothes section." As a part time student most of your spare money went into savings, a fund you'd created for your planned travels when you were done with your studies. It wasn't very often that you brought yourself nice things so despite your multiple trips to Harrods, you'd never actually purchased anything. You could see him deliberating your suggestion in his head. 

"You can wear sunglasses and a hat with your mask, just don't wear a bright red Ferrari top and I'm sure we'll be able to keep ourselves to ourselves."

"Don't you have work tomorrow?" His question brought you back to reality slightly.

"I'll call in sick?" you offered. It suddenly occurred to you that this was the longest time you and Charles had ever been alone together and the idea of leaving wasn't something that you wanted to think about just yet. 

Charles opened the apartment door with caution, neither of you wanted to interrupt your friend’s spontaneous night, nor hear any of the antics they were getting up to. You frowned at each other as you stepped into the entrance corridor. There were no faint voices, no mumbling or laughs, just the hum of the city that echoed through the slightly open window.

“Maybe they didn’t come back here,” your judgement became increasingly more likely as you followed Charles towards the kitchen and stood around the island.

“I’ll send him a text.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped away before placing it on the marble countertop. It lit up with Pierre's reply not long after he'd set it down. “They went to some hotel, apparently he’s dropping her home in a second.”

“He’s not the type to bring girls back to his home turf then,” you took the bag off your shoulder and placed in on the counter, grabbing a hair tie from inside and gathering your locks into a low ponytail. “Smart move.” Charles shrugged his shoulders at your observation.

He’d never really thought about it before, but he was the same. The few casual hook ups that he’d had over the years had never been in places he spent a lot of time like his house in Monaco, or his favourite holiday home in Mykonos, and never this apartment. Sure, he’d slept with people in those cities, but never in his space. You were right though; it was easier to forget about the crime if you never returned to the scene.

"Do you have anything I can change into?" 

“There’s a top on the end of my bed.” You thanked him as you made your way towards his room. “I’ll grab some of my things so I can crash on the sofa once you’ve changed.” You stopped in your tracks, turning to face him as you stood in the doorway.

“I’m not kicking an f1 driver out of their own bed Charles, especially not post race weekend.” You crossed your arms as you lent against the door frame. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“I’m not letting you sleep on the sofa.” He argued.

“It’s one night Charles, I really don’t mind.”

“I’m not letting you sleep on the sofa.” He repeated.

“Well then it looks like we’re sharing the bed.” Your words not only surprised you, but also Charles. Neither of you were sure where this increased confidence had come from, but you didn’t want it to become awkward, so you tried to justify your statement. “Me and Arthur used to share a bed all the time!”

The look on his face as your eyes met with his across the room was one you’d so desperately been seeking without realising it. His head cocked, eyebrows raised and small smirk tugging its way onto his lips provided reassurance, giving you the confidence to confirm that this relationship was very different to your one with Arthur. You already knew it, you had felt it every time you’d looked at him since you were about 16, but this was the first time you could say with certainty that it was reciprocated.

Charles was dying to climb into bed with you. To wrap his arms around you and stay like it all night. He didn’t care about the fact that your hair would be in his face or that his arm would most likely be dead within the first half an hour. He just wanted you there with him, so he could learn things about you that he didn’t already know and fall asleep with the scent of your faded perfume beneath his nose. He suggested that he’d sleep on the sofa because he knew that wasn’t what you were implying. 

“I’ll stay on my side,” you offered. “Promise.”

That’s what he was afraid of. Charles was a respectful man, he wouldn’t cross boundaries without permission, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go without your touch. The thought of your body lying so tantalisingly close to his while dressed in nothing but your underwear and one of his shirts was driving him crazy.

“I’m a very good sleeper, you won’t even know I’m there.”

You couldn’t stop listing reasons for Charles to join you. He wished you would stop; his head was already full of so many.

“Well go and get comfy and I’ll join you in a minute,” In that moment he made the decision to give in knowing that if this was the only chance he got to lay in bed with you he'd take the opportunity, whether your bodies were intertwined or not. “Do you need a drink or anything?”

“A water would be great!” You smiled as you turned around and headed to the bedroom. Charles spent the next few minutes alone in the kitchen trying to convince himself that this was a bad idea. That it was wrong. You were his brother’s best friend and he shouldn't be this nervous or excited to lay next to you, but no matter how hard he tried to dislike the situation he couldn’t because it just felt right.

By the time he joined you in bed you’d already made yourself incredibly comfortable. He chuckled at the site of you tangled in the duvet before climbing in next to you. You laid facing each other and remained that way as you chatted about memories from the past. Childhood holidays and his earliest racing days to you latest life plans and hopes for the future. That's how you drifted to sleep, listening to his voice was more comforting than you'd like to admit. When you awoke in the morning you were unsure what terrified you more, the feeling of one of you completely reducing the few centimetres of space left between you or never knowing what Charles’ touch felt like.

*****

Maybe that’s why you were so unimpressed when Charles and Pierre joined the several of you seated around the long table on the patio with two unknown girls. The number of cocktails you’d consumed weren’t providing you with a great amount of rationality but then again it was difficult to justify being annoyed when you had no reason to be in the soberest of situations. The only person to blame was yourself, you’d had the chance to experience a night with Charles and a combination of your stubbornness, maturity and (let’s face it) fear of what could happen had meant that you’d missed out.

It was only as she threw her head back at one of his comments that it hit you, you were jealous. It was a feeling you hadn’t felt in years. Ever since your last relationship you had lacked almost every kind of emotion. You’d dated people since but that connection was never really there which is why you were full of confusion at the situation presenting itself to you. The feelings felt foreign to your body and you weren’t sure how to deal with them, so you did the one think that you were too young to do back then. Get drunk and try to forget about them for a night.

"Are you listening? Drink up, we're leaving in a second!" Arthurs voice provided a distraction from your thoughts whilst encouraging them. You tilted your head back as you finished the remainder of your champagne, your arm was already reaching out for the nearest bottle to see if you could sneak in a quick refill. You didn’t even like champagne but after having run out of cocktails about an hour ago you didn’t really have much choice. In any other situation you would’ve declined and waited until you were at the club but you weren’t really in the mood to sober up right now. You got up to follow everyone to the taxis, deciding that the bottle had too much in to be left at the table to waste, but not enough in that you couldn't finish it before you reached you destination. Putting the bottle to your lips this time, you took another gulp.

He noticed. He noticed the vast amount of alcohol you had consumed thus far. The unbothered façade you'd displayed during dinner was picked up by him the second he’d glanced in your direction. Your eyes often met his across rooms, at events, in the paddock, even at family dinners and it was always followed by a shared smile, but tonight you hadn't even looked at him and he couldn't stand it. Although he couldn’t be certain, he had a good idea what the cause was. Guilt was slowly consuming his thoughts. He shouldn’t have felt guilty, there was no real reason to, yet he did.

He knew if he had come alone you would've had a couple of drinks with dinner, just enough to prepare yourself for the club afterwards, allowing the sweaty people and sticky floor to become slightly bearable. He also knew that you weren't a huge drinker and that the lack of food you had consumed at dinner would only worsen the matter which was evident as he watched you fall into a taxi with Arthur and Carla as he climbed into a separate one with Pierre and, what they appeared to be to everyone else, their ‘dates’.

The club was busy, everyone excited to be back on the dance floor after its absence over the past year or two. Although it would've been nice to spend some more time with him, you were thankful that the crowds had engulfed you so you'd lose sight of Charles and her. You'd found your way to the middle of the dance floor and you remained there for hours losing track of time and somehow your friends too.

Unbeknown to you, Charles had lost his 'date' at the first chance he had. He'd met her on a boat during the day with Pierre and when his best friend had invited her best friend for dinner he felt bad for not doing the same. He was sitting at the bar with Pierre who'd picked up on the amount of attention he was paying you as you danced along with random strangers. The Frenchman questioned what he was doing when he noticed Charles tighten his jaw. Charles nodded his head in your direction and the pair watched as a man approached you.

The guy in front of you was only offering to buy you a drink but you knew you were way over your limit. You'd politely declined, naively assuming that he'd disappear back into the sea of faces but that wasn't the case. Your refusal  clearly not accepted as he insisted. grabbing onto your arm in an attempt to pull you in the direction of the bar. Yanking your arm out of his grip you instantly managed to sober up as you came to the realisation you were going to have to fight this battle alone.

Charles knew you were a big girl, that you could handle yourself in almost any situation thrown your way, but as the guy reached out to touch you he could've sworn he moved quicker than his Ferrari. His presence shocked you as you flinched slightly at the unfamiliar grip on your waist.

"It's just me ma belle." Charles whispered calmly into your ear, placing a feather light kiss onto your cheek. Relief instantly washed over your body. You wished you could focus on the conversation that Charles was now having with the strange man in front of you but you couldn't. The only thing you could focus on was the feeling of your skin heating beneath Charles' fingertips and the tingling sensation that lingered where he'd planted the kiss. He'd never touched you before, the brief hugs being the most contact you'd ever shared, and now he was standing in a club with his hand around your waist as he fended off a random guy who'd taken an interest in you. "I think we should head home." When Charles spoke it felt as though each word was coated in sex as it left his lips. He hadn't meant it in a sexy way, you knew that. He wanted to take you home so you were safe. However his intense grip on your waist and his stubble lightly grazing your cheek when he leaned in to speak to you was putting thoughts into your mind that you knew shouldn't be there.

You looked up at him, your eyes locking for the first time that night. Your eyes always showed a lot of emotion. Your body language was often hard to read but you always made eye contact when you spoke. He frequently used it to determine what mood you were in but this time he was met with one he'd never seen before. Despite them having a drunken glaze, your dilated pupils held a look of lust. He could've sworn you were mentally undressing him. You weren't. Instead you were thinking of how much you wanted him to undress you.

"I think that's a good idea." He could hear the smirk in your voice over the sound of the music as you let your lips gently brush his ear lobe while you spoke. He shut his eyes tightly and took a deep breath in an attempt to pull himself together. You were disappointed when his hand left your side but satisfied when it quickly intertwined itself with yours. His skin was softer than you were expecting, the rough patches slowly disappearing over the summer break. Your hands remained that way as you walked through the streets of Mykonos. Neither of you spoke, you just remained in a comfortable silence. As the villa came into view Charles was basically marching down the street, his strides increasing as your little legs tried to keep up. He dropped your hand when he reached the door, searching his pockets for the key to unlock it.

The villa was colder than you were expecting, a shiver ran down your spine as the air con hit you. You headed towards the kitchen and grabbed your sweater off one of the bar stools, sliding it on over your outfit.

“So you’d let Carla drive your car huh?” his face instantly broke out in a smile as you relieved some of the tension between you both. “You know that’s not true.” Charles followed you to the kitchen and watched as you perched yourself on the edge of the counter. He poured a glass of water and took a sip before handing it to you which you gratefully accepted.

“You’d let your date drive it instead?” He rolled his eyes as he chuckled at your sarcasm, hoping that you’d forgotten about the girl he’d sat next to during dinner as quickly as he had. “How many girls get a turn before me?” Although he didn't let it show, your question had offended him slightly. Despite his popularity with women he was never one to disrespect them, especially not you. He took a step closer to you, standing directly in front of your legs that were pressed firmly together.

“You’re the only one I want to see in that seat mon Cherie,” That was one nickname that he’d never called you, yet it rolled off his tongue so effortlessly. He leaned against your legs and you slowly parted them so he could stand in between, closing the distance between you both. “I’d let you drive it again in a heartbeat.” Your eyes were fluttering between his eyes and lips, your stare only breaking when he leaned in to speak in your ear just like he’d done in the club. He placed a kiss on your cheekbone and slowly worked his way up to your ear.

“You looked very sexy behind the wheel of my car.” You locked your hands with his while he continued to speak, closing your eyes in a desperate attempt to try and calm your heart rate down. You wanted to say something back, engage more in the conversation, but for the first time in a long time you were at a loss for words. You loved driving, you'd often join the boys go karting growing up and learned to drive as soon as you could, so when Charles asked if you wanted to drive his Ferrari back to your home after your Harrods shopping trip you were more than excited. It was a nice change from the train ride you were expecting.

He'd watched your eyes light up when you realised he was being serious. It was the closest you'd ever been to driving something even remotely similar to an f1 car despite it being different in so many ways. Your smile was infectious as you put your foot down on the motorway, leaving London behind. You'd never even driven an automatic car so this was a completely new experience. He'd taught you how to use the paddles to manually change gears if you wanted to and how to shift through its different modes as you drove around. The only disappointing part of the journey was reaching your destination, your trip home considerably quicker than you would've wanted. After spending the whole time focused on going fast and not crashing, you'd selfishly not noticed how Charles was feeling throughout the drive.

He'd been trying to keep his eyes trained on the road in front of him but couldn't help steal a glance in your direction every now and then. He was always surrounded by fast cars, something he realised after seeing you sat in his driving seat he'd begun to take for granted. He felt overwhelmed with pride, he was the one who was making you this happy. He felt privileged seeing you this free as your hair flew around in the wind while you rested a hand out the side of the car, trying to resist the force of the air pushing it back. It was his turn to be selfish as he realised that he always wanted to keep that moment for himself. He didn't want anyone else to make you feel like this, give you this experience. He wanted to be the one to make you smile.

“Don’t go quiet now mon Cherie.” That nickname. Again. “I think we still need to discuss what happened in the shower.” You instantly snapped back into reality at the mention of the shower. His hand fell from yours and toyed with the bracelet on your wrist. The one that you nervously played with in situations like these. The one that he’d gifted you last year. The one with his name etched into it.

The morning that you'd woke up in Charles' bed you were alone. An empty bed was something you'd become accustomed to over the past couple of years but in this instance it made you awaken quicker. The note left on his pillow stopped you from worrying, he was out on a run.

You respected his commitment to his career and took the opportunity to go for a shower. The warm water felt refreshing against your skin, goose bumps slowly appearing across your skin at the sudden change in temperature. Rubbing Charles shower gel into your skin you closed eyes and lent your head against the tiled shower wall. It wasn't clear at what point you'd become so aroused, but  the steam from the shower and the smell of Charles covering you definitely had something to do with it. You allowed your hands to roam your body, his name unexpectedly falling from your mouth as you brushed past your breasts. The careless use of his name had caused your eyes to widen and your hand to clamp over your mouth. It had left you lips so naturally but felt inappropriate to say aloud.

It wasn't until a few days later that you realised he'd heard. He almost hadn’t. If he’d unlocked the apartment a mere three seconds later your words wouldn’t have reached his ears. His run had been sweaty and he was still out of breath but his panting soon stopped. His eyes widened as he heard his name leave your lips and he froze. He didn’t want to announce his presence, he knew he wasn’t supposed to hear it and didn’t want you to feel embarrassed that he had. He didn’t know what to do. He felt as though he was invading your privacy but knew that if he shut the door you’d hear it close and know he was there. So instead he stuck his foot between the door and the doorframe to keep it slightly open as he waited for the sound of the shower to finish running. He tried to focus on something else, anything else, but he failed. All he could think about was you, in his shower, without him and how badly he wanted to join you, just so he could make his name fall from your mouth the way it just did over and over again.

You thought you'd gotten away with it. He'd entered the apartment just as you were stepping out the bathroom and he'd acted as cool as ever. The weekend was slowly becoming a distant memory that you were trying hard not to dwell on, hating that you were missing his presence so much already. It wasn't until you were at work the following week that it became apparent your secret crush was no longer a secret. You were in the office early, earlier than everyone else. That wasn’t unusual, you liked to be in early as it often meant you could leave earlier too. What was unusual was the box placed neatly on your desk.

Although the small parcel was addressed to you, you opened it with hesitation. A small gasp left your lips as your unwrapping revealed a red box, the golden engraving of the word ‘Cartier’ on top. Confused, you gently opened to box revealing a bracelet.

You placed it on your desk as you searched for a note. Despite it being awfully obvious who it was from, you wanted some kind of confirmation or, better yet, a reason as to why someone had put this into your possession. You'd spotted it in Harrods with Charles. You hadn't mentioned it, just spent a few minutes mindlessly staring at its beauty. There was no point even considering buying it for yourself, the price tag was close to your yearly salary. Eventually you found the note. 

'I've heard you like to moan it'

You picked up the bracelet once more, analysing it as you did so. It was so discreet, discreet enough that if the note wasn’t a big enough hint you might never have realised. His name. Etched into the inside of the band in the same font as the word ‘Cartier'. Any other name and he wouldn’t have been able to get away with it. No one had picked up on its personalisation in the past year. It had remained your little secret.

You gulped loudly, unsure of what to say next. The dull lighting hid your cheeks as they flushed red with embarrassment, just like they'd done when you'd read his note. Luckily it was situations like these you considered your stubbornness a strength. "All I could thing about was how much I wanted you to touch me Charles." With your lips dangerously close to Charles' ear you'd somehow managed to complete your sentence with confidence. The conviction in your voice had satisfied Charles although it was obvious that he hadn't expected it as he pulled his head back slightly to look you in the eyes. It was the first time you'd seen them so dark out of his crash helmet. They didn't have the same teasing smile paired with them as they did only a few moments ago. For a brief moment your heart dropped. What if he was just teasing you and you'd taken it too far? 

"Say something." Your voice was barely audible despite the eerie silence that had settled in the kitchen as Charles picked up on your nervousness. His expression softened but he remained silent, placing his forehead against yours and gently brushing your noses. You both very quickly realised there was no longer the need for words. The last thing either of you wanted to do right now was have a conversation about what was going on because quite honestly neither of you were sure. All you knew was that as soon as the space between your lips closed, there was no going back. You were craving each other's touch and it was as though the kiss you were yet to share would be the seal of approval you both needed to explore each other in a way you hadn't before.

You'd had enough of the teasing, enough of the wondering and what ifs, enough of wasting time without knowing how his lips felt against yours. You moved your head up slightly brushing your lips with his before releasing one of your hands from his grasp and placing it on the back of his head, pulling it down slightly. As soon as your lips pressed against his you became overwhelmed with emotions. You relaxed into it, it felt so right. His hands began to explore your body, one placed on your thigh and the other tracing lines up and down your back, sitting on the counter top had worked in your favour as you wrapped your legs around his waist. It wasn't long before his tongue found yours as you let your hands snake beneath his shirt feeling his back and arms tense beneath you as he lifted you up from the side and placed you on the dining table which was at a slighter lower level. 

His mouth left yours and you let out a small groan of frustration, he smiled at the sound as you realised he was only doing it to strip you of the sweater you'd not long ago put on, allowing him to rid you of it, not caring how cold it was anymore. In between the kisses he was placing down your neck you pulled his top over his head. Your eyes were trained to his shoulders as you admired him, only shutting when he re-joined your lips. 

The sound of a key turning the lock at the front door caught Charles' attention. There was a high chance he'd consumed less alcohol than you tonight which is why he giggled slightly when you chose to ignore the sound and bring him back in for another kiss. 

“WE’RE HOME” Arthur voice echoed round the villa. The sound of his brothers voice was enough for you to release him from your grip.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh, it’s 3am people will be sleeping.” Carla tried to whisper but the tiled walls carried the sound throughout the villa. You didn’t know if anyone else was home, you hadn’t checked and to be honest you hadn’t even thought about it. The only thing on your mind was Charles.

“Y/N and I are in the kitchen,” Charles called back. His eyes never left yours as he grabbed his shirt you'd thrown across the kitchen and redressed himself, not until Arthur stumbled through the door way knocking into chairs and making them squeal as the legs glided across the floor. You both watched as he regained balance and muttered a drunken apology before sitting himself on the floor.

"Good night Arthur?" you laughed slightly at the sight of him on the floor, he'd never been the most elegant drunk but at least he was entertaining.

"Great night." He confirmed as he laid himself down, a laugh leaving Carla's lips as she stared at the state of him. If someone had spoken to you a couple of hours ago you would've probably had a different opinion but as it turned out, you were starting to agree with him.

TAGLIST

@imthebadguyyy @abysshaven @phatyak​

#f1 imagine #f1 masterlist #charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc one shot #daniel ricciardo #max verstappen #pierre gasly #lando norris #george russell #lewis hamilton #valteri bottas #carlos sainz

[madametrashbin]

Wishful Dreaming

In which I pretend Part 3 of Inazuma’s story doesn’t exist and everyone is alive before shit goes down. Yes, people who read this, it’s time for best friend headcanons/drabbles/whatever the hell this is with Teppei. Honestly, it’s just no thoughts head empty right now and I might have gone off tangent a lot.

(And by a lot, I mean the majority of this piece, probably... by the way, credits to @streimiv and @myuni-moon for making my brain be hyper focused on Self Aware Cult Genshin... I can’t get it out of my head as of right now.)

Enjoy, even if it’s never going to be beta-read by anyone and I will never go back to edit this even if I find mistakes in this later on... and I also don’t know where my brain went for this, but what’s done is done. 

I’m not even sure if I did his personality correctly, ahaha...  (；^ω^)

(I’m going to project my denial in this, so please know it might be wince inducing and incredibly self-indulgent.)

The sun is bright at this time of day, the gentle breeze flowing through the tranquil lands of Inazuma, leaving those who are experiencing the nice morning in a blissful escape from its current reality. 

...much like a young foreigner who had left their current abode, leaving behind a note for their caretakers to see as they wander around the land of Eternity for some true fresh air and peace of mind away from the group that had more or less made their life a little too suffocating as of late.

It is also incredibly lonely in there, as they come to understand that no one (for the most part) look at them like they were a regular human... like they were them.

So they now wander, taking in the rarity of solitude that does not come as easily as one might think. Inazuma is beautiful, even if they know that the peace they see around these parts are but a veil that shields the horrible reality going on around them.

(They know what was happening outside the city, outside the teapot they were living in since they were brought here. They’ve experienced it happening before, many times in fact. They know what will happen, and they’re determined to change it. They just need to find a certain someone, and then they’re set.)

Meeting Teppei was something you didn’t really expect all that much, considering you knew he should be still a part of the logistic division of the Resistance Army and would be busy in their current base that was all the way to Yashiori Island.

Yet by sheer luck, or by fate, you meet the good fellow on Narukami Island and had managed to make a pretty good friendship with him over the course of coincidental meetings.

You’ve come to learn a few things about the young man, and it was that he was a pretty trusting guy, didn’t even think twice of being friends with you... which was a little worrisome, considering what happened in the actual storyline.

That’s okay though, you’ll make nothing happens to him... he is one of your only true friends in this world, after all.

“Teppei.”

They call to him as the Resistance Samurai turned his head away from the sight of the Tenshukaku to them.

“Is there anything you wish for? I mean, if you could have one wish granted, anything you want, what would it be?”

The young man looked rather confused at them, before they briefly clarified that they were just curious. As much as they enjoy the peacefulness of silence, they wanted to know what he really wanted... wondering if he really wanted a Vision, for the acknowledgement of the Gods.

“What would I wish for...”

The young man was quiet for a while, no doubt mulling it over before smiling when he comes to an answer, his head lifting to look at the glimmering stars.

“I would wish for the war to end... for the Sakoku Decree and Vision Hunt Decree to be abolished so people won’t have to suffer anymore.”

“Really? Not a Vision, or something like that?”

“Well, having a Vision would be nice, but thinking about it... I think it’s better if everyone is happy. A lot of people are suffering, and even if I did get a Vision, it’s still pretty difficult to win the war against the Shogunate.”

They could only hum quietly in understanding after that, not really certain what else to ask him before he gives them the same question. 

What do they wish for?

To go home. They would have said, but they chose not to because they knew there was probably little chance for them to be allowed to go home... Their “acolytes” are rather over-protective and notably possessive towards them, probably rampaging around Inazuma right now in search of them.

Well, they at least know what they’re going to do once they inevitably find them.

“Isn’t it time you should head back to your camp, Teppei?”

“Huh? Oh, right! It’s getting late! Then, if I have time, I’ll see you again!”

And he’s off in a rush, disappearing when he turned around the rocky walls and out of their sight. At the same time as he left, the bushes behind them rustle, and a frantic Zhongli appears with Venti following behind... both relaxed significantly once they saw them in perfect condition.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you, Your Grace. It’s dangerous for you to go outside on your own like that.”

“Please don’t worry us like that again.”

They immediately take to their sides, quickly ushering them to head back to the Teapot before they stopped them in their tracks. 

“Your Grace?”

“I need to do something. Will the both of you accompany me for this?”

...and by the following morning, an official announcement is made to all of Inazuma with the abolishment of both the Sakoku Decree and Vision Hunt Decree. 

Teppei is rushing over to them with a beaming smile on his face when they meet again that noon, the young man happily shares the good news with them while they simply smiled and nodded along with what he said even if they knew the reason behind it.

They don’t tell him anything, nor mention that it was thanks to him that it ended... well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Extra, because why not:

It becomes a frequent part of your days now that the War in Inazuma was over. Hanging out with Teppei as often as you could, granted you’d have a few people trailing in the shadows at all times, watching over you so you don’t pull the same stunt again.

You have to spend a bit of time giving warning glares behind you whenever Teppei mentions the cold chills that makes his bones shiver despite the relatively warm weather. 

When the two of you get roped up into a bit of trouble (whether by lingering Fatui grunts, stray Ronins or local Treasure Hoarders seeking to rob you), Teppei would always jump in between you and them, saying he’ll protect you as he holds his spear (that he brings with him out of habit).

...you thinks it’s endearing with how he’s trying to be brave, as you can see his hands shake just a tad bit due to the numbers.

But as much as you want to let him have his moment, you prefer that your friend doesn’t get himself hurt and therefore skillfully lead him away from the danger while the rest (your cult) dealt with them.

When you feel like the divine treatment is starting to get too overwhelming, and you’re feeling a little too lonely, you always make your way to Teppei who is there to provide comfort even if you never really talked about what’s troubling you.

Your friendship with Teppei is strong, even if you rarely talk about yourself to him and how he’s told you practically everything about himself.

There’s just something about that trust that bring you a lot of comfort... it gave a different feeling compared to Zhongli or Fischl’s kind of trust... it was warmer, and felt more like home.

You’re also very adamant in keeping him away from the whole cult business, not wanting him to think of you like how the others did... you don’t want to lose that friendship that practically kept you sane in this world.

The amount of times you have to keep reminding your cult to leave him be is absurd, and as much as they protest about him, the fact you’re upset at them for that is enough to get them to stop.

...for a while, at least. They go at it again for a while when Teppei does something they don’t like until you actually snapped at them. They stopped bothering him after that.

If Teppei does eventually find out about the cult, which will most likely happen because of Kokomi, you would be genuinely terrified in the beginning of it until he gives you proper reassurance that it doesn’t change anything.

Now he’s allowed to see you in the Teapot, often visiting with curious snacks he finds and occasionally sleeping over when you are feeling particularly lonely.

Overall, a very pleasant friendship to have. Being one of the few you can really be open with and not be concerned about how you’re viewed as.

Wholesome boy will always have your back whenever you need him... even if he is a little intimidated by the Raiden Shogun and the other intimidating acolytes that are a part of your cult.

#self aware genshin #genshin cult stuff #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin x reader #I believe in platonic friendships #I have no braincells left #it was 12am when I started writing this #I barely slept before that too #idk what to tag honestly #tagging is hard #*dramatically screaming*

[bored-storyteller]

(Little general warning: I understand that my mind when it comes to Uta imagines the reader as human by default, so if you don't like it please specify it in the request)

Hi Anon!

I'll be honest, this time I'm not satisfied. I am not convinced that I have written anything that can really make you feel emotions. In my head, I had imagined a more bloodthirsty scenario (I like to write this kind of thing with him) and also with Uta appearing as Kakuja, but then all that violence seemed out of place if not requested so I calmed down a bit the things. Despite this, I still have the desire to write something similar. Anyway, I'm sorry, I'm willing to rewrite it if you don't like it.

64- Tokyo ghoul, Uta x human! Reader

From the prompt list

3- "What would you do if I didn't come back?"

Uta sometimes raises doubts, lately more than usual.

It's not unusual for his eyes to scan you and linger on you. He stopped listening to you for a while, while you talk to someone on the phone.

You look annoyed, you are declining an invitation, perhaps, or otherwise you are giving up on something. For him, of course.

His lids tighten slightly around your figure, while his cheek rests lazily on the back of his hand.

"You should really go with them." His quiet voice reaches you as soon as your call closes. You turn to look at him, the only other living being besides you among all those lifeless masks.

You smile at him, as you always do.

"I wouldn't go anyway." Your answer is ready and prepared. How true is it? How much of what you do and what you don't do is for your free choice, and not to protect him or yourself? He is not even convinced that he fully understands how much you have to give up on your human life.

He doesn’t doubt that maybe at the beginning it was worth it, for you. But now, how much is true affection, yours, and how much just habit? A risky, deadly habit.

Your fingers gently pick up the sketches he left on the table, you flip through them as you always do and he looks at you, from his sitting position.

He does not believe that you are forced to be with him, or that you are afraid of leaving him, but there is the doubt that your love is slowly being replaced by the everyday life of your relationship.

"What would you do if I didn't come back?"

His question was asked casually, almost as if he were pointing out to you how the rain made the afternoon air humid.

Your gaze suddenly lost and upset for a moment almost made him go back on the question. "Forget it" he was about to tell you, yet his teeth bite his tongue and that ambiguity remains suspended between you two.

"What does it mean?" You ask him, and a slight uncertain smile is painted on your fragile lips, almost asking him to joke "Why are you asking me this question now?"

Your uncertain voice always makes his heart tremble. When he feels you scared, or fearful, it's somehow as if he shares the same anxieties as you. Yet, deep inside him, the most selfish part of him is happy if you at least suffer a little for him.

"I would come to look for you ..." You murmur in response when you realize that he is still waiting. Your words are so light and fragile that he himself cannot find the courage to push them further.

It’s obvious that you answer like this, that you there in front of him have neither the desire nor the courage to really imagine yourself in a situation in which Uta will not come back into your life. That's right, he's sure you're fond of him, but do you still really love him? Do you love him as in the beginning?

The alleged absence of him scares you, but if it really happened, perhaps, in the real situation, you would notice the less weight on your shoulders, the absence of the chains that keep you tied to constant danger.

But maybe you can't see it now, not if you don't have to change your daily life.

. . .

Uta never believed that his heart could make itself so present. He feels it throbbing violently against his ribcage taking away space for his lungs to breathe, he feels it forcefully pumping the blood into his veins and wrists so much that if you focus you could see the vibrations under his skin. He never believed his body could go into such a state of agitation, even his distorted kagune wriggled inside him to be able to get out and release that tension.

The smell of your blood was enough. This was enough, and the world around Uta had darkened and there was for him that dangerous red trail that led him to you. And even if his face seems calm and focused, the terror of never seeing you again grips him.

Why are you there in the first place? You don't have to be there, he warned you. He always warns you, to keep you safe - to keep you from seeing.

It's hard for him to hold back when his mental state is in that situation. When he needs blood, fun and killing, when he needs it to stay who he is. And as much as he would like it, not even your presence can allay that need.

Indeed, you are a stimulus. Your eyes that silently scrutinize him from your hiding place are a charge for him to do better. He might say to himself that it's his revenge on whoever hurt you, but the truth is that he's now free to vent that part of him in front of you too. That part of him that he always tries to keep you safe from, that part of himself that you shouldn't be there for, not where the Clowns were operating.

That part of him that will make you go away.

It is at that thought that calm him down. Him, the world, his heart. Suddenly, when there is nothing but him and his dirty hands, your presence in that place becomes concrete, almost heavy.

His eyes seek you, hidden as you are in his half of the battlefield.

"It's me ..." the sweet note of his voice echoes in the calm after the storm "It's just me."

It's just him. No hero ready to save you, only Uta in his natural madness.

Your head pops out from behind your makeshift barrier, and he frantically approaches to check on you. Thank goodness you are fine, thank goodness the wound is not serious, thank goodness you seem not to feel too much pain, thank goodness ...

"Uta!"

His attention is on you, on your worried eyes.

Oh, you're still there. You didn't run away. You are there, kneeling in front of him, and he is leaning over you looking at your injured shoulder, but you don't seem to care.

"What are you doing here?" It wasn't actually the first question he wanted to ask. He had to ask you if you were okay, what that idiot had done to you, he had to take care of you. But all he could think was that you didn't have to see, you didn't have to imagine reality.

Because the weight on your shoulders would have been too much, and you would never come back.

"You never came back." Your voice again interrupts his thoughts as they wriggled again like agitated snakes in his head.

"You never came back, I came to look for you."

You say it with a look so clear and sincere that Uta for a moment is almost afraid to say anything. It seems that nothing is wrong with you in any of this; neither the danger you ran, nor the wound on your shoulder, nor his inhuman violence. You were looking for him. You were afraid that he would never come back to you, and you looked for him, as you said.

You did not remain silent waiting, you did not hope for a while to get rid of him, nor did you plan to remain without him. Instead, those words of him had remained inside you to the point of putting you in danger.

The truth is that Uta had thought he was not enough for you, or rather that you considered him as such by now. After all the sacrifices, after all the burdens you carried because of him, he really thought that you had stopped loving him, wanting him to be yours.

Perhaps this is because Uta has stopped loving himself for a long time.

But you got there, because you want him back, and if he hadn't arrived, whether you are aware of it or not, it would have been you who did not come back.

You wouldn't be back.

"Forgive me." His voice is little more than a whisper as his palm gently wraps your cheek "Does it hurt a lot?"

He pulls you close to him, into his arms. He needs to feel you, feel your warmth, your weight, your cold hands on his body. His face bends into the hollow of your neck, inhaling your perfume, smelling you not as a prey but as something of him, to be loved and protected.

"You won't go away, will you?"

Your question is innocent as you curl up in him, likewise seeking your presence.

His nose cuddles against your temple, continuing to perceive you with all possible senses.

If all renunciations of your human life are your choice, then he's not going to stop you from doing it.

"Not as long as you want me."

#tokyo ghoul #tokyo ghoul uta #uta tg #uta x human reader #uta x reader #uta tokyo ghoul #tokyo ghoul x reader #angst/comfort #request #writing prompt list

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

My Little Secret part 13

Summary: After a rather tumultuous night in Saint Denis, you’re left confused and with more questions than answers. That however doesn’t stop you and Arthur from enjoying one another.

Warnings: Obligatory smutty chapter.

Word Count: 6,673

A/N: Been working on this one for a while. Since I haven’t written in a few months I’ve gotten a tad rusty and needed to take my time with this. So here it is!

“How’d it go?”

Arthur’s quiet, raspy voice immediately snapped you back to reality, blinking as the thunderous clang of the door swung shut behind the two of you. Greeted with the faint vibrations of club music radiating through the floor, you turned to look at him.

He met your gaze with an even stare. “They didn’t scare ya, did they?”

“No, not at all,” you said as you shook your head. “They asked me about my home life, what I did for a living… they seemed real interested when I told them what I was going to school for.”

Curiosity crossed his face. “They mention why?”

“No…” you said, trying to rack your brain. The whole ordeal felt fuzzy, almost dream-like. “Honestly… I can’t remember much.”

Arthur stopped in his tracks. You’d taken one step further before realizing, and you turned to face him. “Arthur?”

“They glamored you,” he stated darkly. “Means they said somethin’ they don’t want ya to remember.”

Your heart sank at this. “So…does that mean I failed?” you quietly asked.

“No, no,” he assured you. “If ya did, they wouldn’t have let ya back out this way. Hell, they wouldn’t let me see ya. They’d take precautions to make sure you wouldn’t know ‘bout us ever again.”

Well, that provided you at least some relief. This however only raised more questions. You remembered their faces, or their vague shapes. Names sounded muddled as if attempting to speak through water. Some memories came clear, you conversing them about yourself. Your job. Your schooling. What your hobbies were. Moments after, darkness.

“Has… has this ever happened? Partial glamors?” you asked.

Arthur sighed before answering, “Very rarely. Hell, I ain’t heard o’ this in a while,” He murmured, his head ducking slightly as his blue eyes swept across the floor ahead.

“So… what does that mean for me?” you continued, frowning at him.

Arthur’s eyes shot back to you, the furrow in his brow easing when he noticed your concern. He placed his hand on your shoulder, sliding it across your arm to gently tug you closer. “Nothin’ bad, sweetheart. Like I said, you wouldn’t be here if things went sour,” he glanced behind him at the closed door. “I’ll have a word with ‘em ‘bout it, see if I can’t figure out why. For now…” he turned to face the hallway again, starting forward. “Lemme take ya home.”

You nodded silently in agreement, somewhat comforted by his words but still apprehensive about what this could all mean. What exactly happened back there that they didn’t want you to remember?

As Arthur led you down the remainder of the hall, the distinct click of the door opening caught your attention. Turning your head to glance behind you, the familiar sight of Charles appeared from behind the door. He hurried forward, moving quite silently despite his thick frame.

“Arthur, hang on!” He called out, reaching the two of you before you could even blink. Vampire swiftness was still something you’d have to get used to.

“Charles?” Arthur turned to face his former companion. “Need somethin’?”

“No,” Charles responded, his eyes briefly flicking to you. “But they do. They told me they need you to go out tonight.”

“Ain’t happenin’,” Arthur answered almost immediately. “I need to take her home.”

“I know, I told them that,” Charles sighed. “Even offered myself in your place, but they were adamant about having you on this case. Sorry, Arthur. I tried.”

You turned your attention to Arthur, the annoyance plain in his weathered face. His blue gaze swept over you, his lips parting as if to say something, but words seemed to fail him.

Charles cleared his throat. “If I may, Lucia has prepared some accommodations at the hotel tonight,” he explained. “If you’re okay with it, Arthur, I could take Y/N there.”

Hotel accommodations? This night was becoming even weirder. You didn’t really want to leave Arthur and yearned nothing more than to crawl into the comfort of your own bed, especially after learning what happened to you just moments earlier. Your head was spinning, unless that was a byproduct of being glamored. Those fuzzy images danced in your mind’s eye as you tried to grasp on any sort of information.

Arthur’s heavy sigh caught your attention. He shook his head slightly before looking at you once again. “Sorry, sweetheart. As much as I wanna get outta this, I can’t.”

You just simply nodded in response. The idea of staying in a hotel wasn’t a nerve-wracking thought, especially in the middle of Saint Denis. It wouldn’t be fair to ask Charles to drive you over an hour back home. At least they were thoughtful enough to allow you for a place to stay instead of having to call for a ride. You supposed it could be worse; dumped on the side of the road out here.

“You got work, or anything to do tomorrow?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” you answered truthfully. “If you need to go, then go.”

Arthur’s eyes searched yours for a moment, as if trying to seek a different, nonverbal response. Finally, he spoke, “Alright, jus’ know you won’t be back home ‘til nighttime, unless ya call a taxi.”

“I’m fine with that,” you affirmed. “Wouldn’t want you burning up on your motorcycle in the morning.”

His lip tugged into a faint half-smile. He reached up and placed his hand against your cheek, sliding his thumb briefly over the swell of the bone. “I’ll be joinin’ ya before dawn, though I expect you’ll be asleep by then,” he muttered as he leaned in to place a quick kiss on your lips.

Matching his smile with your own, you gave him another nod. He turned to face Charles, murmuring a thanks before stalking back down the hall. He yanked open the door and disappeared behind it as it swung closed with almost excessive force. With the slam echoing loudly against the bare walls, you sighed and looked at Charles.

Charles smiled once you met gazes, an apologetic look written on his face. “Sorry for the sudden change of plans,” he said.

“It’s not your fault,” you sighed. “So, uh… what hotel accommodations were made so last minute?”

“A vampire-owned hotel,” Charles answered. He held up one hand to gesture to the exit while he placed a hand on your shoulder. He noticed the bewilderment on your face. “It’s not what you think, I promise.”

---

It certainly wasn’t what you were thinking at all.

With the image close to an old, haunted mansion surrounded by decay painted in your mind, Charles led you back out through the nightclub and back into the thick night air where a fancy black car waited for you. He drove through the liveliest part of the city, stopping at what you’d known to be only the most expensive hotel in the state of Lemoyne. A single night for their cheapest room ran into the thousands.

And it was owned and ran by the vampires.

With it being so late, you expected low activity. Your mindset changed when Charles brought you into a bustling lobby. With so many moving around, you weren’t sure who was human and who was vampire.

Seamlessly weaving through the crowd, Charles brought you to the front desk. Within moments you were checked in, and the receptionist flashed you a brilliant smile with her fangs gleaming beneath the golden light. You probably would never get used to that.

Afterward, Charles swept you toward the elevator. Traveling up a few floors you found it was much quieter than the lobby, only one or two people milling around, giving you a swift glance before disappearing into their rooms. At this point you couldn’t tell who was human or vampire.

Charles led you to your designated room. He stopped just before the door and turned, offering you a small smile. “This is where we part ways, will you be okay from here?” He asked.

You nodded in response, sliding the key card from its holder. “I’ve stayed in hotels before, it’s no different.”

“I know, I just want to make sure you’re comfortable being here,” he replied. “You are surrounded by vampires after all.”

“As long as they don’t break into my room and drain me overnight,” you were only half joking, but you couldn’t help but to wonder…

Charles chuckled, his face folding into an expression of faint amusement. “It won’t go that far, there are more civilized vampires here than you think.”

“And I know Arthur would protect me in the event they weren’t,” you affirmed, mostly for yourself. “Whenever he comes back…”

“Sooner than you think,” Charles assured you, placing his hand on your shoulder. “Trust me, he does quick work. He’ll be back before you know it.”

Of course Charles would understand, given his past with Arthur. You suddenly felt compelled to ask more questions about their relationship, but how would you even approach that? Aside from the obvious, there was a glaring difference between you and Charles.

Before you could even begin to think of anything to say or ask, Charles stepped back from you. “I’ll be stepping out, hope you enjoy your night.”

“Thank you, Charles,” you say. “Thank you for going out of your way to bring me here.”

“You’re welcome, it’s not an issue at all,” he responded. “Arthur feels deeply for you, and I can see why. I’m glad he’s found happiness with you.”

That warmed your heart to hear.

“I’ll be heading out now…” he spoke. You expected him to turn and walk away. He however leaned in closer, dropping his voice. “By the way… he loves baths.”

You blinked in confusion, giving him an inquiring look. “Huh?”

Charles gave another small smile, the corner of his lip twitching into the slightest of smirks. “Something left over from our old lives. Back then, hotels employed women as bath ladies to help wash anyone who requested it. It’s one habit he didn’t let go of.”

Your confusion only heightened. Was he insinuating that you wash Arthur down? As seconds ticked by, the realization dawned upon you. A flash of heat invaded your face and you ducked your head to avert your gaze. “Uh, thanks for that information…?”

Charles softly chuckled in response, before murmuring a quiet goodbye. As his figure left your peripheral vision, you turned to face the door of your room once again.

The inside was more modernized than you expected it to be. Used to the classic architecture of Saint Denis, this was a stark difference. It reminded you of a type of penthouse seen only in media. A monochromatic scheme of black and silver decorated every facet of furniture and décor. Massive windows sat on the opposite side, only partly covered by the blackout curtains. A king-sized bed with a wine-colored comforter sat in the middle, and upon it seemed to be a pile of neatly folded fabric.

Curious, you approached the bed and found that it was a pair of silk pajamas with the hotel’s emblem embroidered on the left breast. A few chocolates were placed intricately on top of it. Underneath sat a soft robe.

Damn, did every guest get this sort of treatment?

After familiarizing yourself with everything, you showered and wrapped yourself in the robe. You then turned the TV on and relaxed on the bed, too comfortable in the robe to change into the pajamas.

Mindlessly flipping through the channels, you couldn’t settle on one. As much as you tried to focus, your thoughts were just too wired. This whole night set you in a tizzy and you weren’t exactly sure how to make head or tail of it. Arthur said you were partially glamored, and for reasons unknown. He assured you it wasn’t a bad thing, but there was still the question as to why. Did you say something, or did they? What vital information was shared that you had to be wiped clean of?

You also had to wonder what job was so important they needed Arthur to do that very night. He did say he was sort of like a bounty hunter, which meant dangerous work. You’d seen him in action, and knowing his former life as an outlaw meant he was probably one of the toughest guys around. You still couldn’t help but to worry however.

How likely was it he could get seriously injured?

With a silent scold to yourself, you shook her head in attempt to shake that thought. He’s been alive long before your grandparents were even a thought. This was his job, and he spoke as if it was just a normal 9-5 to him.

Time blurred together as your brain continue to flip-flop between everything that happened tonight. The TV was mere background noise as you tried and failed to focus on what was airing. You were watching a movie at some point, when focusing back in there was now a documentary. The movie apparently ended an hour ago and it was now 3 am.

Jesus, I need to go to bed. You thought to yourself as you shifted to finally change into the provided nightwear. Though you still felt wide awake, attempting to sleep was better than getting lost in incoherent thoughts in a seemingly never ending cycle.

Just as you slid to your feet and began to untie the robe, the click of the lock sounded. You froze instantly, your eyes snapping to the door as it opened to reveal Arthur.

The tension eased from your body as he stepped in quietly, his eyes quickly scanning your body before meeting your eyes. “Sweetheart, thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“I was about to try,” you answered, abandoning the knot. “I don’t really feel tired.”

Arthur stepped in further and the door closer behind him. “It’s been a long night for ya, I expected different,” he chuckled slightly.

“Yeah, but I keep thinking back to what happened. It’s such a weird night, my brain doesn’t want to simmer down,” you sighed and plopped your butt on the edge of the bed. As Arthur came closer, the fabric of his jacket flitted from his torso. It was just a few inches of movement, but enough to reveal blood stain on his shirt. Your eyes widened. “Arthur?!”

“It ain’t mine, don’t worry,” he said quickly with a surprisingly casual tone. “Jus’ a messy job.”

“What did you do? Kill more fledglings?” You asked curiously.

“More or less,” he shrugged the jacket off, letting it fall to a heap on the floor. Crimson splatter painted his bare forearms. “Ain’t ever gonna be a clean job, as much as I try.”

“And… you walked all the way up here like that,” you stated, gesturing to him.

“There are less used entrances, and humans would be asleep now,” he explained, giving you a slightly cheeky smirk. “Most of ‘em anyway.”

“Well, maybe I can rest easy now that you’re back,” you pointed out with a small smile of your own. “But I was worried about you too.”

His face softened at your words. He stepped toward you, reaching out with a cleaner hand to caress your chin. “You don’t gotta worry, I always return.”

Leaning lightly into his cool palm, you said, “Don’t jinx yourself.”

Arthur gave a small chuckle. “I ain’t as vulnerable as you think, sweetheart. I promise you that.”

You hummed softly, grazing your fingers against the back of his hand. “I hope so.”

His smile was warm and comforting, a moment of silent intimacy exchanged between the two of you. Placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, he backed off and crossed the room over to where the bathroom door stood ajar. “Gonna shower, I’ll be out in a bit.”

You nodded, silently watching him disappear behind the door. Within half a minute, the telltale sound of water pattering against porcelain filled the quiet space. You were a little more awake now that Arthur came back, regardless you were going to return to your abandoned attempt to rest.

Standing back up, you began to fumble with the knot on the robe once again.

Charles’ voice suddenly passed through your head. Arthur loves baths.

You paused once again. A quick, single thought loomed. You glanced at the closed bathroom door. However, this wasn’t the 1800’s. Indoor plumbing has greatly improved since then. It would probably be redundant.

But what harm was there in trying?

You and Arthur hadn’t done anything yet. Aside from a few makeout sessions and the occasional brush against more sensitive areas (mostly accidental), seeing each other naked was still something to check off on this list. Neither of you pushed for anything, especially since you weren’t sure how to proceed with a vampire.

Perhaps it was time to find out.

Padding across the room, you rested your hand on the knob and turned it, half surprised to find it gave way. Taking a deep breath you pushed it open, met with a growing wall of humidity. His silhouette formed a soft outline through the shower curtain. He twitched from behind the curtain.

He spoke out your name softly, a touch of concern ringing his voice. As quiet as you were, he had impressively acute hearing. “Are you alright? Need somethin’?” He asked.

“No, I…” you trailed off. Almost hesitant to try, you took a deep breath and added, “I just wanted to join you, if that’s okay.”

A couple of seconds ticked by, the water the only sound. You wondered if he was going to refuse.

But to your surprise, he didn’t. “Sure,” he finally answered. “Come on in.”

You smiled to yourself. You’d loosened the robe enough to allow the soft billowing fabric to fall from your figure. Shrugging it off the rest of the way, the only thing separating you and him was the shower curtain. Stepping forward, you reached out and tugged it aside.

Arthur’s face entered your field of view first. Then, his broad torso. Soon all of him was revealed to you, his wet skin glistening beneath the bright light. Rivulets of water cascaded down his body, faintly tinged red from the blood that still remained.

God, was he built like an ox. Your eyes slowly scanned him up and down, stealing an extra second to gaze at the appendage sitting at the base of his waist. You met his gaze just seconds after, hoping he didn’t catch you staring inappropriately.

He smiled and stuck his hand out to you, beckoning you in with a slight curl of his fingers. You slid in without an issue, dampened by stray drops. Your heart was beginning to pound. It wasn’t the first time you’d been nude in someone else’s presence, however knowing he was more than human still struck a sliver of anxiety into you.

His blue eyes shifted for the briefest of a second, taking in your full figure but like you, not letting his curious gaze linger for too long. “You’re gorgeous,”

Heat crept into your face. “You are too,” you bashfully replied, your arms naturally loosely curling around yourself.

“Out of the two o’ us, I think you take the cake on looks, darlin’,” he spoke softly, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Oh Arthur, I can’t take all of the credit…” you murmured to him. You wanted to touch him but a small part of your brain still was hesitant. Your one hand reached forward, opting to take his hand. “I still think you’re one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met.”

He hummed quietly in response, squeezing your hand in his. “Guess you’ll need to keep remindin’ me.”

“And I have no problem with that,” you stepped somewhat closer, allowing your words to feign bravery. In reality your heart began to pound, and you knew Arthur would be able to hear it. He however gave no indication of knowing, not even a simple acknowledgement. What was wrong with you? It wasn’t like this sort of intimacy was new.  “I, uh, heard you like baths.”

Arthur released a small a chuckle. “I’m guessin’ you and Charles had a conversation.”

“You could say that,” you shyly spoke. “Would you mind if I…?”

“You don’t gotta do anything,” he assured you, his brow furrowing slightly. “Don’t want you feelin’ forced.”

“I want to,” you affirmed. “And I don’t feel like I’m being forced, Arthur…” you reached down to grab a bar of soap. “As long as you want it, I’m happy to provide.”

The wrinkles of concern softened, the smile returning to Arthur’s face. “I guess I can’t say no then.”

You matched his smile, beginning with rubbing the soap between your hands. With mittens of suds, you reached up and slid them against his shoulders. Slowly you worked down his arms, refraining from squeezing his biceps. They were thick and solid, even at resting position. As many times he held you in his arms, you never really thought twice about them. How strong was he really?

Your hands brushed against his, receiving no reaction as you lathered more suds against his work-worn palms. You realized for the first time how warm was skin was. Obviously a product of hot water, however it stirred up a feeling of nostalgia of having a warm body to cuddle with.

Not that you minded his lack of a temperature on a humid night anyway.

Once he rinsed his arms, you moved to his torso. An expanse of more muscle, formed pecs and the tease of an ab outline. While his body wasn’t akin to a typical model, he was certainly built from whatever hard work he was subjected to in his previous life. He once explained vampirism kept you in stasis of how you were as a living being, as well as negating any physical ailments you might have had at the time. You had to wonder what toll his once terminal illness held on his mortal body.

With your brain detached from your mind, you were brought back to reality when you realized you’d ran your hands along his chest and torso more times than necessary. Quickly you shifted your attention. If Arthur noticed, he certainly didn’t seem to have an issue with it.

You were careful below his navel, an obvious place sitting in the corner of your eye as your fingers danced around his waistline. You focused on a bit of blood still against his hip. Even as you tried to avoid the tiny thought that was slowly growing in the back of your mind, you couldn’t help but to wonder…

Once again you’d spent a little too long in one spot. Snapping your attention down, you instead brought your focus to his legs.

“Haven’t enjoyed this in ages…” you heard Arthur quietly say.

Peering up at him, you noted the content look on his face. “Charles did tell me there were women who were paid to do this,” you stated.

“Long time ago,” he responded with a tone of reminiscence. “Only time I could truly relax outside o’ gang duties.”

“I guess the introduction of indoor plumbing and showers probably did away with them,” you joked lightly, your fingertips running along the groove of his thigh muscles.

“Unfortunately,” he chuckled. “Thank you for this, darlin’.”

Flashing him a smile, you replied, “you’re welcome,” before moving down to his calves. Making quick work of them, you rinsed off the suds before standing back up. “Turn around,” you instructed.

Arthur did just that, exposing his back. As your eyes swept over him, you couldn’t help but to think everything about this man was built perfectly. The soap bar ran smoothly across the plains of muscle, every ridge and every dip. It was tempting to climb this man like the tree he was.

Those lingering thoughts seemed to stir something within you, a minuscule spark burning deep in your gut. You shook your head, silently scolding yourself. No need to become all hot and bothered over this. Though since he was facing away, you glanced down to take a peek. He had a decently nice butt, toned and not completely muscular, yet not flat.

How fun would it be to grab it while he…

Nope.

You stopped that mental train in its tracks. What was wrong with you tonight?

You rinsed off the soap for him this time, allowing yourself one final quick gaze before he turned to face you again. The smile he had on his lips never lifted as he reached up to caress your cheek. “That was real nice,” he complimented. “I could, uh, wash ya next, if you’d like.”

“I showered earlier,” you responded, reaching up to hold his hand with yours. “But maybe next time.”

A low hum rumbled from his chest in response. “Next time,” he agreed. His thumb smoothed lightly across your cheek, trapping your face in with his other hand. Leaning down, he placed a tender kiss on your lips. You’d expected it to be quick, except he held you there, slowly drawing you in until your skin just barely brushed against his abdomen.

Your fingers flexed at your sides, itching to bring yourself even closer. Prior nerves have since been quelled, yet a different storm began to roll in. The urge was growing more prominent, though you still had to wonder if it were even possible for him.

Finally Arthur released you, slowly retreating to stand upright. The nearly nonexistent space between the two opened slightly as his hands slid down to hold you gently at your waist. He stared at you unblinkingly, blue-green orbs reflecting darkly through the partly obscured light. His gaze was soft, loving, it was almost too overwhelming. Your eyes averted from his, heat once again making its home on your face as a shy smile formed.

Though unintentional, your gaze seemed to drift toward there again. A brief glance lengthened when you realized his appearance changed. Now, he stood more prominent, somewhat elongated in a half-hardened manner.

Oh.

He stepped back immediately as if he realized where your attention settled. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Don’t mean to seem like a pervert.”

You peered back up to his face, noting the apologetic embarrassment written clear across it. It wasn’t even apparent to you that vampires could feel embarrassment, let alone sexual thoughts.

Then again, he did once explain how he still had human emotions. He’d proven that a hundred times over.

“You’re not,” you start. “I didn’t even know vampires could even…” trailing off, your eyes once again sinking below before looking back to him.

“We can,” he confirmed. “Jus’ been a while, guess I let my thoughts wander too much.”

Somehow learning this information was a relief, though it wasn’t for a selfish reason. You took a step toward him. “It’s been a while for me too,” you reached out to entwine your fingers with his. “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

Arthur’s hands squeezed gently around yours. The smile from before slowly made another appearance, though holding a bashful nature. “You’re too good to an old bastard like me,” he murmured to you.

You giggled at his words. “I think it’s well deserved…” you shuffled even closer, rolling onto your toes to kiss him again. A wall of solid muscle brushed against your soft exterior, drawing you in for more contact. In a moment of confidence, you broke through the last strings of hesitation and pressed yourself to his body. His hands immediately released yours, finding their place once again on your waist. Absent was the tender grasp from earlier, his hands seemed to have a firmer grip on you.

That wasn’t the only part of him that seemed to firm up.

Somehow, you were feeling adventurous.

Placing your palm against his hip, you wanted to test the waters. Your fingers traced a nonlinear pattern against his skin, drawing closer to the front of his body. You half-expected a reaction only to find none, at least for now.

The heart of your palm smoothed against the plain of his lower abdominal muscles, soft to the touch yet still solid, he showed no signs of tension. Curls of hair intruded your fingertips. Lower you sunk until you found what you were searching for.

You waited for a flinch, for him to pull back. He provided nothing of the sort.

With one smooth glide from hilt to tip, it only then occurred to you how robust he was. A certain thickness that your fingers could not fully reach around. Your own thoughts further progressed to a deeper, more carnal desire. The singular thought of taking him all at once stirred even more excitement deep in your core.

Pulling back from the lip-locked embrace, you smiled sweetly at him, pumping your hand slowly to milk that slack-jawed, half-lidded expression. He only stood there, thoroughly enjoying your touch. Thumbs smoothed against your skin only further encouraged you.

How would he taste?

You knelt down, giving him a thorough once over, drinking in every inch of him before arriving to his face. Drawing up a sensual gaze to offer him, you asked in a sultry tone, “May I?”

Arthur gave you one small nod. That was all you needed.

Darting you tongue from between your lips, you toyed with the pinch of skin underneath. It earned a shudder as you circled your tongue around the head, your eyes never leaving his face. Inching further, you engulfed him slowly, pleasantly underestimating how much space he occupied. He could easily reach the back of your throat.

You began to bob at an eased pace, allowing your tongue to do most of the work. The small sigh gracing your ears encouraged you further, faster.

Fingers smoothed against your scalp in small circles. His deep voice growled your name. He tangled himself within your locks, holding you there yet not forcing you to make him deeper. You appreciated that, rewarding him with haste.

Without a pause, you reached up to fondle him, offering a gentle massage. He seemed to enjoy that, hips twitching forward with restraint. It amazed you how careful he was.

His rough voice filled the shower, a mixture of swears and your name echoing against the confined walls. You pushed even further to take all of him, as difficult as that was, yet the way he gasped indicated his appreciation. The hand on your head curled into a fist, loosely holding your hair.

You did it again, gauging for further reaction. He groaned much louder, expelling a raspy “fuck,” before peering down at you with a subtle, yet pleading gaze.

Arthur was clear with what he was asking, and you hummed to him in approval. His smile widened, placing his hands on either side of your head before thrusting. He began with cautious and slow movement, able to fill your entire mouth with such small effort. You held still for him, allowing for him to use you in such a dirty manner. Soon his pace increased, burying himself even more with each passing second.

He praised you, smoothed your hair, tangling his fingers within it once again. He muttered sweet sins that would make a preacher blush. His grip on you tightened, and he whispered to you, “I’m close,”

Your eyes swiveled up to meet his, rubbing your hand against his thigh as approval. A hazy smile crossed his lips, taking your permission to give one deep thrust. With one sweeping movement he brushed against the back of your throat. You fought back a gag, keeping yourself still for him.

Yet he was fairly quick, pushing himself deep only a few more times before releasing a guttural moan, hips stuttering to a complete stop. It almost surprised you when a cool liquid spilled onto your tongue. When he stepped back and freed your mouth, you savored the taste and swallowed.

Arthur’s satisfied sigh caught your attention. “Ain’t had that in a while,” he mumbled, reaching down to caress your chin. Blue eyes glossed over with a lazy, star struck look. “Thank you.”

You stood up and smiled at him. “Only doing what a good girlfriend should do,” you said with a slight giggle.

Arthur chuckled lowly at your response. The tip of his thumb ran across your lips gently as the smile on his face turned thoughtful. “‘Spose I oughta return the favor,” he spoke, reaching behind him to turn off the water.

A flash of heat crossed your cheeks at the mere thought. Before you could say anything, his arms wrapped around you. With ease he lifted you from the tub, earning a squeak of surprise from you as he stepped out. A sudden shift from humidity to air conditioning was an indication of where he carried you. The chill on your wet skin was soon forgotten when he laid you on the plush comforter of the bed. Arthur’s grip on you soon lightened, wandering hands appreciating every dip and curve of you.

Lips caressed your neck, your collarbone, your chest. A trail of goosebumps followed, awakening senses burning within you. Each new touch drew in your craving for him even more. A soft moan slipped out and he hadn’t even properly touched you yet.

His presence hovered over your center, thick arms sliding beneath your legs to securely hook them. You peered down, watching as he adjusted to kneel between your legs. Eyes flicking up at you, he smiled and quietly asked, “You alright with this?”

You nodded to him. “More than alright.”

His smile widened, heading dipping further, his soft breath ghosting across the sensitive skin. Wetness upon your slit, you twitched in surprise from the chilled sensation in such a sensitive area. The initial shock soon replaced with an all-too familiar tingle that you’d only been dreaming about these past few months.

“Arthur…” you sighed out, closing your eyes and fully immersing yourself within your pleasure. He was much more dexterous than thought; ripples of ecstasy soon overcoming your body. Your legs trembled within his grasp, moaning louder when fingers decidedly explored your inner walls.

His tongue worked in tandem with his touch, an almost overwhelming sensation radiating from your core. If it hadn’t been for his other arm keeping you still, you would have bucked into his face. His name left your lips more times than you could count; a string of sighs and praises following. Your body craved more of his touch, more of him. The mere thought fueled you further.

Your peak was building much quicker than you anticipated. Your hips ground against his mouth selfishly in attempt to chase that high, though in a matter of seconds it vanished.

Giving a pleading whine, you peered down at him with a look of questioning. He smiled apologetically and smoothed his palm across your inner thigh. “Easy, darlin’, it ain’t a race.”

You took a deep breath and nodded, silently scolding yourself for that. The prior thought soon was overtaken, however, as Arthur trailed his fingers across your abdomen. He soon continued his ministrations, allowing for the bubble to build again. Arthur seemed to work even slower now, watching you with intense baby blues. A deep flush settled in your cheeks, turning your gaze away only for him to target a particularly sensitive spot. A toe-curling, squeal inducing rush cascading through your whole body.

“Fuck,” you gasped out. “Arthur, oh g-god…” you stammered, covering your mouth as if others would hear. He eased off, returning to his normal pace before attempting it again. “Arthur!”

His only response was a low hum. One hand trailed upward, the rough of his palm nearly tickling the sensitive skin of your stomach. Soon cupping the mound of your breast, he began to knead the soft flesh. Your eyes flittered closed, a sharp intake of breath when he pinched your nipple. He rolled the hardened pucker between his fingertips, torqueing gently. You hissed out his name once again.

It wasn’t much longer until your peak started to swell again. Fighting the urge to buck your hips into his mouth again, your back arched, hands fisting the comforter beneath, head tilted back, lewd moans sounded to the ceiling above.

Arthur was relentless, drawing out your pleasure with careful expertise. Absent of a quick build, every passing second was almost agonizing. You yearned to chase it, to vainly use his mouth. God damn him for holding you like this. Your high was imminent; your muscles trembling beneath your skin in desperate need to release.

And release you did. One complex drag of his tongue finally brought you over the edge. Every nerve sung as your body contracted, energy expelling in a high-pitched moan. He continuously lapped at you in a lazy manner, drawing out your climax until overstimulation took over, wriggling and trembling beneath him in attempts to pull away.

His arms slid from your legs just a moment later, and he crawled up onto the bed. Propping himself up on one arm, he smiled down at you.

Your returning smile was weak. With your heart racing and breath short, it was almost like you’d run a marathon. “T-thank you,” you managed to squeak. “Haven’t had a…a release like that in a long time.”

Arthur chuckled once. A hand wandered onto your stomach, lightly rubbing small circles against your skin. “Happy you enjoyed it, sweetheart,” he murmured to you.

You lay there, allowing him to trace patterns on your skin. Your heart slowly returned to normal, the last of your high finally dissipating into fatigue. Even as tired as you were, your body craved even more of him…

Your eyes opened to him shifting on the bed. He reached over you to grab something – a flash of pale silk appeared out of the corner of your eye, the provided pajamas.

“Thought those were for me,” you quietly said to him.

“They are,” he responded, placing them next to you. “Put ‘em on, then we can get underneath the covers.”

You gave him a look of confusion. “But I wanna continue…” you moaned to him, rolling over to face him completely. Your hands cupped his face to kiss him.

He didn’t hesitate to return the gesture, though quick and chaste. He pulled back slightly, offering an apologetic smile. “You were startin’ to fall asleep, sweetheart.”

“No I wasn’t,” you started to protest, interrupted by a deep yawn. “Just need a pick-me-up…” you began to sit up, wanting to straddle him. Arthur however placed a hand on your upper arm. An action absent of any sort of force, yet it stopped you in your tracks.

“It’s 4 am, you need to rest,”

“I used to pull all-nighters for school,” you pointed out.

Arthur sighed and shook his head, moving his hand from your arm to cradle your cheek. “That ain’t necessary, love,” he spoke evenly, boring into your eyes with such smoldering intensity. “You’ve had a long night, and I don’t wanna mess up your sleep schedule.”

You contemplated his words. As much as you hated to admit it, he was right. The post-orgasm fatigue was just enough to finally simmer your brain down, and your eyelids were growing heavier. “Alright, I’ll go to sleep…” you resigned with a pout.

He smiled, softly running his thumb across your cheek. “Plenty o’ time for that, I promise.”

You hummed in response, your brain beginning to succumb the creeping fog. You managed to sit up, Arthur helping you into the ever-so comfortable silk set. The fabric felt like heaven against your skin, and soon you were tucked beneath the plush blankets. He settled in beside you. Through the heavy drowsiness, you had to smile to yourself. This was the first time you’d be sharing a bed with him, differing sleep schedules be damned.

His arm draped loosely over your waist, his body fitting against you perfectly. Even with his lack of warmth, you were comfortable enough not to care. His lips brushed against the nape of your neck before he whispered,

“Goodnight.”

#Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan x reader #vampire Arthur #vampire AU #Charles Smith #back on my bullshit

[flickeringart]

Satanism - a way to embrace Pluto?

My mind has been occupied with Pluto lately, the planet, god and symbol of “the hidden things”, the occult, the underworld, darkness, fate, rage, destruction, transformation, abduction, man’s primitive nature, life and death, power and powerlessness, fear, violation and fertility. There’s so much nuance to all planetary (archetypal) principles and there’s always more to explore. Pluto especially is a mysterious and threatening figure (force) in our lives and in the world at large. I have talked about it in previous posts, here / here and here… I’ve also explored the 8th house, which is the astrological house of Scorpio and Pluto here and here.

Many people understandably avoid anything that has to do with the darker elements of life and human nature until they are forced to deal with them. This is possibly why Pluto has been associated with violence because we are typically dragged into the depths; we don’t go there willingly. Some people, however, have lives that are marked by Pluto to such a degree that they can’t pretend that he doesn’t exist. By deciding to consciously accept him and embrace his influence it is possible to live a richer life. After all, Pluto is not only a god of destruction; he is also a god of riches. It seems to me, that the worship of Satan (as practiced by members of the Church of Satan) is very much in line with Pluto’s gifts and his riches. It’s an attempt to embrace the carnal nature. However, this Plutonian carnality is not as basic as it seems. It has its own intelligence, its own spirituality and its own laws. It seems to me that Pluto has to do with survival – psychological, emotional, spiritual and physical. He stands for survival and life at all levels of the being. As stated on the official website, “To us, Satan is the symbol that best suits the nature of we who are carnal by birth—people who feel no battles raging between our thoughts and feelings, we who do not embrace the concept of a soul imprisoned in a body. He represents pride, liberty, and individualism—qualities often defined as Evil by those who worship external deities, who feel there is a war between their minds and emotions.”

I think, that this philosophy attempts to treasure the whole (hu)man, to recognize his divinity even in his subjective thoughts and feelings. It’s an attempt to honor the darker aspects of human nature – anger, rage, and instinctual responses. It’s essentially to honor the earth, the dark void, and the merciless existence. Putting faith in external deities is robbing the individual of his divinity; it’s separating him from life. Christianity has, at least in part, made people think of Evil as an autonomous force (an external deity), corrupting good souls and creating fear and panic. By avoiding seeing reality as a whole, Christianity perpetuates fear instead of confronting it. As I understand it, Satanists don’t invest belief in any gods (symbolic of human drives and instincts) because they see that these mind-made constructs are part of their own psyche. Satanists place themselves at the center of their own subjective universe without seeking to befriend or worship mythical entities that are separate from them.

It seems to me though, from studying astrology, that there’s no way to escape deity. In the effort to not have any god, to place the self at the center, as is characteristic of the Church of Satan, one is in fact aligning or siding with an archetype. It’s impossible not to. I think this is made quite obvious when using astrology and analyzing natal charts. The archetypal energies are expressing themselves through and as the individuals.

In fact, let’s take a look at the chart of the founder of the Church of Satan, Anton Szandor LaVey. I would expect him to have a strong Pluto because of the emphasis on embracing the carnal side and the spiritual dimension of it. There’s also a big emphasis on being whole (a solar principle) through recognizing the totality of life, facing the strength and power within oneself and using the necessary tools to improve one’s own life. This would include consciously using symbols and images (like the image of Satan) in order to get the desired effect. If symbols are given autonomous power it’s a problem only if it puts the individual in a disempowered position. Personal integrity and liberty is also of utmost importance, which sounds rather Aquarian to me. Let’s have a look.

The chart of Anton Szandor LaVey, as found on astrotheme.com.

The Sun is in Aries, which is not surprising considering his strong faith in individuality, his initiative to start a “new religion”, to provide a contrasting influence, to place himself at the “center”, to go by no other rules than his own, to welcome opposition, the desire to be his own master and a leader of his own life. Aries as a sign is strongly linked to the warrior archetype, of fighting for what one believes in without compromise, to claim authority in spirit, to conquer, to place subjectivity over objectivity (because there’s no real difference from the perspective of Aries). Selfishness is the basis for existence; it is through honoring the self that one can honor other people’s independence. Mars, which is the planetary ruler of Aries, is concerned with personal strength and potency (note; Mars is sometimes referred to as the lower octave of Pluto). It seems like LaVey lived on his own terms, relying on his own natural instincts and gifts to get by in life. This is all very typical of Aries people, to live of off a self-generated optimism and conviction of one’s own ability. “The rules don’t apply to me” is the overall sentiment – the rules originated somewhere and that which originates from my own self is no less valuable or divine, even if it’s raw, ugly or imperfect it is still of “The Self”, the force that animates existence.

To no surprise, Pluto makes a square aspect to his Sun. He would’ve lived with the threat of his own destructive rage, his own inner violence and uncompromising desire. To him, it was probably difficult to consciously accept this side (the square aspect always represents a conflict) but he certainly tried to acknowledge his “darkness” through founding the Church of Satan. A person with a trine aspect between Sun-Pluto would not have been as motivated or pressed to bridge the gap between the self and the primitive and taboo because there wouldn’t have been anything to bridge. The square relationships between two planets usually motivate the individual to try to solve dilemma of conflicting principles within the psyche through external work. Squares usually force work in a very concrete fashion. When a person is serious about something, and is trying to make something happen it’s usually indicative of a square aspect within the personal chart. For example, I have a Neptune square Mercury aspect. I try to read and write and educate myself to some kind of higher state, some transcendent and elevated experience because the connection is not smooth between these planets. I try to articulate things properly in order to bridge the gap between personal mind and the nuance of collective feeling. I try to reflect the essence or feeling tone of energies through my writing.

The interesting thing about LaVey is that he truly took on the appearance of a devil – he was probably aware of the power of looks, the impact that certain clothing or symbols have. He was undoubtedly theatrical. Pluto in the 5th house might have something to do with this, as it’s the house of individual expression. The 5th house is all about personal creation; it’s the realm of children and play. In a sense, he was no different from a child dressing up in costumes and playing “the dark one”, which is probably why people mocked him for it. Even when Pluto is in the 5th house it is never light-hearted, he is all in, ruthlessly determined. Pluto placed in this house takes play seriously. He takes personal expression seriously. His creations are his and he should be at the center of them. The individual should be credited for his abilities, not the other way around, just as the individual shouldn’t be appreciated because his gifts are “of the gods”. They belong as much to the individual as it does to the deities. This is certainly the spirit of Pluto. He answers to no other god than himself and he sees life as it is, in its most vile forms, without flinching. Life is in all expressions, in the primitive as well as in the sophisticated. This is, in many ways, a deeply honest way to live. Another thing that catches my attention is the bi-quintiles Pluto makes to the MC (public image) and the AC (personal image/persona). The bi-quintile aspect is generally considered to say something about a certain talent or style, a mercurial quality or skill. He truly has the style of Pluto, both in his countenance and in his societal achievements. He looks dark and mysterious, preoccupied with the occult side of life. Perhaps he even had a certain talent for “magic”, at least he claimed to.

Satanists believe in indulgence (which doesn’t imply compulsion) over abstinence, primarily because there’s no belief in heaven or an after life. The individual is placed at the center of his own universe as his own master – through and through. Although many people would agree that self-mastery is a good thing, many also tend promote, in the same vein, that “people make mistakes” and that they “should be forgiven”. As I understand it, Satanism as a philosophy would state that mistakes are only mistakes if the self-mastered individual firmly believes it to be so in complete honesty and integrity. Self-deceit is considered to be a sin, unless of course it’s done intentionally - it would then not be a sin. Going along with roles that other people have cast one in is self-deceit – that is, for example, shouldering the role as a “sinner” because other people have imposed that label or role onto you is not indicative of self-respect, it’s a betrayal of your own reality. Notably, LaVey has an Aquarius Ascendant, Lilith in Aquarius in the 1st house and Uranus widely conjunct his Sun (both in the independent sign of Aries). He is definitely not a person to follow the herd – in fact “Herd Conformity” is one of the Cardinal Sins in Satanism. He leads life through the principle of being his own godhead, his own intellectual genius, and his own unique and separate individual, detached from the norms and conventions enough to go against them if he pleases. Aquarius is a sign that considers the map of life in an intellectual sense. This sign is also the sign of the progressive individual, someone who wants to make a difference on a larger scale. He certainly did, through constructing a thought-system that could benefit people. It’s no wonder that the first of the Nine Cardinal Sins (as found on the official website) is Stupidity. Of course it would be to an Aquarius Rising! “Think for yourself; don’t go along with everything you’re told” is the plea.

#pluto #astrology #planets in astrology #satanism #aries sun #aquarius rising #pluto in astrology #devil worship #plutonic forces #natal chart analysis #natal chart #satan #darkness #darkness and light #anton lavey #natal chart exploration #deity #religion #embracing pluto #individualism #philosophy #liberty #pride #power #sun square pluto

[corysmiles]

IT IS TIME FOR ANOTHER ENTRY IN THE POTION AU!!

This is full of nothing and fluff, so prepare lmao

After a while, they began organizing group dinners, where they would all meet up in the evening and eat together. It took a bit of convincing Tommy's parents, but they accepted more easily when they realized it was just between close friends. Wilbur was already living on his own so it was no problem and Phil always was a free spirit. 

And so, at least once a week, they met up at Techno's abode to spend the night together.

Tommy was elated to see all of the furniture now 10 times his size, and all the objects and decoration. "We're gonna have to try and play Hide and Seek, big man. Because this looks like the best fucking playground!" Wilbur, meanwhile, was looking in awe at the whole thing. It felt weird to be so not rightly scaled, but he got used to it soon enough.

Phil was the most surprising of all, due to the fact that he wasn't surprised at all. Even unbothered, in fact. Techno wondered if he was faking it to make him feel better, but everything seemed honest. For someone who claims to never have interacted with giants, he acted as if this was his everyday life. One day he wanted to ask him about that, but he figured those were not the time.

And so they would gather around, bringing each a part of the meal so they could enjoy together. 

Sometimes, techno would drink the potion and join them, other times, he would stay at his regular size and simply enjoy the conversation. It was fine like that, Techno liked it. And his friends didn't seem to mind so it was perfect. (Well, Phil kind of minded, but he was always like that whenever he as much as looked at the potion so that wasn't really anything to go by.)

But it was nice, Wilbur would even bring his guitar from time to time, noticing Techno had a violin. He hasn't touched the instrument in a while but seeing Wilbur play the guitar, it was very tempting. 

"You should try and play again, Techno! We could even make a duet! That would be fun"

"Maybe one day, yeah… but I would need to practice, it's been years."

"Well I don't know violin" Phil perked up "but I'm around Tommy almost everyday, so I'm used to bad sounds" he chuckled

"WHAT'S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN??"Tommy argued, baffled, which made the other three laugh. 

"But yeah, I think I'm gonna try to play again, it could be fun."

"How did you even get a violin this size? Are there giant shop owners ?"

Techno crackled at that "Na. I made it myself. Took a while, but I'm proud of the result."

Wilbur made an "ooohh" before returning to his meal with a smile. 

It was pretty quiet for a while, everyone enjoying the silence before Wilbur perked up again. 

"I'm wondering, are there giant animals? Like cows or chicken? How do you eat?" 

Phil's fork almost dropped on the plate and looked at Wil with wide eyes, while Tommy added "hey yeah! You never eat with us when you're all big, how come?"

Techno smirked a bit at the question, and his hand reached for a counter. "Actually" he said, grabbing and showing an object they knew all too well "This is why I brought the potion in the first place." 

Wilbur looked confused, but kept smiling, while Tommy exclaimed "wait, really?!?" 

He chuckled "yeah. If creatures like that exist, I never found any. So I started hunting and eating stuff at human size, so when the potion effects wears off, it's like I ate a meal my size. That's how it started, pretty funny when you think about it."

Wilbur laughed a bit "yeah, who would've thought it would lead to this."

"Not me, that's for sure" techno confirmed.

The rest of the meal was spent in comfortable silence. Yet he could feel another question lingered in the brunette's tongue. Carefully, he bopped his hair with one of his fingers, and ruffled his hair gently, which made Wilbur laugh. It wasn't holding yet, but he was getting better at the whole contact thing. "What's stuck in that head of yours, Wilbur?" 

The other continued to laugh a bit even after techno stopped, and he sheepishly smiled. "Well, I have a question, but it might come off as very rude, so I don't know if I should ask."

Phil turned to Wilbur, with an almost scolding glare "wilbur, don-" 

"It's alright, Phil." He lifted a hand before turning his gaze towards Wilbur "ask away."

"Well… About the, hm… myths. Is that… is any of it true?" He finally said, clearly trying to word it inoffensively. 

It was vague enough that Tommy didn't know what he was talking about, and Phil stayed silent, though his brows furrowed. 

Techno bore a small, earnest smile. There was something that could be mistaken for sadness, but it wasn’t quite. 

"Maybe a long time ago, but not that I know of. Giants heard of it too, but from tales and legends taking place so long ago the line between fiction and reality is a huge blur." he couldn't blame Wilbur for his curiosity, and he was surprised the question didn't even make him nervous. He was glad. Very glad. 

"And I didn't meet a lot of giants in my lifetime, but none of them did it, so yeah. Maybe it was true at one point, but I think if it still was, humans would clearly be aware of it."

Wilbur hummed, satisfied with the answer. He took another bite of his meal "yeah, I mean to us, it's only a myth, so it makes sense. Thanks." 

"No problem?" Techno had an amused smile on his face. Wilbur was a weird one sometimes, asking the weirdest or scariest things with only a childish smile on his face. 

Tommy turned to look at wilbur, then technoblade, then wilbur again, before speaking “What the fuck are you two talking abou-”

“Nothing” They hummed in unison. 

--

Eventually, the night fell completely and it was time for the humans to go home. They waved goodbye and walked toward the exit, but before they walked through the door, Wilbur turned around sharply and prompted "Can I sleep at your house tonight?" 

Techno, phil and tommy were all taken aback. "You can go home if you want" he reassured the two blonds "I just really like Techno's house." 

"Uhh" techno hesitated. It's not like Wilbur was in any danger, he was careful not to fall from heights… and he would be dead sooner than letting his friends get hurt. 

"You don't have to, if you would rather sleep alone" the brunette was quick to add once he saw the small tension in Techno's stance.

"I think it'd be fine. I spent nights at your house after all, it's only fair. Yeah, you can stay." Techno settled on, earning another bright smile from the human. 

After a couple of minutes, it was just the two of them. It was a bit awkward, seeing as it was the first time Techno was at real size on a one on one. But Wilbur didn't seem to see it that way, enjoying the view. 

"Want me to join you down there?" He asked. 

"Nope! You don't have to worry about a thing!" Wilbur simply replied, grabbing on a drawer handle and slowly making his way up. Techno was quick to put his hand below in case he fell.

"You could have warned me!" Techno complained, to which the other simply laughed a quick "sorry". Not stopping at all. 

After almost falling only twice (and techno almost getting a heart attack two times), Wilbur made it onto a safe platform. The two sighed,one from exhaustion, the other from relief. And he laughed again.

"Tommy wasn't lying. This house really is an amazing playground." He stated, earning a snort from Techno.

"Did you want to stay at my house so you could play with the room without any remark?" He asked, amused. 

"Maybe" Wilbur admitted. “But I also like to spend some time with you. You’re always a comforting presence.” 

"Pff, yeah, right." Techno tried to ignore the warmth coming for his cheeks and ears. “You’re just saying that so I help you with something.” 

“No, no, I mean it, techno. You’re a good friend.” And when he turned to meet the human’s face, it was a simple, honest smile. They stared at each other for a moment, unspoken words being said. Unspoken promises being made. 

Techno stared at his friend’s eyes and saw: not fear. Not méfiance, not worry. His eyes were full of acceptance. Filled with joy and curiosity and wonder. It was the first time he had ever seen such an expression, and yet this look was dedicated to him. Wilbur had waited for them to be in absolute intimacy to offer him this moment.

A good friend.

Techno laughed. Quietly at first, but it grew and grew until the sounds filled the whole room. Wilbur could probably feel the vibration through his whole body but he couldn’t stop. The brunette soon joined in and happiness filled the entire room for god knows how long. Maybe it was two minutes, maybe it was an hour. 

The laughters quieted down eventually, and Techno noticed the fond way Wilbur looked at him. The warmth quickly reached his whole face as he failed to keep a neutral expression. He coughed to wash away his awkwardness. “What- what with that face?” 

"Nothing. It's just nice to see you less restrained." Wilbur smiled "you're always so careful when we're all together." 

"Well, I have to be careful around humans." He hummed, pointing a finger at his friend "you're so small."

"Eh. You couldn't bruise us even if you tried" wilbur shrugged off. "But it's nice! We should do this more often if that means I get to hear your laugh like that more."

Techno cursed himself for the smile that wouldn't wear off. 

"Yeah… maybe we should."

-Written by @melissa-s23 please send them love!!! I love the fluff so much

#techno potion au #NOT MY FIC #Melissas writing #tooth rotting fluff #mcyt gt #mcyt g/t #t!tommy #t!wilbur #t!philza #g!techno #fluff

[ramiaell]

Lunathas Contracts

Breaking and entering, not something new for him but it was the first time he had done so with a client he was bodyguarding. The Howling Owl’s employee apartments were not hard to break into, especially when this one left the balcony door unlocked. With the shadows wrapped tightly around him he snuck in and did a full sweep to make sure the apartment was secure before letting Beaureve sneak inside too. Of course due to the sweep and the small size of the apartment it was easy to tell that noone was home.

It had been a few years since he and Konietzko had last spoken, this was not how he’d have guessed they’d reunite, if at all. It was also not in a place like this that he’d expect to find him. Keeping to the shadows he witnessed as his new client chose not to poke and prod around the apartment much at all but took right to the sofa and curled up. He had not been guarding him for long yet, but he did wonder if this sort of nuance was typical of him. They both waited in silence for the Kaldorei to arrive home and since he was hidden in the shadows himself, there was no conversation between him and his client. He watched as the time passed and Beaureve fell fast asleep on that sofa as if stress and current events in his life had caught up with him.    It was well into the night when the door opened and Kon arrived home, stepping down the hallway and passing by the entryway right into the kitchen without even looking into the living room as why would he? He turned on a light in the kitchen and started a kettle making some tea as he began washing his hands. The shadow in the room witnessed his first look at the Kaldorei after this time without his knowing. He looked tired and a bit fatigued but not due to poor health. If anything his health seemed to have increased greatly since they last met. He must have just returned from some sort of physical activity as he was still a bit dark in the cheeks, chest and ears from a good workout and was tending to blisters on his hand. Interesting.

Beaureve was starting to wake from the sounds in the kitchen as Konietzko put the tea on the stove and started to walk into the living room, stopping dead in his tracks with a double take to the sofa when he saw the moving body of the Shal’dorei waking up from his nap. Stone steadied himself, tucked in the shadows just behind him ready to stop him at a moment’s indication he might try to harm his client. Beyond an understandable startle he didn’t, he just jerked and stared. “Took you long enough.” Beaureve said stifling a small yawn as he rubbed at his eyes. “I mean… welcome home.” 

“Well, I am terribly sorry for the inconvenience!” Kon replied with a mix of humor and shock both  as he looked Beaureve over closely before opting to go to the chair next to the sofa. “Had I known I was playing host I would not have stayed so late practicing my routine. Now tell me…  to what do I owe the honor of this…” He motioned to the balcony. “... break-in?”

With a smirk breaking over his lips, Beaureve just smiled. “You are forgiven. This time.” He said perfectly aware he was in the wrong but calmly combed out his hair as he sat there pleasantly. “Well it’s my lucky day I suppose, you’ve taught me a valuable lesson.” Kon said walking then over to the balcony door and pulling aside the curtains slowly looking outside. He’d close the door then slowly, pursing his lips as if he was looking for something. “I need to invest in better locks, or lock the door at all it would seem.” He said somewhat bemused yet he turned around and looked about the room with a slow gaze of his amber eyes. “Practice? Routine? Mm, so you’re turning your aspirations into reality. That’s rather wonderful to hear.” Beaureve said as he watched. “And in my defense, I did try to knock on the door first. However, after coming all this way with noone to answer? It was in my best interest to see if there was a way to wait inside.” The priest said only telling part of the story but it was enough. “And with how many letters I had to write up in order to actually receive word and meeting arrangements… I preferred a more direct approach.” He smirked. “You don’t mind. We can speak a bit now.” the priest said not leaving this open ended. 

Kon stepped back over to the couch then and would find the chair to sit in as he tried to piece this all together. “Perhaps you came here seeking Talthorn? He is here often lately I’ll admit but not when I’m gone.” He said eyeing the priest a little suspiciously but he was far calmer about it than Talthorn had been. “Did you seek my contact I gave you?” He asked resisting the urge to look around the room once more. “No. I am here to see you.” The priest says bluntly. “Yes. I did.” He replied to the latter question before moving right along. “Now we can officially make arrangements. As promised. When are you available?” 

Kon stared at Beaureve and his audacity with a small smirk. “I suppose I can’t be upset considering how Talthorn did choose to ignore your letters till I found them. As much as I love him dearly he has his reasons for acting as he did. But I am not him.” He pointed out as he thought a moment before responding. “You did?” He redirected the conversation back to the point on the contact. “And did he accept?” Beaureve seemed pleasantly welcome to this information and eager to ask more. “Are these reasons that you are willing to share at all?” he asked before Kon redirected the conversation. “He did. Very interesting man. This contact of yours. We’ve made a good business arrangement. Thank you again for your recommendation. I aspire to have a meeting with my issue whenever he gets my word. In the next few days most likely.” Kon knew who he was talking about with this recent issue. Well he more knew -of- them from what Beaureve and Talthorn both had told him of that incident that left Beaureve wounded and carried to the healer’s ward after Talthorn had saved him. Even the shadow in the room knew the details enough to understand this comment and where it was going. “Talthorn’s secrets are his own to share. I will only say for whatever it’s worth that his… mistrust is a valid one.” Kon looked right to Beaureve then. “Even if you were not the cause for them, just a trigger. But that is all the more I will say. If you want trust or his truths? That’s going to take time Beaureve. Time, and a significant lack of your magic. But in that too I will say no more. I’ve only said this much in the interest of trying to make this easier. For both of you.” Kon explained rubbing at his palms and the ache within them as he sighed and looked to the side. “So, the contract was made. That is good, though forgive me if I wish to make certain.” Kon said oddly as he raised his head then and would stare Beaureve right in the eyes as he spoke out louder. “Show yourself, old friend.”

Beaureve listened closely and drew in a slow breath. He was taking much from these statements but why? Why was there mistrust?! The priest was eager to figure that out. When he realized what Kon had said just then, however, he added in his own command in case his bodyguard was truly as strict as not to do so unless ordered. “Hm? Oh. Of course. Yes, please reveal yourself, Stone.”

No sooner than Beau had given the command, the shadows against the far wall on the other side of the dining room table would start to shift and lift as soon a voice was heard before the body was seen. Where Kon’s voice was deep and full of bass, his was low but more crisp and sharp. “While some things never change, some things… do. It has been a time, Kon.” The bodyguard stood leaning against the wall in full gear head to toe. Blades on his side and no doubt many more hidden throughout his attire. His face was masked, as always and those eyes as cold as winter skies peered right back at Kon’s as they made eye contact across the room.

For one who’s home was being invaded, Kon certainly didn’t seem too worked up over it. As his amber eyes met Stone’s, they softened just a bit. A hint of a sad  yet genuine smile almost shadowed along his face. How bittersweet this was. “Some things do indeed, though you are not one of those things I would ever ask to change. Please, come. Sit with us. You know he is in no danger here.” Kon said motioning to the couch next to Beaureve. Beaureve motioned to the couch as well. “Yes, join us.” He confirmed and watched the exchange between them, both seeming interested in this reunion between them. At first, Stone did not move. But eventually he pushed off form the wall to step over and stand at Beaureve’s side.

“Quite the place here, I see you’ve returned to the club scene afterall?” Stone quipped as he looked firmly down at Kon having already done his research on this place before they arrived.

"I have, though not intentionally at first. But after my seclusion from the world and the dream therapy it seems... I was ready to come back. Though certainly not with such old habits as I indulged in before. Of that... I endeavor to stray from as much as possible." His eyes then flicked to Beaureve well aware he was listening and oddly enough, he didn't seem to mind. ``I think you'll come to agree in no time at all that Sivah would have liked this one. Perhaps even -you- will." He playfully smirked towards Stone.

Beaureve enjoyed collecting the information he could, seeing how they both reacted with one another. He wears his smile and finds the details intriguing but blinks at the mention here. "Sivah? Who is that? And why would they like me? " he tips his head and looks back to Stone. Stone met his gaze. “Sivandris Lumenstone, owner of the Starcaller Lure and heir to the Lumenstone Estate.” He told him as if just reciting information. “He had a way about collecting rare gems, like yourself. And each of them came with their own troubles that I always had the privilege of helping sort.” And that was all the more Stone seemed willing to share. As Stone had decided that was all the more that needed said, Kon and Beaureve spent the rest of the night discussing how their arrangement would work. As Talthorn was to give Beaureve a date of his choosing once a month, Kon would under the same rules to help make up for Talthorn’s lack of his part of the deal in the beginning of their original arrangement. By doing so Talthorn would have the ease that Beaureve would no longer be trying to sell his rare drug to anyone of the Tarts nor of the Owl so long as it was a function put on by either group or when in Talthorn’s presence. It was an exchange no one would ever know even had taken place, all for the comfort that Talthorn could protect his friends and fellow entertainers from this mind-altering drug that he had no power to stop him from creating. However, Kon saw it fit by the end of this meeting here in his home to call Beaureve out. To him, this seemed like an overly complicated agreement in contract that they would be meeting as friends to do things that friends would willingly do without a contract because they were… friends? But to Beaureve that was not the case at all. He could not understand the concept of friends so to him this was a contract and he expected it to be upheld. Despite having his point made, Kon agreed and pushed the subject no longer. The entire exchange was witnessed by Stone, but he said nothing during it. Just observed in complete silence as he did for most his guard detail he’d signed on for with Beaureve. It was not his job to state his thoughts nor opinions on any matters Beaureve had to deal with. It was only his job to ensure his safety. Thankfully, one could do that with very little said as he was not one for idle conversation. Ever. But he did not think he’d be meeting Kon again, let alone under such circumstances. It was interesting how life had a way of bringing things left unresolved back around. Even among former friends. Stone came to realize much had changed for the Kaldorei, not all but there was something very significant that he noticed right away in Kon that had not been there before. He’d come a long way on the road to recovery, and in doing so had begun truly turning his life around for the better. While Stone did not intend to be his ‘friend’ at that time and just to let everything go and move on, he was curious enough to see just where this would all lead for his current client’s future. Beaureve had alot to experience now in his ‘free’  life. Stone wasn’t so certain that experiencing it through Kon and the others he was associated with was the best way, but he wasn't paid to give his thoughts nor opinions on those matters either. They were invalid. At that time, he had only one job to do. And when the threat returned, he would do it. After that, the priest was on his own.

“Next week. At the same point we met before in Suramar. Wear something similar to that. You seem very comfortable. I’ll take care of the rest.” Beuareve said to the expectant Kaldorei as he rose to leave. Kon took a slow breath in and let it back out as he nodded his head once. “A word to the wise Beaureve, what Talthorn and I want is not always what others think. But I can easily see the same could be said for you.” The Kaldorei’s eyes shifted back to Stonel then. “You are going to have your hands full with this one.” Stone drew his gaze to Kon, “You’ve never been one to make my job easy. But we both know, that is where I thrive.” “Oh I do.” Kon said with a laugh and a smirk to follow as he watched them both turn to leave. “It will be quite the… learning experience.” He teased at Beaureve before flashing Stone a knowing look. As usual, he got no response from Stone, just that stone-faced stare before he turned away and escorted Beaureve out. “Next week then.” Kon said as he watched them go and looked to the couch in thought. Maybe he would omit that part to Talthorn; he doubted his love would ever be able to let go the thought of Beaureve breaking into his apartment. What a little shit.

((A former rp from last year recapped in a shorter format though it still includes both our writing. A fun look at the beginnings of Talthorn, Kon, Beaureve and Rami’s friendship that few know about. While the rp has gone places none of us could imagine at that time, it has been a real trip to reflect back to this rp and the reunion of Kon and Stone as witnessed by Beau. Mentions too @beaureve-lunathas​ , @talthorn-sylvoran​ , @konietzko-lumenstone​ ))

@daily-writing-challenge

#dwc2021 #day12021 #Ramiaell #Beaureve #Konietzko #Talthorn #Howling Owl #breaking and entering #Reunion #my writing

[angelanimedesaray]

Wings in the Dark Chapter 10:  Reparations

AN:  Yaaaaaayyyyy I got this one done.  For some reason I’ve been in a weird spot where I write more on my phone and my focus is better when I write on my phone, but I’m also super vulnerable to typos because AUTOCORRECT and its just harder for me to spot on the smaller screen with the tiny text, so excuse any typos.

Characters:  Levi, Fem!Vampire!Reader, Erwin, Petra, Oluo (Mentioned), Eld (Mentioned)

Pairing:  (Eventual) Levi x Fem!Vampire!Reader

Warnings:  Language.  Ikr, we just got super tame after a wiiild ride.

Word Count:  5124

<----Previous Chapter    Masterlist    Next Chapter---->

*Levi’s POV*

“I’ll admit, it would have been nice to know ahead of time that you were going to hijack the interrogation like that to antagonize her.”

Levi ignored the pointed jab at his actions down in the dungeons, gaze instead roaming around and taking stock of the people they past in a surveillance instinct too ingrained into his being by now for him to shut it off even going down the street towards a tea shop.

Considering L/N could hear so far out, even when she wasn’t paying attention, Erwin and Levi had decided to leave headquarters entirely to have this conversation.  Which was why they were now headed for a tea shop instead of Erwin’s office to discuss something so confidential.  Or at least their opinions on the situation, not necessarily the information itself.

"Did you at least get what you wanted out of it?" Erwin asked as they took seats at one of the outside tables.

"I did.  Mostly.  You?"

"I was skeptical when you told me, but after that little display of hers, she's clearly not human.  Not anymore."  Erwin leaned back in his seat and appraised Levi, their conversation pausing momentarily as they placed their order with the waitress that came outside to check on them.  Once she went back inside, Erwin continued.  "If you have more questions, why didn't you ask them before we left?"

"It had nothing to do with why we were there.  Personal curiosity. And it didn't seem like the time to ask."

Especially after he'd goaded her like that, making jabs at painful memories for her until she reacted, throwing harsh accusations at her semi-blindly and seeing if anything stuck.  The last thing she would want to do would be to give clarifying details about her past traumas to satiate his curiosity.

Her tale made her origins make more sense, but there were a few details that still weren't so clear to him.

The way she explained it, she was attacked and turned by a vampire the night before--for reasons unknown, he noticed.  She hadn't said why she was turned, or by who.  She'd actually glossed over that part and moved on--and then went home, not knowing what happened to her, thinking she was sick.  Her friend came to visit her, Y/N lost control, attacked and killed her, then fled.  He was sure there were details to make the tale far more gruesome, but this was what he knew for sure without letting his imagination run wild.

But then she'd shown up dead a few days later as well.  That was the part he was trying to figure out.

“Some deaths, okay, fine, I'll come back from it.”

So, she ran away after the initial panic, and then came back solely to fake her death so they wouldn't keep looking for her.

And by fake her death, she went for a...temporary death, something she would come back from.

But why go so far as to let herself be buried?  It was a closed casket funeral, so she could have snuck out before they sealed the casket and no one would have known.  Why wait?

He hadn't forgotten the fear and trauma in her eyes when she'd mentioned being buried alive was one of her deepest fears.  And now the mental image in his mind of a woman clawing desperately at a coffin, screaming for help while no one could hear her had a face to go with it, the face of someone he knew, no less.

It was humanly impossible to break out of a grave and crawl your way out.  But if you had vampire strength, and every time you suffocated from the lack of oxygen or the dirt crushing down on you and maybe even getting into your lungs...then it was possible. So long as you died a few times on the way up.

Shit...something like that had to do some damage to a person.

Not to mention what came after.  Forty years living in the Underground, roughly.  He'd only been down there a little over half the time she had.  And he hadn't spent it like she had--skulking in the shadows killing people because what she was demanded she kill to survive no matter where she was, and she couldn't go above ground not because it was denied to her, but because if she did she would literally die.  Yeah, he'd killed plenty of people in the Underground as well, but far less, and for a reason that was entirely different even if it could be worded the same.  He killed in fights because the Underground was that dangerous, or he was protecting people he cared about.  She had to actively hunt and kill people to...feed.

If she'd been in the Underground before he was even born...he wondered if they had ever crossed paths, and he just didn't remember.

Hell, with her criteria for who she hunted and killed, he was surprised she hadn't killed Kenny in all that time with him Underground.

Or maybe she had, after Kenny left.  It wasn't like Levi would know.  Though he was fairly certain the man had gone topside, which would mean out of her reach and away from her hunting grounds.

If only there was an alternative to her diet.  She’d laid out why it couldn’t be helped, and he understood that, they were good reasons.  But still, if there was another way...

“You're thinking about something rather hard over there, Levi,” Erwin commented, and Levi realized he’d been staring intently at the table and had even failed to notice that the waitress was in the process of delivering their tea.  Erwin was also watching him, though his hands were still in motion, his analytical gaze fixated on Levi’s still form.  Shaken out of his thoughts, Levi leaned back so he wasn’t leaning forward intently anymore, picking up his teacup to start drinking before it got cold.  Erwin waited until the waitress left to continue talking.  “Is it something I should know about her?  Another hunch, maybe?  The last one was mostly right.”

Levi snorted softly at that.  Mostly right his ass.  He’d been thinking murder and treason and assassinations, someone out to get them, someone seeking to harm people in the Scouts.  Ulterior motives and selfishness, malice.

Maybe the murder hadn’t been that far off, considering her body count, if he did the math right in his head.  And maybe she had been hiding a secret.  Perhaps she was dangerous, but so was Levi.  It didn’t mean she was an enemy.

“No,” he said curtly, putting an end to Erwin thinking Levi might be holding out on him regarding his suspicions after how off they’d both been about this situation.  “Like I said, it doesn't have to do with whether or not she's trustworthy and if she should be in the Scouts.  Just personal curiosity.”

“So you believe her?  About her intentions?” Erwin asked casually before taking a sip from his cup, eyes cast down as he spoke but flickering up to gauge Levi’s reaction once he finished speaking.

Levi eyed him because of the look on his face, but answered nonetheless.  “...I do.  She was sincere down there, some would say too honest.  Most people try to hide the fact they’ve killed hundreds--thousands--of people, or that they could kill the people who didn’t trust them without blinking an eye, but she was upfront about it.  She didn’t have to be.  She’s dangerous, that’s a reality no matter how you look at it, but she’s attempting to channel that into helping instead of just causing damage.”  Levi sighed, setting down his cup.  “I assumed a lot about her intentions and where she came from, and it's going to bite me in the ass.”

And he was probably going to have to put some effort into making amends after all this--especially with how he’d antagonized her down there and clearly crossed a boundary.  Several boundaries, actually.  And now that the moment had passed, the guilt was starting to settle in.  He’d accused her about some harsh stuff, some of which she was sensitive about, given her reactions.  She was the one who had to live with what she was, so he doubted someone going after the very things you might cling to in order to retain your humanity was something anyone would take kindly to.  After she saved his life--even if it had also been her that had almost killed him to begin with--after she protected him from herself and other vampires, even if he wasn’t aware, after she’d gone out of her way to learn from and appease the entire squad, after going through years of training to get where she was now, after putting so much at risk when she could have stayed safely in the shadows, after trying so hard to find a place topside, he’d jabbed at pretty much everything.  Her basic motives, her humanity, her intentions, her personality, everything.

He had a lot of damage control to do moving forward if they were going to keep working together.  He sincerely hoped he’d only damaged the well and hadn’t poisoned the water.  A damaged well he could fix, but a poisoned water supply…

Levi’s gaze narrowed at Erwin as he realized the other man still hadn’t said anything, his suspicions solidifying.

“What about you?  Do you think she’s a risk you’re willing to take?” Levi asked, echoing her words from down in the dungeon Levi had immediately known would catch Erwin’s attention.

“I am a man who likes a good gamble,” Erwin said with a bittersweet smile, resting his cheek on his fist as he considered the situation before them.  “As long as she’s not attacking other Scouts, she’s trying to keep her bloodlust under control, she’s not causing problems for or bringing more danger upon the Scouts...I don’t see why we shouldn’t let her stay.  From the sounds of it, having a vampire willingly join our ranks wanting to use all those abilities to help our cause is a once in a lifetime chance.  She’s offering it on a silver platter.  As long as she can keep herself under control, which she’s been able to do so far, I say we take her up on her offer.”

“And if she can’t?  If something happens and she loses control?” Levi asked, eyebrows raised.  She’d said it herself, she was a threat, there was always a chance something could happen, and that shouldn’t be forgotten.  But what would they do if she did slip up with no sign of being able to correct herself before it got out of hand?

“Then she’ll be our responsibility to take care of,” Erwin said evenly, gazing at Levi in a way that made him believe Levi would be the one to take care of her if she stepped out of line.  He had the best chance, yes, but it would still be risky.  “Hopefully we won’t have to kill her if anything goes wrong, she’s valuable, and it would be a huge setback to lose her vampire abilities...but if it ever comes to that…”

“It won’t be a problem,” Levi said flatly.  He meant that in the matter of conflict of interest, not that killing her if it ever came to that wouldn’t be difficult.

Erwin nodded.  “She stays in the Scouts, then.  I’ll have to factor in all this new information about where best to put her.  She probably shouldn’t be anywhere near medical, for her sanity’s sake.  And Levi?”  Levi fixed him with a stare as if to ask what the hell was up with his change of tone, which Erwin ignored.  “Considering the strangling tension between the two of you down in the dungeon, are you going to ease up now that you have the story--for the most part--or do I need to switch her to a different squad?”

Levi scoffed.  “I’m not going to apologize for being angry about the fact that she kills people, Erwin.”

“It's not like she has much of a choice, from the sound of it.  And she’s doing rather well, given her situation.  A lot of thought had to have gone into coming topside and joining the Scouts, how to pull it off.  She was ready with those questions, and considering she wasn’t planning on us figuring out what she was, that means she already went over those questions herself.  She’s going with what she believes to be the best route, and considering she’s more of an expert on the subject than we’ll probably ever be…”

Levi waved him off--he didn’t need this explanation, he already knew this.  She wasn’t going to prey on innocent people, she couldn’t afford to downgrade her diet too much considering she needed to be in peak health and control fighting in the Scouts, and she couldn’t just stop unless she wanted to die a slow and agonizing death.

Starvation over decades, maybe even centuries…

Regular starvation was bad enough, he knew that from personal experience.  He couldn’t imagine going out like that--he wouldn’t wish that on anyone.  Especially self-inflicted.

Levi’s gaze wandered to the few people in the street, moving idly from one person to the next, not really paying them any attention beyond basic people watching as he brought himself to his decision.

While he understood her position, that didn’t mean he was entirely comfortable with it.  But was he willing to try and make this work, to keep her on his squad--this time as his decision, not a decision Erwin made in the name of surveillance--and see if things could still work out despite the mess this entire ordeal had turned into that almost ended in his death.

Was it a damaged well, or poisoned water?

Was he going to cut his losses, or try to fix this?

“...Don’t put her on another squad,” he finally told Erwin.  “She’ll still have her skills put to the best use with my Squad.  I’ll figure out how to deal with...everything.”

He was going to try and make this work, despite the current friction between them.

The only question now, was how?

Erwin was the one to tell L/N that she was staying in the Scouts, of course, and by extension he was also the one to tell her she'd remain on Levi's squad, and that it was Levi's job to keep an eye on her and make sure she stayed in line.  As for Levi, it was back to business as usual while Erwin handled speaking with L/N.

And two days later, Levi abruptly decided that everyone was going to do a deep clean of HQ, assigning everyone at least one room, with L/N having two considering how fast and how well she cleaned, and himself having three so that he had plenty of time to think while he was cleaning.

Now that his concerns about betrayal and deceit had been assuaged, he could finally allow the softer sides of her he’d glimpsed to settle in his mind, too.  Between the darker side he now had a better picture of and the person he’d been seeing since she joined the Scouts, he could finally form a more complete picture of the new person on his squad and start to decide what he thought of her.

Any lingering concepts in his mind that she wasn’t up to the job went out the window--except for a general concern about her being around too much blood.  She hadn’t been in the middle of a truly hairy expedition with people dying left and right.  She’d been struggling when he was bleeding out in front of her--what would it be like when there were people dying bloody all around her?

Then again, she’d already pointed out that his blood was particularly alluring.

That was still an odd thing to think about--he was probably going to do his best not to think about it.

He wasn’t too worried about her being able to hand the more...psychological stresses of being a Scout.  If she could handle being directly responsible for death, and being around it so much after living in and hunting in the Underground, she might fare better than most in the environment.

If it hadn't been the sharper, harder edge he'd seen to her personality in the dungeon, the knowledge of the things she'd already seen and been through, he'd be worried she had too soft of a temperament and personality for the Scouts.  It had been what he'd seen from her before the whole vampire thing came out.

She was the woman who went out of her way to comfort the horses and make sure they knew they could trust her.  Who sat in the field with the horses and simply soaked in the sun's rays while drawing whatever she could see--namely horses, at least once the man who had been watching her, yet she never said a word.  She was the woman with a tea garden in a hidden corner of the Scout’s headquarters so that she could save more of her salary...and use it to shelter and provide for the parents who didn't know, and would probably never know, they're daughter was still alive.   The woman who snuck treats out to the horses from her own plate, who'd gotten at least half of Levi’s squad drinking their tea with a bit of white sage for health purposes--only Levi aware of just how much it was actually doing for them.  The one who had asked for a different kind of lesson or tutoring from each squad member so they wouldn’t feel like she was some air-headed newbie that thought she was better than everyone because she was put on a fast track to Levi’s squad fresh out of the cadets, so that they could feel like they were still teaching her something, that she was learning from them.  She was the kind of person who made little gestures like covering him with her cloak when she saw him asleep at the table without a second thought, or timing a fresh cup of black tea almost perfectly to help keep him alert when despite his insomnia he would start to feel tired in the middle of the day, who'd risked the loss of a leg to make sure Eld wouldn't get hurt even after Levi killed the Titan, and who had saved his life even though, at the time, doing so was a great risk to her, because he could put a swift end to the life she'd been trying to build above ground.

She was a good person at heart.  Complicated as hell, still dangerous and a risk, and she had her skeletons, her demons and dark secrets, her flaws...but still, a good person at heart.

He’d been watching her closely long enough to pick up on all of that and then some, even if he’d tucked most of it away for later evaluation considering at the time he was worried it might be a front for some insidious ulterior motive.

And he had to do something to try and mend the relationship they had.  They couldn't function as part of a squad with all this tension and friction, let alone as captain and subordinate, definitely not as a team.  There had to be some level of trust if they were going to be working together in the future, and right now, there was pretty much none, mostly because of him.  And he had to be the one to make a first step towards repairing the damage that he had inflicted so that they could start building at least the groundwork of a working trust in one another.  They would need it when they went out in the field, because all that raw ability meant nothing if they couldn’t function with each other.

Levi scrubbed harder at the stone floor, seeing his fingertips turn pale with the rest of his hands red from the hot soapy water and the pressure he was putting on the brush.

"Captain?"

Levi sighed, leaning back and putting the brush back into the water, turning and lowering the cloth over his face to look over at Petra standing in the doorway with a broom in hand.

"Oluo says he's done with his room, he's just waiting for your inspection," she informed him, though the look on her face was enough to tell him he'd be telling Oluo to do it all over again as soon as he saw it.

"I'll do it when I'm finished," Levi answered, raising the cloth over his face and pulling out the brush to start scrubbing again.  "Tell him to make sure he's finished while he waits."

"Yes, Captain," Petra said with a small nod, turning to leave.

"Has L/N finished with her two rooms?" Levi asked before she could leave entirely, focused on a new spot of stone as he spoke instead of looking up at her.

"Yes, sir.  She actually went outside, out front, to do some extra cleaning while she waited for you to be ready to inspect the rooms."

She was also really good at cleaning.  She had to be, right?  She'd lived below ground longer than he had, and her senses were extra sensitive.  One bad smell must be torture for her, the dust probably setting off her sensitive nose with the slightest buildup, her sight probably making it easier to pick out grime, and her speed making her a faster cleaner than anyone here--when she didn't have to slow down because she was being watched by someone who didn't know what she was.  No wonder she was so damn good at cleaning, why he hadn't found any flaws with it to date.

It almost felt like cheating to him, for some reason.

He pressed unnecessarily hard down on the brush again, feeling the bristles bend and strain slightly in the brush, his fingertips turning pale again.

"Tell her when she's finished with whatever she's doing right now to come up here," Levi told Petra, offering no more explanation as he continued scrubbing at the floor.

“Yes, sir.”

Petra left after that, and Levi focused on the room around him--his third room, mind you, and he was almost done.  His hands were red, a little raw, too, but it wasn’t anything serious.  He just kept getting lost in his thoughts while he was cleaning, and instead of calming down like he normally did when he cleaned, he’d tense up at those moments where he got lost in his thoughts.  He was going over his attempt at a peace offering over and over again, well aware that he wasn’t the best...people person, that communication on a social or emotional level was not his strong suit.  But he was hoping the intention behind the gesture would be clear.  She wasn’t an idiot--she was smart.  There was a decent chance she’d be able to see what he was trying to do.

Hopefully.

Levi was just starting to finish up, finishing with a bit of polish on the metal in the room when L/N finally made her appearance, standing in the doorway with similar cleaning additions to her uniform as him, though she had an apron on that was currently tucked up and into her straps to keep any dirt from falling onto the floor while she walked.

She must have been doing some garden and yard work, then.  Pulling weeds or something like that out front.  At least she wasn’t tracking dirt everywhere, from what he could see--and his eyes were scanning her and her surroundings carefully to make sure she wasn’t about to ruin his hard work.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?” she asked formerly, keeping her gaze fixed on him instead of letting it wander around the room at anything other than him.

That was a start, at least.  He’d be worried this entire rebuilding the bridge thing wouldn’t work out well if she couldn’t even look him in the eyes.

But the tension was still there, thick and uncomfortable, enough to put even him on edge.  There was a distance in her posture, a different kind of guarded than when he’d been snooping around and watching her every move.  Like she was hyper-aware of what he was going to think of her moving forward.

He was still coming to a decision about that one, honestly.

“You’re going to start training with me,” Levi said with no lead up, causing her eyebrows to raise in surprise, opening her mouth like she was about to ask questions before she quickly closed it again, since he continued to talk as if her reaction didn’t phase him in the slightest or give him any kind of pause.  “You’ve got some things to work on before the next expedition.  Two lessons a day, sparring and ODM gear.  Make sure you make the time for it.”

“Ah, Captain...I���m not sure if I...should…” she said hesitantly, caught between obeying what was close to a command from her Captain and a reluctance to take him up on the lessons because...what, was the tension that bad for her that she didn’t think she could train with him?  Did she not want to be anywhere near him any more than she already was?  Did she think she would make him uncomfortable?  Did she not like the thought of being alone with him?

That was a viable concern, actually.

Or maybe she just thought there wasn’t anything he could teach her.

On the contrary--she’d said herself that she was having trouble with the ODM gear.  She’d said one of her risks was that she reacted too fast for the gear to keep up with her, sometimes.  That was a problem, especially in a situation where one needed to rely on instincts--how could you rely on instincts while also trying to muffle them to lower to the level of the gear, or nearby people?

She needed help finding the middle ground, or at least training herself to instinctually pace herself so she didn’t outpace the gear in an emergency.  Like she’d pointed out herself, that kind of mistake could be the difference between life and death, even for her.

As for the sparring...well, the only people here that came close to matching their skills was each other.  Who else were they going to spar besides each other?  Besides, it would be refreshing to have someone he could actually go all out on that would be a challenge for him.  He was sure the same applied for her, now that she didn’t have to hold back to keep her secret hidden.

If that had been the reason she’d thrown the fight the first time they’d sparred.

Plus, all that raw strength and speed meant nothing if she didn’t know how to use it.  He could still teach her things, show her some techniques she could use in a fight, that kind of thing.

Is offer to teach her was his way of offering an olive branch to her...and he didn’t take too kindly to her starting to turn down the offer.

Levi narrowed his eyes slightly at her as she continued to cast about for a solid excuse to turn him down.  Most people here would kill for one on one lessons from him--a fact he was well aware of.  Yet here she was, proving just how out of the ordinary she was as she seemed to be beyond just the vampire thing, trying to weasel out of it.  “What?  Don’t think you have anything to learn because you’re so naturally gifted?” he asked in a jab much softer than his accusations during their interrogation.

“No, it’s just…” she started to say with a frustrated sigh, looking over her shoulder like she was looking at someone, even though no one was there.  “Eld’s already giving me ODM gear lessons…”

Was that really it?  He doubted it.  Yes, Eld was teaching her a few things, Levi was aware, but it wasn’t the same as what Levi was offering to teach her.  And it wasn’t a reason to turn him down in the first place.  Just another excuse.  Unless she was really worried about what the others would think if she got not only one daily private lesson with Levi, but two.  As much as Levi was usually of the opinion “To hell what other people think,” this one he could see where she was coming from if it was the case.  She’d just gotten the others to warm up to her despite their grumbling and cold shoulders after the extremely green rookie got sped through all the tape and obstacles right into Levi’s Squad while they put in hard work and were hand picked by Levi after some time in the Scouts after displaying their own strengths and skills over a period of time.  It must have looked like favoritism--and Levi giving her double private lessons wasn’t going to help anything.

It didn’t change the fact that she still needed them or could benefit from them.  And that it was a way for them to start making amends...in a roundabout way.

“ODM techniques.  Special maneuvers:  team and solo, correct?” Levi asked, mostly rhetorically, though she still nodded in confirmation.  Levi moved over to the table he was keeping his cleaning supplies on, starting to pack up his things so he could leave to start doing inspections of everyone’s designated rooms.  “I’m not going to be teaching you what Eld is.  You said you were having problems with reacting too fast for the gear, right?”

Levi spoke pointedly, giving her a sidelong glance so he could gauge her reaction and she could see he was serious about this--and that he didn’t have any ulterior motives.  She didn’t protest again.  She still looked a little uncomfortable, possibly because of the bump this could cause with the others once they found out, maybe because it meant the two of them were going to be spending more time with one another and they were going to have to get over this tension between them really quickly if they didn’t want to end up at each other’s throats trying to kill each other, but she didn’t protest anymore.

“Four a.m. in the woods for hand to hand.  Two hours before dinner on the training grounds for the ODM gear.  Don’t be late,” Levi told her, taking his supplies and leaving her behind in the room as his way of dismissing her.

Now to go yell at Oluo for not getting his cleaning job done properly, most likely.

Next Chapter---->

(Strikethroughs Couldn’t Be Tagged)

Levi Tags:  @humanitys-hottestsoldier @clary-quinn @sunny-flo​ @whalerus​  @thirstyforsometea

Wings in the Dark Tags:  @regalillegal @animeluver23 @theshylittleelfgirl @queenthorin1 @dilucs-thighs @sociallyanxiousmouse @subtlepjiminie @hakunamatatayqueen​ @queenofcurse @linxiajei17 @levisbebe @toni-jones

#Levi #levi ackerman #captain levi #levi aot #aot levi #levi snk #snk levi #levi heichou #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #captain levi x reader #aot levi x reader #levi x vampire!reader #captain levi x vampire!reader #aot levi x vampire!reader #levi ackerman x vampire!reader #levi fanfic #Levi fanfiction #levi fan fic #levi fan fiction #captain levi fanfic #captain levi fan fiction #captain levi fanfiction #captain levi fan fic #levi ackerman fanfiction #levi ackerman fanfic #levi ackerman fan fiction #levi ackerman fan fic #aot levi fanfic #aot levi fanfiction

[fckinsupreme]

30 with Michael please

I’m doing this one for Hawthorne Michael!!! Oh, and just a little disclaimer, reader & Michael are both over 18 in this!

———————

Michael Langdon had always been a fascinating man to you, from the moment you met him. There was just something that pulled you to him, a magnetic energy that you could never get enough of. Since arriving to Hawthorne with Cordelia to conduct “official Council business,” as she called it, you & Michael did nothing but flirt. His cockiness, which usually would have been a turn off for you, only drew you deeper into his mysterious web. The whisperings in the dim hallways were that he was going to be the first male supreme—the Alpha, they called it. You hated the terminology, but it made you question everything. Was this why you were so drawn to him? Was it your destiny to seduce & possibly bring down this mysterious being?

Did it even matter?

One day, you decide to pore over your notes in the common room. Not many of the warlocks are present, either in classes or doing studying of their own elsewhere. It was quiet, perhaps too much, but the silence is soon broken as Michael approaches. You hear his footfall before you see him, looking up from your papers to see him striding into the room. His hands are tucked behind his back, a smirk on his face as he walks over to you. He takes a seat beside you, his eyes glancing you over before tilting your chin to face him.

“How’s my favorite witch doing today?” Michael asks, his fingers swiping under your lip.

“She’s doing better now that you’re here,” you say, turning your whole body to face him. “It’s a good excuse to stop this boring paperwork.”

He smirks, pulling you close to him and pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “That’s good to hear,” he says. “I think you should focus your attention elsewhere, anyway.”

“I think I know one place I’d love to focus,” you tease, biting your lip before nodding toward the exit of the room. “Let’s get out of here.”

“And go where?” Michael asks, his brows knitted in confusion. “Ariel won’t let us leave—“

“I’m not talking about the building,” you say with a chuckle. “I think it’s no secret that we’re both attracted to each other, and I want to act on it. I was talking about us going up to my room.”

Michael looks down at his hands, wringing them for a moment as he draws away. You offer a confused glance, and he meets your gaze with a shy, apologetic smile. You’re worried that you overstepped your boundaries, and you shake your head before reaching for his hand.

“What’s wrong?” you ask worriedly. “I didn’t go too far, did I? If I did, I’m so sorry. I—“

“No, you didn’t,” he assures you, averting his gaze again. “It’s...Well, I’ve never actually had sex before.”

Your eyes widen in shock, your jaw agape. “Wait, you’re a virgin?”

“Yes,” Michael says, looking at you with a dangerous glare. “Is that such a surprise to you?”

“Well, yeah,” you say. “You act like you’re hot shit around here, but you’re actually not? It’s a big surprise.”

“I see,” Michael says, hurt flashing across his face for a moment as he stands. “Well, if that’s how you fucking feel, then—“

“Wait!” you say, a hand on his arm as you shake your head. “I didn’t mean to come across as making fun of you. I just mean that it’s a shock because I thought you were this big ladies’ man, but...you’ve never actually done anything. It was just something that threw me off for a minute, that’s all. It’s okay that you’re a virgin and I’m not gonna laugh at you for it.”

He smiles a little, calming down as he runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to act anymore. I want to be real and I want to be everything that I am pretending to be. I don’t want to be a virgin anymore; I’m tired of living the lie.”

You chew your lip a little, eyes cast to the floor for a moment before you meet his gaze. “I could always help you there. I mean...if you wanted me to.”

“You would do that for me?” Michael asks, and you nod. “All I ask is that you’re careful at first. I don’t know what could happen if you aren’t.”

“I get it,” you say, extending a hand to him. “You’re on track to be the next Supreme, so your powers are still unpredictable.”

He takes hold of your hand, and you lead him up to your room. For the first time, perhaps since you met, you’re aware that he’s anxious. You can feel it radiating off of him, almost like heat, and you squeeze his hand reassuringly as you reach your room. You open the door, ushering him inside before closing it behind you. After making sure it’s locked, you turn to face him. You shrug off the grey cardigan you were wearing, letting it fall in a forgotten heap on the floor. Michael watches you, his tongue running over his lips as you start to slowly strip your clothing. You give him a moment to take you in each time an article is removed, remaining in your matching black bra & thong as you see the prominent bulge in the front of his pants.

“Liking what you see?” you tease, walking over to him and positioning yourself in his lap.

“Yes,” he says, his hands roaming your back and stopping at your bra to seek permission. “Can I touch you?”

“Of course,” you say, rocking your hips against his. “You can touch me any way and anywhere you want to. Can I kiss you, Michael?”

He nods rapidly, and you smash your lips to his in a hungry kiss. He groans softly, your hands tangling in his messy blond curls. He runs his tongue along the roof of your mouth, taking in every ridge and every inch, his hands on your ass as he pulls you closer. You grind against him as you make out, feeling his cock growing impossibly harder against your cunt. He smirks against your mouth, evidently noticing how wet you were, and you start working his tie loose.

“I’m gonna take your clothes off,” you whisper. “Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, shivering as you unbutton his shirt and kiss the skin exposed with every undone button. “I...”

“What is it?” you coo, looking up at him. “Tell me, Michael.”

“I’m getting close already,” he says, his tone full of embarrassment as his cheeks heat crimson. “I can feel it...”

“You poor thing,” you say with a teasing pout, grinding hard against him as you both groan. “I think it’s time I help you out of those pants then, huh?”

He gives a soft nod, and you shift your body so that you can unfasten them. You slowly work his zipper down, teasingly brushing your fingers against his shaft. This was apparently a mistake, for Michael’s hips began to stutter and his breathing was getting quicker. Before you could tell him to hold off, he was cumming fast within the confines of his boxers, your name a sigh as it passes his lips, his hips rotating upward. You observe the wet stain forming in the front of his pants, tsking as you try to fight a smirk. He’s too far gone for a moment to realize what he’s done, but once his high dissipates and he comes back to reality, his cheeks turn bright red and he looks away from you. You can’t tell if he’s angry or embarrassed at first, but the answer soon becomes clear.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, his eyes meeting yours as the color in his cheeks rises. “I thought I could hold off. I really did.”

“Shh, it’s fine,” you assure him, kissing each of his cheeks. “It happens sometimes. It’s totally normal. We can always try again later, when you’re—“

Michael seems to know what you’re going to say, and a wide, cheeky grin forms. He takes your hand, placing it over the wet spot on his bulge. To your surprise, he’s still rock hard, his orgasm not making him soft at all. You don’t question why; you already know how it could be possible. Michael Langdon, the enigma, the next supreme, seemed to have more abilities than you initially believed. Abilities that seemed more human, rather than completely abnormal.

“I want to be inside of you,” he whispers in your ear, roughly tugging the lobe between his teeth before moaning hotly. His embarrassment from moments ago has seemingly melted away, giving way to something much more confident. A bit feral, even. “I want to feel what it’s like. I want you to cum for /me/ now, and I want it to be all over my cock. Think you can do that for me, babe?”

“I think so,” you say, watching with hungry eyes as he pulls his erection free. He’s far bigger than you imagined, his cock slick and red, veins prominent all over the shaft. You reach out to jerk him off but he slaps your hand away, resulting in a whine from you. “Michael...”

“No,” he hisses, positioning your hips over his cock. With a nod from you, he sinks you onto his cock, your hands tearing at his skin and hair as you try to adjust to the massive feeling. His cock stretches your tight cunt, resulting in a burning, stinging sensation that isn’t entirely unpleasant. “Fuck!”

“Michael,” you whimper, looking at him through hazy eyes. “You feel way too good.”

“So do you,” he says, hoisting you up a little as he guides your movements along his cock. “Don’t think that just because I’m a virgin, I’ll go easy on you. I truly don’t believe you know what I’m capable of, and it would be a shame to have to show you.”

“What if I want to see it?” you ask, building a steady pace with your hips as you ride his cock, his hands massaging your ass. “I want you to show me.”

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Michael asks, his lips wrapping around your nipple and sucking generously as your head falls back.

“Mmm hmm,” you hum, grinning as you tug his curls. “Try me.”

——

Baby taglist: @littledemondani @with-dandelions-in-her-hands @codyfernmorelikedaddyfern @wroteclassicaly @leatherduncan @dark-mei-rose @littlegirlsdontplaynice @melodylangdon @xavierplympton @blakewaterxx @whatcodysaid @frenchlangdon @babyyyodas @xavierplymptons

#I TRIED 😩 #michael langdon #michael langdon blurb #michael langdon smut #michael langdon x reader

[petra-realsnk]

Rivetra fanfic (divergence au)

Under the cut there’s the second chapter of my Digging up a grave series! I really do appreciate your support guys. I was really excited to know that some of you enjoyed the first part, so I hope you find this one interesting as well. This chapter was quite hard to write. I wanted this part of the story to feel genuine while also setting some conflicts.  I'm pretty clear about the direction the story will go, and it will probably end up having around 6 chapters. I’ll keep trying my best to bring you all a good burn! <3

Warnings: distress, sadness, mourning.

You can also read it in AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29610360/chapters/72925107 

Digging up a grave (Chapter 2)

Petra wakes up in the military dungeons, oblivious to everything that has happened during the last six months. Levi is in charge of bringing her up to date, and informing her of her last duty to humanity. Erwin had asked him not too long ago if he could see his fallen comrades, and now he surely could. During their talk, Levi, who had sworn to live regretless, starts to doubt. What will he say once she finally asks him, "how did I die?"

The pendant duty

Petra woke up with a start. Seconds after she opened her eyes the memory of her nightmare faded, leaving behind it an agonizing sensation. The room was dark, and a faint musty smell stung her nose. The small bed was nestled against the wall in one corner, though she could barely see anything in the dim light.

She then remembered that she had been in the forest, and that the captain had found her, although she couldn't recall how she had gotten there. She also remembered her conversations with Eren before the expedition, but all the rest seemed to have been lost. There was not a single muscle in her body that didn’t ache, and a slight but persistent migraine pricked her temples. Her hands fearfully explored her body expecting to find a wound that could explain those after-effects. To her surprise, she didn’t find anything on the surface, which made her think that it was something internal, maybe caused by some fall or blow, which was somewhat correct.

At the thought of it, something twisted in her stomach, as it would surely have implied a problem for her squad, that would have had to come to her aid. It was even possible that her own captain had come to rescue her, which hurted her considerably. Petra was a proud soldier, she placed high esteem on her work, and would be lying if she said that she didn’t seek Levi's approval. For a long time Petra had tried to justify herself by thinking that all she wanted was to prove her worth, or that maybe she was too good-natured and therefore a little bit of a pleaser, even if the latter didn’t fit her at all.

Her breathing was still uneven, and from time to time she also experienced vertigo. Fatigue prevented her from caring too much about her condition, although it didn't take long for her to notice that something was wrong. Despite her blackouts, she managed to remember most of the things, but there was a fog separating her from everything… The memories, the people, the important events were there, but the emotional bonds that tied them had been distorted. She analyzed herself in the stillness of the room, until the sound of squeaking metal alerted her that someone was entering.

Thanks to the light of a torch she could see that it was Hange, who had just opened the gate of the cell in which she was. Petra felt misplaced as she realized she was imprisoned, and looked around her quickly, worsening her headache.

"Lay back down, getting upset will only make it worse", Levi said.

His voice moved something inside Petra, briefly clearing the mist that had separated her from reality before, bringing back for a second the sensation that linked his memory to her. She saw him appear from behind Hange, in civilian clothes and with his hands tucked into his pockets. Petra rested her head on the pillow once again, lying on one side without losing sight of her superiors.

"There you go! Just as when we found you… ”, said Hange in a rather calmed manner. As the commander approached she realized Hange wore an eye patch, then her eyes shifted to her neck, where now there was an honorific pendant with a green gem. Petra wondered what could have happened, and how was it possible for them to have been commemorated that fast…  

“What happened?”, she asked them, unable to hide her urgency. Hange's expression turned grim, while Levi remained motionless, leaning against the opposite wall the bed was in, unable to look at her. Petra's eyes went from one to the other, trying to figure out if she should apologize for something.

“We figured you won’t remember”, said Hange, making a pause. “You see, Petra… During the 57th expedition, we were attacked by an intelligent titan who turned out to be an infiltrated member in our army. Levi’s squad was totally annihilated, including yourself”.

The room remained in silence as Petra stared the commander in disbelief. “Are they- are they dead?”, she started saying, but couldn’t finish before Hange interrupted, “that was six months ago”.

That last sentence made her body temperature drop. The meaning behind her words was starting to reach her, and soon she started to panic. Petra tried to incorporate herself as her coping mind began to separate her from that moment. Before her nerves collapsed, Levi pushed himself off the wall and started walking toward her.

“You died, your body had to be left outside the walls and the enemy transformed yourself into a titan. After six months you came to devour someone who had the ability to shift like Eren, and that’s how you turned back to yourself.”

Hange gave Levi a concerned look, for he was delivering way too much information very harshly, even though she quickly realized that was his best attempt to bring her back. As he finished speaking, Levi finally looked Petra in the face. She regenerated slowlier than normal, but now her face looked as usual if not a little bit pale. He had always been prepared to let go of anyone at any given moment, but he wasn’t ready for this.

“Hange, aren’t you busy now that you’re the new commander? How about you let me take care of her”, said Levi without taking his eyes away from Petra.

“Commander!?”, replied Petra, “Then Erwin…”

“Ah, you’re right”, said Hange with a saddened tone, “I’ll go take care of it now, you guys have a lot to talk about! See you, Petra.” This time she sounded more carefree, disappearing before Petra could say goodbye.

Rapidly her mind shifted to Ouro, Eld and Gunther… The pain was beginning to take over her, but the captain wasn't going to let her take a breath.

Levi continued to advance towards her and sitted on her bed, quite more closer than what he had really intended to. Petra felt slightly intimidated, had he stopped trusting her? “Is he trying to intimidate me?”, she thought to herself, although he just wanted to see her from up close.

“Captain… I apologize. I understood what you both said, but there are some things I can’t really grasp”.

After hearing the word “captain” Levi shuddered. That was the first time she addressed him after her death, so formal, as if… nothing had really happened. She gave her life to him once, and now that she’s given a second she’s already back on duty? His expression betrayed him this time. He had always known how devoted she was, and was aware of her fondness for him, but why now? After giving everything she had, after he had failed them, she was willing to continue believing in him? He was being dragged to a mindspace he couldn’t afford. He had to understand she hadn’t seen herself under that tree, nor falling from the chariot. That was on him.

“Petra, it is done now. You don’t need to talk to me in that manner. Your duty with humanity has been fulfilled for now. If you still want to do this, I won’t stop you, but for now you should just listen”.

His reaction softened her. She knew she probably was a titan now, but if what they said was true, they would have had to suffer her death anyways. Petra lowered her gaze, as the blood slowly returned to her cheeks. She really had to work up the courage to ask the following:

“What happened to us?”

The captain was then forced to look away. It was a most common question, but he didn't know what to answer. All the formulas that came to mind included the confession that he was not there, that he could not help them, and that he abandoned them a second time without being able to take them to their families.

“I wasn't there, but it looks like your back was broken.” He could not lie, although he chose the short version. He didn't want her to have to imagine it, even at the risk of sounding blunt. “If you want to know more, you should ask Eren.” That’s all he could give away, as he turned to face her once more.

"I see ..."

Petra bit the bullet nicely, keeping her composure. At least she was certain that Eren was fine, even though they had failed him too. She knew Levi was used to losing people along the way, and he'd had to let go of his squad as well. At least now they could carry the weight of that loss together, she thought. Then, as things started to fall into place, it suddenly hit her.

“My father!”

“We’ll take care of it. I’ll inform him personally that you’ve been miraculously found alive. We can’t really tell him the truth for now, but we’ll arrange something…”, he comforted her.

Petra’s face lightened up a little, regaining its usual beauty. She had a very close relationship with her father despite their silly arguments. She didn't want to imagine the suffering it would have caused him, and was dying to tell him she was fine. Her determination helped her feel better, since now she had in mind to go home as soon as possible.

“Thank you so much, sir. When will it be possible to go see him? I really need to let him know.”

Levi looked at her somewhat concerned, Petra's mind was jumping from one place to another, and he needed to talk with her about so many things... Things that had happened in battle, the truth about the titans, she deserved to know everything, although deep down he knew that would not satisfy him. Was there something else he wanted to tell her, or was it actually something he wanted to know?

“I’m telling you to listen. Now that you’ve eaten a shifter you have inherited their powers. As you might have guessed, that means you’re like Eren now. We can’t really lose sight of you for that. We can’t know for sure which titan you have, and as far as we know your condition seems more delicate than the others. We aren’t sure you’ll be able to transform and come back.  Our only concern for now will be to make sure we don’t lose you. When the time it’s due, you’ll have to pass your power on to someone else”.

Petra saw that their conversation was far from over, and continued to listen with the same gesture of professionalism that had always accompanied her.

“There’s something more…”, continued Levi, “you can only live for thirteen more years after having inherited the powers. That’s in normal cases, so it’s  very likely that you’ll have considerably less time due to your circumstances.”

Petra's eyes widened momentarily, realizing now that she would have to lose most of her freedom, and that her time was running out. It's not that she wasn't up to it, but she wondered what would become of her life. Did that mean that her father was about to lose her again? She even came to think that perhaps it would be better for him to continue thinking that she’s dead, so he wouldn’t have to bury his daughter twice.

“You will need to find a reason of your own. We’ll only ask you to keep yourself alive until we find some certainties. If everything goes on smoothly we should be able to meet with the people who transformed you. But until your time is up, you must decide how to spend it. Once you are better and clean yourself up, I will take you to see your father, if you want to”.

That comment, coupled with his visibly frustrated expression, brought Petra a small smile.  They were close, and she could sense that he had cared deeply for her. As she looked at him, a chill ran through her arms. His attention always managed to move something in her. Petra felt ashamed of her own feelings, but it was obvious that she felt for him. Sometimes she belittled that affection as a childish crush, or distorted admiration. But other times, she felt that she knew him better than that, though it mortified her to admit how she had been carried away by Levi.

“I’m already starting to feel better. I will get to it as soon as possible. I would really like to get some fresh air. Is there anything else that I should know?”

Her voice was gentle, although there was some sadness to it. Guilt gnawed at Levi even though he didn't show it. Similar chills washed over him, unable to stop looking at the ghost on the bed. Erwin's death still followed him, and Petra's return had done nothing but show him a new version of hope and mourning.

They continued to talk about everything she had missed, sometimes looking into each other's eyes, sometimes avoiding their gazes. It was the first time that such a conversation took place on earth, an acquaintance bringing news to a dead person that could actually answer. There they remained, exchanging words for hours, caught up in an emotion that cannot be experienced alone.

-------

Ending note: Thank you so much for reading! In the next chapter, as you might have already guessed, they will be visiting Petra's father. Maybe something about that letter is about to be unveiled...

#digging up a grave #rivetra #rivetra fanfic #Levi Rivaille #levi ackerman #petra ral #rivapeto #snk fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin #canon divergence

[kettlequills]

that world will cease to be: here in my shrine

For anon, who wanted a fic of Laat and Miraak exploring each other's bodies, and everyone who wanted a sequel to the soulmate au. Here you go: I tried. At the bottom there's a gloss of all the Dovahzul used, though pretty much all of it is contextually explained or translated.

This fic contains explicit n.s.f.w, sexual content, and is 1.8. +. Also: suicidal ideation, oral , b.d. sm, species dysphoria, light blood drinking, praise, overstimulation, abusive relationships, including featuring jealousy and possessiveness, and implied/referenced mind control and manipulation. Read at your own risk. Available on A03 here (and recommended, because this is Long).

There is an island where time does not exist. Or rather, where time has stopped, warped, turned half-counter-clockwise and decided that it would like to go four to the left actually.

Dead men stride ashfields that burgeon with last season's and four years of yesterday's summer crops. Their haunting cries part darkened smoke-clouds from a mountain that can't decide whether it has erupted and their dragon-claw boots leave no footsteps. No trace at all of them on silvery sand that thinks itself still a cliff, but a trail of dead netch and liquid-eyed nixhounds. Long-gone elves peer confusedly through gaps in ice-tunnels to a broken sky and thick air long distant from what their lips once tasted, trading the ancient pelts of great cats and wood-carved weapons made of some icy material that radiates magic with the commoners of Raven Rock. Sometimes, old Nords chase them through the snowfields up on the Moesring mountains, but that happens only in Sun’s Dawn, and everyone sensible knows to simply stay inside then. They will disappear on Tirdas, but it is Middas, all the time, until it is Fredas instead, shortly after Morndas afternoon (never morning). And that is not even starting with the month of Hearthfire, which as everyone in Raven Rock knows, is simply that time between ten and five o’clock where the sun shakes in what they have been generously describing as the sky.

The town itself is largely unchanged, for what could have been centuries now. Fethis Alor still tends his stand, the Retching Netch waits in a perpetual state of nearly closing down. Glover Mallory has yet to add a single wrinkle to his collection. Every so often, oldfolk come wandering out the barrows, shrivelled bodies that pay in ancient coins with flickers of life in death-blue eyes, but coin is coin, and if old Crescius has been working a thriving trade with the dead priest Zahkriisos in oil and coal, plenty of others in Raven Rock see no need to be stingy.

Occasionally, there are newfolk, outsiders. Furious bureaucrats from Morrowind, perhaps, come to see why their island flies colours that have not been seen since mighty dragons swept their hungry wings over every inch of Tamriel. Beggars, refugees, curious wizards, come to see the Temple. It is not often they last long before they are unmade from the fabric of expectation that links the threads of reality together, or they quite simply go mad. For the most part, though, even gods avoid Solstheim.

The Dragonborns are not known to be fond of gods.

It is best not to pay too much attention to the Temple or the dragons that live within it. Focus instead on the routine, the script, and know in your heart that time is broken and fate is a lie. Choose ignorance. The summer storms shake the ground from the Temple, Shouts of laughter and rage, growing pains, and dragons scatter from its roof like doves. It is a magical untime on Solstheim, and there are worse things than the total freedom of a world shaped by the expectant whim of two godsouled-mortals that keep for the most part to their temple and themselves.

Frea does not choose ignorance. She has been shaman of the Skaal for, at least, twelve generations, or maybe even three days, and the sight of the Tree Stone still turns her stomach. Sometimes long-dead friends are standing round it, smiling at Frea like nothing has changed at all (and it hasn’t, surely? The sun still rises on the day where Gjalund Salt-Sage brought the dragon-break into Raven Rock port), but Frea is tired now. Still young, still strong, she goes to make the same plea she always makes to the Last Dragonborn.

“When are you going to let us go?” Frea asks, over ale. This year’s season has been terrible for crops, but no one quite ever expects to run out, so the barrels remain full of thick Skaal ale that always tastes just like the last time Frea could remember having it.

She is growing to hate that taste.

Laataazin, the Last Dragonborn, is shorter than Frea, being one of those warm-blooded humans from across the sea. Their feet just lightly brush the ground from where they sit next to Frea on the fallen tree stump not far from the Stone. They wear the same armour they always have, as bright and well-used as it has been since the day they walked out of Apocrypha hand in hand with the murderer of Frea’s friends and broke the world. The only difference is their mask hangs from their belt instead of concealing their scarred spider-web of a face, its blank owl-eyes staring accusingly up at Frea.

They grimace at the ale Frea hands them, pulling the cork out with their teeth. Laat says nothing, but looks at Frea, the wisps of blonde hair that escape her hood, the air of terrible exhaustion that slumps her shoulders. They like the Skaal shaman; Frea is the sort of companion that Laat may have considered taking adventuring once, strong enough to keep up, quick enough to get out of the way, and wild enough to relish the months of uninterrupted travelling through the depths of Skyrim’s countryside.

But it has been a long time since Laataazin has gone adventuring, longer still since they have stepped foot in Skyrim. They miss it; the vastness of the wilds, the clear air, the promise of a fight and treasure to be won. Surely it must be time for a visit, soon? Laat cannot remember the last time they went. Beyond their beloved wife, there is little to draw them back there.

And I am here, Miraak presence brushes against their mind, like a touch on their arm. It is tinged with smugness.

Yes, Laat thinks, hiding their smile from Frea, you are. Did you not want privacy?

That is, after all, the reason they decided to hold their regular meeting with Frea today – it is not like Frea, not being dragon-souled, is aware enough of the passing untime to know if Laat reschedules. But Miraak has ushered them from the temple, claiming to want of all things solitude. This is impossible with their souls interlinked, but physical distance and polite-pretence is easy to arrange. It is unusual enough for Miraak to request it instead of Laat seeking the embrace of nature that it makes them immensely curious.

Miraak radiates discontent for a moment (you miss me, Laat’s chest warms), but withdraws. He is fussing with something involving water, trying not to get the sleeves of his robe wet. They do their best to leave him to it and focus on Frea.

“How long do you plan to keep us imprisoned here?” Frea is asking dolefully, as if rephrasing the question will compel Laataazin to give her an answer she wants to hear. “Trapped in this unliving existence, where no thing changes or grows as the All-Maker bade it?”

Unimpressed, Laat scowls at Frea. They kick the ash with their boots, digging with their heel a scar into the earth that exposes a scurrying beetle. That is change, right there. Not the same as the orderly march Akatosh imposes upon the land, but then, it is his rules that argue that two Dragonborn may not walk Nirn at once.

Laat is no longer inclined to listen to such rules.

Frea looks at the beetle. Something in her eyes flickers. Her loose hand drops the ale, which floods from the bottle, soaking the little scar where the beetle rapidly crawls to escape death by drowning. Curiously, Laat watches, but when the golden liquid gets too close they nudge a line of sand to dam it. The beetle, saved, disappears into the ash.

“I wish to return to the All-Maker,” Frea says, quietly.

A sudden surge of annoyance from Miraak catches Laat’s attention. Unthinkingly, they press into his mind. Through his eyes they glimpse Miraak’s bare hand – ink-veined and thin – clutching at a bar of soap, the dim outline of his body beneath the surface of the bathwater, even one knobbly knee, a hint of-

Laataazin, he chides, vexed. Laat blinks and with effort wrenches themselves away. Anchoring themselves to the feel of the wooden stump underneath them, they inhale the salty scent of seaspray and ashfall. Their boots scuffing the ash, Frea’s solid warmth against their side, the weight of their armour on their shoulders.

Are you all right? Laat asks. They are really trying not to think too much about the fact that Miraak is bathing, and that means Miraak is naked. He has never been fully undressed with Laat. They have seen only glimpses of his body beneath the robes when they have sex, his hands, and rarely, his face. Usually, Laat occupies themselves with something like hunting or sleep that distracts their mind when Miraak bathes, because Miraak is very sensitive to his privacy where his body is concerned.

Miraak is naked. And wet. Wet and naked.

Geh, he replies. I dropped the soap.

His indignation at their amusement tempts them to laugh out loud. They do not, because Frea with her gentle mortal-soul and fragile eardrums sits next to them, long legs not struggling to reach the ground at all. Cursed Nords.

Stop thinking about my naked body, he adds, and do not try to look.

Don’t be shy, Miraak, Laat teases slyly, doing their best to ground themselves in the moment, on the tree with Frea not in the bath in the temple, even as they poke fun at him. You’ve been inside me from the moment I awoke in Helgen, and I know you were still watching even when a gentleman might … look away.

They both know it is true, and though Laat is already well aware that Miraak watches them when they bathe, undress, or fuck, Miraak’s embarrassed defensiveness immediately confirms it. They have never minded - Laat has a soldier’s easy practicality about their body.

I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you were not taken advantage of in your many distractions, Laat Dovahkiin, he retorts. Laat has a vague sense of him splashing water over his face.

They roll their eyes and pull away.

“Dragonborn, do you hear me? I wish to die,” says Frea, intensely. “This is no way to live. You must know this, somewhere. Are you not tired of this unending nightmare?”

It is difficult to remain focused on Frea, because Miraak’s thoughts keep drifting to Laat like a ping on the edges of their awareness. They are soft thoughts, warm ones, shy-feeling, tinged with a little note of – is that arousal? Laat’s barely-restrained curiosity piques.

Is he trying to masturbate? It is rare for Miraak to do so. Admittedly, Laat doesn’t remember the last time he has tried without Laat sensing it and volunteering a… helping hand. No, the last time they have felt something like this from him, they followed him to the icy cell he prefers to sleep in when alone. In the memory, Miraak’s hand is hidden in the folds of his robes, but his masked face jerks towards Laat when they open the door, biting off a sound Laat is suddenly very eager to hear. Laat comes to sit beside him – ignoring his fluster, his demands – and murmurs to him about certain options they have. The night ends with Miraak writhing underneath them as they push into him, rocking him slowly against the bed while he gasps and begs, the echoes of his Voice he is desperately trying to muffle in the pillows sending shivers into the walls. There is no exact translation for ‘please, fuck me, please’ in Miraak’s preferred tongue of Dovahzul, but Laat learns that night several new ways to say it anyway.

Miraak sighs wearily, and Laat feels him cast an ice-spell in his bathwater.

Sorry, thinks Laat, sheepish.

“Please,” says Frea, somewhere distant. “Please hear me, Dragonborn. You are the only one who can wake us from this spell.”

Ni faas, replies Miraak, It is a memory I also … fondly recall.

Apologetically, they take a sip of their ale. They wince. Vile. The wines of Cyrodiil, where Laat likely hails from, are infinitely better. But Miraak enjoys the taste on their tongue, and they feel him hum where he lays in the bath.

Gripping Laat’s arm, Frea shakes them roughly. Snapped into their body, Laat blinks and glares at Frea. The Skaal is wise enough to back off, hands upraised, but her blue eyes are full of terrible sorrow when they look at Laat, no fear at all of Laat lashing out with a gauntleted fist.

“The Traitor has changed you,” Frea says to them. “He has changed us all. But you… I do not think any of the people you left behind would recognise you, Dragonborn.”

“You do not know me,” Laat signs, the shapes sharp and clipped. They are in Nirn now, after all, and their Voice would hurt Frea if not kill her if they spoke aloud. Dragons alone are strong enough to bear it. “You know nothing of the world beyond this island, girl.”

“I have heard tale of you, and when first we met… You slew Alduin World-Eater,” Frea shakes her head, slowly. “You would have helped us. You would know that what is happening is wrong.”

Laat rises to their feet, nettled by the reminder of their bitter fate, but Frea only stares at them, as if hoping something will happen. When nothing does beyond Laat’s glare, dimming into confusion at the odd look on her face, the light gutters out in Frea’s heart. Her shoulders bow, as if slumped by immense weights.

“I suggest,” Frea says heavily, “that you reflect on what it is that has changed in this time of unreality. And what has not. Tell me, what do you truly know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes? Please, remember my words, Dragonborn.”

With that, she turns and crunches away over the snow.

Laat takes a step after Frea, rage bubbling in their gut like a noxious poison – Miraak, touching in concern the edges of their mind – but gritting their teeth hard enough to feel the bones creak, they drag themselves back. No. Laat likes Frea, they do not want to kill her.

They do, however, want to hunt.

Enjoy yourself, Laat thinks to Miraak, taking a moment to send him a soothing pulse. I’m going to go and catch dinner.

Don’t get something large, I have already prepared food for us, Miraak requests.

Full of surprises, today, aren’t you? He grumbles something about being much maligned that Laat ignores, already setting off at a light jog into the wilderness surrounding the temple.

It is a bitter day on Solstheim, with high winds and a brittle, icy chill. The animals are wary, and it takes Laat a few hours to find anything worth catching. Eventually, they manage to corner a small arctic hare. It is dead with a Shout, and Laat skins it with their boot-knife. The hunter in them unwinds at the kill, the blood on their hands.

Frea’s words echo through their mind. “Tell me what you know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes.”

Laat considers. It has been a while since they have spoken to one of their dragon acquaintances. Odahviing and Venfokest avoid Miraak, but Odahviing at least is bound to come if Laat calls. Perhaps they will ask how Skyrim is doing.

Something about the prospect makes Laat feel a little uneasy, as if there is something they are forgetting.

When are you back? Miraak’s question is more a vague feeling of longing for their presence and a desire to know where they are than it is words, but Laat answers it anyway.

I am coming to you now.

They feel from him a definite tinge of bubbling excitement, and then again that strange anxious spark. Pruzah.

He is definitely planning something. Seething curiosity carries Laat home, to the great Temple of Miraak sprawling between towering fences of heaped dragon-skeletons, fused and warped together by thousands of years of moving ice and snow. Laat ducks under the tongueless jaws and over the fleshless claws, poised in permanent screams of rending agony. As always, they grimace. It is not their favourite of Miraak’s choice in décor.

The interior of the temple is much better, these days, its hard edges softened by the multitude of pelts that ripple along the walls like the sides of some great breathing beast. Laat has hunted all of these themselves, and it still plucks their pride to see the fruits of their work displayed so prominently in Miraak’s temple. The rabbit they pack in ice and leave in an empty brazier. It will not go anywhere.

You are skilled, he interjects into their thoughts. And also prone to cold.

Laat closes their eyes and goes to him, not needing to ask, not needing to see – Laataazin could find Miraak blind and deaf, robbed of all sense, even dead, even dying. The ties that bind them are beyond such petty things as flesh, as mortality.

Soul-of-my-soul, they think, trailing their fingertips over the thickly covered walls, the soft furs, the unyielding stone beneath. Breathing in the smoky scent of incense, the long-distant iron tang of blood and daedra. Always I come to you. Through Apocrypha, through storm, through time and fate itself, no creature could bar me from you that I would not tear asunder.

Do not keep me waiting any longer, Miraak answers, softly. Laat can feel his hunger.

He is outside in the room they usually use when sleeping together. It is fairly large, walled-off, but open to the great sky and set with wards to deter prying eyes and inclement weather. There is no furniture at all, save for a cooking pot in the corner by a fire, a small chest that holds additional blankets and other supplies, and a huge bed, made completely of stone in the Dwemer fashion. It is piled high with furs to make it soft.

The reason, of course, is Laataazin.

“Miraak,” they whisper, as soft as they possibly can, and their Voice shudders the air with a low sonic reverberation. Anything more fragile than stone would be destroyed in an exhale.

“Laat Dovahkiin.”

He is perched on the bed, masked face tilted towards them measuringly. Over his lap luxuriates a thick snow-bear pelt, his long fingers fiddling with something under it almost absently. They can just see a small glimpse of his foot peeking out of the shaggy fur, wider than Laat has expected, the curve of his arch flattening towards his clawed toes. He is wearing a robe of deep purple, belted tightly around his waist so that no skin shows in the fall of its folds around the tucked hood of his mask. But simply by virtue of how uncomfortably stiff he looks, Laat wagers his robe is only a layer thick, his gloves are nowhere to be seen, and he is not even wearing socks.

Laat starts to strip off their armour, hoping to join him in the plush furs. He shifts; his presence strengthens in their mind shivery and avid, like ghostly lips are under their skin caressing the tight strings of nerves as Laat’s fingers fumble over the buckles. An urgency makes itself known, whether it is his or theirs they cannot tell, only that it seems incredibly important that the bulky plate is gone, leaving Laat in their breeches and tunic.

“Are you hungry?” Miraak says in his rich, deep voice. “I made soup.”

“You made soup?” Laat signs, honestly taken aback. They scrub their hair with one hand, dissatisfied with the length of the limp strands. Time to cut it soon.

“I told you I did.” Miraak’s rejoinder is curt, but Laat can feel a storm of emotions inside of him, more nervousness, quiet sparks of hurt. Puzzlingly, underneath it all is vast breathlessness.

“I am sorry,” Laat signs, “I thought you meant you got someone else to cook.”

Like normal, they don’t add, but clearly Miraak senses their confusion.

“It is pea soup,” he adds, with all the snappishness of an insult, and then looks down at his hands like he is hoping they will wring his own neck for him.

Pea soup is Laataazin’s favourite. They like the warmth, the simplicity, even the odd green of it. It is the first meal they recall eating, served by Sigrid after their escape from Helgen. It is decidedly not Miraak’s.

Miraak acting strange, trying to make one of Laat’s favoured foods, wearing slightly fewer than his usual full robes, having just bathed –

“Miraak,” Laat signs, slowly. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Miraak says nothing, but Laat can feel his frustration. Not for the first time, Laat wonders how they would have ever come to know him without a window into his soul, for his mask is expressionless, his body language has not changed at all, and his manner is anything but welcoming. Still, their heart squeezes at the thought of him taking the time to do something as simple and sweet as make their favourite soup.

“I am not hungry,” they sign, “but I would love to try it with you later.”

Laat takes a seat on the bed next to him. This close, they can see what he is fussing with in his hands. It is a coil of soft cotton rope, dyed black, and he is threading it through his hands again and again, rhythmic, hypnotic. His shoulders are tense. Understanding dawns as Laat gains a sense of what he wants.

“Want some help?” Laat signs.

The anxious movement of his hands pauses. His chin tucks close to his chest. The dim firelight plays over the gold surface of his mask, making the shadows jump and dance like the carved tentacles are twitching.

“Geh,” says Miraak. “I would relieve your curious mind.”

He trails off, but his mind does not, conveying a soft fear of exposure – unwanted, terrible, frightening, but at the hands of Laat, intriguing, even exciting. Another dragon-soul, who… knows, who has the most immediate window into how it feels.

No wonder he is being shy, Laat thinks, Miraak has never in all the time they have known each other reacted to having to remove his clothing with anything other than discomfort. To some extent, Laat even understands. They have times when their body feels wrong, too little, too soft, no teeth or claws or worst of all no wings, but for Miraak, that sense of not fitting his body never fades at all, and the marks of daedric corruption from years in Apocrypha has only worsened it.

Laat inhales. “You want me to take your robe off and touch you under it?”

They both feel the tug of arousal in his belly as Laat’s hands finish the signs. Laat’s approval at it makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The air electrifies, Laat’s blood warms. Already, Laat’s mind feels closer, overlapping with his, drifting in and out of seeing with their eyes or his. The rope seems to grow heavier in their - his - hands.

“Geh.”

Laat shifts to sit by his hip, trying to catch his eyes in the dark slits of his mask. Either he is avoiding their stare or the mask is at the wrong angle to penetrate the shadows.

“Tell me your watchword, Miraak.” Laat’s signs are firm but clear. They can’t hide their excitement from him, don’t bother trying, and his chest rises and falls a little quicker. Laat’s stomach quivers with butterflies.

He dithers, thinking through his choice, but when he speaks his voice is strong, steady, and confident. “Sikgolt.”

“Good,” Laat signs. They take the rope from him.

Miraak lifts his hands, and the voluminous sleeves fall to gather in indigo ripples around his elbows, baring his arms. Laataazin curls the first length of rope around his forearms and then just looks for a moment, memorising it. The contrast between the dyed rope and his sunless skin, stained murky ink-green-yellow like a slow-ripening bruise that makes Laat ache to dig their thumb in and push until it blooms purple. The green veins that fork through the softer skin of his wrists, the pulse-point that will hammer there if Laat tickles it with their tongue (and the groans that will fall from him, twisted, broken things, the bitten curses, the hungry ache).

There are scars there, just visible as thinned lines underneath the dark stipple of soap-softened hair, relics from a fraught past. His hands, thin and uncallused, a scholar’s hands still, offer up to the rope like the worshipful priest he still is (if to his own altar – Niid, zu’u losiil, he murmurs back), tipped by curving black claws that catch the light with a dim ebony sheen. He has filed them down, Laat can see the smoothed edges, the hint of dust caught under a nail that has escaped his washing.

Miraak has filed his claws so that he would not hurt Laataazin if he touches his fingertips to their bare skin, not even by accident.

The rush of admiration they feel for him is sudden, intense, and warm, warm, like the blush that climbs steadily into their cheeks. The arousal that sparks in one sparks the other, and Miraak is not as unaffected by Laat’s extended perusal as he is trying to pretend. Goosebumps raise where Laat’s eyes drag, and he grumbles and shifts on the bed.

It is false annoyance; Laat feels instead his anxiety, insecurity at having the marks of daedric corruption on display, his fear of exposure and powerlessness, the private worrying of his vanity.

Beautiful, Laat thinks, and politely ignores the confused feelings that flood through him as he catches their thought, all ending in an ember of lust. Miraak, despite his many conflicted feelings on his body, likes to be appreciated, but he finds Laat’s private, fond awareness of that fact intensely embarrassing.

“Laataazin.”

Laat’s shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.

They take his hand in theirs, smiling up at him. “Squeeze,” they sign with the other, and he obliges, gripping Laat’s hand until it feels like the bones creak. Laat makes a note of the pressure, then releases him with a gentle pat.

Loop by loop, they wrap the soft rope around Miraak’s arms six times, spreading the pressure out to protect his circulation. Checking the looseness with two fingers against his wrist, Laat tucks the tails around the loops, makes a knot, cinches it evenly, then knots it again for security. It takes a while, for Laataazin’s hands shake and tremble, and Miraak’s skin is sensitive to chafing. But as they work, Laataazin feels the rope’s increasing pressure acting upon him, the quiet, observant mood he settles into, dripped through with steady peace. His lassitude sinks soporific into the tired ache behind Laat’s eyes, and their head droops to rest on his chest.

“Not too tight,” he tells them, testing the rope. Laat skims kisses over his knuckles.

They allow him time to acclimatise to the ropes, feeling the minute tense of his muscles testing for give in the knots. They can hear the creaks of the flexing rope, his deep breathing metallic under the mask, even the distant wind blowing over the ashlands. Somewhere, a dragon roars.

Kruziikrel, Miraak identifies absently.

The fabric of his robe is silky and cool against Laat’s forehead. Beneath it, they can smell Miraak, old books, mouldy paper, spilt ink and the bitter reek of ash. From anyone else, it would be unpleasant – from Miraak, it is familiar, and thus, beloved.

Laat can feel the warm weight of their head on Miraak’s chest, the soothing hold of the rope, the robe shifting on his skin. He feels too warm, already, his breath fogging against his mask to blow soft as butterfly kisses against his dry lips. A little sleepy, too, wrung out by all the excitement and anxiousness of preparing himself for them.

“Ni faas. It was nothing,” Miraak rumbles. They can feel the vibrations through his chest when he speaks, the breath ringing in his lungs.

Their dragon soul.

It is tempting to indulge in the moment, lay their body across his legs like a pinning weight and allow them both to simply drift, hearts harmonising, breath mixing, until Laat has to untie Miraak’s hands and chase the blood to flushing. But they turn their cheek to the side, instead, so their breath skates into the opening of Miraak’s robe. He shivers.

It would be a shame to not take advantage of Miraak’s uncharacteristic willingness to be vulnerable.

Their fingers twist into signs. It takes Miraak a moment, either to parse it in his warm fog or to realise that Laat has signed, but when he does Laat relishes in the surge of indignation.

“I am not having a nap, and I am not that old,” Miraak huffs, and Laataazin laughs against his chest. It is nearly noiseless, but not quite. The furs tremble beneath them.

Wuth, they think to him. Old man.

“You’re the one whose – stopped,” Miraak snaps, and his voice loses its steadiness.

Must I do everything for you, Diist-Dovahkiin? Laat sighs gustily, teasingly, but they sit up and plant their weight square over his hips.

For a moment, they are both breathing through the sensations, Miraak’s heart thudding in his chest at the agonising burn of warm thighs squeezing his hipbones, the bend of Laat’s knees straining tight muscles from the hike to meet with Frea, the weight pressing his spine into the bed like a stone, even the arterial pulse he swears he can feel drumming his skin through the robe and their clothes pounding from the secret warmth of Laat’s inner thigh. The thought of all that blood, all that glorious heat, in their veins makes him dizzy.

Laat looks down at him and sees themselves mirrored in shadows over his mask and in his hidden gaze. The rolling slopes of their body encircle him, contain him, like a stopper in the narrow neck of a bottle. Their eyes smoke with intensity, flickers of amber red visible in the deep brown. In his eyes, they are handsome and powerful, beautiful as the killing edge of a new blade.

“You are so warm,” he tells them inanely.

“Let me see you,” Laat signs, bringing their hands deliberately wide in the movements so that their knuckles brush the blank gold face of Miraak’s mask. They want to show him his own face, his true face, the loveliness they find there among the ink-scars and exhaustion-wrung shadows.

Miraak hesitates. Old shames glare gluttonous at his vulnerability, and Miraak feels like shrinking into the safety of the mask. Is it not enough to let them do this? Must he lose every wall, every shelter, every defence he has against the rawness of this new Solstheim where bareness is unremarkable, and no one sings as dragons do? His face of flesh and skin does not even have majestic horns or tough scales - no, it is softened, wearied, by time and torture. The wrinkles he admires as they form on Laat and the steely greys of their hair remind Miraak only of the time he has lost to unwilling bondage on himself. They, after all, do not have the face of a prisoner of Apocrypha.

He is only a man. Despite the strength of Laat’s opinion of him, their dragon-soul, Miraak is only a man, and one beset by foolish vanity at that.

Laat says nothing, of course they don’t, but the swell of tender feeling is almost worse. This close, this hungry, the line between them is blurrier than it ever is. Without the mask, Miraak may as well … submit. Laat pursues the feeling, pressing into his mind, his body, until their touches feel mirrored and they are the hand that brushes and the skin that aches in response both.

Laat leans forward (catches Miraak’s irreverent thought about how so very warm they are, are they running a fever, against his bound wrists, his chest) and lifts the edge of the mask’s hood, revealing his neck. Old inkstains stripe his throat in greenish trails, splatters where he has coughed and choked on the fluid bubbling in his lungs, out his mouth. Laat can’t resist swiping their tongue over the arch of tendons, as if the coolness of their spit can smear such deeply-sunken marks. Tender kisses dot his shoulders, gentle lips mumble and mouth over the exposed ridge of his collarbones, blunt teeth threatening the bobbing gulp of the apple of his throat, sensations that spark fireworks behind his eyes. Laat’s lips tingle where they kiss him, his fragile skin papery and dry like the crumbling pages of ancient books.

They together feel his breathing fanning over his eyelids, penned in by the mask, as he tilts his head back. Exposes his neck to Laataazin, like a dog showing his belly to his master.

Beautiful, thinks Laat again, and Miraak swallows a groan.

Desire breathes like something living in the coil of his gut, drawing like a wave into his cock. The liquid movements of the robes over the sensitive flesh as Laat rocks back and forth over his hips while they kiss, sensuous, deliberate, rhythmic, just too far forward to grind against him, are exquisite torture.

Torture? Laat’s laugh is a sigh that ripples up to prickle the tainted skin under his ear. Miraak exhales roughly, flexing his wrists against the ropes to ground himself. They are edging ever closer to the lip of the mask, trying to steal it off without his notice. It is one of their more obvious designs. Not even close, soul-of-my-soul.

“What are you planning?” Miraak asks, more to reply than because he cares to know. Past experience has taught him that Laat is more than capable of using his anticipation as a weapon, stringing him on a teetering edge until he shatters like poorly blown glass in their hands.

You like it, Laat thinks, amused, indulgent as a cat in a sunbeam. Miraak, haughty, does not respond. He does not need to. The evidence that tells Laat they are right is beginning to rather eagerly tent his robe, after all.

This close he can smell the oil they use to clean their armour and weapons, and sweat, pure human sweat. Laataazin’s deals with daedra have been so much lesser than Miraak’s, and they barely have any marks, save for a wickedness in their grin as their hips roll against him that Miraak thinks must have come from straight from the Lord of Debauchery himself.

You know it didn’t, Laataazin contradicts. Their scarred nose bumps the underside of his mask as they lean forwards, palms pressing down heavy and soothing onto his chest. Hinting.

“Niid,” Miraak murmurs.

A flicker of disappointment, but Laat moves on from the mask without comment. They resettle their weight further over his hips, trapping his cock between their body and his. Miraak chokes, his arms twitching in abortive movement, like he could pull their body, their hands away. But Laat lingers, tracing the shape of his cock through his robe with heavy, palming strokes. It is so powerful a sensation that it hurts, hurts, like crackling lightning in his veins.

Miraak writhes, trying to unseat them, but Laat only rides him out like he is a bucking horse. His body undulates between their thighs and they grind down, eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting, a glimpse of their crooked teeth as they bite their lip.

Laat’s shameless pleasure in his struggle undoes him.

“Laat,” Miraak moans. They ground him with a hand to his chest, and his breath heaves like bellows against its firm weight.

Your arms are tied, Laat’s thought is involuntary, almost indistinguishable in heady lust, you just have to lie here and … take it.

They feel Miraak want to protest that he is not entirely helpless – there’s the Voice, there’s magic, they may be stronger physically but he could even flip them – yet his whole body is boneless, the ropes hemming him in sweetly, and they know if Laat just asks, he would take any amount of anything. To please them.

“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.” Miraak is shaky and breathless. I am yours. It is true. Without them, he would be a prisoner, lonely, bitter, still at the whim of the fates, bound to serve all his life in the hope for a taste of freedom. This service, he chooses. As they chose him, over the world.

“Good,” Laataazin whispers aloud, and the stone bed shakes. Somewhere distant, something smashes as it falls, shaken by the earthquake of their Voice.

Miraak’s eyes fly open to meet theirs through the slits of his mask, halfway through a ragged gasp. They see themselves as he sees them, scarred face is watchful, intent, their dark eyes alight with a rich glow.

“Laataazin.”

It is too much for him. Laat rubs his chest soothingly as Miraak’s head thumps back against the furs and his arms lift, futile, trying to cover his masked face, trying to hide. His knuckles meet only the coolness of his mask, smooth and hard, the antithesis of Laat’s body on his. He knows he is blushing, blotches of deep blue and yellow ink bursting like rotted flowers under the surface of his skin, knows that Laat could see it, if they open his robe.

The soul-of-his-soul thinks Miraak is good.

As if summoned, Laat deftly parts the folds of his robe and bares his chest. The bear pelt he lies on is so thick that the soft fur rises around the edges of his body like a wreath, his robe spread out beneath them like royal purple butterfly wings. The paleness of the fur and the richness of the silk all seem to exaggerate the archival yellow of his skin, warming to chlorophyll and indigo, like he is an unfinished painting given colour, depth, reality, by the paintbrush of his blush.

He is beautiful, and mine, they think, ghosting over pebbled flesh with indulgent, explorative touches. Miraak is thinner under his robes than he first appears, with jutting ribs from one-too-many forgotten meals to sustain a body that has not quite managed to process anything beyond ink with any reliability. His mottled skin is oddly smooth, hairless, and after a moment, Laat realises why.

“You shaved,” Laat signs, tapping his chest to get his attention. He lowers his arms cautiously, eyeing them through the slits of the mask. “Your beard, too?”

“Geh,” says Miraak.

Laat feels his embarrassed flush of self-consciousness. He shaved because he hopes Laat would put their mouth on him as they are so fond of doing, and does not want them to have to pick hair from their teeth. His hair grows very thick and all of it ink-soaked to dripping, leaving green stains on fabrics when he brushes against them. He worries; hardly thinks it’s beneficial for Laat to swallow any of Mora’s corruption that can possibly be avoided. Just as quickly, there is a fluster as Miraak tries to hide his thoughts from them.

Prickly and proud as ever, their dragon-soul.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Laat assures him, their signs quick and fond at his worry. “And I certainly don’t mind you thinking of what I’m going to do to you.”

Their signs leave them free to smile, slow, wide, and Miraak shivers at the promise in it. Lightly they push on his elbows, encouraging him to lift his arms over his head so that his shoulders strain and his torso is exposed, like a sacrifice. Then, as Miraak has dared to hope, they lower their head and kiss his chest.

Laat explores, taking their time, feeling the raised lips of scars catch under their nails. He does not have many, all things considered, not half as much as they do, but there is enough to provide texture. Testament, they suppose, to his expertise with healing magic. Miraak runs cooler than they do, and as their searching hands find the secret, soft places that make him twitch and gasp (his sides are sensitive to broad strokes, but he jerks and hisses at gentle, featherlight circles over his hipbones, and the sound he makes when Laat licks a long stripe over his pectoral muscle and catches the edge of his nipple is so hungry it does not bear repeating), they feel him warm under them.

Sweat wells, bitter and acrid ink, in the dips of his collarbones, the dark hair of his armpits, his navel. Laat brushes the worst of it away and keeps going, ignoring the apocryphal reek and distracting Miraak from it before he can protest. They are determined to map his entire torso under their lips and tongue, the drugging strokes of their palms pressing against the heave of his lungs. His skin is soft and dry, curiously textured, delicate as vellum. When he blushes, sometimes the ink forms linear lines, swirls of no mortal language, as if it is trying to imitate the written pages of Apocrypha, like there are books not blood trapped underneath his skin. Laat knuckles his flesh until it fades into blotchy colours and pays it no attention at all.

They have no need for flesh-sunk knowledge and the words of magic lost to time. This is its own kind of lesson, and Laat will always rather be skilled in love than in secrets.

They hear the crackle of the fire, the wet noises of their mouth, Miraak’s moans and stifled cries. He whimpers when they give into the desire to suck on his skin until it bruises brilliant purples and blues, bright as an illustration commissioned by a master, so they do it again, again, until his nipples pinking with blood distract them. Laat torments the hard buds with quick, fluttering flicks of their tongue that make Miraak choke on a growl, and smile when they feel the tugging chains of arousal searing straight to his cock.

Miraak pants, half-wishing he let Laat take the damn mask off, because there doesn’t seem to be enough air and he feels like he is melting. It’s too much, he thinks, and Laat’s dark eyes flick up to his, measuring, probing for how he is doing, it hurts.

“Faaz,” Miraak gets out. You are hurting me. They must be.

Sensation so bright it might as well be pain has him arrested, senseless, sharp like needles in his lungs, and he is not sure where he is, only that the world is bound by the rope around his wrists, squeezing his thunderous crash of a heart into a mortal body that twists and rocks under Laataazin like it is possessed. He is aware that he is making noises, hisses and gasps and bitten off words that would embarrass him if he were more present, but Miraak is not – is gone.

He is, dimly, afraid of what is happening to his body, for he is fairly certain that sex has never been like this. With his nerves under-stimulated from years in bitter Apocrypha, Laat’s focused attention is utterly overwhelming. There are many reasons he prefers to remain clothed; safe concealment from the immensity of the world scraping at him like raw wool is one.

It always is like this, with Laat.

“You are fine, Miraak,” Laat tells him, knows he understands even if they are not certain he sees their signs, “This is not pain.”

He eases a little at their reassurance, but just to prove it, they bite him hard enough that their teeth carve welts into his flesh. Hard enough that the confused morass of sensation – pleasure, it is his and theirs, at the same moment – narrows into the piercing beam of pain, true pain. Miraak keens, and against him, Laat moans richly, reverberating.

If only – if only, but no, this truly is a rare opportunity. Laat needs to be gentle and relish the rare freedom of touching Miraak’s bare skin, not overwhelm him quickly.

Miraak bares his teeth. “I am not fragile,” he says, his pride bidding him ignore the quiver in his deep voice lodged somewhere in his stomach, and the nagging fear that he absolutely is, actually, and if Laat isn’t careful, his bones will shatter to dust like the ruined books that populate old tombs like monuments to impermanence.

“You blush so prettily when I treat you like you are,” Laat signs, cheeky. “Can you blame me?”

When they are done, though, their hands find his ribs again and push down, hard. Miraak wheezes a breath, but Laat only smiles at him, as if to say, See? We’re fine.

Miraak slams his head back into the pillows, hissing. Again with the praise. I am going to pulverise you in training later, Laat feels him think, and allows the ghostly curl of their amusement to thread like gold in his sternum.

Laat withdraws, gives him a moment to catch his breath. They check his bound hands briefly, then hum, satisfied by the strength of his grip. The break is barely a second, not long enough, just enough to admire his flustered state.

One hand tweaks his nipple, twisting it hard enough that the dull pressure will ache, the other smooths underneath the fallen robe around his hips and ghosts around the base of his cock. He reacts like their skin burns him.

“Niid,” says Miraak at once, “niid – Dovahkiin, saraan-“

The hand at his chest taps him. Laat does not move their other hand, not at all, allows Miraak to feel like he is dying, knowing that he will not.

“Your watchword, Miraak?” Laat signs. Their expression is serious, but their mouth is smiling, like they know a secret.

It takes him a moment, not to remember, for they feel the word come at once to the forefront of his mind, but to make his breathing cooperate so the word comes out steady and even. Always so proud.

“Sikgolt,” he says, at last.

“You know what to say, if you want this to stop,” signs Laat, “If not, behave.”

“I am not a pet,” Miraak tries to snarl, but his words are lost in an explosive cry when Laat spits into their hand and grasps his cock firmly with quick, rough strokes. Dry, it is just too much to be bearable, but Laat’s grip is workmanlike, brusque, and utterly unrelenting. Even when Laat smears his own ink-laced precome down his cock, it is not enough to prevent the agony of the friction.

Good, they think. Laat does not want him to be comfortable.

Miraak responds to that with a shattered sound.

Laat focuses on remaining in their own body, on the sweat-sticky shirt on their back, the slight grind and click of their wrist as they jerk him off, tries to distance themselves from the cacophony of Miraak’s thoughts. They want him to be overwhelmed, but not drag them with him to the point where they cannot be certain they will be able to watch him.

It is nice, they think meditatively, to be able to do this with him. They are surprised, but pleased, at how this night has gone, have not ever quite believed that Miraak would be capable of or willing to experience such a large amount of touch and vulnerability. After all, it took a long time of very patient compromises to reach the point of physical intimacy. Sex is studded with pitfalls, as having thick ink for blood means that Miraak’s arousal is not always reliable, and he regularly cannot bear touch, which his pride detests. Once they discovered they have a love of ropes in common and that Miraak can bring himself to ask for it, things became easier, and the rest Laat simply consigns to cultural differences he cannot explain in any way they understand, or the effects of his time in Apocrypha.

Still, Laat knows him well enough at this point to not need to think too hard about the movement of their hand on his cock. Dragging touches that form a circle for his jerking hips to thrust into, long strokes up the left side, switching to caress over the crease of his thigh and fondle his balls, rubbing that spot underneath that presses on the base and makes his eyes roll into the back of his head.

He is fracturing under their attention, their dragon-soul, twisting and shuddering on the bed like he can through movement plea for the violent pleasure to ebb enough for him to catch a breath. The mask shakes and casts golden reflections hurtling over the walls as he alternately thrusts his head back, then at once bows his body towards Laat, runnels of inky sweat pooling in the divots of his hips, staining the furs. He cries out, convinced they are hurting him, unable to register the intensity of the sensations he feels as anything other than pain.

Watching his anguish, Laat feels an erotic thrill. How glorious, to have a creature so ancient and strong under their power. They close their hand around his cock, caressing the sensitive underside of the swollen glans with their thumb. Miraak, sensing, perhaps recognising Laat’s warm appreciation, panics and jerks, his bound hands trying to interfere. Feeling indulgent, Laat lets him tug against their strength.

Laat squeezes his cockhead until he flushes turgid purple, then rubs their thumb against the dripping slit. They fuck him like this slowly, watching his balls flush and tighten up against the base of his shaft. It won’t take long. Cruel perhaps, for his mind is a mess and his body is not much better, but it always makes his cock throb.

Miraak howls like he is being murdered. His breathing is shuddering gasps and hitched sobs. He is being good, though, holding himself as still as he can through what Laat can tell is sheer stubborn will alone. His body tries to jerk away from their rough touch, and the sounds that fall so sweetly on Laat’s ears are utterly broken, but he does not wrench himself away. Miraak bears it.

He behaves.

A reward is due. Laat releases him to reposition themselves so their scarred cheek rasps against his cock and their arms are wrapped around his thighs and hips, holding him still. Miraak breathes heavily, they feel the muscles flex in his stomach and thighs as he strains to sit up without dislodging them.

“What -” His words crack off. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll like it,” Laat promises. They dig circles into the bony jut of his hips, watching for his reaction. The hood of his mask hides his throat bobbing in a swallow, but Laat can see his shaky exhale. They can sense Miraak’s confusion, lust-fogged mind struggling to grasp what is happening, not even truly certain where he is, not particularly caring about anything beyond Laat, Laat, Laataazin. His thoughts are run-on strings of harsh dragon-words, difficult to parse, overshadowed by flashes of feeling and thought, lightning-bright among the seething sea of sensory overload.

Maintaining eye contact with the dark holes in the mask, Laat gives the bobbing cock in front of their face an exploratory lick.

Miraak jumps.

They do it again.

This time, he groans. Laat lowers their mouth to his cock and starts by licking him, flicking their tongue over the sensitive underside. When his hips start twitching and lifting towards them, they slip his cock into their mouth and go down, down, as if they mean to swallow him whole.

His bound hands fly to their hair, unable to get a grip on it, but Laat looks up. His mind is beset by visions of his cock hurting them, bruising their throat so they can barely speak, but Laat only shakes off his hands kindly, a strange feeling of warmth in their breast at his worry.

“I will not hurt myself,” they sign, “I have taken bigger than you before.”

So saying, their mouth envelops his cock. Their nose bumps against his hips, and they control themselves, drawing back just a little to gain a new breath, then back down. They swallow when they feel the head bump against the back of their throat, let it slide into the tight space there.

They catch an image flashing through his mind - young man, pale cheeks freckle-blazed, mask pushed up over frizzing carroty hair; “Quiet, quiet, do you want the whipping - you have to be quiet, Miraak!” Burst of coals against Miraak’s pinwheeling arm - incense and dragon rumbles overhead - “Vahlok- !?” - and Miraak rams his bound hands against his mask to cover where his mouth hides beneath it so hard Laat hears the metal ring.

Laat pushes in on his hips hard enough to bruise. They hum, quietly, but the shaking sound still catches Miraak’s attention, especially as the vibrations judder through his cock in their mouth. Name me, they think to him fiercely. Name who has you.

“Laat-aaz-in,” Miraak cries. The mask’s shadowed tentacles seem to curl and writhe like worms in the rain. His knuckles are reddening against the implacable metal, soft flesh, breakable, not enough to pierce it. They find themselves glad for once that it is there - they would not have liked to see him try to shove his hands into his mouth.

Make noise for me, my strong dragon, Laat thinks, bobbing their head even as their narrowed eyes watch him carefully, you can take this. It is for his benefit - he is still responding to their praise, to their encouragement, the iron core of his will soaking it in. It grounds him, earths him enough to birth a shattering wail rippling with the strength of the Voice.

“Niid!” Miraak tries to argue, “Laat – I cannot – I cannot-“

His mind is a mess, but they are confident he is present, that he knows where they are and what is happening. They can sense his watchword close to his mind, even lift their mouth for a moment to give him a breath to say it in.

Frustrated, Miraak jerks, and what comes out instead is “Aaz! Mercy - aaz, aaz!”

It is not the signal, so pleased, Laat continues. They are savouring the warmth of him, the throb and pulse of his veins through the soft, sensitive skin, his salty bitterness on their tongue, the reek of his sweat. A shame it would be to stop soon, for something as irrelevant as Miraak’s comfort.

“Zu’u losiil,” Miraak moans in a trembling voice at that thought.

They are reasonably certain that in the dark holes of his mask he is looking at them, so they sign to him, resting as much of their weight through their forearms to keep his hips still as they can. Still, he thrusts abortively when they try to take him down into their throat again, and Laat has to withdraw quickly to prevent choking.

“My strong dragon, I am here,” Laat asserts. “I will give you what you need. Shout if you need to, I have you.”

The wall stripes with the reflections of the mask in the firelight. He is breathing rapidly, his arms trembling lightly. His mottled skin gleams with the richness of his sweat. Miraak is trying, they can tell, but when they dip the tip of their tongue into the slit of his cock, curious to see his reaction, he breaks.

“MUL QAH!”

The thunder of his Shout rocks the room. Miraak’s Dragon Aspect roars into life, and Laat hurriedly yanks their hands back before they are pierced through by the sudden emergence of spines marching down his belly and chest, protecting his vulnerable innards. Frankly, given their choice of words, Laat is not entirely surprised. Still, the moment of distraction is all they need, and as Miraak stretches his resplendent wings, his iridescent tail, Laat swallows him down again. They hold their breath for as long as they can, encouraging him to rock into their throat.

“L- aaat,” Miraak manages. It is pleading. It has to hurt him, with how sensitive he is, how much this all is - the warmth, the wetness, the wet laps of their tongue, their breath, their humming, the flex of their muscles, the hungry pleasure of Laat watching him. If they allow him in their mind, they can feel it - the sharpness like the agonising piercing joy of being fucked with a needle, back and forth dipping in and out of flesh, pricks of red red blood lubricating the steely slide, back and forth, back and forth.

Swirling their tongue around him, Laat smirks. They grab onto the thick spines that jut razor-sharp from his hips and hold him still as they draw back up, hollowing their cheeks around him. Then down, to the accompaniment of his broken gasps and snarls. The spines make it much easier to keep him in his place. Despite his increased strength, Laat is always the stronger of the two of them. They control him like a wild animal breaking to the lash, Miraak’s power, his strength, his Dragon Aspect - they are nothing here unless Laat wills it.

You are going to take this until I make you come, they inform him. Miraak sobs.

His eyes are burning coals behind the mask, enough to shadow it. He is wreathed in horns, in fire, in the brilliance of his soul, the amber-blue scales that blaze over his chest, his arms, clinging the thickest to his scars in belts so bright it almost hurts to look at him. His bound hands are taloned and sharp, trimmed claws turned deadly knives, and Laat keeps a careful eye on them in case he tries to grab their head again.

They know he won’t. Miraak will behave for as long as they ask him to.

He slams his head back against the furs, in what Laat thinks is agreement.

It is thrilling. Triumphant desire burns in Laat, a thunderous need to break the shining, vicious, powerful creature before them, in their mouth, in their soul. His growls shudder their bones when they tease him, and his wings close around them like pressing hands on their shoulders, trying to urge them deeper even as he thrusts up. Laat resists the pressure, lets his cock scrape against their teeth as they rise up, a warning and promise both.

Miraak shudders a breath, his hands flexing into fists. His tail underneath Laat curls sinuously around their leg, angling for the fork of their legs. Laat moans as they suck him and grinds down against the muscular coil. They can feel the intoxicating ridged texture of his scales against them through their breeches, igniting sparks in the seething pressure in their belly.

They release his cock with a pop and sit up to rut harder against him, using the spikes thrusting from the bones of his hips to dictate his movement. They stare down at the slits of his mask with intense, dark eyes.

“Good,” Laat whispers, needing to vocalise their approval, and Miraak’s body locks up as he is ripped into orgasm.

All the grounding in the world cannot prevent the backlash of searing white that flashes across Laat’s eyes, the sympathetic clench in their belly and the heated lance of pure want that stabs into the base of their spine. Their hand fumbles at him, pinning his spurting cock to his belly with clumsy strokes, the other bracing themselves against the bed as it feels like shuddering waves rock the island.

Laat is even fairly certain that one of them briefly blacks out.

In the aftermath, Miraak shakes. His auroral wings curve around them both, like he is protecting them from the world. Shredded fur dusts his shoulders like snow from his gnashing horns. His come is sticky and warm on his chest, chased through with shimmering greens and blues. Laat, cheeks flushed and breathing hard, runs a finger through it, gathering some of the pearly fluid.

They lift their hand to his mask, intentions clear. Miraak’s bound hands scrabble at the edge of the mask, the deadly-sharp dragon-talons a hindrance, trying to lift it enough for them to reach him under the hood. In frustration, he tears it off. Laat hears it clatter to the floor beside the bed.

Exposed, Miraak pants. He is luminous with the Dragon Aspect, his eyes, the thinness of his veins limned as if he is lit from within, haloed by horns. Laat presses the finger to his lips and he lets it slide into his mouth obediently. He glows there, too, his teeth sharpened to lambent daggers of gold and blue. The gaunt arches of his cheekbones blaze with a green blush. His long, dark, wet hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping ink as it continues in a thick mane down his shoulders and back, speared by the flaming spires and spikes of his dragon-soul.

His curious eyes, double-irised, one malachite and ice, the other goat-pupilled and bronze, are dark with lust. Laat can barely make out his second irises behind the brightness of the Dragon Aspect. Fresh tears trace the paths of the stains on his face. When he blinks at them with his wet eyes, more follow. His thin lips hollow around Laat’s finger, and they can feel his tongue, forked in this aspect, soft, wet, warm, licking even as he draws back and releases them.

Laat cannot help the quiet, fractious sound they make at the sight of his tears, the dizzying pulse of lust. It rumbles between them like a stormcloud. His tail tightens around their leg, intangible muscles of light rippling around them like the coils of a vast snake.

“Beautiful,” they sign, “you are beautiful.”

The growl that rumbles out of Miraak is half-feral. His slitted eyes watch them, the tips of his wings brushing their back with ghostly caresses. Pulling off their shirt, Laat wipes him clean as gently as they can. They toss the soiled shirt over their shoulder, not particularly interested where it lands. Unbinding Miraak’s hands with just the slightest tinge of regret, Laat chafes them quickly to make sure the blood is flowing. If only they could keep him like this forever.

They try to avoid scratching themselves on the curving talons burning with the strength of Miraak’s Shout, but it is either that or the sharp scales that armour him like gauntlets. Pursing their lips, Laat stares at the small line of welling red across their palm.

“Hi los ahraan,” Miraak says, you are wounded, and then all at once his wings flare and his tail twists and his body surges, and Laat is slamming down onto their back. His sinuous length curls above them, flaming eyes narrowed at the cut like it is a personal offense. He leans down, great horns digging into Laat’s cheek, obscuring their vision.

Laat holds their breath, anticipation hot in their belly. His forked tongue flickers out and laves the cut. He is gentle, but it stings. When he pulls back up to regard them they fancy they can smell the tang of their blood on his breath. He rumbles at their approval, and they can feel the vibration all the way down into their breastbone. The heaviness of his perpetually wet hair falls about them like a curtain.

Laat tries to unwedge their hands, gives up and thinks instead, as strongly as they can, Remember, no magic, Miraak. It is only a little cut, not worth risking a seizure over.

“Geh,” he says. His voice is even deeper in Dragon Aspect, rough as untumbled stones creaking in ancient cliffs. His vast wings completely block out the surrounding world, until it feels as if the sky has fallen and they have been swallowed up into the gullet of Aetherius, as if Aetherius could ever be half as beautiful as the soul-of-their-soul. The wings of Miraak’s Dragon Aspect remind them of the skies of Sovngarde, flaring with impossible, vivid colours, martial flickers and deep, internal glow that cannot be tarnished by any amount of daedra.

Not for the first time, Laat feels a pang of jealousy. How come you get wings and a tail with this Shout, and I don’t? And with only two words?

“Zu tiid.” I have had time. “This Shout was my mind in my prison. Morah, Laat Dovahkiin.”

Meditate, Laat thinks sourly. You sound like the Greybeards. Can’t you just show me?

“Geh.”

But you won’t.

Miraak’s tail rubs along their leg, then twines round it like a thick vine. Trapped between their chests, Laat can feel the steady beat of his heart against their hands, the roughness of the patches of scales that fringe over his skin. They push lightly, and his wings spread as he lifts himself enough to free their hands. When he breathes, ghostly flames flicker and curl in his nose and mouth.

“Zu laan aam hi,” he says in his voice of a mountain, and Laat understands the sense of what he means from the press of feeling in their mind. He wants to repay the favour, to give Laat the pleasure they have given him.

They wriggle against him, considering, but their muscles cramp in fatigue. “That very much did for me too,” they sign, with a rueful smile, “I can’t believe you didn’t feel it.”

Miraak snorts, and pale flames shoot out to lick against Laat’s cheeks. They do not hurt, only tickle softly, like the soapy caress of water on dry skin. Well, he was rather preoccupied, they suppose, their smirk widening.

“You can give me a massage later, if you want, though,” they add, as his dissatisfaction with that answer is blatantly clear, “My back’s been giving me grief.”

“Geh,” he says immediately, with true enthusiasm, and they feel him twitch as if struggling not to flip them and begin at once.

Laat exhales in amusement. “What a dedicated servant you are,” they tease him. “If only I had a team of people half as devoted as you, I’d be living like an emperor.”

“Will this please you?” Miraak says, and before Laat can even sign his mind turns to practicalities.

His cult is the best place to start, though he is reluctant to lose many of them, but fewer than six servants is an insult of the highest degree to Laataazin’s status. Four, at least, Soskro and Mirdein were loyal blades - supplemented with Sulis and Ulf, all well-trained by Miraak himself and comely to the eye, which is important, should Laat wish a break from Miraak’s own charms. Then for variety, he could turn to Raven Rock, there is surely some soft-handed noble there craving the honour of serving Laat Dovahkiin (that Severin girl?), and perhaps that dashing sellsword that Laat enjoys, with the chitin armour and the handsome jaw-

No, no, Laat is laughing in breaths that shake the bed, No, I don’t need servants, Miraak, - sensing his mutinous feelings, they add swiftly - I don’t want them. And his name is Teldryn! He is attractive though, isn’t he?

“Geh, zu mindok,” says Miraak, unsure why they need to confirm the obvious.

“Perhaps,” Laat signs, “I’ll ask him to come join us one day, will you like that?”

Miraak’s wings tilt backwards like the ears of a startled Khajiit, and his cheekbones blaze emerald. “Rul laan,” he says, if you want, in a voice that strains to be noncommittal. But underneath that very interesting reaction there is a very real thread of baffling fear, and Laat reaches for him.

“I chose you,” they tell him, “I will keep choosing you.”

Miraak tilts his head, wary of his horns, so that their foreheads press together and their breath mingles. In that resonating voice, he murmurs, “This I know. We are the only ones who are real, Laat Dovahkiin. The others – their lives, their deaths, their pains or desires for freedom, it is less than nothing. I am here, you feel me in your soul, as I feel you in mine.”

Staring into those dual eyes, Laat cannot suppress a frisson of unease. They do not agree - how could they? It is as if he has reached down and found the darkest, guiltiest thoughts Laat regrets having, internal measures of their power against those around them, knowing, knowing, that all those who attempt to constrain them live in ignorance at Laat’s pleasure - but they feel him frown.

“Was it not I who sheltered you from the daedra in Whiterun, I who tended you when the Greybeards trained you in languages you did not know, I who comforted you in your solitude? As it was you who touched me in my cell in Apocrypha, brought me to Nirn and set me free. You alone, my equal. You would not have come to me in Apocrypha if you did not wish to stay with me, Laataazin.” Miraak pronounces each syllable separately, drawing it out as a dragon does. “You broke my chains, and now we are together, and so we will always be. It was not I who offered this choice, if you recall.”

“I do.” He is right in that. “Other people matter, Miraak. We all have lives, no one... is more real than the other. But you don’t have to worry. I still choose you, I am not letting go.”

Miraak’s nostrils smoke. “You will never have to, Laat Dovahkiin. My Voice sings your name. There is nowhere you can go that I cannot find you.”

Laat breathes out slowly and chooses to hear the devotion in his words rather than the threat to their freedom. If he does not fear their interest waning as he claims, they do not know what it is that he fears. They offer him a thread of their own affection, warm regard softened by their intimacy, and his slitted pupils dilate. His shimmering wings soothe against his back, and the Dragon Aspect flickers away.

With that, he rolls off them, casting an ice spell in one hand to cool himself. Frost sheens over his skin, crackling over the soaked robe. It melts in rivulets, taking his inked sweat with it, running down to freshly stain the furs, until he looks streaked with stripes of his natural paperiness like a painted statue in the rain. The sopping darkness of his green hair clings to his shoulders and neck, curls in long strands dragged straight by the weight down to his hips.

As Laat’s eye lingers on the exposed line of his thigh, loops of graceful text begin to appear out of the ink below. They tear their eyes away before their mind can convince them they understand it, and stare at his face until the itch of temptation subsides.

Laat is not certain what he is thinking of - they feel strange, deep musings turning over in his mind, in languages they do not know - but he seems content enough, if quiet.

They tap him to get his attention. “I wasn’t done touching you. Do you need to get dressed now?”

Miraak looks down at the robe clinging wetly to him like he has forgotten it is there. One hand rubs at the bridge of his nose, irritatedly brushing away a lock of hair that drips tears down the angle of his jaw. After a moment, his gaze rises to meet theirs, bolder than they would have thought without the mask.

“Niid,” he says simply. “How do you want me?”

Laat smiles and moves over the bed towards him, feeling his eyes trace over their bare chest, the softness of their belly, their strong shoulders, the slight sway of the relaxed muscle and fat of their arms. An ember of his appreciation warms the blood in their cheeks as they reach his legs.

Lifting his left foot into their lap, Laat kisses his knee. The shape of his bones are fine against their lips. He looks back at them, brows raised, but wedges some of the furs behind his back to support himself, and does not pull away. His foot flexes. The hard claws catch in the fabric of Laat’s breeches, pulling free a loose thread, and they pause to gently untangle him.

He has strong legs, muscled by years of dragon-riding. Laat runs their fingertips over the hard bumps and dips of the thick, crisscrossing calluses and scars that abrade the insides of his legs, imprints of dragonscales made permanent in his flesh. They rub the muscles they can feel underneath it, unsurprised to find them loose and limber. They kiss the soft crinkle of the side of his calf, just under his knee, smelling the warmth of his skin, his musty scent of books and scale.

Their tenderness affects him. Miraak leans towards them, wanting to touch, Laat watching the folds of his loose skin dimple at his waist. Obligingly, they shift closer, hip angled between his thighs, and draw his right leg into their lap instead, palm warm on his knee. He is cold from the ice spell, enough that their skin numbs.

His large hands reach for their face, drawing it to face him. His hands cup their cheeks – they feel him become aware, suddenly, of how small Laat is in comparison to him, how his palms almost eclipse their cheeks, his claws tangling into their short hair. Laat closes their eyes, sighing at the gentle scratch of his blunted claws over their scalp. It is unutterably soothing.

His thumbs brush over the thick spiderweb of scars patterning their face, depressing the cartilage of their nose. Their lashes brush their cheek, his exploring fingers over the thinness of their eyelids, careful of his claws. Lifting to encircle his wrist, not trapping, but touching, just touching, Laat squeezes him and they both sigh at the spreading warmth of lassitude.

“Can I kiss you?” Laat signs one-handed, their movements small and restricted by the circle of his arms. They know he can feel their subtle sort of longing, quite apart from sexual lust that burns like coals in their belly, and even a little nervousness. Nowhere to hide from the soul-of-their-soul.

Miraak hesitates. Laat winces at the confused storm of feelings washing over him, his desire to please and curiosity warring with old fear and instinct. Like any dragon, he does not, as a rule, like having his voice obstructed.

It is not the first time they have asked him, not the first time he has acquiesced. Nor even the first time that his face has been fully bare, not just Laat’s head under the warm darkness of the hood, the metal face angled up to let them just reach his lips. Quick brushes, sometimes longer, where Laat curls their hands into his robes and pushes against him, some bright sparking feeling in them, the forbidden soft warm wetness of their tongue ghosting along his lip, the brilliant spark of their blunt teeth scraping his lower lip until pain waxes, hot and hungry. But it never quite grows easier for him, even with the increase of pleasant memories.

His eyes soften. One hand drops, rubbing over their shoulder, admiring the round cup of muscle filling his palm, the indent of their tan flesh marking under his thumb’s claw. This is Laat Dovahkiin, who brought him from Mora’s cursed Apocrypha, who anchors him to Nirn, who keeps him company on his lonely island and wraps him in soft ropes like he is precious.

Laat is patient and radiates calm. They interpret for him the confusing signals of their bodies, the tightness in his gut that makes him feel like he can’t quite breathe (arousal, affection) the oversensitive pain of his hips and thighs (just a little muscle tiredness), and the throb of his airy mind (the pleasure of submission, soul-of-my-soul).

They know that he does not understand why they desire to put their mouths together so (to restrict his Voice? To gag him, to bite out his tongue? And thus disarmed, choke the air from his lungs? No, no, soul-of-my-soul, Laat whispers in his mind, for pleasure, only that…), but it is… important to them, and it is enough that they want it. For Laat Dovahkiin, he will do this thing.

Something in Laat melts when he thinks that.

“Geh,” says Miraak, unable to quite hide his trepidation.

He tugs them a little closer, his free hand trailing over the meat of their shoulder, stretching over the sharp forks of lightning scars on the back of their neck. Strokes over their muscled back, admiring the folds of their flesh. Laat is fat and warm where he is thin, ghostly, their solidity and weight as unquestionable as the earth. He moves the hand on their cheek to their chest, splayed wide over the ridges of their collarbones, the swell of their small breasts, feels the gentle movement of their breathing. It is only natural to crook his other leg around their body, holding them within the circle of himself, like they are a ship in his whirlpool. How odd, then, that Miraak feels as if he is being pulled into their orbit, not the other way around.

Affection brims in Laat at this thought. They reach into his mind, seeking to feel how he feels, measuring his reactions.

It is Laat that bridges the distance between them when Miraak is unable to, slow and patient with the unconscious reflex that has him jerking back before their lips meet. They simply wait for a beat, then close in regardless, hands squeezing his thigh meditatively. It is grounding.

They feel him think their lips are full, very soft and warm, uncharacteristically undemanding, treating Miraak as if he is a tender thing that must be lulled into peace. Soft, heady brushes of their lips over his closed mouth, sometimes diverting to dust along his cheeks, his jaw – once even, the tip of his nose, making him snort reflexively. Laat laughs at that in their silent way, the puffs of their exhales warm as their kisses on his lips.

Their eyes close when they kiss him again, and they feel him watch their face, close enough to see the near-invisible span of freckles buried under the scars, the faint gleam of sweat on their forehead, the rich curl of their eyelashes. The scraggy tufts of their hair dusting over their cheekbones, the warm shadows clinging beneath their eyebrows.

This is the good thing when they want to kiss him, Miraak thinks, for they come so close he can see every crinkle and crease of their skin, and he can fill his hands with their body.

He runs his hands up and down their spine, and their body yearns towards him like a plant in the sun. Laat sighs when he finds a tense muscle and undoes the knot with his thumb, and smiles when he lingers over their ribs, fascinated with the slow movement of their breath, the rolls and curves of their strength.

Close your eyes, Laat thinks, softly, softly, close your eyes, and open your mouth.

He obeys with a ripple of nervousness, but nothing happens for a long moment. Laat just keeps kissing him, close-mouthed, gentle, until Miraak eases. Their tongue, when it comes to flick lightly at the crease of his bottom lip, surprises him, but even more so is the hazy release of their exhale from their mouth and nose. Their breath is close enough that Miraak could breathe it himself. They feel his flare of excitement at taking and tasting the air that carries their Voice inside himself, and he clumsily nudges closer.

Laat obliges him with a speed that betrays their true eagerness, feels his head swims under the sudden influx of warm, warm approval, pride and pleasure, and their breath, tinted, he thinks, a little, with the power of their Thu’um. They stay like that a moment, Laat’s hands bracing on his stomach, breathing into each other. Miraak’s mind is clouded and warm where it tangles with theirs, as if it’s full of cotton.

Laat wants to kiss him so badly it feels like they want to devour him, greedy with their indulgence, wants his lips, his tongue, the warm wetness of his mouth. The urge to just take it, to fuck his throat with their tongue, is so strong, and they cannot help the way their hands dig into his sides, tense with their restraint. But this is good, they think, a little reluctantly, and there is no need to push on this. With this, Laat has patience on their side.

They pull back to let Miraak breathe properly, but do not go far. Their foreheads press against each other. Laat swears they can feel the hollow thudding of his heartbeat in their chest at the place where their souls meet like tributaries.

“I only moved slightly, there is no need for all this… excitement,” Miraak mutters, but his voice sounds a little destroyed, and Laat grins.

They move to pull away, but Miraak catches their face in his hands again, preventing them from going too far. Laat blinks at him, warm and steady like a cat, and sees their own face reflected in his eyes, his soul, their blown pupil, the way their mouth parts, almost automatically, at the proximity.

“You enjoy it so,” Miraak says, a little bemused.

It is not often that they manage to surprise one another, being as interlinked as they are, but Laat is truly shocked when Miraak furrows up his brow and boldly presses his cold lips to theirs. He has never initiated a kiss, not once, Laat has never thought he would. They feel his determination, shot through with threads of insecurity – am I doing it right? They are not responding – and, classically Miraak, his hands tighten on their cheeks, holding them in place, redoubling his assault instead of pulling back. It is a clumsy mishmash, and they bump noses and once clash teeth, but it is the best kiss Laat has ever had.

Afterwards, they lay down next to each other. Chilled, Laat wraps themselves in the furs they pull over from the drier side of the bed, sighing at the feeling of the cosy softness. Miraak presses up close behind them before they can roll back to face him, their bodies separated by the furs. Laat’s heart warms.

“Want me to fetch your robes and mask?” they sign, knowing he can see over their shoulder.

His nose against their hair shakes. “Niid. Like this I am fine.”

Miraak, insistent and affectionate as a cat, rubs and nuzzles his face against the back of their head and shoulders. His arm curves around their waist, pulling him flush against them. Laat can feel his warm breath against the shell of their ear. Involuntarily, Laat thinks of the warmth of his dragon-wings, how large they are. Larger than his arm, for certain.

Pulling back, Miraak’s lungs billow with air. He Shouts, and the shimmering wings Laat has just been thinking wistfully of drape over them like a blanket. His tail curves around them, hemming in their body against his. They can feel the bladed tip against their stomach, the point made dull by their thick swaddling of furs. It is immediately warmer in the safe cocoon of his wings.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Laat can’t help laughing as they sign, ignoring the stony bed vibrating underneath them, “It was only a thought!”

“Fah hi.” For you. The resonance of his voice echoed with the tenderness of the feeling they can sense in him seems to make his every word louder.

Laat is still for a moment. “I do love you,” they sign, eventually, the burning of their eyes making them glad that they are facing away. They clear their throat.

Miraak’s grip tightens. “Zu’u losiil, Laataazin.”

I am yours. Laat sighs, and wonders if he will ever learn that love and possession are not the same. Though they are not sure that Dovahzul has a word for love, not in the way that Laat means it. Is it even possible for him to return the sentiment in the language he prefers?

For some reason, this line of thought summons Frea’s face before their mind, her sanctimonious words, and Laat’s mood sours.

Sensing their disquiet, Miraak hums against them soothingly. “You are troubled.”

“Frea wants to die,” Laat signs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”

“Do you not like Frea?” Miraak asks, and they feel him turning faces and names over in his mind, struggling to recall which of the many people of Solstheim Laat means. The Skaal woman? He does not associate with the Skaal much - they are not overfond of him, and Miraak is likewise not fond of being called a monstrous traitor by people he must refrain from killing.

“I do.” Laat touches the twitching tip of his tail, as if to soothe his momentary annoyance.

“Then keep her,” Miraak says, as if the answer is obvious. “You will miss her if she dies.”

“But she is unhappy!”

They feel Miraak’s shoulders move in a shrug. “You know my Shout,” he says calmly.

At that, Laat jerks their elbow into his ribs and wriggles. Miraak’s enfolding wing lifts hesitantly, enough for Laat, sweating, to work their way down to lying on their back. Thus freed, they jab a finger in his face as they sign.

“That’s wrong, Miraak! It is immoral to compel someone to go along with you just because it’s easier!” Miraak’s fire-bright eyes blinks at the finger in his face, all four pupils narrowing to focus on it. Laat deflates. “It doesn’t last that long anyway,” their motions are jerky and frustrated, “it would wear off then Frea would cleave me in two with her axe, and I would certainly deserve it.”

“Only because you use it like a hatchet, Laat Dovahkiin,” says Miraak, gaze returning to Laat’s eyes, “blindly superimposing your mind over another. Bend Will works best as a suggestion enforcing a desire or pattern that is already there. Simply find what makes them happy, find what is a barrier to your will, and remove it. The Skaal girl wishes to live as she once did, yes, free to worship her god? Then with your words allow her to do that, and her mind will do the rest.”

Laat’s hands lowered. “I didn’t know it could do that,” they sign, meek, unsure whether the feeling in them is horror or awe.

“With time and patience, the limit to my Shout is your will and the breadth of your imagination,” Miraak explains. He lowers his wing again, slowly, as if fearing that Laat will push it away. “With skill, you could encourage a resentful Greybeard to become a career warmonger, or a compassionate enemy your staunchest defender to the grave, all of their own volition.”

Some strange tinge of unease roils in the back of their mind. Laat touches the wing, feeling the bony spur of the joint, the leathery membrane, unsure how to respond.

Miraak’s voice is quiet and persuasive. It rumbles like the song of earth into Laat, through each bone, each thought in their mind.

“What is worse,” Miraak murmurs, so soft, so low, so deep, “allowing a good woman that you care for to die, or bringing her many more years of happiness and joy through the use of one Shout? A lifetime of bliss with one you love, all for speaking three words? How could you deny her that?”

“I suppose,” Laat signs, but they cannot meet his eye for guilt.

They feel him observing them quietly, some strange dissatisfaction in him that they cannot identify.

“I will do it,” he volunteers suddenly.

“What?” Surprised, Laat glares at him. “No! It’s unethical! You cannot force someone to be happy, or to stay with you simply because you want them to! It would be nothing but a lie.”

For a brief moment, Miraak scowls, the jagged crown of horns and his glowing teeth making him look truly fearsome. But then his expression smooths. “Dismiss it from your mind, Laat Dovahkiin,” he says, gently. “It is simply handled, and already agreed.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Laat signs anxiously, searching his face, “You’re just going to talk to her? Don’t-”

Raising a taloned hand, Miraak clasps theirs to stop their words. He gives Laat a soft, odd smile. “She will not even remember we have spoken,” he promises. “Only where there was frustration and pain, there will now be joy and peace.”

He strokes their hands with the backs of his talons with immense tenderness, nuzzling in close to with his breath and careful rubbing of his sharp cheekbones caress the warm hollow of Laat’s neck. With his touch and his mind he lulls them, sending soothing waves of affection and warmth, feelings of safety, recalling to them the ache in their muscles from sex, the tender sweetness of their kisses. His nose fits under their jaw as if it has been made for him, and despite themselves, Laat sighs. It has never been wise, loving him. But how can they help it? He is the soul-of-their-soul.

“Zu’u aam hi unslaad,” he whispers, with the air of a promise, “rii se dii zii.” I serve you forever, essence of my soul.

They reach for his hair, combing the thick wet locks over his shoulder, avoiding the spines on his back. Droplets of ink run down their arms as they begin to braid, loose and messy.

“You worry too much about people that are not worth your time,” Miraak says, and by his smile Laat supposes he means it lightheartedly.

With a heavy heart, they allow themselves to be cheered, and offer him a small smile in return. “Who should I worry about? You?” they tease, not entirely how much they are joking.

He smirks. “You could.”

Despite themselves, Laat chuckles, hearing the distant crack of stone in their Voice. They tug on the messy braid of wet hair they’ve made, and Miraak goes, a tingle of arousal running through him at the sensation. Laat kisses his cheeks and nose, making his dual eyes flutter shut as he sighs.

“Why,” they sign one-handed when he opens his eyes at their lack of movement, fingers so close they brush his cheek, “you attempting to take over the world again?”

“Niid,” says Miraak, his taloned hand coming to cup their face with the tenderness of a man who knows he is touching something immensely precious, “I have the best of it here, and that is everything I desire.”

With thanks to thuum.org:

Geh: Yes.

Laat Dovahkiin: Last Dragonborn.

Ni faas: lit. no fear. No worries/it’s fine.

Pruzah: Good.

Sikgolt: lit. rune place. Library.

Niid: No.

Zu’u losiil: I am (emphatic) yours.

Wuth: Old.

Diist Dovahkiin: First Dragonborn.

Faaz: lit. (you cause) pain. You’re hurting me.

Saraan: Wait.

Aaz: Mercy.

Los ahraan: (You) are wound(ed).

Mul Qah: Strength Armour (Dragon Aspect Shout)

Zu tiid: I (have had) time.

Morah: Meditate/think deeply (upon it).

Zu laan aam hi: lit. I want to serve you.

Zu mindok: I know.

Rul laan: When (you) want.

Fah hi: For you.

Zu’u aam hi unslaad, rii se dii zii: I serve you forever/ceaselessly, essence/soul of my spirit/soul.

@argisthebulwark as promised.

#inkwrites #minors dni #my fic that world will cease to be #not safe for minors #tw possessiveness #tw jealousy #tw blood #laataazin #mind control #skyrim #tes #miraak #fic

[whump-town]

Tough Love

I’d like to thank my sociology professor for basing today’s lecture off of my favorite sociological phenomenon (anomie) and A Little Life for, once again, making me cry :) this one’s for you baby 

The hospital waiting room had chattered away. Mother’s impatiently fighting with sick babies, men crumpled in their seats waiting in misery for their name to be called, and three teenagers occupying a corner to just themselves. There, off to their own side, a bruised and battered man, a shadow, wedged between his old mentor and the only person brave enough to challenge the prognosis deeming Hotch concussion free.

Despite what Morgan thinks, he doesn’t have a concussion. There’s just only so much one person can take before they break. It’s just that Derek Morgan would rather a blow to the head be the reason his boss can’t even look him in the eye rather than the blood staining his swollen hands. One will heal with what can only be hoped is minimal damage. While the other might result in early retirement and a battle with depression or anxiety or something dark and murky. And Morgan is so fucking tired of the twisted way things keep panning out.

The car stops, auto-pilot bringing the necessary life to their limbs. Stepping out of the car, Morgan can’t consider himself surprised but he’s still taken aback by how quickly the other’s fill out the lawn. All of them standing and watching from differing levels of distance. Emily has planted herself right outside Hotch’s door and just as Morgan’s walking around she opens it.

If the darkness in Hotch had not concerned Morgan previously, the similar depth of Emily Prentiss’ eyes might startle him even more. But they’ve all found themselves lost to those thoughts and Morgan is already well aware of the complexity of the relationship between Emily and Hotch. Evermore, the similarities that damn them.

“Come on.” The moment that the curt order leaves her mouth several heads snap her way. Of all the comfort, the gentle hands, and soft tones, Emily has been the kindest. Quick to forgive Hotch’s temper flares and the first person to ease him into a hug. If there’s a partnership that will drag itself into the ground, it's the two of them. Defending one another even when they don’t deserve it.

It just seems… a strange turn of events that she’s the cold one. The angry one now.

Hotch just blinks at her from the back seat. He’s doped up and aching. Not that he’d been rather chatty on the way to the hospital or there, but he hasn’t said a word since they found him. Even sobbing in the hospital had been with his back turned to them and muffled by his hands, trying for some hopeless reason to preserve some part of his dignity. He had hardly managed to shake or nod his head to the questions the nurse was asking.

His ears are ringing and all he sees are her tight lips, pulled down into a stubborn but not unfamiliar scowl, forming words but he can’t make out a sound. “S-Sorry?” he winces when Reid moves and stops blocking the sun with his body. The rays came in to hit him in the eyes. He raises a bandaged fist to cower from the light.

Emily opens the door more, offering no sympathy. “Get out of the car, Aaron.”

Dave frowns at her.

They’ve just had an awful day.

Every single one of them on the phone call as Haley was killed. Forced to listen to Hotch’s pained cries following it. She’d seen him. The way he’d cradled Haley’s body to his chest. Hell, she had been the one to shush his sobs and help him rise to his feet. She’d cradled his head when he’d sobbed into her shoulder, hardly able to stand.

Where is this hard edge coming from?

Biting down a whimper, Hotch sits up. A pained grunt leaving his mouth as he eases his body from Dave’s car. His feet touch the ground and he tries but it hurts and he sinks back against the car to help hold him up. Derek moves mindlessly but Emily stops him with a simple shake of her head. “He can do it,” she affirms.

Morgan looks over his shoulder, shooting Dave a look. No one else can step in here, there is no authority that Emily or Hotch hold themselves to aside from one another. They pull each other from the ledge but Dave holds seniority and they know that he is the only person who can do anything. They both look to him for guidance. Now, as Morgan waits for something, anything Dave just watches.

Emily stands close but doesn’t crowd Hotch. He knows that if he really needs the help, she’s right there, and she’s watching for when his body decides it’s fighting a futile battle. If she’d allowed Morgan to step in, he would have panicked and fought back. Forcing him even further away from them.

Turning from him, she looks out at them. If she can feel them watching, there’s no way that he can miss it. “Go inside,” she instructs. “We’re right behind you.”

Again, Morgan looks to Dave but the older man simply does as instructed. Going as far as to tap Reid’s elbow and motion for the genius to follow along. The others move, JJ and Garcia talking softly to one another as they allow themselves back into Dave’s house without a fight. Morgan… he’s frustrated with what he perceives to be giving up. He wants to fight but, in reality, there is no threat to beat. There is only Hotch and Morgan is not angry with him.

The decision to return to Dave’s house was an easy one to make.

Knowing the ghosts haunting Hotch’s apartment, no one in good conscience could say they thought his own home is the safest place for him to be. Never mind that there is no way they were letting Jack stay in that apartment. To see him walk over the section Hotch had laid out on, bleeding for hours as Foyet tortured him.

So, JJ and Garcia had taken what they could think of from Hotch's apartment. Guided by Dave and Emily’s suggestions: a worn copy of Anna Karenina, sweatpants to change out of his suit, a few flannels, and (the crucial detail not to be missed) his heated blanket. He covets that thing and there will be not even the hope for rest if they forget it.

They’re both familiar with Dave’s house. The general floor layout is not complicated but the days they have both spent here-- camped out on his sofa or sleeping in his guest room-- are numerous. This is a place of comfort for them both and Dave doesn’t even have to say it because they know they’re always welcome here. Beaten dogs returning home.

He sits down on the corner of the guestroom’s bed, holding his side as he watches her pull out a duffle bag. She lays down the things she knows he needs, doesn’t bother with the rest. Things like his toothbrush, the Advil, or boxers are just not a priority. “Here,” she places the sweatpants in his lap. Unwinding his heated blanket cord and plugging it into the outlet by the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

Though she’s seen him naked before-- in the mix of changing his shirt or in his boxers for a variety of reasons all not worth explaining now, she knows that he will not change in front of her. She’s seen the scars, changed his bandages when he was still weak enough to be unable to do it himself, but now she has to act like she hasn’t. Pretend to be unaware of the landmines carved into his flesh.

Closing the door behind herself, she takes a breath. She doesn’t want to be with any of them, not even Hotch. Which pains her. She loves them and she needs them for support but she can’t face them. She’s not strong enough for Hotch or broken enough to seek the other’s comfort. But she can not sit outside this door because she knows that if she hears his pained noises as he contorts himself into clean clothes that she will regret it.

“How is he?” She keeps moving, ignoring JJ’s softly asked question. How the hell would she know? But she has a better chance of understanding than any of them. He doesn’t tell them things. For months he’s pushed them all away. Keep them as far from him as possible but she’s allowed to remain close. To see the cracks where Foyet got in.

“Where’d Derek go?”

Rossi is making food. Pasta, she assumes, because that’s always what he makes them for comfort food. He looks up from the pot of water he’s heavily salting but doesn’t comment on his general surprise to see her so soon. He expected her to lock herself in that room with Hotch. “They called him back to the scene. Duty rang.”

She does not envy him.

“How’s he holding up?”

She shrugs, going to the fridge and pulls out a water bottle. Sipping the liquid she itches to go back to the room already, to get away from their whispers and glances. “He’s alive,” she answers. In her distinct dark way surmises, “but who knows how I’ll find him when I go back.” It’s not like they haven’t all thought about it. They know the signs and they’ve watched him pull away.

It’s not even the first time it’s occurred to her what he’ll do the moment he’s left alone.

No one comments, she’s not surprised.

“Emily--”

She puts the water bottle on the counter, knowing someone will probably finish it off. Someone says something, it might be directed to her, but she keeps walking. Headed back for the guest room.

She finds him wrapped around himself. Knees drawn up, arms curled to his chest. His face is turned, hiding the pained furrow and curls of his expression from anyone who might enter. Even the blankets drawn up to his chin are an effective measure to hide himself, to burrow deep and loose himself. She knows that he isn’t aware of the fact that she’s entered the room. Normally, she might find this fact more worrisome but the sensitivity, the vulnerability of this is more alarming than his ability to perceive his surroundings.

She knows that he won’t let her help, not in the ways that will actually produce effect. His pain is manageable. In the duffle bag, hidden deeply underneath gauze, antibiotics, and a plethora of drugs he is now required to take daily to live, is the prescription of opioid painkillers. The seal is unbroken. He will not touch them. She commends the effort, there’s something to be said there about his self-restraint but she knows it’s not some moral things. He’s punishing himself.

Without invitation, not that she would ask for it, she sits down on the corner of the bed. Despite this sudden invasion, he doesn’t move or even look over his shoulder. He already knows she’s the only person brave enough to break the vow the other’s have taken to leave him to his misery. Not out of insensitivity, it’s just better to leave some things to settle themselves. You’re not going to nuke a hurricane, you’re just going to wait for it to die down.

Drawing her legs up underneath her, she gets comfortable. Crossing her legs and settling herself right beside him. Her thighs touching his back, he continues to lay on his side ignoring her. “Dave’s making everyone some food,” she informs him. The heat of his blanket is nice and, despite this, she can feel him trembling and shaking as if chilled. “I assume your vow of silence has extended to testing just how long you can go without eating as well?”

She doesn’t really need to wait for a response, or lack thereof, because she knows the answer. She knows him. Humming, she rolls her eyes. “Noted,” she replies to his silence. Leaning against his hips she peaks over his back, frowning. “Have I told you that I hate you recently? I don’t want to say it too frequently but I can feel one building itself up.”

Again, she’s met with silence. “I know you’re not sleeping,” she informs him. “You snore.”

Just as she’s starting to give up, he cracks an eye open. It’s red rimmed, bloodshot from his crying and general lack of sleep. “Do not.” His voice is whispery, faint. It sounds entirely unfamiliar and it strikes her, makes her grit her teeth down against it, as she realizes there is still a very real, very broken part of him that she will never understand. Born from desperation and acts he committed today. That there is a damaged broken boy that he keeps so safely guarded that not even she will ever be able to comfort him.

It makes her feel strangely isolated.

Gently, he maneuvers himself. Wraps an arm around his ribs-- afraid that without the support he’ll simply come undone-- and uses the other to slowly push himself up. The low light of the room safely guards his features from someone who might be standing at the door but Emily is right beside him, now moving so they are hip to hip and he knows that she can see every micro-expression he can’t contain.

“Easy,” she breathes, her hand falling between his shoulders as he bucks against the way his entire body tries to pull him back down into the covers.

Humiliated, cheeks flush with sweat, he turns to her and softly admits, “I’m gonna be sick.” He knows he can’t get to the bathroom fast enough. That his legs will not bear his weight and even if they do, his chest cannot stand the weight of him sitting up. He will fall and he’s not sure he’ll get back up. The last thing he needs, atop the general failing of today, is to pleat to the ground with limp weight.

Emily effortlessly leans down and produces the trash can that Dave keeps at the bedside. It brings to him a memory from the hospital, of the fuzz and haze of his first hours of consciousness after the attack. Her coldness, her distance, but mostly of the way she spoke to him. As if he were a victim, the kind that he finds himself sending her to talk with. The kind that are one intimidating male away from coming undone. The kind that needs empathy and warmth and her impeccable ability to talk anyone off the ledge.

And as he chokes up vomit, crying as his muscles contract around his ribs, he realizes that he really is no different from the victims they see everyday. He is… He is a victim. Not even for the first time in his life.

He doesn’t fight the hand she presses to his face, gently guiding him back down into his blankets. She pulls his blankets back up to his chin, discontentedly scowling when she sees that he’s still shaking. “I’ll get you another blanket,” she offers, despite the heated blanket and comforter he’s got tucked up around him.

He swallows thickly, wishing that he had the strength to stand and get this taste out of his mouth. His throat burns but not nearly enough to distract him from the phantom pains in his chest-- but can they really be phantom if the scars are still lined with red anger? If he can feel the knife slipping in and Foyet’s weight settled across his hips?

“No,” he whispers and is silent for a moment. “Nothing will--” he looks away from her. “Nothing will help.”

“What can I do?”

“Stay.”

She lays herself down beside him, scooting under the covers, and pressing their sides together. It takes her a moment but she finds his hand and clenches her jaw when her eyes water as he grips her hand tightly. He turns his head and she welcomes it, reaching up to guide him closer. Her fingers pushing up the hair on the back of his head and they tangle together. “If you ruin our reputation as badasses because of this cuddle,” she admonishes, “I’m never going to forgive you.”

He manages to crack the faintest smile. The soft scabs forming on his lips peeling back and bleeding again but she won’t mind the blood. “I hate you,” he whispers so softly that she only knows he’s spoken because of the ghost of hot air that ghosts over her neck.

“I love you too.”

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #not hotchniss #but like lowkey it is #and you know it #hotchniss #hotch whump

[erenthecoordinate]

Chapter 138: Dreams vs Reality

So I’ve sat down with my thoughts on ch138 for about a week analyzing Mikasa’s “vision” for character meta and its function to the plot. Needless to say there are polarizing opinions for obvious reasons- but I still feel the need to share my view bc I think it reveals a lot.

Disclaimer: I realize the issue with ship wars. I don’t intend to claim one thing or another; it’s entirely fair to interpret Eren’s feelings in many ways because that’s how this series works. I have no interest in arguing about it.  I’m only interested in the dream vs reality aspects of the chapter.

For the record, I’m working with two theories here and I emphasize THEORIES. It’s cool to disagree with parts or all of it! I do hope my words get you thinking at least a bit though!

The Butterfly Effect

In order to tackle these two theories, the theory of the “butterfly effect,” paths dividing into multiple timelines originating from one singular timeline depending on Eren’s choices, needs to be considered.  On first introduction to the Attack Titan’s abilities, Eren says that the holder can see future memories of its respectable owners.  Thanks to the Paths, Eren is able to communicate with previous holders, like Grisha, to commit acts that would lead him to obtaining the Attack and Founding Titans.  The Butterfly Effect would kick off the events that we’ve been following along in the story and imply that time exists in a circle, since the reason Eren gets the titans is because he was able to convince Grisha to do so by showing him selective memories.

The issue with this is in ch138, if Mikasa’s reality was actually a divergent timeline, if it really were the case Eren and Mikasa would run off together if she had confessed her feelings, there would be no way for Eren to convince his father to give him the Attack and Founding.  Therefore, they wouldn’t have even been in the outside world to run away to, Eren wouldn’t die of the titan curse, which is what happens in Mikasa’s ideal world.

It seems that he needs Paths specifically to communicate with Grisha.  It’s even possible he needs direct contact with royal blood to even see the memories, or else it was needed to trigger that ability for him to now do so more freely later.

Therefore, in this case, we can assume the butterfly effect is either debunked or functions differently than a domino reaction.

Paths exist in parallels – Mikasa’s Ideal is an alternative reality

We have confirmation from the storyboard of the chapter that this was meant to be Mikasa’s “ideal (world).”  Had she confessed her feelings to Eren, she would have suggested running away the night before Eren leaves his friends so that they can live Eren’s last 4 years in peace.  Obviously with the watering down of the Butterfly Effect, we see that it is impossible for this to happen, at least in the main timeline.  

Mikasa experiences a migraine when faced with the reality that Eren has to die in order to kill the “Founding Titan.”  She’s been experiencing these unexplainable headaches throughout the series during certain critical points of the plot that she personally experiences.  We can assume Eren has been lying about the Ackerman abilities in order to push Mikasa away from him, so that she would have less hesitation when she ultimately has to face him.  We don’t see Levi having these migraines when his own “host” Erwin cannot be protected from death.  Even Kenny doesn’t seem to experience or note these headaches when Uri is dying.  The only thing that is mentioned is the awakening power and inability to have their memories wiped or manipulated.

That said, it doesn’t seem to apply to Ackermans actually experiencing what the Founder can show them.  In this case, the theory of an alternate reality would be plausible if one with the Founder can access those other realities.  If Mikasa did experience another reality, it is because Eren who “controls” (or rather is lent power by) Ymir is able to bring her there. This would mean that timelines exist in parallel to each other and there are multiple alternative universes and realities, ones with Titans and ones without.  The headaches may be a result of a resistance that is likely due to showing Mikasa these realities during specific moments, ones with situations that align with other realities but aren’t explicitly converging at any point and her Ackerman blood trying to block that process from happening- with Ymir and Eren together, they are able to breakthrough that barrier.

Now you can interpret that Eren’s reason for bringing her there is to assure her that there is a reality where she suggests running away together and that she experiences that life with the assurance that she will stay with Eren as long as he lives.  She knows that this isn’t her own reality: “I think I shouldn’t be here.” Eren likely also brings her here to show that even with their peaceful life that the conflict still exists and that she still cannot save him.  After he dies, he wants her to detach herself from him, forget the memories, and to be free.

Whatever the reason, we can assume that the “cottage” Mikasa and Eren aren’t the main timeline Mikasa and Eren.  It wouldn’t make sense for the history and it wouldn’t align with their motivations throughout the story.  While the timeline of events up to that point are similar if not exact, their behaviors aren’t quite the ones we have been following.

I’ll explain further but in short to believe the above in genuine runs a high risk of presenting as “character assassination.”  In other words, “out of character.”  (Sorta)

Keeping this in mind, this potentially means that these “path” visits have been foreshadowed and even acted upon by Eren before this moment.  First off, we know that Eren foresaw the future of the Rumbling and “that sight” when touching Historia’s hand.  We also know he sees other moments in between via these future memories.  He is only limited in seeing the actual chain of events that gets to that point.

For years before he concedes to this future, he is adamant about finding literally any other solution that will not result in the Full Scale Rumbling.  When Kiyomi brings up even threatening the world with the Rumbling on top of sacrificing Historia, he rejects that offer, suggesting that they should consider other options.  When Hange says that Hizuru cannot  aid in getting other allies to help them, Eren is distraught by the failure of another plan.  However, he accepts going to Marley to survey the nation to seek opportunities for peaceful conversation.  Before their departure, Eren discusses the potential destruction of Paradis with Historia, saying that their options are to fight or run away- Historia, however, accepts the duties given to her.  Eren knows this option is unacceptable and with that nature he must go forth with Hange’s plan or commit the Rumbling (though of course he knows the latter is the future).  It’s the rescue of the little boy Ramzi that gives Eren the realization that the events are exactly how he saw them when receiving the future memories.  He actually considers leaving the boy behind to change that fate, but his nature, just like how he can’t accept the fate of Paradis to be destroyed, causes him to protect the boy.  Eren realizes that the future cannot be changed- because of fate and because of his nature.

He asks Mikasa the big question and receives her final answer.  This seems far fetched but when his friends arrive to interrupt the moment he says with disappointment that it was “perfect timing.”  Of course, this could also indicate the frustration of having this conversation interrupted with Mikasa, or that he no longer wanted to hear an elaboration because he didn’t expect anything to change, but with the future sight theory he could have foreseen his friends showing up at that precise moment; there isn’t a lot of evidence to say one way or another, but it’s worth considering since even Mikasa is confused when he says this, meaning that there is supposed to be focus on why he says this.  During the conference that proposes Eldian rights, after attendees and speakers insist that the real issue are the Paradisians and they should be ridden of, Eren leaves, now convinced that this is the path he has to take.  All other options are lost despite his begging, and he is sure there is no other way.

Everything seems to go just like Eren plans, including the time to meet up with Zeke; the only obstacle that he hadn’t foreseen was Reiner bringing reinforcements early.  Either these are events leading up to the same future that he did not see, or this is a different Path he exists on.

We see that he convinces Grisha to slaughter the Reiss family in order to get the Founding Titan when Zeke takes them on a “memory lane” trip.  With showing Grisha selective memories, his father decides to hand the titans to Eren just as he did in the “alpha” timeline.  He tells Zeke that he was able to “get to this point” thanks to Zeke, so now he is on the proper path.  Now the events are aligned where he does “see that sight” by contacting Ymir directly and activating the Rumbling.

How did he get to that path though?  Where does it start?  Is there a beginning at all?  Well, either Zeke had led them to a parallel path that was similar enough to show identical memories so to convince Eren that Grisha was brainwashing him—or Eren took advantage of a distracted Zeke to “path jump.”  It’s interesting that Zeke is the one leading them up until the end of the chapter when Eren is the one now pushing Zeke to get to the next memory.  The events up until Grisha gets to the Reiss Cave during the titan invasion occur according to the main timeline.  

At this point, Eren is aware that the future of this timeline is viable, one that he is most “like himself” because his behavior is consistent with his beliefs.  He was always fated to be this way, he always knew that he would never abandon Paradis so long as they were at risk.  He would never allow his friends to suffer that fate.  There was never a future for him to run away and live in the mountains living the rest of his life in isolation with Mikasa.  His very nature would never allow him to.

It is also possible that this foresight didn’t always come with the goal of flattening the entire earth- he would have foreseen the Rumbling not complete, he only ever mentions starting it and “that sight,” points in the manga that we have already seen.  He had the opportunity to prevent his friends from fighting by wiping their memories (save the Ackermans, but even they are just two people), but chose not to due to his ideologies, which he carried since he was a child.  In fact, he goads his friends to kill him.  He knows this is a future he is fated to have.  He expects Mikasa to kill him.  Expects that he must convince her to let go of her hesitation and end his life.  “You should let go of me.”  Why invade that path to tell her this if his goals are to destroy the world, unless he truly expects to stop her and the rest?  How could he foresee “see you later Eren” though as an end to his life?

This might be the answer to destroying the true Founding Titan since it now exists in their physical world as he acts as a vessel.  This might be the solution to eradicate the titans- “destroy this world.”  Disconnect Paths.  Stop the indefinite fate where he and his home perish by erasing the existence of Titans altogether.  Break fate.

It was (mostly) just a dream

The second running theory is that Mikasa really does just experience the moment of “going back to their home” as a dream.  We know she gets headaches at critical moments where she runs the risk of losing someone close to her—and this isn’t isolated to just Eren.  This happens when Carla dies and Armin is on the brink of death.  The dream ultimately is a coping mechanism, wishing for an ideal world where she can live with Eren in peace and isolation, instead of facing the inevitability that Eren must die.

Also the chapter’s title is “A Long Dream.”

Now I’m not claiming that Mikasa is suffering a delusion, because she is very much aware that this “reality” or “dream” isn’t real- just because she is lucid does not mean she thinks this a world that exists for her.  She’s very aware that this ideal world of hers is impossible and was never possible to begin with.  Her dream is a confrontation of the reality that even with an innocent Eren who just wants a peaceful life that it is not aligned with the nature she has watched develop.  As much as she wants to cling onto an innocent and idealized image of her loved one, she knows this isn’t who he is.  This isn’t who they are.

She knows that the world they live in is still with conflict- Eren reminds her of that.  She apologizes for bringing it up because that realization that they left to live in peace and potentially leave their homeland exposed with no alternative solution, simply giving in to the circumstances, is not who either of them are, and to hold onto that image of Eren is merely fabrication.  The entire dream functions as a metaphor.  But in every world, Eren will die, be in by her hands or the titan curse.

[This is alluded to in Lost Girls, another “alternative reality” story.]

It is only disrupted when Eren tells Mikasa to throw the scarf and forget about him because she deserves to be free.  He wears the titan markings of his Founding Titan.  At this point it’s implied that Eren is communicating through Pathways that connect to her dreams.  Remember, dreams (and nightmares) are a very prevalent subject brought up in the series alongside memories- it is possible that the Founder can infiltrate dreams to communicate much like it can bring Eldians to the Path realm.  Mikasa cannot be controlled because she is an Ackerman, but this doesn’t omit the possibility that she can still see differences in her dreams (or reality) if interfered by the Founding Titan.  Ymir allows this open line of communication with the knowledge Eren is convincing Mikasa to kill him.  To simmer down the emotional turmoil, he says that she must forget about him.  Of course, because Mikasa cannot be manipulated, she decides that while she must kill him, that his death is inevitable, she will not forget him.  And he will not die without her expressing her feelings.  That is her own willpower.

At this point, the dream is “shared” between the two because Eren is an active spectator.  When Mikasa says her final goodbye, her “see you later,” it isn’t the same dream as what it started as.  Which is why he is able to remember it in the first chapter.

Now, I say mostly a dream because it is possible that dreams themselves could create alternative realities if they haven’t existed before.  But even if that wasn’t the case, Eren still alludes to path jumping, so the series of events could have still led him to a path that would be able to infiltrate Mikasa’s coping dream, knowing that she would struggle to end his life, but that she needs to see him again and be assured that he wants her to move on with her life, and not to see this as a failure on her part- that her answer really would not have mattered so she should not regret her choices.  She is the one that has to kill him to get to this point.  He expects to die, he doesn’t stop her when she gets in the titan, he seems resigned to that fate.

The dream theory is shorter but I’m inclined to believe that is what really happened with perhaps some mixture of the “alternate realities” theory for the sake of the plot solving the issue of titans, as well as reverting the rest of the cast from their Pure Titan fate.  Getting rid of Paths (the Founding Titan and Eren) is a viable solution to both rid of the nightmare as well as give Ymir and Eren a new life without being enslaved by fate.  But that’s a big elaborate and perhaps too complex theory.  I’m only making sense of how the final chapter may wrap up.

Alternative Selves: Fabrication to Cope aka “Mikasa and Eren would not run away”

Regardless of either theory, we must come to the conclusion that the Mikasa and Eren in her dream, her ideal world, whatever it may really be, are not their main story selves.  In fact it is impossible both because it would break the timeline and because it would not align with their true selves, the ones we’ve been following along throughout the story.  It makes more sense for Mikasa to cope with this ideal of hers, but the moment she enters that vision, she knows that this is fake and that this Eren is an idealized version she created (or exists elsewhere and time).  To believe otherwise is not understanding who these characters truly are at their core.

Regardless of Eren’s feelings towards her, be it romantic, platonic, familial, his very nature, as he states himself, would never allow him to “not make a decision.”  He would never abandon the others he claims to love, the ones he wants them to live long lives, to wander in the dark without at least a warning of the impending doom ahead of them.  He gave his friends the freedom to fight.  He fights for the freedom of Eldia, protecting Paradis.  He could never accept a fate that would allow the massacre of his people, even if he must commit omnicide to prevent it.  Remember, this is the boy who saved a girl he never knew because her freedom was stolen.  This is the boy that defends his weak friend because he values how the other boy’s mind opens to doors to freedom- the boy that gave him the knowledge of the outside world that fueled his ambition to break down the case in the first place.  He doesn’t want to live a mundane life.  Especially not if his oppressed people are in danger.  This is the guy who has a superior officer who calls him a monster that will not submit to any cage anyone puts him in- he has the fire in his eyes to keep moving forward, to persevere against all odds. 

This is the man that would lay down his own life if it meant Paradis would be saved.  He would simply never choose the option to run away from that, not even dream about it.  

He knew he wanted to see that sight.  He was shown that image.  That is his ideal world.  His vision, his dream.  Which means he must fight and move forward.  Find a way to save his loved ones so they live long happy lives.

And, honestly, it’s inaccurate to call Mikasa selfish for her ideal life because while she would want to live alone with Eren by her side, when being reminded of the carnage that will take place and that they are not there to help, she submits that it is something neither of them could accept.  She might want to run away to have a peaceful life, but not with the knowledge there are consequences for doing so.  That there are people she would leave behind.  She wouldn’t leave them to that fate.  Her actions to stop Eren is evidence of that.

As much as she loves Eren, she has devotion to her homeland and her friends, too.  To run away would be uncharacteristic.  This is the girl who decided to fight when the boy who saved her was in danger.  This is the girl that chose to keep fighting even when her closest family, the one she loved, was “killed.”  She is the girl who threw the knife away and promised that she would never leave her friend behind.  She stays to fight for her home, Paradis, because it is her birthplace, she belongs here- she wouldn’t run if her home is in danger.

Which is why, to assume they are the real Mikasa and Eren in Mikasa’s “ideal world”, is utterly and completely misread.  That is not nor ever what their characters would lead to.  The idea of running away would be barely a flicker of a thought at most, but even then, it is uncharacteristic to act.  Unreal.  Just like their artificial selves in that “dream.”

It isn’t like Isayama didn’t allude to Mikasa and Eren separating.  He does so for Armin when they have clashing views on the world and their own selves- Armin being more “worldly” and explorative and Eren being more “self-focused” and personally ambitious.  Mikasa would sympathize more with Armin’s point of view, but her desire is to be by Eren’s side.

Isayama gives his opinion on Mikasa’s determination to be stuck to Eren the entire time.  It is a “pitiful” existence.  She is willing to even shoulder his burdens just so he could come home, that perhaps his emotional distress is the reason he is causing mass destruction.  She is desperate for this.  That is… not exactly productive of her character, or the plot.

However, he clarifies that this is his view on Mikasa’s course of direction.  Her ideal is to be with Eren forever.  It may not necessarily be entirely positive that she leaves him behind since deviation from that ideal isn’t guaranteed growth.  Isayama has a habit of allowing his readers to experience his work with their own interpretations.  Just because he believes Mikasa’s existence with Eren at a constant is unfavorable, everyone will see it that way.  Perhaps it is a good thing that she has a goal to work towards and that it is the fuel to her fighting spirit.  That her desiring a peaceful life with Eren is a good motivator.  Or alternatively, her fixation on Eren would lead her into more dangerous situations that would risk her life, it has her see an unreal version of him, unable to accept his fated death that she is willing to sacrifice everything, even if it means shouldering the burdens he carries, if it means he lives.

The message is clear, however, that whether you, the reader, sees that as wholly positive or negative, or a mixture of both, the intention is that she must let him go.  She must accept his death.  Because if she is to keep her home, a semblance of peace and closure, save her friends- this is how it must end.  There is a beautiful nuance, however, that Mikasa is given the opportunity to forget so that she can avoid the suffering and be free, but she chooses not to- just as she decides when Eren is first taken from her.  When she initially thought he died, she decided to keep fighting to honor his spirit and memory.  She never wants to forget him.  Even if he will die in every reality they share together, the worst thing in the world is an existence without even the memory of him.

This is why she is able to get that closure.  She expresses her feelings and says her final goodbye, in this world anyway.  “See you later” because she will still have the ideal dream knowing that while it isn’t real, it can never be real, not for her, but his memory will live on with her.  And she can carry that memory without sacrificing her agency, her home, her friends, her love.  That is what she is meant to do.

Anyway, I wrote this mostly to observe the function of Paths and what Mikasa’s dream infers is possible, and an opening to a solution, as well as her decision to end Eren’s life.  The dream speaks loudly of Mikasa and Eren as characters because it shows us what they are not.  It emphasizes the characters that we have been following since the beginning are raw and motivated, destined to live their lives fighting and protecting and moving onward, never surrendering.  And to insist otherwise would be a disservice to how they’ve been built up to after all this time.

....

[Once again: Despite the language in this, the manga has always been a work to be wildly interpreted in a multitude of ways, I just speak passionately about why I think certain interpretations don’t make since to my own. But nothing is indefinite. The material is flexible. See it how you wish.]

#shingeki no kyojin #snk meta #snk chapter 138 #eren yeager #mikasa ackerman #analysis #theory #paths #mypost