#nimble quicksilver

[haunted-doodles]

its been one of those days. pass the Nim doodles sheet

#junk hunters #nimble quicksilver #oc #im #im having a TIME learning how to not just do pixel art #experimenting with non-blur-tool shading as seen on the lil headshot thing #also highkey might refine that doodle to a comic panel bit #possibly- probably not but idc. #im getting better at non-pixel thing #at least with Nim. #i need to expand and test it with Viktor and stuff for different eye styles. #also working on making post-shave Nim make more sense #like yeah he wore leggings all the time but now he's in the DESERT #they need to keep them legs COOL #they will fucking suffer there. #also beans. im giving her beans now ive decided #all good non-human designs have hand beans

[dawnleaf37]

HAGJVSDHBFKN

#we drop battery-o into nimble valley and release the quicksilvers #lovely form of entertainment/SILLY

[spacesquidlings]

Don't You Worry Your Pretty Little Mind

Summary: With his lover bedridden after a battle gone awry, Astarion finds himself acting as her nurse, comforting her as best as he can, giving in to many of her whims. And despite all his theatrics, there is no one she wants by her side more than him.

Pairing: Astarion x Tav

Warnings/Tags: Hurt/Comfort, mostly comfort, fluff, some suggestive mentions, mild description of acid-based/burning wound, references to pain (nothing graphic)

Taglist<3: @spacebarbarianweird

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The sharp smell of medicinal herbs burned in her nose, wafting over her as the pillows beneath her head and neck were readjusted once more. Pain followed fast on its heels, a phantom compared to what she’d felt earlier, before she’d blacked out entirely.

“How’s that, darling?” Astarion’s nimble fingers prodded at the pillows, fluffing them as best as he could without disturbing her. He drew her from her memories, from the blinding pain that had sent her into unconsciousness.

She whined, wrinkling her nose as another wave of smell hit her, the ointments smeared across her wounds seeping through the bandages wrapped around them. It burned as she breathed it in, daggers piercing the inside of her nose and scratching at the back of her throat. Pain radiated up her side and she shifted, nearly gagging as the smell grew stronger.

“Hurts,” was all she could manage, her voice cracking from the effort.

He huffed, crossing his arms and stepping back to examine his work. “I think that’s the best you’re going to get, my love. As much as I wish to, I cannot turn the bed into clouds.”

“Thank you for trying,” she murmured, barely stifling a groan as she shifted. 

She kept trying to find a comfortable position and yet she could find none. No matter how she lay she could not take the pressure off of all her wounds, and the pure frustration of it all made her eyes burn, angry tears pooling in the creases of her eyes. It painted the world in quicksilver and moonbeams, and yet she could find no comfort in the facsimile of the calm of the night.

“Don’t cry, please.” Astarion’s voice quivered, his brow drawing together. Somehow his skin grew paler, blanching at the sight of her tears. “Please, darling. You’re scaring me.”

She sniffled, reaching up to wipe her tears away, hissing in pain as her body grew taut, muscles and skin tight from the burns she’d sustained. Her bottom lip quivered, a sob caught in her throat, too weak to even wail.

“Oh my darling,” Astarion cooed, voice soft as feather-down. His hands hovered above her, as if hesitant to touch her. “You’re going to be okay.”

She whimpered. Was she? Was she truly going to be okay? She wanted to reach for him, but useless as she was, she could not even raise her hands to wipe her face, let alone hold him.

She watched as he seemed to come to some sort of resolution, his fingers delicately lowering to brush the tears from her eyes. Her vision cleared for the barest of moments before more tears trekked down her cheeks, the salt stinging where it seeped into her bandages.

“You’re going to get through this.” He brushed back loose strands of hair that had fallen across her cheek, caught in the ointment smeared on her skin. “You’re strong, my love. You were strong enough to survive such powerful magic. You’ll survive this.”

She wasn’t so sure about that. Although she’d survived the initial attack, she didn’t know if she was going to make it through the after-effects.

She hadn’t been thinking when it had all happened, shoving a child out of the way of their assailant, only to be swathed in burning pain. There had been no thoughts of putting up a shield, of casting a spell to push the attacker back. There had only been the thread of panic that had burst in her mind, her body moving before her mind could catch up.

When it had first washed over her she’d thought it fire, but then it had become worse. So terribly worse.

She’d learned, once she’d awoke, covered in the stinking ointment and bandaged, that it had been acid. A horrible homemade concoction that had very nearly killed her from its potency.

But she could not find it in herself to regret it, not really. She had managed to survive, but that child would not have. And her stepping in the way of the attack had been enough of a distraction for Astarion to make a killing blow.

Although she doubted she would make it through the consequences of her actions. Namely the reeking ointment and the near-unbearable pain.

As if reading her thoughts, Astarion clicked his tongue. “Don’t be so dramatic. You can survive anything, darling. Even a little homemade potion.”

She huffed, looking away. It hurt to speak, and yet she couldn’t help herself as she snapped back at him. “It’s a lot more than a homemade potion.”

“Well, it was homemade. He was a master artificer and wizard. I don’t think he bought it from a market.”

Groaning, she squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would staunch the flow of tears. “It hurts so much, Astarion.”

When he responded his voice was quieter, softer. “I know, darling.”

“I feel like I’m being burned alive.”

He didn’t answer this time, not at first. Silence descended, heavy, uncomfortable as her bandages.

It was more unbearable than the lingering sting of the acid, and she opened her eyes, the world limned in silver once more, searching for her beloved in the little room.

His eyes were wide, the crimson of his irises stark against the pallor of his skin. She could see the shimmering silver caught in the alabaster of his lashes, the gold of the firelight catching in his own tears.

“You’re going to be okay.” He spoke fiercely, each word as strong as a blow as he clenched his jaw. She wouldn’t have heard the quiver in his voice if she didn’t know him so well, didn’t know when he was trying to keep something hidden. “You’re going to get through this, and then we’re going on a long vacation.”

Her heart twisted, clenched in the grip of sorrow. “Astarion. My love, I’m so sorry, I-”

He shook his head, his hand delicately cupping her cheek. His own tears streaked down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe them away. “Don’t apologise. Just get through this, got it?”

“Okay. Okay, I will.” Her heart squeezed all the tighter, aching, struggling to beat. 

She tried to reach up, tried to hold his face, but she’d hardly raised her hand more than an inch before a ripple of pain made her gasp, fingers trembling like the branches of a sapling in a storm.

Astarion chuckled, lowering his head until the tips of her fingers brushed against his cheek. “Is this what you were hoping for, darling?”

“Thank you.” Her bottom lip was quivering again, her heart in her throat. Sadness was a vice that held her tight, nameless, all-consuming, drowning out even the smell of the ointment. She hurt so much, and she had hurt him. In her callousness she had hurt her most beloved and she didn’t know how to fix it, how to make him smile.

With a sigh Astarion lifted his head. His lips twitched, one brow arching. “What’s on your mind?”

“I just… I…” She couldn’t find the words, couldn’t figure out how to say it.

She felt like she was crumpling, formless and weak.

He shushed her gently, brushing the pads of his fingers against her cheeks. “Hush. It’s okay, my love. It’s okay.” Another twitch of his lips. “Wait to thank me until after I’ve changed your bandages.”

Shuddering, she looked away, feeling worse than helpless. “I look horrible, don’t I?”

“No you don’t.” A pause, his eyes searching hers. “It doesn’t look good, but you could never look horrible.”

An entire new wave of misery washed over her, and she wished she could still be unconscious, unaware of this pain and the knowledge that she looked horrible.

“Be honest,” she sniffed. “I look like something from a child’s nightmare.”

“Oh please.” He rolled his eyes. “Now you really are being dramatic.”

She whimpered, scowling as best as she could.

Sighing, Astarion perched on the edge of the bed, toying with the blankets, readjusting them over and over. Even so, his eyes never left hers, earnest and bright. “You’re hurt. You don’t look horrible, you look like someone who’s injured. You look like someone who needs to be taken care of until you’re better.”

Fangs flashing in the light, he gave her a half-moon smile. “And luckily for you, you’ve been blessed with someone as devoted as me, who will be here until you’re all better. Even though you’re being very vain.”

She frowned. “If I could throw a pillow at you, I would.”

“Well thank the gods you don’t have the strength right now.”

He leaned closer, fixing her pillows again. “Beneath all those bandages is the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.” He paused, smirking. “Well, second most beautiful. After me of course.”

“Oh of course.”

“You’re no child’s nightmare, darling.” The corners of his lips hiked higher. “In fact, I’d wager you’re a child’s hero now.”

She snorted. “Oh, I’m so sure.”

He poked her shoulder gently, beaming. “I am. I bet that kid’s already off telling all her friends.”

“She’s probably forgotten by now.”

“Oh no.” he gave a theatrical shake of his head. “No, certainly not. Rumour has probably spread that there’s a new hero on the sword coast.”

The corners of her lips tipped up, tugged by laughter bubbling in her throat. “Oh please.”

“The blade of frontiers had better move over,” he continued, mischief twinkling in his eyes like entire galaxies of stars. “There’s a new hero protecting Faerûn now.”

She giggled, shaking her head as best as she could. “I’m no hero! Besides, what would I even be called?”

Astarion tapped his cheek, eyes skyward as he hummed thoughtfully. “Now that’s a good question.”

“See? You can’t be a hero without a cool name.”

“How about ‘protector of the most beautiful vampire spawn?’ Or ‘the prettiest saviour of children from acid?’” He brushed the back of his index finger over her brow, smirking a little too broadly. His fangs flashed before disappearing again as he spoke, mischief in his words. “Or, and I think this one is the best, ‘the fool of faerûn.’”

She gaped at him, mouth falling open.

“You know, since you ran into an acid attack.” He shrugged. “You got the kid out of the way, but you didn’t get yourself out of the way in time.”

She wrinkled her nose as she answered, equal parts annoyed and amused. “You are so lucky, Astarion.”

“To have you by my side?” He stroked her hair, smirking. He knew perfectly well that was not what she was referring to. “I most certainly am lucky, darling.”

“You’re lucky I can barely raise my arms, or else you’d have a pillow in your face.”

“Yes well, you did kind of deserve that.” He tapped the top of her head, his expression growing more serious. “You had me terrified. I thought I’d lost you.”

His words were sobering, and she no longer felt the glimmer of mirth she had before. She sank into the pillows, dropping her gaze. “Astarion, I-”

“It’s already happened.” He cut her off before she could finish her apology, his brows drawing low as he continued. “I want you to focus on healing, on getting better. That’s the only apology I’m willing to accept.”

She swallowed, finding his gaze. “Okay.”

“And just as I said, once you are better, we’re going on vacation.”

It was so mundane, to talk of going on a vacation. A trip meant for relaxation, for having fun, where the highest stakes were finding delicious new food in an unfamiliar place. The sudden segue felt like something out of a dream, surreal when compared to her most recent memory, the wall of blackness in her mind after the rush of burning pain.

A giggle bubbled from her lips, earning a bemused look from Astarion. “What’s so funny? You think me incapable of a vacation?”

“No, that’s not it at all.” In fact it was all too easy to imagine him lounging around all day, the picture of indolence as he languidly sauntered down unfamiliar streets, as he stretched out on some sumptuous bed in a rented room.

“Well don’t keep me in suspense, darling.” He laid on his side, propping his head up in his hand. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

She giggled again, feeling ridiculous. “It’s nothing, really. It just feels strange to be talking of going on vacation, especially when I’m here covered in this gross ointment.”

He clicked his tongue. “That ‘gross ointment’ is going to help speed along your recovery.” He sniffed, nose wrinkling. “Although it is not exactly a pleasant smell.”

“I want a bath,” she whined. “I want to feel clean and smell pretty.”

“Once you are well enough, my love.” He gave her an indulgent smile. “I will give you the most luxurious bath you can dream of.”

Sighing, she imagined it in her mind. Warm water and flower petals and bath oils perfuming the air, helping her feel alive once again. “Do you think you could do that when we go on vacation, too?”

A chuckle, a darkening of his eyes. “There is plenty I plan to do, once you’re better.”

“Including a bath?” She ignored the somersault of her belly, the heat suddenly blooming at the apex of her thighs. Now really was not the time, not when she could barely stand the blankets that were draped over her.

“Yes,” he drawled. “The most splendid of baths every day for you, my dear.”

She relaxed as best she could against the pillows, daydreaming once more of such a thing. Of feeling the warm heat of the water seeping into her bones, of fingers massaging her scalp, trailing lovingly down her back.

“We can do whatever you wish,” he murmured, his gaze softening. “So long as you get better. You have to promise me you’ll get better.”

“I promise. I’ll do my best.”

“Good.” Astarion sighed, toying with her hair. Just the sight of him was stronger than any balm or medicine. The slight curve of his lips as he smiled, relief stitching itself into his expression, more a comfort than any sleeping potion.

He was still speaking, not that she heard even a word of it. Her mind couldn’t keep itself steady, flitting like hummingbird wings as the pain ebbed and flowed through her. Astarion had to pinch her cheek once, twice, before she could focus her thoughts, like trying to coax the ocean through the eye of a needle.

“Have I lost you, darling?” He chuckled, smoothing his hand over the sting where he’d pinched her. “I would have thought you would listen raptly as I spoke.”

She managed a roll of her eyes, knowing he was doing little more than teasing her. Distracting her, perhaps, to take the edge off of the unrelenting burn of her body.

“Forgive me, my love,” she rasped, batting her lashes as swiftly as she could in the moment. “It’s just hard to focus, even on your limitless charm.”

His brows knit together, lips pursing. She caught a flash in his eyes, worry quickly masked before she could begin to pick at it.

“You should rest, darling,” he murmured. “You’ll feel a little better once you wake.”

Astarion made to stand, the bed shifting as his weight vanished, and a ripple of pain went through her side, her chest. Not only her body screaming from the movement, little more than a jostle and yet enough to irritate the weeping wounds beneath her bandages, but her heart screaming too. Pain lancing in her chest, her heartbeat turning to the quiver of a loosed bowstring.

What would she do without him? How could she stand the anger of the poison that had flayed her skin? How could she try to brave the darkness of her unconsciousness? All without him?

A whimper fled from her lips, drawing Astarion’s gaze. The lines in his brow only deepened, and he sank back into the bed. A question hung on his lips, his hands reaching towards her, hovering, hesitancy making his face look wan.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Please.”

The anxiety in his face fell away, like the last of a stone wall crumbling to ruin. Relief, and no small amount of mischief, remained, shining like light through stained glass, refracting rainbows across the ceiling and walls.

“I’m honoured that you want me close, love, but I’m not going far.” There was laughter in his voice, making it lilt like the opening of a song. “I’ll be back in less than a moment.”

With a swiftness that sometimes scared her, Astarion moved across the room, the sound of glass clicking as he sorted through little bottles and vials on their dresser. There were perfumes, lotions, oils, a pretty pink nail polish he’d presented to her only a few days before the attack.

She wanted to ask what he was doing, but in another moment he was back, wiggling a bottle no thicker than her pinky, filled with an oily-looking, iridescent liquid.

“To help you sleep,” he said before she could ask. “It’s supposed to numb some of the pain so you can rest.”

She tried to sit up, only to cry out as a thousand daggers stabbed at her, as her skin drew taut beneath her bandages. She collapsed back, wincing at the red stains blooming on some of her bandages.

“Darling, I fear that is the exact opposite of trying to get better.” Astarion tsked softly, sliding one hand behind her head, flicking the cap of the bottle open with the other.

“I was going to take the medicine.” She had to draw in lungfuls of air to push past the stabbing throb across her body, steadying the sudden surge of nausea in her belly.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. The arch of his brow and the quirk of his mouth made it seem like she’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world, and it made her want to pout.

“You’re so impatient,” he chided, bringing the bottle to her lips. “Obviously I was going to help you with it. The more you move the harder it is for you to heal.”

She could say nothing as she drank the potion, fighting not to gag as the oily substance slid down her throat. It tasted bitter, and it coated the inside of her mouth like grease.

Setting the empty bottle to the side, Astarion grinned. “See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He patted her head, not yet done teasing her. “Imagine how much easier it would have been if you’d just waited for me the first time.”

“Are you saying you’ll take care of me? You’re going to nurse me back to health?”

He chuckled. “Of course, darling. I’m terribly keen to play as your doctor.”

“Oh Astarion, don’t tease me so much,” she whined. “I can hardly think of a clever response right now.”

“I don’t mind.” He tapped the tip of her nose, unscathed from the attack. “That pretty blush of yours is all I need.”

“Astarion.”

He lifted his hands quickly, palms out in surrender. “Alright, alright, that’s enough for now. I’ll leave you to your rest.”

Panic seized her and she gasped. “My love, wait. Wait!”

She reached her arms out as far as she could, making a grabbing motion with her hands. Astarion’s brows rose, the corner of his lips quirking up. “Oh? And what’s this?”

Whining, she stretched her arms out a little further. “I want you.”

“So needy.” His tone was chiding, but his smile only grew. “Do you need me to continue comforting you, darling?”

“Astarion, please.” She couldn’t spar with him now, and so she was at the mercy of his teasing. She pushed out her bottom lip, pouting as best she could, giving him her biggest doe eyes. “I need you.”

“And how do you need me?”

If she could have ground her teeth she would have. But as it stood she could not, so she settled for a wrinkle of her nose, her cheeks burning from the heat he’d coaxed into them. He was smiling far too broadly, his eyes full of mirth.

With a sigh she said, “I need you to stay with me. I need you to hold me, my beloved. Please.”

“Oh my.” She could see the faintest touch of colour in his cheeks, like the first hint of the blushing dawn in the dove-grey of the morning sky. “Well how could I ever say no to such a request?”

Happiness softened the edges of her ire as Astarion tugged at the blankets, carefully slipping into the bed beside her. She sank to the side, his body beckoning her close, wincing only barely as he pressed against her side. He draped an arm loosely over her stomach, no heavier than another blanket, and yet she felt safer because of it, warmer than any blanket could make her feel.

“How is this?” He murmured softly against her ear, his breath tangling in her unbound hair. “Better?”

“This is very nice,” she said, just as quietly. “Thank you, my love.”

“Do you think you can sleep?” His voice wobbled, revealing the fear that had been hiding beneath his joking tone. “It will help with your healing.”

“But I only just got comfy,” she whined, not caring how pitiful she sounded.

A snort, cool fingers brushing back her hair. His breath gathered against her skin as he lowered his head, sighing. “That is so you can sleep, darling.”

“I don’t know if I can sleep.”

“If I’m distracting you, it may be better if I go-”

“No!” It would have been a shriek if she’d been able to shriek right now. As it was it sounded like a garbled rasp, and Astarion had to press his face to her neck to muffle his laughter.

“Don’t go. Please love, I want you to stay.” She didn’t feel right without him close, felt like she was on the verge of dying. She wanted to cling to him, to hold fast, finding comfort in the acid of his comments and the bergamot clinging to his skin.

“I’ll stay.” He laid a gentle kiss to her neck, a stark difference to the teasing laughter from only seconds ago. “See? I have no plan to move.”

“Really?”

“Why would I, when such a beautiful, needy little thing is in my arms.”

She turned her head away so he could not see the crimson staining her cheeks. She had no response, no clever rejoinder. She was terribly needy for his closeness, but he didn’t have to say it like that.

“You really must rest, though,” he continued, pressing another kiss to her throat. “How else will you get better so we can take a vacation?”

“You seem very set on the idea of this vacation,” she mused. Already she could feel the medicine working, the pain beginning to ebb, dulling breath by breath. “What do you even want to do?”

“What don’t I want to do, darling?” He sighed, stroking her hair. “I want to lounge and sleep in late. And perhaps we can visit a spa; we both need it after this.”

“A spa sounds nice.” She imagined it, sleeping the morning away, skilled hands massaging the knots from her back and arms, floral-scented serums and creams and oils pressed to her face, bringing her skin to life.

“And shopping,” he continued, just as lost in his daydreams as she. “So much shopping. We must refresh our wardrobes, darling. It’s all very…” She could picture the wrinkle of his nose without even looking at him. “Last season. We must be ahead of all the rest.”

“I’ll put my trust in you, then,” she murmured. “I’m sure you know what is best.”

She wouldn’t mind some new gowns, if she were honest. She would need something to make her feel pretty again after she was healed.

Astarion hummed, combing fingers through her hair. “Have you fallen asleep already?”

“No,” she answered, not feeling tired in the least. Now that the pain was fading she felt wide awake, energized.

“Well you should,” he admonished. “It will certainly put me at ease knowing you’re resting.”

“But I’m not tired, my love.”

He sighed, undoubtedly rolling his eyes. “What can I do to help?”

She hummed, wracking her mind for something that could help, that would lull her into the gentle darkness of unconsciousness.

Before she had met him, she would sometimes fall asleep to the faint sounds of music beyond her windows, or she would hum her favourite melodies until she could not hum them any longer.

“Could you…” She licked her lips, twisting as far away from his gaze as she could as a new wave of heat washed over her. “Could you sing for me?”

The silence that fell from her question stretched long, and she feared he would laugh, or tell her that no he could not. But then, soft as a caress, Astarion asked “you wish for me to sing?”

She swallowed, her flushing cheeks be damned. She wanted to meet his gaze as she again made her shameless request, a small comfort that had helped her in the years before she’d met him.

“Will you please sing for me?” He was close enough now for her to take his free hand, even as tremors still quivered through hers. “Please, my love? It really would help me sleep.”

For a moment he searched her gaze, his expression serious. Soft light gilded his features, twinning in the strands of his hair, painting the lines of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. His eyes seemed to glow, and she had the strangest feeling that she was being observed by a deity, a powerful, celestial being not of this world.

Her heart ached, and she held his hand tighter, reminding herself that he was not an ethereal being of light and dreams. He was real, he was here with her, he was not going anywhere.

Astarion’s eyes flicked down, to their intertwined hands, seeming to come to some sort of resolution.

“You are so terribly lucky I find you so wonderful,” he sighed, lashes fanning over his cheeks as he closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t sing for just anyone, you know.”

She gingerly brought his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I think I would hate it if you did. I want you to sing for only me.”

His eyes opened, his expression tender despite how he had bemoaned such a task. “Any requests, my dear?”

“A lullaby, please.” She held fast to his hand, clutching it as surely as a child clutched a beloved doll. “Any lullaby, whatever your favourites are.”

He mulled it over, stroking her hair absently. “Alright, I have a few in mind.”

His voice quivered at first, uncertainty staining his voice. The words tremulous, quiet, yet as he continued, seeming to realize this was not an elaborate ruse to tease him, he grew louder, more confident. The faintest touch of colour stained his cheeks, but it could have been the burning red of the sky at sunset for how it ignited warmth in her own heart.

At first she felt nothing, energy still buzzing like static along her nerves and sizzling in her veins. But the wispy tendrils of fatigue slowly crept over her, Astarion’s words coming in and out of focus, blurring together. She was certain he was switching to Elven every now and again, the songs he was singing old, excavated from a corner of his memory draped in cobwebs and dust.

She yawned, her eyelids growing heavy. It became harder to keep them open, and eventually she just gave in, sighing in response to Astarion’s teasing laughter as his fingertips skipped across her brow.

“Are you asleep yet?”

“Not yet,” she grumbled, scrunching her nose.

“I guess I have no choice, but to keep going.”

She hummed in approval, earning another quiet huff of laughter before he continued, beginning a new song she did not recognize.

She wouldn’t have said he was the very best, and although she didn’t recognize every song he chose, she could tell some of it was off-key, the notes too sharp or flat. But she didn’t care, finding comfort in the off-tune lilt of his voice. It was a melody just for her, carrying her like white-capped waves towards sleep.

Her fingers found their way to his shirt, twisting into the cream coloured fabric, snagging on the ties that held it closed. She could not move enough to tuck herself beneath his chin the way she liked best, but she could hold onto him like this at least. She could anchor herself, no longer lost to the pain of her wounds.

Astarion’s voice blurred, words melting into each other until she could not recognize a single one, her mind muddled as a turbid river. All her thoughts turned to nonsense, but for one, shining bright as a star, holding fast in the cloudiness of her mind.

That she would get better. That she had to get better. She couldn’t let him sing her lullabies for nothing. She had to make up for the worry she was causing him.

She might have said the thoughts aloud, she really wasn’t sure. Her body was growing fuzzy, the world around her melting in and out of focus.

What she was sure of was that Astarion paused for the briefest of moments, brought his lips to her brow. He murmured against her skin, that he was holding her to that promise. That he would need her to get better so she could help him come up with a name for her new heroic persona while on their languid holiday.

She wanted to promise that she would, if only because she loved him so much she couldn’t bear upsetting him. But Astarion started singing again, and his voice suddenly sounded very, very far away, like an echo behind glass.

And then she was gone, lost to sleep, one step closer to healing, just as she had promised.

#astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #bg3 astarion #baldurs gate astarion #astarion baldurs gate #astarion baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #honey the sweeter the sun

[voxofthevoid]

Shibuya Swap Wednesday #6—once again, we'll be here a while! More than usual, since I'll be splitting my focus between this fic and the April anniversary stories this month.

This fic is now 56k and 10 chapters. Part 2 became longer than expected (shocking and unusual, I know) because I keep having to pause the porn for plausibility. Turns out plucking Yuuji from the middle of his Gojou-rescue mission to put him in the middle of a Gojou-fucking mission won't work out without some proper reassurance.

"Is this really alright?”

Satoru tilts his head to the side. “Why wouldn’t it be? Don’t tell me you’re saving yourself for someone.”

“No,” Yuuji sighs, using his newly freed hand to rub his forehead, briefly covering his eyes. It’s not as soothing as he hoped. “It’s Gojou-sensei. I know you said the other me will help him, but…how are you sure?”

“I’m not,” Satoru says simply, shrugging when Yuuji glares up at him. “But if you’re here, he must be there in your world. Jujutsu is all about balance. Cursed energy craves it, demands it. It’s not just a reasonable assumption, it’s the only one that fits. And as long as Yuuji’s there, no one is touching your precious sensei. Well, Yuuji might touch him.” Satoru’s expression darkens suddenly, but it returns to normal—if anything about those bright eyes and mean mouth can be called normal—just as fast. “But that’s fine! I get to pop your cherry. Balance in all things. Or maybe I’m the winning party here…”

“Please stop talking,” Yuuji says dazedly, drowning in a fresh flood of filthy images.

“Sure,” comes the suspiciously easy agreement. “If you give me something better to do with my mouth.”

“Satoru-san!”

“You’re really cute.” Satoru leans down, startling Yuuji with a quicksilver kiss that makes his whole body thrum. “Think of it this way—there’s nothing you can do. This isn’t a technique or curse. None of us did this. Strange shit happens when cursed energy is involved, but not all of it needs sorcerer intervention. We’ll give it a day or two, and if you’re still here, I’ll brave the higher-ups for you.”

“Oh.” Yuuji didn’t think of that. How he got here still makes no sense to him, but he’s used to that; he’s not used to Gojou also not knowing the answers. “Is that safe? The execution, isn’t it—”

“There will be no execution.”

Yuuji’s mouth clicks shut, the words withering in his throat at that tone. He didn’t think about that either—his counterpart here being alive, clearly an adult but very much alive.

My Yuuji ate him up ages ago, Satoru said. Yuuji didn’t think about that. He doesn’t want to think about that.

“They won’t be happy, and I’d rather avoid involving them,” Satoru says, and Yuuji focuses on him, thankful for the distraction. “But if it comes to that, I’ll protect you, Yuuji!”

“Thanks.” And Yuuji means it, but— “You look way too happy about that though.”

“I’ve never had to protect Yuuji before,” Satoru tells him, still weirdly cheerful. “It’ll be fun! Anyway, are you done worrying?”

“I guess so. As long as Gojou-sensei will be okay, I don’t really care what happens to me.”

Satoru goes strangely still, even his eyes seeming to freeze. “Huh.”

“What?” Yuuji asks warily.

“You really are Yuuji.”

“Of course I am. You know that.”

“You keep proving it.” Satoru shakes his head and straightens up, smiling a really weird smile. Yuuji’s focus is torn between that and the shifting pressure on the quickly congealing mess in his pants.

“Satoru-san, get off—”

He does, almost before Yuuji’s finished speaking, but only to settle between Yuuji’s legs instead, spreading his thighs wider and—

Yuuji shivers as he’s unzipped and exposed, his messy dick extracted by nimble fingers.

“You did make such a mess.” Satoru licks his lips. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean you up.”

Yuuji’s inexperienced, not an idiot; he knows what’s coming. The wet pink of Satoru’s tongue still catches him off guard.

“Satoru-san,” he gasps, jolting at the teasing lick to the tip of his cock. “That’s so—”

—dirty, he wants to say, and it is, it’s absolutely filthy, the way Satoru’s tongue flattens itself along Yuuji’s cock, covering nearly half of its limp length, but the word gets stuck in his throat with the rest of his breath, and then Satoru’s lapping in earnest, cleaning Yuuji up with sloppy strokes of his tongue. Each one is a lash of heat, bolting from Yuuji’s dick to his spine. Almost too much with how sensitive he is but too good to pull away from, especially when he can see how pretty Satoru’s mouth looks licking him clean. His lips are wet and plump, their pink brighter somehow, and his tongue is obscene, running along the length of Yuuji’s dick, gathering the mess there to swallow it all. It prods at the foreskin, playing with it before lapping at the mess under it.

All of it makes Yuuji’s guts squirm and spine writhe. He has to flatten himself to the mattress to keep himself still; if he starts moving, he won’t stop, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do then. He doesn’t even know what he wants to do. Satoru’s dirty mouth is spilling filth into his flesh, and it’s not the kind of corruption Yuuji’s used to.

Shadowed blue eyes flicker up, as if Satoru’s heard Yuuji’s thoughts, and Yuuji’s lost the second he meets them, unable to look away as Satoru licks him wet and sloppy from root to tip and pulls back a few inches, Yuuji’s still-soft cock now nestled on his palm. Satoru breaks eye contact to stare down at it, a corner of his mouth lifting. It’s not a nice expression, but it’s fond. Yuuji doesn’t know what to do with that. He just can’t look away.

His breath freezes in his lungs as Satoru lowers his head again, guiding Yuuji’s cock into his mouth. It’s an easy fit, the circle of Satoru’s lips meeting the unruly hair at Yuuji’s groin. A rough exhale heats the skin there. Satoru hums softly, and the sound claws at Yuuji’s dick.

“Shit,” Yuuji groans, shuddering all over, and he can’t help reaching out, fisting a hand in Satoru’s hair. It feels like crushing silk. “Satoru-san, that feels…”

Satoru’s eyes dart to Yuuji’s face again and stay there, as motionless as his mouth. It’s the wrong kind of distraction, somehow making Yuuji more aware of how the entire length of his cock is cradled on Satoru’s tongue. It’s hot, the slick muscle under his cock and the damp air all around it. There’s spit pooling in Satoru’s mouth, making another kind of mess on Yuuji’s cock.

The heat in his body has sweetened, losing the too-sharp bite of oversensitivity. If Satoru keeps it up, Yuuji will—

Satoru hums again, and this time, he sucks too, cheeks hollowing and tongue flexing.

Yuuji’s back shudders into a painful arch, his hips shoving up into Satoru’s mouth. There’s no room for it, nothing for him to take. Satoru’s mouth is already flush with his groin, every centimeter of Yuuji’s cock sealed in his mouth. It still feels like something, how he’s holding Satoru’s mouth there and straining to crawl deeper into him. When Yuuji looks down, Satoru’s eyes are fully closed and his features are slack; he looks so content.

“Satoru-san,” Yuuji chokes out.

Another hum, another second of suction.

Yuuji’s thighs flinch closer to Satoru’s head, but before they can trap it there, he rises, letting Yuuji’s cock slide out of his mouth inch by agonizing inch. His tongue’s busy the whole time, moving against the underside and finally swirling around the head, as wet as the spit gleaming on Yuuji’s cock.

“There,” Satoru murmurs, a hoarse edge to his voice. “All clean.”

Yuuji just whines.

Satoru seems to like that, his expression growing smug. He straightens up, rolling his neck and shoulders, and Yuuji knows the movements are exaggerated, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t admire the way those muscles move under all that pretty skin.

“If that’s the last of your…concerns,” Satoru drawls, “shall we continue?”

A thread of exasperation cuts through helpless admiration. “Are you actually asking?”

“No,” Satoru admits cheerfully. “Get up.”

Yuuji sighs and pushes himself into a sitting position. Satoru’s kneeling now, no longer sitting on his own calves. Like this, he towers over Yuuji, whose face is level with Satoru’s chest. Yuuji tries not to stop breathing. After everything that just happened, he really shouldn’t be flustered by all that naked skin being within mouth’s reach.

He tentatively raises his hands to Satoru’s hips, earning himself an approving him.

“Keep going,” Satoru demands.

Yuuji blinks up at him. “Where?”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “What kind of a teenager are you?”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuji says drily. “It’s not like I watch porn with caged-up dicks in it.”

“A very serious gap in your education, clearly.” Satoru nods to himself. “I’ll fix that.”

Yuuji buries his face in Satoru’s chest. It fails to muffle his laughter much, but it feels good, pressing his face into that welcoming flesh. Satoru’s pecs are prettily defined, but the skin layering them is soft and yielding. Yuuji rubs his face against it, turning his head to feel it on his cheek. The nipple poking him is new and a little weird, but not in a bad way.

A heavy hand lands in his hair, ruffling it roughly. “Focus, you pervert.”

“You’re the pervert,” Yuuji mutters, but he looks up, digging his chin into Satoru’s chest. “I still don’t know what you want me to do.”

Satoru’s expression twists into incredulity. “Are you for real right now? My ass, Yuuji. Touch my fucking ass so you can fucking fuck me.”

“Oh…” Yuuji’s brain sputters, blinking out of existence for a moment. When it comes back, his whole body’s burning. “I can do that? I can do that.”

Satoru snorts. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

#goyuu #jjk snippets #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #wip wednesday #my fic #fic: how the story changes #divider credit: saradika-graphics

[shiningqueen]

unraveled / sequel fic / sfw mihawk x afab!oc

I return with a sequel to this fic Rating: SFW / e for everyone. Notes: established friendship, fluff/comfort, pining if you squint, a lot of relevant backstory to my oc Fay. No specific gender pronouns used however. Can you tell Im really obsessed with this character? lol

The ocean is a blanket of silver black underneath the moonlight, eddies and currents glittering like diamonds cast over dark velvet and trapped in perpetual motion. The steady rocking of your boat and the rush of wind billowing into its sail soothes the aching storm still lingering in your chest. You have sailed the treacherous seas for most of your life and the waters have always brought you calm, even when everything felt unraveled and broken.

As Water 7 vanishes behind you, there is only the ghostly flames of Hitsugibune's candles to guide you onwards. They shiver and dance like will-o-wisps in the night, reminding you of tales of errant spirits lost to the wider world when there is nobody to guide them. You are also reminded suddenly that Mihawk had not specified your next destination, only that there was somewhere else you had to be.

A turn of the wheel and a shift of the sail hastens your small vessel through the waves, until it glides silently parallel to the swordsman's wider raft.

"What is our heading?" You raise your voice just enough to carry over the gap and it not be snatched by the midnight wind. The sea has done its work in soothing your nerves for the time being, so your voice does not tremble.

"Sabaody," he drones in reply, "I have business there and I recall you mentioning preferring the typewriter ink sold at the markets." For all the usual indifference of his tone, the fact he specifically sought you out to take you along for something you needed, was touching.

For just a few moments you cling to the endearing warmth brought by Mihawk's words, but the sting of bitterness from what had transpired on Water 7 creeps up like bile in your throat. You reach down and grasp a length of rope, draping it over your lap as you speak up again.

"Mind if I join you?"

Mihawk tilts his head slightly to keep you in his peripheral and extends a hand out, "Toss the line over." He makes short work of tethering your vessel to his and watches as you fix the sail so it did not cause too much drag whilst being guided by Hitsugibune. The two ships draw close enough for you to leap nimbly from one to the other, landing with a cat-like nimbleness on the deck of his raft.

He can tell you are still tense and melancholy from what had transpired on Water 7, despite how sailing usually lulled you into a sense of serenity. That the encounter had shaken you so much again draws forth the notion how little Mihawk knew about you. Well, how little he knew about the specifics of your past. It had crossed his mind occasionally but he was a practical sort. One's past may shape a person but who you were in the present and who you strived to become were far more important. Your dreams and ambitions were what he had invested himself in.

Mihawk tips himself slightly sideways to rest an elbow on the arm of his chair, cheek pressed into palm as he watches you settle down on the deck. He would not pry into your business and was content to wait for you to speak first. In the stretch of quiet, he merely admires the play of moonlight and ghostly candles flickering against the little sequins on your sleeves that made it look like you were covered in mermaid scales. The gold shine of cross shaped earrings dangling from your lobes were a subtle complement to his own iconography that he appreciated. It was entertaining how lately you had begun wearing patterns or jewelry reminiscent of his style.

You half turned towards him, eyes like quicksilver in the dark when they met his. There's something searching in your expression that he cannot quite pinpoint before it vanishes entirely.

A few heartbeats and you decide to fully face him while seated just a few feet from his legs, your own legs crossed and hands rolling the smooth sphere of your Log Pose between them. "Back in the bar, that was my best friend and for a short time, my girlfriend." Both terms come off bitterly, "We grew up together but it took awhile for us to really get close. It's a really long story," you sigh and stare despondently at the Pose in your hands. You couldnt hold Mihawk's stare and tell him this story, the ache in your chest was still too raw. This was not something you ever intended on him knowing but here you are.

"Anyway," a vague gesture made, "best friends, we supported each other through tough times. Shared a lot of good times. She was my writing partner too for a while, we had this whole series planned out." Your voice catches as the memories swim in and out of focus, "She was so creative and insightful and smart, she inspired me to do better as a person and as a writer." The words trail off as you fend off the swelling of emotion that threatens to drown you. Maybe it would have been better to have said nothing at all. It was perhaps too late for such a regret though.

As much as you tried to keep your voice even, how it wavered and the tension bleeding back into your shoulders told Mihawk plenty. How terrible of a betrayal could this person have caused to weigh you down so much? It made him wonder if what transpired was the sole reason for the melancholy that sometimes made you seem so withdrawn. He briefly pulls his gaze from you to watch the seas, nudging Hitsugibune mentally to correct her course.

You steel yourself to summarize everything, "At some point, we got around to admitting we had feelings for each other. But I'll be honest, I was in love with her for a long time before that already. I got really jealous when she was dating some other guy for a brief time." The memory makes you scoff a bit, for how foolish you had been back then. "We dated for four years, she was going through school and I was working just to support myself. Everything was great at first, we made it work when she left home  to study in West Blue."

Here is where the difficult part comes up and you swallow around the lump in your throat, "Near the end, things just started to unravel. For me and for her. I dont know exactly when or why it happened but she stopped telling me important things. I got frustrated with how I always had to bend to what she wanted to do, and it felt like she only placated my interests to keep me in line. I was depressed too, from work and not seeing my family. I felt like I was drifting from her, from everyone." You tip backwards now and sprawl out on the raft's floor, staring up at the star strewn sky and breathing deeply to combat the flush of emotion. Mihawk had been silent, attentive, you could daresay even a little concerned from how he shifted in his seat.

"I messed it up," the admission is soft and heavy with pain, "when she came to visit last, I asked her if we could take a break. I told her I felt like I wasn't good enough for her right then. We argued a bit, but I was so tired and I just wanted some space. Now I know that was wrong of me, I should have figured out how to explain my feelings better but I was not thinking rationally. So I fucked it up."

Guilt gnawing at your insides like the gnashing teeth of bloodthirsty fish, the sound of the ocean rushing in your ears or was that blood pounding in your skull from the turmoil within you? You lift your hands and press the heel of your palms against your eyes with a groan, “I fucked it up and she pretty much buster called the rest of our friendship. Turned all our friends against me, seeded rumors in the community, it felt like I was being outcasted for making a mistake. I ended up leaving entirely after a few months.”

That seemed to be the end of the tale. Mihawk considered everything you had told him and although he struggled empathizing, there is one thing that stands out to him. 

“They did not deserve you,” he said simply, “none of them did. How easily they were swayed by lies, than think critically of your behavior and ask questions, is a slight upon their own character. Not yours.”

When you scoff a little in retort, he’s annoyed at your dismissiveness to his assessment, “You are wise enough to recognize your mistakes in the past, it seemed to me your once love lacks the same self reflection.”

You’re still lying on the floor of Hitsugibune and still irritated with your wallowing, he reaches to grasp your arm and pulls you easily up into sitting. He’s met with wide glassy eyes and an expression he can only describe as vulnerable, which is a first for him to see. Mihawk has borne witness to many facets of your mercurial demeanor but he’d never seen you look so fragile. It softens the ire in him with almost laughable swiftness.

“I’ve never been good enough, not for her, not for anyone. That’s how it felt, as soon as I stumbled, I was worthless.” The way you unravel with fear and insecurity has him scowling, but not in any way that is disdainful of you. No, anger buzzes beneath his iron-wrought self control for the people who failed to see the truth of you. A clever, intelligent, utterly tenacious person with so much potential that was still blossoming.

Mihawk tsks and takes both your hands in his; delicate palms and fingers dwarfed by his larger ones, “You are allowed to stumble, to make mistakes, it does not make you worthless to fail. Not when you pick yourself up after and learn to do better.” His tone is calm and certain, steadying against the tremor he can see in your shoulders.

The affirmations sink into the hurting parts of you, and you struggle between digesting the conviction in his tone and the malignant insecurity poisoning you. Yet you knew Mihawk never wasted breath on meaningless words. He hated small talk and empty flattery. The warmth of his hands encompassing yours crawls up your arms and eases the chill touch of anguish.

When you find the breath to speak, you also muster the courage to meet the warlord's piercing stare. The intensity of his eyes never fails to spark electricity along the length of your spine, "I know you're right, but seeing her again so unexpectedly, just made all the hurt come back. I was so angry at how callously she treated me, and angry at myself too, for how foolish I had been at the time."

Mihawk hums and tugs you to stand, gliding a few fingers under the sleeves of your shirt to stroke the inside of your wrists. It makes your breath catch a little. Such casual touches were rare between you two, let alone ones that lasted as long as this. He was not a tactile person and there was always a sort of aloofness in his friendship with you, a distance carefully maintained so that the wider world wouldnt read too much into your association.

Yet here out on the open ocean without the risk of prying eyes and the softness you displayed for him, Mihawk thought it worth overstepping the unspoken boundary. He could tell you needed some manner of tangible comfort and he was fond of you enough to want to provide it.

"As I said, she and whoever else, did not deserve you. That is even more true now, for how you have blossomed in your ambitions without her." He reiterates, intent on how you slowly relax as the invisible weight dissipates bit by bit. The way your pulse quickens imperceptibly beneath his light touches is tucked away in some corner of his mind for later.

You breathe out slowly and reluctantly tug your hands free from his grasp, but not with the intent to draw away. If Mihawk took liberty to touch you so tenderly, you felt it was worth stepping closer between his legs and leaning forward to embrace him. Arms around his shoulders and burying your face against the high collar of his brocade coat. There is just a few seconds that he tenses up from your closeness but then you feel one of his own limbs carefully curl around you, allowing you to rest more fully into him. You inhale the salt, cologne and steel of him with relish.

"Thank you," a little muffled but Mihawk hears you, he just chooses not to respond in lieu of basking in the moment. The warmth of you against his chest, the citrus-sweet scent that clings to you, the contrarian thrill and peace he felt from the embrace.

Fatigue creeps its way into your bones after so long though and you intend on pulling away, going back to your ship and dozing against the wheel until dawn. Sensing the onset of your dropping energy levels, Mihawk surprises you as he scoops you handily up into his lap entirely. You squirm with a mixture of surprise and bashfulness, face heating up from the flurry of sensation that comes from being held against him so intimately.

"Hey-"

"You're tired," he interrupts coolly, "stay and rest for a bit." The curl of his arm around you is firm, and he tilts his head to peer at your flustered face. "Don't get used to it," he adds dryly, squeezing you in subtle emphasis to what he was allowing.

You cant muster any sort of response over the pounding of your heart, and decide to just stay silent. As your pulse settles, you rest your head on his shoulder and try not to read too much into Mihawk letting you doze in his lap.

Sleep is not far behind as you relax in the sense of safety and comfort found with him.

#|mine| #|lumi's tidbits| #one piece fanfiction #mihawk x reader #mihawk x oc #dracule mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk x oc #fluff and comfort

[whirld-of-color]

oof, couldn’t get my oc in in time for the reality show thing, but i figured id post her anyway!

( @lara-prisma-avm-ask-blog , since she was meant to be a submission!)

olympia is a stick that lives in the game of Slime Rancher (brought to you by the fact that im in the middle of playing slime rancher 2), and works as an assistant and friend for Mochi Miles, a character in the game!

(yeah that’s her actual name yes i find this funny as hell in the light of mochi red existing)

olympia wanted to participate in the game show because Mochi wants to add upgrades to nimble valley and explore more of the Far Far Range, which…you need money for!

zi specializes in corralling and managing quicksilver slimes, which move super quick, and so zi has electric roller skates to match! her ponytail bubble can hold just about anything that can fit, but she mostly uses it to pick up quicksilver plorts

olympia is like, the token mean girl of any reality tv show. assertive, confident, incredibly rude to the people who cross her, willing to lie and cheat… yeah ok i set her up to be an anagonist

anyway, figured i might as well post zoom even if im never touching zoom as a character ever again! i did spend, like, half an hour on her

#original posting #oc reference #avm oc #ava oc #animator vs animation #animation vs minecraft #alan becker #sorry i want to show her off #olympia tag

[junypr-camus]

Tears of the Sea

Thank you @flashfictionfridayofficial for the prompt!

For the precious chord whose echoes have faded from her hallowed halls, and, now gone, can never be strummed again. 

It’s dark in the space between the stars. It’s dark, and it’s cold, and it’s empty, and it’s where she goes to clear her head. To get away from the murmurs of the stars and the whispers of the winds. 

She closes her eyes, feels the touch of robes spun from the breath of a newborn star, and listens. 

Beyond the silence is a scream. 

A scream that winds around her until she’s caught in its embrace. A scream that tugs, ever stronger, until she takes a step and time spins and spools and falls away. 

And she’s on a beach. The sand like stars again skin darker than the end of time, the waves a kiss upon milky cheeks. 

And the scream is louder. 

And the scream is death.

The water stings with the chill of the deep as she draws a ragged breath. In. Out. And the air in her lungs burns of salt and sand and scorching sun. In. Out. 

She doesn’t need to breathe. She lives on the light of the stars and the stars alone. When they flicker and fade for the last of their lives so too will she be gone. 

But the air in her lungs cleans the dust from her mind, and with each breath the turquoise clears from silver eyes and she begins to see. Each building a link. Each link a chain to girdle the earth around her slender waist like a python around the snowy heron. 

And the earth weeps.

She weeps the tears of a world beaten and broken and bruised. Tears that fly through the crumbled arches and stagnant fountains and broken dreams. Painting over the work of the people with nimble fingers.

A reminder of all that once was. A reminder of all that will be.

She weeps not for her enchainment. Not for death that holds her so gently, waiting for her last gasping breath. 

But for the birds that no longer sing. The trees that no longer sigh. The winds that no longer whisper as angels do.

For the precious chord whose echoes have faded from her hallowed halls, and, now gone, can never be strummed again. 

Eva watches, and she sees, and she too feels herself weep with tears that fall heavy like quicksilver before melting into the sea.

#writing #writeblr #flash fiction fridays #fff192 #flash fiction #cloudstrider #original writing #creative writing

[noitar-arat]

Title: Dark Paraiso

Rating: T

Pairings: Vayne/Milletian

Summary: the underworld is a lonely, desolate world. Perfect for one to reflect and be confronted by remnants of a forgotten past.

Author’s Note: a very headcanon heavy ficlet. It doesn’t go anywhere particular but I’ve been repeatedly listening to fairytale by Alexander rybak for the past day. SPOILER HEAVY FOR C7

There is twitching in the corner of his eye, a shimmer of grey and violet, and he turns his head, to spy a figure darting out of sight like quicksilver.

He sees it again, mooned on the tower, but each time he lifts his proud chin to glare, it flutters away, like a shy baby bird. Maybe he is tired. Maybe it is the reflection of their dark fire, rippled against the light of the moon. Even dark fae have bodies and minds that tire, especially after the potency of such a curse. His horns ache for the first time in centuries, like the worn knucklebones of labour farmers.

~

Cailleach is a spectre of lily pad green, age dribbled into her fair face, body pillowed and sexless. She had chosen to age like mortals, in a wish to partake in their pain. It had doddered her, made her slow, gullible.

Yet there were things in which she remained shrewd. She looks upon Beimnech with her eyes dark as summer honey, flecked with the aged autumn notes of her gathering years. Cailleach is universes older than him.

"Is there nothing I can say to convince you?" She pleads with a voice like softly falling sand. "Nothing I can say to remind you, even with our past?"

"The past is gone." Beimnech sits, the ponderous weight of his armor and a thrumming in his skull where the two horns are locked onto the bone. One of his earliest dark spells, a physical mauling of the body to tell all on which side he had chosen to dwell. The others had recoiled, as was his intention. Cailleach wept. She could configure everything once grandiose, marvellous, into the small simpering effects of missed opportunities, a callous call for kindness when the self should swell.

Kethlenda is not human, nor will she ever be. She had dulled herself, deadened her senses and her once-prodigious magic, out of a jealousy spun as curiosity for the creatures called milletians.

"It be the nature of curses," speaks Beimnech, a hand held to his heavy chest. He is certain he can see the girl, shadows in the corner of her eye, sunshine hair and nimble ankle, spinning. " I cannot remove or abide them, once they are cast. They run their course, or remain dormant, like the stars and sun. The most enduring of magics, they are."

Cailleach sighs.

'As always," she whispers. She cannot hate him, after all this time. "I wish you happiness, Beimnech."

~

The girl finally chooses to appear. Not in her courtyard, where her shadow has chased her monsters into the depths of the castle, but no. The irony is a fool's concept, but Beimnech laughs when he sees her, sitting tenderly at the end of her bed.

She wears not her royal gown, or devastated armor stitched by token magic, but the apron dress. She has been waiting patiently, slim fingers sweetly pleated into her lap. Well mannered. Kethlenda has certainly done her work.

She is not there in the flesh, for she wears a dream skin, incandescent under the light of the crescent moon.

"You put me here, didn't you?" Her voice sings pure and Beimnech feels a hackle up his back. Ugh.

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Thank you?" Beimnech cackles. "You poor fool. I trap you in a sleep that deems you ageless whilst the world withers around you, and you offer me thanks? Why I would say you were welcome if I knew you would appreciate the irony."

The girl creases her simple brow, tucks a sunshine curl behind her ear.

"I would have aged," she says, slowly. "I would have known a different life to the one I loved. Like this, I cannot leave the ravine or the palace. Like this, my dream will live on."

"Foolish." Beimnech feels, for a moment, weary. She has barely spoken two sentences and already he has a mild headache. Never mind the nonsense of the spectre sparkling in the reflection of the sun and sending her minions screaming into the moat. Half her forces have drowned themselves in protest. What would be grimly humorous is hurt by the peculiarity of the situation. "You do not know what awaits you, do you?"

"Not as of yet." She shakes her golden head. "But I shall find joy in what I do have."

Beimnech waits for her to leave. She doesn't. She sings and spins, her ice bright voice coiling the dead vines of the ravine at her feet flush with flowers.

Beimnech ponders if her curse, much like the gifts he had bestowed, has attached to the her centre, blown her dormant powers high and wild. Kethlenda has captured half the courtyard, bewitched the black and dead thorns to sprout blossoms pink as a baby's lips, to rise green grasses and wildflowers severing through the mouldy brick.

Time has begun to go by. Universes are constantly reset as he plays out the previous events over and over. He is no longer stuck battling an unwinnable battle, but now stuck in a different hell.

Truly a triumph for him, but he feels an apathy, for what the universe has lost he has unwillingly gained.

His pondering is interrupted as Kethlenda shakes her head free. Small flowers nest in it, winding around the hairs, a true crown for anybody of the fomors. She is seated beside Beimnech on the balcony, coyly patting out her ragged skirt.

"It is always so dark where you are," she says with her siren sweetness. It is positively uncomfortable for Beimnech's kind. "Surely, some sun. Maybe a walk in nature. To taste, to see, to be."

"I can see, taste, take all I need," warns Beimnech. At times, the strike of his temper has awakened a needed space for strife, struggle. Now, as if she is nursing a lame bear with a bad temper, Kethlenda remains mellow, levelled. "I require nothing more than what I have."

"What about what I have?"

Beimnech turns his fiery eyes to her.

"What are you talking about?"

"Surely, if what has been done is your doing," she says, pitch-perfect Kethlenda . "Then I can take a little in return. I did not know the fomors that called my name, but I fear for their wellbeing. I just do not see why I should have been the breaking or making of them."

"Fomors make little sense." Beimnech curls his cold hands around his sword. "Especially when it comes to hereditary inheritances."

"Hm." Kethlenda swings her fine ankles in the breeze, dropping petals and pieces of nest. "Land and blood. Neither of which I require, now I think on it."

"I can see. You are preoccupied with baubles, the frivolities of things such as small animals and flowers. Land and blood would have been wasted." He contemplates, riding a finger on the molten handle of his sword. He tries a smile. "If you wish, I can craft you a land of your own making, a land you can shape freely to your girlish tastes. You would find it more pleasing then what is here, I assure you."

Kethlenda ponders, twining vines into a tiara. She places it on her head, and crowns herself.

"No thank you," she says, politely, as always. "I like it here, for it is here I am needed. Nothing grows. The air is cold. I think a little breeze and greenery would do it good, don't you agree?"

"This is no place for anything like that!" hisses Beimnech, his calm guise stripped away as easy as he slid it on. She doesn't blink, just hums and swings her legs like a child. The vegetation from her budding magic has formed a field below her feet, the long trailing stems from her wooded plants drinking from the moat and clamouring high onto the turrets. Beimnech has struck and singed and cut them down. They rise in the same hour, stronger than before. "Damn you! This is not your domain!"

If the simple girl is capable of any offence, it is in the calling of her birthright. Her lilac eyes tremble and glow with rare furies, and the flowers quake, lightly, like the shiver of a storm long overdue.

"It is by you that I came into this domain," she utters, gentle. "And it is by your power that I remain asleep, for you would have preferred that over my death. You do not have that, so my life, even my dreaming life, is mine, and I shall lie the roots of all that I deem to be mine."

Beimnech hisses and casts his cape aside, disappearing. He expects her to be gone, but she has followed. She makes no sound as she moves, be it by dreamskin or that strange, gliding quality that animates her body like a dandelion cast on the wind. She ghosts her fingers along his arm, which causes a shudder as if she has mauled him.

"Maybe we could share," she offers. "You are lonely. I know you are lonely. That must be awful for you."

Beimnech does not answer. True to her expectations, Kethlenda finally surrenders and dissolves into the drizzle of sunlight through the crumbling balcony.

"It's a strange kind of curse," She whispers to herself. He has not failed her, having witnessed her successes and now, this tiny failure. She twists her neck up, sullen. Dewdrops clasp to his back where she laid her hands, leaving the chilly pattern of her touch. "It could be magnificent, the cruelties of it. Why, even I could not have imagined it such."

~

Kethlenda ages not in body, but in mind. Her clear eyes are daunted not by the promisings of love once dreamed, but with the callow of age. She has become lovely, a marbled statue where the weathering has corroded the mind, but not the body.

She is a charmed woman, body moulded by magic beyond personal choice or design. Beauty that would be cursed under any circumstance minus the privilege of her birth, a voice the sirens would chase to their deaths, grace and composure borne of her birthright.

Kethlenda has fallen in with the rain. Her elfin eyes, pointed nose, her tiny mouth that managed to contain her teeth - all the things that had captivated him, all those years ago in the faraway world where they were birthed - are no longer rumpled by the hoarsening skin of the enchanted aged. She appears mature because she has chosen to be so. She is older now because she is.

"Poor Kethlenda , the halfling ," scowls Beimnech from her bed. "Come to beg for the girl again, the girl you cannot have for our kind does not have the flesh needed for such a task?"

"No, Beimnech." Kethlenda 's translucent wings flutter weakly. The mossy rim that heralds her magic has grown, a surrounding silhouette on her person that beats colour and the vague taste of buttercream and rose. "I am here because we are moving on. There is no more we can do, in this world, and the fairies and fomors have decided that the world is turning from us. It is changing, faster than you know."

"I know all I need."

"Do you?" says Kethlenda , her quavering voice hitched with a shadow of an old hope, before she sighs. "I wish it could be so, but, you have not ventured from our home for many ages, now, and no-one can speak of the sleeping heroine, for your song and story has travelled out of time and tongue."

"You are leaving?"

"Yes, I am leaving."

"You plan to abandon me?" Beimnech's voice rises like a cymbal crash, but Kethlenda 's mauve pebbled eyes are full of pity. "Hear now. You speak of love and promises, and now you flee?"

Kethlenda does not reply, at least at first. She skitters over to the window, where the flowers have begun to scale the structure, kissing the bottom window sills.

"I believe we can all agree," she answers deftly. "That what is here is not exactly The Who you sent to sleep, all those years ago."

"You believe her wicked?"

"It's not in her nature." The room shivers, vines crawling across the flagstones and strangling her bedposts. The first show of Kethlenda 's rare temper. "I would know. I raised her. I loved her."

"No," Beimnech cranes his grey fingers around his chest. The flesh there beats with the memory of a heart long taken. "You cursed her when you bestowed upon a mortal child our gifts, which do not serve as well as we like, bound we are to our natures, and you served it to human folly. What did you believe she would become?"

Kethlenda says nothing, her rail body tucked up high up on her bed, just observes the gardens below, and finally, Beimnech.

"Goodbye, Beimnech."

"That is all I have?" Beimnech extends a clawed hand to take Kethlenda 's hand, freezing, in his own. Kethlenda mutedly gasps - a shade of her own past fear - but does not move away. "After all that has passed, this is all you leave me?"

"I never left you." Kethlenda places a quivering palm over the lock of Beimnech's fingers. "You left us."

Beimnech scoffs, crackling his skin and body with spider legs of black lightning, but it's a sigh in place of a scream, and Kethlenda tilts up her head and kisses the reddish scarred skin of his face.

It disarms him. Settles the fury, weak, in his bones, and when he nudges up her to chase the mouth there, there is nothing, save the fading twinkle of Kethlenda 's magic and the vines, founded by anger, now weeping bluebells.

~

Elise, in her funereal lilac, sits astride the first step of her tree at the ravine

"You came back," she says, voice soft like a running glade. The rats patrol among her feet, directed by the song in her words. She sings even as she speaks. "After everything, you are here."

"What other place can I possibly haunt?" Beimnech strokes the frail rotten wood of the tree . It has turned to dust, the imprint of claw and marrow all that is left of his beloved. "This is my home."

Elise stands, smiles.

"I thought we could share."

"That has to be a mutual arrangement."

"Has it?"

Beimnech stares at her with a glare steady as the stone around it, and Elise extends her pale wrist like a vine and presses a corporal finger to the place where Kethlenda laid her final caress, and his horns crumble away, to reveal the blotted and bruised skin beneath.

"Damn you," Beimnech breathes, as the girl rests her cold cheek against his own, the posy lips stealing the shadow of Kethlenda ’s kiss. "Damn you."

The vines at Elise’s feet creep up, up, covering them both, until they are bound, rooted.

Beimnech closes his eyes, dreams.

#cc_writing

[certifiedwerewolf]

I made some new blorbos! They are: Haddok Meadowgreen (he/she), Jack-Be-Nimble (she/her), Quicksilver Redflower, and The Honorable Wilder Hannity (both he/him)

[slimeshots]

They are orbs when they fall down

#Slime Rancher #quicksilver slime #Nimble Valley #.gif

[haunted-doodles]

Finally, my found family together in one place. as they should be.

#junk hunters #nimble quicksilver #viktor montressor #oc #oc art #idunno how to tag this sorta shit lmao #i love them though. im so glad my non-pixel art is getting better :} still need to work on line weight though. #the seperate refs are accurate- I just flipped nim so they fit together better in the main one :} #ANYWAY THEMMMMM #LOVE THEMMMMM #OGUHOGUHGUOH #Im sooooo normal #i wanna get good at posing and shit so then i can start making it a comic #flat refs are a good start tbh

[monomipark]

Mochi’s Megabucks Update

Mochi’s Megabucks Update is now available for PC!

Watch the trailer here!

Read the full patch notes here! See you at the races~

#Slime Rancher #Mochi Miles #Mochi's Megabucks Update #quicksilver #quicksilver slimes #game update #indie dev #indie game #gaming news #game news #update #slime #slimes #Nimble Valley

[puddlesslime]

speedy friends!

#quicksilver slime #nimble valley #mine #slime rancher

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 3

A/N As promised, Jamie returns in this chapter.  He has an appointment to keep, after all.   Because I can’t think of anything more creative, this chapter is entitled “Second Appointment”.  For previous chapters, your best bet is to check out the story on my AO3 page.

The week both crept and flew past, like one of those dreams in which she ran until her lungs burned, but never managed to get anywhere.  Kinetic motion trapped in amber.   Claire never did tell Geillis about her excursion to Corstorphine Hill over the weekend, embarrassed by how it had ended.  

And now it was Thursday.  She’d opted for a protein smoothie for lunch, a meal with no chance of leaving leafy residue between her teeth.  It was likely wasted vanity.  As two o’clock drew near, she bargained with herself to abandon any hope she may be harbouring.  Jamie Fraser had shown no interest in participating in the psychiatric process during his first appointment.  Fraternal obligation had brought him to her office once, but he didn’t strike her as a man who yielded the reins of his life easily.  It wasn’t likely he would return.

When it came his distinctive knock, crisp and insistent, caught her unawares, even though she’d just been staring at his name in her planner.  She hastily pushed the items on her desk to one side, patted uselessly at her curls, and called out for him to enter.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Beauchamp,” he greeted cautiously.  “Miss Duncan told me tae come straight in.”

There was something different about him today.  His clothing, certainly.  Instead of casual wear, he wore trousers and a button down, wet splotches over the shoulders attesting to the fact that it had begun raining again.  And while he still took up an inordinate amount of space in her small office, he seemed... diminished, somehow.  A paler echo of the fireworks display of his first visit.

“Of course.  Please have a seat, Mister Fraser.”

“Jamie, if you will,” he corrected as he settled gingerly into the armchair.  “Mister Fraser was my Da.”

Something about his tone and the fact his laser blue eyes wouldn’t meet her own as he spoke the words caused her to lean into his statement.

“Did your father pass away recently, Jamie?”

A moment, an indrawn breath of panic, and then it was cleverly masked with a wry glance.

“Aye, last year.  An’ yer no’ very subtle, doctor.”

“I didn’t realize subtlety was called for,” she parried.  “You made another appointment, and I specialize in grief counselling.  Why else would you be here?”

Despite the fact that it wasn’t productive from a psychiatric point of view, she enjoyed his reluctance to hastily expose his inner demons.  Too often, her practice required her to work carefully in order to avoid shaping the pliable emotions of her patients.  While obviously hurting, Jamie had an unflinching, unalterable quality that she admired.  Not to mention that the intellectual game of cat and mouse they were playing was wildly stimulating.

“I suppose I enjoyed our conversation,” Jamie teased.  “An’ Miss Duncan’s shortbread.”

With an awkward squint that she imagined was meant to be a wink, her patient rose to investigate the current offerings on her tea table.

“Och, petit fours!” he exclaimed with childlike glee and perfect French pronunciation.  “There was a café none too far from my flat in Paris tha’ made these.  I’d often grab some on my way tae the office.”

He returned to the desk with a small plate of the pastries, pushing it towards her as he settled into his seat.

“No, thank you.  I’ve just eaten.”

Like a searchlight, his bright eyes didn’t miss much.  He glanced significantly at the half-empty plastic smoothie container to one side of her desk.  Rather than chide her for her austerity, as Geillis frequently did, he instead made a show of biting into each of the four little squares until there was nothing left but crumbs.  Her stomach muttered in complaint.

“What did you do in Paris?” she asked as he finished his snack with a contented sigh.

“Oh, a wee bit of this and that,” he demurred.  In response to her exasperated look, he continued, “I started out at the Bourse.  Futures, options, arbitrage, that sort of thing.  I have a good ear fer languages, sae from there I went into foreign exchange.  Import export, and the like.”

“You’re a financier?” she asked, somewhat more incredulous than she ought to be.  She wasn’t certain what she had pictured James Fraser doing for a living, but greasing the wheels of capitalism definitely wasn’t it.

“Was,” he corrected.  “I quit an’ came home tae Scotland last year.”

“When your father died,” she guessed.

“Aye.”

She once again had the sense of standing in front of a locked door that Jamie had no intention of opening.  Rather than hammer uselessly on its stubborn surface, she nimbly diverted the conversation sideways.

“What do you do for work now?”

A slow blink followed by a dawning smile indicated he was aware of her stratagem.

“I’m a carpenter.”

It was rare for Claire to be truly surprised by people.  She made a living reading their unspoken cues.  Twice in the same conversation was unheard of.

“A carpenter?” she repeated as though she hadn’t heard him perfectly well the first time.

“Aye.  Like Jesus, ye ken?”

With a quicksilver grin, Jamie launched into a description of his current occupation, which involved the making of reproduction antiques and custom pieces for clients around Scotland.  She realized with a start that she’d read an article about his business in a popular local magazine.  

International financier.  Self-made entrepreneur.  Tall drink of water.  James Fraser had a lot of things going for him.  And yet here he sat, paying her by the hour to listen to him avoid talking about whatever hardship had befallen him.

She mentally composed a list of the topics he was deftly avoiding with his charming anecdotes.  His father’s recent death.  The reason behind a radical change in career.  Living in the city on account of unspoken ‘family obligations’, even though his verbal reminiscence of the Highlands was so poetic it damn near made her cry.  There was something raw just below the surface of his nonchalance, and her innate curiosity cried out to find out what it was.

“You told me last week that your sister, Jenny, insisted you attend counselling.  But you said that you’re handling matters fine on your own.  Can you tell me why your sister believes otherwise?”

It might have been amusing to see such a large man squirm in different circumstances.  His left hand furrowed through his hair, setting the autumn waves on end.  His mouth, so recently relaxed and mobile as he eagerly shared the details of his craft, froze in a pained frown.  She considered whether she had pushed too hard too soon.

“I gave a lot of thought tae what ye said when we parted last week,” Jamie began at last.  “Tae be honest, it haunted me.  Jen kens me better than anyone, an’ while I like tae complain tha’ she meddles where she doesna belong, the truth is she’s truly scared fer me.  An’ even if I dinna agree tha’ my lifestyle is cause fer concern, I owe it tae her tae try tae sort myself out.  I owe her far more than that,” he finished with a rueful shake of his head.

“What kind of lifestyle has your sister so worried?” she probed.

“Whisky, women and song,” he quipped, before adding, “Weel, I canna carry a tune, but twa out of three isna half bad.”

He tried to smile away the awkward tension that descended on the office, the air ripe with unspoken words.  Claire felt disappointment whirlpool in her gut.  Just another charming rake, after all.  It really shouldn’t matter, and yet somehow it did.  More than she dared to admit.

“Yes, well, the road of excess leads to the palace of consequences, ” she sniffed at last, angry at herself for sounding like a schoolmarm.  What a bore she must seem to him, with her regimented behaviour and rigid morals.

Jamie rose abruptly, and for a half-second she imagined he might lunge at her, or storm from the room.   Instead, he spun around to face the door.  Without a word, he untucked his shirt and began to expose his lower back.

Claire was momentarily stunned silent.  Just as she managed to draw a deep enough breath to censure Jamie for his highly inappropriate strip tease, the golden velour of his lower back transformed without warning into a furrowed landscape of scar tissue, ripples and craters left by some massive trauma.  The air left her lungs on a questioning sigh.

“I ken all about consequences, Doctor Beauchamp,” he stated.  “I live with them every moment of my life.”

Her fingers found the knotted skin, surprisingly warm and mobile beneath her touch.  A shiver shimmered over the unmarred muscle of his flanks.

Before she could find any appropriate words of apology, the office door opened and Geillis stuck her head in.  She barked a cough upon seeing Jamie’s state of undress and Claire’s position, leaning across her desk.  Doctor and patient jumped apart like opposing magnets.

“Sae sorry for the interruption, but yer three o’clock is here.  Should I tell her ye’ve been... delayed?”

Jamie muttered an obscenity under his breath which Claire whole-heartedly seconded.  There was no way Geillis wasn’t going to be utterly insufferable about this.

“Mister Fraser was just leaving, Geillis.”

With a lewd wink and a nod, the door closed.

“Look, Jamie...” she began just as he apologized.  “I’m sae sorry, lass.”

They both laughed nervously.  Jamie finished tucking his shirt into his pants and turned to face the desk.

“I hope this willna cause ye any difficulties with Miss Duncan,” he began, eyes wide with concern.

“No more so than usual,” she sighed. “Geillis is a good friend.  She just... doesn’t know when to quit, sometimes,” she explained.

“Sounds jus’ like my sister.  Perhaps we should introduce them.”

She smiled, struggling to find something else to say to move past the moment.  She could hear Geillis and her next patient conversing just outside the door.  There was no time left for subtlety.

“Will I see you again next week, Jamie?” she asked, giving up on finding a more oblique way of phrasing the question that was reverberating through her mind.

Jamie’s bashful smile dipped towards the floor, causing his hair to fall in front of his eyes.

“Aye.  I’ll even keep my clothes on, if ye ask nicely.”

It was that smile, that hair, those eyes, that carried her through the rest of her week, aloft on the anticipation of something utterly forbidden.

#my writing #outlander

[shiningsilverarmor]

Beware, ANTI-HEROES . . .

He be nimble.

He’s most certainly be quick.

Cause Quicksilver can cut through your candlesticks. 

#thanks grand #now keep looking at his handsome face #hero au #??

[sleepylixie]

Dagger's Smile

\ 구미호/Gumiho is a Korean folk legend of a nine-tailed fox. It is said to have magical shapeshifting abilities, a knack for mischief and an almost seductive nature in some legends. The Korean gumiho is believed to have similar characteristics to the Chinese huli jing and Japanese kitsune.//

Gumiho-King! Chan X Gumiho! Fem Reader

1.4k words, Fluff/Action, Beware of: inexplicit violence.

Fantasy AU, Supernatural! SKZ, Gumiho! Chan from this fic from the In Umbra Universe! (Can be read individually, of course :D)​

Request? : Yes!!

A/N: Hello my favourite bean! Thank you so much for requesting this fic, it really gave me a lot of perspective and inspiration to expand In Umbra even more!!! I hope you enjoy this lil offering, do let me know what you think!!

Drop me an ask! || Masterlist

People bowed low to Chan wherever he went-too low. He’d tried hard to get them to stop but to no avail. Especially after his decisions that protected them in the Faelight war, Chan had been hailed as a god-king, a hero of heroes, the saviour of Gumiho-kind. But he only did what they had crowned him to do. Why was he being celebrated this way? Except for her. Only her. 

She’d meet his eye, the only person standing upright in a wave of people bowing at the waist. She’d always give him that smirk, the cheeky smirk he’d grown to be amused by, and slightly incline her head. Her hair would always fall into her eyes at the action and the second he blinked, she’d be gone. Despite his visits to the marketplace of Liska, the gumiho capital becoming a rare occurrence, Chan had always kept an eye out amongst his people for a quick sight of her smile. There was something wild about her; warm like a wildfire- only seconds away from sparking mischief and disaster. He wanted to meet her someday, talk to her, find out more behind that intriguing smile. 

//

“You’re a girl, there’s only so much you can do.” A snarl worked its way up to your throat, wild and unrestrained. The twin daggers at your waist were itching to be thrown but you withheld the urge, only levelling a glare at your opponent- an older man, eyes narrowed in disdain. He looked positively fiendish, his skin stretching thinly over his skull, a cheap-looking sword held in a death-grip in one hand. “You’re just scared of getting beaten by a girl.” You sneered, baring your teeth- your elongated canines winked at the man, razor-sharp and lethal. You should rip his guts out of his body for his behaviour. You cocked your head, a provoking smirk dancing across your lips. “I’m right, aren’t I? Coward.”

Predictably, the man responded with a roar of his own, charging towards you. Rolling your eyes infinitesimally, you dodged the first swipe before nimbly getting under his guard, twisting his non-dominant arm behind him. He exclaimed in a blind rage, trying to swipe at you with his blame. Quickly kicking the back of his knee, you clubbed the man’s dominant hand with the handle of one of your daggers, triggering a yell of pain and dropping his sword. Without missing a beat, you kicked him in the back of the head, pushing him onto the dusty ground. “Next time, pick on people your own size,” you growled at him, kicking him once more for good measure. Ignoring the now groaning man, you turned around and marched towards the old woman who was huddled against the tree, gently helping her stand up. “I hope you’re not too hurt, ma’am,” you mumbled softly, smiling politely at the old lady. Her wispy silver hair floated across her face as she stood up straight. She smiled back at you thankfully, unconcerned by your slightly disheveled appearance- despite being dressed in the trappings of a proper young lady, you had an armored belt at your waist and your hair had been reduced to its usual mess. “Thank you, child.” “Why was he bothering you?” You asked, leading her back to the beaten track that led lack to Liska, your home. You’d been out picking wildflowers from amongst the trees on either side of the track so you could make flower crowns for the maids when you’d stumbled into the vile man picking on the poor old lady- your training had instantly kicked in. Growing up as the oldest free-spirited daughter of a well-off gumiho household, you were often faced with the unfortunate sexism that ran rampant in your city. You were a spark of flame, all quicksilver temper and righteous outspoken rage, the crown jewel of your household. Your father, one of the generals in the army, had no qualms in teaching you everything you knew, from basic swordsmanship and archery, even going as far as to gift you your precious obsidian daggers.  Even though all gumiho were born with magic, you loved the thrill of a fight. “He stole my son’s magic.” A spark of rage raced across your system. Stealing a gumiho’s magic could leave the victim dead to the world, their body lost without a soul to anchor. The new king had placed stringent bans on it, pronouncing it a crime below that of lowlife scum. And yet… A choking sound next to you had you reeling back in surprise, a scream ripping from your throat at the sight of the old lady- her hands scrabbling at her neck as she was lifted off the ground, back arching in pain. It took you a split second to turn frantically in the same direction you came and you saw him- the bastardly man from earlier had his arm out, clearly aiming to hurt or kill the poor lady. Your temper swirled inside you, whetted instantly to a deadly edge and your body moved instantly, acting on reflex. Before he could try anything to hurt you, you lunged towards him, your daggers already in your hands-

And his hand was cut clean off his body, an unearthly wail leaving the man as he fell to his knees, clutching his stub of a wrist. An obsidian dagger almost twin to your own was stuck in a nearby tree, still vibrating from the force of the throw. Who’d thrown a dagger with such deadly accuracy that they’d managed to slice through skin and bone? You got your answer when a figure stepped into the soft afternoon light- your eyes widened. You’d recognise that face anywhere- the handsome sharp nose, the clean planes of skin marred by a scar down one eye. The King. // You sat outside the physician’s quarters- the royal physician’s quarters, watching the afternoon light fade into evening. The palace sat on the ledge of one of the hills that overlooked the valley Liska was built on, making for a picturesque sunset. The old lady you (and the King) had saved was not in danger, thankfully; she’d only sustained light bruises to her neck. You let out a sigh, your hands thumbing the daggers at your belt as your thoughts began racing. The King had asked you to accompany him to the palace, so you could stay with the lady until she was treated. Why had he asked for you? Was he unamused by your refusal to bow to him in the marketplace every time he visited? He didn’t seem comfortable with everybody bowing that low around him, it didn’t feel right to bow like that!! Why did you have to send him an impertinent smile every time? What were you thinking?! Your fingers tapped a nervous beat on your dagger’s scabbard. What should you do? Pretend you didn’t know what he was talking about? Maybe you could- “Y/N, yes?” You scrambled to your feet at the sound of the King’s voice, smooth and authoritative but not too loud. Dropping into a curtsy, you tucked a lock of hair behind your ear- curses for forgetting to fix your hair before an meeting the King. “Yes, Your Majesty.” You said quietly, unsure of looking him in the eye. “Why don’t you look me in the eye?” He sounded amused, warm- at odds with his intimidating aura. “You didn’t mind staring me down in the marketplace.” A rare prickling feeling heated up your neck; why wouldn’t the Mother Goddess choose this moment to remove you from this mortal plane? He’d remembered you- what were you to do? Shoring up what was left of the shreds of your bravado, you raised your head, smiling the same smile that you’d tossed at him all those times before. “You sound like you missed my pretty smiles, Your Majesty.” To your utter surprise, the King’s ears turned red instantly, betraying how flustered he was at your response despite the cool mask he had on- oh. The said mask melted into a shy smile, soft lips spreading wide until his dimples showed. “I’d be lying if I disagreed, darling,” Your eyes widened. Did he just- “And please, call me Chan.” // Taglist: @aliceu​ @rebecca-noona​ @decembermoonskz​ @straykidsownmysoul​ @malai-barfi​ @fylithia​ @soya-zz​ @stellarmonsterr​ (DM or drop me an ask to be added to my taglist!)

Network Tags: @inkidz​ @stayracha-net​ @districtninewriters​ @starryktown DO LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!!- Elliana

#bang chan #stray kids #stray kids imagines #skz #skz imagines #skz scenarios #skz drabbles #stray kids scenarios #stray kids drabbles #skz fluff #stray kids fluff #kpop #kpop imagines #kpop oneshots #kpop scenarios #skz x reader #skz bang chan #bang chan x y/n #christopher bang #skz x y/n #ellaskz #stray kids au #stray kids fantasy au