#over a decade of searching through the woods

[appropriatelystupid]

#over a decade of searching through the woods #aging like the finest of wines #miss mcgrath idk if you like nature but nature likes you #literally every project should have her outdoors in natural light at least once #katie mcgrath #morgana #sarah bennett #lena luthor #merlin #slasher #supergirl

[littlejuicebox]

Milk.

Back again for the third time today, this time with some porn with a plot.

I'm really on one with the Dadstarion fics. Something has been unleashed inside me, people.

I need to edit all these headers at some point.

Warnings: babies, angst w comfort, smut, nipple play, breast milk, breast milk drinking, breeding kink, daddy kink, teasing, dirty talk, a bit of soft dom Astarion vibes, 18+ only please

A/N: Most of you already know I'm a degenerate.

-----

Astarion had been uncharacteristically melancholy this week.

Sure, it wasn’t unusual to witness him in one of his moods of irritation or frustration, particularly when some business deal or another was not going particularly well, or a contract he’d already drafted more times than he could count came back to him with more rebuttals.

But to witness this cloud of sadness around your husband, especially after Gale’s birth, was odd. He’d been the picture of domestic joy and fatherhood, completely over the moon in his new role. He even wore the sleeplessness better than you in the first few months, happy to assist where he could so that his little love could get more valuable rest.

However, just recently, his mood had become detached and distant. Everything he did and said seemed tinged with worry or sadness. It reminded you of the spawn version of Astarion from several years ago, almost always caught in a poor memory or concerning line of thought. That version of Astarion hadn’t shown up in a while. You couldn’t be sure what triggered it.

“Gale’s getting quite good at holding his head up,” You inform your husband as you crawl into bed with him after just putting the three-month-old down for the evening.

“That’s wonderful news, darling.” Astarion replies, with that same distant, pensive air he’s addressed you with all week as he focuses on the book in his lap.

You sigh, and put your hand over the book, obscuring the pages and forcing the elf to acknowledge you, “What is it, Astarion? You’ve been in this… mood all week and I’m beginning to worry you’re regretting parenthood.”

Your husband’s eyebrows crinkle as he places the book on his nightstand, staring at you with a mixture of shock, hurt and confusion, “Darling, do you truly think that? What have I done besides absolutely dote on Gale? And on you!”

You realize you’ve misspoken. You see the wounds on your husband’s face as he assesses you, and your hands come to his cheeks, searching his eyes, “No, no I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. I know you don’t regret Gale… I just. I’m worried, Astarion. You seem… sad. Lost in thought in a way I haven’t seen in years and… I don’t know why.”

There is a moment of silence as Astarion’s eyes flash through several thoughts, filtering through a week's worth of garbled noise within his mind. And then he sighs, “I…” he pauses and blinks, forcing himself to meet your gaze, “I’m worried that I won’t be the right masculine role model for Gale. That I’m not strong enough to show him… to show him how to be a good man.”

Your mouth falls open in shock. You cannot even think of something to say, because this certainly wasn’t the direction you thought Astarion would take. He was always quite self-assured in his talents and never hesitant to be the true version of himself after the parasite fiasco over a decade ago.

He continues, “I don’t live in the woods, or whatever it is exactly Halsin does. I’m not an especially talented spell caster like Gale. And I’m fair with a blade but it’s been years since I’ve had use for one and I don’t have the level of training nor regular practice like Wyll nowadays, dear. I review contracts and make investments; I run the winery. I embroider. I’m not exactly the picture of masculinity in comparison to… others.”

There is a moment of quiet between the two of you. Concerned tears form in your husband’s eyes, which he quickly blinks away.

“Astarion… you are the strongest man I know.” You murmur, running a finger along the elf’s cheek as he scoffs and shakes his head. His eyes jerk away from your face; clearly, he does not believe you.

You gasp in shock as you cup his face harder, willing the elf to understand how serious you are. You continue, vehemently, “My love. You cannot seriously believe otherwise! You have endured more than any of us could ever imagine. Over 200 years of… horrible atrocities. And then you came out on the other side of that, after having sacrificed so much — and Astarion, do not ever forget how much you willingly sacrificed — to be better. To choose differently. To be so much more.”

You are ripping the blankets away and crawling into your husband’s lap now, wrapping your limbs around his torso. His head comes to the side of your neck as you hold him, hoping to convey the love and respect you have for the elf with the warmth of your arms. Your fingers latch into the curls on the back of his neck as you speak in a reverent whisper, urging him to believe you.

“I watched you endure years without the sun in more stride than I could have possibly thought. And you are perhaps softer than you were when we met, yes. But this version of you gives me and Gale everything we need and more. I cannot imagine someone stronger or more courageous than you, my love. And I think you have forgotten how much strength it took for you to become this soft in the first place. I love this version of you. And Gale has a wonderful, loving, strong father in this version. Please do not ever doubt that.”

A quiet hum of acknowledgement comes from your husband, but no other words escape him as he lifts his head from the crook of your neck and envelopes your lips in a soft kiss. A thank you.

Your heart is pounding from the passion with which you spoke, and when Astarion’s lips press into yours, that passion and love begins to flow throughout your body. Pieces of you start to wake.

It had been a while since you two were intimate. Not since before Gale's birth. Days and nights had recently been filled with parenthood and left little time nor energy for much else. But as Astarion pushes forward, wrapping his arms around your back, you feel the stirrings of desire deep in your core. A soft moan leaves you as a fire begins to grow where mere glowing embers had been left several months ago.

Astarion must be feeling the same pull, because his hand trails from your back and sneaks under your nightdress to brush along your thigh. He slowly traces up the length of your leg to cup your bottom while he deepens the kiss with a soft, breathy moan of his own. He’s flexing his hips up toward you, the growing bulge in his trousers begging for further stimulation. Your lover’s tongue swipes along your lower lip, asking for entry, and your mouth opens to accept the swirling heat of desire from the elf.

He explores your mouth and caresses your bottom for a while, tenderly, slowly, and in no rush to further things along despite the mutual growing desire between your two bodies. It’s you that finally breaks the kiss before ripping your night dress over your head, exposing two heavy, milk-laden breasts in the process. Astarion brings the hand not kneading into your ass to cup your breast before thumbing the pert nipple.

You gasp, and your husband’s brows crinkle for a moment as he pauses his ministrations.

“Too sensitive?” He asks, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your other breast.

“No, keep going,” You urge him, closing your eyes and rolling your hips forward to grind into his groin. He bucks forward to meet you instinctively.

He tentatively thumbs the nipple again and you moan in response. Without thinking much about it, Astarion brings his mouth to the other breast and wraps his lips around the bud before sucking gently. You release an ecstatic keen in response when his teeth graze against the tender flesh. You are continuing to roll your hips into him when he suddenly retracts from your chest with a shocked gasp.

Your eyes snap open, and you catch the final glimpse of your husband wiping breast milk from the side of his mouth as his cheeks and ears slowly turn pink. And then you feel your own embarrassment growing as rosy patches flush across your chest and cheeks. You quickly move to cover your breasts.

“I-I’m sorry,” You whisper, “it slipped my mind. I forgot about the…”

You’re thinking the moment’s ruined, and moving to climb off your husband, but he quietly brings his hand to your waist and stills you. His eyes search yours silently for a moment, and you’re still so consumed by your own embarrassment that all you can do is stare dumbly back at him, eyebrows furrowed.

But then Astarion lifts one of his hands to your own, slowly lowering it from where it had been covering your breast. He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he once again leans forward and wraps his lips around the nipple, sucking gently. Warm milk flows into his mouth and you inhale sharply, unable to look away as your husband removes his lips from your breast, opens his mouth to show you the white liquid, and then closes his mouth and swallows.

He swallows.

And then he smirks up at you with a self-satisfied, mischievous glint in his eyes that causes the slickness between your legs to instantly double.

Gods, this man.

You are convinced your entire body is flushing red at this point as Astarion slowly brings his other hand up to palm the flesh of your breast.

“Would you like daddy to do it again?” He purrs before his tongue laps circles around the side of your heavy tit.

“I— gods, yes.” You respond, blinking down at the elf.

“Okay. But you have to ask me very, very nicely, little love.” He responds teasingly as he trails kisses to your other breast, waiting for you to say something.

“Please suck my nipple,” You whisper, eagerly rolling your groin into your husband's raging erection.

But Astarion doesn’t do what he’s asked. Instead, he’s teasing the bud with the flat of his tongue and humming contentedly, waiting for something from you.

“Please suck my nipple, daddy.” You amend, and the elf instantly engages his lips around your other breast with a soft groan. He’s drinking with vigor as your hands find the curls at the nape of his neck and take hold. Before long he’s retracting again, his mouth full of liquid gold.

And he pulls the same maneuver. Mouth open, flashing the white liquid as he looks directly into your eyes. Mouth closed. Swallow. Devious smile.

“It’s delicious, you know.” He murmurs as you stare at him, still in shock and still somewhat embarrassed by the fact that you are actually enjoying this. His hands come to either breast, both now significantly lighter, and he fondles the soft tissue.

“You shouldn’t be so surprised that you like this darling, I distinctly remember a time when I made you orgasm by mere nipple play alone.” He whispers, a glint of that cocky rogue playing across his face before he trails kisses up your chest and along your neck.

“Gods, Astarion,” You respond, “I need you inside me, now.”

You’re done with the foreplay. Your husband has you ridiculously hot and bothered, and it’s been far, far too long. You're on your knees, which are straddled on either side of his hips as you urgently tug at the waistband of his trousers, trying to work his pants and underclothes off in one motion. But your husband is purposely resisting and refusing to lift his hips, watching you with that same arrogant smile.

Oh, he's toying with you.

“Darling, why am I always the one dirty talking you?” He asks, pulling back from your neck and cocking his head just slightly as he studies your face.

“I— what?” You ask, still pulling insistently at his waistband.

“I’m always the one charming the pants off of you, dear. In over ten years, it’s never really been the other way around. But you know that I love to hear your beautiful words.” He continues, moving one of his hands to stroke between your still-clothed folds.

“Astarion, please fuck me.” You try as you struggle to keep your composure. The slickness of your cunt is making obscene noises as he expertly maneuvers between your slit, watching your expression attentively as you come undone.

He chuckles darkly as he brings his lips to your breast once again, trailing kisses along the side of the flesh, “I think you can do better than that, my love.”

You groan in dismay as the bastard continues to tease you. Several months without sex and somehow you’re still the desperate one while he’s effortlessly maintaining his cool.

“What do you want daddy to do to you, darling?” He purrs, teasingly, as his other hand that isn’t stroking between your legs trails across your skin to fondle your ass once again.

“I want you to fuck me and fill me with your seed.” You whine as his ministrations on your clit become more insistent. You’re trying to play into his desires, to convince him to stretch you open with his thick cock.

Your legs are trembling now. He’s going to make you come embarrassingly fast. You know it. He knows it.

“Won’t you beg me, my love?” He murmurs as his eyes trail across your chest, admiring your larger-than-usual breasts before his gaze locks back onto yours, fingers still strumming your clit, now adding more pressure, “You know I love to hear your sweet little pleas.”

“Please— Astarion. Please, daddy. Please fuck me. Breed me like your good little wife and fill me with—“

You gasp and then moan as your orgasm rips through you with little warning, drenching your husband’s hand in your arousal. The release causes your legs to turn into jelly, and Astarion uses the opportunity to quickly maneuver you into a new position. You are sitting on the side of the bed, and he is now standing, quickly lowering his trousers.

His cock springs free, and the sight causes your eyes to widen in shock. It’s so engorged that the head is slowly turning from that gorgeous pink to a deep purple, begging for release. Thin rivulets of pre-cum are falling in strings from the tip; much of his shaft is glistening from the same evidence of his arousal.

Astarion glances down at his own erection and then warns, “It’s been a while darling, not quite certain how long I will last.”

“Just get inside me already, daddy.” You plead and that’s enough to make your husband growl as he strokes his own member once, twice, prepping himself. He peels your drenched undergarments down your legs and tosses them aside.

As Astarion’s cock slides between your folds you gasp. Gods, it really has been too long. And then he’s pressing into you slowly, groaning deeply with the amount of effort it’s taking him to not release his spend right upon entry into your tight cunt. When he reaches the hilt, the elf stills for a moment and lowers himself down to kiss your lips before pressing his forehead against yours. And then Astarion is slowly rolling his hips, his mouth hanging open in a gasp at the delicious sensation of your walls clenching around him before he closes his eyes to focus.

It isn’t long before he's losing control. Your husband normally prides himself on being a consummate lover; it’s quite typical that he brings you to orgasm twice before finding his own release. But it has been quite some time and perhaps holding off in an attempt to hear your pleas wasn’t as easy for him as it appeared on the outside.

“Gods, darling. You feel so perfect.” The elf pants, almost breathless, his hips stuttering as he jerkily thrusts into you, trying and failing to maintain some rhythm as the pleasure overwhelms him, “So perfectly wet and tight.”

“Come inside me, daddy.” You whisper as you bring your hand to the side of Astarion’s face.

The command shocks him. Like you, he’s suddenly coming with very little warning. His eyes rip open as he’s spilling into you with a loud groan, his cock jerking inside your walls where he’s instinctively buried himself to the hilt.

“Fuck-- gods, Tav--" He hisses through the waves of pleasure racking his body as his eyes roll back. His thighs are trembling as his member continues to throb, spilling several streams of hot, thick seed into you as you watch his face in awe. Mouth agape, cheeks flushed. You love the way he looks when he loses control.

You smile and kiss your husband gently as he comes down from his high, your hand stroking his cheek. And then he’s laughing and pressing his forehead back against yours. A few of his curls fall haphazardly and you reach up to lovingly comb them back into place.

“You are… still full of surprises, aren’t you?” Astarion asks as he slowly withdraws from you, causing the slickness from your lovemaking to run down your thighs and into the sheets.

“I thought you would like it,” You offer shyly, now somewhat embarrassed at your own crassness as the tides of passion recede.

“Oh, I certainly did, darling.” Your lover reassures you as he bends down to retrieve his trousers from the floor, "You cheeky little degenerate."

Just then, Gale lets out a sharp cry from the nursery. You move to stand up, but your husband stops you with a gentle hand and a soft, adoring smile.

“I’ll go and get him. Don’t waste the seed still inside you, dear. Give it a few more precious moments to try and do its thing, hm?” Astarion says, partly teasing and partly serious as he shoots you a wink before heading out the bedroom door to retrieve the infant.

This one won’t take, you know as much. You aren’t ovulating. But as you watch the love of your life exit the room on his way to retrieve the other love of your life, you think you may actually be ready to start trying for another one sometime soon. You know Astarion is simply waiting for your cue.

Anything for daddy. 

#astarion fanfic #baulders gate astarion #astarion fic #baulders gate 3 #astarion x reader #baulders gate tav #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion reader insert #dadstarion fic #dadstarion #soft dom astarion #astarion fluff #astarion x f!reader #astarion x female reader #astarion smut #smut

[ceilidho]

prompt: (loosely based on Brahms from The Boy) you buy a house. you start to suspect you're not alone in it. [PART 1] tw: death of a parent, someone living in your house

-

Lightness; there were cracks in the floorboards and light glittering up from beneath them, which is what you first notice about the house.

It would be poetic if it meant anything. Instead, you are forced to pry the planks of wood out one by one at dawn when your fingers are trembling with exhaustion and your clipped nails throb—and, of course, there’s nothing remarkable beneath where the light shines through.

A piece of glass from a picture frame—all right, so you wonder how a piece of glass the size and width of your hand gets caught beneath the floor with the ashes of the photo once held behind it, but it’s half-six o’clock and you’re still yawning from the long drive the day before—catches a glint of light, and, well, you sigh at the blood welling over your nails from having pried off the floorboards with your bare hands. 

You’ll replace the boards later. Maybe bandage your hand.

It’s so quiet outside this early. Everything smells just as it should.

It had taken years of scrimping and saving, storing every nickel and penny away in your piggybank to buy your first house. The foreclosure process takes about ten months, every second during which your nails bite into your palms when you close your fists. Your entire life savings goes into the downpayment. It quite literally takes your bank account, holds it upside down, and shakes until every coin falls out. 

It’s yours though. A house all to yourself after years of living in apartments—you’ve spent decades living out of a suitcase, your parents changing apartments every year almost, never settling in one place. Buying a house wasn’t a nice-to-have so much as a physical necessity for you. 

It’s an old house—plenty of character, as the real estate lady charmingly describes it when you showed you the place. You don’t have the money quite yet to replace the old windows, repair the drywall, brick up the chimney that you won’t use, or change the flooring, but since it’s just you, you don’t mind taking your time. The previous owners hadn’t really kept the place up; there’s even a panel at the back of the closet in your room leading into the walls that needs to be replaced.

Later, when folding your clothes into new drawers that smell of new wood and old wood, you startle, thinking you’d packed your mother’s underwear along with your own; you thought you’d donated everything after she died. The thought is nauseating (a cold sweat breaks out) until you recognize the pattern on the blue cotton as your own and you crumple the fabric between your fingers for a second, dried blood and all. 

Dawn is rising outside, emptying out the house until it’s just you and the fifteen pairs of underwear you’d packed days ago. Everything else is sitting out on the patio in cardboard boxes. When you finally get the rest out where it can breathe, morning has settled into midday. 

When you finish putting your clothes away, you’re careful not to move for another few minutes until your hands stop shaking and your jaw unclenches. For breakfast, you fix up an omelet with spinach and a glass of cranberry juice. A friend calls not long later, but they mainly speak about their husband and how the living room will look once it was stripped of the gaudy floral wallpaper and repainted. Your friend hasn’t even seen the house yet, only pictures of the house from when you had searched it on Google Maps and tentatively held the idea glass-like in your head for several days. 

Your friend says in a voice molasses thick, “I’ll visit as soon as you’re tucked in down there.” It makes you rub your nose against your sleeve.

The pictures online had been splotchy and dim, barely recognizable when held against the lightness of the house full-formed. Your friend had sent you off with cream and lilac paint swatches, wooden coasters, and a copy of Ulysses before you had packed up the last of your things into the back of your car and the sky had been aglow with sunset. A large sunset that dribbled down the horizon and slid all slippery smooth into twilight. Your friend’s face had been lovingly shadowed in their goodbye, the sort of shadow that cut her jaw just so, and made one seem so private and longing. Like an instance of specific longing. 

It’s a good morning though, and you bite the inside of your cheek through the whole phone call, not stumbling over frequent ‘I love you’s and ‘I already miss you’s, but feeling like maybe you should. Anyway, your friend hangs up long before you know whether to carry those thoughts out. 

Then it’s still again in your unfurnished little bedroom—in one corner, there’s a rolled up carpet and end table that you’d brought in earlier, but they sit there unaltered and you think that maybe later you’ll get around to doing something with them. 

No one else calls while you eat breakfast, cutting the omelet into irregular triangles and putting enough hot sauce to make your eyes water. Which they do, but it’s good. After eating, you grab a mug out of one of the boxes on the patio to make a cup of instant coffee.

You fix the floorboards back after, nailing them back in place while sipping the lukewarm coffee that is still so, so good. So, so good to you because it’s early, so on one hand it’s comforting, habitually speaking, but also because the house is so new and old that sometimes you breathe in and feel lightheaded, or like your heart might tremble so violently that it’ll reduce itself to dust. 

So, coffee is good. Keeps you steady on your feet when you’re climbing back up the stairs to lug more boxes into the bedroom. Boxes of books you didn’t want to unpack, so they sit under a beam of sunlight in front of the one window in the room and you sit yourself down next to it, curling your legs underneath you and resting your head against the box. 

Strange, that the house is so warm when it’s nearly the end of October and it’s not like this city is all that different from the one you left. That the shard of glass you’d found beneath the floorboards could fill you with such a dizzying amount of melancholy (you still have it in the pocket of your sweater, which had deep pockets, deep pockets that apparently you use to carry around pieces of glass); again, though, the house is so warm and your bones are oozing out onto the carpet you unroll. Everything in you feels molten and fluid. 

Your spirit roars into the light of this new town with its new air, its new terrain, its new immediacy. Stepping out into the street outside the house, you feel every nerve in your body tremble in the realization of this new sensory landscape. Your fingertips buzz—you could reach out and touch every surface you pass: the wood-grain of a park bench, the sleek chrome of a chain-link fence. 

The town feels unreal in a sensuous way. When you go out to explore the town after unpacking the majority of your belongings, you can’t help being drawn down streets and up alleyways, eyes trailing over the russet bricked houses and hedges dotting the front lawns. 

On the corner of a street, nearly three blocks from your house, there’s a café with houseplants almost spilling out of the door and windows; you duck inside and order a coffee and a bagel before tucking yourself into a corner by the window. 

On the street across from the café, a woman in a yellow raincoat walks by. 

“Drip coffee?” 

You look up from your seat, startled almost by the voice, at a young man. He has a flare of freckles and an unsure smile.  

“Yes, sorry,” you mumble, taking the mug from him and tucking yourself back against the window in almost the same moment. 

To be sitting in plain daylight without company or a book or your phone out in front of you feels absurdly barren. Anyone might walk by and perceive the desperation that seems to pour off you. Even the few other occupants in the café are occupied with something or other, eyes pulled down to their tables or to someone sitting across from them. 

For a spell, walking home in the daze of the possibility of new peace, you feel light; to be poised on the verge of new possibilities and peering out over the edge, cautiously but with a ray of hope. Even the air feels fresh.

The lightness, of course, cannot last long.

Days before you left, someone told you that it’s common to have nightmares in a new house. You prove them right on the first night. 

In the wake of a bad dream, you pad into the kitchen, illuminated only by the moonlight, for a glass of water, reduced to only the silvering edges of your skin in the dark room. 

Occasionally it happens that you dream of your mom, in her blue jeans and raincoat again, standing outside the old coffee house from back home. She always looks well rested, and that always stings somehow—it makes you feel like you’re unraveling, even in a dream. She never says anything to you or even looks your way, but you know that she knows you’re there, and that dawdling energy, obvious indifference, is all a measured hurt. You dream of your mom staring off into the red-gold distance, honey-gold herself, irreducible in this place. 

Then, you wake up, panting and squeezing your eyes shut. 

You pour yourself a glass of water, but the tears don’t stop, coming out of you like a divine flooding. 

The two of you hadn’t been on speaking terms in the months before her death. In fact, you hadn’t even known she was dying. You remember you had an argument almost a year before, but for the life of you, you can’t remember what it was about. It was that inconsequential. That inconsequential and still she let it simmer and fester and didn’t bother to tell you that she was dying until it was too late. 

You scrub your eyes with the back of your hand, smearing the salty tears across your skin. In the moonlight, your grief seemed inescapable, layered under the lowest level of your flesh. All the loneliness of lonely dwelling catching in your throat, bursting out like the last release of breath of a woman beneath the swell of a cresting wave. The moon is not a comfort; the sky rounded in with its indifference, wholly incapable of putting any sentiment to rest. You feel languid in this old grief. 

Unable to bear being inside, you venture out onto the porch for a bit, closing only the screen door behind you. There’s a single light still on in your bedroom, the house otherwise dark. You sit in the cool breeze until your tears dry. 

There is something entirely relaxing about watching a breeze push all of the trees to one side—like the world moves with one breath, one thought. Back when you lived in the city, you hadn’t lived in such close proximity to nature, used to the concrete landscape. In the city, everything seemed to exist at opposing speeds and modes of existence—everything perpetually at odds.

You stare out into the street and drink your water, leisurely pacing around your front lawn. Just taking in the feeling of being settled for once. It’s a safe neighborhood. It’s an old house, a real fixer upper, but it’s a neighborhood where you can just walk around at night. 

It takes a while to unwind, to shake off the nightmare. You know it finally has when a yawn forces its way out of you and your eyes water again, from exhaustion this time. Draining your glass, you turn around to make your way back inside. You pause. Your foot hovers in place.

Then, in the shadowy depths of your house, you think you see something move again.

#simon ghost riley #ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #cod simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #ghost cod

[mojogojocasahouse]

Thirty Centimeters

Satoru Gojo x f!reader

Summary: You and Satoru Gojo sneak around the halls of Jujutsu High like students despite the fact that you’re teachers. One day, he comes into your classroom after hours in search of detention after almost spilling the secret.

Word Count: 3.1k

Rating: E

Content: secret relationship, public sex but its still a secret, oral sex both receiving, vaginal sex, some sub!Gojo, Gojo gets gratuitously spanked with a ruler, double vaginal penetration, squirting, multiple orgasms

“This meeting is in ten minutes,” you scolded into an unruly mop of white hair, “We’ll be late.”

“So what?” he groaned against the thin skin of your throat, his long, dexterous fingers tugging at the buttons of your uniform top, a knee slipping between your legs.

“I’m not you, Satoru. I can’t get away with it.”

“Guess I need to be quick then.”

All it took was one grind of his thigh against your already damp panties beneath your skirt to have you giving in.

He’d found you in one of the storage rooms, claiming he followed the scent of your “decadent” perfume through the hallways until he’d come bursting into the small space loud enough to have your heart skipping a beat. You’d berated him, tossed the clipboard you’d been making your notes on straight at his head all for it go clattering to the floor before making impact. Expected.

“I can’t wait til tonight,” he’d murmured against your lips, all your anger melting away as the sweet, arid scent of him filled your nostrils. And when he kissed you it was all over, the fight called off.

“So needy, Toru.” It had come out as a whimper as his mouth trailed to taste the heat of your pulse. He’d hummed in response, and just as you’d allowed yourself to melt into his embrace the alarm on your phone had gone off; the shrill reminder of the meeting with Yaga snapping you out of the haze he’d put you in. But now you found yourself once again becoming victim.

“Just relax,” he cooed in that arrogant tone, “You’ll walk in with me and it’ll be fine.”

“You have five minutes.”

A toothy grin grazed against the bared skin of your chest, his hands turning you at the waist as he bunched your skirt up while undoing his own belt and zipper. You braced yourself for the impact on the table you’d been bent over, Satoru spitting on your hole as he spread your slit open, marveling for a moment at the way your cunt searched for him even now. You were aware it was pathetic. You’d stopped caring months ago.

No one fucked you like Satoru did. No one ever would. He was greedy yet attentive, rough but courteous, and he held nothing back.

“Get on with it,” you snapped as the head of his cock teased your entrance, “Your time is ticking.”

“As if you’ll care within the next minute or so. Please.”

He was right. And it sucked that he knew it, too.

He bottomed out in one hard thrust, your entire body jerking forward from the force as his long, thick length stretched you open. It burned, but he gave you no time to adjust, dragging out and pushing in just as hard you couldn’t help but whine in bliss. Coherency was fading, the wood of the table cool against your searing skin, his palm swallowing your shoulder whole as he held you in place. Every movement was pinpointed to hit that soft spot only he could reach, your body seizing up before his hand moved to clamp over your mouth, muffling your scream as he brought you to ecstasy.

“My turn,” he chimed as you collapsed completely, chest heaving beneath your weight as you gasped for air.

But before you could regain full consciousness, you found yourself on the floor, Satoru pushing you with his leg behind a shelf place conveniently in the middle of the room.

“Principal Yaga!” he greeted, entirely composed as if he hadn’t just been balls deep in you, “Was just on my way over! Thought I’d check out what was in this closet, Megumi said Itadori hid one of Maki’s cursed tools in here. Can’t have those on the loose, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” the gruff response of your boss barked as Satoru’s hand gripped you behind the head, guiding you mouth to his leaking cock flushed purple after the untimely interruption.

He couldn’t be serious? Your pursed lips pressed to the tip, your scent heavy on him as he tapped under your chin, continuing to argue with Yaga about Maki being out on a mission and all the tools being under strict lock and key, so whatever ones were out in Itadori’s possession were entirely Gojo’s problem. You gave him what he wanted, staring daggers at that black blindfold as you took his entire length into your mouth, hoping his breath would at least hitch, but ideally make him stutter.

“Okay, well, talk soon! I’m just gonna do one more sweep and be on my way,” Satoru said coolly, moving his hips to gently fuck your face as he propped his head up on his free hand, his face not even changing expressions. That fucking bastard.

“So you won’t be late then, since you’re already so close to the office,” Yaga pressed; why wouldn’t this guy just fucking leave?

“I wouldn’t dream of being late to a meeting with you. You always have the most important things to say. Just…close the door behind you.”

With an angry grunt, Yaga left, the door clicking closed Satoru’s cue to pick up his pace. With both his hands guiding your head now he battered into your throat hard enough you’d be hoarse when addressing your superior within the next five minutes, and the smirk on his face told you that was his goal. Drool dripped down your chin onto your skirt and you thanked whoever had been in charge of uniforms for selecting a dark color, your throat glucking as you held back your gag reflex just long enough, the familiar, salty tang of Satoru hitting your tongue moments later. He was at least kind enough to spare the mess of that, ensuring you’d adequately lapped every last drop from him before leaning down to get a quick taste with an open-mouthed kiss.

“All right!” he exclaimed completely unbothered by all that had transpired, “Let’s go see what he wants this time. I started practicing my ‘No’s on the way over.”

“You’re such an ass,” you growled, pushing past him as you buttoned your top up, not even waiting for him to follow as you made your way down the hall.

You had gotten yelled at. Despite both you and Satoru walking in at the same time, Yaga had noted that he expected it of Satoru, but had thought more highly of you. Your shoulders slumped as you took a seat across from the principal, and although his eyes were completely covered, you could feel Satoru’s sympathetic gaze on you. So the pompous prick could feel pity.

In an attempt at penance to yourself, you’d taken to scrubbing your classroom after Yaga had explained the details of the next Exchange Event, the students stopping by to bid farewell on their way out. The sun had begun to dip below the dense trees shrouding Jujutsu High from curious eyes, the orange glow warming up the small space as it filtered in through the windows. You were engrossed in your task, humming a song to yourself as you organized the various knick-knacks on your desk, but when a warm pair of long, thin arms circled your waist, it didn’t catch you off guard.

“I got you in trouble,” Satoru crooned, his breath hitting the shell of your ear enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Yes,” you confirmed, “You did.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Because you got me in trouble?”

“Well, after being so naughty I thought maybe I deserved detention.”

With that, you melted back into him, sliding up the sleeves of his uniform to run your fingers along his forearms, his head tucking further over you as his lips pressed to your cheek. There was nothing easy about being in any form of relationship with Satoru Gojo, but it was never boring. There was always that.

“Detention, huh?” you purred, shifting to reciprocate a gentle kiss to his cloth-covered temple before turning, his arms moving to cage you in as you leaned back against the edge of your desk, your fingers lifting to trace along his brow, “Can I take this off?”

“Mmhmm.”

There was little more satisfying than watching Satoru’s piercing blue eyes that held the galaxies themselves come into view, his snow-white hair flopping down onto his forehead. You smiled every time his full face was bared, your adoration for him always pulling one up onto his face as well, though you never understood why. It wasn’t like women fawning over him was a rarity, even with the blindfold on. You always tried not to read into it.

His lips tasted like the soda he always got from the vending machines as he saw the students off to their dorms for the night, his tongue equally as sweet as it met yours for an evening waltz. Hands pulled at buttons and zippers until you were both left bare to the setting sun’s light, your lips kiss drunk and craving more.

As you moved to mark his pale skin with purple stars he’d wear with pride beneath the high collar of his jacket, your fingers wrapped around the thin tool you’d just set into your top drawer, pulling away from him with your lower lip pulled between your bottom teeth.

“Oh,” he chuckled, eyes widening with glee.

With a push of the thirty-centimeter ruler to the top of his head, you sent him to his knees, sitting up on the wood behind you and spreading your legs wide to reveal your glistening folds to his eager gaze. Without needing words, he understood, his palm pushing down on your stomach as his tongue collected what had already begun to accumulate. His movements wove from your opening to your clit, latching onto the little bundle of nerves he’d neglected in your earlier rendezvous. He swirled and lapped, two fingers massaging your inner walls as your back arched off the desk, your grip locked in his hair as he brought you closer and closer to the edge with every swipe and flick.

“Fuck…” you gasped, slinging your legs over his shoulders as your inner thighs began to ache, “just like that.”

His hum in response sent a shockwave up your spine, a throaty groan filling the air as he pulled your swollen nub into his lips and suckled hard, repeating the pattern until you were crying out and then soothing your sensitive skin with gentle licks. It was frustrating how he slowed and then sped up, he was borderline edging you, and it took you a few moments of angry mumbling for you to remember you were in charge this time.

Pushing his head along with you, you stood, his flexibility becoming useful as you bent him backwards to keep his mouth locked on your heat while you towered over him. He was smiling wickedly as you wrenched his head where you needed him, grinding your hips over his mouth and tongue greedily.

“You’re always such a fucking brat,” you sighed, his sharp nose catching you just right.

Pride sent the corners of his lips up into his crystal eyes as yours rolled to the back of your head, his face smeared with your release as the coil that had been building since sucking him off in the presence of Yaga finally snapped.

“Stand up,” you directed, trying to maintain control in front of the man that searched for any opening to gain the upper hand, “Hands on the desk.”

He gasped exuberantly, “Are you gonna smack me with that ruler? Please say yes. Please. Please.”

The fact he was looking forward to it took some of the joy out, but when he theatrically bent over your desk, his balls hanging full and heavy between his thighs as he awaited impact, it didn't matter how bad he wanted it. You wanted it more. And you didn’t hold back. The thin wooden slat slapped against his alabaster skin, the whimper that left his lips so depraved it sent arousal rushing between your thighs. It was then you realized, Satoru Gojo was only hit when he wanted to be hit. It wasn’t like when you or any of the others went out to fight curses and took a beating, he had a constant barrier, one that he’d let down to allow you to leave bruises and welts with the shitty little ruler you’d pulled out of your drawer.

Credit given where it was due.

Winding up, you slapped him again, the bright red line adorning his ass and the way his knuckles gripped the edge of the surface he was laid up on two of the prettiest things you’d ever seen.

“How many do you deserve?” you asked, out of breath and dazed, your palm soothing his stinging skin.

“Twenty,” he answered quickly, “Thirty. Til your arm falls off.”

Welted speckles began to emerge after the seventh whack, his body in a sweaty heap and dick leaking onto the floor. He looked pitiful, the strongest sorcerer in the world nothing but putty in your hands. He’d do anything you asked.

“Can you take more?” you asked, yanking his head up by his soaked strands, your breasts pressing into the damp skin of his back, “Or have you had enough?”

“Define enough,” he teased, flashing that cocky smile.

“You’re bruising.”

“And?”

You were entirely overcome with admiration, dropping the school supply-turned-weapon in your hand to cup his flushed face and kiss him, pouring your appreciation for him into your affections. He could sense the game was over, rolling and sliding up so he laid beneath you, his hands able to explore the stretch of your back and caress the heated skin of your cheek. It was gentler now, the urgency entirely gone, the world washing away as you relished in his touch, the way his hair stuck to his forehead and your own, the trust that had built between you, and the calm that washed over you when he wrapped you tightly in his arms.

“Can I fuck you now?” you exhaled against his mouth, pressing your aching core down onto his painfully hard, neglected length.

“I thought I was supposed to be being punished,” he replied, the books teetering on the corner of the desk crashing to the floor as he pushed himself up further to grant you more leverage, “Not fucking me would achieve that better.”

Shutting him up with another sloppy kiss, your cunt sucked him in greedily, his large hands resting on your thighs as you sat back, putting you on full glorious display for his eyes that could see all but somehow always looked for more. After your quick meeting earlier you wanted to enjoy this, to appreciate the way he stretched you almost to the point of pain and how with the simplest adjustment he was once again hitting a bullseye to that spongy patch deep inside of you that already had you seeing stars. As you rocked over him, the slap of your ass meeting his thighs was almost as lewd as the sound of your soaked channel welcoming him again and again, he leaned up, locking his lips over one of your swaying breasts and sucking hard, his teeth grazing over your nipple before he lapped the sting away.

“Toru,” you moaned when his middle finger slid between your ass cheeks and pressed against your tight hole, the sound of his name all the permission he needed.

You shrieked when his finger joined his cock in your pussy, wiggling enough to have you buckling over onto his chest as you felt yourself stretching beyond any level you had before.

“That feel good?” he asked, his voice husky in your ear, “I can feel you getting wetter.”

“Mmmm,” you hummed, "Want more."

“Oh…aren’t you adventurous today?”

A shaky exhale had the wisps of hair by his ear swaying as he stuffed his ring finger into your hole, your brain focusing on breathing as he scissored his digits deep inside you, pushing the limits of just how much you could take.

“That’s it,” he cooed gently, rubbing his other hand up and down your spine soothingly, “Just relax.”

“I can’t,” you quavered, your channel seizing up around him.

“You can. You’re about to. Let it happen. Be fucking greedy…”

His thumb pressed to your clit as he spoke, and that was all it took. Hot, clear liquid sprayed onto his hand and thighs, white flashing behind your eyes as every nerve in your body whirred to life for a finally rev before shutting down, sending you limp and boneless down against his chest. He was still as the waves coursing through you calmed to gentle laps, the storm passed and the familiar scent of him welcoming you back to reality from where he’d sent you ricocheting into the clouds.

“May I finish?” he asked in his arrogant tone, pulling his fingers out of your cunt and slipping them between his lips as he awaited your response.

“It kinda hurts…” It was honest, but you were embarrassed nonetheless, every inch of you sensitive and overstimulated.

“Finally. A punishment that fits the crime.”

Slowly, he pulled himself free and you couldn’t stop the hiss through your teeth as he dragged over your walls, his soothing hushes as he repositioned you in his embrace enough to anchor to. Your arms were locked around his neck, face buried beneath his chin, and he rocked you side to side, kissing your hair and forehead still sticky with sweat.

“Why don’t we go to my place in the city?” he offered, “Use that nice bathtub you love.”

“That sounds nice,” you answered, pressing your lips to the sharp angle of his jaw.

After helping you get dressed and cleansing the various fluids soaking your previously clean classroom, his fingers laced with yours as he led you through the halls to where his familiar black car was parked. The metal was cool when he pressed you back against the passenger door, grabbing your face gently and kissing you like it was the first chance he’d gotten all day, tongue sliding over the seam of your mouth begging for entrance, your hands fisting in the white button down he wore beneath his jacket…

“I saw nothing,” a deep, level voice called from beside you, your eyes shooting over to see Kento Nanami standing with his gaze averted from where Satoru was currently grabbing a handful of your ass. “Leave me out of it.”

“You knew he was there, six eyes!” you scolded, slapping Satoru on the chest as he backed away laughing hysterically to himself, nodding shamelessly.

“I’m serious,” Nanami repeated, “Leave me out of it.”

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

#gojo jjk #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #gojo smut #jjk fanfic #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo smut #gojo satoru smut

[spacebarbarianweird]

After such beautiful headcanons about Noble!Tav I now must ask about Noble High elf!Tav x Astarion

Did I indulge into reading about noble elven families? I absolutely did.

The Isle of Evermeet - the last true elven Kingdom in Faerun created  −17,600 DR during the First Sundering. In the XIV century DR the island dissapared from Toril and many believed it was destroyed. However, the island was just moved to Feywild. In 1480 DR it returned back during the Second Sundering but it dwells in a state of coexistence between Faerun, the Feywild, and Arvandor MORE INFO

Astarion x Noble Elf!Tav

Masterlist

Headcanons

You are one of Amlaruil Moonflower's many children.

Not too close to the throne, but still the member of the highest nobility.

The wanderlust, so common for young elves, forced you to leave to see the world.

You witnessed the Spellplague and, like many others, thought the Isle was gone along with everything you knew and held dear.

None of the magic portals worked. You were a princess with no kingdom and an elf with no home.

You kept leaving, forgetting everything but your name.

You meet elves like you here and there. But you don't like talking about your royal origin.

No need and no point.

Once you meet Astarion, you can't get rid of the thought you somehow know him.

You are the same age, and there are a few million elves on the Isle but you are sure he isn't from the Isle.

But his face, his surname, and some of his mannerisms are vaguely familiar.

The thing he doesn't remember anything about his past doesn't help.

In your reverie, you search for answers in your long 250 years of life.

Having to see your cruel mother and survive the court intrigues over and over again.

Astarion is bothered by it. He feels like you breach his privacy and you promise not to try it ever again.

But you aren't self-disciplined, and intrusive thoughts drag you through your memories.

Why did Astarion's face look familiar? Who did you think he was?

In the meantime, you travel. You are two elves, you have nowhere to rush.

You help Astarion to reclaim his identity.

He isn't a vampire, he is an elf!

You help him to remember his mother tongue, the True Tongue.

You tell him about the Isle, your royal family and ancestors.

He often mocks you calling you a runaway princess.

"Well, I should be grateful to be turned into a vampire. Otherwise, I would have no chance to approach you, my dear."

"Don't be stupid, we are thiramins. No one would dare to separate us."

That brings him comfort.

Should you die earlier than him, you will reincarnate like all elven souls do.

You will return and you will remember.

You eventually realize that the Isle was returned from the Feywild but what happened to its inhabitants is unclear.

Astarion doesn't want to know anything about it - the one last true kingdom of elves? Where you are a princess? With him, a vampire?

No, absolutely not. He isn't going there.

One day, you enter the reverie and get one of the earliest memories of your life in Faerun,

An elf with long silver curls. A ranger of the deep woods.

Emerald green eyes, pale skin, a grin.

"Dalar Ancunin, at your service, princess," he says in your memories, his voice echoing through the decade.

You remember him. You finally remember him. An elf born from two-half elves, who was blessed and cursed by inheriting his ancestors' features.

"It's funny to be born like that. No one knew what to do with us. So we decided to explore the world on our own and went to Baldur's Gate."

"Us?"

At that moment, Dalar's face darkened.

"We were twins, Astarion and I. He wanted to become a magistrate so he wouldn't have to live in the poverty. And I was too bored with books and studies. We… had an argument. A really bad one. And I left. Twenty years later I decided to reconcile but when I got back I only found his grave."

"I am sorry."

"The grave was empty. My brother wasn't there. And I am still looking for him. I don't know, it's been so long… But I just can't give up on him. Again."

Dalar.

You weren't close friends but you'd been in each other's life for a decade before parting ways. Members of the same adventure guild You suddenly remember his songs and his stories and how he called himself "a bastard elf". How he could literally foster any animals or beast they met on the way.

And he had a pet drake he called Nikym. "Dagger" in Elven.

You return from the reverie and look at Astarion with shocked eyes.

Astarion doesn't want to remember. Too much pain, too much sorrow- it seems like his brain just locked memories of his youth not to let Cazador learn of Dalar.

And you start talking. You try to remember every minute you spend with your old friend. What he liked, what he hated. How you sometimes woke up because Nikym was trying to eat your hair or how Dalar could shoot arrows with a blindfold.

You need to find him. If he is alive, if didn't leave Toril to try to live among the elves.

He must be there. Maybe he settled down somewhere, maybe he started a family.

How many decades will you need to catch his track though?

And Astarion doesn't have anyone else. Dalar said they were all half-elves (except for some long-forgotten ancestors). His family is long-dead.

Once you reached for your old friends they immediately pointed out where to look for Dalar.

"Always adventurer, always a traveler."

Astarion still hesitates, but, before he manages to say "no", you find what you wanted.

"The princess Moonflower in all her runaway glory! What does a royalty do in that wild place in the deep the night?"

You try to find the right words. To explain, to prepare. But Astarion has already stepped forward, staring into his mortal copy in disbelief.

You give them time.

Before Astarion manages to say anything or run away, Dalar Ancunin grabs him and hugs him.

They are different. A mortal and undead, a ranger and a rogue.

But similar at the same time.

You are a bit jealous because you got used to having Astarion all for yourself and now you have to share him with his brother.

But you get used to it. Besides, Dalar is your old friend,though forgotten for many decades.

And the drake, Nykim, accepts you both.

"I remember" Astarion once tells you. "I finally remember everything. My childhood, my youth, my death. My brother was searching for me and I just forgot about his existence."

A decade later, you three find yourself on the seacoast of the Trackless Sea.

Time to go home.

Whatever future you hold, it's there, in the distant Isle of Evermeet.

You notice both brothers are equally anxious. It will be difficult to lie about their origin and one of them is a literal vampire.

But you are adamant - you are in your own right to bring anyone along with you.

Astarion is your true love, your thiramin.

And his brother is his only family.

Both Ancunin brothers are coming with you.

For better or for worse.

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes @waking-electric @ayselluna @connorsui @asterordinary @darkarchangel96

#spacebarbarian headcanon #dnd elves #high elves #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 astarion #bg3 #astarion romance #astarion bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion headcanon #astarion headcanons #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion x reader #tav x astarion #astarion x f!tav #elf tav #noble tav #dnd noble background #astarion's family #astarion's brother #astarion has a twin

[macrolit]

NYT's Notable Books of 2023

Each year, we pore over thousands of new books, seeking out the best novels, memoirs, biographies, poetry collections, stories and more. Here are the standouts, selected by the staff of The New York Times Book Review.

AFTER SAPPHO by Selby Wynn Schwartz

Inspired by Sappho’s work, Schwartz’s debut novel offers an alternate history of creativity at the turn of the 20th century, one that centers queer women artists, writers and intellectuals who refused to accept society’s boundaries.

ALL THE SINNERS BLEED by S.A. Cosby

In his earlier thrillers, Cosby worked the outlaw side of the crime genre. In his new one — about a Black sheriff in a rural Southern town, searching for a serial killer who tortures Black children — he’s written a crackling good police procedural.

THE BEE STING by Paul Murray

In Murray’s boisterous tragicomic novel, a once wealthy Irish family struggles with both the aftermath of the 2008 financial crash and their own inner demons.

BIOGRAPHY OF X by Catherine Lacey

Lacey rewrites 20th-century U.S. history through the audacious fictional life story of X, a polarizing female performance artist who made her way from the South to New York City’s downtown art scene.

BIRNAM WOOD by Eleanor Catton

In this action-packed novel from a Booker Prize winner, a collective of activist gardeners crosses paths with a billionaire doomsday prepper on land they each want for different purposes.

BLACKOUTS by Justin Torres

This lyrical, genre-defying novel — winner of the 2023 National Book Award — explores what it means to be erased and how to persist after being wiped away.

BRIGHT YOUNG WOMEN by Jessica Knoll

In her third and most assured novel, Knoll shifts readers’ attention away from a notorious serial killer, Ted Bundy, and onto the lives — and deaths — of the women he killed. Perhaps for the first time in fiction, Knoll pooh-poohs Bundy's much ballyhooed intelligence, celebrating the promise and perspicacity of his victims instead.

CHAIN-GANG ALL-STARS by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah

This satire — in which prison inmates duel on TV for a chance at freedom — makes readers complicit with the bloodthirsty fans sitting ringside. The fight scenes are so well written they demonstrate how easy it might be to accept a world this sick.

THE COVENANT OF WATER by Abraham Verghese

Verghese’s first novel since “Cutting for Stone” follows generations of a family across 77 years in southwestern India as they contend with political strife and other troubles — capped by a shocking discovery made by the matriarch’s granddaughter, a doctor.

CROOK MANIFESTO by Colson Whitehead

Returning to the world of his novel “Harlem Shuffle,” Whitehead again uses a crime story to illuminate a singular neighborhood at a tipping point — here, Harlem in the 1970s.

THE DELUGE by Stephen Markley

Markley’s second novel confronts the scale and gravity of climate change, tracking a cadre of scientists and activists from the gathering storm of the Obama years to the super-typhoons of future decades. Immersive and ambitious, the book shows the range of its author’s gifts: polyphonic narration, silken sentences and elaborate world-building.

EASTBOUND by Maylis de Kerangal

In de Kerangal’s brief, lyrical novel, translated by Jessica Moore, a young Russian soldier on a trans-Siberian train decides to desert and turns to a civilian passenger, a Frenchwoman, for help.

EMILY WILDE’S ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF FAERIES by Heather Fawcett

The world-building in this tale of a woman documenting a new kind of faerie is exquisite, and the characters are just as textured and richly drawn. This is the kind of folkloric fantasy that remembers the old, blood-ribboned source material about sacrifices and stolen children, but adds a modern gloss.

ENTER GHOST by Isabella Hammad

In Hammad’s second novel, a British Palestinian actor returns to her hometown in Israel to recover from a breakup and spend time with her family. Instead, she’s talked into joining a staging of “Hamlet” in the West Bank, where she has a political awakening.

FORBIDDEN NOTEBOOK by Alba de Céspedes

A best-selling novelist and prominent anti-Fascist in her native Italy, de Céspedes has lately fallen into unjust obscurity. Translated by Ann Goldstein, this elegant novel from the 1950s tells the story of a married mother, Valeria, whose life is transformed when she begins keeping a secret diary.

THE FRAUD by Zadie Smith

Based on a celebrated 19th-century trial in which the defendant was accused of impersonating a nobleman, Smith’s novel offers a vast panoply of London and the English countryside, and successfully locates the social controversies of an era in a handful of characters.

FROM FROM by Monica Youn

In her fourth book of verse, a svelte, intrepid foray into American racism, Youn turns a knowing eye on society’s love-hate relationship with what it sees as the “other.”

A GUEST IN THE HOUSE by Emily Carroll

After a lonely young woman marries a mild-mannered widower and moves into his home, she begins to wonder how his first wife actually died. This graphic novel alternates between black-and-white and overwhelming colors as it explores the mundane and the horrific.

THE HEAVEN & EARTH GROCERY STORE by James McBride

McBride’s latest, an intimate, big-hearted tale of community, opens with a human skeleton found in a well in the 1970s, and then flashes back to the past, to the ’20s and ’30s, to explore the town’s Black, Jewish and immigrant history.

HELLO BEAUTIFUL by Ann Napolitano

In her radiant fourth novel, Napolitano puts a fresh spin on the classic tale of four sisters and the man who joins their family. Take “Little Women,” move it to modern-day Chicago, add more intrigue, lots of basketball and a different kind of boy next door and you’ve got the bones of this thoroughly original story.

A HISTORY OF BURNING by Janika Oza

This remarkable debut novel tells the story of an extended Indo-Ugandan family that is displaced, settled and displaced again.

HOLLY by Stephen King

The scrappy private detective Holly Gibney (who appeared in “The Outsider” and several other novels) returns, this time taking on a missing-persons case that — in typical King fashion — unfolds into a tale of Dickensian proportions.

A HOUSE FOR ALICE by Diana Evans

This polyphonic novel traces one family’s reckoning after the patriarch dies in a fire, as his widow, a Nigerian immigrant, considers returning to her home country and the entire family re-examines the circumstances of their lives.

THE ILIAD by Homer

Emily Wilson’s propulsive new translation of the “Iliad” is buoyant and expressive; she wants this version to be read aloud, and it would certainly be fun to perform.

INK BLOOD SISTER SCRIBE by Emma Törzs

The sisters in Törzs's delightful debut have been raised to protect a collection of magic books that allow their keepers to do incredible things. Their story accelerates like a fugue, ably conducted to a tender conclusion.

KAIROS by Jenny Erpenbeck

This tale of a torrid, yearslong relationship between a young woman and a much older married man — translated from the German by Michael Hofmann — is both profound and moving.

KANTIKA by Elizabeth Graver

Inspired by the life of Graver’s maternal grandmother, this exquisitely imagined family saga spans cultures and continents as it traces the migrations of a Sephardic Jewish girl from turn-of-the-20th-century Constantinople to Barcelona, Havana and, finally, Queens, N.Y.

LAND OF MILK AND HONEY by C Pam Zhang

Zhang’s lush, keenly intelligent novel follows a chef who’s hired to cook for an “elite research community” in the Italian Alps, in a not-so-distant future where industrial-agricultural experiments in America’s heartland have blanketed the globe in a crop-smothering smog.

LONE WOMEN by Victor LaValle

The year is 1915, and the narrator of LaValle’s horror-tinged western has arrived in Montana to cultivate an unforgiving homestead. She’s looking for a fresh start as a single Black woman in a sparsely populated state, but the locked trunk she has in stow holds a terrifying secret.

MONICA by Daniel Clowes

In Clowes’s luminous new work, the titular character, abandoned by her mother as a child, endures a life of calamities before resolving to learn about her origins and track down her parents.

THE MOST SECRET MEMORY OF MEN by Mohamed Mbougar Sarr

Based on a true story and translated by Lara Vergnaud, Sarr’s novel — about a Senegalese writer brought low by a plagiarism scandal — asks sharp questions about the state of African literature in the West.

THE NEW NATURALS by Gabriel Bump

In Bump’s engrossing new novel, a young Black couple, mourning the loss of their newborn daughter and disillusioned with the world, start a utopian society — but tensions both internal and external soon threaten their dreams.

NORTH WOODS by Daniel Mason

Mason’s novel looks at the occupants of a single house in Massachusetts over several centuries, from colonial times to present day. An apple farmer, an abolitionist, a wealthy manufacturer: The book follows these lives and many others, with detours into natural history and crime reportage.

NOT EVEN THE DEAD by Juan Gómez Bárcena

An ex-conquistador in Spanish-ruled, 16th-century Mexico is asked to hunt down an Indigenous prophet in this novel by a leading writer in Spain, splendidly translated by Katie Whittemore. The epic search stretches across much of the continent and, as the author bends time and history, lasts centuries.

THE NURSERY by Szilvia Molnar

“I used to be a translator and now I am a milk bar.” So begins Molnar’s brilliant novel about a new mother falling apart within the four walls of her apartment.

OUR SHARE OF NIGHT by Mariana Enriquez

This dazzling, epic narrative, translated from the Spanish by Megan McDowell, is a bewitching brew of mystery and myth, peopled by mediums who can summon “the Darkness” for a secret society of wealthy occultists seeking to preserve consciousness after death.

PINEAPPLE STREET by Jenny Jackson

Jackson’s smart, dishy debut novel embeds readers in an upper-crust Brooklyn Heights family — its real estate, its secrets, its just-like-you-and-me problems. Does money buy happiness? “Pineapple Street” asks a better question: Does it buy honesty?

THE REFORMATORY by Tananarive Due

Due’s latest — about a Black boy, Robert, who is wrongfully sentenced to a fictionalized version of Florida’s infamous and brutal Dozier School — is both an incisive examination of the lingering traumas of racism and a gripping, ghost-filled horror novel. “The novel’s extended, layered denouement is so heart-smashingly good, it made me late for work,” Randy Boyagoda wrote in his review. “I couldn’t stop reading.”

THE SAINT OF BRIGHT DOORS by Vajra Chandrasekera

Trained to kill by his mother and able to see demons, the protagonist of Chandrasekera’s stunning and lyrical novel flees his destiny as an assassin and winds up in a politically volatile metropolis.

SAME BED DIFFERENT DREAMS by Ed Park

Double agents, sinister corporations, slasher films, U.F.O.s — Park’s long-awaited second novel is packed to the gills with creative elements that enliven his acerbic, comedic and lyrical odyssey into Korean history and American paranoia.

TAKE WHAT YOU NEED by Idra Novey

This elegant novel resonates with implication beyond the taut contours of its central story line. In Novey’s deft hands, the complex relationship between a young woman and her former stepmother hints at the manifold divisions within America itself.

THIS OTHER EDEN by Paul Harding

In his latest novel, inspired by the true story of a devastating 1912 eviction in Maine that displaced an entire mixed-race fishing community, Harding turns that history into a lyrical tale about the fictional Apple Island on the cusp of destruction.

TOM LAKE by Ann Patchett

Locked down on the family’s northern Michigan cherry orchard, three sisters and their mother, a former actress whose long-ago summer fling went on to become a movie star, reflect on love and regret in Patchett’s quiet and reassuring Chekhovian novel.

THE UNSETTLED by Ayana Mathis

This novel follows three generations across time and place: a young mother trying to create a home for herself and her son in 1980s Philadelphia, and her mother, who is trying to save their Alabama hometown from white supremacists seeking to displace her from her land.

VICTORY CITY by Salman Rushdie

Rushdie’s new novel recounts the long life of Pampa Kampana, who creates an empire from magic seeds in 14th-century India. Her world is one of peace, where men and women are equal and all faiths welcome, but the story Rushdie tells is of a state that forever fails to live up to its ideals.

WE COULD BE SO GOOD by Cat Sebastian

This queer midcentury romance — about reporters who meet at work, become friends, move in together and fall in love — lingers on small, everyday acts like bringing home flowers with the groceries, things that loom large because they’re how we connect with others.

WESTERN LANE by Chetna Maroo

In this polished and disciplined debut novel, an 11-year-old Jain girl in London who has just lost her mother turns her attention to the game of squash — which in Maroo’s graceful telling becomes a way into the girl’s grief.

WITNESS by Jamel Brinkley

Set in Brooklyn, and featuring animal rescue workers, florists, volunteers, ghosts and UPS workers, Brinkley’s new collection meditates on what it means to see and be seen.

Y/N by Esther Yi

In this weird and wondrous novel, a bored young woman in thrall to a boy band buys a one-way ticket to Seoul.

YELLOWFACE by R.F. Kuang

Kuang’s first foray outside of the fantasy genre is a breezy and propulsive tale about a white woman who achieves tremendous literary success by stealing a manuscript from a recently deceased Asian friend and passing it off as her own.

#new york times #100 books #reading list #2023 #books #reading #have you read any of these titles?

[thepedanticbohemian]

Write what you know

When the college I was attending for journalism refused to give me life credit for 10-years-worth of clippings in my portfolio from actually working as a journalist at newspapers, magazines, and also as a foreign correspondent for Reuters Wire Services, I was pissed. I mean Hulk Big Mad.

I walked straight from the chair's office to admissions. I switched my major to Criminal Justice and crafted my own minor in pathophysiology and psychology because forensics wasn't a thing yet. I'd always dreamed of serving in the FBI...or writing about it. I couldn't pass the FBI PT--like how my Navy career ended by failing PT three times. I did finish an internship as a death investigator for a Coroner's Office in Illinois (the most interesting job I've ever done).

Since I write crime fiction suspense thrillers it ended well. I write heavily forensic and medical prose. My published novel, OVER THE RIVER, THROUGH THE WOODS, deals with an incurable brain disease and the repercussions on the married couple going through it. THE OUDERKIRK HOUSE is about both a 3-decade-long search for a child serial killer and a multiple murder cold case from 1968. The manuscript relies heavily on forensics, ballistics, and the whole spectrum of evidence.

If you feel ill-equipped, READ. Lots. As Stephen King is fond of saying, you'll never be a writer if you aren't a reader.

Research is my favorite part of my writing. The more I research, the deeper and more meaningful my characters and scenes.

#writing #writers #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writing community #writer things #novel writing #writerslife #writers and readers #writing advice #writing tips #writing resources #writing help #writer tips

[bloatedandalone04]

Bury My Love

➪the one where you and leon go on, what neither of you knew, was your final mission together.

Part 2

Warnings: swearing, angst, more angst, fluff, mentions of injuries, descriptions of injuries, very sorry if some scenes are a bit confusing to read <3

Word Count: 4.6k

Do not repost this anywhere, reblogs are fine <3

It was easy. 

Damn near too easy, and that should’ve been the first red flag. 

The woman you had just saved was breathing heavily next to you, her hands on her knees as she looked around in shock. 

You turn your head to Leon and grin. He smiles back and the two of you embrace in victory as it was another mission completed. Another job well done. 

Or so you thought. 

As you found comfort in your partner’s arms, who had only just recently became your lover after half a decade of working alongside one another, you miss the way the woman, Talia, stood up straight and widened her eyes. “Where’s Matteo?” 

The urgency in her voice had you pulling away to look over at her. Leon kept his hand on the small of your back as he furrowed his brows and asked, “Who?”

Talia looked around her frantically, her chest beginning to rise and fall quicker than before. “Matteo,” she repeated the name, making you and Leon share a confused look. “Where is he?”

You couldn’t recall a single time where that name was mentioned, but chose to believe he existed as Talia began calling out for him when she couldn’t find him. You quickly walk over to her, dropping your hand from where it rested on Leon’s chest, and gripped her shoulders. “Who are you looking for?” You ask and wince at the way she tightly grabbed your arms.

“My son,” she whimpered and you watched as tears gathered in her eyes. “Where is he?!” 

Just as she asked that, the sound of a cry was heard to the right. Your eyes closed in dread when you realised where it was coming from.

Somewhere underneath the rubble was the sound of a child calling for help, and judging by the way Talia began rummaging through the debris, it was definitely her son who was trapped.

When she pulled on a large piece of wood that caused the fallen house to shake more, Leon quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the pile. You crouched down near the rubble and tried your best to look for a safe way to get in, straining your neck when you called out, “Matteo? My name is Y/n,” you tried to sound as trusting as possible as you didn’t want to scare the poor kid. “We’re gonna get you out, okay? All you need to do is keep talking to me, can you do that?”

“I want my mommy,” he called back.

“I know you do, buddy, but-” you were cut off by Talia yelling her son’s name as she tried to free herself from Leon’s grasp.

He only tightened his hold on her and gave you a knowing look. “You have to keep your voice down. There could be others still around,” he told her as you turned back around and began looking for a way in.

His words shut the mother up and allowed you to concentrate on finding a suitable entrance to the broken structure. You did, a few feet away and your eyes lit up when you realised that it would probably lead you right down to the kid. “There’s an opening over here,” you say and Talia bolts free from Leon and stands next to you. “I think I can fit if I lose my belt.”

Just as your hands begin fiddling with the buckle, Leon grabs your wrist, surprising you as you didn’t even see him walk over here. “You can’t go in there,” he says and tugs you away after giving Talia a look of warning, more than likely putting a stop to any thoughts she had about going after her son. You let him pull you a few feet away so he could continue the semi-private conversation. “You’ll kill yourself going in that mess.”

“And if I don’t her kid will die.” you whisper back, not wanting to upset the mother even more. While you look over at the woman, Leon keeps his eyes on you as he silently begs you not to go through with what seemed to be set in your mind. “We can’t just leave him down there.”

“Search and rescue-”

“Won’t be here for hours,” you point out and he knew you were right but he would never admit it. 

Leon locked his jaw. “It’s too dangerous,” his grip on your hands tightened when you rolled your eyes and tried to go back to the rubble. “You’ll get yourself killed, Y/n, don’t you get that?”

You sigh and lace your fingers with his properly. “I could get killed on any mission, Leon, and so could you. It’s just part of the job,” you try to tell him but he just shook his head, glancing at the weeping woman before his eyes met yours again. “Look, the more time we waste, the longer that kid breathes that stuff in. We have to do something.”

“Fine,” he says and releases his hold on you. “I’ll go get him.”

You give him a tight smile, poking his bicep that was nearly the size of your head. “Leon,” the way you say his name tells him all he needed to know. You weren’t letting this one go, no matter how many excuses he gave you. “You and I both know you’re not small enough to get in without causing more damage.”

His hands were back to holding yours when his plan of taking your place fell through. “But-”

You just shake your head and wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling his body close to yours. Leon tugged you closer, one of his hands coming up to caress the back of your head. “It’s going to be fine,” you murmur in his ear, your fingers gently running through the blond strands of his hair. “I promise.” 

When you pull away, Leon’s lips were on yours in a chaste kiss that easily took your breath away. You melted against him, your hands gripping his shoulders while his held either side of your face. His forehead pressed against yours when he pulled away and his blue eyes stared into yours. “The second something happens, I want you to retreat back the way you came, okay?” 

You nod at him, your hands sliding down to grab hold of his forearms as his hands caressed your face. “I promise,” you say again, brushing your nose against his before pulling away completely and making your way back to Talia. “How is he doing?” You ask, ignoring the way Leon’s eyes burned a hole in the back of your head, still against the plan of sending you into a collapsed house. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, looking at you with desperation in her eyes. “Please, help him.”

Placing a comforting hand on her arm, you offer her a small smile. “I’ll get him out,” you say and unclip your belt from around your waist and hand it to your partner. Leon watches with worried eyes as you carefully slip your body in between two large piles of wood and stone. He grabs your walkie from off your belt and holds it out to you, silently pleading with you to just take it without an argument. 

Knowing how stressed out he was, you grab it from him without saying anything. Your fingers brush against his as you did so and you tried to ignore how tense his touch was. “Be careful, please,” he whispered the last word and you only nodded before turning your back to him and grabbing the flashlight that was attached to the belt loop of your jeans.

You were starting to regret volunteering to go get Matteo as the house was demolished at this point and any wrong move could send you straight to your death. You tried to ignore the uneven beats of your heart as you looked for a way to reach the kid. “Okay, buddy,” you say and shine the line in every direction. “Call out to me and I’ll come find you.”

“I’m down here,” he calls out and you turn to your right, narrowing your eyes at a small gap between the debris. 

“Did you find him?” You hear Leon call from the surface. His voice was quiet as you had already ventured pretty far into the rubble, but you could still hear the waver in his tone. 

You don’t answer right away, unknowingly making Leon’s heart drop, as you lean over and peer into the gap. You let out a sigh of relief at the sight of the kid that was cowering in a small opening. “Yeah, I got him,” you call back as best as you could. 

Up on the surface, Talia let out a cry and moved to rest her hand on Leon’s shoulder. To anyone who didn’t know the man, the expression he wore looked cold and angry, but the relief he felt when he heard you call back to him had his eyes closing and his shoulders dropping in relief.

Maybe the stress that was currently eating away at him was for nothing after all. 

“Okay, buddy,” you say in a kind tone, offering the child a smile as you look around the opening. “I’m gonna come to you, alright? Just stay there.”

Matteo just nodded, holding his arm in his hand with a pained expression on his face. It was clear that he injured it during the collapse, and you knew you had to get him out quickly in case the bone was broken.

You quickly swung your leg over and avoided touching any of the rock and wood that surrounded you as you entered the opening. Holding your arms out to him, you felt your heart sink as you heard the crash of stone falling. A stream of dust and dirt fell into the opening and you curse as you grab the kid and duck for the nearest gap. 

You fall a few more feet down, the hold you had on Matteo making you take the brunt of the fall. You land with a thud, refraining from crying out when your ankle twisted at the abrupt stop. 

Matteo began crying when you both looked up to see rocks, stone and wood fill in the gap you were just in. Cursing under your breath, you begin looking for another way out when the sound of your walkie going off disturbed the eerie silence. 

Back up on the surface, Leon watched in horror as the rubble sank and closed off the entrance you took. He called out for you while holding Talia back, his eyes widening when you didn’t answer. 

He sat the crying mother down a couple of feet away from the debris before grabbing his walkie and looking for you amidst the cloud of dust that had yet to settle. “Y/n, answer me,” he spoke into the device 

Leon felt as if his chest was caving in on itself when he was met with silence and he had to stop himself from going in there after you - if he could even find a way in, that is. 

Before he could even begin to look, the device in his hand let out a muffled sound before your voice filled his ears. “We’re okay, we’re good,” the relieved sigh Leon let out when he heard you was one that was shaky and uneven. “We just need to find another way out. The path back up is blocked.”

Your voice came out broken and he could barely understand you, but the important thing was that he could hear you, meaning you were okay….just quite far down.  

Leon shook his head before bringing the walkie to his mouth. “I told you this was a bad idea,”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. “See if you can look around and find another way out. We’re in some sort of tunnel system. Looks like it runs under all the houses.”

“Or what’s left of them,” Leon mumbled to himself before answering you. “Yeah, okay.”

“Let me know if you find anything,” you say before pocketing the device and turning to the kid. “Okay, buddy. It may take longer than I expected, but you will see your mom again, I promise.” 

Matteo just nodded and you could tell he was trying to hold back his whines of pain and look strong, something that made you smile as you reached over to wipe away some of the dirt that covered his face. “Okay,” was all he said and began slowly walking down the pathway, still cradling his arm. 

You watched him, a nervous glint in your eyes when you realised that the state of these tunnels were almost as bad as the collapsed houses on the surface. The walls were cracked, bits of rock falling with every step you took. You knew that the tunnel system would soon be buried because of the weight above. These were carved many years ago, back when they didn’t have steel or the tools to prevent the ceiling from caving in, and the thought had you scared beyond belief.

Attempting to distract yourself from the situation, your mind goes to the only person who could ever give you any true comfort. Leon was probably keeping his cool up there, but you knew he was secretly refraining from pulling his hair out. He always worried about you, even on the simplest of missions. Not only as your partner, but as your boyfriend, now, as well. 

Though that title was still relatively new, you two had been side by side for five years now and knew each other better than either of you probably realised. It was easier to pick up on someone else’s nervous habits or signs of worry rather than your own, and Leon was a hard guy to read to those who didn’t know him. 

He threw himself into his job, stayed focused (for the most part) the entire time, then went home to deal with the trauma and guilt that came with what he did. Lately, though, he had been going to you after a mission so the two of you could deal together. It was easier that way. He had kept it to himself for years and only now decided to let you in completely, and that was something you held close to your heart. 

Your relationship was moving fast. Really, you had been dating for a while. The two of you would constantly flirt back and forth, he had your back and you had his, you’d go over to his place and make food for him (usually without him even asking you), and he’d come over to yours for a night of drinking. Those nights always ended up with him falling asleep on the couch and you falling asleep on him, which was always a bit weird to wake up to, but neither of you would admit that you liked waking up to each other. 

That seemed so far away now, seeing as you had woken up to him in his bed only a few days ago, before you were informed of a new mission - the one you were currently still working on, now. 

You were sure that in a few more weeks you’d be living together. It may seem too soon to those who were outsiders, but you’ve known him for years. You trusted each other, you had been together, even if neither of you even realised it. 

His relieved eyes and annoyed expression at your persistence you’d be met with after you resurfaced was what kept you going as you made your way through the tunnels. It was more of a maze, really, with some pathways being blocked completely by rubble. 

It was getting harder to breathe, but you pushed forward as best as you could. There was a six year old who was relying on you, and you weren’t going to let him down. 

As you continued to look for a way to reach the surface, your walkie pierced the silence and you quickly grabbed it, your hand slipping from Matteo’s in the process. “Any luck finding a way out?” Leon asked and you felt your racing heart slow at the sound of his voice. 

“No,” you answer, giving Matteo a smile in an attempt to reassure him. “But I think we’re close. These tunnels have to end somewhere.”

“Look around for anything that can indicate where you are,” 

You shine your light around the area, avoiding shining it to where the walls were beginning to cave in, and squinted at something that reflected off in the distance. You nod at Matteo to follow you and head off in the direction.

Your eyes widened when you realised what it was. “Hey, I think I found something,” you say into the device, bending down to pick up the object. 

“What is it?” You could hear the agitation in his voice and all you wanted to do was get back to him and leave this behind you. 

Your mind went back to earlier in the day, when you and Leon ventured into the town’s church in hopes to find something that would lead you in the right direction. Leon had accidentally knocked over a gold figurine that was carelessly placed at the entrance. It seemed as though it was just waiting for someone to trip over it and that unlucky soul was none other than Leon Kennedy. 

“You remember that thing you fell over when we were in the church earlier?” You ask as you look at the figurine. 

“Yes,” came his reply. “I didn’t fall over it, though, I just knocked it over.”

You shook your head and looked up. “I think we’re under the church,” you say. “Do you remember where it was?”

“Yes, we’re not too far from where it was, just hang on,” 

You knew it might take him a while to locate it as every structure in the village had collapsed. He would have to rely on his memory of the area around the church to be able to find what was left of it, and you knew he would stumble across it eventually.  

You let out a quiet sigh as you look down at the kid. His fingers were gripping the sleeve of your shirt as he gazed up at you. The amount of trauma this poor child would have growing up made your heart ache for him, but you just gave him a kind smile. “We’re gonna get out of here, soon,” you tell him, your knuckles softly brushing against his cheek. “You get to see your mom, soon.”

Matteo nodded and took the figurine from you as you  moved further into the rubble. Looking up, your eyes widened when you saw the thin beam of sunlight that shone down. You carefully moved aside a few pieces of debris and nearly cried when you saw a clear path that led all the way back up. 

Just as you turned back around to get Matteo, you could hear Leon’s muffled voice. It didn’t come from the walkie, but from above you. “Leon!” You call out, hearing him shout your name back down to you. “There’s a way up!”

You gestured for Matteo to come over to you and when he did, you lifted him up and pointed upwards. 

“Go on,” you tell him, ignoring the creaking sound that was coming from behind you. The space was small and you would have to wait until Matteo was all the way up before you could go after him. It was good and bad, good; because it was your way out, and bad; because Matteo was slow as he had a probable broken arm he couldn’t use to help him climb out. “He’s on his way up. Be ready to help him when you see him, his arm isn’t doing too well.” 

Leon shouts down an, “Okay,” before a loud bang from behind you makes you jump. Shining the light down the dark tunnel, you felt your chest tighten when you saw the cloud of dust that formed. The walls were caving in, and soon there would be no more room to do anything. “Okay, Y/n, you’re next.” Leon called down and you quickly grabbed onto a piece of wood and lifted yourself up. 

You climbed as quickly and carefully as you could and felt your heart jump when Leon’s figure came into view. You shared a nervous look when the sound of stones crashing was heard below you, both of you knowing that you had to be quicker. 

When you were a mere few metres away from him, your eyes caught a glimpse of a folder that was half buried under dirt and rocks. You squinted and were able to read the letters ‘ENTIAL’. Confidential. 

You glanced back up at Leon, who gave you a confused look as he stretched his arm out to you, ready to pull you up as soon as you were in reach. “Come on, you’re almost there,” he said and you give him a conflicted look before turning to the side and reaching out for the folder. “What are you doing?” He called out, leaning further down in hopes he’d be able to grab onto you. 

The pathway up was beginning to shake and you grab onto a metal wire for stability as you stretch your arm out further, your fingertips brushing against the folder. This is what you had been looking for. This is the evidence. The platform you were crouching on shifted and dropped a few inches, making the flashlight fall from your hand. You watch as it fell into the dust below before returning your gaze to the files. 

“Y/n, come on,” Leon said louder, his heart beating loudly in his ears. “Whatever that is, forget about it. You need to move, now.”

“It’s what we’ve been searching for all week, Leon,” you say back, biting down on your lip as you feel your arm beginning to ache at how stretched it was. “This could be what they need to shut this place down once and for all.”

Leon shook his head and he felt his heart stop when he saw the cloud of dust rise as the pathway began to collapse. “Y/n, move, now!” 

You finally grabbed the file and turned back to climb the last few metres. That was when the platform gave out completely and you were left to grab onto the wire again. “Shit,” you muttered and watched as the place you were previously standing fell and was consumed by dust. 

You heard Leon curse as he moved further downwards. “Y/n,” he said, making you look up. Your hand was beginning to slip as you didn’t get the chance to properly grab onto the wire, your other gripping the folder tightly. “Let go of the files and take my hand.” Leon ordered.

“I can’t,” it would’ve been for nothing. 

“Damn it, Y/n, take my hand,” Leon shouted as he watched the ground cave in around you. 

You blinked away the dirt that fell into your eyes before reluctantly dropping the folder. It fell down and became lost in the dust and debris, the only evidence you had been able to gather being whisked away right in front of you. 

“Here,” Leon said, reaching out to you. Now that you had a free hand, you pulled yourself up and reached out. Your fingers grazed his before the wire gave away and you nearly fell. 

“Oh, God,” you cry out as Leon ducked down and wrapped his hand around your wrist. “Oh, my God.” Your body swung uncontrollably as the surface collapsed, rocks and dirt falling into your vision as you tried to blink it away. 

Leon’s grip tightened, his fingers bunching up your sleeve. “It’s okay,” he tried calming you down as you hung above what looked like a never ending drop. “Y/n, baby, look at me.”

Taking your eyes away from the darkness below you and looking up at the man you loved, you felt your heart skip a beat. You grabbed onto the edge he was crouched on as he began pulling you up, your legs lifting to reach the surface. 

What neither of you saw, though, was the hole in your sleeve that had formed just seconds earlier, when you were forced to grab onto the wire. It cut your shirt up and made the fabric useless as it tore the second Leon tugged on it. You weren’t expecting his grip on you to release so soon, so you weren’t prepared to grab onto anything when you felt his hand leave your arm. 

Leon fell back as your sleeve tore off and your body was pulled back. He recovered quickly, but not quick enough. He watched in horror as you fell, your arms stretched outwards as you tried to grab onto something, anything, on the way down. “Y/n!” He yelled and felt his entire body ache as he watched your body get consumed by the dust until he could no longer see you. “No! No, no, Y/n!”

The rest of the broken structure began crumbling around him, but Leon couldn’t bring himself to move. He ducked down even further, his hand holding onto a beam tightly as he desperately searched for you amidst the debris. 

“Y/n!” He yelled again and felt hands begin to tug on his arms. “No, Y/n, please.” All strength left his body as Talia pulled him back and away from the collapsing church. The same church that Leon stood in with you a mere four hours ago. 

He fell back onto the dirt of the pathway, his eyes never leaving the sight of the crumbling structure. 

His heart couldn’t take this as it began beating quicker than it ever had. You were so close. 

Even as the dust settled and the church was laid to rest in a large pile, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He was praying to whoever might have been listening that you would emerge from the wreck and be in his arms once again. 

The seconds turned into minutes and the quietness haunted him. You were gone, just like that.

He told you not to go after the kid, but you did anyway and now you were gone. 

He should’ve gone after you, fuck, why didn’t he? Setting aside the fact that he was a lot bigger than you and likely would’ve caused more damage if he did go after you, he still felt like he was to blame. 

Knowing you like the back of his hand, if you were up here with him and witnessed the rest of the village collapsing, ensuring the young boy’s fate, you would’ve felt awful. You would’ve blamed yourself, like Leon blamed himself, and it would’ve taken years for you to move past it, if you even could. 

Leon was in shock, that much was clear when Talia reached her hand out and comfortingly grasped his shoulder. He didn’t pull away in anger or lean into it gratefully, he just sat still. After everything he’s seen, everything he’s been through, nothing would have ever prepared him for the day he had to watch you die. He watched you slip away when he was an arm’s length away from you. 

He took his eyes off the demolished building and looked at Matteo, the boy who you had saved at the cost of your own life. He couldn’t bring himself to feel mad or envious of the boy, as he knew the sacrifice that allowed him to still be here would be enough to haunt him for the rest of his life.

#leon s kennedy #leon re #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy imagines #leon s kennedy imagines #leon s kennedy imagine #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy fluff #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy fluff #leon s kennedy angst #leon s kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #resident evil 2 remake #x reader #resident evil #resident evil 4 #resident evil 4 remake #resident evil x reader

[biteofcherry]

Hi I just went through your master list and all of your stories are a-maz-ing! But I wanted to ask, I need to know, how alpha Ari chose omega reader?! Is it a true mating like in Grainof Truth? When and why he decided he wants that omega. Cause damn he want to extremes to get her (and I'm weak for that 😳😳😳 )

The Bad Moon Rising universe is a completely different universe than Grain of Truth, so it's not a true mating for Ari and his omega.

Bad moon rising

alpha!Ari Levinson x omega female reader

warnings: none for this part below; mentions of primal kink and chase kink; a/b/o dynamics; wolf!Ari; alpha!Ari; shifter!Ari;

There was something about you that made him curious. Simple as that, yet it meant much more.

~ * ~

Not much surprised Ari. For two decades now he carried responsibilities on his shoulders, providing for his pack and dealing with their problems - as serious and as petty as they came.

Ari read people easily, he learned it along the way when he took over the pack, and he grew bored with how predictable most of them were.

Then the autumn equinox festival came and you appeared among the numbers of Dimitri's pack.

Ari and your alpha decided on joined celebrations, so the two packs could show they can coexist and share land while still staying independent. An uncommon thing to happen for shifters, but Ari respected Dimitri enough to give his idea a chance.

Even if his alpha instinct snarled with the urge to dominate over the other alpha and take over his territory.

For shifters, wolves especially, land was sacred. Most needed to free your wolf and roam freely.

But human civilization spread rapidly, buying off lands and chopping down trees. They turned everything into steel and glass, their cities like cages for shifters who longed for nature.

So when one pack was in danger of losing land they searched for it - often warring with other packs. It ended with an alpha challenge. To the death. The winner taking over both lands and both packs.

That was Ari's initial plan too, but Dimitri was a seasoned, calm alpha who came with a counter proposal.

To share lands.

Honestly, Ari still wasn't sold on that idea. But he would honor the sacred celebrations of autumn festival. He made sure his pack behaved their best, as well.

It was then, as he leaned against an old tree that burst with shades of red and gold, drinking sweet mirabelle plum wine and watching some of his easygoing people break ice with your pack, that's when he noticed you.

A mature omega - your scent wafted to him even over the mixed aromas of food and bonfire.

Ripe as a plum and untainted by a mate's scent.

Ari felt his whole body snap to attention. His wolf side perked up, fascinated as well confused as to how a delicious omega like you was unmated.

You looked well into your thirties; not something that he really cared for. However, it was uncommon for any shifter past twenty five to be unmated. Mostly due to pack's expectations and pressure to meet conservative standards.

So many young members of his pack buzzed with this need to quickly find a partner. Yours pack too, he noticed.

Just like he noticed single females prancing around for his attention. One curl of his finger and he could have any he wanted.

To be fair, he was going to end his festivities exactly that way - with a willing partner to tumble with in the woods, raw and primal just the way he liked it the most.

Now that you appeared, the only chase he wanted to follow was after you.

An unmated omega so mature of age was a fascinating occurrence. It meant you had an iron will, standing against any social pressure, as well that you expected more of your partner. Ari respected that.

Slowly, he prowled along the shadows, watching you as you stepped to the side to admire one of the hand-carved wolf statues.

You traced your fingers over the fine details of the statue - a masterpiece, you had to admit that. With a little smile, you picked one of the flowers from thee wreath on your head and put it behind the wolf's ear.

"I'm not sure if he'd snap his teeth at you, or waggle his tail."

Unexpected chuckle startled you, your eyes lifting up from the statue to stare at the man emerging from the shadows behind it.

Ari Levinson.

The dreaded alpha of the other pack. He was recognizable not only for his reputation, but also because all of the young women in your pack kept panting after him the whole evenings; pointing at him, whispering, hiking up their skirts to show more flesh and lure his attention.

You understood the attraction. Levinson was handsome and charismatic. Built tall and big, overpowering. Sharp blue eyes that saw any tick, any weak spot.

Everything about him screamed alpha and your wolf side mewled with the need to run away. Partly of fear, partly because the bitch knew the alpha would give a chase.

You swallowed nervously, but tried to mask it with a chuckle.

"It's festive time," you shrugged with a smile, "even the most brooding wolves should celebrate. I helped him getting into the mood."

"Sometimes a wolf snaps his fingers when he is in a mood." Ari's voice was a low, soft caress.

The meaning behind his words hit you with a punch of heat. Along with the lure, came a spike of fear.

If this was merely him flirting you up, seeking for a chance of one night of rough fucking, you'd probably follow quite eagerly. It's been a while since you gave in to the carnal side. And your wolf would howl in pleasure.

But the way Ari's eyes were trained on you was too assessing, to intense. And he wasn't even staring at your boobs. No, he was studying you.

He was, you realized, fascinated.

For an omega, having an alpha - an alpha as powerful as Ari Levinson - fascinated with her meant binding for more than just a one night stand.

An alpha was a predator. He engaged in fun without pouring all of his instincts into it. When he did that, it meant he was on a chase after a prey he was adamant on catching.

"Ah, there's quite a bouquet of flowers to choose from to fit your mood." You turned slightly and motioned at the gathering of people, groups of women (and a few men) glancing toward Ari with promises of devotion in their eyes.

"I'm a seasoned alpha," Ari chuckled in a self-mocking tone, "I've had my fair share of occasional celebration. I'm ready to permanently sate my mood."

"What makes you think I'm the right choice?" You knew that blunt disobedience wouldn't go with any alpha.

And you shouldn't antagonize one that might as well force your pack to submit to him.

"What makes a wolf know that a doe will sate his hunger?" He replied, stepping closer to you. "I don't know that yet, omega. But I want to find out."

You trembled slightly, though you tried to take control over your body. Instinct to run away was growing stronger, but you knew the instant you stepped away Ari would pounce.

Your wolf side buzzed with excitement at the prospect. Your human side feared being unable to handle the overwhelming power of Ari Levinson.

He wasn't simply a strong and confident man. He was a ruler, a conqueror. Your independence would crumble, if he bound you to him.

"That's bold. You don't even know if-"

"You're unmated." Ari stated with confidence.

"I'm-" you thought of restoring to a little lie, suggest that you're meeting someone in hope it would deter Ari.

Once again he interrupted you with a calm certainty:

"You're not with anyone." Ari traced your cheek with a finger. "No man's scent lingers on you."

He leaned much closer to you, his fingers dipping below your hair to grip your nape.

"It's best if it stayed that way, omega." His voice remained soft, but there was a growl to it. Your clit pulsed with the sound of it.

"No other scent, but that delicious, tempting smell of you. Until you're covered in my scent."

"I haven't consented to it." You tilted your chin defiantly.

"Of course you haven't." Ari suddenly pulled away, a respectful step between the two of you.

He grinned at you; charming and playful. The blue of his eyes shimmered with excitement.

"Make me work for it, little omega." He reached out to pick a flower from your wreath.

"Make me chase you." He tucked the flower behind his ear.

#ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x female reader #ari levinson smut #alpha ari levinson #alpha!ari #shifter!ari levinson #ari levinson x you #bad moon rising

[lokisgoodgirl]

The Wetsuit: Tight Passageways [Avenger!Loki x Fem.Reader]

Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: (2) Mission completed; Loki's rampant smug, sexual energy is back. Along with that damn wetsuit. (w/c 3.2k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Language. Enemies to smutters. Graphic descriptions of Loki in a wetsuit.

“Well that was rather eventful, wouldn’t you say?” Loki’s voice floated over your shoulder, dripping with sarcasm. You focused stoically on Steve’s shoulders ahead, wishing the annoyance behind you would just shut up. “But it was all very, oh - what’s the word…” You rolled your eyes as he pondered theatrically, desperate for an audience. The high canyon mouth yawned before you; swallowing Barton and Rogers as they danced nimbly between the rocks. You could feel Loki’s breath heat your ear as he closed the space behind you. The warmth of his exhale brushed against your hair, still damp from the earlier descent. “...predictable.” Loki whispered darkly over your shoulder.

The mission had been a success, the location verified as a Hydra base and neutralised. A clean-up team was there now, bagging and recording evidence. Unfortunately for you, Rogers insisted you take the long way back through the canyon to the Quinjet. Good for morale, he’d said. We’ll see about that, you thought with a grimace as Loki chuckled at his own joke behind you. You shot him a backwards glance. A smug smile tugged at his lips as he watched you look him up and down. It was supposed to be a look of disapproval. Of contempt. But as your eyes crawled back up the scuffed, bloodied battle leathers clinging snugly to his body; you accepted that you’d probably been staring too long to create the intended effect.

Loki had used his magic to transform into his bespoke uniform before the attack. A poke in the eye for the rest of you who had to contend with enemy resistance in damp wetsuits. He had been every inch the theatrical warrior, relishing every timed flick of his dry, styled hair as he had sliced and incapacitated his way through the underground compound. Bloody show off, you had thought as you’d snapped the neck of the Hydra goon pressed between your thighs.

You cleared your throat, turning pointedly. “-Fuck…” you gasped, flinching as a thin tree branch appeared in your line of vision. You braced, just registering a hand whip out and push it away before you could collide. Loki’s smooth fingers curled around your wrist, pulling you lightly towards him. His eyes darkened, that intense gaze searching for a gap in your resolve. “Be careful, Agent.” he hummed, leaning closer. You could smell the smart of tear gas still clinging to his hair as tendrils of darkness swayed in the breeze. “After everything you’ve been through this afternoon, I’m sure you wouldn’t want some unexpected wood sneaking up on you.” You smiled thinly, in spite of yourself. Loki tilted his head.

“Or maybe I’m wrong, Agent.” he murmured, his eyebrows rising.

You pulled away; registering a familiar wave of magic roll up his body. He stepped back, letting you enjoy the sight of his leathers manifest into the wetsuit he had worn earlier. A shimmer of green radiated up his calves, over his knees, melting in waves like tar enveloping every decadent curve of muscle its path.

You frowned. It’s tighter, you thought; watching the neoprene blossom up his wide torso and around his neck like a choker; he’s only gone and made it tighter.

Loki stretched theatrically, the second skin clinging to every unbelievably carved line and crevice. God, he looked good in black. So long. Endless masculine perfection coating every angle, a deafening cacophony of pure sex vibrating the air around you. Your eyes widened as they fell inevitably on the huge bulge at his crotch, shifting as he circled his hips under the guise of limbering up for the journey. The creases of the wetsuit followed his Adonis belt, tightening around the outline of that legendary cock. Loki winked, gesturing with an flourish for you to proceed ahead of him. You weren’t in the mood to argue. You made your way into the pool in silence, wading towards the high rock-face. A pair of steel rock-hammers twirled through your fingers. The descent past the site of your earlier close encounter was swift, remembering the way your pussy had fizzed with firing sparks of raging desire against his wide, hard thigh in the darkness. Was he thinking about it, as he climbed below you? The thought of his upturned face enjoying the view of your ass flashed through your mind. You shook your head, willing yourself to concentrate as you heaved over the top of the rockface. A few seconds later Loki appeared to your side, both of you panting in rhythm. For a few seconds, you marinated in the sound of his heavy breathing, feeling yourself clench as an unbidden fantasy of the infuriating god rutting into you filled your mind. Fucking you into the ground. He looked at you, smirking. “Hammers?” he muttered, extending his hand. You pushed them across the bedrock with a scrape. Loki’s eyes flashed in recognition of your defiance before wrapping his fingers around the handles, making them vanish alongside his own. “Making yourself useful, I like it.” you sniped, rising to your feet. Loki jumped up, flipping his hair backwards with a satisfied smile. “There are many ways I can make myself useful, Agent. The ability to make dangerous tools sink into secret places is just one of them.”

You casually smoothed the front of your neoprene suit, feeling a wave of nerves in your stomach. The thundering of your heart seemed to vibrate the zipper, seeing his broad form step into your lowered eyeline. “I can do many things that no ordinary man can accomplish. I’m sure you can think of some, what with that vivid imagination of yours...” You shivered, a cold breeze bristling over your wet hands as Loki’s chest stopped inches from your own. “...have you imagined it, Agent?” he purred, pulling the wrist of his wetsuit; releasing it against his skin with a sharp thwack. “All the things that I could do?” Your jaw clenched, looking up with a scowl. “Why are you such an asshole, Loki?” you spat, turning toward the narrow gorge entrance ahead. The rough limestone was wet, slick moss coating the rocks beneath your hand as you tried to remain dignified in your disdain. Leveraging yourself against a boulder to the side, you raised one leg to ascend a waist-high rise, a perfectly formed mini-waterfall gushing over your hips.

You could hear Loki chuckling as you struggled to make the climb, a growl of frustration rumbling in your throat. “What is your problem-?” you yelled, turning and immediately colliding into the god’s firm chest with a gasp. He ran a dripping hand through his hair, pushing it backward as he leant against the limestone wall of the tight passageway, a hand dangling seductively. The muscles in his forearm flexed as he bore into the rock, his curved bicep straining against the neoprene. It was so fucking tight. “You, Agent.” he murmured dryly, eyes alight with a hunter’s spark. “You are my problem.”

Stunned into silence, you let out a small cough; cold air catching in the back of your throat. A smug smile curled at one side of Loki’s mouth, his eyes narrowing while he read the twitches in your face. “I don’t think I’m the issue, actually-” you mumbled, as the light current swirled around Loki’s knees. Your gaze paused on his thighs; curves of muscle that had no business being so defined standing out against that sinful wetsuit.

It was painted on his body, his abdomen rippling with each controlled breath as he hovered. “You make me yearn for you with every snide remark, every teasing barb...every derisive look.” He ran his eyes down your body and slowly back up as he spoke, head tilting. "Your passionate loathing of me has all the marks of misdirection, Agent." He smirked, cheekbones sharpening. "One can only imagine how cathartic it would be to process it through other...channels." You let out a gasping, incredulous laugh, meeting his eyes as you shook your head. “You are-” “-unbelievable?” Loki finished, as you rolled your eyes at his interruption. His fingertips danced across your jaw, ghosting a sheen of moisture clinging to the heated skin. “Darling, you have no idea.”

The sound of falling water thundered in your ears, a fizzing ache growing in your lower belly. A fat drip rolled from his hairline, the perfectly formed droplet skating down the dent of his temple, falling off the ledge of his high cheekbone to the pool below. Your lips parted, brow creasing as your mind ricocheted like a pinball machine. “Loki...I ha-” He closed the space between you, fingers clasping around your shoulder and shoving you lightly against the slippery rock. “Tell me you don’t want this, Agent” he murmured, wetting his bottom lip. Those speckled eyes searched yours, one eyebrow twitching upward as a knowing smile stretched across his lips. “Loki...I-” you repeated quietly, a violent shiver rolling down your spine. Water splashed against your thighs as you tried to shrug him off. It was too easy. You weren’t supposed to be easy. “As you wish.” he shrugged, releasing you and standing back. He rested his hands on his hips, the hills and valleys of his sculpted shoulders flexing as he looked to the side. “Onward, then?” A wave of adrenaline coursed through your blood from your toes to your scalp. You remembered the way his breath felt ghosting your lips in the cave, the scrape of his hard thigh pressing upward between your legs; the way his every movement made you wetter than the canyon in which you stood. All the ways he drove you to distraction. It was perhaps time to admit the worst. That he was right.

Without giving yourself more time to think, your hand shot out; grasping the black neoprene clinging to his chest. You pulled him toward you, back slamming against the boulder behind as his lips meshed to yours. Loki’s tongue jammed inside your mouth after a shocked pause, teeth clashing; wet passion overcoming every reservation you had ever had. Muffled groans accompanied his hands sliding firmly down your curves, squeezing your ass tightly. “You’re still a dick...” you panted, as his mouth sucked messily at the angle of your jaw. “Take it as a compliment.” he hummed against your skin, before his teeth pulled at the neck of your wetsuit like a dog. He growled darkly as you moaned, thrusting his hips against yours, the hard outline of his heavy cock dragging against your stomach. “Indifference, darling. That is the true insult.” His hands ran up your body, cupping your upturned jaw. Drops of water splashed your face from his hair as he loomed above you. “What you feel, Agent? That fire smouldering between your sensational legs, begging for me to extinguish it. That primal urge...?” His goading voice made your pussy blossom with the same unstoppable desire you felt moving against his taut thigh. Him. You just needed him. He ran his hand down your neck, fingers squeezing gently against your windpipe. “Tell me, Agent...doesn’t it make you feel alive?” You pulled him towards you again, forearms flush to his chest; your slippery fingers fumbling at the zipper of his wetsuit. His tongue pressed into your hungry mouth, every swipe consuming you deeper, releasing what you had kept hidden for so long. For too long. “Magic…faster?” you whispered through broken breaths, his fingers deftly pulling down the long zip of your own neoprene. “No magic today, Agent.” he chuckled, licking his lips as he saw the skimp of your sparse bandeau top come into view. “I want to feel everything. Everything about this little...experience of ours.” In seconds, Loki removed the arms of your wetsuit, his tongue never leaving your mouth as he stripped you. The arms of your suit hung by your hips, floating outward at the wrists on the water below. Your stomach flipped, the zip of his suit reaching his navel under renewed work of your frantic fingers. Like a dream, you ran your hands up the waves of his exposed abdominals. Firm. God he was so… “tight” you whimpered, staring at his torso like a pervert; making Loki grunt with mirth. You ran your palms up his chest, marvelling at the feeling of the thick rolls of shoulder muscle. He didn't feel real. The wetsuit peeled over them with ease, rolling obediently down his exquisite arms to reveal lengths of pale, firm flesh. “How are you so hard? Everything is so hard...” you mumbled dreamily as fingers ran up his bare forearms, like living marble. The veins in his biceps strained as he released his hands from the wetsuit-holes with a flourish, placing both palms on either side of the rock behind your head. “You ask me why I am ‘hard’, Agent?” he purred, making your cheeks heat. “I didn’t have you down as the virginal type.”

“I meant your muscles and stu-” you started, gasping as his mouth lowered to your nipple. You arched your back against the boulder, the heavenly feeling of his mouth sucking against the thin fabric making you forget your own name. He kissed back up your neck, both hands squarely placed at the sides of your head on the rock behind. “Go on, darling...have your fun.” he murmured coyly, the timbre of his voice making you clench. “We both know you’ve been wanting to do this all day.” His eyes flickered down to his crotch. His legendary cock pressed aggressively against the tight neoprene, begging to be freed. You swallowed, heart pounding as your fingertips grazed the bare skin at his hips, pulling the material down with slow tugs. His manhood edged downward with the wetsuit, each relenting inch of black pure ecstasy for your fantasy-addled brain. Loki bared his teeth, pain-laced pleasure rising as the tight material reached the end of his length, releasing the column with a tight smack against his stomach. You inhaled sharply, fingers grasping around his cock. Loki bit his lip, his head falling backwards as you made long strokes, massaging the tip. Mesmerised. “You drive me insane, Agent.” he groaned, hips thrusting upward into your fist which tightened at his words. “It is truly...u-uhh...infuriating.” He gasped, mouth widening; the veins in his neck hard against the smoothness of his skin. Loki’s palms slid against the rock behind you, fingernails scraping the limestone; his forearms quivering as the pressure began to build under your touch. “And whose fault is that?” you hummed, confidence brimming seeing his utter undoing. He jumbled a moan of unintelligible words, lost in his own pleasure. You ceased, causing him to look up wide-eyed. He looks almost...innocent, you smirked; before his hands flew to your waist and spun you against the rock. “How long have you wanted me, darling? Hmm?” he purred, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your outer thighs as he pushed the wetsuit below your hips. “How long have you wanted to fuck me like one of your earth boys?” “You’re an a-asshole and I fucking h-hate you” you grunted unconvincingly, cheek pressed against the moss-slick stone. You had never been more turned on in your life. Loki tutted, rubbing the thick head of his cock through your dripping folds. “Agent, you say the dirtiest things.” he whispered in your ear, edging the tip of his length inside your centre. “But we don’t have much time, so I’m afraid we’ll need to enjoy the short version of this little...spat.” You braced against the rock, feeling him squat to re-adjust his angle. With the slowest of thrusts, he sank into your cunt, each delicious inch of his throbbing cock making you see stars. “Fuckkkk y-you. Fuck you, Loki.. Loki-y-yes...fuck.k” you groaned, losing yourself. Loki released a dark chuckle. You could tell he was biting his lip, face screwed up in ecstasy as he finally got what he wanted. What he’d always wanted. And what you had wanted, too.

His hands cupped your breasts, massaging roughly as he bottomed out with a sharp thrust. He moaned, vibrating against the damp skin of your back. “Norns, Agent…” he panted, “I knew you would feel divine b-but-...but I didn’t think..uhh-hh, gods.” Noises you didn’t know you could make flew from your lips as he fucked you against the wet stone. Mewls, whimpers, shallow pants and groans filled the humid air, every slow rise of his hips pushing you towards the edge of sanity. Your hand snaked upward, grasping the back of his head, forcing his face into the curve of your neck. “F-fuck, Y/N…” he grunted, before sinking his teeth into the flesh. You yelped, clenching tightly around his girth. Loki hissed, thrusting upward roughly. The fist you had made yanked down, tugging his damp, raven curls as he moaned your name like a whore. Kinky, you thought, making a mental note. But then, how could he be anything else? You could barely move, the wetsuit wrapped around your legs keeping them close. Loki sank into your heat again and again; the sound of the mini-waterfall gushing to your side doing little to cover the rising groans of primal release. You could feel your orgasm building, tendrils of sharp pleasure winding tighter in your lower belly as Loki took you all the way. Your hand fell from his hair, pressing against the rock in front. “Don’t s-stop, Loki...” you whimpered, head falling back against his shoulder. He growled wolf-like against your ear, sending another shiver of bliss churning through your body, “Believe me, Agent. I have no intention of stopping.” His hand slid down your pelvis, fingers toying at the slick mess between your thighs. The tips rubbed your clit softly, the tenderness of his touch making you melt against the almighty power of his cock. Climax caught you by surprise, hitting with force as you braced against the stone. You let out a choked cry, a guttural sound that rocked around the tight passageway; feeling Loki’s thrusts become erratic. Your cum slid against his endless length, sloppy smacks of his hips against your ass filling the air as he chased release behind you. With one forearm against the rock, you slumped forward: moaning his name in a haze. Loki rested his forehead on the nape of your neck, hot breath skating your skin as droplets of drool rolled against your skin from messy grunts of pure need. He was feral. “Y-yes..Oh...gods..gods..-f-fuck-k-” With a low, thundering roar; Loki came hard. He clung to your body, slamming your hips deep; impaling you as he pressed you flush against the stone. He moaned curses you didn’t understand, wet pants shaking against your spine before he scraped the sodden hair from your neck. Not yet, you thought, wistfully. Just a little more. Loki placed a genteel kiss on your shoulder, and another nestled below your ear. You shut your eyes, drinking in the intimacy as hot essence began to seep around his girth; still sheathed deep inside you. “Time to go, I think.” he whispered, withdrawing his softening manhood with a low groan. Silently you rolled up your wetsuit, quickly looping your arms in and zipping the front. You turned to face Loki, catching the last sliver of his chiselled abs before the neoprene coated them once more.

“Does this mean that we’re friends now, darling?” he quipped sarcastically, running a hand through his hair before hopping up the low waterfall with ease. He turned on his haunches, a smirk tugging at his lips as he saw your face harden in renewed annoyance. His hand extended downwards, eyebrows rising as he waited for you to accept his offer. You sighed, shaking your head as you reached for his hand; letting him pull you up the gorge like a doll. He flipped your wrist upward, catching you around the waist with a sly smile. “Friends is overrated.” you said nonchalantly, sliding a hand over his cock, still semi-hard beneath the wetsuit. Loki hummed thoughtfully, eyes glinting as those muscular hips pressed forward into your palm, still desperate for your touch. “I couldn’t agree more, Agent.” he murmured, as you turned to walk on; giving your ass a light smack as you went.

Continued in: Full Throttle Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection @lokischambermaid @lady-rose-moon @gigglingtigger @holymultiplefandomsbatman @muddyorbs @xorpsbane @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @loopsisloops @thedistractedagglomeration @loveroflokiforpoeticjustice @123forgottherest @joyful-enchantress @sititran @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @mrsbarnes32557038 @michelleleewise @vbecker10 @imalovernotahater @lokiprompts @thomase1 @morriggannlostinfandoms @ladylovesloki @marygoddessofmischief @ravenwings73 @xorpsbane @filthyhiddles @peacefulpianist @maple-seed @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @five-miles-over @goblingirlsarah @ozymdias @peaches1958 @your-taste-on-my-lips @stupidthoughtsinwriting @lokisgirll @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @peachyymallows @soldeloki @tbhiddlestan83

#loki x reader #loki x reader smut #loki laufeyson #loki smut #lokismut #loki x female reader #loki x yn #loki x yn smut #loki x you smut #loki x you #avenger!loki #loki laufeyson smut #loki marvel #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #wetsuit! loki

[delimeful]

the roots of something greener (1)

G/T July Day 9: Rainy Day

patreon prompt: kid logan trying to make a deal with fae janus for nyn! hope you enjoy :)

warnings: magical deals, threats, unwilling transformation, implied parental neglect, mentions of starvation and abandonment

-

The first time the child found him, Janus was already in a foul mood.

The day had started out with a light drizzle, and as the hours crept by, it had slowly grown into a far more irritating downpour.

This wouldn’t have been anything near a problem for most fae, and certainly a meager handful of years ago, Janus would have hardly spared it a fleeting thought. Even if he didn’t care to waste any magic on a simple repelling spell, he could have simply slipped between realms, abandoning that particular stretch of human land until the storm passed.

Now that he was banished and bound, however, his options were far more limited.

There would be no leaving the human realm, not until his time was served. His sentence wasn’t so harsh as to confine him to a single circle, but being able to jump between this and that ring of mushrooms didn’t help him much when the rainfall was present over the entire forest.

He grit his teeth as a stray drop managed to make it through the leaves above him, the thickest canopy he could find over one of his rings.

Though it was only a single raindrop, it drenched his head and shoulders with ease. His form in mortal realm was limited by the space he was allowed, and the only proper faery rings within these woods were barely large enough for a human to step a single foot into.

He wasn’t sure if only being able to manifest at the same size as a child’s doll was an intentional part of his punishment, or merely a bonus. Either way, it was certainly humiliating enough for him to resent it.

It was in this soaked, resentful mood that he heard the distinct pattern of human footsteps, leaves and other detritus crunching rhythmically underfoot.

“What curious timing,” he muttered irritatedly to himself, turning to face the intruder with a smile that was almost certainly a little too sharp for human tastes.

… And then promptly lowered his expectant gaze a foot or two, because the human approaching him was unquestionably a mere child.

Young, likely barely a decade old, and with the thickest, blockiest pair of spectacles Janus had seen in ages. While the child wasn’t dressed for the weather, he was carefully holding a deep blue umbrella over his head as he picked his way over the muddy forest floor.

The little thing froze for a moment at the sight of him, and for a moment Janus thought perhaps this was some unwise youth that had wandered off from his parents, with no idea what was before him.

Then, he straightened up formally, eyes glinting with excitement, and it became clear that the child knew exactly what Janus was, and likely thought he knew exactly what he was getting into, as well.

(Part of Janus was admittedly relieved. Being locked out of his home realm meant there was no easy defense against humans who stepped into the space of the ring, and he really wasn’t in the mood to dodge the grasping fingers of a toddler who thought him a toy.)

“Salutations,” the child greeted belatedly, quickly reaching up to adjust his rain-splattered glasses with his free hand. The umbrella drooped slightly without the support of both of those undersized arms. “I’m searching for the, um, the fair folk of this wood. I’d like to make a deal.”

How bold, to open with such an attention-grabbing phrase. Janus reclined back slightly, attempting to look regal even with his hair plastered in wet strands across his face. “Well, now. Isn’t it good manners to introduce yourself before making requests of strangers?”

The child’s face pinched slightly, but he’d clearly done at least some research. “You may call me Logic.”

Janus hummed. “Well met, Logic. I go by Deceit.”

“Deceit?” Logic echoed with a frown. “I thought fair folk weren’t able to lie.”

“They’re not,” Janus agreed pleasantly, some of his humor returning to him at the usage of a familiar bit.

For all his flaws, none of the humans he’d tricked over the years could claim they hadn’t been warned from the start.

“Then why,” Logic started, before shaking his head firmly, dismissing the line of questioning in favor of his original goal. Whatever had brought him here, it was clearly important to him.

It always was, when they were willing to make a deal for it.

“I’d like to make a deal,” he repeated, setting his shoulders and stiffening his posture. “I want to learn how to use magic.”

Janus refrained from letting the derisive edge sneak into his smile. “And what could you possibly have to offer in return for that?”

“I can offer you equal knowledge in exchange,” Logic responded, wearing a very serious expression that looked quite amusing on such a young face. “I may be young, but you’ll find that I’m very good at researching.”

The offer was exactly what he should have expected from a human child, especially one that had never dealt with the fae before. It was likely that his little research hobby was the only reason he’d learned enough to make it this far.

“My, you certainly have a lot of confidence in the value of knowledge, don’t you?” Janus mused, distantly glad that it was him that the child had chosen to annoy with this, rather than a more power-hungry sort. “Very well, I accept the terms of your deal.”

He held out a hand, and almost immediately regretted it. He’d forgotten how easily dwarfed he was, like this.

When Logic reached out, however, it was with a slow and careful hand, his face scrunched up intently as he used two fingers to emulate a handshake. There was no pinching pressure or crushing grip, only the distinct warmth of human contact and the slight electric spark of the deal being sealed.

It almost made Janus feel bad for what he was about to do.

“Your first lesson,” he announced, pulling his hand back and flexing his fingers absently, “is to never make such open-ended deals with fae.”

Logic recoiled slightly, looking slightly bewildered, and Janus forced his smile into something crueler as the sting of magic grew sharper.

“An offer of any knowledge I please, so long as it’s of equal value? You haven’t even clarified which kind of magic you’re so desperate to learn.” Janus leaned forward slightly, wrapping his hand around the invisible cord of the deal. “I could request your name, control over the very essence of your being, and all I would be required to do in exchange would be provide you with instruction on magic of suitable power. Your terms are exploitable, little one.”

He let the implied threat linger, watching as the implications sunk in and the child’s worry began to turn to fear. The sight of it was a sour curl in his gut, but this was a lesson better learned here and now, rather than later and with more permanent consequences.

“Of course, I have no particular desire to teach you any magic at all, let alone the complexities of magic strong enough to be equivalent to a name.” Janus slowly released all but the tiniest sliver of the potential the deal held. “Hm. I think a demonstration of simple magic will do, to satisfy both your curiosity and mine.”

Transformation spells were painful and slow when cast a certain way, a fact that many of his kin had taken advantage of when dealing with humans. Janus kept the magic brief and painless, because for all his flaws, enjoying the needless suffering of a child was not one of them.

With a snap of his fingers, the child’s form shifted to something more thematically appropriate.

The umbrella clattered to the ground, catching on the breeze and skittering a few feet away from the kitten that now sat on the ground before him, blinking in disorientation.

“Consider our bargain complete,” Janus informed the kid, finally able to speak to him at eye level. “As the last tidbit of magical knowledge I’ll impart, have this: recognition is the key to returning you to your true form.”

Looking as though he was composed of more fluff than flesh, Logic let out a tiny, confused meow. His eyes were surrounded by distinctive, blocky markings, the spitting image of the chunky square glasses that he wore as a human. It was the easiest possible condition Janus had ever set; it was near-impossible to look at the kitten and not see the resemblance.

With a flick of his hand, the kitten was whisked to the edge of the woods that he’d entered from, where there was surely a guardian nearby to find him and undo the minor curse before the sun had set.

With any luck, the experience would scare the kid off from any further attempts at playing with magic he didn’t understand.

Job done, Janus glanced at the abandoned umbrella, lying far out of reach of his undersized mushroom ring, and then turned away with a sigh.

What a waste.

–

Janus hadn’t been one to keep track of the time, before, but that may have simply been because time was much less linear in the faerie realm. The length between one moment and the next could be stretched or squashed, and so time tended to be more of a feeling than a fact.

In the human realm, things were much simpler. The sun rose and fell and rose again, and that was a day, every time without fail. He could hardly lose track of something like that.

As such, Janus knew that two full days had passed when he next saw Logic.

Logic, not the child, because he was still, inexplicably, in the form of that tiny, barely-weaned kitten.

It had been sheer luck that Janus spotted him; he’d been moving between one ring and the next throughout the day, absently looking for any stray detritus that had fallen close enough to his ring to be tugged fully inside. Any shelter made from such impermanent materials was destined to be temporary, but Janus was tired of the chill, and willing to take any reprieve from the elements he was offered.

Looking at the soggy little beast that was crouched a few meters away, Janus felt an odd sense of guilt crop up within him. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who had been enduring the weather.

Fur matted and damp from the on and off rain that had plagued the area, body trembling from cold or hunger or a combination of the two, Logic looked like the definition of pitiful.

And why wouldn’t he? For all intents and purposes, the child apparently spent the last couple of days trapped in an unfamiliar body and stuck in a hostile environment, with no aid to be found.

… Why hadn’t someone recognized him? For that matter, why weren’t there humans traipsing about through the trees in search of a missing child?

Logic sneezed miserably, interrupting what seemed to be an attempt to use his new, keener nose to track down a meal. His tiny ears angled back in a distinctly feline form of frustration, a gesture that would have undoubtedly been cuter if he hadn’t been so visibly on the brink of starving.

Well. Janus wouldn’t get his answers if he just left the child there, would he?

“I know you, child,” he said, voice carrying enough to make the kitten’s head snap around toward him. “I didn’t expect you to still be scurrying about like this. Why in the world would you not simply go home?”

Acknowledging his true form did the trick. The spell unraveled like he’d pulled on a loose thread in a knit blanket, the magic falling away with ease and leaving the child in his oversized spectacles sitting there in the dew-dappled grass.

For a moment, he remained like that, folded over on himself like a baby deer laying still and hoping that predators’ eyes would skip over him.

Janus met his gaze and raised a prompting eyebrow, waiting for an explanation on how such a simple curse had gone so wrong that the fae who laid it, of all people, had to be the one to free him from it.

In the next second, Logic had sprung to his feet and bolted. His steps were wobbly and likely fueled by panic alone, but adrenaline was undeniably effective in getting him very far away, very quickly.

“Rude,” Janus muttered to the empty air he’d left behind, and then followed the kid as far as he could manage through his rings, making certain this time that he’d actually left the forest behind.

There still wasn’t a single other human around, let alone one that appeared to be looking for something as valuable as lost offspring. Janus tried not to let the information grate against his scales, with only mild success.

In the end, he still wouldn’t get his answers. It didn’t matter. The child had clearly been scared off for good, so there was no use pursuing the issue further.

He shouldn’t dwell on things he couldn’t change, anyhow.

–

The third time Janus encountered Logic, the child found him first.

It was another overcast day, with a light sprinkling of rain that was certain to become something miserably damp within an hour or two.

He hadn’t expected any more visitors, and certainly not any that would make it to one of his rings and lurk there, so he’d been more puzzled by the relative dryness of the leaves beneath his feet. In fact, he hadn’t realized anyone was near, let alone guessed just who was sitting at the edge of the faerie circle until a tiny, presumptuous throat cleared.

(Such obliviousness was out of character for him. If the kid had been a snake, he could have bit Janus.

Good thing he’d picked a kitten before, instead.

Even if those, too, had fangs of their own.)

Logic waved a hand, showing no signs of his previous panicked flight– except there was a slightly harder set to his shoulders, Janus noticed, like he was preparing for a difficult fight.

He’d brought a bag with him this time. It was partially open, and Janus easily made the connection between the spare pieces spilling from it and the plastic canopy that had been painstakingly assembled over his mushroom ring. Large and durable, it was currently diverting the rain away from Janus’s circle with streamlined ease.

“Hello, Deceit,” the kid greeted. “I’m back for my next lesson.”

Between them, the deal rekindled, sparking dull embers back to life at Logic’s willful insistence. With a willingness to keep providing knowledge, he could theoretically continue to learn for as many lessons as he paid the dues for. It was one of the many loopholes that were applicable to such open-ended deals, but Janus certainly hadn’t anticipated the child using it against him.

How interesting. It seemed there were still things an ages-old fae couldn’t predict, after all.

From beneath the comfortable shelter of an oversized dollhouse gazebo, Janus tipped his head back and laughed.

#sanders sides fic #sanders sides g/t #g/t july #ts janus #ts logan #fae au #trosg #the roots of something greener #my writing #writing

[kiwiraccoon]

Behind You

San x reader

Description: y/n explores a building her family used to own with her best friend only to find not something but someone inside.

Word Count: 782

Notes: mature language, first person POV, use of nicknames “honey” “dear”, annoyance at best friend

part 1 | part 2

“What are we doing here y/n?”

“Shhh will you?” In the dead of night my best friend and I wander in the woods to take a peek at the old hotel my family used to own. When I found the maps and pictures in our attic, I knew I had to learn more. And what better place to figure it out than the building itself. My best friend knows this yet she still remains confused, scared, and worried. I wish she had a little faith in me.

So what if we were searching out in the dark, it made the whole experience more thrilling for what could possibly be a waste of time. She keeps voicing her concerns and worries like I never heard her the first time and I had to admit what was first cute, was now annoying. 

Finally stepping up to the building I reach into my pocket and retrieve the old key hoping the locks haven’t been changed. And just my luck, they haven’t. We step into the dust covered and pitch black foyer, using our flashlights to find our way around. I have no clue what exactly I am looking for, but I know there is something here for me, waiting for me.

“Can you just hurry up? It feels bad in here.” Her voice penetrates the silence, erasing the god awful ringing along with it.

“Feels bad?” I ask, wondering what exactly she means as I have never felt more calm and at peace in a building. Nothing about this feels sketchy or wrong, it feels like I was meant to be here.

“You don’t get a bad vibe about this? Like there could be ghosts here for all we know. Maybe even worse, you seriously don’t feel it?” She rambles as we continue through the building making it into the large sitting area that seems to have held a bar as well.

I sigh and turn to face her growing tired of her complaints, “I feel nothing, my family owned the building and maybe still do. I just want to know more about it, and I actually feel like I belong here. If I would have known you were goi-“

“Y/n.” She cuts me off as fear overtakes the features of her face, widening her eyes into a size I had never seen before. “B-“ she gulps, “behind you.” 

Without second guessing I turn my head to look over my left shoulder and instantly make eye contact with a strikingly perfect man who held a sinister smile on his face. One that should make any sane person feel immense fear and want to find the nearest and quickest escape. Instead a smile pulls its way across my lips, tugging them just enough to show this odd loving feeling I have within my body. 

I have never met this man before in my life, but just the presence of him around sends dopamine and serotonin to course through my veins as if I had injected drugs. This man was perfection personified whether that was the universal truth or simply my own opinion, it didn’t matter. I have read about soulmates in books of fiction, wishing such thing were real and right now I think it is.

He moves slowly behind me and I turn my head to my right with a smile still on my face to meet his eyes again. “Hi, honey.” I say so simply as if this man had been in my life for decades and it was a common greeting for us.

“Dear, I’ve been waiting for you.” His voice sends chills across my skin raising bumps along the surface as it travels through me. The name, it felt so normal that it didn’t even cross my mind.

“What the fuck.” I hear my best friend whisper but I don’t even acknowledge her as my attention is entirely wrapped in him. His sharp, sinful eyes captivate me entirely. His smile sends euphoria running through my heart, increasing the speed to show me how happy it is.

His arms wrap around my waist and pull me back into him and it’s as if my whole body was submerged in gold. I felt priceless, cared for, loved. How could a man I have never met before make me feel ways I could only ever dream about. “What took you so long?”

“I’m sorry honey, how long have you been waiting?” I close my eyes as I lean into him more embracing the feel of his skin against mine, his chin on my shoulder, his breath tickling my neck, and his arms holding me tighter at the name.

“Too long. Way too long.”

#ateez #ateez x reader #choi san #choi san x reader #san x reader #San imagine #choi san imagines #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #san fic #san fanfic

[monpalace]

ships .. (ocarina of time/majora's mask) link/reader, (linked universe) time/reader.

content .. it's only natural you search for your nephew after he enters the lost woods on a dare. you can't have a problem with the hand dealt to you when the beast who gives you shelter is so kind.

warnings .. no beta, we die like the promise i made to finish this before the summer after my junior year ended (i started this in april, it's august). i didn't know where i was going with this after a certain point and i think that's obvious. reader uses she/her pronouns. large, legal age gap (reader is in her 30's - 40's, time is a few hundred years old). less of a fic and more snippets, but it's almost 7.5k+ words. i don't think i explicitly say which link it is, so i guess it's ambiguous? nephew is named because this would be a pain to write otherwise.

notes .. prompted (not inspired!!) by beauty and the beast, but also the batb fanfic i found after my friend showed my an nsfw ao3 tag account on twitter. beelzebub / lord of the flies from fear and hunger was a huge inspo for link / time's physical description but there is leeway for how he can be envisioned. he's still large as shit though lmao. the layout of the manor was this, only because i wouldn't be able to write this without knowing.

supposedly there's gonna be a second part. supposedly.

idk. i might hate this enough to just. not.

The Lost Woods wasn't as intimidating as everyone talked it up to be.

Yes, it felt like the trees moved when you turned your back to them, and, granted, there were a few mobs of monsters that could get the jump on you if you weren't paying attention, but you had managed to get away with a few scrapes the few times it had happened.

The only thing to keep you company was the howling winds that grew in intensity and your own thoughts that were sprawling into whatever corners they could reach, but that was fine. You'd gratefully take decades-old gossip from the next town over instead of the creeping paranoia of what was behind you.

Of course, you would willingly go through this, that, and whatever else one thousand times over if it meant finding your nephew— and to keep yourself from reprimanding yourself from reprimanding the teens that had dared him out into the woods, but that was another thing.

Along your investigation, you'd found a broken trail of breadcrumbs that led to nothing when you followed them. They were torn pieces of fabric from his clothes, just big enough to be noticeable but small enough to keep himself protected from the elements.

(You'll forever be thankful that a younger your drilled the idea into his head.)

You'd long since discovered calling his name was useless. The only thing you've managed to do was draw the attention of a few wandering stalfos dressed in clothes from centuries ago.

The ones that had managed to find weapons were always the most painful to deal with.

If your determination weren't so established, you would've lost your sanity within the first day.

Food and water were no issue, you were smart enough to pack more than a week's worth of both. There were non-perishable options and several choices for your nephew when you found him; he'd no doubt have his fair share of cravings after being lost for so long.

(Three days was an eternity to you.)

Just before the sun had reached its crest in the sky, you'd realized that there were more empty clearings than trees. Wildlife had become scarce as well.

Where deers and wolves previously ran abundant, birds and squirrels that ran from the smallest of noises replaced them.

The wind had calmed, at least. It no longer wanted to push and shove you in whatever direction it pleased or steal the bag full of items you brought along. You didn't have to hug your sweater to your chest in fear of it being ripped from your arms either.

Instead, it was still.

Admittedly, the clearing gives you more paranoia than anything else.

When your mind starts to wander to places you'd rather it not reach, you begin to hum a quiet tune to yourself— your nephew's favorite— and allow it to ground you.

You were here for a reason. You wouldn't leave until you found him. You'll be fine until you find him, and you'll find some way to live in the forest that refuses to let its inhabitants go peacefully.

It's hours later when you hear the first sound of life (or suspended death) that doesn't feel like a threat— though, in hindsight, you should've been smarter and more suspicious of it when you first heard it.

A high-pitched instrument repeats each croon you let out, eventually taking over and silencing you. You follow the tune without much of a thought. If it were some sort of elaborate trap to lure you in, you couldn't be mad at yourself if you fell for it.

Clusters of trees become less and less as you follow the instrument and its recreation of your nephew's song. You call his name and are met with nothing but the music (from an ocarina, you quickly recognize) growing louder as time passes.

To say you're shocked when a large and, admittedly, well-kept manor enters your field of view would be an understatement. It's covered in vines, invasive arrowroots, and spreading flowers, but looks lived in if the smoldering smoke slowly dissipating in the afternoon air was anything to go by.

You couldn't begin to imagine who lived inside before the woods took it over (or what lived in it now). The architecture says it predates the Hero split in four, but you doubted the inhabitants of the floating sky built something so elaborate when they returned to the surface.

Your eyes jump past the crumbling pillars and dilapidated statues to the half-glass double doors that seemed to open on their own.

The music was coming from inside the manor now.

Steeling your nerves and squaring your shoulders, your hand grips tight on the strap of your satchel as you walk up the stone stairs covered in moss. You have to hold onto the guardrail installed next to it just as tight. Looking down, you find the carvings of it sorely separating it from the older antiquity of the manor.

Taking in smaller details (for future escapes or weapons against whatever lived inside, you'd figure out later), you find that the small pools of water that came from the sides of the manor and ran and fell alongside the stairs you climbed held small clumps of straw-colored fur. Some caused the surrounding water to turn into a pink hue that reminded you of fairies you've seen in childrens' books.

(Your hand reaches into the satchel to make sure you brought all of your nephew's well-loved books as well as a novel or two for yourself.)

(You did, thankfully.)

There's a smell filled with musk that permeates the air the closer you get to the manor, thick with amber and ginger and it reminds you of the times you come across a pack of wolves during your childhood.

Upon entering the manor, you find it was strongest in the wing of the manor to your right. It took over almost the entirety of your senses, but it wasn't an unwelcome or overwhelming sensation. If you paid close enough attention, you could sense the homely feeling underneath the ferality of it.

You prayed you'd be able to tell when the beast returned; if it was gone in the first place.

You take close note of how the foyer wasn't truly a foyer with how it was filled with windows rather than walls that led to a courtyard and how the only way to enter the wings of the manor was the winded stairs that connected via the terrace.

You don't fail to notice how the wing coated in the musky scent is coated entirely in shadows despite all the sources of light.

You couldn't decide if you were thankful or filled with loathing at the idea of what roamed on that side of the manor.

It's a struggle to turn your eyes away from the darkened wing of the manor, but you do manage when the music picks up once more from the left wing. It's significantly brighter and doesn't fill you with a sense of dread as the right one does.

Trap be damned, your nephew was here, you knew it— you felt it.

Reaching the top of the stairs, you find that you're inside a parlor room that leads to three other pathways. One was a library, another was a dining room, and the last was a small hallway.

In any other situation, you'd explore some more. The supposed beast that possibly lived in the manor kept everything in better shape than what you'd expect— or hopefully it was the forest spirits that lived throughout the forest.

Hopefully, those same spirits kept your nephew safe.

You have to close your eyes to better determine where the music is coming from, the only thing you can hear beside it and your own breathing being the manor settling. Your ears guide you inside the hall and you find it branches into a corridor, a bathroom, and two bedrooms.

Common sense seems to leave you when you spot the back of your nephew's head. Your breath quickens as you watch him clap along with the ocarina, you force your eyes to keep their clarity when you hear him hum each note just as you remember.

"''ire," you call in a weaker voice than you intended or thought you had. The nickname he claimed he hated so much tumbled from your lips so easily as you rushed inside the room, one arm rushing to remove your satchel while the other reached out to almost check if he was real.

The Lost Woods were known for their tricks, after all.

When he turns to face you, he's scrambling over himself in the bed. You're able to see how he limps on his right ankle and knee, how the entirety of his limbs were wrapped in bandage wrap as though done by a child. There was no blood, so you hold off on checking him over.

(The bandages were stained, thankfully not with blood. It was mostly dust and grime.)

(You'd have to sanitize whatever was wrong.)

You meet him more than halfway when you catch the way he winces and hisses with each movement.

"Auntie— Auntie— Titi!" His voice is airy as he speaks, emotion causing his words to come out as chokes. His arms reciprocated the tight hug you had on him, forcibly keeping his arms from trembling due to either nerves or injuries. "Titi, Titi, Titi!"

The way he says the word makes him sound like some chittering bug. If you listened hard enough, you could tell how his teeth clattered together, but you couldn't decipher if it was from a chill or emotion.

All you wanted to do was keep his head against the crook of your shoulder and neck while you pressed kisses to the crown of his head and kept him as close to you as you could, but you knew better.

Pulling away, you reach back for the satchel that you previously discarded. "What's wrong? What happened?" You force your voice to even out when you speak, hands already reaching for his arms after you sit the bag against your hip.

He shakes his head, but you've known him long enough to know there was something wrong. "They're from when I first went in the forest," he answers, voice quivering. "It's all healed. I think."

He doesn't push your hands away or pull his arms back when you skillfully unravel the bandages, carefully pulling and prodding the scars that littered the skin, and he was telling the truth despite the coloring.

"Did you forage like I taught you? Why are most of them green?"

"The spirits."

"The spirits?"

"And the soldier." He looks over your shoulder as though searching for their figures. "I haven't seen him yet, though."

Your eyes squint as one of your hands rubs over the strange texture of the scar, the other reaching for the antiseptic and clean fabric in your bag. "Are these spirits children or small trees with masks?"

You'd heard of both in legend. No one's ever seen them.

You're not sure which you'd rather watch over your nephew.

His eyes drift to his side before peering back over your shoulder once again. His brows furrow as he thinks of how to answer, head tilting as his pupils dilate.

"Both," he answers, "and ones that look like scarecrows. I asked them to bring you."

You force your gaze to keep itself on your nephew. You wouldn't let it wander to spirits you couldn't even see. "The ocarina?" You instead ask another question jumping around your mind, sucking your tongue in appreciation when he nods. "Smart boy."

An airy laugh leaves him, his face lighting up with a smile. "Learned from the best," he snorts.

You risk pressing kisses to the apples of his cheeks and forehead at his flattery, hands cupping themselves on the nape of his neck to bring him closer.

A younger him would push you away without a second thought, whining on about how you were embarrassing him in front of his friends.

He lets you do so now regardless of the spirits that surround you both.

"What've you been eating?" Your hands drop to his biceps when you pull away. They weren't thin like you'd expect them to be after three days in the forest; they were fatter than they had been before he left. "Who's been feeding you?"

His answer of "the Soldier," is quicker than you would've liked. "He goes out and hunts. He always brings back meat. I think it's deer.. it tastes.. bland."

"He.. cooks it, right?"

Another laugh wracks through your nephew's body. He knows you're only being cautious, but he can't help it.

"All the way through," he hums, flexing his arms when they start feeling stiff. "I think I don't like it because it's not your cooking."

He knows what your response is going to be before he finishes speaking, years of having lived under your guidance making him attuned to the smallest of your movements.

When your expression shifts from being relieved to disappointment with a twitch of your eye, he can tell you're not pleased with his statement.

Dousing the fabric in the antiseptic, you take his arm in your hand and begin wiping it down. "Don't be rude." Your voice takes on a less-than-pleased rasp, speaking lowly as if you knew the Soldier was near; but you still apologize when the sting sets in. "Have you thanked him?"

(You're sure you would continue to speak quietly regardless of the context of the conversation. You didn't want to risk "the Soldier," doing anything unfavorable.)

(Your nephew's words of praise did little to ease your stressed heart.)

"I never know when he's here. He drops the food off while I'm asleep. He brings books and carvings too." He watches as you wrap his arm in another roll of (cleaner) bandages, undoing the old one on his other arm while you prepare another piece of fabric. "The Spirits say I'm the most excitement he's had in a while, so he doesn't mind."

His voice was beginning to grow hoarse from speaking so quietly. You tap his throat to tell him to relax.

"They say he's nice," he continues, doing as told. Tapping the fingers of his now free hand against your shin, he tries to recall what all they've told him.

"I think they said he used to live in another part of the woods when he was a kid?—" His eyes glance back over your shoulder, suddenly becoming sure of himself. "— Ah. They did. They said he left and came back when he was older."

You raise a brow but don't speak your question.

Your nephew takes hold of your retreating hands in both of his.

A clatter and snippy huff outside the bedroom door rouses you from your light sleep.

Nearing a week into your stay at the manor, you'd think you'd be more accustomed to the noise, but you aren't.

You carefully remove your nephew's head from your arm, using even more caution when trying to remove the conjoined weight of several spirits from your legs as you slip out of the bed.

It's hard, but you manage to do so without waking any of them— you hope.

(You still couldn't see any of the Spirits, but over time you could feel when they crowded around you and when the wind moved as they rushed past you.)

The floorboards creak beneath your feet.

You hear the sound of claws scratching against the floor on the other side of the door.

Pressing the crown of your head against the door, you tap your fingers along the handle to give the Soldier a warning and wait a few moments.

If you listened hard enough, you swear you could hear him scurrying into one of the other rooms before he shut the door behind him.

It reminded you of a dog.

Smiling to yourself, you're careful opening the door, keeping your head to it and your eyes on the floor. You turn to the other side of it to close it, waiting for the click of the lockset to speak.

"Are you decent?"

His confused "huh," sounds more akin to a gasp than any other noise.

You rap your fingers against the handle again. "Can I look up?"

"Oh—" he sounds choked. "Yeah— Yes. Yes. You can. Sorry."

"Thank you," you hum, leaning down to pick up the tray of food. It consisted of almost entirely meat with a few vegetables you figure are exclusive to the woods. "For both the food and taking care of my nephew."

There was a thumping noise behind the door, the frequency of it was like a tail beating excitedly.

The Soldier lets out a croaking noise and you know his mouth started moving before his mind was able to catch up. "No, I should thank you for looking for him— and for telling him not to use his name."

You let out an airy laugh. "It's common knowledge where I'm from. I wouldn't be a good parental figure if I didn't."

Another noise leaves the Soldier as you fix yourself to open the door. You can't discern what this one means. "I don't know when they started calling me the Soldier, but it's not— uhm.. A favorite.. of mine."

"Oh?"

"Soldier," he sounds more confident in himself and you don't have the heart to tell him you heard him the first time, "it's a nickname. I don't know where the kids got it, but I don't like it."

Readjusting the tray to rest against your hip and forearm rather than in both your hands, you hum curiously. "So what should we be calling you?"

He pauses longer than you'd think it'd take to remember your own name, but you wait.

"Link."

"Link?"

"Yes."

"Like in a chain?"

".. Yes."

You nod even though you're sure he can't see you. "I'll be sure to tell 'ire."

"Thank you." There's more thumping from behind the door.

"And thank you."

There's another noise from Link you struggle to understand, but you figure it's because he starves for conversation. "I heard what your nephew said about the food, too. I'll try to find something to flavor it with next time I'm out."

"Thank you," you repeat. Your eyes curve with your smile. "He'll greatly appreciate it."

Link raps his fingers against the door in response, but he doesn't say anything. You take that as your queue to reenter the bedroom.

"How come your side of the house is always dark?"

You gently pinch your nephew's elbow and he swats your hand away, leaning impossibly close to the door that separates him and Link.

There are a few moments of silence from the man that 'ire filled with bated breath. Link takes an audible, steadying breath before knocking what you think is his nail against the door.

"I wouldn't want to scare you both off."

It was an answer you expected, but you were disappointed nonetheless.

"Boo," your nephew groans. You're sure Link could hear the pout in his voice if the quiet chuckle he lets out was anything to go by. "You can't be worse than what I've seen out there."

There's genuine intrigue in the noise Link lets out. "Oh? What exactly have you seen then?"

Pure excitement fills your nephew's expression when he turns to look at you from over his shoulder. His fingers tap against the floor restlessly, tongue already listing off whatever monsters he's encountered (read: come up with) in his twelve years of life.

"— but their teeth are the worst! They're poisonous and there isn't a cure for it!"

You have no clue as to what creature he was talking of now. There were at least fifteen of them who injected poison through their teeth, eight of which had no cure.

(You don't have to strain as hard to see the Spirits as you did two weeks ago. The shadows and light shift around then as they move to sit around your nephew, seemingly hooked on your nephew's every word.)

(You remember when he would crowd himself around you similarly whenever you would tell him a story.)

You close the book that sat in your lap more for decoration than entertainment at that point and place a hand over your heart.

"I drew a lot of them too! My aunt brought them with her!" He pushes himself through the motions of standing up before immediately stopping and returning to his seat in front of the door. "I'll show them to you if you eat dinner with us!"

There are a few stammering noises from the other side of the door and yet you can't bring yourself to apologize for your nephew's bargaining.

Your own curiosity was quickly starting to get the better of you against your wishes.

The noise he had made several nights before makes itself heard again. His claws (you discovered those a few nights ago) scratch against the wooden flooring as he moves to sit against the other wall rather than the door, his voice moving with him.

"I don't want to— I wouldn't want— want to disturb you— either of you." His words are muffled by the door and his growing quietness, a  regretful lilt stuck in his throat. "But thank you for the offer."

If he truly didn't want to join you and your nephew (and the spirits) for dinner, he was terrible at showing it.

"I know I wouldn't mind," you hum, standing to put away the book. A loud thumping makes the floor vibrate and 'ire has to stifle a laugh. "I wouldn't mind picking up a pot and pan again either."

"No!" Link quickly apologizes for his tone after realizing his outburst. "You don't have to. I wouldn't be a good host if I made you do that."

"Are you scared I'll poison you?"

Your nephew's voice drops to a whisper he swears you won't be able to hear. "She can't. She's the best cook ever."

You're not sure how the two correlate, but you'd take thew compliment.

"She won't?" Link's voice drops to entertain your nephew despite his earlier convictions. It takes on a playful direction, fur rubbing against the wood-tiled floors in excitement (based on prior interactions). "You've never gotten sick? Not once?"

'ire begins to shake his head but quickly stops. "Only from eating too much— which you will do, by the way. Best cook around," he reiterates.

Link chuckles, tapping his fingers against the floor restlessly. It takes him a moment to come up with something to say and neither of you push him to hurry.

You were both too hooked on his every word to do so anyway.

"I'll.." He's shy for all the attention. You wonder when the last time he got so much focus on him outside of the spirits. ".. I'll be sure to think about your offer. Why don't you tell me about a few of your monsters so I have more of an incentive?"

Your nephew jumps on the opportunity while you think over the plethora of recipes in your mind.

It wasn't rare for one of the imps to accompany you outside when you went foraging.

You never strayed too far from the manor— the last time you had been dragged outside of the area you had designated for yourself (and your nephew) by the children, Link had to come and rescue to lot of you before the sun had gotten too low.

Suffice to say, it was a rather humbling experience.

Kneeling, squatting, or sitting on the ground had never been easy on your knees or back, but the grass below you had felt as though it were a pillow hailing from the Heavens itself.

Your body works on picking herbs from the ground before placing them in your bag repurposed for your (new) everyday tasks while your mind wanders elsewhere.

You're humming to yourself when a twig snapping breaks your focus.

It was a nice reminder that the imps hadn't, in fact, accompanied you that day.

Your head lifts to survey the surrounding woods. Your entire body was still, mimicking a deer caught on a hunting trip.

There was nothing immediately in your line of sight that could be seen as a threat, but you had lived a long enough life to know that wasn't enough reason to let your guard down.

You're slow to rise to your feet and your ears are strained as you listen for whatever had made the noise.

"I'm sorry!"

You can feel your body relax when you hear Link's voice call out from behind a tree. You sink back to your knees without much thought, clutching the fabric of your top to calm your battering heart.

You weren't sure what you were going to do if it were an actual danger anyway.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he continues. His arms move and you can see one drop against the side of a tree while the other tightens around the corpse of an animal. "You were so still, I wasn't sure if you were okay."

A quiet, breathless noise leaves you. You're not sure if he could hear it, but you can see his shoulders relax when you do. "You're— You're fine! I just.. didn't know that you'd be out and about at this time."

When the hand not occupied with that week's dinner (barely) lifts to grab ahold of a tree branch, you're shocked to just now find out how tall he is.

"It's not your fault. I didn't know you were out here," he grunts while gently tugging at the branch. "Are you alone?"

Your eyes drop to the flora that surrounds you to not feel so invasive. Your fingers rub against the blades of grass idly when a restless feeling overtakes you. "A few of the kids said they'd join me later, but I'm not too sure when that's supposed to be." A short, genuine laugh leaves you. "I wouldn't be surprised if they forgot."

Link lets out his own, quiet laughter that you can only clue together when you see the entire tree shake in your peripheral. "I wouldn't take it to heart. They say they'll join me in hunting all the time but never do."

"Have you ever given them a stern talking to? I've heard that usually works with spirits."

"They barely listen to me as is. I think you'd have more luck than me."

"Is that an offer?"

"Are you headed home now?"

A strange vice tightens around your heart at his wording while you look through your bag. "Mhm," you hum, standing now that your legs aren't like that of a newborn. "You'll have to remind me of the way, though."

"I can guide you," he hums in reply. "You just can't look back."

Turning your back to him, you're surprised you don't jump when a sharp claw gives a ghostly touch to the center of your back.

You're shocked that you disregard the urge to check over your shoulder every step back to the manor.

You were no stranger to 'ire's night terrors.

They'd gotten better over the past few years as he aged, but all that progress had been undone during the near month you'd been in the forest.

Wiping away the tears that had managed to slip out, you ignore the prickly and uncomfortable feeling that comes with keeping your lulling head up so you can watch him.

You'd done it a thousand times before and would do it one thousand and one more if it meant he felt better.

You don't miss how his grip on your arm tightens when you start humming his favorite song. Your hand trails up to his hairline, nails (claws?) tracing the paint on his face that refused to fade.

You'd spent so long trying to scrub them and the green marks off, you hadn't even realized his skin had started to pale into a sickly grey in patches while darkening into (what looked like) a necrotic black in others.

You didn't even want to think about the changes that had started coming to your body.

You were, however, thankful you weren't thinning into a stalfos.

"You're not as sneaky as you'd like to think."

"How'd you know?"

"I have a young nephew. You learn quickly."

A brief laugh leaves Link from behind the cracked door. Though you didn't face him, you could see the way his eyes illuminated the wall in front of you, even managed to catch on some of 'ire's face.

It was a pretty blue color.

You don't comment on it.

"What's wrong?" Your voice has a deep rasp to it, your hand continuing to stroke your nephew's face even after he begins to calm down.

He'd slowly begun dropping more and more barriers (physical and mental) when it came to communicating with you both, having taken up shadows in their stead. He had gotten more confident in conversation as well, stammering and stuttering less the longer your nephew forced him to talk.

It makes you wonder how long it'd take for him to finally make true on those dinner plans.

"I heard him," Link hums just as quietly, the glow of his eyes moving to instead look over the sleeping spirits that crowded themselves around the space not occupied on the bed. "I was worried. Do you want help with them?"

A soft laugh leaves you when one of the imps buries their head onto your calf as though it were a pillow. "They've been like this since we first got here. 'ire," you press a kiss to his forehead when he rouses, waiting for him to settle before speaking again, "says they like to cling."

"You don't mind?"

"He's not too far off from them nowadays."

"Does he miss anything?"

Laying on your back, you being 'ire's head to rest against your shoulder. Your gaze is finally able to see how he'd take up all of the doorway (and then some) through the crack of the door.

You'd be shocked he hadn't flinched away if it hadn't been for the way his hand reached out to clasp it.

The tips of his fingers reached well past the frame of the door, his claws further, and you could only imagine just how much space he was taking up in the small hallway.

You were confident he could fit five or six of you in his hand without trying.

Your eyes jump back to the three (possibly four?) eyes before he can become self-conscious.

"Almost everything," you answer after pulling yourself from your thoughts. "His clothes, his dolls.. He could go without his friends, though."

His eyes jump from your face to the window as he huffs out a nervous laugh. It makes you wonder if he knows something you don't, but you don't push. "And you?"

"Hmm?"

"And yourself," he clarifies, "what do you miss?"

You're silent.

What exactly did you miss?

The feeling of your village's grass between your toes after the rain, the baker's treats that no other could replicate, being a part of such a tight-knit community, the sun after a particularly muggy morning—

There wasn't any need to be a sap.

"I'm not sure," you finally say after a long period of silence. You hadn't realized your eyes had left Link, yet when you force your gaze back to him, he holds it without issue. "I struggled with becoming attached to things unlike 'ire."

"Hm."

"What?"

"I can't remember the last time someone said something like that."

"You have visitors like us often?"

"More than you'd think."

"And what's become of them?"

The glow of his eyes drops to the sleeping spirits that litter before looking to the window again and you quickly understand.

The hum that leaves your throat is more lackluster than you intended it to be, but given how quickly the topic had changed, you give yourself the grace.

"Well," you start after clearing your throat, "what's something that you miss?"

The manor creaks when Link leans against a wall and his confidence in the movement tells you more than you'd expected.

You don't think you'd ever have the same amount of trust he held in it.

There's a playful tone in his voice when he speaks, one of his hands raised to scratch against his chin. "You'd have to promise not to be dramatic when I say."

"Is it my fault you use such outdated terms thousands of years behind my time?"

Link turns away to stifle his laughter, shrouding the room in darkness and forcing your eyes to strain with it.

"I can't say I've had the easiest experience understanding you or your nephew's sayings," he hums, drowning you in the light of his eye when he turns back, "the kids have to keep filling me in."

"Shame, and here I thought you'd been closer to my age. Have you been leading me on this entire time?"

Link's claws knock against the wall, his tail wagging against the floor while he huffs his amusement. "Have I? When I don't even know your name?"

If the weight of 'ire wasn't on your shoulder, you're sure you would've had a physical reaction of some sort.

"It'd do you good to not forget it," he hums, the movement of his tail slowing until it stops entirely. "Titi and Auntie, as much as I hate to say it, won't do much good."

Another lackluster noise leaves you as the arm trapped underneath your nephew lifts to rub your thumb during his forehead. "How fun."

"The kids are too attached to do anything now." The door slowly creaks open before stopping. It shuts so there's only a crack instead. "You'll be fine to share your name now."

"You never answered my question."

"Which one?"

"I haven't asked a lot," you huff before taking a softer tone, eyes rolling closed. "What is it that you miss?"

Link quietly snorts, muffling it by pressing his face to the door. He takes a steadying breath before saying a quiet, "a lot, I suppose. I can't name just a few things." A low noise leaves him, it's similar to a growl. "My friends? Playing music as well— my hands aren't good for much but skewering these days. My horse, Epona, too. She was the prettiest mare."

"Is she red with a white mane?"

"You saw the kids' drawings?"

"I've seen her before, I think— or maybe it was a hallucination?" The hand stroking 'ire's forehead stops as you scrounge your memories. "When I saw her outside the forest, I knew it was real. Another fated hero was mounting her."

You'd like to think yourself a master of figuring out what each noise he makes is meant to mean, but the one Link lets out once you finish speaking is short and of a higher pitch than normal.

When he begins to stammer over his words as he had when you first interacted with him, it feels like years' worth of progress has been undone.

"I— uhm— You— I don't— err— Thank—"

His tail thumps three times before he knocks his head against the door with a heavy groan. He lets out a quiet "Hylia, be damned," you couldn't help but think he hoped you wouldn't hear to go along with his frustration.

"It's been a long night," you finally prompt. "You'd best get some shut-eye before 'ire bombards you with more from his imagination, yeah?"

"Yeah," Link answers in a weak voice. "Yeah," he repeats to himself more than anything, "of course. Good night," he steps away from the door. "Sleep well."

"Same for you."

The night Link finally takes you and 'ire up on your offer for dinner, your nephew and the spirits had taken to floating around the east wing's dining room to prepare it for such a grand event.

"Titi, titi!" One of the Kokiri exclaims, tugging at the fabric of your skirt (that Link had made out of a spare bedsheet). Her voice had a strange echo to it— all of them, really— and had given you migraines up until you'd finally become accustomed to it. "'ire says that you'll make your world-famous pudding! Will you? Will you?"

You ignore her exaggeration in favor of forcing yourself to wrench your eyes away unless you wanted her puppy dog face to work on you. "Should I? I.. I can't say any of you have been acting well enough to deserve it.."

Even in your peripheral, it's not hard to miss the absolutely crushed look on her face. Her eyes were wide and her bottom lip wobbling like she was about to cry despite your joking tone.

"But why—y," she whines, dragging the last syllable on while hiccuping on her breath as she went on. You know the tears pooling in her eyes are just as fake as your rejection of her request— but you know just as well who'll win the battle at the end of the day.

"I—" hiccup. "Want—" hiccup. "Cake—" hiccup.

You raise a brow. "Pudding or cake, sweetheart? I can't make both."

The girl begins to climb your back while you return to sautéing the vegetables, arms wrapping around your neck so she can press her cheek against yours. "Cake! No, pudding! No! Cake! No—"

"I'll tell you what," you interrupt, taking the pan from over the open flame once the food is charred to your liking. Your skin thanks you when you step away and douse the fire, the arid air leaving through the open window. "Why don't you ask a few of the others which they want then we can try and get Link to bake it after dinner?"

The girl jumps off your back with stars practically filling her eyes. She cries out for several names while she runs off, hands clapping excitedly as she shouts out the change in plans.

You're left in peace until your nephew enters with his journals clutched between his arms, bouncing between his feet while he watches you finish plating each food item on dishes you could only dream of owning where you're from.

"D'you think he'll come?" 'ire's voice is low, almost as though scared Link will hear. You know he does if the night of his nightmares a few months ago were anything to go by— but he didn't need to know that.

"He'd better," you answer in an equally low tone. "I didn't spend so long slaving away at this just for him not to."

"Is that a threat?"

The plates in your hands aren't spared by the flinch that wracks through your body. Your reflexes are quick to catch them before any of the food can hit the floor.

'ire, on the other hand, has no issue with voicing his shock in the form of a scream, scurrying from the doorway while dropping his journals. He jumps behind you, hands clutching the fabric of your skirt while he hides himself behind your hip.

"Well?"

Placing a hand over your racing heart after putting the plates down, your other hand comes down to rest on 'ire's head. "It's rude to sneak up on people, you know."

The blond fur of his chest rustles with his laughter. It was difficult to see much else other than that, what with the way he hid himself behind the wall connecting the kitchen to the pantry.

You hadn't even heard his footsteps or creaking floorboards when he first approached. Had he been there the entire time and 'ire hadn't seen him, or had he only walked in after 'ire entered?

You wondered if he was naturally quiet or if he just learned which floorboards were loose.

"Is it sneaking when you were expecting me?" Link's voice is lighter than it usually is, a slight tremble could even be heard if you focused on it enough. He rocks on his feet and briefly leans forward, a less organic-looking side profile coming into view before leaving right after. "If I knew I would be this unwelcomed, I—"

"That's a joke, right?" 'ire stomps away from your side while he speaks, stepping over his discarded compilations of works to stare up at Link with wide eyes. Your nephew ignores the way Link's hands raise to cover his face and how he backs away as soon as he pivots in his foot to face him. "You're not actually gonna pansy out, right?"

Your feet lead you to the two before you can have much of a thought. "Zaire," you say in a terse voice, taking hold of his shoulder and bringing him against your front so you can stop him from interrogating the poor man. "Don't be rude."                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Whatever argument he has dies on his tongue when he takes a good, long look at Link. His mouth gaped open like a fish, one of his fingers lifting so he could push it into the fur of his stomach, watching the skin beneath sink with the force of it as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Woah."

If you had any less sense of dignity, you'd let yourself have the same reaction.

"Don't be rude," you reiterate, pushing Zaire's hand down until it finally reaches its rightful place at his side.

"No," Link breathes into his palms, clearing his voice to try and rid it of the anxiety (and, possibly, humiliation). "He's— he's fine. This wouldn't be the first time someone responded like that. I'd be more concerned if he did any other way."

Zaire shrugs your hands from your shoulders, stepping until he is toe-to-claw with Link. "Then why are you hiding your face? It can't be that bad," he says, tugging at the fur of Link's elbows, rubbing them between his fingers so he could better be accustomed to the texture.

Spreading his fingers enough so you both could see the four holes in the inorganic material, Link lets out another heavy breath. "I'm self-conscious," he can tell the answer doesn't please Zaire and continues speaking, "It's been.. too long.. since I've shown anyone either of my faces."

"A mask is.." Your voice falters off when you finally find the words to speak, losing them again when you fail to find a proper way to articulate your thoughts.

"It's mostly you and the kids, no?" You try again when you figure out a way to better word it. "Is a mask not.. Is it.. necessary?"

When the blue light that emits from his eyes lifts to look at you, an unidentifiable emotion shoots through you. He holds your gaze for a few, silent moments before turning his head and dropping his hands.

"It's like a second skin," he simply offers.

"Sad," Zaire sighs, backing away and turning until he stood in the center of the kitchen. "Can you still eat with it? Like I said, Auntie is the best cook in all the realms and you have to taste it to believe it."

Curse your nephew's skill of lightening a mood.

Rather than let his insecurities keep him from looking at either of you for the duration of the night, Link looks down at Zaire with a playful jolt of his shoulders. "It's not fused with my face."

Zaire's eyes curl into crescents while he grabs two of the plates from the counter. "Good!" His tail (a terrifying new addition when he first started changing) wraps around the third dish, walking himself past the two of you in the pantry so he could place each one on the dining table. "You'll love this then! Auntie," you don't miss the way he adds your name causally, "always makes this on a big day!"

Link repeats your name under his breath before doing the same with Zaire's. He lets out a thoughtful nod as each one rolls off his tongue, one pair of eyes looking at you while the other continues to follow your nephew.

He wrings his hands together when he catches the way you examined him oh-so-carefully, arms crossed with your head tilted.

"It's nice," he gulps as though every inch of nervousness had reentered his body. "It's a nice name. I like it. It suits you."

You don't know if you were teasing him prior, but you decide to do so now.

"I'd hope so." You pat a hand against his arm as you walk into the kitchen, ignoring the oily feel of his fur. You ignore the feeling of him watching and instead focus on searching through the cupboards for the drink you had foraged around to make just days before. "I could say the exact same for you, thankfully."

"Now, why don't you have a seat so I can play host this time?"

#dyou guys think the song of healing would work on him #idk #especially since he cant use any instruments any more but like 🧍🏽 #his mask is actually the giant's mask and he only wears it because he's the size of a minish without it [/nsrs] #elvira's notebook #HAVENT USED THAT TAG IN A WHILE LMAO #legend of zelda x reader #loz x reader #linked universe x reader #lu x reader #ocarina of time x reader #majora's mask x reader #oot x reader #mm x reader #x reader #link x reader #legend of zelda link x reader #loz link x reader #linked universe link x reader #lu link x reader #linked universe time x reader #lu time x reader #time x reader #legend of zelda time x reader #loz time x reader

[sourwolf-sterek32]

Broken Heart

Summary: You were the first and only female Witcher.

You and Geralt had been together since you were teenagers, training and fighting alongside each other for decades. However, when Yennefer of Vengerberg showed up, he chose her.

Now, years later, you go back to Kaer Morhen for the winter and come face to face with Geralt of Rivia, forcing old feelings to resurface once again.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Language, violence

Previous Chapter

Chapter 16-

After sneaking away from Jaskier and Prince Radovid, you fell back asleep in the cabin with Ciri and awoke a few hours later at dawn.

The sun peeked in through the window across the room. The light beaming past the faded yellow curtains and shining directly at you causing you to squint, raising your hand to shield your eyes from the unexpected brightness.

Ciri was still fast asleep on her bed, but Jaskier wasn't in his. Actually, Jaskier wasn't inside the cabin at all. Had he even come back after last night? Was he okay?

You were up and out of the cabin within a blink of an eye, going straight through the woods to the other small cabin where you had left Jaskier and Prince Radovid to make out in privacy. But to your relief, both men were fast asleep on blankets on the floor, cuddled in each other's arms.

You smiled softly staring at the two of them, your fingers unclenching from around the handle of your sword now that you knew that Jaskier was okay and unharmed.

Silently, you snuck away from the two of them, not wanting to wake them before you made your way back to your cabin, but the second you stepped through the door, your blood turned to ice.

Ciri was gone.

"No, no, no, no." You mumbled to yourself, rushing inside and searching high and low, but the young girl was nowhere to be seen.

Shit.

Footsteps crunched on the leaves outside the cabin. Your Witcher hearing picking up the faint noise with ease as the quiet footsteps appeared to come closer and closer.

You ducked behind the open door of the cabin, your sword held up close to your body while you waited for the person outside to enter. The footsteps continued to get closer, whoever was out there was deliberately trying to tread lightly which meant they didn't want to be heard and that only meant trouble.

A few moments later, Prince Radovid waltzed through the front door, his head frantically looking around the room like he was searching for something... or someone.

You stepped out from behind the door and held your sword out until the blade brushed against the side of his neck. He instantly froze where he stood in the middle of the cabin, his body turning tense.

"Turn around. Slowly." You ordered.

Radovid quickly raised his hands in surrender before slowly turning to face you. His wide terrified eyes met yours briefly before he averted his gaze.

"Where is she?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Where is Ciri? Where's my daughter?!" You questioned, raising your voice a little louder than you intended before you adjusted your sword until the tip of the blade was pressed against his throat.

That was the first time you had referred to Ciri as your own, but the word daughter felt true. She might not be yours biologically, hell, you couldn't have your own kid even if you wanted to, not after the Trials. But Ciri was the closest thing to a daughter you have ever had.

She was Geralt’s Child Surprise and she was his daughter now, and yours as well.

"I don't know where she is-" Radovid began to say before you cut him off.

"Don't fucking lie to me. What did you do with her?"

"Ahem." Someone cleared their throat from behind you, but you didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

A look of relief washed over the prince before you, but it was only short lived.

"Jaskier, thank the Gods. This Witcher is threating me. I was just-"

"I know what you were doing." Jaskier said, cutting him off.

"Jaskier, you've got it wrong."

"Oh, I've got it wrong. I'm sorry. Which part?" He slowly walked into the room before pausing by your side, but you kept your eyes on the prince in front of you, your sword unwavering from his neck. "The part where you feigned affection for me, or the part where you tried to kidnap a young woman under my care whilst I slept?"

"It would make everything easier for us if she came to Redania. I'd be out from under Dijkstra's thumb."

"And there it is." Jaskier sighed.

"How can you think my feelings for you are a lie?"

"Because that is who you are, Radovid. At your core." Jaskier began to explain, his voice wavering slightly with emotion as he stepped closer to the prince. "I thought I'd seen through your mask. Turns out there was nothing behind it."

Your heart shattered for Jaskier. The pain and heartbreak thick in his voice, but to your own shock, Radovid had tears rising in his eyes and seemed to be just as heartbroken.

"I'm so sorry." The prince whispered, staring at Jaskier before glancing over the bard’s shoulder and focusing on you. "And I didn't touch your daughter. I truly don't know where she is."

He was telling the truth. You knew he was.

"Get the fuck out of here." You muttered, lowering your sword.

The prince nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes before he dashed past the two of you, heading straight for the door.

"If you so much as hurt a single hair on Jaskier's head again, my sword will be the last thing you ever see. Prince of Redania or not. I don't fucking care." You shouted over your shoulder.

You watched the prince pause in the doorway, his back facing you both as he gave a small nod before he rushed out the cabin, disappearing through the woods and out of sight.

"Jask-" You began to say, turning to face your best friend before he cut you off.

"I'm fine. We need to find Ciri. I'm okay, seriously, Y/N. I'm okay."

The shakiness in his voice and unshed tears shimmering in his eyes would say otherwise, but you didn't call him out on it.

You nodded, "c'mon."

The two of you spent the next 10 minutes searching the surrounding area for the young girl, but there was no sign of her anywhere.

"We should split up. We'll cover more ground." Jaskier suggested breathlessly after running through the woods with you.

"I am not leaving you."

"It'll be quicker. We both know it. Y/N, dear, we have to find Ciri."

You stared at Jaskier for a few seconds, his gentle blue eyes holding your gaze sternly and you sighed.

"Fine. Take this." You instructed, reaching down and pulling out your throwing knife from your boot. "Don't die, yeah?"

Jaskier hesitated a little but took the knife. "I won't die if you don't die, deal?"

You smiled softly, "deal."

Jaskier smirked before he turned and continued his search for Ciri while you jogged off in the opposite direction, shouting the girls name as you ran.

You reached the cliffs along the beach hoping, praying that Ciri was down there somewhere.

Aratuza stood off in the distance, thick, dark smoke wafting out the old building as you stood on the edge of the cliff face, overlooking the golden beach that stretched for miles. A fading fog along the shoreline revealed abandoned boats washed ashore further down the beach towards Aratuza. Alarm bells were ringing in your head as you stared at the wooden boats, but you were too busy scanning the sandy beach for Ciri to notice.

"Y/N!" A desperate, yet familiar voice cried out.

You spun around and let out a shaky sigh of relief when you saw Ciri sprinting down the dirt path towards you.

"Oh, thank God." You whispered to yourself before rushing over to meet her.

Ciri practically threw herself into your arms, your bodies colliding as she hugged you tightly, burying her face into the crook of your neck while you wrapped your arms around her small frame protectively.

"It's okay. I got you, sweetie. I got you." You whispered, hugging her tightly whilst rubbing soothing circles across her back.

"You're alive." She sobbed quietly, pulling away. "I dreamed you and Geralt were gone... and I woke up and-and you were gone."

"Oh, Ciri." You whispered, your hands resting on her shoulders as you held the girl in front of you, hating the tears that were glistening in her eyes. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there when you woke up. But I would never leave you. Never. You know that, right?"

She nodded as a few tears escaped down her cheek and you smiled sadly at her, brushing the tears away with your thumb.

"Thank goodness I found you guys!" Yennefer's voice suddenly shouted.

You both turned around to find the mage jogging over to you, but you knew something was horribly wrong when you noticed Geralt’s sword on her back.

"What happened?" You questioned, getting straight to the point once she finally reached your side, breathing heavily like she had run all the way from Aratuza.

"The war. It's started."

"The war?"

"Yes. The mages, the elves, the kingdom of Redania. Redania want to purge disloyal mages from their ranks. The elves are fighting on behalf of Nilfgaard. It's too much to explain right now, but we need to get Ciri away from this island as fast as possible."

"Yen, what about Geralt?" Ciri asked, beating you to it.

"He'll find us. He always finds us."

"I'm not leaving this island without him or Jaskier." You stated sternly, glancing back over to the edge of the cliff. "I'll escort you back to the ferry and make sure you guys get out of here safely. You take Ciri far from here. Geralt and I will meet up with you after."

"We aren't separating." Ciri argued, but you shook your head.

"This isn't up for debate. This is what's happening." You ordered, looking at Ciri before glancing at Yennefer. "Can I trust you with this?"

"I will protect Ciri with my life. You have my word." Yennefer responded, and as much as you didn't want to, you trusted her.

You gave her a sharp nod before leading them down the dirt path, following the side of the cliff in the direction of the port where the ferry you had arrived on was moored... at least, you hoped it was still there.

The three of you barely walked a mile before the wolf medallion around your neck suddenly started to vibrate against your chest. Your senses went on high alert, the hairs on the back of your neck sticking up and you came to a sudden halt.

"Yen." Was the only warning you could give the other woman.

You drew your sword in an instant and spun around to find a ball of flames soaring through the air directly towards you. Yennefer was quick to react using her magic to block the attack and once the flames cleared, Rience stepped forward with a grin.

Great, this guy again.

Ciri charged at the fire mage without hesitation, and you were quick to join with your own sword. It all happened so fast though because the next thing you knew, there was a ring of fire surrounding you and Ciri. You were trapped.

"Enough!" Rience shouted, glaring at the two of you, his hand raised controlling the fire around you.

He could very easily alight the two of you with those flames, but you knew he wouldn't. You also knew that you needed to keep this fire mage distracted because Geralt was sneaking up behind him and he had absolutely no idea.

"You won't kill them. Your master wants Ciri alive." Yennefer said from somewhere behind you.

"I have no master."

"Yeah? Then who did you kidnap me for?" You questioned, trying to keep him distracted.

Rience turned his attention back towards you and seemed annoyed with your question because the flames circling you and Ciri slowly started to become closer.

"He is not my master." Rience growled.

He.

So, the rogue mage was male. Interesting.

"Then who is he?" You asked, trying to get more details.

Yennefer suddenly threw Geralt’s sword, using her magic to push the sword through the air at a rapid speed. You watched as Geralt caught his sword with ease before slicing the blade through Rience’s neck, cutting the Fire Fuckers head clean off.

"He was nearly going to tell me who his master was." You said, staring at the mages dead body before the circle of flames around you and Ciri suddenly disappeared.

"It's Vilgefortz." Geralt informed, walking over to you. "He's at the centre of all this. He bought both Nilfgaard and the Scoia'tael. They're searching for you, Ciri. We have to get off this island."

Yennefer handed him his sword sheath which he threw over his shoulder but before you could do or say anything else, sudden thunder rumbled in the distance and Yennefer’s body suddenly turned tense.

"Tissaia." She whispered, looking over at Aretuza that was still up in smoke, but was now being surrounded by dark storm clouds.

"What's wrong?" Geralt questioned, following her line of sight in confusion.

"She's summoning Alzur's Thunder."

"The fuck is that?" You questioned bluntly, knowing standing here and talking was wasting precious time.

"A spell of last resort." Ciri answered with wide eyes.

Oh. Shit.

"Go to her. We'll be alright." Ciri insisted, seeming to understand the gravity of the situation better than you or Geralt seemed to. "She has no choice." Ciri explained, glancing over at you and Geralt before focusing back on the mage. "I understand what she means to you. To know she suffers, she fights that she may die."

Yennefer nodded, "I have to do this."

You glanced over at Geralt who had his jaw clenched shut, clearly not liking the idea of splitting up. Yennefer was strong, she was powerful, and you needed her help to protect Ciri. You both knew that, but you also know how much Tissaia meant to the witch, and you couldn't ask her to stay.

"Go. We'll get Ciri away from here. You help your people." You announced, stepping forward and placing your hand on the mages shoulder. "As much as it pains me to say it, we need you. So, try not to die."

Yennefer chuckled softly, "same to you, Y/N." She glanced over at Geralt, giving him a small nod before she turned and ran back towards Aratuza to help her fellow mages.

-

The three of you didn't get a chance to reach the beach before Cahir showed up. Ciri wanted to kill him for everything he had done to her during the attack in Cintra all that time ago.

You and Geralt didn't try to hold her back. She was her own person and you had trained her enough to know that she could take him in a fight, but you stood nearby with your sword ready just in case.

Cahir surrendered though. Dropped to his knees and begged for Ciri to kill him for all the shit he had done, but then the Scoia'tael showed up and he fought them off, giving the three of you a chance to escape.

You made it down to the beach and found an old wooden boat tucked away in a cave. The small boat would be quicker to escape with rather than trying to find the ferry which may or may not even be there.

"Help me move this." Geralt instructed, reaching down to pick up the bow of the boat.

You and Ciri hurriedly reached down to grab the stern when suddenly your Wolf medallion began to vibrate once again. But it was different this time. It was stronger.

"Y/N." Geralt warned, grabbing his own vibrating medallion.

"Yep. I know." You grunted, dropping the boat back down and drawing your sword ready for the next threat.

"Ciri. Go." Geralt ordered, glancing over at the girl.

"I'm not leaving you guys. I can help."

"Never lost, always found. Go."

Ciri looked like she wanted to continue arguing and Geralt gave you a pointed look, silently telling you to get the girl out of here. So, you quickly sheathed your sword and grabbed her arm, pulling her out the cave.

"But I can help. Please. You trained me. You know I can help." Ciri begged, looking up at you before turning back to the entrance of the cave where Geralt still was.

"Ciri. Ciri. Look at me." You instructed, reaching over and cupping the side of her face, forcing her green eyes to meet yours. "Destiny bought us all together. It bought us together and we will be together again."

"But-"

"Geralt and I can't focus on the fight if we're worrying about you, okay? We need to know that you are hidden and safe and once the fight is over, we will find you. I promise, we will find you."

"You promise?" She asked.

"I promise."

Ciri threw her arms around you, giving you a quick hug and you hugged her back, not wanting to let go but knowing you had to.

"I love you. I love you like a daughter. Always know that." You whispered, kissing the top of her head.

"I love you too."

"Now go." You ordered, ending the hug and taking a step back.

The girl nodded, water rising in her bright green eyes, but she took off running down the beach anyway. You sighed with relief before rushing back into the cave that you only just realised seemed to be some kind of manmade structure built into the cave if the cement pillars and walls lining the cave were any indication.

"Know what the hardest part was? Holding back!" A vaguely familiar voice shouted, followed by the sound of metals clinking violently together.

You rounded the corner of the cave just as Geralt deflected a metal staff with his sword. The man he was fighting was using a metal staff. What the fuck?

You stared at the man for a moment, taking in his dark outfit and long hair tied back and suddenly, it all came flooding back.

The man taking vials of your blood. The man injecting you with the sleeping drugs. The man that the little girl had been so afraid of, the man that she knew before she had been kidnapped... it was him.

This was Vilgefortz. 

-

Next Chapter

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Commissions open! Link in bio

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia fanfic #geralt of rivia fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #henry cavill #jaskier #joey batey

[hexalianrebel-blackfeathers]

Squid Surge

Panda’s Notes:  We all know Olivia Octavius is prime ler material, but in 6 whole years, I haven't seen a thing. So here's a thing. >w< Blame @carrie-tate for this one. I love this picture.

[Ao3] || [Cookies Found: 0] || [Commissions] || [Ko-fi]

There’s something about staring into the pulsating epicenter of an interdimensional rift that changes you.

There’s something about losing your lab’s main source of funding that changes you too, but that’s neither here nor there.

The last few months were spent on research. Peter Parker had reportedly been 26 years old when he died…Spiderman had only appeared in the city about a decade ago, give or take. It had been barely a year after that first appearance when she and Spiderman became recurring enemies.

Sixteen years old. Maybe seventeen. She’d been fighting over and over—reworking and redesigning machine after machine—to fight a child. It was a bit funny, to say the least; in fact, it explained a lot. His terrible humor; his exaggerated voices for those first few years; his…unorthodox plans.

…She would miss him. In a sense, of course.

The universe is a funny thing though. Hardly a day after Peter was gone, three entirely different Spider-characters had given her a hell of a fight in the woods just outside of Alchemax. One of them being a nearly-identical—not counting the obvious difference in age—Peter Parker, and another with the ability to turn completely invisible. Now, that was something.

The one with the invisibility power; he’d first appeared in the Alchemax building alongside that second Peter, in a terrible store-bought spider suit and barely able to use his ability consistently. It was kind of adorable, like watching a kitten’s first attempts to climb. In the heat of the chase, it touched something human deep inside of her—She’d have to make a note to fix that—and she couldn’t help teasing him a bit in the moment.

The next day had been the collider’s final one. Six Spiders in total, five of which disappeared through the fluctuating rifts. She’d made the mistake of believing the smallest one—who showed up in a black-and-red suit after showing off his invisibility—was a seventh variant, but it’d only lasted a moment. The others had recognized him; they were so happy to see him. It might have felt nice to kill him, in that moment.

But she hadn’t; she honestly didn’t fully remember what happened. She awoke on a hard surface, her pneumatic arms clutching for purchase on something. Blood was running down her face and some bone somewhere was definitely broken. The whole chamber was filled with light in colors she had never imagined. The air was being pulled toward one of the portal generators; the temperature shifted wildly as everything swirled, and for just a fleeting moment, she had a glimpse into a web of something infinite and indescribable.

So, yeah. Minor Existential Quandary. No big deal. Not an issue at all.

Recovery was an interesting time spent between different casts and braces, readjusting actuators and programs. No one took much notice; lying low between the chaotic moments was something she took a sort of pride in. The news droned on in the background every time; the word on the street was a particular, brand-new black-suit Spiderman. She was curious about him; she admired his sacrifice. But days turned to weeks, turned to months. He didn’t disappear; he didn’t falter; if anything, he was improving quickly for such a small thing. He was supposed to be here, in this dimension.

That brings us back to this. She’d wracked her brain trying to remember that night. The whole week had become a bit fuzzy with the head injury, but something stuck about. Miles. Spoken like a name. She’d heard it a few times during the encounters they’d had. They were all just so talkative, weren’t they?

Hacking into databases wasn’t necessarily a strong suit of hers. Not to say that it’s hard, but it’s nowhere as easy as robotics. Miles is an interesting name to search for too, all things considered. Not common enough for her to scrap the search entirely—Like Peter, funny enough—but not so rare that the hunt was a simple handful of clicks. And she adored a good puzzle.

Now, how to narrow this down… If the precedent held true, the kid would be under 20 years old. Great. That removes…40% of the results. That’s still a few dozen in the area though, less puzzling now and more downright luck.

…Olivia doesn’t really believe much in luck. What she does believe in is probability. Such as, if someone were to, say, spread an itty-bitty little rumor through the proverbial criminal grapevine about a new secret project Doc Ock was working on; well, then the probability that such information would get to Spiderman was nearly 100%. And then, the probability that Spiderman would simply have to infiltrate Alchemax to confirm such a rumor was…

Actually, that brings us to the present. The brace on her leg kept the occasional aches from distracting her; the one on her wrist had just become a habit from weeks of routine. She stood in her personal lab, making a few final calibrations. Frankly, the timing was impeccable. The tablet beside her, showing schematics and diagnostics for the mechanism on the table, had a small grid of dots in one corner that shifted from green to red in a sort of line before only one dot stayed red. She tapped the grid, making it the focal program on the screen, and she smirked to herself as she lifted the apparatus enough for it to attach itself onto her back. It felt lighter; less metal hidden in the tubes definitely helped. The arms lifted her weight off the floor easily; that part hadn’t needed any changing.

“One last thing.” She finally spoke, pulling her glasses off while one of the arms passed her goggles into her hand. “I’ll need to test the new program; it’d be so nice to have some assistance~” She pressed the red dot on the tablet, and a loud hiss suddenly came from the ceiling behind her, quickly followed by a startled yelp. She turned with a grin, finding a flailing partial-silhouette made of fire suppressant powder. “How nice of you to drop in, Spider-Man.” She taunted playfully, lashing an arm across the room toward him.

He dodged to one side, perching himself on a table as he let himself become visible again. “I-I—How…?” He stammered out, ducking away from another arm trying to grab him.

“It’s a temperature detector, sweetie, not a person detector. In fact, I had to increase its sensitivity just for you!”

He glared at her—Don’t ask how she can tell—before lunging to one side and attempting to rush at her. She had lifted herself up and backwards to stand on the workbench, and Spider-man flinched as all four arms lashed toward him. He fired off a web, attempting to pull himself out of the way, but she managed to catch him by one ankle and drag him close enough for another arm to coil around his wrist. The claw shoved into his hand, blocking the trigger on that web shooter as he flailed nervously.

“Huh, the speed adjustments paid off too.” She grinned, tapping her chin as she watched Spiderman grab at the plastic tubing.

“This is the secret project I heard so much about?” He let out a huff, and she could feel the air tingle as sparks started to jump off of him. “Can’t say I’m impressed.”

Her smirk didn’t falter at all. “Sorry, Miles; I made a point to keep this design completely      insulated from electricity.”

He froze up completely. Oh. She actually hadn’t meant to let that slip so early. But given his reaction…

“I don’t—” He tried to speak, but the new anxiety was dripping from his voice.

“So that is your name!” Olivia laughed. “Honestly, you Spiders really should work on keeping your mouths shut during these little fights.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Octavius.” He growled, looking away and prying harder at the claw on his wrist.

She eyed him skeptically, shaking her head. “You can play tough if you want, but I do have to tell you: You were wrong earlier; my secret project is actually this little program.” She emphasized the statement by running the command, leaning casually on the workbench as she was set back on the floor. Two of the remaining arms moved suddenly, the claws squeezing gently at his sides. The reaction was instant and, frankly, hilarious.

Spiderman let out a panicked sort of noise, his free hand grabbing at one of the offending claws. “A-Aye, watch it; tell your vacuum tubes to keep their hands to themselves!”

Olivia let herself chuckle, twirling her finger casually in the air as the claw on his other side mimicked the motion. “Oh, come on now, Spiderman; you think I’ve never heard that one before?” She taunted, smirking as she watched him squirm. “Besides, it’s not like they’re doing anything; you’re fine.”

She waved her hand dismissively, pretending to turn her attention elsewhere while both claws suddenly moved faster. The gentle squeezes became very purposeful kneading from his hips to his ribcage, and Spiderman—Miles—kicked wildly as a startled laugh managed to escape. Olivia glanced back at him, crossing her arms and hoping her sarcasm didn’t show too much. “You still alright up there?”

Miles was definitely glaring at her if his tone was any hint. “You’re doing this on purpose…” He tried to growl, but it sounded a lot more like stifled giggling.

“Doing what~? I’m not doing a thing. The program is just a maintenance tool. Keeps all the joints working, like cracking your knuckles.” She tapped her chin. “Unless, of course…”

“Shut up.” He snarled, trying to scrunch himself up as both claws crawled tauntingly slow up his sides.

“…You’re ticklish.”

There was a beat of silence as they stared at each other, and electricity jumped off of Miles’ hands again.

Olivia sneered as she let the claws strike; one of them resumed the pattern of squeezing up his side while the other tickled mercilessly under the arm he was dangling by. And wow, it really shouldn’t be this easy; this was just unfair. Miles actually burst out laughing, his escape efforts redoubling in the form of much more aggressive kicks. Olivia simply kept her distance, chuckling as she pulled the tablet on her desk closer to make a few notes.

Reaction times were good; pressure calibration seemed accurate; minute motions were apparently quite realistic, if that squealing was anything to go by.

“Are you having fun?” She taunted, reaching to sneak a poke on his stomach and snickering when he nearly connected a kick through his laughter. “I think this is fun. Now…” She tapped her chin as she examined her notes…

Logic and Opportunity… In a situation where a problem is presented, these two will balance in some way. Most people, when an opportunity presents itself, will try to logic out the surrounding circumstances to decide if the opportunity is truly worth taking at the time. A computer, however, gathers all the logical information it has, determines an optimal solution, and when an opportunity to perform that solution appears—

…This is all to say that Olivia finally lashed out with her remaining actuator, the claw snatching Spiderman’s mask off of his face.

Oh…This feeling again.

Spiderman—Miles—looked shocked for a second, the momentary joy in his eyes giving way to a panic that was…primal, to say the least. Fear that everything was going to fall away. The sight of impending death, and the knowledge that you aren’t ready.

Olivia hesitated. There’s something about staring into the eyes of the kid you had made deliberate plans and attempts to kill that changes you.

Both of them were frozen; his face was hard—determined—but it didn’t disguise the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. His mind was completely blank.

What was she thinking? She realized quite suddenly that she hadn’t fixed that pesky humanity. His face softened as she thought; her expression must have changed.

What had actually changed was that her arms had lowered him closer to the floor, the grips of the claws loosening enough for—Right, they were fighting. He wrenched his hand, opening the claw on his wrist enough to pull free, and he broke into a sprint the second he hit the floor. She reflexively pulled herself out of the way, stumbling slightly as her legs hit the workbench. Olivia looked quickly around the room, only to find herself alone. His mask had fallen to the floor; he wouldn’t leave without it. She was about to adjust her goggles to shift filters, but a familiar crackling over her shoulder caught her attention. She felt a hard shove, most of the electricity absorbed by the apparatus as the arms moved to keep her from falling. Static tingled through her shoulders as she turned to face the boy standing poised on her desk. She could handle this; she just needed to focus.

[ERROR!]

The message flashed in the corner of her vision, and Miles squinted at her, apparently spotting the backwards text through her goggles. She fell suddenly to her own feet, the actuators shifting as the device on her back sparked. A dull ache shot through her spine; they weren’t responding to the neural link. Not really a great time for that, but nothing she hasn’t dealt with before.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t prepared for two of the claws to start tickling her sides, and Miles stifled a laugh at the giggling snort that escaped her. Yeah, actually, forget that poignant revelation she just had; she’s still going to kill him.

“You little brat!” She barely managed to get out, her tone nowhere near as accusatory as she’d wanted through her own growing laughter.

He stepped back slightly when she staggered forward, and he crouched on the desk, resting his chin on one hand as he watched her crumble with a slight smirk. “Y’know, you’re right; this is kind of fun.”

Now, he was the one to hesitate, not that she was able to focus fully on him or anything. She heard his web shooter fire, and the mask was snatched off of the floor. There was a faint tapping before he gave an exasperated sigh. “¿Cómo encuentras algo?” He huffed before, suddenly, the actuators went mostly still. They still spasmed occasionally, and when they attempted to retract back into the apparatus just left three of them deflating on the floor.

[EMERGENCY OVERRIDE ACTIVATED, SHUTTING DOWN]

She’d barely caught sight of the message through the slight haze in her eyes just before her goggles darkened and deactivated. She took the time to catch her breath before she pushed herself up, one of her hands moving to rub her side as the giggles faded away. Spiderman was gone, as far as she could tell—Smart kid—but her glasses had been webbed to the ceiling. Smug little brat.

Olivia fished one of her many spare pairs out of a drawer on her workbench, sighing as she pulled the tablet closer and flicked through the different programs. A thirty-character access code later, she was scrolling back through the security footage for this room. One of the angles had a crystal-clear shot of Miles’ face. The ideas that must have been running through his head to put that much fear in his eyes…

No one else had access to these records until the security backup at the end of the night. Olivia valued her privacy more often than not.

Logic and Opportunity. When a situation presents itself, a computer will logic out a solution and perform immediately when the opportunity arises.

Olivia took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. She deleted the footage.

A dot on the grid program shifted subtly from red to green, and she smiled.

There’s something about humanity that changes you.

#tickling #a panda writes a thing #miles morales #olivia octavius #spiderverse tickle #itsv tickle #atsv tickling

[boilingheart]

Arcane Hunger

Pre-Relationship Gale x Male Tav (Lucius Skorn) Takes place in early Act 1. Magical items stopped working for Gale a while ago, and the symptoms have kept coming. The Ilmatari cleric Lucius wakes in the middle of the night to find Gale in the woods, pained and tormented by the Orb in his chest. With nothing else left to treat it, Lucius comes up with an idea to sate it. Rated T Read on AO3 See: Kitchen Territory for another Gale/Lucius slow burn one shot

This was a life lived on the precipice of peril.

Four centuries as the hunter and the hunted. From the delicate youth of a fawn to the wolf whose maw it was made for, to a broken dog leashed by its masters and starved — Lucius learned well not to sleep through anything. In rest is vulnerability, and every small sound in the night is the potential for a great threat.

This was the first lesson his father taught him the second he’d heard that tell-tale jingle of a belt buckle. A lesson he carried as a thief, then a leader, and then a slave.

If the foliage rustles, there’s an enemy nearby. A threat to the coalition, an incoming attack — many times in the night during the Lockjaws’ camp, Lucius had caught all sorts of aspiring predators intent on ending their reign.

Floorboards creaking, rusty doors squeaking, the faint pitter patter of feet upon the ground — Lucius never took any risks. Most of the time, it had been nothing. Others, there was the impending dagger incoming, followed by a corpse that was not his own on the floor.

The alert are victorious. The survivors are the winners. 

Lucius will not be flayed.

His head snaps up, hands instinctively reaching for their daggers as he whirls to his knees with vigilance. Try him, someone fucking try him, is all he can think, but as he blinks the sleep out of his eyes, he finds there’s no one there.

Once again, he has woken to nothing.

Lucius doesn’t rest his daggers just yet, still staying frozen in position in case anyone did dare enter his tent. One moment, two moments and three, his heart beats and echoes in his ears in time with the wind, but nothing comes.

Of course nothing comes.

He sheathes his daggers and rubs his face. How long has it been since he had a full night’s rest? Years? Decades? Centuries? Had he ever had a full, undisturbed rest? He can’t help but recall the one night Father Lorgan woke him in the middle of the night, and Lucius had very nearly assailed him before recognition flooded. Even in the two years of peace at the Open Hand Temple, he hadn’t been able to find rest.

Being in the forest with tadpoles in their heads isn’t making it any easier.

He’s about to convince himself to lay back down and sleep when he hears a noise again. His ears flick back, and he holds perfectly still. An animal? A voice? Has someone gotten up in the middle of the night?

He peeks his head out of his tent. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. The half-moon illuminates the tents with a gentle caress of blue, and the wind rustles the leaves with a soft layer of noise to fill the silence. There’s the chitter of distant nighttime animals and the occasional buzz of little bugs that have their own homes nearby. By all means, it’s a lovely night, and as far as he can tell, no one has gotten up. Gentle snores emit from the tents, and even the camp animals sleep soundly. 

Great. No source. Lucius sighs, retrieving his cloak and daggers, and decides to slip out and search around for himself. There’s no rest until he knows what it is.

And whatever it is, it feels… off.

He slips into the woods quietly, the muscle memory of a rogue taking over and carrying him with swift stealthy steps. Like a wraith, he slips through the foliage silently, unencumbered by the weight of any armor, free to stalk and to listen. Hundreds upon hundreds of times he and his gang had found themselves in forests, climbing the trees, hiding within the plants, staging the perfect ambush against those who pass by. Merchants, rival guilds, the Zhent, nobles – anyone they decided to make their victim that day. Not even daylight could stop these beasts of blood — but that was a lifetime ago. Yet still, that shadow does not leave the cleric.

Step by step, halt, listen. The wind whistles. The leaves rustle. Nothing new. Step, step, ascend, investigate, stop — and there, he hears it: labored breathing, like something, or someone is injured.

Something cold shoots through his veins. Adrenaline or fear? The sound is too humanoid to be an animal, which is far, far worse than what Lucius wanted to hear.

If they need help, they need it fast.

But if they need help, whatever put them here could still be lurking.

One quiet step after another. He has a dagger out, ready for any wrong move to try him. Step by step, he follows that hollow sound, feeling something in the pit of his gut turn when it starts to sound familiar. He’s close now — it’s most certainly humanoid, and they’re in pain, no doubt. But how? And who? And why —

He rounds a tree, and feels his blood turn to ice at the sight of a wizard’s signature purple sleepwear.

“Gale!”

Caution be damned! All thoughts of it melt away in alarm at finding Gale drenched in sweat, propped up against a tree trunk with a hand pressed tightly against his glowing chest. His head is thrown back, expression twisted and eyes screwed tight in agony, and he doesn’t seem to respond to Lucius in the slightest.

Is this fear?

“Gale, hey, Gale!” Lucius shakes his shoulder, only for Gale’s brows to scrunch further. “Gale, look at me. Hey, are you alright? Please look at me.”

Gale lets out a pained breath, peeking an eye open. They look unfocused, as if they can barely see Lucius in the slightest. It takes a few breaths before his lips quirk to a strained smirk and he gets his voice to work. “Hi.”

“The fuck you mean hi — Gale —” Lucius searches him for any injuries, his hands held out with a spell at the ready. There didn’t seem to be any visible wounds, and nothing quite off with Gale aside from the dirt and grass stains that now adorned the rich purple of his clothes. Well, aside from… 

His eyes trail up, and beneath Gale’s hand at his sternum, he can see the markings of the Netherese Orb glow up his neck and to the corner of his eye. The purple hue intensifies rhythmically, as if beating in tune with Gale's quickening heart. Lucius’ hairs stand on end.

“What’s happening to you? Why are you out here?”

Gale tries to laugh. It dies in his throat. “I was just… trying to get some air…”

“You look like you’re dying, Gale.”

“Well I certainly hope that’s not the case,” He says, struggling to get the words out. He digs the palm of his heel harder into his chest. “I’m… too close to camp.”

“Don’t tell me you were trying to go find some place to die.”

“No, no,” He takes a deep breath. “I-I just needed air.”

How long had he been out here? How long has the Orb been tearing him apart like this beyond what Lucius could tell? Had he been hiding the severity since the artefacts stopped working? Lucius raises his hands, a curing spell upon his fingertips, but there’s no place to put them. What would he do? What can he do?

Gale’s eyes are squeezed shut again, riding another wave of pain while Lucius sits on his haunches uselessly. He didn’t hear him get up. He should’ve checked on him. He should’ve thought of something. Lucius bites down the terror and buries it in its grave in his chest to speak.

“Tell me how I can help you.”

“Lucius…”

“There’s – There’s got to be something I can do,” Lucius says, leaning in closer. “Anything!”

Gale cranes his head, opening his eyes to look at Lucius as best as he can. He can barely focus. “I just need to ride this out. The Orb won’t feed anymore. I can’t… It’s fine, Lucius.”

“This is very much not fine! You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Gale.”

“I’ve had these episodes before, this is… nothing I can’t handle.”

“Sure, sure…”

Maybe he can’t help him. But he can at the very least keep him from suffering alone in the woods.

Resolute, Lucius makes up his mind. The prepared spell drops, and he slides one hand behind Gale’s back to prop him up. He slides his cloak off and wraps it around the wizard.

“What are you —”

“You see, here’s your first mistake, Gale,” Lucius says, hugging Gale close to him. With ease, he secures his other hand under Gale’s knees and hoists him up. “You’re telling a cleric of Ilmater to let you suffer alone. I think you should know by now that I’m not letting that happen.”

Gale tenses as he’s suddenly lifted, curling in closer to Lucius and shutting his eyes. “Please put me down.”

“And just let you rot in the woods? Come on, Gale.”

“There isn’t anything —”

“To the Hells with that. Maybe I can’t stop the Orb…” Lucius makes certain he has a good hold on Gale before heading back towards the camp. “But the very least I can do is keep you company.”

Gale is both lighter and heavier than he expects. Lighter, in that it was significantly easier to lift him than he imagined it would be. Heavier, in that the man is real, warm, solid, and in his arms. The darling wizard that’s had Lucius spinning dizzy for some time now was now cradled close to him. Gale likely isn’t able to fight back against him, for which Lucius feels a crumb of guilt over. He hates to whisk someone away when they don’t want it — but with how Gale collapses into himself, not taking his hand off his chest for a second and screws his eyes tight, he can’t help but feel he has no choice but to watch over him, or at the very least keep him where he can see him. Where he’s not exposed to the elements and gods forbid whatever else might be out there.

He treads the outskirts of the camp, circling away from where the others are sleeping in order to get to his own tent a little ways off. He’s long since learned that not many of the others are quite… fond of Lucius, which means his tent has the least amount of traffic in the camp. An advantage in this case, seeing that Gale needs to be away from the others in such a vulnerable state like this.

He hunches into the entrance, crouching low until he’s able to safely lay Gale down on his bedroll without tussling him, resting his head gently on his pillow. Gale peers up at him through squinted eyes, trying to follow him as Lucius closes up his tent and begins to rummage through the baskets and satchels he had around.

“Lucius…”

“Not a word, Gale,” Lucius says, pulling out a small crate from under his makeshift desk. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of protests and excuses and other words to try and discourage me from helping you, but they will be on deaf ears, my friend.”

Gale stays silent for a moment. When Lucius looks back at him, he has his head turned away.

“I just have to ride it out in waves,” Gale says weakly. At the very least he seems to have caught his breath a little. “Whatever it is you’re going to do, I’d rather save you the time. I’ve tried to feed it already. It doesn’t work.”

“Mm, I’m sure you have. I don’t doubt it. But if you’re just going with rings and trinkets, I just don’t think it’s strong enough.”

“Lucius —”

“Here, but first,” Lucius pulls out a rag, giving it a quick sniff to make sure it’s clean and dusts it off. With the quick incantation of a water spell, the rag soaks, dripping onto the floor. “Whoops, shit —”

He folds it neatly, wringing out the excess, and gently wipes down Gale’s face. Gale closes his eyes, but allows Lucius to move him when he brings his other hand to turn his head, bringing the cool, soft rag across his cheek, his nose, his chin and his temple. The process is automatic, for which Lucius is grateful for. In the Open Hand Temple, they’d sometimes take in the sick who needed help, and as one of the adorned who worked with the medicines, Lucius was often tasked with caring for them. The feverish, the elderly, all those who needed someone to care for them but were utterly alone. That’s what the Ilmatari are for. To help bear those burdens for those who couldn’t carry it. They take their places on the rack and bear it for them, for no one should suffer if they don’t have to.

He refreshes the rag and refolds it, laying it horizontally across Gale’s forehead. He’s done it a hundred times before, sometimes for faces that he often forgot, and for the faces who only had the Temple to go to. And though muscle memory shields Lucius from any strong feelings, he finds himself resting his hand over the rag, lost in observing Gale’s features up close. There’s no denying he’s a beautiful man, no matter how many times Lucius tries to convince himself otherwise. Soft brows, hooded eyelids, long lashes, laugh lines, a well kept beard, and those dark veins at Gale’s left eye that connected to his Netherese scar — he has to catch himself lest he linger for too long watching over him tenderly. It’s not appropriate.

“There we are,” He says, clearing his throat and patting the rag on his forehead before moving to the other side of the tent. “That should help you cool down. Let me see if there was any tea I salvaged. A good cup of tea ought to do you some good. Tea usually helps. Tea’s good.”

He can hear Gale huff with amusement. That’s good. He’s coming back to himself somewhat. He rummages through his inventory, trying not to bang all the pots and pans he’s found around in their travels, and finally manages to find some flowers he knows in his heart to have medicinal properties.

“I don’t have sugar on me. And I ate the last of my honey yesterday, so you’re going to have a bitter brew,” Lucius says out loud while he tries to arrange the shittiest set up of a teapot to boil without a stove or proper bonfire to boil at. He sets a wide copper pan missing its handle upside down on his table, a miniature brazier frame atop of it, and the dinked up teapot he’d salvaged on top. Water incantation fills it, and he flicks his fingers to try and light the brazier.

“Are… Are you starting a fire inside your tent?”

“Hm? Oh, no, not at all.”

“It very much looks like a homemade stove there.”

“Yes, but it’s not fire,” He pokes a finger onto the piece of charcoal laid in the metal frame. “Incende. Sacred flame cantrip — I was never good at the fire one.”

“Still technically fire.”

The made up stove lights up. “It’s sacred flame. Radiant. It’s different.”

“You’re using it to ignite something. It’s fire now.”

“But it’s holy fire.”

“Fire regardless.”

“I’m not going to burn this down, I’ve done this before,” Lucius says with a laugh, settling back onto his haunches to open the box he’d pulled out. “And even if I do, I have a water spell on hand. I’m glad I took the time to learn it. Never needed to use it so often than when I got stuck out here.”

“Oh, I hear that,” Gale huffs, wincing again as the Orb seems to coil him with pain. When he speaks again, it’s with significant strain. “I’ve gone through a handful of spells in my day I took for granted. Up until the moment I needed them.”

“That’s always how it goes, isn’t it.”

He crab-walks towards Gale, dragging the box with him. Gale cranes his head up, the rag covering his brows to create the illusion of an angry look on his face. “What are you doing?”

“You know, when you first told me about your whole uh, condition thing,” Lucius says, sticking his hand into the box and clattering all the various objects inside. “I actually went through the effort of hoarding all sorts of magical items that I could find.”

Gale’s expression softens. “Oh! That’s… very appreciated.”

“I mean I got a lot, Gale.” Lucius holds Gale’s gaze as he knocks the box over, spilling all of the items on the floor. A shortbow, daggers with various runic inscriptions, a dozen rings, a handful of necklaces that have tangled into each other, several maces, an axe, some crumpled scrolls, two pairs of gloves, a helmet that belonged to a halfling once upon a time, and other trinkets covered by the mess of items. Gale watches as all of the objects pour out and onto the floor, staring at it wordlessly, then back up at Lucius, then back to the pile.

“When did you… H-How did you… Where did…”

“This might sound hard to believe,” Lucius says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I used to be a… pickpocket, back in the day. There were just too many useful magical stuff we were finding and not very much I was able to spare, and it was scaring me. So, whenever we got to some higher crowds, I… went ahead and relieved some of them of their excess weight.”

Gale stares at the pile. “That is a lot of stuff.”

“I wasn’t about to let you starve.”

There’s a moment of silence while the two of them watched each other. Lucius can feel the distance between them — they were still strangers to each other for the most part, even if Lucius had suddenly found himself with an inexplicable infatuation for the wizard. He has no doubt he’s put Gale in an awkward position, having whisked him away bridal style into his tent while his ailment ate away at him, leaving him at his most vulnerable. He won’t pretend to understand Gale’s life story, or how this condition has treated him, or what he’s normally used to under those circumstances. He just knows that he can do what he can to ensure he can lift that burden in any way, and he wants Gale to know that he’s willing to do so.

And from that look on his face, perhaps Gale wasn’t expecting that Lucius would at all.

He tries not to feel anything about that. He hasn’t given many reasons for the camp to like him much, and that’s fine. But he’s willing to go through the effort for them. He’s not sure anyone has fully realized it just yet.

Gale’s expression drops to one more solemn, and Lucius feels his heart sink with it. “I don’t even know if this will work.”

“Will you at least try? I know you said it’s not sating the hunger anymore, but… maybe the doses were too small. Maybe you need a big go all at once. It’s… like a neverending maw, isn’t it? One ring a week can’t keep you going forever.”

Gale presses his lips together. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep some of it? It just… it all looks so valuable, Lucius, I —”

“Quit looking for excuses and let me help you damn it!” Lucius snaps, louder than he expects. It shuts Gale right up, sure, but the last thing he wanted to do was raise his voice at this man. He rubs his face, dropping into a proper seat on the floor. “Look… I told you. I set this stuff aside for you specifically. I hid this from everyone else for a reason. You think Astarion and Shadowheart wouldn’t go crazy for some of this stuff? I left it out of the inventory logs. What I gave you to help before came from this pile. Except the first one, of course, as you kind of caught me off guard — but still.”

Lucius doesn’t want to make assumptions about this man. He would think it’d be a little easier for a man of his caliber to understand and accept gifts. He pressed the urgency for having something to sate him, but now he wants to back off? Why can’t he just let him? And why can’t Lucius just let it go?

Why is it filling him with such a deep, profound sadness that Gale is hesitating?

Gale sits up, slow in his movements and carefully pulling his hand off his chest, as if doing it too fast would cause something to spill violently, the other taking the rag off his head. Up into a criss cross, he slouches dejectedly, staring at the vaguely glowing pile of goods.

“I appreciate it, Lucius, please don’t mistaken me,” Gale says softly, rubbing a hand down his face. “It’s just… I don’t know. It hurts sometimes. Not just… physically. I’m a wizard, Lucius, I command control over the Weave. I dedicate my life to studying it. It was more than just my everything. My very being, intertwined with me, at my fingertips. Even Mystra herself, the mother of magic, had caressed me once with such divine power — and now I’m…”

The Orb glows under his shirt, and he grinds his teeth as it gnaws on him from the inside out. Lucius can almost feel it. That dark, radiating magnetic power — subtle enough that Lucius could ignore it if he didn’t know what he was looking for, but strong enough that if he does, he can feel the pull of it towards Gale’s chest. It seethes and it burns and claws and chews. He can see how it’s left bruises over his skin.

“I know I brought this on myself. It’s the consequences of my own actions, my own hubris, but it doesn’t make the burden any lighter. The Orb… all it does is consume. It takes, and it takes from me. Magic is my lifeblood, and now I’m doomed to spend the rest of my life destroying it, lest it kill me and bring catastrophe to everything and everyone else unfortunate enough to be nearby.”

He takes a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. Trying to keep control. Lucius lets the silence balance, lest he knock something over with words.

“These are all very nice things, Lucius. I just… I hate that this is what it’s made of me. To consume and destroy the Weave. Magic that is my world. So many powerful and valuable items intertwined with it in this world that I’ve destroyed because I took something too far. I can’t help but feel that I am robbing you of so much utility for something I can no longer sate…”

Lucius casts his gaze back to the pile. Sure, there were some things in there he could find use for. He had already plucked some things out of the box a couple times when he realized he could make use of some of the rings and such in there, but… for the most part, Lucius felt no attachment to them. He knew when he lifted these items that they were going to be destroyed, and it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. 

He decides to be a little brave and moves to sit beside Gale, close enough that their arms touch, catching his gaze. Gale makes considerable effort to focus on him, and though he’s more conscious now, it’s clear it’s taking every ounce of energy he’s got into this conversation.

“Gale, I literally let a highly suspicious vampire feed on my literal blood on the regular to sate him.”

Gale can’t help but honk a laugh at that, shaking his head.

“Look at me, Gale, I’m serious! It sounds funny, mostly because it is, but this is where I’m coming from. You think someone who’s letting in a spawn walk around the camp — and let us not forget, I am a cleric here — that I’m going to just call you, a chronically ill wizard, a burden?”

“Now, to be fair, I am quite literally a walking bomb —”

“Everyone here has some weird shit going on!” Lucius says. “Sure, not everyone’s about to blow up, but you think you’re the only one with baggage? The only one here who isn’t worth saving? A vampire spawn. A Sharran cleric. Noah being Noah. Infernal engine lady. A githyanki warrior — well, her deal is more a culture shock than anything but I won’t digress, ‘cause listen, I thought at least Wyll was the normal one here, and then it turns out he’s a fucking warlock!”

On the tip of his tongue, the precipice of his mind, Lucius imagines for one wild moment that he spills his own story to Gale. That he admits the kind of person that he was — still is, even. That he’s only been a cleric for two years, that he spent decades in prison prior to that, several more decades as a slave before that, and centuries being the absolute worst, rotten filth in Faerûn with the Lockjaw Gang. The blood of hundreds, mostly innocent, stains his hands always and forever. He still remembers the feeling of his hand around a dagger, blades plunged into flesh just for the thrill of it. How he’d first begun robbing for money and stability to live, and then became so good at it he just did it because it was fun. A horrific, terrifying menace, Lord Skorn, so awful that there had once been rumors that he was a Bhaalist —

But he doesn’t say any of it. And he knows Gale won’t ask. As far as anyone knew, he used to be a rogue, served time for being one, and found Ilmater when he came out. It’s good enough. No one needs to know. His scars and his tattoos speak for themselves.

“Besides,” Lucius continues, bumping his shoulder. “You’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t accept this. I got all of this for you, Gale. If you let it go to waste, I will be mad. Is that good enough for you?”

Gale looks at him, taking a moment longer than normal to process his words before scoffing, shaking his head. “Fine. So be it. I suppose you’re right. All this effort just to go to waste…”

“Exactly. Now, come on. I can’t stand to see you like this. You have to at least try.”

Gale takes a deep breath, staring down at the pile of magical items. Lucius plucks the rag out of his hands and scoots to give him some space. It takes the wizard a moment to find his bearings, and he watches his expression change as he drops his hands on top of the pile. Hunger. A ravenous, desperate, wild look, one Lucius had only seen on the most spurned of men who’d never been spared a moment of kindness or earned enough gold to live. The look of a starved wolf, manic over the bones of a long since picked at carcass, desperate to find even a modicum of flesh still left on the kill. The look Lucius had seen in his own eyes, his own reflection as a child when winter came, and neither he or his father were able to secure enough food before getting stuck in the snow. The look in his eyes the day he decided to cut his father’s own throat out —

Here comes the glow. Each of the items light up in a vivid violet, illuminating the tent with its brightness as they begin to pull like magnets towards Gale’s hands. Lucius had watched him consume these kinds of items before, but never this many. Never more than one at most. It was always fascinating to watch the ring or pair of gloves or mace disintegrate into Gale’s hands and feed into his chest, but this, oh, this was different. This, Lucius feels, shows him a better glimpse on the extent of the hunger, the raw, visceral, chaotic magic that plagues the wizard. It has never glowed this bright before, rattled and tangled and crumpled in on itself on its way to Gale’s hands, leaving fettering trails of flaky purple dust and an electric sting to the air. The magic funnels through and around Gale, siphoning into the center of his chest with a vacuum of sound. Sitting this close, he can almost feel the pull of the Orb, and finds himself leaning back out of sheer instinct as the items disintegrate.

He doesn’t want to call it beautiful, because it feels like a cruel thing to say to such a sight. It’s a horrible thing, this Orb and its hunger. What it does to Gale. But it’s an awe inspiring sight. The magic paints the tent in a violet hue, and he can almost taste it in the air, potent and raw as it breaks and breaks and breaks towards Gale. One by one, each item loses its form and becomes nothing. The tangled necklaces become one, and then become none. The rings lose their shape and become dust. Weapons that have likely slain many forgotten faces in the past are rendered useless. Fodder. Consumed.

Perhaps Lucius had simply always found beauty in destruction. 

Perhaps that’s what made Lucius an unforgivable man.

Eventually, the pile is rendered to nothing. Just a light trail of pink smoke to ever hint that anything existed at all. Gale still swells with magic, his hands pressed tightly over his sternum as if to cram all of it into the Orb and keep it there. His expression is screwed tight with pain, and Lucius wishes he could alleviate it, wishes he could reach out and smooth out those creases with his thumb and hold him close.

(How much longer can he pretend that these kinds of thoughts are platonic? How many times can he tell himself that it’s simply because he is Ilmatari that he feels things like this? It is his duty to bear these burdens, yes, but such feelings of care never did come naturally to Lucius. It has always been an active effort to bring himself to care about anything or anyone. Why it comes so easily when with Gale… well, how can he keep pretending there isn’t merit to these thoughts?)

The Orb releases him, and Gale slumps, the tension loose from his body after the effort it took. It startles Lucius so much that he immediately has his hands to catch him before he can fully understand what was going on. Did it hurt? Did he faint? Did it work?

“Gale, hey hey, are you okay?”

Gale trembles in his hold, and after a moment, he turns, suddenly burying himself into Lucius’ chest. Lucius freezes, unsure what to do or where to move. Gale is warm. He’s a comfortable weight, and he fits so nicely in his arms. He fell into his arms — he is seeking him out.

But he’s shaking.

Lucius rests his hands on Gale’s back tentatively, feeling Gale cling onto Lucius’ shirt. Lucius prays that it’s relief that Gale feels, that he’s simply overwhelmed with it and overjoyed with it, but he knows in the pit of his gut that it’s probably not true.

He asks anyways, in case the gods decided to grant them mercy.

“Did it work?”

His voice is a whisper. 

Gale takes a sharp breath. He’s crying.

“No.”

Lucius closes his eyes, feeling his chest twist at the confirmation. He was sure. He was so, so sure this would work… 

He wraps his arms around Gale tight, pulling him in close, and Gale throws his arms around Lucius just as tight in turn, clinging onto him. His cries are quiet, composed mostly of sharp breaths. A despair Lucius can only imagine. The pit of his gut churns with frustration at how helpless he is to the situation. Lucius rocks gently in the embrace, resting his chin atop Gale’s head and staying silent, letting him take all the time he needs to gather himself. Or to fall apart. If Gale needed to shatter, Lucius would be here to piece him together if he had to. 

Either way, Gale won’t be alone. He’ll be here. He’ll hold onto him.

He doesn’t know how long they stay here like this, but eventually, Gale does manage to settle his breaths and find the strength to pull away. He doesn’t look up at Lucius, though he can see how disheveled his hair has become and the puffiness in his eyes from the emotion. Lucius wordlessly hands him the wet rag, and Gale accepts it, wiping his face.

Silence hangs between him. Lucius wonders if that distance between them has grown any shorter than when he last felt it earlier, or if it’s become a chasm now with the raw wound on his pride.

Gale unfolds the rag, draping the entirety of it against his face, covering him completely as he keeps it pressed against his eyes. After a moment longer, Gale clears his throat, intending on gathering his bearings as quickly as possible.

“... You should check on your fire hazard.”

“My wh—”

Ah. The shitty teapot on his shitty made up stove.

“Martyred Father…”

Lucius springs up in a hurry, nearly tripping over the box he discarded and extinguishes the heat with a cantrip. The water has since boiled, some of it evaporated with the time that’s passed. He retrieves one of his chipped mugs, placing the flowers and herbs into it before pouring the hot water in. In a perfect world, he’d have some cinnamon, perhaps some cream. Some sugars and some honey. A nice, new mug with different painted decals, one that wasn’t chipped. And he’d have a real stove, a real bed, running water and a fire in a fireplace. He’d make all of this look nicer, taste nicer, feel nicer, and they’d be comfortable.

But instead, it’s their salvaged resources out in the wilds, a sewed up tent, parasites in their skulls and a ticking time bomb in a man that’s slowly convincing Lucius that there may just be some merit in the stories people tell about falling in love.

He hopes that making the tea is giving Gale enough time to recover, enough distance to patch himself up from the vulnerability he’s just exposed to Lucius. He knows keenly what this moment was, and he knows that it’ll be raw for a while. He won’t poke it. He won’t push him further than he has to. This is sacred, and this is important. He will hold it in the cup of his hands gently and take care of the trust Gale has given him in this moment, and he will simply do what he can to help him without wounding him.

Sure enough, by the time Lucius returns with the mug, Gale has laid back down, the rag folded now over his eyes and brow, and his hands clasped together over his belly. His breathing was more even, and he was more collected than he left him.

“It’ll take a few minutes for all the flowers and stuff to seep in the water,” Lucius says, mostly to announce his presence as he sits back down beside Gale. “Water’s still clear. Needs a sec before it gets that nice amber color. Wish I had sugar.”

“You’ve been sweet enough to me already,” Gale says quietly, though not moving from his position. “That’ll be enough to get me through the tea.”

Lucius huffs with amusement. His gaze can’t help but travel to the markings on Gale’s chest. The Orb doesn’t feel nearly as unstable as it did earlier, but it was still glowing, still etching into the wizard’s skin. 

He decides to ask the delicate question. “How are you feeling?”

Gale takes one long, slow deep breath. “Admittedly, better. The pain is… somewhat duller, but still…” He shrugs. “... still pain. That amount of magic should’ve held me off for at least a month. Now it just…”

He scowls. Lucius can already imagine the types of things he’s readying up to say. Apologetic and avoiding the subject of how he actually feels.

So Lucius answers. “It’s still hungry.”

Gale sighs. “Yes. Very much so.”

Lucius sets the mug aside, rubbing his hands together in thought. The fact that there was relief gained was good. It meant he could treat it somewhat, but getting a hold of that many magical items again just for a temporary amount of relief was going to be difficult to maintain. Gale says it comes in waves, so it won’t always be this bad, but it also means that he’s in constant pain. 

The thought twists something in his gut. There were a few moments recently during various combative encounters that Gale wasn’t able to focus on his spells completely. His missteps cost Lucius and Wyll a great deal of trouble with the goblins, and were it not for Shadowheart, they’d have seen a greater deal of blood on their end. He feels guilty for not noticing it before. Every moment he’s had with Gale where he seemed off was recontextualized now, and by the Rack it ached to think about. 

There had to be something he could do. Anything. A steady stream of magic to at least take the edge off, and at least provide him some relief so he’s not panting in the woods at the dead of night.

Lucius looks down at his hands. An idea brews in his mind.

“The magic helped a little though, didn’t it?” Lucius asks. “You’re at least not falling apart at the seams anymore.”

“It’s definitely helped me feel… present,” Gale says. “I… still feel like it’s going to start eating me alive at any second if I move the wrong way.”

“Do you mind if I try something else?”

Gale turns his head a little, carefully raising a hand to peek out from the rag. “Don’t tell me you have another box full of stolen items.”

“Haha, not magical ones,” Lucius says, scooting over to sit closer to Gale. He holds up a hand, feeling divinity flow through his fingertips. “I… have a theory I’d like to try. I think at this point anything is worth a shot, right?”

Gale squints at him, his gaze flickering between him and his glowing hand. There’s a quirk of his lips. “Are you putting me down?”

“Yes, actually, that was exactly what I was about to do, you caught me,” He waves his hand around. “No, Gale. You need to consume magic, don’t you?”

“The Weave, yes…”

“Well… I don’t really control the Weave like you do. Actually, I’m not sure if what I control counts as the Weave — but what I do know is this,” Lucius brings his hand closer to Gale, still tentative, and holding it so Gale can push it away no problem if he doesn't want any part. “The magic I wield is given to me by my god. Ilmater, the One Who Endures — He preaches that we must take on the burdens of others so they do not have to suffer. What’s a more noble cause for Ilmater to intervene in than to call for His power to alleviate this ailment of yours?”

Gale scrunches his brows in thought, his eyes flickering away as he tries to run the theory over in his mind. “... I can’t say I’ve tried feeding off of the magic of holy items or the equivalent thereof - though, that is mostly because I’ve not come across any of them in my tower, nor a cleric to boot. In theory, I don’t think the Orb will respond to it — you and I wield very different magics. I, of the Art, and you, of the Power — but again, I haven’t tested it. It’s… Hmm, it could be an alternative source…” His gaze flicks back to Lucius. “But… won’t it exhaust you? I don’t know how much it will need to take. It’s one thing for me to take your material things, but an entirely different thing to take from you directly.”

“Oh holy Martyred Father — Gale what did I just say? Cleric. Of. Ilmater. I let a fucking vampire take from me. Stop stopping me, damn you.”

“I’m just —”

“Stop it. Seriously!” Lucius huffs. “If you don’t want to try it because the magics don’t mix or for some other hypothetical reason that puts you on edge, that’s perfectly fine. But if you’re refusing it because you think I’m going to lose something from it or whatever, please don’t. I’m telling you right now I want to help you, and through the power vested in me by the God of Endurance, I assure you I could absolutely fucking handle it.”

Gale lets out a puff of air, looking up in thought. The Orb still glows, painfully so, and Lucius can see him running through all sorts of ideas in his head.

Finally, the wizard seems to settle, leveling his gaze back to Lucius. “... Fine. I have to admit, I am rather curious what sorts of effects divine magic will have on me.”

“There we go, there’s the nerd in you.”

“You caught me. I am always a sucker for testing theories.”

“If it doesn’t work or has a worse effect, we can stop and save the trouble, if that makes you feel better.”

“That sounds good to me.” Gale sits up, pointing a daunting finger at Lucius. “But you have to promise me that if at any point during this you experience a significant amount of pain, you must stop.”

“If it stings a little, I can bear through it man —”

“You must promise me that, Lucius Skorn. If it feels like this Orb is a threat to your life and safety, you will stop.”

Lucius tilts his head a few times in thought. “Alright. Fine.”

“Promise?”

“I swear it on my Lord.”

“Thank you.” Gale settles back down, staring straight at the tent’s ceiling ahead. “Your God is watching you, so I do hope you keep to your word.”

“Har har.”

A buzz of excitement flows through him. If this works, then they’ve found a solution to hold them off enough until they can find another alternative. Just kneeling before Gale, preparing to use the powers given to him feels holy in and of itself. Though Lucius’ connection with Ilmater has been somewhat hazy these days, his magic still flows strong, and he swears it feels even stronger as he summons divinity through his veins here. 

Lucius rests his hand over the Orb in Gale’s chest, light to the touch before fully committing. In his mind, he calls out to Ilmater, seeking a pathway to that holy power, hoping to tap into the very vein of it and channel it in one go. “Ilmater, the Tortured God, the God of Endurance, holy Martyred Father on the Rack — grant me your power to bear this burden. Give me the strength to carry it on my shoulders, offer me your divinity to alleviate my friend. Allow me, Ilmater, to take his place on the rack.”

Gale closes his eyes, and Lucius follows. There’s a moment of fear that flickers through him. What if Ilmater doesn’t respond? What if he calls out for his power and nothing happens? What if he just made a fool of himself here, and has nothing to show for?

Cruel, cruel thoughts. Purge them, cleric, and open yourself. Self doubt will get you nowhere. Bear this burden, Lucius.

The power runs through him like a shock of cold water dumped on him all at once. It crashes through his heart and travels through his veins, overflowing through his fingertips in a flurry. The Orb glows viciously, and he feels the magnetism of it pull his hand closer against Gale’s chest, pressing against him with far too much pressure. He can barely move the hand — he plants his free one on the bedroll beside Gale to keep balanced, and feels Gale immediately snap to clutch it tightly. Gale writhes with the power that flows, the glow reaching to the veins of his eye as divinity spills from Lucius’ hand into him.

Lucius has to grit his teeth to stay rooted and keep control over the sudden power coursing through him. “Is it working?!”

Gale can barely respond. His other hand has gripped Lucius’ wrist as it funnels the power, and he’s kicked his knees up to dig his heels into the bedroll, his breath caught in his throat. It makes Lucius run cold with fear, but when he begins to pull the magic away from him, Gale only pulls his arm in.

“I’m okay,” He hisses through grit teeth. “It’s… It’s doing something. Don’t stop.”

Lucius nods, and lets the magic continue to flow. The Orb has begun to shift in hue, the violets and blues changing to that of the golden oranges and yellows that Lucius funnels into him. Gale’s grip is tight against him, clawing through his sleeves and digging into his skin hard enough to leave bruises. Lucius grinds his teeth as he tries to keep his balance. He’d witnessed the hunger itself only once before when Gale had him place his hand over his heart and project the memory of the Orb through their tadpoles. But being on the other end of it, feeling an incorporeal force latch onto him and try to tear him away, all teeth and jaws and a bottomless pit of a stomach, oh, it does scare him. Every time the Orb pulls and licks at skin that his holy magic didn’t cover, it fills him with an overwhelming visceral fear, a force so strong that Lucius wonders if it’s even his at all.

The Orb pulses. Waves of magnetism shake both of the men, throttling them and pulling them into its center, knocking Lucius off balance and nearly collapsing on Gale. He remembers being told that the Orb will erupt. That just a fraction of this power is enough to level a city the size of Waterdeep. He aggravates it now with his magic, feeding it something other than the Weave, this hungry thing. It pulls and pulls, and Lucius can’t move his arm. He might be damning them. He might just kill them both, kill everyone in this camp. He might just ruin everything, ruin everyone, ruin it all.

But the divine magic is a fount he can’t stop, a waterfall that pours and pours into a maw that takes and takes. Could he possibly hope to feed it all? To satisfy it enough? How does one feed that which never stops hungering?

(How do you feed yourself, when you yearn and ache and writhe with hunger that you can’t seem to kick? When you travel the world after seeing bars and chains for years, and look for something, anything that can feed you? Can a soul ever be nourished? Can a curse ever be cured? Could the starving ever be full?)

Gale pants, throwing his head back. His breaths are uneven, and the magic seems to render him speechless. How far do they go? Is Gale present enough to figure out when they should stop? Is Lucius sane enough to let go even if it becomes too much? The force of it takes the strength out of Lucius, and he finds himself hunched over Gale, bracing his weight on his forearm on the ground and his head dropped onto Gale’s shoulder while the magic pours. Gale’s back arches, pressing further into the magic, hand still tightly wrapped around Lucius’ wrist. Like magnets they cling to each other, every ounce of their beings and the powers that claim them tangle them together, choking the breaths out of them.

It’s almost addicting, the way it feels. Like two pieces that fit together perfectly, however destructive. But Lucius always did find beauty in destruction, didn’t he?

Just when he thinks it’s becoming too much, he starts to feel the force weaken, as if the Orb was starting to release its jaws off of Lucius. Gale no longer writhes as violently, resting back onto the bedroll flat, his grip on loosening. Even the fountain of power gifted to Lucius begins to pull back, as if it too had begun to sense that it was ending. The golden glow of the Orb against Gale’s skin starts to shimmer and dim, no longer violent and uncontrolled. A burden slowly relieved, slowly lifted. 

Though the power begins to dissipate from them, Lucius still feels his hand stuck to his chest. The last bit of holy power drains from him, and he starts to feel the world spin around him. His mouth is dry, and he’s starting to wonder when the last time he breathed was. His knees slide out, leaving him practically laying on his side with his hand still stuck, his elbow bent high in the air as the last ribbons of gold flutter through. It seems like Gale’s not in pain anymore. That’s good. That’s very good. He’s not sure what he would do if after all of this, there was still nothing to be gained.

Everything flickers. Lucius blinks hard. It becomes difficult to tell whether he’s stopped channeling the magic or not.

A bit of humor washes over him. It feels funnily similar to nights that Astarion drinks a little too much from him.

Gale's hands wrap around his wrist, gentler now, and in one swift motion, he plucks Lucius’ hand off of his chest, severing the connection completely. Golden flakes of dust flutter away from his fingertips as the magic stops, and the Orb finally quiets. The relief wipes Lucius out instantly, all the tension in his body uncoiling and dropping next to Gale, not a thought spared to how he’s buried in the crook of his neck and laying atop his arm, hand flopping back onto his chest. The silence almost hurts his ears, making the sounds of both of their heavy breaths all the louder than it has any right being.

Neither of them make any effort to move, no doubt fully drained by everything the impromptu ritual put them through. It’s only when both of their breaths start to even out that Lucius cracks his voice to speak.

“Did it… work?”

Gale lets out a long, shaky breath. “It’s… To give you a short answer and save us both the time, yes. I think it did.”

Lucius closes his eyes, a swell of relief and pride washing over him. With it, he feels a warmth — whether that is from the absolute incurable affection he bears for the wizard, or the fulfillment of his holy duty to bear the wizard’s burden, he cannot tell. “God, I’m so fucking glad to hear that.”

“I… have never felt anything like that…” Gale says, his voice tired. “I didn’t think it was going to work, but… it was enough to satisfy it, I think. Between the… magical stuff you gave me and this… Gods, my eyes are heavy.”

“Same…” Lucius makes a move to shift away from him, but can’t seem to make it far. “We should… get you back to your tent so you can sleep this off.”

“A sound plan.”

Neither of them move. The last cognitive thought in Lucius’ mind is remembering the mug of tea he’d made, and he forgets the rest of everything else.

--

This was a life lived on the precipice of peril.

Four centuries as the hunter and the hunted. From the delicate youth of a fawn to the wolf whose maw it was made for, to a broken dog leashed by its masters and starved — Lucius learned well not to sleep through anything. 

In rest is vulnerability.

In rest, there is the potential to lose everything.

This was one of the first lessons Lucius learned and carried with him for centuries. 

Don’t sleep in the unfamiliar. Keep one eye open. Leap to action at any and every sound, never be caught off guard, always have a blade in hand, never sleep in, always be ready, always be sharp —

And yet…

Lucius sleeps in.

It’s a rest he hasn’t gotten in years. Perhaps never. Between his childhood, the life in the Lockjaws, running for his life in the Underdark or in prison, he’s never slept in. Never found himself comfortable. Never found himself so lost like he is now atop this warm pillow, floating soundly, dozing delightfully.

Peace. 

Is this what it’s like?

He should be awake. Instincts scream at him to wake up and get up and assess the environment and see what he’s got, get ready for the day, check on the others, get breakfast started — but they float away, carried by the river of exhaustion, ferried away to be someone else’s problems. Down, down, down…

He shifts, and sunlight dares impede his darkened vision with dapples of light. He buries himself further into the pillow, hoping to chase away the dance of consciousness. Not yet, he thinks. Not yet, not yet. Not when he’s so cozy. Not when for the first time in his life, he’s been able to just cuddle up and rest. Not when this purple pillow is doing everything to —

Lucius’ eyes snap wide open. He doesn’t own any purple pillows.

Reality dawns on him as he slowly, slowly raises his head. One moment, two moments and three, his heart pounds and echoes in his ears faster than a pulse beneath him, and horror begins to take root in the pit of his chest. His hair sticks out from every which way, clinging to his mouth as he peels away from what is very much not a pillow, and is very much a highly specific wizard from Waterdeep sleeping peacefully on his bedroll.

Gale never did make it out of his tent.

The horror continues to pile on. Their legs had tangled themselves together, Lucius’ hand stayed on his chest, and Gale had an arm thrown around his side, a comfortable position their sleeping forms must have found themselves in during the night.

They slept together.

Innocently, yes, sure, but they slept together.

This is too close. Too intimate. It wasn’t like that, surely — it was an accident. He didn’t mean to. He shouldn’t be here. Shit, shit, this shouldn’t have happened.

His face runs hot, and he’s frozen, fear rooting him in place with a quickened breath. He can’t tear his eyes away from the sight just beneath him. Gale’s hair had become a mess, splayed out over the bedroll in such a way that tugs at Lucius’ gut with affection. His face, which had been so contorted in pain not so long ago now rests peacefully, absent of that horrible despair and twisted curse, almost appearing younger with his features at rest. His brows don’t furrow and fold, his eyes closed gently and resting the skin — Lucius follows the trail of those darkened veins down his neck and to his chest. The skin was bruised all around where the Orb marks him, and Lucius gets the horrible, horrible thought that he wishes he could kiss it better. 

That ache pulls at his gut, at his heart and even his throat, this longing to kiss Gale, to follow the trail up his neck and to his cheek and kiss him awake. The ache that they could wake up like this without a problem, without it being weird, without it being some kind of situationship that Lucius would often find himself in. He aches, he aches, he aches —

Gale starts to stir. All of the alarms in Lucius’ head ring and blare, his pulse pounding in his ears. Move, move Lucius! Move, damn you! Do something, quick! How many seconds are passing? Think, damn you! Get up!

Those beautiful brown eyes — knock that off! — flutter open, blinking the sleep away and come into focus. The hand still around Lucius moves and then halts suddenly, his eyes locking with Lucius. He can practically see the cogs in his head turning with thought, booting up and bringing him to full cognition.

It’s over.

With all the grace of a startled cat, Lucius scrambles off of Gale, pushing himself up and away with haste. Gale backs away just as fast, though seemingly more in response to Lucius than anything else. Lucius’ back crashes into something, a quick burst of pain blooming and hisses, pulling his knees into his chest to rub at the spot. Damn it all.

“Are you quite alright?”

“No — Yes! Yep, I’m… fine…” Lucius fumbles, cursing his cheeks for still feeling hot with embarrassment. He feels as though he’s been caught in the act of something terrible, and all he wants to do is shrink away. “Um. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Gale replies easily, a look of amusement to his features. Lucius tries not to focus on the color that paints the wizard’s cheeks, or the intense curiosity in his eyes that Gale rakes him with. “It appears I did not… make it back to my tent…”

“Mm…”

They stare at each other for another awkward moment longer, and then suddenly, everything about the situation just felt ridiculous. Gale’s hair is a wreck, Lucius has drool dried on his cheek, their clothes were wrinkled and pulled to the wrong corners, and they’d all but cuddled with each other in the night. All at once, the tension snaps, and the both of them burst out laughing, Lucius loud like a barking dog, and Gale with a squawk like a bird.

Lucius runs a hand down his face, pinching his nose and wiping his cheek. “I think I drooled on you.”

“That can’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me out here.”

“Gods. I hate it here.”

Gale chuckles, stretching his arms out with a yawn. “For what it’s worth, Lucius, that was the most rested sleep I’ve had in a while.”

“Man...”

It’s a shame to miss the warmth he had just moments ago. He tries not to linger on it. He tries not to think about it too hard.

There are several choice words that dance at the tip of the cleric’s tongue, but he does well to swallow them all down before he chokes.

“Well, that’s good at least,” Lucius finally lands on saying. “I uh. I hope all of that stuff helped?”

“That it did, my friend. I feel… revitalized today,” Gale says, a grin spreading across his face and a sigh of relief. “I think this is something I may have to write down. It raises so many questions about the nature of this Netherese magic inside of me. It has only ever fed on the Weave before, and theoretically, it should only feed on the Weave. That’s what it’s made of. Divine magic, the Power, is very much not Weave magic, and yet…”

Lucius can’t help but spare a look to his hand that casted the spell, startling somewhat when some of his veins seem to have retained a dim, golden glow. “The power of Ilmater, my friend. I told you so.”

“Well, it looks like I’ve got a mighty amount of thanks to give to the Broken God. Remind me to pass an offering to His shrine if we ever do make it to one of His temples.”

Lucius gives him a two-fingered salute. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Gale gives an amused huff, his attention shifting back down to his chest. He presses a hand to it tentatively, and the Orb glows dimly in return. “It’s… very strange, honestly. How all of that felt. The Orb rejected it at the beginning, as if it didn’t quite know what to do with it. By the time I felt it begin to consume… Ack, it’s so strange. I lack the vocabulary to define what it all felt like.”

Lucius rubs his chin in thought, crab-walking closer to Gale to seat himself criss cross. “Just say it badly. Don’t need to dress it all up. You can give it pretty words later.”

“Hah. Suppose I can.” Gale hums, idly chewing at his fingertips as he tries to find a phrasing he’s happy with. “Ah, I got it. I would imagine it as a proper diet. One should have enough balance in what you eat. Meats, vegetables, a healthy amount of grain and just a little bit of sweets — all the proteins and nutrients to sustain yourself, yes?”

Lucius nods along. “My greatest lament is our sad little diet out here.”

“Ha, as is mine. Now, the Orb requires proper sustenance. The Weave, in this case. You’ve given me a fraction of what it needs — but with the food analogy, you’ve given a starving man the quarter cut of a steak, but nothing more. It satisfies the hunger enough not to pang the stomach, yet still isn’t quite enough.” He gestures meticulously throughout his explanation, miming as if he’s cut the steak and served it, pointing to his own belly as he speaks. A very visualized man, Lucius thinks. “Now, nutritional sustenance will get you far. But not everyone eats well. In this case, I’ve been given an alternative. It’s like… hmm, I don’t want to say being on a vegetarian diet when one needs meat — it’s more like one has filled up on bread and butter as much as they could until they couldn’t eat another bite. You’re full, yes, but you’ve missed out on all the nutrients.”

“Are you calling my god’s power a serving of bread?”

“No no no, don’t take it too literal!”

Lucius barks a laugh. “Go on.”

Gale huffs. “What I mean to say is that the hunger is satisfied. I have filled up on enough to keep me going. I think after a while, if we were to, in theory, keep this up, it will eventually take a toll on me, but not eating is always worse than eating filler foods. It’s better to eat something than to starve.”

Lucius smiles, finding himself more than happy to hear the dissertation. “That’s good! That’s really good, actually.”

“Oh, most certainly! I must admit, I was starting to get… well, I was… starting to feel a little hopeless about the whole situation, but now…” Gale looks up at him, a glint in his eyes of awe and appreciation, a gaze that makes Lucius almost shrink back at the fondness within them. “I cannot possibly thank you for this gift you’ve given me, Lucius.”

Lucius waves a hand, rising to his feet. “It’s my duty, Gale. This is a fight we’re all in together. All I want to do is find a way to take care of all of you while we figure this hell out.”

Gale nods, rising as well. “Your efforts are noted and appreciated, good leader,” He says with a bow. “But now, I do have to ask you. Are you alright? You started to look weak after the whole thing, and considering how we’ve woken up this morning, you cannot deny that it took a lot out of you as well.”

“Well… I can’t say it’s every day that I call upon my god to grant me an intense amount of magic to feed my magically hungry friend…”

“True.” Gale raises that accusatory finger once more. “But you promised me that you would stop if it became too much.”

“I promised I’d stop if I was in pain.”

“And if it was going to compromise your safety.”

“My safety wasn’t that compromised.”

“See, there’s the trick of your words. It was compromised. Maybe at a miniscule level, but the promise was broken there.”

“In my defense! I was doing fine up until the very end. Which is when I… kind of lost it.”

“That’s what I didn’t want to happen Lucius —”

“Ah ah!” Lucius raises a finger at him now. “It was fine. I’m willing to do this again, but this time, I know what to expect. The hardest part was just handling how much raw magic Ilmater granted us. Once it ran out, it all… Well, I know when to let go now. Alright?”

Gale frowns at him, crossing his arms. Lucius purses his lips, and crosses his arms as well, staring at him.

“You promise?”

“Swear on my Lord.”

“Your Lord is watching.”

“I sure fucking hope He is. I’m His greatest little boy.”

Gale chuckles at that, shaking his head. “Very well. Thank you again, Lucius. It means more than you know. I don’t even know where I’d begin to repay you.”

You could kiss me, Lucius wishes he could say as a tease and feel nothing about it at all.

He claps a hand on his shoulder instead. “Just keep chucking spells, and we’re good. I don’t need that much but your company, your prowess, and a helping hand in our sorry little kitchen.”

Gale lifts his head with a little pride at that. “Then you will have me there to the best of my abilities.”

Lucius smiles fondly at him. Wherever did this crush start, he wonders? How did this infection spread and fester within his chest without him noticing? It’ll bring him down to ruin and rot if he’s not careful. He’ll collapse and wither and die if he can’t get a stop to this disease.

This churning in his chest… his heart does not normally stir, and when it did, it ended in blood. What about Mauve? What about Virena? Lessons they were to keep his heart anchored to this cage of bone.

But Gale smiles at him with a glint in his eye, and Lucius still feels the echo of his warmth upon his body. Where did it start? Could it be that shared moment of magic? When Gale confessed the horrors of the Orb? Or could it have been the very second Lucius pulled him from that stone?

The tremor in his hands makes itself known, and he has to bite down to keep from trembling. Curses to the body for reacting so dramatically, as if a human man could do anything to bring Lucius to true ruin. As if… As if…

Gale’s about to turn to leave. “I think I should get going. Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome, after everything you’ve already done for me here.”

“No no!” The words tumble out of Lucius’ mouth before he can stop them. He swallows hard when Gale regards him with curious eyes, and Lucius has to follow up with something pertinent. He turns Gale, taking a look at the poor abused skin surrounding the Orb marred to his flesh. “I’m not letting you go like this.”

Gale drops his gaze down to his collarbone. “Ah. Yes, this was…”

“Very bad.” Lucius finishes. He calls upon his holy power once more, and the magic flows easily through him. Moreso, even, as if channeling raw power previously had made it easier for the spell to take root. He places his hand on Gale’s chest, letting the soothing magic flow through him in his incantation. Slowly, the violets and blues of bruised skin soften to reds and yellows, and soon, to none, golden magic caressing the sites of injury and tracing the Orb’s pattern on his skin. The Orb shimmers as Gale takes a breath, for a moment taking on a golden hue before settling back to its darkened, slumbered state.

“Oh!” Gale says, touching his chest as Lucius drops his hand. “Oh, that final piece of relief — I’d been so used to this I nearly forgot what it’s like to be without that pain…”

A pang of sadness hits Lucius. “My friend, please do not hesitate to come to me for healing.”

“You’ve given me more than I could possibly ask for.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do if you asked for it, Gale.”

Those words tumble out again, unfiltered, and Lucius schools his expression into something casual. The severity and weight of his words can’t reach Gale like this. Not like this. Gale’s cheeks color, and Lucius pointedly ignores it.

“You are far too kind to me, Lucius. I will treasure this.”

There’s a moment where both of them linger. Goodbyes are in place. They’re to meet again anyways when they convene at the fire pit and set out for adventure. They’re to get back to the road and back to business within the hour or two. They’ll see each other again, but still, they pause. Hesitant. As if something else should be filling this moment.

Lingering looks. Awkward hands. Perhaps Lucius should reach out. Perhaps Lucius should say something more. Perhaps Gale wants to say something else. It’s on the tip of his tongue, and the air is heavy, it’s thick and hazy and Lucius is drawn to it.

But the moment ends. No spark ignites the thick air, and Gale bows his head to the cleric.

“I’ll get started on breakfast,” he says.

“I’ll meet you there,” Lucius replies.

And Gale leaves.

Lucius waits until he’s certain Gale has gone long out after before dropping to the ground and letting out a long groan. He’ll never get over this, he’s certain. Not with the way his heart pounds against his chest. Why does it stir so much? Why does it make him fumble? Where did he go wrong? Where did he possibly go wrong?

He has to get ready. He has to clean up, fix his makeup, and behave like a proper, genuine, functioning person. He has to pretend this never happened, and remember who he is. He is Lucius Skorn, and he does not get crushes. He is Ilmatari. This is his solemn duty. This is his charge.

As he moves to get to his sponges and rags, his foot kicks something, splashing liquid all over the place. He stares at the ground, watching that chipped mug from the night before roll around on the ground uselessly, spilling its soggy flowers.

He forgot about the tea.

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