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studioghibelli · 1 month

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the old man and the sea- a joel miller x reader fic

summary: grief is a sacred thing, a nasty thing, a sensual thing. it grips you from the inside until there's nothing left but a void of darkness- a void that can never be filled. joel miller knows this fact very well, and all he wants to do is save you.

warnings: girthed up age gap (college age!reader x 50’s age joel), i’m exploring a new type of writing ok let me COOK!!!! idk i am delusional, reader has hair that at least reaches her neck, cigarette use, this whole thing is basically an allegory for grief and growing but there also a lot of sexy smut soooo yeah. (mentions of death and two brief mentions of suicide, but nothing too detailed.) that being said, smut (f receiving oral sex, soft kissy missionary sex, unprotected piv sex, some 'dirty' talk, etc.)

note: this has NOT been proofread or edited. any mistakes are mine. i just hate going back and editing lmao. enjoy! xx

In the august days of your youth, when the rocky line of the coast line glimmered beneath the flame of the sun, when the foamy waves would pool by your sandy feet, you could remember the towering lighthouse just south of the beach, the way it stood tall and proud, like the statues of Roman soldiers you knew from your school encyclopedias. It was vibrant and alive, no more dead than the clams bubbling beneath the surface of the ocean, no more dead than the bellowing of the whales far off the shore.

You remember how it would speak to you, late at night when you would walk alone, hoping to catch the light reflecting off the tail of a pretty mermaid, hoping that the local legends of talking fish would come poke their heads above the water, speaking to you in riddles from days gone by.

You remember the words of the light which shone strong from above, circling above your head , like the passing lights of a traveling carnival, your eyes caught like a moth roaming towards the flames, lost in the eternal beauty of its golden light.

Come to me, child. Let the lighthouse unburden your pain.

But back then, when you were quick to scare despite your steadfast stubbornness, you never garnered enough courage to explore behind its walls.

Now college had passed, and you moved back home to your parent's rickety beach house, alone behind her comforting wooden exterior. This home. This home that was once so full of life. This home that held warm laughter and late night board games. This home that housed your closest friends and their secrets of crushes and undeciphered dreams. This home where you grew into a young woman full of life and beauty, clever and brilliant.

This home that was now empty.

You had got the call the week after finals.

We're so sorry, they went out fishing and a storm came. We never found them.

Oh, yes.

Adventure pumped through your veins, the taste for freedom like salty water on your tongue. You knew where you got it from, you always had. Your sweet family, your loving parents. Full of life like that lighthouse, full of of love like the sun.

Now they were nothing, and this house was nothing. Those years of laughter and secrets and adventure were nothing.

Nothing.

Your favorite word these days.

Going through belongings and shuffling through old books had taken almost a weeks worth of tears. Hot, tepid, angry tears.

How dare they leave you alone? How dare they forsake you like this?

The thought of crashing water and striking lightning was almost too much to bare.

When the storm had rolled in that morning, you had been tucked away in the alcove of your kitchen, nursing a steaming mug that was more cream than coffee. You watched the droplets of rain paint pictures on the window, you watched nature wring her tears across the fluttering branches of trees, cracking soft splashes across the pavement with each gust of air. Your chest felt heavy with thoughts of them.

Mom and dad.

Mamma and papa.

Perhaps it was in hopes you would feel some comfort, perhaps it was in hopes you would feel whole. If you could just stare out at the ocean that took them, maybe they would speak to you. Maybe those fairytale fish would poke their heads up from the water and exclaim to you how happy your parents were, how they were fitting right in, how they had invited Mrs. Dolphin over for tea last Saturday, and how they were finally warming up to the funny shark that always lurked in the seaweed.

You stood barefoot on the cragged rock, staring out at the roaring waves, with nothing but the lull of distant seagulls and the song of incoming thunder.

No fish. No parents. No Mrs. Dolphin. Just another season of storms and a crater in your heart.

Your throat was raw from all the screaming. You danced to your fight song as you let the rain take you, your clothes felt like skin from how soaked through they were. Heavy drapes of fabric that cemented you in place on that cragged rock. That cragged rock that dripped with the blood of your raw heels, your toes scraped and ruined from the sandy surface.

It was dark by the time the storm rolled out, dark by the time your back found the safety of the sand, dark by the time your hair clung to your neck and became tangled up with the seashells.

There was a glowing orb of light far off in the distance that you could just make out through the hazy fog of your eyelashes, and you realized it was growing closer, the old handle of a lantern creaking through the night.

"Hello?" The voice was rough and unknown to your ears, yet held a certain warmth despite the weariness.

"Yes?" You asked softly, refusing to open your eyes. If you opened your eyes, all of this was real, all of this was raw, all of this was right there.

"Are you.... okay?"

"Yes."

The lantern creaked once more, and you heard the shuffle of fabric as the man leaned forward, pressing his knuckles to your cheek. "You're colder than a reindeer's antlers, girl." His touch was warm, his hand a welcome solace from the rain. "You live around here?"

You didn't want to go back to that house. You didn't want to smell their detergent or see their old clothes. You didn't want to waltz through that kitchen or hear the creak of those old stairs.

Perhaps it was from the way your lip quivered, from the rain or from the cold, perhaps it was from the defeat in your voice, or the weightlessness of your soul, but the man before you knew he had to do something about it. How could he not? You were laying there like a pile of unfolded laundry, and no one else was around to fold it all.

You felt an arm slip behind your back.

"C'mon, stand up with me. On three."

You groaned softly, using a thick arm as leverage as the mystery man helped you stand off the ground. When you opened your eyes, you saw a pair of umber orbs staring at you, tracing over your face, every line, scar, freckle, dent, he was soaking you in like a sponge, as though he wanted to know your face just from memory.

"I'm Joel."

Joel.

He was handsome, that was the first thing you noticed about him. You felt your stomach churn at the feeling, angry you could find him so beautiful, despite the darkness which shrouded over you. Joel was broad and rugged, no doubt rough around the edges. He was adorned with various scars and random freckles, with thick eyebrows and broad shoulders, plush lips and kind eyes- hardened by time, no doubt, but beautiful all the same.

You know you mumbled your name out somewhere along the walk, eyes cloudy with tears. It was a miracle you managed to speak anything at all.

As you neared the lighthouse, you realized just how foreboding it truly was. Its paint was cracking, yet its foundation remained firm, and it towered up into the clouds like a Medieval castle. Behind it's white structure you saw a small cabin, warm light seeping through the misty windows, painting the green grass with splatters of sunshine.

When Joel opened the door, an old dog sitting in front of the fireplace lifted his head, the soft thump of a tail beating against the wooden floors. His fur was gray and his eyes were old, his long fur a mixture of brown, black, and white patches. Like a makeshift quilt.

Quilts. Your mother used to make those.

"That's Moby." Joel explained, setting a kettle on the old gas stove. "Sit down. You're trailing blood." You felt embarrassment creep up your neck, and he must have noticed the way your eyes darted with shame. "No, no. I didn't mean it like that. Let me fix up your cuts. I-.... I wasn't trying to be a dick." He spoke like this was his first time having human interaction in a decade, and by the way he moved, you might have been right.

He fumbled through drawers and cabinets, eventually finding a metal first aid kit that had begun resting at the edges years ago. Joel pulled up a dining room chair in front of you with a loud screech, peering up at you as he shuffled through the remnants of the kit.

"What were you doing out there?" He asked, gently grabbing your ankle. He guided it to his lap, inspecting the raw flesh of your soles.

"Exploring."

"Exploring what?"

"Myself."

You felt his shoulders jerk with a bit of a laugh. Normally, you would not have gone home with a stranger. Normally, you would not have let a random man place your legs on his lap or nurse you up.

But then again, nothing was normal anymore. Normal was home. Normal was family. Normal was homecooked meals and late night board games and sleepovers and secrets and.... well, none of this.

The hot stream of tears threatened the dam that rest just above your waterline. Joel noticed, but he didn't say anything.

His calloused thumb rested on the side of your foot, the sting of alcohol soaked pads causing you to wince.

"I know." He muttered through an unlit cigarette which dangled from his mouth, the lines of his forehead prominent with each movement he made. "There we go. Right one's done. Let me see the left."

You obeyed wordlessly, gently propping it up onto his thigh. He repeated his previous work until that foot was cleaned and patched.

Joel stared at you. The tea kettle behind him was whistling for attention, its top sputtering from the roaring boil of water.

"Earl gray or green?" He asked as he rummaged for two cups, blowing the dust off of one. You watched Joel stare at one of the cups for a beat too long.

"Earl gray." You croaked, blinking hard. You felt wetness by your hand. When you looked down, the black nose of a dog was pressing into your palm. Your fingers found his fur, rubbing that spot right behind his ear that made his back leg go crazy. Who couldn't smile at that?

Moby laid down, his fur a puddle at the base of your chair as he rested his snout atop your foot. You stared at him, welcoming the softness of his body against yours.

"Moby is a sweet dog. He's old. Rarely gets up from that bed." Joel explained, handing you a cup. The words World's Best Dad were fading at the sides. This cup must have been older than you.

"I like him." You let the liquid glide down your throat with each sip, savoring the warmth it provided you. At the first sign of a shiver, Joel had wrapped a blanket around your shoulders.

"Why are you being so kind to me? You don't even know me."

Joel sat back down across from you with a soft groan, the ache in his bones creaking like an old, rusting elevator shaft. "I do know you."

"Have we met before?" Your eyebrow raised with interest, and you looked at him wearily, trying to deduce what he was up to.

"No. But I know what grieving looks like." There was a long pause before Joel decided to speak again. "Were you trying to kill yourself?"

"What? No!" You guffawed, neck snapping up to shoot him a scowl. "Of course not."

"Look. If you walked up on a half dead, soaking wet person on the shore, during the aftermath of a storm, you'd be thinking the same thing." He defended himself sternly, setting his cup down.

There was a thick moment of quietness.

"Those were your parents, weren't they?" His voice was barely a whisper. It floated through the air like smoke off a candle, hitting you in the face.

"Yes."

"It was all over the news. Loads of us went out there, tried to find them."

"They're out there somewhere. Fish food." Your voice was bitter.

Joel didn't say anything. He just sat and stared. You stared back.

It became a ritual after that night. You were over there every evening, usually with a paper bag full of groceries and treats for Moby. You taught Joel how to make Paprikash and Japchae, you taught Moby how to fist bump with his nose (old dogs can learn new tricks), and you taught yourself how to laugh again.

Laughing. Such an odd thing to do in the aftermath of grief. Such a weird feeling to allow ones self to feel after weeks of chaos.

And Joel, he had his uses too.

Joel taught you how to do a fishtail braid, he taught you how to use a fly rod, and what the inside of a lighthouse looks like. Joel taught you how to smile again, he taught you what the feeling of freedom felt like once more.

Summer faded into autumn, and the orange and yellow trees began to paint the prettiest of pictures on the canvas of the coast. It held a certain nostalgia that summer had always failed to do for you, and the promise of apple cider and pumpkin scented candles floated through with every passing day.

It had taken some convincing, but Joel had swayed in to your demands, and you both sat at a tiny table in a tiny cafe, the steaming pumpkin latte swirling between his hands.

"So?"

He stared at it for a moment before meeting your gaze. "It's.... not half bad."

"Well, well, well. Looks like I was right. I knew you'd like it." You smiled through your victory, drinking your own iced coffee.

"I haven't been here in years." Joel explained, looking around at the decorations. Local art, framed photographs, and signed albums adorned the exposed brick walls, the glowing salt lamps on each table bathing the air with warm, orange light.

"You've been here before?" This coffee shop was old, you knew that much, but even when you were younger and frequented its counter with your high school friends, you can't remember ever seeing him here. And this was a small town- you knew you would have remembered his face, despite the wrinkles and grays. He still would have been Joel.

"Over two decades ago. Sarah loved this place."

"Sarah?"

His upper lip twitched at the sound of her name. Joel looked at you with heavy eyes, glossed over with the mark of grief. The kind of grief that settles in to your body as though it's its home, the kind of grief that sits beside you on the couch and never leaves. The kind of grief you were learning to grow beside.

"My daughter."

The air hung above your heads like a rainy cloud, thick and desultory. It fell across your shoulders like a fur coat, and you struggled to shake it all away.

"I didn't know that you..." Words were useless. They always were when it came to matters like this.

Joel drank his coffee in silence, tracing the ridges of the wooden table out with his eyes. "Don't like talking about her."

"We don't have to."

"Yes, we do." His voice was stern as he looked up at you, your gaze connecting. Joel's eyes were far away, searching for something in the recesses of his memory, or perhaps gaining the courage to speak to you.

"I've been alone for over twenty years." His voice was softer than you had ever remembered it being. "And then.... you were there. Just there. Laid out on the shore like a beached mermaid, shivering in the moonlight. I didn't know you... but I knew you. You were me in that moment. I had been you."

Your lips were pressed into a tight, thin line, and you watched as he spoke. There was a subtle shake to Joel's hands as he picked at his thumb nail, a tick you had picked up on the first week you had known him. The bouncing of his knee vibrated through the table.

"I know what grief is. I know the stain it leaves on someone's face. It was all over you.. just-just dripping."

You hadn't noticed the tears welling in your eyes.

Joel reached over, his palm engulfing your cold hand like a blanket, warming your skin up with his touch. He laced your fingers tight in to his own, cradling your palms close between his two hands.

"I know what all this does to a person. How it rots, how.... how it erodes. I knew I needed to help you."

"What's why you took me back to your house."

"Yes. That's why I bandaged you up, that why I made you tea, that's why I let you keep coming back. Because I wanted to help you, because I lov-"

"Are we doing okay over here?" A barista walked up with a smile, a tray in hand. "I'm just going to take these empty cups away! It's such a beautiful day outside."

You managed to shoot her a smile.

As she walked away, Joel continued staring at you, and there was a sense of something..... else in his eyes.

"Lets go back home? To- well, uh, to my home."

You nodded silently, letting go of his hands as you both walked out the door.

There was something unspoken between Joel and you, and it had settled between the two of you over the months. You knew that he knew, and Joel knew that you knew, yet it was never brought up, it was never allowed to spoken out loud. If it was spoken out loud, then it became real, and if it became real, then it would end up being a burden. Or a promise. Or a nightmare. Or a dream. Or a beautiful, welcoming, loving thing that lasted until the day you died.

How terrifying was that?

You don't know when you had started holding Joel's hand, but the walk back to the lighthouse was quiet and chilly.

Because I lo-

His words echoed through your skull with every single step you took along the cobbled path.

Lo, lo, lo, lo. Love? Loathe? Long? Look?

Your chest compressed against itself as your thoughts wandered. You must have been squeezing Joel's hand too hard, or your nails must have been digging into his skin too deeply, because he stopped and looked at you.

"Are you okay?" He asked quietly.

"I- um. Huh?"

"You're practically making me bleed with those nails of yours. Are you okay? Thinking about something?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." You muttered sheepishly, gently recoiling your hand away. Joel stopped you, placing it back in the grasp of his own. "I just... what were you going to say to me?"

"Hmm? Say to you?"

"Back at the coffee shop?"

"Oh." Joel shuffled his weight between both of his feet, his eyes shifting to meet yours. His warm, gentle, dark eyes. Those honeyed orbs of warmth that you had grown to love so deeply. Love? Oh, yes. You were certain it was love.

What part of Joel Miller didn't you love? He had rescued you from much more than that shore on that fateful night. Fate. Hell of a thing, that.

Joel squeezed his eyes shut. It was like ripping off a band-aid. When he spoke, he opened them once more, allowing his words to drip off his tongue. They were soft, gentle, they swayed through the tresses of your hair like a breeze through a field of flowers.

"I love you."

And there it was.

Time must have stopped. Your ears rang with silence, the weight of the universe funneling and funneling, closer and closer to your head until there was nothing. No noise. No air. No nothing.

Joel stared at you with a blank expression on his face, as though he couldn't believe what he had just said.

"I shouldn't have... that was- I'm sorry."

You took a step towards him, his hand was still wrapped around your own. You felt the subtle sheen of sweat on his palm, you tasted the tang of metal on your tongue from biting your cheek too hard, too deep, too long.

You knew it as sure as the sun rose in the east, you knew it with every vein in your body, with every hair on your head. You loved him, too.

Oh you did, didn't you? What a fool you were for him. If he told you to jump, you would jump. If he told you to run away with him, you would ask where. Joel Miller had bewitched you, every ounce of you, and you couldn't bare the thought of leaving him, or forgetting him, or even worse- never meeting him.

Some brave rush of courage overtook you, and before you could think you had grabbed his face in your hands and pressed your mouth into his own, nearly knocking him off his feet with the force of your movement. Joel's hands instinctively grabbed your waist, and his back found the support of a stop sign. The tips of his fingers gently dug into your waist, and he held you close and tight to his chest. You could feel the beating of his heart against his torso, pumping and pumping and pumping its vibrations into your own chest, ricocheting through your body as you tasted him on your tongue.

You pulled away only when your cheeks ached, burying your face in to his chest, allowing the smell of Joel to overcome you. He always smelled like the sea air and cotton, sweet and nostalgic against your nose.

"Lets get home." He whispered in your ear.

Home. He hadn't corrected himself. Home.

Joel's fingers refused to leave yours, locked tight as you made it to his house. Moby greeted you with a kiss to the knee, waddling back to his bed with a heavy huff of air. You gave him the bone you always picked up for him on the way there, before turning around to see Joel in the kitchen, a cigarette in his mouth.

"Want one?" He asked as he brought the lighter to his mouth. You walked towards him, nodding. He took the item out of his mouth, before placing it between your own two lips.

Joel watched the way you took the cigarette, the way your glossy lips looked against the white sheen of paper.

"You're so damn beautiful. God, I just..." Joel shook his head as he kept his thoughts to himself, lighting another smoke before tossing the half empty pack on to the table.

"You just what?" Your voice echoed through the bellow of smoke, and you leaned against the counter, challenging him with your words.

"I just... got so many things I want to do to you."

You smiled, alluring eyes beaming up at him as you puffed and exhaled, slowly putting out the embers on the clay ashtray you had bought him months ago. "Like what?" Your words were teasing.

Joel watched you step towards him, and his chest rose and fell underneath the unlit kitchen light. He took in a deep breath of tobacco before flicking it in to the metal sink.

He'd deal with that later.

"How 'bout I just show you, baby?"

Your lip caught between your teeth as you nodded.

Joel had never moved so fast in his life, whisking you off to his room with a loud bang of his door. He had you nearly naked and on his bed in record time, his knee resting between your legs as he kissed you, the hair of his moustache tickling your nose.

He allowed you to grind yourself down on his leg, soft moans flooding in to his mouth as his tongue explored your own, tangling and dancing with one another as his fingers worked the back of your bra. Joel threw the material across the room, your breasts pressing in to his chest, nipples hard and tantalizing.

That was the first time Joel had pulled away. He left a trail of wet kisses down to your nipples, his lips wrapping around the stiff bud. You watched him suckle at your flesh, shivers causing the hair on your arms to stand up. His curls became tangled with your fingers, a leg resting on his shoulder as he adjusted himself, sucking and licking at your tits as though he were starved.

Your sweet melody of arousal was like music to Joel, who finally gathered the strength to pull away from your chest and move down between your legs, his mouth planting a flurry of pecks to your stomach. He hooked your panties in his fingers and tugged them off, large hands resting on your thigh as he spread them.

Joel stared at your pussy, now open and bare for his eyes. It glistened with arousal, the soft pink of your flesh causing his mouth to water.

"Jesus." He breathed out slowly, eyes darting up to your gaze. "You were made just for me, weren't you?"

You felt your cheeks heat up. You were. Oh, God, you were!

His free hand snaked up to yours, and you held it tightly, nervously. His hand was your anchor, tethering you to the ocean floor of his bedroom.

Joel leaned forward, his tongue pressing flat against your clit. You whimpered out once. He sucked it in between his lips. You whimpered out twice. He worked your aching bud until you were singing a song composed just for him, pants of hot, heavy air swirling through the four walls of his room.

He was devouring you. You were his Eucharist and your pussy was his prayer. Joel worked you in ways you had never been worked before, licking and sucking your pussy with the fervor that could only ever be found in a religion. You were his religion. His idol. His worship. His solace.

Oh, solace. What a sweet, sweet thing when it was found in you.

Joel's chin was quickly soaked in your sweet wetness. He would have drowned in you if you had let him.

His tongue pushed deep in to your folds, exploring your most precious pf places, tasting every inch of you like a starved man, like a frenzied man, like a mad man.

You were his. He was yours.

Your hips were bucking, your body like a wild animal caught in a trap. Except you weren't in a trap. You were in his arms. His strong, thick, heavy arms, and ecstasy was overtaking you. His tongue was coaxing you towards an explosive orgasm, the likes of which had never been known to you. Not one so intense. Not one at the hands of a man who loved you.

Joel's grip tightened around your own, his lips sucking at your clit, tongue tapping and swirling, licking and lapping.

You could barely get any warning out before your orgasm rushed through you, thighs shaking with earthquakes of pleasure. Your fingers tugged at his hair, holding his head tight in place. Joel licked you through the height of your euphoria, sucking softly at your bud before you could barely take it anymore, before you had to gently push his head away.

"Joel." You whispered, staring at the ceiling as the white hot heat of your climax rushed over you. "Joel." You spoke it like a mantra. His name was a promise to you.

"Baby?" He climbed over you, weight supported by his elbows, and allowed the tip of his nose to gently brush over yours.

"Take me." You whispered, the palms of your hand moving to his cheeks. They were warm, and you could smell your pussy on his facial hair. You leaned forwards, kissing him, tasting your cum and his spit. A moan tumbled out of your mouth, straight through your teeth.

"Make me yours. Fuck me." You begged, although Joel didn't need any begging.

"Anything for you."

His boxers were off in the blink of an eye, and you glanced down at his cock. Tanned, slightly curved, hanging low and heavy, the mushroom tip gleaming with pre-cum. Your mouth was watering at the site, but his grasp on your chin moved your line of sight to his face.

Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and a soft gasp escaped you at the feeling of the tip of his cock pressing against your folds. He grinded against you, his shaft rubbing up and down the folds of your pussy, jolts of electricity causing you to shiver each time he brushed your clit.

Joel was teasing you. He was making you in to a mess. A mess all for him.

His eyes never left yours. Joel watched you lovingly, noses pressed tight, lips brushing past the others. You were as close as two people could possibly be, and you were unsure where his skin ended and yours began. Stray curls of his hair tickled your forehead, and your chests rose and fell in unison.

"I love you." His breath was hot against your face.

"I love you too-" He pushed his length in as you spoke, stretching out the lips of your pussy, hitting deeper than anything had before. You moaned out a wanton noise you had never heard before, nails gently digging in to his shoulders.

Joel sat there for a moment, heavy eyelids half closed. He was soaking you in, literally, allowing himself to relish in the feeling of being inside of you. Of being one with you.

He had not afforded himself many of life's pleasures. Not after Sarah had died. Not after he had let himself go. He had paced the same shore as you many moons ago, gun in hand, trying to urge himself to just put the barrel in his mouth and pull the trigger. It sounded so easy.

But something had stopped him. Something hadn't let him.

He had wondered, many years after that, why he hadn't done it. He had wondered what could possibly be worth living.

And then he saw you.

In that very same spot, rotting beneath the silver light of the moon.

It was you. Everything had been for you, hadn't it?

And now there you were, beneath him, as pretty as a picture, the embodiment of everything he had ever yearned for, everything he had ever dreamed for. You were everything to Joel, and he was everything to you.

And now there he was, deep inside of you. You were all he could feel, all he could smell, all he could see. You, you, you. The most beautiful thing he had ever saw, the most wonderful thing he could have ever waited for.

The shiver of your body brought him back down to reality. He kissed you deeply, and all you could do was smile against his mouth.

Lucky. That is what you were. That is what you both were.

"You feel so good." You whispered softly, hands gently running down the back of his head, finding a resting spot on the broad stretch of his freckled back.

Joel rubbed his cheek against yours, slowly moving his hips, grinding down against you, eliciting a sweet moan out of you. "Yeah?"

You both giggled in unison, and he watched your eyes shut as he began to pump deep inside of you. The feeling of your nails pinched at his skin.

Joel glanced down, watching his cock disappear into the depths of your cunt, sloppy noises of your arousal filling the air. Your pussy lips looked so pretty wrapped around his length, your wetness looked so pretty glistening off his cock.

You were made for him, and he for you.

"Take me, Joel." You begged, and his movement increased, growing slightly rougher as his forehead met yours, lips pressing together once more.

"God, you're so beautiful. So fucking beautiful. So fucking pretty. You feel so fucking good. This pussy.... fuck. Fuck, I never want to leave it." He was rambling through his thrusts, hand reaching down to rub at your swelling clit.

"Fuck me, Joel. Fuck me." You whined out, bucking up against the touch of his fingers as he fucked you harder in to the mattress.

"You're my girl. You're my beautiful fucking girl. God, you're everything to me. You're my world." His breath was hot against your face as he kissed you, coaxing you towards another orgasm with each rub of his middle finger across your clit.

"That's a good girl. I can feel you getting closer. I can feel that pussy tightening against me."

Your back arched off the mattress as you cried out his name, moaning as his praises filled your ears. Joel rested his face in the crook of your neck, hips slapping in to your thighs as he filled you up with every inch of his length.

"That's my girl, that's it, baby. Cum for me."

You did as he said. There was no use in holding back. As your orgasm rushed through, his own was approaching. Your name tumbled off his lips, the only word he could remember, as he came deep inside your walls. His hot cum filled you to the brim with a warmth you had never experienced, and Joel kept slowly pumping as his high rushed off, as his orgasm died down.

You shivered beneath him, another kiss being planted on your mouth. Then you cheeks. Then your nose. Then anywhere else Joel could get to.

A moan tumbled off Joel's tongue as he slowly slipped out of you, falling beside you before grabbing you and pressing you in to his chest.

"Stay with me."

"I always do." You whispered in to his chest.

"No, stay with me. Permanently. This can be our home."

"Our home." You whispered quietly, nuzzling closer into his body.

"Our home." He established firmly, resting his palm on the crown of your head.

The world would always spin, and sorrow would always lurk. That was how the world worked. That was the way of the universe. When you both awoke in the morning, the pain of yesteryears would still be there. The horrible, nasty tug of old memories and distant lives would always be somewhere deep within you.

The cosmos, however, were full of possibilities. You could have stayed in your parents home and succumb to a darkness greater than yourself. Joel could have drank himself to death or tasted the metal of a bullet. Those waves could have taken you, and he could have never decided to take a walk down to that beach.

There were many what if's.

But right now you were alive with passion, eyes wide and awake with a newfound love. The bitterness had gone, and something much brighter and better was waiting for you in the future.

Beside you, Joel Miller sat puffing on a cigarette, smiling at you through dreamy eyes. The sheen of sweat was still glistening across his chest, and the gentle smirk on his lips reflected the tales of a lovesick fool.

"Ready to go again?" He asked cheekily, handing you the smoke.

You took it with a smile.

For now, grief would have to wait.

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lifeonmarz-blog · 6 months

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Sun through the houses: Synastry

Sun in 1st, the sun person makes the house person feel understood. Ive had this aspect with one of my bestfriends. He was my go to person, the first one id call when anything interesting happened. Its easy to share your feelings with the sun person it feels natural. We gave each other more confidence. He acknowledged accomplishments in my life that others didn't. Things that i didn't even give myself credit for he shined a light on. This placement made me act more fearlessly because someone else saw that quality in me.

Sun in 2nd, Stability is a common attraction to this placement. The sun person sees the house person as someone they can depend on. House person can help sun person financially or help develop their interest. Together these two can create great business plans, they work well together towards mutual interest. Others see the couple as very business oriented. I have this placement with one of my brothers both ways and we grew up sharing alot of our things sometimes because he had to other times because we knew that would allow us to both have more. Also i would borrow money from him he's always been a saver. Ive always preferred to exchange money for experiences.

Sun in 3rd, Sun person is very easy to talk to almost like a Therapist or something. Your secrets are spilled easily. The house person naturally wants to share here but it goes both ways the sun person also feels very understood by the house person. There's a mutual openness and grace with this placement. If you were in a long distance relationship this is type of placement that would be beneficial. I have this with a sibling he is the sun person and we have mutual interest so it makes collabing very easy. We tend to naturally operate in the same direction even though we individually don't think that similar.

Sun in 4th, This placement can feel like looking into a mirror. This person is a blatant reflection of some of your own behaviors. On the surface they seem like your ideal partner. Very well received by family. Honesty well received in general they look good together. This placement focuses on healing emotions in yourself that you reject. Its easier to be grateful for the little things with this person. They show you new ways to view the same things. Here you will see the areas where your being naive. They want you to believe in yourself as much as they do.

Sun in 5th, Child like fun happens here. The way the sun person expresses helps the house person not take things so seriously. The sun person is in awe of the house person. Its such a cute placement, The sun person makes the house person feel special. It may not be long term but it shows you how to just be, with no added pressures. Express your love today don't wait type of vibe. You may even talk about having babies here, are you actually serious probably not but this placement loves to feed into fantasies and ideals and that's nice sometimes. Someone i had this placement with would always tell me how beautiful i was even when i was just chilling in pajamas it was cute. Ive also been the sun person and the way the house person handled their problems and stayed so mentally strong was very inspiring to me. It made me want to be less reactive and more of a problem solver. I looked up to their resilience.

Sun in 6th, The house person feels the need to improve because of the sun person. The things that you choose to ignore are brought up here. The energy is like ''deal with it now, no more waiting". The house persons structure and discipline is being improved here. Its often that the house person doesn't want to be seen as lazy by the sun person. Which can be very helpful if you have goals your working towards. Their energy is motivating especially when it comes to business related things. House person doesn't want to disappoint the sun person. Sun person sees the house person as capable of great achievements.

Sun in 7th, Long term friendship or friends turned lovers is the theme in this house. Relationships built here usually started innocently from just being around each other alot. Sometimes the Sun person can have unfair expectations of the house person. Unbalanced relationships is common here one or both people can feel they carry more responsibility and burden. It can feel like at times communication is missed, misinterpretations can always be worked through if both people are willing to listen to understanding and if they are relationships here will go the distance. Both sets of my grandparents had this placement and were married for over 40 years. This could also be person you have a child with and now your bonded to each other even if their wasn't marriage. They feel a sense of home in each other. This couple could like to stay home and do things together.

Sun in 8th, The sun person buries themself into house persons wounds often times wounds they didn't even know they had. Both people are meant to be transformed by the union. If this relationship can make it through the first few initial hurtles which tend to be more dramatic, this relationship will keep you together for a while. The way the sun person expresses can have the house person feeling the need to keep a defense up. The sun person feels the house person is running away from their issues. Sun person is made to feel like the bad guy because their just more comfortable bringing up the hard topics. If the house person is willing to drop their defensiveness and the sun person is willing to be patient and tactful with the house person this relationship would be one of the phoenix rising from the ashes. They would be unbreakable together.

Sun in 9th, This couple inspires each other. Expanding what you thought you knew. Transforming what you thought love was. This is a beautiful placement of people learning a new viewpoint on love and self expression. Sun person expands house persons viewpoints more but this placement goes both ways. Topics that you wouldn't normally talk about gets discussed here. Long term friendships are built through the expansion of the mind. Affection is easily shown here taking trips together would do this couple well and deeper the connection. They want to give to each other and spending money together is one of their favorite things to do. This is honestly one of my favorite placements its mentally and physically expansive.

Sun in 10th, Sun person is proud of house person. They want to show house person off they feel lucky to be with house person. It makes them look good publicly. This couple has a relationship that is centered around fun. They want everyone to see their affection towards each other. This couple is friends first and lovers second. This placement isn't as emotionally deep but it will make you feel important. They want people to know how amazing you are. Its very easy to be yourself and tap into your more child like energies with this placement. This couple shows each other sides of themselves no one else knows about. With that being said they can also be vicious towards one another if this relationship turns sour this couple will have no problem having public disputes. Also this may be a taboo type of relationship were people don't understand why your together or be curious on how the person got with you.

Sun in 11th, I bet this relationship started with lighthearted playful flirting. This is the most "friendly" placement. Intimacy may take more work to develop here. Ive had this placement in a friends with benefits situation. It can easily turn into that if both people aren't intentional about what they’re looking for. If they are, this is a great placement. Communication feels very open and theirs no pressure. This couple merges friend groups and could've also meet through friends or have mutual friends. This couple networks well together and other people are very attracted to their energy together. Its fun to watch them interact with each other. They’re the type to be in a room full of people but have their own sidebar conversation and cues towards one another.

Sun in 12th, Spiritual connection or secret infatuation? My sun is in the 12th house so ive experienced this more times than i would like to but in the same breathe i love it. The sun person unintentionally test who you thought you were. Boundaries become blurred in this house but its slick, you might not even notice until after the fact. Things that you might find embarrassing happen here "thats never happened before" type of things. Alot of the communication in this house goes unsaid. Its like the little social cues that your supposed to just pick up on. It can also feel like your being observed on how you react to situations. You still seem to be mysterious to each other no matter how long you've known each other. Like there's still something being hidden from you. Without trust this placement could easily lead to feelings of being deceived. Thats not to say your not being deceived though. Cheating is common in the 12th house. You could be completely shocked and unaware about your partner living a double life. With the 12th house there's really no planet person, house person dynamic it switches back in fourth. Theres alot of talking behind each others back but that doesn't have to be a bad thing the person could be speaking well about you, putting your name in the right spaces. You know the feeling of walking into a room that people were just talking about you in? Its like you didn't physically hear it but you feel it. Someones sun in your 12th can give that type of feeling for both people. If its not operating from an expansive place. If it is you experience complete devotion. Two people committed to the relationship no matter where its headed. Someone you can experience complete intimacy and vulnerability with. Complete was an unintentional brilliant choice of words here. Not to many can navigate the 12th house and make it out together but if you do... you'll feel you've completed something great and felt a connection sent directly from god.

#astrology #12th house #astrology101 #astrologyfacts #8th house #astrologychart #astrologyobservations #astrologyzone #astro notes #synastry #sun synastry

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flordeamatista · 11 months

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𝗙𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗠𝗲

pairing: artist!bucky barnes x mermaid!reader

concept: With each wave, the ocean speaks of truth, and the flame of his passion is you.

word count: 1.5k

warnings: fluff, tiny angst, poetic kissing, ocean kisses, reader siren abilities, manipulation, twisted love, desire, lust,

a/n: thank you to @aquariusbarnes for giving me the idea of artist!bucky and mermaid!reader

lovely beta: @writing-for-marvel and @lunarbuck thanks for always hearing my rants about this daydreams

gif and moodboard made by me

line divider @s-tarksintern

Masterlist

In the air, on his land, and in your sea, the magic of our love fills the world.

The sun is brilliant in the sky as the boat sails across the ocean waves. It glistens off the water's surface as it transports seawater waves and salty air scented with seaweed to his senses. There is a feeling of calm in the air, and the sound of the waves washing against the boat notifies him of your coming.

A lovely breeze echoes your name over the waves.

The horizon is an endless line of blue, and the ocean's enormity is humbling.

In a few seconds, a seagull is soaring over the expanse of still water. Its wings spread wide, catching the thermals from the sun-heated sand, lifting it higher and higher into the sky. The setting sun lights up the feathers, giving the bird a golden glow.

There is a sudden rippling of thicker and thicker waves across the mirror of blue water. The seagull notices the change and quickly flies away, leaving the ocean to its own fate. The vast expanse of blue filled with foam attracts him despite this, since he sees a beauty in it.

An emerald tail emerges from the depths. As you float along, colorful fish swim around your arms. Reaching out to touch them sends the fish swimming away. Your skin feels warm, and you can hear the sound of the water as it ripples around you with each breath you take.

Mermaid goddess, you rule the seas and even dwell among the living, but you have no idea that his heart swims in rhythm with yours. Though you have no knowledge of it, you hold a power over the sea, and his heart beats in time with the motion of the waves.

Your gaze turns to the artist of the land, the one who captures every emotion of your heart.

In his arms, you find comfort in the world of possibilities he paints for you. There is a sense of peace in his love, as it provides a shelter from the tumultuous waves of life. His works of art are your solace, and you can feel your spirit illuminated with each stroke of his brush.

Your mermaid tail floats from the surface as the sun shines through your gills and your colors reflect in the light.

Painting your grace and elegance is one of his favorite things to do. Your beauty inspires Bucky, and he constantly feels motivated to capture it. He wants to share the beauty he feels in you with the world.

An everlasting masterpiece is what he aspires to create.

Whenever he paints you, it is like he is writing you a love letter. With every stroke he puts on the canvas, he expresses his love for you, and Bucky becomes enchanted with the work.

A stroke tells a story about a man's innermost desires, and you are a window into his soul and a key to his art.

It's as if the sunset speaks of love.

The ocean is infinite blue, and you are the prettiest color he's ever seen.

An emerald green spray of light reflects off the sea under the fierce rays of the sun. Stunning colors and textures are created by the sun's heat and light dancing over the sea surface.

The salty breeze fills the air, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore fills the senses. At that moment, it is as if everything in the world is still, and the only thing that matters is the sea's beauty.

You.

With each wave, the ocean speaks of truth, and the flame of his passion is you.

With the right lines and colors, he depicts it on his canvas.

Bucky is amazed by its beauty, the way light and shadows blend. He realizes that beauty is in nature and in his own heart. As he paints with each brushstroke, he lets his passion shine through, creating art that speaks to his soul.

The moment he shows you his completed work, he is pulled into the water swimming next to you. Your hands find his lower back, and you hold him tightly so he can float. The sun reflects off his wet white shirt, and you catch a glimpse of his chest as he gracefully swims through the water.

You cling to him and twist his shirt, trying to keep him afloat since you can feel him sinking.

You can feel the warmth of his skin against your fingertips as his arms circle your lower back and almost touch your waist, pushing your lower bodies together. The heat flowing through you makes your senses flash in heat, and you crave more.

When he kisses you, he nips on your lips, intensifying the kiss as his hands roam around your upper body, branding your skin with his touch. This touch is one you want marking you today, every day, and until the end of time.

He breaks the kiss slowly, still holding you close to him, burying his head in your shoulder.

As he whispers the ocean melody, he recalls the beauty of seeing you surface in the waves. Kissing your face, he explains to you how he plans to paint what he is kissing and how he wants to showcase every inch of your body.

Bucky pulls back and looks into your eyes, wanting to make this memory last forever.

In an attempt to seize his lips again, you pull him forward and bring him back to your lips. With a firm grip, you tug him close to you as your hands run through his soft hair. This elicits a deep chuckle in his throat.

The two of you remain intertwined as you run your fingers through his hair, down his neck, letting your hand trail into his neck before coming to his front. You tease down his chest, undoing his buttons when you reach them and allowing the waves to assist you in doing so.

His soul is moved by the sea's voice that calls out to him.

You have been planning this from the moment you laid eyes on him. Taking him to your world that will be his new world.

He has no choice but to follow you, his heart pounding as he realizes he's been possessed. His delight at the splendor of the underwater kingdom overcomes his trepidation as he dives deeper into the ocean.

Bucky follows you forward with you into the ocean depths, enchanted by your beauty.

In the dark depths of the ocean, you are the only source of light.

It is as if your eyes penetrate his very soul. You watch him let himself go as he does with his paintbrush when you watched him paint you for weeks. It is as if his growing fear is washed away by your touch and singing. "This land cannot be captured in a painting anymore, Bucky, as you have the ability to become one of the greatest treasures in the world now. My treasure only.”

Bucky kicks a little, his hand fighting against every motion of the water. Your gentle voice holds him as you whisper, "Let go,."

The closer he gets, the stronger your pull is. Your song is mournful, and your eyes seem filled with tears. You sing of how lonely you are, how you need someone to fill the longing within your heart. He wants to be that someone.

It is as if his growing fear is washed away by your touch and singing.

Your song tells him not to be afraid, for it is his destiny to be with you. You are unable to live without him, and only he can free you. You wrap your arms around his neck and bring your lips to meet his. He wraps his arms around you and holds you close as you kiss him like he was the air you need to breathe.

As you kiss him underwater, you drag him deeper into the ocean. As long as you hold him, he doesn’t care.

Darkness envelops you both deeper and deeper.

Upon reaching the bottom, you smile at him and let go of his mouth.

With your lust and love, he drowns.

617 notes · View notes

twilight-lavender · 6 days

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"Hello Mr. Lover !"

Mingyu x Reader ❤️

Summary: Y/N is a staff member who has quietly developed a crush on Mingyu, the idol she works with. As they go about their daily tasks, they both steal glances and share unspoken moments. The twist? Mingyu has a crush on Y/N too.

Part 1 | Part 2

The sun was high in the sky, casting a gentle warmth over the city as Y/N waited by her living room window. She had chosen her outfit with care—a soft dress that caught the light and made her feel like a morning sunbeam. Her heart fluttered with anticipation, each passing minute stretching longer as she awaited Mingyu’s arrival.

Then, the sound of a car horn broke the stillness of the neighborhood. It was Mingyu, punctual to the minute, a testament to his thoughtfulness. Y/N’s pulse quickened as she stepped out, her eyes catching sight of him emerging from the driver’s side, moving purposefully toward her.

Mingyu’s intention was clear—to treat her with the same chivalry he had shown earlier. Yet, Y/N’s mind raced with the thought of curious neighbors peeking through their curtains, gossiping about the handsome idol and the staff member.

Y/N: (with a soft, reassuring tone) “Mingyu, people might see. I can open the door myself.”

Her words were a delicate plea, carried away by the morning breeze. Mingyu paused, his hand hovering over the door handle, and then he stepped back with an understanding smile.

Mingyu: (his voice warm and admiring) “You look absolutely stunning today, Y/N.”

The compliment, simple yet sincere, sent a wave of warmth through Y/N’s being. She felt seen, appreciated, and for a moment, the bustling world outside ceased to exist.

Y/N: (her smile reflecting her inner joy) “Thank you, Mingyu. You too look great ”

They shared a smile, a silent promise of the moments to come. As they settled into the car, the air was charged with unspoken words and shared glances—their hearts on the verge of revealing feelings that danced just beneath the surface.

Mingyu leaned in slightly, his movement deliberate yet gentle, causing Y/N’s breath to hitch. She closed her eyes, a natural response to the closeness, her cheeks flushing with a shy rosiness.

Mingyu: (with a light-hearted tone) “Your seatbelt, Y/N.”

Her eyes snapped open, a mix of surprise and embarrassment dancing in them. She had been so caught up in the moment that she had forgotten such a simple thing.

Y/N: (stammering slightly) “Huh? Oh, yes, of course, the seatbelt…”

She reached for the seatbelt, her fingers brushing against Mingyu’s for a fleeting second, sending a delightful shiver down her spine. Securing the seatbelt, she turned her gaze outside, allowing herself a moment to recover from the fluttering in her chest.

Mingyu couldn’t help but smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. He found her fluster endearing, a sign of the genuine emotions that lay beneath her composed exterior.

As the car glided through the morning streets, the silence was not awkward but comforting—a shared space where words were unnecessary. They were two hearts, entwined in the delicate dance of a new connection, content in the sweet tension of the unknown.

The car journey ended as smoothly as it had begun, with Mingyu navigating the streets with an ease that spoke of familiarity. They pulled up to the restaurant, its facade elegant and inviting. Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise; the place was renowned, yet it stood silent, devoid of the usual chatter and clinking of cutlery.

Y/N: (with a puzzled look) “Are you sure this is the popular restaurant you mentioned? It looks… quiet.”

Mingyu: (nodding confidently) “Yes, this is the place. They serve some of the best dishes in town.”

Y/N: (peering through the windows) “But there’s no one here. It’s completely empty.”

Mingyu: (with a mischievous glint in his eye) “Ah, about that—I booked the entire restaurant.”

Y/N: (her eyes wide with astonishment) “You booked the whole place? Seriously?”

Mingyu: (smiling warmly) “Yes, I thought it would be nice for us to have lunch without any distractions. Just the two of us.”

Y/N stood there, flattered and touched by the gesture, a mix of emotions swirling within her. The realization that Mingyu had gone to such lengths for their lunch together made her heart flutter with a joy she couldn’t quite name.

Y/N: (her voice soft, almost a whisper) “Oh, Mingyu… that’s incredibly thoughtful of you.”

As they entered the restaurant, the silence enveloped them like a secret shared between close friends. The tables were set with precision, the lighting casting a warm glow over the room. It was as if the world outside had faded away, leaving only the two of them in a bubble of serene intimacy.

Mingyu led Y/N to a table by the window, the view outside framing their private dining experience. The care he took in ensuring her comfort, the way he pulled out her chair and waited until she was seated, spoke volumes of his consideration for her. Once they were both comfortably seated, the quiet clinking of fine cutlery and the soft rustling of the menu pages filled the air. Mingyu glanced up from his menu, his gaze meeting Y/N’s.

Mingyu: “What would you like to eat?”

Y/N pondered for a moment, her eyes scanning the array of exquisite dishes listed before her.

Y/N: “I’m open to anything. Whatever you suggest, I’m sure it’ll be delightful.”

Mingyu: (nodding in approval) “Cool! Then let’s go for something special.”

He signaled the waiter and, with a confident tone, ordered the famous Korean seafood that the restaurant was known for. The anticipation of the meal added another layer of excitement to their already enchanting afternoon. As they sat in the quiet elegance of the restaurant, awaiting their meal, Mingyu’s eyes twinkled with mirth.

Mingyu: (giggling) “Do you remember the first time we met?”

Y/N felt a blush creep up her cheeks, the memory still fresh enough to stir a mix of emotions.

Y/N: (covering her face with her hands) “Please, let’s not revisit that. I’m still mortified.”

But Mingyu couldn’t contain his laughter, the recollection too amusing to let pass.

Flashback:

It was Y/N’s first day on the job, and she had been tasked with organizing the wardrobe for the team. The room was a maze of clothes and towering boxes, a challenge that Y/N faced alone.

Suddenly, the lights flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness.

Y/N: (her voice a mix of confusion and concern) “What’s happening…?”

In a swift motion, she pulled out her phone and switched on the flashlight. The beam cut through the gloom, and she heard footsteps approaching. Spinning around, she found herself face-to-face with a man clad in black, his cap casting shadows over his features.

Startled by the sudden encounter, Y/N stumbled backward, her foot catching on a loose garment. She reached out in a panic, her hand connecting with the figure before her, and both tumbled into a large box as the lights flickered back to life.

The scene was like something out of a movie—Y/N found herself atop Mingyu, their positions intimate and unexpected.

Mingyu: (wincing) “Ouch…”

Y/N: (her voice trembling) “Who are you?”

Before they could untangle themselves, the stylist burst into the room, concern etched on her face.

Stylist: “Are you guys okay? Mingyu, are you hurt?”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat as she whispered, realization dawning.

Y/N: (barely audible) “Mingyu?”

Mingyu: (with a reassuring smile) “Yeah, it’s me.”

They scrambled to their feet, a flurry of apologies tumbling from Y/N’s lips.

Y/N: (rushing her words) “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Mingyu cut her off, his laughter softening the embarrassment of the moment.

Mingyu: (teasingly) “You thought I was a thief, didn’t you?”

Y/N: (her face a portrait of apology) “I’m sorry… Are you hurt?”

Mingyu: (shaking his head, still smiling) “No, I’m fine, really.”

Y/N: (her voice laced with regret) “I’m really, really sorry. And I’m sorry for not recognizing you.”

Mingyu’s smile widened, his eyes gentle.

Mingyu: (chuckling) “Chill, it’s okay. I’m completely fine.” Back in the present, Y/N couldn’t help but join in Mingyu’s laughter, the initial embarrassment giving way to the warmth of shared memories.

Y/N: (with a playful roll of her eyes) “Mingyu, will you ever stop? Alright, as an apology for that embarrassing first encounter, let me cover today’s meal.”

Mingyu’s laughter subsided into a warm smile, his eyes locking with Y/N’s in a moment of silent understanding.

Mingyu: “Hmm, nope. Today, it’s all on me. But, if you really want to, you can treat me some other time…” (His voice trailed off, hinting at a desire for future outings together.)

Y/N’s heart fluttered at the suggestion, a smile spreading across her face.

Y/N: “Of course, why not? It’s a deal! How about next weekend?”

Mingyu: (his smile broadening) “That sounds perfect to me.”

As their food arrived, Mingyu, ever the gentleman, assisted Y/N with her plate, his actions gentle and considerate. Each small gesture added another layer to the tapestry of their budding romance, weaving a story of affection and care that was only just beginning.

As the final course of their meal approached, Mingyu signaled the waiter with a discreet nod. Moments later, a bowl of ice cream arrived, its cool swirls promising a sweet end to their lunch.

Y/N: (her eyes lighting up) “Aww, ice cream…”

Mingyu: (with a knowing smile) “Yes, it’s specially for you.”

Y/N looked at him, curiosity sparkling in her eyes.

Y/N: “But how did you know I like ice cream?”

Mingyu: (leaning back with a playful grin) “I know everything…”

There was a twinkle in his eye that made Y/N laugh, the sound mingling with the soft music of the restaurant.

Mingyu: (after a pause) “Do you have to head home now, or do you have other plans?”

Y/N: “No, I don’t really have anything else planned for today.”

Mingyu’s hesitation was almost imperceptible as he ventured his next suggestion.

Mingyu: “How about going to a movie? Actually, it’s my friend’s film that got released yesterday, and I’ve heard it’s good. It might be a bit boring to watch it alone… Would you join me?”

Y/N was taken aback by the invitation, a pleasant surprise that brought a soft smile to her face.

Y/N: “Oh… Okay, sure.”

Mingyu’s heart soared with silent joy, but he maintained a composed exterior. He didn’t want to reveal the extent of his happiness just yet, preferring to let their relationship unfold at a gentle pace.

Mingyu: (calmly) “Great! It’s a plan, then.”

As they enjoyed their ice cream, the conversation flowed effortlessly

In cinema hall As they stepped into the cinema, Y/N’s eyes widened in disbelief. The vast hall was silent, every seat empty, the screen waiting to light up just for them.

Y/N: (with a hint of playful accusation) “Don’t tell me you rented out this entire cinema hall too?”

Mingyu looked at her, a sheepish yet proud smile on his face.

Mingyu: “Uhmm, yeah, I did… I thought it would be more comfortable this way. So, where should we sit?”

Y/N: (laughing softly) “It’s empty, we can sit anywhere. But the center is always the best spot, right?”

Mingyu: “Let’s do that.”

They found their seats in the heart of the cinema, the perfect vantage point for the movie. As the lights dimmed and the opening credits began to roll, a shared sense of excitement settled between them.

Partway through the film, Mingyu noticed Y/N’s shoulders hunching slightly, a small shiver visible despite her best efforts to conceal it. Without a word, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

Mingyu: (whispering) “Here, take this. You look like you could use some warmth.”

Y/N turned to him, her eyes soft with gratitude.

Y/N: (whispering back) “Thank you, Mingyu. That’s really sweet of you.”

The jacket was warm, carrying the faint scent of Mingyu’s cologne. It felt like a gentle embrace, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel a sense of closeness to him, a connection that seemed to grow stronger in the quiet darkness of the cinema.

As the movie played on, they found themselves laughing together at the funny scenes, jumping at the same moments of surprise, and sharing quick glances that spoke louder than words. It was a simple afternoon, but for Y/N and Mingyu, it felt like the beginning of something truly special.

The movie had ended, leaving behind a trail of emotions as Mingyu and Y/N made their way back home. The soft glow of the dashboard illuminated Y/N’s peaceful face, her breaths even and calm in sleep. Mingyu couldn’t help but admire her, the quiet moments allowing him to appreciate her presence fully.

As they neared Y/N’s house, Mingyu noticed the gentle rise and fall of her chest, a testament to her deep slumber. Not wanting to disturb her rest, he made a decision. With a slight turn of the steering wheel, he took an extra loop around the block, granting her a few more minutes of tranquility.

Eventually, the car came to a stop near her home, and Y/N stirred awake, blinking away the remnants of her dreams.

Y/N: (groggily) “Oh, we’re already here…”

She turned to Mingyu, her eyes reflecting the soft streetlights.

Y/N: “Thank you for today, Mingyu. It was… it was wonderful.”

Mingyu offered her a gentle smile, his voice low and comforting.

Mingyu: “I’m glad you enjoyed it. And remember, you still owe me that treat.”

With a soft chuckle, Y/N nodded, the promise of another day together lingering between them.

Y/N: “I won’t forget. Goodnight, Mingyu.” She stepped out of the car, the night air cool against her skin, but the warmth of Mingyu’s jacket still lingered, a comforting embrace.

Mingyu: (softly, as she walked away) “Goodnight, Y/N. Sweet dreams.”

As he drove away, the memory of her laughter, the softness of her voice, and the promise of tomorrow filled him with a sense of anticipation. The night held their secrets, their unspoken feelings, and the hope of what was yet to unfold.

Exhausted yet exhilarated, Y/N collapsed onto her bed, the day’s events replaying in her mind like a favorite song on repeat. She reached for her phone and dialed Aara,( Fun fact she is big k-pop fan specially seventeen)

Y/N: (with a dramatic sigh) “Aara, I’m doomed!”

Aara: (her voice laced with concern) “What happened? Are you okay?”

Y/N: “I’m more than doomed. I’m utterly, completely doomed.”

Aara: “You’re freaking me out. Just spill it already!”

Y/N took a deep breath, her heart racing as she confessed.

Y/N: “I think… no, I know I like Mingyu.”

Aara: (laughing) “Who doesn’t like him? He’s amazing!”

Y/N: (her voice rising in frustration) “No, you don’t understand. I like Mingyu. Like, really like him!”

To be continued......... !

PS :: Mingyu’s intentions were clear; he wanted to create a comfortable space for Y/N, a place where she could be herself without the pressures that often accompany the word ‘date.’ So, he chose to call it a lunch, a casual gathering between two people enjoying each other’s company.

Yet, within that simplicity, he wove moments that made her feel cherished. From the thoughtful choice of restaurant to the private cinema experience, each gesture was a delicate thread in the tapestry of their growing connection. He was patient, allowing their relationship to unfold naturally, giving Y/N the time to recognize the depth of her own feelings.

Author Note

Hello everyone,

Part 2 is here! I hope you all like it. Please share your thoughts with me – your feedback matters a lot!

Enjoy reading!

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dystopia-incognito · 6 months

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Male Werewolf x Female Reader

Warning: NSFW (minors DNI) contains sex/dubcon A short spicy story of 1,977 words about a young woman encountering a werewolf.

A little side note: I NEVER write, I'm a nervous wreck for just posting this. That being said.. I wrote this little dabble specifically for a very special person the night before their birthday as a surprise and I might never actually finish it. Do enjoy it for what it is, though! <3

Freedom. In a tranquil corner of the world, nestled by the edge of a serene lake, Y/N found her escape from the bustling village that had kept her busy for far too long. The cool, inviting water lapped gently at her feet as she sat on the grassy shore, her emotions swirling like a symphony. It was the first sensation that washed over her. As her toes touched the water's surface, she felt liberated. Here, away from the ceaseless demands of her family and the never-ending chores of the village, she could finally breathe. By this quiet lake, she could be herself, unburdened by obligations. She smiled and hiked up her modest dress a little higher to not get it wet, the lush grass beneath her bare legs seemed to embrace her like a lover. Overhead, the leaves rustled like ancient scrolls, and the rhythmic ripples of the lake provided a soothing lullaby. In this moment, she merged seamlessly with the natural world, an integral part of a harmonious landscape. The water's gentle caress on her ankles brought forth sheer delight. She wiggled her toes, savouring the exquisite sensation. With each movement, every ripple she created in the water, she found a wellspring of unadulterated joy. Her laughter echoed, blending harmoniously with the songs of the birds in the nearby trees. Her gaze was drawn to the horizon, where the sun's golden glow painted the sky with hues of orange and pink. Her thoughts wandered to the future, where dreams and aspirations converged. Her heart swelled with optimism and a sense of adventure, as if the world itself were an open book, waiting for her to write its next chapter. It was a future where her heart would find its truest desires, where every sunrise held the promise of new adventures, and where her spirit would soar unburdened.

As the sun descended lower, casting elongated shadows across the water's surface, she closed her eyes for a moment. The soft breeze gently played with her hair and gently kissed her cheeks, carrying the fragrant scent of the surrounding pines. It was a tranquil pause, a chance to gather her thoughts amidst the serenity of her secluded haven. But as the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting the forest clearing in a deepening twilight, she suddenly became aware of a presence. It was a sensation she couldn't ignore, a feeling that sent a shiver down her spine. Beyond the familiar forest clearing that had always felt like her refuge, something new and unsettling had emerged.

The tranquil harmony of nature seemed disrupted as if an intruder had entered this sacred space. She stood up slowly, brushing her out of her face, slipping hastily into her boots, her heart pounding with an inexplicable mixture of curiosity and trepidation. She scanned the tree line, her eyes straining to pierce the gathering darkness. And there, between the dense shrubbery and shadowy trees, she saw it— a pair of eyes glowing with an eerie luminescence. The intensity of their gaze sent a chill through her, and she felt a sense of foreboding. She considered the possibilities: perhaps it was a lone wolf, their eyes reflecting the fading light. Or, in the depths of her imagination, a more ominous thought took root— a creature of legend and terror.

As she slowly retreated from the water's edge, she couldn't tear her eyes away from those glowing orbs in the darkness. Her instincts told her to be cautious, to respect the untamed wildness of the forest, and to tread carefully as she made her way home. With each step, she couldn't shake the feeling that the presence she had sensed was something beyond the ordinary, something that had been drawn to the tranquil haven she had sought for solace and reflection. The mystery of those glowing eyes haunted her thoughts as she ventured back toward the village, journeying through the forest's depths. With a heart pounding in her chest, she hurriedly attempted to make her way back through the dark forest.

Fear of the possible threat had her senses on edge, and as she ventured deeper, an unsettling disorientation began to grip her. The once-familiar forest now felt foreign, as if the trees had rearranged themselves while her attention was drawn to the mysterious presence by the lake. Thick greenery pressed in from all sides, making it difficult to discern one path from another. The foliage seemed to conspire, creating an eerie sameness that made every turn look alike. Her footsteps, once confident, now faltered as uncertainty took hold. Panic threatened to consume her as she feared she had strayed from her familiar way home. The forest's natural beauty had transformed into an intimidating maze, where every tree and every shadow appeared as a deceptive mirror image of the last. As the encroaching darkness deepened, she battled her rising anxiety, pushing her body through the underbrush, trying to remember the landmarks she'd used countless times to navigate these woods.

It was a race against time and her fear, an urgent attempt to find her way back to the safety of the village before the night's secrets fully unfurled, and her fear of the unknown became a reality. As the unsettling sense of being stalked by what she could only assume to be a werewolf tightened its grip on her, she felt a growing unease that urged her to flee. Panic and adrenaline coursed through her veins, driving her to her feet as she started running through the dark forest. With each pounding step, her surroundings grew increasingly unfamiliar. Trees loomed like shadowy sentinels, and the underbrush seemed to tangle at her feet. She ran aimlessly, her heart thundering in her chest as she picked up speed, the urgency of escape driving her forward. In the oppressive darkness, the sound of her breath and the rush of her footsteps filled her ears. But then, she began to hear something else— a haunting, primal sound echoing through the trees. It was the unmistakable sound of pursuit, the creature she had feared drawing nearer with each passing moment.

The relentless rhythm of its power and grace echoed in her ears, a chilling reminder of the danger that chased her through the labyrinthine forest. She dared not glance back, for the terror had become all too real, her only thought was to find her way to safety in this perilous game of survival amidst the darkness. Her heart was pounding in her ears and her limbs failing her as she ran through the forest, her breath ragged and laboured, each step became a monumental effort. In her desperate flight, she suddenly tripped over a gnarled root, sprawling to the forest floor. Pain seared through her, but adrenaline surged through her veins. She scrambled to get up but hit the ground again, exhausted she realized, her escape had come to a heartbreaking halt.

Her body refused to obey her commands, with trembling limbs she lay there, chest heaving as she fought her burning lungs to breathe. She snapped her head up to look around, her nightmare had vanished into the shadows but she knew it was only a matter of time before it would catch up to her again. Willing herself to move, she managed to roll onto her back, peering into the direction she had come from as her eyes adjusted to the darkness surrounding her. Long minutes passed, and then over the sound of the blood rushing in her ears, she heard it — rustling of leaves and twigs, the eerie whisper of fur against the night air. The werewolf, with one giant leap, emerged from the shadows and fixed its feral eyes upon her.

Frozen in fear, she felt unable to breathe, dwarfed by its imposing size, she could feel the creature's hot breath as it drew near on all fours, coming as close as to hover over her. The scent of the forest and the wildness of the beast enveloped her, and for a moment that stretched into eternity, they remained locked in a tense and inexplicable stillness. Y/N couldn't tear her eyes away from the werewolf's gaze, and the creature's intelligent eyes seemed to calculate the situation, caught between predatory instincts and fascination with her presence. Then, with a hesitant and almost tender movement, the werewolf lowered its large head and sniffed her.

It was a surrealistically intimate moment, where the boundaries between fear and curiosity blurred into something she couldn't comprehend. Y/N, still frozen in place, allowed it to happen, her heart pounding in her chest. The forest rustled, the night held its breath and she and the this wild beast existed in a tense and enigmatic moment. She now was at the mercy of the unknown. Not knowing what the future held, in that fragile moment of shared vulnerability, something unexpected had passed between them.

…

And then the spell was abruptly broken as it leaned in, got a hold of her face, and licked it. Its tongue left long clammy strokes over her cheek and down the side of her neck. With its wet snout, it nudged the low neckline of her dress for access. She gasped and thrashed in sheer surprise, struggling to get away, but the werewolf muscled her back firmly to the lush forest floor. It withdrew slightly to look at her, growling a low, possessive warning which vibrated through her very being. In horror, she watched the beast's thick, viscous drool drip from its fangs and felt it land with a deliberate and heavy splat onto her chest. Shivers ran down her spine as the invasive syrupy substance tenaciously clung to the soft slopes of her rising and falling chest, lazily pooling down into her cleavage as it glistened in the dim moonlight.

She could only expect the worst, powerless, as it continued to sniff her. Its keen sense of smell and big paws explored her curvacious body, moving downwards to dip underneath the hem of her dress, sending her nerves on edge. Its snout then pushed upwards, moving her dress along with the motion, to nuzzle apart her thick trembling thighs. Her fingers dug into the fresh earth beneath her and her skin prickled as goosebumps appeared all over her body, But before she could even flinch it let her know once more, and quite vocally, she wasn't allowed to move. Taking two deep huffs of her, the werewolf's hot breath washed over her sex. A strangled noise escaped her, and then, without any warning, it hungrily began lapping at her. The sudden sheer sensation of it drew a high-pitched wail from her lips, like a wounded animal, her body curled in on itself, thighs clamping down weakly around its powerful head. Her hands shot down to grab white-knuckled fists full of the beast's thick mane as it continued, absolutely unbothered, to wetly slobber away at her. And it was too much at once. Her stomach tied in knots, and she shook with mixed emotions tumbling away inside her, even if pleasure slowly but surely bloomed in her core. Then the creature's head snapped up, licking its lips as sure goal-set glowing eyes met hers to stare her back down into submission, into the moss and dancing leaves beneath her. She was overwhelmed by it, the werewolf's sheer masculinity and assertive power made her feel more vulnerable than if she were completely exposed to him. It, on the other hand, wasted no time and grabbed at her, pulling her in and pushing her back against his hips eagerly. Her insides contracted involuntarily as it ripped at her dress for easier access to more of her body. She was met with throbbing heat on her newly exposed skin, carnal desire and the sheer size of Him against her tummy. Her mouth went dry with the realisation of what would happen next..

- FIN

#monster fucker #werewolf smut #werewolf lover #werewolves #werewolf x female reader #werewolf #my writing #please be gentle it's my first time (posting any of my writing that is)#werewolf boyfriend

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heich0e · 8 months

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THE WITCH'S SONG - part two knight!osamu/witch!reader tags: fem!reader, royalty!au, supernatural!au, witchcraft, enemies to lovers, mentions of violence/illness/death, persecution and oppression, tw blood/gore, please read the tags on each chapter as updated and minors do not interact. crossposted to ao3 MASTERLIST

For as long as you can remember, you have always risen with the sun.

It’s a habit so deeply constitutional that you've never bothered to question that part of your own nature—the breaking light cresting over the horizon each day, perfectly in time with the first flutter of your eyelids.

Your bedsheets are gentle against your skin as you rouse from your slumber. They're buttery soft, perfectly worn-in from the many nights of rest you’ve found under their cover, and the scent of fresh air still clings to them from an afternoon spent hanging on your clothesline a few days prior. You nestle your cheek into the downy embrace of your pillow, breathing in deeply to savour those lingering notes of summer breeze. You let the breath fill every corner of your chest as you inhale, feeling the way your ribs rise to make room for it, and then you let it out again in a warm rush. You repeat the cycle a few times more, and slowly take in the first moments of your day as your eyes adjust to the early morning light.

With your your arm crooked at your elbow, your hand sweeps lazily around beneath your pillow. You search blindly for a moment, unhurried but sure, and then your fingers brush against something solid and cool hidden away under the feathery mass. You wrap your fingers around the object and draw it out, holding it up above your face to appraise it.

It’s a pair of silver scissors, with a sprig of dried lavender fastened to them beneath a thrice-knotted length of thin white twine.

Outside your window, the milky indigo sky provides very little light. The distant sun is still only a sliver of light peeking out over the eastward sea, but what little glow the new dawn provides catches in the scissors's polished silver surface. You see the distorted image of your own eye, just a glimpse reflected along the narrow blade, staring back.

Sleep does not come to you peacefully, and it hasn’t for a long time. It seems to fight you, tooth and nail, each night, but the battle is ever-changing. Sometimes sleep evades you completely, leaving you to toss and turn restlessly until the moon disappears and the day starts anew. Other nights, slumber overtakes you quickly, but its true violence strikes when you’re left at your most vulnerable—nightmares whose claws sink themselves so deep into you, you can still feel their phantom pain long after you tear yourself awake in a cold, trembling sweat.

Your fingers tighten around the scissors in your grip—still cool to the touch, as though your body heat cannot warm them.

The scissors are a simple charm to keep away terrors that might creep in while you sleep. Just like them, the collection of carefully crafted and curated trinkets that surround your room—dried flowers, jagged crystals, hand drawn sigils inked upon slips of silk and parchment—are all kept in an effort to rest peacefully. To ward away anything that may prevent it.

You didn’t always have so many.

You didn’t always need them.

These items are tacked to your walls, line your windowsills, and hang from the tall posters of your bed—each and every one a remedy originating from a carefully documented entry in your mother’s grimoire. The massive tome rests presently at the foot of your bed, tangled in your quilt. You often fall asleep—as you had the night prior—poring over the parchment pages, bound in strong leather tanned a deep midnight blue, filled with a familiar sloping script that makes your heart ache. Her life’s work and story, her own magic and every piece of knowledge ever shared with her, is contained within those precious pages.

It’s one of the last parts of her that remains.

Thankfully your mother's charms served you well throughout the night, as you feel relatively well rested as you rise from your bed—pulling a housecoat on atop your poplin nightdress and stretching your arms up over your head to welcome the day. You tug your quilt up to meet your pillows, tucking it in neatly at the corners, and then you close the heavy cover of the grimoire that rests at the mattress’s edge. You let your fingers trace lightly over the embossing on the cover as you appreciate it, and then you slip it safely into the trunk at the end of your bed where it belongs.

You’re a little surprised that your visitor from the night before hadn’t caused more of a disturbance to your sleep, already so capricious, particularly given the terrible sense of foreboding that had been hanging over your cottage in the days leading up to his arrival—like a heavy, briny fog rolls in from the sea. You choose not to question good fortune, at least not so early in the day—shaking your head as if willing the unwelcome thought away—and you set about your usual morning routine as though nothing in the width of the world is different than it has been any day prior.

You wash, prepare a light meal, and dress yourself in simple attire suitable for a day’s labour, all before the sun has fully risen from the cradle of the horizon. You plan to work in the garden again today, tending to your plants with the meticulous care they require. You aim to start early in hopes of completing the task before the hottest part of the day makes the work less pleasant—the air at dusk the night before had smelled so sweet, a faithful harbinger of a sunny day ahead.

The grass still glimmers with dew as you step outside your cottage, breathing in the clean, crisp air. Across your property, the sun is just about to creep up over the sea, though there’s a lilac brume that cloaks it—a gentle shroud that lets you see her shape without straining your eyes. You keep your feet bare as you tread towards the garden, listening to distant birdsong, and the blades of dew-damp grass kiss against your soles with every step.

You pause at the break in the wall that surrounds your cottage, the threshold between your garden and your home, and take a deep breath in. The wind kisses your cheek as a breeze rushes past, and the plants rustle around you as if bidding you good morning. On your exhale, you breathe the greeting back.

The light continues to rise in the sky as you labour, soon burning off the gossamer mist that tends to linger early in the morning until the day is bright and warm and fully underway. You shuck the knitted sweater you’d worn out at dawn as the temperature climbs with the sun, and eventually cuff your trousers at the ankles too, but you pay little attention to the heat of the day as you go about making sure your plants are watered, pruned, and any that require special attention are given what they need.

You sing softly while you work.

Witches have long sung songs while they toiled, or gathered together, or just as a means to pass the time. It's a cherished tradition among your kind, and you were taught when you were very young that a witch’s song is a sacred, honoured thing—her voice a gift and a powerful tool.

You don’t sing as much as you ought to, nor as loudly. Perhaps, not least of all, because there’s no one there for you to sing to save for your budding rows of plants. Some of y our earliest memories, the ones hazy at the edges as they’ve been eaten away by time, are of your mother singing in her own garden at the house that you were born in.

Why do you sing to them, mother?

On the edge of a northern breeze, you can hear your own voice—higher, lighter, happier than what it grew to be. You squint up into the midday sun as you reflect.

So they can remember us, Button.

Button.

She called you that because you were always losing yours when you were young; returning to the little cabin you called home at the end of the day with dirty knees, pockets full of shiny rocks, a handful of berries to share with her before dinner, and with one less button on your dress than you’d set off into the woods with that morning.

You remember her impossibly soft hands patting over your head, your arms, your legs, as she appraised you for any bumps or bruises. You remember her breathy laugh as you told her your scrapes and nettle stings didn’t even hurt. You remember her gentle eyes, always sparkling like she was telling you a secret.

Don’t you like when I sing to you? Doesn’t it make you happy?

Your little ribbon-haired head couldn’t have been quicker to nod if you’d tried—your answer to her question came immediate and fervent. Your mother's voice was your most favourite thing.

Well, it makes the plants happy, too—and that happiness will help them grow. Their roots will dig down deep into the earth, and they’ll take all our stories that I sing to them there, too.

You recall the childhood fantasy of each word of your mother’s song spelled out in sprawling, knobbly roots, hidden underground, being kept safe by the earth.

Your eyes flutter shut, blocking out the sun and trapping in the fleeting memory.

The songs she sang to you, the stories that she told, the grimoire in the truck at the end of your bed. Those are all that you have left of her now. You keep them safe just like the soil covered up the roots.

Since time immemorial, song has been used to pass tradition from one generation of witches to the next—the legends of your people, the same ones you recite now as you snip the reedy leaves away from your precious plants, were all taught to you in verse and chorus.

Men flock to the melody of the witch’s song like moth to flame. To hear it is to be bewitched by it. Your mother warned you of such a thing, in the same way all young witches are, and of what might happen should your song be overheard.

The history of man calls the witches temptresses, because of their own weakness to their song. Sirens. Man-eaters. That’s how they choose to remember it in their own egocentric folklore; the witch's song is a weapon used to ensnare them, and nothing more. They hide their own antecedent failings by laying blame, and burning any testament that remembers it otherwise.

You've known one truth as long as you've known anything: men are gluttonous, self-serving beasts. They see the world solely as it relates to themselves. They'll take anything in which they see beauty. And they'll immortalize their story, inked in your kind's blood, only as seen through their own eyes.

But the witch’s song was never meant for man.

You pause, your eyes still tightly closed, with your face turned up towards the sun.

Miya Osamu is standing at the forest’s edge.

You know he’s there even without opening your eyes, but when you eventually do, your sight immediately catches on the glint of the polished sword hilt at his waist.

He’s come armed today.

It’s noon on the day following his unceremonious arrival—the one where you had warned him, at risk of his own life, not ever to return. You know it’s noon, or very near to it, because the sun sits at its highest point in the clear midday sky as he emerges from the thicket of the wild, towering woods at the edge of your property.

For a moment upon seeing him, you wonder if you ought to flee—if you should seek shelter on the other side of the little rock wall you know he cannot cross. Instead, you hold your ground, still resting in the dirt of your garden—the knees of your twill pants stained with grass and soil, with grime caked beneath your fingernails.

You will not run from him.

He approaches you slowly, with careful steps as not to tread upon any one of your still-budding plants. You don’t bother watching him draw nearer.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to come back.” You sink your spade into the earth at the base of a plant that’s showing signs of rot. Its your final task in the garden for the day: you plan to cut it out at the root, take it back into the greenhouse, and try and salvage at least a few slips for propagation.

Your only hope now is that any affliction hasn’t spread beneath the soil.

“I’m not here to prove my nerve,” he says to you, pausing a few paces away between a patch of rosemary and another of oregano. His voice is clear and sure like the blue sky overhead. “I’m here to help Atsumu.”

You place the uprooted plant into a small tin pail beside you, prodding into the soft edges of the hole you’ve dug to excavate it for any signs of further blight. You see none, thankfully.

But rot’s a tricky thing. Sometimes it's in plain sight, and others it hides where the light can't reach it.

“I don’t care why you’re here,” you tell him, setting aside your spade and meeting his eyes as you drag the back of your wrist against your perspiring brow. “And I don’t care about your brother.”

The knight looks worse than he had the day before when he showed up in your workshed, but you’re not surprised by that fact. He spent the night in the woods, that much you’re certain of—not least of all because the nearest village is too far for him to have travelled their and back by midday. His hair is unkempt, his clothing rumpled like it’s been slept in, and the shadows under his eyes are darker, more severe than they had been the night prior—though perhaps their stark contrast is just more evident in the light of day.

At his waist, Osamu’s hand rests lightly upon on the hilt of his sword, but it seems more instinctive than threatening given the way his fingers are slack. There’s a frustrated furrow in his brow that deepens in the wake of your words, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Yer the only one who can help him.”

“No, I’m the only witch your king hasn’t culled,” you parry. “There’s a difference.”

Osamu’s lips pull into a thin line. “So you admit it.”

You blink.

You suppose this is the first time you’ve confirmed his accusation. The first time you’ve admitted to your truth. It wasn't so much a slip of the tongue as it was an inevitability.

“It does me little good to say anything otherwise,” you respond, unshaken by his observation. “You need me to be a witch. As you’ve made clear: your brother’s fate relies on it. The help you hope for me to provide to you is all that’s keeping that sword in its sheath.”

The knight’s fingers curl loosely around the hilt of his weapon at your mention of it, as though becoming conscious for the first time of its weight against his hip.

But it’s not strictly true, what you’ve said, and you both know it.

There’s one other option Osamu has available to him—one other cure to heal what ails his beloved brother—and it very much requires the use of his sword.

Witches have been driven to near extinction now—every coven you’ve ever known to inhabit this kingdom wiped out in their entirety—with little more to prove they ever existed but your own fleeting memory of them.

The only pieces of them worth saving were their hearts.

There’s a reason why witches have forever been hunted for them—a reason why the king’s knights would cleave them out before their bodies were burned. The hearts of your kind have long been coveted by men for the residual magic that they hold. Even when a witch dies, her heart will keep beating, though only for a short while, and to possess a witch’s heart while it still beats—however faintly—will bring luck to the one who possesses it. It can cure any ailment, or end any drought, or even turn the tides of a battle.

Those hearts and the promises that they assured were worth more to glory hungry men than the lives of the witches they rightfully belonged to.

You feel a white hot flash of anger roll through the pit of your stomach like a violent tide at the thought of it, digging your fingers deep into the soil below you to find comfort. You stare up at the man above you, no different from any of the rest of them, and your eyes narrow resentfully. You clutch dirt by the fistful.

“All the hearts the crown has ripped from witches over the past two hundred odd years, and to what end?” you ask him, disdain dripping thick and venomous from every word. “The fortune of a trophied heart is fleeting, their power fades with every passing beat until eventually the pulse stops altogether. Your king knew that, and he chose to pillage them regardless. That old bastard was born with the world in his hand, yet he hoarded those spoils for himself—wasted them—only to die, like all mortal men do, and leave the rest of you behind to suffer for it.”

“Hold yer tongue,” Osamu warns you sharply, his lip curling in time with his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled grip. “How dare ya speak ill of the late king.”

“Why defend a man who left his country in ruins?” you goad him further, twisting the knife you’ve managed to wedge between the plates of his composure’s already straining armour. “A man who stripped his kingdom of its greatest resource—of the lives dedicated to the keeping of this land—and left his infant son to take a throne he drove into the ground with his greed. A son I’m sure has grown into just as pitiful a ruler as his father.”

The knight’s sword glints in the sunlight as it’s quickly drawn. The sound of the finely honed blade scraping against the sheath is almost pleasant; surprisingly delicate in its own way, even in its violence.

You kneel beneath Osamu in the glare of the all-seeing sun, the point of his blade held level at your throat.

“Don’t say another word against King Shinsuke,” the man hisses, and much like the first time you mentioned his brother by name, it seems you’ve struck a tender nerve.

You don’t flinch, but your eyes do flicker down towards the garden beds.

A tense moment passes with his steady sword resting just beneath your chin.

“You’re stepping on my spearmint.”

Osamu’s gaze follows yours down to his feet in surprise, to where his left boot treads upon a small mint plant. He inches his foot back slightly, almost without thinking, after you point it out. Some of the outer leaves are bruised, but you’re fairly certain the plant will still survive.

A breeze rolls in from the east, rushing through the blades of grass and rows of plants until it lifts the sleeve of your shirt as it passes like a kiss from the sea. You find it comforting. Reassuring.

Osamu speaks again.

“I could just take it, y’know.”

You don’t need him to clarify what it he speaks of.

What’s strange to you isn't the threat he utters, but rather that the words were spoken so quietly they were very nearly lost in the passing breeze. Part of you can’t help but wonder if he knows he uttered them aloud at all, or if they were merely one final fervent encouragement to steel his own resolve. You look up at him, and see his eyes are burning with insistence—wild in their hopelessness.

His expression is grave, remorseful almost. “I’ve got no other choice.”

Ah.

The final fraying morality of a desperate man.

“Good luck,” you say to him. You still meet his gaze without flinching. His sword is still pointed at your throat. “You’ll have to find it first.”

Confusion flashes behind those frantic grey eyes, and then creeps in the horrified realization.

At the tree line in the distance, a raven takes off from the highest bough of an old oak tree with a piercing caw.

“I don’t believe you,” he says, but his voice is tight and unconvincing—almost like you can hear the bile creeping up his throat. You wonder if he’s saying it in hopes of persuading you or himself.

You lift your shoulders in a dispassionate shrug, reaching up towards the neckline of your blouse. “Would you like to check?”

It’s quiet for a moment as you wait for a reply you know will never come.

Behind the knight’s own rigid shoulders, the soaring raven swoops down into the treetops out of sight.

“You cut it out yourself,” he finally breathes, your finger pausing where it’s looped underneath your collar. His expression clearly conveys the disgust he feels at the very premise.

You drop your hand, swiping your dirty fingers on the thighs of your trousers in a lazy attempt to clean them.

“I thought I ought to beat a man like you to it.”

The knight before you looks like he might be physically ill, a sallow hue overtaking his skin that wasn’t there a moment prior. You’re not sure you entirely blame him for the revulsion, considering what he must be thinking—considering the vile things he must be picturing in his mind. The image of you harvesting your heart from the cavern of your chest; the idea of you holding it—beating and bloody and hot to the touch—in your own hand.

Your gaze hardens with renewed contempt.

“I watched my people be massacred for their hearts," you tell him. "I watched knights just like you drag them in front of crowds, tie them onto stakes, and burn them for a spectacle. An immolation that the king—the one whose precious memory you stand here and defend with that sword—presided over like a jubilee,” your voice threatens to waver, but you keep it even as you stand. Osamu’s blade follows you as you lift yourself up to your feet—but his wrist is limper now than it was when he first drew it. Weakened. You swallow back the bitter taste creeping up your throat. “If not for my mother, I would undoubtedly have been among those lost, and I swore to myself that if it was the last thing I did—the only thing I ever did—I would never let my own heart suffer the same fate.”

Osamu lowers his arm to his side, his blade withdrawn.

You meet each other, eye to eye, but there’s no doubt now who stands as victor.

“Kill me if you want to,—” you tell him, your tone indifferent to the very challenge you make on your own life.

From deep in the forest, you hear the raven’s caw once more—the shrill cry of a predator catching its prey. The knight’s head turns slightly towards the sound, just the subtlest tilt of his face in the direction, but yours doesn't.

Your eyes don’t leave his.

“—What’s one more dead witch atop the grave of hundreds?”

He considers you for a moment in silence, and then slowly he sheaths his lowered weapon.

He turns his back to you, and your eyes trace the broad lines of his shoulders as he retreats in the direction of the forest from whence he’d appeared.

“I will not help you, no matter how many times you seek me here. If your brother's days are numbered as you say, save your efforts and return to him.”

Osamu pauses, a few furrows away from you in the lush green of your garden.

He's unnervingly still for a moment, still facing towards the forest, but then he turns to you once more.

His eyes are supplicating—no trace of the anger or the malice they’d held moments before. His voice is soft when he speaks again.

“I’ll give ya anythin’ you ask in exchange for yer help. Anythin’.”

You laugh, but the sound is acerbic like the taste clinging to your tongue. The chill in your voice stands in stark juxtaposition to the gentle warmth of the early summer day surrounding you.

“There’s nothing on earth that you could give me that could ever make up for the things your kingdom took away.”

Osamu’s face falls, but he nods almost imperceptibly. It catches you by surprise, that seeming resignation—acceptance—to the only answer you offer him.

Wordlessly, the knight turns and continues towards the trees.

He doesn’t tread on any of your sprouting crops as he departs.

#osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x reader #hq fic #hq writing #writing #tws

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dee-writes-smut · 12 days

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PREVERNAL (Extra)

FEATURING Azriel x Illyrian!reader

SUMMARY it's been two years, you want sex with your mate, but it seems Azriel is hesitant. Good thing bestie LuLu is here to help ;)

CONTENT WARNINGS sex! (there will be a note before if you wish to skip), MINORS, DO NOT INTERACT, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap, y'all), Lucien being a nosy horndog (?)

AUTHORS NOTE c'mon, you didn't think I was just going to leave you without a smut scene! What do you make me for, a monster?!

As the world awakens from its winter slumber, a symphony of sensations fills the prevernal air, weaving a tapestry of seduction that tantalizes the senses and stirs the soul. The earth, still moist from the thawing frost, exhales a heady fragrance of rebirth, a delicate mingling of damp soil and budding life that beckons with whispered promises of renewal. Each step upon the awakening land is a dance with temptation, as the soft, yielding earth caresses the feet with a sensuous touch that ignites a primal longing deep within.

Above, the sun emerges from its hibernation, casting its golden rays upon the landscape like a lover's embrace. Its warmth, once forgotten, now envelopes the skin in a tender caress, coaxing the slumbering earth to awaken from its wintry dreams. And awaken it does, with a flourish of color and life that ignites the senses with an intoxicating fervor. Delicate blossoms unfurl their petals in a symphony of hues, their fragrant perfumes mingling with the crispness of the air in a sensual ballet of scent.

Everywhere, the world pulses with the rhythm of desire, from the gentle rustle of awakening leaves to the melodious trill of amorous birdsong. Each breeze carries with it a whisper of passion, stirring dormant desires and kindling flames of longing that smolder just beneath the surface. In the prelude to spring, every sensation is heightened, every moment pregnant with possibility, as the allure of new beginnings hangs heavy in the air like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

In this season of rebirth, nature herself becomes the ultimate seductress, her beauty a bewitching spell that enraptures all who dare to surrender to her charms. And so, beneath the canopy of prevernal skies, amidst the vibrant tapestry of blossoms and verdant greenery, the world becomes a playground of desire, where every touch, every scent, every sight ignites the flames of passion and invites the soul to embrace the sensual delights of the season.

It had been a little over two years since I lost my wings to Lyris, since I found out Azriel is my mate, and the last two years have been good. Sure, there have been moments where I fell back into that dark space, but Azriel was always there, ready to pull me back into the light when I was done reflecting.

During that time, our lives have undergone significant changes. Azriel and I were gifted a townhouse by Feyre and Rhys, providing us with our own space to build a life together. Additionally, my friendship with Lucien had deepened. Though we had only met briefly before the incident with my wings, our connection had grown, and now he joined me every weekend for a night out in the Night Court.

Despite the progress in our lives, there remained an unspoken tension between Azriel and me. While he was attentive and affectionate, there was a notable absence of intimacy. Though he'd shower with me, share kisses, and embrace me, our relationship had not progressed beyond that point. I'd attempted to initiate intimacy, but each time Azriel seemed to retreat, offering excuses that left me feeling frustrated and unfulfilled.

As Lucien and I entered the bustling tavern, the familiar sights and sounds of Velaris washed over me, momentarily distracting me from my tangled thoughts. The scent of ale and roasted meat filled the air, mingling with the sound of laughter and chatter that filled every corner of the room.

I glanced around, searching for a quiet corner where we could sit and talk. The tavern was packed with patrons, each one lost in their own conversations and revelries.

Lucien followed my lead, his eyes scanning the room as he sought out the perfect spot. "How about over there?" he suggested, nodding towards a cozy corner booth bathed in soft candlelight.

I nodded in agreement, grateful for his intuition. Together, we made our way over to the booth and settled in, the comfortable silence between us speaking volumes.

"So," Lucien began, breaking the silence with a curious glint in his eye, "what's been on your mind lately, songbird?"

I hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to broach the subject. But then, with a deep breath, I decided to lay it all out on the table. "Azriel," I confessed, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Lucien's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his gaze locking with mine in a silent exchange of understanding. He knew exactly what I was talking about, without me having to say another word.

"He's been… distant," I continued, my voice tinged with frustration. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong, Lucien. I've tried everything I can think of, but he always pulls away."

Lucien's expression softened, his hand reaching out to cover mine in a comforting gesture. "I'm sure it's not you," he reassured me, his voice gentle and reassuring. "Azriel's been through a lot, as have you. Maybe he just needs some more time."

I nodded, taking solace in his words. "I hope you're right," I replied, trying to keep the doubt from creeping into my voice. But deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, that there was a distance between Azriel and me that I couldn't bridge no matter how hard I tried. Then, an idea sparked in my mind, and I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "What if I tried… something different?" I suggested, a mischievous glint in my eye.

He raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "Different how?" he asked, leaning in even closer to hear my suggestion. "Songbird, are you suggesting I help you to seduce your mate?” Lucien chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eye to match the slight blush across his cheeks.

“That’s exactly what I’m asking for my wonderful Lord of Foxes” I smirked, listening to his joyous laugh dancing through the tavern like silk in the wind. It made me smile, to hear him distracted from his own mate related sorrows.

“Trying to butter me up, are we?” He grinned, shaking his head at my answering snicker. “What if you were to seduce him?" Lucien suggested, his tone playful yet suggestive. "Show him just how much you desire him, and maybe he won't be able to resist."

I considered the suggestion, a thrill of excitement coursing through me at the thought of finally crossing that line with Azriel. "How would I do that?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Lucien grinned, clearly enjoying our clandestine conversation. "You could start by wearing something… provocative," he suggested, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Show him what he's been missing out on."

I blushed at the suggestion, the idea of dressing up to seduce Azriel both thrilling and nerve-wracking. "That could work," I admitted, feeling a surge of determination building within me.

Lucien nodded in approval. "And what about… teasing him?" he suggested, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Give him little hints of what's to come, and let his imagination do the rest."

I swallowed hard at the suggestion, the thought of teasing Azriel sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine. "That could definitely get his attention," I agreed, my mind already racing with possibilities, but as we continued to brainstorm, I couldn't shake the feeling of nervous excitement building within me. Maybe this was exactly what Azriel and I needed to finally take that next step, to bridge the gap that had been growing between us.

“But,” Lucien interjected, raising a finger and pointing it at me, “you could also try talking to him.” I raised a brow at this, and he sighed, his shoulders slumping as if a physical reminder of the weight of his sorrows, “I know that it’s not working with Elain, but you an-”

“Luce,” I say softly, interrupting him with a soothing hand on his warm arm, “I would never use that against you, not even in a stupid disagreement, c’mon.” I watch as his cheeks redden, his head falling, long, golden-red hair hiding his expression.

Tonight was going to be a late night.

It had been weeks, and this evening had been meticulously planned, every detail carefully orchestrated in my attempt to seduce Azriel. I had adorned myself in my most alluring attire, a dress that clung to every curve, and had spent hours perfecting my makeup and hair.

As Azriel stepped through the door of our townhouse, I greeted him with a coy smile, my heart pounding with nervous anticipation. Tonight was the night I would finally make my move, the night I would show him just how much I desired him.

"Hey, Az," I purred, sauntering over to him with what I hoped was a seductive sway in my hips. "Did you have a good day?"

He nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips as he took in my appearance. "It was fine," he replied, his voice low and husky. "What about you?"

I smiled, feeling a surge of confidence at his response. "Oh, you know," I said, my voice laced with playful flirtation. "Just counting down the minutes until you got home."

But as I began to put my plan into action, things quickly took an unexpected turn. My attempts at seduction came off as clumsy and awkward, each gesture more embarrassing than the last.

I tried to flirt, to tease him with suggestive remarks, but my words came out jumbled and incoherent. "You must be tired," I blurted out, cringing at my own lack of finesse. "Maybe I could help you relax?"

Azriel watched me with a bemused expression, clearly unsure of how to respond to my awkward advances. "Um, sure," he said, his tone cautious as he took a step back, clearly sensing my nervous energy.

I attempted to initiate physical contact, to seduce him with a touch, but my hands fumbled clumsily and fell short of their mark. I reached out to brush a lock of hair from his face, but ended up poking him in the eye instead.

"Ow!" Azriel exclaimed, blinking rapidly as he recoiled from my touch. "Are you okay?"

I winced, mortified by my own clumsiness. "I'm so sorry," I stammered, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to…"

But it wasn't until I saw the disappointment in Azriel's eyes that the full weight of my humiliation hit me. I had wanted so desperately to seduce him, to show him just how much he meant to me, but instead, I had only succeeded in making a fool of myself.

Tears welled up in my eyes, hot and stinging, as I turned away from him, unable to bear the thought of him seeing me in such a vulnerable state. I had wanted tonight to be perfect, but instead, it had been a disaster of epic proportions.

"Hey," Azriel's voice was gentle, his hand reaching out to touch my shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "Are you okay?"

I shook my head, unable to speak past the lump forming in my throat. How could I explain to him the depths of my humiliation, the sheer magnitude of my disappointment? Azriel wasn't one to give up easily. With infinite patience, he wrapped me in his arms, holding me close as I sobbed against his chest.

After I took a few moments to collect myself while Azriel held me close, his warmth enveloping me, I was able to take a deep breath and steady my emotions before speaking up. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible against the fabric of his shirt. "I just wanted tonight to be special."

Azriel's arms tightened around me, his touch a comforting anchor amidst the storm of my emotions. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice soft and soothing. "We can try again another time."

I sniffled, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over me at his understanding. "But why?" I blurted out, the question tumbling from my lips before I could stop it. "Why won't you… why won't you make love to me?"

Azriel pulled back slightly, his expression unreadable as he looked down at me. "It's not that I don't want to," he spluttered, “believe me, honey, I’ve wanted nothing more these last couple years,” he encouraged with a low growl, his eyes darkening for a moment. “But,” Azriel continued, his voice tinged with sadness. "It's just… complicated."

My heart sank at his words, a knot of worry forming in the pit of my stomach. "Complicated how?" I pressed, my voice trembling with uncertainty.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he searched for the right words. "I don't want you to feel… obligated," he admitted, his gaze filled with concern. "After everything you've been through, I don't want you to feel like you have to… do this with me."

I blinked in surprise at his confession, the weight of his words sinking in. "But I want to," I insisted, my voice firm with determination. "I want to be with you, Az. I want this."

Azriel's expression softened at my words, his eyes meeting mine in a silent exchange of understanding. "I know," he said, his voice gentle and reassuring. "But I don't want you to rush into anything because you feel like you have to."

Tears welled up in my eyes at his concern, the depth of his love washing over me like a wave. "I'm not rushing," I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. "I'm ready."

Azriel's gaze softened at my words, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Okay," he said, his voice filled with quiet resolve. "Okay."

The weight of Azriel's concern lingered in the air between us, casting a shadow over our tender moment. I bit my lip, gathering my courage before speaking again. "Az," I began, my voice barely above a whisper, "can we try tonight?"

His brows furrowed in concern, his gaze searching mine as if trying to gauge my sincerity. "Are you sure?" he asked, his tone gentle yet cautious.

I nodded, a determined glint in my eyes. "Yes," I replied, my voice stronger this time. "I want this, Az. I want to be with you."

Azriel studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable as he weighed my words. Finally, he let out a soft sigh, his shoulders relaxing as if he had come to a decision. "Okay," he said, his voice tinged with a mix of uncertainty and resolve. "But only if you're absolutely sure."

I nodded, a sense of gratitude swelling within me at his understanding. "I am," I assured him, my voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in my stomach. "I trust you, Az. I always have."

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his eyes softening with warmth and affection. "I love you," he said, his voice a gentle caress that soothed the ache in my heart.

"I love you too," I whispered, feeling a sense of peace settle over me as I nestled into his embrace.

The air between us crackled with tension as we made our way to our bedroom, our footsteps echoing in the quiet of the townhouse. Despite our earlier conversation, a nervous energy hung heavy in the air, making each moment feel strained and uncertain.

I stole a glance at Azriel out of the corner of my eye, finding him watching me with a mixture of apprehension and longing. My heart skipped a beat at the sight, the weight of his gaze sending a shiver down my spine.

As we reached the door to our bedroom, I paused, my hand hovering uncertainly over the handle. "Are you sure about this?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Azriel nodded, his expression a mix of determination and vulnerability. "Yes," he replied, his voice steady despite the nerves that flickered in his eyes. "I want to be with you, more than anything, as long as you're ready."

I swallowed hard, feeling a surge of emotion welling up inside me, not immune to the irony of the question. With a shaky breath, I pushed open the door, the soft glow of candlelight casting flickering shadows across the room. We stood there for a moment, neither of us moving, as if unsure of what to do next. But then, with a shared glance, we moved as one, closing the distance between us with hesitant steps.

I reached out to touch him, my fingers trembling as they brushed against his cheek. "I love you," I whispered, my voice barely audible above the pounding of my heart.

Azriel's eyes softened at my words, his hand coming up to cradle my face in a gentle caress. "I love you too," he murmured, his voice a soft whisper that sent a shiver down my spine.

And then, with a shared smile, we began to undress, each movement slow and deliberate as we shed the layers that separated us. It was awkward at first, our hands fumbling and uncertain as we navigated the unfamiliar terrain of each other's bodies.

But as we moved together, our laughter mingling with the soft sounds of the night, something shifted between us. The tension that had once hung heavy in the air began to dissipate, replaced by a sense of ease and familiarity that washed over us like a warm embrace.

(MDNI SMUT AFTER THE CUT)

Azriel's touch is a symphony of sensations, each brush of his fingertips sending sparks of desire dancing along my skin. He starts with feather-light caresses, tracing invisible patterns across the curve of my jaw, down the length of my neck, and along the swell of my collarbones. Each touch is a promise of things to come, a tantalizing tease that leaves me yearning for more.

His lips follow the path his fingers have traced, pressing soft, lingering kisses against my skin. He explores every inch of me with a reverence that takes my breath away, his mouth leaving a trail of fire in its wake. I gasp as his lips find the hollow of my throat, his tongue tracing delicate circles against my pulse point.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my skin, his voice low and husky with desire. I shiver at his words, a rush of heat pooling between my thighs.

As he continues to explore, his hands roam freely over my body, mapping every curve and contour with a hunger that mirrors my own. He cups the weight of my breasts in his palms, his thumbs brushing lightly over my hardened nipples, sending jolts of pleasure shooting through me.

"Azriel," I whisper, my voice trembling with longing as I arch into his touch, a low moan escaping my lips as he takes one swollen nipple into his mouth, sucking and nibbling with a fervor that leaves me dizzy with desire. His other hand travels lower, skimming across the sensitive skin of my abdomen before dipping between my thighs.

I gasp as his fingers find the heat between my legs, teasing me with maddening slowness. He circles my clit with his thumb, applying just enough pressure to make me squirm.

"You drive me wild," he confesses, his breath hot against my skin as he slides a single finger inside me, testing my readiness. I'm already slick with desire, my body eager for more of him. I rock my hips against his hand, wordlessly urging him to continue. With a low growl of approval, Azriel adds a second finger, stretching me in the most exquisite way possible.

I moan his name, my fingers tangling in his dark locks as I pull him closer, desperate for more of his touch. "I want you," I breathe, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“All good things come to those who wait,” he smirks against my breast, his tongue swiping at my hardened nipple.

“Please,” I whine, my hips meeting his gentle thrusts, the soft squelching noises between my thighs steadily growing louder and more frequent. He complies eagerly, increasing the pace and pressure of his ministrations until I'm teetering on the edge of oblivion, every nerve in my body singing with pleasure.

And just when I think I can't take any more, he withdraws his fingers, leaving me gasping and aching for release. With a wicked smile, he leans up to capture my lips in a searing kiss, his tongue tangling with mine in a dance as old as time.

I lose myself in the kiss, the world narrowing down to the feel of his lips against mine, the taste of him on my tongue. We part with fierce huffs of breaths as he reaches down to ready himself, using the slick he collected between my thighs to lather his thick length. I whimper at the sight of it, his long, intimidating length, prettily flushed and already dripping precum.

Azriel shushes me softly as he lines himself up, slowly sliding himself against my clit for a moment before notching at my entrance. With a deep breath, he slowly starts to slide in.

I let out a long gasp, my hands flying to his shoulders as he hovers above me, his face pinched so beautifully in both pleasure and concentration.

“Gods,” he whimpers as his thighs meet mine, my heart flipping at the sound and before soon Azriel and I meld together in a dance of desire, our bodies moving in perfect synchronization. The heat between us ignites, consuming us in a blaze of passion as we lose ourselves in the ecstasy of our union.

Azriel's movements are primal and unrestrained, each thrust driving me closer to the edge of oblivion. I cling to him, my nails digging into his skin as I meet him thrust for thrust, our bodies colliding with a force that borders on violence.

Slick with sweat, our bodies slide against each other, creating a symphony of sounds that fills the room. The scent of our arousal hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the heady aroma of candles burning low.

"You're mine," he growls, his voice a rough whisper against my ear. "Mine to claim."

I moan in response, the sound a guttural cry of need as pleasure courses through my veins. "Yes," I gasp, my voice barely more than a desperate plea.

The intensity of our connection is overwhelming, a tidal wave of desire crashing over us with each passing moment. I lose myself in the sensation, the world narrowing down to the feel of Azriel's skin against mine, the sound of his ragged breaths mingling with my own.

He leans down to capture my lips in a savage kiss, his tongue plundering my mouth with a hunger that borders on feral. I bite back, matching his intensity with a ferocity of my own as we devour each other with a raw, primal need.

Every touch, every kiss, every thrust is a testament to our shared desire, a silent declaration of the love that binds us together. We are lost in each other, consumed by the fire that burns between us, unable to tell where one ends and the other begins.

As the pleasure mounts, I feel myself teetering on the edge of oblivion, my entire being consumed by the overwhelming tide of sensation. Azriel senses my impending release and adjusts his rhythm, driving me over the edge with a final, desperate thrust.

I scream his name as ecstasy washes over me in a blinding burst of light, my body convulsing with pleasure as I tumble into the abyss of sensation. "Azriel!" I cry out, my voice a plea for more as I surrender to the depths of bliss.

He growls in response, panting in my ear, “let me put a baby in you, my mate. Let me-” he lets out a grunt as his movements become more erratic, “let me show the world how good i give it to you, to this pretty little pussy.”

I whimper at the words, my sex addled mind going blank for a moment as he suspends my pleasure, “yes, please, Az, put a baby in me,” I moan loudly, gently scratching the delicate membrane of his right wing.

Azriel lets out a roar of pleasure as he lets himself go, shoving in as far as he can and staying there as he fills me with his warm seed. “I love you,” he pants softly in my ear, his entire body laying sticky and limp on top of mine.

“I love you too,” I breathe, my hands moving to rake through his soft curls.

As the waves of pleasure slowly subside, Azriel turns us to hold me close, his touch gentle yet possessive. There's an unspoken understanding between us, a connection that goes deeper, a thread that sparkles in pure gold with contentment and satisfaction. His arms around me feel like home, like a sanctuary where I can be truly myself.

His whispered words of love and reassurance wash over me like a soothing balm, each syllable a tender caress against my skin. He speaks of our bond, of the love that binds us together, and I listen, my heart swelling with gratitude for the man who has become my everything.

I nestle against him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek. It's a comforting rhythm, a reminder that I am safe in his embrace, cocooned in the warmth of our shared intimacy.

"Stay," he murmurs softly, his breath warm against my skin. "I know you have to get cleaned up… but, just a little longer."

I smile, my heart swelling with affection for this man who has become so much more than just a lover. "Of course," I reply, my voice a gentle murmur in the darkness.

Azriel presses a tender kiss to my forehead, his touch a gentle caress along the curve of my spine. With each stroke of his fingers, I feel the tension leaving my body, replaced by a sense of calm and contentment.

We lie together in silence, basking in the afterglow of our lovemaking. There's no need for words; our connection speaks volumes in the quiet of the room. I trace lazy patterns on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my fingertips, a comforting reminder of the love that binds us together.

And as sleep finally claims us both, I drift off with the comforting knowledge that in Azriel's arms, I have found a kind of love that transcends mere physical desire, a love that will sustain us through whatever challenges lie ahead.

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espion7971 · 2 months

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SandWing tribe sheet!

Here's tribe #2! i find myself liking sandwings more the more i think about them :) they'e definitely one of my less changed tribes, i like joy ang's design for them so i just referenced some desert lizards to give them a little more uniqueness and mostly left it otherwise. hope yall enjoy!

Edit: I ended up changing the blood color a little to be more interesting :)

Physical Appearance + Traits:

-SandWings, in stark contrast to MudWings, are the smallest of Pyrrhian dragons. They are very light, and barely more than half the height of some taller tribes.

-Their appearance is most comparable to other desert reptiles, particularly the horned lizard, with spines, ridges and darker markings across their sides.

-SandWing coloration usually lands on the spectrum between gold and white. Sometimes a more yellowy color might be seen, and rarely, a darker brownish tint. Their colors reflect desert sand, and allow them to bury into it unseen, whether for shelter from enemies or the blazing sun. Despite lighter SandWings performing better under desert conditions, those with darker coloration are often seen as more attractive, and dark tattoo patterns are popular.

-Darker scales near their eyes absorb light, allowing SandWings to see despite the sometimes oppressive glare of the desert sun. They also have an extra eyelid to protect from sand and dust.

-At the end of their tail is a barb that can inject lethal venom at its most potent; SandWings themselves have some level of resistance to the venom.

-They have stiff, upright fans, or ridges, along their backs, which help with temperature regulation; when hot, the veins within fill with the body’s warm blood, and the high surface area allows it to cool off quickly. The same process can also be done with the wing membranes, though a bit less effectively due to the thick scales on the outside of the wing.

-SandWings have thick, dark skin lining their mouths, which protects them both from sun damage and the spikes and thorns often found in desert food (cacti, spiny lizards, etc). They also have a high tolerance to some toxins, and to alcohol resulting from fermenting fruit. (This is true of RainWings as well.)

-They eat little and drink less, like all animals surviving under desert conditions. One good meal a week is all SandWings really need, and usually they get enough water from the food they eat that they don’t need to go in search for more.

-SandWing fire is not as suited for combat as that of other tribes. They can’t produce very much of it at once and it’s more akin to natural fire than typical dragon fire. It certainly can be used to fight, but they prefer to fight with tails and claws; their fire is better used for food and light.

-SandWings are good fliers, and can glide long distances without needing to land and while using minimal energy, but more notably, they’re also the best runners out of any tribe. Their stamina and ability to walk or sprint over vast stretches of desert is unmatched, and some prefer it over flying.

Life Cycle:

-SandWings lay between one and three eggs; usually it’s just one or two, and three is somewhat uncommon. They incubate for a short period of time, usually just three months, and hatch small but able to fend for themselves. SandWing dragonets lack a ridge along their backs, which makes it easier to bury themselves in the sand to stay safe, and their venom, while less outright deadly, acts much faster and usually induces sharp pain, nausea and even minor paralysis. It’s effective at keeping them safe from predators.

-SandWing parents - mothers in particular - are usually present and able to look after dragonets, so these defense mechanisms are only in place as a last resort.

-Dragonets have distinct “young”, “adolescent” and “adult” phases of growth, and usually reach adult size at around seven years. Like all dragons, they do continue to grow, but very minimally in their case.

-SandWings do not generally partner for life, and exclusive monogamous coupling is not the societal expectation. Some do it, but it’s more common to jump between short relationships based largely on physical attraction. Fathers aren’t usually expected to help raise dragonets.

Society and Culture:

-At a time, SandWings were one of the most organized and well-educated tribe, but later they became divided into two very distinct groups: Palace SandWings and Scorpion Den SandWings. These titles aren’t literal; not all “high-class” SandWings live in the palace, and not all street-dwelling SandWings live in the Scorpion Den, but these places are fairly representative of their group. In the palace and nearby areas, SandWings keep up with news and are typically well-trained in combat, in service of the queen. The Scorpion Den, meanwhile, is an infamously criminal town where dragons aim to survive and scrounge for anything they can get. Run largely by assassins and hired theives, this town is to thank for the ‘shifty and untrustworthy’ stereotypes often pointed toward SandWings.

-SandWings in general, in later parts of history, are more focused toward physical training than education, but the Den, as well as other scrappy and chaotic outskirt towns, has changed general perception of them in a somewhat negative light.

-They are known for heavy slang and “colorful” language, including those in the palace, and when paired with regional accents of some of the outskirt towns, some other tribes find SandWings difficult to understand if they speak too quickly.

-SandWings eat rarely, and as a result they sometimes reserve eating for specific occasions. To celebrate, they conduct tribe-wide parades and festivals, and these are often the main time for treats and feasts. At these times, they indulge in (usually roasted) foods - insects, lizards, birds - seasoned with a variety of spices, and elaborate fruit dishes that often include rainforest delicacies brought by RainWings.

-The events inspiring such celebrations usually revolve around celestial movement. Solstices, moon cycles, eclipses, etc. are all celebrated to different degrees. SandWings worship day and night equally, and the sun and moons have equal cultural significance to them. The unity of the two keeping the desert in balance is what they care about.

-SandWings, in fact, are so intrinsically connected to time and movement that this is thought to be the reason behind their musical inclination and sense of rhythm. Music and dance are another major part of these parades, and SandWings have a great love for engaging and complex rhythmic music. Those watching from the sides will often swish sand and rattle their scales in time with performances. (RainWings are commonly invited, to bring their food and dance with the SandWings, as SandWings greatly respect their skill.) SandWings also have a particularly hard time coping if they are removed from the day cycle; it can be extremely disorienting and unpleasant.

-Jewelry, gold especially, is extremely popular and can be worn to excess. It’s also common to tattoo or bejewel scales to the preference of the individual.

Diet: Omnivorous. Will eat almost anything available: insects, reptiles, mammals and birds; cactus fruit, cactus itself, coconut, nuts; and a wide variety of spices, many of which are outright poisonous to other tribes.

#wings of fire #wof art #wof headcanons #sandwings #my posts

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hannibals-favourite-meal · 9 months

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.⋆｡His First Hit｡⋆.

Kylo Ren x plus size reader

His Choice Masterlist

The time has come for him to collect his prize, beginning a dangerous habit

Chapter Warnings: dubcon, smut, size kink, virgin!reader, sort of implied virgin Kylo, unprotected sex, fingering, d/s dynamics, no aftercare, slight innocence kink

WC: 2.1k

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

Kylo Ren’s chambers were haunting. There was no soul in them, they were merely a collection of dark rooms that seemingly served no other purpose than to be her prison. The only sounds she could discern were the low hum of the massive star cruiser and the frantic beating of her heart in her ears.

The cold floor bit into her bare feet as Y/N stood in the centre of the room, her hands folded before her, her head lowered, just as she had been instructed to do. She shuffled her feet, hissing as the pain of the chill began to work its way up to her ankles. There was a pain in her left inner arm from where the ship’s medic droid had placed an implant, she fought the urge to scratch at the small bump in her bicep, not wishing to displease her new master should he enter as she broke formation.

Just as her will was about to break, the huge blast doors opened and she snapped to attention. Her back going ramrod straight as the sith stepped into the room. He was somehow even larger under the dim lights of his chambers than he was under the three suns of your previous home. His black cloak swept the floor behind him as he entered without an acknowledgement to the woman before him.

Y/N flinched as the door slammed shut, her intertwined fingers tightening around each other. He remained silent as he stood by the simple desk in the corner of the room. There was a whoosh of fabric and from the corner of her eye, Y/N watched as he took his famed cloak off and draped it over the reflective surface, leaving him only in a black tunic and trousers.

His knotted muscles were exposed to her first as he shed the dark fabric from his shoulders. Y/N trembled in fear with each new inch of skin revealed, positively shaking when the Sith finally pulled his helmet off. Long black hair tumbled over his pale face, obscuring his eyes from view. “Have you ever taken a lover before?” His deep voice was strangely melodic, it was measured and calm, like he had been trained to speak that way.

Timidly, she shook her head. “Answer me, girl.”

“I-I have not been with a-anyone sir.” She stammered, gaze dropping to the ground, immediately catching sight of her own reflection in the almost mirrored floor. Kylo’s yellow eyes glanced at the smaller woman. She had been cleaned, her skin was raw from the vigorous scrubbing she must have received before they left the planet. Two small bandages wrapped around her palms, the ends frayed from her fiddling.

Instead of that hordenous outfit those degenerates had stuffed her in, she was dressed in a floor length white gown with long sleeves. It covered almost all of her body, the hem brushing her toes as she stood before him, making her the picture of innocence, well it would, if the light fabric wasn’t completely sheer. No jewellery or makeup marred her natural beauty. As he stepped closer, he was able to see the slight imperfections in her skin that only added to her looks.

The sith smirked as he watched the darker skin of her nipples pebble under his lustful gaze. “I will be your only then. You will take no other.” Surprisingly warm hands cupped her jaw, tilting her head up so she could look upon her new master. Her eyes sparkled with fearful tears. He scoffed with what she supposed was disgust and released her.

“Strip.” He flicked his hand, indicating for her to do so as he sat on the edge of the huge bed in the centre of the room, spreading his legs in a show of power. Y/N nervously gulped, watching the giant of a man make himself comfortable, his naked muscles rippling. Her eyes flicked down his toned stomach to where his black trousers sat dangerously low on his hips, the dark patch of hair at the base of his pelvis barely exposed above the impressive bulge pressing against the fabric.

“Now, girl. I will not tell you again.” He snarled, his patience wearing out quickly. She jumped, a squeak of fear escaping her lips before trembling fingers began to undo the multitude of buttons down her front. She had a feeling he could sense her fear, his almost gruesome smirk growing with each centimetre of her soft flesh revealed.

The left shoulder of the dress slipped down her arm and Kylo’s eyes darkened. The top of the white fabric was now clinging to her heavy breasts, flaring out around her wide hips, allowing him to see her large stomach and thick thighs. “Spread your legs.” He growled, his voice dropping deeper than before. Sucking in a breath, she followed his order, baring her virgin cunt to him.

She shook with anxiety as her captor remained silent, simply observing her. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his long finger intertwining beneath his slightly downturned nose. “Come.” Her steps were light, barely making any sound as she approached the dark haired man, allowing the dress to fall away from her body and landing in a heap on the floor.

Even while sitting, she barely reached his eye-line. “Hmm.” He hummed, big hands coming to rest upon her naked hips, sending a shockwave through her. The woman hiccuped, desperately trying to keep her tears at bay. Stories of the sith’s rages had been heard all over the galaxy and there was no telling what he would do to her if she refused him.

“You can say no, I will not force you.” Amber eyes burned brightly in the dim light as he drew her closer, their chests now mere inches apart. His change in mood sent her mind into a tailspin. How could he have been so demanding and imposing only a moment before and now seem so nervous and fearful?

“I am yours.” She murmured, delicately laying her palms on the backs of his hands, guiding them up to her breasts. The others had told her that it would be easier if she gave in, if she told him what he wanted to hear he would grant her some kind of mercy. But Kylo’s scowl deepened at her words, his gaze fixed sternly on her face.

“The truth.” He growled, a firm warning. The air was electric between them, her fear and his rage curling into an explosive mixture that threatened to blow. She couldn’t speak, the lump in her throat preventing the words from escaping her lips as she trembled in his hold. She gasped.

Kylo, moving faster than she could comprehend, stood up, hands falling to her plump thighs. With one swift movement, he lifted her into the air, the tips of his fingers dug into her flesh, fitting perfectly in the little divots of cellulite. He turned and laid her on the sheets gently, allowing her legs to wrap around his thin waist as he planted his large hands beside her head.

The hard planes of his stomach pressed tightly to her, the heat from his body making her shiver. “I do not like liars.” Pressing his nose to her neck, he nuzzled the soft skin, inhaling her scent. “I find them deplorable.” Her eyes fluttered as his lips brushed against her pulse, his hips pressed forward, the bulge of his cock felt even bigger now.

“So tell. Me. The. Truth.” Moans involuntarily slipped from her throat as he rolled his pelvis down, a warmth so foreign to her built quickly, wetness beginning to slick his trousers. Kylo groaned quietly, his tongue tracing the curve of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, her sweat tinged with a sweet fear.

Her hands shakily raised up and grazed his back lightly. He rewarded her by gently nibbling on her skin, lightly sucking to leave a dark bruise. She whimpered, fingers digging into the warm muscles of his back. She could feel the way the solid mass shifted underneath her palms, the raised skin of scars and various moles.

Swallowing her fear and her pride, she spoke. “I want you.” He didn’t respond verbally, only slipping a hand between them to cup her heat. Her body seized at the unfamiliar sensation of one thick finger circling her tight opening, but he continued to collect her slick, teasing the small entrance.

He was pressed into her soft inner thigh, slowly grinding against her as his cock throbbed within the confines of his pants. He felt her hips relax beneath his own, her thighs loosening their grip, and allowing for his palm to connect with her hooded clit. “Mmm.” Her lips parted, a moan so quiet, the sith barely heard it but it was enough for him.

The ties on his trousers were quickly loosened and slipped down the curve of his taut ass. He waited until her large body relaxed with the beginnings of pleasure, the walls of her mind beginning to crumble, leaving her vulnerable to him. Taking his cock in hand, he guided himself to her, notching his tip at her entrance.

The force rippled around them as he finally plunged into her. Her walls stretched and fluttered, struggling to take the heft of his cock as he pushed deeper and deeper. Her back bowed up into his strong chest, a scream caught in her throat. He groaned deep in his chest, letting out a hiccup of his own that was barely audible to her.

“Big.” She desperately clutched at his warm back, her legs falling open to try to accommodate his massive size. Kylo simply grunted in reply, his head falling to her collarbones and sucking on the delicate skin. His black hair fanned out over her shoulders. She could no longer see his face, so she allowed her eyes to drift upwards towards the high ceiling above them which was covered with a huge mirror, letting her see every inch of them both.

He was huge like this, hulking and overwhelming. The girl winced as he finally buried himself entirely within her. Pain bloomed beautifully in her lower stomach, setting her veins alight in a way she had never felt before. But as her lord began to move, a switch flipped off in her head. A numbness consumed her, forcing her body to unwind and accept his powerful drive into her warmth.

She winced with each thrust, her cunt burning with the stretch. She could feel the way his chest rumbled against her own with groans that he struggled to contain, the way his muscles flexed as he rolled his hips up into her own. One of his hands clutched desperately at her waist as he leveraged forwards, hitting a place inside her that she didn’t know existed.

All of her senses returned to her at once, her gasp carried through the room, bouncing off the walls before returning to her. She did not recognise the sound of her own voice. He snarled into her skin as her walls tightened around his thick cock. “Mine.” She could barely hear him over the rush of blood in her ears but as he growled it again, her heart sank.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she recalled the lessons the other women had given her. With his next thrust, she lifted her hips from the best as best she could, meeting his own hips with a wet slap. Everything paused for a moment, and then his grip tightened on her.

The scream was ripped through her throat before she could stop it as Kylo punched into her cunt, forcing her to take his brutal pace. The bed creaked, creaking a symphony of sounds with his small groans and her barely contained whines.

It was all too much for her, the pleasure, the pain, the feel of the man above her. She clung to his back, her short nails digging into his warm skin as some kind of anchor while her mind began to go fuzzy. His large nose nudged at her neck and she mewled.

Her stomach tensed beneath him and she felt his lips quirk briefly before suddenly, everything went blank then stars exploded behind her eyes. Her orgasm slammed into her just as he met his own end. He made no noise as he spilled into her, simply letting out a controlled breath through his nose before he pulled away.

Kylo stood, leaving her shaking and messy upon his sheets as he gazed down at her. He dressed silently but did not yet replace his helmet. “Sleep. Food will be sent later.”

The blast doors shut behind him as she succumbed to her exhaustion, left alone in her cage.

When Y/N finally awoke, several hours later, she was alone. She was dressed as if the events from that night had never occurred, yet there was one piece of evidence that it had not been a dream- a heavy collar hung around her neck, keeping her chained to the bed.

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onesunofagun · 6 months

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I will now yell about Fi and Ghirahim as symbols of their respective creators, please stand by:

So, the biggest slap addition the lore that Skyward Sword gave us was (Her Grace) Hylia and (the Bringer of) Demise. Entities who, regardless of confusing localisation choices, exist as two sides of the same coin and are locked into a mutual karmic cycle.

They reflect each other like a mirror, and also represent an antithesis of each other, seemingly existing as consequence to one other. They were presented as the penultimate deities of the physical and metaphysical realms of their world since the advent of its creation by the departed Golden Goddesses; twinned yet opposite, and each both inevitable and necessary.

Shadow; Light. Chaos; Order. Indulgence; Restraint. Upheaval; Stability. Primordial; Designed. Spite; Grace. Hidden; Seen.

Ghirahim; Fi.

It goes right down to the blades that Demise and Hylia would level at one another. The spirits of each are a representative of the principles and philosophy championed by their creators.

Now, the closer you get to the works and relics of the Gods/Gods Tribe in Zelda, the more you see divine constructs that blur the line of spiritual magic and advanced technology, and are ostensibly both. This was a direction that really bloomed in Skyward Sword, taking a running start on it that games hereafter have followed. The caveat is that only certain special people chosen by Gods or otherwise given permission to use this kind of Magitech can interact with it or produce things like it (either at all, or without punishment).

Even the Sheikah, who have closely served the intentions of the Gods/Spirits of Light (Hylia and her aligned) all throughout history, make the mistake of getting too comfortable in their inspiration and cross the line into imitations. Despite the successful utilisation of, and later recovery of, certain Sheikah Tech such as the Divine Beasts to positive effect, the tragedy of both the Sheikah's Divide and the Calamity's hijacking of Hyrulean defence systems is still played as a cautionary tale of hubris and knowing one's place in the natural order of things.

The Sheikah were effectively making unauthorised knockoffs of Divine Magitech and it bit them on the arse.

Can't have shit in Hyrule.

Pretty much every significantly advanced tribe in Zelda has a stated closeness to 'the Gods'. Either by being adjacent to or descended from deities and spirits collectively known as the Gods (specifically the Gods Tribe in JP), they are still distinctly subordinate to and separated from entities such as Hylia and the three Golden Goddesses.

Confirmed to be included in this special grouping are the Zonai and the Oocca, for instance. Speculatively, the Wind Tribe are an example of people who ascended (with permission or worthiness) from the surface-- they are an arguably Gerudo adjacent tribe who may even be precursors to the Zonai or related to the Twili.

The Picori, at the very least those in their native realm, also certainly count as part of this grouping. Though it could be argued whether those descent Minish living on the surface still do.

The Sheikah, it should be noted, have never gained entry to this Gods club. Despite their proximity in worship and service to Hylia, historically, they've also done some pretty shady things-- like the Shadow Temple and the general murder and espionage stuff -- that may have otherwise excluded them from ascending like the Wind Tribe did. They walk a grey line, and they have a duty in the eyes of the Powers That Be that apparently prefer they stay put.

Not Turtle-y enough for the Turtle Club.

Another example of this Icarus flying too close to the Sun type cautionary tale, and a far more egregious offender in the eyes of the Gods Tribe, are the 'Interlopers' who would eventually become the Twili. They were a tribe of people that, while squabbling with others, tried to take dominion of Hyrule (referred to itself as the Sacred Realm/Holy Land in TP) with powerful magic that more or less gave them a winning advantage. Specifically, the Crystal Stone of Shadow (the Fused Shadow) which greatly amplified their magical power.

Banished by the Spirits of the Light whole cloth into an underworld (lit. A Realm of the Dead) that we also know as the Twilight Realm, they have been shunned from the land they tried to conquer and transformed by shadow so much, they're now allergic to the light (without sufficient mystical power to bolster themselves).

Basically, the intended message is this: any earthly people who have advanced themselves without approval by the Gods Tribe-- especially by using Divine Constructs as inspiration or means-- have therefore disrupted the order of things, and stacked the deck too much in their own favour. Even if the intent was primarily a fixation on preserving Hylia's bloodline, and by extension her sacred land, it is still possible to elevate oneself above your contemporaries (especially the capacities of the Royal Family line in Hyrule) in such a way that you impose too much independent influence upon the the natural world.

No longer following 'the way of the Gods' (the Gods Tribe law) or respecting the order of things (ala Shintoist inspiration), you are labelled a disruption to harmony and peace, and therefore seen as corrupted and pollutive, and generally negative in your impact. You will then be chased off, at the very least, unless you renege-- for fear that you will bring in demonic influences or be used by them. This has canonically happened to both the Gerudo and the Sheikah, now.

But you know who Magic Constructs on par with the Gods Tribe, except it's more eldritch and organic-looking and primordial in form? It's the other club, the one that the disenfranchised Sheikah went and banged on the door of, hoping to be let in if they started wearing cool red and black outfits and changed their name and stopped worshipping Hylia.

Yeah. It's the Demon Tribe-- who are pretty much just the inverse reflection of the Gods Tribe and its set up. Their Magitech equivalents, and what they can do, only serve to further cement this.

Specifically, if you could suggest that the Gods Tribe's main objective is maintaining a status quo of shared prosperity that provides an ordered and peaceful existence through conformity and tradition, the Demon tribe is an ever churning well of opportunity where winner takes all. It is a hierarchy built on brutal meritocracy, honed by constant challenges and hard won continuation-- survival and status fought for and maintained by individualistic influence and innovation.

Many various little bastards exist in the Demon Tribe. Bosses in charge of sub-tribes of monsters are commonly seen, but they have their minor Deities ad Spirits, too. The head honchos are called Demon Kings (plural, because it doesn't describe a single position, but rather just very powerful Demons who have clout). Demise is both a Demon King, namely the most powerful one, and also the 'Chief' of the Demon Tribe; just as, in this case, Hylia could be considered the 'Chief' of the Gods Tribe. So, Demon God-King, really.

While Demise is incapacitated by Hylia's seal, his role as the Chief of the Demon Tribe is actually the position that Ghirahim fills in for as his (literal) right hand man-- the very extension of his arm, as his blade.

Both the Master Sword (Fi) and Ghirahim himself are, perhaps, some of the most advanced forms of this sort of Magitech we've actually ever seen.

Ghirahim goes above and beyond in his role, even going so far as to cultivate his full persona as a Demon in his own right in order to maintain his authority as the effective Regent while the big boy is incapacitated. He disguises his true form and nature, and with a surprising level of autonomy and self-transformation for what he is, sets about attending his duties with great devotion.

He seems to have an incredibly intuitive and flexible mode of operation. His sentience is full of creativity, emotionality, and genuine potential that he has the capacity to explore and shape with great freedom, for the construct that he is.

He is flamboyant and attention grabbing, highly expressive. He entertains great personal indulgence, even going so far as to toy with Link in a manner that borders on vicious training for a while. Though in part due to his undeniable sadism, Ghirahim almost can't help himself but to continue to test and push against the potential as a swordsman that the Hero has, inadvertently cultivating its growth.

This depth of identity and adaption he's capable of was either an intentional part of his design, or specifically not prevented by it-- both of which stand to represent something of Demise and Demonkind. The lengths to which Ghirahim is allowed to wield himself when not in his creator's hand is remarkable and, though he is shown to be unable to override actual commands from his master, it stands in an interesting contrast to Fi.

Where Ghirahim is able to radically redefine his own presentation and function to best suit his Master's needs in a way that mimics the organic, Fi's evolution is far more linear and streamlined, never really deviating from systematic updates. Though the sword itself is subject to physical restorations, Fi's personal appearance is unchanged and reflective of her true shape, indicating that her tempering in the Sacred Flames is either a slow return to previous form or a pre-programmed and permanent upgrade set into motion by Hylia. It is also an evolution that is entirely dependant upon the actions of others, largely lacking the individual agency and flexibility that Ghirahim possesses.

Not to suggest that Fi is any less devoted to her purpose, however.

She is, quite unlike Ghirahim's aspect of individual advancement, wholly geared toward a model of mutual enhancement with a partner. She is built with a singular and clear objective in mind, perfectly designed to suit the needs of the one wielding her as a supplement to their ability, rather than an autonomous servant. She defers entirely to her Master's decisions at all times, though does make informed suggestions, and does not appear to be able to relocate the physical sword on her own. Many of her abilities are things that must be directly requested of her.

Even when she is given to performance, such as her singing or her ballet, these are seemingly dispassionate affairs that are precisely executed, preprogramed displays for Link's benefit. Absolutely nothing, not even particular inflections of emotionality, must risk the distortion of her relayed messages and guidance to Link-- these displays may also be something analogous to morale boosting rewards or a really weird form of reverence to the musically inclined Hylia. Either way, Fi is highly logical and presents herself foremost as an instrument and a tool. She does not indulge in a persona or otherwise engage in anything not directly tied to her assigned mission-- she does not get distracted or indulge personal whims as Ghirahim does. But critically, a large part of her design is geared towards an awareness of her surroundings. Fi has a visible consciousness for the living things around her at all times, contrasting to Ghirahim's seeming negligence of them and open disdain.

Fi's orderly efficiency and lack of cultivated personality to detract from her purpose make the fact of her construction obvious. Unlike Ghirahim, her true nature and her task is almost painfully undisguised. She exists in a simple sincerity, almost austere, seemingly unwilling or unable to seek function beyond her designation without being updated by another. However, her concentrated application seems to achieve concentrated results, strengthening both herself and her wielder in a near impenetrable mutual reinforcement.

It is perhaps of no coincidence that, despite Fi's seeming inflexibility and clinical pragmatism, she also expresses something of a fondness for Link at the end-- in many ways, mirroring her Divine creator. She does this very robotically, by correlating her collected data time spent together and their completed task with what she's observed of human happiness.

Skyward Sword seems to argue that Ghirahim's main flaw is spreading himself too thin, or trying to be so many other things, that he falls short as a sword in the end. It suggests that his sin, like others in the franchise, is getting too big for his boots scabbard and letting his pride become his downfall. His individualism gets presented with a great cost, as he has only enhanced himself in ways that seemingly do not apply when he returns to his primary function as a sword. The emotionality he has, such as the frustration and cockiness and bloodlust he indulges, are also shown to lower his successes-- reducing the sense of his efficiency and precision beside the ever level, measured Fi.

When he returns to Demise's hand, Ghirahim is already weakened and spent. Despite all he's done for his Master's revival, Demise is left to fight with a paling version of the blade that once fatally wounded Hylia-- not unlike a Master Sword in need of restoration to its full power.

There's a legend regarding Gorō Nyūdō Masamune, widely regarded as the greatest swordsmith in Japanese history, and Sengo Muramasa, who is famously known for creating unique and terrifically sharp blades that are considered cursed.

It starts when Muramasa challenges Masamune to see who can make a finer sword. When the work is done, they go down to a river, and place the blades in the water with the cutting edge towards the current.

Muramasa's sword, which he named Ten Thousand Winter Nights, cuts everything that floats its way-- leaves, fish, even the wind that happened across it. It is so sharp that nothing escapes unscathed.

Masamune's sword, named Tender Hands, is placed in the river and cuts the leaves that go by so seamlessly, they reform on the other side. Fish swim up to it and seem to be repelled by its aura, avoiding death. The wind kisses the blade gently with a pleasant whistle.

Muramasa isn't impressed by this. He thinks the blade is useless, barely cutting anything at all, and starts to remark on the lack of skill. Masamune smiles at the criticism, but merely compliments that Muramasa's sword is indeed quite sharp.

A monk who had watched all this from nearby approaches at that point, bows, and interjects with his own observations.

Though he too observes that Muramasa's sword is technically very finely made, he notes that it's a bloodthirsty, wicked blade. It cuts anything in its path indiscriminately, he says, and would just as soon cut a butterfly in half as remove somebody's head.

Masamune's sword, however, was the clear winner in the monk's opinion-- a gentle blade that did not needlessly cut that which was innocent or undeserving, tempered by grace. It is a benevolent sword, and so far finer made.

In popular culture, Muramasa's blades have held onto their violent reputation. There's a superstition that they can compel their wielder to murder. It has even been said that, once drawn, they can't be sheathed again until their thirst for blood is sated-- even if it has to drink from its own wielder.

They also had a weirdly consistent habit of maiming or killing members of the Tokugawa Shogunate, and so became an anti-Tokugawa symbol synonymous with the rebellion. So that's fun.

But Masamune was considered to be a very calm man, who was controlled and reserved and quite spiritual. Muramasa, though, was depicted as an aggressive man, who was a bit wild and kinda unpredictable. As far as the folk stories go, Muramasa is depicted as having been quite envious of Masamune. Unlike Masamune, who approached his craft as the art of achieving clean death, they say Muramasa needed to transfer his unhinged energy into his blades to keep from being overwhelmed by it himself.

Because their natures bled into the swords they created, it was believed that Masamune and Muramasa imbued them with purifying and demonic power, respectively.

Just as with Demise and Hylia and the swords that they created-- as inspired by such a legend-- the spirits inside of them represent their natures, as well.

#legend of zelda #zelda meta #zelda analysis #long post #hylia #demise #fi #ghirahim #skyward sword #sksw #zelda lore #tloz

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many-shades-of-violence · 2 years

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how to cure a jealous heart

✢ pairing: Marine! Donquixote Rosinante x Reader

✢ characters: Donquixote Rosinante, Donquixote Doflamingo, Smoker, Bellé-mere, Sengoku

✢ contents: NSFW, Jealousy-driven intimacy, Light Bondage, Size Kink, Alcohol & Nicotine Consumption

✢ word count: 7.500

It was a tranquil late summer evening, a soothing breeze whispering across the Marine Headquarters. The sun dipped toward the horizon, casting radiant reflections upon the tranquil waters, providing the perfect backdrop for an intimate after-work celebration shared amongst friends.

The preceding week had been tumultuous, a torrent of fresh bounties flooding in for burgeoning pirates—referred to affectionately by Smoker as "rookie idiots." The deluge of work, tirelessly juggling duties amidst the upper echelons, was enough to weigh heavily upon your shoulders. To mark its conclusion, the fiery-haired captain of Fleet 256, Belle-mere, suggested a modest gathering, a respite for camaraderie and a well-earned toast.

Sinking wearily onto one of the wooden crates repurposed for seating, you allowed a sigh of relief to escape. The robust crash of waves reverberated from the distant coast, harmonizing with the cries of seagulls soaring toward the fiery embrace of the setting sun.

A wistful smile touched your lips as you inhaled the salty air, the azure scarf of your uniform fluttering briefly before settling. "This week has truly been a trial. The serenity of this evening is a gift we've surely earned."

"You speak the truth," chimed Smoker, his expression tinged with both fatigue and annoyance. The young man ignited his cigar with a subtle click, releasing a billowing plume of smoke that danced languidly from his lips, his gaze fixed upon the seemingly endless expanse of the sea.

"Indeed, Smoker. Yet even as we relish this respite, we can't escape the prospect of more challenges," you acknowledged, a wry smile gracing your lips. Fuchsia locks cascaded as Belle-mere brushed them behind her ear, her laughter a buoyant counterpoint to the tensions lurking beneath the surface.

Smoker's irritation simmered just beneath the surface, manifesting in a terse retort. "Captain, we can hardly afford to lower our vigilance. Tsuru herself has forewarned us of a looming influx of these 'idiot rookies' onto our bounty lists."

Belle-mere's laughter persisted, a melodic echo that painted her amusement across her features. "Oh, Smoker, my dear lieutenant, do not let your disposition darken this delightful gathering. Pirates they may be, but our endeavors would lack purpose without these 'idiot rookies.' Let's savor this moment, shall we?"

You couldn't help but chuckle at Smoker's disgruntled demeanor, a camaraderie of shared exasperation binding your trio. With a casual wave, you attempted to downplay the workload disparity between you and the exasperated lieutenant, fully aware that the influx of bounties was only part of the equation. The truth simmered beneath the surface, a hidden layer that painted your every interaction with Rosinante with a layer of intrigue and passion.

A seemingly innocent evening of evaluating new pirate wanted posters takes an unexpected turn when your aloof and carefree boyfriend, Donquixote Rosinante, succumbs to jealousy over a particular poster. As tensions rise, revealing his fiercely possessive nature, you find yourself entangled in a passionate and unpredictable rendezvous. Little did you know, the chosen poster would lead to a revelation about Rosinante's estranged brother, Donquixote Doflamingo. Amidst the chaos of burgeoning pirate bounties, your connection with Rosinante deepens into a passionate blaze that neither of you can deny.

You brushed her off with a waving hand, trying not to fall Smoker in hthe back. After all, he had a point. The amount of work you had to do was skyrocketing way above the amount you could handle alone. Though, there was one other reason for this, besides the insane number of new bounties being issued.

“Even if you were right - which you are not - you can’t rely on an honest answer from y/n this time, Belle-mere. After all, she’s working her ass off to comply with Rosinante’s paperwork as well, especially after Monday,” Smoker spoke into his cigar, a smile broadening on his strong features as he seemed to remember that incident.

After all, how could he not know? Hell, you might even guess that Sengoku himself knew about it. Who else could it have been but the clumsy fleet commander Donquixote Rosinante to set his paperwork on fire after lighting himself a cigarette in his office?

You cringed a bit, remembering the horrific scene you walked into. You only wanted to tell your boyfriend that you wanted to finish your shift when you saw him casually smoking near his office window, a flame licking the cotton material of his commander's coat. He didn't realize that the fire had also spread to the fresh paperwork he had just finished.

Luckily, a nearby cadet was carrying a bucket of water, allowing you to extinguish the fire quickly. Though you were relieved that your aloof boyfriend didn't get burned, his paperwork was a case for the trash, resulting in your current paperwork situation.

You didn’t mind this too much, as you were already used to your boyfriend’s clumsy nature. Always having been very efficient and fast working with paperwork, you really were, as Rosinante would say, “his personal angel sent from above.” But this efficiency also came at a cost. That being…

“Ah, let me guess!” Belle-mere clapped her hands cheerfully, pointing her index finger knowingly at you. “You prohibited him from doing his own paperwork after he lit it on fire last time.”

“Yeah, you got me,” you grimaced, feeling a bit embarrassed about being found out.

“Well, that’s Rosinante and y/n for you,” Smoker affirmed with crossed arms in front of his chest, puffing his cigar once again. “This guy can be so lucky that you cover up his slip-ups all the time. If I didn't know that he’s a beast on the battlefield, I would really wonder how he made it to fleet commander at such a young age.”

You chuckled at Smoker's comment. After all, you didn't believe it yourself when you first met him, as he tripped over his own feet while introducing himself as your new supervisor.

At first, you thought his general clumsiness was a crude joke or the admirals themselves testing your patience. But with time, his casual slip-ups became routine. Working around and with them became like second nature to you, even allowing you to predict some of them by a hunch, saving Rosinante and you a lot of headaches.

“Yeah, but I guess that’s his charming point, right y/n?” Your train of thought was interrupted by Belle-mere smirking at you. The young captain spoke with certainty in her voice, a knowing smile on her lips. It was her, after all, that you had first confided in about your feelings for the tall fleet commander. Not wanting to damage your professional relationship as his lieutenant, you had desperately asked her for advice.

“Well, it’s not only that, but you have a point there.” Slightly embarrassed, you crossed your legs and coyly scratched your cheek. Smoker rolled his eyes. You and Belle-mere knew that it was more of a facade than any mean-spirited intention on his part.

It was Smoker, after all, who told you to just “get on with it and tell Rosinante your feelings,” because “he surely feels something for you.” He casually dropped the fact that the fleet commander had supposedly confided in him as well.

“Speaking of which…” Smoker looked toward the entrance of the tower you were resting on. “Where in the devil's name is that guy? I thought he wanted to celebrate with us. It’s late, even for him!” His cool gaze focused on the watch on his left arm.

“Probably held up by Sengoku again,” you mused, one of your hands playing with some strands of hair as your thoughts drifted.

“Though he said he wouldn't mind if we started our little party without him, so I guess…” you began, but were cut off by a grinning Belle-mere, suddenly springing up from the box she was sitting on and holding a big bottle of wine victoriously toward the sky. “Then let’s get this party started!”

And with that, a big plop resounded near you, the red-haired marine shooting the cork of the bottle high into the sky. While Smoker just sighed in defeat, he distributed some glasses he had taken from the kitchen among your group.

It didn’t take more than a few seconds, and the red luscious liquid was filling your glasses, the sweet smell of wine intruding your nose even from a distance.

“Cheers to us, for living through this hellish week!” Smoker proclaimed, raising his glass. You and Belle-mere quickly followed suit, clinking your glasses together in the midst of your small group.

This would be a good evening; you could just feel it!

"So, how's everything up on cloud nine?" Belle-mere refilled her glass, her curiosity evident in her gaze. You were just one round into your small after-work celebration when the red-haired marine posed the sudden question. Meanwhile, Smoker was engrossed in trying to light a new cigar with a nearly empty lighter.

"You're way too nosy, Belle-mere!" you sighed, taking another sip of wine. "One day, that nosiness of yours is going to get you in trouble."

Chuckling, you set your beverage on the wooden surface beside you. "Hey, I'm just curious to know if my matchmaking efforts have borne fruit, you know? It was Smoker and me who helped you and Rosinante get your act together, remember?"

With that, she produced her own lighter from her captain's coat, lit a cigarette for herself, and then tossed the lighter to Smoker, clearly exasperated by his struggles to light his cigar. "Here, catch."

"Thanks. I thought I'd have to fetch a new one from my cabin," the white-haired man said, catching the lighter and putting it to use. He let out a contented sigh as he took the first drag from his freshly lit cigar.

You shook your head thoughtfully, wondering how you had ended up surrounded by so many nicotine enthusiasts, before turning your attention to Belle-mere's question. "Nothing much has changed, really. Just the usual, you know."

"Hmm. Somehow, I find that hard to believe," the woman to your left remarked, taking another sip of her drink. A mischievous grin appeared on her face moments later.

Oh no, what's she up to now? You thought, a sinking feeling settling in.

"Or perhaps that's exactly the case?" She raised an eyebrow and giggled. "Hey, Smoker! Do you think Rosinante is as clumsy in bed as he is on duty?"

"Belle-mere!" Smoker's alarmed expression turned even redder, and you couldn't quite tell whether it was due to the alcohol or embarrassment.

"I just want to make sure she's not left disappointed, you know? With that Silence Silence Fruit of his, it must be hard to tell what's happening!" Belle-mere exclaimed, causing Smoker's embarrassment to deepen. He muttered an embarrassed "Could you cut it out?"

You, on the other hand, let out a resigned sigh, bringing a hand to your forehead. You knew all too well that Belle-mere had a tendency to be overly intrusive at times.

"Well, I wouldn't put it that way. He's a bit clumsy, yes, but it usually doesn't get in the way," you responded, your cheeks warming at the memory of your recent intimate moments with Rosinante. While his clumsiness did manifest even in those moments, it often led to playful domination and teasing between you two.

"That makes me wonder about the logistics, though..." Belle-mere continued with a mischievous grin. "I mean, Rosinante is pretty tall... Even for a grown man, he must be..."

Before she could finish her sentence, Smoker intervened. "Can we please change the subject?"

Clearly annoyed, Smoker pinched the bridge of his nose, urging Belle-mere to rein in her questions. You, however, couldn't help but laugh at the situation, silently thanking Smoker for interrupting Belle-mere's probing.

"How about you come up with a new topic, then?" Belle-mere challenged him, her grin undeterred. Smoker surprised her by pulling a collection of papers from his hunter's jacket.

"What's this?" you inquired, your curiosity piqued as Smoker tossed the bundle onto the wooden box that served as your makeshift table.

"Oh! Would you look at that." Belle-mere exclaimed, taking a few of the brown papers in her hand and examining them closely. "Wanted posters!" Excited, you also peered at the papers, scanning them with great interest.

"And they're new ones, too." Smoker took a deep drag from his cigar, letting it rest in the corner of his mouth before balancing it between his index and middle finger, allowing gray smoke to waft from the tip. "No wonder we're swamped with work lately. The number of rookies popping up is no joke, and the bounties are nothing to scoff at either, especially in the New World."

"Ohhoo!" Belle-mere let out a hearty chuckle as she plucked one poster from the stack she held. "Well, well, well. What do we have here!" She turned the wanted poster toward your group, her slender finger pointing to it. "Now that's an attractive one."

You examined the image closely, revealing a portrait of a young, dark-skinned woman with sly green eyes and black wavy hair. She was dressed in a white ribbon blouse and long black pants, holding a short dagger defensively in her hand.

"And?" Smoker raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "She's just a small fry. What's so special about her? Her bounty won't even buy you enough cigarettes for a month."

Belle-mere rolled her eyes and took another drag from her cigarette. You, on the other hand, couldn't help but laugh at Smoker's reaction. Despite his tough exterior, he could be quite dense at times. "What?" he snapped, clearly irritated by your laughter.

"I mean as a crush, Smoker," Belle-mere explained, tapping the wanted poster of the tanned pirate again. "A real looker, don't you think, Smoker?" She grinned, fully aware that this would make Smoker blush to the tips of his ears once more.

"Dammit, Belle-mere!" he hissed, his cigar nearly slipping from his mouth due to embarrassment. "You're impossible, Lieutenant!" she chuckled, her cheeks flushed from the effects of alcohol, which seemed to be loosening her up even more than usual.

"I'm not!" he declared defensively, taking an annoyed sip of his wine.

"Oh, you definitely are!" she retorted, causing you to burst into even more laughter.

"I'm not!" he insisted once more. "Then prove it." A charged silence followed Belle-mere's challenge. Only the cries of seagulls and your laughter filled the air.

Amused gray eyes locked onto irritated brown ones before Smoker delved back into the stack of wanted posters. Grumbling in a mix of annoyance and embarrassment, he rifled through the pages before finally selecting one and thrusting it toward Belle-mere. "Satisfied?"

"For real now?!" Belle-mere burst into genuine laughter. "Nico Olivia? Smoker, she's like ten years older than you."

"Oh, quit it, Belle-mere! I'm not playing along with your antics." With arms crossed, Smoker averted his gaze from Belle-mere, directing his attention toward you. "And what about you?" He gestured toward the posters.

"Me?" you looked at him quizzically. "Yeah, who would you go for? And don't give me that 'But I have Rosinante' excuse. It's a hypothetical game, and we all know he couldn't care less about it." Smoker explained, raising his voice a bit on the "But I have Rosinante" part, mimicking your tone.

"Oh, now it's getting interesting." Belle-mere stubbed her cigarette on the ground, her curiosity now fully focused on you. However, her attention soon shifted to someone behind you, and she waved her hand in greeting.

"Hello there. Looks like I just missed out. Sorry about that!" A deep, resonant voice cut through the conversation, announcing the arrival of your boyfriend and the fleet commander of the Marine headquarters, Donquixote Rosinante himself.

"Rosi!" A bright smile spread across your face as you turned around to greet the tall man making his way toward your group. Still donning his fleet commander uniform, his white cloak draped over broad shoulders swayed gently in the evening breeze, framing his figure elegantly.

The last rays of sunlight illuminated his golden hair and strong features beautifully. With joy at his arrival, you stood up and welcomed your tall lover with a hug. He tenderly brushed aside your hair, revealing your forehead for a soft kiss.

"Hello, love," he murmured, his affectionate dark red eyes meeting your own, contrasting vividly against the marine blue dress shirt he wore under his coat. Giggling in return, you led him to join your small gathering, settling beside him on another wooden box.

"Hi, Rosinante! Took you long enough!" Belle-mere greeted him with an amused grin. Smoker, on the other hand, simply nodded in acknowledgment before taking another puff from his cigar. "My apologies. The meeting with Sengoku ran longer than anticipated," Rosinante replied, pulling a cigarette from his coat and igniting it with a metal lighter.

The one you had gifted him for his birthday, you noted to yourself, pleased that Rosinante used it almost ritualistically whenever he took a smoke.

"So, what's the topic of discussion?" Rosinante inquired with interest, looking around the group with a smile. "Well, you see... we were just wrapping up this little game!" Belle-mere answered, waving her hand dismissively. "Oh, really? The famous wanted poster game everyone's been talking about?" he chuckled knowingly.

"Huh?" Belle-mere appeared incredulous. "Even Sengoku knows about this, you know. Be careful playing this game with the new cadets. They gossip quite a bit," Rosinante grinned, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

Caught the young captain's sighs, earning a hearty laugh from Smoker. "Serves you right!"

"So, who did you choose?" Rosinante's eyes turned to you with interest, clearly uninterested in the game but curious about your answer.

"Well, actually, it was just my turn. But now that you're here, you could tell us about your meeting with Sengoku!" you suggested, wanting to shift the focus away from the game and onto a more comfortable topic for your boyfriend. You knew he didn't care about the game, and you didn't want him to feel uncomfortable.

"Ah, don't mind me." Rosinante waved off your suggestion, taking another drag from his cigarette. "The old man just gave me a lecture about the incident on Monday after he saw the burn marks in my office." He scratched the back of his neck, a little embarrassed, before encouraging you to continue with a smile. "Besides, I don't think these two will let you off the hook."

He gestured towards Smoker and Belle-mere, who were looking at you expectantly. Belle-mere was already pushing the stack of wanted posters into your hand, while Smoker declared loudly, "Nice try, y/n, but you won't get out of this."

With a defeated sigh, you hesitated for a moment, looking reassuringly at Rosinante, who grinned back at you. Finally, you took the wanted posters from Belle-mere. Slowly, you examined the pages until...

"You're not buying new furniture, y/n. Choose one. Now." Smoker's abrupt comment snapped you out of your contemplation. Clearly, Belle-mere's teasing about him being a prude had affected his ego, or maybe he just wanted to bring an end to the silly game. Understandably so.

"Sure, just give me a sec! I mean, there are a lot of new wanted..." You stopped mid-sentence, utterly speechless as you laid your eyes on him. You had to look at the poster again, closely studying the man's features portrayed in front of you. Belle-mere and Smoker exchanged knowing glances, while Rosinante gazed at the horizon, lost in the enjoyment of his cigarette.

The man had light, slicked-back blond hair, and his lean, muscular body with tan skin caught your attention. Two earrings adorned his ears, and he grinned at you with a mischievous smile. His flamboyant clothing and a gaudy pink feather coat over his shoulders gave him a rather eccentric appearance.

"Hmm, cat got your tongue?" Belle-mere leaned in closer, studying the poster in your hands. She appeared momentarily stunned before snatching the poster away and thrusting it into Smoker's face, who accepted it with a hint of annoyance. "Ugh, what's your deal, Belle-mere?"

Smoker burst into shamelessly amused laughter almost instantly, the sound deep and rich from his smoke-affected throat. "You're joking, right?" He slapped his knee, turning his amused gaze to you, while Belle-mere wiped away a tear of laughter from her eye. "Told you, Smoker, our y/n always has a good sense of humor!"

"What do you mean?" you responded, feeling a bit embarrassed by their reaction. "I mean, yeah, the coat is way too tacky, but he looks good..." you mumbled under your breath, looking away from your friends.

Belle-mere chuckled, appearing to confide in your boyfriend about your choice. However, before she could continue, you interrupted with determination, "That's not a joke!"

You snatched the poster back from Belle-mere, pointing at the man's image once more and beginning to defend your choice. "I know the pink feather coat is tacky, but objectively speaking, he looks good—"

Your sentence was abruptly cut short as you felt Rosinante tense up beside you. His gaze darkened, and he tried to grab the poster from your hand, but his attempt went awry, causing him to fall backward over the wooden box he had been seated on.

A loud crash filled the air as he landed on his back, and despite their best efforts, Belle-mere and Smoker couldn't contain their laughter, which was amplified by the alcohol in their systems.

You rushed to Rosinante's side, helping him stand up and brushing dirt off his white dress pants. He sulked slightly before patting your hand and murmuring a quiet "Thank you." His eyes briefly glanced at the wanted poster on the table before he suddenly excused himself, claiming that he had left his office door open. With swift motions, he turned on his heels and left the tower.

You stood there, dumbfounded, as your friends were also left speechless by the commander's abrupt departure. Smoker broke the silence, looking at you knowingly. "Well, that was to be expected. Somehow."

"What do you mean?" you asked, utterly bewildered.

"Didn't you think he would react like this? You, gushing over his brother, I mean."

"His what now?" Your mouth hung open, and you looked even more stunned than before.

"His brother, dumbass," Smoker replied, puffing on his cigar and fixing you with a deadpan stare. "The yaksha of Dressrosa, Donquixote Doflamingo."

It felt as if your soul was leaving your body in that moment. The revelation hit you like a ton of bricks. You knew that the dethronement of the Tyrant King Riku, the former ruler of Dressrosa, had been a brutal and bloody affair, but you could never have imagined that the man depicted on the wanted poster was the liberator in the midst of that chaos and, shockingly, Rosinante's own brother.

For a brief second, Smoker observed your stunned silence, then he pinched the bridge of his nose and let out an exasperated huff. "Please don't tell me you didn't know... My god, you two really are a bunch of idiots."

"H-How should I know? He never told me he had a brother. I only knew he got adopted by Sengoku. We never discussed much about his childhood," you retorted, irritation lacing your voice.

"Then fix this. Now." Smoker's tone was firm, and he gestured for you to go after the fleet commander.

Without wasting any time, you turned on your heels and left the two marines behind, rushing after Rosinante as fast as you could. His tall figure had already given him a head start, but you were determined to catch up. As you hurried towards his room, you silently prayed that this misunderstanding could be cleared up quickly. Little did you know, your innocent comment had triggered a storm of emotions within the fleet commander, and you were about to confront a truth that would shake the foundation of your relationship.

You rushed down the stairs of the west building of the Marine Headquarters, heading towards the commanders' sleeping quarters, hoping to find Rosinante there. However, your hope was dashed when you knocked on his door and realized it was locked. "The office," you thought to yourself, deciding to check there instead. As you made your way through the clean, white corridors of the headquarters, you mentally prepared for the conversation that was about to unfold.

Arriving at his office, you cleared your throat and reached for the doorknob, only to find it locked as well. Confused, you turned away from the door, contemplating where else Rosinante could have gone. Just as you were about to consider your options, the door suddenly clicked open behind you. Startled, you turned around to see the door swing open, and a pair of strong hands pulled you inside before closing the door behind you.

You gasped in surprise as you were pressed against a tall, looming figure from behind. The familiar scents of cotton and tobacco enveloped you, confirming that it was indeed your lover, Rosinante. Nervously, you attempted to turn around to face him, but his firm grip prevented you from moving.

"I'm sorry, love. I never told you, right? About my rogue brother…" Rosinante's voice was deep and filled with a mix of emotions. You gulped, feeling a rush of emotions yourself.

"N-No, but—" you started, only to be interrupted as his arms tightened around you.

"I should have known this would catch up to clumsy old me someday… But this is the worst way possible," he chuckled bitterly, his breath brushing against your neck.

"Rosi, I'm so sorry," you whispered, your fingers gently tracing over his hands, which were marked with small scars from battles he had fought.

"You're not at fault here… I should have told you sooner about all of this," he sighed, his tone heavy. He leaned a bit closer to you, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he tried to compensate for the height difference between you. "Guess you really have a type, huh?"

"Rosi!" Your irritation bubbled up, but it quickly dissipated as you saw the troubled expression on his face. Concerned, you turned toward him, still held in his embrace. An unexpected thought crossed your mind, and you blurted it out without thinking, "Are you jealous, Rosi?"

His reaction was instantaneous, and he shifted uncomfortably, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. He avoided your gaze, his blonde locks partially obscuring his eyes. "Rosi?!" you urged, your hands resting on his chest as you waited for an answer. The silence spoke volumes.

Finally, after a tense moment, he spoke, his grip on you tightening. "And what if?"

You sighed, your fingers curling around his black necktie as you gently pulled his head closer to yours. A soft smile graced your lips, and you tenderly cupped his jaw, your eyes widening as you whispered to him, "Then I'm going to prove to you that there's no need to be jealous of that tacky flamingo. Tonight, I'm all yours, fleet commander."

His resolve seemed to solidify at your words, and he lifted you effortlessly, carrying you over to his desk. You opened your mouth to warn him about his paperwork, but it was too late – he had already cleared the surface and set you down, caging you between his towering form.

"Hope you're sure about this, love. Because I don't intend to use my Devil Fruit. By the end of this, I want the entire headquarters to know that you're mine," he declared, his hands starting to explore your body as his lips found yours in a hungry, desperate kiss. It was a passionate embrace, a declaration of his love and possessiveness, and as your worlds collided, you knew that tonight would be a night neither of you would ever forget.

It doesn´t take long for both of you to free yourself from the clothing obscuring the way to each other’s more sensitive parts. Rosinantes commander coat has been thrown on the floor, the blue dress shirt he wore underneath slid off his scarred torso to make room for you´re hungry hands, roaming his defined muscles. You´re on the other hand have been completely stripped of your lieutenant uniform, residing on the fleet commanders’ desk only in your panties.

Big, calloused hands stroke along your curves, taking in every inch of your beautiful body. You gasp when the tall blond man grips your thighs, catching you in a heated kiss, tongues intertwining, dancing for dominance over each other, a game you two fought with great pleasure.

Due to his clumsiness, you usually led Rosinante and yourself through sex, especially after he nearly crushed you under him this one time, losing his hold on the bed head, trying to balance himself out while fucking you senseless. But this time was different, because even though it was a passion of yours to get atop of Rosinante and dominate the fuck out of him, this night you wanted to give yourself fully to the gentle giant, able to roam over your body as he desired.

It´s for this sole reason, you slowly retreat your own tongue, making more room for Rosinantes. It doesn´t even take him a second to slip between your lips, dominating the kiss passionately. A loud gasp escapes you in between, him groaning appreciatively in response, as he wraps his arms around your form, holding your two bodies close.

Soft small hands glide over his chest, appreciating every corner of his upper body, stopping at the commanders’ pink nipples, stroking carefully over them, before giving one of them an experimental tug. A content moan escapes from Rosinantes lips, breaking off the kiss due to the immense pleasure. With flushed red cheeks he looks at you, brows furrowed, all the while biting his lip.

You soak in the gaze offered to you, incredibly turned on by Rosinante’s reaction. “That´s no fair, love. You said you´d give all of yourself to me tonight. If you don’t behave, I´ll need to do something about that, you know?” He huffs, grabbing your hands and pushing them over your head, holding them over your head. You chuckle at that, suddenly gasping out in arousal when he bites into your neck, long tongue dragging along your neck and peppering it with kisses.

You groaned loudly. Even though you were a bit unused to the way of submission, you couldn´t deny the fact that Rosinante did a good job in getting you riled up like this. And apparently himself too, concerning the growing bulge in his pants, pressing itself hotly to your upper thigh.

Hands obscured by Rosinantes firm grip on them, you wrap your legs around his hip, pressing his hard one firmly to your core, the friction between you two making you and your lover gasping in union, heat pooling in between your legs. In response to your assault, Rosinante grinds himself further against you, kissing you once more heatedly on the lips before leaving your hands all of a sudden to open his black leather belt.

Just as you wanted to move your hands to his abdomen, helping Rosinante in the process of getting rid of his definitely way too tight pants, the blonde catches your hands again, wrapping the black leather quickly around them and pushing them gently back over your head. “R-Rosi?!” you yelp, surprised at the foreign restraints.

“Hush now. Told you I´ll bring out some bigger guns if you continue trying to switch with me. Just tell me when it gets too much, kay, love?” he grins cheekily at you showing some of his straight teeth, a small blush residing on his skin, the use of restraints on you being a first from him, though definitely not the other way around.

Demandingly, Rosinantes long fingers glide from your chest over your belly, circling your hips before slipping them between your thighs. Experimentally, he dips one of his fingers inside your wet cunt, making you moan his name in reaction.

“A bit eager, aren´t we?” he chuckles, a sly smile spreading on his lips. “Tell me, did the thought of fucking my brother make you so riled up?”

“R-Rosi!” you look horrified at him. “What? If I´m wrong you could just correct me, you know, love?” he growls deeply, one hand digging carefully into your plush thighs, “Or maybe one guy is just not enough for you pretty little thing?” he muses again, one finger curling deliciously inside you “That´s not true!” you cry out, heavily embarrassed by Rosinantes sudden dirty talk. “Then tell me.” Red eyes lock with your own e/c ones, flushing uncontrollably as he whispers to you demandingly, “Tell me that you only need me, my sweet little lieutenant.”

“Of course, I just want you! It´s always been you. Only you Rosi!” you plead with him, squirming under his touch, the black leather belt pressing your wrists still flush over your head. “A content hum erupts from him, a second finger soon joining his first inside you, slowly loosing you up for himself.

You moan with pleasure, the marine’s name spilling from your lips, as he fingerfucks you on his big wooden desk. “Look at you, love, so happily bouncing on my fingers. Can´t wait to fill you up.” He whispers into your ear, tongue lolling out of his mouth, slowly licking the shell of your ear. You gasp in surprise, the sensations making your mind hazier by the second.

“Feels so good, Rosi….Want you inside me” you mumble under hitched breath, hips rocking steadily against his fingers. “Sorry love, but we need to loosen you up some more. Don'twant you to get hurt, kay?” the blonde purrs, a third finger entering you painfully slowly. “T-Then at least let me cum!” you pant, the delicious stretch of your boyfriends’ fingers making the heat in your core nearly unbearable.

“As you wish, love.” And with that he plants a kiss on your forehead, applying some pressure on your clit with another digit, massaging it skillfully. Cries of pleasure erupt from your throat, as the pressure in your core reaches a new high, the stretch inside you feeling oh so deliciously and finally reaching it´s peak when Rosinante asks you with his deep baritone voice “Think you can cum for me, love?”.

Your orgasm hits you like a wave, crushing you underneath it, making you gasp for air while wetness pools from your core, drenching Rosinantes fingers with your juices.

“Oh? Is that all for me? How sweet of you.” He nudges his nose to yours, a loving smile on his lips, as he pulls his fingers out of you. Normally the wet noise of his fingers leaving your plush folds would have made you cringe, if your concentration wouldn´t be on Rosinante who licked his slick coated fingers deliciously, savoring the taste of your sweet release with his tongue. “You taste so good, y/n. Really wouldn´t mind getting more of this.” The fleet commander looked at you longingly, the obvious bulge in his pants twitching at the thought of tasting you some more. “But under the circumstances of tonight, this will have to wait until next time.”

And with that, your tall lover slowly glides his hands along the rim of his pants, not breaking eye contact with you all the while freeing his member from its suffocating prison, a relived sigh escaping his lips as it springs free from its constraints. A small moan leaves your mouth, as your gaze drifts down to his stupidly big dick, pink tip glistening angrily at you with pre-cum. Even though you were already used to this view and definitely not dumbfounded as you were at your first time with Rosinante, it was always a bit surprising, seeing him in all his glory.

“Cat got your tongue this time as well?” With a knowing smile, he positions himself near your entrance, chuckling over your reaction. “It´s not my fault you have this stupidly big dick, Rosi!” you reply bratty, opening your legs complyingly for him.

Gently he palms your cheek, “Are you ready?” With a needy “yes” you press yourself against his tip, your wet fold greeting his leaking tip greedily as he pushes himself carefully inside you.

“A-Ah! Fuck!” you mewl loudly, his dick stretching you out as you should´ve expected. “God….y/n, your so wet, love.” Rosinantes breath hitches, as he buries himself deeper inside you, checks flushed from the way your wall clench around him. “G-Go on! Please!” you groan desperately, rocking your hips against those of your lovers. You as well as him knew that you could never take him whole without hurting yourself in the process, nevertheless that didn´t stop you from urging him to fill you as much as you could stomach, loving the way he felt oh so deep inside you.

“You´re really trying to kill me here, love” A deep groan escapes the blonde, sheeted deeply inside you, walls clenching snug around him. With a firm grip on your hips, he pulls himself out of you, before entering you torturing slowly again, trying for a few experimental thrusts before setting for a slow steady pace inside you, that makes your toes curl deliciously, while your wrist fight against uselessly against your restraints.

“F-Faster and Harder Rosi!” you gasp wantonly, your lover responding immediately to you, picking up his pace, while holding you in place, his dick pounding your wet cunt relentlessly. “You´re awfully desperate today, love.” Rosinante huffs with a smile, sheeting himself a bit out of you before angling one of your legs a bit into the air.

“I wouldn´t if you hadn´t riled me up so much.” you retort back, crying out in pleasure when the blonde sheets himself back inside you, penetrating an especially sensitive spot. “Well, then I hope you are prepared for what you´re asking, because I don´t intend on stopping now.” And with that, Rosinante starts to pound your desperate cunt at an insane speed, fucking you senseless into his work desk.

“Y-You take me so well, y/n…” Rosinantes baritione voice resounds near your ears, as he lays his torso a bit more over you, applying more pressure on your abdomen, his only answer being a bunch of mewled out versions of his name, before you can huff out a desperate “Belt!”, making him stop for a brief second unhooking your restraints from tired wrists. Carefully, he kisses each of them, before draping your arms over his broad shoulders and telling you to hold tightly onto him.

A moment later you´re hoisted up into the air, clinging onto the firm scarred muscles of your lover, while his hands firmly grip your thighs from underneath, raising you a bit more into the air with his strong forearms before plunging his massive cock back inside you, hitting you´re cervix with each new thrust. You cry out in pleasure at the new angle, nails digging into his scarred neck, as his tip penetrates deep inside you.

“Oh, god, don´t stop Rosi. Don´t you dare stop!” you cuss at him. “Didn´t plan to.” He retorts, full concentration on gripping you tightly, as not to hurt you accidentally. Burrowing his head inside your neck, he inhales your scents, the pheromones you release making his mind go even more hazy. “You like it when I fuck you like this, love?” he clenches his teeth, his release seemingly close. “Love it!” you reply shakily, close to your second orgasm this night.

At this, Rosinante bites sweetly into the nape of your neck, definitely leaving a hickey there, but right now you couldn´t care less. That would be a problem for later. At this moment, you just wanted to cum on your boyfriend’s dick, milking him dry of his own sweet release. “I´m so close…” you gasp at an especially rough thrust on your boyfriend’s site, nails digging deep into his back, as you clench tightly around him.

“Just let loose, love. Wanna feel you cum on me.” It doesn´t cost more than those sweet words of your lover and Rosinante rutting himself deep inside you, to bring you over the edge, making you see stars for the second time of the night.

Your orgasm hits you hard, and Rosinantes follows swiftly, as you´re walls contract around his cock, milking him dry of his own release the only sound being the groans of you and your lover, rasping each other’s name, sweaty bodies gluing to each other, as you come down from your highs.

With a soft kiss, Rosinante hives you back onto the ground, carefully not to hurt you as he helps you stand on your wobbly legs, getting dressed, before putting his uniform back on himself. Gentle fingers comb your h/c locks, as he pulls you into a warm embrace, whispering to you „I love you so much y/n.”

You reply with a tired smile. “I love you too, my Corazon!” you grin at him, nuzzling yourself more into his chest sleepily. The tall man blushes at the new nickname, grinning happily only a brief moment later as he hoisted you up to carry you to your room, absolutely loving how it sounds from your lips.

As he exited his office, a small smile resigna on his lips.

Corazon, huh?

He could get used to that.

But before that, he would tell you everything about his past. This time from start to finish.

And as much as the thought of reliving his repressed memories with Doffy already pained him deep inside his heart, he knew that you were the right person to share them with.

After all, you already cured his jealous heart.

#donquixote rocinante #corazon #donquixote rosinante #rosinante #one piece #donquixote rosinante x reader #corazon x reader #one piece x you #one piece x reader #fanfiction #smut #op smut #donquixote doflamingo x reader #smoker #belle-mere #marine #one piece marine #my stuff

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yourneighborhoodporg · 7 months

Text

The Guardian

Chapter 2: The Revelation

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: hella abandonment, angst, mention of deceased character, banter, fluff, self-doubt, lore-building, reference to enslavement, reference to life-threatening danger.

Summary: In the evening, as the four of you arrive at the shelter, Obi-Wan becomes curious about your past from this time of rest and conversation. While Anakin and Ahsoka conduct repairs the next morning, Obi-Wan decides to stay behind to find answers, his unclear intentions putting you on edge. What he discovers, however, will change his, Anakin's, and the Galaxy's future forever.

Song Inspo: Superwoman — Alicia Keys

Words: 7.2K (it's a big boi)

A/n: THANK YOUUU for the wonderful messages, likes, and reblogs. You’ve made my week! I'm planning on making a taglist so message me if you'd like to be on it. Was so excited to write this one for y’all. Keep your thoughts coming 🥹 Also, poor obi (we mess with him a lil’ in this one 😅)

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Series Masterlist

Sometimes a ‘mistake’ can end up being the best decision you’ve ever made — Mandy Hale

The journey to the shelter was tiring, but serene. Snow begun to fall a few hours into the trip, its accumulation gradually adding to the weight on your shoulders and boots. Yet you were distracted from the intensifying ache in every joint by the allure of nature’s frosty expanse. The beauty of each shimmering flake accented by the setting sun made you fall in love with Hoth all over again.

Oh, and that sunset. Its red and orange and yellow hues blended together in their final dance before dusk. A pleasant yet shocking contrast to the landscape’s muted whites and shaded grays.

Yes, it was challenging at times, and if you were truly honest with yourself, each moment felt like part of some long, never-ending trial. Everyday, the instant your skin met the chilly outdoors, you were perpetually on high alert. The wildlife was vicious and unpredictable, the terrain bare, the climate deadly.

But then, there were the majesties— the snowfall, the half-light shades, the way the light reflected off milky surfaces all around you. In moments like these, you felt deeply intertwined with the world, even though you’ve never really explored it. Yet despite your isolation, you’ve always found a way to make the most of it. You had a knack for manufacturing fun in the most bleak circumstances. But even that’s been hard to do in the last decade.

You missed him. You really did. And you wondered every second whether this would be the day he returned. Your friend, your mentor, your…

You couldn’t say it. Your heart ached boundlessly.

You’d tell him face-to-face once he returned. And you knew he’d return.

No matter how long he’d been away, sometimes months at a time, he would always bring you the most delectable treats from a place called Corellia. Sweet rolls, if you remember correctly. On the first day of visiting weeks, whether you were studying, training, or reading through old legends, the moment you heard the distant rumble of his shuttle’s engines, you took off sprinting. Up the ladder you’d go, holobooks thrown to the side in chaos, as you booked it to his favorite landing spot. You’d always forget your cloak, making your meeting with the freezing snow an unwelcome one. But you weren’t deterred, not even by the ship’s manufactured mini snow devils that swayed your stance and blinded your vision.

He was always quick to shut off the power before you reached him, opening the door to lightly reprimand you for getting too close to the ship when he was trying to land. But you had only one response.

“Did you bring the sweet rolls?”

And he would laugh, heartily. And reach into his robe to pull out the most mouthwatering fluffed sweet you’d ever seen. You’d grab it with a wide grin, biting your lip as you salivated before running back into the shelter. He’d smile gently at your retreating form. Not that you’ve ever seen it, but his fondness brimmed the air.

You’d wonder if he was reminiscing too, wherever he was. Maybe he was staring up at the same stars as you. Maybe he was on his way here at this very second.

“Y/n?”

Obi-Wan pulled you out of your fantasies with a gentle tap of the shoulder. You turned to him, continuing to walk alongside the man while Ahsoka and Anakin took their turn on Meetra. When you offered your spot to Obi-Wan an hour earlier, he declined, claiming he preferred to walk.

“Are we nearing the shelter? I don’t see any structures around us.” He questioned while observing his surroundings.

“Don’t worry,” you reassured. “It’s right up here.”

You took a few more steps, checking the distance for certain landmarks. The batch of ice caves to the Southeast stood about two kilometers from the small, folded ice mountains to the West. Yes, this looked right, you thought to yourself before kneeling to the ground.

The travelers watched you quizzically as you began to shovel away snow with your hands and arms, the sleet melting and soaking into your thick gloves. Anakin and Ahsoka demounted, inching closer to get a better look. After a few more labored scoops of hardened ice, a glimmer caught your eye. You cleared the sludge collecting around the metal panel, finding a handle, and pulling it up. The hatch fell open with a clang.

“I live beneath the surface.”

You pulled the sack off your back and dragged it in front of you, opening it slightly to grab a few tufts of lichen which you promptly tossed over to Meetra. She huffed contently, leaning over to enjoy her feast. After closing the bag and tossing it back over your shoulder, you shuffled to position yourself over the entryway ladder before beginning the climb down. One at a time, each traveler followed your descent.

—

Obi-Wan reached the bottom of the rickety ladder that swayed with each step before turning to take in the dimly lit shelter. He was amazed. The older Jedi soon realized that the entire structure was an old starship encased in thick ice and packed snow. There were stacks of holobooks, even some hard copy novels, scattered across the left wall around an old, tattered bunk. A built-in desk sat on the opposite side, a datapad lying neatly in the center. Most notably, colorful blankets with varying patterns, thickness, and textures were strewn throughout the cabin, some neatly folded and others stretched out like a Tooka cat. A large maroon curtain with reflective gold stitches and floral tones hung toward the far end, likely concealing a separate room. A table and two chairs stood in the nearby corner. Steel storage tins often used to store smaller items on starships were scattered against the walls, contents unknown.

“Your quarters are beautiful!” Ahsoka exclaimed as her feet met the floor.

She strolled right over to a particular forest green-based textile with honey-shaded swirls. The young Padawan lifted it, feeling the charming item between her fingers. “Where did you get all of these colorful fabrics?”

“I’m not sure. They were all gifts from a friend.”

Obi-Wan noticed your downcast expression as you turned away from the group, placing your bag on the desk.

Meanwhile, Anakin examined the shelter’s walls by the holobooks, similarly feeling the material with the pads of his fingers. He checked its thickness with a light knock.

“Huh,” he thought out loud, before turning toward the gracious host. “Is this a scouting vessel? It reminds me of something I’ve read about the old Duros vessels.”

Obi-Wan hid his astonishment, biting his tongue to hide a cheeky comment about Anakin’s reading escapades that seeped into his thoughts.

You turned back around, this time with a bright smile resting on your face. “Yes, it is! It’s been here long before I ever was.”

Anakin continued to pore over his surroundings, lightly crossing each arm.

“Do you know a lot about ancient vessels?” You inquired before opening the sack and pulling out a clump of… moss? You promptly examined it. “I’ve collected lots of information about them. It helps me understand this shelter better. You’ll probably find something about your ship in one of my holobooks, depending on its age.”

Obi-Wan watched as you finished your botanical observations, placing the moss on your desk.

“Thanks!” Anakin said, kneeling to inspect your collection. “Snips?” He motioned at Ahsoka who promptly joined him.

As the two searched for information about the shuttle from your extensive collection, Obi-Wan decided to try approaching you once more. He walked slowly, but confidently, warning you with his presence with a question.

“What is that?”

Your eyes grazed his briefly before returning your focus, pulling apart the mystery plant.

“This, is lichen.” You answered. “It needs time and space to defrost.”

You glanced at Obi-Wan who was slightly taken aback by the intensity of your unnaturally shimmering silver eyes staring deep into his, but he didn’t dare show it.

“Eat it before it’s fully defrosted and your stomach will not be happy.”

The older Jedi raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Duly noted.” He paused, combing over your words once more. “Is this what you’ve survived on during your time here?”

“Only recently.” You shook some ice dollops off a particularly shaggy clump of lichen. “I used to get rations and the occasional batch of medicinal goods, but that was many years ago.”

Obi-Wan’s head tilted. “Oh? What changed? Did cargo ships stop coming to Hoth?”

“No. Cargo ships had no reason to be here. The occasional group of hunters, sure. But as long as I’ve been here, I’ve never seen any working civilization that requested supplies.”

“So, who aided you?” He asked.

“A friend.”

He hummed, pulling at a strand of hair and twisting it with his fingers. Obi-Wan was intrigued by your vagueness, hoping to further inquire into your story and learn the details you seemed to openly avoid sharing.

“Here,” you tossed him a large clump of lichen.

He barely caught it against his chest in surprise, surveying you in delighted curiosity.

“Get to work,” you teased.

He smiled, pausing to watch you carefully before copying your actions with the frigid, crystallized vegetation. The olive-tinted herb felt rough beneath his fingers, and as he pulled it apart, he thought to himself.

There seemed to be more to you. Obi-Wan believed this largely in view of his past exposure to secluded beings. These encounters granted the bearded Jedi broad experience with aloof, nefarious, and aggressive personalities from pirates to wartime saboteurs. Yet his superficial impressions of your disposition— outward confidence and affable charisma— did not align with these assumptions.

That ushered him toward a new rationalization— you may not be here by choice. It could potentially explain your obscurity, Obi-Wan thought. Especially if you were being held here against your will, and feared your detainer. If he wanted to at least see if he could help, Obi-Wan would need to gather more information. It was the least he could do given the warmth you’ve shown three stranded Jedi, or who you thought were lost travelers.

“Found it!” Ahsoka yelled from behind Obi-Wan.

He finished tearing his last moss clod, leaving it on the desk before turning around.

“Emissary-class shuttle owner’s workshop manual.” She sighed with relief with a victorious beam as she shook the holobook in the air to make her point.

Obi-Wan watched as Anakin squinted at the media before turning to you quizzically. “Why do you have a holobook dedicated to obscure ancient manuals?”

“There isn’t much else to do as the sole sentient being on an ice planet,” you deadpanned.

Obi-Wan internally chuckled at your infallible logic.

Anakin seemed equally unimpressed. “Touché.”

Obi-Wan was shocked by how effectively a stranger dealt with Anakin’s lip. No argument, no snide remark from his former Padawan. Just, acceptance.

He gazed at you, really stared, hoping to get a stronger sense of your force. To better understand you. But when he concentrated on your life energy, he couldn’t find it. Despite the Force’s link to everything in the galaxy, it seemed that didn’t include you.

Maybe you were, in fact, a criminal. Extremely adept at hiding the truth. Obi-Wan thought it quite possible that he missed key indications of illicitness, thanks to this strangely dormant force signature within you. In that case, he would need to stay on guard. It would be unfortunate if the group of Jedi had to defend against an attempted robbery in addition to crash landing on a deserted ice planet, even if it was three to one. But it would be even more serious if this whole meeting was instead a larger Separatist ploy to isolate and trap two powerful generals. But Obi-Wan wouldn’t let that theory hold much water for long. He knew war had made him somewhat paranoid. Either way, the older Jedi found it necessary to learn more about you during this accidental detour to Hoth.

You interrupted the silence before he could continue his analysis.

“There will be plenty of time to read the manual in the morning.” You advised. “I recommend you all sleep soon. The shelter keeps us warmer underground, but the temperature will still drop drastically soon. It’s best to sleep through it.”

Obi-Wan was warmed by your compassion. “Thank you for your concern.”

He turned to his former Padawan with a knowing look. It was doubtful that Anakin would follow your instructions, he thought. But it’s still better to be polite. At least Obi-Wan certainly knew from the pull of his eyelids and the discomfort in his knees that he would accept your guidance. Even if you were a criminal, it was nearly impossible to steal from a Jedi, even during sleep.

“We will take your advice.”

“Feel free to use the various linens. The bunk is also open to you. Good night.”

Obi-Wan watched as you turned on your heel and walked toward the curtains behind you, disappearing behind them.

He stared at the shimmering, dark red screen that separated the two of you. His conclusion was that you were an enigma, and Obi-Wan found that fascinating. His curiosity was always piqued by the unknown, which would drive his exploratory mind. There seemed to be so much more to you, but he could only scratch the surface. Your intelligence, kindness, and resourcefulness reminded him of great leaders’ and soldiers’ personalities. And yet, here you were, a solitudinarian on a distant planet in the Outer Rim, spending your days reading old holobooks or collecting moss. More and more, he doubted that you had any unlawful connections. But there was still surely more to your story.

He needed to learn who you were, how you got here, and the identity of this mysterious friend, hoping that these answers assured you were here by choice. As a Jedi, however, he was primarily obligated to discover why he failed to register your life force. He wished, no, he found it imperative to solve this mystery before departing from the planet. Though he also hoped to respect your privacy, not prod into your being and mind when you were winding down to rest. Obi-Wan hoped to avoid that altogether unless absolutely necessary. He was The Negotiator after all, and he knew well that gathering information through a conversation rather than prying at your mind would lead to more trust and a clearer picture in the long run.

Obi-Wan’s ears caught shuffling behind him. He twisted to watch Ahsoka collect a few fabrics across the floor while Anakin hunkered down around the holobooks with a few nearby blankets. Obi-Wan snapped a mental image of the scene. He doubted he would ever again have the rare privilege to glimpse at Anakin and a pile of holobooks so intimately collected with brows dipped in concentration. He was clearly desperate to leave this planet, a cold twin to Tatooine. The moment they landed, Obi-Wan was sure that in the back of Anakin’s mind, he was struggling with his memories as a slave boy. This detour was too much of a reminder. Manuals and shuttle specs seemed to serve as his distraction, but he knew it wasn’t enough.

The older Jedi too began to prepare for night, strolling over to the empty cot. He sat in the center, elbows digging into each knee as he rested his chin on the backs of his fingers. For the first time in weeks, Obi-Wan felt comfortable, safe even. There was no last-minute mission, no sleeping on a battlefield, no late-night reports. And it was quiet, peaceful. He scanned the shelter once more, thinking he might get the best sleep he’s had in months.

And he was right.

—

You woke slowly, gently granting your mind room to register its consciousness. Your limbs stirred, testing the width of your linens. In time, each eye relaxed open. Stretching both arms, you sat up, settling into reality as you observed your comfy surroundings in dull lighting. Your bed was soft beneath you with four layers of blankets weighing your form down in its warmth. All that fit in the pilot’s cabin was your bed with limited walking room, but you enjoyed the small space with its elevated concentration of heat and bare walls.

The exhaustion and excitement of yesterday’s trek slowed your morning routine. Your thighs ached from the hours traveling with Meetra, and the detour didn’t help. Glancing at your damp gear sprawled on the floor, you determined it would be at least another couple of hours until your boots, gloves, and fur cloak had dried. You fell back into the mattress with a sigh, bouncing slightly at the impact. You would have been happy to rest for a few more hours. But the moment your head hit the pillow, you knew there was too much to do to lie around. Primarily, addressing the three travelers in the main cabin.

You threw your legs off the bed’s side and pushed yourself off to stand, tossing on a thinner cloak that hung next to you before drawing back the curtains in a slight stumble. Perhaps you should have taken more time to wake.

“Good morning.”

You looked up at Obi-Wan who sat comfortably at your table, legs folded and Holobook in hand.

“Mornin’.” You replied with a smile.

With a stronger gate, you sauntered toward the pile of lichen that had defrosted overnight. A ravenous ache pulled at your stomach as you reached the desk to determine its digestibility. In that moment, you realized you’d forgotten to have supper, and now you were suffering the consequences. Nevertheless, A quick test of the lichen’s plasticity between your index finger and thumb brought out its slimy texture. Perfect. Breakfast was soon to be served.

You briefly glanced back at Obi-Wan. He seemed engrossed in the text before him. “I’m glad you’re enjoying my collection.”

“You have more holobooks of The Old Republic legends than I’ve ever known any one individual to own.” He exclaimed, eyes glued to the screen.

“They’re my favorite stories.”

You leaned over beside the desk to reach into a storage box, pulling out a pair of plates and a couple forks. While in the middle of placing them on the desk, you suddenly recalled exactly who those stories were about.

“Sleep well?” You quickly interjected. The slight pause turned your head. Obi-Wan looked as if he was about to sneeze right at you, but it was more likely that you’d interrupted him mid-thought with your change in topic.

Seemingly disappointed, he readjusted, rolling his shoulders and returning to his story.

“Yes, I did.”

You began to line the plates with lichen. “You and your companions are welcome to my facilities. There’s a trapdoor behind the curtain that will lead you there.”

His features lightened once more. “I’m quite alright.”

Obi-Wan rotated, this time fully facing you in his seat, uncrossing his legs with a hand loosely holding the holobook to the side. “Are you usually this kind to strange travelers?”

Having finished plating the lichen, you picked up both dishes, making your way over to Obi-Wan.

“Only the charming ones.” You winked as you placed breakfast on the table.

Obi-Wan chuckled at your whit, but couldn’t hide the light blush that grazed his cheeks. He quickly buried his face back into the holobook, but you wouldn’t make it that easy.

“Where did everyone go?” You asked.

You used your fork to stick then toss a clump of lichen in your mouth. Its musty tang perfumed your senses, leaving a bitter aftertaste as it slipped along your tongue.

He examined the food before him curiously, picking up a fork to test its consistency.

“They went to fix the shuttle. Anakin stayed up all night reading that manual of yours then departed early this morning with Ahsoka.” He lifted a small piece and took an experimental bite.

“Where does he find the energy?” You exclaimed as you observed him struggle to swallow politely. You tried to hide your faint giggle with a cough.

He shrugged. “Only the Maker knows.”

The cabin echoed with the light clinking of your fork and plate as you continued to eat. “So why are you here?”

Obi-Wan eyed you pointedly. “I enjoy your company far more.”

Despite his confident demeanor, you sensed his intentions reached far beyond his outward manner. It didn’t feel malicious at all. Just, different. As if courtesy and inquisitiveness were not his only motivations.

Your imagination must be getting the best of you, you thought, brushing off your concerns fairly quickly. The man didn’t look like he could hurt a Saccorian grain fly. It was easy to assume that strangers on Hoth had ulterior motives, largely due to your many dealings with pirates and hunters in the last few years. Yet you continued to help them when you crossed paths, even though you were often betrayed. Whether that meant a robbery attempt or something more nefarious. But no matter the threat, no stranger on Hoth has ever posed much danger to you. This wouldn’t be very different.

“Do you say that to all the singular planetary beings you meet?” You teased.

He relaxed into a gentle smirk, returning to the holobook confidently. “Only the kind-hearted ones.”

You beamed at his charm.

Yet, concern still tugged at the back of your mind. He still seemed to be hiding something.

“So how did you come to Hoth?” He inquired.

You struggled internally for a moment as you examined the man. There was no cloud covering that statement, no alternative meaning. It appeared he hoped to understand you better out of pure curiosity, and not for any personal gain.

But why? Why not aid his companions to hasten their escape from this icy trap? Because your company was so pleasant? No, something wasn’t adding up. You must have been reading him wrong. Best to keep it vague. To stay safe, and keep your promise.

“I was brought here when I was young. There are some dangerous people who aren’t my biggest fan.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrow lifted as he watched you carefully. “Dangerous people? What did you do?”

You grinned, finding his overly troubled demeanor for the safety of a stranger endearing.

“Nothing yet. They just don’t like the idea of what I might do because of an old story.”

Obi-Wan nodded, unconvinced. “And I assume your friend brought you here.”

“Yes, he understood my background and brought me here to train.”

Obi-Wan perked up, raising his eyebrows. “To train you?” He questioned, staring intently.

His interest was beginning to concern you. It was time for you to be more cautious when formulating responses.

“To protect myself.”

“Ah,” he nodded, but a hair dissatisfied. “What is he like?” He leaned back again with the holobook, as if pretending to be less interested. “You friend.”

“Well,” you thought for a moment. “I suppose he’s more like a mentor.”

His eyes shot up, and you hesitated once more. Obi-Wan must have noticed as he conveyed an encouraging smile, motioning for you to continue while returning to his story.

You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, your lichen long forgotten as you tried to picture him. You endeavored to visualize your memories on the cold, rounded metal hull above.

“He’s wise, soft-spoken, the kindest man you’d ever meet.” You emphasized. “He always makes sure I’m focusing on the here and now.”

You paused.

“Sometimes I’d put the weight of the world on my shoulders and he would always knock me down a peg.” A laugh escaped you, head falling in mirth.

Obi-Wan’s warm eyes glistened as you calmed. You took a moment to ruminate further, returning your gaze upwards, nose wrinkling.

“I-“ you paused as a wave of sadness washed over you. “I miss him.”

You looked back down at Obi-Wan. A swirl of emotions played on his face. Sympathy, mostly, but an air of curiosity seemed to bubble underneath.

“He sounds lovely.”

His words felt authentic, but the battle within Obi-Wan that danced so clearly around him was hard to ignore. You were beginning to question your delicate trust in the man. The many questions with veiled intent suggested that he may know your true identity. And if he avoided asking you directly, it could point to dark motives, or a malicious plan.

His highly inquisitive behavior up to this point had subconsciously fueled your anxiety. Your suspicions could no longer be shunned. Despite hoping to steer clear of invading the privacy of these travelers, it seemed that you had no choice. You needed to know more. For your own sake, if not for your mentor’s. He told you to stay safe, and you weren’t going to break that promise. Avoiding scrutinizing this group’s true intentions was too much of a risk to that.

His eyes were still set on you, so you returned the favor. You stared deeply into his gaze, preparing to investigate the roots of his being, until you saw it. In the reflection of his eyes, something strange sparkled. You refocused your vision on his retinas, a crease forming on your forehead. And what you saw felt like lighting to your core.

You launched from your chair, knocking it over as you stumbled a few steps away from the stranger, mouth hung open and eyes wide.

“Who are you?” You asked firmly, making each vowel distinct.

You felt tricked, made a fool. You let your guard down a few times in these many years of caution, but this time would be terribly different. This wasn’t the average hunter or trader. This was an entirely different animal. And you were about to pay the price of this mistake with your life. Unless, you did something quick.

Obi-Wan, on the other hand, seemed perplexed at your sudden change. He watched you with concern.

“Are you alright?” He acted carefully. “Did I say something wrong?”

But this time, you refused to believe his seemingly empty words. “No more games.”

He slowly stood with his hands up as if surrendering while your backward creep accelerated.

“Who are you?! How did you find me?!” Your patience was wearing thin.

Obi-Wan took a wary step forward, hands remaining lifted. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Another step.

“Could you explain?”

You felt the curtain brush against the pads of your fingers as you finally reached it. His continued steady approach had you feeling cornered. It was time to act now. You slipped your right hand behind the divide, feeling the wall for your hanging weapon while keeping your sight trained on Obi-Wan.

Finally, you felt the cold metal hilt. You wrapped your fingers around it and held it tight, keeping it trained behind the curtain.

“I’m warning you…”

He took another step forward.

There was no longer a choice. You activated and thrust your lightsaber in front of you, its gray hue created a pocket of hot light in the shelter between the two of you. Its tip hung inches from his chest.

“Not. Another. Step.” You warned rigidly.

—

Obi-Wan’s mind was racing. New thoughts and questions stumbled over each other in an endless stampede of disorientation.

Hours ago, he advised Anakin and Ahsoka to attempt shuttle repairs without him for the chance to discover your truth. He was convinced now that you were no thief. The older Jedi checked his pockets and lightsaber to ensure everything was in place when he awoke at daybreak. It would have been the best opportunity to strike, and yet, you didn’t take it.

Obi-Wan’s priorities centered. He needed to understand why your life force was unreadable, why your presence on this planet was shrouded in mystery, and why a person who seemed so dedicated to others chose to live in isolation, assuming you had any say in the matter.

When he explored your collections this morning, Obi-Wan was intrigued by the sheer number of Old Republic Jedi tales included. He found it especially telling when you claimed they were your favorite, but lost the opportunity to probe that declaration further.

Regardless of this small success, Obi-Wan’s efforts to connect with your signal proved fruitless. As the breakfast conversation continued, he tried to explore the space around and within you. But still, he felt, nothing. No matter how deeply he engrained himself into the Force, he could not glean one iota of life from you. It obfuscated his mind with theories as he struggled to rationalize this anomaly, but not one postulation had real merit.

So, he switched tactics, relying on his talents as a master negotiator. Yet even then, he perceived little progress. Obi-Wan did gain ground when he learned why you’ve spent so many years alone on Hoth. He was interested, yet bothered, by the possible threat to your life, wondering how a being so harmless could attract such dangers. Such conclusions opened the door to more inquiries.

But then, he learned about your ‘friend.’ How he taught you self-defense and emanated qualities of insight, thoughtfulness, and tranquility— all characteristics that were highly familiar to the Jedi. He reasoned, no, hoped that his suspicions were correct. That he knew this unidentified man. But just when he was about to pose that quintessential query, something went exceptionally wrong.

Now he stood very cautiously, hoping to de-escalate this rapidly spiraling situation.

At least one question had been answered. He finally felt a strong force signature within you, like water through a collapsed dam. And if all was calm, he may have even asked you how you were able to so completely conceal your energy readings.

But now, there were many, far more pressing inquiries that mandated answers, he thought, as he stared down the blade of a Gray Jedi.

“Y/n.” Obi-Wan soothed, dropping his arms beside him. “I promise I will not harm you. And I will respond to any questions you may have about who we are. But I must ask you something very important first.” He watched you closely for any change, but all he could feel was frustrated suspicion radiating off your figure.

“First, you tell me who you really are.” You demanded.

“I am Obi-Wan Kenobi, a Jedi. We are tasked with preserving peace in the galaxy.” He explained, clasping his hands behind him.

“You’re a Jedi?” You questioned, the lightsaber’s point faltering slightly.

“Yes,” he continued in a calm, clear tone. “Y/n, I must know the name of your friend.”

You hesitated, causing his eyes to soften. Whatever he did to scare you profoundly triggered deep regret within him. He hoped to regain the trust of a possibly abandoned Jedi, especially if his speculations proved true.

“Please.” He breathed.

You loosened ever so slightly. “His name is Qui-Gon Jinn.”

Even though he somewhat surmised this truth, Obi-Wan was still taken aback. He took a step away, turning from you as he tried to wipe off the shock pooling around his parted lips. He sensed you further lower your lightsaber in confusion, now aiming it at the ground.

Obi-Wan breathed deeply as he reminisced about his former master. He remembers the many times throughout the years in which Qui-Gon disappeared without informing him or The Council of his travels. He always thought it was just his Master’s nature. His independence and desire to make his own path shine through. Little did Obi-Wan know, Qui-Gon Jinn was raising and training a new Padawan in secret. Yet still, some young piece of Obi-Wan was not surprised. This certainly seemed like something his old Master would do.

He turned back to you, a wistful expression poking through his racing thoughts. “Qui-Gon Jinn was my master.”

He watched as you deactivated your saber, letting your arm fall to the side at this revelation. Your lips slightly parted, eyes searching the older Jedi for any possible mistake before reluctantly settling into the truth. “Was?”

Obi-Wan sighed. “He died ten years ago fighting the Sith on Naboo.”

Horror invaded your features. Waves of sadness and despair poured out of your being as you gently staggered to a nearby wall, steadying against it with your head hanging between your arms. Obi-Wan’s heart dropped, knowing all too well how you felt. He swiftly moved behind you, gently squeezing your shoulder.

“I’m so very sorry,” he whispered into your ear.

Obi-Wan felt your shoulder rise and fall as long, shaky breaths filled the air. He couldn’t imagine not only losing your Master, but likely the only other being you’ve truly known. The blue-eyed Jedi realized your world was crashing down before you.

But somehow, after only a few moments, your breathing stabilized. Slowly, you stood up straight, removing your hands from the wall to turn to him. Deep roots of sorrow controlled your features, your face loosely stained with a few stray tears. Removing his hand from your shoulder, he watched you with anticipation.

“I think he told me about you.” Your eyes tethered to the ground.

Obi-Wan felt a morsel of hope tug at his chest as he watched you sympathetically. The possibility of learning something new about his former Master was tantalizing. After so many meditation sessions in which he failed to connect with Qui-Gon’s spirit, this could be his chance to feel tethered to his Master one last time.

“He told me that you worried too much.” A reminiscing smile graced your lips.

Obi-Wan couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, relaxing shoulders he didn’t realize were tense. “That sounds like Master Jinn.”

Your sparkling, silver eyes met his intensely. "It's not how it sounds. It was his way of building my confidence."

Your sudden beam at the memory left Obi-Wan in awe of your strength. Your gaze trailed to your holobook collection.

“I read all these stories of amazingly powerful Jedi who seemed invincible in the face of the most dire odds.” He watched you motion to the piles of knowledge. “I never felt like I could quite live up to their memory, but Qui-Gon was always sure to remind me that like all great Jedi.” You paused to send him a lighthearted smirk through dejected eyes. “Including his Padawan, I had no need to worry. The Force would help me grow into the Jedi I’m meant to be.” Sincerity seeped from your words.

Obi-Wan felt as if the hole in his heart punctured at Naboo ten years ago just experienced its first stitch. To find another piece of Qui-Gon, another connection to him, was a dream made reality. Not just by words he never heard him say, but through you, his secret Padawan.

Although there was still much for him to learn, he already found you to be one of the more idyllic Jedi he’s met. Not only in your strong connection to the Force, but from your person. The fortitude, compassion, and honesty you’ve shown in only a day is an example often demonstrated to initiates. That thought brought him back to a question he needed answered.

“But why?” Obi-Wan exclaimed to no one in particular. He turned on his heel to pace in thought, a hand gently resting below his chin. “Why did Qui-Gon bring you here? Allow you to live your days in isolation?” He spun back around, now directing his thoughts at you. “Who was he hiding you from that The Order could not face? Did he even tell The Council?”

You sighed, your eyes falling down to your hands where you gently circled your thumb into your palm. “He hid me from the world, and The Council, because of the prophecy.”

Obi-Wan cocked his head. A prophecy? Another prophecy?

“What prophecy?”

You looked off into the distance. And while your vision was limited by the small confines of an ancient ship buried underground, Obi-Wan thought your eyes were taking you quadrants away. Then, you faced him.

“You should probably sit down.”

He followed the guidance of your hand as it lifted to lead the way back toward the table. The sound of wooden chairs slightly scratching across rusted metal colored the sudden stillness. Obi-Wan settled, glancing at you only to notice your eyes glued to the peeling Japor ivory below. Your finger graced a discolored patch with interest. Obi-Wan waited patiently, hands clasped before him, your hesitation driving his curiosity through the hull.

You raised your vision. “The prophecy tells of a protector, a guide, known as The Guardian. It tells of a Jedi to be discovered and trained outside of The Order.”

“A Gray Jedi...” Obi-Wan mused aloud.

“Yes.” You confirmed.

Obi-Wan’s mind circled through your words. “And who does The Guardian protect?”

“The Chosen One. The Guardian must do whatever is necessary to stand between the Sith and The Chosen One so that they may return balance to the Force.” You explained.

Obi-Wan watched as you peeked at him, a sudden amusement dancing upon your lashes.

“It certainly puts a target on my back for anyone who doesn’t want that to happen.” You chuckled.

Obi-Wan sent you a thin look of disapproval at your dark joke before returning to his thoughts. In all his research about The Chosen One when preparing to be Anakin’s Master, he not once saw mention of The Guardian.

Obi-Wan’s brows furrowed. “I’ve never heard of this.” He admitted quietly.

“Few have. Qui-Gon discovered the legend by chance in the Holocron Vault when he was retrieving something for his Master. I think he said it was part of the Jedi Archives at The Temple, but you’d know better than me.”

“You’re correct.” He confirmed.

You nodded gratefully. “Anyways, from what I understand, The Council feared this aspect of The Chosen One’s prophecy because of its transparent separation from The Order. So they hid it away.”

Obi-Wan took a moment to gather his thoughts. The ramifications of your words were astounding. Another entity, willed into existence by the Force, with the purpose of aiding Anakin on his journey. In a sense, he felt relieved, like a burden lifted from his conscience. Qui-Gon was supposed to train Anakin, but when he passed, the duty fell to him. He never really felt ready, stumbling through ways to guide the young Jedi when he himself had only just become a Knight. But it seems as if the Force works in mysterious ways.

He was equally disturbed by the prophesy’s wording. If a Guardian was needed to protect The Chosen One from the Sith, it suggested that Anakin’s fate was not sealed on the side of the light. And that terrified him. Anakin always struggled with his place within The Order, and while he was very proud of the man he’s grown into, he knew that Anakin still grappled with his intense fears and deep-seated anger.

“I need to know.”

Obi-Wan returned from his thoughts, motioning for you to continue. You watched him for a moment. Obi-Wan could see the gears turn through complicated maneuvers in your head. Then, determination settled on your face.

“Are you The Chosen One?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “No, not me.”

He noticed your brows crease in confusion. Quickly, the older Jedi played over the morning’s events. His mind centered on what started this conversation in the first place.

“Is that why you were afraid?”

You shot him a questioning look. “I was not afraid, I was shocked.” You staunchly defended, erupting within him a subtle sense of amusement.

But the sudden downcast of your eyes changed his tune.

“I thought you were a Sith.” You candidly explained.

This time it was Obi-Wan’s turn for shock to contort his features. “A Sith?! Whatever gave you that idea?”

“It’s the beard.” You said stone-eyed, pretending to scratch phantom whiskers on your face with an embellishing movement of the fingers.

Obi-Wan nearly choked on air.

You burst out laughing, holding your stomach for good measure. Obi-Wan, however, was unimpressed with your antics.

He leaned back, crossing his arms as an exceedingly light smile garnished his feigned displeasure. “Very funny.”

Your cackle died down before you seemed to relax back into the gravity of the situation.

“In all seriousness,” you began, taking a moment to compose yourself. “When I looked into your eyes, I saw the reflection of my own, and they were silver.”

“And?” Obi-Wan questioned, not seeing the point of her observation.

“Obi-Wan.” You sighed, glancing down at your hands, which you now had clasped together on the table before you.

You raised your head, staring into his gaze once more. And to Obi-Wan, it felt as if you were gazing into his soul.

“My eyes are y/e/c.”

The older Jedi’s jaw fell open as his eyebrows raised. He was dumbfounded, not understanding how that was possible. The first thing he noticed when he met you at the crash site was your extraordinarily bright, silver eyes.

“The legend says, that when The Guardian’s journey begins, it will initiate their transformation. Their eyes will begin to shine the color of their fate.”

Obi-Wan hummed. “And how does that journey begin?”

“By meeting someone tied to their fate.”

Then, it clicked. “Ah, a Sith or The Chosen One.”

“Exactly.”

A hush washed over the two of you as Obi-Wan considered the connotation of your eyes. The two passionate orbs that dotted your face shined a color with deep meaning.

“And your eyes are silver. The color of balance, purity, peace.” He mused, a hand lightly stroking his cheek in contemplation.

“Which hopefully reflects the future.” You countered.

Obi-Wan’s eyes sparkled almost as bright as yours. “A hope we share.”

However, once more, his countenance was shrouded in rumination at a discrepancy.

“But your lightsaber is gray.”

He noticed the corner of your eyes crinkle. “My journey has just begun.”

Obi-Wan matched your expression. “Of course, and was Qui-Gon able to prepare you before…” he trailed off.

You exhaled. “He taught me everything I know, but I must admit, most of my saber and force training was advanced through The Muntuur in the last years.”

Intrigue gripped Obi-Wan, edging him to lean toward you, hands gliding along the table. “The Muntuur?”

“An ancient Jedi training gadget Qui-Gon found abandoned on a distant planet. He never told me where.”

“Interesting.” Obi-Wan mused. “I’d like to analyze this device, if that is alright with you.”

“That’s fine. But first, I must know.” You watched him keenly. “Who is The Chosen One?”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to answer when a light thud sounded behind him, followed by a ripple of frosty wind against the back of his neck.

“Y/n, I could hug you!” Obi-Wan heard. He turned in time to see Anakin jump down the shelter’s entrance with a wide grin, avoiding the ladder completely in his excitement. Ahsoka made a similar entrance, her lips quirked up.

“That manual was detailed enough for me to salvage secondary parts from other sectors of the shuttle in the repairs! Who knew that bucket of bolts had so many adaptable segments? Had to use every single one.”

Anakin froze mid-saunter, a meager speechlessness overcoming him as he seemed to register the humorless faces watching him from the table, including his former Master who was particularly annoyed. Obi-Wan watched the young Jedi rub his hands together, partly from the freezing outdoors but mostly, it seemed, in an attempt to cut the tension.

“Am I interrupting something?” He chuckled nervously.

Obi-Wan spoke. “Anakin, we need to talk.”

“Is he…”

“Yes.” He finished your thought, glancing back at you to glean your reaction to that sudden divulgence.

“Wow.” You mumbled before sending Anakin an earnest look.

“You should probably sit down.”

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fetch-me-penguins · 1 month

Text

i want to live (Astarion x VampireSpawn! Tav)

Every minute that he holds on without loosing it, is a minute closer to dawn. A minute closer to whatever end this may have. The only thing a vampire can feel is hunger, people say. Gods, he wishes it was true. or Cazador takes Tav.

An angsty take on the premise of Cazador kidnapping Tav to replace a dead spawn on the Ascension ritual.

Read it on AO3

CHPTR 1 (you're here) | CHPTR 2 | CHPTR 3 | CHPTR 4

Out of all the places where they have camped so far, a Guild safehouse was not the one he expected to have the most spectacular view of them all.

At one of the highest points of the Lower City, in the courtyard of a seemingly abandoned summer house, Astarion has an unobstructed view of the sun meeting the sea as it sets in a show of blood orange rays and heavy purple clouds. A gentle wind, running through the trees and the overgrown wild lawn at the courtyard where they have set their camp, the heavy stench of the city getting lost between the blooming flowers and aromatic shrubbery.

He can hear a bellowing bard on a tavern a few properties down, the gliding sound of a sharpening stone against metal some place across the firepit, leaves rustling in the wind, and the owlbear’s claws as he stalks pigeons from behind the dry fountain at the entrance of the courtyard.

It is a beautiful evening at a peaceful camp, and he is indifferent to it all.

Even though he knows in his bones that something is missing, he can’t find it in himself to care.

Such is the nature of the Calm Emotions spell, apparently.

His mind is molasses, stuck on trying to separate his senses from his thoughts despite the throbbing migraine he has been nursing for an eternity, it feels like.

He can’t remember when or what was the last thing he drank, or how many hours he’s been awake. As far as he knows, the log where he sits is the only place where he exists. The only place where he is real and thinks.

There’s a wide pot in front of him, filled with a dark liquid and strange jutting shapes that resemble fabric.

He stares. He is almost sure it’s dye.

Puzzling.

Did he need something dyed? Is the clothing even his? How long has he been sitting here? He can vaguely remember seeing the high noon sun reflected on the surface of the dark water as it steamed and reeked, but surely it hasn’t been that long?

The sun sinks lower, showing off to no one.

The owlbear trips and falls with a thump and a whine, the pigeons fly away in a flurry of loud flapping and cooing. They settle on the roof. The sharpening stone glides. The bard is off pitch. The wind races.

He is cold. His hands and forearms are stained a faint hue of indigo. Like a drow.

They don’t feel his. If he flexes the fingers, they seem to move on a delay. Heavy, clunky.

His body is here, but his will is… somewhere else.

The untethered feeling should be nauseating in its familiarity, but it feels like nothing instead. Jarring, in a detached way his empty brain can’t begin to piece together. A pot of ink poured over a letter to hide whatever secrets it used to hold.

Just like the pounding headache, he hasn’t been able to get rid of the stone slab over his chest, a deep feeling of wrongness that he can’t quite place.

He searches for an anchor, something beyond the log that may make sense and he follows the sound of the sharpening stone.

It’s Karlach, sitting on a crate and sharpening her axe with minute care across the firepit. The orange glow of the sky reflects on the blade, casting light over her red rimmed eyes and a deep frown on her face. The mirror shine of her weapon stirs something in Astarion, a visceral urge to take his own blades and run…somewhere.

The urge fades as soon as it comes, drowned by another wave of numbness that he attempts to resist to no avail. The longer he tries to hold on to the memory of his daggers, the greater the pain grows, snaking beneath his eyes and into his teeth. It makes his forehead feel like it’s about to burst open until he surrenders to it, breathing shallow and bending over the tub.

He is cold. Hungry. And so gods damned tired he can’t even begin to think why, out of all the people in their bloody camp, he was the one given dyeing duty.

A man clears his throat right beside him, and Astarion can’t even bring himself to even blink as he meets Gale’s pitiful attempt at a warm smile.

“Time to take them out, I gather?” he says, gently placing an empty wooden tub at his feet.

He stares at the wizard’s face, the dark purple circles under his eyes and the straining at the corners of his mouth, his pale, dry skin.

He knows he is under a spell. He knows that this wizard is the one holding it over him. And yet, he feels nothing but a faint whisper of annoyance

Puzzling indeed.

Gale’s brows furrow slightly at the silence, and the fog over Astarion’s brain rises and swells. He fights it, trying not to drown in the void again. A throb pierces his temples, a familiar presence scratching and throwing itself with all of its might against the rock solid walls surrounding the numbness and confusion. His will, fighting the spell with almost rabid desperation.

Gale’s strained smile fades, and his eyes sharpen. The fog thickens and Astarion is pretty sure it’s going to split open his head and make him crack his teeth.

“Stop that” he snarls, his lips curling back, barely hearing the sharpening stone stop.

Gale doesn’t step back when Astarion closes in on his space, filling his lungs with the acrid smell of the wizard’s blood, the pain of his own hunger and the raging migraine the only thing standing against the muck in his head.

It’s Gale’s turn to stand still and stare.

“Astarion,” he starts, voice level but not moving an inch, “We agreed to this, remember? You told me yesterday evening to hold the spell until we could set out.”

He can’t remember, and he can’t even be alarmed at the fact that he can’t remember. He can only only puzzle over the here and now, everything else has been swallowed by the numbness.

Gale sighs and steps back, gazing over Astarion’s shoulder and slightly assenting to someone before his eyes return to his face. The fog barely recedes, but the pain dulls to a thud instead of a piercing lance. Astarion all but collapses back on the log, aching to claw at his own chest to force his lungs to take a full breath, to feel something other than the all consuming void.

The other man sinks down to one knee, his eyes searching Astarion’s face with something akin to pity.

Astarion knows himself. Which is why he knows that everything, even this, is amiss.

He should be sneering at the wizard and his pompous self righteousness, furious at the sorry state of his hands, fuming at the bloody bard with a piss poor pitch at the tavern next door, and he should be somewhere else. Somewhere important. The ache of not being there refuses to let him breathe and he can’t understand why, the answers locked behind the closed gates of his mind, tearing apart his temples every time he even thinks of getting them back.

He did this to himself, then. He gave another person his mind on a leash, and agreed to have disobedience punished with pain. And apparently, he made the choice at some point, to let his mind waddle in the muck instead of facing whatever it is that has everyone acting out of sorts. Specially himself.

He must have lost it pretty badly, to have turned to the fucking wizard for help.

Gale settles on the ground and moves the empty tub closer, pulling his long sleeves back and reaching for one of the pieces of fabric closest to the surface. Astarion follows his motions, reaching into the dark water and pulling on a piece of linen, some sort of sleeve now dyed a deep midnight blue.

Gale sighs again and he clears his throat, apparently intending to say something, when a shooting vine bursts from one of the overgrown garden plots, raining down a flurry of roots, clover and the busted pieces of a wooden hatch door. Karlach runs towards the noise, axe in hand, when the muffled sound of Shadowheart’s battle cry is followed by the head of her morningstar, smashing open the rest of the hidden hatch.

Astarion can feel Gale’s concentration on the spell sway, as he gets up and nears the hole in the ground where Shadowheart now has emerged, dragging the tumbling body of a young woman with a burlap sack over her head.

“Don’t tell me that’s-” Gale begins to question, a hint of anger in his tone.

“Yes, she is.” Wyll answers, voice flat as he emerges from the ground, followed by Lae’zel and Jaheira, who watches the scene unfold with her hands on her hips as soon as she is out.

Astarion is about to start twisting the linen shirt in his hands when something makes him stop cold, a whiff of the girl’s scent piercing through the sea of numbness and rattling something inside his chest. Sour sweat, the Flaming Fist’s standard issue soap, traces of orange peel oil. And underneath the drool and bile soaked front of her shirt, wine. Heavily spiced and bitter.

The blood covering her is new, though. It hadn’t been there before, he muses as the headache spreads from his forehead to the back of his scalp.

Shadowheart all but hauls the girl towards the empty rooms surrounding the courtyard and kicks open one of the wooden doors, splintering the frame. She unceremoniously drops the girl on the ground, her skull hitting the floor with a loud crack, and exits the room without looking back, stomping in a beeline towards the water barrel.

The sun has already set behind the ocean, but the bright orange light reflecting on the clouds renders their little group’s gathering around the firepit in a hellish light. Wyll groans as he takes Karlach’s place on the crate, massaging the side of his neck with a grimace. Lae’zel has taken to sitting on a log, her eyes dully following Shadowheart’s pacing from the water barrel to her tent as she forcefully removes pieces of her armour and throws them to the ground. Gale approaches with branches and a couple of thin logs to start their fire for the evening.

Astarion can hear Jaheira talking to a couple of the Harpers guarding the roof, but his eyes follow the interest of his nose, to the darkened room where their new prisoner hasn’t moved. Her wrists are bound, but it seems hardly necessary; she is missing all her fingers, except for her left pinkie.

He doesn’t need the tadpole or his head entirely clear to realize that whatever the rest of his companions were up to during the day, it has not gone over well.

“Well?” Gale prompts, once the silence has stretched long enough.

Wyll stares into the fire and feeds it some small branches before answering, “She said she cannot spare the hands. Specially now that she has weeded out rats on her den. She is gathering whomever can hold a sword to hold together what she can of the city”

Gale’s face contorts in a sneer and the walls around Astarion’s mind tremble.

“Whomever? More orphans? Is that it?” he almost spits out.

Wyll stays silent, and after a beat he responds, strained.

“The Flaming Fist is scattered after my father’s brush with the Absolute, the Watch all but disappeared under Gortash. They have at most two weeks before the fight for the city begins. If I were in her place-” Wyll’s mismatched eyes don’t meet Gale’s when he scoffs. The walls get a few hairline cracks and Astarion can feel the weight over his chest getting heavier and heavier, a vice growing around his throat.

“You wouldn’t have done that. And would have stood by your word.” Gale insists, bitterness seeping further in his tone.

“Chk. Shut up, both of you.” Lae’zel hisses in their direction, “Focus your anger on something useful or stop wasting it.”

Silence fills the fire pit, and Gale seems to get a hold of his temper, the Calm Emotions spell gathering back its steadiness.

“After what we did for them. After what she did for Nine Finger’s, for so many years. I don’t-” Gale sighs, rubbing at his eyes.

“Nine Finger’s is not like either of you.” Jaheira says as she approaches on long strides. “Loyalty in the Guild does not come cheap, and we have earned it. If she’d had the means to pay it back and hold us in her debt, she wouldn’t have hesitated to use them.” She removes the cork to her waterskin and takes a long drink. “But she doesn’t have the means. And the fact it’s one of her most loyal assets is the one in that palace, well…” she lets the sentence wander off into the night, putting the cork back on the waterskin and staring pensively into the fire.

“It was a long shot anyway, but we had to try.” she says with finality, her keen eyes scanning every face across the fire.

The silence stretches as Shadowheart joins the pit, her scowl lessened by exhaustion. Astarion realizes that he is still holding the linen shirt in his hands, his fingers now wrinkled and stained a nearly black shade of blue. He drops it into the dye water once more, the splashing sound of it the only thing to accompany the crackling of the wood burning in the pit.

“What about her?” asks Karlach, nodding in the direction of the room where the girl still hasn’t moved an inch.

Wyll looks pointedly at Jaheira.

“A show of good faith from the Guild. They don’t claim her, or her actions.” she stops once more, staring straight into Astarion’s direction. “We may dispose of her, as we plea-”

“Excuse me?” Gale interrupts her, “Dispose of her? Is this what we are doing now? Are we going to take turns on chopping up the only finger she has left?!”

“Gale, please-” Wyll rises to his feet.

“I hold no love for that-that individual in there. But it’s clear as day, that she has been through enough.”

Jaheira’s face twists into a sneer, her eyes fixating on the flames that seem to grow taller.

“That individual invited spawn into our camp and took our friend, the woman she called sister, to her doom. She has worked against her own Guild, against the Gate, for months! You cannot fathom the damage she has done!”

“She almost succeeded in killing me, so I can gather some! But I won’t be her executioner. She didn’t need to walk on her own broken feet all the way here, just to end up in a gallow with a different view!”

Jaheira seems to grow larger in the whipping light of the fire, her cold stare turning slowly towards Gale.

“Do you need a list of what that bastard is doing to our friend in that palace, wizard? Can you stop thinking of yourself for a minute?”

Gale’s concentration snaps like a tree in a hurricane, and Astarion gets a taste of everything he has been holding back.

He is a pig for the slaughter, a bloody canal has split open his chest and cracked open his ribs, but his lungs are frozen, refusing to expand. The firepit tilts, his vision blurs in a red and black fog, the burning logs and heated voices turn into a senseless cacophony that rises endlessly. He heaves onto the floor, his brain tearing itself apart between running away into the sunset or darting into the streets of the Lower City, gutting everything that may cross his path on his way to rip apart Aurelia and Leon, for what they have dared to take from him. She is gone, she is gone, he took her screaming four days ago and he is waiting for Astarion to come willingly to the slaughterhouse, to present his neck for sacrifice a second time. The wine on the girl’s clothes is an Utterdark, a favourite of the Master; a sickeningly familiar mix of spices, forever intertwined in his brain with the scent of rotting blood, rat piss and spawn waste in the kennels. Nails dig into his scalp, a burning pain that instead of tether him as it should, sinks him further into the sea of despair. The wine had been the only whiff of a smell on his year inside the coffin, the Master pouring himself a glass over the stone lid, just to let him catch its scent mixed with blood already in the glass. He hears his screeching laugh, the rattling of the chain whip, his own molars breaking, broken bone grinding against raw nerves and vermin flesh. She is there, she is strapped onto the rack, the stones of the palace drinking in her precious blood. And he is here, loosing his fucking mind in front of his own companions.

It stops at once, just like it began.

He finds himself on his hands and knees, staring to the cobblestone floor in the courtyard of the camp. The heavy silence only interrupted by Gale’s quiet cursing and Astarion’s own ragged breathing.

His arms tremble and he is so dizzy that he lets himself flop down on his back, shadows at the edges of his vision creeping back and forth in time with the renewed thudding at the back of his brain. His throat is raw and his breath shallow, but slowly a few stars blur back into focus, alongside a tiefling’s worried face hovering over him.

“This is not about revenge, Jaheira” a male voice says. There’s a slow breath before an answer comes.

“That is not the reason why she is here.”

The tiefling is slow and deliberate on guiding Astarion by the shoulders, first to get up from the ground and then to sit down on a log close to the fire. He lets himself be steered, still too addled to feel any hint of disgust towards himself for it.

The fire is mesmerizing, a much better sight than Gale’s conflicted face as something seems to dawn on him, and Jaheira’s solemn expression when she readies to speak again.

“The truth has to be spoken. Hazel has most likely been turned by now. We need to plan accordingly. And for that, we need to talk. All of us.”

She walks closer and drops to a knee in front of Astarion, blocking his sight of the fire and the blurry silhouettes of their companions. Her aged face fills his vision, her eyes purposeful but not unkind.

“We need you here, Astarion, really here. You know the inside of his lair, the dirty tricks he may use. Any advantage we can get, we need it now. We have to move at dawn.”

He is still shaking mildly, phantom traces of whatever had been going through his mind before he found himself crawling on the floor still floating around the fog inside his brain. It is an instinct to avoid Jaheira’s searching stare, whatever part of his brain that actually understands what she is saying taking control.

Her brows furrow slightly before softening again, her face loosing some of the tension around her eyes and mouth. She almost seems to grow old in front of him.

“I know a thing or two about loosing people, my friend. But the day they took my husband from me…” her eyes get lost on some point over Astarion’s shoulder, her mouth forming a thin line before she returns her gaze to him, “I have not forgotten that pain. So know, that when I ask you to let the spell run its course and get yourself together, I am aware of what it means.”

The walls around his mind hold back most of it, but the taste of bile at the back of his throat is reminder enough of the full force of what is happening beyond the limits of the spell. He’s not just drowning in despair. He’s terrified.

“He will be waiting.” His voice is a broken, whispered thing.

“Yes.” Jaheira answers, holding his gaze without flinching. “But you are not alone.”

His eyes drift towards the fire at her back, where a log and some pieces of broken furniture have been fed to the fire. The far off bard hasn’t stopped singing, although there’s a distinctly nostalgic quality to his bellowing now.

The tune is familiar, tugging at the strings in his throat and pounding at the insides of his temples.

The girl’s blood sings to him from a few meters away, but the wine on her clothes stills him with an iron grip at the nape of his neck.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

The druid sighs, and after a moment of consideration, she leans in closer.

“You know to fear your former master. But right now, you need to bear your teeth through that fear; let it wash over you and believe that you will get to dwell on it once everything is said and done. If not for her, for yourself.” She whispers, quieter than the breeze running through the courtyard.

His body has been numb and foreign for days, like a sleeping limb that refuses to recover sensation. At some point in the last five minutes though, the walls have thinned. He can feel it now, distant but clear. The wind on his arms, and a rising sense of panic that clings to her every word.

“You get to try to get her back. You get a chance to put the spawn on the ground and rise as your own man, Astarion.” Her hand is warm as she grips onto his, her earnest eyes unblinking. “You get to try. So try.”

He can feel it creeping on his spine, wrapping itself around his ribs and deep inside his skull. The full force of the last four days looming on the horizon, a wave gaining height.

Jaheira waits and doesn’t let go of his stained hand. The wind howls through the trees, the fire crackles and whips into the darkened sky.

You are not alone, she said. He knows these words, they matter to him. They echo in his bones, they loosen his chest just enough.

He grips Jaheira’s hand in return and assents before letting go. He closes his eyes and feels the walls crumble all the way, the crest of despair standing still for a moment.

This time he has half a mind to turn around, before it drags him under.

.............................................

He has no idea who the nonchalant performance is for any more, but at this point of the night he is way to exhausted to puzzle over anything.

Wyll, Karlach and Gale linger at the fire, spitting venom at Nine Fingers and her excuses, whilst Astarion wipes his hands of the grime from sharpening the last of the blades he’s settled on taking with him. He sneers at his hands, still dark blue and now smelling of steel shavings and polish. A cleric, a druid and a former Chosen of Mystra, bested by a bit of indigo dye.

He is not feeling optimistic about their chances.

Although, that may have more to do with the hunger burning a hole through his abdomen, rather than the actual state of affairs.

The spell may be lifted, and he may be able to take shallow breaths now, but its mostly because he has willed himself not to think about it, any of it.

There’s plenty to stew over anyway.

Like the fact that the pedantic vampire lord would surely choke on his wine if he knew that there existed a floor plan of his state on some courtyard in the Lower City, drawn by his own spawn with a piece of chalk. Crude marks for hidden entrances that Astarion knew like the back of his eyelids, traps that he’d been an unfortunate test subject for; and a short explanation, given in the flattest, most unconcerned voice he’d managed, of what intimately little he knew of Cazador’s magical preferences.

If Jaheira had been expecting more, she doesn’t show it. She merely nods and listens, even as Gale’s heart skips a beat at the mention of necromancy, and Karlach mutters a dejected “Of course” the moment he mentions Cazador’s misty form he’d used once, on a game of cat and mouse on the one night he’d dared to visit his own grave. Useless details they don’t get to know.

It may not be all that his former master can do, and he knows it well. But it is well past what Astarion could stomach to tell.

The metallic tang of polish clings to his skin with stubbornness, and the tavern next door has fallen silent a while ago. The wind rustles through the leaves above and he can tell with acute awareness, that the blood on the girl’s stumps has soaked through one of her bandages.

He clings to the pain in his gut, forcing himself to turn his head towards the fire instead of the alluring dark room. He is drawn to it, the way a fly aims for a rotting carcass on the street; and he feels the same disgust for that girl the way he does for the fly.

No one has mentioned her again. Not Wyll, who is strategically sitting down so he is giving his back to her, and not Jaheira, who marched off to the stairs the moment they could hear Minsc’s loud ramblings coming up the street.

If he focuses on the twisting pain at the maw of his stomach, he can’t think of the hole in his chest. If he tries, with all the might of his weakened senses, to hear the wretch’s rabbit heart pumping away, he can let the hunger eat him whole for a moment, and pretend that it is the only thing he has to worry about.

He is dizzy, the vision of his dry, splotchy hands blurring slightly, when he hears Minsc yelling just a few feet away from him.

“Astarion! Astarion, look!”

He barely has the time to lift his eyes before a longbow is placed in the very hands he’d been sneering at. He blinks several times, trying to focus on the thing. It gives off a faint, familiar glow.

“Wait. I’ve seen that thing somewhere.” Karlach wonders as she approaches.

“Ah yes! Minsc had forgotten, Karlach was there too when we pawned it off!”

That quip makes things fall into place. The Devil’s Fee. And what a fee it had been.

Gontr Mael is still one of the finest bows he has ever held. It had pained him to give it up, but they had needed to bypass the bloody diabolist as soon as possible to follow their idiot leader into the House of Hope.

Back then, even when things had been strained between them, he hadn’t hesitated to give up his most precious bow if it meant reaching her in time, even if he’d had such precious little time to enjoy its weight on his hand.

It had been so simple.

“Helsik gave it back?” he asks, in a slightly hoarse voice, as his hands find the spikes along the bow’s body and pluck at the tight string that binds both ends. As perfect as it had been then.

“A bit of persuasion and promises were needed, but not nearly as much as we had feared.” Halsin answers.

“Ha! Well, she still owes us nine thousand gold. She got so much of our stuff, and those gloves? Man, don’t get me started.” Karlach laments.

Astarion can nearly hear Halsin’s smile when he answers.

“In such case-”

“No way!”

He has a moment to feel a crumb Karlach’s joy as she takes the Hill Giant Guantlets from Halsin and almost squeals, the deep frown in her forehead temporarily smoothed out.

He catches sight of Jaheira by his tent as she drops the quiver of arrows by the entrance. As she notices his attention, she points her face quietly towards the dark room.

He leaves all the muscle gushing over their newly reacquired weapons and he approaches the broken threshold of the room, where Jaheira meets him with crossed arms, staring at the rumpled figure on the floor.

“So this is what our village berserk has been up to for the day.” He comments, following one of the bow’s sharp spikes to its curved end.

“The knucklehead was not going to let Astele's reasoning go unchallenged, no matter how sound it may be.”

The girl’s breath is shallow, the skin of her neck bathed in sweat. The heart still beats, weak and fast, but still alive. Beckoning him into the dark, an itching in his bones to rip apart this bag of meat that clings stubbornly to life.

He grits his teeth, and tightens his hold on the bow. A bitter reunion, if there ever was one.

He has plenty of those in his near future.

“Nine Finger’s was about to get rid of her when we got to the Guildhall. She offered to let us do the honours.”

“So you dragged her all the way here.”

She stays silent, staring at the girl. She walked the whole passage from the Guild to the safehouse and she had every chance to end it. To drop the girl and let her die in the darkness of the tunnel instead of pushing her onto his hands. But not only she hadn’t done that, she had apparently talked Wyll into it too.

“Why?”

Jaheira takes her time to answer.

“They say that the only thing a vampire can feel is hunger. Nothing else touches them — not grief, or mercy. Or any sense of what is just.”

Out of all the things the master ever used against him, the hunger was the one that had kept him in the tightest leash. Eating had been as agonizing as being hungry, the compulsion that made him crawl on his belly for rats would never truly leave him, even if he had no master.

Only one thing would, the one thing he is trying his damn hardest not to think about.

“Well. There must be something to it, then.”

“Perhaps.” she hums and leans back from the creaky door frame, shifting her gaze towards him. “Maybe a sense of what is just escapes most of us, not only the undead.”

Silence falls over both of them. He is almost afraid of it now. He has no escape, torn between his hunger and the frightening amount of contempt he feels for the woman on the floor.

He could see Hazel all over her, when they met her at the Basilisk door. The plain appearance and mended uniform hiding the quick wit and the muddy secrets.

She had vouched for them at the entrance to the Guild. She had been funny, she had watched over Mol when she entered the Guildhall and Hazel had been so relieved to see her that she’d almost seemed to float. The girl’s eyes had lingered on him, as so many eyes did now that he could be seen by day, and Hazel had teased him about it. An olive branch to try and stay the rift that was tearing them apart.

She hadn’t been attracted to him, he knows it now. She had been zeroing in on her prize.

Her name was Meg. Hazel had called her nutmeg twice, truly smiling for the first time in days.

He may loathe her, but he knows he will not enjoy this one bit.

“Try to get some sleep, Astarion. We need you at your best.” Jaheira says as she leans in and takes the bow from his right hand, turning away towards the firepit and leaving him alone.

He goes into the room and swings the door closed, decidedly ignoring the dejected sigh Gale lets out.

Alone and in the dark, his dark vision reveals details of the room in shades of black and gray. The scent of the girls blood blooms and fills his lungs with mouth watering expectation. The richness of a healthy human, a sprinkle of bitter adrenaline, and the foulness of the Utterdark wine still on her clothes.

If he had been near enough to camp to smell the wine, he would have known that the girl was an envoy of Cazador, even if she herself had no idea who she worked for. But he hadn’t been there.

And none of them had known who took her, not until it was too late.

The heavy silence settles on his shoulders and at the bottom of his neck. He wonders if it was done on purpose, the wine spilling over her clothes the moment Cazador decided to reveal his hand in a way only Astarion would understand.

Knowing that it would make him remember who he truly was.

He could make her suffer, he ponders. Make whatever Nine Fingers had done look like mercy.

He could give her some semblance of dignity. Prop her up against a wall and be done with it.

Or, he could just give in. Surrender to the instinct already thrashing beneath his ribs.

He could go down under, give control of his body to the ghost of a predator living inside his head, go away for an instant and come back once it’s over, one last time.

It’s easy, really. He truly makes things harder for himself when he thinks.

His legs seem to move on string, kneeling besides her on the ground. His hands follow the lead, removing the burlap sack over the girl’s head. Her breathing is shallow and she cries weakly as his fingers grip onto dark hair to tilt her head back. Her neck is already marred by a dark, thick rope burn; the markings of a noose.

If her blood smelled as foully as the Moonrise drow’s had, maybe he would have an excuse for the full body shiver of disgust that makes him close his eyes and cower deeper inside his head. Her blood smells fine. They need this. He needs this.

Bear your teeth through it, let it wash over you, Jaheira had said, whilst Gale had sighed like if he was the one destined for the gallows.

They know why the girl is here. They know what he is doing in the dark. They know that only one walking corpse will leave the room.

He was told to dwell on it when everything is said and done. So he will.

He feels his back bend and his jaw opens wide.

His mouth fills and he swallows pull after pull of something warm and soothing. He sinks his fangs again, digging deeper between the tissue, and he drinks everything he can. He focuses on the warmth spreading to his fingers and the clearing of his head, the burning at the mouth of his stomach cooling down at last.

He does not want to heave onto the floor. He is not avoiding to touch her skin with his lips as much as possible. He is not considering pulling the burlap sack over her head again.

He is not thinking of running away.

He is not.

Astarion straightens up and stares at the cooling body on the ground. Even though she has lost some blood in the last few hours, his senses sharpen to a needle point once more, the aches around his body only a sign that he really needs to lie down.

Jaheira’s awful fiddle plays into the night. Gale seems to be roasting almonds in the fire.

Every minute that he holds on without loosing it, is a minute closer to dawn. A minute closer to whatever end this may have.

The only thing a vampire can feel is hunger, people say.

Gods, he wishes it was true.

.............................................

The halfling behind the bar is the only soul in the Guildhall when their merry band makes their entrance. Astarion finds the lack of blood and innards pleasantly mundane, even if the smell is still atrocious.

As soon as the guard at Nine Fingers’ office lays eyes on them, she opens one of her doors and the Guildmaster’s voice emerges from inside. It doesn’t stop in whatever it is saying, not even as the guard signals in Thieves Cant to someone inside.

‘They’re here.’

Nine Fingers must be the one answering, because the guard looks back to them and motions towards the inside. Jaheira steps forward, and he is about to make his way to the bar with the rest of the party, when a quick whistle catches his attention back to the wooden door.

It’s the guard, making another familiar sign whilst holding his gaze.

‘You too.’

The scraping sound of chairs being opened and the heavy clang of weapons placed on the bar top accompany the slight dread that dawns on him as he approaches on quiet steps, focusing on whatever it is that Nine Fingers’ has been talking about this whole time.

“-I don’t give two shits if your wife is in labour Stefan! I want every bloody rat on this den exterminated by midnight. Don’t come back until it’s done.”

Jaheira seems intrigued as she approaches the door, dodging the unassuming young man that exits the office in a hurry.

The moment they enter the now familiar cavernous space, he can tell the situation is far different from their first meeting a couple of weeks ago. Nine Fingers is alone at her desk, dressed in leather armour even though it is close to midnight.

She may look composed, but the bulging vein on the right side of her forehead gives her away. The moment her eyes fall on him, her pulse quickens and a frown settles on her forehead.

“Where the hells have you been?! I’ve been trying to get a Sending to you for the last two fucking hours!” her eyes fix upon Jaheira as the older woman walks calmly to her desk, her voice rising slightly after the doors have been closed once more.

She is furious.

He shares the sentiment. Jaheira just seems tired.

“Apologies, Guildmaster. Bad reception at the Murder Tribunal.” the druid retorts, lowering herself on a chair without invitation. Astarion stays far from the desk, in what he can guess is the periphery of Nine Fingers’ field of vision. Just in case.

A beat of silence passes, as Nine Fingers pours a finger of whisky on a glass and pushes it towards Jaheira. She offers none to him.

He is over this conversation and it hasn't even begun. He wonders what even is he doing here.

“Got what you were looking for?” she asks, the vein at her forehead pulsing in the low light.

No, he thinks bitterly. He didn’t get what he had been looking for, because Hazel hadn’t ever been at the Temple of Bhaal.

Halsin had, but that was a given anyway. He even was unharmed and had been unconscious for most of everything, for all the good that did him.

But Hazel hadn’t been there. Not on the slab, not as decoration on the hallways or hiding between the cultists, as he’d dared to hope in a last bid to make the journey worth it. Orin hadn’t even known what they meant when they demanded she reveal her second captive.

The might have gotten rid of the last Chosen of the Dead Three and taken possession of her netherstone, but they hadn’t found their leader.

It had made sense back then, to think that the changeling had been the one to take her. He’d returned from his Minsc chaperoned diner excursion to a ravished camp, no Hazel and a letter written in blood, congratulating the party on killing Gortash.

It’s been a while since he has truly put his mind to try and understand anything that happens to them on a daily basis, and of course the one time he actually cares to follow the reasoning behind what their escapades, it has to fall apart.

At least he hadn’t been the only one dumbfounded at the Temple. Too bad Hazel hadn't been there to see Gale gape like a fish and be speechless for once.

“We did.” Jaheira responds. “A few errands to attend to now, before we move onto the brain and get this over with.”

The low light in the office may work to hide her from human eyes, but his darkvision reveals Nine Fingers’ face and the steady tick that pulls at her left bottom eyelid.

“A pity that your guiding shrub will miss all the action, after everything she did to get here.”

She must have guessed this was the way the conversation would go, because Jaheira merely blinks and stares at the woman across from her in silence. She hasn't touched the whisky glass.

“If you know something, you better spit it out Astele.”

“Of course I bloody well know something! I can’t believe you’ve kept this from me for the past three days, Jaheira. She’s Guild, she is ours too, for fuck’s sake.”

“She isn’t. Not any more.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe it’s the raising thirst gnawing at the bottom of his stomach, or perhaps it is the past three endless days that make him say out loud the thing that Hazel had only ever said to him through the tadpole. Or maybe it’s her tone. Her particular choice of words that remind him of his own former master.

Nine Fingers’ eyes snap from Jaheira to him, her face a mask of ice cold rage. This is the first time she has truly had him on her sight, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Think it’s that simple, Astarion? Leaving what we are behind? You better think again, because you past is catching up.”

Everything recedes. Nine Fingers’ racing pulse, Jaheira’s furrowed brow, even his own awareness of his name on her voice and the wrongness of it.

“What?”

“Your head is catching a pretty penny on the bounty hunter market these days. And yet, you’re still here. Bet you didn’t even notice the four hunters and the Shadow Thief that almost cashed in, did you?”

He thinks back to the last few weeks and can only think of one body out of place on the periphery of their errands at the Gate. But he can see Hazel’s dark circles grow purple and deep, taking guard more often and for longer, making her own tent and renting her own bed instead of joining him at his. He had assumed it had been because of their fallout after their increasingly bitter Ascension talks, but he’d only been partly right.

She had known.

“I warned her that you were trouble, that she should keep her distance.” Nine Fingers continues, holding him still with the weight of her accusatory glare.“Trust a thief in a hurry and a fool in love to run into the same wall twice.”

“I couldn't think of the kind of enemies you've made to have such an obscene bounty on your head, but now that the splashback of your shitshow has gotten me too, I can get an idea. Not many creatures in this city have to send a decoy first, to ask for permission to be let in.”

Whatever Jaheira says next gets overpowered by a shrill ringing in his ears. He barely gets to hear the name of Cazador Szarr leave Nine Fingers’ lips before he is pushing open her doors just to get away from the sound.

The empty Guildhall is still the same, his companions sprawled on the bar stools.

“Hey, Fangs! We got you some wine!” Karlach sing-songs, pointing at a glass in front of an empty chair.

He is paralysed at the threshold for a moment, his ribcage frozen mid breath.

“Astarion?” Wyll asks, getting up from his seat, “Are you alright?”

What now? What now that he has her? What now that she has been there for three days whilst they have been parading around and saving the world?

What now that she is dead?

“Slow down, what are you saying?” a voice beneath a sea of cotton asks, hazy silhouettes closing in on him.

His vision blurs. He can’t breathe. Where are his blades?

Hands reach over, gripping at his arms, his back. Growing whispers of something that sounds like his name but make no sense. No, she isn’t dead. What she is now, is much, much worse than that.

He has to go. Find anything to drink and then he will do something. Something other than doom her as he has been doing the past three days where he has play acted at being something that he is not.

See what happens when you leave your place, child?

A large red shadow looms over his vision, it reaches for him. The Master, come to take him where he stands and return him to his place. He is terrified. He wants to throw up. He wants to rip something apart. He wants to cry and beg to let him go. He wants to disappear.

Although you may try to deny it, what I made you had always been in you, son.

He reaches for the dagger at his hip.

A sudden bright light shines on his eyes and blinds him. A blanket of cold numbness cuts through the terror, making his vision clear and his hand relax. A metallic rattle echoes around the high vaulted ceilings of the empty Guildhall as he hears a blade falls to his feet.

Everything is quiet as colour and shape return slowly to his eyes.

Karlach holds a bleeding slash on her right palm, but her worried eyes don’t leave his face. Her blood drips onto the stone floor. Shadowheart is just beside her, her hands still emitting a faint yellow glow.

Gale makes his way from the edges of his vision, his hands raised. He looks remorseful. Astarion distantly wonders why.

“You’re under the Calm Emotions spell, Astarion. I’m… I’m sorry.”

His hands are too heavy to grasp at the dagger again, Gale’s words drip onto his brain one by one.

“We’ll figure this out, just—just hold on.”

He is cold.

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #astarion fandom #bg3 #bg3 tav #writers on tumblr #fanfic #first fanfic #please be nice

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silverinkbottle · 2 months

Text

Till Death Do US Part-Chapter 4-In the Blood

Summary: Alastor leaves you little choice. Whiskey makes bad decisions..but somehow you don't have any regrets.

Previous chapter: Here

Word Count: 3.6K

Trigger Warnings: CANNIBALISM *HUGE TOPIC OF CHAPTER*

A/N: So I wrote this right after Flowers..and wow..mood whip last is real

The bath was a mistake. Or was it the now half empty decanter of whiskey as the amber liquid gleamed in the setting rays of the sun. The once more warm was going cold as you feebly tried to turn the tap once more. Ah, but it was so far away as you sank deeper into the water with a sigh. It was said that drinking reveals a person’s true nature; happy, sad, anger, lust, all those emotions would have been better than the current state of overthinking plaguing your mind. It intertwined with guilt to produce a hideously ugly bastard that pulled at your thoughts like a child demanding sweets.

“It wasn’t my fault.” You hissed to the open air as you tried to chase away the nagging thought. You were doing your job, turning away the Overlord without an appointment. You have done so with anyone else. It wasn’t just because the flat-faced bastard was well…himself. Nor did you realize that Alastor’s vendetta went so far as to play the ‘ignorance’ card when it came to almost demolishing the hotel.

But what if he had lost? You saw the unnatural twitch of his injured hand, still ‘rotting’ away even after rest. Or the obvious burn against his side after the jolt of electricity against it. Even with all his bravado, his weakened state would come to light eventually. Charlie would be the worst case example as she would fret and panic over the Overlord, who in turn would deny further aid. Fuck, Alastor was stubborn about injuries in ‘death’ as he was in life as the flash of his disgruntled expression when you first saw the injury drifted through your mind.

No, you had to take things into your own hands. Again.

Your legs wobbled in the sloshing waters of the bath as you managed to climb out with the smallest bit of grace. The amber liquor burned your throat as you took another deep pull of it. Liquid courage, that’s all it was as you glanced at yourself in the mirror. Fuck, you still got that glazed look in your eyes when drunk. Like icy over the surface of a lake as you dragged a brush through your wet hair with a huff. Had your blouse’s buttons changed or something as your clumsy fingers fought with the little plastic clasps.

“Oh, this is going to be delightful” You hissed to your reflection as the outfit was far from prim and proper. Your throat bare as you gave up fighting the buttons of your blouse until the collarbone. The fabric wasn’t even tucked into the wrinkled skirt you scrambled to find. Stockings hastily thrown over your legs as you skipped over the short heels left by the foot of your bed. No, it would be like witnessing a baby deer wobbling about on its new legs.

Oh, he better sing your praises after as you slammed the bedroom door shut with a huff. Goosebumps prickled over your skin like the floating notes of jazz as your footsteps led you to an all too familiar door. Except, it was you this time that threw open the door with a loud bang as you closed it behind you with equal amounts of urgency. Static crackled through the air as Alastor’s displeasure was all too obvious as he cocked his head to the side in a silent question.

“Now what do I OWE you this evening, my dear.” Alastor hummed as his tea cup threatened to shatter from the force as it was almost slammed down onto the saucer. The sheer irritation in his voice was like a cat’s rusty purr in your intoxicated mind as you clicked your tongue at him in warning. The amber liquor swirled in the warm firelight as you took another drink from it to find the right words. There wasn’t a chance in Hell that you would allow yourself to back down now.

“I’m here to help you, you jackass.” You hissed

“We both know I am far beyond that.” Alastor chuckled mockingly as he sank deeper into the armchair with a defiant scoff. Trying to make himself a smaller target as your tail lashed about in agitation at his stubbornness.

“At least let me try. “ You insisted as you were quick to cage him in with your nails sinking into the back of the arm chair. You were even closer than the night before as Alastor’s gaze flickered from the almost empty decanter to your heated expression.

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re hurt.”

“Don’t try to lie. Just let me-”

“Now what sort of mythical means could YOU have to help me. Truly, it would be-”

His sarcastic biting tone stuttered as your fingers ripped open the upper buttons of your blouse. The fabric falling down your shoulders in a slow wave as the thin cream fabric of the camisole underneath greeted the Radio Demon. There was an impossibly delightful pause and crackle of static as you could see the silver-tongued demon trying and failing to come up with the right counter to the bold advance. He gingerly used his index finger to try to feebly pull up the collar of your blouse.

“If you thought my performance today was inept, I doubt you will be-”

“Alastor, I am not seducing you. I am trying to help you.” You insisted through clenched teeth as Alastor let out a bark of laughter. Or was it from relief. A different sort of warm brushed over your bare skin as the flickering fireplace’s heat whispered over you. Your blouse laid forgotten on the carpet as your fingers restlessly twitched against the soft fabric of the armchair.

“Well, nurse, what’s your next treatment step? Or did you not think this far..” Alastor hummed as your ears went flat. Fucker. He was right, but at the same time wrong. You didn’t think it would get this far, but the next step made the mere act of stripping look like a novice’s task. Now it was time to go out onto the thin as you retreated away from the seated demon, mulling over your words with exceptional care.

“It’s just a theory. It may not even work. It will require your participation and obedience” Your words shaded with an icy inflection as Alastor’s smile widened at the mere suggestion. Now you had his attention. This was going to be as painless as catching a racoon infested with rabies in an enclosed space..with a broom. Near impossible. Still, he leaned forward eager to hear your next words as you took another invigorating sip from the dwindling decanter.

“Demonic regeneration. I had the boys interview some survivors of the Extermination fight, little to no complaints about non-fatal wounds. Went into vivid descriptions about the celebratory banquet that included both Angelic and Sinner flesh particles. Aside from the minor glow, the interviewees reported feeling tip top the next day. So if-”

Your words skittered to a halt as Alastor’s hand ghosted over your throat, sharp nails tapping against your face. His other hand on your lower back, holding in place as you tried to take a step back. A darker look of hunger tinted his eyes as his smile turned predatory.

“Are you asking me to eat you, my darling..” His words came out clear as a bell, but it was all faux politeness as you could see the hunger in his eyes. How often did he indulge in that little habit of his? Had he been refraining during his recovery? Did you unknowingly dangle yourself like a haunch of meat in the face of a starving hound?

“With restrictions. Alastor.” You reminded as you twisted out of his grasp with a scowl. He was quick to follow your retreat before flinching away with a small snarl. You had managed to prick the center of his outstretched hand with the sharpened point of your quill. The red blood oozed onto the floor as you shook off the quill with a quick flick of your wrist.

“Now that I have your rapt attention. I need you to carefully draw a line over the back of my shoulder. Draw, not stab. I’m not turning into a pin cushion tonight.” You warned slowly as you turned on your heel. All your instincts screeched in protest as you could feel the faint phantom taste of ink. Turning your back on a hungry predator was throwing caution to the wind. Yet, it wasn’t the obvious danger that sent a tingle up your spine, it was the almost ghost-like brush of the quill's feathered tip against your back as Alastor plucked it from your hand.

“A bit higher, adjacent to the nape of my neck.” You corrected as you were forced to not flinch at the first initial prick of the quill. Like stabbing yourself with the head of a needle during sewing, a surprise all the same. Your nails dug into the skin of your palms as the quill’s head sank a fraction deeper in your skin. A faint sting as it dragged downward leaving black blood trickling downward in its wake.

“It’s black.”

“Yes. Now carefully-”

Your words turned into a strangled hiss as Alastor’s tongue dragged over the wet skin like a cat did when given a bowl of cream. Goosebumps prickling down your neck as sharp canines brushed accidentally over the thin lines trying to coax more blood from them. Your back threatened to bow out of sheer instinct as his hand curled your throat to keep you upright. Easy, fuck, this was too easy as it wasn’t the mere burn of whiskey searing your mind now. Want, it was simple as your tail curled around the demon flirtatiously.

“Back up.” You hissed hoarsely as you turned around to push Alastor back into the armchair. It was like pushing over a mannequin as Alastor’s hands loosely curled over your hips as you settled against his lap. His ears twitched as you drew the sharp quill over the side of your throat, curling around the nape of his neck to drag him against it. The grip on your hips tightening as you glanced down at his once injured wrist, the flesh mending together like twisting snakes. Working, it was working as triumph turned to ash in your mouth as a far sharper pain ripped through your collarbone. Your hand hastily clamped over the wound, a mistake as the creature’s dark eyes narrowed.

Now it was your turn to be toyed as the creature shoved you back onto the carpet. Flipping you over onto your stomach like a bird of prey would a sheltering turtle. The warm tongue licked over your cheek as if an apology as a sharp nail dragged down the length of your spine. Cutting through the thin fabric of the camisole and the skin underneath it alike. You could feel the blood trickle down your sides as you forced yourself to remain still as warm breath puffed against the back of your neck. A choked gasp slipped from your lips when claws grazed over your thighs, shuffling them apart as lust curled inside your gut.

It was said that there were two modes that a human went into when confronted with mortal peril. Fight or Flight. You didn’t think you could even manage to move an inch as Alastor’s demonic vestige loomed over you, you could hear the defiant crack of bones in his elongated neck when you glanced back. Flight would be like baiting a fox after a rabbit. So, you readied yourself for the other treacherous task. Fight.

“This is new..” Your voice sounded pitched and shallow to even your own ears. What would it sound like to the Overlord? The squeaking of a mouse as it tried to evade a cat’s paws. Amusing, it was amusing as there was a cackle of laughter from the creature.

“Surprised?” Alastor mused as he dragged another long nail down your spine. Watching as your skin shuddered at the contact provoking another well of blood from the shallow cut. Perhaps, it was a bit morbid, but you couldn’t help but watch the droplets splatter against the carpet. The cool sheen of Alastor’s provoked antlers as their blackened hue caught in the low lighting. An obvious twitch of his ears as he noticed your staring. The tug of his stitched lip when he looked away first.

Your burst of giggles broke the tension of the situation. The crack of bone as Alastor returned to ‘normal’. The utter absurdity of it all as you curled against the soft carpet. That here you were, drunk, half naked in your ex-husband’s room. All but baiting him with your body be for your one-sided lust or his primal hunger. The prominent scent of copper as you pulled your hand away from the damaged flesh of your shoulder.

“Don’t you dare put your hand down.” Alastor warned as your cheek rubbed against the carpet with willful ignorance. Snarling against the soft material as his nails caught the back of your bare neck, while his other hand hastily wiped off your damp hand with a magicked handkerchief. The irritating ease at which he held in place as you tried to move from his vice-like grip. The bitter taste of ink as you glared up at his smug expression.

“Now that we’re comfortable. Let’s talk about your little change..” Alastor mused as his eyes flickered over the stained streaks of black over your back. Sinners bled red, he had obviously eaten enough of them to know that simple biological factor. Yet, you bled black as you tried to avoid his silent question.

Why was it black? What was it about its properties that allowed him to heal?

“Let me up and I’ll tell you.” You purred with a bat of your eyes as Alastor let out a bark of laughter at the obvious ruse.

“And start a chase through the hotel, at this hour. No.” Alastor retorted as a nail traced over the back of your neck. Patiently waiting for your stubbornness to falter as you rolled your eyes. It was going to turn into a test of wills as you huffed against the carpet. Your body going flat as the gentle warmth of the fire soothed your nude back. Now if only you could convince the demon to give you the last bit of whiskey.

“Oh now, what’s this?” Alastor hummed as you could feel the bare air against your neck. Your protest was choked by the sensation of drowning as ink and whiskey splattered onto the ground in front of you. Your nails clawed at your throat as the dripping remains of the vomit-like mixture trickled down your neck, hardening into a collar-like object. Wrists fall limply at your side as the cold chains bite into the tender flesh of your forearms. The clink of chain around your ankles as you tried to shy away from the icy metal.

“Well now, what did you do?” Alastor mused as you dragged yourself into a sitting position. Your eyes were pocketed in small dots, no larger than a pebble. Snatching the offer handkerchief from the inquisitive demon as you tried to not gag on another splash of ink.

“You’re the self-professed dealmaker, you tell me.” You hissed through stained teeth as Alastor smirked. You could all but see him lording over the fact that his reputation reached your ears, as closed off as you tried to make yourself from his influence.

“But with whom did you make the deal?” Alastor questioned as he circled around you like a buyer at an auction. Overlords dealt in souls, it’s what made them infamous in Hell.

“You have me impossibly curious. I have known one or two split custody agreements. But, this, completely new. Indulge me won’t you.”

His voice dropped to a mere whisper against your ear. Oh, now he was playing the ‘helpful’ card as you glared at his poor attempt of persuasion. Snatching up your blouse, you were quick to fumble with the buttons giving up halfway as Alastor watched with an amused expression. The rattle of chains on the floor as you stood up. Your choked gasp as the collar around your throat went taunt when Alastor’s fingers caught around the center ring, pulling you to meet him face to face. Mere centimeters away from one another as an ominous green glow illuminated both your faces.

“Alastor don’t-” Your warning was cut off with a sharp snap. Alastor’s smug expression turned disgruntled as the newest guests in his room were all too familiar. Instead of the unknown, he was met with bewildered expressions of Nifty and Husk.

“What the fu-”

“Oh she’s being a bad girl..” Nifty’s excited giggles cut over Husk’s question as Alastor quickly stepped away from you. All evidence of your shackles vanished as soon as Alastor’s little trick back fired. Now all the pair had was witnessing the start or was it the end of a romantic encounter as you quickly turned your back on the hotel staff to once again fight with the troublesome buttons.

“Not. A. Word.” Alastor’s voice crackled with static as Husk rolled his eyes but kept silent. Nifty’s giggles bounced around the room as she doubtlessly would have tried to cling to you were it not for Husk’s quick reaction in dragging the maid out of the room by her elbow.

“Will they keep this..quiet?” You muttered as Alastor joined you by the fireplace. You could see his wrist twitch fluidly as he stared into the crimson flames of the fire. A faint flicker of relief and pride washed over you to see that your little theory had been proven correct. All it cost was a pound of flesh as you could feel your shoulder protest at the mere thought.

“They won’t have a choice in the matter.” A blunt, defined statement as you could all but imagine the leashes on the pair cinching another ring tighter.

“Charming, aren’t you?”

“Always. My dear.” Alastor grinned, his inflection tinted with false cheeriness. As if the entire evening was a mere night-cap conversation as he quickly picked up the once forgotten decanter of whiskey and emptied its contents into two separate glasses. Both parties were eager to fill the silence with a harsh burn of liquor as you fiddled with the edge of the now empty glass. While Alastor’s glass made a hollow sound as it was set down on the side table drawing your attention from your thoughts.

“So, you won’t tell me-”

“It’s Hell. Alastor, what do you think happened?” You cut over his words with a sharp snap of anger. There it was, that cruel mistress of memory as your skin crawled with unease. The feelings of desperate fear and despair that dragged you from sleep from time to time.

“But you could have-”

“ Don’t say I could have come and found you, Alastor. I went through that once, look what it got me.” You hissed as you willfully bound yourself to the Sinner in life. Ignoring all the little burdens piling up on your soul in favor of lust, companionship and promises. Throwing caution to the wind when it came piling down, the cruel bite of the bottle as you tried to pick up the shattered pieces of your life. That cruel irony of your death and its aftermath.

“Life and death go hand in hand, my dear. Mine shouldn't have-”

“You were my life. Alastor. I didn’t have a choice in the matter.” You muttered bitterly as you swept away the unexpected glint of tears in the corner of your eyes. Fuck, this entire evening didn’t go according to plan, not in the slightest. But when did any of your drunken schemes turn out well?

Aside from the one with the shotgun. That was sheer luck.

Thoughtful, Alastor looked thoughtful as you reclined in the plush armchair. Fingers restlessly twitching, wanting another bottle to wrap your mind around. You could feel his inquisitive gaze over your form from top to bottom. It wasn’t a malicious or lustful gleam, but simple curiosity as you rolled your brass wedding ring idly on your finger. The little trinket that kept the fraying string of fate between the pair of you together. If you took it off, would it make you feel heavier or lighter on the inside?

“I had it for months, you know. Kept waiting for the right moment.” Alastor admitted softly as there was a flicker of fondness in his gaze as you scoffed at the comment. You remembered the entire state of affairs quite differently than his. The chaffing handcuffs at the time did little to spice up the proposal, but he made it work out in his favor.

“So the right moment was in the middle of a police station. Very practical. Alastor.” You retorted as Alastor waved off the comment with an idle toss of his hand.

“Well, it did make filing the paperwork that much easier. We just had to walk down a flight of stairs-”

“You forged my signature-”

“You left me no choice. Darling.”

You huffed as once more you found yourself backed into a corner. He was right, as much as you loathe to admit it. There was little point in disagreeing about the past, much less shared mistakes as you rose from your armchair with a rub of your eyes. Something told you that it was going to be a pointless night of poor sleep, but you had to try.

“Sleep well.” Alastor’s gentle words floated above you like a phantom as you curled into the soft sheets of your queen-sized bed.

Tonight it felt all the emptier.

#hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor x reader #x reader #alastor x you #silverinkwrites

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moonartemisia · 6 months

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BLUE LOCK TAROT ANALYSIS

Blue lock Tarot and their numerology analysis post! Since the official art of the illustrations came out for the new merch, I'm surprised to see the boys in all Major Arcana cards that resonate their personality through each of them. Major Arcanas in tarot are the Nature in all the richness of its infinite possibilities, and there is in it as in Nature, not one but all potential meanings. These meanings are fluent and ever-changing. Major Arcanas also represents the human consciousness, these kinds of cards you'll see in a tarot set. Major Arcanas are the full-time cards that hold your life choices and other changes that resonate within you. So, let's start

It's no to surprise that Isagi's Major Arcana is "The Fool" numerology stands for is the unnumbered card 0, this represents The Fool as the main character of the Major Arcana and makes his journey through each of the cards, meeting new teachers and learning new life lessons along the way, and eventually reaching the completion of his journey with the World card. This is known as the Fool's Journey and is a helpful way of understanding the story line of the Major Arcana Tarot card meanings. This makes sense as he is the MC of Blue lock, and better yet, noticing his rank place in the facility is 299! Also, meaning to say that Isagi, being the Fool, resonates his improvements and meets new players within the Blue Lock facility, holds guidance, and stepping stone to his adventures.

As it stems moving in the numerology 0, the standing number of the fool card. 0 is a symbol of nothingness or complete freedom from limitations. In numerology, it is often referred to as the void, as it represents potential and choice. It most likely means that positive change is on the way. This connects to Isagi's rational and spatial awareness when it comes to see or he predicting his next goals in soccer. But when in reverse, "The Fool" card, it serves as a call to reevaluate your intentions, motivations, and inner guidance. It prompts you to examine if you might be holding back due to concerns about others' opinions or unrealistic expectations.

This makes total sense of Bachira's Major Arcana that he is "The Sun" numerology is 19. This card is generally considered positive. It is said to reflect happiness and contentment, vitality, self-confidence, and success. Sometimes referred to as the best card in tarot, it represents good things and positive outcomes to current struggles. In this case, we know how Bachira is full of his enthusiasm. As Bachira being the sun card resonates his positive nature of being himself. Glowing his self-acceptance like how he surfaces his inner monster to create his unique ways towards Blue Lock. In the reversed position, the Sun indicates of significant difficulties finding positive aspects to certain situations. The clouds might be blocking out the warmth and light that needs to progress. This might be preventing from feeling confident and powerful. May experience certain setbacks which are damaging your optimism and enthusiasm. In numerology, 19 defines as highly ambitious and have a strong drive for success and power.

I'm a bit surprised to see Rin having the emperor card here. So the emperor card often represents a mature figure seated on a throne or a soldier holding a shield and sword. This card signifies responsibility, courage, and intelligence. Sometimes, it can even symbolize a real person in your life, like a corporate executive, a political leader, or a respected warrior. It really personified Rin in the truly card because of his own goals and what he can do in his ways to achieve them — like an emperor conquering what he does at best to prove which it is no doubt! This card is suggestive of stability and security in life. You are on top of things and everything in under your control. It is the essence of hard work, discipline and self control that have bought you this far. It means that you are in charge of your life now setting up your own rules and boundaries. This takes place as to what Rin stabilize himself to be better at his game in soccer. He would do whatever it takes to be on top of his league just like that.

When in reverse the card can be tyrant, domineering, rigid, stubborn, lack of discipline, recklessness. Definitely describes Rin as his stoic and unfriendly behavior shows within the series. Number 4 is the standing number of this major Arcana card meaning Memory. Logical mental reasoning by the physical man full of Spirit. Being able to express oneself in a socially accepted way in the material universe. Measurement. The reality of life on earth and being able to express oneself in it.

Now let's move onto KuniGiri cards, respectively they are "The Death" (13) and "The Magician" (1). But, first let's start with Kunigami first.

Kunigami takes the first numbered major Arcana card which is the Magician, the Magician is one tarot card that is filled with symbolism. The central figure depicts someone with one hand pointed to the sky, while the other hand points to the ground, as if to say "as above, so below". This is a rather complicated phrase, but its summarization is that earth reflects heaven, the outer world reflects within, the microcosm reflects the macrocosm, earth reflects God. It can also be interpreted here that the magician symbolizes the ability to act as a go-between between the world above and the contemporary, human world. Indeed as the Magician bestows there's balance in between the space of human nature meaning this interprets Kunigami's personality depicted as the hero or so well term for his respective mannerism that being differed from the facility. The Magician also has the potential innate to the fool! Speaking of how he and Isagi before the previous interactions and now in their NEL matches that made changes of how they build-up together as 0 and 1 are closely in order of the major arcanas. It is hard to believe that in the reverse of the Magician implies as manipulation, cunning, trickery, wasted talent, illusion, deception. Which we all know what Kunigami put himself into the wildcard in the present chapters. 1 in numerology represents fiercely independent, competitive, determined, value their freedom, are original, have leadership qualities, are self-reliant, etc. Number 1's, can accomplish whatever they set their minds to. They are perpetually brimming with new ideas and this is what gives them happiness.

On Chigiri's analysis of "The Death" card, death is one of the most feared cards in a Tarot Deck, and it is very misunderstood. Many people avoid mentioning this card because it has that much power. Most times, people take the name of the card literally. However, the real meaning within the Death card is one of the most positive in the whole deck. The Death card signals that one major phase in your life is ending, and a new one is going to start. Leaving to close one door, so the new one will open. The past needs to be placed behind you, so you can focus your energy on what is ahead of you. Perfectly fitting for our princess Chigiri as it reminds me of how his past brings a burden for him, in the ACL injury incident that thought himself that he wouldn't be the genius at soccer he wouldn't be. But let alone he was free after taking another new form of himself as a "rebirth" or transition of his new path in Blue Lock! The old version needs to ‘die’ to allow the new you to be created. This can be a scary time for you because you may be unsure of what will happen in the future. Even if you are scared, you should welcome the change because you are opening the door to new life events.

The Death reversal meaning is still about change, but that you have been resisting it. You could be worried about letting go of the past, or could not be sure of the changes that needs to make to go forward. Resisting the change and holding onto the past can limit your future, which can cause you to feel like you are in limbo. Man, if this ain't Chigiri when he is contemplating when he should run like before or nah well it resonates his hesitation during the previous chapter where he is afraid of breaking another limb or he will quit soccer. But that's a beautiful trump card he got imo. Thus, the number 8 of the card indicates major changes.

Lastly, NagiReo. Nagi resonates the star card (17) while Reo is the Hermit (9). So let's analyze first Nagi's cause it's really interesting. So The Star card defines within the tarot embodies a sense of hope, inspiration, and profound positivity. It signifies a renewal of spirit, bringing forth calmness, serenity, and an optimistic outlook for the future. This is a time of significant personal growth and development as you are now ready to receive. I see that no wonder The Star card is on Nagi is he symbolizes what we know him as the potential lazy genius player that today in his self-development grind to where he is today being motivated and finding his purpose goal in attaining to reach the blue lock ego level and yet being the best of the best as he changes throughout every chapter. In the reverse is what we get as his usual unmotivated self the opposite of the tarot. The Star Reversed can mean that you’ve lost faith and hope in the Universe.

The numerology of the star card means of the number 17, which reduces to 8. The number 8 is about power and success.

Reo's card being The Hermit respectively is the "withdrawal from events and relationship to introspect and gather strength." Seeking the inner voice or calling upon vision from within. A need of understanding and advice, or a wise person who will offer knowing guidance. A card of personal experience and thoughtful temperance. This goes to the ideals and plans that Reo visualize with Nagi when they set foot to play football and has a calling for having Nagi being his best duo when it comes at all times. It really resembles how Reo defines the Hermit card. The hermit's appearance in a reading can also denote the appearance of someone who will come to your life that will be your mentor. In reverse, the Hermit card stems, loneliness, exile, withdrawal from loved ones, misfits, and sadness. In the numerology, the number 9 is powerful. It represents completion, although not a final ending—more like the fulfillment of one cycle so that you can prepare to initiate the next one. It's a recognition of life's ongoing ebb and flow.

That's all for the analysis of this post! What do you all think?

#anime / manga #blue lock #bllk #blue lock anime #blue lock manga #blue lock analysis #bllk analysis #blue lock tarot analysis #☆૮꒰ˊᗜˋ* ꒱აelisestheories

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