#ill keep posting passages i like i think

[autogynephallic]

The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer

#laura palmer #twin peaks #fire walk with me #this deep divine hatred and rage from hopelessness i know #ill keep posting passages i like i think

[courtingchaos]

I’ve been thinking about eddie who’s in the early pre relationship stages with you. but in his mind he’s married to you he’s been pining after you for so long. he doesn’t want to scare you though so he’s pumping the breaks and trying to take things slow.

you’re spending the night at his and he’s managed to keep enough distance from you that he deems respectful in his courtship of you. but when he wakes it’s to your hand high on his thigh, and you’re out for the count. and he’s hard as a rock and needs to move you before you wake up and see what state he’s in.

not wanting to wake you and alert you to his issue he thinks on his feet and decides he has to become soft asap, then he can move you. then if you wake up it’s not going to be to him feeling like a complete pervert.

so he’s reciting his favourite passages from all of the books he’s read.

only it’s not doing much. the pretty girl in his bed is winning this round.

he starts reciting them backwards to increase the difficulty and hopefully distract the ache away. but in his ingenuity to up the anti he’s inadvertently made it so tough that he’s now whisper shouting the words out loud. waking you. eddie still hard as a rock reciting poetry in a wicked order that makes no sense to man nor beast, is stopped abruptly in his tracks, gasping at the feel of your palm squeezing the meat of his inner thigh. Mortified and yet. Still painfully erect with no hope of going down anytime soon

sorry to vomit this at you but it seemed like fate that you’d asked for a request (this is far too long and detailed I’m sorry) and I was thinking about this at the same time

1. Don’t apologize, you’ve struck gold. You have not dug too greedily nor too deep.

2. You’ve written this really well so I could just post this with a bunch of reactions under it but, if you’ll allow me to expand upon this.

Picture this with me okay? He’s reciting Jabberwocky to himself. It’s a nonsense poem. He had an English teacher once give out a project for them to learn and recite a poem and of course he chose this. It has fun words in it like vorpal and borogoves. It’s become one of his bits actually when he’s trying to command a room.

“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:”

Everyone will sigh. Jeff and Gareth and Frank will drop their heads onto their desks or over the backs of their chairs in long groans. Dustin still thinks it’s fun, he hasn’t gotten tired of it yet, and Mike likes it he just won’t admit it. Eddie loves it though, likes the way slithy toves slides off his tongue when he puts on that creaking voice he uses for warlocks durning games.

Now though he mumbles it to himself in the dark, his ludicrous attempt at bringing down his mood. Something had woken him at the witching hour, 3:07 shining a bright green from across his room. He wasn’t cold, his window shut against the chill earlier when you’d come over. He wasn’t overheated, quite content with you softly cuddled up next to him. No itch or ill folded sheet causing him discomfort. He had seven solid minutes of waking, a few he spared to revel in the heat of you lying next to him. To feel your shoulder lying on his as you pressed your face into his pillow. Your knee bent up and almost over his own and your hand planted firmly on his thigh.

Oh. That.

Those fingers he liked to twirl around his own and lick salt off of when you were done with your fries? Those fingers were under the hem of his boxers and a very much pressing into the meat of his thigh. You don’t move except to breathe but all he can focus on is that hand literal inches from his dick. The dick he’d kept in check for weeks now in the hopes he wouldn’t chase you away with the absolute need he felt. Kind of like right now where it lays heavy and hot against his thigh just like your hand.

So Jabberwocky it is.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

But in the dark with a hard on, slithy toves makes him chuckle. Almost full on giggle and he slaps a hand over his mouth to keep himself quiet. Slithy toves sounds like a euphemism for pussy and he can’t help the huffs of laughter pushed through his nose. He looks down in the hopes that this has distracted his dick but apparently laughter makes him harder and he files that away to look into at a later date. Borogoves floats through his brain and he immediately thinks about giving your boobs a new nickname and he has to put a foot down for himself.

Next verse.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”

Bandersnatch has to be a euphemism, there’s no goddamn way, it has the word snatch in it. He rolls his eyes and before he can sigh you shift beside him in your sleep, closer with your nose in his curls on his pillow and that soft hand he’s thought about when his own is too boring in the shower scoots another inch closer to the problem.

Maybe if he whispers it out loud?

“He took his vorpal sword in hand;-”

Absolutely not. Nope. New plan when he feels your sleeping breath across the front of his throat. It ghosts over his adams apple and all he can think about is your lips on his neck last week and how he’d pulled at his hair after you’d left just because it drove him insane.

Maybe if he recited it backwards it would confuse him enough all the blood would need to race back up into his brain.

“Outgrabe…raths…the-no…mome the and…” He’s squinting hard in the dark, reading invisible words on the ceiling in this new attempt to circumvent disaster.

“Borogoves…ha. Damn it. Borogoves…the were…mimsy all.” A headache is all this is giving him but for a moment he’s forgotten your hand and where it was. He’s searching the next line in his head and trying to jumble it so it isn’t so halting in the early morning quiet.

“Wabe the in gimble and gyer did!” He almost claps his hands when he makes it through without pause but he stops himself for fear of waking you up. Instead he spends 20 minutes working his way backwards through his poem, whispering to the night about the Jabberwock.

O frabjous day indeed when he realizes his dick is half soft now, not such a nuisance and a terror after he’s distracted himself. He thinks about waking you gently, a hand brushing your hair away from your face or running lightly over your leg but then you move. You move of your own accord and hook your leg over his. Kneecap bumping your hand higher and if he breathed wrong right this second you’d be brushing fingertips over his balls.

“And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,”

He mutters without whisper. It’s not full volume speaking but he really doesn’t want you to wake up and find him hard and awake with your hand shoved up his shorts. As much as he would really love to feel your hands on him like that he’s been trying his best to be gentlemanly. Only necking on your timetable when you steal him away to a quiet corner. A little over the pants stuff, heavy petting but you’ve never pushed it and it won’t make you uncomfortable, no matter what his dick wants him to do.

“Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!”

Eddie sighs. “Jesus Christ.”

“Hm?” You hum at him. A high note in the back of your throat that has him whipping his head to see you stirring. Adjusting to your side and dra-a-agging that hand. He doesn’t know what to do as you come around and blink up at him in the dark. He can see the edges of your expression from the light filtering in from outside, smooth brow and faint smile until it isn’t.

“Di’ yousay sumthin’?” Slurred against his shoulder where your mouth is pressed.

“Uh, kind of.”

“You okay?” You press up against him, your pelvis into his hip and he’s about to be caught. There’s no way you aren’t going to notice the outline in his boxers or the way he’s gotta be sweating gallons just in nerves.

“I…yeah?”

“What’s the ma-” You shift to prop yourself up so you can sleepily inspect him and he wants to subsequently die and sigh happily when your hand meets trouble. “Oh.”

Oh. Oh? Oh yeah, no big deal, it’s just his dick showing up to ruin the party like the world’s worst frat guy. “Look, I was trying to make it go away and I-“

“Why?” Having just woken up your voice is soft in a deep way. Scratchy from dry air but it fits the mussed hair and the rucked up t-shirt you have on. His gaze falls on the sliver of stomach that you’re showing off between the covers and he’s having a hard time coming up with an answer.

“Why?”

“Is there an echo in here?” You laugh and slide your palm over his stomach that tenses. “Yeah, why.” Your pinky catches the hem of his thin shirt and pulls it up to reveal his own section of underbelly. “We’re alone right?”

“Y-yeah.” It comes out like a hiss though because your nails scratch across that newly revealed skin and right over the trail of hairs below his belly button. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“I know.”

“I just don’t uh, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

Your fingers move back and forth over his stomach before you let them dip back down to the waistband of his boxers, fingertip seeking under the elastic ever so slightly. “You’ve been very patient Eddie.” The rings on your hand are body warm but hold a child to them when they glide over skin. “I think we just had a little misunderstanding at first though.” Fingers comb through wiry hairs on their search for their prize. “I’ve been trying to do this since you asked me out, but I thought you wanted to wait.”

“Oh my god, no. I mean yes, because I thought that’s what you wanted but I read into things too much sometimes bec-ause fuck.” He was running his mouth but then you’d grabbed him. Wrapped that dreamy hand around his cock and sighed into his cheek like you were the one experiencing earth shattering euphoria.

“Eddie I’ve wanted to do this for months.” A slow tug to the tip and you do something with your fingers that makes his mouth hang open in a silent plea. Another twist before you run your thumb over his slit and he grabs your wrist.

“This is gonna be over so quick if you keep that up.”

“Well that’s not so bad, I was still a little tired.” Highlights pick up the line of your lips and that sleepy smile that’s all for him. Heavy lashes flutter when he lets you go and shoves his shorts down to give you room to work. “You can get me back when we wake up.”

He throbs in your grasp at the promised idea of getting you back and all that entails. He can’t help himself but think of wet and warm places while your hand moves in languid strokes. Hot puffs of air across his chest where you lay your head to watch and then he’s watching you watching yourself and falling into a vortex of horniness. He wants to weave his fingers into your hair for some reason. Wants to feel the softness between his fingers while you rub velvet skin through your own.

“Eddie?” You pant into his shirt, lips catching and dragging on the cotton.

“Yeah?”

“What were you reciting?”

It almost pulls him out of his pleasure it’s jars him so. Briefly he thinks about lying and saying Shakespeare but you’re already giving him a 3 am handjob so he thinks he might not have to fib. “Jabberwocky.”

“Alice in Wonderland?” Your hand leaves his cock suddenly but he doesn’t get to whine about it before he’s whining about you licking your palm and getting back to work. He nods above you like you could see him but it earns him a chuckle from you and a stray few fingers that tug at his balls.

“God damnit yes.” He does push his hand into your hair then, the other fisting into the sheets beside him. You make a passing remark about reciting it then but he honestly might not even know his own name. The way his legs move restlessly against the bed and his fingers grip into your scalp. The damp slide of your palm over the head of his cock, the twisting motion you keep doing, it’s all rocketing him towards his finish. The burn of it in his belly clouding his senses and making him buck his hips up into your touch. The air of your breath keeps breezing over his overheated skin and your panting laughs are shoving him closer and closer until he’s squeezing his eyes shut and going stiff.

Warm lines splash up his stomach and he knows in a minute or two he’ll feel shame unmatched by man heretofore known but right now he couldn’t care. Soft hands drag him through the aftershocks while you make praiseworthy noises into his chest. You coo at him for a job well done and he can feel the heat rise on his cheeks. Sitting up again to look back at him your drag a finger through the mess he made and when you take three seconds to inspect it he doesn’t expect you to bring it to your lips.

“I-“ He what? What can he say while he watches you suck on your index finger like he does? When a slick grin hooks the corner of your mouth up into something devilish and he has an awakening at almost 4 am.

“How was that, huh? Glad we got that over with?” You drop your cheek to your shoulder to give him a smolder but Eddie needs to taste your lips after you’ve tasted him. It’s a need not a want so he rushes you, pushes you back into the bed and gets his mess everywhere but it doesn’t matter. He kisses you deep until you both have to come up for air and then he’s peppering your neck in them until your giggling is too much.

He uses his shirt to wipe himself off, promising a shower in the morning, and pulls both of you under the covers to conspire in the afterglow.

“Do you think reading that poem is gonna Pavlov you now?”

“How so?”

“I mean,” your laugh cuts into your explanation, “slithy toves kind of sounds like a name for-“

“Pussy! I know!” He laughs with you. “And Bandersnatch!”

#Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson Fic #Eddie Munson Smut #Eddie Munson x Reader #My Fic

[vidavalor]

Remembrance of Things Past

Aziraphale's scent-oriented, mindful moments in Good Omens also might be something else as well-- an attempt to circumvent the potential taking of his memories by Heaven. He might be trying to create for the future what are known as madeleine memories or involuntary memories-- the sudden rush of a memory prompted by a certain taste or, especially, by a particular scent.

On Aziraphale trying to get around Heaven by setting up triggers for The Proust Effect under the cut.

I wrote a post awhile back about how I think one of the reasons why Aziraphale keeps a journal is as a way of having something that Crowley can show to him in the event that Heaven takes his memories. While reading something doesn't necessarily trigger a memory itself-- it can but it's not guaranteed-- I think there might be other things they are doing as well that they think might be effective in different ways when it comes to helping Aziraphale retain his memory. The biggest might be actively trying to create for the future what are known as madeleine memories or involuntary memories.

Understanding of involuntary memory? It comes from the extremely Aziraphale intersection of food, the French, literature and psychology...

For anyone who does not already know about involuntary memory:

In 1913, French writer Marcel Proust published the first volume in his 'In Search of Lost Time' series and it contained a passage about the power of memory so descriptive and that resonated with so many that it got scientists to actually study and prove the validity of the connection between scent and memory about which he wrote. Proust had his narrator in the novel describe how, after dipping a lime madeleine into a pot of tea, the scent and taste of eating the madeleine brought him instantly back to a specific time in his youth when his aunt would serve them to him while he was recovering from illness as a boy. He remembered details about her house and their time together, sounds and scenes that had dimmed or been forgotten entirely... all triggered by his mind upon smelling and tasting the specific combination of flavors of the tea-dipped lime madeleine.

Most of us have probably experienced something like this and scientists have since confirmed that it's a very real phenomenon, probably rooted in our need to be able to recognize danger by scent. They have also found that, in some cases and to a slightly lesser degree, hearing specific pieces of music can also bring about a similar sense of memory. Scent, though, remains the best possible trigger for memory.

I can't imagine that after seeing Crowley struggle with his own memory for so long and knowing that it could happen to him, too, that Aziraphale wouldn't be trying everything he could think of to be prepared for the possibility that it might.

In a story that has so much focus on memory-- and in a way that seems to potentially foreshadow that Aziraphale might (temporarily) lose his before the story is over-- there also are scenes that might suggest that Aziraphale's mindful moments might also be an attempt at trying to associate moments with scent in an effort to get around Heaven and retain as much of his memory as he can in the future.

But that's only one part of it... The other part is how he and Crowley are shown to consistently tie times in the present to times in their past.

There are many reasons for doing so and we looked at some of them in other metas but another one might be as a way of trying to connect memories together in a way that, should Aziraphale lose his memories in the future, if one could be triggered with a madeleine memory, then other memories connected to it might follow.

In the first episode, Aziraphale's mindful, sensual eating experience involves breathing in the scent of the sushi with his eyes closed, as if committing it to memory. The evening, as we looked at in the Fish meta, was supposed to be a dinner with Crowley tied to their time in ancient Rome. Breathing in brine and alcohol and salt like Aziraphale is here might also be a way of trying to literally tie these scents to his memories of the scents of oysters and wine in Rome so as to not forget either.

In the parallel to the sushi scene in 1.01, Aziraphale is shown in S2 to breathe in Goldstone's when he and Crowley go there in the present. It's part of the mindful experience for him in the moment but it could also serve as a way of trying to remember the events of both the present and 1941 in the future.

Crowley also breathes in Goldstone's in the present in S2. It's something they both do without even looking at one another in the scene and just kind of know the other is, indicating that this is just a thing they do. Both of them do it instinctively, like the rampant sensualists using elements of mindfulness to work through trauma that they are lol. Aziraphale's eyes are again closed and I would bet that he's as much willing himself to never fully forget his human magic love and 1941 in the future as he is reliving memories of the past.

This scene is a really interesting inclusion because while it's set in our present of S2, it's really about the past and the future. No one has any trouble believing that they're both thinking of 1941 here, even as they're here in the present, and both of them are utilizing techniques both related to the present (mindfulness) to connect with memories of the past (Proust Effect/involuntary memory.) What else might be true as well is that they don't just do this for the past and the present moments but for potential future ones as well.

Then there's this...

There are two scenes-- one in each season-- that focus on Crowley's unsurprisingly amazing scent. While memory wouldn't be the only reason why Crowley would smell great lol, both scenes suggest that Crowley's scent is unique and distinguishable. Sandalphon can smell it as being different from Aziraphale's cologne in S1 and Shax... a paralleling character to Aziraphale, played by the actress who played the character with whom Aziraphale shared a brain in S1... well, Shax is into it. Girl's in a dead faint to a point of straight up huffing him.

While there are others, one reason for this scene, though, could be that it parallels the fact that Aziraphale actually does this sometimes, if in a decidedly less ick way than Shax did lol. Part of why Crowley's been wearing the same, apparently quite appealing, scent for awhile now could be out of an effort to help Aziraphale's mind create enough associations between Crowley's scent and Aziraphale's memories that Crowley himself might be able to trigger some of Aziraphale's memories just by his presence alone.

It's also then interesting-- and potentially a little eerie-- that the only time Aziraphale eats or drinks anything in the present in S2 is when he drinks a few sips of a cup of tea to introduce Muriel to the drink and the custom. This is just after Muriel showed up at the door and failed to recognize Aziraphale, even though he recognized them, in one of several scenes that suggest that Muriel had their memories taken from them at some point. The two characters parallel one another pretty strongly. The difference could well wind up becoming that Aziraphale is able to retain more of his memories because he and Crowley have been working for years to find ways to get around Heaven... and they're using knowledge uncovered by humans to save what they can of Aziraphale's memories.

Or, as Nina would put it:

#ineffable husbands #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #good omens 2 #good omens meta #good omens theory #crowley x aziraphale

[howdoesagrapewrites]

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐉𝐚𝐰𝐬: 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐟𝐲𝐫𝐞

Plot: You, the legitimized bastard of Daemon Targaryen grew up with a very devoted extended family. But after the dance of dragons begins, you know exactly on what side you belong

Cw: incest/targcest, yandere/lovesick behavior, unhealthy relationships, platonic and romantic yanderes, not everyone is romantically involved with reader, yandere EVERYONE x reader, sexual content, no actual smut, mentions of noncon, Aegon being... Him

Notes: I didn't love to make such a long post for the last ending, so this will be a series as well (and I also find it more convenient as people tend to be less likely to read long posts)

You will understand this better if you read this ending

>The night of king Viserys' last supper, you were the victim of a mysterious illness, and were forced to stay in King's Landing as your family returned to Dragonstone

>Since then, you had to be a witness of Aegon's usurpation, and were forced to marry prince Aemond, becoming a prisoner in the strong walls of the red keep in all but name

>You decided very early on that you will return home to your family, you will not be accomplice to this insult to the rightful heir, Rhaenyra

>You loved Alicent, you did, but what she did to you, to your family, was a betrayal. She married you to Aemond, even though she knew of your affection for Daeron, she marries you without your permission or even announcement, she marries you to Aemond, as if it was her call, as if she was in her right to betroth you to anyone

>And the one who you thought of as a brave knight, was silent to the whole thing, not a word to say to you

>In a span of mere days, your affection for them had virtually vanished

>It was hard, and it hurt to feel like all your life you had trusted people who would treat you like this

>Especially for Daeron and Alicent

>But you will have time to mourn later

>You tell yourself you can't let your feelings stale you

>It was the night after Aegon's coronation, Aemond, should be asleep next to you, but he is too busy on the council, fooling himself acting as hand of the king

>Which it's perfect for you, since you want to do anything you can to avoid consummating your marriage

>Your father had taught you everything about the secret passages in the Red Keep, he knew them as well as king Maegor himself, and though you could not memorize it as well, it was enough to know how to get out

>But you had a mission first

>"He wears the conqueror's crown, wields the conqueror's sword and has the conqueror's name" said Alicent

>It was too soon to take away his crown, you not take away his name, but you certainly could take away his sword. It's not like he'd use it anyway

>You looked in the mirror and fixed yourself before going out through the passages, you felt a little disgusted with yourself

>It took you some time to get to Aegon's chambers, (to your surprise) Aegon was there instead of a rat infested brothel

>Still, he was much too drunk to notice you, and he was alone. It had been years since he and Helaena had shared a bed. You pitied her, but at least she was lucky, she had given not one but two male heirs, and she had no reason to keep "trying" with Aegon

>You walked on your tiptoes, the sword was hanging in the wall next to his bed, you feared the sound of metal would wake him up

>But it didn't, he instead was (somehow) was sober enough to know you were there, and most importantly, to know it was you

>"Y/N, you are here..." His voice was as drowsy as it was whiny "Came to congratulate the king?" You could see his repugnant smirk aimed at you

>"Indeed, your grace" you lied

>"Come here, here" he sat on the pillows and patted on the mattress to invite you

>"I don't think that would be appropriate, your grace" you were tense, and scared. You avoided him, you don't remember well when it happened, but he changed, he scared you, you feared he might do something to you, and you could do nothing to retaliate, now it was worse, he was the king

>"Pleaaseeeee, pleaseee, just a bit, just for now, I won't do anything" he promised

>"I truly do not think it would be fitting for your grace to be in that position... Even in innocently" you really hoped for the "innocently" part to be true

>But Aegon did the face a child does once they remember something important, like a candle lighting on their head "But I'm your grace, I'm the king, I demand you come here"

>You could do nothing to those words, so you obeyed

>You sat down at the edge of his bed, but he signaled you to be closer, next to him

>"I like when you say your grace, when you say it to me" he smiled

>"It is how one must address you now, just that"

>Aegon pouted

>"Do you love me?"

>You were speechless, and struggled to come up with a polite response to that, you finally just said every subject must love the king, you just prayed for safety being so close, so late, so alone with him

>"But do you love me? Me? Do you love me now?"

>"I- I beg your pardon?"

>"I wanted you to love me, Y/N, do you love me now? I'm king, do you love me now?" He was drunk, slurring his words and repeating them

>You blushed and you felt your heart pound, you were scared, you knew that. But you were also even a little sad for him, you wanted to look at him the way you did when you both were young, you could, and at the same time, it was impossible

>You don't remember how he ended up in front of you, facing you with sad eyes, and unmistakable stink of wine, that reminded you of who he was now

>"I think I'll always love you, Aegon" you wanted to believe it was a lie you told yourself it was

>A tear or two ran through his pale cheeks and he threw himself to your arms, almost knocking you beneath him in bed

>But instead of the lecherous predatory behavior you expected, he just kissed your cheeks and tried to kiss you in the mouth, it was gross, wet, he was drunk so he was salivating

>You grabbed his face with your hands and placed a kiss on his forehead, he asked for more, but he instantly decided he was tired, and grabbed you like a ragdoll, pushing you to the pillows and beneath the blankets with him, you're still fully clothed so it feels heavy. Aegon hugs you like a Teddy bear until he quickly falls asleep, when you try to leave, he complains in his sleep and grabs the fabric of your clothes. But you manage to slip a pillow in between his arms to replace you

>You look at him for the last time before stealing Blackfyre, and think of how different things could have been.

>Once you have the sword with you, you stay in between the walls for some time. Your dragon is not in the dragonpit, how do you find him?

>You can't go to the city, you can't risk having the sword stolen from you

>This might be a suicide, this probably is a suicide, but is all you got

>You decide to go to the dragonpit, you'll ride a dragon to find a dragon. The rule has always been: one rider, one dragon, one dragon, one ride. But you are desperate

>When you get to the pit, you wonder who could be the best dragon to ride for the search, Tessarion is here, but only ever rode alongside her, same for Sunfyre and Dreamfyre. Trying to tame an unclaimed dragon is dangerous, and even if you could, Dagahrion may kill them

>But there's one that knows you very well: Vhagar

>You rode on her back when she was Laena's, you were a little lass still, but she remembers you. And you rode her with Aemond last night

>It is better than nothing, and if she ate you, you know she's so big it'd be a quick death

>You pet her, and she gives into your touch

>You keep calming and buttering her up before you get on top. You're used to riding a large dragon, but she's different, every dragon is, you suppose

>You feel sorry for the ruckus caused when you and Vhagar ascended, poor dragonkeepers

>Your running was obviously not silent

>And so the search for Dagahrion begins. You have to find him before Vhagar decides to kick you off her back

>And before any other dragon comes looking for you

#yandere hotd #yandere daemon targaryen #yandere targaryens #hotd x reader #Targaryens x reader #yandere aegon ii #aegon ii targaryen x reader #yandere aemond targaryen

[monstersandmaw]

Male dragon x male knight (nsfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Fourth commission for you! [insert Fourth Wing joke here?]. This one is for @chroniclesinlacuna - so thank you!

(reposting because of some weird formatting shenanigans on the first attempt - sorry. Please reblog this instead of the other (deleted) one).

Content: (cis) male knight is sent to kill an injured dragon, and finds himself sequestered in the mountains with a beast of far greater intelligence and empathy than anyone had imagined. Non penetrative sex happens too, and bonding if you squint. Wordcount: 8938

“Boy, what’s going on?” Aneirin barked, grabbing for the arm of a page boy as he scuttled past in a slightly rumpled tabard.

He could have been a little gentler with the scrawny kid, but the corridors in the castle were roiling with a heady mix of unease and excitement, and that was rarely a good thing. Added to that, Aneirin had only just left Prince Ruairí in the hands of the next shift of Crownsguards, but if there was even the faintest whiff of trouble, he’d be back on duty in a heartbeat.

“Sir,” the boy chirped, bobbing a bow when he looked up and discovered that he’d been hooked like a minnow out of the flow of people by a knight of the realm.

Over six feet tall and still wearing his armour, though his helmet was tucked under one arm, Sir Aneirin Pendræd cut an imposing figure, and almost everyone in the castle recognised the Crown Prince’s personal guard and close friend, even if he did have a tendency to keep politely to himself for the most part.

“Well, lad?” he asked with just a hint of a growl in his usually soft baritone. “What’s got this place clucking like a hen coop?”

The kid grinned suddenly, all previous unease forgotten as his blue eyes began sparkling. “Dragon!” he beamed in breathless wonder. “There was a dragon sighted! Out by Icetide Pass! Lord Mortingale’s soldiers shot it down on their way through the mountain pass but they had to leave it there so they could take him to the Temple of Healing. His illness is bad, apparently. That’s why they risked coming across the mountains even though it’s going to snow soon. A dragon, my lord! A dragon!”

Aneirin chuckled when he learned that there hadn’t been an attempt on the life of one of his royal charges, and released the boy. “Go on,” he said, waving him away, and the page belted off in the direction of the kitchens.

With a sigh, the knight turned and headed back the way he had come and nodded politely at the guards flanking the entrance to the royal apartments.

The prince met him in the corridor with almost as much delight in his features as the page boy Aneirin had just released back into the wild. “Nye!” he chirped. “I was going to send for you. There’s been —”

“A dragon, I know,” he said, raising a dark eyebrow. “Is it true?”

“Sir Mathis heard it straight from Lord Mortingale’s lips himself,” Ruairí said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to get his friend to follow him.

Aneirin fell into step beside him, and bit back a yawn as he followed him through a concealed passage, out of the prince’s chambers and towards the adjacent apartment which belonged to his parents. In the darkness though, the prince paused and put his hands on Aneirin’s breastplate, tapping the cold metal a couple of times in his excitement. “A dragon, Nye!” he practically giggled. “Can you believe it? The magisters say they all migrated in to the frozen north a thousand years ago! What do you think drove this one south?”

“Maybe it’s fed up with all the snow,” Aneirin deadpanned, and the prince snorted a laugh and turned away, moving with easy familiarity down the dark corridor until he popped the latch on the door at the other end and they stepped out into the king’s empty study.

“Mother and father are in their sitting room,” Ruairí said, adding with a heavy grimace, “Magister Ferrar is in there too.” The much-hated former tutor of the crown prince was a truly odious man; pompously pious, deeply disdainful of those who wielded a sword instead of a stylus, and rake thin because he thought that consuming food with actual flavour was a grievous sin. Unfortunately, he was one of the most learned scholars in the country, so it was hardly a surprise that he had been summoned upon a credible report of a dragon reaching the king’s ears.

So it was that Aneirin found himself with the command of a small group of riders the next morning, heading north-east towards the belt of mountains that sheltered the kingdom’s fertile plains from the worst of the wild winters, and charged with finishing off the downed beast. A larger party would follow behind to collect the corpse for study and preservation, apparently, but his focus was killing it.  

Aneirin also had a grinning crown prince on his magnificent bay stallion at his side, despite his protests that a fire breathing lizard the size of an average cattle barn was probably quite dangerous, and putting the heir to the kingdom within a twenty mile radius of the thing was a colossally stupid thing to do, but the prince had insisted, and his parents had never been able to tell him ‘no’. To be fair, he was irritatingly charming.

“What do you think it will be like?” Ruairí asked as they trotted at the head of the column.

Nye looked around constantly, and even though the prince was dressed in sensible clothes for once, rather than showy silks designed to accentuate his fashionably fit figure and draw the eye of everyone in the room, he couldn’t help but feel the immense responsibility of guarding the crown prince out in the open like that. “Big, probably,” he mumbled. “And pissed off.”

The prince barked a laugh. “You’re funny, Nye. People think you’re grumpy, but you’re not. You’re just quiet.”

“You talk enough for the both of us,” he scowled, squinting at a shadow by the road a few hundred paces off. It was just an old tree stump, but he still glared at it like it was an assassin crouched in ambush all the same.

Somehow, the prince was still in a blindingly good mood as they walked their horses up the twisting, mountain road four days later, the breath of man and beast billowing in the air as they climbed higher. Everything was an adventure to Ruairí, and Nye couldn’t help but twitch a little smile as he watched the way the soldiers leaned closer to their prince in the firelight at camp, drawn like moths to his radiant joy instead of the flames of the campfire. Nye made one more round of the perimeter guards, greeting each by name and earning an earnest salute as he left them to their duties, and went to lie down on his own bedroll while the prince kept talking late into the night.

On the following morning, they reached the mouth of the canyon where the dragon was supposed to have gone down. According to Lord Mortingale’s soldiers, it had swooped overhead from a lower peak of the mountains, then swept down the narrow gorge like a hurricane, which spooked the horses to a white-eyed panic and caused the archers on the ground to nock arrows. When they’d loosed at it, it had wheeled away suddenly, and only to catch a wing on the bridge, colliding with it and disappearing into the depths of the gully. The soldiers had been forced to keep going, given the fragile health of their lord, and hadn’t been able to report accurately on the status of the dragon when they’d left the pass.

At the head of the canyon, a huge waterfall roared over the edge of a ‘v’ in the ridgeline of the mountains and plunged down out of sight into the bottom of the gorge. In the spring this road was only just passable because of the sheer volume of meltwater, but now at the tail end of autumn, the road was only misted by a constant spray. On either side of the gorge, the rocks rose into steep pinnacles, and in front of the waterfall, bathed in a sheeting mist, the stone bridge spanned the canyon and connected the road from one side to the other.

The walls that made up the protective sides of the sandstone bridge had been punched out in places by a the collision of something enormous, presumably the dragon as it fell, and all up the far side of the steep slope the trees and scrub had been singed to charcoal.

Aneirin held up a gauntleted hand and the riders halted. Taking a deep breath of damp, freezing air that burned his lungs, he listened. Behind the constant roar and rumble of the waterfall, a deeper sound filtered up through the scorched trees and scattered rocks. Low frequency, like two blocks of castle masonry grinding together, the rumble of a dragon reached his ears.

“Sir, that bridge looks like it’s about to go,” the captain of the unit muttered from Aneirin’s left and he nodded.

“We need to get a better look at what’s down there, but the scree slope on either side of the bridge is too dangerous to go near. I’ll dismount and go on foot.”

“Nye, you can’t go onto the bridge!” Ruairí exclaimed, wheeling his horse around to face his friend. “What if it gives out?”

“One man isn’t going to tip the balance,” he said. “But you stay here. You hear me? Stay…”

“I’m not a dog, Nye,” the prince pouted, but he did stay put.

Aneirin nodded, swung down from his horse and petted the placid gelding’s neck. The black horse twitched his head and stretched happily when the knight let go of the reins, but otherwise remained steady.

After only a couple of steps, he heard another rider dismounting from behind him, and turned to find one of the soldiers hurrying after him. “Captain said you shouldn’t go alone,” she said. “I volunteered.”

Aneirin shot the captain a level look, but didn't protest. He wasn’t sure what difference one extra person would make, but he wasn’t one for causing social friction when there were bigger problems to face; namely the dragon lurking in the steam at the bottom of the four hundred foot drop.

Stones and grit skittered away audibly under the arch of the bridge as the two of them stepped cautiously out onto it, avoiding the missing chunks and making their way to the middle where the wall was still intact and they could peer safely over the edge into the abyss. A flash of movement out of the corner of his right eye caught his attention, and Nye turned sharply to find the soldiers they’d left behind had dismounted and were loading bolts into crossbows. The grinding of the windlasses had dissolved into the noise of the waterfall and they were nearly all ready to loose.

Frustration flickered through him. If he shouted a warning from right above the dragon though, it could alert the beast to their presence, but if those fools shot down at it now, it could take out the entire bridge while they were still standing on it. Heck, if the dragon wanted to, it could probably start a landslide and suck the whole damned road into the gorge as well. Grinding his teeth, Nye waved and exhaled in relief when the captain responded in kind, and when Nye gave the signal to hold, the captain nodded and barked something to his soldiers that was lost to Nye behind the pounding waterfall.

Satisfied that they wouldn't endanger the crown prince or the volunteer soldier who’d come with him, Nye leaned over the edge and his breath caught. There at the bottom of the gorge was indeed the dragon.

A myriad of golden scales glittered in the water like a treasure hoard itself as the creature basked in the flow of water, seeming to enjoy the feel of it caressing the spiny ridges of its back. He frowned though when he realised it was slowly swinging its head back and forth through the water just downstream of the waterfall’s plunge-pool, jaws slightly open, and it appeared to be… catching fish? Somehow the image didn’t align at all with what he’d expected for a beast that big. Had it just been sitting in the river for a week catching salmon and trout like a fat lordling on a vacation from court life?

Before his bafflement could truly sink in, the sharp clunk of a crossbow loosing somewhere to his right jerked his attention away from the dragon, and before he could react, a thick, oak bolt sank deep into the creature’s shoulder just above its wing membrane and it gave a screeching roar loud enough to make Nye’s eardrums hurt and his mind go a little bit blank from the sheer, unfamiliar dread of it.

With a wild thrash, the dragon erupted out of the spray from the base of the waterfall and sent its tail and powerful hind quarters arcing around like a battering ram while remaining on the ground. The whole structure of the bridge swayed and shuddered as the beast collided with its footing piles, and both the knight and the soldier froze in place with their hands clutching the stone wall.

“Run!” Nye yelled at her, shoving her in the direction of her comrades gathered nervously on the road to their right. If he survived this, he was going to see to it personally that the one who’d loosed without a direct order was on latrine duty for at least six months.

The desperate beating of wings as the creature floundered and screamed again filled the air and the bridge gave way beneath them with a thunderous clamour.

Nye found himself sucked downwards amid a cloud of masonry and dust and the woman beside him screamed and floundered for the remaining edge of the bridge but it was too late.

Amid the clouds of choking dust, gold flashed and flickered, and something incalculably enormous barrelled out of the carnage at them with the force of an avalanche. Talons snatched for him and Nye found himself borne upwards while the scaly foot of a dragon closed around him. The brief thought that he would be punctured and crushed like an egg in his steel armour flitted across his mind as the dragon lurched upwards with a knight in one hand and, to Nye’s relief, a soldier in its other.

It struggled to escape the blocks of sandstone as they rained around them, but despite the bolt in its shoulder, it cleared the wreckage and swooped over the road, but as it banked, the soldier slipped from its grasp and plummeted away. Nye had the vague impression of her bouncing once and sitting upright while crossbow bolts buzzed through the air like summer flies until someone obviously yelled at the soldiers to stop in case they hit Nye.

The last thing he saw before they wheeled away into an open sky was Ruairí’s horrified expression peeking out from the visor of his golden helmet and the sword falling from limp, shocked fingers as his friend was snatched away by the dragon they had been sent to kill.

He wasn’t sure how long they flew northwards along the spine of the Icetide Mountains, but the dragon eventually began to tire, swaying and weaving, sometimes dropping a horrifying ten or twelve feet between wing beats, until a shivering Nye looked up and realised that a wide, snowy field was rapidly coming into focus through the oncoming snow that had started to fill the air perhaps an hour earlier. At the end of the long meadow covered in a perfect layer of deep snow, Nye could just about see a gaping hole in the cliff-face, and realised it must be a cave. Dimly, his mind supplied that this was probably the dragon’s home, and he was probably either about to be eaten or stored for later like a woodlouse in a spiderweb.

As the ground rushed up to meet them, he tried to thrash free of the enormous, curling talons, but he was held firm, and there was no freeing himself. When the dragon didn’t slow down nearly enough though, another thought crossed his mind. They were going to crash land, and he realised this might be it. Death by high-velocity impact with a mountainside wasn’t on the list of ways the Crownsguard knight had ever thought he would perish, but he didn’t have any more time to ponder it as the dragon twisted at the last minute and collided with the ground in a spray of snow, and Nye was tossed from its talons to land in a heap thirty feet from the point of impact.

He struck his head, helmet clanging once, and his consciousness winked out instantly.

Warmth was the next thing he felt, and he blinked his eyes open to find that he was lying on his back in the snow, and above him, a dragon was squinting against the onslaught of a full storm, its ochre eyes fixed on him as it tilted its head this way and that to get a better look at him, and it exhaled again. Its warm breath washed over him and he realised his clothes were soaking wet where the heat of its breath had melted the snow.

Aneirin’s first thought was that he was about to be eaten, but instead of floundering away or reaching for a weapon, he just froze.

“You’re awake,” came a rich, rumbling voice and he blinked. Nothing in the tales he’d ever heard had suggested that dragons were capable of human speech. They were wild, savage beasts that burned the land below them in great swathes and snatched people into the air like owls hunting vermin in a cornfield. “Thank goodness,” the dragon went on, and then sat back on its haunches like a dog to regard him at a bit of a distance. A huge, golden dog, partly covered in snow and bleeding from a barb in its shoulder, but still, the resemblance to a dog was remarkable.

“How… How long was I out?” Aneirin rasped, sitting up. When he didn’t feel sick and his vision didn’t warp, he felt a degree of relief. The concussion he’d suffered wouldn’t be bad.

“Only a minute or so,” the dragon said, lowering its muzzle a little and puffing out again. “But you should get inside before you freeze. The temperature out here is too low for human survival.”

“How would you know that?” he groused as he struggled to stand and then gave a yelp as his ankle gave way beneath him in a hot flash of pain. In all the shock of coming round and finding a dragon in his face, he’d not noticed the pain in his leg.

The dragon caught him in its claws and tightened its hold just enough to hold him steady and he clutched at the tiny, snake skin scales that covered its hand more out of reflex than anything else.

“Come on,” the dragon muttered, and he could hear the bellows of its breathing clearly this close up. The sheer presence of the creature was astonishing, overwhelming, and he swallowed, trying to process everything that had happened that day.

Using three out of its four legs, the dragon ploughed through the deep snow, keeping him aloft with its right front foot, and then it ducked its head and slipped into the cave like a snake disappearing into its den.

Aneirin blinked slowly, looking around. It wasn’t a cold, empty cave littered with carcasses and bones, but instead the walls were smooth, ashlar masonry, and adorned with tapestries. In the far corner was what appeared to be a great nest on a stone platform made of silks and furs.

“This… This isn’t what I’d expected,” he whispered, wondering if he was hallucinating all this.

The dragon chuckled, low and warm and oddly friendly before he sat the knight down on the bed of fabric and stepped back. “I’ll find you something to wrap your ankle. I don’t think it’s broken, but it might like some support…”

“How would you even know that?” he asked again, ignoring the pain and staring up at the creature.

Its sunset orange eyes seemed to laugh and the pupils dilated just a little as the dragon stared at him. Then it cocked its head a little to one side and laughed quietly again. “I have an interest in human scholarship, though I admit, my sources may be a little out of date now…”

“You… what?”

If dragons could look embarrassed, this one managed it, so much so that Nye felt a prickle of shame creep in behind the slightly hysterical exhaustion that was making his body heavy, his mind a bit slow, and his dark eyes incredibly gritty.

Clearly seeing as much, the dragon sighed, a sound like wind moving through woodland, and then said, “Why don’t you rest and we’ll talk more tomorrow?”

“I thought perhaps… uh…” Nye faltered, the shame intensifying.

“That I was going to eat you?” the dragon said, one brow-ridge rising with disconcerting familiarity into a dryly sarcastic expression. “Please, all that pretty, etched steel of yours would give me terrible indigestion.”

“Says the dragon that was gorging on fish in the river like a grizzly bear.”

“Well we don’t exactly have an overabundance of trout up here on the mountaintop,” the dragon retorted, puffing smoke out of its nostrils. “Excuse me for wanting to broaden my diet and make the most of an unfortunate situation. Until you lot came back and shot at me, I was actually enjoying myself. They weren’t the mountain goats I’d been looking for, but the fish were fun to catch and tasty to eat.”

At his words, Nye’s brown eyes slid to the bolt that was sticking out of the dragon’s shoulder still, like a bee’s sting, and his gut twisted. “You want me to take that out for you?” he asked, jutting his chin upwards to indicate the bolt.

“If you would be so kind,” the dragon admitted. “Though I’m surprised you’re offering, since you seem to have been sent to finish me off. It does hurt rather…”

“Here,” he said, and gestured for the dragon to lower its body down, which it did with surprising grace given the close confines and evident discomfort. “My name’s Aneirin,” he added.

“The one with the gold on his helm shouted something different at you as we flew off,” the dragon said as it got settled on the stone floor in front of its nest. “He seemed particularly distressed.”

“‘Nye’, probably,” he said as he reached for the oak bolt and braced his other hand on the scales of the dragon’s shoulder. The body beneath him was solid and warm, and the scales had the most beautiful iridescence to them over the gold lustre beneath. “The prince is the only one who calls me that, except my sister. What should I call you, by the way?”

“My name is —” the dragon began, but grunted and bared its teeth when Nye drew the bolt out. A little blood trickled down, but it wasn’t much, and Nye pressed a wad of clean linen from the pile beneath him to the wound, and the dragon went on. “My name is Vulfuri’ik.”

Nye scowled. “Vul… fury… ick?” he repeated, butchering the syllables and the glottal stop even while they were still fresh in his ears. “Never been much good with languages,” he added with a wry look at the dragon, who was regarding him sidelong with a flat, unimpressed sort of look at his poor efforts. “How about I call you ‘Fury’ instead?”

Indignant, the dragon’s head lurched up and the movement pulled the makeshift dressing away from the clotting wound as it fixed the knight with a scowl of outrage. “Fury? Fury?!” it repeated. “My name means ‘peaceful wanderer’, you know? It’s a name that’s been carried by many of the noblest males of my line!”

“I’d been wondering if you were male or female,” Nye mumbled. “Well, I can certainly try to pronounce your name — what was it again?”

“Vulfuri’ik,” he said with exaggerated pronunciation, huge teeth clicking when he snapped his jaws shut at the end of the word and glared down at the knight.

“Vool… fur…eek…”

“Oh for the love of the sky, no. No. Just stick with Fury. That’s fine. You’ll only be here for one night anyway. Once you’ve healed up and I’ve convinced you to tell your kind to stop shooting your nasty little bolts at me if I ever need to venture down into the valley, I’ll take you back to the road and I’ll never have to hear you spoil my sacred name with that tiny little tongue of yours.”

“My tongue’s had quite a few compliments, you know?” Nye shot, not entirely sure where the bout of playful innuendo had come from. Perhaps it was exhaustion and the fact that he was trading gentle insults back and forth with a creature that was only supposed to exist in legends now anyway.

“I’m sure,” Fury said dryly. “But until you decide that I can test that claim for myself, why don’t you take your little metal shell off and I’ll find you a goat or something you can eat, and then you can rest.”

Nye had to smile. The creature was supposed to be intimidating, and in a way he supposed he was, but the sense of humour was not something he’d been expecting. As he stripped off the various pieces of his plate armour, he felt the dragon’s curious eyes on him and turned to meet his gaze. In the stillness that swung between them, Nye sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, gaze snagging on the scab that had formed over the hole where the crossbow quarrel had sunk into his shoulder. “When we’d heard that a monster from the mists of time had crashed down on the border of our kingdom, we only thought to protect ourselves from you. Clearly, you were just… raiding our larder…”

The dragon laughed, deep and rumbling like a rock slide, and something shot through Nye that he wasn’t expecting to feel. He didn’t often seek out the company and touch of others, despite his momentary brag earlier. It just wasn’t something he felt the need for, but in that moment, the way the dragon’s voice rippled through him and his supple lips pulled back to reveal a maw full of sharp, white teeth, and his talons flexed on the stonework floor and his wings drew a little closer to his muscular, lithe body… Nye felt his cock twitch and decided he might actually have a concussion after all.

The dragon left not long after that, and returned with a neatly butchered and roasted goat, which surprised the knight, who had been poking around the large, chilly cave and hopping awkwardly to avoid putting weight on his sprained ankle.

“You shouldn’t be up,” the dragon purred as he landed and held out the goat on one talon. “Here.”

“You want me to eat out of your hand? Bold. We’ve only just met.”

The dragon’s laugh sounded again, only longer and louder this time, and he looked at the steel hanging on Nye’s hip. “I thought you could use that. It’s not the most elegant of solutions, but I don’t exactly have a full dinner service here. I don’t collect crockery like an old lady.”

It was Nye’s turn to bark a laugh at that, and he shook his head. “Alright, I’ll use my castle-forged steel sword as a carving knife, but just this once.”

“I hope it’s clean,” the dragon grimaced.

“I take good care of my weapon,” he said, and then hoped the dragon wouldn’t notice the flush in his face at the horrible and actually unintended innuendo. Definitely a concussion. He was never this bold or unguarded with people ordinarily.

“Glad to hear it,” Fury muttered dryly.

Fury let Nye sleep on the pile of fabric that night while he curled up on the floor like an overgrown, gold-adorned house-cat, and Nye found that he had no trouble drifting off whatsoever, and woke to find the snowstorm raging outside the cave entrance when he woke the following morning.

Over the next three days, while his ankle healed and the snow piled up, he and Fury talked. The cave he was living in was the remnants of a human outpost from the time when dragons and humans had apparently once lived in peace. “This cavern was actually where the dragon would have lived, while their rider would stay in a small room below — through that tunnel,” Fury said, astonishing Nye with the information.

“Their… ‘rider’?”

“Mmm,” the dragon rumbled, puffing a small flame over his tongue to ignite a torch on the wall beside an opening large enough for a human to walk down. “Every room in this little termite mound of an outpost is accessible to my kind as well, though I have to go outside and back in again. Something to do with the structure of the rock not being sound enough to tunnel down from here. There are other rooms below.”

“Yes, sure, but… rider?”

“Oh. Has your kind forgotten that?”

“Forgotten what? All we know about dragons is that you’re deadly, fire breathing lizards who —”

“Reptiles, yes,” he growled. “But not lizards. Lizards do not spit volatile compounds which ignite when combined.”

“That’s how your fire is made?”

“Yes, it’s a simple bio-chemical reaction. Don’t they teach you anything these days?”

“I… You know what, no. Dragon biology wasn’t covered in my training to become a knight.”

“No, but they do cover how hard you need to hit a fellow man and where to cut him open to make him die… Very refined.”

“You’re one sarcastic lizard, you know that?”

Instead of taking offence, the dragon grinned at him. “Gosh, it’s wonderful to have company,” he sighed. “I know I shouldn’t enjoy it too much, since you’re only still here because you’re hurting and there’s a snowstorm and all, but I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve actually… you know… exchanged words with someone. I talk to myself all the time, but it’s not the same.”

“When was the last time? Are you the only dragon in these parts?”

“I’m the only dragon for at least five hundred miles,” he sighed. “And she’s a big, grumpy elder dragon who thinks I’m still a hatchling for goodness sake! A hatchling! I’m very much an adult, and I’m sorry my gizzard isn’t saggy enough for her tastes, but there you have it.”

Nye laughed and then rolled his ankle around experimentally. “I think it’s basically healed,” he said. “But it’s been an unexpectedly nice change from castle duties. Keeping the prince from falling down a staircase because he’s too busy flirting with some lording’s son has it’s own challenges, sure, but this is a nice change of pace.”

“You and the prince are… close?” Fury asked carefully. “But you are not… mated?”

“Mated? Gods no. They wouldn’t let him ‘mate’ his Crownsguard. He’s expected to continue the line, and I know you know enough about human biology to know that wouldn’t happen with the two of us, even if we wanted it.”

“Oh. Yes,” he said. “Is it… acceptable for two of your kind to mate though?”

“Yeah, when the future of a kingdom doesn’t hang in the balance,” he shrugged. “You?”

He nodded. “Dragons do not dictate with whom another may mate, though I admit, I’ve only ever met one of my kind. There are so few of us left in these parts after all.”

That rather dampened the mood, and they spent the rest of the evening discussing lighter topics. Nye told him about his twin sister and the work she did in the Temple of Healing, and how he had always felt like she was the smart one out of the two of them. He told Fury of her passion for healing and helping, and how he felt that his role as a knight in the castle, training younger soldiers and protecting the crown prince, was barely halfway as useful as Seren’s work, and was surprised when Fury reassured him that helping to ensure the longevity of a ruler he valued was just as important.

“I realise I don’t know you all that well,” Fury said, “But I don’t think you would stand behind a ruler who did not care for their people.”

Nye looked down at his rough, scar-flecked hands where he had cradled them idly in his lap. “Ruairí is a good man,” he said with quiet certainty, thinking of that fire-lit camp and their warm smiles and boyish laughter. “The soldiers love him, and the people adore him too. You should see the way they cheer for him at the tourneys…”

“Tell me about them?” Fury asked, his eyes lighting up at the idea of more knowledge.

“The tourneys or the people?”

“All of it…”

So he did.

While the snowstorm continued to whisk the world into a white haze outside, Nye told the dragon everything he wanted to know about how humans in his kingdom lived these days, and in turn, Fury curled around him to keep him warm with the heat of his enormous, golden body.

Nye talked late into the night, and he only realised that the dragon had fallen asleep when he noted the regular rhythm of his breathing had slowed even more than usual. Turning, he stared at the dragon and marvelled at what he was seeing. The light of the nearby fire in a niche in the wall caught the iridescence of his golden scales, each one unique and perfect, and Nye reached out and ran his fingertips over the dragon’s brow-ridge and around the base of the horn that curved elegantly backwards over his head. The dragon let out a long, low, sleepy rumble of pleasure and Nye gave a sigh.

Conflicted about his feelings for a creature that was about as far from a human as it was possible to get, he curled up against the dragon’s side that night, and woke in the morning with the dragon’s arm snugging him close to his warm body.

Sliding free, Nye stretched and walked easily across the cave floor towards the entrance; his ankle was healed and he would have to return home soon, lest he be pronounced dead and the modest estate he owned outside the city be turned over to someone else. His sister must be beside herself with grief and worry too, if the prince had done what Nye was sure he would, and informed her personally of what had happened to her twin brother.

The wind had lost its vigour and now the little flakes drifted gently down like the pattern on a lace curtain.

A warm breeze wafted over his neck and he turned to find that Fury had come to stand behind him. He’d been so lost in his thoughts that he’d not heard the enormous, golden dragon moving behind him, and he exhaled too. Fury nuzzled him gently and crooned softly. “You are thoughtful,” he said. “Even… sad?”

“Just thinking about what my sister must be going through right now, thinking I’m dead.”

“I will fly you back today,” the dragon replied immediately. “The weather is not ideal for you, but I have a human friend who keeps horses on the plains below these mountains. You can borrow a mount from her and ride to the capital. If I try to approach, they’ll shoot me down on sight without realising what a precious cargo I would be carrying,” he added, and huffed a breath out that made Nye shiver again. “You’re cold standing here on the threshold, come,” Fury added, scowling.

“Not cold,” Nye said, his voice cracking just a little. “It’s nice.”

“Oh. You had but to ask,” he smiled, and sighed out another deliciously hot breath in the cold air.

Nye brought his hand to the delicate skin between the flared nostrils and Fury jolted and then relaxed in almost the same heartbeat. “You like that?”

“Mm, very much,” he rumbled, eyes rolling slightly as he closed them. “Your touch is… wonderful.”

Nye moved his hands along the dragon’s head, taking his time to feel the contours beneath his hands, and Fury gasped and lay down on his belly, allowing Nye to touch him wherever he pleased. “You’re so beautiful,” Nye murmured. “Your scales are like coins… You’re like a treasure yourself…”

“Oh,” the dragon sighed, shuddering bodily.

“What?”

“That’s… That’s quite the compliment among our kind… calling someone — ah — a treasure…”

“You are,” he said, leaning closer and kissing him just in front of his closed eye. “You’re rarer than gold, too.”

“Charmer,” the dragon rumbled, but he sounded pleased. “Oh, that’s wonderful.”

“You… You want… more?”

Fury opened his eyes and regarded Nye. “I don’t want to hurt you…”

“You’re careful,” Nye said. “And clever. I’m sure we can figure something out.”

Fury let out a long, low-frequency growl that Nye felt in every fibre of his body, and then licked his lips. “I want to use my tongue on you,” the dragon rasped. “I want to taste you. I want… I want you, human. Like I’ve never wanted anything before.”

“So long as you’re careful, you can have me,” Nye said, stepping back and undressing slowly.

The dragon watched, as though Nye were a priceless statue that was being unveiled just for his pleasure. He rocked his hips from time to time against the floor, and Nye realised with a jolt of satisfaction that the dragon was as aroused by the situation as he was. “Fuck, you like this, don’t you?”

“I like you, human,” he said with a bit of a snarl to his tone. And when Nye’s dark, linen trousers and underwear hit the cave floor beside his shirt, the dragon raised his head and exhaled to drive away the goosebumps that had prickled over Nye’s skin. “Let me pick you up?” he breathed.

Nye inclined his head, and the dragon’s claws closed around his naked body. He’d never felt so vulnerable and cherished and so turned on in all his life. He went limp in the dragon’s grasp even as the sharp teeth and lashing tongue descended, seemingly to devour him. Somehow, he trusted that this was not the way he would die.

Fury parted his jaws and let his searing hot tongue lave over Nye’s entire torso and down to his groin where his cock was straining and leaking already, and when the heat of Fury’s mouth washed over him, his mind went blank with pleasure. “Gods, that’s good,” he gasped, bucking weakly in Fury’s careful hold.

“Now who’s a treasure, look at you,” the dragon purred, his deep voice skittering through Nye’s body and setting every nerve ablaze.

His tongue pressed against his cock, the friction perfect, and Nye tumbled towards his release with a shout, arching and writhing helplessly in his hold as the dragon worshipped him. When he came against his tongue, Fury gave a great groan of pleasure and Nye’s hearing warped for a moment.

When he came back to himself, Nye found Fury’s tongue gently cleaning him, and he glanced dazedly down the dragon’s belly to where he found his hard cock dripping freely onto the floor. “You can… Use… me to make you come, if… if you like…” he said vaguely.

Fury laid him down the bed and lined his hard cock up with the knight’s thighs. He was far too big to enter him, but the feel of Nye’s legs around his hard, slick cock was enough to send a rumble of ecstasy through Fury and he gasped, tilting his head up to the ceiling and rutting against him. His hips moved desperately and a constant, low-frequency growling rippled out of him.

“You’re going to make me come,” Fury groaned. “Oh I’m going to come, I’m coming… I’m…”

He lifted Nye up in his talons while his back legs pistoned helplessly, and he spilled over the silk sheet beneath him and halfway up Nye’s legs and torso. His hot come covered Nye’s skin despite the dragon’s best efforts to raise him out of it, and the feel of it around his cock and over his abs nearly made him come again right on the heels of his first orgasm.

When the dragon finally stopped, he lowered Nye to the cleaner part of the bed and let out a long, rumbling purr. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Nye chuckled. “Fuck, that was hot.”

Fury gently cleaned him and he dressed in one of the finer silk shirts from the dragon’s collection.

“Is this what you hoard then?” Nye asked, plucking at the sleeve of the garment.

“Mmm? Oh, no,” came Fury’s sleepy reply from where he’d curled up on his nest after discarding the fabric that had been ruined by his release. “I just collected it for my own comfort over the years. Come here.”

Nye lay down with him and let the dragon’s warmth seep into him while the world passed them by for another day. They made love again later, and Fury took his time to take Nye apart a second, third, and even a fourth time before the sun set on their secret lair.

The following morning though, Fury woke to find Nye dressed in his armour and ready to leave. “Wait,” the beautiful, gentle, golden dragon said. “Before you go, I want you to see something. Go down that staircase, and I will meet you at the other end.”

Nye nodded and headed off in the direction the dragon had pointed, turning down a switchback staircase cut into the rock. He came out in a pitch dark room with no idea how large the echoing space was until a warm light trickled around the edge in a creeping tide. He looked and found, astonished, that a channel of oil had been ignited, and the light was racing around the perimeter of a massive chamber, at the centre of which were rows and rows of… books.

Kept at a safe distance from the fire, the books were stored on stone shelves, and he stepped out to find ancient tomes, perfectly preserved by the stable atmosphere and humidity of the chamber. From behind him, he heard the steady footsteps of the dragon, and turned to find him rounding the corner, scales shimmering in the low light.

“This is your hoard?” he asked.

“Mm,” the dragon nodded. “Silly really, but your kind are fascinating to me. The way you chronicle everything… Look there,” he added and pointed to a nearby shelf. The two approached it together and the dragon raised a talon to a particular tome.

Nye drew it off the shelf and realised it was a tome dedicated to healing.

“That might help the lord you told me about. The one who was travelling to the capital for relief from his illness,” Fury said. “When you described his symptoms to me, I thought of that book. Take it with you today, and it might save him if your sister can prepare the necessary tinctures for him.”

The knight looked up at the dragon and his eyes brimmed with quiet tears. “You’re not at all what I thought you’d be,” he croaked.

Fury lowered his head and exhaled just to make Nye shiver. “Nor are you, human.”

With a heavy heart, Nye let Fury pick him up, and they began their journey southwards in silence. The wind roared in his ears and he curled up in the protective embrace of the dragon’s claws, enjoying the ride but wishing he had warmer clothes.

Eventually they dipped low over the landscape and Fury touched down in a snow-dusted pasture while a few horses scattered and whinnied indignantly at their arrival.

From the small farmhouse nearby, a middle aged woman emerged and put her hands on her hips when she saw the dragon.

“Your friend?” Nye asked as he was set gently down in the snow and Fury stepped back.

Eliara was wary of a stranger at first, though not of the huge, golden dragon it seemed, but when Fury vouched for him, she lent Aneirin a horse on the condition that he would bring the mare back to her in the same condition when he was able. He swore an oath to do so, and she seemed satisfied.

“Will I ever see you again?” Nye asked Fury while they stood on the snowy road outside the barn where some of the less hardy horses were kept.

Fury bit his lower lip and then said, “If you wish it, I can give you a gift that will allow you to see me again.”

“I do,” he said. “I… I want to tell Ruairí that you’re not an enemy to the kingdom but an ally. I want him to meet you. I want… I want you to be welcome in our lands. Providing you don’t eat our sheep…”

He rumbled a low laugh and dipped his head to nuzzle Nye’s side. The horse seemed completely unbothered by his presence. “No, precious one. I will not eat your people’s sheep. There are plenty of wild ones to sustain me.” He drew in a deep breath and held it before rising up to reveal his chest and exhaling gently. Taking his talons like two pincers, he plucked free a single, golden scale from right over his heart and held it out to Nye.

The knight took it like it was a sacred relic and held it in the palm of his hand. Its warmth was surprising, and he closed his fingers around it before looking up for an explanation.

“My magic will allow me to feel what you feel when you hold it against your skin, Nye,” he said. “If you wish to see me, I will know it, and I will come.”

Nye squeezed it tight and tried to ignore the ache in his chest. “I wish you could come with me now,” he said, “But you’re right. They would attack you this time.”

“Perhaps in the future,” Fury smiled. “Don’t be sad… It… I do not like to feel you sad…”

Nye kissed the smooth scales between the dragon’s nostrils and tucked the gifted scale safely into the pouch on his belt. “I’ll have it made into a pendant that I can wear around my neck, always.”

Fury swallowed thickly and looked away, but he was obviously deeply moved by the promise.

Eliara’s palomino mare might have been alright with the dragon’s presence, but she was not at all happy at the prospect of a ride in the snow. She did allow Nye to mount, though only after making her sentiments known with a hefty nip on his arm. With an oath to return the mare and a promise to the dragon to summon him when he was first able to, Nye set off for the capital.

Eliara’s stud was only a day’s ride from the city walls, and when Nye trotted in near sunset, the first place he went was the Temple of Healing. Seren screeched when she saw her brother and flew at him, looping her arms around his neck and sobbing. “I thought you were dead,” she cried. “The prince said…”

“Hush,” he smiled, holding her too. “It’s quite the tale, but first, this is for you. It is for Lord Mortingale.”

Thanks to the lost knowledge in the book, the lord was healed within in a month, and Nye returned to his life in the castle. Ruairí begged him to tell every detail of his time with the dragon, and while Nye was a loyal servant to the crown, he felt justified in not telling his prince quite everything… Magister Ferrar seemed to suspect a deeper bond existed between the two of them than simple friendship, but if he did, he kept that to himself.

When spring melted the snow and the crocuses pushed their bold, purple spearheads through the frosty ground to liven up the pastures, Nye took the mare and his own black gelding which Ruairí had led back to the castle when he’d been snatched away by Fury, and he returned the mare to Eliara.

Then, in the privacy of the deserted, wildflower meadow, he took the silver pendant that he had had crafted for him and cradled it in his hand, closing his eyes and trying to beg the dragon silently to come to him.

He waited in the pasture for an hour before he heard the beating of wings and when he looked up into the clear, spring sky, he saw a flash of gold and his heart leapt. The dragon banked, showing his gleaming wings, and a huge gout of flame burst from his maw across the sky like a pennant before he turned, tucked his wings, and made a peregrine dive towards the meadow.

He barely stopped in time to avoid crushing Nye beneath him, and when he nuzzled him like a cat over and over, rumbling and purring and crooning, Nye laughed and kissed him. “I missed you too, Fury,” he said.

“You have no idea,” the dragon replied. “Gods, you have no idea. Are you well?”

“Can’t you tell?” he asked, only then releasing the large pendant to dangle back against his chest.

“Yes,” Fury laughed. “Yes, I can. My most precious treasure, you are happy and I love it. I missed you. Will you fly with me?”

Nye turned and looked back to find Eliara standing at a polite distance. The horsewoman nodded once and called, “I’ll keep your gelding for you til you return.”

“Thank you,” he said.

And with that, the dragon picked him up and thrashed his wings hard, taking off and soaring up into the clear sky.

Nye spent a week at Fury’s home, and after that, he returned to the capital with Fury this time.

Ruairí was the first to greet the dragon, and he swore that Fury could come and go from their city in peace, so long as he respected the same bargain. Fury solemnly gave his oath in return. The second human to greet Fury was Seren, and the two spent a solid three hours talking about healing treatises until Nye and the prince interrupted politely with an offer of refreshments. Fury had no time for Magister Ferrar, apparently.

Thus, the ancient alliance between dragon and human was reforged by a knight and his golden dragon, and Nye spent the days when he wasn’t at his prince’s side in the loving arms of his dragon.

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General Yandere! Osamu Miya Profile

Yandere! Osamu Miya x fem! reader

Warnings: kidnapping, stalking, extreme possessiveness, unhealthy/toxic thoughts, mentions of dub-con, slight misogany/traditional gender roles, mentions of motherhood/forced motherhood, mentions of harassment, basically Osamu is obsessed with you congrats love </3, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

DARLING PROFILE

Introverted

It’s not that Osamu isn’t capable of being attracted towards a more social darling, but rather that there’s something very endearing and appealing about a darling that isn’t out with friends 24/7.

He doesn’t like the idea of other people monopolizing their time, and consequently it would make him much happier (and quell his protective tendencies) to have a beloved that spends most of their time at home.

Even a homebody would be perfect for him – of course, he wants his darling to have hobbies and activities that take place beyond the four walls of their home that they enjoy, but he likes knowing that ninety percent of the time, they can be found in pristine shape inside their home.

It fuels his more domestic fantasies as well; he likes to imagine spending lazy Sundays with his darling, snuggled up on the couch while rain pours outside, watching Top Chef or other favorite movies and shows, popcorn and other snacks slipping past their lips as he criticizes the chef’s cooking alongside Gordon Ramsay.

He likes to imagine the way his darling would look so pretty wearing his clothing, the hickeys he’d decorated their neck and collarbone with in last night’s passionate throws of intimacy standing out like a beacon as they sleepily rub their eyes, yawning out that fucking adorable morning ‘Samu.

He just likes knowing that his darling is mostly content with staying home most of the time – he hates the idea of them being out with strangers, with people that could potential hurt them or have ill intentions, and in his mind this is a perfect win-win. He’s a homebody too, and this way he can spend all of his time with them, by his side, preferably cuddled into his chest or with his tongue down their throat.

He just loves the way his darling slowly sees him as the most important person in their life, because he’s the only person in their life – it’s a dream come true, and to see their face light up when he gets home from work not only gets his heart racing and his palms sweat, but his pants so fucking tight.

Artistic

Now, this particular trait isn’t a must-have for Osamu, but it’s definitely a factor in what attracts him to his darling.

He likes the idea of a beloved that has hobbies of their own – someone who finds passion in their lives, and devotes a substantial portion of their time to practicing and perfecting their chosen art form.

This could be quite literally anything – painting, playing an instrument, drawing, cooking (Osamu’s personal favorite, though he must be a better cook than you, no exceptions), writing, sewing, crocheting, anything that gets his darling’s creative juices flowing.

He loves to watch them practice; there’s something about the expression on their face as they concentrate that really gets him going. Maybe it’s the way their tongue sticks out just slightly as they put the final touches on the cupcake batter they’re mixing, the way their brows twist together as they brush the ink over the paper, how they tap their foot as they try to keep their rhythm while playing a difficult passage on their instrument.

He just loves the way they look so invested and passionate, and if Osamu is being honest, a lot of this fascination comes from his hopes that one day they’ll think of him with that degree of devotion.

He loves the idea of his darling paying him so much mind and attention that he becomes their hobby, that their artistic urges get focused onto him – maybe the little scarves and knickknacks his darling makes start being his size or having gray hair and gray eyes.

Maybe the poems they write start depicting a man of strong build, with callused fingers and a heart of gold.

Maybe the pottery they mold starts resembling two hearts beating together, symbolizing his and his darling’s everlasting love.

It’s sappy and he knows it, but there’s something about his darling being passionate that really speaks to him – maybe it’s because he sees himself reflected in them, but regardless it only fuels his obsessive tendencies, pushing him to learn as much as he can about the craft so he can impress you, just as he desperately wants to.

Smart

Again, this particular trait isn’t hard and fast for the chef, but it’s most definitely a plus in the stages of his infatuation forming. He’s always had a thing for smart, capable women; he likes the idea of a girl who isn’t afraid to be right, who doesn’t try to dumb themselves down for other people.

Of course, humility is important too (no one likes a braggard, do they?), but Osamu takes pride in the fact that his darling is so smart, that his darling is so talented. And this can take the shape of many different things – perhaps his darling is a gifted mathematician, able to solve equations with little trouble because they just get numbers.

(He likes to imagine the way their math skills might falter as he holds them over his knee, their pretty ass bare to him as he spanks them again and again, hearing them count aloud and grind their pussy against his knee in a way they think is oh-so-subtle.)

This could be his darling being strongly empathetic; able to understand the way others feel, putting them at ease and investing in making sure they’re okay while Osamu flounders to understand why they’re crying in the first place.

(He likes to think this is a sign that his darling would be a perfect mother, always able to calm down their children and make them giggle and smile, even while their knee is scraped up or their favorite toy is broken.)

It could be that his darling has knowledge of a very particular, niche topic; he could listen to them talk for hours upon hours, never losing interest as he nods along to their words, watching the way their lips move and form words, part of him forcing himself to listen while the other part wars to reach out and shut you up with his own mouth.

He just really likes the idea of a smart darling, one he can be proud to call his own, and if you were to tell him off with some logical, well grounded argument? Well, he’s still not letting you out of the basement, but fuck it all – one glance at his pants is enough to show you how your little speech has affected him, and he has no qualms showing you, either.

Optimistic

While Osamu isn’t necessarily a pessimist, he’s most definitely in the middle of the spectrum in terms of his outlook on life. He likes to consider himself a realist; he has no delusions about what life is (though, he most certainly does have delusions about what the two of you are), and he’s not embarrassed to say that more often than not, life has a way of choosing the non-ideal routes.

Of course, things could obviously be much worse (how can he say life is bad when it’s led to him meeting you, the single best thing that’s ever happened to him), but they could be better too. He’s neutral, really, which is why a darling that’s more optimistic would be a perfect fit for him.

Overwhelming negativity is exhausting, and if his darling only ever complains without anything positive to say, Osamu would quickly grow annoyed and tired of their presence, snapping at them to shut up, I can’t listen to you bitch anymore.

It’s not that his darling has to be always happy, always looking at the bright side (as this, too, can be equally as annoying as constant negativity), but he likes that his darling just naturally assumes the best in people.

Of course, it terrifies the protective part of him, the one that’s always paranoid about their safety and the intentions of others regarding them, but even for as much sleep as it causes him to lose at night, it’s just too damn cute. When they’re smiling at others and encouraging them through difficult times, Osamu can’t help but swoon; they’re just too adorable, too motherly, too fucking perfect.

He likes that they’re just genuinely a happy person – he’ll always lend an ear to them when they inevitably have a bad day or need to complain, but he’s quick to give them kisses all along their face and neck, whispering that they’re absolutely right babe, I hear ya.

He just likes how sweet it makes him, and only furthers his idea that they need protection – the world has a nasty way of dimming those that shine brightest, after all.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS

Controlling

While it isn’t necessarily purposeful, Osamu has a bit of a problem when it comes to being a prominent figure in your life.

He’s used to having to share everything, from the limelight to the occasional toothbrush, socks to volleyball shoes with his twin. He’s used to being known as ‘the other Miya’, as the chef with the famous athlete for a brother.

So to finally have you, something all completely his own, how can he be blamed for being a little more paranoid? Can he really be faulted when he’s just trying to make sure that you stay his and only his?

He’s not even really conscious of the way he slowly begins becoming an omnipresent part of your life, how those cold metallic eyes are always watching over your shoulder, staying fixed on your figure because every little thing you do is riveting to him, fascinating and something he needs to see, to make sure you’re doing as you should, that you’re staying safe and healthy and happy.

He doesn’t mean to come off as the controlling boyfriend (though, his tendencies of being more intrusive than he should be will start much earlier than the boyfriend stage – when you’re both still acquaintances, friends, when his obsession is still freshly new), but with the way he slowly begins demanding more and more from you, the message will be pretty clear.

You’ll likely write it off at first; his insistent questions of who are you going with when you tell him you’ll be out for the afternoon seeming oddly serious, but it’s ‘Samu, right? It’s Osamu Miya, a man you know isn’t as petty as being jealous over your time being spent with another, who isn’t bothered enough to be weird about it, right?

You’ll just laugh it off, though this has the opposite affect on the man in front of you – your laughter has him on edge, wondering if you’re lying to him, wondering if you’re going out to meet another man – what’s Atsumu up to tonight?

Suna?

Ginjima?

The paranoia eats away at him as he paces around, terrified that you might be flirting with another man, chatting and making eyes at some piece of shit, that he could be touching you and fucking you and making you scream out a name that isn’t Osamu fucking Miya – the paranoia is really rather extreme, the deeply rooted fear forcing him to get more serious much quicker than he’d expected.

Soon he’s not only asking who you’ll be with, but where you’re going, how long you’ll be out, what you’re expecting to do, when you think you’ll be home, where and when to be checking your phone for texts or calls from him.

You’ll think it’s strange, confusing why he’s being so weirdly protective over you (and being so damn insistent, as he’s literally grasping your hands in his and forcing you to repeat back a promise to check yer damn phone every five minutes, what if something happened? Ya understand, right? I have to be able to check in with ya when I need to.), but, just like before, you’ll just brush it off, nodding hesitantly and slipping out the door, unease crawling up your spine.

You’ll slowly come to feel as if Osamu is suffocating you, his presence overwhelming and always there, as if there’s no escape from his probing questions, his insistence on you always contacting him (though, the tracker he’s placed on your phone makes it so that his demands to update him on your location via text aren’t really necessary, but it makes him feel better).

And from there, things only get more extreme – he’s catching your wrist as you go to pluck a piece of fruit out of the pile, narrow gray eyes watching you as he tells you to choose something healthier, why don’t I just make ya somethin’ to eat?

He’s sighing and blocking the door when you leave the living area, telling you to sit down and drink the glass of water he’d given you before you go lay down in bed, before you use the restroom, before you shower or brush your teeth or yawn or speak.

He quickly becomes the sole dictator of your life, making you ask permission for every little thing, making you feel subservient and below him, making you feel as if you’re nothing without him, as if you can’t properly take care of yourself without his guidance, without him metaphorically (and literally) spoon feeding you.

And frankly, as irritating and terrifying as it is, it’s difficult to get mad at him – after all, Osamu doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. It’s not even about explicitly controlling you for him; it’s more about making sure you’re his and that no one else can get to you, to make sure that you aren’t being swept away or stolen by anyone else.

And of course, it’s to get you trusting him, relying on him, needing him, because isn’t that what relationships are about? Mutual love, dependence, desperation?

Protective

Going hand in hand with his paranoia and controlling tendencies, Osamu views you as someone who, despite your best efforts, isn’t really able to take care of yourself. He trusts you and loves you, at least as much as he can given his staggering devotion to you, and yet he doesn’t inherently trust you with you, with your health and safety and care.

No, that’s his job, him as the man and your caretaker and the only one who can actually take care of you, who can adhere to your every need, whether you’re aware of it or not.

He’s fairly domestic at heart, loving the softer moments, and you’ll notice this extremely early on with his obsession with you. He’s always trying to cook you things, and while it’s sweet, soon it’ll start getting a bit weird.

He’s got a full course meal for you every lunch, always your favorite foods cooked exactly how you like them despite never mentioning it to him in more than passing. He’s raising his chopsticks and telling you to say ahh, his voice soft and gooey, practically purring at you. He’s placing the sushi against your tongue and smiling boyishly at you, his cheeks dusted pink while pride swirls in his chest that you’re eating his food.

It’s sweet, at first, and damn can he cook, but once he starts showing up at your door with breakfast and dinner as well, inviting himself inside to eat with you and your family, chatting up your father and helping your mother cook, you’ll start growing uncomfortable, unsure of why he’s there.

You won’t know why he seems to care so much and why he’s subtly tapping your wrist under the dinner table, smiling softly and telling you to slow down a bit, you’ll choke if ya keep eatin’ like that.

It’s strange and it’ll feel beyond out of place, but Osamu is a charmer. He may not be as obvious or charismatic as his twin, but your parents will quickly be won over, everyone around you telling you how good of a person he is, how he’s such a catch, how he’s so sweet to you, won’t you just give him a chance?

He’s always pulling you closer to him, keeping you by his side so that you don’t stray too far, keeping a hand on your wrist or shoulder or waist or back, warm fingers pressing into your body as a discreet but strong reminder that he’s right there.

He’s grasping your hips as he maneuvers you to the side to avoid the crack in the sidewalk, sending you a strangely shy, boyish smile as his cheeks turn pink and he murmurs something about you being oblivious as hell, yer always getting’ hurt.

He’s quick to grab your wrist when you’re opening doors or grabbing something sharp or hot, sending you a small look as he does it for you, murmuring something under his breath about you being too delicate, can’t have ya doing something so dangerous.

He’s genuinely concerned about your health and safety, truly – he doesn’t mean to be overbearing. He’s not trying to be condescending by saying that you’re incapable of doing anything substantial on your own; of course not! He’s just concerned that you tend to be clumsier than he’d like, and what would happen if you tripped and skinned your knee, broke your arm, got a life threatening concussion that altered your life forever?

(Or, worse yet, made you forget about him?)

He’s just doing what he thinks of best, and the trouble with Osamu is that while he’s not particularly delusional, he’s also not particularly great at seeing the reality behind his actions. He knows he’s a bit more overboard on his protectiveness over you than he should be, but he’s able to honestly write it off as being chivalrous, as being a good, caring partner.

He thinks he’s being romantic and exactly what you want when he cuts the crusts of your sandwiches off for you (even if you didn’t ask).

He thinks he’s being attractive when he doesn’t let you package your own leftovers from the restaurants, claiming the food is ‘too hot’ even though it came out more than forty five minutes ago.

He’s just trying to help, and he’d never be able to forgive himself if you were hurt when he could’ve prevented it – after all, what does that say about his ability to take care of you? Does he even deserve to call himself yours if he can’t keep you from getting bruised or scraped?

Would you even want him if he can’t protect you like a man should?

Obsessive

Generally speaking, Osamu’s devotion to you knows no bounds.

He’s busy with his restaurant, cooking orders and managing paperwork, but in between shaping the rice and signing his name, every single thought is aimed towards you. He’s constantly idly wondering about what you’re doing, what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking, whether you’re happy or sad or whether you miss him.

He likes to imagine the way you look at any given moment you’re apart; he’ll imagine the soft smile on your face as you see a particularly cute pet when you walk down the street, your fingers itching to reach out and give it some love.

He’ll imagine the way you’d sigh to yourself and roll your eyes when your coworkers are being annoying again; he’s told you so many fucking times to just quit so you don’t have to worry about it anymore, but you always refuse and laugh him off.

(It pisses him off that you so lightly reject his advice; can’t you see how being there is ruining your mental health? Can you not see how it’s deteriorating you, how you’re so much more stressed now, how the money isn’t worth your time? It infuriates him, and he’s sure that once you’re living together, your full time job will be taking care of the house, not your own finances. He’ll cover that, so don’t you worry your pretty little head.)

He’s imagining the way you shrug on your jacket, zipping it up until it stops right below your nose because it’s fucking cold outside, how you’d look like a cute little hedgehog all wrapped up for winter – no doubt warm and soft and perfect to hold in his arms.

He’s always thinking of you in sweet, domestic situations; you’re just too adorable to him, and it’s always been his fantasy to find a partner and live out those horribly cliché romantic tropes he always sees in TV or reads in books.

He wants to be the one spoon feeding you warm soup on cold days, watching as you flutter your lashes shyly at him and compliment to new recipe he tried out (or, more accurately, the recipe he made up knowing your favorite ingredients).

He likes to think about waking up in the mornings with you, the sunlight streaming onto your face as you let out soft little breaths and even the occasional snore, making his nose scrunch up and a snort leave his laugh because fuck, he’s heard that nose through your window for years and now that it’s right in front of him?

He’s imagining falling asleep with you, too, helping you with the skin routine he demands you set up and carry out with him – he wants to have dozens of photos on his phone of you making a kissy face in the mirror with him, a white mask covering your skin and making you look like some sort of slasher serial killer.

He’s plagued by thoughts and fantasies of you in every shape and form. (Some much, much more explicit than the kind, domestic ones – images of you on your knees with cum dripping down your chin and onto your tits, your fingers holding open your pussy and turning away your head in embarrassment as he stares from above you on the bed, the way you’d wantonly moan out his name and scratch down his back because he just feels too damn good.)

And so, the basis of his obsession with you starts out almost immediately with gathering information about you.

He wants to fantasize these sweet (and not-so-sweet) moments with you, but in order to this he needs to know more, to learn more. He wants to know everything he possibly can; when do you fall asleep at night?

Do you spend hours staring at your phone in the darkness of your bedroom, or are you out the moment your head hits the pillow?

What kind of food do you like?

Do you eat breakfast, and if so how would you feel about breakfast in bed, with you woken up to the scent of freshly scrambled eggs and a few (much too heated) kisses to your forehead by Osamu himself?

Do you prefer to spend time with others or by yourself?

Are you an animal person, and if so would you consider getting a pet with him as a trial run for your first child?

He wants to know every possible detail there is about you – and he’s frighteningly good at it. He’s just so unsuspecting; he’s nice, funny, a stand-out guy to everyone that knows him, and why would you have reason to think any differently?

Sure, it may be slightly offputting with how insistent he is that he’s always with you and making sure others don’t get close to you, but you’ll answer every question he throws at you.

After all, it may seem a bit odd to be asked what your greatest fear is, but you’ll just  at him and puzzle over the answer, pressing a finger to your lip as you hum in thought.

It may be strange initially to be bombarded with so many questions about your future plans (where do you want to live? What do you see as your ideal marriage? Your ideal house? Your ideal number of children? Could you see yourself becoming a housewife or a stay at home mother?), but you’ll shrug off the sense of unease coiling at your shoulders and answer him honestly, because that’s just what friends do.

However, once his questions start teetering to a more questionable side, things that you don’t feel comfortable sharing with him, with another man, red flags may begin appearing for you. After all, why does he need to know your bra size?

The package of fancy lingerie that appears on your front door the next day in delicate lace of your favorite color surely can’t be connected to him, right? Even if the fit is perfect?

Why does he need to know how heavy your periods are; what knowledge could that serve him?

(Quite a bit actually, if the some twenty boxes of pads, tampons, and menstrual cups he’s hoarded into his closet in his apartment is any indicator.)

You’ll slowly grows confused by his efforts to know more and more, but Osamu is slick; he’s good at keeping information at bay, at comforting your fears because he's just such a nice guy, now won’t you please take another sip of your beer and tell him what position gets you seeing stars every time?

He just loves you, and he expresses his love by overfilling his brain with information of his favorite variety – you.

DEALING WITH RIVALS 

While it would be a stretch to say Osamu never feels jealousy, he wouldn’t be lying if he said that the majority of his unease with other men earning your attention lies from the perspective of simply wanting to protect you.

Of course, he doesn’t like the possibility of your attention and love deviating away from him, your pretty eyes no longer focused on his, your smiles and laughter no longer aimed at his words and jokes. He likes that you seem to like him – he needs you to like him, after all, but that isn’t the entirety of what fuels his jealousy.

No, it’s the paranoia that eats away at him every time he sees you in public with any number of other people around you. He knows what kinds of monsters a lot of men are – he went to school with a number of them, and while he considers his friends to be good guys, even his closest companions have said questionable things over the years.

Hell, he’s though some questionable things over the years – of course, he’d never act on them, but idle thoughts of wow, she’s got nice tits or those pants are tight, wish she’d bend over again shocking him and making his cheeks flush red. He always feels guilty, immediately leaving the room and not able to look the woman in the eye ever again, but if he, Osamu Miya, someone who likes to think of himself as a feminist and non-threatening to women, is capable of such thoughts?

Then what do the men that don’t hold themselves to higher standards think? What kind of sick, perverse thoughts are rolling through their heads when they see a pretty woman nearby, a pretty woman like you?

It makes his skin crawl to just think about it, and so while he knows that rationally four out of five men would never hurt you, there’s always the what if eating at the back of his mind. He likes to think of himself as a the chivalrous, traditional male partner who cares for and protects his lover, and what kind of a man would he be if he wasn’t able to keep vicious hands – and heaven forbid, cocks – away from you?

What does that say about his ability to protect you, his ability to keep you happy and safe by his side? And so, while jealousy happens to him fairly often, most of the time it’s an ugly mix of his own personal jealousy, his protectiveness, and pure selfishness that cause him to tense up and watch the scene with an extra careful eye.

Towards the beginning of his obsession with you, Osamu was much more reluctant to actually interfere in situations in which he suspected something bad may happen. Of course, the moment anything bad actually did happen, like the man talking to you and reaching out to touch your shoulder, forced him to spring to life, to come to your aid and make him out to be not only the knight and shining armor, but also to get you out of that situation.

He’ll always remember the first time he did this – you ‘d been cornered by a man at a park while Osamu ‘happened’ – at least, you think it was an accidental meeting – to be passing through. The man had been sneering at you and backed you up against a tree in a less populated area, with no one seeming to notice.

You’d been visibly scared; shoulders tensed up and little stuttered pleas for him to move falling past your lips, but the man didn’t seem to care – or maybe, didn’t seem to mind. He’d been quick to swoop in, stepping between you and the man, and while Osamu doesn’t quite have the same physique as he did in high school, his height and the still very clear muscles coating his arms were enough to have the man scuttering off, spitting at the ground and glaring at Osamu.

He’d immediately turned around to help calm you down, leaning down and placing his hands on your shoulders, and it’s safe to say that the way you hugged him and whispered your thanks only further cemented his obsession for you – if you were to ask in the future, that’s the moment he’d say he knew he was in love with you.

And so, after that initial turning point, Osamu hasn’t hesitated much when it comes to defending you against unwanted (or, even wanted) attention from men – it’s his job, after all, and the reward of you clinging to him is so damn worth it.

The bell chimes right as expected, Osamu’s back facing the door to Onigiri Miya.

He can’t help the wide grin that takes over his features, even as he tries to bite it back so as to not lose his cool. He’s sure a flush is coating his cheeks; you always come in around five o’clock on Wednesdays like today, ordering your usual – onigiris that Osamu makes specially for you, but would never tell you is only willing to make for you.

He’s molding the rice with his hands at the counter, grateful for the open concept kitchen and eating area because as he turns around and sees you walking up to the register, the breath gets sucked out of his lungs.

Fuck, you’re so pretty.

And you’re looking right at him – chuckling as you call his name and wave your hand again, breaking him of the stupor he’d been trapped in. He clears his throat in embarrassment and fixes his cap, wiping down his hands on his pants as he approaches the register.

You greet him and give him your order, mentioning off-handedly you’ve been looking forward to his food all day – it must’ve been the only thing that got you through work, you’re sure. Osamu’s heart melts in his chest, the feeling in his fingers fully gone as he lets the compliment sink in, but he’s almost on autopilot as he rings you up and takes the money from your hand, already pushing the tray containing the onigiri your way.

(He’d already had it prepared, something you asked with a laugh as you took the tray, though you’d turned on your heel after thinking him before you could hear his small, vulnerable of course.)

His shift takes what seems like forever after that – he’s trying to focus on cooking, on making sure the seaweed lays perfectly against the rice, the filling being mixed to perfection, not letting any customers wait too long at the register, but it’s hard.

It’s hard to not watch the way you enjoy your food as you sit at the table by the window, the overcast sky shining in on you and making you seem to glow.

It’s also hard to ignore the way the man at the table next to you keeps sneaking glances at you, and when he opens his mouth to finally speak to you once you’re roughly halfway through your food, Osamu’s hand involuntarily crushes the rice in its grasp.

He curses under his breath as he sets it aside, perking his ears up and straining to hear the conversation. He’s flirting, Osamu realizes with a gut-wrenching feeling in his stomach – and badly, too. All compliments about your looks; you’re looking pretty today, love that skirt on you. Do you work out? You’ve got great legs. Osamu feels a shiver roll down his spine, and suddenly the mishappen rice is forgotten as he can only stare at the interaction, feeling his body temperature rising rapidly the longer the stranger talks.

You laugh weakly at the man’s comment, clearly uncomfortable as you shift in your seat to get further away from the man who’s clearly leaning in towards you. Your fingers tap nervously against the table you’re seated at, the shop suddenly feeling much too empty to you.

Oh, uh, that’s very nice of you… you trail off, hoping to end the conversation in its tracks. Unfortunately for you, the man doesn’t seem to pick up your hint.

He resumes on, rambling on about his own workout regimen, even going so far as to pull back the sleeve of his t-shirt and flex, cocking a brow at you and offering to let you touch his bicep.

You refuse, as politely as you can, and turn back to face your food. This seems to displease the man, and Osamu watches with a sharp, dangerous inhale of breath as the man reaches over and grabs your hand, setting it on his arm as he murmurs out a doesn’t it feel good –

Osamu’s moving before he knows it, having jumped the counter and practically sprinting to reach you. His wrist slaps away the man’s hand, your own fingers retracting immediately. He stares down in anger, disgust, barely contained rage, watching as the stranger’s lips part, anger and fear swimming in the man’s black eyes. Get out. Harassment is not tolerated in this restaurant. Get the fuck out, and don’t ever come back.

His voice is deep, the scariest you’ve ever heard it, and for a moment even you’re terrified – of Osamu, of all people.

But it seems to do the trick; the man is out of his chair in an instant, almost cowering away as he shakes his head and haughtily scoffs, walking towards the exit and keeping his shoulders taut all for show.

Osamu growls, before spinning on his heel and facing you, his hands on your shoulders as he searches your eyes with his own. He asks frantically if you’re okay, bombarding you with questions while you simply stare, before lunging at him and wrapping your arms around him, your shoulders shaking slightly as you whisper your thanks over and over. Osamu freezes for a moment, a pink flush spreading across the plains of his cheeks, before his arms return the embrace, squeezing you so much it nearly hurts.

He stays like that for who knows how long, before you pull back and he begrudgingly lets you go. You gulp and tell him you’re okay, that you’ll just finish this last bit of onigiri and then you’ll be off, and Osamu only nods, a displeased look on his face.

He scruffs your hair as he stands up, smirking down at you as you whine a bit, before he steps out the door, following the path he’d seen the man take.

It’s not hard to find him, nor is it hard to shove him against the alley wall, his fist meeting flesh once, twice, five times as the howls in pain. He’s clutching his face in his hands and crouching down by the time Osamu is done with him, but all the chef can do is spit at him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and cursing under his breath.

Disgusting, treating women like that. Especially my women. Don’t you ever fucking come back, or next time I’ll kill ya. I’m dead serious. Yer fucking dead.

He seems happier when he steps back inside the shop, sending you a little wave to which you return, unknowingly making his heart flutter and his resolve harden.

Yeah, he’d do whatever it takes to make you safe and happy – even if it means roughing up his own criminal record.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY

To be quite honest, the prospect of kidnapping you occurs to Osamu disturbingly quickly.

He’s always seen himself as wanting to end up with a partner one day – a pretty wife that he cherishes and who cherishes him back. He wants to live in a nice, downtown apartment a few blocks away from his restaurant, the whole place painted shades of white and gray (he’d never admit it, but just to match his hair and because his skin tone looks best against the color), with maybe a cat or child running around not too long after.

It’s a fantasy, pure and simple, but while little fourteen year old him was embarrassed to be daydreaming about such a sappy idea (Atsumu had been more than willing to make him aware of how weird this was when he’d accidentally let it slip at sixteen), the embarrassment has faded with age until Osamu began viewing the idea as less of a desire and more of a sure aspect of his future.

And so, once his feelings of such magnitude for you form, you seem to fit perfectly into this image he’s built in his mind.

You’d be such a good partner – he’d love to live by your side, sharing the dinner table with you, a bed, a shower, even a toothbrush if you wanted to. (And in case you’re wondering, yes, he wants to.)

It’s remarkably easy to imagine stepping into a bath tub with you, his bare chest against your bare back as you lean against him, letting your wet hair fall over his shoulders and his chin hook above your head. He'd rub his arms up and down your shoulders, admiring the way you shiver in his touch before relaxing, the heat of the water making your muscles loosen as the shiny diamond on your ring finger winks up at him, validation that you’re his, that he earned you.

It’s surprisingly easy to imagine poking your nose with a dollop of whip cream as he makes a batch of eclairs, seeing the way your nose scrunches up and you giggle, wiping it off your skin and instead placing it on his lips, following it up with a kiss and mischievous tongue that licks away all the cream.

It’s disturbingly easy to picture the way you’d breathlessly whisper to him that the test is positive – we’re – you’re – you’re gonna be a dad, ‘Samu.

You just fit the entire fantasy oh so perfectly, and so it just feels natural to substitute in your form whenever he finds himself idly daydreaming about his future. It’s mostly during long shifts at the restaurant or late nights alone in his bed that the thoughts come, but after only about two months of his obsession reaching it’s full fledged rage that the notion that he needs to live out these fantasies really solidifies.

No longer is it something he sees himself eventually doing – no, he will be living out his hopes for his future life, and you will be the one doing it with him. And so, while he’d ideally have you consenting to this and choosing to move in with him, Osamu isn’t above forcing you, either.

Of course, he’ll ask you first; it’s intended to be casual, the way he brings up moving in together, your brows shooting up in confusion because we’re not dating, ‘Samu, right? So why would we move in together…?

And really, you don’t have to remind him of that – you’re practically dating, aren’t you? With the amount of time you spend together, the longing glances he gives you that he swears are returned, and the way you melt into his touch when he gives you what you think is a friendly hug or kiss on the cheek.

You’re basically already together – which is why Osamu decides that sure, you may be pissed at him for the first few days, weeks, hopefully not months of being his captive, eventually you’ll come around. You seem to have a soft spot for him, and he can treat you like he should – he promises.

He can make you happy, in ways you’ve never been happy before.

And really, as much as you won’t want to admit it, Osamu is right.

You are mad when you first wake up to a semi-familiar but not quite known bedroom, your chest rising and falling rapidly because this isn’t your home. You don’t remember going home with anyone the night before, so where are you?

It’s only once Osamu slips into the room, his face lighting up at seeing you awake that the pieces slowly start connecting, the lock he sets into place on the door’s deadbolt making panic eat away at your gut.

You’re mad, enraged, terrified, and all Osamu can do as you struggle and yell at him to let you go is sigh and nod his head, telling you that it’s okay, I understand this is scary, but it’s what’s best for you. For us.

Of course, that doesn’t get you any calmer – you’re quick to spit out allegations of him being crazy, telling him that there is no ‘us’, that it’s not okay for him to be locking you away with him for the rest of your life – as he so brazenly tells you.

Osamu is patient, though, at least at the start. He’s not delusional enough to believe that you’d be happy the moment you wake up in your new home, that everything would be rainbows and butterflies.

However, Osamu does eventually expect you to straighten up; maybe it’ll be Stockholm Syndrome, maybe it’ll be those feelings of attraction you’d held for him before being stolen away resurfacing once more.

Frankly, he doesn’t care – all he cares about is now you’re in his grasp, by his side, where he can keep you safe, secure, and his. And safe he’ll make sure you are; the entire house is nearly babyproofed, because while he doesn’t think of you as an infant or treat you like one, there’s a part of him that’s too terrified that you’ll see the knife and start getting ideas.

He’s scared that if he doesn’t have covers on all the outlets, you’ll take the fork and jam it in as far as you can go, hoping your heart will eventually stop beating. The thought is too much for him to bear, and so he’d begun planning to make his apartment (in a very exclusive part of town, thanks to Atsumu’s connections, complete with soundproof walls and more square footage than he could ever hope to use) as perfectly fit for the both of you as early as he could.

And so, once you wake up that fateful morning to his bedsheets, you don’t really have a chance at escaping. And despite being kidnapped, you’ll find that you don’t particularly want to; you don’t have too much anonymity, but at least Osamu respects you enough to let you do your basic hygiene alone.

He’s not accompanying you to the toilet, nor does he brush your teeth for you, nor does he dress you himself. Of course, he’d love to do any number of these things, but he still sees you as your own, respectable person – just a person that needs him, is all.

Some things Osamu will still force you to include him in, though; showering is an activity that is always done together, your wet, nude bodies hovering close as he runs the loofah over your back, dipping dangerously close to your ass as he breaths a heavy kiss against the shell of your ear.

Cooking is an event that while he mostly does alone (he doesn’t trust you with a knife yet), you’ll be seated at the dining room table, expected to keep him company while he flies around the counters with pots and pans.

He’s really not too terrible of a captor, really. He’s pretty physically affectionate with you, always pressing kisses against the crown of your head, your fingers, your thighs, your lips and neck, and his arms are always around your waist while he sighs and relaxes against you.

He’s touchy, yes, but every amenity under the sun will be yours when you’re under his roof – nice TV’s with access to every streaming platform you could want, because he knows you get hankerings for programs that are difficult to find.

You’ll have exquisite food, always prepared by him and hand made with love (and perhaps, other things as well, though you’d rather die than find out the secret ingredient of his famous fried rice).

You’ll have an assortment of fluffy, warm sweaters (all of which have been worn by Osamu and spritzed with his cologne, just to get you falling in love with his scent), and all the blankets and stuffed animals you could ever want.

He wants to spoil you, and his only rules are pretty easy to follow; obey him, don’t try to escape, and don’t try to do anything that could hurt you.

It’s not horribly complex, is it?

It’s really not, and after a while of being stuck with Osamu as your only human contact, his kind words, compliments, gentle touches and earnest desire to please you, you’ll slowly find yourself letting your guard down, developing begrudgingly loving feelings towards him. You’ll hate it at first, hate both himself and yourself, but at the end of the day you really don’t have a choice.

Because while Osamu may chastise you for attempting to crack your neck (you’ll break it, baby, don’t crack it like that) or wear something light weight when the heating is broken for a few days in January (put on yer jacket or my sweatshirt, can’t have you walking around in shorts and a t-shirt for Christs’s sake), it’s difficult to ignore the way he looks at you with such reverence and devotion.

And while it may have scared you at first, eventually you’ll come around to it – isn’t it nice to know how much Osamu needs you? Isn’t it nice to feel wanted and desired, to know you’re the reason your captor is living, breathing, smiling?

It’s a head-fuck, sure, but who cares? All you’ll ever know for the rest of your life is Osamu Miya, so why not make the best of it?

PUNISHMENTS

For the most part, it’s true that Osamu is a fairly lenient captor.

He’s not particularly harsh nor demanding, and he does genuinely want to see you smile and return his feelings. Those fantasies of having a loving domestic life with you that he’s harbored for so long bar him from any truly atrocious acts, like burning you or leaving scars on your pretty body.

He doesn’t want to hurt you, not only because it would ruin his fantasies of being your perfect, caring lover, but also because he’d never be able to live with himself if he knew he was the reason for you being in pain. He’s driven to madness by his love for you, but he’s still not fully detached from reality – he knows that causing you pain is wrong, particularly physical pain. He’d be no worse than all those men he was trying to keep you away from when he was still developing his feelings for you.

And so, Osamu tries to give you as much freedom as he can within reason. You’re obviously not allowed to venture into the real world by yourself, nor are you allowed to do anything he deems dangerous (though, while belittling at times, eventually you’ll start to agree that it is dangerous for you to handle knives and razors, that you should just let him cut your apples and shave your legs).

You’re not allowed to disobey him, either, because if there’s one thing Osamu can’t tolerate from you, it’s disrespect or purposefully going against his words.

He doesn’t particularly enjoy brats, and he wants to be able to trust you to keep yourself out of harm’s way; it would save so many stress induced headaches, his eyes wearily watching the clock as he desperately wishes time would hurry up so he could close up shop and head home to you. He’s not super strict, and frankly it’s pretty easy to placate him – just hug him and compliment him, tell him you appreciate everything he does for you, and let him pamper you for a while.

He’s more than happy to take care of you; grabbing water and whipping up a nearly Michelin level meal of your favorite foods, with a yummy dessert for the both of you to share.

(With only one spoon, of course.)

He’ll turn on your favorite movie and have you lean back against his chest, his fingers idly massaging at your scalp as you watch the bright colors and action, familiar with every line and making him chuckle as you recite it.

He’ll lift the covers over your tired form when you’re about to fall asleep, diving down below them as he trails kisses down your stomach and between your legs, wanting you to fall asleep while feeling good, even if it leaves him hanging and having to either fuck his fist or your pretty thighs while you sleep.

And so, you’ll discover it’s actually pretty hard to tick Osamu off enough to get him to punish you – but when you do, he’s remarkably good at shutting down the behavior, even if it kills him to do so.

Osamu’s always known he’s soft on you; he doesn’t claim to pretend that he’s the traditional man of the household, putting you into your place so that you’re always the subservient woman.

No, if anything, Osamu plays both roles – being the strong man in the relationship, and caring to your every whim and need. And so, while it makes his heart ache and his gut wrench in agony to do it, he knows that the best way to punish you is to stop taking care of you.

He thinks the fastest way to show you that he’s your everything is to stop being it for a while – not cooking for you, not holding you in his arms, not engaging you in conversation and asking about your day, not giving you more attention than you would ever know what to do with.

It hurts him (more than it hurts you, if we’re being honest), but it’s the only way – and so, as Osamu watches in displeasure as you shake your head at him, he’s internally sighing. You’d refused to let him bathe you again – you’d been feeling rebellious lately, and while you’d only been with him for about a month – not nearly long enough for the Stockholm Syndrome to set in to the degree he wanted it to – he was starting to get sick of it.

Can’t you see he just wants to give you the proper love and care you deserve? It’s so hard to properly wash yourself, and it’s such a sweet, intimate moment to let him take control of your body, to run the soap through your hair and down the expanse of your arms and legs. Your rejection of bathing feels like a rejection of him, and so he merely nods his head, those gray eyes fixed on you.

Okay, he tells you, sitting up from the dinner table.

The barely touched food in front of you is snatched away from you in the blink of an eyes, being scraped into the garbage bin before you can even utter a word.

You’re confused, your rebellious flare dying down as you stare at him, unsure of what he’s doing. Osamu doesn’t say anything more, merely washing the plates in the sink while willing himself to not glance at you.

(It takes an inhumane amount of self-restrain to accomplish this task, as he’s so used to stealing looks at you nearly every minute of the day, too mesmerized by your beauty to do anything more than gape like a fish, but he manages.)

And maybe it’s petty, but hearing the way you mutter his name has his resolve hardening, because fuck, you’re already cracking.

Once the dishes are done, he dries his hands and whistles a tune to himself, heading down the hallway to his office. Paperwork is strewn across the wooden top, evidence of the way he’d been procrastinating for days on doing it in favor of spending time with you, but now is the perfect time. With a heavy sigh, he plops down into his rolling chair, picking up the pen and getting to work signing and approving business transactions, visualizing where he wants the company to be this time next year.

He slowly grows immersed in the work, having chanted to himself too heavily at the start of the paperwork to ignore you, ignore you, make her dependent on you by ignoring her needs, it’s the only way.

And so, when you peek into his office room, biting your lip in worry, Osamu genuinely doesn’t notice. You’re not sure what’s going on – he’s never this dismissive of you, always asking you if you’re hungry or need anything, if you’d like to read a book together or take a nap.

He’s never gone this long with at least smiling at you, and while it’d likely only been forty five minutes since you’d told him in a moment of bravery that you didn’t want to bathe with him, it feels like a lifetime.

You watch for a few moments, before carefully sitting yourself in the plush armchair in the corner of the room, situated so that you’re watching his back as his pen flies across the paper and his finger across the calculator.

At some point, Osamu notices your presence, but he steels himself to remain visibly ignorant to you and your eyes that seem to be boring into him.

Soon he finishes for the night, groaning as he stretches his shoulders and arms, but as he gets up to leave he doesn’t bother to spare you a glance.

You heart aches; are you missing him? The thought has you biting your lip harshly, tears stinging at your eyes at the realization, but before you can anything you hear Osamu turn the faucet on the bath on, the sound of rushing water making you stiffen up. Perhaps… if you want his attention back, maybe you’d have to…?

Osamu's brows are tightly drawn as he strips himself of his clothing and steps into the tub, trying to let the warm water relax his tense muscles. He peeks at the (purposefully) open door to his left, wishing that you’d appear, but after five minutes of you not showing up, Osamu sighs.

This is the right thing to do, he just knows it – how else is he supposed to get you dependent on him, on his love and protection? He knows it, he swears, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, that his lungs don’t feel like they’re crushing under the weight of his heartache –

He’s brought out of his reverie as he feels a poke at his hand, opening his previously closed eyes to see you standing next to him, a nervous and somewhat embarrassed look on your face.

With a start, Osamu notices that your cheeks are wet and your eyes still a bit red, and immediately guilt is crashing into him; he made you cry, fuck. He blinks at you, trying to keep his face emotionless, and watches as you gulp.

I-um, can I get in with you? You’re asking in such a quiet, unsure voice, and for a moment Osamu threatens to break his careless façade, the urge to swoon at your cuteness nearly too much to handle.

He blinks once more, prompting you to keep speaking.

You play with your fingers as you stare down at them, letting the words fall off your tongue. ‘m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a brat. I’m just – I don’t know. I’m scared, ‘Samu, of how I’m feeling. You stole me away, and I’m not supposed to love you or even like you, but I don’t think I hate you anymore. I think – I don’t know, it’s confusing, but I think that I’m starting to need you.

Osamu’s heart is racing in his chest, your admission making his chest flush bright red, joy eating away at him because are you being honest?

Are you speaking from the heart?

The way you look so frustrated at yourself tells him that you are, and with a swallow much too loud to be unheard by you, Osamu speaks. Do ya understand that I’m just trying to take care of ya?

You quickly nod, chancing a glance at him, only to find his gaze stuck on you, the intensity making you shrink back.

It’s silent for a moment, before Osamu’s face splits into the softest, happiest smile you think you’ve ever seen, his arms opening wide as the water splashes lightly against his chest. Hurry up, cold water’s no fun to be in.

Your lips part and your eyes widen, and quickly you’re stripping off your clothes, too relieved at the way he’s looking at you to be embarrassed as every inch of yourself is revealed to his prying gaze. Soon you’re clambering in, burying your face into his neck and wrapping your arms around his torso, letting him return the embrace as you whisper against his skin.

I’m sorry ‘Samu, I know you love me and just want me to be safe, I’m sorry I acted out. I won’t do it again, just – just please, don’t ignore me. I need you too badly for that.

Osamu’s never had such a warm, pleasant feeling sit in his stomach before, and neither has he had such wonderful, romantic sex in his life as that night – with you clutching at him, not letting a single inch of space between your bodies, his name rolling off your tongue in waves as you came again and again and again, all for him.

OVERALL DANGER

Overall danger rating: 6/10

Osamu isn’t too terribly dangerous.

As far as yanderes go, he’s somewhat tame; he’s mostly just extremely devoted to your safety, and in turn devoted to making sure he knows everything about you so that he can properly fulfill his duty as your lover.

He’s a bit of a sucker at heart, and so while he’s capable of hurting others on your behalf (and isn’t afraid to do so, if he feels your safety is being threatened), Osamu treats you with delicacy.

You’re precious to him, something he can think of as truly and wonderfully his; he doesn’t have to share you with another soul on this planet, and he cherishes the idea of being your one and only in the same way. He’s lovestruck, truly, and while his protective tendencies may scare you at times, it’s truly coming from a (mostly) good place.

He just wants you to be safe and happy and his, and so while it likely doesn’t win him many points to be relocating you to his apartment, chasing off any rivals for your affection, time, or attention, Osamu sees it as a necessary evil.

He’s always wanted to have and be a loving partner, and you’re the one he’s decided has to be it. So while he may not be the traditional knight in shining armor, all Osamu cares about is you falling for him, just as you should.

All he wants is for your dependence on him to grow, so that the two of your can be mutually addicted to one another, unable to go nary an hour without at least some form of contact, be that a smile, a touch, a kiss, or feeling your wonderful, perfect little cunt squeezing around him.

Osamu just loves you, and try all you can, but eventually you’ll return his feelings. And how could you not?

There’s something wrong with him, yes, but have you ever felt so loved?

Have you ever felt so seen, validated, wanted?

You never have, and you never will, so just accept it. Accept him.

#_lee's profiles #_general profiles #_osamu miya #_inarizaki #yandere haikyuu #yandere osamu miya #haikyuu x reader

[allsadnshit]

I think I'm ready to admit that despite having a really beautiful week so far - today feels bad and strange like I keep seeing everyone posting my old work on ig stories suddenly which makes me feel extremely uncomfortable, I slept in a little today even though I went to bed at a normal time, and my husband JUST cleaned the tub and yet I am feeling like our whole home need doused in vinegar and lemon till it's disinfected

I just feel on high alert or something? I read a really interesting passage this morning about illness and disease through the scope of traditional Chinese medicine and it does such a good job of connecting emotions and body in a really comprehensive way and it made me feel better and worse all at once because it felt so true and it gives me so much hope for healing but always shines so much light on imbalances I am suffering and feel anxious to fix

Not sure what would make me feel better and I feel far away from all my friends this week even though in reality I sort of always am - I really feel it emotionally right now

I am reheating my arugula lemon walnut pesto in the oven with some extra virgin olive oil and im going to try and shake the feeling off at the gym the best I can later

[thatswhatsushesaid]

I have a MDZS question and consider you an expert on all things JGY (he did crimes, good for him) so I hope you have some insight into this: I read that NHS found the Sacrifice Ritual in JGY’s Closet of Wonders, but how did JGY get it? Was it in WWX’s Burial Mounds “library,” and if so do you know where WWX found it?

Thanks, I very much enjoy your content!

hey there anon, it's very kind of you to consider me an expert, but i really am not 😬 i've certainly read, reread, and re-reread both the EXR and 7seas translations of the empathy flashback sequence many, many, many times, in addition to the guanyin temple sequence, because those are the parts of the text where jgy's actions are most frequently criticized and taken out of context. for details like the ones you're asking after, i've got to revisit other parts of the book again because my memory is a tea sieve, and i'm also not immune to medium bleed (no one is). so please bear with me, and keep tabs on the notes of this post for any discussion that follows since my pals often chime in with details i've missed.

first point of contention tho: it is never confirmed how novel canon nhs comes by his knowledge/familiarity of the summoning ritual, though wwx does speculate extensively in the guanyin temple denouement that he hears about the ritual from mo xuanyu himself. i don't think he gets his hands on the ritual himself, and i don't think he has access to the jin sect treasure room either. from vol 5 of the 7seas translation:

So yet another person came to [Nie Huaisang's] mind. Mo Xuanyu, who had been banished from Golden Carp Tower.

In the past, Nie Huaisang might have chatted with Mo Xuanyu to glean information from him. From the mouth of the dejected Mo Xuanyu, Nie Huaisang had clearned that he'd read one of Jin Guangyao's fragmented manuscripts of forbidden magic, in which an ancient, evil ritual was recorded. He had then incited Mo Xuanyu to exact revenge for the humiliation he'd suffered at the hands of his own clan members--to use the forbidden art of the sacrificial ritual to seek retribution.

in vol 1 of the 7seas translation, this is what the text tells us about the sacrificial ritual mo xuanyu uses to summon wei wuxian:

The nature of this "sacrificial ritual" was a type of curse. The caster was to harm themselves with a weapon, making cuts on their body and using their own blood to draw the array and write the spells within. They would then sit in the center of the circle and give up their mortal body to evil spirits, using the annihilation of their soul as the price to summon a nefarious, malicious ghost. This was all done in order to request the fulfillment of a wish. Thus, it was the opposite of "possession."

While both were forbidden magics of ill repute, the difference was that the former was much less popular than the latter. After all, few wishes were so strongly desired as to make someone willingly sacrifice everything they had. This was why the technique had been nearly lost after centuries of disuse. The examples recorded in ancient books had only a handful of cases that were backed by reliable evidence, and every single one of them had been for revenge. Every malicious ghost summoned by the ritual had fulfilled the caster's wishes perfectly, in cruel and bloody ways.

i've been thumbing through the rest of the 7seas volumes as well as the EXR translation, but i don't think there's anything more concrete about where the ritual comes from. i think it is entirely possible that the jin sect found copies of something like this ritual in the burial mounds, sure, but i also wouldn't rule out a ritual like this being contained in the treasure room entirely independent of wwx. there's canon precedent for it; case in point, recall the collection of turmoil in the gusu lan's forbidden section of their library.

anyway that's what i've been able to find today, but i'll keep poking around in the books to see if i trip over a passage that neatly answers all of our questions lol.

#asks answered #mdzs meta #jin guangyao #he did crimes??? good for him 😌

[lazykim12]

“Well I didn’t expect you to find your way out so soon, Shane.”

INTRODUCING THE SCUM BAG VILLAIN WHO REPLACES DR.BLAKK IN THIS AU IS- An oc🗣

Okay so jokes aside, mostly 2 villains take the role, Expect the main one who does it all is Arachnis. Blite actually takes the second Villain role, I tried my best not to give arachnis to much edgy vibes and make him like a normal villian in slugterra, that takes place of dr.Blakk instead, so sorry if his design is too much-😭 I tried to be original with it- his name is given due to him having moslty arachnet’s as his Ammo

Will makes his way out the deep caverns, thinking he’s free and can return to slugterra and go see his son and Dr.Blakk again, unfortunately, only greeted by two familiar faces, waiting for him, maybe he’s not as free as he thought.

LORE/EXPLANATION

So Will spends about a year in the deep caverns barely surviving, Ill from the dark water energy, and of course malnourished and weakened, barely escaping the dark bane’s clutches, he manages to finally find a way out, in my au, there’s a secret passage between the 99 caverns and dark caverns, that not even the dark bane know about and it’s very hard to find. Though Arachnis knows about it, he always goes to see if will escaped yet, wanting to create that false hope for Shane that he isn’t so safe, making sure to bring a guest who despises the Shane’s,specifically, blite.

Now for arachnis and blite.

Arachnis lore I’ll just keep small for now, and maybe explain in later posts or artworks, but all you need to know is he was power starved, all of his life, he was failing at everything, his parents only complimenting and seeing false potential in him out of pure pity, which made him furious, he always out there, trying to find something to live for, to do, experimenting and such, he accidentally experiments with dark water, and it creates a small explosion instead of a portal to the dark caverns where he loses his eye, and his skin is infected with it, causing his small appearance. He has a need for power, but not just for slugterra, anything, he wants to feel like he’s the one in control of anything, so it doesn’t matter if he takes control of slugterra or not, as long as he feels like he’s in control, he loves everything.

And that’s unfortunately where Will falls into place, when he captures him after his escape from the deep caverns.

Arachnis also manages to free blite from the cavern of time, in promise to basically torment Will shane, which blite immediately agrees on, while still being free, but managing to keep low to not be caught again, Because arachnis alerts him that dr.Blakk is still around protecting with Eli Shane and his gang.

Arachnis also manages to make his own version of a ghoul, a ghouled Arachnet.

#art #digital aritst #digital arwork #bajoterra #slugterra #alternative universe #will shane #other characters #villain

[rich1etozier]

For your reading pleasure, a ficlet based on @trashcanniballecter ‘s post about "Completely Oblivious to The Fact That He's a Vampire” Steve ~ 

-

Just before they run into The War Zone, one of the kids finds a sleeve of cookies in the RV. It was stuffed in one of the mostly-bare cupboards. Nancy says they shouldn’t eat it -- that’s stealing. But they’ve already taken a whole home, so what’s one package of cookies added on top?

Dustin has no issues with tearing into it. Max and Lucas are close behind him, stealing handfuls from the package. Erica demands some too. Eddie’s too nervous to eat, but he steals a few sips from an unopened New Coke. Robin eats one of the loose bananas on the counter that’d gotten jostled around in the chase.

Steve takes a look in the dusty cabinet and pulls out a box of soup crackers. The bites in his side are still burning under their bandage, and it’s making him dizzy. But he forces himself to eat anyway, because who knows when they’ll get food next.

He immediately feels sick. He runs out of the RV and throws up behind The War Zone.

It’s just nerves, he tells himself.

—

They venture back into the Upside Down and Steve feels nothing. He isn’t immediately taken over by what he’s come to think of as symptoms of being in the Upside Down. He doesn’t feel like he’s choking on the stale air or white spores, he doesn’t feel fit to burst out of his own skin, he just feels nothing. He feels normal, almost better than before. The hot summer tarmac in the War Zone made him sick with fever, and the beating sun in the field made him think he might faint. And it’s a good thing he didn’t mention feeling ill, because now he feels so much better, in the dark, in the black. He sticks the landing when he jumps into the opposite version of Eddie’s trailer, and he feels fantastic. He feels better than alive.

—

Eddie’s bleeding out and Steve is hungry. He’s wracked with stomach pain.

He hasn’t eaten since those stale crackers. And now, leaning over Eddie’s bleeding stomach, he’s hit with a bout of hunger pains so bad Steve almost keels over beside him. They’ll match. Two mangled, bitten bodies. But Steve is the stronger one right now, he has to be.

He guides one of Eddie’s arms over his shoulder, Nancy takes the other, and together with Robin and Dustin following behind they drag their way back to the Gate.

—

Something is wrong with Eddie. He’s alive, thank god. But he’s different. The bites have changed him. He’s healed so fast the doctors don’t know what’s going on. El’s doctor-friend from the Lab, Dr. Owens, has Eddie moved to a new facility when it becomes clear that something all-together inhuman is happening. Steve doesn’t mention that his own wounds seem to be healing a bit quickly, too. He’s fine now, and Eddie’s the priority anyway, so he just keeps his mouth shut.

He makes himself useful by staying at Max’s bedside, holding her hand to let her know he’s still there. He makes the other kids eat, even though he himself hasn’t eaten for days. He still doesn’t have the stomach for it. He tries reading The Hobbit to Eddie, still in a coma of his own even with his healing wounds. Steve reads aloud, stumbling over some difficult tongue-twistery passages, but he keeps going none-the-less. He’s been meaning to read it ever since Dustin wouldn’t shut up about it, and now he has a quiet audience.

“Do you wish me a good morning,” Steve reads, “or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”

“All of them at once, I suppose.”

Steve almost passes out. Eddie’s voice is rough and mangled. He sound like a completely different man. Something earth-made, something new.

“Don’t stop reading on my account, Harrington.” Eddie tries smiling but it’s all teeth. Like he doesn’t know how to move his mouth around the new protrusions splitting from his gums. They’re sharp.

Steve drops the book.

—

Eddie is a vampire. At least that’s what Dustin shouts dramatically, when he storms into the hospital room. Everyone shushes him, but no one disagrees. Because what else could he be? The doctors have run tests. Owens has been in and out all day, nurses have been taking blood samples, checking his mostly-healed wounds. They’re raised and angry still, red welts that Eddie says still burn all the time, but they look much better than they should given how fresh they are. They look like Steve’s.

Eddie throws up when he tries to eat a pudding cup. He nearly faints as soon as they wheel him into the little hospital garden for some fresh air. His new sharp teeth glint with spit in the sun and Steve can feel the pushing of something in the back of his own mouth. Two things actually. First and always, the hunger that never goes away no matter how much food he tries to eat. And sometimes, he feels pushing in the softness of his gums. He looks in the hazy hospital mirror and the skin around his canines are an angry, pulsing red, like something new is trying to make its way through.

—

It only takes Eddie a few days to notice.

“It’s happened to you too, hasn’t it?”

He’s interrupted Steve’s reading. They’ve just gotten to the part where the Company is about to be eaten by giant spiders.

“What’s happened?” Steve asks, and silently hopes that Eddie is just talking about the fact that Steve’s starting to become a bit of a nerd for this book, and not anything else.

“You’re not eating,” Eddie says. And it’s not a question, it’s a fact. “You don’t go on walks with the others, you’ve barely left the hospital in days. And that one time we tried to go out you looked like you were about to puke. And your teeth.”

“My teeth?”

“They’re like mine.”

“Are they?”

“They will be. At this point I’m pretty sure of it.” Eddie presses his lips together. “It’s like, I can feel you.”

Steve swallows. “You can?”

“Don’t let this inflate your ego too much, Harrington, but you’re pretty hard to miss. Even before all this, it was hard to miss you. But now it’s like. Even when everything else is blurry or I feel sick, or I feel hungry enough to die, there’s still you.”

Eddie’s right and Steve knows it. He knows it because he feels Eddie, just the same. He thought maybe it was just their new little trauma-bond, the one he shared with all the rest of the Party. Or he thought maybe it was because Eddie is just a bit loud, a bit much, and Steve will admit, a bit too pretty to ignore. But he knows it’s something else too. In his blood, he can feel Eddie lingering.

When they’re across the room from each other, he can still hear Eddie’s breath.

“Why am I not, I don’t know, a full vampire yet? I was bit before you.”

“I think it’s because...” Eddie bites his lip and his too-long teeth cut into the skin, “I think it’s because I died. I actually died, and maybe that just made it go faster? The transformation or whatever we’re gonna call it. And they took a lot less out of you than they did me.”

Unbidden, Steve opens his mouth and presses a finger against one burning canine. They still burn all the time, and his veins never stop pleading to be fed. But at least now he’s not alone. He’s not alone, and Eddie knows him. They’re something inhuman, not earth-made, but at least they’re together. They have the scars to show for it.

-

This ficlet is based on @trashcanniballecter’s post! 

“Vampire Eddie this, Vampire Eddie that. Steve also got bitten by demobats. where is "Completely Oblivious to The Fact That He's a Vampire" Steve? Where is He?!”

#steddie #steddie fic #vampire eddie munson #vampire steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things fic #ficlet #posted this already as a reblog but i like it #so i made it its own post

[darkfire359]

Thoughts on e8-e10 of The Terror

(The final entry in my posting saga)

I went in expecting expecting literally everyone to die on this "doomed" expedition. So in that sense, Crozier and Silna surviving meant that things weren't as bad as they could have been. But also... holy shit, Jopson's death was heartbreaking. The fact that he didn't know what happened to Crozier and so he thought he'd been abandoned by his captain was so incredibly tragic. And undeserved! Like I'd argue that Jopson probably dies in a worse way than basically anyone else in the series (maaaaybe not Sir John, but Sir John also got some karmic retribution for disrespecting Silna's dad and for putting everyone's lives at risk). So WHY did Johnson have to die alone, in pain, and thinking he'd been left behind by the man he cared about most? I am so upset by this.

Thoughts on some other deaths:

Goodsir's was not as sad for me when it happened—he at least got to kind of choose how it happened, and it seemed like he'd at least accomplish saving Crozier. Ultimately it seemed like it didn't do that much though, and Silna's reaction to seeing his body was also heartbreaking.

Fitzjames's was sad, but in a more heartwarming way? At least he got to die with someone he cared about next to him. I definitely understand people shipping Crozier/Fitzjames now.

Gibson's death I think I had spoiled a while ago, so my main takeaway was that it was less gay than I expected. Like, it was still reasonably gay, but I expected it to be very gay. The thing that gets me is that I'm not sure whether or not Hickey did it out of love (Goodsir had just explained to Gibson that he was going to die from illness eventually but that he would suffer PAINFULLY first) or pragmatism, because Hickey wasn't in the tent when Goodsir gave the diagnosis. Did he overhear it and want to keep Gibson from suffering? Or was it actually just that Goodsir said that Gibson couldn't haul? Characters having already canonically fucked does NOT stop me from wanting to analyze the homoeroticism of their subsequent scenes.

I feel like the Crozier/Fitzjames death scene and the Hickey/Gibson one were explicit parallels of each other, given that Crozier also mercy killed Fitzjames (massaging the poison down his throat) and Fitzjames tried to get Crozier to eat him. TBH I kind of feel like Crozier should have indeed done so—given that Team Hickey ended up finding Fitzjames's body anyway, it's likely that he got eaten regardless. Surely one wouldn't want other men to be the ones to eat their boyfriend, right? (Relatedly, Fitzjames saying "Use my body!" also sent my mind in directions away from the seriousness of the scene.)

Speaking of scenes where someone sadly and homoerotically holds their BF, the Bridgens/Peglar stuff was also sad and sweet. Probably if I rewatch the series and actually pay attention to them more earlier, it would be even more so.

Now I'm sad about Jopson's death again because he was all alone and abandoned. :'(

Also it's sad that Little died without ever being able to tell Crozier that he TRIED to rescue him. I initially thought that Crozier legitly wanted the men to go south, so the fact that he'd been misleading Team Hickey and had actually been counting on Little to rescue him was tragic.

Blanky’s death seemed like the happiest—he got to finally discover the Northwest Passage, while wearing his WTF fork outfit. Good for him, that badass deserved something cool.

My friend that I was watching with hates Hickey now and so was happy when he died. I was fully expecting Hickey's crazy murder schemes to come up at some point and so my opinion on Hickey didn't change that much. I do think it would have felt weird for the plot to *not* have Hickey die though.

Speaking of Hickey, some obligatory Hickeyposting:

I love how he somehow manages to be comic relief in addition to being the primary villain. I laughed my ass off at the reveal that he murdered a guy and stole his identity completely unnecessarily, out of a mistaken impression he'd get to summer in the Caribbean. Also the scene where he started singing while all of his men were panicking about the Tuunbaq was black comedy hilarious.

Way before this episode, I saw some shots of him with a noose around his neck. I assumed I'd been spoiled for his death scene. Then I saw those shots tagged as being from e8, and I figured that I probably hadn't been. I was correct! (Later I got spoiled on the real death.)

Crazy as he is, I feel like he had to have been like, "Wow, um, okay," when Crozier's approach to cannibalism was to cut off and eat Goodsir's raw, calloused, foot skin.

I didn't initially appreciate how TINY he is. There was a scene where he was standing in between Gibson and someone else and he was just soooo much shorter than both of them. So brave of the creators to canonically make him a top.

I expected him to kill more people. I think Gibson might have even been the only person he *directly* murdered in these three episodes? He definitely caused quite a lot of trouble though.

I think I got trolled into thinking that the Tunbaaq would die from choking on Hickey's evil evil soul, rather than choking on a literal chain. Whoops.

I was surprised that Hickey didn't bring up more audience-compelling points during his hanging speech. Or maybe I was surprised that Crozier was as straightforwardly good as he turned out to be? I think it might've been cool if Hickey had been able to call out Crozier on real flaws, rather than mistakenly interpreting his plan to resign and lead a team south as something selfish.

#the terror amc #the terror #cornelius hickey #thomas jopson #francis crozier #james fitzjames #billy gibson #harry goodsir #lady silence #edward little #thomas blanky

[ssmtskw]

Hello and welcome!

Replacing my pinned with a list of the stuff I've written for anyone checking my account out. Heh. Everything is sorted by fandom, and then word count! (And if there's something I should add to the tagging, please feel free to send me a message about it so I can make the edits.) Enjoy... hopefully!

RWRB

some part of me came alive - 10,979 words [college-ish AU, 5+1]

"Bye David." David's head snaps back to Alex's direction, eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly you'd think it wasn't even there. Alex, having just removed his glasses again as he yawns once more, doesn't see it. David takes a couple seconds before slightly shaking his head, like he's just imagining something and is now actively wiping the thought away. He opens the door before he responds. "Bye Alex."

(Or: The five times Alex unintentionally calls Henry by his dog’s name, and the one time he does it on purpose.)

Francesca - 10,189 words [graphic depictions and references of violence/abuse/injuries]

Once, in a much worse place before all of this; Alex had worked for someone with one side of his office overflowing with books. He'd read all sorts of things there: Anatomy, selected works in philosophy, Oliver Twist, war hero accounts, law. Anything he could get a hold of in the dark, really. Among those books were a bible. There's a passage there that stuck— something he'd only read past but had barraged into the walls of Alex's mind three years ago, Book of Jeremiah, chapter 17, verse 9: The heart is more deceitful than anything else and is desperate. Who can know it?

Love Songs in the Key of Liam - 8,152 words [Liam POV/centric, 5+1]

It's fucked. He's fucked — Liam, that is. There was no way this was going to work. Ever. What's the next worst thing to growing up closeted in a typically close-minded neighbourhood? Probably developing a crush on your best friend who lives in said neighbourhood. (Or: The five times love songs reminded Liam of his now estranged best friend, and the one time it reminded him of someone else.)

Terrible Things - 4,038 words [Hanahaki AU, hurt/no comfort]

"How long?" That, he can answer. "A year or so." He croaks out, not really wanting to strain himself any further.

water in my hands - 3,521 words [sickfic(?), has references to illness, hurt/no comfort]

It takes Alex a good amount of time to realise; sometimes love just isn't enough to keep the world going, even if he desperately wanted it to.

no question (he'll hold your heart if you let him) - 2,837 words [June POV/outsider POV, post-canon]

June doesn't think much about it at first, putting the box along the pile, but she belatedly realises what it is and gets an idea. A satisfied grin makes its way onto her lips when she finally finds it, an edition of Astrotalk that detailed star sign compatibilities. June doesn't open the magazine all the way to the Libra section, stopping short at someone else's instead. (Or: June finds a box that contained one of her teenage fixations and goes through it for old time's sake.)

Smoke Slow - 2,026 words [shotgun kissing oneshot basically]

“Hey.” Alex says, just for the sake of saying something, the silence between them wasn’t stifling but he didn’t want to risk their interaction coming to an end just because he’s not engaging enough. Henry gives him a sideways glance. “Teach me how to do that.”

“Do what?”

“That. The shotgun.” For a moment, Alex briefly considers how idiotic that probably sounded to Henry. It wasn’t a hard task to mimic, but Alex had long thrown out his composure out the fences of Pez’s house when Henry put the goddamn stick into his mouth. 

i'll be happy (just to have known you) - 1,855 words [hurt/no comfort]

Henry resigns himself to the reality that Alex—albeit distant and unattainable—still managed to break through his dismal world and grant him a light he never imagined was still possible to exist. This was enough. This was more than he'd ever expected for himself. It was the universe's way of extending an olive branch in response to the cards he'd been dealt with. He'd be stupid not to take it.

dreamy little you - 1,666 words [crack-ish AU, post-canon]

"Of course, love, but would you love yourself if you were a worm?" This visibly stumps Alex. If the way his mouth just opened for a rebuttal and coming up empty is anything to go by.

only got a hundred - currently at 4,008 words

An ongoing collection of 100-word drabbles written according to the Brownstone server's prompts.

Haikyuu

Ceilings (he thinks it's not real, it is) - 6,009 words [light angst and pining with a happy? ending]

“Yo, you sleepy?” Takahiro meant to say that no, he isn't. That Issei looks stupid with his hair messed up like that. That he should be asking Issei that, with the bags under his eyes speaking for themselves. Instead, what comes out is, “I miss you.” It would be so easy to take the opportunity now. But still, Takahiro is terrified of ruining things. Or: Takahiro has graduation blues, and Issei makes him feel better, but things don't just end there.

Bloom - 1,444 words [two-dialogue challenge oneshot, retrospective? angst/no comfort]

Matsukawa Issei is not much of a sentimental person, save for special occasions where he has no choice but to reminisce.

Cruel (what your mind can do for no reason) - 1,012 words [light angst/comfort, implications of dissociation]

Issei struggles through a bad mental health night, Takahiro breezes him through the tail end of it.

Shameless (US)

big guns out, shoot now - 3,257 words [first kiss oneshot]

It's kind of out of character for Ian, really, he's always careful about not blurting out or doing shit that tapped into his feelings on the brunette, around the very subject of his affections. Has been, in fact, for the last two years and counting. Not that it got any easier to maintain, there are always slip ups (Exhibit A: right here, right now), but that's solely his problem.

On the Off Chance - 5,780 words [soulmate AU, ongoing]

To say Ian was relieved when he hears Mickey confirm how he did not, in fact, get his soulmate mark just a couple days after coming of age would be a huge understatement. (Or: Soulmate marks only show up when the younger of the pair turns nineteen– which isn’t uncommon, to say the least.)

#fics #ao3 #rwrb #rwrb fanfic #firstprince #haikyuu #haikyuu fanfic #shameless (us) #shameless (us) fanfic #matsuhana #gallavich

[yuukei-yikes]

can we get uhhhhhh some hibiya thoughts

yes. yes. yes. i fucking love hibiya. he's LITERALLY A LITTLE GUY when i got into kagepro he was one of my faves actually cuz he was the closest to my age at the time. i was 13… im 22 now! lol thats not weird at all *eye twitch* sry ive been weird abt the passage of time lately. erm wait this isnt my therapy session <- doesnt go to therapy

HIBIYA. LITTLE GUY. my thoughts on him………honestly, i recently reread all the novels and god his intro chapters were HARD to read. all the creepy stuff abt hiyori yknow. i was cringing so hard. i kinda wanna ignore it bc i'd rather do that with the weird bits kagepro has to offer, but not to get rid of it completely. like id take away hibiyas whole thing abt a collection of hiyori pics but still keep the aspect of him that worships her. and how that dynamic would COMPLETELY go away post str.

post str hibiya is VERY different from how he started out. i mean. 10 year old timeloop…. he hasn't grown at all mentally like he has to process all this with his 12 year old brain, but going through all he did he just kinda looks at things rly differently now. not obsessed with hiyori, for one…. and she's also different to him. their relationship changes drastically bc now they both respect each other LOL listen i know im annoying with my codependent relationship headcanons but… eyes hibiya and hiyori

these bitches are 12. spent 10 years watching each other die over and over and literally die for each other. AND THEN THEY GET EACH OTHER BACK? ERM. yeah theyre NOT letting go of each other. its not so much codependency as much as it is awful awful awful separation anxiety. god are there any fics of hibiya and hiyori going back home and having a breakdown at having to separate and go to their own houses (bc in the city they were living together so it doesnt hit that they need to separate until they go home)???

hiyori would still be kinda bitchy and bossy but definitely not horrible to hibiya. and also her attitude hits different when she's also always holding his hand and refusing to go anywhere without him and throwing tantrums when any of the dan members even imply any activity that would require to separate them. and she wouldnt rly be embarrassed abt it i think hiyori would be super open and vocal abt HIBIYA HAS TO BE WITH ME ALL THE TIME !!!!!! and hibiya isnt even flustered hes just like *NODDING NODDING NODDING* bc he's the same with her. girl… SEPARATION ANXIETY HIBIHIYO<3 mekadan so sick in the head <3 they have 78 undiagnosed mental illnesses <3

not to make it abt my future headcanons of psych major hibiya but. new generations man. hibiya is 10000% the one in the dan going like GUYS WHAT HAPPENED TO US WAS SOOOO MESSED UP and everyone's like lol yeah !!!! and he's like DONT LOL ABOUT THIS IM FUCKING SERIOUS??? especially since he's such a fucking outsider to everything like everyone else's been experiencing all these tragedies since they were born and he just kinda. had a normal life before? and like i said NEW GENERATIONS MAN THEYRE PSYCHOANALYSING THEMSELVES AND EVERYONE AROUND THEM…. the dan is so used to this shit that they kinda lmao rock and roll thru it and hibiyas like NO. NO. NO. EVERYONE. THERAPY. NOW!!!!!! it becomes his special interest he starts getting all into psychology and when he comes back to the city for his visits suddenly he's diagnosing everyone with stuff and the dans like *shaking* MAKE THE KID SHUT UP also realises he has separation anxiety with hiyori and works on it. hiyori is surprisingly the one most terrified of letting go. and like i said…. 10 year long time loop being processed in a 12/13 year old brain.. hibiya is SUPER self aware. he makes sure of it

ok and. heh. haruka. THE WHOLE HIBIYA HIYORI AND HARUKA THING COULD BE ITS OWN POST… SO… IM LEAVING IT HERE CUZ THIS IS ALREADY SUPER LONG but im just gonna say. hibiya's IN DENIAL of konoha being gone. he keeps expecting haruka to go away. hibiya THINKS he's super mature, and he is for his age bc of all this shit and his willingness to understand his problems and everyone else's. and everyone else also think he is mature, but this is just something he can't stop being a 12 year old about. his friend is gone! WHY does it have to be gone!?!? especially in an ending where hiyori is back. if she wasnt, then he'd be more accepting of the losses bc there were 2 both konoha and hiyori and like it becomes another whole thing abt letting go and mourning but if she is back…everything is supposed to be perfect!! everyone made it back!! why couldn't konoha? why does it have to be gone? its not fair! he doesnt care this haruka was the body's true owner!! konoha was his friend! it also deserved to live as much as this haruka guy!!! why is HE more important!!!?!?!?!? and he just. he's just insanely immature abt it. and he knows he is but truth is he's just really fucking sad and regretful about konoha being gone. i could also talk about hiyori and harukas feelings abt it but heheh yeah this is super long. erm. hibiyita el chiquito <3 hibiya throwing a tantrum in front of the whole dan abt how it isnt fair and how he wishes haruka would just die. LMAO. he is 12. if anyone has fic commissions open Eye eye

also erm wholesome one before i end it. he makes little miniature dolls of the whole dan<3 he's BAD at typing on his new smartphone but since he lives away hes always texting in the gc<3 he gets super into mobile games<3 amongus fan hibiya asking all his grownup friends with jobs and no time for amongus if anyone can play with him<3 they do bc theyre busy but there will always be time to amongus with friends<3

#ask tag #headcanons #hibiya amamiya #hiyori asahina

[themsource]

This is a Sans centered glimpse for my story Cupcake. Given some of the themes I don't recommend checking it out if you're sensitive to certain topics. While this post could be considered tame or mild, the main story certainly isn't so please do NOT force yourself to engage if that's a possibility.

For those that do follow the story and have an interest behind some of Sans' thought processes this is for you! I posted this in the comments on the fic (which is where I'll be posting them first and always in order to keep it all together) but I know not everyone reads those so I'm also sharing it here again. I hope this satisfies some curiosities as well as peaks them ^^

Takes place during Ch. 12 during the later half so spoilers warning.

Word Count: 1,251 Rating: M TWs: Mentions of Death/Murder, Foul Language, Awfulness

Sans isn’t a monster of pride. He never considered himself talented at any one particular thing or skilled enough to consider boasting of what he could or couldn’t do, even before the head wound.

Before everything went to literal hell.

However, he did like to think he was, at the very least, perceptive.

When Asgore was still around—standing tall and proud (albeit a little downtrodden) upon his throne, Sans did more than his fair share contributing to the kingdom. Aside from his many jobs and countless attempts at keeping up the moral of his fellow monsters just as his brother did, there was only one role Sans had been required to fill.

The Judge.

He had been the final line between salvation and the eradication of their world. A barrier against an unknown threat, an anomaly. Something that Asgore and Alphys both had been just as aware of as he had. 

The three of them knew of what could happen, what could go so very wrong, even if they didn’t retain memories and only a very vivid, visceral, sense of deja vu (something that Sans hated, and even to this day hated all the more for how foggy his memory could get when hungered, how deranged and near paracusic he turned). 

An anomaly could alter and erase time.

Erase them.

Together they concluded that this anomaly would have to be of human origins. The deja vu and the printouts from their machines only ever became sporadic when a human fell, and the rise of DT levels throughout the underground during their attempted passages correlated.

So Alphys set up the cameras: to watch.

Asgore wandered the kingdom: to hunt (before the guilt became too much and he hid away in his garden).

And Sans stood at the end of the hall: to guard.

Because he was so perceptive, he was to measure and compare DT to LV, to find the anomaly and weigh it as a threat, read its intentions all while allowing it to play ‘the game’ as it pleased. So long as it never stepped out of line.

Suffice to say all of that stopped mattering eventually. Became forgotten in the face of betrayal, death, and thirst.

But Sans had never stopped being The Judge. 

He might’ve lost some of that sharpness that made him somewhat qualified for the job due to the famine, sure—frustratingly true to admit—but he still was able to read and deduce in a more than normal capacity.

Which is why as he glances down at your hunched shoulders he has to take a moment.

Sans has to physically stop himself from reacting at seeing how dim your soul is when a second before it had been shining that bright solar illumination that he always has to take a mental step back from in fear of how consuming it is.

Souls were naturally bright. 

The magic, intentions, and emotions that composed them always gave them an ethereal glow that could flare vibrant depending on how high those emotions were stoked, or simmer down low if impacted in an ill received way that made the coloration and overall appearance look crystalline and faded.

Your soul however…

Flares the brightest that Sans has ever seen.

Especially when interacting with him. He wouldn’t deny it was a bit of an ego boost how strong your inner light would become simply because he held you during a show or smiled at you. 

It was mesmerizing, really.

Enthralling.

To see how his dodge of kissing you has affected you so strikes him in a way he doesn’t expect.

Greed

Thirst

Hunger

Where was the light?

The longer Sans stares, caught between fulfilling his promise to Aliza—to be good, he promised to be good for her—and giving into the sudden, undeniable urge to return that glow to its former glory, his soul quakes.

There’s static, a glitching malformation appearing where once his perception used to hold the inner workings and dialogue of the soul. He hasn’t been able to see words in a long…long time.

And there’s only one; just as broken and scattered as he is.

* f ͬ ͣg ͥl ͤ

He struggles, tries to joke and reason with you, and all it does is make your soul darker and darker.

The word vanishes.

You tremble, as if afraid and about to break.

…And who was he really? Trying to pretend he doesn’t want to kiss you just as bad. Doesn’t want to take and feel that warmth behind your ribs that burns so wonderfully as if only for him. He’s already crossed lines, gotten so close to feeling it so many times but choosing instead to linger in the wisps of its fringes.

A hand on your shoulder, his teeth by your ear…

He’s technically already felt it once, when you’d been pulled close to his chest upon waking (from a rather dirty dream) and it’d stunned the embarrassment, shame, and anger right out of him. He’d felt a soul warm for him before, many times, enjoyed its heat. Compared to yours, they were nothing. Your soul scorched, was painful enough it turned to a deranged pleasure.

Sans has tried to forget.

But he doesn’t really want to.

Because on top of that you were smart, funny. Cute in a very endearing way with how you cluttered the table with literary texts and inquired about things in a genuine attempt to understand how something functioned. You were a thinker, an eager learner. Adorable in how you reminded him of Pap by asking for a bedtime story and bathed him in nostalgia as he read to you in colorful voices.

Sometimes…you made him forget who he was now.

Sometimes…you made him feel like how he used to be.

A darkness sits heavy in his ribs. That last thought isn’t true and he knows it. If he truly felt that way he wouldn’t be so much as stalling on how to handle this situation. He’d reject you, pat you on the head, and walk away.

He’d wait.

To see if that was even a possibility down the line and if he would still be interested.

Just as you’re still waiting now, shaking.

…so dim, so dark…

Fragile.

...waiting has only ever fucked him over.

He waited for the anomaly to make a move. He waited for Toriel to come to her senses and rule the kingdom again. He waited for Alphys and the others to try helping him find a solution to the CORE. He waited to kill until monsters started dusting left and right, until he feared even his brother would share their fate. He waited to eat until an alternative was found to human meat. He waited, and waited, for something, anybody. 

He waited for seven goddamn years.

Sans’ soul goes rampant, begs to be fed.

Just one kiss, just a taste.

His promise to Aliza goes right out the proverbial window, forgotten just as is his morals.

He reasons: why should he subject you to the pain of waiting?

“...just one kiss, got it?"

The gradual build of your soul as it shines like a dying star before erupting into phantasmal wonder is enough that Sans feels floored, like his knees are about to give out as his soul pounds in his skull with the deadly beat of a hunter’s gait upon the forest floor. 

It’s automatic how he returns your smile, outlined in the glow of your soul, with his own.

"k, let's go somewhere more private."

#undertale au #horrortale #sans/reader #Cupcake #My writing

[plaintoast]

@msmargaretmurry tagged me to post 9 books i love/recommend! i'm staring at my bookshelf rn like, can i remember 9 books i've ever read? let's find out!

on a sunbeam by tillie walden - this is a graphic novel but it counts. what a good story, beautifully told, incredibly illustrated. tillie walden is an artist who speaks to my soul i think

the crying of lot 49 by thomas pynchon - this was my favorite book for a great number of years. it's short but complex and it holds up when i reread it now. if you're scared to read pynchon bc he writes the longest books ever, this is the one for you.

the world keeps ending and the world goes on by franny choi - a book of poetry i picked up this year that i loved so so much, i have so many pages marked and passages underlined, i go back to it all the time.

i wasn't going to do this but beartown by fredrick backman - it's about hockey the same way friday night lights is about football. really character-driven, such a beautiful story, my fav book!!

you were born for this by chani nicholas - this is a silly little astrology workbook but it's fun! if you have a burgeoning/young interest in astrology it's worth picking up imo

before the borderless: dialogues with the art of cy twombly by dean rader - this is a book of poems in conjunction with a lot of cy twombly art & sketches. dean rader is a poet i had the pleasure of seeing perform live this past winter and this book is gorgeous. it's in collaboration with the cy twombly foundation and if you've ever been interested in poetry or twombly's art this is a great book

the fire never goes out by nd stevenson - graphic memoir by nd stevenson, creator of nimona, show runner of she-ra and the princesses of power; it includes mental illness discussion & gender feelings and it really spoke to me.

watership down - richard adams - i'll be surprised if this book isn't on everyone's radar but i reread it about once per year. but such a vitally fundamental book for me!!

beetle & the hollowbones by aliza layne - this is a kids graphic novel (middle grade maybe?) so ymmv with how into it you are but it's the PERFECT spooky szn read to me, an easy read about a chaotic little goblin who's in love with a cat girl and lives with her even more chaotic goblin grandma. i've reread it many times!!

i am not going to tag anyone but if you see this and want to do it, please do!! and tag me about it!! i want to hear your book recs and hear you talk about your fav books!

[dumfanting]

Something in the Orange, part 2

AO3 Link

Rating: Safe

Warnings: alcohol consumption, illness

Notes: second person pov, present tense, readers gender unspecified

3092 words

Making a new post for this part; I went to edit the original and tumblr broke it. (Also I don’t think anybody ever saw it?)

GN Reader/ Cody

“You’re familiar,” he says, weak with exhaustion. “Do I know you?” he asks.

“When this is over, find me. I’ll wait for you.”

You can’t remember how long ago you said that. It simultaneously feels like days and years have passed between then and now.

You had been younger then, still hopeful, but that hope was brutally extinguished by a single order not long after you and Cody separated.

In the aftermath of the Separatist victory, you fled to Tattooine, where the empty landscape and sparse population are about as different from Coruscant as it gets. The Empire doesn’t seem to notice this planet or care about it, which suits you just fine.

Even so, rumors still manage to reach the tiny village you now call home. You’ve heard dozens, but two stick with you; that the Jedi were traitors, slaughtered by their own men, and that those men, the clones, are being ‘decommissioned’ in droves as time goes on. With each low whisper you overhear, your gut twists into knots.

What happened to Cody?

You told him to find you, but as the time drags on, that seems less and less likely to happen. Is he still ‘useful’ to the Empire, or has he been thrown away like a worn out tool that served its purpose? Which would be worse? You left him no clue as to where you had gone, so could he still find you? If he does, would he be the same man you fell in love with?

These questions and more keep you awake at night.

It’s hard to gauge the passage of time in the desert. You lost track of how long you’ve been here a while ago, but it’s been long enough for you to make at least one friend. The bartender of the town's only cantina, a Pantoran man around your age named Kellis, had managed to chip through the metaphorical wall you hid yourself behind over the course of several weeks worth of drinks and late nights.

As you walk the short distance from your small, one-room apartment to the bar, the day's high winds whip your linen pants around your legs. The constant sand and dust make the thin white fabric look dirty and ragged. You step into the doorway, unwrap your head from the dark red scarf you wear to keep the worst of it out of your face, and brush yourself off, ignoring the soft pattering sound the falling sand grains make while hitting the floor. Kellis brightly calls your name from behind the bar, and you make your way over to him.

You sit yourself down on your preferred bar stool, and he starts mixing up your usual. He asks how you’re doing, which you shrug off with a comment of “I still haven’t given up yet,” which usually makes him chuckle, and today is no different.

He hands you your drink and when you glance up at him while taking it, you notice that he looks tired. You point this out and ask if anything is going on.

“You remember the sandstorm that blew over a few rotations ago?” he asks, barely holding back a yawn.

“I’m still finding dust in my dishes, yeah. What about it?” you say, sipping at your drink, which is perfectly mixed as always.

“Well, I found somebody on my building's doorstep when it finally passed. I brought him inside, and he’s got sand fever, which is no surprise,” he says.

“You didn’t catch it, did you?” you ask, taken aback.

“No, I’ve been careful, been keeping my face covered up,” he says, waving your concern off.

“Okay. But, he mustn’t be from here then, no local in their right mind would go out during a sandstorm like that. Did you get his name?” you say, your curiosity piqued.

“He looked vaguely familiar, and when I said so he kind of laughed bitterly and mumbled something under his breath. But no, he said he isn’t from here. He was slipping in and out of a delirium, kept mumbling about the desert and finding something. The fever has been steadily getting worse and he kept me up last night, it looked like he was having flashbacks to something terrible,” Kellis says, softly shaking his head. “I don’t fault the guy for it at all, but still, it kinda wore me out. On top of that, he didn’t tell me his name, and he refused to sleep in my bed. He says that old bench I’ve got is closer to what he’s used to,” he continues, trailing off into thought.

Something stirs in the back of your mind, though you can’t place what it is.

“That’s kind of you to keep an eye on him,” you say, finishing your drink and fishing some credits out of your small bag.

“You know I couldn’t just leave him there. Besides, if the scar along the side of his face is any indication, the man’s been through enough already,” he says.

You suddenly freeze, and despite the suppressive heat of the building, an impossible chill runs through you.

“W-what was that?” you say, fighting to keep your hands from trembling.

“I could tell he’s been through some shit by the scar along his face,” Kellis says, watching you with a puzzled expression.

Your heart is pounding in your ears, and your thoughts are swirling like a twister in your mind. That sounds like Cody. You’re tempted to run to Kellis’ place and find out if it is him right this second, but logic takes over. There are billions if not trillions of people in this galaxy, you tell yourself, so the odds that it is him are almost impossible.

Kellis says your name, concerned. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You’d never told him about your past with the clone commander, but it wasn’t something that you’re ashamed of, so you aren’t sure why you kept it quiet. You shake yourself.

“I’m fine, sorry. I think I’ll have another one today,” you say, gesturing to your empty glass. He doesn’t seem to believe you, but drops the subject as he prepares your second drink, changing the subject to an upcoming meteor shower.

Later that day, you’re sitting on the rooftop terrace of your apartment building, staring up at the bright orange sky while the two suns are setting. The color is almost exactly the same as the paint was on Cody’s armor. You’ve avoided thinking about him since you left the bar; the sheer amount of ways he could have changed kept threatening to overwhelm you. As you sit, the orange in the sky quickly deepens to scarlet, then purple. It eventually becomes the inky blue-black you’ve gotten used to, and you pause for a moment to admire the view of the stars. You never could see the stars like this back on Coruscant.

Cody always said that someday he’d take you somewhere like this to see the stars.

With nothing to distract you, you finally allow yourself to wonder if the stranger from the sandstorm really could be him. You mull over everything Kellis had told you earlier today, intensely examining it all in your mind. You hoped for years that Cody would be able to find you, but that had flickered out and died after the Empire took over. You were convinced that he was dead or worse, ‘reconditioned’, and found yourself wondering if he would find you less and less as time went on. You never completely gave up though, and much to your surprise, a long-dormant spark of hope ignites in your heart again.

“‘I won’t give up on you’,” you whisper to yourself. You meant it back then, and you mean it now. Your mind is made up; you’re going to stop by Kellis’ place first thing tomorrow morning and find out who this stranger is for yourself. For the second time today, you’re tempted to rush over there right now, but your mind has been racing ever since you left the bar and you convince yourself that you need to sleep first.

You’re abruptly awakened the next day by loud, persistent knocking at your door. It’s early in the morning, the two suns having barely risen over the horizon, and as you stumble out of bed and pull on a robe, you wonder who could need to see you this badly.

You open the door with a yawn and find Kellis. He looks frantic, which fully wakes you immediately, and he starts talking as soon as the door opens completely, though his words are so fast and jumbled you can’t understand any of it. You grip him by the shoulders.

“I need you to breathe and calm down so you can tell me what happened,” you say, firmly but not unkindly.

“Y-yeah, okay, sorry,” he says, making an effort to relax. He lets out a long exhale, then repeats himself, speaking clearly this time.

“I just got a call that my sister was in a speeder collision back home, and I need to get there as soon as possible,” he says, shifting restlessly from foot to foot.

“Then go! What are you here for?” you ask, alarmed and confused.

“Can you keep an eye on the guy I told you about yesterday while I’m gone? I’ve sent for a doctor but it’ll take a few days to get here from where she is, and I really don’t want to ditch him,” he says quickly.

“Done,” you respond without hesitation. “Should I bring him here or go over to your place?” you ask.

“I don’t think he’s in any shape to be moved,” Kellis says, shaking his head.

You tell him to give you just a minute to get dressed, do so, then meet him in the hallway outside.

Once you’re there, he runs from your place to his own a block or two away with you close on his heels. He quickly shows you the passcode to his apartment, leads you inside, then grabs a hastily packed bag and takes off without slowing down. You forgive the rude goodbye, as he obviously has more important things on his mind. Thankfully you’ve been here a few times before, so you have a good idea of where everything you may need is.

Your heart is pounding from the sudden burst of activity and you take a minute to catch your breath. As you lean heavily onto the wall, panting, you suddenly hear loud coughing coming from further inside, followed by a soft pained groan. Remembering how contagious sand fever can be, you wrap the scarf around your face just a little tighter before going to investigate.

You step further into the living space and freeze. Partially hidden from the front door by the low light, on the heavy wooden bench Kellis uses in place of a sofa, lies a man with dark hair and tanned skin under a mountain of blankets. He looks thin, and his hair is long and unkempt, but you’d recognize that face, that scar, anywhere.

“Cody!” you say in disbelief, your voice muffled by the scarf.

He doesn’t seem to have heard you, so you take a few steps closer to him. He’s still coughing, but once it passes, he looks up at you, confused.

“Where’s Kellis?” he asks, and his voice is gravelly and hoarse. You barely recognize it.

“He had a family emergency, I’m a friend of his,” you say, somehow managing to hold your composure, although your heart threatens to break out of your chest. “He’s called a doctor for you, I’m going to stay with you until she gets here.”

Cody coughs again, but doesn’t protest. Unsure of what to do, you pick up an empty glass on the caf table nearby, walk over to the kitchen and get him something to drink. You return and hand it to him, which he accepts and sips at gratefully. He seems to be looking you over with more intensity, and his brow creases when he meets your eyes.

“You’re familiar,” he says, weak with exhaustion. “Do I know you?” he asks.

You don’t know why, but you hesitate to answer him. Seconds later, he slips back into sleep.

Once you’re sure Cody won’t wake again for at least a few minutes, you rush back to your place and pack enough clothes and toiletries for a few days, stuffing it into a worn out old bag that you swing onto your shoulder. When you return, he’s still asleep, but it doesn’t appear restful.

He’s sweating terribly despite shivering, jerking his head from side to side while mumbling and every few seconds one of his arms or legs will twitch.

You drop your bag and duck into the refresher, fetching a cool, damp rag, then come back out and sit directly across from him on the caf table. You lean forward and gently cup his face with one hand. You ignore the pang in your chest at the comfortable familiarity of the action. With your free hand, you use the rag to gently pat away the sweat on his forehead. You take this opportunity to get a better look at his face, and you immediately notice that he looks much older than he did when you last saw him. How much of that was due to his accelerated aging or due to stress isn’t clear, but either way, Kellis was right. Even without his scar, you can tell just by glancing at Cody’s face that time has not been easy on him since you left.

You get to your feet, fighting back a lump in your throat. You chuck the rag in the direction of the kitchen sink without noticing or caring where it landed, all the while not taking your eyes off of Cody, then you sit back down onto the caf table and continue watching him. He isn’t sweating as much, and he’s stopped moving his head around, so hopefully he’s actually resting now, you think.

“What’ve you been through?” you say, unaware that you’ve spoken aloud.

As if he’d heard you, he starts mumbling in his sleep, but it’s difficult for you to hear him. You lean forward and lower your head closer to his to better understand him.

“-deserted… choices… orders,” he says, and something clicks in your head. You sit back up, surprised.

Kellis told you yesterday that Cody would mumble about the desert, which had confused you at the time, but after hearing him yourself just now, you realize he’s saying ‘desert’ as in to desert something, not as in reference to the landscape.

Had Cody deserted? When?

It couldn’t have been before the Empire took over, you reason. As dedicated and loyal as he is, he never would have left General Kenobi or his brothers, whether the General was a traitor or not. No, he had to have left afterward. Was it because of what’s been called ‘Order 66’, or had he been in the Empire’s hands after that?

Whenever he left didn’t really matter, but the reason for it does. Something had to have happened to him or around him to push Cody far enough to abandon his duty. Whatever that was, you know it had to be serious, which worries you. The anxious knots you feel when overhearing those whispered rumors return in full force as you wonder how he’s changed while under Imperial control.

Cody stirs, coughing again as he wakes and grabbing your attention. You cautiously hold your palm to his forehead, noting that his fever seems to have gone down, at least a little. When you move your hand away, he startles you by suddenly grabbing it and pulling you down to his level.

“Please, I have to go, I need to find-,” he says, before falling into another coughing fit. He groans, still exhausted, and his hand slackens, allowing you to free yourself from his grip.

“Whatever it is will have to wait,” you say, keeping your voice soft. You brush a few stray pieces of his hair out of his face and continue. “You’re in no shape to go anywhere yet,” you say.

“No,” he says, managing to sit up. “They’re waiting for me, I’ve taken too long already!” he says, sounding almost desperate. Your heart aches for him as it beats even harder in your chest.

“Cody, listen to me,” you whisper, and his head whips up in your direction so quickly his whole body wavers, dizzy from the sudden motion.

“You shouldn’t know my name,” he says, and he sounds suspicious. “I haven’t told anyone since I’ve gotten here.”

Before you can respond, his eyes meet yours again, and you can see recognition spread across his face. He whispers your name in complete disbelief, reaching for the scarf you have wrapped around your face from the nose down.

You get to your feet to stop him from touching you, then take a few steps backwards, creating a fair distance between the two of you, even though all you really want to do is take him into your arms.

You take a deep breath, then slip the scarf down past your chin, just long enough for Cody to get a clear look at you. His jaw drops and he tries to stand, but stumbles backwards, too weak to manage it. You pull the scarf back into place and return to his side, holding him by the shoulders as you firmly push him back into a lying position.

“You’ve got sand fever, you need to rest,” you say.

He curses under his breath, still not taking his eyes off of you. “It’s really you,” he says. His voice is barely audible, so you know he’s about to slip back into sleep again.

“It is,” you say softly. You return to your seat on the caf table, releasing his shoulders but entwining the fingers of your hand with one of his. Despite his condition, he grips you like a lifeline, strong enough to faintly ache.

“But why here? I’ve been everywhere,” he says.

“There will be time for that later, once you’re better. You need to rest,” you say, firmly repeating yourself.

Reluctantly, he nods, and releases your hand. You get to your feet once more, and turn to head towards the kitchen, but stop when he speaks.

“Don’t leave me again, please,” he says, begging, and your heart breaks. You turn around and kneel beside him, and briefly touch your forehead to his.

“Don’t worry, Cody. I’m not going anywhere,” you say softly.

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#my fics #Cody #series