#overgrowth!tale

[swiftmitsu]

"MOSS"

“A once normal Sans, named Moss, is covered in vines and overrun with nature. Despite his apathetic and curious nature, Moss is patient, protective, and has a strong sense of justice. His attacks may be weaker than normal Sans, but his defense is higher due to the vines that wrap around his skeleton. Moss's memory has been affected by the growth on the vines, but he remains constantly curious and eager to relearn about the world around him.”

(below is just more facts about him)

The Lil Facts About Him:

his attacks are weaker than normal sans, unable to pull out his gaster blasters…. unless—

he doesnt feel pain/really freaking high pain tolerance, thats why he’d body block a lot of attacks when trying to protect someone

most of the underground had become a more humid and warm place

yet he still wears his jacket at all times since he doesn’t like showing the vines/moss that’s grown on him

though strangely enough, he doesnt care too much for remembering who he was, just wanting to relearn the way of the world

thats why he’s constantly curious, wanting to know and relearn about everything

also because of his lack of feeling any pain, he’d probably come back to a knife stuck in his head and he wouldn’t know till Papyrus told him

protective to those that are weakened

e.g if he saw someone with full health getting attacked, he’d watch them without interfering. but as it goes on and the other was really weakened, only then would he step in and protect them due to an underlying sense of justice

Doesnt know boundaries, sometimes getting too close or asking way too personal questions when he gets too curious

Doesnt know the difference between good and bad (or at least thinks everyone he meets is good)

The only one with the tiniest bit of hope. That’s why he’s so eager to relearn everything. He wishes to save the monsters somehow…

Little guy (he’s big), just trying his best

#undertale au #undertale #sans undertale #au undertale #undertale multiverse #undertale aus #undertaleau #ut au art #undertale fandom #alternate universe #undertale fanart #undertale art #mitsusart #au sans #sans au #undertale sans #overgrowth!tale #overgrowthtale #undertale au fanart #my oc #my oc character #my au #bro i've been working for him for a week and i love him #he's my baby boy and i want to hold him forever #moss!sans #overgrown!sans

[pikibutterf1y]

#cottagecore #aestethic #wallpaper #fairy tales #nature #aesthetic wallpaper #overgrowth #cottage vibes #cozy vibes #greenery #garden #tunnels

[blindmagdalena]

All That Glitters

18+ 15.7k words. Dragon!Homelander x F!Reader fantasy au, messy world building, referenced cannibalism, handfeeding, super dubious consent, sexual coercion, monster anatomy, size difference, cunnilingus, breeding kink, dirty talk, marathon sex, mating bond/bite, knotting, tongue baths, virgins, scent kink, overstimulation, body betrayal, fairy tale schmoop. AO3 Link!

Summary: In a world where the only currencies that matter are gold and blood, the gods are lavished with both. Your regions god is a fearsome beast said to reign hellfire from the skies should his appetite not be satiated. When the demand for human sacrifices increases, you make the choice to volunteer yourself, determined to bring an end to the bloodshed, and ascend into the jaws that await you in the old stone tower deep in the woods.

illustration by the ever incredible @anon-nee, who was instrumental to the writing of this fic. see the full piece here! originally written for Monsterlander Mania, but obviously spiraled wildly out of control.

For as long as you can remember, there have always been sacrifices.

Such a thing is not unique to your village. Gods–and the creatures worshiped as such–throughout the world demand all manner of recompense for protecting the lands of those who idolize them. If the slaughter of a single lamb ensures green pastures in which the herd may thrive, few ever think twice before they lift the blade.

Not all townships worship for benevolence, however. Yours has always worshiped for mercy.

For generations, stories of hellfire raining from the sky have been passed by your people. A great, terrible beast with wings as wide as ten men were tall once patrolled the skies above you, wielding power so devastating that not even ballistae firing bolts the size of tree trunks could fell it.

It had a hundred names, each more terrible than the last. Scourge of the Skies, the Red Death, Flame’s Maw, and perhaps most unfortunately, the Devourer. Named as such for the countless lives it began to claim when treasures were deemed an insufficient tribute. Sacrifices were initially sparse, required only every dozen or so seasons. As time went on, the Devourer grew greedier and greedier, with the timespan between sacrifices shortening.

By the time you offer yourself to the council, there has been a sacrifice every month for over a year.

The wagon hardly jostles on this well-trodden road. You imagine it used to be a rougher ride, but with the increase in frequency of travel, it has smoothed. The thought worsens the feeling of icy weight in your stomach. One might think the exquisite fabrics you’re dressed in would bring some measure of comfort–softer than anything you’ve worn before–but the extravagance of them only serves to further alienate you from yourself.

You have become a thing. A finely adorned offering, and the fabric makes your skin crawl for it.

The tree cover breaks, revealing a monolithic stone tower that stands so tall, it splits the sky in two.

The Tower of the Seven. It’s been generations since anyone knew exactly what it was named for, but legend speaks of mythic creatures that were once held in such reverence, this tower was built in their honor. It served as both a temple and home to these venerated beings.

The years have not been kind to it. The stone pillars have become wild with overgrowth, and the air about this place reeks of stale, old death.

It stands now as a graveyard.

Even the horses refuse to venture much further than the threshold of the treeline, forcing you and your attendants out of the wagon to tread the remainder of the trek on foot. The men who walk with you carry short swords, but they serve no practical purpose, their edges having long since dulled. They are not here to protect you, they are as much a part of the ceremony as your fine clothes.

You shield your eyes as you look up at the staggering height of the tower, but swiftly drop your gaze. Best not to think of what awaits you.

On paper, sacrifice seems a simple thing. Slitting one’s throat upon an altar, floating a burning pyre across the river, or feeding the tribute a concoction of sleeping death and burying them into eternal slumber. Murder can be a righteous thing in the hands of a believer, or so they say.

For you, and those who have come before you, martyrdom is not as effortless as lying down and dying for the cause. The tower presents a trial to you. You must willingly climb the hundreds upon hundreds of large stone steps in order to prove yourself a worthy tribute.

Why you must prove your flesh worthy of consumption is beyond you. You’ve never heard of a farmer who sends his cattle to run laps before the slaughter. It seems a petty thing to demand. Perhaps the Devourer has grown indolent and slovenly in its feasting.

It’s easy to dream up nightmarish images of such an awful creature. A legless winged wyrm with a ribbed body, fat and slimy like an oversized earthworm. It would have an enormous maw with hundreds upon hundreds of jagged teeth, its breath reeking of charred flesh and sulfur. Such a wicked beast would stink like the layers of hell. 

Somehow, tormenting yourself like this is an oddly calming distraction. The more nightmarish it becomes in your mind, the less real all of this feels. It’s just a bad dream.

No one speaks as you reach the base of the tower. There’s nothing left to say. You’re one of a dozen in the last year alone these men have ferried to their death. It almost seems cruel to expect eye contact, let alone sympathy. For that reason, it catches you off guard when one of the older of the three, a man named Hector with a thick set of troubled brows furrowed above kind but bloodshot, watery eyes puts his hand on your shoulder, offering a light squeeze.

The last sacrifice had been his own daughter.

In his gaze you find grief and gratitude in equal measure. Neither brings comfort. You return a small nod and move your eyes back to the ordeal that awaits you. 

The tower is like an optical illusion: the proportions make it seem a reasonable size at a distance, but the closer you walk to it, the more mythical a thing it becomes. The archways curve high above your head, sized for creatures of legend, and the head of the building disappears completely into the sky.

In the center of it, a spiraling stone staircase beckons you. The masonry is exquisitely smooth despite the age of it, carved in an era when magic was a hundred times more prolific than it is now. It’s wide and open, the steps so large that you’ll be taking them one at a time. Worse than that, however, is the complete absence of any kind of protective railing.

If you sway, you very well may fall to your death.

At the center of the spiral stands a pile of debris. As you approach, a rustling catches your attention and you freeze, eying the pile warily. The head of a creature suddenly pops up, startling your heart into a thunder, but after a beat you recognize it for what it is: a small fox, its muzzle dirty. The two of you stare at one another for a long moment before one of the men behind you calls out, “Shoo, shoo now.”

Everyone keeps hushed, as if terrified of disturbing what is yet unseen.

Moving closer, you anticipate you might see a dead rabbit, or perhaps a chicken. Anything would have been a more welcome sight than the gnarled half-eaten body of a woman dressed just like you piled amongst the debris. You gasp, both hands flying over your mouth as you stumble a few steps backwards.

For a horrifying moment, you swear you see your own face in the rotten remnants staring back at you with black, empty eye sockets. It’s the hair that gives away the delusion, however, and with a chill down your spine you recognize the sacrifice who came before you; Hector’s daughter.

“Nadja,” the man groans morosely, the weight of grief in his voice palpable. You move away, towards the stairs, and watch with a morbid sort of fascination as the man weeps over the corpse of his daughter, touching her hair and her clothes, the only parts of her not twisted and rotted with death, the body left for maggots and scavengers. It’s sick, nothing like the beautiful and noble gesture sacrifice is always said to be. You look up at the dizzying height of the spiral staircase, following the line of it until the stone disappears into darkness. Did she fall, or was she cast away, having somehow proven herself unworthy?

In a strange sense, watching the men wrap her body in cloth to be carried home feels very much like playing the part of voyeur to your own demise. You stand at a distance, hand braced upon the stone, unable to shake the dread that you’re witnessing a vision of the future. Your future.

No. You will not be left for the insects and carrion-feeders. You turn your back to the sound of Hector’s weeping and, without another world, determinedly begin your ascent one large stone step at a time. Although you feel the men’s eyes heavily upon you, they remain silent, as if already grieving you.

Do not, you think brazenly, skin flushed with unexpected fires that bring your blood to a boil. Do not dare mourn what isn’t dead.

Those flames burn hot enough to carry you easily up the first several floors, indignantly stomping your way. You’ve heard stories of this tower all your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the true scale of it. Most of it is in a terrible state of decay, full of overgrowth and rot that, centuries ago, may have been wood and cloth.

You stop for a breath beneath the remains of what looks to have once been a vibrant mural. You can see trace evidence of beautiful paints, but whatever it depicts has been brutally clawed from the stonework. You lift a hand up high to trace one of the deep gouges in the stone; the marks are spread too far apart for your fingers to reach, but you can make out five distinct patterns nonetheless, like drag marks from a hand three or four times the size of your own.

Beyond the ruined mural, there are statues, too. You pass a grand monument of a woman who stands over seven heads tall wielding a sword of equal might, the statue adorned with steel bracers. You think she might have been beautiful in the same way a frightening storm is, but the head of the statue is long since gone.

On the next floor, you see upon the ground the ruins of a statue of a mermaid–at least, you thought it was. Upon further inspection, however, you see that the statue depicts a man. He has the lower body of a fish and strange indentations along his ribs, just beneath his bare carved chest. He, too, is headless, torso split horizontally, stone strewn across the floor.

This temple must have belonged to these lost figures, their monuments as desecrated as the rest of the tower. Whoever the Seven was, the world has since forgotten.

You wonder if the Devourer did this, defiled this temple to erase whatever history of heroes came before its tyranny.

Ultimately, you only find six statues. None of them have managed to keep their heads, and some are in worse shape than others. You imagine the seventh might have been destroyed entirely. It’s easier to imagine how or why these things might be than it is to focus on how badly your body aches, how you started this venture with the morning sun barely upon you, and yet you barely feel any closer to your destination as the darkness of night encroaches.

Every limb screams for rest. You stop occasionally, but you feel you must not sleep. Was poor Nadja pitched to her death for sleeping through her trial? You’d rather not find out. You’re not even sure if you would wake with the same angry conviction that drives you forward now, climbing step after unforgiving step. It’s gotten colder the higher you’ve gone, too. There’s a chance if you slept amidst the stone, you would turn to it yourself.

“Grant me strength,” you whisper to whomever may be listening. Be they fae or devil, benevolent or malevolent, it would be a boon to know there was some manner of being on your side.

You lean on the wall far from the edge as you ascend the spiral, too nervous of a fall to look over the edge and gauge your progress. A brisk wind chill has begun howling through the tower, whipping your clothing about and biting at your skin. You hug one arm tightly across your chest, bracing against the cold. At this rate, you’ll make for a crunchy meal not just for your bones, but for the frost you arrive covered in.

Your foot slides on something on the step that shifts and clatters. You nearly fall, heart hammering in your chest as you manage to catch yourself. Looking down, you’re shocked to see a pile of shining gold coins spilling down the steps amongst the debris. There is enough wealth discarded on these steps to see a dozen families fed for years and years to come.

You must be getting close. Carefully, despite the tremble running through your body, you shuffle your way through the mess, kicking it aside when you need to clear more of a path. The sound of rubble and gold and the like falling off the edge of the steps makes you flinch, the prolonged clattering of it serving as a reminder of just how agonizingly high you’ve managed to climb.

The familiar flicker of fire light draws a gasp of relief from you, tears gathered in your eyes from the sheer pain of moving your body forward. You can see shadows dancing across the walls, beckoning you from the cold with the barest hint of a warm draft. You’re practically crawling up the steps now, every part of you aching horribly. The tremble in your body is so severe, you worry you would fall to your death if you continued trying to walk through the hoard of treasures that have spilled down the steps.

You practically sob with relief when you reach the final step, limbs quaking beneath you as you haul yourself up onto the top floor and away from the awful railless edge of the spiraling stairs. You bury your face in the fold of your arms. The mixture of relief and exhaustion is so intense, the rest of the world falls away briefly, and the only thing that matters is catching your breath while you all but dry heave on the floor.

“I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you were going to make it,” purrs a resonant, honied voice, snapping you immediately back to reality. You shoot into an upright position so suddenly your head spins, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear your blurry vision.

Before you rests an enormous circular hall lit with dozens upon dozens of torches. The walls are lined with beautiful arched windows, and the interior is piled nearly to the vaulted ceiling with obscene amounts of coin, weapons, artifacts and similar treasure. Your gaze drifts towards the center of it all, where the source of the voice awaits you.

As it turns out, The Devourer is no oversized earthworm.

Reclined upon a magnificently carved marble throne, you behold a creature made of equal parts man and beast. Even sitting, his stature easily brings him heads taller than you. He is adorned exquisitely in gold embellishments–jewelry and piercings alike–and rich navy slacks, serving as a fine centerpiece to the lavish, untidy wealth that surrounds him. He wears a crown fit for a king, the jewel of it a radiant blue that matches his sharp predatory gaze. His lips spread into a wolfish grin. You’re utterly bewitched by the flash of his fangs.

“Rise,” he orders you, gesturing with a clawed hand that’s easily the size of your head. His rings shine beautifully in the firelight. “And speak.”

Shakily, you fight to climb to your feet. Worm or not, this man–this creature has been preying upon your people for generations. You remind yourself of the countless lives lost, of the mourning families, of Nadja’s desecrated corpse and the sound of her father weeping over the rotten remains of her. You steel yourself. 

“You who the people know as Scourge of the Skies, Red Death,” you begin, blinking rapidly. Your head began swimming the second you stood. You’ve never been so worn out in your life, and though there are flames here that offer a slight degree of warmth, the cold has sunk deep into your bones. As you speak, your vision gradually begins to tunnel. “Flame’s… Maw… and the Devourer,” you address, fighting desperately to stay focused even as he fades in and out of clarity. “I’ve come to pay my village tribute, and to… to…”

The darkness at the edges of your vision thickens. Your words feel heavy and slurred on your tongue. You sway, feeling your own head slosh like a bucket of water, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward, and the world goes black.

That was anticlimactic.

There was a time he would have been met with awe. Reverence. He didn’t expect you to simply black out.

Scourge, Red Death, Flame’s Maw… Maw. He’s always despised that word in particular, and the ugly imagery it evokes. Just a handful out of hundreds of names he’s been called over the years–if you can call them that. Many border on insults, if not are so outright. The most tolerable name he can remember is Homelander.

They called him that in celebration, he recalls. Those were the last of the days he had any care left for them.

He blows a smoky little raspberry as he stands, hands clasping behind his back beneath his wings. His tail sways idly as he approaches, tentatively intrigued by your splayed form. It’s rare that a sacrifice makes it all the way to the top at all, let alone in a single day. The last one only made it halfway before she decided falling to her death was a kinder fate than him.

Truth be told, he should have reigned hell upon their little village for her insolence. Fortunately for them, her display filled him with far more apathy than it did fury. He crouches down near enough to touch, though he hesitates, hand ghosting just over your body. He tilts his head to the side. Your breaths are shallow in your sleep, a slight wheeze to each one. Your body is clearly overexerted.

Delicately, he slips his hand under your cheek to turn your face to him, examining your features. You’re prettier like this, the tension drained from your expression and replaced with peace. Certainly not the worst tribute he’s been offered. You were at least determined to reach him.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He won’t kill you. Not yet.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, supporting your comparatively slight form with ease. You feel as frail as any mortal might, but the weight of you in his arms strikes him with a peculiar sense of melancholy. He takes pause, more closely observing the shape of you cradled in his arms, head lolled against his chest. You fit there nicely, small as you are. He can almost pretend you’ve simply fallen asleep in the crook of his arm; somewhere you’ve always belonged.

It’s an intriguing little fantasy. He hasn’t felt the need to indulge in one of those in a long while. He keeps his eyes on you as he walks you to the collection of pelts gathered on the far side of the room, where he lays you down atop them.

What had you been intending to say before you passed out? Your departing words spin round and round in his mind while he looks you over, lowering himself until he’s on his hands and knees above you. Tributes used to come richly adorned in jewelry and glittering things, but such pageantry has long since vanished. He’s surrounded by enough of it that the absence doesn’t bother him anymore.

The glitter of gold hardly catches his eye these days. He doesn’t call for sacrifices to add to his wealth. He only seeks to quell his boredom. Perhaps you will prove useful for this, at least for a time.

Pressing his clawed thumb lightly to your chin, he tilts your head away and leans in, nosing up the line of your throat, lips barely ghosting your soft flesh. He inhales the salt-sweet smell of you, a mixture of sweat, the dusty stone steps you’ve scaled, and the sweet herbal oil bath your kind always receives before you’re sent to him. The blend is strangely intoxicating on you.

It makes him wonder if you taste as good as you smell. Parting his lips, his split tongue spills past them and drags a slow serpentine pattern from your neck to your jaw. Mmm, fuck. You taste better than you smell, the rich oil you were bathed in still clinging to your skin beneath the salty tang of your sweat.

It would be too easy to devour you. He groans quietly at the thought, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s known few things more intimate than sinking his sharp teeth into warm, pliant flesh. The feel of a pulse slowing against his tongue. The metallic rush of blood down the back of his throat. He hasn’t craved human flesh the way he does right now in years, yet something in the scent of you has ignited that primal aspect of him. Salivating already, he swallows it away and draws back.

Not yet. He still wants to hear what you were going to say.

It makes him smile to see the goosebumps that have erupted on every inch of your exposed skin. He cocks his head to the side and trails his index claw down the center of your chest, dragging down the pretty white fabric of your sacrificial dress, stopping just shy of the swell of your breasts. More goosebumps there, too.

None of it compares to the sound that you make. In your sleep, your brows furrow, and you exhale a noise somewhere between pain and sheer exhaustion, your small hand brushing his as you adjust against the pile of plush fur pelts. His gaze drops sharply, hand lifting tentatively. After a beat, he sets it down lightly atop yours. Captivated, he watches your whole body respond to his touch, turning and curling in towards him like a flora bending to the light of the sun.

Fascinated by your innate reactivity to him, Homelander lowers himself onto his side next to you. After a beat of hesitation, he encircles your wrist with his thumb and index finger and brings your palm flat to the warmth of his bare chest. A tantalizing shiver rolls through your unconscious form. Just as he had anticipated–hoped?–you follow the feel of him, moving completely onto your side and into him, breathing out a shuddering little exhale while the fire that runs through his veins warms you.

It isn’t enough to stop you shivering, though. Shifting, he spreads out his wing and curls that over you, blocking the draft that spills in from the surrounding windows. Only then does the tension in your body begin to ease, warmth chasing out the chill from your bones.

Homelander smirks, feeling inexplicably accomplished over this mundane little feat. He’s never particularly cared for the comfort of his tributes before; they’ve never served as anything more than playthings and meals. You should be no different. He knows you would be a delectable thing on his tongue, warm and wet down his throat, yet the thought of you in pieces–cold and unmoving–instantly vanishes his appetite.

He wants you in a new way entirely. Against him, with him. He wants to taste more of you, drag his tongue along the plains of your body and see how else you’ll react to him. He wants to find the places that quicken your breath. Would you sing your pleasure for him? He’s barely heard your voice, but already he can imagine it vividly.

You would. You will.

He’s begun to pant at the thought alone, smoke wafting from his mouth, his eyes softly aglow with crimson light. The smell of you has filled his senses so thoroughly he feels intoxicated by it, and between his thighs, his cock has begun to throb. He leans closer and nestles into your hair, inhaling deeply, a rumble leaving him on a warm exhale.

His entire body has taken on the heavy pulse of his heart, alight with the most visceral feeling he’s had in centuries. This is more than hunger, more than carnality–you mean something. Never before has he felt compelled to find pleasure in the frail body of a human, yet his blood sings it voicelessly in the back of his mind, his every instinct screaming one word again and again and again.

Mate.

Homelander had given up on the concept of a mate a long time ago, given that he’s… abnormal. Sterile. As an unnatural creature, there could not be a natural match for him. Someone who would call to his very blood and set it aflame. Yet here you are, seeking him as desperately as he once sought you. Is that why you were able to accomplish what so few before you had, pushing your body so clearly beyond your limits?

A low, possessive rumble leaves him. Reckless.

He pets your hair, testing the texture with his fingers awhile before letting his hand roam down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, up over your hip, down your leg. You’re no longer cool to the touch or shivering. He flattens his palm to your back and closes his eyes briefly. He’s never heard of a dragon bonding to a human before. He wonders if you’ll feel it too, recognize it for what it is, or if your mortality will make you oblivious to the depths of it.

It takes every ounce of his restraint not to shake you awake to find out. 

Instead, he patiently learns the cadence of your heart. He commits your scent to memory, weeding out the natural musk of your skin beneath the herbs and oils you’ve been lathered in. Soon enough he’ll be able to pick you out of a crowd by the thump of your pulse alone, track you down from miles away with nothing but the barest whiff of you. 

Not that he’d ever let you get so far from him now that he has you.

All you’re missing now is his scent. Leaning down, he licks a line adjacent to the one he had prior, and then another, mindful of his horns. The sweet taste of you makes him moan. He spends hours with you tucked in against him, idling away the time by learning your body as well as teaching you his. He nuzzles his cheek lightly against yours just so that he can turn and taste that same spot, something deep and primal in him appeased by tasting himself on your skin. 

“My mate,” he half sighs, half growls. 

He can’t wait to meet you.

Consciousness comes back to you in a gradual slew of sensation. Your fingers twitch, flexing in what feels like a lush, thick pelt of fur beneath you. Your whole body is pleasantly warm, as if you’ve fallen asleep in front of a crackling hearth, the cold of those awful stone stairs a distant memory.

The stairs…

Your eyes snap wide open, your spine going stiff. You’re laying on your back. Something wet and hot is dragging along the exposed skin of your shoulder–your dress pulled askew–in repetitive swipes. Looking down, all you can see is a mess of flaxen colored hair and one long, angular horn, the tip of it adorned in gold. The press of what you can only imagine to be a tongue is unnaturally smooth, as hot as settled coal against your skin. The beast gives a growl, and sharp teeth graze your skin. Your throat feels tight, the scream that bubbles up locked behind the tension of your jaw.

Oh gods, you think, beginning to shake. He’s eating me! 

“Good morning,” purrs a familiar voice, the words vibrating against your skin. He lifts his head from your shoulder, though he doesn’t go far. You half expect to see his maw bloodied with your entrails from all the horror stories you’ve been told, but his grin is as clean as it was the first moment you beheld him. Up close, he’s even larger than you had initially realized. His face is well defined, with strong cheekbones decorated with smooth red scales that ascend into his hairline, where a golden crown sits neatly behind his horns. “Mmm, someone got their beauty sleep,” he says, the words a low, pleased rumble. You’re speechless, watching in bewilderment as he cups your face, hand so large it covers most of your neck, too. “You were out for hours.”

Your eyes dart to your shoulder, where your dress has been tugged down, but your skin appears unmarred. Around you, one of his enormous wings is curved over, shielding you both from the light and the cold beyond. You can’t move your legs, and with a glance, you understand why: his enormous tail is draped across both of them, pinning you in place. You look back at him, eyes wide in fear and confusion. You wonder if he’s been with you like this through the entire night. “You’re… You’re not eating me?”

The broad smile he flashes makes your heart skip a beat. His eyes, though sharp and a shade of blue you’ve only ever seen in the sky, are disarmingly human. Beautiful, even. They crinkle at the corners with what almost looks like fondness.

“No.”

“Why not?” You ask instantly, adrenaline making your voice sharp. “Not that I wish for you to eat me,” you say just as quickly. “But do you not–were you not–” He cuts you off with a noise that you belatedly realize is a laugh, the resonance in his chest so unearthly it gives every sound he makes an inhuman quality. “No, I was not eating you,” he says, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Tasting you, yes. And you do taste divine,” he says, leaning in again. You push your head back into the furs as much as you can, but he moves to the side, bringing his lips to your ear. “I knew my mate would.” Mate?!

Your hands fly up to his chest–gods, he’s as warm as hearth stones–as if to push him back, but you may as well attempt to push an oak tree aside. “What?”

He draws back, glancing down at your hands pressed to the bare skin of his chest before his gaze returns to yours, eyes narrowed in distinct pleasure. “Mate,” he says again, deliberately drawing the word out. “Dragons bond only once in a lifetime. Usually to another dragon. Clearly exceptions can be made, and you, precious little thing that you are… appear to be mine.”

His eyes fall shut, he leans in, and with a lurch of your stomach you realize he means to kiss you, his lips pursed and rapidly approaching. Your own lips part and a noise wholly outside of your control escapes you; a scream so shrill and sudden that it knocks even him back in surprise. 

Blinking several times, he gives you a quick once over, visibly expecting to see you wounded and bloody somewhere. He looks back to your face when he finds nothing amiss. “What?”

“I can’t–I don’t know you,” you blurt out, equal parts flustered and alarmed. You can feel yourself burning up, and it isn’t just from the heat of him against you.

“So?” He dismisses, smiling with an array of sharp pearly teeth. “I’m your mate.”

“Humans don’t have those,” you counter, squirming under the weight of his tail. It’s like he’s draped several sacks of grain across your legs. “My lord Devourer, I–”

He scoffs, tail lifting as he shifts, bringing himself up onto his hands and knees over you, his wing unfurling and allowing the sun to spill in, washing you both in its light. “Homelander. If you must use one of those silly names, use Homelander. I’d prefer beloved, though,” he says with a sly lilt to his mouth.

A shiver rolls down your spine. Along with light, brisk morning air has slipped in between your bodies. 

“Homelander,” you repeat, a name you’ve never heard before. It’s a great deal less menacing than the others, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has been eating your townsman for as long as anyone can remember. “I–”

He takes hold of your jaw with just his index finger and thumb, the rest of his fingers curling lightly over your throat. “You talk too much,” he tells you, eyes hooded and hungry. “Are you going to scream every time I try to kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you choke out, fists clenched tightly in the furs beneath you. He leans closer, tilting his head, his nose barely brushing the tip of yours. “I’ve never been kissed by a dragon before. Like I said, we don’t have m-mmm!”

It happens so swiftly you don’t have time to gather the air to scream. He presses his lips firmly to yours, making a noise so close to a moan that, despite the relative chasteness of the kiss itself, you flush with the indecency of it. It feels… hot. The heat of him is nearly too much to handle, like touching your lips to a hot mug of tea, but there is something intoxicating about it. He uses that heat to mold you to him, pulling you closer, his body sinking down against yours.

You’re too dumbstruck by the whole of the situation to struggle–not that it would accomplish much–which leaves you to simply experience it. His lips are tentative against yours, not harsh or demanding. He coaxes yours with his as if to dance, luring you into something that almost feels good.

Your heart hammers in your chest, his warmth pooling in your belly and spreading slowly through the rest of your body like boiled water poured into a lukewarm tub. He’s immovable, inescapable, and to your dismay, not entirely awful.

 “I want to claim you,” he all but growls against your lips, his other hand clawing slowly down your side, tugging at your dress. 

Your heart leaps painfully against your ribs. “Homelander,” you say, though he’s hardly paying you any mind, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, carving a wicked trail with his lips while his hand dips lower and lower, seeking the bottom hem of your dress. Heart racing, you breathlessly cry, “Beloved!”

That gives him pause. He rears back to look down at you, head slightly cocked, eyes bright and attentive. Your breaths are shallow, pulse pounding in your throat. You swallow dryly. “I’m thirsty,” you tell him, which is no lie. Your throat is so dry it almost hurts to speak. “Horribly. And hungry, I’ve not eaten since yesterday’s breakfast. You mean for me to survive, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he says, expression twisting like he finds offense in your words. “You’ll want for nothing.”

“Then please. Water?” You push, praying that he is more man than beast.

He regards you quietly, eyes subtly darting back and forth. There’s a petulant kind of impatience to his gaze that catches you off-guard, like a boy who’s been told he has to wait before he gets to play with his new favorite toy. “Water,” he echoes eventually. You nod. He startles you when he exhales a little plume of smoke from his nose, reluctantly lifting himself off of you. The chill of his absence is immediate. “Don’t move,” he says, suddenly looking displaced. You’ve caught him by surprise. Perhaps you’ll survive this yet.

You watch him rise to his full height, standing easily eight feet tall. You sit up, pulling the furs over your legs to combat the cold seeping in. The muscles of his back give a mesmerizing flex as he stretches his wings out, the span of them just as jaw-dropping as his height. He wears furs over his shoulders held in place with thick leather straps that cross over his back and chest, emphasizing his musculature as well as the crimson plating that covers his body. Spines run down the length of his back, transitioning down into a tail that’s even longer than he is tall. It moves along the ground in zigzags, almost like a serpent. You don’t realize how intensely you’re staring until you look back up and realize he’s looking at you over his shoulder, those piercing blue eyes keenly set on yours.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk. Something about his expression makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something naughty. You drop your gaze. “Back in a jiffy,” he says. You look up just in time to see him step off the ledge, those brilliant red wings fanning out behind him. He disappears so suddenly that you can’t help but gasp, sitting up on your knees. You hear the beat of wings against the air, and then a second later see him lift back up into the skyline, twisting in the air before gliding back down out of sight. 

You sit in stunned silence, listening to the fading thrum of his wings. It doesn’t feel real. You don’t know if this is some kind of twisted game he pulls with every sacrifice, or if you’re truly somehow different. You weren’t entirely expecting him to listen to you, but he did. He’s gone, presumably to fetch you food and water. You don’t know how, but you just commanded the Devourer to not only let you go, but bring you a meal.

In hindsight, you’re a little concerned that it was never specified what kind of meal. As far as you’re aware, he primarily eats people.

Adjusting your gown, you haul yourself up to your feet, crossing your arms in a vain attempt to protect the heat of his body lingering on your skin. When that doesn’t work, you pick up one of the several fur pelts strewn on the floor and drape it over your shoulders, sighing in relief. The pelt still holds some residual warmth; a boon over the lovely but ineffective fabric of your ceremonial gown.

In the light of day, you can make out a great deal more detail throughout the lair. The floor to ceiling archways deter you from venturing too far beyond the center, but still there is plenty to investigate. For example, the throne catches your eye immediately. The size of it makes you feel like a child again, navigating a world not built for you. The masonry of it is exceptionally smooth beneath your fingers, save for a handful of deep, jagged gouges that marr the arm rest. Tilting your head, you realize that you recognize these marks: they match those that you’d seen on the ruined murals.

You trace them with your fingers, connecting them now to the draconic claws that, just moments ago, had so delicately followed the curve of your body. He could so easily tear you apart, and yet in that moment you had never known a gentler touch. You pull your hand back beneath the pelt, feeling a shiver roll through you that has little to do with the morning chill.

Mate. That word sticks in your brain like a wad of gummy tree sap.

Circling the throne, you carefully step around the glimmering mess of gold, silver and jewels that litter the stone floor. There’s so much of it that it doesn’t even look real, stacked over itself like forgotten hay bales left to rot. There is more wealth here than you’ve seen in your life. A single satchel of it would keep you comfortable for the rest of your life, and yet here it serves as little more than clutter. As far as you can tell, it means nothing here.

The Devourer stopped seeking material treasure generations ago.

As you explore, part of you expects to find the corpses of all those who have come before you. Dozens upon dozens of bodies stacked up in varying states of consumption or decay, or maybe a monument built of their bones. You find no such construct, though. In fact, nothing about this place seems put together. You can’t imagine the madness that living like this for a week would induce in you, let alone decades.

To the east, movement catches your attention, startling your heart into your throat. It looks like a silhouetted figure at first, but your brain catches up quickly, and you approach the gently billowing fabric. It’s draped over a statue, giving it the illusion of a person, and your curiosity gets the best of you as you tug the drape down off of it.

You suck in a sharp breath. Once again, you find yourself faced with a legend given form– a painstakingly and intricately carved statue in the Devourer’s perfect likeness. It comes as no surprise that this is the only in-tact statue you’ve seen, but what you don’t understand is why it’s even here. If the Devourer was a usurper, some vicious interloper, why would there be a monument to him in the same vein as all the others?

The plaque beneath it reads: Homelander. Son of the Skies, Protector of the Earth.

Devourer, Scourge, Flame’s Maw–these names are all you have ever known, and yet this is the name carved in stone. He was once worshiped not out of fear, but reverence that you can see in every gentle curve of stone.

What happened?

Shuffling closer to the statue, the discarded fabric gathers at your feet. It’s not quite to scale, but it’s a handsome likeness nonetheless. It’s certainly been cared for more than anything else in this place. You wonder if it’s just vanity or if it’s something less obvious. You trace the smooth stonework, letting yourself get a better look at this version of him that’s less likely to eat you.

Objectively speaking, it’s a handsome visage. The resemblance is uncanny, clearly the work of an intensely skilled mason. His jaw is strong, eyes set forward in unerring determination. Tentatively, you touch the lips of the statue. He’d been so certain that he wanted to kiss you. Just the thought of his closeness and heat makes your stomach erupt in a flutter of butterflies.

Mate.

“I thought I told you not to move.”

You barely hear the full sentence, your own scream ringing loudly in your ears. You move to spin around, but your foot catches on the pile of fabric you had dropped to the ground and suddenly your whole body is pitching backwards, the back of your skull destined for the smooth, unyielding stone behind you. Fortunately for your brain matter, your descent is halted just shy of contact, one familiar clawed hand cupping the back of your neck while the other lands at your back, steadying you.

Homelander stands over you, a curious quirk to his brow. With his hand at the small of your back, his claws press lightly through the fabric, effortlessly upholding your weight. He holds you as if you’ve been caught mid dip in a dance.

“Gods, you scared me,” you say, eyes wide. “I didn’t hear you.” You had been so certain you would hear his return based on the sound of his wings when he’d left, but his approach had been terrifyingly silent.

“Yes, I know. It makes me a very effective hunter,” he says, dipping down to nuzzle at your neck, taking advantage of how the pelt has slipped off of your shoulder. He inhales the smell of you, prickling goosebumps all over your body. “I missed you.”

“You’ve barely been gone,” you reply impulsively, awkwardly trying to adjust yourself out of this arch he has you in. No use. His size makes him impossible to maneuver around, and your foot is still tangled up in the fabric that he’s currently standing on.

He gives another one of those rumbling sighs, drawing back to look at you. “You’re supposed to say that you missed me, too,” he chastises you, and though his tone seems light, you’re sure you see a flicker of impatience or irritation in his gaze. Maybe both. Despite how fearsome the sum total of his features make him, you’re once again caught off guard by his eyes. Though the color of them is icy, there’s a distinctly human warmth to them that grounds you in his gaze.

Still, the last thing you want to do is make him angry.

“Oh,” you croak quietly, realizing he’s actually waiting for you to say it, staring down expectantly while he holds you. “I… missed you, too,” you return stiltedly, unsure your hesitant delivery will be satisfactory. Shockingly, his expression lightens, lips curving into a smile. He lifts you off of your feet, untangling you from the mess beneath you and turning around to set you back down on relatively clear flooring. 

“Good,” he purrs, stroking his hand down the back of your head like he’s petting an animal. He seems determined to touch you, but entirely unaware of how to. He cups the base of your skull and tightens the gap between your bodies, enticing you with his warmth as much as he terrifies you with the hunger in his eyes.

You put your hands to his chest, soaking up the heat of him as you vainly try to maintain an ounce of personal space. “Ah, the–the statue, it’s beautiful. Why do you cover it up?” You ask, the words leaving you in a flustered tumble.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, looking at the statue like he’s only just remembered it exists. “Oh, that. Mmm. Don’t always like what he has to say,” he replies, fitting his hand over top of yours, pressing it to his chest. You blink. What in the world does that mean? “You humans chill so quickly. I’ll have to light the hearth next time I leave you,” he says, earning a yelp from you as he abruptly lifts you up into his arms, tail slithering audibly along the floor as he carries you back to what you suppose for all intents and purposes is his nest. His touch instantly warms you to your core, making the fur you wrapped yourself in seem like a thin sheet in comparison. Despite your apprehension, you can’t help the way the tension in your body naturally eases with his warmth. Upon returning to the collection of pelts, you see the fruits of his labor.

Literal fruits, in fact.

Homelander has returned with a small bounty consisting of apples, two melons, and even a handful of peaches, all of it held in a beautiful–albeit aged–woven basket. You don’t get the chance to eat those often; the trees they fall from grow high on the surrounding mountains, and the farmers in your village are content enough with the established agriculture that no one bothers to grow them.

In addition, a tall golden pitcher stands filled to the brim with water. You’re once again hyper aware of just how incredibly thirsty you are, lips dry, throat parched. It’s the only thing you care about, clambering towards it the second Homelander sets you back on your feet.

The pitcher is heavy. It appears made of solid gold and it’s three times the size of any you’ve ever seen before. You don’t lift it so much as you just tip it back slightly, sighing loudly as you drink back the crisp, clear water.  You sputter as the flow abruptly increases, water spilling from the corners of your mouth. Homelander has lifted the pitcher to help you drink, holding it one handed as if it’s no more than a drinking cup, his other hand settled upon your waist. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, eyes half-lidded, lips gently curved upwards. Once you’ve drunk your fill, you push against his hold and he relents quickly, unnerving you with just how attentive he really is. He sets the pitcher back down and watches you wipe your chin dry.

“Thank the gods,” you sigh habitually, finally not feeling as though there’s grit in your throat with every word.

“I’d prefer you thanked me,” he says coyly, his gaze drifting down to where the water has wet your gown. The fabric clings to your skin, sheer where liquid has touched it.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Thank you, Homelander,” you correct. It’s taking every ounce of your fortitude to speak in full sentences with the way he’s staring at you, let alone the idle way his thumb is stroking your hip. No one has ever touched you with this mixture of ease and clear intent, the weight of his hand practically thrumming against you. The magnitude of him is a difficult thing to parse both in terms of his sheer size and the legend he represents. You don’t know how to reconcile him with the monster you grew up dreading.

No one warned you that monsters could be warm and handle you gently.

“Time to eat,” he says, setting the pitcher back down. He takes hold of both of your hips and pulls you down with him as he sits cross-legged on the pelts, the circle of his legs large enough that you fit perfectly inside it, your own legs hanging out over his crossed calves. His tail loops around as well, encircling him and draping over your legs. The underside of his tail is not unlike the belly of a snake, with large overlapping scales that layer down the length of it. It’s just as warm as the rest of him, and feels like an unnaturally soft stone that’s been baking in the sun.

Reaching over, Homelander plucks one of the peaches from the assortment. It looked perfectly average in the basket, but between his fingers it looks almost comically small. With a deftness that you wouldn’t expect from a creature of his size, he begins to slice through the peach with his blackened claws, delicately cutting out a wedge that he does not hand you, but he instead brings it directly to your lips. 

You stare for a moment, struck by the rich red center of the fruit, how the juice of it drips onto his hand in sweet smelling rivulets. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and he quirks a brow, nodding towards the slice of fruit. You decide that of all the potential battles you have in front of you, this one in particular isn’t worth fighting, and you part your lips, watching him as you do.

His own lips mimic yours, falling apart in quiet entrancement. He slides the wedge between your teeth and watches with rapt fascination as you bite down on it, holding his gaze in an exchange that feels so unexpectedly raw and intimate, your pulse ticks up a notch. You swear he notices it by the way his head tilts ever so slightly, almost as if he’s listening.

“Good?” He asks, voice little more than a rumble.

Gods above and below, it is good. Despite the preternatural heat of his hand, the succulent flesh of the peach retains the morning chill, sweet and cool on your tongue. It’s perfectly ripe, yielding easily to the cut of your teeth and flooding richly across your tongue as you chew. He feeds it to you until it disappears, pressing the last of it in with his thumb, which then follows the line of your bottom lip, smearing the sweet juice on it. You nod and lick your lips, tongue narrowly missing his thumb, and what that does to his expression makes your stomach flip. 

He’s quick to cut another slice to offer you. You repeat this process in silence, the air thick with tension that feels so palpable you’re sure you could swim through it. The sounds of the world have narrowed entirely to the sound of his claw cutting through the delicate flesh of the fruit and the tip lightly scraping the pit inside it. His hands have a sticky shine to them by the time he’s tossing the pit back into the basket, stripped as clean as a bone. 

You chew your final bite, jaw slowing as you watch him take his fingers into his own mouth. He’s unabashed in the way he slurps the nectar off his digits, tongue slipping between them. That’s when you realize that his tongue splits down the middle, dexterously sliding over his fingers to lap up every drop of juice. Not only that, but you spot a flash of gold; the same kind of piercing he has on his ears. Watching him stirs something hot in you, a radiating heat that lights a flickering pulse between your thighs. You audibly gulp the last of your bite, tensing subtly when Homelander looks at you.

Slowly, his lips curl into a devious smile. “See something you like?”

You flush, fighting the urge to look away. Don’t play into it. Change the subject. “What happened to your last mate?”

His expression shifts to something slightly more incredulous. “There wasn’t one. You’re my first, my last, my only. Dragons only bond once,” he says, that split tongue rolling along his sharp teeth, that gold tongue piercing clicking against them. You wonder where else he’s decorated himself with gold.

Wait, what did he say? Your gaze snaps back up from his mouth to his eyes, which are once more set into that self-satisfied slant. He’s closer to you now, and nearing by the second.

My first, my last, my only.

“But I am no dragon,” you say, leaning away subtly, though there isn’t far to go. He’s got you trapped nicely in place, like a butterfly beneath pins. “How could such a bond form?”

“I’m as mystified as you are,” he says, his hand sliding up the small of your back. “I didn’t think a bond was even possible for me. Apparently there’s something different about you,” he says, and you notice a brief twitch of his lip, a flicker that looks just a touch like disdain. It disappears as quickly as it had appeared. “Something special,” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. 

Your heart races, your capacity for thought slowly disappearing the closer to you he gets. New subject, new subject! You think, frazzled by the warm spiced smell of him. His hand flexes on your hip, claws prickling your skin through your dress. “Aren’t you hungry?” You ask, eyes darting to the basket full of fruit just to his side.

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice so low you feel it reverberate. His nose brushes your cheek, trailing down from your jaw to your neck. You shiver, and the pulse between your thighs grows into a steady throb. He inhales deeply. “I’m famished.”

The world around you spins and the next thing you know, you’re on your back staring up at the aged banners draped along the stone ceiling, the fur pelts warm and plush beneath you. Homelander pins your arms down at your sides, once more poised on his hands and knees over you. His tongue draws a wet molten line from the collar of your dress to your throat, and you let out a soft, nervous cry as his teeth graze your skin.

Perhaps he’s going to devour you after all. 

Oh gods! Gods, gods, gods, please no!

“Wait, wait! Don’t–please don’t eat me,” you plead in a panic, pushing up against his hands with all of your might. He doesn’t yield at all. You may as well be pushing against the stone walls of the tower itself.

He does laugh, however. It’s that same rumble of amusement that travels through your skin and into the core of you. “For the last time, I’m not eating you. I can smell your arousal, though. Practically taste it in the fucking air,” he says, trailing lower down your chest with every word, brazenly nuzzling the space between your breasts before continuing down. A wave of humiliation rolls through you at his words, and you look away. He releases your arms in favor of sliding his hands up your bare legs, pushing your dress up with them. “I’m just going to have a little lick.”

Frantically, you try to grab at him as soon as your hands are free. “Hold on, stop–”

“Enough!” He snarls suddenly, startling you quiet. You swear for just a moment that his eyes flash crimson. You clutch your hands to your chest. “You’ll not be harmed. Understand? Just… let me,” he says tersely, gaze hard before gradually softening as you silence yourself, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Satisfied, he lowers back down.

His sharp claws kiss harmless welts all the way up your legs, up to your hips, where he catches the band of your undergarments. He hooks his fingers over the waistband and drags them down, seeming to enjoy the way you pant and writhe under him, your heart racing.

“Have mercy,” you slip in quietly, squirming beneath the hot press of his hands, though you’re no longer struggling against him. “I’ve never–no one’s ever–I’m inexperienced,” you desperately explain, your mind running wild with what his size will mean for you if he decides he wants more than to taste you–to claim you, as he’d said before.

“Good,” he replies simply, pushing your knees up into a bend on either side of his head. “As you should be. As am I,” he says, turning his head to drag his split tongue in swirling patterns on your inner thigh, moaning at the taste of you.

You grip the pelts beneath you, brows furrowing. You stare down at the top of his head in confusion. “You are?”

“I told you. I’ve never had a mate. I’ve never felt the need to put my cock into what I intended to eat,” he says against your skin, erupting goosebumps all over your thighs. That should horrify you, but you’re instantly distracted by the sheer burning heat of his breath wafting over your wet cunt, a gasp slipping from your lips when he eagerly presses his tongue to it.

His tongue feels as smooth as glass, like liquid in the way it contours to your every curve. The split of it rubs on either side of your clit, massaging it between the two sides in a way that makes your knees shake. “Ffffuck,” he groans, immediately pushing his tongue into you, licking up the wetness of you twice as eagerly as he had that ripe peach.

You buck against him, a moan escaping you. The sound only encourages him to plunge his tongue deeper, that golden stud on his tongue brushing hotly against your inner walls. He drags it up and pushes it flush, half inside you and half grinding against your clit before pushing back in deep. It feels unlike anything you’ve ever known, so much better than your own curious, clumsy fingers. He laves attention on you like he’s starved for it, drinking just as thirstily as you had from the pitcher.

There’s no rhythm to the way he moves, no sense of consistency. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs you forward with ease, lifting you to push his thick split tongue even further inside you, plunging it in and out, growing greedier with every dive. He growls low in the back of his throat, tail thudding repeatedly against the floor. Instead of the little lick he claimed he was after, he’s working himself into an obvious frenzy feasting on you.

“H-Homelander, please,” you keen, his relentlessness rapidly building an unfamiliar pressure within you. He’s as sloppy as he is voracious, the wet sound of him obscene and loud in the enormous lair. His claws bite into your ass where he holds it firmly to his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. If he does, he’s taking it only as encouragement. 

His tongue touches something inside you that makes your whole body jolt. You grab hold of both of his horns, your back arching as you desperately cling to them. You’re certain you meant to shove him back, to struggle. Instead, your body is ablaze as you yank hard on his horns, hitching your leg over his shoulder and riding his tongue with a shaking gasp.

The pressure bursts, and the wave of euphoria that crashes down on you is unlike anything you’ve ever known. You convulse against his mouth, walls tightening around the intrusion. You don’t recognize your own voice in the sounds you make as he continues to ruthlessly fuck you soaked and open with his tongue, his breaths so hot they nearly burn. The waves of your climax feel like they’ll never end, spurred on by every deep, wet thrust.

“Homelander! It’s too much, Homelander, too much, please, please–beloved, please, I can’t, I can’t,” you beg, desperate to get his attention. You’re on the verge of sobs when he finally withdraws his long molten tongue from you. You suck in a shuddering breath, releasing his horns and collapsing back against the pelts, sweat prickling along your hairline.

However, your shallow breaths are nothing compared to the sound of Homelander’s ragged panting. He looks entirely wild, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose, his cheeks flushed a dark red, the lower half of his face shiny with a mixture of your slick and his own drool. He takes his hands from under you and yanks the sash around his waist loose, dropping it to the side. Reaching behind him, he unfastens his pants.

Your mind is still a haze, but even through the delirium, you’re shocked by what you see when that rich navy fabric falls from his waist: his cock is as large as the rest of him, thick and dripping. The underside of it is strangely ribbed, a feature you’re certain is to be attributed to his draconic nature. Not only that, but he’s adorned in gold here, too, with a ring pierced into the head of his cock and studs between each ridge. Your eyes widen.

It’ll never fit.

Nevertheless, he looks entirely undeterred. Homelander adjusts himself between your legs, eyes thoroughly glazed over with lust, and presses his nearly scalding palms to your inner thighs, pushing them into a wide spread and down to the ground. Arousal and fear lance through you like a twin bolt of lightning.

“H-hold on,” you stutter, lifting a trembling hand. “I–” Bending over you, he silences you with a firm kiss. You press your hands to his chest and feel it thrumming beneath your palms, the heat of him more intense than ever. You can’t help but moan softly into it, overtaken by the smell of sex and something akin to burning incense. His tongue slips as deftly into your mouth as it did your cunt. Even after having felt it inside you, it’s thicker in your mouth than you’re prepared for, sliding in deeper, like he means to fuck you with it here, too.

It wholly distracts you until you feel a heavy, blunt press to your wet cunt. You make a half-hearted noise of protest, but his only answer is a low rumbling growl, claws biting into the meat of your thighs as he holds you still, effectively gagging you on his tongue.

His cock is as hot as the rest of him, but a great deal more solid than his malleable tongue. The thickness of it slowly spreads you wide, an aching pressure. You’re not sure if the burn of it is from the stretch or the heat, but either way it’s driving you insane. It’s hot and painful and good, frictionless with how thoroughly he soaked you, and despite your nerves, your cunt is loose with orgasm. It’s as if your body, independent of your mind, is eager to welcome him in.

You make a keening noise, the sound of it muffled in this devouring kiss. You grab hold of the leather straps across his chest and yank on them, twisting at them, but nothing takes your mind from how intense it feels to be split apart on the fat head of his cock.

The sounds Homelander makes in response are downright bestial, low and rumbling from his chest. Your only relief is when the widest swell of his cockhead finally breaches you, just the tip of it settling perfectly inside you. You cry out when he gives an exploratory backwards pull, and then shivers as he begins to rock gently, breathing heavily from his nose as he fucks you with nothing more than the head of his cock.

You’re starting to feel lightheaded, pitchy little noises leaving you with every exhale. Homelander sharpens his pace, breaking the kiss with a loud, carnal moan as he tips his head back. He’s barely even inside you and yet the girth of him is overwhelming, the ridges of his cock stimulating you in ways you didn’t know possible, the fat curved head rubbing against that same spot inside you that his tongue had previously made you see stars with.

Thoroughly overwhelmed by the incomprehensible assault of sensations, tears gather in your eyes. That pressure is building back up in you once more, starting at the base of your spine and slowly crawling up it. Desperate to tether yourself, to feel connected, you move your hand from the strap at his chest and touch his face. To your surprise, that instantly snaps his attention down to you, his beautiful blue eyes lost in a crimson glow.

Homelander meets your gaze, some level of cognizance returning to him, and whimpers, something hidden and vulnerable escaping in that exchange. He bends down, his nose brushing yours, and rests his forehead against yours while his thrusts grow more and more erratic, but never deeper. He fucks you in shallow, jagged snaps until finally that mounting pressure overwhelms you and you come again, simultaneously squeezing him into his own sudden release. 

The flood of him inside you is burning hot, spilling into your core even from here, and he practically roars with it, burying that loud primal cry into the crook of your neck while his body stills, releasing pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed into you.

His breath billows hotly across your neck, the burning scent of him thick in the air. Your mind is so addled by your own euphoria that it takes you time to realize he’s speaking, fervent murmurings against your skin. “M’sorry, still, be still, I’m–don’t move,” he rasps, fractured little noises leaving him in between his words. You choke on your own breath when he sinks in, working you open slowly, shivers pitching up and down your spine. Gods above, he isn’t done.

Surely he doesn’t mean for you to take all of it… Does he?

You moan weakly, pushing your hand up into his hair and grabbing hold, which elicits a rumbling sigh from him in return. It’s silkier than you expected it to be. “Too big, it’s too much, it’s not–it’s not going to fit,” you pant out, screwing your eyes shut tight. While his release had initially softened him some, you can already feel his cock filling back out. Every bit he slips in further, you feel the mess of his release being forced out of you, come dripping down your thighs, slicking the way for the rest of him.

“It will,” he says at your ear, kissing the spot just below your earlobe, then your neck, his tongue slipping out to taste the sweat there before he kisses that same spot. He’s set upon you like an animal, lost to the drive of instinct, determined to fulfill his promise to claim what is his. “It will because it must. Because it’s yours. Because you’re mine.”

Homelander releases a breathy whine, sounding just as overstimulated as you are, nuzzling at your throat while he slowly works his way deeper, practically vibrating with restraint. He sounds as overwhelmed as you feel, but he refuses to stop, to lose. He holds you in place, growling whenever you squirm or struggle against him. The feel of it is dizzying, unbelievably hot and heavy, like fire given form, filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible. You’re feeling it again, the slow rise of that carnal pleasure building to an inevitable climax, and your whole body trembles with it.

You make a desperate keening noise, and Homelander hushes you, kissing your shoulder. “Sshhh, good, you’re doing so well for me. Don’t move yet, it’s almost over. You were made for this, for me. You feel it, don’t you? How easily your cunt opens to me. Nnngh, hah… Fuck, you fit me. You fit me. You do, and you always will,” he pants, voice hitching.

He slides his hands from your thighs to your waist, the press of his claws just shy of painful. With one final move, he lets out a quaking moan as he pulls you down onto the last of it, finally burying himself completely in your snug, come-soaked cunt. 

The fullness of it breaks you–snapping the last tether that was holding you in place–and you come again, your velvety walls seizing up around him impossibly tight before spasming your pleasure around every vein, ridge and piercing he has. You can feel the shape of him so viscerally that you’re sure your body will remember it, carved out in the shape of his cock forevermore.

He cries out with your release, a reverberating sound that you feel all the way down to the marrow of your bones. You don’t know if he’s more in pleasure or pain, but he makes no move to retreat. Instead, he brings you that tiny bit closer, pressing every inch of your body to his. He rides out your pleasure, panting a wet spot into the crook of your neck.

Tears roll from your eyes to your temple, disappearing into your hairline as you breathe roughly. You’re overwhelmingly hot, oversensitized and raw, but as the aftershocks of your orgasm fade, your body steadily loses that quiver. You feel as if you’re melting down into the furs, struggling to even keep your eyes open as a gentle ecstasy sweeps over you.

Once he recovers enough, he lifts himself up onto his hands, and then sits  back onto his legs, his hands on your hips to lift you partially into his lap to keep himself buried deep, hitching your legs around his waist. His eyes are completely glazed over, lips parted around heavy, hungry breaths. He doesn’t look at all sated. If anything, the look of his desire has only intensified, despite his obvious sensitivity. Sliding his hands up your body, he pushes your pretty white dress all the way up over your head, tossing it to the side so that he may finally see all of you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice utterly frayed. He stares at you as though you’re a vision sent from the gods, a nymph plucked from the heavens and nestled snugly upon his cock. His hand sweeps down your stomach, settling low on it, where he lightly presses down. You both moan with the pressure, with how keenly you both feel it. “Told you it would fit,” he says, but his voice is not smug. There’s a breathless wonder to it, like he’s awestruck by the look of your body against his.

His tongue rolls out to sweep along his lips. He opens his mouth, and you can see threads of saliva snapping between his sharp teeth, his mouth wet with hunger. He continues to reverently stroke your stomach, his large splayed hand easily covering the expanse of it. “You’ll make a beautiful mother,” he says, a concept you don’t even know how to begin to unravel, but the way he says it makes you feel worshiped. “Perfect. So fucking perfect for me,” he says, a shudder in his voice. His crimson wings spread and curve in on either side of you, the hooked tips of them bracing on the stone floor.

“Mother?” You slur belatedly. You feel dizzy, your body as warm as burning coals and tingling all over. He lifts your legs one at a time, bringing each one up parallel to his chest. They hook over his shoulders as he leans forward, wasting no before time kissing you. His wings support his weight while he grips your thighs, squeezing possessively.

“Mother,” he confirms between kisses, bending you practically in half as he begins to rut against you. He’s not thrusting so much as he’s grinding into you, wringing a low moan from you. “You want that, don’t you? I’ll keep you safe. Feed you. Fuck you. I’ll take care of you, be yours, and you’ll be mine, won’t you? Sweet little thing, fucked happy and heavy with my children. Tell me. Tell me you want that.”

“Yes,” you moan, kneading the furs on either side of you. He paints a beautiful picture in your mind of fresh fruit, crisp water, and this dreamlike pleasure for the rest of your days. Beneath him, any thoughts of the world outside this moment melt away. There’s only the two of you, resplendently warm and living amongst the clouds. “I want it. I want–I want you,” you say, touching either side of his face. He leans heavily into your touch, his eyes falling shut. A soft noise that sounds like relief escapes him as you kiss him, coaxing that long, clever tongue out to meet yours.

The eagerness with which he reciprocates nearly chokes you, his tongue slipping over yours and halfway down your throat before pulling back, practically devouring you in this kiss. In your fever, this consuming passion feels so much like love it makes your head spin, makes you forget where, when and who you are.  He breaks the kiss to moan unabashedly,  shifting to put his lips to your throat, mouthing at your skin like he’s trying desperately not to sink his teeth in. The thought thrills you. You almost want him to.

“Again,” he pants, grip tightening on your thighs. “Say it again, please.”

“I want you,” you say again, more certain now. The desperation in him is disarming, and despite the animalism of him, you can clearly see the man in him now, hear it in the way he pleads for you to indulge him. That and the euphoric spill of pleasure electrifying your every nerve imbues you with some kind of sense of power, and however misplaced it may be, you immediately feel drunk on it. You can feel your body beginning to build back towards that ultimate swell of euphoria again. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

He groans, dipping lower to suck a mark at the junction between your neck and shoulder. This time, when you feel the brush of his teeth, you don’t shy away. You cup the back of his head and drag your nails down his scalp. Homelander thrusts his hips jaggedly, wringing a throaty gasp out of you. “Keep talking,” he demands, but you hear the plea for what it is.

“You feel good. Y-you fit,” you say, echoing his own words, though it’s getting harder to speak with the way he’s starting to fuck you in earnest, just barely withdrawing before he drives back in, as if he can’t bare to be more than an inch outside of you.  You moan for him, chasing the bliss swelling rapidly between your legs.

Wait… Something really is swelling.

“What is that?” You ask, voice reedy. You whimper. Somehow, it feels as though he’s getting bigger. “What’s h-nnngh, what’s happening?” Your words are starting to slur together again, your mind split down the middle between your mounting orgasm, and the surreal feeling of the base of his cock growing inside you.

“Knot,” he explains between swipes of his tongue. “Keeps every drop of me inside you,” he says, giving a shuddering moan as that swell catches on the rim of your cunt when he tries to draw back. Just when you thought you had adjusted, that swell makes you ache, has you whimpering and squirming under him.

He could have told you it would get bigger!

“Oh gods, it–mmm, I’m–it feels–” You stop and start again and again, writhing, but he keeps you firmly in place, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh loud in your ears as he fucks you harder and faster, spurred on by the quiver of your cunt as your own climax nears.

“Come for me again. Show me that you want it. I want to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze my cock for my come,” he urges, voice reduced to a rough growl in your ear. He sounds like he’s barely holding himself together, every word more strained than the last. “Give it to me. Give yourself to me.”

The tug of his swollen knot bouncing off of your rim and the feel of his thick ridged cock massaging your walls completely overwhelms you. “Y-yes, okay, I’m–oh gods, gods, I’m–I’m coming, Homelander, Homelander!” You call, lips falling open on a silent scream as your throat locks up, a third orgasm crashing down on you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Homelander muffles his own cry into the crook of your neck, stilling halfway through your orgasm with one final slam. This time, the rush of his release is pressed tightly against your cervix, pooling inside you with nowhere to go, his knot doing precisely what he said it would. The heat of it fills you in hot, rushing spurts, his cock jerking against your spasming walls with every load he empties into you.

A sudden stinging pain makes you gasp, confusion seeping into the euphoria that has thoroughly addled your brain. Fuck, you realize he’s biting you. His teeth sink in as smoothly as a knife through fresh butter, the sting giving way to the sheer heat of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue, and the inexplicable way it intensifies your orgasm.

The room falls deafeningly quiet save for the pound of your own heart in your ears and the heavy way you’re each catching your respective breath. Your arms fall bonelessly to your sides as you pant, your vision slightly blurry. Homelander begins lapping at your shoulder, soothing the spot he’d bitten. Your whole body feels heavy, stuffed fuller than you ever could have conceived possible. All you can do is whine as he adjusts you, gingerly bringing your legs down to settle on either side of him.

You’re not sure how you’ll ever get off of his cock now that you’re on it. His knot feels like a permanent part of you, fitted so snugly that, just as promised, you don’t feel a single drop spill.

Homelander doesn’t stop at your neck. He drags his tongue down to the dip of your clavicle, where it splits apart slightly anywhere it moves over bone. It feels surreal, but somehow different from the first time you woke to him licking you. For starters, you’re not terrified he’s going to eat you. That has an entirely new connotation now.

He moves down further, slinking down into the valley between your breasts, sighing as he pushes them together to lave his tongue between. He’s languid, practically purring with each breath as he savors the feel and the taste of you. You don’t have it in you to feel much more than exhausted, your limbs as heavy as stone, but it does feel good. Your breath catches when he opens his lips around one of your nipples, sucking almost half of your breast into his preternaturally hot mouth. His pierced tongue swirls over your nipple while his teeth flex precariously against the tender flesh. You lurch, letting out a breathy noise.

“Careful, please,,” you exhale, earning a glance up from him. His eyes are completely glazed over, soft and dark in a way that takes your breath away. He hums quietly in some weak acknowledgement before his eyes flutter closed, his throat bobbing with every swallow as he sucks your breast with unexpected gentility.

Watching him stirs a wash of strange feelings in you. With what little strength you have, you bring your hand up to touch his horn, contemplating the texture of it beneath your fingers. You follow the line of it down to his skull, tracing his hairline just beneath the crown that adorns his head, slipping behind his sharply pointed ear. He’s truly incredible to behold up close like this, beautiful without the lens of terror you had been viewing him through.

On some level, you know you should still be afraid, but it’s a difficult feeling to muster when he’s warm and lax on your chest with his cock buried inside you, suckling on your breast as you’re still riding the high of three consecutive climaxes.

You push your fingers into his flaxen hair. You’ve never seen hair this color before except in very young children. In your experience, age always darkens it away to a sandy color, but his is as bright and warm as sunshine. There doesn’t seem to be any part of him that isn’t golden. He exhales a deep sigh as you run your nails along his scalp, nuzzling sweetly against you. You smile despite yourself.

Who would have thought that a dragon might be so very much like an overgrown house cat?

When Homelander lifts his head, his tongue is the last to leave, returning to his mouth with a wet slide across his lips. He’s left your skin shiny with saliva, but he isn’t finished. He immediately lowers himself to your other breast, taking it into his mouth in precisely the same way. You bring your other hand up into his hair and continue to massage his scalp, earning yourself an appreciative little moan from low in his throat, his tail sliding audibly back and forth on the stone floor.

The two of you lay like that for an indeterminate amount of time. You drift in and out of consciousness, worn thin and soothed by the heat of his body seeping into your muscles, fairly certain you’ll never be able to sit up on your own again. Homelander eventually releases your breast with a soft pop and settles his head on your sternum, narrowly avoiding taking one of your eyes out with his horn. You continue to stroke through his hair as your strength gradually returns.

The swell of his knot, too, lessens, but even soft his cock fits snugly inside you. It isn’t until Homelander gingerly lifts himself off of you that it slides out, coming free with a significant gush that soaks your thighs and puddles beneath you. You flush, making a strained little noise. You feel carved out and left hollow by the sheer size of him. His wings withdraw and tuck in behind him while he sits back on his legs to admire the splay of you beneath him. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, smoothing his hands up and down your thighs. You’ve never felt as exposed as you do in this moment, laid bare under his gaze. Even now, visibly drunk on pleasure and thoroughly satiated, there is an undeniable lingering famine in his stare. He sinks down and slowly spreads your legs apart, leaning in to run his tongue up the crease of your inner thigh. He laps languidly at your skin, earning hitched little breaths and sounds from you as his tongue deftly cleans the mess he’s made of you. He’s much more tame now than he had been, focusing not on overstimulating you, but simply washing you. It’s a strange and animalistic thing to do, but it’s intimate, too. Sweet, even.

Gods, he’s really done a number on your psyche.

Once he’s satisfied with the state of you, he climbs back up and settles on his side, looking at you with his hand poised over you, hovering like he isn’t sure what to do with it. His expression starts to shift, concern seeping into it. “You’re quiet. Did I hurt you?”

You huff a little breath. You’re quiet because you’ve just been fucked within an inch of your life by a dragon’s cock, but aside from that, of course he had. “You bit me, for starters.”

He turns somewhat sheepish at that. “Instinct. I wanted to mark you.”

“You succeeded,” you say, touching your shoulder tentatively.The skin is still raw, but it isn’t bleeding. It doesn’t even feel like it’s going to scab. 

You must wear your confusion plainly, because Homelander is quick to explain: “I sealed the wound. It should be fully healed by sundown.”

“How did you seal it?” You ask, bolder now with how you touch it. It feels like simple indentations, a perfect mold of his teeth.

“My saliva has particular properties. There was a method to my debauchery,” he says, pointedly licking his lips.

You suppose that’s far from the most miraculous thing about him. “That’s convenient,” you say, to which he smiles. It’s bizarre how easily this comes now. You’ve heard of breaking the tension before, but this is certainly the most intense way you’ve ever broken through that initial barrier to more casual conversation. 

Seeing that his hand is still hovering over you, you make a choice and take it, pulling it down to settle on your hip. Relief and excitement flash in his eyes in equal measure, and he takes that as permission to tuck you the rest of the way against him, settling on his side. He rests his head in his palm, propped up on his elbow. You curiously explore the plains of his chest with your fingertips, testing where flesh meets scales. They feel almost like bone, crimson colored protrusions that catch the light as prettily as rubies. They’re smattered along his body in the same way a human might have moles or birthmarks, incidental and seemingly without rhyme or reason.

His ribs are guarded by stiff plates that aren’t as solid as the scales, but look to serve as hardy protection. You let your fingers swoop down the ridges of them, comparing the textures along different parts of his body. It’s fascinating.

“I’ve never seen anything like–” you begin to pull your hand away as you speak, but Homelander takes hold of your wrist, bringing it back to his chest.

“Don’t stop.” You look up at him. His expression catches you off guard. He looks wounded, those fiercely blue and ever human eyes of his intensely focused on you. Swallowing, you nod. He lets go, and you begin to traipse your fingers along his chest again, following the line of the leather straps that cross over it. He lets out a heavy breath. “No one’s ever touched me like this,” he tells you after a long few beats of silence. “Not that I can remember.”

You glance up at him, but he’s staring down at your small hand tracing patterns on his chest. “What happened to this place?” You ask, because that seems politer than asking what happened to him.

“Guess it’s been too long for anyone else to remember. They’re all dead,” he says, the mood of his words difficult to discern. He inhales a contemplative breath, clicking his tongue at the end of it. “Time happened. I used to be something else to my people. I was… war. I brought fire down on their enemies, and they loved me for it. I won them their home. Homelander. There were others like me, but I was the best of them,” he says with conviction, though you sense bitterness in his voice, too. “When all the wars were won, they built this tower. They built monuments to their gods, and they placed us here with them as though we ourselves were relics.”

The end of his tail has begun to slap lightly against the ground. You can feel a slight uptick in the heat of him beneath your palm. 

“They placated me with gold. Adorned me in it. At times they would summon me to festivals. Use my strength to build their stone cities, but they didn’t celebrate me. They had forgotten their love. They treated me as you would any other tool. Something to be taken off the shelf for work and put away when the task is done.”

The seething resentment is more clear in his voice than ever. While you didn’t ask it, it seems he understood what you really wanted to know. You’ve never heard this story before; The Devourer had only ever been a tyrant upon the people. No one ever spoke of a Homelander. No one ever spoke of a hero.

“When treasure failed to keep me impotent and obedient, they tried meat instead. They sent me livestock, as if the simple act of killing a cow would satiate me,” he snarls through his teeth, smoke wafting between them. He sucks it back, tipping his head up slightly in a bit to regain his composure.  “They thought they could control me indefinitely. Out of sight, out of mind. It worked for too long, but only because I allowed it. Because I thought things would change. They never did. So I took their gold and their cattle and their crops and demanded more still. I demanded until they couldn’t ignore me any longer. When they failed to provide, I reigned fire down on them as I did their enemies two hundred years ago, and I gave them no choice but to look at the monster they made.”

His tail cracks like a whip against the stone floor. His anger is so visceral it makes your heart race, but there is more in his gaze than just fury. You feel as though you’re watching him rip apart the stitching over a wound that has been festering for far too long. “After that, they sent people. Simpering peasants who had no fucking idea who or what I really am. They bathed them in oils like slaughtered lambs basted for roast,” he growls, the blue of his eyes fading into an eerie crimson glow. “So I did. I devoured them, and I spat their own blood in their faces. If they wouldn’t have me as a man, they would have a beast instead.”

The Devourer.

You sit in stunned silence, watching as the glow of his eyes gradually fades, though his temperature remains the same. He looks at you, his expression braced, as if he anticipates a specific reaction. Rejection, you suppose. It seems to be the only thing he’s known for centuries. Within his gaze, you recognize a profound need to connect, to feel you, to hear that there might be a single soul in this gods damned world that wants him.

What does one say to such a story? The anger in his voice strikes such a wounded chord, you can practically smell the blood. The rawness of it alone makes your eyes prickle with tears, a lump gathering in your throat. How warped he has become not for the absence of love, but the deprivation of it. It’s clear in the way he speaks of them how desperately he wanted them to still love him.

“I’m sorry,” you say so quietly it’s a wonder he hears you. His expression flips completely, morphing into bewildered surprise.

“What?” His voice sounds small.

“I’m sorry that they abandoned you.”

If his own words are a knife in the wound, yours twist it deeper. He flinches like he’s been struck, staring at you with such bruised incomprehension. He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s as though he doesn’t even believe what you’re saying enough to formulate a response. He kisses you instead, holding your jaw in his claws. “I was good once,” he says against your lips, voice hushed as if he’s confessing a far graver sin. “I’ll be good for you. Let me be good for you.”

The desperation in his voice sets loose your tears. You nod, kissing him just as fervently. Centuries of bloodshed on the back of willful neglect is difficult to stomach, but you believe him. You believe the love that went into this tower–this beautiful prison–that they made for him, and you believe the love that you saw in his face carved in stone. You have no doubt that the wonder of him once inspired all those who beheld them, and that they were fickle enough to grow weary of him. Desensitized and disinterested.

When he rejected their apathy, they rejected his humanity.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, sitting up, kissing you properly with a hand cupping the back of your head, his arm around your middle. His wings curve in around you, and he kisses you until your lips turn sore and you have to protest, your words melting into muffled laughter. He draws back with a brilliant grin. It’s different from the others you’ve seen; it’s the kind of smile that brings deep warmth to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. He lingers close to you, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I stopped believing a long time ago that you could be real,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from stealing another quick kiss, his nose purposefully brushing yours. He’s thoroughly starved for every little touch.

“I am. So are you. Not the Devourer, the Scourge, nor the Red Death,” you say, tucking back the stray locks of hair that have fallen over his crown. This, too, had been carved for him. He had been loved once, and as he said, he had been good. There is love in you enough to help him find that goodness again. There’s no reason you cannot live for the being you intended to die for. “Just you. Just Homelander.”

He kisses you, and suddenly you feel as if you’re free falling. From this point on, your life is something new. Something inexplicable and unpredictable. It’s yours, but it’s also his.

All that glitters is not gold, and sometimes the monster in the dark is just your reflection.

phew. thank you SO much for reading. this fic took me almost a full month to write, and it often felt like it was never going to end. that said, i'm already kind of chomping at the bit to write more in this universe. i feel like these two have a ton of potential, and there's just so much more that i want to do with them now that we have the groundwork done. once again, a huge shoutout to the amazing artist @anon-nee, who not only illustrated our dragon boy himself, but these awesome environment sketches as well. please be sure to go give them some love! The Tower of the Seven

The Dragon's Lair

#homelander x you #homelander x reader #monster romance #terato #monster x human #dragon x reader #monster x reader #homelander fanfiction #i'm gonna need so much aftercare from y'all on this one i've been writing it for the last 23 days lmao #and i'm posting it all at once because I LOVE U #my writing #monsterlander mania

[foxymoxynoona]

Over the Falls Ch. 4

Sexy Banner & bar by @borabae-gx

Summary: Jungkook sees a lot of things as a pool tech. It’s…  fine. It pays the bills between mornings on the water and evenings  rocking out with his garage-band. His favorite thing to see on the job has been Grace Birch –older but a hottie, wealthy but nice, and  unfortunately very married. At least until Grace learns what her husband  has been up to behind her back. Now that she’s free, Jungkook finds  himself wondering: what does it take for a guy like him to catch the eye of a woman like that?

Genre: Poolboy Jungkook x Rich Divorcee OC

Tags: Age gap (older woman), socioeconomic gap, Surferboy JK, drummer/guitarist/vocalist JK, Wealthy divorcee OC, househusband

CW: Mature/Explicit,  Infidelity (not between JKxOC), language, alcohol, recreational drugs, lots of explicit sex, ageist/racist/classist remarks down the road, outdoor sex, beach sex

Chapter Three | Masterlist | Chapter Five

“It was a shitshow, is what it was,” Megan insisted, arms out as she picked her way through the tangled overgrowth of the front yard. In heels, mind you, with tight jeans that made it difficult to bend her legs so that she kind of waddled and teetered as she trailed after Grace around the wild beds and weed-devoured gravel path.  

“You’re exaggerating.”

“The toilets overfloweth,” Megan insisted, hands gesturing to demonstrate just how badly the bathroom had been destroyed. “Of course no one wants to admit it was them but someone brought the chicken casserole–”

“And you’re sure it was the chicken casserole?”

“Using my excellent detective skills–”

“That’s true, why would I doubt you?” Grace laughed. She stopped on the gray stone porch –cracked, chipped, and laced with mildew– and surveyed the yard. 

“It was everyone who ate the chicken casserole crapping their brains out,” Megan said, pulling herself up the steps. “But who made the casserole? No one in that set of people makes casseroles. I’m telling you, someone used rancid chicken.”

“You think it was on purpose?”

“I mean, it didn’t make Nancy look good to have a dozen people head to the ER with bubble-guts,” Megan said, eyebrows raised and lips twisted to the side like she knew what her opinion of it was. Who has it out for Nancy? The answer for any of them was most likely depends on the day. “But I suppose it could have been someone stupid. Decided to cook instead of letting their chef handle it and doesn’t want to admit it now.”

“I can’t believe Nancy did a potluck,” Grace admitted. 

“Oh she’s living in deep shame right now. Trish and Eugenia goaded her into her after someone… maybe me… suggested potlucks are trendy now.”

“You didn’t,” Grace laughed. Megan cackled shamelessly. 

“Well they can stop talking shit about me or I’m going to set them up like that! I said they’re all the rage now and we’re getting laughed at for being so outdated on the West Coast.”

“Why would Nancy care?”

“Oh some stuffy asshole from Georgia was going to be there, I don’t even remember his name, so I may have positioned myself as an expert on Georgia…”

“You’re from Georgia.”

“Sure, but not Georgia money,” Megan reminded her. “I’m from Georgia upper middle class. And I’m stretching that upper. We did potlucks at church but never when we hosted. Who would do that? You run the risk of someone bringing a rancid chicken casserole.”

“You don’t think it was Nancy herself– no, she wouldn’t cook for her own dinner,” Grace quickly corrected.

“No, I think it was someone else trying to be on theme. Instead they inspired their own theme…”

“You didn’t get sick,” Grace guessed based on Megan’s laughter about the whole thing.

“Lord no, I didn’t touch that casserole. I knew it would only disappoint me. Kind of like this house.”

Grace gave her a bemused smile and led her through the front door with the set of keys she’d picked up from the owners earlier. Megan’s tale of the failed dinner party had woven through their examination around the exterior of the property: overgrown, cluttered with potted plants, a slimy green and frog-infested pool, a garage door that no no one could find the clicker to. The patio furniture had all turned green with mildew, the iron frames rusted. 

“Woah, it’s squat,” Megan said, ducking her head in the entry way as though the ceiling wasn’t a full ten feet.

“It just feels that way because they painted the ceilings dark,” Grace explained. The entryway had a closet dead ahead too, making the space feel small. Two doors crowded them on the left, too, and so many doors right when you entered made a house feel like a maze. If you ripped off the closet door and turned it into a proper entryway, it would feel better. Maybe one of the doors to the left too. Shockingly, when she opened one it had dark carpeted stairs to the second floor.

“Why’d they do that? That’s creepy to put a door there.”

“People do lots of things to their houses,” Grace shrugged. “I always think it’s interesting. Maybe they were trying to cut down on A/C costs?”

“You must see some weird things.”

“I do. And it’s my job to paint those over so that the next person can envision a blank canvas to make their own personal type of weird,” she mused. She made notes as they wandered through the living room to the right –one of two family spaces. Big picturesque windows facing that overgrown front yard made the living room feel hidden and secluded –not a corner lot in a lively neighborhood and only several blocks from the beach and businesses.

“There’s so much stuff…”

Grace nodded, recalling what she knew. The house was built in 1952 and bought by the most recent owners in the 80s, only two owners in all that time which was remarkable for California. The husband had just passed and now the children wanted the place cleared out and sold to support the mother, who was in her eighties and moving in with one of her grown children. Grace glanced at the portraits mounted on the wall –far too many, so the walls felt like they were ready to erupt– that showed forty years of life in this place. 

“It’s really not in terrible shape though,” Grace corrected the easy judgment someone like Megan would make at first glance. “It needs to be cleared out, it needs paint, but the structure is good. I’d rip the carpet out and replace it with wood or tile. Paint everything, of course. Replace the appliances, though we may be able to clean these up enough to sell,” she considered, looking at her notes about updates and replacements as they wandered through the kitchen.The wood cabinets were dated by their oak finish but in good shape, the hinges squeak-free and sturdy as she swung a few open. 

“Oh, that’s kinda nice,” Megan gasped, rushing forward to open the French doors. Four double-doorways fanned out from the breakfast room: one back to the rooms on the ground floor, one to a back staircase to the second floor, one to an open-air dining room and the third to the patio before the pool. It created a very open, airy space when all the doors were open, as if the yard was part of the house. Right now it was in bad shape but when cleaned up, that would be beautiful. Also the doors needed to go on half the doorways, it must have been an A/C issue which made her think the place must get really warm during the summer.

“The carpet on the stairs needs replacing,” Megan pointed out as she led Grace up, as if she was the one on the job here.

“Trying to take my job?” Grace laughed.

“I see why you like this, it’s kinda fun. Like if you painted all these walls white, this feels like a resort up here with all these windows and the view of the yard.” The master bedroom and its massive his-and-hers bathroom and walk-in closet dominated by the back of the house. A walk-out balcony had creaky doors clearly not used for some time and Grace recalled that she’d been told the couple couldn’t enjoy the yard for the past several years. The children didn’t seem to have realized how badly their health was until the father died. She only got glimpses into the lives of the people whose houses she sold, and it was often a mixture of curiosity and tragedy.

“A built-in desk and shelves in the bedroom? That’s strange,” Megan decided, inspecting the furniture that did indeed seem built into the wall.

“I think it’s kind of neat,” Grace admitted, passing to peek in the closet. Musty and smelling of dust and mothballs but huge. 

“Damn, how many bedrooms does this place have?” Megan asked as they toured through others, all significantly smaller than the master but with decent enough space. One was an office, one a dusty old sewing room with tubs of fabrics against the walls, one a guest room with a sagging mattress and dated bedding.

“Four bedrooms,” Grace read from her sheet. “Three full baths. 3,450 square feet.”

“How much do you think they’ll get for it?”

Grace was flattered for Megan to ask her that, like she was such a pro she could just name it after this initial walkthrough. She checked doorways and vents and windows as they wandered, noting damage, searching for crucial flaws but finding nothing but superficial needs. The couple seemed to have put their money into the important things over the years –the electrical and plumbing were all relatively new, the roof was brand new, the fireplace in the living room unnecessary for most people somewhere as warm as California but apparently they’d burned wood and kept it well tended until the end. 

“Hm… depends if they want to do some remodeling before they sell, or sell as is,” Grace said. She did her best to sound more confident than she necessarily was, a skill instilled in her young. Except she did know quite a bit about this! “Maybe four, four and a half if they do… I’d guess three and a half if they don’t. The beach is close, the school district is good.”

“Damn.”

“The issue is just who we target. The dated decor won’t appeal to young people, but older folks are less likely to buy this near the beach. It’s got both a den and a family room, two bedrooms downstairs, the master and the second upstairs… It’s a lot of space for an older couple, really more for a family.”

She wandered again, seeing in her mind’s eye the changes she would make here and there if it was hers. Different paint here. Wallpaper there. Replace the carpet in the bedrooms and upstairs hallway, trade with wood or stone downstairs. Foam’s tree would have a great view of the garden from that corner…

“The yard is a mess,” Megan rattled off, peeking through the windows again. “That pool looks like a swamp.”

“It does.”

“And all this stuff. How do you clean out a place like this?”

“Well, I’d recommend to the family that they go through and remove everything they want to keep, then we do an estate sale. You’d be surprised how quickly they can clear out a house. After that is when I would usually stage the house and take the listing photos.”

“After they’ve had time to fix everything up nice?”

Grace nodded absent-mindedly as she crouched to look up the fireplace. She was no expert, it would need to be checked, but the fact they had been burning through the winter was a good sign, hopefully it didn’t need more than a cleaning. There ought to be glass doors installed though so they weren’t losing their cool air in the summer. 

“It’s hard to see through all the stuff,” Megan insisted, but Grace didn’t agree at all. She could see the potential. The big windows and wide doorways created such a nice flow. They blocked it off with odd furniture choices and misplaced wall decorations –too much here, not enough there to guide the eye. It was just superficial, the stuff that needed to be done. 

Grace could do that.

Grace wanted to do that. 

She wanted someplace that was a good investment, worth the money, but that she could sink her teeth into and really make her own.

She wanted some place that didn’t look at all like the home she’d built before, the one Tim destroyed.

Megan was mid-sentence criticizing the dated light fixtures when Grace touched her arm and interrupted, “I think I’m going to buy this house.”

“Hm? You’re selling this house.”

“To myself. I mean, I’ll have to have another agent take over the selling because it would be a major conflict of interests but–”

“Wait you really want to buy this place?” Megan asked. She looked around with disbelief. “But… it’s kind of a wreck.”

“Only visually.”

“Yeah…”

“I mean superficially. It’s in good shape, it’s just ugly, but the potential…”

“Do you really want a project like this though?”

“I do,” Grace insisted, feeling more sure of her answer. It would be work, but work of her choosing. Work to create a home exactly the way she wanted. Looking around, she already felt a sense of ownership welling up. She liked seeing what the house looked like now, knowing its past before they started their new life together. A rebirth for them both.

“I just think you’ve dealt with enough problems this year. Do you even know how to do this kind of stuff? Painting, carpeting, those ugly lights– I mean, the pool is a bog. I saw actual frogs. Are we sure it’s not actually a koi pond gone feral?”

“I know a guy,” Grace said without much thought behind it. She meant it as a joke, that any professional could handle any of the specific issues that felt beyond her limited skill set. She hadn’t meant JK specifically –though he could handle frogs and probably get that pool looking nice. The last thing she wanted was to remind Megan of the suggestion she’d made immediately after Grace confessed about the divorce… 

Quickly Grace added, “I’ll hire the help I need for the big stuff. Everything else will be fun.”

“If you say so…” Megan said. She sounded critical but also amused. “I don’t know what to say. You’ve already surprised me, maybe you’ll surprise me again.”

“What surprised you?” Grace asked, head tilting curiously.

“You left that saggy ballsack husband! Maybe you’ll surprise me with your speckling skills too.”

“Speckling?”

“Isn’t that what it’s called?”

“What what’s called?”

“You know, hm… that house repair thing.. Look I don’t know what I’m talking about, I just have house shows on in the background sometimes.”

“Spackling?” Grace guessed and Megan just shrugged. “That’s fixing holes in walls.”

“Can you do that?”

“Sure,” Grace said with gusto, despite having never done it in her life. It couldn’t be harder than getting a divorce from Tim, so hell yeah!

“Well congratulations then. Why don’t you have me over once it’s all cleared out and I’ll act surprised. I’ll forget I saw its unsavory past,” Megan laughed as they headed for the door. Grace couldn’t have felt more different: she wouldn’t forget the house’s past. Years from now, assuming it all went through, once she got the house the way she wanted it, she and this house could look back on how far they’d come.

“Ok, it’s a date,” Grace agreed. “Let’s head out, I’ve got to let the family know they need a new agent.”

“You’re just going to dump them? Damn girl, you’re really cleaning house–”

“No! I’ll just explain I’m interested and that they need new representation. I’ll even recommend someone I know will be good for them.”

“You know a guy, huh?”

“I do, yes.”

“You know a lot of guys,” Megan prodded as Grace locked up the house. 

“What do you mean by that?” Grace asked. Even though she knew.

“Just pointing it out. Don’t want you getting any clutter or cobwebs you need to clean out if you go too long–”

“Megan Eldridge!”

“I’m just saying! As your friend!”

“Is that all you’ve got on your mind?” Grace teased. “Adam’s away again, hm?”

“No, but I swear, these hormones are making me batty,” Megan sighed, hand reflexively resting against her leg, as if to protect it from even a verbal mention. She’d shown Grace the bruises the fertility shots left, physical proof of how dedicated Megan was for a child after she and her husband had put it off for years. “Now or never,” Megan had said, tapping her wrist as if her forty-three years were recorded on her watch. 

That’s sort of how Grace felt about starting her life over. She felt late. She hadn’t been on her own since she was barely an adult and now had to figure everything out all on her own. She could recognize she was putting unfair pressure on herself to “catch up” after her whole life got upended, and yet she was eager to settle into her new normal. Foam and her were a close, happy little family already, but the apartment still felt so temporary. It felt like she still lived in the shadow of Tim, in the wreckage of their marriage. She was ready to emerge, no more dragging her feet. Maybe it wasn’t now or never, but it was time.

“How long do you think it’ll take you to get this place fixed up?” Megan asked. She didn’t check behind her very long before backing out of the driveway and Grace resisted the urge to point it out. 

“I don’t know. A year? I have to actually buy it first.”

“That’s too long before you can host again.”

“I’m not in a rush to host anything.”

“You should be. I can’t wait to watch you make this place beautiful and rub it in everyone’s faces,” Megan grinned. Her quick reversal from criticism of the house to blind support for Grace’s ability to make this something beautiful was noted and appreciated.

“Let’s plan on a baby shower instead,” Grace suggested. “I think that’s nicer than petty revenge for gossip.”

Megan sighed loudly, “You’ve really got to work on your mean-streak. It’s painfully under-developed.”

Jungkook floated on the board, letting the waves scoop him like a tired child getting carried to bed. Max made him think of that. How badly he had envied Max at Mo’s memorial service when the little boy fell asleep stretched out in the corner despite the stifled sobs and loud music ushering from the best speakers Jungkook owned. Mo had been an incredible musician, far more talented at guitar than Jungkook could ever hope to be. His voice was a lie, sounding so alive as it wrapped around the room, and for the length of an album the guy behind the voice was alive and Jungkook was hearing the album for the first time and simultaneously understanding what he wanted to do with his life and what he could never hope to compete with.

Then the album ended, the memorial ended, Yoojin scooped up sleeping Max to carry him home, and the world was a little cold again. Cold for April, at least. 

At the beach, Jungkook could draw the warmth back into his skin, even early in the morning. He hadn’t slept well after all that, even once Jimin pounded on the wall for him to stop strumming his unplugged guitar, so it hadn’t been hard to drag his ass to the beach this morning. The sky was overcast though. Fitting, all things considered.

Bobbing on the water wasn’t a good idea. It gave Jungkook too much time to think things he didn’t want to think. It was hard enough to float through the memorial, he couldn’t hold on longer than that. It would drag him down. There was too much anguish there for everyone, and none of them knew what to do about it even years later. He sure didn’t know how to fix it for anyone though he was doing his damned best, trying, failing. 

If the roles were reversed, Mo would probably have known what to do.

Jungkook dashed at the salt crusting on his eyelashes and leapt up at the next wave. Manhattan Beach was starting to crowd up, and it annoyed him to have to navigate so many other surfers as he paddled back out once the dumped him unceremoniously on the sand. He watched Seokjin get a good one going only to have to bail as a fucking jake cut across his path. 

Jungkook shouted angrily on Seokjin’s behalf until his head broke the surface and he could shout himself, but the asshat had already flown off down the beach. Not someone Jungkook recognized, maybe a barney.

Jungkook shook his head. His frustration on Seokjin’s behalf made him reckless. He took the next wave but it was a poor shot, he realized too late. The wave broke too soon and he failed to pull off the aerial that could have landed him gracefully back on the surface. Instead the board clipped and shot him forward, then jetted narrowly over his head through the water as the surf tumbled him down down down. That had been the hardest part about learning to surf, at least Jungkook thought so. Learning not to panic as the water pushed you down, knowing it would pass in a moment. Hopefully. 

Well, sometimes it didn’t pass. Some people never could get out. 

Jungkook kicked off the bottom and paddled to the top, breaking through an easy smooth surface. The wave had passed. He lifted his feet to grab hold of the board tether and decided to call it a day. He wasn’t having fun, his head was a mess, and he didn’t want to disrespect the ocean by not being present when he rode it. He began to paddle to shore–

“JUNG–!!” was all he heard before something sharp and hard slammed into his shoulder. The shocking pain of it had him swallowing a mouthful of water as the force knocked him from his board. For a moment he just hung in the balance, scooped by the water, mind a dark void around the sharp pain. 

Burning lungs made his body move on its own, struggling to the surface –or maybe it was the relentless tug of his board’s cord. He drew in a chest full of air just as Seokjin grabbed his arm.

“Fuck!”

“FUCKER!” Seokjin shouted and finally Jungkook could process that a surfer had hit him. He dragged himself half across his board and let Seokjin push him closer to shore. “You ok? Where’d it get you– ah, shit, I see the blood.”

Jungkook craned his neck to look. All things considered, it could have been worse. Nothing broken, not even a massive gash, though the salt water burned the broken skin on his shoulder like shit. His neck hurt from the whiplash but that was better than the other thing. A direct hit there or on his head could have paralyzed him. Killed him.

“I’m ok,” Jungkook said, willing it to be true. “Just knocked me over.”

He stumbled as they got to the shallower water, the churn around his ankles trying to drag him back out, until he could sit heavily on the sand.

Embarrassingly, the lifeguard sprinted full speed over like this was a fucking Baywatch rerun. He sent sand spraying everywhere, nervous as though he’d never seen a collision before.

“You didn’t have to haul him out?” he demanded of Seokjin. He set the first aid bag down and leaned close to Jungkook’s shoulder.

Jungkook waved him away and groused, “I’m fine. Just stupid… I should have been watching better…”

“These assholes are all over the place this morning,” Seokjin complained. “I saw the whole thing. The tourist wasn’t watching and turned toward you too fast.”

Jungkook endured the poking and prodding as Seokjin and the lifeguard looked him over. He stretched and squeezed higher up and further down his arm, checking for anything that felt dangerous. Now that he was free of the water though, he realized it really had gone as well as it could; other than the bruise and cut, it didn’t seem any major damage was done. He promised to think about swinging by Urgent Care, just in case. 

“Don’t think you’re going to be drumming for a few days,” Seokjin admitted as Jungkook successfully chased the lifeguard off to go harass the reckless surfers instead.

“Yeah but I gotta work,” Jungkook sighed. He glanced at his shoulder again. Seokjin was right. He should get some ice and take it easy, and maybe he’d only be out of commission for a few days. At least it was his left hand but damn, of all mornings. “It’s fine though. I’m fine.” He said it again, willing his insides to stop churning. Surf accidents were scary, and the fear always lingered. He was definitely done for the day now. Probably a few days.

“Here, I’ll get your board– need me to call Tae or Jimin?” Seokjin offered. His straight-forward concern told Jungkook just how scary it must have looked from the shore. His own knees knocked as he stood but after wiggling and stretching to get a sense of his body, he felt more confident it was just the post-accident adrenaline rush. His shoulder was going to look gnarly with that bruise, but today had not been his last day.

Fuck, that would have been terrible timing.

“Nah, I’m good to drive.”

“You’re sure?” Seokjin pressed. By now some of the other locals Jungkook knew were trying to crowd around too. Someone grabbed his stuff, someone else hauled his board for him. It was mortifying, and Jungkook was red-faced by the time he’d been escorted the block away to his car. Seokjin was most reluctant of all to let him drive off but in the end Jungkook seemed outwardly chill and made the right jokes to convince him everything was fine.

He made it home before the shocked tears escaped. It was just the adrenaline leaving, that was it. He blamed it all on that as he showered the salt and sweat from his skin, and inspected his throbbing shoulder in the mirror, and did his best to bandage it. No one else was home, and the last thing he wanted to do was freak his family out asking for help. 

At times like this it was hard not to long for the kind of companionship he pretended not to care about. Not sex, not a drinking buddy, not someone to go places with, but a person to rely on, to reach for, to help. Someone who he could lean against for the brief moments where his cool guy image slipped and he felt too fucking much. Someone who could tap his hand to get him to drop the bandage and do it for him because contorting to try and get it on hurt his ribs and stomach. There wasn’t damage there, not that he could feel anyway, just a shock to his body from the rough hit. 

He’d be really, really fucking lucky. Maybe Mo keeping an eye on him this moment. Mo, who’d finally relented and let Jungkook tag along when he’d started to surf first.

It wasn’t helped when he left his room to find Jimin and Hoseok making out in the kitchen, half undressed already.

“Fuck, sorry!” Jimin laughed, looking only a little embarrassed. Hoseok’s face turned red and he hid it in Jimin’s shoulder.

“I thought no one was home. You’re lucky I didn’t walk out naked.”

“Are we lucky?” Hoseok joked, then waved his hands at Jimin’s glare. “It’s a joke.”

“We just got home. I bought my boyfriend coffee like a good boyfriend but…”

That kind of thing. Companionship. Jungkook decided not to give them shit about getting frisky –they weren’t actually violating the no-fucking-in-common-spaces rule. Yet. 

“Isn’t it too early for that kind of thing?” Jungkook joked. His heart wasn’t in the joke but they teased him about just waking up –even though he’d been up for hours– and he waved it off and left without an explanation of where he was going. The answer wasn’t exciting: work. Time to get back to it after his thrilling day off yesterday.

His phone chirped just before he pulled away from the curb, Yoongi asking about band practice tonight. Taro responded immediately, suggesting six and reminding them that they had another show at Flowerfest in a few weeks and needed to figure out a set list and replace the amp that blew out at their last show. As if they were all just swimming in money to replace an amp. Jungkook was hoping Yoongi could filch one from somewhere. He hoped moisture hadn’t caused the short somehow; he’d left the garage door open when it rained the other day but he didn’t think anything had gotten wet…

More things he’d fucked up. He wasn’t even looking forward to Flowerfest, though it was usually a fun show, the afterparty made better last year by their band coming in third. Taro had killed a cover of Garbage’s “Only Happy When It Rains.”

He didn’t feel like making music right now. At least not bickering about a setlist. He didn’t want peppy happy feel good music, he wanted something angry. Drumming his brains out sounded good but he had to fucking work. Bob wanted him to go check out some new rich shithole place –not how Bob had explained it, but apparently the pool needed a complete clean and reset and Bob said it sounded like it would need “his best pool guy.” Which he’d clearly said because he felt bad for Jungkook, like he could sense he was going through something. But Jungkook hadn’t been going through anything yet. Monday was fine! He just hadn’t gotten laid in a while, that was all.

Fuck, was he turning into a shriveled dick?! He didn’t want to be that kind of guy everyone took pity on because he seemed on the cusp of a breakdown. Or, you know, such a cranky fucker that no one wanted to be around him. Yoongi could strike the balance between anti-social and charming, but he couldn’t and he didn’t want to come off that way. He was Jay-kaaaay, just cool and chill. He just wanted to have a good time and this week was just not a good time.

Time to rage. Rage it out of his system. He took the CD binder from the passenger’s seat floorboard with him when he traded to a company truck at the pool shop, digging through until he came across an album that seemed like the right energy to get this all out of his system by the time he got to the job site. It was a light day for him anyway –inspection at this new client house, then inventory at the shop. Bob was probably going to ask him to stock the trucks, that was fine. If he had to deal with any obnoxious clients today he’d probably lose his fucking mind and do something he regretted.

The first track of Rise Against’s 2008 album Appeal to Reason had him drumming on the steering wheel, banging his head at a red light until it hurt his neck and he dialed that back. Damn, it was hard to keep his body still actually. It was impossible to hear the drum track of “Collapse” and not need to recreate it with hands and feet at his own set. Soyoon would kill the bass part. Yoongi would get the guitar lick so good and make it his own. Why couldn’t they do shit like this at the Flowerfest? 

He pulled to a stop in front of the house just as his favorite song of the album came on, track 11. The music hadn’t exactly healed him, but he felt held together in a hot, angry way that felt good. Fired up. So he stayed in his truck, singing at the top of his lungs.

“It kills me not to know this But I’ve all but just forgottenWhat the color of her eyes wereAnd her scars or how she got them”

He drummed through to the end, eyes closed, feeling the emotions of the week ride out of his body. The song ended and he opened his eyes to see an old white lady walking her dog, staring at him with some blend of horror and curiosity. 

“Yeah, whatever, lady,” he mumbled to himself as he slammed the truck door and headed towards the gate. It was so overgrown he paused to check the number and then wondered if this was really where he was supposed to go in, but he didn’t actually see a driveway. Around the corner probably. Annoying. People with properties that were big. His driveway was right there by the front door. Convenient.

There was a buzzer so he pushed that and waited. Then pushed it again. Then jumped when a woman’s voice came through grating and loud just as he’d pushed it a third time,

“Oh, that works? Hello? Hello?”

“Yeah, uh, hi.”

“Who is it?”

“I’m the pool guy. Here to see your uh, pool?”

“Oh, you’re at the front. Why don’t you come around the back instead? The front is a mess. The driveway is around the corner.”

He made an annoyed growl low in his throat. He didn’t feel like moving the truck. There was something insulting about forcing a contractor to take the back entrance even though he almost always did at a job. He was already here, couldn’t she let him in through the front? 

In a short-sighted stubborn fit, he decided to walk the length of the property instead of moving the truck. A green fence rang the length of the yard but didn’t completely hide the very large house rising up from what seemed like an unusual number of trees. Even in the rich neighborhoods, lots around here tended to have pretty sparse greenery but this place was practically lush. On the side, a higher privacy fence eventually transitioned to concrete columns on either side of a security gate; clearly the owners of the house trusted the front street a little more than this side street. 

Here was another box, but before he could push the buzzer, the gate slid open. He realized now how stupid he looked without his truck, like he’d just walked here or something. Had the owner watched him walk around? Probably had cameras everywhere.

The gravel driveway was odd to walk on and he wondered why rich people did that sort of shit. Just have a normal concrete slab like everyone else. You couldn’t play basketball or anything on this kind of thing. The rocks got into his flipflops and pissed him off.

But damn, the yard was pretty cool, he had to admit. The house was fancy as shit. Huge. Getting some work done, clearly, judging by the pile of lumber next to the open garage door. He could hear a wood saw muted drifting out of the open windows. There were a lot of windows. 

Instead of waiting for the owner, he wandered over to the patio area, and from there saw the pool anyway. Some furniture was shoved against the far side with brand new cushions, all of it yet untouched by sun or rain. A fountain was built against one wall of the patio –a big patio, clearly meant for hosting rich people BBQs or whatever– and he peeked in but not only was it not running, the thing was green and slimy and totally gunked.

New owners. He couldn’t remember if Bob had said that, he hadn’t been listening. Probably they’d got this place at a steal for millions of dollars, instead of doubles of millions of dollars, because it needed some work. Which they would spend more millions of dollars on. 

He squinted up at a balcony on the second floor. The sun was finally peeking through the clouds, like maybe it would break them apart. A breeze somehow made it through the yard. Somehow, despite being in a neighborhood and close to other things, it all managed to feel so private. Rich people. Jungkook’s bedroom window looked into his neighbor’s bathroom –and the asshole hadn’t bothered getting a curtain until Jungkook had marched over there to gift him one.

The pool was tucked away to the side, surrounded by more plants, mostly in pots, some broken and spilling dirt across the beautiful stone pool coping. A waterfall against a higher wall was all gunked up. Frogs soaked in the section above the waterfall. Green slime coated everything and he couldn’t see through the murky water to the bottom. It was a nice big pool though, it would be fucking awesome once cleaned, especially half sun half shade like this. He looked up to see how much sun it would get in the height of summer and only then noticed the hot tub in a gazebo not far away. Though covered, it was probably even more fucked; weeds grew directly on the cracked tarp cover.

“Hello? Are you back here?” 

“By the pool!” Jungkook called back. Oops, maybe he should have waited, but there was just something alluring about seeing such a rich house in such a state of disrepair. Humbled for a moment in time. Approachable. Touchable, like he wouldn’t transfer some dark smudge onto every smooth white marble surface with his working-class hands. He couldn’t do anything to the pool to make it worse. Time and neglect had fucked it five ways already.

“Oh good, yes. So you see, it’s… in need of some work.”

It only dawned on Jungkook as he turned that the voice was a familiar one. 

Mrs. Birch strode close to him, crossing her arms around her stomach as she surveyed the pool, as if confirming it was still as bad as she recalled. He forgot all about the pool, as surprised to see her as he’d been getting thrashed by a surfboard that morning. Maybe she had expected his surprise, maybe it was obvious on his face. When her gaze shifted to meet his, she gave him a little smile, like she’d predicted this.

“Hi again, JK.”

“Um… uh… yeah, it is. Looks like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“Not you, the pool!”

“I know not me,” she laughed, her whole face lighting up. “Well…” She gave a little self-conscious grin and tossed her head, lifting her hands which were covered with something powdery white. The same substance coated her dark red overalls –they looked fancy and designer and yet they were clearly her physical-work clothes, dotted with bleach and paint and dirt stains. Her blouse was rolled up past her elbows. It was a very amusing blend of designer and working girl and Jungkook thought she looked… 

“You look great,” he said without thinking. Then quickly lifted his hand to brush self-consciously at his hair and rushed on, “You, uh… selling this place? I thought you were gone.”

“Actually, the opposite. I bought this place.”

He was shocked. He grimaced. Then he joked to cover whatever was happening on his face, “This place? Damn, the agent who sold it to you must have been really good…”

“Hey, it’s a good place! It just needs a facelift. Happens to the best of us old girls. But a fresh coat of paint and a trim and we’re good as new.”

He swallowed hard, wrenching his first thought back from escaping his mouth. Trim where?! Haircut, she must mean; it was up in a messy ponytail but it looked shorter than the last time he’d seen her maybe? Haircut.

“Are you old?” was what came out instead.

She laughed and confirmed only, “Older than you. So, what do you think about it?”

“The haircut?”

“The pool?”

“Oh. It looks like shit.” He grinned, hoping it would make her laugh again. It did. 

“I know. But I figured you could fix it up.” A business tone came into her voice as she walked briskly around the pool, making him think she wanted him to follow, so she did. “I’m hoping you can make it nice, whatever that takes, and not that I have to rip it out or anything.”

“Rip out… what? The pool?”

“And put a new one in?”

“Ah, Mrs. Birch, that’s not really how you deal with pools,” he snickered. “It looks concrete, so it’s probably fine under all that shit. If there are cracks in the concrete it might need some repairs but it’s just a residential pool and it’s still full of water, I don’t think it’ll have that problem.”

“But if the concrete stays green, or…?”

He tried not to puff up too much as he assured her, “It won’t be green when I’m done with it. I’ll clean it and paint it. Bob was right, it’s going to be a big job though.” 

Speaking of Bob, Jungkook suddenly wondered if Bob had set him up for this. Had Mrs. Birch requested him, or had Bob just sent him because Jungkook was his best guy? Or was Bob taking on a meddlesome streak and had decided to throw Jungkook into this for other reasons? Surely he wasn’t trying to get more calls of complaint from Tinydick Tim. Surely he hadn’t read too much into Jungkook asking about a Cornelia… no, he must have just forgotten it all, otherwise he would have remembered that Jungkook didn’t want to clean for the Birches anymore and he always respected that kind of thing.

Jungkook looked around, waiting for that piece of shit to come strolling out. The shock of seeing Mrs. Birch began to slide into prepared annoyance. Was he really going to have to go through this whole thing again, watching her noodle-dick husband get away with everything? Jungkook had no interest in making this pool nice for that chode.

Mrs. Birch nodded, “I thought so too.” It Jungkook  a moment to remember what they were even talking about. The job.i

“I’ll give Bob my take and he’ll write an estimate for you. You can get quotes from other places but it’ll be expensive no matter–”

“I don’t need to shop around,” she interrupted. “The estimate will be fine. I trust you. Your work.”

Jungkook didn’t look at her, not wanting to reveal his internal debate. He’d missed seeing her. She looked good. She was nice to work for. But her husband sucked and he just didn’t think he could do this again. He’d tell Bob to send someone else.

So he nodded and just confirmed, “I’ll tell Bob and he’ll write an estimate for you. Thanks for thinking of us to take care of your pool at your new place.”

“Of course.” She sounded guarded now, her expression narrowed like she could pick up on his shift in mood. Actually he could have given her an estimate right there, he had a good idea in mind about it, but he worried it would make it seem like he was doing the work himself, or that she wouldn’t believe the quote, or that Tim would jump out of a bush and pick a fight. Instead he took it upon himself to leave the pool area, heading back towards the gate. He wished he could jump into his truck and peel out, get away from that friendly smile of hers. Damn it was weird to see her again. 

“That’s all you needed to see?” she asked him at the gate.

“Yep.”

“Ok, well… great, then. I’d like the work to begin as soon as possible.”

“Bob will send you the estimate, Mrs. Birch–”

“It’s Arison. It’s not Birch anymore.” 

He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips at this bit of information, not trusting himself to say anything. Even an “oh?” would sound a little too much right now. Also he was pretty sure it would have come out a weird squeak.

“But you can just call me Grace, you know.”

“I’m just trying to be respectful…” he mumbled, stupefied. Divorced. That’s what it meant, right? She was divorced. Not a Birch anymore… Timothy was tossed out with the trash where he belonged! And now she was telling him to call her Grace. His confusion made him stupid anyway and he clarified, “Not Cornelia?”

“I hope not,” she laughed. “Only my dentist and my grandparents call me that. You know I go by Grace.” He did not know this. “Is Cornelia what it says on my account?”

“I’ll fix it,” he lied. “You like ‘Grace’ better?” 

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I thought it… suited you.”

“Ouch. Why does that sound like an insult?” He had never seen her laugh this much before. Divorce looked good on her!

“It’s not! It’s just…”

“An old white woman name? It’s fine. I’m self aware. But no, Grace is fine although it’s not much younger, and–”

“You bought this whole place by yourself?” he blurted out. He still couldn’t comprehend that she was divorced, that Mrs Birch was no longer Mrs Birch but a single woman named Grace. Unless she’d found someone new already. That seemed likely, giving her looks and his luck. Surely a single woman didn’t buy a house like this just for herself. She must be getting married again already.

“I did,” she agreed, then added, “Well, I have a cat now,” then grimaced, “The house is quite a project but I wanted something new to sink my teeth into. It’s a fresh start.”

“A trim.”

“Yes,” she grinned. He hadn’t meant to say that quite, but appreciated her pity laugh. Sink my teeth into. Really, she’d just said that? She had nice teeth. Rich people teeth. He wondered if she’d had braces as a kid –probably– but it was too humanizing, too normal person to associate with her. She might not be Mrs. Birch but she was still a rich white lady and he was a pool boy being hired to fix her pool. Not fuck her on the new patio lounger–

“K, I’ll get started on Monday,” he said without any actual thought about what his Monday schedule was like, or if she and Bob could actually sign a contract by then. He just needed to get out of here and let his brain settle down and that was the first day of the week he thought of. Maybe he had a concussion. Maybe the surfboard actually had him in the head.

“Great. I appreciate it, JK. I’ll see you Monday. Oh, and the code is 1-2-0-1, just let yourself in, in case I’m elbow deep in something and can’t get to the gate.”

Balls deep in–

“Yep, great, that’s not a very secure code though.”

“It’s my birthday.”

“Doesn’t make it a good code,” he snorted. He didn’t know if her sigh was amused or annoyed. Oops. “See ya Monday.”

“Where’s your truck? Oh, you can just park back here next time–”

“Got it, bye!”

He high-tailed it out of there, walking quick until he realized that looked stupid, and then trying to walk slow. He realized now she may not have let him through the front because of all the work being done. She’d given him the code to her gate to just come and go as he pleased. She was single.

Not that that was why she’d given him the code. Of course.

He’d have to ask Bob if he’d been set up on purpose. But he also couldn’t ask Bob, in case he hadn’t been and Bob would then realize that maybe it wasn’t the best idea for Jungkook to work for her. For Grace Arison. You probably shouldn’t work for a woman you’d wanked to… but he thought she was gone! 

Besides, if Bob had set him up, Jungkook didn’t want to give that fucking scheming old man the gratification. He wouldn't do that kind of thing though. Why would he? It wasn’t like he knew what went on in Jungkook’s head anyway.

Thank fuck she didn’t know what was in his head. He could control it though. It was just the shock and maybe a concussion. He was a fucking professional. He’d clean her pool so good. He’d make sure she had the cleanest fucking pool. Clean enough to fuck in– shit, he meant clean enough to eat in– eat food in, to be clear. Well, not that you would want to eat food in the pool… Other things could be nice to eat in a pool, perched on the ledge, legs spread, white bikini tugged to the side, or maybe a red one this time…

He must be concussed, his brain felt completely broken.

Shit.

“Shit for brains, shit for brains, shit for brains,” Grace chanted to herself because she couldn’t find any better words to vent her fury at the man she had stupidly loved for so many years. How? How?! Every interaction with him this past half a year as they dragged themselves towards official divorce had made her question her own intelligence in a way nothing ever had in life. How had she not known how awful he was? How had she fallen for his charm? What charm?! He was vile and she couldn’t believe she’d admired him. Now just seeing his name at the end of an email made her want to vomit.

He wasn’t making things easy for the divorce. They could be almost done but he continued to throw out obstacle after another, arguing with everything their lawyers tried to settle on, even when it didn’t serve him! She’d always thought Tim was a principled man, after all, and it turned out his core principle was to make Grace as miserable as he could. Of course he’d tried to raise a fuss about her buying the house but her attorney had been one step ahead. Now it was unclear whether Tim’s pride or greed would win out in the case of spousal support –a move her attorney seemed to be hoping for so she could rip it apart with the pre-nup. If anything, Tim might owe Grace spousal support, but she didn’t fucking want it. She just wanted to be free!

The phone rang as she drove, a call from her mother she knew she couldn’t answer right now at risk of running off the road or lacing her speech with too many profanities. She’d need to calm down first. Instead she fumed at being stuck in traffic, and then fumed at an Amazon truck pulled across the road, and then fumed at a lady walking her dog too slowly at the crosswalk. She just wanted to be home!

Not that home felt like home yet. The first few days in the house after closing had felt like magic as she floated through rooms on the wings of possibility. But she’d started so many projects so quickly that within days she felt like she was living in a construction site. Which she could handle for a while, but managing so many contractors was a full time job so it felt like she never got to check out. Half didn’t show up when they said they would, getting quotes had been like pulling teeth because no one wanted to put things in writing, and she’d already had two things broken as people worked. 

She could hear poor Foam yowling all the way from downstairs as she put away her keys and purse. She couldn’t let the kitty wander during the day because so many contractors in and out kept leaving doors open and she worried she’d never get him back if he escaped. He didn’t seem to mind being confined upstairs so long as he could keep eyes on Grace, and because he seemed pretty freaked out by boxes, but it just wasn’t possible as she did her own jobs around the house, one right after the other, all in an effort to get this place comfortable for the two of them. As contractors sanded and polished floors, re-tiled bathrooms, and painted just about every square inch of walls and ceilings, Grace followed in their wake hanging curtains, pictures, shelves, building furniture, and cleaning, always cleaning. She’d even replaced two light fixtures on her own, and all the light switch covers, and ripped old wallpaper out of an upstairs bathroom –which had been miserable and led to more contractors hired.

Maybe she ought to be doing more herself, but she didn’t know how and the contractors were supposed to do a good job. Maybe she ought to be doing less, but she wanted to get her hands dirty on this place. Her grandfather had built a cabin all by himself decades ago, learned how to do the wiring and everything, and even though it was secretly a family joke that the place was one surge away from burning down, she’d always admired his skill and determination.

Not to mention, she couldn’t really unpack with so much going on. She hated the feeling of living out of a suitcase. She knew not being able to unpack made this place feel even less settled, but after a whole rack of her clothing wound up covered in white flecks by the first idiot painter she’d hired who sprayed the bedroom without closing the closet door, she’d realized it was better to wait than risk ruining anything. 

But Foam didn’t like it either and let her know with a series of clicks and angry huffs as she sat on the ground and let him crawl all over her. He turned his head away and twitched his tail in anger, then changed his mind and ducked his head beneath her hand for affection. Foam might not be able to hear the voices of the contractors in and out every day, but he could no doubt feel the vibrations of all the work they did and spent most of his time lately hiding behind boxes shoved into the bedrooms that had already been painted, or ripping up Grace’s mattress from the bottom up. That had been a distressing discovery. She wasn’t going to replace it until time to unpack though, in case Foam repeated this form of protest until all the strangers were out of the house. No one could see it anyway, she’d only noticed when fishing some of his toys out from beneath the bed.

“Maybe I fucked up,” Grace admitted to Foam, who would never agree. “I took on too much,” she sighed. Her phone chirped, a message from the lawn guy she’d hired that he would be by to start weeding that afternoon. She was worried he was going to rip up things she didn’t want ripped up. She kept thinking she and the contractors had clear understandings about what was being done, only for them to then do something completely wrong…

The thing was, Tim had always handled this stuff before. Any time there was work that needed to be done on the house, even if she found a company to do it, Tim was the one who talked through it with them, negotiated the payment, made sure they did it, pitched a fit if they didn’t until it got done right. She’d thought his micromanaging was insulting, but he’d insisted it was the only way to make sure things got done right. She didn’t want to believe he may have been right… 

Foam butted his head against the bottom of her chin, surprising her and making her bite her lip. She scratched his head and rubbed her lip, then grumbled as her phone buzzed again, probably another contractor calling that they’d be late. Maybe the furniture place calling to cancel her order again –she was never going to get a fucking couch at this rate. The thought of her mother’s reaction if she bought something from a box store was almost enough to make her laugh.

[Stephanie]: drinks tomorrow night? There’s an art gala you can be my date

Grace didn’t respond. Stephanie, bless her heart, had been trying to drag her out for two months now, ever since Grace had stopped avoiding basically all of her friends. Well, she hadn’t quite stopped, but she’d admitted what was going on. It was embarrassing, admitting the failure of your marriage, admitting that you had been a fool, wondering if they had known it all along. Stephanie had gleefully launched into a tirade about what an asshole Tim was and all Grace could think was have you just watched me and thought how stupid I am for years? And you didn’t say anything?

 Grace felt tired. Bone-deep tired. The house was supposed to be fun but right now she just felt stupid, again. It was all going to be worth it, but it didn’t feel like it right now. She should have just bought a nice new place –maybe it would be impersonal, but she wouldn’t have to work so fucking hard…

She gave Foam some treats which he took to tossing around the bedroom and then dragged her ass downstairs to vent her frustration through manual labor. It looked like the kitchen was going to be the first room in the house to be finished –the new appliances were in, the tile was regrouted, and a new chandelier (not hung by her because she couldn’t even lift the thing) swung overhead. Nothing left to do but paint the cabinets and unpack –she couldn’t stand the shiny oak stain. At least the weather was nice today; she opened all the doors and windows to air out the lingering smell of paint inside.

She’d just finished prying all the doors off to set outside on newspaper when she heard an engine pause behind the back gate. A moment later the gate beeped open, and then the pool guy’s truck crunched across the gravel.

Shit, she’d forgotten he was coming over today! Out of habit, she touched her hair to make sure it wasn’t doing anything crazy. When she’d seen herself in the mirror after his initial inspection, she’d been horrified. It wasn’t like she’d known JK was the guy Bob would send out to do the estimates. She’d been too embarrassed to request him, and then annoyed with herself for not requesting him since she knew he did good work, and then shocked by nerves all over again to find him standing by her bog of a pool. 

The very same JK who’d shouted at her to leave her husband months ago after delivering her a DVD of her husband’s infidelity stepped from the truck now and gave her a short wave. The same relief and shame washed over her as it had the other day. She’d spent his whole visit last time desperate to let him know she was divorced now and also mortified to actually admit it –that he’d been right, that her marriage failed, that she wanted him to know. Only because he’d been tangentially involved in its demise and she wanted him to know that she knew she was stupid to have married Tim in the first place. He knew, she knew, everyone knew now.

Still, maybe it would have been better to never see him again. Maybe she should have called another pool company. And yet she hadn’t thought twice about calling, even knowing there was a chance JK would be sent out. She hadn’t thought twice about agreeing to Bob’s quote for the project –which, she learned, he had expected JK to give her on sight, as he considered JK more than qualified to do so. She had thought twice but still asked if JK would be the one doing the work, and then agreed that was fine when Bob asked if there was an issue. 

JK grabbed two nets on poles from the truck and hauled them across the patio to the pool. Unlike her last house, there was no real poolhouse, just a shed that she’d had completely emptied out of rusted old cob-webbed supplies. 

“Hey!” she called, crossing to intercept him. “I don’t have anything stored for poolcare. Could you make me a list of the things I should have here? That shed is big enough to store anything I need, right? Or do I need a bigger one?”

“Good morning to you too,” he grinned and she flushed at the insinuation she had been rude. She hadn’t meant to be. Just… 

“Yes, good morning,” she agreed even though it hadn’t been and also it was after eleven. She wondered if he’d gone surfing this morning or if his hair always just looked wind-swept like that.

“Sure, I can make you a list but for now I’ll just bring everything I need. It’s going to take me a while to get this thing cleaned up.”

“Yes, I know. Ok, that’s fine.”

“Today I’m just going to get anything big out and start draining it. I’ve got a buddy who will come by later and we’ll trade off watching the pump.”

“Oh… ok…” She didn’t really know what any of this meant except he looked eager to get started and like she might be bothering him. Things had seemed companionable the other day so she’d thought they could both be professional and friendly despite him knowing that embarrassing part of her failed marriage, but now she didn’t appreciate that he made her feel like a pest in her own house.

“Well I’m going to be working out here too today, hopefully I won’t be a distraction.”

“Uh… depends what you’re doing I guess…” he said, suddenly going very still so that she almost crashed into him. 

“Painting cabinets, why?”

“Oh. Nah, that’s fine.”

“Well… good,” she said with a nod. “I’ll hm, leave you to your work then. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Got any Cheetos?” he asked with a crooked grin, then clarified, “I’m kidding, I brought a lunch for later.”

“I’ll see what I can find…” She felt bad now because she did not have Cheetos, or anything else to offer him. She was living off take out and a fruit basket the real estate agent had left for her. Most of the fruit was going bad by now. She didn’t even have sodas or beers, in an effort to force herself to drink more water. It was backfiring because instead she just drank more coffee…

“No, don’t worry about it, I was joking. I brought my own Cheetos. I can share if you’re really that upset about it…”

“Hm? I’m not upset,” she said, brow furrowed in confusion. He looked at her, his brow furrowed with concern too, like she’d said or done something alarming. She didn’t think she had. For a moment they just looked at each other and she wasn’t sure why it was such a heavy feeling moment. What had just happened?! 

“Oh, ok. Well uh…”

“Ok well… let me know if you need anything else.”

She fled, embarrassed to have hovered too long. She didn’t want to be like Tim! 

It took her a while to get all the cabinets spread out and her supplies ready between the patio and driveway, face mask and coveralls ready. She could just barely see the pool area. JK had a big barrel with a bag and had begun fishing around in the pool, scooping up slime and leaves and sticks and who knew what else. It looked pretty awful but he didn’t seem bothered by it, just like it was a normal day for him. Every so often he’d stop to push the hair from his face until he finally pulled a bandana out of his pocket and tied it across his head.

Grace turned her attention from JK, grabbed the finish stripper, slid her facemask and goggles in place and set to work.

**

It was miserable work. Grace discovered quickly that stripping the cabinets was far more onerous of a task than the internet had made it sound. An hour or so later and she’d only managed to strip two of the doors and there were a lot to go. 

In stepping back to survey her paltry work, she realized JK was watching her from the tailgate of his truck where he’d unfurled his lunch.

“You’re really doing it yourself, huh?” he called over.

In an effort to not show that she was exhausted and frustrated, she retorted, “Yes, I like to get dirty.” His look of surprise made her realize her own words, and she quickly added, “My hands dirty. I like to work hard for… things.” With a shake of her head, she turned away under the guise of taking the unflattering safety gear off. She avoided counting the cabinets. Sweat dripped down her back beneath the coveralls, which she decided were not worth it. It was too hot. She might as well just ruin her t shirt and leggings and let that be that.

JK was still watching her, and she didn’t want him to realize she didn’t exactly know what she was doing. She felt like that had been painfully obvious to enough contractors already. She thought of herself as so intelligent and capable and confident and yet when discussing work estimates with contractors to fix things she didn’t understand in the first place, she worried she was just letting herself be taken advantage of over and over again. That’s why she’d gotten divorced, to put an end to that!

“I didn’t know you knew how to do this kind of thing,” he said between sips of a Sprite. “It’s impressive.”

The praise was too much when in fact it was a lie; she felt compelled to correct, “Honestly, I don’t really know what I’m doing.”  She appreciated that he looked surprised, whether it was true or not. “But I’m figuring it out.”

“Still… I mean, most ri– er, people would just pay to have it all done, yeah? That looks like hard work.”

“Many rich people would, yes,” she mused, amused by his self-correction. “My grandfather likes doing this kind of thing. He built his own cabin all by himself. I always thought that was really admirable, to learn how to do things yourself. Maybe the things I do myself in the house won’t be perfect but I’ll see them and know I figured it out. That I did things I didn’t know I could do.”

“That’s really cool,” he grinned. “When I see the things I fix around my place, I just think what a shithead my landlord is.”

“Ah.” She didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t seem insulted that she’d claimed as a hobby something that was a necessity for him, but the comparison made her feel bad. “Well I’m sure you’re much better at this than I am. My arms are already aching and I’ve got a lot to go.”

“You’re scraping them down?”

“Getting the stain off, then I’ll sand, then paint. I’ll have to do this for all the installed parts inside too.”

“Damn,” he snickered. “I’d just hire someone if I were you…”

Grace didn’t know what to say. It was tempting right now, but being witnessed also made her more determined. Even if it was hard, she wanted to look at her cabinets and see perseverance, not capitulation. 

He wadded up the remains of his lunch and tossed them into his truck. By the time he headed back to the pool, the carpet guys had arrived, and Grace took the opportunity of ushering them up to also scrounge up food for herself. Her arms were shaky from the effort so the break was welcome, though eating in the kitchen so ripped apart felt like a regretful step backwards. It was going to take her all week to do these cabinets, probably. 

Her aunt called while she ate and she answered even though her mom was going to give her hell about it, exaggerating the progress on her house since her aunt would never see it anyway. She promised to send pictures and mindlessly mm-hmed through her aunt’s family gossip. JK was done digging detritus from the pool it seemed and was running a very long hose all the way across her yard. It made her nervous, as she realized he might be about to dump all the water onto her property. She hadn’t thought about where the water from draining the pool would go, but already envisioned her flooded, ruined lawn.

“Hey!” she called, striding across the patio as soon as she’d said a hasty farewell to her aunt. “JK!”

“Yeah?” He squatted beside some sort of contraption he was hooking the hose up to.

“Um… what are you doing?”

“I’m going to drain the pool now.”

“But… where?”

“For now I’m going to put it into your front yard.”

“Won’t it flood my yard?” she asked nervously. “The lawn guys are coming to start work this afternoon…” She looked around because actually they ought to already be here.

“If I just let it go forever maybe. I’m hoping that because your yard has a bit of slant, most of the water will go down under the streets out front and away from your place. I’ll keep an eye on it though, if it starts to pool, I’ll move it and we’ll dump a few other places in the yard. I want to keep it away from this area though because…” He looked at her, as if assessing whether she actually cared. She did. She wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to ruin her property but also it was clear he had a rationale for his choices, and that was interesting. He was good at what he did. 

“Because why?”

“Well I’m pulling all the water out of this pool, right? So now there isn’t water holding the pool walls in place. The dirt outside the pool is going to be pressing on the walls without anything pressing back, and if I dump a bunch of water in the dirt around it, there will be even more pressure. If your pool was fiberglass or acrylic, it could pop out of the ground. That rarely happens with concrete ones but it still could, I don’t want to risk it.”

“Oh.”

“When I got the permit Friday I was hoping I could just–”

“You got a permit?” she interrupted.

“Uh… yeah. This is like 30,000 gallons of water, you can’t just dump it,” he pointed out. She hadn’t thought about that at all. “You’ve got to dechlorinate, debrominate, and dump in an approved place and manner. I already tested it though and the water is so old all the chemicals already broke down, saves me some time.”

“There’s a lot more to it than I realized…”

“Well that’s why you hired me, huh?” he beamed. “So I can be the one to think about it. So for now I’ll dump around your property –it won’t hurt the plants, I checked the levels of everything.”

“And it won’t flood anything?”

“Nah, I’ll watch it. If it did start to pool, I can get another permit that lets me dump into the sewer system, but I have to prove it’s not possible to dump on the property. I think it’ll be fine.”

Grace didn’t have any real reason to argue. He seemed confident and like he had a lot of experience with this. She had none.

“Ok then, sounds like you’ve got it all under control.”

He assured her, “I promise I’m not going to kill your jungle.”

“Thank you. I’ll leave you to your work then. I’ve got stripping to do.”

“Cabinets,” he said, cluing her into what she’d just said. 

She clapped a hand to her face and mumbled. “Yes, cabinets…” and walked quickly away. Why did she have to sound like such an idiot in front of contractors? She glanced back and saw him shaking his head and she wanted to shrivel up. 

 She really put her back into the stripping, determination restored. She was glad that’s how the carpet contractors found her when they came down to ask some questions. The day was nice to be out working in, sunny but not yet too hot. She put music on to have something to work towards and made a mental note to upgrade the sound system soon. She only owned a single CD and so had to roll through the radio stations instead of just listening to what she wanted, but it was all commercials so she went back to her music.

JK passed by to his truck again, and this time returned with his own goggles and mask. He looked hot with them propped on his forehead over the bandana, arms and neck all sweaty from his hard work so far. 

“Here to help with the stripping,” he announced, then gave her a cheeky grin and added, “Cabinets.” Grace failed to hold back the roll of her eyes –while flattered he was comfortable teasing her, she didn’t appreciate the evidence that the pool guy was probably another man in her life who had charmed her blind, and probably every other woman he came across. At least she got good pool work out of him, unlike her unhappy painful marriage with Tim.

He picked up the stain stripper can and looked it over, at which point she realized he really did mean to help.

“Wait, why– you aren’t here to do this.”

“I know, but I just need to monitor the pump for the next…” he looked at his wrist that didn’t have a watch, “Fourteen hours or so.”

“What?!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll sleep out here.”

“Wait, but–”

“I’m joking. My buddy will by this afternoon to watch it until dinner. Then we’ll let the ground settle and finish it tomorrow. I’ve got nothing to do now except check on it though so I’ll help you with this.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she insisted. “This is hard work. You could just read a book or something.”

“Oh yeah let me just dig through all the books I have in my work truck… nah, I’ll help. You’ve got a lot of cabinets here.”

“You really don’t have to. I feel bad. I mean, I can pay you for your help, just tell me how much–”

“You got something else to play?” he asked, pointing to the sky –by which he meant the music, she realized. Her only CD, Celine Dion’s greatest hits. She’d stolen it from her sister over a decade ago and it had somewhere traveled with her this far.

“No, the system only uses CDs.”

“Ok let’s deal with that first, let me show you what I’ve got with me.”

Grace felt like this day was getting very out of hand and yet led him to the system’s command console once he’d hauled a big CD binder from his truck. He let her flip through the book and she found herself captivated by this glimpse into his music taste. Lots of rock, ranging from Metallica to Red Hot Chili Peppers to Green Day to–

“Olivia Rodrigo?” she said with surprise.

“Yeah, what about it?” he asked. “It’s a good album.”

“So you still buy CDs. I thought you were young…”

“I get tired of YouTube ads. Besides, owned media is an investment.” She couldn’t tell if he was making fun of her or not.

“Well I don’t know anything about her but she’s the new pop girl, huh? I’ve heard her name a lot lately.”

“She’s rock-pop,” he countered. “You don’t like rock music?”

“I do, I guess. I don’t know that I pay much attention to what’s popular.”

“You like Celine Dion and what else?”

“I listen to a lot of classical,” she admitted. “And… dance? Or whatever is on the radio…” She was embarrassed now to admit that while she liked music, she didn’t have any very strong preferences. A lot of oldies played on her Pandora station because it was familiar and reminded her of what her parents had listened to growing up. Classical soothed her. Dance and dance-pop reminded her of her younger days going out with friends. Tim had liked jazz and classic rock; she doubted she’d ever be able to listen to any of it again without shivering.

“You don’t know much about music?”

“Not really,” she admitted.

“Damn. Let’s start with Olivia’s album then and work our way back from,” he said, popping the CD in. She didn’t really understand what that meant but felt like letting him pick the music while he helped her was only fair.

JK was a workhorse when it came to stripping the cabinets. She was stunned by how much more quickly the work went with the two of them, largely because his brute strength got the stain off much faster than she could. Granted, she found it distracting watching him mouth along to Olivia Rodrigo’s lyrics I’m a perfect all-American bitch with perfect all-American lips and perfect all-American hips.

Occasionally he’d go to check the pump. Occasionally she got called away by the carpet contractors, or the lawn guys showing up and needing guidance. The Olivia album ended and JK put on the next one.

“Who’s this?” she asked, trying not to notice the way the muscles of his bare arms glistened and flexed as he scraped at the cabinet door.

“Arctic Monkeys. Seemed like a good next step. Everyone likes the Arctic Monkeys.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Damn,” he laughed again. She didn’t know what he thought that said about her but decided it wasn’t anything good. She felt embarrassed not to know this music that “everyone” liked. 

“Are they really that famous?”

“They’re doing all right,” he shrugged. “This album is from 2007 though.” Grace tried to recall what she had been doing in 2007. She’d just graduated high school and was headed to college… “I mean, I was only in like fifth grade but my older brother liked them and I liked anything he liked, you know?”

Grace choked. She turned to the side and coughed. Well that was a timely reminder that this hot guy was very, very young.

“You ok? You didn’t eat any of it, did you?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” she assured him, and focused on the scraping and forced her eyes back to the straight and narrow.

He didn’t make it easy though. Only a song later, he sang along quietly with the lyrics, a steady stream of words that flowed without break for breath:

“Running off over next door's garden Before the hour is done It's more a question of feeling Than it is a question of fun The confidence is the balaclava I'm sure you'll baffle 'em good Will the ending reek of salty cheeks And runny makeup alone?”

“You have a nice voice,” she couldn’t help but remark.

He beamed and seemed to look away as he mumbled, “Ah, thanks… I’m in a band.”

“What? Really?”

He laughed at something she didn’t understand and admitted, “Yeah…”

“I didn’t know that. You never said.”

“It’s not that big a deal, just a hobby thing.”

“You’re the singer?”

“No no, I’m the drummer.”

“Oh!”

“Yeah it’s just a little thing with my friends but we play in bars and stuff– we’ve placed in competitions sometimes.” There was a grunt underlying his words as he scrapped and turned, scraped and turned. “You should check us out.”

“Hm, maybe I will,” she said, quickly and without conviction. She thought the last thing she should do was go somewhere specifically to watch this much younger guy who was working on her house drum in a band. 

Once upon a time she’d been college-age and gone to concerts with her girl friends and fantasized about meeting up with the band afterwards. And now she was a grown woman with no need to confuse those things, especially with the guy fixing her pool. Especially, she realized, since she technically could now. She wasn’t married. She was allowed the fantasy, allowed to meet someone, allowed to fuck around with someone in a band like her younger self had wanted to. 

It was too much, a rush of reality she wasn’t prepared for. Her divorce wasn’t even finished yet, she definitely wasn’t ready to wander down any paths of fantasy –and most certainly not ones that in any way would make her uncomfortable around a contractor who’d be at her house a lot for the next week at least and then every other week for the future beyond that.

This poor guy just wanted to brag about his band and here she was having a mental crisis because it had dawned on her that soon she’d be free to fuck around. Would she want to? How did people even do that?! Was she a fuck-around sort of woman or a lifer type? She had been relatively restrained in college and married Tim so young… she couldn’t picture herself suddenly turning into the sort of woman a rock star would invite backstage. Honestly, she didn’t even know how the opposite sex would react if she did start trying to date. What type would she be into? What type would be into her? And, most importantly, how did she make sure she didn’t get fooled into another Tim?

“You ok?” JK asked, setting his finished cabinet door aside and stretching forward to grab another. He reached and the sleeve of his tank moved to reveal the nastiest bruise she’d ever seen, a whorl of purple and black and brown that made her skin crawl.

“Oh my god, what happened to your shoulder?!”

“Oh, surfing accident.”

“Are you ok?!”

“I asked you first,” he teased.

“I’m fine, just momentarily overwhelmed by reality but your shoulder…”

“I’m fine, just got momentarily overwhelmed by a surfboard that didn’t see me.”

“That sounds dangerous!”

“It was but I’m fine. Just a little stiff.” He set the fresh cabinet door down in front of him and cleared his throat. “I’m working it out though. It’s fine. Ah… reality you want to talk about or something…?”

“Hm?”

“Nothing, nevermind.”

She felt like she’d said something wrong based on his sudden silence but couldn’t figure out what. He shook his head.

“Are you sure this isn’t hurting your shoulder?”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m going to check on the pump.” He jumped up quickly and disappeared, which gave her a welcome moment to brush away the concern that had made her want to reach for his shoulder. It looked so bad! Holy shit! Leave it to a guy like that to shrug off such an injury. She’d be laid up in bed for a week and here he was not only working, but doing extra work to help her. 

She heard a truck at the gate and the buzzer. Assuming it was reinforcements for either the carpet-guys upstairs or the lawn guys tromping around her front yard, she left her things for a moment and went straight to open the gate herself.

The man at the gate hopped out of his truck and held his hand out in greeting, forward in a way that immediately put her on guard.

“Hi there, ma’am, the name’s Jon, your husband reached out about solar panels?”

“Hm? You must have the wrong place,” Grace said, not yet taking his hand.

“501? I don’t think so– ah, sir!” he called and brushed right past her to approach JK. “I believe you had some questions about solar panels? I’m happy to talk to you about our program and–”

“Who are you?” JK asked, then quickly amended, “I didn’t talk to anyone about anything.”

“That’s all right, since I’m in the neighborhood and I understand you recently bought the property, I’d be happy to talk to you about–”

“Ah, no. That lady you just blew off owns this place. I’m just here to pump and strip.”

Grace choked again, and coughed into her hand to hide her laugh. She didn’t know what was funnier, JK’s easy deferment to her in the face of such bold sexism, his repetition of her egregious verbal slip earlier, his addition to make it worse, or the fact he did not seem to have done it on purpose. He looked immediately regretful and reached up to scratch the back of his head, his grimace with a shade of apology.

“I’m just the pool guy,” he clarified, as this Jon turned to her with his own shades of regret.

“Sorry, I believe even if I need solar, it won’t be with–” She leaned to read the company name off his truck. “You can leave now, goodbye.”

Jon tried to stammer his way through an apology but Grace was over men’s shitty apologies. After her sharper, “Leave my property now,” he fled. 

“A day in the life of a woman calling the shots,” she murmured as she headed back to the cabinets.

“Hey I’m just flattered he thought anything about me looks like a potential owner of this place,” JK laughed.

“What does that mean?”

“I think it means he’s more sexist than racist?”

Grace didn’t suppress the laugh this time. It was a smart observation. It hadn’t occurred to her that JK would look any less an owner of this place than she did right now other than the fact he looked so young, since both were in a similar state of sweaty filth.

“Guess he thought I’m the mother-in-law?”

“Come on, you aren’t that old. I mean–”

“Not that old!” she repeated with a laugh. “Thanks, JK. You’re so charming.”

“I just meant… I didn’t mean it like that,” he grumbled. “I don’t even know how old you are… I don’t think you’re that old…”

She decided not to tell him, whether he was asking or not. It didn’t seem like something he needed to know. Information not relevant to pumping and stripping. 

“Ready for a new CD?” he asked suddenly, overly loud. “We’ll go back further in time– not because you’re old! But just because… uh… let me see what I’ve got, have you heard of Red Hot Chili Peppers?”

“Oh come, JK, I’m not a total idiot. Everyone’s heard of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

“Ok ok, I didn’t mean to insult you. This is a safe space for your musical education. What about… Linkin Park? Kings of Leon? Avenged Sevenfold? Rise Against? I was listening to that on the other day… ah, maybe that’s a little too…”

“A little too what?” she glowered, crossing her arms and following him to the console and his open CD book beside it. “If you say too young–”

“Too angry,” he clarified. 

“Hm…” She didn’t really know what he meant, but suspected it might mean the music was loud and hard and shouty. She probably wouldn’t like it. But her curiosity was piqued that he’d been listening to it on the way over –because he was angry too, or just because he liked it? She wanted to know what he’d been listening to. It was interesting learning about the music he liked. Young people. Being married to Tim had made her old, and she wanted to reclaim some of her youth. She wasn’t that old! “Let’s give it a try.”

“Ok, if you don’t like it, I can change it.”

“I’m going through a rather unpleasant divorce right now. Angry might be just my flavor.”

“Ah, sorry to hear that. I mean that it’s unpleasant, not that you’re getting divorced.”

She realized she shouldn’t have said that. And he probably shouldn’t have said that either, and now looked as uncomfortable as she’d felt. The line felt weird right now, because he knew this about her, and they’d known each other a while, but he was young and hired help and just being friendly –but Grace wasn’t sure a man and woman so many years apart could actually be friends, so there had to be some line of professionalism in there somewhere. The thought of accidentally crossing the line and making this nice guy uncomfortable actually sickened her. She didn’t want to be some gross older predatory woman. She wasn’t actually a cougar!

“Whatever you want to listen to is fine,” she insisted, and scurried back to the cabinets. He joined again a moment later as intense electric guitar roared around the patio. It was definitely a different vibe. She looked up just in time to see one of the carpet guys stick his head out the window and make a rock symbol with his hand. JK returned the gesture while Grace laughed. 

Well, as long as the men working on her house were all happy. And hey, the beat was really good, and there was a melody that was actually really nice to listen to even if she couldn’t quite catch all the words. The drums were fast. She wondered if JK could play that kind of thing, and what he looked like–

Nope. She only meant it as an innocent curiosity, but she wouldn’t indulge even that. He was being incredibly kind helping her with the cabinets now, and that would be that. Not to mention a small part of her still worried he was going to flood her house away. He sounded like he knew what he was talking about and she’d never had an issue with his work before, but could he really know so much while he was so young? It was very impressive to be that knowledgeable at his age…

“Oh wait, I’ve heard this,” she realized with surprise. “A long time ago, I think…”

“See? You know more than you think you do.” 

“I sure hope so. We’ll see if you still think that when I start sanding these cabinet doors. And before you ask: yes, I’ve done it before… a long time ago.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” he insisted. “I would never underestimate you.”

“Thanks, JK. That’s really kind of you to say.”

He nodded but the words from his mouth next were song lyrics, as strong and steady and pleasant to listen to as the professional voice on the CD. He seemed really good at it, singing. That was crazy to her that he wasn’t even the band’s singer. He must just be really gifted at music. She was very, very much not. He seemed to have such talent, she wondered if he only sang this hard, fast style or if he could do slower too.

Singing! She was thinking about singing! She hadn’t had any issue with these kinds of thoughts a single day of her divorce so far. Was it a good sign something inside her was healing, or waking up, or whatever? Well she was certainly not going to put poor young JK in the middle of whatever divorcee sexual rebirth was stirring inside of her! Maybe it was just hormonal; she was ovulating or something. Awkward. 

“Miss, you want to see…?” Jacob the lawn guy motioned to her from across the driveway, like he didn’t want to interrupt. He wanted to ask her preference on something. He was kind too, like JK, even if he wasn’t great at being on time. But she believed he was going to do good work. She thought the carpets were going to look good upstairs. She was doing ok, finding the people to do a good job of the things she couldn’t or didn’t want to, doing a good job of the things she wanted to try. And sometimes help came in surprising places, like a pool guy who helped her strip cabinet doors while he pumped her pool.

Literally. A literal pool being pumped dry.

Good lord.

Chapter Three | Masterlist | Chapter Five

#jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x oc #jeon jungkook x oc #over the falls #jeon jungkook ff #jungkook smut #jungkook series #jungkook au #poolboy jk #jungkook domestic fluff

[saltywritings]

Petals of the Dragon | Aemond Targaryen x Reader | Part One

summary: a multipart beauty and the beast au.

part two

series warnings: suggestive commentary, foul language, violence, etc.

there was a sense of despair that consumed you as the sound of laughter echoed off the stone walls of the dungeon. you knew that you should not be here. there was not a person alive who would dare cross through the forest and down the overgrowth to the castle. not that a warning was much needed, for the very sight of the red keep was enough to send people running in the opposite direction. if that was not enough there was the tall tale that dragons had long sailed the clouds above the castle. yet, the situation was dire. your father was meant to return home days ago from selling his inventions in the reach. you followed his horse here and you entered bravely in search of your father. to your own horror, you found him, locked in the dungeon of the castle. your hands gripped onto the bars and with all your strength, you shook and jerked at the locked door. the echo of laughter was only growing stronger as tears welled in your eyes.

“run, y/n! leave me-.” your father begged of you, his trembling hands attempting to push them away from the bars of the cell he was in.

“no, father. I can not. y-you’re shivering, you’re ill. i-I can not leave you here.” you reasoned with your father, who was still attempting to push you away.

“y/n, please, my sweet girl. leave me.” tears were in your fathers’ eyes as they met yours. his begging was no use, you knew it, and he knew it too.

“you should listen to your father.” the voice reasoned, the sound of footsteps came closer and from around the corner came a beast. the figure was of a man with long silver hair, one iridescent purple eye looking back to you, and the other one covered by an eyepatch. patches of his skin had dark scales covering them. they were unlike the ones of greyscale that you had seen on the infected in your village. no, the scales across the beast were almost dragon like. at the ends of his fingers danced long black fingernails that appeared more like talons than anything else. there was a part of you that wanted to look away from him. that wished to run away in fear. however, you remained on your knees looking up at the beast before you. unable to tear yourself away from his beastly appearance.

“w-who are you?” you questioned, unwilling to move, and unwilling to leave.

“i am the master of this castle and who do you think you are? sweet girl?” he mocked, a smile glossing over his sinful features. 

“y/n- i am here for my father. please free him, he’s sick. he needs to see a doctor.” you begun to ramble, begging as you looked up from the ground at the beast before you. your poor father was unable to even look at him, for his head was down to his shoulder in shame.

“free him? no i can not free him. he has trespassed and stolen- plucked roses straight from their bushes. your father must suffer, he must be punished” the beast insisted to which you begun to shake your head.

“please, i’ll do anything. just let him go.” you continued to beg.

“anything?” he questioned you, looking down at you with his singularly exposed eye.

“yes,” you said bravely.

“come and tell me to my face, that you’ll do anything.” he demanded of you. it was not in your nature to be controlled or to obey. however, you rose to your feet and walked to him. your steps were slow but in a matter of moments you stood looking at him. toe to toe and eye to eye. he smiled looking at you standing bravely in front of him. “go on” he purred.

“i’ll do anything, please, please set my father free.” you began to weep, and you soon brought your hands together as you begged.

“i will set your father free, however, you must take his place.” the beast demanded as tears welled in your eyes.

“no! y/n, don’t do it!” your father shouted, you attempted not to react, to ignored the tears that were already stained across your cheeks.

“i’ll do it, please just let him go!” you insisted to which the beast smiled again.

“fine, if you wish to be a prisoner here instead of him so be it.” the beast spoke as he pulled a key to unlock the prison cell. his hand grabbed onto your father’s arm who was too weak to attempt to fight and in only a matter of moments he begun to pull your father away as he cried for you. the beast threw him the cobblestone stairs that led into the castle, the doors swinging shut behind him before the beast once more brought his attention to you. despite the terror that rang throughout your bones you remained still. feet planted firmly on the ground; you were afraid, but you were unwilling to let this beast have the better of you.

the beast stood in front of you, eye to eye, a hum left the back of his throat. there was a part of him that was amused by your bravery. challenged by it perhaps. his hand grabbed onto your arm tightly as you begun to struggle a bit. he said nothing at first, only beginning to drag you as your feet slid across the ground in the struggle.

“where are you taking me?” you demanded to know.

“your chambers, you’re going to be here kept here. you should at least have your own chambers.” the beast spoke, to which you begun to stop resisting him in your own confusion. there was a silence that followed, his grip on your arm softened as he led you to the chambers. letting you go as he pulled you into them. you stumbled back slightly, looking to him as he stood in the doorway. “these will be your chambers. you will reside here. i will allow you to venture the castle, though, under no circumstances may you go to the west wing of the castle.” the beast said his hands finding his way behind his back. you were going to question him, though, only moments had passed before the beast was gone from the frame of the door and it came slamming shut as he departed.

hours followed of you weeping in your chambers. there was a part of you that wanted to take some comfort in knowing that you would at least be comfortable. yet, the despair of losing your freedom and your father in one night was too much for you to carry. a loud knock came on the door that made your skin jump, your head jolting up from the pillow. a part of you was surprised that the beast had not bothered to simply barge into your room. you were frozen in your fear as the beast called out, “you will join me for super. this is not a request.” his voice was stern but there was a slight echo that followed. another voice.

gentle, aemond. the poor girl has lost everything today. it was the voice of a woman.

yes, getting a look at you she’s probably scared to death, the voice of a man followed along with the sound of a clang, almost as if something had been thrown against the wall. though kicked was more accurate.

a gentle knock followed after.

“what do you want?” you called out curling yourself into the bed.

“will you join me for dinner,” he questioned a silence followed after.

say please, aemond. a voice added in.

“please,” the beast added through gritted teeth. you rose from the bed.

“you honestly think i would willingly have dinner with you? i am your prisoner. you must be daft or insane.” you spat, a part of you was fully aware that he could brust through the door and throw you over his shoulder. that he could do anything he wanted to you. that he could throw you back in a cell or tear you apart limb from limb, and yet? you said it anyway. though, what followed only caused a new feeling of terror to reside in you once again. 

a loud pounding followed.

“you will eat with me or you will starve!” he screamed at you but your back was now to the door.

“i would rather starve!” you shouted back.

“than so be it, go ahead and starve!” the beast came screaming back. to which you found yourself in the comfort of the bed once again.

you were unsure how long it had been since another knock came to the door. a gentler knock that followed. you sniffled slightly as your head rose from the pillow.

“i said i’m not coming down to eat with you!” you called out attempting to stand your ground.

“no, this is alicent, dear.” the voice followed to which you stood from your position. you were unsure that there had even been other people in the castle apart from the beast at all. “i just thought you would enjoy some tea to settle you.” she called out again.

“oh yes, please –“ you were speaking as you opened the door. to which, a tea cart pushed in and your eyes went wide. you were convinced you were losing your mind. for at the sight of the tea pot speaking you stumbled back. “y-you’re a . . .” you trailed off as you backed away stepping onto the bed.

“a tea pot? yes, it was alarming for me as well at first. dareon here as well.” she spoke, a small tea cup at her side.

“that’s not possible,” you attempted to reason with her. a shock that only remained to consume you as through the already cracked door hopped in a gold candlestick and a clock which appeared to be one chasing after the other.

“we did not believe it possible either,” the clock begun to speak, you remained still, watching them in dread.

“i thought i told you both to stay away,” alicent, the teapot, begun to scold the two other piece of talking, walking, furniture.

“you can blame your son, it was aegon who came blistering down here like a fool. if not for me hald this castle would be in flames.” the clock begun to argue.

“perhaps that was the point, grandsire” the candlestick spoke giving a small shrug of his arms.

“aegon!” alicent, the teapot, was quick to scold.

“i was only joking. i cam down here for you, m’lady.” aegon, the candlestick, spoke. your eyes were still wide looking at the furniture that was speaking to you. ��we cannot let you starve up here, now can we. i invite you to be our guest.”

authors note: apologizes for how short it is! tumblr has a word limit now. please consider commenting, reblogging, etc. all of it really helps my self esteem in my writing and honestly makes my day. but if you do not desire to do so, no worries! thank you for making it this far.

#aegon targaryen smut #prince aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen one shot #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen imagine #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targeryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon dark smut #jacaerys valaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon imagine #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon smut #dark house of the dragon #house of the dragon smut #house of the dragon angst #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader

[nirikeehan]

Dragon Age Lore Prompts 

Bits of lore compiled from codex entries, letters, and other marginalia found throughout Thedas.

In the Mists: The Windline Marcher. A ghost ship. Still, the story continues to be told, its intent to chill, amuse, or even titillate. As a consequence, the tale has grown more colorful over time. In many later versions, the "Marcher" is manned by a crew of stunningly beautiful spirits, who can fulfill one's deepest (carnal) desires, should one succeed in boarding the ship.

The Lost City of Barindur. A city lost to time or disaster. Swaying grass hid flocks of birds so vast that when they took flight, their numbers blocked the sun. This, our guide informed us, was the great city of Barindur, wonder of the ancient world, famed for its fountains which were said to grant eternal youth.

The Pyramids of Par Vollen. Structures of unknown purpose pre-dating the Qunari. Par Vollen's distinctive pyramids, looming from the overgrowth, have remained largely intact, even if their intended purpose has been lost. They do not seem to be tombs, though some chambers contain bodies that have been carefully preserved. Amazingly, the pyramids' proportions are mathematically perfect. 

Confessions of a Lyrium Addict. Rare first person account of the Templars' plight. But the ration's too small. If they don't give you enough, your hands get cold. The sky starts to press down on you. Little things slip away. So you have to stay.

The Aeonar. Mage prison found abandoned by Seekers, with no sign of violence, during the Mage-Templar war. Accused maleficarum and apostates are held in the confines of Aeonar. Those who have a powerful connection to the Fade, and particularly to demons, will inevitably attract something across the Veil, making the guilty somewhat easier to tell from the innocent.

Notes on Methods of Enchantment. Ancient notes on enchanting eldritch items. Using up the last of the stock was well worth it, as I explained to it as a courtesy before final work began. Adjustments to the underlay were a great success, and will allow the recipe to be made with material taken from lesser animals, if the need arises.

The Hand That Cuts. A unique ring. This ring grows unusually warm when slipped onto a finger. It pulses slightly and steadily, as if in time with the wearer's heartbeat.

The Eye That Weeps. A unique amulet. This amulet is heavy for its size, and the metal is clammy and sticks jealously to the flesh. The gem in the center contains a liquid that glowers a sluggish red in bright light. Condensation slowly forms on the gem's outer surface, no matter how many times it's wiped clean.

The Bind that Guides. A unique belt. No matter how loosely this belt is tied, after a few steps, it warps itself snugly around the waist. The stitching, while fine, is of a strange, thin thread that resembles hair and can't be cut with even the sharpest knife.

The Skin That Stalks. Unique armor. The leather of this armor gives off a faint, living heat. It is heavier than it looks, but the weight and warmth are somehow comforting. The armor makes little noise in motion, and after a surprisingly short time, wearing it feels quite natural.

Chronicles of a Forgotten War. An account of encounters with mysterious Scaled Ones in the Deep Roads. A robed Scaled One stood before the altar. Its voice was different from the others: softer, almost feminine. It chanted and raised a basin of blood towards the altar. The other Scaled Ones bowed low. The robed Scaled One produced fire from its palm and mouth and ignited the blood.

Grim Anatomy. A book on animal dissection and demonic possession, by an unknown author. It's not wearing the creature's skin. It has become the creature: its mind, its senses... its blood.

The Hedge Witch. A witch who transformed herself into a giant hawthorn bush. She possessed only a modicum of magical power—enough to draw the templars' attention, but not nearly enough to defend herself from them. As the templars closed in on her, Saramish worked a spell of transformation. No one knows what her intentions were, but the outcome could not have been to her liking. 

Arboreal Fort. Creative solutions to uncommon problems. Flatten the area? —Cullen. Of course the commander suggests hitting the hills until they forget they're hills. —L I was joking. Meanwhile, have you threatened to cut out anyone's tongue today? —Cullen Thinking about it right now. —L

A Compendium of Orlesian Theater. Fascinating cultural practices from the artistic heart of the empire. If a director believes they can sell the part, men can play dowagers, women can play dukes, and even an elf can play a king. Once donned, the mask is understood to be absolutely them. None of the actors I spoke to could explain to me the history behind this tradition, but bristled when I suggested other nations find it strange. 

She of the Highwaymen Repents. A song unsung for a dead man walking. For know my crime was cruel, and all my pain deserved. I stand here as a fool, despite my brother served.

The Silver Knight. The final verse for a fallen knight. In lost verses of a song, painstakingly unearthed, I found the answer to my question. Who could bear the weight of a people destroyed by his hand?

The Executors. Those across the sea. “Remember that, for the moment, we are not your enemy.”

Constellation: Visus. The Watchful Eye. The early Inquisition took Visus as the symbol of their holy calling when they joined the Andrastian faith: the Eye representing both their search for maleficarum and the Maker's judgment upon their actions. When the Inquisition ended and became the Seekers of Truth and the Templar Order, the templars took the sword while the Seekers retained the eye.

The Lover's Alcove. To be seen not being seen. Dignity of course requiring that one does not also make use of the darkness for actual physical gratification. This has, of course, never occurred.

#writing prompts

[hyunjinspark]

Jade pls give us one like jUST A TEASE

okayyy...here's a very out of context spoiler for part 14....👀

pairing: idol!hyunjin x artist!reader

series: star lost with you

genre: friends to lovers, angst, smut, fluff, set in the idolverse, mutual pining, unrequited love, forbidden (?) romance, slowburn (!), soulmate au (kind of)

masterlist

star lost with you, part 14 teaser:

»»————-

Yongbok had always fed you tales of the many elves, faeries, and sirens that lived in the deepest abysses of your town.

Stories of otherworldly creatures that inhabited the depths of the Creek, which would only reveal themselves in the deep of the night, concealed by the shadows of the overgrowth.

Obviously you’d never seen one, but you weren’t stubborn enough to tick their existence off the list.

Yongbok had told you those tales many times before, and you didn’t believe them, not really. Believing in otherworldly creatures would be like believing in magic and miracles, and your life was simple enough to not have either.

Still, staring out into the dark right now, you did feel a little on edge.

The moon was supposed to be high and bright tonight, according to the forecast you looked up this dawn, but clearly nothing was going to plan, and everything that had happened since this morning had been all kinds of unexpected.

It disappeared amongst the cover of the tree, leaving the Creek engulfed in darkness. The water was mostly still, as all of the little streams led to this one spot, pooling in this one, gorgeous area. You thought it was beautiful how every river across your town ended up in one place, bringing together each corner and story of Daejon - forming a whirlpool of the lived memories.

To be honest, if there were any chance of otherworldly creatures existing in the entire universe…they probably would be residing in the cool cerulean blue water of the Creek.

“What are you thinking?” A tender voice, calmer than the waters, pulled you out of your fantastical thoughts.

Looking up, you saw him stood by the edge of the cliff, on the same rock he had jumped off months before, but you didn’t know him back then. He was but a stranger to you at that time.

You did know him now, at least you think you did -- over the weeks of peeling every layer of what made up Hyunjin, you knew so much of what made him, him.

But there was so much you still didn’t know. So much you yearned to know, Who was his first kiss? What was his favourite book? His worst heartbreak? The first girl he fucked? Your curiosity would rip at the seams and maybe it would never end, because the things you wanted to know about him were endless, and now that time was slipping away, it was the only opportunity to stop thinking and start asking him all of those things.

There was no point in dwelling on the what-ifs.

Hyunjin was here now, and you would not hold back anymore.

“I was…just thinking about how Yeonjun is late” You told him, crossing your arms against the cold breeze.

Hyunjin’s lips curled up, “He’ll be here”

“I hope he didn’t ditch us” You stared back at the dark water.

Hyunjin laughed, “Of course not. I think he’s just running late”

“You seem fairly confident when you’ve known him for less than a week”

He chuckled, stepping closer to you, “We can get in the water. We don’t have to wait for him, you know?”

You swallowed, “Get in the water, like…just me and you,.alone...together...?”

“Yeah…” The lines in his forehead furrowed, and he chuckled at your flustered state.

Hyunjin standing there right now, looking like this, did not help your emotions.

Chocolate brown strands framed his face, grazing his cheeks, and the rest was pulled up into a bun, messy, uneven, so fucking attractive.

The t-shirt you'd picked out for him this morning fit him far too well, the zipper stopping at his chest, burgundy sleeves hugging his arms and biceps just like you wish he would hug you.

And even if all those tales Yongbok and the town-dwellers told you were false, Hyunjin was the closest thing to an ethereal, out-of-this-world, ripped straight out of a fantasy novel creature - that you'd ever see.

If those stories had been written in today's age, they would probably all be about him.

He tilt his head at you, “Is there a problem with that? If it's just...you and me in the water, alone?”

Was there?

Maybe the problem was that you'd been looking for ways to be alone with Hyunjin this entire week, and now was as good a time as any to act on your feelings — feelings that had built up endlessly into a spiral of love, and affection, and frustratingly, body-numbing lust.

It was time to stop dwelling.

The hint of a smile made it's way onto your face, and you reached up to untie your halter top, and even the fiercest creatures in Daejon couldn’t intimidate you right now as much as this did, “No...there's no problem at all, Hyun"

»»————-

#star lost with you #hyunjin x reader #angst #fluff #friends to lovers #hyunjin fics #skz imagines #series #hyunjin smut

[jessicanjpa]

cottage

An excerpt from this chapter of 2003. The Cullens have just moved to Forks and Edward is exploring the woods behind the house.

I was surprised to find the remnants of an old trail not far from the river. It hadn't been used in a long time; for most of its length, the only sign was a winding track of evergreens that were significantly shorter than their neighbors. A rusted tin can was the only other evidence that a human had ever passed this way. Maybe this path led to an old deer stand or something like that.

I explored here and there, finally taking to the treetops so I could follow the "path" more easily. I was finally rewarded with the sight of a big rectangle so regular that it had to be manmade. It was partially obscured by the overgrowth and the rotted branches that had fallen on it in recent years, but it was definitely a building. I swung back down to the forest floor, surprised to see not a deer stand or a spartan hunting shack, but an adorable little stone cottage.

It was like stepping into a fairy tale. I had landed just far enough away to use the little path of flat stones that led the way home to the front door. The decaying, broken roof was an eyesore, but everything else was perfect... in a crumbling, half-reclaimed-by-nature sort of way. Wild, meandering honeysuckle had completely taken over one wall. Nearly every stone was outlined and softened with moss. The arched door wasn't in the best shape, but it was made of sturdy oak that had easily outlived the roof.

I walked a wide circle around the whole thing. A stone chimney crowned the southern corner, and there was a little door in the back that opened directly into what probably used to be a garden. Now, it was just a little outline of rotted miniature fencing, completely overrun by natural growth. Only a single climbing rose plant had survived to tell the story of the former inhabitants, clinging to the mossy stones as if to escape the encroaching wilderness.

I reached out and gently touched its petals. Stubborn rose, I thought with a smile. It was a good omen; Rosalie and Emmett were going to love it out here. It'd been a while since they'd really needed four walls of their own to knock down as they pleased, but it wasn't every day we found a house that came complete with a fairy tale cottage, either. I was almost jealous.

I carefully inspected the rest of the exterior before easing the door open. Esme would want to know every detail, though of course she would soon be out here to see it for herself. I stretched my gift back toward the main house to her mind abuzz with renovation plans. She might not be able to get to the cottage right away. I grimaced around the tiny living room. The beehive fireplace was in good enough condition, but the wallpaper was an affront to all that was good and holy. Hopefully the smell would get thrown out with it.

The kitchen was little more than a camper's stove and a sink, which was just as well. Two rickety chairs crowded up to a tiny breakfast table that had seen better days. I was far more interested in the old piano that took up the wall across from the fireplace. I didn't expect much, what with the exposure and the humidity it must have suffered over the years, but I still let out a disappointed sigh when the keys refused to be pushed, much less make any sound. I took a peek inside; the strings actually didn't look too bad. I already had the Steinway baby grand anyway, but it would be a shame to send it to a junkyard. Maybe I could find a local piano repair shop that enjoyed restoring hard luck cases.

Just like the main house, the cottage seemed bigger inside than out. I followed a little hallway—it was arched like the front door, as though I had wandered into a tiny castle—and found a generous bedroom matched against two smaller rooms. No signs of plumbing ever having been installed: that would give Esme a pleasant challenge.

The whole thing was perfect. Maybe if Rosalie and Emmett spent enough time out here, they would even agree to switch bedrooms with me. I didn't exactly need a full suite, but I wouldn't say no to my own shower and enough room for all my books to come out of their boxes. They were getting the better deal by far; this place was a jewel. And it felt right, somehow; it had been a shame to see the hunting cottage back at our old Hoquiam place fall into disrepair. Having this little find on our new property seemed to make up for it.

I headed back to the main house, wondering who had lived out at the cottage once upon a time, and why. I supposed it might be as old as the house, or even older; there could have been a whole line of occupants. The cottage had its own little story to tell. Perhaps it had been used as a mother-in-law unit once: a whimsical grandmother with plenty of cats and plenty of time to tend her roses. Then a little honeymoon retreat for a blushing couple who had set up house with a second-hand breakfast table, then a brooding pianist who needed solitude to work on his compositions.

And now it would house a pair of lovesick vampires who would hopefully leave it in one piece and pass it on to continue the story. The older we all got, the more distanced we felt from stories like these, no matter how picturesque the setting or how vivid an imprint our renovations left behind. But I supposed we were just stewards like the rest: here for a day, then nothing more than a fading memory.

#Edward #Cottage #Tale of Years Teasers #2003 stuff #Fanfiction #Foreboding

[creamiesstoryconer]

Yandere Harpy x Reader Part 1

Chance Encounter

I ended up rewriting this whole chapter and reusing some of the content from the teaser I am so sorry!

This is my OC I'll probably post some more info about him at a later date and some world building stuff!

Word count: 1.5K

Total reading length: 12+ Minutes

Requests:Open!

TW:Blood and fighting

Baskets woven of fresh twine and twig, sitting on the soft palate of green crumpled underneath its own weight. Stacked high with the long forgotten labours of yesterday, fruits stained with the dew of early sun and ripened with the bitter winds of the night. 

Air crisp, smoking as you exhale, the condensate rising - dancing as it allows itself to be carried away by the senseless wind of the day. Gentle nipping of one's flesh, all warm bodies fall victim to the spring morn.

Haze settled in the distance, creating a golden sea that is bound to the floor. Almost a pure white light within the sky paints an ombre from deep greys and sea blues to a dusty hue.

Gravel path under foot, leading to rustic wall a deteriorating fence, scrapes and rolls each step taken. Tiny pebble tumbling down path, momentum faster than you can keep up with. A gentle smile nestled snugly upon your face. 

The start of spring, a true new year here. 

Following small path embed into ground, leading to a  patch of heaven. Plot of land, on the edge of the garden packed with love. Vibrant colours embraced alongside one another, roots embed into soft browns, out of sight yet still make themselves known. 

The scent as one passes by is catched in the breeze, pine that mutes the undertones of lavender. A refreshing scent against the early damp morning air.

Finger brush against aged wood, a gate whom had lived many a storm, shown upon the peeling of its face Overgrowth of ivy that had cast its grip upon the barrier. Ridges in the warping material cling to the moist air, the faint feeling lingers upon your skin as you pass yourself through. 

Into the arching corridor of nature that leads to the woods,  a path that is no longer rock, nor even dried mud. A long neglected walkway that mother earth had taken back for herself, tall grass flattened, a trace that you had been here just days ago. 

Trees hand in hand enclose the pathway, a canopy of dampened greens blocking out the sea of light that lay just above this seemingly separate part of the world.

Isolated and almost silent, it seems that time has grown stagnant. Further foot trod into the canopy walk, the gentle russell of leaves brushing against each other. The first songs of birds drowned out what little was not natural to mother Earth herself. High chirps and low croaks of frogs that called home to the rushing river just out of sight.

Flickering breaks in thick trunks that stud tall and proud, give opening to a flash of water that follows down hill. Cold clashes against stones that  leaves speckled clear upon plants that rooted themselves in the sloping waters. 

The natural web of nature, adhering to the splashes left by the waters. The transparent pearls that adorn exquisitely plumped ropes. glimpses of sunlight peeking through the thick foliage, its warm, golden light illuminating everything underneath.

Further onto ground you continue, colours finally spring to life, a refreshing taste to the repetitive greens and browns that had painted the day so far. Bunches of flowers finally make the canopy walk look bright, overhead gaps finally form allowing for break from dampened light.

A bit further up the overgrown trail you are familiar with, an annual springtime ritual. To make a sacrifice, to hope for world harmony, to continue a titration you have become tired of. Children should not be terrified of the customs and stories of the elderly; they are nothing more than fairy tales. 

At the opening's edge, feet stiffened as the deep green canopy of the trees gave way to a torrent of gold. Warm on the skin and a striking contrast to the morning breeze, the honey-coloured light completely engulfs the clearing. 

A few seconds it takes for your eyes to adjust. To be able to see a sea Of Clashing colours festival seemingly brought together by nature.Clashing smells of floral fight to enveloppe your nostrils. 

 Blues and pinks cramped by one another, twisting and fighting, reaching for the sea of light that washed over the bed of natural beauty. Delicate petals, untouched, pure.  Embodiment of times untouching hands where humans are not. 

Though at the moment feet had frozen, they had begun to move once more. The harsh cut out in the sea of purity, a feeling that causes legs to move upon their own.

A splatter of ugly red, tainting once faultless blossoms. A mark of impurity of ingrace. 

Flattening of the flower bed, a sin upon Mother Nature's Beauty, ones core told them to investigate. 

Your steps are cloaked by the cushion on greens and vibrance, Edging closer and closer to the flat  patch. In the air a metallic stench rises, the rusted colour of crimson upon translucent petals morphs from speckles to harsh thrashes. 

A trail leading to it…

Eyes glancing upon it, at first tanned skin, human. Deeply kissed by the sun, broad chest heaving. His warm breath clashing with frigid air that still plagued the thicket, a gutterel  wiring escaping from his body. 

A lingering look for too long, the source of what defiled the flowers around the laid body. A piercing arrow, through his shoulder. It’s deep oak and shaft crowned with it’s flesh wound. 

As if second nature, your fingertips reached forward, to aid or  to provide comfort you do not know. Softened Digits that grazed upon taunt skin, one exposed to the elements seemingly for a lifetime. 

Gaze focused upon the stranger's face for a reaction, though his features obscured by a mess of locks, a mixture of braids and tatters.

Then a hint of gold made itself  known through the nest of chestnut that hid most of the beings' identifying features. 

Time is still for only that moment. Only for a moment …

A blur and a impact,

The faint memory of something sharp around your waist before a harsh impact to one's back.

The coarse texture of dried bark entangled in once soft locks of hair. Throbbing, building a deafening silence is what over stimulates the nerves. Soothing warmth trickling down your neck, tracing itself past your crook. Allowing for a bud of red to flow and root itself onto once pristine white clothing. Now defiled with browns and quickly darkening crimsons. 

The rising of your chest like hard labour, air having been stolen from your lungs. Hoarse gasps replace a steady rhythm that was once there. Drying your mouth as a once cared for body folds in upon itself. 

Ringing in your ears causes one's head to spin. To not focus is to not be able to see. 

Blurs of greens, a blue perhaps the sky. Golden shines for a moment. Then the sight of flesh. 

Flesh unclothed, blotches of maroon identifiable upon the sun kissed skin. A guttural scream escapes your lips, ripping through your vocal cords, straining already fatigued muscle despite no fight being given. 

Cheeks, red as puffed eyes strained to stay open, salty water - your own tears-  sullying your face. Teeth bared as saliva bubbles and leaks from the corner of your mouth.  Instinct forces your disorientated body to stay awake.

Fingers tangled within a sickenly soft plumage of feathers. Almost comforting to touch under dirt stuffed nails.

Air that was once almost refreshing to the lungs now reeks of desperation and fear. Tawng of metallic lingering, your own blood that was long dried and flaking. A dried river of rusty colour liquid fashioned from your own wound, wrapping around your neck like a macabre necklace. 

It’s animalistic eyes boaring into you, pupils blown to unnatural size. Tilting its head, forcing itself to envelope your sight. It’s chest rumbling, trilling… studying.

Hands still entangled with the red feathers, weakened digits clasp desperately. Unable to keep your head straight for much longer, a final fight escapes your limps. Harsh, violent yanking down upon plumage in hand. 

Pure red decorating your hands and the floor below. Feathers flown, taken from the scene of pure instinct by the gentle winds.

Ringing in your ears accompanied with an unworldly screech, piercing a cry that would shatter one's heart .

 All within a moment a peaceful day ended with your hands painted in red , head once again snapped into wood. Before the shuddering that was your world goes black within a moment. 

Yet body still feels the dragging across the field of mother earth's patch of hidden gold.

#yandere #yandere harpy #harpy oc #harpy #harpy x reader #tw yandere #male yandere #yandere blog #yandere oc #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #oc x reader #oc x y/n #oc #mythical creatures #yandere mythical #yandere part 1

[swiftmitsu]

What happens if we give moss a pigeon? Or how whould he react to a zoo/ being in one?

Without a doubt, Moss absolutely adores animals.

In the Underground, there’s almost no living creatures (apart from the monsters and all the flora). So Moss is very deprived of them—

but even when he does manage to find them (outside his au) they’re all scared of him </3

(kinda for good reason too, he’s gentle with animals but gets too excited sometimes—)

#mitsuasks #art #undertale au #undertale #sans undertale #au undertale #undertale multiverse #undertale aus #undertaleau #undertale alternate universe #mitsusart #undertale sans #sans oc #au sans #sans au #moss sans #moss!sans #overgrowth!tale #overgrowthtale #overgrowth!sans #undertale art #izmaddieyt #this was rlly fun to imagine heh #i actually had an idea for a doodle of him with a pigeon— #(i apologise this took long holy moly he was being a little difficult)

[eschergirls]

​It's been 2 weeks so it's time to announce the winners of the contest!

Since it's EG's anniversary month, and given the quality of the entries, I've decided to pick 5 winners. :)

Each winner will get to choose a prize if they wish (but you don't have to, you can just participate for fun, I just wanted to give a prize because I enjoy the caption contests and appreciate all the people who participate).

Also before we start, I want to give a special shout out to Nev on Mastodon for making the very hilarious chair edit that's included in this post. Suddenly everything about Demonslayer's post makes sense! Since it's not technically a caption, it seems unfair to judge it with the others, but I still want to give it an honorary winning spot.

Moving on, here are the caption entries:

P J Evans: The one in red is absolutely going to be going topless if she moves. @singingflames: Wonder Woman's less impressive cousin always felt a little disappointed with her specialty equipment - the invisible toilet.' @ashleyfableblack: Between foreground bewb-ladys pose and strained expression and background bewb-ladys look of disgusted disinterest, I would say bewb-lady one looks like she's trying to cop a squat but I'm not sure she has the internal organs to digest food. @ashleyfableblack: 2nd impression- Bewb-lady red seems to be scratching herself against Bewb-lady blue as if they were a grizzly and a tree.. @mekanikaltrifle: "hey- hold on, lemme just rest my ass on your belt. you're cool with it right?" "Uh no--" "Too late! Ass planted." [world-weary, ass-induced sigh] @humansaregreat: “It was an inconvenient time and place for mini-me to take a poo, but when nature calls…” @karltface: "Though deep in her heart she knew the fart could not be fully trusted, it was too late to stop it." @zombiemollusk: new demon-slaying technique: pogo sword, then threaten to shit. it's a completely foolproof plan. @chattylulumutt: a guide to twerking on giant ladies volume 1 @holyshinta: "Ten fresh new ways to NOT hold a sword! Presented by Lady Tincan and her constipated mother, the Swimsuit Gladiator!" @soap-lady: “Seeing how her Demon Slayer gig has proven unsuccessful, our heroine decides to become the world’s first Bikini Mime. Here she is, convincingly miming sitting in a chair.” @melonbride: Caption: "I thought I could sit down here but it was just a perspective trick, now I'm going to fall over" @everentropy: Both of them: "Oh my god I really have to fart" tacoblacc: It looks like she's twerking on the big lady's belt

And here are the winners!

5th place goes to holyshinta

4th place goes to karltface

3rd place goes to melonbride

2nd place goes to chattylulumutt

And finally the winner is… singingflames!

Congratulations to all the winners :D and also thank you to everybody who participated, your captions were all very creative and good!

If you won and would like a prize, please message me with which prize you would like. If you came in 2nd, message me with 2 choices in order of preference, and if you came in 3rd, message me with 3 choices, etc… I'll give you your top choice that hadn't been taken by the other winners.

The codes I have available are for: Overgrowth, Syberia, Riot: Civil Unrest, Castle Crashers, Hotel Giant 2, Not The Robots, Steel Storm: Burning Retribution, Oddworld: Stranger's Wrath HD, Rage in Peace, Uncertain: The Last Quiet Day, Uncertain: Light At The End, Nigate Tale, and Rogue Heroes: Ruins of Tasos.

Please stay tuned in the future for another contest!

#10th muse #Demonslayer #caption contest #caption contest winners #ridiculous fighting stances #odd poses

[bestworstcase]

tangential to that rb, the depiction of destruction/creation within the 9.10 lore sequence is sooo so fascinating for how it reflects and recontextualizes the dynamic we saw between the brothers in 6.3

the brothers were made to cultivate the ever after. first, the blacksmith says, they were given the power to destroy, so as to clear the wilderness; and what we’re shown is baby dark eating the overgrowth while baby light kicks a tree to shake down some acorns into a basket.

first observation: baby light doesn’t really participate in the destructive stage. his brother eats weeds, he weaves a basket.

second observation: the destructive act is eating. baby light let his brother do all the hard work, which in practice meant his brother ate and he did not. so from a symbolic/thematic standpoint not partaking in the destruction is fundamentally an act of self-denial—it is the choice to go hungry—it’s asceticism.

third observation: the thorny vines baby dark has been eating are still visible behind baby light and appear to be encroaching on the tree; baby light ignores them entirely. given the overt allusion to the elm and the vine in V8 and the interpersonal dynamic between the brothers in 6.3 it’s hard not to draw a connection with the imagery here to the fir and the bramble, the oak and the reed, and similar tales on the arrogant tree/wise bramble theme. ‘the oak and the reed’ in particular is salient to the brothers: it’s a cautionary fable about how things that cannot bend, break.

carrying on:

after clearing the wilderness, the brothers were given “creativity, to imagine what, and who, could replace the wilderness.” this sequence begins with baby light planting an acorn, which sprouts and blooms into a butterfly. “the brothers built homes for them,” the blacksmith says, and the butterfly’s wings become a mirror: on the right, baby light raises houses; and on the left, baby dark grazes on the weeds. they are facing each other and moving toward the center—reflections of each other.

first observation: there’s a common fantasy trope that ‘evil’ (or darkness or what have you) cannot create, only corrupt, and what rwby is doing with the brothers is a deliberate inversion of that. baby light doesn’t create the butterfly; he plants a seed he was able to harvest only because of his brother having cleared most of the overgrowth, and waits anxiously to see what it will become. then that butterfly becomes the frame for the mirrored images of baby dark eating while his brother builds homes. the portrayal of these different acts as reflections implies that they’re actually the same in some way, and as noted the destructive act is the act of nourishing oneself. so the implication being made here is that baby light cannot create without the nourishment baby dark provides. that it is baby dark who harvests the raw materials and shares the fuel baby light needs to do his work. in rwby’s schema, darkness is not limited to mere corruption, it is what makes creation possible.

second observation: on baby light’s side of the mirror, after he builds a house, we see a tove sprout and blossom from the ground behind him. i do find it sort of interesting that we get this visual contrast between baby light’s houses, which he sort of conjures into being out of thin air, and the organic growth of the tove—and then it’s juxtaposed with baby dark eating the weeds out of an orchard. there’s a degree of this apparent during the destruction, too (grazing/basket). baby light seems to hold himself a little apart from the world around him. he doesn’t eat, he harvests. he doesn’t garden, he constructs. baby dark engages with his world by eating it—digesting it—it’s more primal. he’s part of the ecosystem. baby light shapes the ecosystem but doesn’t partake in it, which is probably the root of his misconception of his role and the nature of balance; he’s trying to garden without ever having tasted fruit.

and skipping ahead just a tad:

eventually the brothers grew curious and decided to test the limits of what they could do by creating new beings on their own, separate from the tree, and this is where it gets really interesting because they’re depicted as breathing life into their creations, and dark breathes fire but light breathes smoke.

first observation: dark is the greater power. without fire, there is no smoke, and smoke is merely particulate released by burning matter. putting this in terms of hellenistic philosophy and the classical elements, refer to the thematic symmetry between rwby and fragments of heraclitus’ writings on the soul, flux, and the harmony of opposites; heraclitus considered fire to be arche (“this world […] ever was and is and will be: everliving fire, kindling in measures and being quenched in measures” B30) and in what survives of his writings spoke very little of air, although in B76 he describes it as being born from the “death of fire” and this seems at least notionally congruent with the later aristotelean identification of air with smoke. (notionally as in ‘good enough for the elastic way rwby vamps on this stuff’)

extrapolation: this comes right on the heels of our being shown that baby dark ate and baby light did not, and implicitly that baby dark ate to sustain or fuel baby light’s creativity. dark spent their childhood immersed in their world—living in it and with it—while light observed and cultivated it. and upon reaching young adulthood, dark breathes fire, but light only breathes smoke. the math seems… pretty straightforward; if dark is (or was) the greater power it is because his integration with the ever after enriched him, and likewise light’s choice to hold himself at a remove diminished him.

second observation: light makes the cat by breathing life into an ember he plucks from dark’s campfire; whether dark played a direct role and if so to what degree is somewhat unclear, although the cat’s earlier use of “maker” in the singular would suggest that he did not. in contrast, the jabberwalker is unambiguously a joint creation, begun by dark and finished by light, which makes him the prototypal human. the cat is the product of light’s curiosity (thus, hunger for knowledge); jabber, the product of the brothers’ choice to make something together.

third observation: the brothers had the cat take over one portion of their role (“finding the broken parts of the ever after”) and made jabber to take over another (“finish what the cat started.”) the intention was for the cat to tag things for the jabberwalker to eat. note the tove comforted by the cat is then attacked by the jabberwalker and presumably eaten.

extrapolation: destruction as practiced by dark was neither violent nor annihilative; he merely grazed on thorny brambles that would otherwise grow out of control, and this in turn sustained light’s creativity. almost certainly the brothers expected the jabberwalker’s destruction to be the same—they meant to make a gardener, not an executioner. humans prove that the brothers can make destructive beings that are not annihilative, so it follows that jabber’s annihilative nature was not inevitable. it’s the consequence of a mistake, something that could have been avoided. so: how and why did this happen?

fourth observation: after he kills the toves, jabber breaks a wooden structure—presumably a house?—with a swipe of his claws. this same motion and manner of destruction is then repeated by light, killing jabber with a swiping blow. this is suggestive, to say the least.

hypothesis: the bifurcation of their roles (dark eating/light making) and light’s perception of himself as the custodian of a planned balance rather than one part of an organic ecosystem was the problem. dark intimately understands the destructive side of the cycle; he knows that destruction feeds creation, because he has been feeding his brother all along. (see also, “you may bask in the powers of creation, but you do not own them” and his portrayal in ‘the two brothers’ as a god of cyclical destruction-and-creation. by no means is dark precious about this false dichotomy; and in fact in both the lost fable and the two brothers, dark is explicitly upset when light tries to shove him into the ‘destructive, hateful malice’ box.)

in contrast, we’ve seen that light did not participate in clearing the wilderness even in the very beginning; and if the cat assumed his role in the same way jabber was meant to take over dark’s, that would suggest the closest light ever came to engaging in destruction was pointing his brother at the weeds.

how well did he really understand his brother’s role, when he breathed life into the creature dark designed to replace himself? dark ate the wild and dangerous things and digested them and, through light, gave them new life; inside jabber there’s nothing but void. jabber eats the broken things and… the end. the circle breaks. jabber is destruction as imagined by a god whose hatred of the very concept has blinded him to his fundamental need for it.

fifth observation: oh. oh i see.

THAT’S FINE.

“this woman came to you only after i denied her pleas; pleas that would have disrupted the balance that you and i created, together.”/“then it seems i owe you an apology; allow me to correct my mistake.”

“one brother believed they had disrupted the balance, while the other refused to condemn their creations for their mistakes.”

fuck.

extrapolation: dark didn’t revoke his favor to salem in a fit of pique; he realized that they were having the exact same conflict they’d had over jabber in the exact same way and i think he also recognized that if he didn’t capitulate, they would tear remnant apart exactly like they almost tore the ever after apart. inasmuch as dark ‘won’ that fight, he won it because the tree implicitly sided with him on the matter of jabber getting to live and then kicked both of them out until such time as they achieved a stable equilibrium. the whole point of remnant is to solve the jabber argument. one of them—it probably doesn’t matter which, but my money’s on light for reasons i will lay out in a moment—proposed permadeath as a compromise.

making death fundamentally permanent does not in any way address the underlying problem, but it sidesteps the conflict by flattening the distinction between ‘ascension’ and ‘death.’ the jabber argument hinged on light’s conviction that they had disrupted the natural balance (ascension) by creating death. dark did not disagree with this premise—he agreed that they made a mistake with jabber—his position was that the consequences for that mistake shouldn’t fall on jabber’s shoulders, because jabber was innocent. reading between the lines of the blacksmith’s philosophical conclusion a little, it seems likely to me that dark wanted to let the disruption run its course and settle into a new equilibrium (“the patience to see things through to the end”).

i think—and this is why my money’s on the permadeath compromise being light’s idea—the nuance of dark’s position was probably lost on light, because light isn’t familiar or comfortable with destruction; he fears it and disdains it as the enemy of creation rather than the force which inspires it. in trying to make sense of his brother’s acceptance of jabber i think he probably would have come to the conclusion that dark wanted things to die and enjoyed jabber’s brutality; and if he viewed the conflict as being, in essence, about order vs malice, then building a new system from scratch with death as a keystone is a fairly reasonable compromise. the problem is that dark does not actually have any investment in making things die, and in fact made not condemning jabber to death his hill to die on, and very much seems to have chafed at being perceived this way.

add in however many thousands of years of humans extolling light while hating and fearing dark. then introduce a grieving young woman who pours out her sorrows to him and asks him to reunite her with her dead lover—in one stroke answering his loneliness and providing a chance for him to gently reopen the jabber argument with an act of kindness. if they’ve been at an impasse all this time because light thinks dark insisted on keeping jabber around because he liked jabber’s brutality, then perhaps dark can get the ball rolling again by bringing this anguished woman’s pure-hearted noble hero of a lover back from the dead, no strings attached. he could not have arranged a more perfect demonstration of his willingness to embrace life and creation if he’d tried.

except light isn’t all that fussed about death vs rebirth either, he cares about preserving the original balance unchanged forever and thus makes no distinction between introducing death into a system of eternal rebirth and introducing rebirth into a system of permanent death. both are disruptive and disruption is not allowed.

the instant light accuses salem of “com[ing] here with the aim to control you” and “disrupt[ing] the balance we created,” dark backs the fuck off and lowers his head—he doesn’t look at salem, although the angle of the shot when she looks up at him kind of makes it seem that way; she and ozma are pretty well off to his left and he looks straight down, and while his eye sockets are set into the sides of his skull he’s animated as if he has binocular vision throughout the scene—and then. “i owe you an apology. allow me to correct my mistake.”

he returns ozma to death to appease his brother, but he refutes light’s accusation of salem by taking the blame for the disruption fully onto himself, and he spares salem.

“the other refused to condemn their creation for their mistakes.”

sixth observation: dark’s capitulation is not enough. light decides (unilaterally—dark is entirely cut out of the frame) to punish salem, continuing the blow-by-blow repetition of the conflict dark tried to avert:

and then it cuts to black. salem wakes up falling from the sky into the fountain of life and creation—she sinks, and drowns—and wakes up hitting the surface of the water again, now a reflecting pool only an inch or two deep. something weird happened here—the sequence is deliberately and conspicuously disjointed and salem’s fall into the fountain is the only time in nine volumes rwby has used this technique, so it’s meant to really stand out and that is probably because it’s important.

seventh observation: we do not see jabber get put back together again after light bites him. the blacksmith says her piece about balance, and from there the tale jumps forward to the brothers standing on the threshold, leaving the ever after because it “could no longer bear [their] experiments.” dark is standing in almost the exact same posture as in the scene where he and light explain salem’s immortality—the sole difference is that in 9.10 he has his elbows tucked in.

eighth observation: i’m going insane. i give up.

either something broke in dark when light lunged for salem or he’s playing chess on a dimension i cannot fathom. either way i’m convinced he left remnant to return home and ascend. and became the relic spirits probably

#this show.

[trainalt22]

1955-1956

In 1955, the traffic to the NWR showed no signs of stopping. The express went from 6 coaches to 8, and Gordon enjoyed the new challenge. However, with Thomas on his branch line and Edward overseeing the Suddrey branch line, Tidmouth was left without a pilot. This meant that the big engines had to marshal their trains, much to their detriment. In February of 1955, the three big engines went on strike.

The new Fat Controller was furious that he could have gone six months without an incident. He went to Tidmouth to investigate. When he arrived, he was frustrated that his engines would strike over something as petty as this. But he soon reached a compromise with the engines. They would go back to work immediately, and as they did, he would look for a pilot. They reached an understanding and soon left for their trains.

Sir Topham came across an offer for a small saddle tank. From the looks of it, they were a kitbash of some kind from an independent workshop, a rarity in the time of British Rail. The engine, Percy, was cheap, and he needed a quick fix to the issue at Tidmouth. Percy was elated to have been bought. He saw more use in the industrial sector than on a railway. His kit-bashed nature made Topham wary of purchasing him, but after ample testing, Percy was in full mechanical order and ready for work.

Thomas's schedule was shifted so that he could have more time between trains to help Percy learn how to marshal trains. The two got on immediately. Percy found his gruff, sarcastic nature reminiscent of his old manager at the steelworks where he was built. Percy was a quick learner. He had experience shunting, but his size made it far easier for him to slip into tight sidings. He soon zipped around the yard. Of course, Thomas said he could do it better, but he was proud of how far Percy had come in such little time. By April, Thomas's schedule had gone back to normal, and Percy was adapting to his new job running the yard and bringing smaller trains from the yard to the docks.

The Tidmouth Harbour saw an increase in traffic as well, and Percy was soon overwhelmed. So Sir Topham approached the Tidmough Harbor board to buy a new locomotive. The board couldn't find an engine quick enough, and by spring, the port was soon overwhelmed. The Fat Controller, annoyed with the bottleneck of traffic, loaned an engine from British Rail. As Sodor had limited infrastructure for the newer "revolutionary" diesel locomotives, BR begrudgingly sent a steam engine. Montague was his name, but he preferred Duck, a nickname he picked up in his days as the pilot for Paddington Station.

The port was soon sorted, and the Fat Controller saw it fit to take a holiday to East Anglia. While there, he discovered a disused tram line, and against his wife's wishes, went snooping around. He found a small engine shed showing signs of overgrowth. Inside was a slumbering tram engine, a C53 from the looks of it. They were in pristine condition. They soon awoke, startled by the man who they believed to be a vandal. But after introductions were exchanged, the tram engine, or Toby as he liked to be called, was curious about the holidaying railway controller. He listened to his tales of the North Western from when he was a boy. Toby asked the controller rather bluntly if he had room for him as retired life wasn't what it was cracked up to be. The controller promised that if he needed a tram, he would come to Toby post haste. This pleased the tram, and they soon said their farewells.

Meanwhile, back on Sodor, Percy was getting bored of his station pilot duties. And while Duck was a lovely engine, he was trying at times. He would always go on and on about the great Western way, which Percy found to be too strict and disciplined for his industrial laid-back attitude. Thomas, on the other hand, was well-acclimated to his branch line. He would take passengers to Tidmouth and trucks to the harbor. But it was getting a bit much for the tank engine, although Thomas didn't mind the hard work.

It wasn't until the Fat Controller got back from his vacation that Thomas ran into an issue. The old constable that was in charge of Ffarquar retired, and a new, younger officer was hired. The first time he saw Thomas, he flagged him because Thomas didn't have any wheel coverings. It was illegal for him to run on the tracks from the quarry to Ffarquar station as they passed through the town on the roads. As such, Thomas was forbidden from running up to the quarry unless he had proper wheel coverings.

Sir Topham Hatt soon arrived to find Thomas and the officer in a full-fledged argument, shouting back and forth. After he was able to defuse the situation, he was told that if he couldn't find an engine to the requirements, then he was forbidden from going any further up the line than the officer's post. And if any of his engines were caught going through Ffarquar without the proper modifications, then he would be fined. He thought back to Toby and quickly went home to write to his controller.

By 1956 Toby was on Sudrian soil and being repaired to full working order and started to work up in the quarry his schedule was earlier than Thomas's but for good reason, he would take the first shift of workmen up to the quarry and bring the stone back to Farquhar

This soon turned into an issue however Toby had a significantly shorter trip than Thomas so stone trucks were just piling up in Farquhar and Thomas couldn't pull all of them down to the Harbor

With an overflow of trucks at Ffarquhar

It became apparent that another engine was going to be needed on Thomas's branchline however after Toby's purchase the board of directors voted against buying another engine

Thopam soon found a solution and went to Tidmouth Harbor to find Percy

When asked if he would like to work on a branchline instead of being a station pilot Percy immediately agreed luckily the harbor board found an engine to purchase they were a class 08 diesel fresh out of the works they didn't have a name just a number D3102

They arrived in Sodor later that year and soon proved how revolutionary diesels were he could be ready to go at the twist of a key and usually was the first out of the shed shunting the early morning trains like the flying kipper or overnight goods

Duck however was fed up with the new diesel as he was extremely prejudiced against steam engines saying how they all had outlived their usefulness and were heading for the torch

Duck scoffed at this but deep down he was concerned he was only on loan from BR if he went back he could be cut up

This drove Duck to be better than D3102 or diesel as he was the only one of his type on Sodor it made for an easy nickname

Duck strove for greatness he kept up with diesel at every turn sparking a heated rivalry between the two

Duck had managed to convince a line of trucks to hold back if Diesel tried moving them to which they gleefully agreed with the trucks ready duck feigned illness to get Diesel to move them and when he tried they wouldn't move an inch diesels wheels slipped on the wet harbor tracks as he pulled harder and harder until the coupling snapped launching diesel into the buffers at the end of the key

Diesel hung precariously over the edge of the key below him was the sea and a swift demise he screamed for help and Duck rushed to his aid with the two attached ducks gave a swift heave but Diesel was heavier than he expected ducks wheels began to slip and diesel swayed his middle wheel was close to sliding off the pier when a barge slid under him but he didn't have time to question it as the coupling gave and he fell onto the barge slightly damaging his front end

Duck and the barge captain were praised for their quick thinking while Diesel was certain that Duck planned the accident but without proof, he couldn't go to the fat controller

Later that night Henry was set to take a goods train when he arrived in Tidmouth the trucks in the sidings all called him square wheels and a useless engine

Who was undeserving of their rebuild Henry was appalled angrily bumping the trucks when questioned they said Duck told them about his rebuild

Later that week James passed Duck pulling a goods train to Ellsworth and the trucks began saying that James's red paint made him look like rusty scrap iron duck didn't hear so he just smiled at James when he overtook him

Gordon who was napping at Tidmouth station was awoken by some truck singing

"Old number four that gallant galloping sausage always pulls the express what a bore to rush from place to place as that big blue disgrace" they giggled loudly as Gordon stormed off in a huff

The three big engines summoned the fat controller to Tidmouth sheds that night they made their complaints known rather bluntly calling for Duck to be sent away in disgrace sir topham however summoned Duck to Tidmouth so he could defend himself

The big engines welcomed Duck harshly calling him a liar and a manipulator diesel who was in the yard approached the scene cautiously he interjected that he speculated Duck caused his accident because of how quickly Duck came to his aid after saying he was ill

This and the insults that the others had received forced Sir Topham who believed that Duck hadn't spread the rumors to send the poor pannier away for the time being he sent him to work with Edward at Welsworth

#ttte #thomas and friends #ttte au #ttte thomas #vivamus machinis #ttte duck #ttte diesel #i gave diesel a real running number look it up hes real #(spolier alert hes dead lmafo) #oh and modernization thats a thing #the great purge is coming #batten down the hatches #ttte edward

[ask-the-tale-of-kingdoms]

Prologue: The Tale of Introduction

The golden rays of the sun descents, illuminating its warmth down upon the colonial terrain. Throughout the land lies a leafy paradise. Although, the natural coloration of the woods seem to differ from the norm. It's filled to the brimmed with Jacarta-colored oak trees. All the while the vast, opulence of foliage that is looming above would share a hue similarly to the galactic universe. Such unnatural colors would bring upon complete amazement!

You couldn't help but approach within the woods. Your movement would emit the sound of 'crackling' from beneath your feet. Peering down, you would take notice of a large patch of gravel. Wait... Upon further inspection, the designed of the gravel would wield more of a star shape. Looking on ahead, it would appear to be leading somewhere from within this bizarrely unique forest. Feeling a wave of inquisitiveness and wonders of where this path may lead, you couldn't help but venture forth. Consumed by curiosity of where this may lead.

As time went by and your travel nears, you suddenly halted from your path as something from the distance caught your eye. Seemingly what would appear to be an immense structure of the sort. You've decided to approach closely, to better examine of what is ahead. After reaching to your destination, you would be immediately welcomed by a faint draft of an early, floral aroma. Alongside the endearing scent, there was also a cease of silence. All of quietness had been diminished by the merry, sing-song chirps coming from a group of cosmic-like Swablus! They appear to happily whistle together up on the branches of the trees. Alas, despite the welcoming from nature, this is what had primarily attracted your attention. No... Instead it is the structure that was mentioned.  You've reached upon the intended destination of the structure. But instead, your front was introduced by a risen scabrous, silver gate. Along the connecting gates would come upon an enormous wall, that stretches throughout the entirety of both the eastern and western section of your view. The wall itself would seem to be made up of dark-starry granite. Completely standing out from the rest of the forest! Although, the wall seems to have seen better days. Base upon your frontal perspective, there would appear to be an incredible amount of unsymmetrical cracks, claw marks, traces of scorched markings, and even pockets of holes varying in differing sizes. Even the lower parts of the wall would attain scatters of unattended overgrowth! Such as royal blue vines and moon-shaped Gracidea blooming all across the place.

Nevertheless, this doesn't deter you. Instead, you would enter through the gates. Wishing to see all this land has to offer! You've survey the sight of the surrounding area. Firstly, you take notice of a prosperous, large nation! Buildings and homes severely vary in materials and height. And yet, the establishments seem to share a common theme. All of which would remind one of space. Farther ahead, there would be a central area that holds a fountain! It would have a Meloetta-shaped statue in the middle. The posture stood elegantly, in a more of an arabesques style. The water spray straight from the mouth to downwards into the fountain. The light splashes into the water would remind one of the sounds of rain, pitter pattering onto the ground. Although, upon closer inspection, the liquid in question seems to hold eerily similar appearance to an item known as Stardust. Surely it is consumable... Right?

Shaking off the discomforting thought, your eyes would wonder as you travel around the kingdom. It hadn't taken long until you've spotted an enormous hill. There were many homes scattered onto the hill! But, what rests upon the very top, was a incredibly massive palace! From what you see, you could determine that the royal palace shares a similar design to the wall. And yet, it appears to be made of a more differing material. Base on the size of the building itself, you could only make a determined guess that it contains an absurded amount of rooms! Throughout all sides of the building would appear to be crystal-like windows, holding a sort of planetary pattern. Each one showing an image of different planets, be it Saturn or even Uranus! And lastly, the entryway of the palace would have an enlarged garden. Just like from what you've seen from the outer walls, this area too have moon-shaped Gracideas blooming beautifully from all around. 

Many of the residents would walk by. Some minding their own business, while others welcome each other with positive communication! Each and every one seem so kind with one another! You have begun to have taken notice that the paths of this kingdom is bustling with activity! It was utterly astonishing! Before you could be able to make your way to scurry and explore all there is to offer, you've quickly shift your attention towards a stentorian voice.

"Mom, please!". The voice cried out. Upon viewing who is speaking loudly, it would appear to be a Eevee of the sort. Albeit rather... Different. Her colors appear to be a mixture of blues and white, while the patterns of her body wield more of a constellation. Her posture seem to hold of a mix signal. Her head held high, showing a form of dominating stance. And yet, her expression is distorted to form a look of distress.

"No, no! This isn't what I've asked for!" Cried the Eevee. She would raise up her paw, only to immediately slam it back down to the ground. "I've wanted to see the world OUTSIDE of Valinthea! To see other kingdoms! Not meet and greet OUTSIDERS! Those are two completely different things, mom!".

Opposite from the Eevee was another Pokemon that is twice her size. This one body seems more complexed in design. The galactic patterns hold more of a purplish-pink hue, while scattered throughout her body adorn crystals of varying sizes. She seems to be a hybrid, but couldn't quite pin-point of what mixture of Pokemon this creature could be.

This Pokemon demeanor would be more of a somber, calming appearance. Her expression would retain a more at ease look. "Sondoria, my dearest. Please, lower your tone" She said with peace and elegance waving through the tone of her voice. "Must I remind you that I cannot allow you, along with your siblings, to venture outside of Valinthea. It's far too dangerous, sweety. I know that you are fully aware that my children's safety will always take priority."

To Make light of the matter, the larger hybrid would slowly move her paw towards Sondoria. At least, until it finally met its destination by resting said paw on top of the little Eevee's head. Giving the Eevee a light ruffle, as the hybrid shine the brightest of smiles to her.

"Think of this as an opportunity~! You'll be able to communicate with various species, learning about their homeland and way of life! You may even be able to create a friend amongst these outsiders!". The last sentence, her words seems to be chiming with sheer delight. It is as if her tone shows a way of hoping that her daughter could create a potential friend. "Ah, how I'd love to see my shining star form such endearing bonds~!"

Unfortunately, the hybrid's message seems to have delivered an opposite effect. As soon after those words were spoken, Sondoria eyes would quickly advert away from her mother's gaze. She would even brush the paw away from her head. "But... I already have a friend. Xanthe. She's the only Pokemon I care about to have as a friend. Did you... Forgot about her?"

Silence...

The hybrid would open her mouth. And yet, only deathly quiet air could escape. The mother would look like a Magikarp out of water, gasping for air. She knows what words to speak and yet, she struggles to speak them out. She wasn't certain of what would be the proper set of words to respond to her daughter.

Before the situation could continue to linger any further through its awkwardness, someone else had decided to butt in and intrude into the conversation.

"You numbnuts! This made up "Xanthe" friend of yours doesn't count." The newcomer said in a very nonchalant tone. "You've never even met her. Sending letters all around to some rando doesn't mean anything. Heck, for all we know, this "Xanthe" person is probably some lousy Snorlax luring you for your crown. Or maybe some loser playing a sort of lengthy, lame prank on you.".

The smaller hybrid would smack her lips as she says her tail to the side. "Xanthe doesn't exist. Xanthe isn't real. Learn to finally open your eyes and quit stupidly trusting those you've never even seen. Yeesh, I've seen Slowpokes smarter than this. Then again, I am not surprised coming from the likes of you."

"N-Nuria!" The mother spoke in shock, as she was rather taken aback by Nuria's direct words toward Sondoria.

However, Nuria could only shrug her shoulders. "What? I was only speaking what we're all thinking. Mom, I refuse to keep sugarcoating just to protect Sondoria little wah-wah feelings. It is as light as day: Some scum is messing with her and she is too blind to see that she has no REAL friends. Not my fault that my older sister couldn't handle the truth."

"Shut... Up..." Sondoria murmur. Expressing a rather aggressive emotion. If her eyes were a weapon, it would be shooting a massive amount of daggers directing towards Nuria's head.

Despite being told to quiet down, Nuria would only speak with a sharp snap. "Hmf, no 'big sister', I will not shut up. What? Did you really think I was going to continue to parade around your delusions? Give you a pat on the back for falling for a 'friend' that never even existed? What do you want? A gem encrusted cookie to satisfy your stupidity? Psssh, of course that would be something that you want. Sondoria, you--"

Before another word could ever be uttered out of Nuria's mouth, it would be briefly interrupted by Sondoria tackling the young hybrid onto the ground. "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP! YOU SHUT YOUR TRUBBISH MOUTH NOW! I AM SICK OF YOU ALWAYS BAD MOUTHING!"

"--Ugh!!" Nuria would slap her paws against the top of Sondora's head, doing her bestest to shove the Eevee off. She would only growl and snap her jaws at the older sister. "GET OFF OF ME, YOU FREAK!"

It soon turned into a full blown fight, as the two began to tussled one another. During their physicality, the mother would try her darnest to separate the two as immediate as possible. Doing whatever she could to pull the two away with minimal damage.

Unfortunately, the crystalline hybrid seems to be struggling from ending this, as the two sisters refuse to back down from throwing punches and pulling each other's furs.

"Nuria! Sondoria! Please stop this!" The queen pleaded. All the whole using both her paws to try to push the two away from one another. Sadly, with little success. "You don't have to fight! Please! There are other ways we could--!!".

And then, there was a sudden surprise from a familiar voice beaming from behind.

"Mama! Mama!" The smaller Eevee screamed in sheer delight, as he glomped his mother from behind. Of course, proceeding to smoosh and bury his face against her oh so fluffy tails. Of course, being careful not to accidentally press his face against her crystals. "I saw papa show Susu how to kick butt! He went all boom-bam and wah-POW on the dummies! I wanna go pow pow on the dummies too!"

The more taller and slender Zoroark hybrid, who was trailing behind the young boy, had chuckled at his enthusiasm.

However, that laughter was quickly washed away and turned into a grimming concern once he had taken notice of the situation at hand. Seeing both daughters fighting against one another, while seeing his dearest wife in distress.

Immediately the Zoroark hybrid would take action. Swiftly sprinting into the two princesse before he would grabbed each of them by the scruff of their necks. Soon after, he would take them apart from each other before setting them down. Although set in opposing directions, to keep them away from one another.

The man would stay in-between the two, ensuring that they wouldn't try to up and go round two on each other. The two daughters had cease their attacks, due to the hybrid blocking their paths. At best, they would just growl at one another's direction. Which is well... Relieving. Well, to an extent. At least they are no longer trying to harm each other. The Zoroark hybrid does remain his stance, as he is trying to remain alert and making sure that he continues to be the wall to stop the problem from further escalating.

"Hmf, pathetic looking Feebas."

Nuria scoffs. "Says the grotesque Garbador."

A draconic-canine comes running in. Seemingly out of breath. "Huff, huff... Boy, you guys are fast! Didn't have me time to, huff, catch my breath!".

Immediately his words was brought to a pause, as he noticed the stance and tension of the family. Well... Minus the little prince, who is at eternal bliss with rolling his body all around his mother's tail. "Uh... Should I... Ask what is happening?--".

However, seeing the sign of the king quickly shaking his head in disapproval, this blue canine would only zip his mouth shut.

Not wanting to poke the Beartic to cause potentially further issues, he would let his pale-golden orbs gaze around to a different direction. At least, in hopes of changing to a topic that could cause the situation to, well... Lighten itself.

It was then his gaze met with yours. Finally, your presence has taken notice! Gee, did that took a while.

"O-Oh!" The draconic-canine hybrid made his way towards you. "You must be a new traveler to Valinthea! Welcome! Welcome! I hope that you are enjoying your stay so far!"

"Erm...". He awkwardly gestures towards the family across. "T-They are the royal family who rules this part of the land!.. Please don't mind on what you've saw, as it was just a little, erm, 'hiccup'. Yeah, haha. Ah...!! Trust me when I say that they are the most wonderful, most kindest of Pokemon that you will ever meet! Give them a chance and I am sure that you will not be disappointed~!"

Now that you are in the same presence as the royal family, what will you say or do?

{ Asks are now available! }

#Plot #Introduction #Pokeask #Blog #Ask Blog #Pokemon #Pokefusion #Sondoria #Nuria #Ondorius #Symania #Althidon #Tsumaru #Zurasork #Zovulvee #Eevee #Stardust #Glacetarene #Gigonithe #Yes another! #Apologies if this is more of a longer one ;;w;; #Trying to practice with writing and attempted to make it more of a decent size #I was hoping to create an art piece here but I am having PC issues atm ;-;. So sadly I won't be able to have art-art yet!

[randomfoggytiger]

How the Ghosts Stole Christmas In-Depth (Part I): Mulder's Gothic Romance Stories

Per request of @welsharcher (here ya go~!)

Christmas Eve

Somewhere in Maryland

(Well, here we go, boys. We already know this is going to be a comedic doozy.) 

It's 10:13. The Christmas cheer of Bing Crosby's "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" wafts from Mulder's radio-- which is a little something the episode (and series) plays with, his various media reflecting his immediate mood and relationship with Scully (thanks to @welsharcher for pointing this out~)-- while he chews on his sunflowers seeds and waits for Scully to pull up. 

Without a look exchanged or a word spoken, Scully rolls her eyes up and her window down, syncing it up with Mulder rolling his down also (because they have that unspoken.) 

“I almost gave up on you!” Mulder yells, delighted. 

Scully’s first line of the episode is characteristically Starbuckian: “Sorry.” It’s followed up with an explanation of where she was, rattling off her reasons for the Captain’s Log and ending it with a frazzled “if I heard "Silent Night" one more time, I was going to start taking hostages.”

“Hm,” Mulder chuckles appreciatively. 

Scully begins again “What are we doing here-” before Mulder jumps in with “Stakeout!” Off her incredulous “On Christmas Eve?”, he insists “It’s an important date.” 

“No kidding.” 

Mulder begins to wheedle. “Important to why we’re here. Why don’t you turn off your car and I’ll fill you in on the details?” 

“Mulder, I’ve got wrapping to do--”

Mulder peeks over, and, sure enough, all of Scully’s presents are already wrapped in the backseat. Which means she was either late getting herself completely prepared for a late-night Mulder mission-- and hoping it wouldn’t come to that-- OR she was making up perfectly transparent fibs because she wants to wheedle Mulder away from his stakeout to spend Christmas Eve with her without having to wrestle with gift wrapping as well.

“Oh.” Mulder responds, purposefully lingering on her Christmas bounty. 

Scully knows she’s been caught, staring out her windshield as she weighs her options. The one that allows her to escape with some dignity still intact is temporary compromise; so, she rolls up her window and joins her partner in his car.  

She is crisp, practically noir crack whip: “Alright, let’s hear it. Give me the details.” 

But Mulder is a slow-and-steady, set-the-mood kind of guy; and he gently prods with a little “Look, if you’ve got Christmas stuff to do I don’t wanna--” knowing full well Scully doesn’t, likely doesn’t care to, and is here because she is trying to escape the egg on her face. 

And he knows she finds him charming: he’s relaxed, joyful, jovial, and ready to spin a despairing tale-- Mulder-mancing (the only way to romance) with honeyed words and ghostly goose bumps. 

Scully knows he’s teasing her, tries to put him off with more bluster disguised as solid reasoning: “Mulder, I drove  all the way out here, I might as well know why, right?” She is enjoying herself though, little slivers of smiles peeking through despite her efforts to the contrary. 

“I just thought you’d be more…” Mulder looks away to collect a word, turning back to a Scully skeptical eyebrow, “curious.” He doesn't need to include a cute little head wobble and tilt to punctuate his point; but he does it, anyway, because Scully’s a details woman.  

“Who lives in the house?”

“No one.” 

“...Then who are we staking out?”

“The former occupants.” 

“They’ve come back?”

“That’s the story.” 

And he wants to tell it badly; but patience is a virtue, and Mulder loves the buildup-- his vague clues and slideshow projector and purposed missing details come to mind-- just as much as Scully loves a challenging argument. 

“I see,” Scully says, nodding, keeping a joke close to her chest. “The dark gothic manor; the, uh, omnipresent low fog hugging the thicket of overgrowth… wait!” she pivots, fully taunting in jest now, “is that a hound I hear baying out in the moors?”

“No, actually, that was a left cheek sneak,” Mulder rejoinders, actually moving his body to lift his left rear cheek and angling his arm towards it; which means (off screen) he pointed at the general area to prove his non-existent point. He’s so proud of this, in fact, that his smile (not unlike a possible smell) lingers. 

When Scully pleas for Mulder to not have called her out for a ghostbusting gig (side-stepping the gas joke after a reproving “Okay… Mulder”), her partner begins his technicalities speech: “Technically speaking they’re called apparitions.” 

Her mood has shifted. No, no she does not want to do ghostbusting on Christmas Eve. 

“Mulder call it what you want-- I’ve got… I’ve got holiday cheer to spread, I’ve-I’ve got a family roll call under the tree at 6 AM.” 

Right as she reaches for the door, Mulder pops in the locks. She’s not escaping that easily. 

Scully is not amused; and Mulder knows his window of nonsense is on a timer and closing down fast: “Scully, I’ll make it fast I’ll just give you the details,” he blurts as one sentence. 

Seeing how important this is to her partner, she sighs in heavy defeat and raises an eyebrow in preparation for debunkable ridiculousness. “...Okay…”

“Christmas 1917--” Mulder plows on, “--was a time of dark, dark despair.” 

Let’s talk some meta for a minute: this episode takes place sometime after Dreamland I and II, wherein Mulder comes home from a busted Area 51 visit with Scully to find a completely refurnished apartment (including but not limited to a waterbed and new mirror for his mirror bed frame, discussed here) and probably awkward tensions with Kersh’s secretary coupled with an odd feeling of something having happened... but maybe not.

This episode Mulder is desperate for Scully to spend Christmas with him: “tricking” her into the car, locking the door so she has to hear his story, and stealing her keys so she can’t leave. Despite being a good sport about it all-- to a point, Scully spends the episode trying to lay firm boundaries about taking time for herself and her “normal life” activities, an important and recurring theme of S6 up to The Unnatural. And this isn’t lost on her partner, who is overjoyed she showed up at all and resorts to unfair stratagems to keep her longer. 

Mulder beings his story with appropriate dramatic weight

as he reels Scully out of her skepticism (including an epically unimpressed face) and into his little soap opera. 

Of course, she makes a correction, pointing out his overuse of “a time of dark, dark despair”; and though a bit miffed at her interruption, Mulder takes this in stride as he winds up for and Maurice’s and Lyda’s part in all this old history. 

Picking his hand up from the pile of eaten sunflower seed shells he’d dumped… somewhere, he points to the mansion, “But here at 1501 Larkspur Lane for a pair of star-crossed lovers, tragedy came not from”-- slipping in some old-timey language construction for storytelling heft-- “war or pestilence, not by the bootheel or the bombardier, but by their own… innocent hand.”  

Scully is impressed by his out-of-left-field "bootheel" description, then schools her expression (not wanting to give her partner material to gloat over.) Mulder sees how impressed she is and gives a subtle pause before passing from bootheel to bombardier, reveling in her visual praise. She's is trying her best not to enjoy this… but the Mulder charm cannot be denied. “Go on.” 

The tiniest of smiles plays across his face at her encouragement. 

“His name was Maurice. He was a…” Mulder pauses significantly, head nodding at the mansion-- but more particularly at himself, “brooding but heroic young man.” Another significant pause. “Beloved of Lyda-- a sublime beauty with a light that seemed to follow her wherever she went.” He shrugs at this, unable or unwilling to disclaim these suppositions; but more importantly, he shoots his partner a third, significant look while a wistful, enraptured smile settles briefly on his face. 

While he may be retelling these events, Mulder very particularly picked this story and these words. This is what he wants for them: to explore a house-- and inadvertently themselves-- on a foggy Christmas Eve, seeing the beauty in each other reflected in spooky mirrors and cracked windows while creaking doors sing serenades to the rhythm of their steps. This is a normal life to Mulder, an answer to Scully’s question in Dreamland I (which what he does remembers from their trip): “Don’t you want to settle down? …Have something approaching a normal life?” Yet again they’re in the car; but Mulder has a story about lovers and pacts with sunflower seeds in his hands, a gun at his hip, and his girl at his side. What’s more to life than this?

Much more, if Scully’s disbelieving face is much to go by. 

Mulder wisely moves on from this point: “They were likened to two angels descended from Heaven whom the gods could not protect from the horrors being visited upon this cold, gray earth.” 

Scully, having a list of obligations to do (if Mulder isn’t going to leave his stupid stakeout) and knowing her partner's being a tad (read: very) hyperbolic, steps in to keep him on track (despite being wooed by his endless sincerity.) “And what happened here?” 

“Driven by a tragic fear of separation--” he continues, a serious undertone creeping into his sincere retelling, “--they forged a lover’s pact so that they might spend eternity together. And not spend one precious Christmas apart.” 

Two important things here: 

#1. Either Maurice and Lyda preserved a huge ego in the story of their legacy-- not unlikely... but-- or he’s using a lot of mumbo jumbo to talk up his and Scully’s work. Mulder is painting their epic quest as supernatural in and of itself, as cosmic and eternal-- worth its weight in heavy costs and beyond every conceivable price. It’s why this story gives him goosebumps: this is about him and Scully, sacrificing their lives for the Truth and for each other, perishing together if necessary by their own hands rather than by a random plague or tragedy-- or worse, being torn apart by war and desolation.

#2. This is all proven by Mulder’s carefully chosen descriptions: “from the horrors being visited upon this cold, gray earth.” As well all know, the earth is not, in fact, gray; but aliens with their calculating, gray reaches and cold plans for earth are. And his “Driven by a tragic fear of being separated…”, is an accurate description of his experience during the hallway scene in Fight the Future. The clincher to all of this is his flippant Christmas line: “...they forged a lover’s pact, so that they might spend eternity together. And not spend one precious Christmas apart.” That’s a Mulder love confession if I’ve ever heard one. 

And a third point, why not?

#3. Mulder and religion-- may not be the most explored subplot in canon is still given ample consideration, nonetheless. It’s curious that his disdain and disbelief for religion changes over the series as Scully’s scientific rigidity relaxes. In my opinion, he leans more agnostic than atheistic (a natural inclination, considering the weird reality he lives in and explores) but spits venomously at organized religion for their practices, injustices, and God that they preach as loving and all-powerful. In the face of his sister’s abduction, the lies his parents told and participated in, and the world cracking apart behind the gauzy curtain of regulations and Syndicate plans, a god that exists to counterbalance and yet (seemingly) won’t is a pill that Mulder can’t seem to swallow. And while this idea is not deftly handled-- shoving a foot in the door suddenly in S7 and jamming it in S8-- it’s at least an aspect of the character that merits a post of its own to be weighed fairly in future (so, look forward to that someday soon-ish, I suppose.)  

Scully misses all of this, instead focusing on his literal words. “They killed themselves?” Death, even in a possibly yellow-journalistic retelling, is always something she takes seriously. 

Mulder gives a “bingo” nod. “And their ghosts--”

Scully chuffs a laugh at this ridiculous follow up and at herself. She'd forgotten Mulder's premise after getting sucked into his story, in spite of the skeptical little barriers she’d erected from the start. 

Mulder, touched by his double narrative and her reaction, states “I just gave myself chills.” His victory is complete, he believes; and he’d gotten a special bonding moment with one Dana Scully to boot. 

Or so he thinks. 

“It’s a good story, Mulder. And very well-told; but I don’t believe it.” 

The magical music twirling around them is immediately gone. 

“You don’t believe in ghosts??” Mulder asks, incredulous, almost offended at her discredit. She believes in a Holy Ghost-- why not a ghost-ghost?  

Scully is incredulous herself: “That surprises you?” 

“Well…” He lapses. Blunt honesty wins. “Yeah.”  A little shrug. “I thought everybody believed in ghosts.” 

His partner closes her eyes, an unspoken “of course you did” blazing across her face. “Mulder, if it were any other night I might let you talk me into it--” admittance, thy name is Dana Scully “--but the halls are decked… and I gotta go.” 

Scully spills from the car; and Mulder stares after her in crestfallen confusion. 

Looking at the house, he screws up his mouth and forms a resolution. Being the Oxford graduate, VCU golden boy opportunist that he is, Mulder already swiped Scully’s car keys while she was in the throws of his tragic tale; and he now uses it as bait to lure his partner into the house (without overtly giving away his leverage. Deny, deny, deny.) 

When he gets out of the car hot on her heels, Scully looks over, confused herself. 

“My best to the family,” he says quietly, moving swiftly away in her eyeline while he has her attention. 

An interesting note: Mulder refers to the Scullys as “the family” rather than “your family.” Likely it’s a Chris Carter style choice (swapping more personal adjectives for a more generalized “a/an/the”); but if you want to overthink it, see it as Mulder’s tacit acknowledgement of his close ties to Scully’s mother at least (perhaps even younger brother.)

“What are you doing?” Scully asks with creeping dread. 

Mulder doesn’t say a word at first-- making sure he’s in the light so she can clearly see him put the keys in his pocket and put two-and-two together later-- until her stressed “Mulder, don’t you have somewhere to be??” rings through the night.

“Just gonna take a look,” he replies, punctuating his statement with a point. 

Scully’s confliction is apparent. She thought Mulder had Christmas plans of some sort (why? does he usually spend it with TLG? did he make up with his mom off screen?) but he seems bound and determined to get himself into trouble instead. Her face wavers between frustration, fear, and incredulous consternation; and when he gets further and further away, she starts to stress out.   

Scully recalls her plans, turning away. “I’m not gonna do it. My New Year’s resolution,” she speaks, attempting to make it true by voicing her promise aloud.

Mulder’s Law is a universal invariant, however, and cannot be so easily dismissed. 

Mid-pep talk,  Scully realizes her keys are no longer in either of her pockets, and gathers the facts quickly: her sticky-fingered partner Swiper-no-swiping-ed them and took off for the house before she could catch on and halt his shenanigans--

the same "brooding but heroic" partner who is opening the front doors with a loud, majestic creak and quickly popping on his burglar light to start prowling in the dark. The same partner who knows for an unspoken fact-- yes, that unspoken-- that his partner is coming in fast on her huffy heels, little legs indignantly shuffling after his trail. 

His “sublime beauty with a light that seemed to follow her wherever she went” does, indeed, arrive: foreboded by “the gods” -- as Mulder called it earlier-- with a thunder and lightning combo of greater majesty. 

“Change your mind?” her partner asks, hiding his jolt of fear behind a faux innocent question (and making up his mind to scare her back later-- even if it wasn’t her fault, Mulder.)

“Did you take my car keys?” his partner cuts in, fed up with this charade. 

“No,” Mulder lies. 

At this point, eternal life bound together by a lovers’ pact seems like the raw end of the deal. 

Not even Scully’s God can keep these two from the "horrors being visited upon this cold, gray earth" as they scamper right into the clutches of two malevolent, embittered old spirits. 

Thank you for reading~ 

Enjoy!

#txf #How the Ghosts Stole Christmas #In-Depth #Part I #Mulder's Gothic Romance Stories #mine #xf meta #S6 #meta #x-files #xfiles #the x files #analysis #HTGSC #TGTSC #Mulder #Scully #Maurice #Lyda

[quirkthieves]

@4heroes liked this for a villain ibara au starter

"Oh... You are but a lamb. How cruel, that they have sent a child into my thicket."

Despite the thick, thorny vines digging into Midoriya's limbs and throat, warm palms gently cup his face, bringing him eye to eye with the natural disaster-- who appeared to be a girl no older than him, even though she had called him a child.

In fact, despite the rivulets of blood bubbling in the wake of the thorns on his skin, the villain didn't radiate malice in the slightest. His brows knit together, and dark eyes quickly fill with tears.

"I don't know why... I don't know why they keep sending you to me! I will not suffer such negligence-- Be not afraid, my child. You will be safe from such indignities here." One hand gives him a reassuring caress before the villain pulls away, looking around her makeshift clearing fretfully. Behind her, past his mumbling and fidgeting, was the reason Izuku was there; a wall of crucified heroes and villains (and some civilians), from Chargebolt and Cellophane to Kamui Woods and Mt. Lady, to now Bakugo-- all painfully entangled in thorns and unconscious; some, like Mt. Lady and Bakugo, had them far more concentrated around the mouth and throat, making it clear how they had been neutralized. Until now, no hero had made it to the center of the rapidly-expanding vine infestation and returned to tell the tale, leaving the other heroes on the scene with no clue as to what the nature of the problem or the individual responsible could even be. Hellflame and Half-Hot, Half-Cold, ran the risk of turning the quarter of the city that was entangled in greenery into a giant conflagration trap, and so they had been forced to try and maintain a strong border against the overgrowth and prevent it from tearing down even more buildings while Midoriya feigned capture with a bodycam and location tracker at the ready.

"Oh, poor thing...He's just a boy." The crown of thorns at Ibara's temples circles and tightens as he laments, reopening chains of scabs that indicated this wasn't the only time it had happened that day. "But when they send you-- but when those devils send their lambs to me, they come with the hearts of wolves. The last boy... the last boy they sent me tried to pull out my roots...! Ahh... I don't know..." Bakugo's defeat hadn't been without a cost; the clearest of which was a blotch of charring and blood over one temple, accompanied by the odd branching of torn up root ends, ones normally hidden under the skin. The vines over it hadn't regrown, either.

"God, is this boy meant to be my Isaac? Will his blood prove my devotion?" All of the vines writhe as she clasps her hands, causing the captives who still have the wherewithal to groan in pain to do so. Tears continue to flow, and while she groans with frustration, one could catch a glimpse of a tongue dyed black. Further surveying of the scene reveals a small backpack-- not destroyed and marked with the insignia of a regional private Christian junior high, glimmering with vials of trigger.

"Oh, lamb! You do not lie as these others do, do you?" She turns back to him, two hands tugging at his own scalp in an attempt to self-soothe. "I will let you bear witness to my ministry if you be good. I do not want to discipline you unless i must!"

#4heroes #APOCRYPHA://MISC IBARA AU #PIERCED GOSPEL://IBARA IC